J, T, and Theo B.

What?  What’s that you say?  This summertime curmudgeon might be switching camps?  Say it isn’t so…

Other than poor Russ having to be on umpteen conference calls, we’ve had a most lovely time here at Amelia Island this past week.

The one downer?  Those new floors we were having done?  Seems every single board in every single box was defective.  Ugh.  Lucky for us, our trusty friend and decorator has been all on it and once the manufacturer in California realized they were about to fork out some serious cash to house a family of five (and board two dogs), they decided a working weekend wasn’t so bad after all.  We’ll hopefully be back in our home on July 3; all fingers and toes are crossed.

Today we were able to go on runs and not suffocate through smoke inhalation.  Thank goodness for a heavy downpour the night before!  Our beach outing featured a sand castle contest run by the great AIP youth crew–complete with snow cones for the victors.

You could seriously offer a rock for a prize and that’s all it would take to stoke Tucker’s competitive fire (wonder where he got that?).  Boys vs. girls–what the boys’ castle (?) lacked in decor, it made up for in height.  Winner winner, chicken dinner.  All three boys were thrilled to get a free snowcone.  And it really is all about the prize, isn’t it?

While the boys were digging their way to China, Russ and I were swooning over the best summertime adult beverage ever:  Caldwell Syrah Rose’.  This ain’t your screw-cap, uber-sweet pink and fruity junk you swilled back in high school, let me tell you.  Russ and I tasted this with the winery’s owner in Napa back in January and it is spectacular.  It’s a syrah that wasn’t left fermenting in its own grape skins long enough to give the wine its usual dark red color so it comes out a very clear light red (which I guess is another way of admitting that, yes, it is pink) but without all the cloying sweetness of other typical “light red” wines.  Served very cold while watching the tide come in…oh, good stuff, indeed.

 

“What?  We’re going to taste PINK wine at 9 in the morning?” (For the record, that made it noon on the East Coast so we do have a modicum of pride left…).

Us:  “Oh, my stars, this is AMAZING!”
John Caldwell:  “Told you so.”

With John Caldwell, one of our vintner heroes.
Caldwell Winery

We left the beach to retrieve the boys’ snow cone prizes and to take a dip in the pool.  Having scratchy grains of sand clinging to me makes me squirm, but to the boys, it’s the more the merrier.  They adore having giant patches of it plastered to their legs, arms, faces and bathing suits–like the battlescars of a good day on the beach…

From there we did some jumping, some splashing, some dancing, some eating and a whole lot of laughing.

Is it just me or is The Temptations’ song “Just My Imagination” one of the best beach songs ever?  Here, Theo and I break it down.

After a quick jaunt up to the Marche for ice cream, we crashed a wedding.  (Bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you?)  Signs all over the Plantation pointed towards the wedding, so Russ decided we should check it out; the boys were intrigued by the bride and groom and her bright purple clad wedding party mingling near the water.  Since we weren’t invited and because the boys were loudly asking questions about the purpleness of everything (and, most importantly, since wedding crashing is not a skill we want our sons to learn at such a young age), we turned around out of Walker’s Landing and cruised on down to Drummond Point, our single-most favorite place here.

I could take photos here all day long.  It has the best tree fort in the history of tree forts:

It has one fantastic playground, with monkey bars that are perfect for dangerously hanging upside down by one’s knees:

It has the best boardwalks in the history of boardwalks (at least through marshlands):

There are hermit crabs, giant birds, croaking toads, scuttling wildlife, winding trails and the best sunset view on the island.  When the tide turns, you can also find yourself racing down the long boardwalk from the pier to the mainland, trying to beat the tide (we’ve gotten wet before when we waited too long).  Drummond Point is a hidden gem here and we love it.  Taking a mini-adventure out here late in the afternoon caps off the perfect day.

Here’s to island living (for another week, at least).
Here’s to tired and very happy little boys.
Here’s to summertime.

Cheers!

…whooo-eeey.  That was us last week, for sure.  So dive right in…

We are getting new flooring, upstairs and down.  Yes, this is fantastic (and, to be honest, much needed–the carpet upstairs looks like it’s seen one too many fraternity parties), but man, is it a lot of work.  Anything breakable had to be moved (just to get you thinking: china cabinet contents, framed photographs, vases…) and all books had to be removed from their shelves.  Remember, I was once an English teacher; my children could never have enough books.  This is the stack I moved from Theo’s room:

Please note the photo doesn’t include the books in the bathtub (or the closet).  I also had to move books from our room, Jack’s room and Tucker’s room.  While of course I realize a proper (public) library is more economical, I just can’t part with the real deal.  If you’ve ever been in a bookstore with me, you know I pick up various books and just smell them.  There is a difference:  hardbacks v. [gasp] paperbacks; certain presses v. others.  Oh, that’s good stuff, there.  Or as NutBrown Hare would say, “that’s some very good sniffing.”  Try it.  You’ll like it.  P.S. New refrigerators smell just as unique and just as heavenly.

