“Better late than never, but never late is better”

I bet you thought I'd forgotten about that old list thing.  Not so!  I've just taken on various other projects (the playground, some yard work, my 30-days o' exercise).   I've also been trying to capitalize on the small window of springtime we get here in the south.  It's nice to be outside without sweating just from standing there, and the opportunity to do that is brief to say the least.

Despite all of that, since the list plays over and over in the back of my mind, I was able to accomplish one of the items as a result of getting up earlier in the mornings.  I had intended to start my quest to fulfill #1 ~ Get up when Sam gets up for one month, but I failed at that by Day 3.  As it turns out, I'm going to have to work up to that one.  You see, his alarm goes off at 4:30 in the morning, a time when many people our age are just winding down for the night.  I was successful at getting up in the 5 o'clock hour for a solid week, but 4:30, notsomuch.

Perhaps I should explain that the reason I want to get up is threefold:

1. So that I can appreciate Sam's sleep sacrifice to get to work early so that he can leave early and pick our precious kids up from school in the afternoons at least three times a week,
2. So that I can get my exercise out of the way first thing to energize me for the day,
3. So that I can do some chores without taking time away from my family time at night.

I have to admit that it's been a successful venture so far.  And an unanticipated benefit is that by the time night rolls around, I'm so tired that I can actually fall asleep when I get into bed instead of lying there with nothing but my thoughts to keep me awake.

The best (albeit anticipated) byproduct of getting up more than an hour earlier is that I was able to be on time to work and all extracurricular activities for an entire week.  This, friends, is a list item that I had almost deemed impossible.  I had fallen into a terrible habit of getting to work between ten and fifteen minutes late, every single day.  I justified it by claiming that I couldn't possibly get here any sooner being that Ben's school doesn't open its doors until 7:45am.  That was just to make myself feel better.  It wasn't a legitimate excuse.  If I drop the girls off first and drop Ben off second, it means we have to leave a lot earlier than the 10-15 minutes I was late, but at least I get to work on time.  So that what we did.  And that's what worked.

Lateness really bothers me, and yet now that I have kids it seems to be my modus operandi.  My family has always been serious about punctuality.  My grandparents use to get to doctor's appointments before the staff had even arrived to unlock the office in the mornings.  My parents used to get us to Sunday School before 9am, with plenty of time to spare before it actually started at 9:45am (granted my dad was a teacher, but still!  That's early.).  And now, I'm habitually late.  Go figure.

The work part of the task was the hardest, but we also have Mission Friends on Wednesday night, T-ball on Thursday night (which technically we were 4 minutes late for, but a terrible accident and the fact that practice hadn't yet started by the time we arrived means we get to count it), and church on Sunday.  We didn't go to church this Sunday because Sam left for Oklahoma and we were delivering him to the shuttle service, but we got him to the shuttle in time.  So we weren't late for anything.  For seven whole days.

This means I get to say ~

10. Be on time for one whole week; to work, church, Mission Friends, and childrens choir.

Check!

(To be thorough though, we still need to get to church and Sunday School on time next week.  I'm optimistic!)

Flashback Friday - lower back pain

This week, in the midst of my quest to work out for 30 straight days, my back started hurting.  It might be a result of one of the exercises I have done.  It is more likely related to an unfortunate incident we had while building our new backyard playground, involving a not-so-smart attempt on my part to catch a giant piece of playground as it careened towards the ground.  I'm lucky I didn't seriously injure myself as my wrist got pinned between two 4x4's.  After a heroic rescue by a swift-moving, fast-thinking husband, I walked away with nothing more than a few pinch marks from a watch (which I believe saved my wrist) and a gigundo bruise above my right knee.

Oh yeah, and the back pain.  I try not to complain about things like this because, really, I know so many others have real, legitimate problems, and I don't like to be a whiny brat.  It's just that...it feels exactly like I am in my 8th month of pregnancy with the shooting sciatica pain going down my left leg when I move certain ways. 

I'm intimately familiar with this pain because one year ago I looked like this (warning - it's not pretty):

I like to think the belly has gotten a little smaller since then (but, unfortunately, I still have that same stupid expression on my face most of the time).

