Magic Hamburgers

When I was four years old, my mother took Janie, Pauly, and me to Denny's for breakfast.  I have no idea why, and it didn't really matter.  For us, this was akin to Disney World because our dad didn't usually want to take us anywhere nearly as cool.

My mother sat next to me in the booth, and my brother and sister sat across from us.  I ALWAYS got to sit next to my mom because I was the baby.  She pointed out all of the breakfast foods on the menu, and by far the pancake with the smiley face was the coolest option.  But I couldn't stop my gaze from wandering to the next page of the menu where the most beautiful hamburger and French fries I had ever seen were glowing gloriously beneath the green pendant lights (or was that Pizza Hut?).

"I want THAT," I said passionately, pointing at the picture.

"That's not a breakfast food!" my mom laughed.

"But I REALLY want a hamburger."

My mother took the menu from hands and folded it with a patience I do not have with my own children.  Her mouth was set in a firm smile, and she said, "Okay.  You can have a hamburger for breakfast.  But DON'T tell your father.  He'd KILL me!"

Pauly and Janie nearly fell out of the booth over my choice, and over my mom's concession.

So many moments of my life have been conditioned by my mom saying, "But don't tell your father.  He'd KILL me."  We all love my dad tremendously, but there was something so special in the secrets we shared with my mom--a trip to Kone King, a toy received when it wasn't a birthday or Christmas, a Happy Meal in the middle of an ordinary Thursday--that made her admonition anything but ominous.  Of course we knew nobody would be killing anybody, but there was magic in the illicit behavior.

Especially because my mom was normally pretty strict.  She didn't let us get away with much in the grand scheme of things.  School ruled our house.  The teacher's word was gospel, and God forbid we ever have a note sent home about anything.  Through high school, I watched all the things I'd waited years to acquire--a phone in my bedroom, for one thing--disappear when my grades weren't what my mother wanted them to be.  And she wanted them to be perfect.

She wanted everything to be perfect, actually.  It was a quality I spent a long time resenting.  Look perfect.  Talk perfect.  Make sure anyone's impression of any one of us was perfect, PERFECT.  The only thing I ever wanted to be was normal, and it made me absolutely crazy that she wouldn't just let me be that.

But when I look at Joey and Noah, I think to myself, "Why the hell would I settle for NORMAL?"  I want far better than normal, or average, for my children.  I give them every ounce of energy I've got--they owe it to me and to themselves to do better than NORMAL with it.  Every day when Joey leaves the car to head into school, I echo my mom's words from long ago: "Be the BEST."

My mom is many things.  She is movement, she is loveliness, she is insanity.  She is magic.  She is spaghetti and meatballs and the best mashed potatoes in the world.   She is unconditional love--and trust me, I've thrown a LOT her way over the last thirty two years. She is the phone call in an Emergency, the phone call in grief, the phone call Just Because.  She is the pulse that keeps my whole family alive, and we all KNOW we would be lost without her.

Happy Birthday, Mom.  There's only one You.

Being Cool

The names of some people in this story have been changed to protect their identities.

At Noah's school Halloween party, a mom came up to me, all smiles.  "I'm Shanaynay's mother," she cooed, her head bent toward mine as the little ones lined up in their costumes for the big Halloween Parade.

I know it's wrong of me on many levels, but I don't much like Parents-At-School.  It totally stems from my job.  Now it carries over into, well, my other job.

"Oh, it's nice to meet you," I said, hoping my smile didn't look forced and fake the way my mother always says it does (usually with a good healthy shove).

"I just want you to know," she went on (because they always go on), "that Shanaynay just LOOOVES Noah.  She talks about him all the time.  At the dinner table, it's always about Noah--"

I was instantly nervous.  "Does she say anything bad?"  Because if this woman is like me, she finds the mischievous, "Oh my God" stories the funniest.

"Oh, no.  Just so cute the way she talks about him."

I forgot about this until yesterday.  Noah was using Play-Doh at the kitchen counter.  I like to sit and chat with him during times like this, because he's very fun to talk to.

"Noah," I said.  Okay.  I probably cooed it.  But if you knew him, you'd know he was worth it.

"Yeah, Momma?"

"Do you know that Shanaynay likes you best out of all the friends at school? You're her favorite."

"I am?"  He patted his Play-Doh into a happy green flapjack.

"Yup.  I bet it's because you are such a nice, kind boy, and because you're also very fun, and--"

"No, Mom," he interrupted, not looking up from his Work.  "It's because I'm cool.  That's why she likes me best."

