Things you just never realized. Oy!

I've talked about this before, but it bears repeating...Because, being the only woman in a house with one husband and two small boys continually makes me realize things I'd never quite grasped in the past:

1) Boys really are completely fascinated by their own penises from a very young age. It's a fact. Based on the behavior of adult males, this fascination apparently never goes away. Explains a lot...

2) It is 100% possible for a home to go from completely clean to looking like a tornado literally blew through it, scattering couch pillows, books, toys, papers, and clothes in all directions, depositing dirt and mud and sticks and grass on the just-swept floor....in the time it takes for one husband, one five-year-old boy, and one six-year-old boy to walk in the front door, through the living room, and into the kitchen. That's about two minutes. Two. Minutes. (By the way, it takes far less time than that, for one exhausted, working Mom, who just cleaned that house while the boys were outside, to completely lose her mind!)

3) It is apparently physically impossible for males to get all of their pee into the toilet. Doesn't make sense to me, either. I mean, they've got equipment that actually allows them to AIM their pee. They can write their names in the snow with the stuff, if they want to. So, why is it that boys (and...ahem....men) can't just aim it at the water and GET IT ALL IN??? Thankfully, I have mostly managed to browbeat my husband and sons into cleaning up their drips afterwards. The mystery is why there are drips in the first place...

4) There are a LOT of different words for vomit. Something I'd never really thought of until two days ago, when Spence came up to us and asked us if there are other ways to say "throwing up." My husband's apparent glee at generating a list of vomit words was a bit disturbing. But there really are a lot of them, when you think about it. Which I don't recommend doing, by the way. Still, it was slightly fascinating to watch these two males-of-the-species -- one small boy and one very large boy in a man's body -- enthusiastically coming up with all the different puke words they could think of and high-fiving each other after each one. I just can't imagine a little girl having the same conversation with her Mommy. But, maybe I'm wrong. One thing is sure, with two little boys, I'll never know...

I can only imagine what new discoveries lie ahead for me -- the lone female representative in this family -- once my boys hit puberty... Yikes.

Cheers!

You seriously couldn't wait until AFTER you were done peeing? Seriously?!!!

Last night, I met a girlfriend at a local bar for a beverage. (This is a rare and wonderful occurrence, which always reminds me that I am more than a wife/mother/counselor. I am also a somewhat sassy, frequently funny, often obnoxiously opinionated woman, who is actually capable of carrying on a conversation that is not about kids, husbands, housework, or mental health issues.) Anyway, at some point during our blissful evening away from all domestic and work responsibilities, I had to pee. So, I went into my stall, and I was getting ready to do my thing, when I heard the bathroom door squeak open and the sound of high heels click-clicking across the floor. The stall door next to me opened up, and I could hear the unseen lady getting settled on her seat...

Then, I heard her punching numbers into her cell phone...

Then, I heard her start yakking to somebody on the other end...

THEN, I heard her peeing. Yes, people, yakking and peeing at the same time.

I'm sorry, but what could be so important to say, that you couldn't wait a couple of minutes, until you're at least done peeing?!!! I mean, COME ON! Is there no limit to the madness???

So, to any of my friends who may be out there reading this... PLEASE pee before you call me or answer a call from me. Nothing we have to say to each other is so crucial that it can't wait until after you've answered the call of nature.

Cheers!

I'll show you mine, if you show me yours!

Parenthood is just one giant adventure. Unexpected events happen constantly, from bus disasters to more bus disasters to stuffed animal catastrophes...just one big surprise after another...after another...after another. Guess what? We had another one last night. Lucky us!

The phone rang about 7:30pm. Hubby was doing something on the computer (of course!), Foster was running around in his pj's looking for leprechauns, Spence was in the tub, and I was attempting to lie down for a few minutes before storytime. I heard a deep voice on the answering machine, and I suddenly realized it was the principal from the boys' school. Calling at 7:30 at night. There's just no way a nighttime phone call from your kids' principal can be good!

I yelled for John to answer the phone, and then flew down the hallway, so that I could hover near him, listening to his side of the conversation and anxiously trying to piece together what was happening. I couldn't tell which kid it was about, but I heard things like "On the bus?!!", "Last Thursday?", "No, he didn't say anything to us about it.", "Oh yes, definitely inappropriate.", "Yes, he knows that private parts are private.", "Was the parent upset?"

Hmmmmm....

As it turns out, yesterday afternoon, a parent called the principal to tell him that her child had seen some first graders showing eachother "their butts" on the school bus the week before. Her kid identified a first grade girl (the very same girl Spencer recently identified as his - gulp - girlfriend"). Of course, the alarmed parent immediately called the principal, worried that there was some sort of hanky panky going on. He interviewed the girl and found out that she had two accomplices....Spencer and his best friend. When he pulled Spence in to his office, Spencer was very upfront and honest about his participation. (The principal said he was having a hard time keeping a straight face, because Spence was so serious and apologetic.) Apparently, all three kids decided to check out each other's parts, even though they knew they weren't supposed to. As if that wasn't bad enough, for some inexplicable reason, they thought that the school bus ride home was a good time and place to do it. And, according to both boys, the whole thing was the girl's idea! Wow. I hope her parents are ready...

Needless to say, we had another long conversation with both of our boys last night...Very serious. With no giggling on the part of the grownups (at least not until the boys were asleep, that is).

Another one for the memory books...

Cheers!

Vindication for women and girls EVERYWHERE!

In a pitiful attempt to lessen the stress in my life, Friday night is always "Mommy Movie Night." This means that I do the typical frantic race across town after work to meet the boys' bus, but then we jump in the car, drive straight to Little Caesar's Pizza and order Combination #1 (large pepperoni plus crazy break, of course), then walk next door to the local video place to rent movies. The boys each get to pick one cartoon to watch sometime later in the week, and I pick out a family movie for us all to watch together. (Translation: A kid movie that I can stomach watching as well, usually a classic like "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" or "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" or "Doctor Doolittle" --  Not the crappy remake with Eddie Murphy, but the  classic with Rex Harrison and the Push-Me-Pull-You.) Then, the three of us pile the pizza, the movies, and ourselves back into the car, come home and change into pj's, I pour the boys some milk and myself a glass of cabernet, and we all settle in for a movie picnic. If we're lucky, and John's crazy schedule works out for us that day, it turns into a "Family Movie Night" with Daddy along for the ride. (Also in his pj's. PJ's are a requirement.)

Anyhoo ... (too late to make this long story a short one, eh?) ...

