Karma Is Trying to Help

My mother-in-law has an almost pat response whenever I marvel at life with Fynnie, "That's why you have to have more kids, otherwise you just don't know."

She could not be more correct.

As a mother of one, I felt the weight of my lack of knowledge.

Adding Mad to the mix was ridiculously easy. Everyone should have their second kid 15 years after the first and have her be independent, a great sleeper, happy and well ahead of the curve on milestones.

But you know what a kid like Madelyn does to a mom like me? Makes me think I know more than I do. Turns me into an asshole when people ask my opinion on things like sleep training.

"Best thing we ever did. You just have to be consistent. Pick something that matches your parenting style and stick with it. We did. By choosing the Sears method over Ferber, we picked a good match for us. And us sticking with it led to Mad successfully being sleep trained before the first night was over. And her naps were instantly resolved the next day, too! Just pick the right method. Stick with it!"

Yeah. Fynnie will be three years old in one month and two days. I have been getting mostly solid nights of sleep for about a year now. When she was several months old (I have no clue exactly how old, but the first six months of her life I recall occurring mostly at night), I had to hunt down some poor woman's blog and apologize for being such an asshat when she was looking for help getting her son to sleep.

I can give you an example for almost every single major milestone that I somehow managed to take credit for when Mad hit them early.

"Probably that great, mostly organic, minimally processed diet I maintain during pregnancy. I don't make those jelly babies who are all floppy at birth."

To which Fynnie replied, "Oh, re-he-heally? Check this out: Not only am I not going to be holding my head up and trying to look around at birth, I'm going to have a hard time turning my head at all. We'll practically live at the chiropractor my first four months. And that "look, she's practicing standing!" shit you did with my sister and brother? Yeah, I'm not having that. Although I will roll over three times at just a few weeks old, do not hold your breath for it happening again for months, like half a year or more. I will be the last baby among your circle of August 2010 babies to roll all the way, scoot, crawl and walk. Here's a pin for your ego. It's starting to look infected."

Do you remember a year ago when I thought potty training was going to be so easy? And then Fynnie didn't poop willingly for months. The girl is here to teach me, I tell ya!

A couple weeks ago we were at a party at Kidspace for the girls' friends. Part of the time the girls were splashing in a little pond in swimsuits. Fynnie clearly needed to go, but was just as clearly anxious about using the "weshtwoom." Faced with the choice of a diaper (and no more water play) or a trip to the restroom, she opted for the potty. Following a monumental success, she announced, "I've got to tell Daddy I got this all under control." And that was the end of diapers during the day. The following night she gave them up at night, too.

I am secretly waiting for the urine-soaked shoe to drop.

She is becoming accustomed to me calling her such a strange little bird, although she laughs whenever she hears it.

One of the things that has always left me in awe with Madelyn is the way she knows exactly who she is, what she needs or wants and what's happening around her. Mad, at five can give you at least five options for getting to Grandma and Papa's house almost 50 miles away. Her way of knowing who she is has a familiarity to it that makes it easy for me to understand. She is not like me as a child or young adult, but make no mistake, she is like me.

Fynnie has her own sense of self. It is no less well defined. I just don't understand her like I do Mad. I adore her. I'm grateful for her. But where the hell did she come from?

I, the woman who could live in jeans and long ponytails, have a daughter who has chosen her own short hairstyles for several months now. Fynnie is currently sporting a pixie. She chose this photo of Anne Hathaway and then had to wait almost two full weeks because I got sick days before we went to get her haircut.

My friend who cuts her hair expressed reservations about such a short style and, when we arrived for the cut, offered up her own photo of a cute woman with slightly longer hair. Fynnie saw it and immediately began shaking her head and frowning.

"No. I want the picture I already choosed from your comcuter."

Nothing could make her happier than not having hair touch her face.

I am off for most of the summer. It occurred to me a few weeks before my year ended that I have spent the past two summers just trying to catch up on sleep. This year I have a calendar and have scheduled adventures out of the house for a couple days each week. Thursdays are reserved for the farmer's market and a trip to the local used book store, where the girls can pick up a book for fifty cents to a dollar.

Madelyn's selections have included a book on potty training (she is a very supportive big sister who takes her role seriously) and a Bob the Builder Christmas story.

Fynnie's first book was a teen mystery. Girlfriend isn't backing down. Here's what she chose when we went yesterday.

We read a few chapters this morning. Shoot me now.

So here's what I think: Having one child only taught me what I didn't know. Having two made me think I knew more, when I really had no clue. Having three has brought me back round to realizing, with absolute clarity, that I do not know a damn thing. It's a land of strange, beautiful birds, but it's where I belong.

Why Don't You Write?

I ask myself this a lot lately. I happen to know the answer.

There is a lot of doom and gloom. Things are kind of hard these days.

On the upside, Tom was promoted last summer and we have been working toward debt elimination. This stuff makes us both ridiculously happy. We've already reduced our non-mortgage debt by nearly half what it was last summer. But that patio cover that we were for sure getting this summer? Not happening. I suspect our backyard will be perfect for the girls by the time they don't care anymore or we move.

Speaking of which, Tom and I formulated a three year plan that would allow us to move back to the other side of the mountain. Well, he suggested I work part-time after those three years and I suggested that reclaiming the minimum 12.5 hours I commute and the roughly 16 hours he commutes would be just as good. Better, even.

Plus, I love my job.

My job. My grant is in serious jeopardy. Someone at the Legislative Analyst's Office would like to take the work we do, helping students with disabilities get job training and jobs, and spread the funding around so that everyone can have that opportunity.

Sounds great. But statewide we spend, on average, $377 per successful student. If the Governor agrees with the LAO's plan, every student in special ed will reap the benefit of almost $6.50 a year. Minimum wage here is $8 an hour, never mind the staff to coordinate such a program. So yeah, that makes sense.

I spend my free time calculating how much debt can be eliminated before the end of June, when our program could disintegrate. And how close that would put us to being able to live on just Tom's salary. Latest stats show us only slightly in the red, but that is with all frivolous spending eliminated. That's right, I am calling the house phone frivolous. Along with cable and charitable donations.

Silver lining? If I keep my job, our new "debt free" date (except the house) could be moved up by several months because of our new found dedication.

Oddball possibility that would be just too cruel for words? I came into this position 10 years ago when California was going through it's own financial crisis. My old job title was abolished, like helping people who were unemployed or underemployed find a new direction through training and education was bad. But I'd held this job title previously, so I bumped someone who had held it less time. She still has the same job title, but works in a different program. No, it doesn't make sense that they didn't just put me over there and leave her where she was, especially since the position was created at the time of all the insanity 10 years ago. So, yeah, there is a possibility that she will get bumped again. By me. I still have more time in the title than she does.

Shoot me now.

What's that you say? But Shan, that's just your job. Important? Yes, but a lot of people are dealing with this and worse these days. Quit yer bitchin'!

I should. I will. Eventually.

But wait, there's more!

My mom left her job four years ago and has done everything possible to not get another job since then. She has been successful, too. Go, Mom!