Doctor, Doctor

When I was little and I was sick, there were a few certain guarantees.  The first was that I would lay on the couch in the family room.  It was a gold couch that had coarse fuzzies growing out of it all over, and a built-in pillow on the arm.  My mother always covered that with my own bed pillow.  Me she covered with the family afghan, a heavy zig-zag affair knitted in black, red, and white by my great grandmother.  When my mom covered me in that afghan, I knew things were serious.

Secondly would be my mother's face: instantly creased with anxiety.  Six or seven years ago I might have naively called it worry, but now as a mother myself who followed in the Judester's footsteps, I understand that anxiety is different.  It's all-consuming--it leaves you nauseated and a little shaky.

Thirdly came the thing that eased my mom's anxiety, and usually eased whatever symptoms ailed me.  Calling Uncle Michael.

Each person in my family owns real estate in the surface and depths of my heart.  My sister Janie's is pretty valuable, and so is my mom's.  My Dad has a big patch, and my brother, though I don't think I'll ever tell him myself, has a dark and spooky wooded property on the edges.  My children and my husband are the kings and princes with the most to claim, but there is one very special spot that belongs to my Uncle Michael.

He is my father's older brother by eight years.  When my dad was a little boy, this older brother took him to see Elvis--the real deal--in concert.  Can you imagine how absolutely cool that would be?  My dad started smoking when he was seven so he was probably already too school for cool, as Pink says, but I bet he felt on top of the world when his teenaged brother offered to bring him to see THE Elvis Presley.

And now he's our doctor.  It's such a clinical term, though, and when you picture your own physician, and even when I picture my kids' pediatrician, we may picture this stiff and distant acquaintance who is paid to care for us.  Uncle Michael is so much more than that.  He has been there for me since forever, and every memory I have of pain or sickness comes with the soothing conclusion of Uncle Michael making it better.

At seven months pregnant, I had my first bout with kidney stone pain.  Of course at the time, I had no idea what had hit me, and was terrified for my baby.  Joe called our OB while I rolled around a bit, handling the pain.  There was a lot of "Will you hold please?" and "Let me just transfer you..."  At long last I was told to go directly to the hospital, and even scarier, head to labor and delivery.

When I arrived, I was told the beds were full.  I was put in an exam room on an uncomfortable gurney, where a series of nurses came in and began to speculate what they thought might be wrong with me.  The worst words I heard were, "Operate" and "Premature."

Suddenly, after what seemed like eons of misery, the door opened and a face popped in.  The same stately forehead, twinkling eyes, and deep smile as my father, a face that told me everything I wanted to hear.

"Everything's going to be okay," said Uncle Michael.  And from that point on, it was.

I've been in pain for weeks now, but there hasn't been one person who has been more caring and on top of things than my uncle, and I'm really, really grateful that I have him around to watch out for me.  When Joey and Noah are sick and I feel my face creasing with anxiety like my mom's always did, I pick up the phone and call the one person I know will calm me down and make things better.

"Uncle Michael will fix me," Noah likes to say.

"That's right," I tell him.  "Every time."

Halloweeners

Halloween has arrived.

As a teacher, I hate Halloween.  As a Mom, I love it.  As a person, I am scarred by memories of my mother's disdain for it.  I won't get into the traumatic childhood memories, but let's just say that when I was seven I wanted to be beautiful and my own mother sabotaged me.

Joey and Noah have been busily readying for Halloween since early August.  Noah's first impulse was to be Buzz Lightyear again, but when I suggested he try something new, he instantly (and oddly) clung to the notion of being Wolverine. We don't watch X-Men, Noah had never seen Wolverine in his life, but he loved the picture in the catalogue so much I had no choice.  Unlike my mom, I'm a firm believer that Halloween is all about what the kids want.

Joey was also pretty quick to choose.  I had to do a little fast talking with him to steer him away from anything bloody, slimy, or malicious, but after that it was an easy choice.  Harry Potter all the way.  We got Joey's First Day of School Haircut on August 31, and he's been growing it out ever since for the big day.  Today.

Both boys went to sleep like angels (well, almost) and woke up with smiles (pretty much).  Joey came flying down the stairs and announced, "HAPPY HALLOWEEN! It's HERE."  He also had big plans.  "I should leave my wand at HOME, Mom.  Can't have anything happen to it at school before tonight.  You know how kids are."

I was especially pleased about his costume because it meant he didn't have to change his clothes at school (something that causes me inexplicable stress--Gym Day is the bane of my existence).  Harry wears a uniform quite similar to Joey's, so all he'd need to do was throw on his cloak and glasses and Ba-BAM!  HP in the House.  Joey leaves for school at 7:45.  He was ready to go at 7.

