Raising Cows

Well, we’ve had some recent concerns about our oldest son. Due to a few behavioral observations, we decided to have some testing done and, as it turns out, our worst fears were confirmed.

Our son is part-cow.

There, I said it. It feels so good not to have to hide it any longer! I mean, it’s been tough living in a bi-mammal home. All the mooing was really starting to affect our family dynamic. And then PETA began sending us letters, which got really uncomfortable. Even our local farmer, bless his heart, offered to take him off our hands. But how could we send our own son out to pasture? He’s not resourceful enough and would never make it on his own. He struggles to make friends as it is, and the other cows would just shun him because he looks different… So, we’ve decided to try our hardest and love him, despite his obvious cowness.

Now, if you read that and think that I’m the nutty one, you should hear my son cry. Each and every time this child gets corrected, he moos himself into a tizzy! Quite literally, this kid will moo until he makes himself throw up. It’s been going on for years, but as all parents are aware, Christmas break is really freaking long. It was several weeks of continuous bovine noises and, well, we just cannot stand it for another second! I mean, if we had a barn, I’m pretty sure he’d be banished there every time he starts up. Instead of sending him to his room, I could send him to his stall (which would really cut down on the headaches for the rest of us).

Last night was no different. Cameron was once again being sent to bed early for touching things that were not his. This habit of his falls somewhere on the Normal Boy – RAD Boy Spectrum. When told not to touch something, he waits for unsuspecting victims to leave the room, or tired grandparents to fall asleep, and then he touches the very thing he was told not to touch (this is also usually followed by an elaborate, yet insufficient, cover-up of some sort).

Exhibit A- The mysteriously broken blood-pressure cuff at my parents’ house this Christmas break. The very room where Cameron was sleeping was the very room the cuff laid hidden away…. UNTIL, that is, Cameron found it and ripped it apart.

Exhibit B- At the same house during the same break, Cameron turned my mother’s oven on to self-cleaning mode while she was attempting to bake her pumpkin pie.

Exhibit C- At our home this break, Cameron used his Dad’s drill bits. For what? We don’t know. Where they’re at now? No one will ever find out. Nor will we find his work gloves that Cameron insists on using and then not putting back, no matter how many times we tell him to stop.

And finally, that brings us to Exhibit D. The grand finale, if you will. My husband’s mother was watching Cameron at her house for us this weekend and, the poor woman fell asleep for 20 minutes. (Twenty. Minutes.) During this time, Cameron turned the temperature in her refrigerator all the way down. AGAIN. (This is the 4th occurrence!) A fridge full of food, once crisp and fresh, now lies sour and warm.

As you could well imagine, this was the breaking point. He was given 10 minutes to get ready for bed and was told that lights would be out and sleep would be occurring or he would be in trouble.

And then the mooing began.

“Cameron,” my husband warned sternly. “Enough. There will be no mooing tonight. Do whatever you have to do to keep yourself under control. Hold your pillow over your mouth, take deep breaths, get a drink of water, whatever. But under no circumstances will we listen to you moo for the next 3 hours until you make yourself puke. Do you understand?”

My cow-child inhaled sharply and then mooed again.

“CAMERON. Stop immediately.” My husband, to his credit, was trying to keep himself under control as best as he could… but this mooing thing, it really is the proverbial straw that breaks the cow’s back.

Cameron continued to moo and my husband glared at him with dark, menacing eyes. It was a look that let Cameron know that one more moo could very possibly get him put down – sent to that final farm up in the sky.

Cameron choked on some more sobs and made some more weird, guttural noises as he stared back, unsure of what to do (well, I’m not sure why he was unsure… he was told to get ready for bed no less than 25 times, but I didn’t interject. I just watched, wishing I had a tub of popcorn and a snuggie to take in the show).

Finally, Cameron gave just enough attitude to test the waters, but not enough to get him grounded for the next century.

“What! What are you staring at?” Followed by a half-moo-sob-combo.

And then we were done.