I am pretty sure she was planning on dying before her money ran out. Because, you know, god will provide. And she is in pretty miserable shape. Extremely obese. Poor hygiene. Crumbling teeth. Body odor that makes me hold my breath when we hug. Yet she lives. And her money is running out while she talks about how she is going to get a job after she gets her hair colored, because the six inches of white hair is a dead giveaway about her age.

And we have this little bedroom downstairs. Next to a bathroom that she could use. That I would probably stop using and which would frequently smell like bleach, because Mom seems to get crap on the toilet every time she goes.

For all the frustration with her about how she got into this situation, I would take her in in a heartbeat. Tom knows this. He is as willing as I am. Which is to say that we hope she gets a job. A roommate. A sugar daddy. But this has always been the deal. If one or more of our parents needs us, we are there. Or they are here. Whatever it takes.

Silver lining for this one? There are a couple. I realized today that we probably could fit her bed in the room if we put her dresser in the closet. So at least she would have that admittedly tiny bit of comfort from her own home. Plus, Mom gets social security now. She could pay for her necessities and, in the event of my job loss, we wouldn't be adding any expenses. And lastly, she could no longer avoid spending time with my girls. I don't really know why Corey was her favored grandchild to the exclusion of all others, but that's the way it's always been.

Aaand yes, let's speak about Corey. Who texted my mom last month saying he was going to be kicked out of Audrey's mom's place (yes, in North Carolina) and could he come stay with her (mm-hmm, back in Southern California)? Mom said she wasn't sure how much longer she'd be in her own home, so she couldn't commit.

Ten days later he called me to say that he was being kicked out that night. Susan was dropping him off at work and then he had nowhere to go. Could he please come home? He'd changed a lot. Knew he had more to change, but was willing to work on it. His job might let him transfer and he would go back to school. North Carolina wasn't really for him after all.

Tom and I talked about it for about 30 seconds around dealing with Mad and Fynnie and the madness of weeknights around here. I had posted about it in my favorite mommy group and was surprised at the suggestions and opinions. Tom sort of agreed with one person, but there was no time to clarify before one of us was asleep. Corey called in the middle of that night and asked again. I had no answer and very few brain cells functioning so I could explain where things stood. I asked him to call me again so we could talk when it was day.

In the meantime, Tom and I talked and I shocked us both by saying I was willing to give Corey another chance at home. Was Corey's move across the country rash? Yes. The relationship with Audrey likely to fail? Yes.

But he had gotten a job. He had kept it by then for more than two months. Without medication (because when he realized he does need it, we found that it's nearly impossible to get in North Carolina through our insurance. He would have to go to a state with Kaiser... Ohio and Georgia are the closest... or come home). As far as I am concerned, that was huge progress.

Tom, who is apparently striving for sainthood, agreed that we could take him in with some extremely strict guidelines. All I had to do was reach him.

I tried calling the number he'd used to call me in the middle of the night. Left a message then and again a week later.

Broke down and called Audrey to see if she could please have him call me. She texted a number I could try and said she would try to pass a message to him through friends or coworkers that he should call me.

When I couldn't hold off any longer (I wasn't sure if Corey was avoiding me), I tried the number from Audrey.

Chris answered. Told me that he had helped Corey find three coworkers who each let him stay a night on their couches. Then Chris paid for a hotel room for my son for the next three nights until payday. Another person from work, a manager, had a three bedroom house all to himself and was willing to rent out a room.

Chris was going to tell the manager to let Corey know I was trying to reach him. He said I could keep his number and call any time I had questions. I asked him to keep my number, too, in case Corey needed me.

Sounds so good. Right?

Yeah, so two days later...

Mm-hmm, just two days.

Friday morning at the stroke of 7:00 my phone rang. Showed a number from Michigan.

I honestly thought, "Hey, maybe it's someone from the Batcave (my favorite mommy group, in case you didn't know). So many people in there are from Michigan. Except, wait... I didn't post my cell phone number. Hmm..."

Isn't it amazing how much can go through one's brain while lifting phone to ear?

It was the manager from Corey's work.

"Corey made a mistake. He made a big mistake and I don't know what to do."

In this case, mistake translates into, "Corey stole money from me. He stole it, put it in his account and used it to order a computer online. I'm not sure what I should do."

"You should exercise your full legal rights."

"I'm just not sure if I can trust him again."

"You cannot. I am sorry he has taken advantage of your friendship and compassion, but you cannot trust him. When he lived here, every thing of value was locked up and things still went missing."

And so the conversation went. I also spoke briefly with Corey. He admitted it and gave a stupid reason for doing it. It was apparently impossible for me to avoid pointing out that he had not only jeopardized his home, but his job as well.

Sunday night I received a text from Audrey saying that Corey had been arrested for stealing and that she wasn't sure if he had been released yet.

He had not. For the bargain price of $15 I got to hear my son's voice again. For 10 minutes.

Aside from the rest of our conversation, I got to say what had been eating at me since he'd left Audrey's and the cell phone her mom had lent him.

I told him I love him. That, for a while there, I had been really proud of him. Because I had been.

Two days ago I received a letter from him where all remorse and sense of guilt has virtually disappeared. It was full of how he plans to press charges against the guy he stole from if said guy doesn't give his belongings back. And how Corey's valued his own property at $1000, which puts the other guy in felony territory, much worse than what Corey stands accused of ($420 according to Corey, $790 according to the now ex-boss).

The same night I received the letter, I also got another $15 call from Corey. He still wants to come home. But first he wanted me to call Audrey's mom and ask her to pick him up from court after his next appearance in early May.

Because he won't have any way to get around town once he's out of jail, ya'll.

Tom is still willing to allow him here briefly, although the old "very strict" parameters seem luxurious by comparison.

I am considering Tom's offer. I'm honestly not sure I'm up for it.

Corey bites the hands that feed him. And then blames them for it.

And that, my people, is why I don't write. This shit ain't fun and it isn't funny.

(Well, okay, I did laugh a little when I wrote "Because he won't have any way to get around town, ya'll." That was an almost direct quote from Corey.)

It's not really true that everything has been hard or bad lately. The girls are hilarious. Awe-inspiring. Time consuming. I will write more about them later. In the meantime, here are a couple photos to show you how they've grown.

Fynnie before her first haircut.

And after.

Madelyn waiting to "grow to five."

And finally having it happen this past Friday.

Conversations

I know, I know... so much time passes between posts these days. I would like to lie say that this is going to change soon. Honestly? Those "I'm gonna get back on the ball!" posts annoy the crap out of me almost as much as the obligatory "this is my blog and it's going to be awesome!" posts. Chances are good that things will be spotty for a while yet.

Although I've considered writing a bunch of posts to catch you all up (because I am sure you've been waiting around for just that thing), that's not going to happen. 

Okay, so I tried to write something and it turned out awful enough that I'm surprised it's still in my drafts folder.

Instead, here are some snippets of my life over the past few months (in no particular order):

Tonight while rocking Madelyn (and convincing her that it's okay to pretend to nurse through my shirt if I'm wearing a bra, but on braless nights such as tonight she shouldn't because it tickles like crazy) the topic of school came up. "When you're five you'll be in kindergarten. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes." (This is her standard answer for everything.)

