Summertime, and the livin' is easy

Ben is three! And look, Batman is standing in for Adam!

Aaron is 40! Bottom row, l to r: Sara, April, the old man, Josh's girlfriend Becky. Back: Me, Amy, Patti.

My favorite t-ball player and coach

Crivitz, Wis. (Holly & Kevin's cabin, just north of Green Bay)

Canoeing down the Peshtigo River, Crivitz, Wis.

Some of my best friends from college. UWEC forever.

Itasca State Park

Headwaters of the Mississippi River

What? Everyone is looking? And smiling? Stop the press!

My parents

Family hike in Itasca State Park

We played a lot of bags this summer

Look-alikes Ben and Uncle Nick

My catch (Aaron), his catch (northern). Lake Itasca.

Camping at Hok-si-la, Lake Pepin. (Jeremy ready to get the party started!!)

Rock on, Tara, Trish and big brother Shawn

Arrrrrrrrgh

Adam is six!

Aqua Batman?

Mahtomedi Beach

Weekend at Becky's parents' cabin, Siren, Wis. - Aaron, Adam, Logan, Josh, Lane

That smile!

Captain Lucy, first time on a boat

What a nice big cousin

20 year (!?!) reunion -- trying to recreate the photo below. My best friends from high school. What a FUN night!!!

Treina, me, Amy, Karla, Tonya, Megan. So much love.

Cousins Ben, Leo, Adam

Annual Coon Rapids/Blaine overnight get-together near Prior Lake (Aaron was wearing Conrad's letterman jacket)

Shawn's birthday at Psycho Suzi's ... love my beautiful niece April

Fun in the backyard

Family reunion in Madison, Wis.

Family, sunshine, Spotted Cow. Happy girl.

Mumford and Sons!

Water your brother and he will grow.

Ready to ride into fall ...

Things change. Life doesn't stop for anybody.

Oh, man. I've been bad about blogging on here. June was my last post? A whole summer has gone by. I know I should do a summer recap, but first I'm gonna blog about September 2013 because it's kind of been a big month in our household. And it's probably going to be a long, drawn-out post. Be prepared for lots of rambling. I'm going to have to go with a "change" theme for this one, since there was change in my life (new company, new office), Ben's life (transitioning from daycare to preschool), and Adam's life (starting kindergarten). 

Ok, let me reverse a little bit to August. Thursday, Aug. 29 to be exact—Adam and Ben's last day at daycare. What an emotional day. Six years of pulling into and out of the same driveway five days a week, at first lugging Baby Adam in that bucket carseat into and out of the house, then carrying him on my hip, then balancing him on my hip as my pregnant belly got in the way, then lugging Baby Ben in that bucket carseat while Adam walked beside me ... six years of watching the seasons change ... six years of making small talk with Mary, chatting with the other parents, watching the kids play, getting to know the kids ... six years of watching them grow from helpless babies to kids with personalities. I can't tell you how many times Adam or Ben asked, "Can we play for a little longer?" once I arrived to pick them up. And how many times I've sat down next to Mary or Katie or Judy or Lindsay in one of those red chairs, out on the driveway, and watched the kids ride their bikes in the cul-de-sac, or play Star Wars in the grass, or chase one another, laughing and yelling and having fun while we talked about the little things in life that make our lives worthwhile. You really get to know people when you see them nearly 20 days a month for six years.

A page from Adam's daily notebook update. He was almost four months old. For nearly a year, Mary documented when he ate, how much he ate, when he napped, when he pooped, and any other facts of relevance.

 

Halloween 2010, Adam (3) as a duck and Ben as a chunky pumpkin four-month-old (almost five months). 

Mary watched Adam grow from a happy-go-lucky three-month-old to a sensitive six-year-old; she visited me in the hospital after having Ben, bringing us food and gifts, and watched him grow from a chunky baby (22 pounds at four months!) to a 3-year-old who just informed me that he wants to change his name to Bruce Wayne. [I know a lot of kids like Batman, but this is a serious obsession.]
She genuinely cared about our kids and reveled in their milestone moments (first tooth, first time crawling, first word, first time walking) just like family. And when I say family, I mean the good and the bad ... because sometimes a family can be slightly dysfunctional and a family member will say or do something to really upset you—something you disagree with, and other times you feel so grateful, so appreciative, so thankful for their love and support. Families are weird like that.

Over a few weeks I collected photos from the other moms, then waited until the last minute to put the slideshow together. (Last-minute is often how I operate, much to Aaron's annoyance.) I spent all night creating a slideshow for Mary as a farewell gift. I sent the video link to her email before I picked up the boys, not thinking she would check her email until after we were gone. When I walked into the basement, she was sitting at the computer with tears in her eyes. "I could only watch the first two slides," she said, grabbing a Kleenex. "And then I started crying. I'll have to watch it later." 
We walked together outside, trying not to bring up the Elephant in the Room that was really more like a T-Rex at this point. What should I say? How should I say it? What's the best way to say goodbye?  
What's that saying? It's always easier to be the one leaving than to be the one left behind? 
We made superficial small talk about our weekend plans before Mary gave each of the boys a parting gift (Batman books for Ben; Star Wars books for Adam) and suggested that we get together for dinner in the future. I agreed that it would be nice to plan a dinner date. 
"Good luck at school," she told Adam. "You'll do great."
He smiled shyly.
"And Ben," she said, "Be sure to use the potty this weekend for your mom and dad. Batman doesn't wear a diaper." 
"I will!" he said before running toward the car.

