MommyBlog

Casey and I will leave at 5 am tomorrow morning to go to the hospital where he will check in to have his heart surgery.   I think I am more nervous than he is.   My sister is staying here tonight with her kids to be with Kenny tomorrow morning, and until I am able to return home.   As we were putting Kenny to bed tonight, we explained that we wouldn’t be here in the morning, because Mommy was taking Daddy to the doctor for the day, and wouldn’t be home until sometime in the afternoon.   He was quiet, and then kept asking for song after song as we were putting him to bed.   Each time I finished one, he piped in, “another one.”   I know that he was feeling a little anxious about waking up without us there.   That’s only happened twice before, and both times because Casey and I had an overnight “date night.”  

He knows that this is different.   And he knows, all too well, what a “doctor” is, and that Mommy and Daddy and Kenny have had their fair share of all-day and all-night trips to the hospital.   It breaks my heart that he knows what it means.   A one-year-old shouldn’t know all that.   Thank goodness he loves his Aunt Kim and his sweet cousins.   I know that he will be fine tomorrow, but my heart is so torn right now.   I want to be, and need to be, right there with my husband as he goes through his surgery, and then with him in the recovery room.   And yet my heart also aches to be with my little boy and comfort him that Daddy is going to be just fine.   Part of me didn’t want to tell him what was going on, but he is such a perceptive little boy, I couldn’t hide it in the end.

I also ache over the fact that my father will be having surgery at a hospital 45 miles away, and my mom there with neither me or my sister to comfort her.   It just isn’t fair.

Please think of us, and pray for us tomorrow.   It is going to be a stressful day.    

My boys…

… it pours.   I haven’t written about this before, but my Dad was recently diagnosed with prostate cancer.   He will be undergoing surgery on Monday to remove the cancer, and the prognosis is excellent for a full recovery.   Incidentally, Casey is also undergoing surgery on Monday,  to correct a minor heart condition.     My sister is going to come stay at my house for a day or two so that I can be with Casey.     I thought that all of this was just par for the proverbial course, considering the year we’ve been having, but I think today it’s finally hit me that these past five months have been really hard.

I started thinking that the statistical chances of all that has happened to us actually happening to a single family, and  it  has got to be slim, to say the least:     I’ve had two miscarriages, along with the D&Cs that went with them, and gall bladder removal surgery, including a bout with ripped abdominal stitches and not being able to lift Kenny for two weeks.   Casey has had numerous trips to the hospital and accompanying cardiologists, and now has his heart surgery scheduled for Monday.   Kenny spent four days in the hospital with a staph infection, and has been battling a wicked allergy to mosquito bites.   And Dudley has been hospitalized twice for various stomach issues.   And did I mention that due to the abnormally high salt content in the river we live on (that feeds into the Chesapeake Bay), we’ve been waking up to leagues of dead fish on our ramp and pier?   And that our entire property smells like a condemned sushi bar?   And that Casey had to free all the crabs in the traps because the water is so contaminated?   And that Dudley loves to roll in the carcasses, then ram through his dog door and jump on my bed???

I am not re-issuing my laundry list of woes to garner sympathy, or dally in sensationalism or egotistical martyrdom.   We are not melodramatic people!   I do, though, want to share some thoughts I am having on all this.   There has got to be a reason for all this.   There has got to be a real, relevant reason that we have gone through all that we have.  

I am in a small group Bible study that is going through the book of Daniel right now.   We persevere through the clatter and commotion of our collective gaggle of toddlers and babies, and it’s one of my favorite times of the week.   Anyway, we have recently been discussing the idea of being refined through the fire, and I am convinced that this is exactly what is happening to my little family.   I think that all of this has been allowed, by God, to touch us, because He has something in store for us in His big picture.   I believe that there is something, some experience or position or situation, down the road that He needs us to be ready for, and that He is refining our faith so that we will be able to succeed in whatever that might be.     I don’t know if it’s next month or next year, or many years down the road, but I do know that there is a reason that we are being allowed to go through all this, and we have to persevere and be strong.