Last night, I chose "Harry and the Hendersons" for Mommy Movie Night. It actually turned into Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, and Grandpa Movie Night, because John's shift was an early one, and my folks came into town to visit us for the weekend. Yay! I admit that I did relax the pajama requirement for my folks, especially since my Mom is fond of wearing long, see-through nightgowns, and my Dad sleeps in his tighty whiteys.

So, after the Bigfoot has come into the house and totally trashed the joint, the movie Dad asks his movie kids how they know that the Bigfoot is a male, instead of a female.

That's when my little genius, Spencer, turned around and said, "Oh, it's easy to tell, you guys. It's 'cuz boys make huge messes all the time, but girls are much, much cleaner."

EXACTLY!

Cheers!

No wonder women ignore the signs of a heart attack. How can we even tell the difference between a heart attack and just living life?

I had a pretty weird few days. I was at a work conference on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Sunday night, my chest was feeling sort of tight, like I was being gently squished, but it also felt like my diaphragm was being sort of squeezed upward. I’ve never had heartburn or indigestion, before, but I assumed that’s what it was. My hotel roommate gave me some of her tums, but it didn’t do anything. So, I just kept going at the conference. Still feeling the pressure, but it wasn’t anything that I couldn’t breathe through or work with. Eating didn’t make it any better or worse, and I didn’t have a fever or any other symptoms.

Then, on Thursday morning, I woke up with it really bugging me, then it started to sort of burn across my chest and up into my shoulder and neck a little bit, so I called my doctor. They sent me immediately to the Emergency Room. They ruled out an immediate heart attack pretty quickly, but they couldn’t figure out what was going on. I couldn’t reach the hubby, since he was driving a shift, so I was all alone, freaked out, while they did EKG’s and gave me nitroglycerine and baby aspirin and took blood and did other tests, etc., etc.. Because I have a left ventricular bundle branch block in my heart, it makes reading my EKG’s next to impossible, because they all come out looking wacko. With my strange health history – mini stroke, avascular necrosis, busted thyroid – they were afraid to just let me go, so they admitted me. This meant that I sat in the back corner of a cubicle in the ER for another hour or so, all alone, while they tried to find me a bed upstairs. Since I still hadn’t talked to John, I was trying to figure out who might be able to pick up the boys and get them settled, if necessary. I don’t have a cell phone, so I couldn’t call anybody just to keep me company or to get the ball rolling with a plan for the kids. The only phone in the ER was attached to the wall, and I was forbidden to get up and move around. On the plus side, I did get to listen to the drunk guy who’d just gotten in a car accident giving the nurses and attendants all kinds of trouble. It was pretty entertaining. Lots of cussing and threatening and thrashing going on. Then there were calls for "Technicians! Stat!", followed by the sound of clomping feet and deep voices and then more whining and crying from the patient, as he swore up and down that he'd sue every single person who was holding him down. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it through the skinny little curtain. At least it took my mind off of things for a while. It was like listening to an episode of Grey's Anatomy, without being able to see the picture. Oh, and the other plus side to this whole situation, was that my ER doctor looked EXACTLY like the guy from the TV show Castle. I don’t know if you’ve seen that show, but the resemblance was uncanny. Could’ve been his twin brother. And that’s a good thing...I felt surprisingly calm staring into his warm, concerned, blue eyes.
Anyway, I got admitted upstairs, where they did another unreadable EKG, gave me more nitroglycerine, took more blood, and I can’t remember what else. I finally reached John, and he and my friend (who had gamely driven me to the ER earlier that morning) put their heads together to see if they could get the boys picked up and my van back from the school (staff members’ cars tend to get vandalized, when left in the school parking lot. Hmmmm..) Then, John was able to come and see me for just a little bit to bring me contact solution and pj’s and stuff like that. The on-call doc (not my gorgeous Castle doctor from the ER) explained that they still didn’t really know what was going on. They were going to try to see if there was something going on in my G.I. tract, since my heart seemed to be doing OK and my blood pressure was stable and fine. So, they made me drink the “G.I. Cocktail”, which was a horrendous pinkish white slushee, that I had to gulp down to see if it would numb my G.I. tract and give me some relief. All it did was make my tongue go numb. I still felt the pain and pressure on either side of my sternum, mostly left side. So, they just gave me morphine, put me back on oxygen, and kept me all night, waking me up to do the various vital checks all night long. In the morning, my nurse gave me valium, to see if it would lessen the pressure. It did take the edge off of the pain, and I didn’t feel like I was being squeezed quite as tightly. So, my doctor put his head together with my cardiologist and came up with this final diagnosis: Chest pain and severe pressure of unknown physical origin, most likely caused by too much ongoing stress. Then, I had to hear the whole anti-stress spiel (delivered in a tone so blatantly condescending it was like listening to fingernails being raked down a chalkboard) about taking time for myself, getting enough sleep and exercise, eating healthy, and making sure I take time to recover in-between stressful responsibilities. (How, exactly, is that supposed to happen? Have you ever been a full-time working mother with two little kids, no family resources anywhere nearby, and a husband who’s schedule means he’s never around? Huh? No? Then kindly shut up about giving myself recovery time in between stressful responsibilities, you officious little man! That is, unless you're offering to take some of my responsibilities off my plate. No? Not gonna take any of that on? Didn't think so.). Anyway, it was all the usual stuff. So, I got home last night, with a little bit of valium, which they want me to take when the pain and pressure are severe, just to take the edge off. Of course, I can’t take it, if I’m going to have to drive, and there's no way I would take it at work. Caffeine? Yes.Valium? No.

Anyway, I have a follow-up appointment with my doctor next week...no doubt to discuss my stress levels some more and to hear one more person, who has NO idea what my lifestyle has really been like for the last 3 years, or the type of emotional and physical energy it requires to keep this family bumping along relatively smoothly with the schedule John works, tell me that I need to take it easy. I swear, if she smiles at me and says, “Sweetie, you’re really just not taking good enough care of yourself,” I will fly across the room and rip her head off!!! But, then I’d be guaranteed a nice, long rest in a psychiatric hospital, right? Oooooh, now there’s food for thought!

Cheers!

For you, Jodi.

 

            For My Beautiful Friend

My friend with the unforgettable, ear-to-ear grin.

My friend with the impossible-to-resist belly laugh.
My friend with the wicked sense of humor and a constant twinkle in her eye.
My friend, who worried more about how others were doing than she ever did about herself.
My friend, who battled cancer with courage and positivity and amazing strength.
My friend, whose life was unjustly cut short.
My friend, who will never be forgotten.
My friend, who I will love and miss for the rest of my life.