There were hugs and goodbyes and heartfelt thank you's and we were off, just like that. I felt sad, Adam was sad, Ben was oblivious. We watched the slideshow that night (after dinner) and Adam announced, "I wasn't even thinking about my friends and now seeing that made me think of them and miss them." 
Ben was still oblivious. He knew he would be going to preschool, but I don't know that he fully comprehended that going to preschool meant not going to daycare anymore.

On Friday I drove the boys up to Forest Lake for the day so that I could work from home and Aaron and I could go to the State Fair later that evening with friends to see the Mason Jennings/Suburbs/Trampled by Turtles show (such amazing local talent! I could listen to Trampled over and over and over again. Bonus that I was able to enjoy an ooey, gooey, chocolatey paper cone of delicious Sweet Martha's chocolate chip cookies, my only "must-have" Fair food). It was the perfect summer evening to be at an outdoor concert with good friends. It almost made me forget about the Chore that Lied Ahead—the dreaded Potty Training Boot Camp.

On Saturday it was do-or-die training time. Ben was required to show up in underwear at preschool. We had three days to figure it out. It was a nearly impossible task, but I was hell-bent on at least trying. I mean, there were plenty of blog posts and books about potty training in a DAY. I had 48 more hours than that, practically an eternity! 

"We're done now with diapers," I told Ben in a firm no-nonsense tone when I picked him up from my parents house.
He nodded like he understood. 
"If you have to pee or poop, tell me, or you'll ruin these AWESOME Batman underwear."
"I will," he answered like a snotty teenage girl. If he had known how to roll his eyes, I'm sure he would have (and then texted a friend 'OMG, SMH, 303 is an ACORN, **//'). 
[Translation: OMG, shaking my head, Mom is A Completely Obsessive Really Nutty person, wink, wink, nudge, nudge].  

Anyhow, I'm pretty sure he peed in his pants about 10 minutes after that conversation. Yee-ha! We were off to a great start!

Aaron and I loaded him up on liquids throughout the day and set the oven timer for every 20 minutes, when we would rush him upstairs to our lone bathroom. I began to hate the sound of that timer. Again?!?! How could 20 minutes have gone by already!?!? (I remember the same feeling when I was breastfeeding Adam. How could he be hungry again!? Didn't he JUST eat??)

Ben was a good sport, though, and obediently tried to pee or poop every time that damned timer went off. Well, no, obediently is the wrong word. Sometimes he begrudgingly tried to go, sometimes he resisted, sometimes he DID go but only for a two-second trickle. Clearly he didn't understand what it meant to fully empty his bladder. And every time I'd think we had an "A-ha!" moment, it would be followed by an accident. I felt like a robot, constantly asking, "Ben, do you have to go potty? Are you sure? Do we feel like you have to pee? Do you have to poop? Let's just try." 
The low point of the weekend was, after one particularly messy accident, when Ben exclaimed "Mommy is mad at me!" then burst into tears. I felt like Joan Crawford. 
The one thing I never wanted to do throughout the weekend was make Ben feel bad.
"I'm not mad at YOU," I told him, furiously scrubbing the soiled carpet. I was annoyed, but more than anything, I was mad at myself.
"Give me a hug," I said instead. It wasn't his fault that we had placed this ridiculously huge burden on his little shoulders.
"Do I still get Skittles?" he asked. 
I am such a gigantic pushover that I gave him three Skittles just for trying.
Be persistent. Be patient. Be encouraging. Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't scream.
After the first day, he had successfully peed in the potty three times. Three times more than Friday. I considered it progress. Maybe we could pull this off, after all. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Sunday was an f'ing disaster. He had EIGHT accidents. Eight. Accidents. Part of it was because we had friends over for a last-minute BBQ and we weren't as good about reminding him and bringing him upstairs like we had Saturday. Part of it was that he was too busy playing with our friends' kids to stop what he was doing. And part of it—the part that terrified me—was that he just did not care. 
I felt like crying. Why did I think my 3-year-old could be trained in a long weekend? Was I nuts? I must be crazy. This deadline was too much, too soon. It was clear that no amount of Skittles, no amount of bribing (Batman backpack), no amount of praise and encouragement was going to magically do the trick. 

The next day (Labor Day) we went to Aaron's mom's house for a few hours during the afternoon. It was a breath of fresh air to take a break from that horrid kitchen timer. We had more successes than accidents, and one No. 2 victory. Even with the successes, though, I hardly slept at all the night before Ben's monumental first day of preschool, I was so terrified that his amateur potty skills would get him kicked out. How on earth could he be expected to wipe his own butt when he wouldn’t even poop without being prompted? I started doubting our rationale for pulling him from daycare (I know it was the first day of school for many of the preschool kids, but still, we should have waited a few months until he was ready). I felt like I was setting him up for failure—not only was he going to be in a new school with different teachers and new little friends and a whole new routine (learning!), he was saddled with this bathroom expectation that he couldn’t possibly fulfill. I was a terrible mom. This was a terrible decision. The whole thing was a gigantic fail and it was all my fault. 

