A sweet moment in the storm

The first little figure materializes at the side of my bed around 3:30 a.m.

"I had a bad dream," she says, as distant thunder rumbles.

She clambers up and tucks herself beside me, cold tiny feet pressed against the small of my back.

I drowse. Until the second figure appears, again at my side of the bed.

"Mommy, I sceeered," he says. And then, outraged to find his sister already sprawled next to me -- "That's my spot! My spot!"

Hubs rolls over and pulls the still-sleeping child to his side while the second assumes the warm spot she leaves behind. "Mama's hair," he murmurs, and thus begins the stroking and tugging that occurs anytime he sleeps near me. For the rest of the night, he will curl himself around my head, comma-like, and nest there, fingers still wound tightly in my hair.

Every so often, I'll hear my oldest whispering in her sleep and the snuffling of my toddler.

And even though I know there will no more rest in these early-morning hours, I snuggle them closer, comforted by the sweet smell of my little one's blankie and the occasional soft snore from my little girl.

On a cheerier note...

When I saw this one, I told Hubs I'd just had a glimpse into the future: Our drunk frat boy being helped off the curb by two smashed girls after a kegger.

Easter weekend

The kids were cute.

Our visit to the in-laws?

Eek.

I'll post on it tomorrow. When I hope to be fully recovered.

(No wine. I opted for bourbon.)

An outlaw among the in-laws

Really, I just don't seem to fit in.

They weren't very enthused when Hubs and I got married. They weren't unwelcoming -- more like, "Eh. Another wife." Yawn.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm not the first wife. Maybe it's the 14-year age difference between my spouse and me. To put things in perspective -- around the time we started having kids, their youngest grandchildren were teenagers. Their great-granddaughter is the E-man's age.

And yet.

The lack of grandparently behavior wounds.

They showed no interest when I was pregnant with my first.

A week after her birth, they dropped by, but only because they were already in town, visiting my MIL's parents.

MIL picked up my daughter and, after a bizarre moment of inspection, said, "She's so tiny. And yellow."

Yes, well, she was 3 1/2 weeks, early. And that's called jaundice. Now quit being rude and marvel over the wonderousness of my first baby.

There was no baby blanket, like she'd made for all the other grandchildren. No gushing. Just ... stiffly impolite indifference.

They've shown more interest as the kids have gotten older. But it's not a constant thing. Sometimes they're affectionate with the little ones. Sometimes, not so much.

I've tried to let it go. But then Hubs tells me that when we visit them this weekend, my BIL is throwing my MIL a surprise birthday.

And all I can think about is how, last month, she forgot both of my kids' birthdays.

Let's just say I'm not inclined to bring a damn thing to this event. Except maybe a bottle of wine.

For me.

What you don't want to see or hear right before bed:

1.) Your husband, crouched on the floor, sniffing the heating vent.

2.) Your husband asking in a fake-nonchalant sort of way, "Does it smell like something ... oh, I probably shouldn't say it ... but, well ... does it smell like something is burning to you?"

Translated: Hey, my darling neurotic, paranoid wife, let me ensure that you lie awake until 3 a.m. imagining that you just saw a plume of smoke in the corner.

Children at funerals?

My husband's grandmother died a few days ago. Her funeral was at 1 p.m. today.

We took the kids to daycare/preK as usual. When we arrived at the service, people kept asking where the children were. At one point, I began to wonder if we had been expected to bring them.

Why didn't we?

Well, this is what I imagine would have happened.

"Mommy, why is Grandma Liz in that box?"

"Is she sleeping?"

"No, E-man. I think she's dead. She has lots of wrinkles. People with lots of wrinkles die."

"Wake up! You 'wake?!"

"Mommy, she's not waking up!"

Etc...
Grandma Liz was nearly 90 and suffered from Alzheimer's. I knew the funeral would be attended by older family members and seniors from her church. I couldn't imagine them wanting to hear the above conversation during an instrumental of Amazing Grace.

But then people kept asking. And my husband's nephew brought his 8-month-old baby.

I still think we made the right call. But I'm interested in other people's thoughts on this.

Kids at funerals? Yes? No?

If yes, at what age?

Been a bit obsessed...

...with a story at work. Hence the lack of posts and my slowness in commenting on your blogs.

I have things to say, but tonight I just can't find the right words.

Tomorrow.

Hey, Daddy! Step it up...

Must. Get. To. That. Snow.



Please note what Hubs used for the snowman's eyes.



*********************
Just got back from a girlfriend's baby shower in Dallas. And dang it -- I missed out on all that snow. Heh.

Am now trying to catch up on all my blog reading...

Making much with little

Last Sunday, Hubs woke up and decided to build the kids a swingset.