I love you, girl. Thanks for all the laughter over frappuccinos and V.V.'s. Thanks for the great hot tub and campfire conversations about everything from marriage to sex to politics. Thanks for the movie matinees, the skiing, the trips to Dairy Queen, and the after-work drinks and chicken quesadillas. Thanks for one of the most hilarious and memorable New Year's Eve's of my life. Thanks for being there when I wanted to give up on John and on the day I became his wife. Thank you for making me laugh so hard that my cheeks and stomach muscles were sore for days. And, thank you for showing me what true courage and grace really looks like.

My Dad's favorite saying has always been, "Who ever told you the world was fair?"
Well, you died this morning. And, that proves it. The world isn't fair.

I can't believe you're gone.

Love,
Beth

It takes a village (or, in this case, one nurse, one secretary, one frazzled Mommy, and about 6 strangers in a waiting room)...

You know how, sometimes, when you know that a challenging day is coming, you're able to sort of line your ducks up in a row to make it easier??? Then, everything goes horribly wrong...

Today was that day.

OK, it wasn't horrible, actually. And, looking back on it, now, several hours after all of the chaos, it's pretty amusing. Still...once in a while, I'd like those ducks to stay lined up.

This morning, hubby had to have a colonoscopy. Having been through this before, we knew that he would need me to be there to pick him up and to take care of his poor, sorry, miserable, drugged-up self for the rest of the day. So, I arranged to stay home from work, we timed everything so that we could drop the boys off at school in the morning, and then I'd be able to drive him to and from his appointment and take care of him all afternoon in a peaceful house.

Then, it snowed. Quite a bit for our little part of the world, although anyone from a state that REALLY gets snow (like Minnesota, for example) would turn their noses up at us and laugh at our wimpiness. Anyway, given the road conditions, the district decided to start school 1 1/2 hours later than normal. Sooooo, with no last-second childcare options at our fingertips....at 8 o'clock, I loaded the boys up with lots of toys, a Leap Pad, some paper and pens, snacks, etc., and took them along to drop Daddy off for his procedure. They assured us that he would be ready to be picked up at 10:00am, sharp. Since the boys' school wouldn't be starting until 11:00am, it seemed like everything would work out just fine. I'd take the boys to McDonalds to play in the tubes and burn some energy, while I enjoyed a cup of crummy coffee and an hour or so of relative peace. Then, we'd swing back by to pick up the hubster, I'd tuck him in at home, and I'd be able to easily get the kids to school by 11:00. Sounds great in theory, doesn't it?

Everything went smoothly until pick-up time. We showed up just before 10:00. Not ready yet. The boys played with their toys as time ticked on. They began to get restless. I appeased them with snacks. They began to get louder and slightly obnoxious. I appeased them by having them make "Get Well" cards for Daddy. Foster made a paper airplane and accidentally hit an old lady in the leg with it. (She was not amused.) I was getting slightly desperate. Then, the nurse came to get me.

"There really isn't room back there for the kids."

"Um. Well, I had to bring them, since it's a late start snow day. I didn't have any choice."

"Well, there isn't room." Then, she just stood there, looking at me, as if I could somehow pull a brilliant solution to this little dilemma out of thin air.

That's when the delightful secretary (who must be a fellow mom) piped in with, "They can stay in the waiting room. I'll keep an eye on them. They can just play with their toys."

With a grateful smile, and trying not to make eye contact with the old lady who had been hit by Foster's paper airplane, I went back to see the hubby. There he was, poor fella, all drugged up and goofy. The nurse assured me that the doctor would be "right with us", and then I'd be able to take him home. I told her the little guys were out in the waiting room, and that they were due at school in 20 minutes.

"Oh, don't worry. I just saw the doctor. He'll be right in. Won't be more than a minute or two."

Yeah, right. Note to self: Anytime a nurse says the doctor will be "right in", that's code for "I have no idea when the doctor will actually make an appearance, but I'm hoping, for both of our sakes, that it will be in just a few minutes."

The minutes ticked by. I didn't dare leave, because the doctor might come "right in", but I was picturing the havoc that my boys were potentially wreaking in the waiting room and it was seriously stressing me out. Finally, the nurse (NOT the doctor) stuck her head back in.

"Sorry, the doctor has been delayed, but he'll just be a couple more minutes. I checked on the boys, and they're doing just fine out there." Big smile. Which kind've made me want to smack her a little bit. Is that wrong? It really wasn't HER I was irritated with. It was the situation. The stress. Her cheery attitude in the face of my frustration. By now, I knew it would take a miracle to get the kids to school on time.

A few more minutes passed. This time, when she stuck her head in, I told her I had to duck out to see the boys for myself.

"Okey dokey. But, come right back. The doctor will be here any minute."

Here's what I saw:

Foster was standing on the arms of his chair, apparently trying to climb the wall like Spiderman. Spencer was sitting on the floor, drawing a picture, with his rubber rain boot pressed RIGHT up against the electric heater. I could smell the melting rubber.The old lady had vanished, the secretary was on the phone, and there was only one other person in the waiting room. He appeared to be half asleep and was sitting as far away from my boys as possible.

After getting Foster down from the wall and moving Spence away from the heater, I pleaded with the secretary: "Are you sure the boys can't come back there with me?"

"Oh, no, no, no, it'll be all right. I promise. Just go on back. I'm sure the doctor will be right there."

So, back I went. I gave up on worrying and decided to trust that the secretary knew what she was talking about. I figured the sprinkler system would kick in, if either boy set themselves on fire with the electric heater. I figured they'd come and get me, if there was a real emergency. And, I figured that they must have dealt with similar situations before, so they could probably deal with this one...

Fifteen or so minutes later, after finally talking with the doctor, helping poor groggy hubby back into his clothes, and trying not to laugh too loudly when we all heard the voice of an obviously sedated (but not yet sedate), older man yelling at the top of his lungs, "You are NOT putting that in my ass!!!" (a statement the giggling nurses, trying hard to be professional, insisted they had never heard before), I was heading back out to the waiting room.

This time, the view was quite different. This time, my little boys were the center of attention of at least 6 lovely adults, of all ages, who were now waiting in the waiting room. Spence was telling them all about his best buddy, Milo, and showing them the folders he had decorated with the markers the secretary had given him. Foster was showing the apparently captivated older lady next to him his Leap Pad. Everyone was smiling and laughing and surrounding my little guys with warmth and humor and caring. It was wonderful. When I came out, they all greeted me with huge smiles and exclaimed over my "adorable", "intelligent" boys. I thanked them all profusely and left the waiting room feeling warm all over and slightly choked up by the generosity of this group of strangers. A group of people who saw a need and jumped right in, just to make life a little easier for one frazzled Mom and two little boys.