In other news, I had my OB appointment today to go over the pathology report from my miscarriage on July 4th.   In the end, there is no report.   The samples they were able to obtain were too far deteriorated to determine anything, and there is nothing to be said.   I have to admit, I was expecting this, but I was not expecting the flood of emotion that hit me when I walked into the waiting room and saw three women with huge bellies there for their check-ups.   As I watched them joke with each other about due dates and swollen ankles, I thought I was going to literally choke on the tears in my throat.   My stomach twisted and it was all I could do to walk up when my name was called.   I was so jealous I wanted to scream.   Today I would be seven months with my second child, if he had made it.   Or  I would be twelve weeks today with the twins, if they hadn’t been lost so early.   I would be laughing and joking about having to pee and craving chili-dogs.   One thing I know for sure, I will never take being pregnant for granted again.

But I do not want to end on a teary note, as I am filled with joy even in all this stress and sorrow.   I have a wonderful, brilliant and handsome husband, and a hysterically funny and precious little boy.   We have a beautiful home (fishy-smelling and all), a wacky dog (who thankfully at least doesn’t bring the dead fish into the house), all that we need materially and then some, and lots of laughter and love to go around.   I still wouldn’t trade a moment of this life for any other.   I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this moment in time, and  I am so grateful for that.

Ok, after I wrote the incredibly incriminating post yesterday regarding my  vocal little  son’s tendancy towards erratic temper tantrums, as of today he was the veritable picture of all that is good, sweet and precious with the world.   There was nary a tear shed, a wail procured, nor a single stomp of the foot or enraged, “Mommy go away!”   He was, in a word, perfect.

Hm.   Maybe I should vent more often.

Kenny, my sweet wonder-boy, has already managed to be ahead of the developmental curve in many areas.     He  started talking well before his first birthday, can now ask questions and speak in some semblance of complete sentences, sings several songs, and has even memorized parts of his favorite books to recite while we read.   It’s only natural that his gifted nature extends to starting The Terrible Twos early.

He has thrown tantrums here and there.   Mild, dramatic, significant, justified, random and perplexing.   But it’s just been this past week when I’ve come to realize that the inevitable has begun.   He will pitch a royal fit over the slightest inconsistency or seemingly incorrect judgement on my part.   A sampling from today:    

• I put his  juice is in the Thomas cup instead of the bulldozer cup.  
• I didn’t let him screw the cap back on the OJ all by himself.  
• I cut his sandwich into four pieces.  
• I moved the lego box to the other room.  
• I turned on the vacuum.  
• I sang along with the song he was singing (all by himself).  
• I actually meant it when I said, “One more book then it’s time for bed.”  
• I didn’t let him taste the dead bug on the floor.

Need I go on?   These tantrums involve a face so tragically sad that you would think I’d lost his favorite teddy bear.   The wails that emit from so tiny a mouth make my back teeth hurt, and the way he runs to the other side of the room to get away from me (while he cries, “Mama Go Away!”) make my stomach churn.   It’s bewildering, and yet I know that this phenomenon is merely par for the parental course.

When he’s not wailing with gut-wrenching sorrow, he is still the most delicious kid on the planet.   He gives fantastic hugs, loves to snuggle up with Mama and a good book, and is mastering the art of mixing chocolate chip cookie dough.   He’s my boy and I love him fiercely, but boy do I hope this terrible thing is short lived…

Yesterday  evening Casey and I dropped Kenny off at my sister’s house and went to the home of a semi-retired OB who is the father of  a good friend of ours.   He started the OB practice that I go to many years ago, and is still in charge of operations there, even though he no longer delivers babies.   We had about two hundred and twenty questions, and desperately needed to talk to someone who A) wasn’t on a time clock, and B) actually believed in God and creation and the reality of life in the womb.