I raised my eyebrows when he started talking about buying lumber. "Um ... how much would that cost?" I asked in that tone.

(Read: It's another two weeks until payday. Ah, the journalist's life.)

Hubs wandered outside to think.

An hour later, I found him yanking up boards in the backyard. These boards were used by the previous homeowner for a middle-of-the-yard deck that boasted a birdbath, outdoor shower and a rusting basketball goal. (We have no idea. But trust me, we have certainly done some speculating.)

The kids came outside to see what was going on.

"You'll be swinging by this afternoon," Hubs promised.

So he sawed and hammered. All day, two little people stood outside, watching.

At 5 p.m., Hubs declared the swingset finished. Ecstatic, the kids claimed their swings.

It made me think -- I spend all this time thinking about what we don't have, and yet here's a daddy who spent his whole Sunday piecing together some old planks so that his kids would have a place to swing.

And I am grateful.

Bad Mommy Confession No. 243

I don't do snow.

Don't get out in it. Don't play in it.

Hate. It.

I'm from Texas. I now live in Arkansas. I'm quite happy with the fact that snowfalls occur only once or twice a year here. (Our winter weather forte is the Incapacitating Ice Storm, which also falls into my Ugh Category.)

So when the Hubs drifted into the bedroom this morning to announce, "It's snowing. You know the kids are going to want to play in it before school," he should have expected my reply:

"You're the snow person. I don't like cold. I don't like wet. Snow duty falls under Daddy Time."

After much sighing and whining, I faked a wee bit of excitement for the kids' benefit and Hubs took them out to play.

I poured a cup of coffee and watched the cuteness from the window. This is what I saw:

Happy children


Not-so-happy snow shepherd


Her expression is similar to the one I wore last year when forced to help build a snowman.

Lest you think I'm a totally negative, blah sort of person -- i mean, who doesn't find snow magical? -- I'm a really fun mom at the pool.

Aww... what a guy.

February, despite being my birthday month (psst...I recently turned 38), is my low point each year. It brings depression, bouts of weepiness and a violent hatred of the cold and rain.

A mere forecast is enough to ruin my day.

So of course, when I decided to embark on the reproductive path, I delivered not one, but TWO babies in ... February.

Talk about one helluva maternity leave.

Hello Postpartum! Meet my dear friends, Depression and Anxiety. We're going to have wonderful time together during these next few weeks! Oh, and look! We're going to get rain and snow and ice the entire time Cathy will be home with the baby. Perfecto! Let the sobbing begin!

Which brings me to one of the nicest things my husband has ever done for me.

Realizing that I was wallowing in despair, Hubs asked several of my friends to get me out of the house. Bear in mind that our new baby very much preferred the boob to bottles and wouldn't stop shrieking until the right nipple was placed before her. In other words, Hubs knew what he was in for.

Even so, he made some calls, stopped by desks and rallied the estrogen troops.

"We're taking you out to eat tonight," one girlfriend informed me. And then a group of women pried me from my spitup-stained couch and dragged me out the door.

It was a reprieve I dearly needed, but new motherhood, fear and guilt had kept me confined to my house.

I remember how disoriented I felt at first -- the lights, the chatter, the drinks. And I remember how much better I felt when I returned home just in time for 10 p.m. nursing.

"She did fine," my husband said.

I know he lied, to spare me any guilt.

So why am I telling you this story? Because I'm PMSing. And it's one of those nights when I have to remind myself that I really do like the guy. Even when he keeps breathing in my direction.

Robin's a slacker. Or maybe he wants Batman's gig.

Holy shark snack, Baitman -- erm -- Batman!



CHOMP!!!

Thou shalt not judge...

... other people's parenting styles and the effect they have on their children...

EXCEPT when the result makes you batshit crazy.

Unfortunately, I have a very low batshit crazy threshold.

I just wrote about an incident that left me seriously disliking a little girl and her parents.

Today, mothergoosemouse asks this question:

"How do you handle it when other people’s children aren’t being destructive or hurtful, but merely annoying — at a playdate at your house, at a playgroup, in a public playspace?"

And if you pop over to Suburban Turmoil, you'll find Lindsay discussing how another mother's parenting style can ruin a workout at the gym. She asks:

"But where do we draw the line? What is our responsibility to our children? What’s our responsibility to the children of others? Most of us have a hands-off philosophy when it comes to other kids, right? Walk a mile in their parents’ shoes first, we say with a deeply tolerant air. But we also like to say that it takes a village to raise a child."

I encounter these issues all the time — as the noncustodial stepmom of two teenage kids.

Talk about battling a frequent temptation to judge. Oh. My. Hell.