Sometimes, it really does take a village. Or, a waiting room full of caring strangers.

Cheers!

Just what you need, right when you need it.

So, it's been a rough time for my little family over the last couple of weeks. Job stress and uncertainty for both of us. The car breaking down. The sky light in our bedroom cracking. Cosmo, our beloved, hairy, smelly, loyal, sweet little dog, dying on Christmas morning, after a brief, violent, sudden illness. New Year's Eve consisting of watching "The Guardians" in our pajamas with the boys and then falling asleep right before midnight, only to be woken up by the thunderous fireworks being set off by our neighbors. (Fireworks that then continued until 2am, keeping us all awake and resulting in crankiness all around. Sigh.) And, now, we find out that hubby's work is changing his day off in February. What does this mean for us? We have to find (and pay for) another day of daycare for Fos. The hits just keep on coming!

Anyway...it's been tough.

BUT...once in a while, when things are getting you down, somebody says or does something that is EXACTLY what you need, at the exact moment you need it, to give you a new perspective, remind you of how lucky you are, or make you feel loved and appreciated and supported and strong enough to tackle whatever obstacles life throws at you.

This was mine.

A few minutes ago, my little guy came in to say goodnight to me...

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey, Fos."

"I love you."

"Love you too, sweetie."

"I came in to say goodnight. Can I get up in your lap?"

"No, sweetie...Daddy's waiting to sing you songs."

"I know that, Mommy. But I really, really, really love your lap. Face it, Mommy -- Your lap is the best."

Needless to say...he ended up in my lap.

Lucky, lucky me.

Cheers!

For Cosmo, Who Will Forever Be Missed

For Cosmo, who passed away at 11:35, Christmas morning.

We love you so much. Our hearts are breaking that you left us so suddenly and unexpectedly today.

You brought so much happiness and silliness and unconditional love (along with snoring and flatulence and copious quanities of hair) into our lives over the last 14 years.

I remember bringing you home from the Humane Society in 1997 -- Just a fat, fuzzy, black ball of love. My constant companion. My parents' first "grandchild."

I remember telling myself that you would NEVER sleep on the bed with me. Then, I caught that really bad flu in Grad. School, and you looked so fluffy and cute and warm, staring up at me with your big, brown eyes. I scooped you up onto the bed, and that was that. Until you got too old to jump up that high, you were my sleeping buddy from that moment forward.

I remember how you used to put yourself between me and John, when we first started dating. Just letting him know that I belonged to you, and that he was the interloper.

What a frisbee dog you were! The hours we spent playing frisbee were some of the happiest, most carefree hours of my life.

You were there for so many important events in my life. Graduate school. Meeting John. My first counseling job. The time we got lost on the mountain in Enumclaw. (I was so scared, lost in the dark. But, you were with me, and that made it bearable.) Getting married. I'll never forget how concerned I was that Dad make sure to let you out to poop before the ceremony. And, what was the first thing Dad said to me, just before he walked me down the aisle? "Cosmo pooped." That will forever be a cherished memory from one of the most important days of my life. You were there in our little duplex, watching me learn how to work a lawnmower. You were there when we bought our house. You grudgingly accepted Lucy as a canine companion. And then, you grew to love her. You were there when each little boy joined our family. And, after a while, you grew to love them, too. Especially their leftover crusts and crumbs.

I'm not going to remember you as you were this awful Christmas Day. I'm going to remember you the way you were on Thanksgiving. The way you pranced out into the snow, looking like a puppy again. Laughing your doggy laugh and munching on snow. And, I'm going to remember you, always, as my friend and companion for all of these years. Sharing so much of my life with me. Always loving me and accepting me, even with all of my faults.

The boys drew pictures of you, today. Foster's had hearts all over it, and Spencer drew spiky hair everywhere. I'm so glad they got to know you.

Our family won't be the same without you, Cos. You were a good boy. A good, good boy.

We love you.

Sometimes you just need your Mom and Dad.

I have learned, over the years, that no matter how competent and in control and grown up you may think you are...sometimes, you just need your Mom and Dad. Even at the ripe old age of 42. Nothing else will do.

So, I have spontaneously decided to pack up the boys and a bunch of their toys to make the long, long drive over the mountains to see my folks. (Hoping, hoping, hoping the pass will be clear, and I won't have to go out in a blizzard to put chains on the tires, like the last time I made this trek in the winter. Yeah, the 8 hour trip that turned into 12 hours. The very same trip in which my boys ended up peeing in the car, because we were stuck in the mountains for so long, and I burst into tears of relief the second I arrived in our driveway at home. Wait a minute...Why am I dong this, again?) Well, hubby has to work his crazy hours all week, anyway, so it's not like we'd be spending any time with him until Christmas Day. I'd just be doing the usual single Mom thing all week long. So, I called Dad, yesterday, to ask if he and Mom would like a last-minute, pre-Christmas visit from me and the little guys.

The minute he said "Hello", I felt like I was about 10 years old again. "Hi, Dad." Hearing the tremor in my voice, he simply asked, "How are you, honey?"

This, of course, turned the tremor into something that probably sounded a little like a cross between sniffling and whimpering, as I struggled to keep it together.

What I wanted to cry out was, "Dad, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE can I come home and just be a kid for a little while again, and you and Mom can take over? I'm so exhausted and empty and discouraged, and I just need somebody else to take the reins for a little while, so I can rest."

Instead, I said, "I'm OK, Dad. I'd just really like to come home for a few days. Would that be OK? We could make it a surprise for Mom. She'll be so excited."

Thus, the plan was set.

I'm so excited. I'm going home. And, for just a few days, there will be somebody taking care of me, for a change. I won't have to do all the cooking. I'll be able to take a nap or two, and maybe even take a bath... I'll take long walks and play in the snow with the boys and my Dad, while my Mom is at home making something warm and yummy for us all to have when we get back. I'll spend at least one full day in my pajamas, letting the boys watch all the cartoon channels we don't have at our place, drinking spiked coffee, and playing cards with my Mom. After the kids are in bed, I'll relax by the fireplace, just talking and laughing with my folks... I'll get filled up again. With love. With optimism. With my usual zest for life.

I can't wait.

If only I could get there without having to drive...

Cheers!

Thank goodness for Scooby Doo and PB&J!!!