"What is it?"

"It's a school with plants."

"It is?"

"Yeah, kinder garden."

Of course.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fynnie, who is still nursing. She calls it Booboo and recently took a second to pop off, pull back and say, "Booboo, I think you're perfect."

That's right, I'm 41 (and three quarters), have spent over six year of my life nursing (OH MA GAW!) and someone still thinks my breasts are perfect. That's totally what I'm taking from this.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On the other hand, against all odds, my nipples are ridiculously ticklish. I learned this because of Fynn's new thing, which is to attack my chest with wiggling fingers while yelling, "Tickle tickle, Booboo!"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

And yes, that thing with Mad. She's going through a struggle with becoming independent and trying to climb back into my womb.

Tom and I are going to be taking a parenting class in a couple weeks. It's put on by someone at my work. I told her, "We're not taking it because of the two year old. It's the four year old, oh my freaking god!"

To which she responded, "It's not the terrible twos, it's the fucking fours."

It's good to know we'll be guided by someone who understands.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sometimes it is the terrible twos. Take this conversation over dinner one night, for example.

Madelyn said,  "I need more," so I refilled her bowl.

Fynnie, who still had a full bowl, said, "I need more, too!" 

I took her bowl away, moved food around and brought it back, only to have her yell, "That's too full!"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Last fall Mad had this observation, "The firework booms its paint into the sky with beautiful colors, like a tear coming out of your wet eye from crying."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Yesterday I realized something critical about my special blend of two flavored coffees, one regular and one decaf. They are both decaf.

This explains why I didn't get to sleep until 2:00 in the morning the other night after stopping at Starbucks on my way to work.

On the other hand, now that jig is up, I'm not sure how I'll make it through tomorrow morning. 

Oh, yes, I do. I made a pot of my other coffee, which truly is part decaf and part regular. It's not as yummy as the flavored stuff, but it'll certainly do the trick.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fynnie and Mad know how much Mama loves her coffee. Fynnie has begun asking for coffee in her cup. Thankfully, she's willing to pretend that water is coffee.

But the other night as I was moving her from my lap into her bed, she must have been in the middle of a dream. Arms and legs flailing wildly, she insisted that I put my coffee "right there!" Right there would have been the wall next to her bed, in case you were wondering.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

During last week's staff meeting with our new boss, I heard the best, most Dilbert-worthy quote of all time come straight out of her mouth, "We need to be compliant with whatever I was just talking about." Yes, yes we do.

Crazy Is Hard

These past few weeks have really been interesting where Corey is concerned. The people who took him in allowed him to stay until yesterday afternoon. In the meantime, he had to do yard work and stay off the computer and phone most of the time. In exchange, they bought him a one way bus ticket to the continental US destination of his choice.

They would have provided a ticket to Vancouver, but those pesky immigration laws and the fees associated with minimal documentation made that a nonstarter. No more than 11 hours later Corey had selected a new location, North Carolina.

I know, I know, you have questions and I have answers.

A girl.

Her name is Audrey, but she goes by Audie.

19.

WalMart, and she might be able to get him a job there, too.

They've been together for a while now.

Oh, in Vancouver? That was just a friend.

Audie lives with her parents who, while apparently relieved to be in on the plans are not participating in them any more than we are. So, no. Corey will not be living with them. I mean, she has been thinking about getting her own place. In the meantime, she has provided Corey with a list of shelters where he can stay at night.

Taking the I should be on serious meds to be able to see the bright side like this positive outlook, I am trying to view this as an adventure. It could be awesome.

Tom and I met online. It was one of the best things to ever happen in my life. No reason to believe Corey can't have that same good luck.

Yes, yes, the games I play with myself. I know.

I spent about an hour with Corey this afternoon. We picked up his ticket and went to lunch. He was feeling the weight of his decision and remarked a couple times that it was crazy.

Yes, it is. But if I had to choose between having one of my children making the choice between moving across the country for a chance to start fresh or stagnating at home, I would choose crazy every time.

On the other hand...

He just exchanged couch hopping in southern California for shelters in North Carolina.

He does not have Audie's address, just her phone number. What good is the address if he can't stay there and she lives outside of town anyway, right?

I wonder if the people Corey is about to encounter will ever understand him. My kid packed almost all of his belongings into two bags, a backpack and a satchel.

Yeah, a satchel.

And the almost? Well, he left a knife with me that he's asked me to ship to him when he gets settled. Corey practically taught a class as he talked about the details of the knife that he "bought with his own money." (There were so many questions I could have asked about the source of his own money, but he has already admitted to my mom that he stole repeatedly from her.)

When he arrives in Audie's hometown, will she answer her phone? Will she really come and pick him up? And take him where?

Today I hugged my son three times.

I told him I love him and he said the same.

He said, "I'm going to be alright, Mom. But you have to be alright, too."

And I said I will.

And I will.

I just have to get past the part where the thought, I may never see my son again, makes me wince with an unidentifiable soreness as my eyes flood with tears and my throat tightens so much it hurts and I have to open my mouth to get air.

And I have to figure out a way to explain to Madelyn that Corey has moved away. That he would did not come to tell her goodbye, and that she won't be seeing him. Some day Fynnie will understand this, too. She might now. I guess we'll be finding out.

Just not tonight.

The Games They Play

Did I ever mention that Mad came along within a few weeks of Tom and I mutually agreeing that we weren't going to have children together? It's true.

The short version of that experience is this:

I told him on a Friday night, "I'm either really sick, like cancer, or I'm pregnant. I looked it up online. I'm not sick. No, I'm sure. I'm pregnant."

And then he saved my soul by saying, "Well, this is just another adventure for us, isn't it?"

The next day we sent Corey to my mom's, went straight to the store and home with a pregnancy test. He made me wait to look until after the full two minutes and he had to be right by my side.

Within a few days we were at my OB's office, getting official confirmation. That afternoon he insisted I find a better doctor's office because, frankly, that one was crap. By the end of the week we interviewed a new OB, loved him and signed up with him on the spot. He went ahead and did a preliminary exam that day, including an ultrasound.

We will never forget the awe and joy and love when we saw that little tiny peanut with a flickering heartbeat.

And I will never forget how surprised I was when I learned not long after that Tom felt we really needed to have another baby, too. Like, the one in my womb didn't even have more than arm flaps and a heartbeat yet and he was on to the next one.

Eventually he wore me down and I agreed.

And now we have Madelyn and Fynn filling our days (and sometimes our nights) and I know he was right. At four and two, they are (mostly) a lot of fun, individually and together.

That does not mean I will ever understand some of the games they play. (You will see that Mad's nickname, The Director, is well earned.)

Madelyn to Fynn: I say "no" and you say "yes." And then one nods and the other shakes her head. Sometimes they switch. This game lasts 5-10 minutes.