In preparation of the first day of preschool, I packed four extra sets of shorts and underwear in Ben's backpack. At drop-off, I was a nervous mess. When I'm nervous, I either clam up or I can't shut up. This morning, I couldn't shut up. “We have to constantly remind Ben to use the bathroom. Does a teacher do that?” I asked the director. “I just don’t want him to have too many accidents, you know? Do you ever put the three-year-olds in diapers, for the teachers' convenience?” 
The director answered in her stern Nanny McPhee way, “Oh no. We don’t have diapering facilities here.” And then, as if she suddenly realized the possibility that maybe—horror of horrors!—he wasn’t actually potty trained, she asked, her eyes wide in fear, “He is wearing underwear, isn’t he?”
“Oh yeah, he wears underwear,” I reassured her with a wave of my hand. (As of, like, three days ago.) 
“I’m just worried that he won’t be reminded to go and will have accidents.” (I’m just worried that even if he’s reminded to go he’ll have accidents.) 
I had this awful visual of Ben, crying alone in the bathroom, trying to clean his underwear, while the teachers were taking care of the other toddlers. 
The guilt.
“Do you have extra clothes for him?” she asked.
I nodded yes.
“Our teachers are very good about reminding the kids to go. He’ll be fine,” she finally smiled at me.

Ben didn’t want me to leave for work, and the only thing that eased his troubled mind was the fact that Adam was there, too. It was odd to see the normally nervous Adam in the role of caretaker. Ben also had “blue blankie” for comfort, and that’s how I picture him now when I think about Day One—deeply inhaling the comforting scent of his blue blanket. The blanket that smelled like love.

I was on pins and needles all day, worrying about receiving a call from the center. 
Miracle of all miracles he didn’t have a single accident. I should have bought a lottery ticket that day. He managed to stay clean and dry from 7:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., peeing during bathroom breaks and THANK THE LORD never having to poop. His teacher sent us home with a progress report saying that he did really well for his first day (he hung near his brother for the first part of the day and then hung out with his class for the remainder). He listened. He followed directions. He took a nap at nap time. He ate his lunch. He colored. He played. He made a friend. 
Sept. 3 was also my first day in a new office, after being in the same space for nearly nine years. The new office isn't as big (I prefer to call it "cozy"), and it's not as modern, but it's alright. I still have a spot at the window, I still get to see and talk to my friends every day, and I still get paid to write. My only complaint is that it's way too quiet. I feel like I need to apologize to everyone around me when I eat loud food, like sourdough pretzels or carrots, and having a personal phone conversation is basically out of the question. There are some days when I really miss the buzz of the newsroom. 

Ok. Back to Ben. The rest of the week at preschool wasn't quite as miraculous when it came to using the potty (two accidents the next day, soaked through his bedding at nap time the third day, two more accidents the fourth day), but the teachers seemed understanding and Ben seemed to be making friends and having fun and adapting really well, despite the bathroom issues. 
One day, as we were leaving the center and Ben was grumbling about how he wanted to wear his lace-up shoes like Adam, I joked to one of the teachers that we sometimes call Ben "the crabby old man." I wanted her to know that she didn't have to sugarcoat anything with us. It was ok to be honest. I mean, we live with him. We know his moods. We sometimes live in fear of the next time he'll throw his cane at one of us.
She looked genuinely surprised and said, "Ben never acts crabby when he's here." 
Say what!?

We didn't ask him to pose like this. He just did.

And now he's been there for two weeks, so I think it's safe to say they're gonna keep him. (*Cue church bells ringing and angels singing.)

Adam also conquered a nerve-wracking first day of kindergarten. His first day of school was Sept. 4, and after weeks of us talking about kindergarten and reading books and meeting his teacher and touring the school and filling out forms, the day finally arrived. Aaron and I realized as we were getting him ready that we had failed to buy him a first day of school outfit. Oops. Unlike his Batman-apparel-obsessed little brother, he could care less what clothes we put him in. He wound up wearing a hand-me-down polo-style shirt, some brown cargo shorts, his new red tie shoes, his old Puma jacket, and a hand-me-down Star Wars backpack. [We vowed then to go back-to-school shopping before school starts next year, like everyone else does.] He talked a lot in the car ride to preschool—projecting his own nervous thoughts onto Ben, "It's ok, Ben. You'll be ok without me at preschool. You'll make friends. You won't be alone. I know you're scared, but you'll have fun." [I don't think Ben had even considered the possibility of being left alone at the center until Adam kept driving that fact home again and again and again.] Aaron and I wanted to watch our first-born get on the bus that morning, you know, first day of school ritual and all, so we dropped him off at preschool then went to Burger King for breakfast to stall for time, returning to the parking lot 35 minutes later. [Since we do open enrollment, Adam takes the bus to school from preschool.] When we pulled up, Adam was standing off by himself, looking worried. The other (older) kids were hyper, chasing one another and yelling. They had to be told a few times to settle down. Even armed with the knowledge that two kids from preschool would be in his class (Cadence and Adam's good friend Michael), he was quiet as a mouse. When the bus arrived, the older boys lined up and Adam kept a safe distance; he was the last one to get on the bus. I imagine it took nearly all of his courage to climb up those bus steps into the Great Unknown. I knew he was probably freaking out inside, but he kept his composure and even forced a weak smile (or two). I was so proud of him.