So the flooring folks had me terrified about the hardwood delivery, but honestly, it’s not that bad–other than the smell.  The wood has to acclimate for no one knows how long–the equation the flooring dudes use to figure out if the wood is acclimated is about as complex as that used to determine when Easter is each year.  So we’re just going to take their word on it; they are Croatian, after all (true story: Russ is thrilled they are fellow countrymen of his; the floorers were unsure why I wasn’t more excited about the Mother Country until I reminded them I married into it).

As if all this moving stuff and packing and whatnot weren’t crazy enough, a sassy little bird decided to build her nest in a bin in our garage.  We are experienced in bird funerals (a blue jay built in her nest in Jack’s fort two years in a row and some of her babies fledged into the fort instead of out of it), so we were hoping to prevent a repeat performance.  Luckily, this bird had not yet laid eggs in the nest.  Truth be told, girlfriend is either uber-messy or just in the starting stages of her nest; it was just a huge wad of straw, paper and trash stuffed in the bin.

So Russ, ever-efficient, sent me out to move it.

That’s when Momma-Bird went Momma-Bear and shot into our house.  Because there’s not enough going on in there so far, right?

Crafty and quick, she immediately realized that until that Man-Dude left for work, she was in grave danger; thus, she zipped up to the chandelier in our 2-story entry way.  And hung out there despite the stuffed animals, balled up pajamas and socks the boys threw at her.

(But doesn’t that new paint look nice?)  Marist baseball camp carpool beckoned, so we left the back door and several windows wide open and air-conditioned Sandy Springs for nearly an hour.  When Theo and I returned home, we couldn’t find her.  Case closed–or so we hope.

On to Father’s Day.  I must admit that I usually fail miserably at providing for the dads in my life on Father’s Day, which is especially pitiful since I think Mother’s Day is the cat’s meow of a holiday.  This year, I did a bit better.  The boys gave Popster a selection of useless yet adorable gifts which he seemed to have enjoyed.  We also gave Russ his gifts last week, in case he needed to switch sizes before we headed out to the beach (we being of the ilk that do not want to witness their house being demolished).  Go figure:  the only wrapping paper we had was Christmas paper.  I flipped it over and let the boys decorate their gifts as they saw fit…

First up, a warm and fuzzy Mario-themed package from Jack:

Yes:  Cannons, they’re a blast.

Tuck’s theme:  a smash-up showcasing his genuine religious bent with some Mario to save face with the big bro:

Then sweet Theo B. just did some “red dots, Daddy! Lots of red dots!”

And it just gets better.  Today, Tucker caught (another) frog.  Not a big story, but the fact that he was compelled to introduce “Jumpy” to his “real” frogs,  Tree and Swimmer–who got to ride to the beach in Russ’s car after we forgot them– was pretty funny.

Yep, a frog in the kitchen.  Not so bad, but a frog on the counter?  (I do realize that there are already 2 other frogs on the counter, but they are enclosed in a container so that doesn’t really count, right?)

We’d expect nothing less from this huge-hearted, genuinely spiritual, mega-athletic and creative little fellow who requested to fall asleep tonight to the the song “You Know Better Than I” on repeat (from Aunt Dana’s gift Joseph, King of Dreams):

Happy Father’s Day!!!

Summer is here and the timer is on–the timer until school starts back in August…or at least that’s how it’s felt to me for the past 3 years.  This year, however, I am striving to make it otherwise.

It’s a much needed attitude adjustment for me, and I think, so far, that J, T and Theo are all quite pleased (and, more excitedly, surprised) by it.

Don’t The Unexpecteds always throw you for a loop?  I never expected the painters to still be here 14 days later (I know:  we are fortunate to have them fixing things up, but man, alive, could I use some personal space!).  I didn’t anticipate the engine light to go off on the car this morning.  I didn’t think it would really be this doggone hot already in June.

Most Unexpecteds are bad.  They stumble into your day and irritate you and annoy you and suck the wind out of your sails.  No matter how optimistic you may be, toss a handful of unexpecteds into your day and even you, Polly-Anna, have to admit to getting a little squirrelly.  In a nutshell, they are bummers.

I worry that my boys always view me as the “fun-killer”.  I fuss at them for leaving their cereal bowls on the counter; I harp on them about running in the house; I gruff and roll my eyes when they start wrestling once again.  I get frustrated and then they get frustrated and it’s an ugly cycle that drains the life force out of me by mid-July at the latest.

So this year, I’ve turned a corner (yes, Pops, it’s only week 2 of summer break, but cut me some slack; I’m making some serious effort here…).  This summer is the Summer of the Unexpecteds.  Every day, my boys will experience an Unexpected–of the good variety.

