Mother's Little Helper

My brother and I are under two years apart in age. He also had the good sense not to ruin my seventh birthday like another sibling of mine, so I harbored no ill will towards him at first. The angst wouldn't pop up until we were older.

As noted before, I am a baby junkie. This started at very young age. Now, I don't remember this incident, but my mother tells it with such...drama and flair....that it must have happened.

One day, my mom was in the kitchen, and I walked in "carrying" my brother in really what could only be described as an awesome WWF choke hold. Evidently, I heard him fussing in his crib, and I thought he needed to get up. The other possibility (given the choke hold and all) is that I was going to get him to stop crying, come hell or high water. I'm pretty sure though it was choice #1. Most likely.

So my mom turns around, and sees me basically strangling my brother. I have to give her props for keeping her cool. Me, I would have gone to DEFCON 10. Because, honestly, I don't do well in stressful situations. At all. Shocking, I know. If there is an emergency, call Jason, not me. I will be of no use to anyone (but don't tell Jason I said that about him. I'd hate him getting a big head. I'm still dealing with the "If it weren't for me you'd be dead" hubbub).

Mom said she very calmly spoke to me, and she managed to rescue my brother from my loving death grip. I'm sure I got a lecture on why it was very bad to drag the baby out of the crib, down a flight of stairs, through gator infested waters to the kitchen. You'll be relieved to know that he suffered no ill effects from this escapade, and he went on to give my mother even more freak out moments than I did.

Thank heaven for little boys....

Baby Love

My sister, Heather, claimed from a very early age that she hated kids. Me, I could spot any baby in a 50 mile radius and ask to hold her. I figured I would grow up to the be "Old Woman who lived in a shoe." My sister figured if she ever had kids, she would send them to my house, visit occasionally, and pick them up when they turned 18.

Then I had JP. Heather stayed with me towards the end of my pregnancy with him. I chose her as godmother. Three more babies came. She said she hated all kids but mine. Uh huh.

Between the births of Cameron & Paige, my sister in law (Jason's brother's wife) gave birth to a baby boy. Every time I would get near him or try to hold him, he would cry. I mean, the gut wrenching, she's going to sell me to the gypsies or boil me in a stew cry. Never in my life had a baby reacted that way to me. It just didn't happen. Ever.

Guess who he loved? Yup. My sister the baby hater. He looooooooooved her. Couldn't get enough of her. She, of course, thought this was hilarious. Me, not so much. Not that it made me bitter or anything. I tried everything in my power to win that baby's affection, and I failed miserably. He was having none of it.

So, I waited. And, as babies do, he turned into a toddler. I don't know what changed, but all of a sudden I was no longer Public Enemy #1. (Now of course, I'd love to say that Heather was, but she wasn't. He still loved her to bits. Dammit.) As he got older, his hair went from dirty blonde to platinum, and his eyes were the bluest blue (please note his father has strawberry blonde hair, and his mother has brown hair). He looked like he could be one of mine.

In fact, one day at Preschool, his Mom picked him up instead of me. One of the teachers walked up to her and asked, "and you are?" She said, "I'm his MOTHER." Ooops.

The Preschool had a "Grandparents and Special Friends Day," and he chose me to come because I was "fun."

Fast forward a few years, and Heather not only found a boy willing to marry her, but they had two beautiful boys of their own. They both look like me. When I am out with Heather & the boys, people assume they are mine. I tried to remind her what she said about me getting to have them until they are 18, but she is having none of it.

I guess even baby haters (I mean zebras) can change their stripes.

I enjoy being a girl...

When I was a child, I loved nothing more than playing with my Barbies and baby dolls. I loved doing their hair, dressing them up, etc.

After having three baby boys, when Paige came, I was ready to play with my real life baby doll. It worked out great when she was teeny. I could put her in pink dresses with bloomers and matching headband and socks to my heart's content. I couldn't do anything with her hair though, because she was bald until she was about 2. Once she did grow hair, I had visions of french braids and cute barrettes and pony tails.

Paige had other ideas. She hated her hair being done. I mean, she HATED it. A bunch. So, my dreams of her having Rapunzel like hair were shattered. If she wouldn't let me brush it, it would have to be cut short. Fine. I could still pick out cute frilly things for her to wear.

Yeah, that worked out well, too.

Paige loves dresses, but they have to be comfortable dresses. Nothing too fussy. No belts, itchy stuff, buttons or gee gaws. Plus, they would have to withstand her riding her bike in them, digging for worms, chalking up the sidewalk....you get the picture. Unlike me, Paige is not afraid to get dirty...even while wearing a dress.

As she has gotten older, she has been able to come with me to my salon appointments. It's a three hour proposition when I go, so it takes a lot of patience (and a few bribes on my part) to keep her occupied. She was particularly interested in my pedicures. She would sit and watch the process totally mesmerized. I can't remember what the occasion was when I made the appointment for her first pedi. It may have been her birthday.