When Aaron and I waved goodbye to him at the bus stop, I don't think he realized he'd see us again at his school. The poor kid totally lost it when we showed up at his elementary school for the class "parent reception" at 8:45. Seeing our familiar faces triggered a release of tears. He was the only one in his class crying, and seeing that sad face and those crocodile tears just about broke me. I had blink really fast so that I wouldn't start crying, too. I was grateful that a teacher's assistant was there in the room, hovering near us, asking Adam questions to distract him. (Was she there just to help Adam? I have no idea, but I do know she was our guardian angel that morning.) 
When the other parents started filing out and we told Adam we had to go, too, first he buried his face in Aaron's work shirt and wouldn't let go, and then—after Aaron freed himself and left the room—he locked his fingers around my neck and held on with all his might. I had to pry myself free of his death grip and practically run out of the room so he couldn't chase me down the hall.
It was emotionally draining.
Today is Sept. 18 and he's only had one anxiety-related incident since then, when he threw up in music class (new room + new teacher = nerves + no breakfast and very little lunch + long school day without a nap  = upset stomach). Thankfully the very understanding teacher gave the very understanding nurse a brief recap of Adam's background and his anxiety, and the very understanding nurse called me to explain that his coloring was good, he didn't have a fever, he said he felt ok, and he wanted to return to class, so she said I didn't need to come pick him up. I can honestly say that Adam likes school. At night he sings the Spanish song he's learning in music class, he's excited on the days he gets to have gym class (his favorite so far), he recently told me that he learned the difference between fiction and nonfiction, and he even likes his once-a-week reading assignments. This is a huge relief to me, because really, it could go either way. Last year there were battles in the morning, tearful, emotionally-charged drop-offs, and incredible feelings of guilt as I backed out of the parking lot at preschool, looking at his sad face waving goodbye to me from the chair at the window. 
I know that it helps that he has familiar faces in his class (his teacher said that he and Michael "cherish" one another's friendship), because—no matter how old you are—it does make you feel better to have a friend at your side when you're going into a potentially intimidating situation, and I know that it helps Ben to have Adam at preschool in the mornings to help him when he's feeling tired or sad. I do miss daycare (mostly the social interaction), but I think—after everything—these changes were good for our family.

OK. WAKE UP! I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD BE A LONG ONE. Don't say you weren't warned.

Blossoming

First day of preschool. September 4, 2012.

Last day of preschool. June 4, 2013.

In the beginning, he clung to me, crying, screaming, holding on for dear life. I had to physically remove his (surprisingly strong) hold on me just to get out the door. In the beginning, he had to stand on a chair at his spot at the window—waving goodbye, tears streaming down his sad little face—as I pulled out of the parking lot. It somehow made him feel better to watch us go. Sometimes Ben would cry, too. I felt like a horrible parent. Were we doing the right thing? Were we abandoning him?

Now he voluntarily takes off his coat and hangs it in his locker. When I say goodbye, he gives me a hug but lets go quickly, eager to play with his little friends. He still stands on the chair and waves, but there is a smile on his face now, and he sometimes climbs down off the chair before I've had a chance to really wave back. He doesn't need this ritual anymore, it's just become part of his routine.

When his teacher told us he's doing "awesome" and she couldn't believe how much he's grown since this fall, I had to fight back tears.
Congratulations, Adam. We are so, so proud of you.

Aaron was in Santa Cruz, Calif. for a work trip or he would've been in this one, too.

The cheering squad

Me next!

All My Love and Everything

The youngest 

Hurry up! I got more playin' to do!

No cavities!
(I had to snap this one quick and dart out of the room so he wouldn't see me.)

Cheers! (Heeeeeere's Ben!)

Did you get a good one?

I'm ok, as long as I don't have to touch the slimy fish.