Yep.  Every.  Single.  Day.  Think of it as a longer version of a Lenten obligation (with double-accountability because I’ve floated this out there in public by posting it on this blog).  I’ve made it clear to the boys that The Unexpecteds, in no way, shape or form, will constitute a new concrete item each day.  There is no “Gift Fairy”.  This is not a Target shopping spree, after all.

This whole idea began a mere three days ago (yes, again, Popster, I beg you to hold your tongue…) when I started fussing at the boys for taking the moments I was in the kitchen getting their dinner ready to unroll the hose, turn it on and go nuts spraying the driveway, their bikes, the painters’ ladders–you name it.  I came outside and snatched the hose away from them (let me add that Theo had stripped down to his underwear by this point) and not one of the three hesitated or look shocked that I would be frustrated at them for such an act.  The looks in their eyes said it all (they are supremely good boys, after all).

So I waited until they were all in a line, looking sheepishly down at their bare feet.

And then I soaked them.

The laughter alone was worth it, but we kept this up for another 15 minutes or so and got the flowers and lawn (as opposed to the various inanimate objects scattered about our driveway) watered in the meantime.  And sweet Tucker kept saying over and over, “Momma, this is SO much fun!”

That joyfulness alone was enough to spawn this idea.  Yesterday’s Unexpected was a pit-stop at the Savannah Sweets Candy Store at Phipps while dragging the boys through the mall for the seasonal shoe shopping [er, replacing].  It was utterly off-the-wall for us (while I’d never admit to being the fun-killer, I will undoubtedly confess to being the Candy-Killer), completely out of the ordinary and, well, yes:  Unexpected.

Tonight’s was the “biggest bubble bath of all in the big tub…with the jets!” (Tucker’s words).  Such simple craziness on a 7, 5 and almost-3 year old level (face-painting courtesy of VBS)…

May your own summer be filled with Unexpecteds of the catching a lightning bug, being caught in a sprinkler, seeing a rainbow, watching the tide come in, feeling a full moon on the beach variety!  Carpe Diem.

What is it about school projects that brings out the beast in most mommas?  Is it that one’s children become the conduit for a sense of competitiveness that’s been squashed?  After all, we moms live where there’s no tangible award for being the Valedictorian of Laundry or for being the gold medalist in a sport called, to quote a dear friend, “competitive pumping”.  Clearly, we see our children as a reflection of ourselves as parents, and since we are in a society that spends way too much time trying to one-up one another, we (wrongly) see sending Junior off to school with the Mack-Daddy social science fair project as a way to make ourselves feel like we’ve won the Parenting Olympics.  Rather than letting our children actually complete a project on their own and run the risk of it looking shabby, crooked or, Heaven forbid, incorrect, many parents would gladly rather sit down and just do it themselves.  Doing it the grown-up way is also way less time consuming, and isn’t that the ultimate goal of parenting: across the board efficiency?

But this defeats the whole point of education, doesn’t it?  Don’t we preach to our children to learn from their mistakes?  To keep on trying?  That practice makes perfect?

I am a staunch advocate of letting my children do things themselves.  They write their own thank you notes (even if it takes weeks to get them out).  They build their own Lego contraptions.  True, their folded clothes are more correctly called “wadded” once they hit the drawers and their beds are never made.  Towels hang lopsided off doorknobs instead of on the cute little star-shaped hooks they helped me pick out.  Certainly, we step in when help is needed, but we refuse to take away the learning that comes with doing something.  We try to do things together, as companions, not as a leader and a follower or–even worse–a passive observer.

That’s my mantra I’ve toted around for years now…and then about a month ago we learned that Jack had auditioned for (!!) and gotten (!!!) a role in the first grade musical production The Princeless Princess at his school.  His Music teacher emailed me and said Jack needed a costume–a princely costume, at that–and asked if I could come up with something.  She sent me a picture of a typical Medieval-ish prince-type-person and said to aim for something like that.  Easy enough.

Jack was to wear a black t-shirt, black pants, and whatever princely accoutrements we felt were worthy.  I brainstormed daily while running on the treadmill.  I pondered it at red lights.  I did research on coats of arms.  Knowing his favorite colors (green and blue), I picked up the felt one day while he was at school.  I was taking over his project…

But that was ok, right?  This was for a play–for a school production–so I wasn’t really doing the work, I was just polishing what Jack had done with his adorable audition on one knee (“Why, yes, my lady; just show your tower!”)…

We talked about Coats of Arms and what they signified.  We put a cross (Christian sentiments) and a dog paw (loyalty and, of course, in homage to Jack’s best pal, Dog) on the crest.  I wanted to put a “J” and an “H” inside the other parts, but Jack vetoed that.  We went with infinity symbols, instead, because Jack loves math, and we also figured a true prince would love a princess forever and ever, right?  The entire crest was going to be glued on top of a white cloak (to make it stand out more; my idea) but I cut the neck hole too big.

Clearly, this was not going to work.  It was falling off Jack’s shoulders, and besides that, Jack hated the white (he’s running a 103 fever in this picture and was none-too-happy to model the cloak).