“YOU, CAMERON!!! I’M STARING AT YOU! DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I’M STARING AT YOU, SON? IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE MOOING LIKE A FARM ANIMAL!!!! YOU DON’T WANT PEOPLE TO STARE AT YOU? THEN START ACTING LIKE A HUMAN BEING! I’M NOT MOOING AND NO ONE IS STARING AT ME!!!!” This was said with such flourish that I was positive my husband’s arm gestures would knock over a chair at the very least!

Cameron immediately mooed ridiculously and ran from the room, up the steps, and finally into his bedroom. My husband’s face was red and he stood there looking like a bull ready to charge. I, on the other hand, was so close to hysteria that it was palpable. But I needed to keep myself composed until all children were out of earshot. I chewed on my cheek and took a few deep breaths.

Once I was certain we were alone, in my best mocking voice I mimicked, “I’m not mooing and no one is staring at me!” And then I collapsed into a heap of giggles. Because, honestly, it was the weirdest statement I can ever remember hearing a parent make. And because who in the world has to tell their son to stop mooing? I mean, seriously! My husband was displaying equal amusement and joined me in my laughter, as our cow uttered muffled moos in the background. (PS, if you just got the pun in there, you are truly my people.)

I gave The Hubs a high-five. “Best parenting moment ever, right there! And by the way, I’m sooo gonna blog about this.”

So, there you have it. We are a dysfunctional family on most days. We raise children, dogs, and apparently cows and bulls. We are often loud and usually require time-outs. But as long as we can laugh, I think it’s going to all turn out OK in the end.

The Fourth Grade Boy

When we think of our children, we naturally categorize them in some way, don’t we? Male, female, tomboy, athletic, bookworm, confident, passive, musical, clumsy, energetic, hands-on, impulsive, sensitive, a good sleeper/bad sleeper, a sweet-tooth, a health nut, outgoing, introvert, baby, toddler, child, pre-teen, teenager, adult…. and a million other titles that children may fall under.

But I fear that our culture has greatly overlooked one particular child. This kid lies somewhere between child and pre-teen, between fully male and fully female, between confident, clumsy, defiant, weepy, entitled, cuddly, brash and awkward.

This child is called The Fourth Grade Boy.

And do you want to know why this creature is such a conundrum? It’s because the world prepares parents for the sleepless nights of babies and the terrible-twos and the teenage years, leaving unsuspecting Moms and Dads all across the world to look at the childhood stage as a phase of rest. But, those parents of The Fourth Grade Boy… they know better.

***********************

It all started at the end of August. The school bus was pulling up to the house after the kids’ first day back from the seemingly endless summer break. I watched as my second-grade daughter emerged from the bus, purple book bag on her back, outfit perfectly cutesy, smiling from ear to ear. Her little bob bounced as she skipped to me with the enthusiasm of an elf.

And then The Fourth Grade Boy stepped off the bus… and I swallowed a chuckle. Was he striding? Since when does my son have “swag”? Or perhaps the better question is, since when does my son THINK he has “swag”?

It was evident by the cocky smile, one-shouldered carrying of the book bag, and the shuffle of his feet. As they approached the drive where I stood holding a toddler that screamed with glee as if it were Christmas morning every time he sees a school bus, I asked the usual question: How was your day?

The second grader blurted out long streams of prattling, followed by a short inhale of breath, and then another long prattle. The Fourth Grade Boy, on the other hand, had only one reply:

“Fourth grade is sooo easy. I got this.”

And then he sauntered away.

From that moment, there has been an awkward awakening of things inside my child. I think the awakening’s name is Hormones, but I can’t be sure. For a full semester, I’ve watched this creature come home from school, sometimes striding, sometimes walking clumsily (now that’s the child I know), turn on his favorite show, Paw Patrol (which also happens to be the favorite show of our toddler), and roll his toy trucks all over the floor…while quietly singing the lyrics to Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Baby Got Back.

This “child” wants to color with me in his coloring book, and then shoot his bow and arrow. He wants to make toy cars out of cardboard boxes to pull his stuffed animals around, and then asks to watch a PG-13 movie. He cooks pretend food with the baby’s kitchen set, and then talks to me about the conversation he had with a kid in his class about sex.