"You're cute, Mom," he will sometimes say when I walk through the door. "My little mommy, my good mommy, I love my mommy." His kisses are forceful (he will actually pull your face to his and plant one on you, hard), his hugs are of the squeeze-the-life-out-of-you variety, a borderline wrestling hold. When he's really excited, he will grind his teeth and clench his jaw and you can almost feel the energy radiating from his solid little body. You know where you stand with him. You're either in, or you're out. There is no in-between. He is almost three now, and tells people his birthday is "Six June." He likes Batman and Star Wars and Word Girl and Dora. He loves swimming lessons and will stand on the ledge, demanding you to "go back, go back, go back more" before he jumps into the water (so he can jump farther and make a bigger splash before we catch him). He is a natural in the water. When we stayed at The Wilderness indoor waterpark (Wis. Dells) this spring, he was in his element—going down waterslides designed for kids much older than him, kids who have been out of swim diapers for years. He was liberatingly fearless (go for it!) and terrifyingly fearless (he went for it?!) all at once. He rarely stopped moving. He loves to ride on the carousel at Maplewood Mall, preferably in the tea cup, but he'll also ride on the black horse. He tried rollerskating at cousin Lane's 8th birthday party and—while he couldn't stand on his own skates without toppling over—he had fun going around and around with Dad holding him up. (Adam was more of a wet noodle, and only wanted to go around the rink once before taking off his skates to play video games the rest of the night.) His favorite foods are cheeseburgers with fries and rotisserie chicken and pickles and olives and oranges and Cheetos and apple slices and grapes and just about any type of candy. He drinks a lot of milk. He would chew gum every day if we let him. He likes to play any of the sports his big brother plays (soccer, basketball, t-ball), but is also much more content than his big brother to simply sit and watch a movie. He is independent, and sometimes chooses to play alone, even if there are other kids around. He is infatuated with his big cousin Kayla. He can be embarrassingly stubborn and surly and downright cantankerous (I hate that! That's stupid! I don't like you! You're mean!), even though we tell him over and over that we don't use those words and we give him time-outs and we try to lead by example. (I'm really, really, really hoping this is a phase.) He loves to rough-house and wrestle with anyone. He can be extremely sensitive when he thinks people are laughing at him, even though sometimes it seems like he wants you to laugh. He sometimes talks to his blankies (green and blue), he sometimes talks to himself, he talks to us a mile a minute when he's excited (and talks and talks!). He likes to state that I work "downtown Minneapolis" and he lives in "St. Paul Minnesota" and he loves to tell knock-knock jokes that always start with "knock knock? who's there? banana. banana who?" and then fall apart after that (his punchlines never make any sense, which drives his brother crazy). He's learning to put on his shoes and is finally showing interest in using the potty and pretty soon he will be taking showers and getting himself dressed and brushing his own teeth and he won't need my help. Pretty soon he will be taller than I am and his voice will be changing and he'll be ordering steak at restaurants and I'll be wondering, "What happened to my baby?" When I fast-forward time, I picture him having the edge on his older brother—in height, in strength, in certain sports, with certain girls—and taking for granted the things that come so easily to him. I picture him as tall, dark, and handsome, with that thick mop of brown hair, those big brown eyes, those dimples (!), that mischievous smile. I picture him calmly accepting life (the good and bad) rather than constantly questioning it, I picture him showing his love with a good natured slug on the shoulder, a Hallmark card, a bouquet of roses. I picture him as the quintessential 'guy's guy' who can play and talk sports, hunting, and fishing, who appreciates the beauty of classic cars and motorcycles, who listens to good music, who has the ability to fit in with anyone, anywhere (when he wants to). I picture him having solitary hobbies and adopting a "take me or leave me" mentality (sometimes maybe a little more "leave me" than I'd prefer). I picture him rolling his eyes when I tease him about being a chubby baby (22 pounds at four months!) and how we used to call him a "crabby old man" when he was 2 years old and how—even though he could be cranky and defiant—he always, always had a sweet side, too, when he would beg me to tickle him under his chin and kiss me again and again and again and announce out of the blue, "I know who you are, Mom. You're Grandpa's little girl, and you're my mommy and I love YOU!" I picture him laughing at photos of him in his Batman costume, wearing it all year until it literally started bursting at the seams. And don't forget the painted toenails ... not once, not twice, but on three separate occasions, first red, then coral, then blue, then a command: "What are you doing to me, Mom? Take this off, NOW." (Oh, how easily impressionable little ones are. Uncle Jeremy will never live that one down.)  I picture us having fun together, laughing together, understanding one another, respecting one another, sharing inside jokes. I picture us always having this crazy intense connection, this bond.

He is Led Zeppelin's "All My Love."

The oldest 

Two "Poachlay" gift cards!

Waiting patiently for his dental check-up.

Oh-no, oh-no, oh-no, I'm gonna get dumped on by the water bucket!

First catch of the season. Cold May morning.

All smiles at the Gammelgarden Museum in Scandia.