Noah takes issue--every day--with the fact that Joey goes to school and leaves him behind.  (He also takes issue with the fact that Joey comes HOME from school every day and steals my attention away.)  Today was especially difficult, since Joey got to prepare for a Halloween party first.  Just the same, Noah satisfied himself with Second Breakfast and a good book.  At long last, we realized it was time to get dressed.

Noah barely remembers last Halloween, except that it in his foggy memory come vibes of joy and inklings of candy sweetness.  So when I went to put clothes on him BEFORE his costume, we had a minor argument.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" was pretty much his side of things.

Just the same, he had to recognize that there was a gaping hole at the back of his costume that might leave him chilled, so he finally conceded.  I suggested "sporty pants and a cozy shirt."  He decided on, "Jeans, of COURSE."

It's also important to note that the above claws are not those which came WITH the costume.  In the catalogue, cleverly pictured right next to the Wolverine costume, were these upgraded claws for only an additional ten bucks.  Noah was all over this, and quite persistent in reminding me that he absolutely NEEDED the big claws, not the "baby claws."  As you can see, he wasn't really expecting them to be so...well, big.

I'm not sure I can actually walk the walk this year for trick-or-treating, since I can barely manage walking upright from one side of my house to the other, but, unlike my Mom, I will not follow my children through the streets of town in my heated car.  I will not roll down the power windows every twenty feet and holler, "Are ya DONE?" until they want me to melt into nothingness like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Rest assured, I will be out in the night with my camera, doing my best to lock every minute of it away in my memory.  I realize every day how fast Joey and Noah are growing up (especially since they themselves remind me of it regularly), and there won't be too many more years that I'm invited.  I'll take what I can get, kidney stones or not.

Little Men

"Mom, I got this."

This is the sort of thing Joey has been saying a lot lately.  I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but with Joe out of town this week and me not feeling well, my kids have fallen victim to TV, computer games, and "quiet" games in the playroom without Mommy.

I usually consider myself a "hands-on" parent.  I like to play with my children, I like them to know I'm present.  They are aware that their father and I are actively involved in everything that happens to them, and I believe that this will help them to be strong, family-oriented, and generally terrific people.  So far, I think it's working.

Lately, however, I've been forced to become a bit more hands-off.  I can't physically chase them right now, and I can't do creative crafts and projects.  Pretty much resting, cuddling, and watching movies is the best I can do.  

But Joey and Noah are actually doing okay.  I'd like to say it's all because of the type of attitude and environment Joe and I have worked so hard to foster, but honestly think it's all owed to Joey and Noah.  I think they might just be the best of both their parents, and are really cool people.

I rest on the couch, and Joey lets his little brother pick out a book to read.  Joey reads the whole thing cover to cover, using funny voices and asking Noah (strangely) great questions: "What do you think will happen next, Noah?" and "Can you BELIEVE this?  Why do YOU think he's acting that way in the story?"  

Joey is teaching Noah how to work the laptop, and helping him with reading and coloring games on Sprout Online.  I actually heard him say once, "Yeah, that DOES look fun, Noah, but I don't think it's appropriate for us."

Joey, because he's doing so well as a reader, has taught himself how to work "On Demand" cable.  He knows there are some things I don't like him to see, and goes directly to the Disney Channel.  Then he lets his little brother pick out the show they will both sit and watch.  

There's no way that I can stay on the outside of our daily activities for much longer.  My sister says there must be something wrong with me, but I actually miss spending time with my kids after even a short while.  But it's a good feeling to know that so far, they're everything anyone would wish their kids to be.

P.S.--They certainly have moments of trouble and mischief, too.  But right now, they've earned their right to shine. 

Stoned

Having kidney stones means you're in a club.  I don't like being a part of it.

People in the kidney stone club are always sure their experience has been the worst.  The very FIRST question I'm asked by fellow KSC members is: "How big is your stone?"

My grandpa is a particularly competitive member.  I think it's worse because he's in his eighties, and can't remember that he just asked me thirty minutes ago how big my stone is, and I already told him.  My mom and dad think I should say, "I hear they get smaller with age."

The next question asked is, "How many do you have?" followed by, "Which side?"

"How bad does it hurt?"

That's what the on-call nurse asked me last night when, after four weeks of suffering with a stent and being barely able to function, I called the emergency hotline.  I am tired of these people changing the word "Pain" to "Discomfort."  I am tired of them telling me, "It's pretty normal."  I am tired of them saying, "Well, you're not alone.  Lots of people deal with this."