This Fourth Grade Boy is a creature all of his own. He wants to be a young boy, but he wants to be a man. He thinks girls are gross, but he can’t stop talking about them. He still likes his Superman pajamas, but he only wants the “RIGHT kind of tennis shoes”. He is equally embarrassed by girls’ love notes as he is flattered by them… and then he is embarrassed by his feelings of flattery. He knows everything (or so he thinks) yet he can’t prove it on his homework to save his life. He tries to talk tough, only to pronounce the words wrong and sound even younger than he is.

The Fourth Grade Boy yells at his mother, tries out swear words and inappropriate hand gestures, bullies others to fit in with the “cool kids”, and is very concerned about the word “titties” all of a sudden. Yet, this same child falls into a pile of sobs when he is corrected. Sobs that last forever, proving that teenage girls are possibly NOT the most dramatic people on the planet.

And only The Fourth Grade Boy would put this combination of things on his Christmas list for Santa (who yes, we still believe in): Drum set, quad, Thomas the Train set, trampoline, talking stuffed dog, a picture of Santa’s reindeer, and a real front loader truck. It was like asking for beer out of a sippy cup! I was so confused, I can only imagine how Santa felt…

This is not just my Fourth Grade Boy, either. I have nephews. I have friends with fourth graders. Some days these children are cuddling up to their parents on the couch, and some days they’re practicing their independence by refusing a hug in public. It’s like being a little boy is no longer satisfying, but being a pre-teen is too exhausting. So they swap back and forth like rapid fire, taking breaks from their dreams of all the Brittany’s and Riley’s of the world to play in the sandbox with dump trucks.

This category of child is awkward, yet tries so hard to be cool – won’t brush their teeth or comb their hair, but HAS to wear the right length of pants or life is over – wants to be treated like an adult, but still needs a smack on the butt from time to time.

The Fourth Grade Boy, in all his confusing ways, is asking if it’s still OK to be little sometimes.

I think fifth grade is the time of pre-teen, and third grade was the time of being a child. Mamas, this means that fourth grade… it just might be our last shot at playdough towers and crafts. He may no longer want to play Barbies with his sister (even though he totally does it wrong… I mean, who brings a truck with a crane to the Barbie Mansion, anyway?), may no longer be happy making bracelets out of rubber bands, he will probably soon say good-bye to playing dress up with old Halloween costumes, and mother-son dances will involve less and less dancing between the mother and the son.

Fourth grade, with all it’s frustrations and transitions, may be the end of our little boys.

Not that big boys are bad. I mean, we have first girlfriends to look forward to, teaching our sons to dance without looking like epileptics in front of their buddies, helping Dads work on the car or the mower, ER visits after using real tools instead of play ones goes south, hair in all kinds of places, buying their first sticks of deodorant, going somewhere in public unsupervised (God help us all)…

Mamas, I think we will make it. We will somehow survive this weird stage and we will make the adjustment to Mamas of Pre-Teens… But I’m going to try to hold onto my own Fourth Grade Boy just a little bit longer. It may just be the last time he asks to be held.

Last year's Mother-Son Dance

A Slice of Cheese, A Side of Hope

That moment when you get the distinct feeling that your day is going to get far worse before it gets better. Yes, you know the feeling, don’t you? I can practically feel you all collectively nodding your heads in agreement as I write this! Call it Women’s Intuition, a 6th sense, or just Murphy’s Law doing its thing… but we have all been there.

There are those random days where everything goes right – days where it seems that the Lord himself has parted seas of traffic, given all the green lights, and miraculously turned nasty children into angels. These days we can count on one hand. But days like today, they seem to happen a little more frequently. These are the days that you can find me hunkered down at my computer, praying that the roof doesn’t cave in on top of me while I eat a block of cheese.

Why are you eating a block of cheese, you might ask? Because it’s a beautiful aged Vermont white cheddar that deserves to be consumed before we leave for the holidays, and because my day has sucked, and because I exercised already, and because…. Cheese just fixes things, OK? If you have to ask, then you will never truly understand.

To start this gorgeous morning, my youngest accidentally recorded the infomercial for the 21 Day Fix program. I, in all my wisdom, took this as a sign that I was being called to exercise. I now realize that my kid is just button-happy and that my calling was really to eat aged cheddar. However, I found this out the hard way.