"Mom, do you know where Jupiter is?" he asked one day on the drive from preschool to daycare (to pick up Ben), our few non-rushed minutes of uninterrupted together time.
How nice, I thought. He learned about the solar system today.  
"Um, isn't that one the biggest planet?" I asked.
What else, what else? What was that mnemonic device again? My Very Educated Mother Just Served us Nine Pizzas? Only hasn't Pluto been kicked off the list now? So anyhow, let's see, my-one, very-two, educated-three, mother-four, just-five. "It's the fifth planet from the sun." (Ha!)
"Did you know that girls go to Jupiter, to get more stupider?" he asked with wide-eyed innocence.
"That's not a nice thing to say," I caught his gaze in the rear view mirror and made a stern 'do-not-approve' face.
"Girls go to Jupiter, to get more stupider, except for YOU," he clarified. "I want you to come to Mars with the boys. I want to be with you all the time."
He is sweetness and light and innocence, worried about everyone and everything he loves. He will do things like hold my hand as we're sitting on the couch, then proclaim, "Your fingers are cold" and intertwine his toasty little fingers into mine, warming me up. His kisses are soft and sweet, his hugs are gentle. He is sincere and loving and optimistic and asks to be held every now and then and—unlike his little brother—loves cuddling on the couch. He has innocent crushes on Annika, Autumn, Shelby, Riley, Avery, and the stylist who cuts his hair. (I'm so scared that he will be the one to fall in love with the wrong girl only to have his heart shattered ... and I won't be able to fix it for him.) He loves to do math problems in his workbooks, he likes art projects and has complete confidence when coloring or painting, he regularly asks how to spell words and wishes he knew how to read already. He likes Star Wars and Word Girl and has tried to convince me on more than occasion that he wouldn't be scared of the Harry Potter movies. (right) He hates it when his clothes get wet and immediately wants to change if he spills or dribbles (he also hates tags on the back of his shirts; I have to cut them out). He is scared of the dark, scared of loss, scared of witches and ghosts and bad guys and his over-active imagination pictures worst-case scenarios on an exhaustingly regular basis. When he is overtired, he can be irrational, screaming and kicking when he doesn't get his way (whether it's being denied a glass of juice or telling him it's time to go when he wants to play just one more game of Wipeout or Wii bowling or Super Mario Bros. or wanting to do whatever his cousins or friends are doing—running around outside in stocking feet, not finishing lunch, excluding the little kids—even though I asked him to put on shoes, take a few more bites, play nice with everyone). He is friendly and tends to make friends easily, whether at school or the McDonald's playland. His best friends at daycare are Sam, Zander, and Ben (awww); at preschool they are CJ, Ian, and Michael; at family gatherings he & his cousin Logan are inseparable; he enjoys playing with all of our friends' kids —Ryan and Leah, Sofia and Reese, Greta and Aliza, Sadie and Jacob, Broder and Kaitlyn, little Jack and Clinton bean. He loves telling jokes and making up silly punchlines. He likes chicken nuggets and Kit-Kats and donuts with white frosting and waffles and french fries and Chipotle burrito bowls with white rice, black beans, no meat, no onions, no pepper, tomatoes, sour cream, cheese, and guac on the side (for the chips). He would rather be active than sedentary (like his dad), whether he's helping with yard work, playing catch or soccer in the backyard, or shooting baskets inside. He loves playing games like Uno, Trouble, Doggie Doo, or Apples to Apples, even though he can't read the Apples to Apples cards and needs to play with a partner. He loves staying overnight in Forest Lake and gets excited when we spend a weekend there. He stays busy using his shovel to dig in his mud pile out back or doing his workbooks or playing board or card games with Grandma or throwing rocks in the lake or kicking a ball around in the backyard or helping Grandpa make french toast in the morning. His eyes light up at the mention of going to Grandma Patti's, where he knows he'll have her undivided attention, unbridled energy, and love, and he knows he'll get to eat what he wants and play Nintendo or drive the Power Wheels cars around the yard or color pictures or play ball outside or walk to Walgreen's. He is fascinated by people and places and pets. (He's asking for a dog for his birthday; and if that doesn't happen, he's asking Santa for a dog this Christmas. Oh goody.) When I fast-forward time to when he's a teenager, I picture him thinking the most like me, questioning, wondering, needing acceptance. I picture him surrounded by good people of all walks of life, trying to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, thoughtfully paying attention to his loved ones' favorite foods, favorite songs, favorite flowers, favorite colors (then surprising them later), scared of change, scared of failure, finding comfort in the safe and sometimes mundane. I picture him successfully coping with his anxiety through breathing techniques so he doesn't get physically ill before a big baseball game, a big exam, a job interview (that dang anxiety!). I picture him with stunning good looks: A beautiful smile, golden blonde hair, smooth skin, and a toned, lean build, oblivious to the scores of girls (many who he thinks of as "just friends") who are mesmerized by those pretty green eyes and long lashes. Handsome yet humble. I picture him being really good at math, in art, in baseball, in track and field. I picture him as an all-around stand-up guy. I picture us having long heartfelt talks and asking one another for advice and laughing about things only we find funny and sharing secrets and considering ourselves a rock-hard, unstoppable duo. Best friends.
He is Michael Buble's "Everything."

Double the trouble, double the fun

It's not as good a fort as Uncle Shawny would build, but it'll do.

 Como Zoo, followed by lunch at Cheeky Monkey Deli.
The three of us had a blast together!

On the carousel at Maplewood Mall (in the tea cup).
 I almost puked. They were fine.

Behold the power of the Swedish Dala horse!
It can transform sometimes-enemies into fast friends.

Next up = Summer sunshine, backyard bbqs with good friends, trips to the beach, birthday parties (Ben's third, Aaron's 40th, Adam's sixth, parties for cousins Max and Morgan), our annual college get-together near Green Bay, our annual family trip (to Itasca this year), camping weekend at Hok-si-la, my 20-year high school reunion (hopefully with Tonya in attendance!), annual lake-front get-together with the Blaine/CR crew (17 kids ranging from super adorable twin one-year-old girls to a 12-year-old who has them all wrapped around her little finger), and a family reunion in Madison. Exhausting and busy, but I honestly wouldn't have it any other way. 

Remember when 'sleeping in' meant sleeping 'til after 10 a.m.? Ha ha haaaaaaaaaaa

Never for a minute do I forget how fortunate we are to have two beautiful, healthy, super active little boys who fill our house with noise and laughter and love. 

But I am tired. 

I am tired from working full-time then going straight to preschool or daycare and picking up the kids for an evening of constant supervision/stimulation/engagement. On some days, I'm jealous of the free time, the unscheduled “me” time my child-less coworkers have. I borrowed Pan’s Labrynth from my brother a year ago and have yet to watch it, because I can’t seem to find the time. I can’t watch it with the kids around, and when they’re in bed, I just want to read while reveling in the quiet. 