Madelyn to Fynn: I'll say "now?" and you say "no!" and then I'll say "agh!" This game can go on during the entire trip down the Cajon Pass... about 15 minutes of Now? No! Agh! *giggle*

There's also the time out game, where one person will say, "You hit me! TIME! OUT!" It's a taking turns game. The "hitter" gets off the naughty mat and immediately repeats the key phrase. Sometimes this leads to actual hitting. No bueno.

Right now, as we all wait patiently for Daddy to come out of the potty (there's a whole post in that statement) so we can go to the park, they are playing the napping game. This one can be particularly cruel if Mama is tired because they yawn (which makes me yawn), say "I'm tired" (which makes me tired) and get in bed (which is no fair). One lays down and the other tucks her in. "Sleep" lasts about two minutes before the sleeper wakes up and asks for permission to get up.

Sometimes I wonder if we should fill our house with electronic games and the apps that accompany them. We've considered buying a Kindle or something like it as a joint Christmas gift. Mostly, though, I love their creativity, even if I don't always get it.

Claws At My Heart

This blog seems to have turned into a mommy blog, which was never really my intention. At first it was just a place where I could pour my heart out in badly written excruciating detail. Those first posts? Awful. Read further into my blog and you'll find a few years where I laugh at all my own jokes. (Full disclosure: I still do, I just refrain from adding the hahahas and LOLs now. Most of the time.)

One thing I have done well is compartmentalizing my life. Apparently that's a "guy thing." Spend your life growing up around a bunch of alpha male biker types and see if you don't pick up a few things along the way. Right?

Over the past several years I've switched from pouring my heart out to recording things. First it was for my kids and then it was for my girls. A lot of things involving Corey weren't good. And who wants to hear about the bad stuff? And why bother telling it when I can say things like, "And then I told her not to wipe her nose on the table"? (Twice, people. I had to tell her twice.)

It feels awkward and kind of scary to open this door, but I am going to anyway. It has become more than compartmentalizing lately. It's become avoidance. Some of the stories I have put in a box and set to the side? They are not funny. Unlike my last post, I sincerely doubt many people would find them moving. They are angry, confused, hurt stories that make me wonder what the hell happened and where do we go from here?

So this, I think, is the post where I let you into the biggest, darkest, saddest and hardest part of my life.

Let's talk about Corey.

There are several posts on this blog about my son. I came across a couple recently that surprised me with their candor until I realized I posted them when I had two followers and one regular reader, someone I never met in real life. So different than now, when I know a few of you and and feel like I know a few more.

There is a lot more to Corey than those posts and this one and any that come from here on out.

He is the first pure love I ever experienced.

I still love him just as much today as ever before. Please keep that in mind.

Two years ago I kicked him out of this house.

It had started as "I'm onto you. Get back on track with attending school and doing the work and stop spending so much of your time with a stream of people you hardly know. It's damaging the trust and respect within your family."

You know how people say, "It was like he flipped a switch"? It was like that. The tenor of the conversation was light but serious. And then...

And then, honestly, I don't even remember everything that happened.

But I know that I thought he was shooting into the front door from outside. (He wasn't.)

And I know that he shredded our Christmas lights with his bare hands.

Shredded. I still don't know how that is possible, except that he was so enraged.

Tom wasn't home. Fynnie was a wee baby; I don't really remember where she was, but she was most likely in my arms or a carrier because that is where she lived. Madelyn was about two and a half and clearly frightened.

I grew up in a home where explosions like Corey's were frequent and living in fear and walking on eggshells were not uncommon. I would never tolerate that for my kids... not even if it was my kid who was scaring the hell out of us. And the dog.

I told him to leave and not come back or I would call the police.

He called my mom and she drove up here, picked up his medicine and then went to find him.

She didn't plan to keep him long-term, but he has this way of explaining why things didn't pan out that can be very difficult to cut through until later, when you're looking back and asking yourself how the hell he managed to do it again.

He did not graduate from high school.

He did not finish enrollment into Job Corps.

He did not get a job.

He did take money from my mom. Cash and credit, thankyouverymuch.

He did spend a lot of time eating and sleeping and playing games and buying access to porn online.

He did gain a lot of weight.

He did not help around the house aside from taking out the trash occasionally. Because, you know, she asked too nicely about the other stuff.

He did, however, threaten to kill himself last year and landed in a mental hospital because she told him he had to start helping out around the house more. (His version is different than this, but not significantly.)

Staying with my mom was a blessing and a curse. I knew where he was. That he was safe and warm and obviously fed. He was with someone who loves him. But there was no accountability. No demands were made on him to do anything, especially after what happened last year. And my mom kept keeping cash around the house!

Seriously, if you know you have taken in someone whose parents have put locks on every door and window with access to electronics, jewelry and cash, then DO NOT LEAVE ANYTHING VALUABLE LAYING AROUND. And no, the fact that you put money in your bible is not going to make him not take it. It just isn't.

Sometime around the end of August or beginning of September, my mom told Corey he had until the middle of October to get a job and start contributing to the household or he would have to find somewhere else to live.

A couple weeks ago she got more specific and decided on October 15.

For some reason, even though I had long-standing plans for Tuesday the 16th, I kept thinking about how hard it was going to be on Tuesday (the 15th in my mind) when he had to leave. Because he was not getting a job.

A surface conversation would lead you to believe that he'd been doing everything to find work. Dig a little deeper and "everything" turned out to be "I bookmarked, like, three sites. But they're not hiring right now."

I provided job leads and offered to help get him ready to interview... because getting people ready for a job is what I do. And if he wasn't comfortable with me helping him, there were other people he could talk to from my work.

I was pulling for him and hopeful that he would finally step up and meet his responsibilities head on.

And, frankly, full of bravado with Tom and my mom and Nance about how "he cannot come back here. It is not an option. He scared the crap out of Madelyn!" (And me. And the dog. And he still scares me now. He scares my mother sometimes, too.)

Monday afternoon I spent four hours on the phone with my son. We rehashed the hows and the whys of that night 22 months ago. I was pelted with his blame.

"If anyone else had been in our house, doing what you were doing with your sisters right there, what would you have me do?"

It was the first time I felt like he understood why I reacted like I did. He loves his sisters, especially Madelyn, more than anything.

In the midst of the conversation I had to get off the phone and get rid of pretty much everything I'd consumed in the past three weeks. And then I called Tom.

"I am not sure I can do this."

He brought up a few very salient points. I knew he was right, even though I cannot tell you now what those points were.

"I know. You're right. You're not going to get a rational argument from me. *sobbing* My son is about to be homeless."

Because he didn't really do anything to prepare. Not look for a job. Not look for a home.

The thought of leaving him out there was awful, repulsive. Terrible.

The thought of bringing him back into our home was frightening.

Do we have a bed for him? Yes. Not his old bed. He had pretty much destroyed that and it was thrown out not long after he was gone. But there's a sleeper sofa in the loft. Right outside of our room. Which would have to be kept unlocked in case the girls wanted to come to us in the middle of the night.

He would be between us and the girls.

Laying it all out there, I am afraid of my son. I love him. I don't trust him. I am not entirely alone.

A few weeks ago my mom and Corey came up to the desert so he could see a girl friend and then he and my mom would visit with us and the girls. My mom hung out with us until it was time to go pick him up.