My back hurt (especially in this picture, as we'd just finished a 12-hour drive to Maryland in my 8th month of pregnancy).  And it hurt earlier and more intensely with each progressive pregnancy.

So here I am today, most assuredly not pregnant with a similar back pain and I couldn't help but think, "Well shoot.  If my back's going to hurt anyway, let's just have another baby."

Then I laughed really, REALLY hard.

And that, friends, is your Friday afternoon joke.  Hope you all have a great weekend!

a day in the life of Mom

While cleaning up one day, it makes you simultaneously smile and shudder when you discover that one of your three year old's dolls now has pink painted toenails.  Cute idea, but where-oh-where is the rest of the nail polish mess?

You know that when your little one looks at you and says, "I'm dirty", she's not propositioning you.  That's preschooler speak for, "I want to take a bath."

When the kids visit you at the office, they pass right by your desk and head for the chocolate stash in the back room filing cabinet.  Hey children, it's nice to see you too.

Playground slides seem a lot steeper these days.  Or at least they do now that it's your fragile offspring preparing to fly down one headfirst.

As sweet as it is that your kids want to bring you flowers, you're having a hard time driving home the point that it is wrong to pluck them out of gardens without permission.

If you ever need help finding a mud puddle, just put on your child's brand new pair of white shoes.  It's like a moth to light.

You told your three year old she was too young to wear makeup.  But you *didn't* tell her she was too young to use her markers...on her face.  (Hey, she gets a few points for creativity.)

Even though he was playing outfield, you were proud of your son when he ran all the way in for every single infield hit in his first t-ball game because that means he was at least paying attention, right?  (There he is on the right, still jogging in from center field.)

Under no circumstances should a six year old be given a roll of scotch tape and left unsupervised, unless, of course, your goal is to need to add scotch tape to your shopping list.

You've gotten pretty good at calling your kids' bluffs.  For instance:
You:  Did you put the tops back on your markers when you were finished with them?
Kid:  Yes.
You:  So if I walk back to your room and look at your markers, all of the tops will be on them?
Kid:  Yes.
You:  Okay.  (start walking towards the bedroom)
Kid:  Wait!!!  Let me go check.
You:  Ummm hmmmm.  That's what I thought.

The phenomenon of the unmatched socks

I can't believe I'm blogging about socks.  Again.  I blogged about the reunion with missing socks here and I mentioned the Mt. Everest of unmatched socks here.

It's the latter on which I'd like to expound.  You might think it's a bit of an exaggeration to claim to have a mountain of unmatched socks.  Fine.  I have a molehill of unmatched socks on my dryer.  But even a molehill of unpaired socks is too many!

On Monday night, I decided I was fed up with the socks atop the dryer.  Surely there were matches in that pile.  I trudged with the armful into the living room where I carefully laid out every single one of those tiny socks (and about six not-so-tiny ones).  I was able to match up half a dozen of them.  I was left with this -

You can count them.  There are 43 unmatched socks.  I know we're a household of five and all, but it almost seems unconscionable to own that many matching socks, let alone have that many singles floating around. 

So I did what anyone would have done in that situation, I looked in all of the possible single-sock locations - under the crib, under the beds, between the washer and dryer, behind the washer and dryer, under the nightstands, in the sheets.  I came up with five socks.  Only one of them matched another in the pile.  Two of them matched each other.  So I actually netted two more singles.  Nice.

Sam says to pitch them.  My head tells me that I should.  My heart is telling me not to give up on those poor, single socks.  Their mate could be out there waiting for them - somewhere.  For now, they're all still on the floor...providing entertainment for an eleven month old.

Tomorrow, I'll probably put them back on top of the dryer in hopes of finding their mates someday.  When that happens, I will have a joyous reunion with them that will no doubt go a little something like this -

In the meantime, I should probably consider stocking up on some of these thingies.

Flashback Friday - Kind of

As is the case with three children, I often find myself waiting in the tiny exam room of the pediatrician's office.  We go there for lots of reasons; well-visits (for those highly dreaded vaccinations), random fevers, hives, wheezing, but most popularly - ear infections.

Faulty construction is genetic, I say.  I get to point the finger at Sam for the ear issues.  The poor man is the only person I've ever known to get ear infections in adulthood.  He got a set of tubes in his twenties.  At any rate, it doesn't come as a surprise that our children are afflicted with poorly-draining Eustachian tubes.

