stay at home mom

drowning in icing

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Another year. Another birthday. Another party.

I get a little too excited about my kids’ birthday parties. But, by the end, that excitement turns into a stress mess and nothing ends quite how I envisioned.

Today, I find myself at Michael’s – the 12th store on my places to go for birthday supplies. I’ve gathered the basics, but Pinterest always makes me feel one step… or, 10 steps… behind. I should try for more.

I went in searching for race car-themed cupcake decor because I was having trouble finding exactly what I wanted. There are 50 million different shades and designs of pink and purple, but boy themes are in short supply. Thankfully, I located the perfect cupcake liners quickly, but, then, I saw the cakes. There was a car-shaped cake tin. How much would Austin LOVE this? It would be adorable. I could decorate the cars AND do cupcakes. Sugar overload, but who cares? I could just imagine how impressive this whole setup could be. I was going to rock this party.

I stand in line, attempting to keep one child from breaking every single glass vase lining the walkway and the other from nose diving from the basket seat. Finally, we are next, and I lug the basket to the counter where I quickly remove the items. Then, I stop.

There I am, drowning in $30 worth of specialty icing and a couple car-shaped tins, along with other party “necessities” and various craft projects that most likely will never be accomplished. That’s about the time reality slapped me in the face. What am I thinking?

Why do I turn every birthday party into a circus and stress myself? This is a party. It’s supposed to be fun. We are not celebrating me or my crafts or how many Pinterest projects I can cram into a party.

We are celebrating my son – my sweet, loving little boy. Another year of life that the Lord has blessed us with. Another year of laughter, tears, hugs and kisses. We are celebrating Austin. And, to be honest, he doesn’t care about a single thing that I’m doing for his party except for the fact that there will be friends, there will be cars and there will be chocolate. And, that is enough.

That is enough. It’s hard to wrap my head around that thought. We try so hard to make sure our children have the best of everything. But, some things, like birthday parties, really don’t matter. So, maybe if I step back and take a lesson from my three-year-old, it could save me from a few gray hairs down the road. Instead of stressing over logistics and decorations, I’m going to try to let it go and just enjoy. Get ready. It’s time to party like a three-year-old.

i am raising a ninja

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We moved Austin into a big boy bed almost a year ago in preparation for Everett’s arrival. It was a difficult transition, but he adapted. Since then, we had been using a baby gate to keep Austin from roaming at night.

About three weeks ago, we ditched the gate. And, I miss it.

Of course I worry about him tumbling down the stairs in the middle of the night. But, he has mastered the stairs, and, to some extent, I have let go of that concern. And, I worry about the mischief he could potentially accomplish in the dead of the night. But, honestly, what makes me miss that gate the most is my own fear factor.

Walking into a room after the children have gone to bed only to find a small person standing, silently staring at you is creepy. Beyond creepy. It has actually caused me to literally jump. He has become quite stealthy at sneaking out of bed. Sometimes it is to play, and other times, well, I can’t figure out why. Occasionally, he will watch us from the catwalk, unknowing that he is there until I glance up, fall to the ground out of sheer surprise and nearly have a heart attack.

I admit that I have seen far too many horror movies. Growing up, my best friend LOVED scary movies. Adored them. I hated them. But, guess what? We watched them – over and over and over again. I’m quite certain that any horror movie made before 1999, I have seen… against my will. Since then, I can count the number of those movies I’ve seen on one hand… okay, maybe two fingers. Those story lines are engrained in my brain. I can barely watch CSI without having nightmares.

In fact, several weeks ago, the hubs was out of town on business, and I was home with the kids. About 10:30 at night, I was lying in bed, when I heard a noise – a LOUD noise – followed shortly by several lighter noises. Obviously, someone was in my house. There could be no other option. So, what did I do? I called my neighbor… who came over with a bat. And, we proceeded to search my house, room by room, opening closets, looking under beds and behind the curtains for the bogie man. Surprise, surprise, nothing turned up. But, I was able to sleep much better after that. Too many scary movies…

So, obviously, I am a little jumpy. But, I mean seriously, who wouldn’t be that way if they came face to face with the spitting image of a ghost child, who appeared out of nowhere, wanting to know if you will play with them?

It’s hard for me to understand how such a little person who doesn’t understand the concept of “inside voice” and constantly crashes into everything during day light hours could sneak around so ninja-like in the darkness of night. While I appreciate him not waking his little brother by running around like a wild man, it would be nice to have a little head’s up.

In fact, maybe I’ll just attach jingle bells to all of his pajamas. Problem solved.

potty talk

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We are officially in the throes of potty training, and, at this point, I wonder if the scent of urine will ever leave my home. Seeing as I have two boys… I’m guessing not.