An hour later he and his friend still weren't back at her house, so my mom came back and had dinner with us. Two hours later she went home. Alone.

Over five hours after he was supposed to be hanging out with his sisters, he called. Tom took him back to my mom's.

I would not have taken him and I didn't think Tom should go out of his way to drive 90 miles.

Tom's unassailable logic?

"I am doing this for your mom. She'll feel better knowing where he is and that he is home. And so will you. And I don't want him roaming around our neighborhood."

And so, on Monday, I did not ask him to come on home.

He did not ask to, either.

I did not ask where he was going.

I did ask if he packed ID (just in case) and a toothbrush.

I asked him to meet me every Tuesday afternoon. He chose the park with the cannon where we would go and eat on special occasions back in the days when it was just him and me.

Tuesday would mean that I would see him in less than 24 hours if he was willing.

This might be hard to understand, given all that I have said already, but part of me was hoping I could convince Tom to open our home to my son during those intervening hours. I am not expecting that to make sense, but it is true nonetheless. 

Corey told me how he didn't think it was possible to go up from here because he didn't have a high school education.

And then I told him a story about me he had never heard. About how my boyfriend, Travis, graduated at the end of my junior year, and then my mom got engaged to this man. The man had just bought a little house that had a room for them and a room for his daughter... no room for me. So I dropped out of school my senior year, took the equivalency exam (only good in California, damn it all) and went to work. (And then my mom realized that all of her friends and family thought the man was creepy and whatever hold he had on her was broken, but it was too late. My high school wouldn't take me back.)

I tried to pull from my own life to show him that there are always options if he will only work for them.

Somehow we made it through that conversation without him blowing up. We cleared up some misconceptions but we didn't exactly solve anything.

A little while later, I spoke to Tom. He had done a fairly speedy research into shelters and found a few that might take Corey.

Called my mom, but he was already gone.

I sobbed like a baby.

I can imagine how hard it is understand how I let my son go.

So many of my friends, both online and in real life are surrounded by toddlers and infants. Every single one of those children is a bundle of hope and expectations and wonderful possibilities.

So was Corey.

So he is.

The next morning during a field trip, Corey called.

He went to a friend's house and she directed him to some people who had taken her in when she ran away.

They have taken him in.

In order to stay he has to fill out seven job applications. A day. He is following through, but slowly.

He was calling to see if he could have Nance's information for a job reference.

It is short term, this help from nowhere. But it is here for now.

Corey went by my mom's place today to pick up a few things. He said the lady he's staying with is pretty upset that Corey was tossed out, "but she doesn't know all the stuff that went on before."

The woman made Corey ask if he could come back if he did get a job. He asked after my mom had spent several hours cleaning up the grossness of a teenage boy's room, so he probably didn't get the most positive response.

He has put my mom through the wringer. I feel for her.

But, because we are crazy and because he is my son and the first pure love I have ever known, I am pulling for Corey. So is Tom. If Corey gets a job, we will probably offer to bring him home. He may or may not accept.

I suspect we'll feel conflicted either way.

Rushing? Too Slow?

Corey went to an in-home daycare just before he turned one. It was a fabulous place, but took about half my earnings to keep him there. A year later, he was able to go to nursery school where Grandma (AKA Saint Margaret of the Children) was the director. It was good in terms of academics and potty training and excellent for my wallet. Nursery school on the family plan cost the same as about seven days at the in-home daycare.

On the other hand, within about a week Corey learned about Power Rangers, guns and fighting. And he found out what it felt like when a cute little red headed girl with an equally fiery personality chomped on his arm. A few times.

Preschool was at a private Christian school (yes, my son heard the word of god. No, no lightning strikes at pick up or drop off. I am not surprised). Academically excellent, this place was more expensive and the parent population was older and more professional, which seemed to translate into calmer classmates. Only by then, genetics and environment and who knows what else combined to begin giving hints of what was in store from my beloved son. And the preschool had one teacher who insisted that the children move from one room or space to another with their hands clasped on top of their heads.

Like mini criminals being taught to assume the position.

Whether it's fair or rational or not, I associate preschool with the start of Corey's problems. The place where testing would show that he was functioning academically like a seven year old, but where brief observation would point out glaring deficiencies.

Apparently I harbor a grudge against preschool.

Having Grandma care for our girls in her home, teaching them their letters and numbers, shapes and colors, and keeping them away from those yucky kids with foul mouths and hurtful hands...

I won't lie, it has been a dream come true.

For the better part of two years, Madelyn has been talking about going to preschool. We told her she could go when she turned four.

And then we made her wait another four and a half months until the new year started up.

I got referrals from no fewer than three sources and ended up with a list of about 25 places in the cities around my job.

Looked at online reviews, made a few calls and narrowed it to six.

Note to preschools and daycare centers everywhere: If you have an outgoing message instead of a person answering you're phone, it's a no. If your outgoing message talks about your "curriclium," it's a hell no.

Presented the list to Margaret, who chopped one off.

Tom, Margaret and I came up with a list of questions aside from the ones I'd used to grill whomever answered the phone at each site.

Yes, I did organize the questions into four categories and make a spread sheet so we could do forced scoring after each visit.

Note to preschools and daycare administrators everywhere: Your teachers should acknowledge the parents of their potential future students. Ignoring us and/or scowling in our general direction will not encourage us to leave our special snowflakes with you.

Special note to Montessori schools: If you spend "the first two hours doing paperwork with the kids," then you are not a Montessori, regardless of how many fun looking wood toys you have sitting off to the side. And if you are the owner of said school because you "fell into it while going to medical school" and then "decided to go for it while pursuing a criminal justice degree and working on computers" you really don't have the focus we are seeking. Also, "ingredience" is not a word. It's bad enough that you charge $165 a week and make the parents provide meals and snacks. At least have the decency to spell check your damn list of demands.

Do I seem overly harsh? I probably am. As I say, I hold a grudge against preschools and day cares everywhere. I didn't even know it until recently.

Madelyn started preschool last week. She had a "free day" to check it out toward the end of August.

We signed Mad up to go twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays. Of course, school started the week of a holiday, but I'd rather her be shorted one day than miss the whole week.

She and I had a few good talks about school. One went like this:

"Blah blah blah and then Mama will come pick you up after lunch."

"You're going to leave me there?"

"I am. Well, I mean... you'll see that the other parents don't stick around. I could stay if you're not comfortable with me leaving you, it's just not how most people do it."

"I'm comfortable with you leaving me."

"Well, alrighty then."

The free day went well enough. There was a cash register to play with, and Madelyn decorated a dog tracing with little pieces of brown yarn.

(Saint Margaret of the Children says that she would never make a tracing; children should be allowed to use their own imaginations. In case you were wondering. Rowr!)

But when we picked her up, she burst into tears.

Because Mama left her.

Wednesday morning, Fynn left with Daddy in the wee hours and headed off to Grandma's. I'd taken her with us on the free day and it was hard to explain to her why Sister was over there doing that while she was supposed to stay over here with me.