You know how sometimes, when an enormous weight has finally been lifted off of your shoulders, it leaves you completely depleted? Or, how about the times when you've had such a stressful day (or week, or year) that you look at the sink that's packed full of dishes and the overflowing laundry and just walk away from it all, simply too exhausted to deal with it? Or those times when you are SO dog tired just from juggling work and motherhood and marriage and doctor's appointments and dentist appointments and bills, etc., etc...that you can barely move? The times when you drag yourself through the door, kids in tow, and know that you somehow have to summon the energy to at least feed your hungry children, even if you can't even summon the energy to take off your own shoes? (Mine are still on, by the way.)

That's when I say, "Thank goodness for Scooby Doo and PB&J!!! A weary Mom's best friends!"

So now, I kick off my boots, pour a glass of red, and try to remain semi-functional until the boys have had their baths, read their stories, sung their songs, and are headed off to Dreamland.

Cheers!

Santa Claus is Coming to Town...

Conversation with Foster in the bathtub:

"Omigosh, Mom. You are NEVER going to believe this!"

"What, honey?"

"I found out that some of the kids in my class don't think Santa Claus is real! Can you BELIEVE that?!!!" (This said in a tone of such incredulity, that it was all I could do not to bust out laughing.)

"Really? Well, what did they say?"

"It's SO silly, Mommy!"

So, tell me."

"They think the Moms and Dads are getting all the presents! Bwaaa haaa haaaaa!!!"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Giggle, giggle, chuckle. There's no way that could ever happen! How could Moms and Dads get all the presents under the tree by Christmas? They don't have Santa magic! Giggle, giggle."

Leaving me to wonder....Is my little guy going to need therapy for this some day?

Still, I'm happy the magic is alive and well for my boys. Harsh, cold reality is just around the corner, so let's keep as much magic and light and laughter around as as we can, right? Happy holidays.

Cheers!

You're a mean one, Grinchy - Grinch!

I just came from the grocery store. I could probably just write that one sentence, and that would be enough. I mean, anyone who has set foot in any sort of store since Thanksgiving knows the significance of those 7 words. "I just came from the grocery store." Translation:  "Someone please pour me a huge glass of wine, right friggin' now!"

Why? Because the stores are packed full of Grinches. They may not be green, but they're surly, with mouths pinched tightly closed, brows drawn together into deep scowls, and lips drawn up into nasty sneers. They come in all ages, shapes, and sizes, but the expressions are always the same. And, they move lightning-fast, these Grinches, closing in on their desired purchases with a hunter's instinct. Using their baskets and shopping carts as weapons, knocking aside small children, exhausted Moms, and other Grinches in their effort to beat the competition.

As joyful holiday tunes fill the air, these awful people run over toes, snarl at harried cashiers, snatch objects right out of the fingers of innocent people who came into the store happily whistling along to the music, and now just wish they could go back in time and stay home, even if it means that they have to live without bread and milk until 2011. Today, I observed a 50-ish woman, dressed head-to-toe in Christmas wear, from her red and green sweater with the snowman on the front, to the snowflakes dangling from her earlobes (how jolly!) speed up, almost to a jog, so that she could cut right in front of a little old couple who were making their way into the checkout line with about 3 items in their basket. She swooped in ahead of them to begin unloading her own, overflowing shopping cart. The young, exhausted-looking cashier looked up at her and said, "Hello, how are you?" The Grinch-Woman didn't even acknowledge her. This woman, like so many other holiday shoppers, in their annual quest to fill their houses with goodies and to lavish their loved ones with gifts, demonstrate the ultimate in selfishness, egocentricity, and just plain Grinchy-ness. Ahhh, the irony...

I hope they accidentally sit down on the spiky end of a holly bush.

HO HO HO!!!

The great Christmas card mystery.

Last year, I only got half-way (or maybe one third of the way) through my Christmas card list. I tried, I really did. But, life was extra crazy last year, what with the do-it-yourself kitchen remodel project that just wouldn't end, the water damaged floor, and other insanity, loaded right on top of the general chaos that comes with living in my household. Anyway, I never did get those cards out.

This year, I vowed things would be different. So, I have actually mailed at least 90% of my cards. (Cue the applause, please.) Yes, I'm feeling pretty good about it. I couldn't find a single decent picture of all four of us together to actually put on the card, but I managed to get some cute individual photos on there, order copies, pick them up, write a yearly update letter, and send them out. I put my husband in charge of his side of the family, this year, so there's a good chance that they may never get their cards, but that's on his shoulders this time around...I'm letting go of a few things.

So, now that they're out, I just get to eagerly anticipate all of the Christmas cards that will be coming our way. I love seeing the photos of distant family, friends and their kids. I love reading the update letters and hearing all about their adventures. All of the cards get hung up around the doorway. It's great. Festive and fun. I look forward to it every year.

Then along came the mystery card.

It was addressed to our family, from a town nearby. It has a cute picture of some really adorable kids. The problem? We have NO idea who it's from. We don't recognize the last name. We don't recognize the names of the kids. We don't recognize the address. We don't recognize the picture. Absolutely no idea. I asked the boys to look at the pictures, in case it was from somebody in one of their classes. Nope. I asked hubby to check at work to see if it came from someone there. Nothing. I asked some of my friends if they knew who it was from. Nada.

So, I'm hanging it up on the doorway with the rest of the cards. Why not? The kids are really cute, afterall.

Feliz Navidad!

A few burning questions about husbands, kids, life, and such...

1. Why would my husband rather spend all day in the dark than open the blinds to let in a little light? Is it a "Man Cave" thing? Does he not notice that it's dark in the house? How can he just happily go about his business, knowing that natural light is waiting right outside the windows, just a few feet from where he's sitting/standing/eating/watching TV/playing video games/drinking coffee?

2. Where's Robin Hood, when you really need him, huh? I mean, look at the state of our country (if you can do so without bursting into tears or spontaneously combusting). What we really need is a hero to come riding in on his horse, take some of that money all the super-rich are hoarding (and continuing to somehow earn and earn and earn, even while the rest of us hard-working folks are victims of this endless recession) and distribute it a little more equally to the people who need it the most. And, he can do it all while being charming, witty, intelligent, and still finding a little time to make merry. Sounds like a good idea, doesn't it? Oh, wait. Maybe President Obama is Robin Hood...Perhaps he just needs a bow and a quiver of arrows. Or a horse. Or a few less horse's asses in Congress.

3. Why do boys, of all ages, think farting is so funny? I mean, they seem to actually come out of the womb thinking flatulence is hilarious. It's gas coming out of your rear end. And, sometimes it stinks. Call me crazy, but I just don't get it.