Lucky for me, there was a video sampler on YouTube allowing me to try one of the work outs for free. It called for light weights… I have 15 lb weights. Surely that will work, right?

Wrong. This chick had me doing explosive jumping jacks for a minute at a time (10 second breaks in between rounds), followed by high knees (to help you catch your breath, she says!), lunge kicks, and a slew of other equally ridiculous things that made me feel like punching her in the face. I quickly realized that 15 lb weights were not going to work, but the only other thing I could find were family-sized cans of soup.

Only here’s the thing. Soup cans and sweaty hands lead to terrible things. Things like throwing a soup can mid-jumping jack and having it smash through a cup of milk sitting on the counter, sending white liquid everywhere. I literally finished my high knees in a puddle of lactose before my legs refused to cooperate any longer – sadly this was not the last puddle I would find myself standing in today.

While gathering towels to clean up the milk, I hear the voice from YouTube informing me that this was a sample of the 21 Day Fix EXTREME program, NOT the regular program. And, hello, if you know me at all, you know there is nothing extreme about my physical capabilities (although my husband would argue that I can do some extreme Mom-Dancing… but I don’t think that actually qualifies).

Me and my jelly legs cleaned up the spilled milk as best as we could, all the while cursing the Campbell’s soup company and YouTube and children that play with remote controls. But no matter how much I scrubbed, I couldn’t get the sour smell to go away. How long had that milk been sitting there, anyway? I began to follow my nose from room to room, and it led me to my toddler, standing happily watching Paw Patrol in the living room. I lifted his shirt and went to pull his diaper back to see if he was, indeed, the source of the rank odor. And when I did this, I submerged my fingers into a squishy pool of warm, orange baby crap.

Trying to keep my gag reflex reactions to a minimum, I ran to the kitchen sink and began scrubbing my fingers. Sadly, my nail beds still smell like I had a manicure in a sewage treatment facility.

I went back to Wyatt, only then noticing the pooey footprints across the floor. Obviously he had sprung some sort of ridiculous rectal leak because the amount of juices that had run down his legs and apparently soaked his socks informed me that he may need to see a doctor to get rehydrated! I swiftly began to strip him before he could take another step. My rubbery legs sank to the floor as I wrestled him out of clothes, depositing smears and globs on everything as we went. I reached for the wipes and went through half the pack as my son joyously found great pleasure in playing with his poopy weenie and then clapping his hands, sending bits of diapery remains everywhere.

Everywhere.

My hair, his hair, my clothes, the carpet, the bench, and the two toys he grabbed that were sadly within reach of where I had tackled him – all now brown. It was only when I reached for a clean diaper that  I realized with great dread that whoever had changed his last diaper in the living room had not restocked the supply we keep on the end table.

This is person must be shot.

The only solution was that we were just going to have to make a run for it. I needed to get the baby upstairs and to the bathtub before he set off another bomb. However, my dogs kinda have a thing for poopy items. I don’t know, they’re messed up in the heads or something. But knowing this prevented me from making a quick run for it with Wyatt, because I just couldn’t leave the demolished diaper and crap-filled clothes on the floor in the same room as my mentally challenged canines.

Noticing that Wyatt was re-engaged with his television show, I took 5 seconds to run his poopy laundry downstairs and tossed them into the washing machine. Wyatt used those 5 seconds to pee all over the floor, naturally. In that moment it became apparent that my son and I were not moving towards the same goal for the day. Not at all, really.

I soaked up the pee as best I could and took my sticky, naked baby upstairs… stairs that now presented themselves as a tremendous obstacle due to that dang work out! I asked Wyatt very sweetly to not go to the bathroom on Mommy as we carefully took one stair at a time, but he just smiled at me and said “Peepee, Peepee!” over and over.

Finally in the shower, we both watched as the water running off of us turned a dingy shade of brown as flecks of stuff dripped off of us and moved towards the drain. And as I stood there, I thought of all the things I was supposed to have been accomplishing this morning. Things like packing, laundry, writing, making phone calls for work, and paying our bills. Things that weren’t getting done because of explosive jumping jacks and explosive baby butts.