Madelyn and I had talked a few times about how I would stay for a little while, until she was comfortable, and then I would go to work and return after lunch, but before the other kids went to nap. She seemed to get it.

She would venture off for a few seconds and then come back for a quick hug or to ask a question. This checking in reminded me of her crawling and toddling stage when she was just starting to explore away from me. Once she was settled in, I repeated our plan.

"I am going to work. I'll be back after you eat lunch, but before the other kids go to nap."

And then I left after a smooch and a hug.

At some point in the morning, her teacher got a break. Who knows if she pointed out the new adult in the room or not or said that she would be back? Most of the kids have probably been "going to school" for years already. Probably at that same place.

Madelyn was upset and crying when Ms. Juanita came back.

And then, there was this point where the kids had to come in from playing at the playground outside.

Oh, the tears!

Well, listen. I know my girl. This is the one for whom there are "let's not have a meltdown" discussions before during and after a trip to the park.

But Ms. Juanita actually seemed to attribute all of Mad's crying (off and on for two hours) to the fact that, you guessed it...

She missed Mama.

Here's what I don't get: I am not the one she clings to at home.

She has mostly stopped asking Tom to go to the potty with her in the past couple weeks. Me? Months ago. Yeah, because I make her head off on her own and then show up when she's almost done.

At night when she calls downstairs to say she needs someone to go with her? I ask her to feel around on the wall and flip the switch.

"Now you can see where you're going. Go ahead and go."

I am that mom. Not the coddling, babying, delaying independence type of parent at all.

But when I went into her room and the teacher said, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. She's crying. She wants her mama." And then my girl runs over to me sobbing with swollen, red eyes and a red nose...

I scooped her up and was rocking her in a toddler sized chair and whispering little words of love into her hair when Tom walked in (a total surprise to Mad and I that momentarily made the sobbing start up again).

We decided to try again on Monday. Sunday evening I took her out to get new school shoes. She talked about not wanting to be left at school. About feeling sad and missing me.

"Daddy and I really want you to try again."

She hung her head and quietly said, "I know." Like it was her duty as our daughter to go and do this terrible thing, but she would. For us.

Monday morning I suggested she wear a particular shirt.

"Do you see the word right there? Do you know what it says?"

"Yeah, what's it say?"

"It says peace. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, what's it mean?" (We have never had a problem with her saying no. She says yes to everything.)

"It's a calm, good feeling that means everything is going to be okay. It's how I want you to feel while you're at school."

With tears welling in her eyes, she said, "I just don't want to go. I don't want you to leave me there."

I opened my mouth to say something wise.  All that came out was, "You do not have to go."


That afternoon I spoke with Ms. Juanita about Mad's time in class last week on Wednesday. No surprise to me, she did great on all of the schoolwork. (During and around the crying, she did all of Wednesday's assignments, plus made up for being out on Tuesday. This is our girl who thinks reading is good, spelling is fun and counting her money is awesome.) Mad did well socially, too. She played with the other kids and had no problems sharing.


Although he denies it, I suspect Tom was pretty upset with me for not making her go on Monday. Or something. We were all upset for maybe different reasons, I guess.

I have strong feelings about what the right thing is to do here.

To me, she is simply not ready. This is a girl who knows what she is thinking and how she is feeling, and she knows how to express herself clearly. I believe that should be respected. (Plus, why are we paying for her to be tortured eight hours a week? I think we could at least wait until she's a teen to do that. Makes a lot more sense!)

Unless I'm wrong. Because there is this history with me, my kid and preschool. Going through all the prep work to find the right place for Mad made me realize that. And if there's one thing that having your first two kids 15 years apart can teach you, it's that some of those times when you thought you made the best decision... you did not.

Or, as I said to Tom, I am prepared to stand my ground on this one. I will fight to the bitter end. However, I don't want you to just agree with me.

Yeah, because that's not crazy talk.

This is probably not much of a surprise, but Tom and I didn't rush into a decision regarding Madelyn and preschool. We discussed with one another and with others. We weighed options and tried to discern which freaking way would be the best one for Madelyn.


Note to jackasses everywhere: The statement, "She's gonna have to learn sometime," is asinine. She is four. In our world, preschool is an option. As long as that's true, she does not have to learn it right now.

Also, I am not kidding when I say that my motto for this school year is, "I have a limited tolerance for jackassery." Forewarned is forearmed.


We talked with Madelyn. Mostly I stayed back from those conversations because I wonder if I'm projecting something that she's picking up. I hope not.

Somehow in all the brouhaha between Monday and yesterday, Madelyn decided that she would go to school again. But she would bring her stuffed rocket.  She changed her own name to Rocket, too. (Yes, again.)

It was all going so well. Right up to the point when I called Tom. I was there and I'm still not sure what happened. We ended up going straight to Grandma's house.

I floated the idea of trying again later.

"Maybe we can try again when you're a little older, like four and a half or in the spring."

"Maybe when I'm five."

"What about when you're four and a half?"

"What about when I'm five and a half?"

So... that went well.

The Real Poop

Since late winter or early spring, Fynnie's been gearing up for potty training. I was actually looking forward to it. I had three goals this summer, potty train Fynn, get her to take naps in her own freakingbedbyherselfsoIcouldactuallygetthingsdonearoundhere *ohm* and learn to french braid Madelyn's hair.

Summer ended three weeks ago for me, and I'll tell up front, I'm one for three. French braiding and potty training are not on my current horizon.

We started off with converting her crib to a toddler bed. I will not say that Fynnie is a difficult child. Really, she's not. But she happened to be born after her rule loving, get-it-right-the-first-time big sister, over whose successes Tom and I would often high five as if we'd really had a hand in it.

Yes, karma spent the first 28 months of Mad's life preparing to backhand us into reality. Success.

But making the switch went pretty well. That was the big one. I put it at the top of the agenda because I just could not spend one more entire summer nursing Fynnie through naps (or holding her in nursing position while she snoozed and drooled in my lap with her spidey senses working around the clock to make sure "her booboo" didn't find its way back inside my bra).

It's not as though I can snuggle her, put her down and walk away, but I can eventually walk away, and that's what matters to me.

Next up, potty training! I was kind of excited. Fynnie was kind of excited (about the promise of getting "canny" every time she used the toilet), too!

With Madelyn, we did the half naked method. It worked great, and I could see no reason why we wouldn't go the same route for Fynnie.

Except that, oh yeah, my girls could not be more different from one another if they were born on opposite sides of the earth to completely different parents.

The big hold up getting started was our schedule. Because of my allergy shots (which are a waste of time happen close to my work), I did not take several weeks off in a row. I worked every Tuesday. The girls went to Grandma's every Tuesday.

And good friends of ours who were expecting twins dropped their two older girls off at Grandma's one day a week, too, but not Tuesdays. So the girls were also there on Wednesday or Thursday each week.

And, because I now actually have something of a life up here in the High Desert, the girls and I often had other places to go.

Three weeks into my summer "vacation," we made plans to start potty training on Thursday morning, with a goal of being done with day training by the end of the weekend.