4. Why do husbands say things like, "I made plans for us, honey. Can you figure out somebody to take care of the kids?", and then wonder why their wives want to smack them upside the head instead of leaping for joy at their romantic gesture? I hate to break it to you, guys, but we don't exactly feel swept off our feet, when we still have to arrange for childcare. Walk over to the phone list and call the babysitter yourselves! Now, THAT would be a romantic gesture! THAT would pretty much guarantee that you'd be getting some extra lovin', if you know what I mean. Extra. Special. Lovin'.

5. Why do so many smokers think that throwing their cigarette butts onto the sidewalk (or out the window of their car, or in the park, or next to some little kids' playground) isn't actually littering? I know, I've ranted about this particular topic, before. But, it's not like it's getting any better, right? A cigarette butt just hit the windshield of my car this afternoon, after being tossed out the window of the car in front of me. Anyway, would these inconsiderate folks feel the same way if I dumped, say, all of my used kleenex in their front yard? "Oh, relax. It's not really litter. I just used it to clean boogers out of my nose. Boogers are biodegradable, right? Surely you don't mind me throwing these in your front yard, since you just dropped your cigarette butts all over the public sidewalk where my kids ride their bikes. Right? I mean, it's a free country, right?"

6. Since religious groups are so involved in making policy and promoting home-grown, hand-picked politicians these days, in spite of the founding father's wise regulations regarding separation of church and state, shouldn't they be paying taxes, just like all the other businesses? And, if you think about it, if churches paid taxes, wouldn't that pretty much eliminate the deficit right there? Hmmmmm....Oh, and I can't claim any sort of personal brilliance for this sentiment, because I've seen it on bumper stickers and magnets. But, think about it. We all know, regardless of our personal religious beliefs, that religion, in all of its forms, is big business. Think how much really productive money could be generated, if they just bucked up and paid taxes? Talk about really supporting your neighbors, eh?

7. How come the minute you feel like you're finally getting ahead of your bills, your car breaks down, or your roof springs a leak?

8. What did I ever do to deserve such wonderful parents, amazing kids, a patient partner who continues to love me, steadfastedly, through good times and bad, supportive friends, a career I feel passionate about, an inquisitive mind, and a life that has been rich in laughter and love and adventure? I am so lucky!

Cheers!

Man, I really hope karma is real!

Spoiler alert: This is just going to be a total rant about the jerks of the world. That's it. Nothing to do with being a working Mom, or the perils of raising two little boys, or the endless challenges of marriage and life and such....Nope. None of that. Just a full-on vent about a--holes. Why? I'll tell you why. Because sometimes you just. can't. take it. anymore.
When people say, "Don't worry. That guy is a total jerk, but Karma's a bitch. Just you wait. He'll get his due someday! You reap what you sow." -- Is that really true? Or, could it be that we just say that to ourselves, so we'll feel better about watching so many butt-heads walking all over other people and then getting rewarded for it?

Does the guy who sees you (I'm talking, actual eye contact here) waiting for a spot in an icy parking lot, with your signal flashing and your little boys in the back, and then chooses to cut in front of you and whip his truck into the spot really get what's coming to him? Please say yes! C'mon, just say it to make me feel better. Does he get a flat tire on the way home? Does a rock hit his windshield and shatter it into a million pieces?

How about the people who let their yappy dogs outside at 6am every Saturday and Sunday morning and then let them bark and bark and bark, waking up the whole neighbrhood and not caring about how many exhausted, hardworking people are being woken up by their obnoxious pack of hounds? Where is the karmic justice there? Do they start growing thick, black hair in places hair shouldn't grow, perhaps?

Or, how about the people who get everyone else to do all the hard work, and then spend all the free time that creates kissing up to the bigshots, so that they're out in front for promotions and recognition, even though they seldom actually do any work? Do they wind up with scabies or chronic, painful gas or something like that, just to bring balance back to the universe?

And, what about the "mean girls" who grow up to be "mean women"? Do they gain a hundred pounds and find themselves married to lazy, good-for-nothing partners, who make them feel as bad about themselves as their own victims have felt after being tormented and bullied by them?

What about the people we see on the news (or sometimes in our own neighborhoods) committing fraud? The ones who say they're too disabled to work and then get the government to fund their house projects or luxurious vacations? Are they stricken with intense insomnia, because they are racked with guilt during their trips all over the world, knowing that it's being funded by money that could be offered to someone who is, say, stricken with cancer or genuinely too disabled to work?

SOMEBODY TELL ME KARMA IS REAL!!! Of course, if it is, I'm about to get some kind of smack-down from the universe for writing this long, negative rant. Oops...

Cheers!

The Great Stuffed Animal Debacle

Around here, when Christmas is coming, that means it's time to purge old toys, before new ones arrive from Santa. Why? Partly because our house contains four humans and two dogs packed into 1150 square feet with no storage. There are only so many toys we can handle. But mostly because I don't want my kids overloaded with toys, and I want them to learn empathy and compassion by donating toys that aren't used so much anymore to kids who might not have any. So, last weekend was "purge time". Honestly, much of the purging is done by me, alone, while the kids are distracted. There's the donate pile, the consignment pile, and the trash pile, and lots of toys that my boys have forgotten all about simply disappear into one of those piles without them ever knowing. But, I also want Spencer and Foster to be an active part of the process, so they can wrap their brains around this whole purging idea. So, last Saturday, I told the boys to get all of their stuffed animals (I'm thinking there are at least 40 of them) and take them into the living room, so they could figure out which ones they were going to donate and which they would keep. All seemed to be going well, as they gathered an entire zoo's worth of animals and took them into the living room.

That's when the sobbing began...

I was in their room, purging away, when I heard the most heartbreaking crying coming from the living room. Thinking that one of the boys had impaled his brother with some sharp object, I dashed down the hallway. What did I find? Stuffed animals all over the place, Foster sitting against the couch with a blank look on his face, and Spencer lying, facedown, on the carpet, sobbing his heart out.

"Spencer, what happened? What's wrong?!!!" I asked, rolling him over to check for bleeding.

He looked up at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen, tears streaming down his face, chest hitching with sobs, and woefully cried, "I don't want to give ANY of my stuffed animals awaaaaaaayyyyyyy........."

It was all I could do not to laugh. Such drama! Nonetheless, my oldest son was sincerely devastated at the idea of having to give away any of his stuffed animals. So, I hugged him, grabbed him a kleenex, and decided to negotiate.

"OK, honey, just relax. I'm not asking you to give away your favorites, or anything. Let's just give away some of the ones you never play with anymore, because there are kids who don't have any stuffed animals, and they would really appreciate having an animal to love and to play with, OK? So, let's have a look here. What about this big, yellow bunny rabbit? You guys never play with this one."