He asked for a green cloak instead.  Green?  But green wasn’t going to make that crest I’d worked so hard on really pop out on the stage!

We did go with green in the end, along with some red around the edges of the crest (his idea–red like a heart).  And in the end, it all looks marvelous, I think…

I can’t imagine there’d really be a princeless princess with this cute prince around…

(This may well be the last picture of Jack with both of his top baby teeth; his top right tooth is hanging on by a thread…)

So, am I eating crow right now?  Have I taken away a true learning opportunity from my son?  Have I done too much for him this time?  I think not.  We did this together.  He had very clear ideas and a very vocal input.  He can tell you all about the symbols on his crest as well as what other symbols mean, too.  He conducted a dress rehearsal here in our living room.  Furthermore, Jack is our child whose language of love is Quality Time (if you’ve not read Gary Chapman’s book about the different languages of love, I highly recommend it).  Jack feels most loved when we do things with him, not for him.  He learns best in collaboration with others.  He adores to spend time with us, participating with us, being with us, teaching us.

Thus, I think our costume creation work this week was the most perfect example of quality education:  Jack gained knowledge in a setting that was chock full of qualities that speak directly to him.  Our collaborative effort embraced him on multiple levels.  He learned a little about the Medieval world and helped create a costume for something about which he is incredibly excited, and he got to do this with one of the two people on this Earth who shoulders the sole responsibility of constantly teaching him.  In the end, Jack was the leader on this one; his mom just handled the glue gun.

So let me tell you:  teachable moments rock, especially when you find it’s yourself who is being taught.

Man, I love baseball season.  I love the green smell of cut grass and the earthy leather of the dusty gloves.  I love the look of a freshly chalked field, outfield still glittering with dew.  And I think my son looks so darn adorable in his baseball uniform.

I played softball from the age of 6 on, so my love of the game makes sense.  I remember being taught how to score a game by my Uncle David (who, along with my Uncle Sid, used to torture me into playing APBA baseball when I was way too little to have any idea what was going on).  It excites me to no end to watch Jack play ball.  He is intense–way too intense for a Little Leaguer–but he loves it.  And I love that he loves it.

Jack’s love of baseball follows him off the field, as well.  (He fell asleep last night with his head on the book The 25 Greatest Baseball Players of All Time.)  This past week, his school had a “Dress Like Your Favorite Book Character Day”…so who does Jack choose?

Dodgers great, Fernando Valenzuela, of course.  Jack’s current favorite book is called Good Sports and features the stories of 4 baseball heroes who were minorities.  One was the great Fernando.  Note that Jack has his glove on his right hand–that’s because Valenzuela was a lefty.  And yes, the homemade Dodgers jersey is a little weak, but try finding L.A. items in baseball-crazy Atlanta.  It’s impossible, particularly on a short deadline.  But Jackers was thrilled with his “costume” and fielded many questions all day about who he was, questions I’m sure he answered with more factual background than the asker ever required (Fernando-Mania, indeed!).  His individualism and self-confidence have really blossomed this year; we are so pleased to see him come out of his shell.

On an unrelated note, Jack and Tuck are now self-proclaimed Bug Wranglers.  Here they are with their Bug Wrangler flag which they planted smack in the middle of our front yard, serving as a beacon of warning to all insects in the north Atlanta area.

Tuck has a Bug Wrangler Bug Vacuum (yes, seriously) and it came with a Bug Wrangler patch (for my future sewing projects since the Fernando jersey was so promising) and a Bug Wrangler Field Guide.  The boys spent all afternoon on Saturday and most of Sunday collecting bugs.

To be fair, this isn’t our first venture into critter-catching (ring-necked hatchling, anyone?), but the intensity with which these boys are going after bugs should make any pest-control employee quiver in fright.

And then there’s this little bucket of joy…everything he does, he does with enthusiasm.  Here he takes a break from Bug Wrangling to make a “big jump!”

I’ve been itching to write for awhile now, but didn’t know how to handle a half-post I’d drafted the night before my most recent birthday.  It was a big one–birthday that is, not post–and, in typical fashion, I’d been obsessing over its impending arrival since New Year’s Day.  So the night before I turned 40, I sat down and started typing.  About halfway through, I bailed and went to bed, intending to wrap up the post the following night (yes, on my actual birthday.  Russ was out of town, so the boys and I were going to dinner and then I hoped to have a few moments of peace after putting them to bed.).