We decided to wait until Saturday morning for the fun to begin – that way I wouldn’t drown in the puddles of tee tee myself. The night before, I was casually perusing – aka stalking – Facebook when an ad geared toward potty training popped on my newsfeed. The message of the ad was the longer you wait to potty train, the harder it will be. Well, great. It was torture three months ago. It was agony two months ago. At this point, I was seriously considering who I could pay a million dollars to potty train my kid. Of course, I had to figure out where on earth I could get that kind of money. But, hey, that seemed easier than trying to teach Austin where to do his business.

The adventure began Saturday morning. To ready ourselves for the third attempt, I read and reread about dozens of methods. There was the one-day method or the three-day method or the naked method and more, plus hundreds of tips on how to be successful. Homework was done. We were ready.

But, really, when we started the day, I kicked them all to the curb. Let’s wing it, I said.

We spent half the day in the backyard with our wild man running around bare naked, hopped up on juice, and encouraged him to “water” the grass and trees. I’m quite thankful the three little girls who live next door did not try to come play this day. Potty training is not for the faint of heart.

After a semi-successful morning of naked freedom, we moved inside and strategically placed two potty chairs around the kitchen and living room. At this point, it was time for lunch, so I put the potty chair in the seat and scooted him up to the table. We were not going to miss a chance. I never in my life thought I would be so excited to have someone pee at the kitchen table. Ah, parenthood.

That’s when he had his first indoor success for the day. It didn’t matter that my child was literally relieving himself where we eat, or that a little bit splattered the floor and my foot. My child had peed in the potty, and I proceeded to cheer with no less enthusiasm than if he was the youngest recipient ever of the Nobel Peace Prize. And, M&Ms. There were boat loads of M&Ms. Maybe he wouldn’t be going to college in diapers after all.

To be honest, since then, it hasn’t been too bad. There have been far more successes than accidents, but I know we still have a long road ahead of us. And, now, I understand. He just wasn’t ready three months ago or even two months ago. It’s amazing the difference a couple months can make.

I’m not sure my sanity would have survived pressing through potty training two months ago, and I’m thankful that Facebook ad did not present itself then. Because, you know what, waiting a little longer has made this seem like a piece of cake. Cheers to the late potty trainers!

maybe you should’ve counted a few more sheep

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naptime blog

I have a love, hate relationship with nap time at our house. In fact, some days I just can’t muster the courage to even try to put my children down. As nap time approaches, I do a quick poll in my head – Is it worth it today? Or, can we try to survive until bedtime?

Now, let me explain. I LOVE naps. It is a beautiful thing when the stars align and both of my children go down easy and sleep like sweet cherubs. I adore those days. And, really, the drifting off to sleep is not what sends me into near panic attacks. It’s the wake up.

The wake up that makes me want to hide under my own covers. The wake up that immediately makes me regret nap time. The wake up that is the reason I practically toss the children at the hubs when 5 o’clock hits.

I loathe the wake up. Imagine a mother grizzly bear. You have just trapped her, and then decide to steal her cub away. But, you don’t stop there. You then proceed to sit just out of her reach and taunt her, while arbitrarily throwing acorns at her head. Now, bottle all of that anger and rage.

Austin’s fury at wake up time is the equivalent of that mother grizzly bear.

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He cries and screams and just when you think he’s done, you glance in his direction, and it begins all over again. Usually, this goes on for about an hour. Bribery begins shortly after the first wail: a cup of water, a cup of animal crackers and cartoons expertly positioned for maximum efficiency. Sometimes it turns the grizzly bear into a mere rabid dog, and other times it only prolongs the outburst when we run out of the beloved animal crackers.

The real fun is when both boys wake up simulataneously. Everett is a dream napper in the mornings. But, there is something about afternoon naps that leaves both my boys a shoe in for leading roles in The Exorcist. Everett completely loses his mind. You know that bottle he doesn’t need for another hour or so? Yeah. He’s decided he’s going to die if he doesn’t have it five minutes ago. Oh, and that diaper, that he just wet .05 seconds ago. Yes, that should have been changed preemptively.

When I hear people gush over how much they love nap time, and how they themselves sneak in a nap too, I dislike them a little bit… okay… a lot. Because even when the children are sleeping, I sit there waiting. Waiting for the explosion that is our afternoon. But, it’s okay. Because at the end of the day, I know there will be chocolate.

happy heart day

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*Thank you to a special friend for the inspiration for the title of this post. It seemed too perfect.