"Mommy, how can you even say that????" More sobbing. "That's the very first easter bunny (sob) Grandma ever gave me!!!" (sob, sob, sniff, sob)

"OK. Well, how about this duck flower thingie? You seriously NEVER play with the duck flower thingie, right?" (It's some sort of flower with a duck face in the middle. Don't ask.)

At this point, Foster piped in with, "I'd be OK with getting rid of the duck flower." Sweet boy...

Then, Spencer, in a tone of voice which insinuated that I was some sort of nazi terrorist said, "But he'll be lonely! He won't have a friend to be with!"

Not to be outdone, I replied: "Well, then. Let's pick a friend for him, so they can be together."

So, Spencer spent what seemed like about 20 minutes poking through his animal pile, and finally came up with a companion toy for the duck flower.

"All righty then. Let's donate the duck flower and his friend."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! His friend is Bubba. You can't donate Bubba. I LOVE BUBBAAAAAAAAA!!!!!" (Wailing, sobbing, sniffling, crying.)

What followed was a total fiasco of bargaining, negotatiating ("Mommy, you let me keep Tu Tu the alligator, and I'll give you two army guys and a bouncy ball, OK?"), whining, pleading, the rendering of the historical background of every single stuffed animal in the house, and endless sobbing. By the time I gave up, there were exactly three stuffed animals in the donate pile. A tiger puppet, which both boys agreed to give up, and two stuffed animals that, technically, belonged to me. The rest went back onto the boys beds.

It must have been about midnight, when I heard muffled sobs coming from the bedroom. Of course, I did what any self-respecting exhausted mother should do -- I woke up the hubby and told him it was his turn to see what was wrong. I heard murmuring and sobbing, and then John came back in the room.

"Beth, did you give away Nick?"

"Who's Nick?"

"I don't know. Some wolf toy that Mom and Dad gave you after your surgery."

"His name is Nick?"

"Yeah. Apparently Spencer named him, and he begged me not to give him away. He's really upset."

"Of course he is." Sigh. "Whatever. Tell him we'll get Nick out of the box tomorrow, OK?"

"OK. And, there's some tiger puppet that got donated too. Do you know anything about that?"

"Aaaargh!!!" (Yes, something that sounded JUST like that actually came out of my mouth.)

"I GIVE UP! Tell him we'll get all the animals out of the box, tomorrow."

Thus ended, what shall forever be burned into my brain as "The Great Stuffed Animal Debacle."

Until next year.  Sigh.

Happy Holidays!!!

When you wish upon a star...

Now that song is stuck in your head, isn't it? heh, heh...

Last night, as per usual with my husband's insane work schedule, he wasn't going to arrive home until after the boys were already in bed. So, he called to say "goodnight" to the boys. Spence did his usual "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, see ya in the morning" routine and tossed the phone to Foster. I went into the kitchen to start another endless cycle of cleaning...

A few minutes went by, and Fos still hadn't shown up with the phone. So, I went back to our bedroom to see what was taking so long. It was FREEZING in there and no sign of Foster. I came around the corner and saw the door to the back deck wide open, cold October air blowing in, and I heard Foster's voice.

"Daddy, it's the biggest star EVER! I'm pretty sure it's Jupiter. Yeah. Jupiter. Uh-huh. I'm serious, Dad. Look at it. Can you see it? See it?"

I peeked around the corner, and there's my youngest son, standing in his bare feet, staring up at the sky, with the phone held way out in front of him, pointed at the stars.

"Do you see it, Daddy?"

That's when I piped in. "Sweetie, Daddy can't see through the phone, so why don't you just tell him about it."

"Oh, hi Mom. OK. Hey, Daddy, I made a secret wish on the star. D'you want me to do a wish for you too? You do? OK, whisper your secret wish to me, and I'll do it for you."

I was still standing there, shivering. So, Fos looks up at me and, in an extremely polite, sweet voice says, "Um, Mommy? Can you please give us some privacy and shut the door? This is Daddy's secret wish, so nobody's allowed to hear it but me, 'cuz I'm doing it for him."

How cute is that? Seriously. Does it get any cuter?

Cheers!

How is it possible to feel so lonely, when you're never, ever, EVER actually alone?

I think that motherhood can be a wonderful "club." Especially when the kids aren't mobile yet, and you can cart them easily to "playdates" that are really nothing more than an excuse for the moms with babies to get together to drink coffee (or wine). And, when the kids are small enough that they aren't in school yet, so there are more opportunities to get together with other moms to share stories and to laugh and to get support from others who are going through it (and to have more wine)...

I also think that motherhood can be lonely. Incredibly lonely. You wouldn't think it would be possible, when most mothers can't even pee or take a shower by themselves, without one kid or the other barging in with a need or a want or a "Mommmmmmmyyyyyyyyy........Foster broke my invention!" or "Mommmmmyyyyyyyy....Spencer hit me in the neck!"

I mean, if your house is anything like my house, you're never alone for a minute. You leap out of bed, heart pounding every morning, go through the frenzied, frantic, chaotic morning routine that somehow ends up with your kids in their respective schools/daycares and you at work, just in the nick of time. You work all day, then you reverse the situation and, with no time to stand around shooting the breeze with your co-workers, you race out of there to go through the frenzied, frantic,chaotic afternoon routine that somehow ends up with all of you back home, more or less in one piece. You take care of emptying backpacks, reading agendas and notes from the school, listening to the messages on your answering machine, advancing the endless laundry to the next cycle, and then try to squeeze in a few minutes of "fun" time with your kids, before it's time to make dinner. Then it's bath time, story time, songs, and, finally, finally, your kids are in bed, leaving you feeling guilty about being relieved that your children are now unconscious and, therefore, not demanding anything from you. Then, it's go back out to the kitchen to make the lunches for the next day, to set the coffee maker so you'll have that invaluable morning infusion of caffeine, clean up the kitchen, throw enough toys in their respective baskets to clear a path for walking, pet each of your poor, neglected dogs on the head, at least once, just to relieve the guilt you feel for not taking them for a walk AGAIN, push the unpaid bills to the side of the counter, and then collapse. You're alone. The house is quiet. But, by then, you're too exhausted to appreciate this moment of silence and calm, and, as the case usually is in my house, that's right when hubby finally arrives home from work, all full of energy, wanting to talk or watch T.V. or something...After all, the work is already all done. The kids are asleep. He's got nothing to do but talk or watch T.V. or something... And, all you want to do is escape into sleep, because you know you have to start all over again in just a few short hours, and you can't even imagine how you're going to get through another day.