Mad was essentially done in two days, which I blamed more on me and trying to get started the first day I was home alone with her and her one month old baby sister.

In advance of that, I was occasionally letting Fynnie run around the house half naked, and she was occasionally using the toilet.

The Tuesday night before potty training, we came home and she had a good try on the potty. I let her run around while I went outside to spend five minutes in the garden.

Coming back in, I found my very upset little girl had pooped on the floor.

I was glad she was upset, honestly; it meant she got it.  But I also tried to reassure her that everything was okay.

As we came out of the bathroom from cleaning her up, I saw that our dog, Maisy, had eaten the poop.

But not before walking through it.

Aaand that's when Tom and Madelyn got home.

Two years ago Madelyn somehow managed to train our big galloop of a dog to race back and forth from the door to the back of the house whenever someone gets home.

Over and over.

This is the point where I'd say Fynnie really freaked out.

She'd been upset before, but this scene and the yelling at the dog and the mess all over the place and the smell... I am wondering if she is not scarred for life.

No joke.

Potty training? Over.

For the past six weeks or so, the main focus is what can we do to make Fynnie poop?

She used to go 2-3 times every morning.

Now? It can be three days.

We've altered her diet to the point that she sometimes cannot help but go.

She thinks dried apricots are "gums" and that all the other special treats she gets are the new "canny."

She can spend a day and a half randomly squatting and looking scared. When it can no longer be avoided, I find myself holding this crying, sweating, grunting, shaking little girl. I whisper softly in her ear and tell her it's going to be okay, she's going to feel so much better when this is over and I'm so proud of her for working so hard.

At this point she's pooping every 1-2 days. It's better, seems less painful, but it's still upsetting her.

I'm not sure how to help her move past this.

Did you ever have a kid who withheld poop? How did you help them overcome it?

Help!

Wonder

When Corey was a baby and toddler, I was going from being in a badly chosen marriage and into single parenthood. And living with my mother.

My son was my life, no doubt. But a big part of that life was simply putting one foot in front of the other. I had tunnel vision that was focused on making it through this day. This hour. This minute. My ultimate goal? I said it often.

I just want peace.

As a young mom, overall I was pretty good. But I lacked that sense of magic and awe that parents really should have about their kids. I remember feeling like people lied when they said, "It goes so fast."  Several times the words "they grow so fast" seemed like a terribly false thing.

The fact that I spent all of my waking, and most sleeping, moments almost exclusively with my son for his first 11 months made it harder for me to see how he changed from day to day and week to week.  The things he did that were advanced, I just figured they were normal.

It wasn't long after Corey was in nursery school that I started getting the reports. The calls. The list of problems that had to be dealt with straight away.

Memories of a very few people saying, "You must be so proud of him because... ."  "Isn't it amazing how he... ?"

Only I don't remember why I was supposed to be proud or why he was so amazing.

There's a great mother of the year admission for ya.

I do, however, remember the thoughts that filled my head during these times that I should have been embracing.

They often started with "Yeah, but... ."

It wasn't always like this. And I'm not saying I was never proud of Corey. There have been times that he accomplished things or attempted something I never thought he would. And I was present and aware and so incredibly proud.

It was just that I was stuck in this one-foot-in-front-of-the-other thing and I couldn't get out.

Madelyn's start, on the other hand, was so full of love and happiness. Well, obviously not the part where she started out in NICU.  But the pregnancy was textbook perfect, and bringing her home and living life with our new little girl; it was exactly the way I wish all kids could start out.

Sure, there was this quiet desperation that please, don't let anything take her from me, always in the background of my mind. But she was the center of the universe for Tom, Corey and I.

We oohed and ahhed over everything she did.

Her mere presence could calm tensions between any of the rest of us because, really, who wanted to shatter the spell?

She was amazing and wonderful, the smartest and strongest and most beautiful baby ever born.

Wouldn't you want to live in a world where people thought that about you?

I would look at her and think, "I made that, whoa."

And then along came Fynnie. These days Mad and I call her Fee Girl, which is Fynnie Girl the way Mad used to say it.

Fee Girl is the sibling Tom wanted Mad to have. I was perfectly happy not to have any more kids after I got the daughter I always knew was out there waiting for me.

But it wasn't long after I became pregnant with Fee that I was in love with this little being growing inside me.

That pregnancy was, by far, the hardest.

Morning sickness that starts at 17 weeks? Evil.
Being pregnant with a torn hip muscle? There are no words.
Heart burn and random vomiting while driving? Painful and embarrassing.

Not to mention that I sat around so much during that pregnancy that I lost a lot of muscle tone. People weren't sure I was pregnant even at the end.  Maybe I was just that fat.

Awesome, right?

And then there was the labor. With Pitocin and no pain meds. (If you're contemplating doing that and ask me if it's possible, I will say yes. And I will bite my tongue so hard that you may see blood dripping out of my mouth. If you ask if I recommend it, I will say HELL NO.)

Fynn is my snuggliest baby. She is the one who makes hearts melt. The one for whom attachment parenting was created.

These are all wonderful things, but for the longest time I had a hard time seeing that they rose to the same level as the wonder of Madelyn.

There are some extenuating circumstances here.

Like I'm about 98% sure I lived through undiagnosed postpartum depression.
And that I didn't feel as close to Tom (or Corey, really) during Fee's pregnancy or newborn days.
And that, although the whole "let's have another child" thing was Tom's idea, he wasn't as interested in the pregnancy or newborn development in the same way that he had been with Mad.

In his defense, the man was working full-time and trying to get his own business off the ground, which meant working four weeknights and all of one weekend day after his other job. The man was probably living through that one-foot-in-front-of-the-other tunnel. I don't discount that or blame him (now. I did.)

All of this is to say that it took me a long time to find the wonder of Fynn.

But I did.

I have it.

Sometimes I look at her and I think to myself,

"How did you make this person?

How is it possible that she is here?

How is she possible?"

And I am grateful for this awareness while she is so young.  Because it is what every child should have, this wonder at their very existence.

Throwin' 'Em Off The Trail

Today I decided to never again say, "Mama has to go to the potty," while walking behind my girls toward my bathroom. 

Instead I will say, "Mama has to go stand right next to the tub."  Having them head seven or eight feet in the wrong direction?  Brilliant.

Goldilocks

As I reheated yesterday's dinner for the girls' lunch today, "Fynnie, do you want your beans warm or cold?"

"Um," hands in the air for emphasis, "I wan' dem jus' wight."

Yes.  Of course.

Against all odds, her newly converted toddler bed (complete with pre-chewed rail, a gift from her big sis) is just right.

Or she has been messing with us since Saturday.  

I Am Going to Be a Grandma

Does that give you a little shock?

It's not so bad as all that.

While in Boston, Madelyn declared that there is a baby in her belly, and she'll get married when she's "taller, maybe five."

Our second full day in Boston was Tom's brother's wedding.  It was lovely.  Heartfelt.  Full of love and tears and laughter.  I learned that Tom's and Matt's faces show emotions the same way.  Beautiful.