I am tired of refereeing fights, even though I know this is a normal part of growing up with a brother or sister. I actually heard a statistic that kids who are close in age fight every seven minutes. Sounds about right to me. Best friends one minute (kissing, hugging, playing, laughing, light-saber fighting); biggest enemies the next. (Adam likes to tell his little brother “You are not my friend anymore!” when he gets mad at Ben; Ben likes to say “You are not my brudder anymore!”). I feel like I’m constantly saying, “That is not ok! Now say you are sorry!” or “Did you hit him? Did you kick him? What happened?” or “That is not acceptable!”

I am tired of giving time-outs.

I am tired of not knowing what my friends are talking about when they rehash the latest popular TV shows (I want to be able to discuss Downton Abbey or Parenthood or Game of Thrones; not Word Girl!). 

I am tired of feeling guilty when I have a short fuse and snap and yell at my kids (it doesn’t happen very often, but when it does I instantly regret it — I know I’m setting a terrible example by responding to a tense situation with yelling. It only escalates the problem and shows the boys that I’m out of control. I’m working on it!) and I should be a better, more calm, more rational, more patient mom, and why am I letting my impressionable children watch cartoons? Shouldn’t we all be playing Candy Land around the dining room table? Shouldn’t I be down on the ground, playing cars and trucks with them? Shame on me. Don’t I realize how fleeing this is ... this stage in their lives? Before I know it, they will be grown and won’t want to play with me and I’ll wish I had spent more time on the ground, playing cars and trucks when I had the chance.

And sometimes I do get down on the ground and play cars and trucks with them (the dishes can wait! The laundry can wait! Isn’t it worth it to see the joy on their faces!?! Just enjoy them, everything else can wait!), and other times I just want to not think for a little while. I want to zone out while watching The Big Bang Theory or How I Met Your Mother and not change a diaper (nearly every day has consisted of someone else’s poop for 5.5 years), or get more milk or wash dishes (we still don’t have a dishwasher) or fold laundry or sweep the kitchen floor or pick up toys or give baths or try to get the kids to go to bed without a fight. (No matter how tired I am, though, I love reading books. I love when we’re all snuggled together on the big bed, Adam on one side of me, Ben on the other, temporarily lost in whatever magical world we’re part of that night.)

When you have a newborn, you are physically tired. The sleep deprivation … the on-demand feedings … the adjusting to the new normal (remember when you used to shower regularly? Put on makeup? Do you hair?), the worrying, the wondering (is that a feed-me cry? A hold-me cry? A change-me cry? An “I’m-bored” cry? An “I-don’t-feel-good” cry?), the Googling when something doesn’t seem quite right and “It’s probably nothing but ...” sheepish nurse line phone calls and even-if-the-baby-is-sleeping-you-can’t-sleep-the-way-you-used-to-because-your-senses-are-now-on-high-alert kind of tired. It’s very exhausting.  

With a newborn, the less sleep you get, the more you crave. Sleep is like a drug. You become obsessed thinking about when you’re going to get your next “fix.”

And then, when your baby is older, you miss that infant stage. That stage consisted of three main responsibilities: feed the baby, change the baby, hold the baby. (Love the baby is a given.) Those needs can be met in a very efficient manner. 

When your baby is older, you become tired in a different way. There is the sheer physical exhaustion of chasing a toddler, yes, but now you are also responsible for coming home after a full day of work and preparing healthy meals (no more fend-for-yourself dinnertime mentality), and making sure your child knows right from wrong, and teaching good manners, and helping them learn how to effectively handle a temper tantrum (it is hard trying to teach your kids how to calmly and rationally deal with anger or frustration that doesn’t involve yelling or throwing a sippy cup across the room or calling someone/something dumb or stupid), and teaching tolerance, and acceptance, and kindness, and compassion, and respect, and independence (“No, Ben, you can put on your own shoes”), and the importance of sharing, and not talking to strangers, and how they will have more friends if they play fair, and how they must wash, wash, wash those little hands, and brush, brush, brush those little teeth, and how we must always hold hands in parking lots, and “No toys when we go into Target this time” means “No toys when we go into Target this time” and the fact that—at the end of a long day—your family is everything (whether that family consists of two dads or two moms or one mom or one dad or a mom and a dad). Once your child starts walking and talking and copying what you say and do, you are responsible for putting every important lesson into place in the hopes that you are raising someone you will feel proud to be friends with someday. 

And sometimes it seems like everyone talks and blogs about how much they love their kids (duh) and how their kids are so beautiful and smart and funny and witty and charming and sweet and wonderful, but few ever talk about the days when parenthood feels hard, ya know? It is hard, whether we're running on two hours of sleep or eight. Maybe part of it is that we all just need some uninterrupted sleep ... but I think an even bigger part is that maybe we need to be more patient and kind with ourselves and keep doing the best we can. 

Our parents raised us with far fewer resources and safety measures (no carseats! smoking during pregnancy!) and we all turned out just fine, but I also read a quote that parents today have it so much harder than our parents did. We’re now supposed to parent a certain way—there are so many expectations and social pressures to “effectively” parent and have that just-like-in-the-movies perfect family.

Our parents were just people with kids. 