So, you're never really alone. And, yet, there's loneliness. There's the feeling that you're in this all by yourself. That nobody else is feeling as overwhelmed or frustrated or exhausted as you are. That all those women who have partners who are home for dinner every night and home all weekend to help with the parenting, or who have mothers or mothers-in-law who live in town and pop over to take over with the kids once a week or bring over dinner (just because), or who have neighbors with kids the same age and offer reciprocal babysitting services, so you can actually go out on dates with your husband (imagine that!) or get your grocery shopping done, or just have a half-an-hour to yourself, or go to the gym...  just don't get it. And, you want to say "Please, just live my life for a week. Just for a week. Or maybe 48 hours. Then, you'll understand, and I won't feel so alone, anymore."

But, you don't say it out loud. You deal with it. You go on. You tell yourself that there are other moms who have it much, much worse than you, and you count your blessings. And, you try as hard as you can not to feel envious of the moms who have it much, much easier than you (especially if they are friends you love and miss), because envy is a nasty, horrible, destructive feeling that doesn't do anybody any good and just leaves you feeling ungrateful and whiny and unappreciative of the good things you have in your life. So, you search for joy, and you remind yourself that life is fleeting, and you try to hang on to those moments of bliss with all of your might. And, you try to live your life as an upbeat and optimistic person (with only the occasional full-on emotional meltdown in the grocery aisle at Fred Meyer), because the alternative is just too depressing.

And, once-in-a-while, you send your thoughts out into the blogosphere at 4:30 in the morning, because you just have to get it out, and because you're hoping that someone out there will read your words and will understand. Because then you're not really alone, afterall. Right?

School Bus Trauma #2

Some of you may remember the original school bus trauma from about this time, last year. Thinking about it still makes me shudder. Well, if you can believe it, school bus trauma #2 beats that one, by a mile.

You know, you figure that when your second child heads off to kindergarten, things should go more smoothly than the first time around, when you were just a rookie, right?

Not this time.

Yesterday, I did my usual frantic afternoon routine, which consists of me flying out of my office, papers scattering everywhere, my desk a disaster, countless things left unfinished, the very second the clock reaches 3:30, so that I can make the wild trip all the way across town, cutting in and out of traffic, heart pounding, biting my nails at every red light, cursing the slow drivers in front of me, screeching to a halt at the bus stop, and leaping out of the car to stand by the curb, mere moments before the bus arrives with my little darlings aboard.

So, there I am, all excited to see my little guys. Off jumps Spencer. Big smile. Hugs. Kisses. I straighten up from all the loving, watching the other kids getting off the bus, eagerly anticipating seeing Foster's impish grin (and slightly terrified at what he may have done at school, since there's usually some sort of story involving kicking or pushing a classmate, sticking his tongue out at little girls, or saying "You're not the boss of me!" to the teacher or librarian or paraeducator, or ... wait for it ... the principal. Sigh). All the kids jump off, and I'm still standing there, staring stupidly at the bus driver.

"Are we missing one?" he says, jovially, as if it's the most casual question in the world to ask.

"Um, yeah. Foster. Little guy. Superman backpack."

The driver gets on the radio and makes an announcement:  "Foster, please come to the front of the bus!"

Nothing.

Spencer jumps back on the bus and says, "I'll get him, Mom!" I can see him going all the way to the back of the bus. And coming back. Alone.

"Where is he?" I ask the bus driver in a slightly shaky voice, attempting to remain calm.

"I'll call transportation and see what's going on."

He radios transportation, and I hear him talking to the dispatcher, announcing that we have a missing kindergartner. He gets off the radio and hands me a phone number.

"Go home and call this number. That's dispatch. They're radioing all the buses to see if Foster is on board. Don't worry, we'll find him."

Don't worry? Don't friggin' worry?!!! Are you KIDDING me? Have you not heard about kids disappearing? Have you not heard about the little 2nd grader who was last seen at his science fair and then never came home from school? Have you not heard about the local student whose body was just found floating in the bay? DON'T WORRY???!!!

I grabbed Spencer's hand and half-dragged him the 3 blocks home, drilling him for information the whole time.

"Was Fos in line with you? Did he get sent to the office? Did you see him go somewhere with somebody? Did he get off the bus at the wrong stop? He's your little brother! What happened to him?"

Poor Spence, completely shaken by my obvious panic, just kept saying, "It's not my fault, Mommy. I'm not in charge of him. I don't know where he went. I was with my friends. I don't know."

I called transportation dispatch, immediately, and the lady told me they were still looking into it. She put me on hold. I waited all of 3 minutes then hung up and called back. This time, I got a supervisor.

"My son is 5 years old. He's missing. He didn't get on the bus. Where is he?"

"We're looking for him, ma'am. Don't worry. Kids get on the wrong bus all the time. We'll find him and call you back."

There it was again. "Don't worry." As I envision my little boy either being driven away to Canada by some stranger who dangled candy or a kitten or a brightly wrapped present in front of him OR wandering lost and scared somewhere after getting off at the wrong bus stop OR being flattened by a speeding car as he attempts to find his way home...

Then the phone rang.

"We found him! He's on a bus going south around the lake. We'll drop him at his elementary school in about 45 minutes."

Then the tears started. Up until then, I had somehow been holding it together. Once I knew where he was, I completely lost it. Huddled on the kitchen floor with my arms wrapped around my legs, shaking and sobbing. My little boy was safe. Not kidnapped. Not lost. Not flattened by a speeding car. Safe.

I cried the entire 45 minutes.
I cried when I saw the school bus turning in to the parking lot.
I cried the second I saw him.
I'm crying right now, just writing about it.

Then I heard the story of how his teacher had told him that he'd be riding a different bus home, because transportation had changed buses for the afternoon pick-up. The teacher was just doing his job. But, all my little guy heard was "Different bus home". So, when the buses pulled up, instead of following his brother, my adventurous little Fos just picked a different bus and hopped on, happy as a clam. Then, when dispatch was calling around to all of the buses to find out where he was, Foster wouldn't answer. The driver thought he looked new, so she pulled over, went back to him, and asked him his name. He wouldn't answer. She asked him what grade he was in. He wouldn't answer. She asked him what school he went to. He wouldn't answer. Why, you may ask? Well, as he told me later, "You told me not to talk to strangers, Mommy." Thank goodness I wrote his name all over his backpack. That's how the driver figured out he was the missing child.

Motherhood is going to kill me. Seriously. Kill me.

Cheers!