In the past, before I had the two little ones, I spoke up often. I criticized the way my husband parented — his refusal to set a bedtime or his insistence on packing sodas and candy in the kids' daycare lunches, for example.

Finally, for my own sanity, I had to step back and butt out.

My new tactic for the next several years was to leave the room rather than witness what I deemed "bad parenting." Clearly, we were going to disagree and clearly my husband was going to continue to parent the way he always had, so why keep picking fights? Better to just flee the scene.

That didn't work either, however, because the fact is that his parenting decisions and his ex-wife's parenting decisions very much affect our household, our finances and our lifestyle.

So I started speaking up again, this time with a vow to choose my battles carefully.

The line in stepparenting is often faint and wavering. At what point do I express an opinion? At what point do I intervene?

I've written in recent months about problems with my stepson. Drugs. An arrest. An accusation by police that he is dealing. A trip the ER after "getting sick" at a party. There's more, but I can't get into it on here.

Now me? I'd be getting a copy of the arrest report. I'd be calling the ER (out of state) and requesting the documents from that night. I'd be looking for a good therapist.

His parents, however, remain in denial and refuse to act. "What's the point?" my husband said when I asked if he'd gotten any of the arrest or ER documents. "We already know what happened."

No, dude — you only know what your son told you. And you've already busted him in numerous lies. He's tested positive twice. And he was accused of selling, which bumps things up into felony territory.

Get the freaking police report. Gah!

*banging my head long and hard against a wall*

My stepson is a juvenile. I am not his legal guardian. I don't have access to any of this stuff, a fact that drives me batshit crazy — both as a mother and a reporter.

I think it's driving his stepdad batshit crazy too.

I've talked to my stepson, who is a good kid with a lot of damn potential. I wrote him a lengthy letter. I've expressed my worries to my husband. But that's where it ends.

Because while I may have a parental role in my stepson's life, I am not — biologically or legally — his parent. And we all know it.

Previous post deleted due to snarkiness

I should not have made fun of the little girl's giant bow.

I should not have made fun of her preppy parents.

I still contend, however, that overly aggressive 7-year-olds should NOT be allowed to jump in a Little Tykes inflatable along with the 3-year-olds.

Seven-year-olds are much bigger than 3-year-olds.

And this particular 7-year-old was a bully.

And there's the not-inconsequential matter of said 7-year-old's giant, lethal-looking boots, which her parents refused to remove. I'm assuming they were an integral part of her outfit. (Oops! More snarkiness!)

And for the record, I would still make this contention even if she hadn't kicked my son in the head and smirked at me.

Is it wrong to want to cuss out a 7-year-old?

Because I dearly wanted to.

Home

At some point, in the next few years, we will move into another house, a bigger house. I don't want to think about it just yet.

I know we need more space, but leaving our little home will break my heart.

This is the first house I ever bought. It has atrocious 1950s bathroom tile and the usual maddening issues that accompany older houses.

But I love it.

What makes it a home? My home?

My living room at Christmas...





The doggie in the laundry basket.



Our cheery turquoise kitchen.




And the sound of these, pattering down the hallway each evening, tells me, always, that I am home.


This is my contribution to Dawn's Home series for Showin' off Saturday. Go see what others have posted...

For my little guy...

... on his 3rd birthday.

You are a sunny, happy boy.

By day, you bound through sandboxes and playgrounds.

By night, you cling to a worn, grubby blanket -- your "grankie" -- stroking the crocheted softness as you drift off.

Each morning I hear your little feet thud-thud-thud down the hallway as you run to our room. I open my eyes and see you standing by my side of the bed, blanket still clutched firmly to your chest.

You climb up, and for a few sweet moments, you are once again my baby, snuggled at my side.

Then you gently pat my cheek. "You 'wake, Mommy? You 'wake."

I roll over and you grin. "Get up, get up!" you urge.

And then you slide from the bed, eager to spring into the coming day.







Happy birthday, darling boy.

Love, Mommy

Oh, the ingratitude!

I nursed my son for a year. He was a biter.

That said, I'd like share conversation the car today:

TOOTIE: OK, you can have this baby. (She hands her little brother a doll.) But you can't give her milk from your boobs. Only mommies do that. You're not a mommy.

E-MAN: Huh?

TOOTIE: You don't have boobs.

E-MAN: Huh?

CATHY: That's where the milk comes from, honey.

E-MAN: That's yuck!

CATHY: Huh?

Yet again -- humilation at the inflatable wonderland

As you can see here, my kids love to bounce --




So when we received a party invitation for today's bouncefest at an inflatable playground -- well, how could I deny them?

Things went fine. At first.

But then -- for the second time in two years -- Tootie decided she just HAD to venture into the crown jewel of inflatables: a gigantic Jurassic obstacle course/maze/slide.