Those quiet moments to write never materialized and then the post seemed to lose its oomph…well, if not its “oomph,” then at least its sense of urgency.  Here’s what I had written:

So we all know I am Madame Sentimentality, right?  I’m one of the few who tears up at “Auld Lang Syne” (every…single…year…), and I’m the one who cannot throw out one single piece of artwork done by my sons, regardless of how debatable the term “artwork” may be.  I love the theorem–almost to a fault– that we learn the most from our past.  That mirror of memories in Harry Potter?  I’d pay good money to get my hands on it.
So February 23rd is always a kicker of a day.  And this February 23rd is particularly loaded…
Forty years ago today, I was born.  That’s a long time ago, isn’t it?  We’re talking the dark ages (no laptops!  no tivo!).  I vividly remember my own dad turning 40–and the obnoxious banner I spray painted and hung on our house declaring it (I guess that’s one good thing about having children later in life…the public embarrassment factor (for them or me) has yet to ramp up).  It seems like yesterday I was turning 10 (on which day I came down with the flu, which sadly caused my super cool and highly anticipated (by me, at least) roller skating party (co-ed!) to be postponed several times over) or turning 16 (and could not wait to cruise The Strip in Vidalia with my best friends and blare “Don’t Look Back” by Boston (how’s that for a memory) out of the removed T-tops (even though it was still February) on my brand-new-yet-used Z-28 (not just a Camaro, thank you very much)).  (And I think it was about this time in my life when I realized the editorial beauty of the parenthesis.)
Turning forty is a milestone for anyone, but for me, it’s more like a gigantic barrier in the road.  Most view birthdays as speedbumps; I view them as mile markers.  I know I spent the last year of my twenties fretting and pontificating on the impending commencement of the fourth decade of my life, so much so that once I actually turned thirty, I heaved a much needed sigh of relief and got back to my regularly scheduled life.  No more pesky thoughts of “well, this is the last night ever of ___ in my twenties” would weigh me down again…for another nine years, at least.
Turning forty has thankfully been filled with more distractions than I had at my last junction with a decade.  Trying to find the time to wedge in a de-graying at the hair salon (yes, even though an hoary head is a gift from God, this is one gift I’d like to wait a few years to share with everyone else) is much less thorny than, say, your average Contracts class (though, admittedly, nearly as dull).  Rather than having to feed and water two wild cocker spaniels, I now get to feed, water–and rear– three little boys.  In short, I suppose turning forty is much better than not turning forty.
That’s my take and I’m sticking with it.
The second half of the post was going to delve into the facts that a year ago on my birthday, we lost Mama B, and that ten years ago on my birthday, I met Russ.  So February 23rd is filled with some serious highs and lows, right?  Nothing to argue with there.

But something funny happened.  I turned 40, made it past that first anniversary of losing Mama B. and completed the first decade with my love.  Springtime weather showed up a bit early, baseball season kicked off for J, a Spring Break trip with all three boys awaited.  And the worry over turning 40 dissipated, as did a bit of the nagging sadness of missing someone.  In the end, it was a perfectly normal, perfectly calm, perfectly February kind of day.

With Mama B, probably around 1974…

Most everyone knows what an epiphany is; we’ve come to use the term colloquially to mean a great realization…it’s that wonderful light bulb moment in which the fog dissipates and things become pristinely clear and sensical.  In the Christian faith, Epiphany is a Feast Day occurring on January 6, exactly 12 days after Christmas.  I’m borrowing from a timely email I received from our priest today, but in addition to being commemorative of the arrival of the 3 Magi who brought their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the newborn Baby Jesus, Epiphany is also associated with the Lord’s baptism in the River Jordan and Christ’s first miracle, which was the changing of water into wine at a wedding in Cana of Galilee.  Epiphany is the beginning of the great celebration of Christ’s life, a festival of joy which comes abruptly to a close on Ash Wednesday when Christians enter into the somber, reflective period of Lent.

Epiphany is an awesome event; it is a glorious, holy Feast Day, followed by several weeks of brightness, hope, light-heartedness and good times.  It is a period full of happiness, celebration, joy and thankfulness.  And it is especially meaningful to me.
Five years ago tonight, I fully grasped a sense of my own mortality.  No longer did I view myself as an indestructible fireball of energy who could do anything and bounce right back after shaking the dirt off.  Never again will I go at life bolstered by that immature mantra chanted by the young that wounds heal (or that scars are cool).  At no other point in my life have I felt so helpless, so at the mercy of others and of my failing body.  Five years ago tonight, I nearly died.

Five years ago tonight, our Tucker arrived, four weeks early, in a most spectacularly scary way.  I felt a strong contraction, an internal “pop”, and then there was a steady stream of blood…more blood than one could fathom, even in our society tempered to gore by sensationalized tv.  Our 19 month old was in the backseat yelling “Go, Daddy, go!” as we ran red lights and sped down Georgia 400 to Piedmont Hospital at speeds over 100 mph.  I literally could not think; thinking (or talking) made the blood flow faster.  The OB on call asked where we were and then told Russ to “put the pedal to the metal.”