I looked down at my sopping wet toddler. He was happily playing with his bath toys and wiping soap bubbles on my legs. I realized that for whatever reason, the plans I had for my day were not going to happen. At least not all of them. But hearing my littlest love saying the word “Bubbles” over and over again as he nodded his head up and down in excitement somehow felt better than folding laundry.

I thought of how often I go through my day with my own agenda. I make my plans and to-do lists. I focus on what I want to get done. Yet, sometimes God says, Wait a second… I know the plans that I have for you today…. Plans that will give you a hope and a future.

Being crapped on wasn’t part of my hope for the future, granted. But after going Christmas shopping on Saturday for Isaac, our love that was taken from us, and wrapping all those gifts on Sunday so that we could send them out, I think God knew that I needed to spend time in the bubbles with my little one.

The next time you find yourself crying over spilled milk, remember that there are plans for you that are meant to bring hope. You just need to push through the crap to see it. And eat a block of cheese, because it really does fix things.

If you find yourself in the middle of life's mess and need some additional support, particularly with raising difficult children, check out the MommyhoodSFS Membership program and sign up today.

Five NON-New Year's Resolutions

I can hear the moans now. Ugh, we're not even through Christmas and this chick is talking about New Year's Resolutions already!! Ack!

Actually, I'm not... not really, anyway, so you can stop gagging.

Personally, I’m not a New Year’s Resolution kind of girl. I’ve never been one to make it past February, quite honestly. And I know I’m not the only one. That’s why every gym in America is full of newly motivated folks in the month of January but basically empty by March, and the self-help isle at Barnes and Noble has been made bare after the New Year, only to have these books be used as door stops or coffee table décor.

Yes, those first few years that I tried, I realized just how badly I sucked at keeping my resolutions, so I resolved, instead, to make daily resolutions, all year long, that were attainable – on-going – deliberate. In case you are a New Year’s Resolutioner, or even if you’re a daily work in progress like me, here are some goals you may want to consider making for yourself.

1)      For the Dieter – Please throw away your scale. Please, I beg of you. I don’t care if you’re 120 lbs soaking wet or 400 lbs completely dry… numbers are numbers and health is health. Dieting won’t change a mindset, and a healthy mindset will mean more than numbers any day of the week.

So this is what I suggest: Make a daily effort to replace one unhealthy product from your life with a healthy one. Whether it’s coffee, pop, late-night snacking, or fast food… take one out and replace it with a healthy option. Don’t lose your mind with some goal of how many pounds you want to shed or how many days a week you claim you’ll exercise. Choose to take one unhealthy thing out and replace it with an opposite. THIS is doable.

2)      For the Budgeter – Remember that life isn’t about saving EVERYTHING so that you’ve enjoyed nothing throughout the year. But there are times when our pocketbooks call for us to use a little thing called Wisdom, and this comes in the form of a budget. Make one and follow it. We all have at least ONE thing that we can live without. Something that we can cut out of our spending habits and put in a savings account or towards a looming bill.

But also do this. Allow yourself some wiggle room. There will always be something unexpected that will arise, whether it’s car trouble or just the fact that, due to goal #1, you lost some weight and need a new pair of jeans. Allow for wiggling without losing your head. THIS is attainable.

3)      For the Work-A-Holic – Seriously, you’re gonna have to chill out just a little bit. You’re making the rest of us look bad, and frankly, your heart is asking for you to bring the stress level down a bit and take a holiday! Work isn’t intended to be our all… it is intended to pay our bills. So, if your bills are paid and you’re satisfied that you’ve given it your best effort, then it’s time to take a step back and make it to your kids’ choir concert. Go catch a game with a buddy. Take your partner out for a night. Or do what I do… simply go to bed early and call it a day! THIS is sustainable.

4)      For the Spouse – There are days when that beautiful person you married suddenly grows three heads, two horns, and looks like an evil version of the one you vowed to spend forever with. You chose them, and now you’re stuck, right?

Well, kinda. You chose them, but you’re probably just stuck in a rut. The person you married is still in there, despite the new look and harried personality. So how can you commit each day to improve your marriage? Simple. Take one thing you would do for yourself that day and do it for your partner.