You Turn Around, and It's Time To Let Them Go

I'm feeling a little sentimental tonight. I don't know if it's because some of my younger friends are having either their first or second babies and it's bringing back memories, or because my parents are now both retired and when I see them they seem so well-rested and happy and appreciative of one another and it's just all so well-deserved, or because I just listened to a beautiful, moving song by Band of Horses (Detlef Schrempf), or because Adam is going to kindergarten next fall. We went to his registration tonight, and we're going to have a school-ager next year. This is monumental for our little family because this? This doesn't seem all that long ago, really.

So tiny! And so alert!

Nothing more sexy than a good dad.

Baby toes!!

Our cherub.

It's funny how elementary schools change but don't really change much at all. There aren't chalkboards anymore (today's teachers have smartboards), but there are still little drinking fountains, little chairs, little coat hooks in the halls, messy classrooms, colorful construction paper all over the walls, evidence everywhere of innocence and positive energy and hopes and dreams that know no boundaries. When you're removed from it, you forget how magical it is.

Our soon-to-be kindergartener is at a very fun and very frustrating stage. It's frustrating because he's all about pushing his boundaries and limits ... and even though I know I should just ignore him when he's deliberately pushing my buttons, or speak "gently and quietly" and remove him from the situation when he's having a temper tantrum (aren't kids supposed to outgrow those?), it's ridiculously hard to ignore that  behavior when it's coming from an otherwise very intelligent 5.5 year old who knows better than to act like that, or speak in a gentle tone when what I really want to do is scream. I know he knows his behavior is unacceptable, and he's remorseful afterwards, but for the 5 minutes that he's acting up, it's extremely frustrating to know how to discipline him in the most effective way.  Yesterday he had three "pushing boundaries" episodes. Once when I made him stop playing a computer game ("You're SO MEAN! I like Dad better than you!"), once when he was hell-bent on knocking down a snowman we had made with my parents at their house even though both my dad and I asked him not to (he didn't), and once when it was time to leave a fast-food restaurant playland ("I hate you!"). Already with the hurtful 'hate you'? Ouch. Dear Hormonal Teenage Girl, please give me back my sweet, sensitive son. Thank you.

We named her Frostina.

It's fun because Adam is a sponge, soaking up knowledge. He loves numbers (his favorite game right now is the card game War), and regularly asks to do "homework" in his math and spelling workbooks (will he actually like doing homework next year? Or does he just like it now because it's not required learning?). He can count by tens and can count past 100 and is learning his letters and sight words and comes home with facts like "water and oil don't mix" and "the sun is a star" and it's going to be so cool when he starts reading. He has an excellent memory, he's very interested in people and remembers names (even the names of my friends' pets!), and in a lot of ways he thinks the same way I think (except for his love of math and numbers, that's all Aaron). He has a big heart and is very empathetic. He still gets scared easily, but bedtime is becoming less and less of a battle. He likes Star Wars and Flat Stanley and has three girlfriends, Avery, Autumn, and Annika, all older women between the ages of 8 and 11. He likes to help Aaron shovel, likes to play outside, likes to throw snowballs and rough-house and act like a typical boy ... and yet he is soft, sensitive, raw in many ways. He is an old soul who, according to author Sheryl Paul, "lives with an exposed heart, aware of the fleeting nature of life and the noble truth that things are always shifting, changing, dying." (It's true, too, he worries about loss and change more than any 5-year-old ever should.) He still brings a laminated photo of Aaron and I to preschool every day, and keeps it in his pants pocket for when he feels homesick. He wears a friendship bracelet from Annika, who bought it for him at the State Fair last year, and a Star Wars watch from Grandma Patti. He doesn't care (or notice?) that no one else in his class wears jewelry, and I love that he's doing his own thing. He likes to collect money and stickers and marbles and still sorts his toys, moving them from one Lunds shopping bag into the next room, unloading the pile and returning for more, trip by trip. He thinks football is boring, but can't wait to play t-ball again this summer (still on the fence about soccer). He sings in the car when he's happy. He really wants to get a dog and asks about it at least once a week. He is very timid when he first meets someone new, but once he decides he likes that person, he or she has a faithful friend for life. He gets a big smile on his face when he sees me at preschool at the end of the day, runs up to me, throws his arms around me, and voluntarily holds my hand as we walk together to his locker. It is the best welcome ever. He creates beautiful, colorful paintings and pictures, loves playing Legos, could play Star Wars games on our computer for hours (if we let him), is addicted to playing a biking game on Aaron's iPhone, and really got into Wii boxing and bowling (ok, he's only played three times—always at Julie and JT's house—but he was a natural!). He likes swimming lessons, but is very serious when he's in the pool. He's so intent on listening and following directions that he won't even look at me or smile, but then tells me he can't wait to go back to swimming lessons next weekend. He makes me laugh when he's being goofy (the newest is knock-knock jokes with silly punchlines that don't make any sense), he makes me feel proud when he's being a helpful big brother, he makes my heart swell when he's being sweet and thoughtful, he makes me stop and think and appreciate the simple things that we sometimes forget to notice as busy adults. (Kids are good for that.) He is truly one of the loves of our lives. We still have a few more months before kindergarten starts, but we're ready. Good things are in his future, I just know it.

Best friends