Madelyn danced with her daddy at the wedding.  I didn't see because I was off with Fynnie somewhere.  The dance must have been something.

Later that day, Mana (as Fynnie and I now call her), reported that she had married herself during that magical dance.

Now she has 10 babies in her tummy.  Ask what she's having and she'll tell you, "A boy."

It's the new math.

Last week the girls and I were driving home.  Up, up, up to the top of the Cajon Pass before descending into the Mojave Desert, an SUV was stuck in the number three lane (third lane over, counting from the fast lane).  A very pregnant woman was standing on the shoulder, too close to the truck lane, trying to wave drivers away from her car.

I pulled over about a quarter mile up, picked up the pregnant woman's guy at the call box (a California godsend if you are out of cell range when an emergency happens) and drove in reverse back to his girl.  The plan was that I would get behind his car, let him out and have him steer while I pushed his vehicle off the 70 mile an hour highway.

I asked him to let the woman know I would be squeezing past her, because I didn't want to freak her out, this woman who was 39 weeks pregnant.  I just wanted her off the highway.

Just then a Highway Patrol officer pulled up, took over and sent me on my way.

As we drove away, Mana asked, "You didn't want to freak her out?"

"No!  She's going to have a baby very soon.  You do not freak out the pregnant lady!"

"I'm going to have the baby in my belly soon, too."

Fynnie, "I ha- baby soon, too!"

Mana, "Did you hear Fynnie say she's having a baby, too?!"

"I did."

"Well, she didn't marry herself!"

Is there really ever a wrong place to be a frog?

Make Way For Ducklings

On our first full day in Boshum, Tom's mom and dad took us to Boston Common.

Fynnie thinks Gramma Judy is pretty smart.

Our girls are young and relatively inexperienced in the pleasures of the park.  They've been to playgrounds, something that our desert community has in abundance.  But a place like Boston Common?  Not going to be found in the HD.

Boston Common has a merry-go-round.  Madelyn and Dadelyn went around and around.  Daddy gets dizzy and queasy on spinny rides, but making this memory with his daughter was worth it.

Gramma and Grampy have been to Boston Common before, and knew all the best places to go.  Grampy isn't able to walk much, so he parked himself under various trees throughout the day.    Apparently the frog pond we walked next to is often open for splashing.  We're guessing the recent (non-flooding!) storms made it too dirty; no kids or dogs were allowed to splash around that day. 

Fynnie and I did not get the memo about the day's color scheme.

Remember how much Mad loves frogs and ducks?  Despite our attempts to encourage Fynnie's love for elephants, she is all about the fwogs, too.

That play area in the background?  Tadpole Playground, of course.

See a frog, be a frog!  

See a fish, be a fish!

See a turtle... ah, c'mon Mama!

I love this photo for the look in her eyes.  And for the fact that her hair isn't a crazy mess.

If Madelyn could sum up her greatest disappointment about our trip, it's that we only went to Boston Common once.

Did you ever read Make Way for Ducklings?  This is that place.  That is the island.  

Gramma made sure to give the girls their own copy of the book when we returned to the hotel that night.  I attempted to read it over the exhausted screaming, but we only got so far.

"Yes, Mama made me quack like a duck while she took my picture."

"She made Fynnie do it, too, bahaha!"

"I yike to quack like a duck!  Cack cack cack!"

"Somebody, put me out of my misery!"

"I put you out mizzy!  Cack cack cack!"

Traveling With Kids

Madelyn picked out her travel attire early in the morning the day before we left.  Striped shorts, dirty socks with sandals, tutu, butterfly backpack with her name, velour hoody, undershirt with multicolored hearts (not shown) and a balloon.  Perfect! 

We used both of Fynnie's car seats.  The newer generation of Britax Boulevards have some features that make them easier to adjust than Madelyn's.  Mad doesn't care about that.  She's just glad that Fynnie didn't choose to sit in the coveted pink seat.

Speaking of which, Fynnie didn't get to sit in her black and gray seat on the way out.  Why?  Even though Tom had a couple conversations with people about our seats and the use of car seats on the airplane, no one bothered to mention that two car seats cannot be placed in the same row.  Since Fynn's under two, she could be a lap rider.  Yes, we could have forced them to find us another set of seats.  It was not worth the hassle.

This is not how Fynnie entered the plane.  There was a collective sigh of relief when her screaming and crying stopped after a couple of minutes.  It was replaced with periodic shouts of, "We fy-y big jet wocket ship Boshum!  Bash off!"

Virgin America has touch screens and remotes for every seat!  (The downside of leaving for the airport in the 4:00 A.M. hour - Mama doesn't care about bedhead... until she sees the photos later.)

Madelyn, who aspires to be Doc McStuffins, makes sure her friends practice safe travel, too!

Some highlights from our flights out and back:

• Tom has now changed several diapers at 36,000 feet.  He reports that it is easier to change a diaper mid-flight than it is in the baggage claim area restroom at Logan, where the changing station angled down, forcing him to brace Fynn while changing an especially messy diaper.
• I have not changed any.  Every time I enter an airplane lav there is turbulence.  It ain't right.
• Yes, I know how lucky I am.
• The free word game on Virgin's system is lame.  How is it that "etc." an acceptable word, but "tine" and a host of similarly simple words are not?
• Being forced to fly out of LAX because the city of Los Angeles owns the much more convenient but ridiculously overpriced Ontario Airport, made it clear to me why people think Californians are jerks and asshats.  Almost every person we dealt with at LAX was minimally helpful at best.  
• The flight attendant crew on our way out were the whiniest bunch of "professionals" I've ever encountered.  I'm sure the head whiner thought she made things better after complaining about one of the other families with toddlers in front of me by saying, "But not you.  You get it.  Your kids are under control."  That was the luck of the draw for us.  I'm guessing the woman does not have kids or she would know that.
• Just as expected, the flight out was better than the flight back.  Aside from every experience being new on the way out, Tom and I sat a few rows apart, so there was no teamwork for us, and the girls weren't able to entertain one another.  However, the people at Logan were so much more helpful, even giving us a luggage cart and pre-loading our car seats (not installing them, however, they saved that special hell for Tom while I wrangled the girls), that we were a lot more relaxed than we would have been otherwise.
• Whoever suggested gel window clings as a mid-flight distraction, I love you.  Ditto for the Dollar Tree, where I stocked up on garden scenes.
• People who recline their seats into the face of a toddler in her car seat and then twist around to give her dirty looks and loud sighs when she pushes on the seat should not be surprised when said toddler's mama leans forward to "pick something off the floor" while remarking that "yes, it was a jackass thing to throw a hissy fit because the big dumb man took up all of your room."  It turns out that Mama doesn't care if the big dumb man is well over six feet tall and 300 pounds.  Tolerating fits is not something I do well.
• Although she hardly nursed at all on the way out, Fynn nursed most of the six and a half hour flight back.  This probably made Big Dumb Man happy, and did not appear to disturb the lovely lady next to us.
• Overall, both flights were smooth.  Although it was cloudy when we arrived in Boston (which in my mind is now called Boshum), the flooding storm I'd been warned of did not rear its ugly head.