By the time we arrived at Piedmont–a mere 15 minutes or so after this ordeal began–I could not walk.  Because God does have a sense of humor, January 4, 2006 was an Indian summer type of day and I’d taken Jack for a walk earlier that day while wearing gym shorts–light gray gym shorts.  And now I was hemmorhaging profusely.  That will get you some great looks as you’re wheeled briskly through an ER, let me assure you.
I was wheeled into Labor and Delivery Room 10, which was the exact same room where Jack was born.  The room was chock full of people–nurses, doctors, an anesthesiologist, a NICU team.  You know it’s not a good scenario when the doctors are saying there’s a lot of blood.  You also know it’s not a good scenario when the nurses ask if you are wedded to these clothes because they are just going to dispose of them.

I’m taken to an operating room.  The nurses are adamant about me not turning around.  Later I will find out that this is because the neonatal crash unit is there waiting in anticipation of a bad, bad outcome.  The anesthesiologist tells me there’s no time for Novacaine prior to the insertion of the epidural so I need to “hold tight and take a deep breath.”  Russ is still not allowed in the operating room.  I’m there all alone but with a roomful of masked, sterile individuals.  I had never been more scared in my life…

…until about 3 minutes later when they began the surgery.  Russ says I said “I’m dying; I’m dying.”  I do remember saying that and truly, fully believing it.  There was an elevator.  It was black everywhere else except inside the elevator, so I stepped in.  I heard Papa B’s voice, clearly, distinctly.  He helped calm me down.

I wound up having to be fully knocked out after the epidural’s effectiveness wasn’t happening quickly enough.  Tucker arrived at 8:51pm, exactly 1 hour and 19 minutes after I set foot inside the doors of the hospital.

Here Russ holds Tucker for the very first time; I love how you can see his watch, which says it’s a little after 9pm.

This is me seeing Tucker for the first time.  I have absolutely no recollection of this whatsoever.

After 45 minutes more of work to stop the bleeding, I am finally in the recovery room and looking like I’ve been through the ringer.  The doctor is talking to me right now (about an hour and a half post-surgery) saying I’d had a 10-15% placental abruption and ten years ago, we’d have lost the baby.  Fifty years ago, we’d have lost both of us.  Abruptions of 20% or more result in varying degrees of organ and brain damage to the infant    Heavy news…to say the least.

Finally, after a few failed blood draws, several other tests and a bag of fluid, they bring my new son in.
This is the first time I saw him (that I remember).  Tucker is about 2 hours old.

My sweet parents made the trip from Vidalia to Atlanta–normally a journey that takes close to 3 hours–in just under 2 hours.

Here my dad holds Tucker for the first time and learns Tuck’s full name:  Tucker Hilbert.  Hilbert is my father’s and his father’s name.  It was the most moved I’ve seen my dad in years.

The next morning, big brother Jack comes by to meet Tucker.
At first he was not impressed…

Though very large for his gestational age, this photo of Russ holding Tucker shows just how tiny he was.

At nearly a month old, Tucker still had bruises under his eyes from where he was so quickly pulled out.

The doctors also dislocated one of my ribs in the process.

But our Tucker rebounded quickly–a trait we’ve come to adore.

Here he is at 3 months old showing off his precious dimple.

So tonight, five years to the day since Tucker made his vibrant entrance to this world, I’m reminded of the uncontrollable fleetingness of everything.  I’d like to think that I’ve grown as much as Tucker has in these past five years.  He is one remarkable little boy.  His Godfather happened to be in Israel during Tuck’s birth and said a prayer of blessing and thanksgiving for him as he walked along the banks of the River Jordan just a few hours after Tucker’s arrival.  He also brought home water from the River with which Tucker was baptized.  Tucker is our most spiritual child; he has told us on numerous occasions that angels talk to him.  He is different; he knows it and so do we.  And so this year, like each year since 2006, I choose to begin my Epiphany, my celebration of life and hope and extreme gratitude, just a few days early.  May you all sense the spark of life, realize it, acknowledge its tenuousness, and be grateful for it in the coming weeks.

Do you hear that giant sigh?  That sigh of relief I’m heaving now that school is back in swing?  Oh, happy days!

This sweet pea kicked off his First Montessori days in grand style, crying his big blue eyes out for about 30 minutes.  I’ve been assured he made a recovery in due time and when I returned to fetch him, he was scampering around the toddler playground, happy enough (though sticking rather close to his amazing teacher, Miss Mamatha).