So I said to the on-call nurse:
"Listen.  I have had two children.  I have had surgery several times, including lithotripsy.  I have had severe migraine headaches all my life.  I even passed a 9mm kidney stone while pregnant.  And I am telling you that right now, I am in the WORST PAIN I HAVE EVER BEEN IN.  Could you just note that in my file, please?"

Here's the thing.  If you have kidney stones, and they are being a problem (because you can have them and not even know it if they're just hanging out in your kidneys), they hurt.  I don't think it matters how big they are, if you've had them before, or how many there are.  What matters is that it's really, really horrible, debilitating pain.

I am grateful that it's me who's in pain, and not my children.  I am grateful that aside from all this, my life is close to perfect.  I am grateful that my mother, father, and sister live across the street from me and are willing to help so much.  I am grateful that last night, when I was sent to Immediate Care for treatment for the pain, my Dad sat next to me in the exam room and made me laugh over the Bob Newhart show we watched on the TV.  I am grateful that while my husband is at work, he sends me texts that say, "I love you" instead of "How are you?" because he knows which one will make me feel better.

But for the record, I have more than five stones in both kidneys, and they range in size, all the way up to 9 mm.  In my left side right now, a 4 mm stone is obstructing my kidney and I have had a stent in since September.  I can barely walk from the pain, I have no appetite, and the nausea is overwhelming.

I think I win the club contest.

Hopper Balls

Today as I changed the kitchen garbage, I heard thuds coming from the next room.  Then I heard THUMP!  THUMP! and a scream.  There was a time I would have panicked at these sounds, dropped what I was doing and gone running.  But today I simply finished pulling the filled garbage from the can, tied the knot on the bag, and replaced it with a new one. Then I slowly moved to the next room, bracing myself.

You know those hopper balls?  The big balloon shaped things with handles that kids sit on and bounce around with?  Well, my two sons were beating each other with them.  It wasn't a vicious game; both were giggling wildly as pictures flew off the walls and things came crashing to the ground around them.  But, in the moment that I took a deep breath before yelling, "STOP!" I thought to myself, "Why would anyone DO this with their hopper ball?"

In grade school, I always thought it was so stupid when the boys would use their pencils like swords.  Hellooooo???  Clearly dangerous!  Did they not hear the teacher tell the story of the kid who poked his eyes out?  

Joey and Noah have pencil sword fights.  They usually end with me shrieking hysterically that they're going to poke their eyes out.

The worst, the ABSOLUTE WORST, is the potty talk.  It's insane!  No matter what I do, say, try, tell, or teach them, they think poop is hilarious.  Anything, from a ketchup bottle to the real thing, that sounds even remotely like flatulence sets them to fall over on the floor laughing.  Butts are a riot.  And here's one I just don't get: armpits.  Why are armpits funny?  Joey is six and Noah is three.  What do they know about armpits?  

They throw things in the house.  They never walk, they only run.  They leap off the furniture.  They never use the bottom step.  Everything is a race or a contest.  They yell.  They whoop.  They try to fly.  They burp.  They pass gas.  They tell me how big their poop is.  They lay in their pajamas with their hands down the front of their pants.  They think blood is awesome, and kissing is gross.

I now live in a house where the bathroom is a scary place to be.  

In my moments of despair, where I feel like a princess not in a house filled with knights but with dragons, Joe says, "Yes, it's all true.  But you know what?  They like me.  They want to hang out with me.  But they need you."  

I never would have guessed that in all their mischief, these little boys would stop, mid-run, and whisper in my ear, "You're beautiful."  Without my little boys and all the strife they bring me, I would never know the magic of one of Noah's "Teeny Tiny Kisses," where he becomes completely still, turns his head, and gives me the sweetest little boy kiss ever.   At night, when Joey is afraid and can't sleep, there is no one he wants but me, and is not satisfied until I have covered the room in "Mommy Magic" to make it safe for him.  When they are daunted by new things, they look over their shoulders to see if I am watching, to hear me say, "It's okay.  You can do it."  It is their wild absolute boyishness that makes these moments of softness more than special--it makes them, well, heart-wrenching.  Like someone is squeezing more love into my heart than was ever meant to fit.

Sometimes when I talk with friends, they ask me, "Do you think you'll try for a girl?"  I always believed I was meant to have girls, but now I know better.  If God wants me to have a girl, I will love her and love the chance to raise someone who will probably be much different from her brothers.

But truthfully, it's not in the plans.  When I look at my two little boys with their messy hair and shiny eyes, my cup runneth over, and I need nothing more than what I have.