For example, you wanted 10 minutes to finish an article you’ve been waiting to read. But what if you offered your spouse those 10 minutes to take a shower, talk about their day, or put their feet up? What would that do you’re your marriage? Or maybe you go to the kitchen to make yourself a snack. But what if you made a snack for your spouse instead? Perhaps wrote a note telling them you love them to go with it? There are so many ways to give in life. Yet so often we take.

Marriage isn’t 50/50. It’s 100/100… and someone has to get the ball rolling. One simple act of giving each day. THIS is possible.

5)      For the Parent – Let me tell you something. I love parents. I have a heart for those that are looking after young lives, molding and shaping them into mature, independent adults. But there has been a lot of fluffy articles out there telling people these dangerous words: You are enough.

Folks, let me be real here for a moment. When we are comparing ourselves to other parents and feeling worthless, we need to hear these words. When we are doing all that we can and it still seems like our children are crazy, we need to hear these words. But here’s the thing. Some of us… some of us are not enough. Some of us need to take an honest look at our lives and see where we’re missing the parenting mark.

Trust me, because this is a goal I have set for myself every single day. There are times when I’m simply not enough and it’s a danger to tell myself otherwise! My goal isn’t to be OK and settled somehow in my mediocrity. But my daily striving is always towards becoming better. Becoming healthier. Becoming more like Love.

So, if you’re a parent, my resolution suggestion for you is to find one thing each day to work on that will better be Love to your children than the day before. Whether it’s offering grace when it should be shouting, spending the extra few minutes to teach instead of rushing past a learning moment, or simply saying those magical words ‘I love you’ one extra time that day…. We are not always enough. But we can be works in progress, can’t we? THIS is achievable.

Side Note: Speaking of the New Year, if you're in need of a 2016 Calendar, let me make one final suggestion. Welcome Home 2016 celebrates Chosen Families - those brought together through adoption, fostering, guardianship, or any other way imaginable. To get your copy today, click here.

If you or a loved one are struggling with raising a difficult child, take a look at the membership page and see if it's something that would help you. If you're unsure, contact me to ask questions on the Contact page.

A Little Light In A Dark World

I have never been a political blogger. Not only is it not my forte, but I strongly abhor the way it divides us as people – as cohabitors of the world that was uniquely created for us. But to ignore the events of Paris and Syria, bombings and starvation, religious riots and defiance against police across the nation…. I can’t do it. I can’t ignore the travesty that is occurring daily, despite my lack of insight or words to fix it.

So, to honor the events of late as simply as I can, this is my statement:

I am so very sorry. My heart is breaking for the thousands of victims and their families. I see the hurts, the pains, the fears, the losses. I see people pointing their fingers and others using their words as weapons in the midst of heartache. And although there is so very little I can say in all of this, I acknowledge your pain, and I am deeply, deeply sorry.

No matter on which political side we happen to fall, may we all stand together and recognize that human life is precious. Can we all remember that each life was created for a purpose – to be loved by its Creator and to accomplish things that only that life can? Is it alright to step outside of our own egos with their Rights and their Lefts flailing haplessly in the breeze of terror and join hands with one another in prayer for those that are literally losing everything?

If that is too much to ask, then it is you that I pray for this day.

Now, like I said, I’m no political blogger. So, let the following not negate the severity and immensity of what is happening in our world. Instead, allow me to help you step away from the raw and the tender for just one moment so that we can enjoy the greatness that is my baby dancing to Mo’ Soul.

Yes. You read that correctly.

Somehow, in my 18-month-old’s aim at greatness, he learned how to use the remote control to access the music channels on our TV. And let me tell you, he was not happy with any station other than the one entitled Mo’ Soul. Honestly, I’m not even sure what the apostrophe is standing for in this title, but what I DO know is that my very white child has enjoyed shaking his groove thang to it all morning long.

He may not look like he has a lick of soul in him, as evidenced by his lack of rhythm and poor vocal performance… but the boy has soul in his soul, and he’s not afraid to show it.

Please enjoy this little bit of light in a dark world. :)