It was such a healing time.   He was fatherly and kind, specific and clinical, and jovial in the midst of sharing our sorrow.   At one point he looked quite seriously at me and said, “These were  children you lost.   You’re not going to forget it; it will be part of your life forever.”     He also answered our questions about statistics and common assumptions about miscarriage and subsequent pregnancies.    He was frank, too, about the reality that when you have a viable pregnancy, there is truly  nothing  you can do to actually  cause a miscarriage (like exercising, being “too busy,” or, to quote him directly, “Doing jumping jacks until your tongue hangs out”), and if the pregnancy is not viable, there is nothing you can do to save it (bed rest, taking vitamins or hormones – unless you have a clinical condition warranting them).   When Casey asked him, “If this was your daughter who has had two miscarriages in four months, what would you tell her to do?” he replied, “Get pregnant.”   Then he said, “You call me the minute  you get pregnant, and I’ll get you in right away with the best OB on the East Coast.”     He explained that early monitoring was the best thing we could do for peace of mind and good health.   I can’t begin to express how relieved I was at his generosity; I nearly disolved into tears.     When we asked him about timing, he dispelled the current trend of telling women to wait three months, and said that physically, it made no difference if you got pregnant five minutes or five months from miscarrying… that the most important thing was giving yourself time to emotionally heal.

The biggest gift of the whole evening  was the peace of mind and encouragement that he gave us.   It never hurts to have the head of the practice on your side.   And it never hurts to have someone who truly believes in the miracle of life encouraging you to try again.

Today a sweet friend of mine came over to have a cup of coffee and chat.   Her kids are all grown up, so this was purely time for me.   Kenny was the model child – he played at our feet with his blocks, and only got antsy towards his lunchtime.   The strangest thing, though, was that my constant talker said nary a word but “Dudley” during my friend’s hour and a half visit.   This is the kid who never stops talking, yet he babbled baby-talk  and giggled non-stop.  

On her departure, he suddenly looked up and said, ever so clearly, “Where’d Miss Suzi  going?”   Then proceeded to give me a detailed diatribe on  exactly what he wanted for lunch (“Ter-key sanwish, go-cheese (goat cheese – yes, really) an’ chips”), where he wanted to eat (“Eat on da porsh! (porch, that is)”)  it, and when he would be all done (“Kenny eat it all up and be all-done!”).     What a stinker.

By the way, Dudley has been chewing on his “blankie” since we brought him home from the breeder.   This is blankie #5.   He does it when he’s tired at night, or when he doesn’t know what to do with himself and there are people over.   Note to LancyPants… does Lance do this?   I’ve heard that many weims do it by nature…

Do you ever have a to do list that makes you so anxious just looking at it that you decide to throw it away??   I have spent the evening trying to catch up on various neglected household tasks, and finally I threw in the towel and have spent the better part of the last hour surfing the web.

How are we mommies ever supposed to get everything done?   My friend Jody put it well… “By the time I finish vacuuming the house, the dust bunnies have come back to the room I started in!”   I have a pile of mail to open and file that has grown so large, it just fell to the floor.   I am a fanatic about cleaning, so that’s where my time is usually spent, but then when do I have time to match the ever-multiplying pile of socks that need a mate?   When do I actually fill in the blanks in my Bible study book in time to meet with my ladies?   When do I iron that skirt I’ve been dying to wear, but can’t because it’s resembling a Sharpe?   Most of all, when do I take the time to do those sit ups I keep thinking about, or those yoga moves I used to love so much?

As I often sing to Kenny, “Iiiiii don’t wanna work / I want to play with my kid all day…”   I am finally realizing, though, that no one else has it all together, either.   If my nails are crying out for a manicure, when I steal a glance at the mom next to me in the grocery line, I see that her three inch roots are crying harder.   And the day that I spent an hour in the Safeway with my fly down,  mascara on one eye  and mismatching earrings, I  could name half a dozen other  people that  I  saw there looking even more disheveled – and they weren’t even toting kids.  

I am also struggling with “taking time to grieve.”   Frankly, I don’t like to, as much as I know I need to.   When I’m alone – at naptime, or on nights Casey works late, it’s like, if I stay busy enough mopping the floor and folding shirts, I don’t have to think about the three beautiful babies up in heaven.     I do find myself crying a little here and there when I’m playing with Kenny.   I am so sad for the brothers or sisters that he will never know. I see how elated he is when we have playdates or outings to the park where there are “KIDS!” and my heart twists, praying that he will grow up with a sibling or two to share his days with.   I am so thankful, though, that he is too young to understand what we have lost.

For now, though, it’s back to the stack of laundry that needs to make it up the stairs sometime this week, or at least before the next load makes it’s way down to be washed.

So what do you do when you have a little kid over for a playdate and he turns out to be an absolute rascal?

A rascal as in causing physical harm to various portions of the house and nearly to one’s own son.   This kid broke Kenny’s basketball hoop by knocking it over and jumping on it, pulled a lawn light out of the ground, and “accidentally” pushed Kenny off a three foot high bar-stool.   He ran through the house slamming doors and throwing blocks and other toys at the wall.   All in all you can tell that he was desperately in need of some serious parental attention.

The mom and I are neighbors and acquaintances and thought that since our boys were a little under a year apart, it would be fun to get them together and have some time to get to know each other better.     All I got to know was that she’s never read anything by James Dobson or John Rosemont…   Kenny was a little bewildered and kept trying to play nicely, but you could tell that he was starting to wish that the other little guy would take a hike.   Mercifully the playdate was only an hour long, but  both Kenny and I were  a little shell-shocked by the end.  

So my question for you all is… what do you do when a playdate goes awry?     Anyone out there have any experiences they are itching to share?   Go on- it’s easier on someone else’s blog….

Monday night, my sister and her kids (and her Golden Retriever, Rusty) spent the night here so that she could watch Kenny the following  morning while Casey and I went to a meeting together.   Kenny was wiggling with excitement the whole time that his “big” cousins were really here for so long.  

 

Dudley  was so excited to have a fellow canine in the house that he  ran laps around the property for the  first  twenty minutes Rusty was here.   Actually, Dudley and Rusty were having so much fun,  we decided to let him stay for a few more days.     I’ve been wanting to get a brother for Dudley for a long time, and we figured that this would be a  fun way to see how it would be.   So far it’s been great, except that Rusty can’t quite get up the nerve to use the dog door.

Here is the update, from Dudley and Rusty’s point of view…

(Rusty)   *Sigh*   I wonder where the girl and the small girls went.   I wonder how the grey dog keeps getting outside?  

(Dudley) Rusty come play!   Rusty come play!   Outside!   Outside!   Squirels!     Ducks!     Jetskis!   Outside is great!   Outside!   COME OUTSIDE YOU FURRY LUG AND RUN WITH ME!

(Rusty)   I wonder why the grey dog won’t let me outside to play…

(Dudley)   Back inside.   I smell cookies!   Or is that a dirty diaper?   I love to smell.   COOKIES!   Come on you furry lug, help me crack open the cookie jar… Hey, there’s a tiny piece of deli meat in the small boy’s chair… mmmmm…. crumbs… I smell… Oh, scratch.   Oh yeah, right there, ooo!   Shake the head.   Oh yeah.   Whew.   I need a break.   Time to sit down.     Couch?   No, that’s not right.   Chair.   Yeah.   Sit down.   No, let me turn around once.   There!   No….. uh… one more time around… that’s it.   Ah.   Time to lick.   I love this….

(Rusty)   Hm.   The grey dog is on the chair.   He looks lonely.   I’ll go see if he needs someone to talk to…  

As I write, both dogs are pacing around my desk, nails clicking on the pergo, Rusty panting and Dudley sniffing.   But it’s not easy to ignore the fact that since Rusty’s been here, Dudley has been calmer and happier than I’ve seen him in a while.   I think he likes the company.