Between the two older kids, they are minus two sets of adenoids and a pair of tonsils, and plus a set of tubes.  After all that, there was almost a hiatus from sickness.  Some of that was attributable to them getting older and stronger, some of it was attributable to the "germ sponges" having been surgically removed from their bodies, some of it was due to the immunity support of gummy vitamins (maybe).  Regardless of why, and with the exception of random colds and tummy bugs here and there, we were on a great streak.

It occurred to me around the middle of March, that we had been unbelievably healthy this winter.  And that's when I said it.  Out loud.  (And now I know better.)

Within the week, Ben had a fever, Abby had a fever and another fever, and Sarah had a fever.  We aren't sure what Ben's fever and Abby's first fever were from, some random virus, I suppose.  They got over them in about 24 hours.  Her second fever landed us in the pediatrician's office on Good Friday.  The diagnosis:  double ear infection.

The cool thing about having a three year old is that they can tell you what is wrong with them.   You don't have to guess anymore.  Unless, that is, their ears don't hurt whilst infected.  I quizzed Abby, and she swore her ears never hurt.  Needless to say, I was not expecting the doctor to say those words.  It had been years since her last ear infection.  She got her tubes in and adenoids taken out when she was 11 months old, had about two EI's that were treated with ear drops after that, and no more.  Until now.

(But while we're on the subject, here's a picture of the sweet little patient in that tiny hospital gown)

On Easter Monday, we went back to the doctor because Sarah had started running a fever.  The diagnosis:  double ear infection.  Well shoot.  Another prescription filled at CVS (who, thanks to our patronage, is in no danger of closing any time soon).

The moral of the story is:  Don't get cocky about your childrens' health.  It will bite you in the rear.  Or, more likely, infect their ears.

You thought the story ended there, but you are wrong!  There was an up side to that particular doctor's visit.  Since it was After Hours, we didn't see our "normal" pediatrician.  We saw one of the practice's other doctors.  And despite the fact that we are there a lot, he was one I've never met before.  I felt right as ease when he walked into the exam room, and before he even washed his hands he said, "Wow, it's hot in here.  Hang on a minute while I turn the thermostat down."  (That is my kind of guy!)  He settled in, checked her out, "Double ear infection", and then he rolled the seat back and started up a little conversation.  We chatted about the office, the location, how it's doing.  I commented that we come there a lot, love it, recommend it to everyone.  I mentioned that we were there three days prior for an identical diagnosis and prescription for my older daughter.

Then we chatted about how I had three kids.  Here's the interesting part - he asked me what it was like having three.  He and his wife just found out they were expecting their own #3 and wanted to know if it was going to get crazy or what.  I offered my opinion (that #2 rocked my world a lot more than #3, as Sarah just seemed to fall right in with our groove).  He told me that his second child was colicky and just a tough kid from the get-go, so that it was encouraging to hear that #3 might not be so bad.  I told him I'd been through the colic as well, and at the very least, he could now relate to his patients having experienced it first hand.  His words, "Some nights I wanted to throw him against the wall.  I teach the newborn class at the hospital for parents and I tell them point blank, 'Sometimes you will hate your kids.'"  You might think (especially if you aren't a parent) this is harsh, but I was actually impressed.  While I might not use the word "hate" (I just don't like that word), some nights it isn't all sweet baby kisses and cooing.  Sometimes it feels downright impossible and hopeless and never-ending. 

I left the doctors office that afternoon feeling refreshed and vindicated.  A health care professional asked little old me what it was like to raise three kids, because (and I guess I tend to forget this sometimes) I am raising three kids!  That qualifies me to give my opinion on the matter, and it was nice to be deemed as such.  I also know that before I was a mom, and even after becoming one, no one told me that I wouldn't be head over heels in love with my new blessing 24/7.  I wish someone would have told me.  So even though that pediatrician is taking a big risk saying that to new parents, I'm pleased that he is.  He is preparing them for real life.  I'm glad someone is telling them.

The second moral of the story is:  Your experiences as a parent are invaluable to others.  Share them!  

(And not all doctors think they know everything.)