Bubbles subdued the nerves on the drive to school, but once he got out of the car, he started to fret.  Even his trusty school bus shirt didn’t help…

I’m thrilled to report that after a mere week, Theo now walks into his class (instead of being carried) with no tears at all.  He’s an avid “bikket” (biscuit) maker in his class and has shared his favorite book (a ladybug counting book given to me at a baby shower for Jack) with his new friends.  I pick him up, and he and I have 3 glorious hours of Mommy and Theo time.  He is the joy of the household right now.  I mean, really:  how many other kids tote a “bus bag” around with them?  (Of course, his “bus bag” is actually a tan Crown Royal bag filled with trucks, cars and only 2 buses…).  How many other little guys snuggle down with 5 different “puh-pulls?”  We are in the midst of a magical time with our sweet Theo…

Now this guy is also in a magical time…he’s officially an afternooner, and he couldn’t be prouder.  His other grand discovery is an innate ability to rock climb.  It really is rather spectacular to see.  He flies up the walls and has no fear (well, you all knew he had no fear already).  In fact, we are at Atlanta Rocks right now, and Tucker is currently climbing a slightly inverted wall (with ropes, of course).  He’s only 4 and 1/2!  We are so happy he’s found something he feels he can excel at alone; Jack has absolutely zero interest in rock climbing, so this is all Tuck’s gig and he likes it that way.

Don’t worry…they are still total partners in crime.

Here’s our first grader, happy as a clam at his new school!  I have to admit that I started crying immediately after that last picture.  How did our little guy go from this:

to this:

so quickly?  He reads, he writes, he runs and throws balls and can ride a bike when he’s not thinking about it (it’s Jack, after all…he tends to think a lot).  Maybe it’s the fact that I am out from under the smother of summer, but these three little fellows have completely stolen my heart yet again.

A friend told me today that I should gather all my facebook statuses and publish them.  While I highly doubt that would fly off the charts, I did go back and take a peek at the documented mayhem of my family.  Henry, the 11.5 year old cocker spaniel, being cleaned with Method Wood for Good cleaner.  Theo drawing on the floor.  Various and sundry items being flushed down the commode.  Tucker’s verbal antics.  The deep thoughts of Jackers.  Baby’s funnies–like the fact that he thinks his name is “Baby” (wonder why he thinks that?).  Our days are chock full of humor and laughter, spunk and zest…just the way I like them.

At my guild meeting this morning (St. Margaret’s at St. Martin in the Fields Episcopal Church), we were talking about having a Mary heart in a Martha world.  I had to smile because Russ surely thinks I’m so much more Mary (a “sit around and take it all in” type of gal) than Martha (a go-gettin’ schedule planner to the max).  I told the hilarious ladies in my group, all of whom are young mothers with young children, that the Cheerios box will get put away, the laundry will get folded and the shelves will get dusted…eventually.  However, my crew of tiny people will only be this age right now–right this very moment–and thinking of that makes me overlook the cluttered closets and the dishes in the sink.  When given the choice between rummaging through a messy desk drawer and running through the slip-n-slide in the front yard with my sons, is there really even a decision to be made?  Twenty years from now, I’ll certainly remember these days for what they are–a much needed, crisp recapturing of snapshots of my own joyful, creative, fun-filled childhood–and not for what they could have been–a short-lived victory in the ever-continuing war against mess and clutter.  And I pray my boys remember these days just as fondly…

And another summer comes slowly to an end…

We’ve enjoyed a week here at the beach and thankfully no one picked up strep or an ear infection or a stomach virus (a first for us, I think).  Poor Jackers did have a tangle with a jellyfish; jellyfish: 1, Jack: 0.  I cannot remember Jack howling like he did when he was stung.  He came flying out of the water and was nearly hyperventilating (though we do recognize our J is a bit of a drama-king, even this was a bit over the top for him).  A lifeguard came running down and immediately took Jack up to the recreation hut where he was promptly given a sno-cone (cherry flavored; a sure cure-all) while they rubbed a vinegar and ammonia combination on his legs.  Seems that jellyfish did put a hurting on our firstborn:  Jack had streaks around both knees, running down one leg and wrapped around one ankle.  No amount of coercion could get him back in the water yesterday, so we headed in after a brief post-sting visit to the pool.

We’re happy to note that he seems to be on the mend today and other than wondering what happened to the jellyfish who is now missing several of its tentacles, he has not mentioned his ordeal at all.

The reality that he is starting first grade in 5 days is starting to set in.  One of the many beauties of the Montessori school is that there are mixed age classes, so one’s offspring doesn’t head off to kindergarten, but instead is termed a 4th year primary student.  My blase’ attitude I had last year about such milestones has come back to haunt me.  “Oh, no worries!  Kindergarten’s nothing!” I told my friends who were sniffling and teary-eyed after watching their child truck down a hallway into his first “real classroom.”  Now I face that same long hallway in a few days.  It’s certainly bittersweet.  He is ready, though…ready and incredibly excited for this new chapter in his life.

This other child, however, is not so ready to attend school without his big brother.  Although he’s only 4 & 1/2, Tuck is old enough to worry about being separated from Jack.  I never dreamt I’d have two sons who are so attached.  They crack us up.  They sneak through their jack-n-jill bathroom at home (worst architectural invention ever, by the way) to crawl in bed with each other in the mornings.  They sit nearly on top of each other on the couch.  In short, they are best pals.  It must be marvelous.

Tucker isn’t going to be completely alone at First Montessori this year, though; Theo will be joining the toddler class–which conveniently has a window looking into Tucker’s classroom.  Tuck has already announced that he’ll be peeking in on “Baby Theo” to make sure he’s doing ok.  I’m the one who’s worried.  I have started second-guessing my decision to put him in for 5-days.  What?!?  How is this, you say?  I’ve long said that potty-training a child ranks up there next to passing the bar exam on my list of life’s accomplishments.  I’ve had 2 successful trips down that long, unfortunate road and feel confident that Theo will be just as quick to catch on–at 27 months…which will be October 30th.  His new class will find him wearing big boy underpants from the get-go.  Ugh.  I’m not concerned by the infinite loads of laundry I’ll be facing (laundry is already a Sisyphean task at our home); I’m more worried about sweet little hot-tempered Theodorable who is likely to flip out and become defiant (possibly throwing things, as is his anger-management reaction of late) when faced with trying to master a bodily function for which he’s not physically mature enough to grasp just yet.  I mean just look at this little guy:

Behind those big blue eyes and huge smile is one determined little fellow.  As much as I talk big game about having time to myself, I know this one is my last ride through the wonders of toddler-dom and, when the rubber hits the road, I’m not quite ready to close this chapter.  Three boys will wear a mom out, and when I’m lying in bed at night, trying to click off all the umpteen worries I have, one big one stands out and will not click off:  that this sweet little fellow who melts everyones’ hearts has gotten the short shrift.  It’s quintessential Mom-Guilt at its peak.

Jack adored The Music Class and took nearly 3 years worth of classes.  Same for Tucker.

Theo had one session.

Tucker bounced out his energy in numerous gym classes.  Again, Theo’s gone wild during one.

By age 2, Jack and Tucker had many friends of their own, were invited to birthday parties and even hosted ones of their own.  Theo’s friends are the coddling, older female siblings of his big brothers’ best pals.  Ok, that one might not be so bad…

Theo’s babyhood is walking away from me.  He’s turning into a little boy–his own little person with his own spicy little personality.  And all of this means that I, too, am growing older, which rattles those melancholic and nostalgic chains deep inside me.

Our sweet Theo B. turned 2 this past Friday.  Two?  Already?  You’ve probably all heard the adage that the days go by so slowly, yet the years fly right on by.  Completely true here, I say.  Our days are filled with damage-control (or so says my husband).  These three little men are creative beyond words (at least that’s what I call it; technically, I suppose they are a few steps beyond mischievous).  They keep me hopping.

But back to our freshly minted 2-year old.

Theo has blossomed into his own little person.  He loves monkeys and golf carts and waffles and bubbles and buses.  He hauls around a stack of old swaddling blankets that he originally called “dot-dots” but which have since morphed into “purples,” an homage to his big brother Tucker (who still hauls around his own blanket named, of course, Purple).  Theo starts school in a mere 24 days.

There are days with Theo when I wonder what else is left for him to investigate (read: destroy).  Obviously, he adores Tucker and has already set his goals to include emulating everything our original daredevil does.  Theo is a climber.  Theo has no fear of speed or hills–flying down a hill on wheels is the cat’s meow to him.  Theo has a temper.  If provoked, he’ll clinch his fists up into little balls and screech in varying pitches.  Despite all this colorfulness, Theo truly does live up to his nickname, Theodorable.  He’s such a joy.

Tucker has had an adventurous summer, also.  We’ve visited an ER and also had a front tooth “repositioned,” which is dental-speak for jamming an almost-knocked-out front tooth back into place.  He can dive off the diving board now and is only about an inch shorter than Jack.  His stuffed bunny collection has reached maximum capacity, and he still appreciates the fashion statement made by the wearing of a good cape.  He adores the beach and holds his own in the waves.  T tried his hand at rock-climbing during a birthday party and managed to scale a wall all the way to the ceiling (some 30 feet or so in the air) on his very first try.  He is active, athletic and a complete cuddlebug to boot.  Our Tuck keeps us on our toes.

Our J has grown up so much this summer.  He loves doing math and science projects (so unlike his mother…), playing on the computer, and swimming.  Despite being the pickiest eater on the planet, he has expressed an affinity for cooking.  His imagination is delightful; he and Tucker have turned their outdoor fort into a pirate ship, a clubhouse, a get-away-mobile for SuperDog and a rabbit trapper (sadly, that one didn’t work so well…).  Baseball is his sport of choice; if that doesn’t pan out for him, then he says he’ll be a veterinarian.  Our firstborn amazes us daily.

Actually, all three of our boys amaze us daily.  As a neighbor once told me, we are certainly “in the weeds” right now, but that’s just fine by us.  (Clearly, we have no choice in the matter, so best to embrace it and gather up all these stories of the boys’ wild and woolly adventures and run with it, right?)  Some days, the weeds seem shorter and less unruly than others, and it’s these little (often infrequent) days that re-energize us and keep us going at it with a smile.