Well, she was hooked. It helps that Carrie (the nail technician) is young, fun, and treats Paige like a grown-up. Over the past couple years, Paige has had four or five pedicures. It's fun to watch her enjoy herself. Earlier this month, Paige asked to get a pedi. I had to get her hair cut, so I made a double appointment. Paige was adamant about having green toes for St. Patrick's Day.

I snapped the picture while her feet were soaking. She had no idea I took it, and I love that out of the stack of magazines available to her, she chose this one.

It was serendipitous.

Diary of a (former) Wimpy Kid

So, let me just say I hated school from 6th Grade on through High School. There were some bright spots, but they were few and far between. I was picked on, called names, excluded, and on and on. I was lucky that I had a core group of loyal friends as my touchstone during this time, or else things would have been worse.

Have I mentioned I am grudge holder? Once or twice? OK, just checking. As I've gotten older, I've realized that my tormentors were dealing with their own demons. No, that totally doesn't excuse how they acted, but it explains why, I think.

I am grateful beyond belief that I was in school before the advent of texting, Facebook, and the like. The things I see Middle Schoolers writing about is, at times, horrifying. "Mean Girls" have nothing on these chicks. I want to believe these kids have no idea that words can hurt as much as fists...but in some cases, I'm not so sure.

I'd like to think I have raised my children to be tolerant, kind, and respectful (quit laughing, I did say, "I'd like to think...." Seriously. You can stop at any time). Moving on...I know the need to conform and be like everyone else when you are in school. You don't want to stand out or be different. Different=bad. If you blend in, there's less chance of getting hurt.

I gave birth to four non-conformists. While this is not a bad thing in general, it has not made their academic careers any easier than mine was. I've told my boys many times that school was something that they would have to survive, and college would be a different world.

Paige was hit by a classmate last week. The girl walked up to Paige and punched her. This child has a history of saying mean things to Paige (and other kids). As a mom, my knee jerk reaction was to flip out on the kid and her parents. I mean, honestly...if the child acts that way in school, how does she act at home? But, I didn't go postal. I made sure Paige was ok, and then I did something totally foreign to me. I was quiet. This is not to say I didn't address the issue with the school, I did. I didn't call my girlfriends and rant. I didn't vent my spleen on Facebook. I didn't blog about about it.

I just digested it all.

And tried to rid the thought of an ACME safe squishing the bully ala Wiley Coyote.

It's funny, when things were bad for me, I turned to writing about it. Most of the time, no one ever saw what I wrote. Sometimes, though, I would write papers for class about it. I've noticed that my children do the same. After the punching incident, Paige sat down, alone, at the computer and wrote a paragraph about what happened. She couldn't find the words to talk to me about it, but she found the words to write about it.

It's not easy being a Middle Schooler or High Schooler.

It's even harder being the parent of one.

I spy with my little eye....

Most of you know I spent last Wednesday evening in the Emergency Room with problems breathing (and if you didn't already know, you do now). I am a people watcher by nature. I love to sit and observe (judge) all the weirdos around me. The ER is a fantastic place to people watch...even on a Wednesday night. Friday & Saturday nights are the undisputed champs of ER people watching though.

Having grown weary of the people waiting to be seen by ER Staff, I began to concentrate on the ER Staff themselves. There were the older volunteers who spoke gently and quietly and smiled constantly. There were the nurses that were trying to meet up for their "lunch" break at 1 am. There were the Security Guards...some that looked like they could snap you in half with their pinkies, and some that looked like they couldn't even catch a cold (and that particular guard was trying to woo the nurse behind the counter with his copies of GQ magazine and Car & Driver).

There were two nurses that caught and held my attention for very different reasons. Both were guys. The first one looked like he should be a movie star. He was, quite literally, tall, dark & handsome. What endeared him to me was not his good looks, though. When he came to check on me, he asked if the Vampires had gotten to me yet. I just looked at him and laughed while saying that that's what I called the blood drawing nurses too. He did tell me not to tell the girls that's what he called them. I could see his point. You don't want to tick off a gaggle of chicks with sharp objects at their disposal.

The second nurse was a wee little man. I don't think he even came up to my shoulders. I remarked that he looked like he should be an elf. He had the bluest eyes that twinkled when he smiled, and he made a point of smiling every time he passed a patient. I didn't hear him speak until he came to take me back for my Cat-Scan.

He had an accent. A French Accent. I'm pretty sure I was slack-jawed when he started talking, because I didn't expect that voice to come out of that elfin little body. It was a very soothing voice, which is exactly what you need after getting huge needles jammed into your veins by the Vampires. He brought me a warm blanket, explained what was going to happen during the Cat-Scan, and then he vanished behind the bunker while the Scan happened. Seriously...it was a concrete walled room with a glass window (which was probably 2 or three feet thick to protect them from what I was being subjected to).

After the Scan, he walked me back out to the Waiting Room, and I swear, my first thought was that I would love to put him in my pocket and take him home. Being stuck in the ER for six hours will make you think of things like this.

Trust me. It made perfect sense at the time.