Continued from six months of living and i’ve never liked dominoes…

Two days home from discharge, and we knew something was really wrong. Everett cried nonstop. He was pale. He was sweating through his clothes and mine. And, his breathing was increasingly faster. These were all symptoms of his heart failure. And, he had maxed out his medications. We knew at this point, he wouldn’t be making it to our goal of four months without the surgery.

We moved his appointment up with the cardiologist from Friday to Tuesday. They did an echo, and things had changed. To everyone’s surprise, his heart was deteriorating faster than previously estimated. He needed surgery soon.

Everett was sent immediately to the  Cardiac ICU, where he was started on strong IV medicines. The plan was for him to stabilize for surgery the following week. The week was filled with new monitors, new medications and uncertainty. The Saturday before surgery, he spiked an unexplained fever, and we were no longer sure if he would be able to move forward with the surgery. If he still ran a fever on Sunday, we would have to discuss our options. But, God provided a miracle, and by Saturday night, he was already fever free. It left as quickly as it came on.

We didn’t sleep the night before surgery. We both stayed at the hospital, and I stayed in the room with Everett. Early morning came, and the nursing staff prepped him for surgery. As the sun awakened outside his room, sun rays and peace filled that little room, and I knew God would be with this child today. And, then, it was time.

It’s an odd experience handing your child over for open heart surgery, feelings of shock, disbelief and terror. As soon as they rolled him away, I broke down. I heaved and sobbed an ugly, ugly cry. Philip and I just held one another, praying for our sweet baby boy. The surgery lasted several hours. Family and friends surrounded us that day, praying for our sweet Everett and keeping our minds from wandering to the “what if” place. I am forever grateful to all of those people.

We received updates throughout the day, but the relief came when the surgeon appeared before us. He had finished, and things looked to be successful. But, his valves were in rough condition, and only time will tell if another surgery is needed down the road. We learned that surgery was only half the battle. The 48 hours following would be critical.

We were able to see him soon after surgery. I knew he would look rough, and I had prepared myself. But, nothing can really prepare yourself to see your two-month-old fresh from open heart surgery. As the nurses busied around him nonstop, I stroked his tiny hand as he lay there so small and helpless. Several minutes passed, and I needed air. I left the room, fell to the floor and sobbed my eyes out.

Philip sent the rest of our family away for the day, after I informed him that if anyone else was going to cry in the room with Everett then they were not allowed in. I was not strong enough for anyone else that day, and I just couldn’t bear it.

A day after surgery, Everett had already exceeded the surgeon’s expectations. He was off the pacemaker and only required minimal amounts of medications. There is no doubt that he is a fighter.

Two days after surgery, I was able to hold him. And, boy, did I hold that baby. The rest of the time in the hospital, I rarely left his side. The nurses would constantly remind me to stay hydrated and urge me to go eat. But, I was with my heart warrior, my little miracle, and I wasn’t going to let him go.

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And, on the third day, Everett smiled. Not a “Was that gas?” kind of smile, but a full open-mouthed grin. There was color in his face, a light in his eyes, and a smile on his face. The Lord had blessed us.

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Within a week of surgery, Everett was discharged home. And, this time, it was for good.

These past six months have still been filled with struggles, but more so, there has been joy. The joy of being together. The joy of overcoming such huge hurdles. And, the joy of appreciating and loving one another.

God has indeed blessed us with a beautiful mess.

i’ve never liked dominoes

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Continued from six months of living…

When we first learned of the diagnosis, we cried a lot, and asked God, “Why?” After a particularly difficult last couple years, we couldn’t understand why we were not invincible to this pain, or given a free pass complete with a miraculous cure for our child.

At the cardiologist appointment, we had discussed Everett’s weight, and, still, he was not at his birth weight. Knowing what our child had to accomplish in a few months, I immediately stopped nursing and started pumping, needing to know why he wasn’t gaining weight and what he was actually taking in. And, I got my answer – an ounce. Total.

Thus, began the first inkling of a problem. I pumped overtime to build up my supply, in hopes that at some point Everett would take normal bottles. But, it took lots of coaxing and tears for him to finish the single ounce.

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And, then the first domino fell. It was late. Austin was in bed, and Everett was extra unhappy this night. We rocked. We walked. We sang. We fed. We swaddled. And, still he screamed. The hubs decided to change his diaper for the hundredth time in hopes he would settle, but, instead he raced to me with a horrified look on his face. He removed Everett’s diaper, and there it was… a hernia… on our three-week-old.

We immediately called the pediatrician who asked us “if we could push it back in.” Uh, push it back in? Negatory, doc. So, off we went to round one at the ER. The doctor confirmed it was a hernia and tried to reduce it – aka shove it back in – with no luck. At this point, he made a phone call to discuss surgery options at its downtown hospital. We waited… impatiently… for a decision. Finally, the doctor returned and decided to try again, motivated by teasing from fellow colleagues who couldn’t believe this doctor couldn’t reduce a hernia on a three-week-old. That’s the kind of care a parent can only hope for, right? He was successful this time and sent us off with information to set up a consultation with a surgeon.

The next morning, Friday, a consultation was scheduled for the following Wednesday. Between a screaming baby and having to reduce the hernia every hour or more, this seemed a lifetime away. That night, things were bad. Every 15 minutes, we had to reduce it, and Everett was inconsolable. Feeling helpless, we headed back to the ER, except this time we went to the downtown hospital where we knew they could do surgery if needed.

We waited and waited, terrified of what horribly contagious diseases our heart baby could pick up from the overcrowded ER. When we were finally seen, the doctor brushed us off, unsure of why we were there. Apparently, if you can reduce a hernia – no matter how often it pops back out or how much your child screams about it – then there is no rush. And, Wednesday was soon enough, he told us. Right…

That weekend was long. Everett cried a lot, and, at this point, began screaming when we tried to feed him and was progressively breathing faster. There we were with our newborn, not knowing how to care for this fragile child, but doing the best we could.

Relief came on Monday when my dad used a connection to get us in with a pediatric surgeon that same afternoon. The surgeon was excellent, and he worked out of a different hospital in town. The hospital we now love. Surgery was scheduled for the following day.

To say we were nervous would be an understatement. Ideally, a hernia repair would follow a heart repair, but it couldn’t wait. Everett’s cardiologist was hopeful his poor eating could be attributed to the hernia, and this could potentially solve our problems. The surgery was a success despite running slightly over his projected time. He was discharged in the morning with several new medications, a diagnosis of reflux, and instructions on how to create high calorie bottles.

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Several days passed, and we found ourselves nowhere. The domino effect had truly begun. The hubs had left town on business, and that same evening I placed a call to the cardiologist. Everett’s breathing was irregular, and he still wasn’t eating. We were sent to the ER, where he told us he would most likely be admitted, if for nothing else, to place an NG tube to help pack on the ounces. It was a terrifying experience. I cradled my baby, trying to calm him, and cried in the arms of a friend as they placed the tube and listened to my child’s gut wrenching cry.

After struggling to find an open flight, Philip arrived the following morning off the first flight he was able to book. One day turned into two, and two into three. Everett not only fought feedings, but now began vomiting most of his bottles. The first GI doctor saw him on day two and promptly diagnosed him with a food allergy, and that was that – this is about the time I officially chunked the pump. Still he vomited on the new formula, and nothing changed. The next doctor took a closer look and ordered an upper GI scan. And, that’s what was needed.

Everett was diagnosed with an intestinal malrotation. Another surgery. And, this one was urgent. On day five, at five weeks old, he underwent his second surgery, and, again, we were hopeful this would solve his feeding issues.

We lived day to day, switching between the hospital and spending “quality” time with our other son. If I was with Everett, I missed Austin. If I was with Austin, I missed Everett. We were tired and not getting the response we had hoped for with Everett. He saw an OT every day to work on bottle feeding, but most feedings were administered through the NG tube. By day ten, we were done. It felt like nothing was changing and nobody cared. We knew something was not right, but it was hard to express that when doctors dropped by haphazardly and only stayed two minutes to answer all your questions. And, that’s when I lost it.

I threw a fit. I let it out. Everything that had been bottled up, nodding and agreeing, and trying to remain calm about the hell my son was going through, came out. I wanted to talk to Everett’s doctor. No, not the doctor on call, his doctor. A nurse tried to play interference, and I explained to her that we were done. There was no reason for us to be here because it felt like nobody was doing anything and the doctors were not working together. We had both dropped the NG tube multiple times. We had been trained on the pump. We were sitting and waiting and nothing was happening. We had voiced concerns but they were always written off. So, why are we here, with no comforts of home, trekking back and forth from one child to another? Why are we here if nothing is going to change?

They did get me on the phone with Everett’s doctor, and I cried, and he apologized for the way things were going (p.s. I really do love E’s doctors and they are fantastic). The next day, there was a new plan – something that actually seemed to finally make a difference. He was vomiting less and appeared to be gaining a little weight. On day 14, Everett was discharged with the NG tube… only to return three days later. This time to the Cardiac ICU.

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Continued Happy Heart Day

all aboard the potty train

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Before I had children, I always marveled at the older two and three year olds who were still styling diapers. With a disapproving look, my smug self would wonder why their parents did not potty train their kid. They were OBVIOUSLY old enough. If I could go back in time, I would smack myself.

Here we are two weeks from my child’s third birthday… And, I’m still wiping his rear and changing out diapers. Welcome to reality. It’s not that I haven’t tried. We’ve tried a whole realm of possibilities – bribery with candy, toys, stickers; positive reinforcement; peer pressure; big boy undies. But, he’s uninterested, and up until this point, his “perseverance” has beat out mine.

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Last year, about this time, I had big plans. As soon as he turns two, we are going to get this kid toilet trained… along with ditching the paci and evicting him from the crib in preparation for little brother coming in January. Ha. I’d like to blame that “optimism” on pregnancy hormones, but, really, I just get delusional about these things.

Now, to be fair, we did accomplish two of the three things before baby brother arrived. But, that left us nowhere on potty training. Several friends ushered warnings of regression after the baby, so with an ounce of convincing, the excuses began for putting off potty training.

As A’s preschool came to a close in May, it finally hit that my kid is not potty trained. And, he will be THREE in a few months. I became the mother that I judged and suddenly was filled with self doubt and embarrassment. Sure, life gets in the way, but how does everyone else do it?

I recruited my mother for moral support, and we issued Phase 1 of Potty Training. A was already accustomed to the plastic kiddie potties, as I had purchased one almost a year ago when I was feeling so ambitious. And, he had used the potty on a rare occasion. With those past successes, I was feeling pretty good about how it would all play out. And, we had even picked out these:

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We were good to go. Ha. There was a lot of crying and frustration and moping… and, A, was even worse. By the end of the day, my mom and I both threw up the white flag and clothed him back in a diaper. Peace was restored. We’ll try again in a few weeks, I thought.

A few weeks came and went, and I was met with an equally awful disaster. That’s it, my kid is gong to college in diapers.

I haven’t tried again since the middle of summer and since then have made excuses using our travel plans. Which leaves us here: two weeks from turning three, starting preschool and a strong attachment to wetting himself. All aboard the Potty Train. There will be no turning back this time.

just give me a box of crayons

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It’s 10 p.m. on the eve of A’s first day back to preschool. And, I stare blankly at an equally blank piece of black construction paper. No inspiration. No motivation. This will be his placemat at school for the entire year.

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Now, normally, when given such a task, I would have written his name neatly in the corner, or, perhaps, even used stickers for his name, and then let him color to his heart’s content. I love my son’s artwork even if it’s just a bunch of scribbles to the rest of the world. But, that wouldn’t work this time. Because they gave him a BLACK piece of paper, which means crayons are out and markers are worthless. That’s about the extent of my “craft” closet.

This is really one of those moments where a degree in Pinterest would come in handy. Or, a Pinterest fairy godmother would work, too. But, no, here I am with nothing, counting down the hours until I have to come up with something.

As the paper continues to taunt me, my thoughts wander to what the other moms are doing for their child’s placemat, and then to A’s new school year. And, I begin tallying all the holidays and parties this year that will undoubtedly become Pinterest-inspired extravaganzas. And, thus, instead of making a miracle appear on this piece of paper, I felt compelled to write a letter to my children instead:

Dear Children,

It’s best that you know and accept this now at an early age. I love you. I love you more than you will ever know and always will, but, please know that you should never equate my love with my skills as a crafter. Because I am a Pinterest failure.

It’s okay, and I can openly admit that. I would love to be crafty and fill your lives with designer birthday parties or intricate snowman inspired breakfasts or amazing marble race tracks.

But, really, it’s probably not going to happen. Most trials have ended catastrophically. Forget the dinosaur shaped sandwiches accompanied with fruit shaped palm trees. I’ll try to remember to cut off the crust. And, those adorable homemade Valentine’s… I hear Target has an excellent selection that even include temporary tattoos. If we ever own an Elf on the Shelf, that’s where he will stay… on the shelf. And, I still believe intricate homemade baked good can’t touch the ease and deliciousness of the Pillsbury ready bake cookies.

So, while Mommy may pin hundreds of pins that are just “Adorable!” and “Brilliant!” and would make every other mom in your class swoon, let’s not get our hopes up, kiddos. Because most things that should come out looking like a masterpiece end up straight to the trash.

The best advice I have to offer is to become best friends with the kids whose moms excel at Pinterest. And, maybe that mom can hook you up with treats for the bake sale when she sees you stroll in with a bag of Oreos.

With love,

Mom