Of course the E-man followed.

Background: Last time we visited this place, I fell out of an inflatable structure -- on my ass -- in my attempts to extricate an unwilling E-man from said structure when it was time to go.

I should have learned. I should have never returned. People laughed at me.

But the children. My little darlings. I couldn't make them sit this party out just because I'm afraid of inflatables.

Anyway, back to Jurassic hell.

E-man made it up the climbing wall, slid into this little valley, but then found himself unable to get up the next hill. I could see him struggling.

I'll just pop in, give him a boost, and come back out, I thought. No biggie.


But I'm not as limber as I used to be. It took some effort to scale the first wall. Finally, I made it to the top and hurtled into the mini-valley. I looked up to the top of the next hill -- which was perfectly smooth, no footholds -- and read these words: The Squeeze.

At the top of this next hill, you see, the inflatable's roof met the hill's peak. Apparently, you are supposed to squeeze through this non-opening.

But how, I wondered, do you even get to the top of the hill to attempt The Squeeze?


A grade-schooler smiled at me reassuringly.

"You just do this," he said, leaping at the hill and squirming through. His feet disappeared and I looked at the E-man.

"No problem, Buddy," said, boosting him up and pushing him through The Squeeze.

I turned around, preparing to leave the way I had come in. But there was no way I could get up that slide. After a few embarrassing attempts, I realized I would have to brave The Squeeze.

I took a deep breath, sprang upwards, slammed into the side of the hill and oozed back into my little valley.

Oh hell.

I leaped again, and this time I got high enough with adequate oomph to shove my head and shoulders through The Squeeze.

And there I remained wedged. Children on the torso side of The Squeeze saw a wild-eyed woman with flailing arms.

Children on the ass side of The Squeeze saw my butt jouncing uselessly as I thrashed my legs.

Just to ensure you have a decent visual, I offer you this:



As you can see here, my ass isn't exactly tiny. Children on that side of The Squeeze no doubt cowered in terror as I humped the inflatable.

Finally, I wiggled through and hurtled, face-first, down the next steep slide.

I then wandered through a maze, searching for the emergency back way out. Surely they have one for the children (or parents) who chicken out. But all I could find was a wall with footholds. Clearly, I was expected to scale it and shoot down the next slide.

I worked my way up, ass yet again on bobbing display, finally reaching the top.

It was very high.

OK, your soon-to-be 3-year-old just shot down this thing. Without screaming.

I took a deep breath and pushed off. By the time I hit the bottom, I was flat on my back with both feet in the air.

Thank God I wore clean, non-holey socks, I thought.

"Mommy!" my delighted children cried. "Let's do it again!"

No freaking way in hell.

Ah, romance...

The definition:

Celebrating Valentine's Day by staying home with a feverish son, cleaning up dog vomit, only to discover that said dog has yakked up a plastic princess ring from a neon-pink birthday cupcake left too close to the edge of the dining room table.

Lingering thought as I go to bed:

A second cupcake is missing. And so is its topper.

They called him Baby James

Each day, he rode a girl's lavender bicycle through an Arkansas Pentecostal church camp, prompting delighted shouts from everyone who saw him whiz by.

In response, Baby James would flash a mischievous grin.

I wrote about Baby James in the fall of 2005, in the midst of working on Hurricane Katrina follow-ups.

Baby James was 5 at the time, a survivor of New Orleans' floodwaters. His uncle had carried him to safety, and, after a few days at the city's convention center, the pair ended up at a wooded, rural church camp here in Arkansas.

Baby James quickly befriended the group of church volunteers manning the camp's kitchen. These older women doted on him, scolding him with indulgent smiles when he deliberately missed the school bus.

Donations to the camp included the lavender bicycle, which Baby James quickly appropriated. Everyone I interviewed knew him — not only the volunteers, but the many displaced men and women who longed to go home.

"Hey, it's Baby James!" they called out whenever he sped by.

Baby James had no mother. His relatives, including the uncle who carried him to safety, wouldn't talk about her. They said she'd left the family long ago.

The little boy had been raised by several aunties, many of whom had remained in Louisiana. They wanted him back.

And Baby James, despite the joy he found in kindergarten truancy and his lavender bicycle, wanted to go home.

On Oct. 15, 2005, I watched Baby James board a bus with his uncle. They were heading back to New Orleans. The two would live with one of the little boy's aunties. Uncle Clay had found work with a contractor doing cleanup and reconstruction.

When the cafeteria workers heard he was leaving, they rushed to kiss him goodbye. A group of Katrina victims cheered as Baby James boarded a bus.

Never mind that they were still stuck here. The little boy was going home.

Even now, nearly 2 1/2 years later, I still smile when I look at this picture: