On being a boy mom

I love being a boy mom. Don't get me wrong, it's not an easy job, there are days when that little three-year-old isn't getting his way and he is throwing shoes and yelling as loud as he can about how unfair life is because he's just been told that he cannot watch another episode of Rescue Bots. Oh, there are days when I'm practically peeling him off of the ceiling. And boy, can he run fast. When he doesn't want to go home and we are at the park, I practically have to trick him into the car or else the two of us are running faster than a bunch of superheroes-chasing-villains. He can be such a challenge.

I'm guessing the same can be said for three-year-old girls, I'm almost positive three-year-olds are from another planet.



But at night, after he's been asleep for hours, I sneak into his room to check on him and find him curled up under so many covers and surrounded by an entire truck fleet. There is barely room for him next to that giant firetruck and dump truck and even if there was space, he would roll over on about a dozen Matchbox cars. He's hugging that firetruck, cuddling up to its hard plastic ladder as if it was as soft as a stuffed teddy bear. His hair is most likely a mess from a long day of romping through the house and attempting the backstroke on the living room rug. He's got spaghetti sauce and paint-coated cheeks.

When I see my sweet little boy sleeping like that, surrounded by the elements of his little boy environment, something in me turns sentimental. That's my son. And life is so hard for him right now, he is learning boundaries and discovering that the world isn't always kind. He's trying his best to be a good boy, but sometimes boys don't want to follow the rules, Mama. Especially when they are three.




He's also showing lots of interest in sports these days and will kick a ball around the house for an hour at a time. He wants to be a soccer/football/baseball/hockey/basketball player when he gets bigger, and a fireman. He doesn't know the meaning of "sit still", nor should he; he is a boy.

You should hear him talk about trucks. "Mama, the truck is hungry. The truck wants to go outside and dig. The garbage truck is such a nice fella. Isn't he so cute, Mama?" When Daddy takes him upstairs to bed he yells, "Goodnight, Mama! Goodnight police car! And bomb squad truck! And bulldozer! And monster truck school bus!" And if you ask him what his baby sister wants for Christmas? He'll tell you that "she wants a truck, too, so that I can play with it."



He's never met a puddle he doesn't want to jump in, and he's never experienced bath water that isn't begging to be splashed. He doesn't care how cold it is outside, he wants to play in the yard. He wants to climb on the furniture and jump on the bed and lick the window. "It's what boys do," he says, and I know he's right. Boys get dirty and make giant messes and scream as loud as they can for no reason and are gross. If anything, my boy has taught me to live with a bit less restraint, to try new things, to expand my horizons.



And when I drop him off at preschool in the morning, I watch him walk up those three stairs when the bell rings, his backpack so big against his tiny little boy frame that it looks as if it is swallowing him whole, I feel that same sentimental heart tug that I feel when I see him sleeping at night in all of his boy glory. I keep my fingers crossed that he will be a polite little man for the teachers and that he will be a good friend to--as he calls them--his "kids". And as I watch him go, scraping his sneakers in the pile of sand on the stairs as he makes his way into his big boy classroom, I say to myself, "That's my son."

Boy, your hair is crazy!

Today is crazy hair day at Dylan's preschool. Dylan picked out green hair dye weeks ago in preparation but last week he changed his mind and begged for purple hair. He also said he wanted to cut some of his hair so I gave him half of a hair cut. He chose which half he wanted cut. And he was proud.

Here's a picture of the back from yesterday. His head is a little purple because he wanted to try the dye, too.



And here is his photo shoot from this morning. I've never seen this kid so excited to go to school. He had his coat and shoes on forty minutes before the bell rang.







Of course after all of that hype over purple hair, he only let me put a little bit in this morning and decided that was all he wanted.

So Dylan wears pants with the built-in elastic belt because he's so skinny. He's still a size 12 months in shorts but he is a 3 or 4T length so we have to synch up the belt really tight for his pants to stay on. As we were walking across the parking lot to school this morning, with Dylan carrying his cement mixer stuffed in his giant show and tell brown paper bag, he stops walking and calmly says, "Mom, my pants."

I look down and here is this boy of mine, in 5° weather, with his underpants and pants down at his ankles. The belt had broken and nothing stayed up and so Dylan was just standing there half naked. I don't think anyone noticed and it's not like a bunch of three-year-olds would've cared. I can't stop laughing about it after the fact. He's at school now and I managed to loop his belt on the outside of his pants and through the belt loops so I'm really hoping that his pants are staying up.

But he's so excited about crazy hair day and bringing in his truck to show everyone that I don't even think he'd notice if his pants fell off.

It's her party!

Today we celebrated Kate's birthday with our family. Rather than post all of the photos, here's a short video of our day:



Thank you to everyone who came out and made her first birthday extra special. She's a lucky little girl to have you.

The last day of babyhood

Today began with a crying Kate at 5AM, followed by the news that a good family friend has passed away. It continued with an entire cup of coffee spilled on the couch, a snow storm, and running out of paint after painting half of a wall. And then Dylan finger painted on one of the dogs. But all and all we still had a really fun day filled with laughter. And playing in buckets.



Poor tolerant Dylan:



Today is Kate's last day as an eleven-month-old baby. Tomorrow is her first birthday. I'm desperately sentimental about such a big milestone. I don't remember feeling this sad about Dylan turning one, but I'm sure I did. I've been busting my butt to give Kate a really sweet first birthday party. I did the same for Dylan but we had his first at his favorite park and it was so windy and cold and rainy that my plans to decorate the gazebo were completely scrapped. I know that a one-year-old doesn't care about what kind of party they are thrown, but this means a lot to me to make it really special for her.



Here she is dancing a bit:



And talking:



I just looked back at Dylan's photos from the day before his first birthday. He seems so much bigger. He was walking by then. Look at this boy!!! Oh, I love him so much!



As sad as I am for my baby to grow up, I will be so glad not to have to photograph her everyday for her 365 project. I may not take a single photo on Thursday just to feel rebellious.

The mega teether (and snow)

The boys have been outside for about forty minutes now, shoveling our not-so-big driveway in blizzard conditions. This is the stuff Dylan lives for: purple cheeks, working hard, just like Daddy. Sean came home from work at 1PM and there was already anywhere from 5-9 inches of snow on the driveway depending on the height of the drifts.

Dylan and I had gone out to measure at about 12:30. His face was covered in Fun Dip, a Valentine's Day gift of glorious sugar from a classmate.











I was thrilled to see Sean pull in, not only because lunch was hot and ready for him and I was happy to spend the day with all three of my loves, but because my legs haven't been working well today and these poor kids were mostly entertaining themselves while I sat or laid down. I just don't understand how I can still have such crippling days a full year after having my thyroid removed. I was hoping to have this figured out by now.

Kate has been a horrible sleeper for the past few weeks, mostly because we've all been fighting a death cold and she kept croup coughing herself awake and we spent a lot of time sleeping while sitting up on the couch together. I knew she was teething, but I was beyond shocked when I looked in her mouth this morning. Look at this poor baby!

She is getting 4-6 teeth in all at once on top and possibly 2-4 on the bottom, although the bottom is half as bulgy as the top set. She spent a lot of the day on the couch with Sam, who is now barely limping from his partial torn ligament and strict bed rest.



It's 2:30 now and Kate is sleeping right through the incessant dog barking as the dogs pant and yelp at Sean and Dylan from the window. Jasmine and Sam have some pretty severe separation anxiety and don't handle the thirty feet separating them from their family very well. Sam is so sensitive that if you don't pet him long enough when you first come in the door he will find something--today it was one of Kate's Little People princesses--to chew until he feels better. Jasmine has been sticking her head in my lap all day because she is afraid of snow plows. Avery is our only normal dog. I sneaked out in my feetie pajamas to snap some photos of the boys.











Mr. Dylan boy just came in with Sean and said he needed a drink. A juice box? "No," he said, "muscle juice." Where does he get this stuff? He found a pudding Snack Pack instead and when I asked him if he was going to behave after having all of that sugar he replied, "Mommy, I'm gonna be wild and so crazy in this house. 'Cause, Mommy, I'm going to be running around and playing and eating and cooking and playing upstairs."

And look who is awake!




Ha. That face!



Dylan is now glued to the front window watching all of our neighbors snow blow their driveways. You know, I'm not even really sick of this snow right now. It's been pretty awesome today.

Mend

Kate turns eleven months old today. I'm in denial. Wasn't she just born? I have to start planning a first birthday party for my tiny baby? I don't believe it.



She's wicked sick with croup. Her fever is down to 101.3 now and I'm hoping it continues to decline overnight. We spent the night on the couch together last night because she was crouping and whooping. Her cough seemed to improve in the colder temperatures.

We figured fresh air would do us all good today so even though it was freezing outside we went hiking. Kate was overly bundled in three hats and a snowsuit and she mostly slept on Daddy as we walked, but Dylan kept falling in the snow and by the time we walked the mile and a half through the woods he was frozen and having the time of his life.



















We hiked on a nature trail and there were these little stops along the way to educate us on which trees we were looking at, what bugs inhabit them, how a forest decomposes, and the like. Dylan loved learning about everything in the woods. By the end of the hike we were really cold and wanted to skip past reading each paragraph and Dylan stopped at each one to attempt to read it.



A friend of mine passed away this weekend from complications of surgery. My grief has taken two paths and I have felt sad as often as I have been furious. This friend of mine lost both her mother and father within the last two months and she has been fighting through visits to the ICU and bile leaking from her stomach, surgeries, suffering. For months. I joked with her that 2014 will be her year, that things had to get better after watching her mother suffer from cancer, only to lose her dad two weeks later to a heart attack. I just talked to her on Thursday night and she was gone by Saturday morning. She's supposed to be hanging out with my cousin tomorrow. I am heartbroken.

So we're sick around here. I just now put down the blog for two hours and went up to the kids' room where I held Kate while she cried and cried until she no longer had a cry in her and she sounded like a baby sheep trying to make any sort of noise to let me know that she didn't feel well. And I want to sit down and pity myself because I've been miserably sick for two weeks with my thyroid stuff and now I'm coming down with the kids' cold or virus or whatever this is, and I haven't truly slept in as long as I can remember. But instead I'm feeling desperate. I want to hold my family close and never ever let them go. Love is fragile, you know. So I'll take baby steps. Tomorrow Kate will wake up feeling a bit better. Dylan will feel better. We will heal. But darned if I don't hold them tighter as I think about my sweet friend.