Mom Things: Infirmary Edition

There is no protocol for when your child throws up in public, but you are now aware that this is one of the worst moments in the life of a parent for so many reasons.  (Especially if there is a innocent bystander involved.)

Three things that are critical to have on hand in the first aid kit:  hydrogen peroxide, band-aids, and Neosporin.  Inevitably, you will be out of at least two out of three of those things when your child has his first big bike accident.

Incidentally, you decide that there is no box of band-aids too large for a family with three kids.

The pharmacist at CVS knows you by name.  That's either tremendous customer service or you have picked up entirely too many prescriptions for the beloved pink goo (more commonly known as amoxicillin).

You didn't go to medical school, but you consider yourself qualified enough to be able to distinguish between hives, impetigo, ringworm, regular diaper rash vs. yeast, and generic skin irritations.  As a result, you briefly consider undercutting the pediatrician's office and setting up a clinic at your house, but ultimately decide the malpractice insurance isn't worth it.  (And you wonder where your kids get their overactive imaginations...)

You're proud of your little ones for learning to share....but if they'd been selfish with the Pink Eye, you'd have been okay with that.

Defying all odds, you witnessed your usually spirited three year old sit as still as a statue for splinter removal.  Turns out, she knew that if she did, there would be some sort of reward (in the form of candy) at the end of it.

You hesitate to say it out loud, but you can't believe between three kids and six years and a half years as a parent, you've yet to experience a broken bone.  (And NOW, you're knocking on wood!)

You have at least one little druggie in your brood who feigns coughing and follows you around with a medicine dropper in hopes of scoring some of the "good stuff".

You've tried all kinds of thermometers; temporal, oral, under-arm.  The fact remains that the best test for a fever is a mommy's lips on a baby's forehead.

not exactly an expert

I don't want to speak for moms in general, or women for that matter.  I can only speak for myself, so I'm putting this out there.  If you feel the same way and feel compelled to validate me, my sanity would greatly appreciate it.

I am my own worst critic.

There are some days when I take a step back and think, "Man, I just can't do anything right."  And maybe even, "Is there anything I can do?"

I like to think we all have those days.  (It makes me feel better about myself.)

The days when we wake up, having completed our daily "To Do" list the night before, only to be foiled by a late-ringing alarm clock, a dryer that seems to be taking four hours to dry a single load, the realization that your son forgot to do his daily reading the night before and you have ten minutes to get him fed, dressed, and to school, and a nice spit-up stain or snot smear that you notice on your shoulder only after you arrive at work. 

That's when you realize you left your lunch in the fridge, the milk on the counter, and you're wearing your flip-flops instead of your work shoes.

You make it through the rest of the work day generally unscathed, only to get to the daycare, where you find that your infant is running a low-grade fever, your toddler had an accident during naptime, and your kindergartener got a yellow face for talking.

Maybe all of those things didn't happen in one day, and even if they did, it wouldn't be the end of the world, but some days just don't seem to go the way we think they will.  Lists or no lists.  (Though I contend that one of the most depressing things out there is a To Do list with nary an item crossed off.)

I'm generally able to give myself a chin-up, you-can-do-it pep talk that enables me to get through dinner and bedtime, and I usually do.  However messy and unpretty it might be.

The other day, my best working mommy support group posed the question, "What is your expertise?  Outside of work, if you were called to be an expert witness, what topic(s) would you be able to cover?"

Perhaps I took the question too seriously, but I thought long and hard about it.  And quite frankly, I walked away a little depressed.  I don't think of myself as being able to claim expert status on anything.  I can't cook.  I don't sing, dance, possess skill in any kind of fine art.  I don't speak any foreign languages.  I don't enjoy history in any capacity other than in the form of a good movie.  It's been a long time since I played or even watched organized sports.

What can I say?  (Again) I'm my own worst critic.

As an exercise towards attaining #23 on the list (Have more confidence in myself), I've decided to make a list of things at which I do excel.  Areas of expertise, maybe.  So here goes nothing.

1. Folding towels (especially after waiting four hours for them dry)
2. Refolding towels (after my rambunctious children knock them down rough-housing on the bed)
3. Not crying about having to refold towels (after my rambunctious children knocked them down after I folded them after having waited four hours for them to dry)
4. Entertaining three children with nothing but items found in the glove compartment when we end up waiting unconscionable amounts of times in the car for various reasons
5. Making my own baby food (I can't cook things that have to be seasoned and taste well, but by golly I can boil a vegetable and freeze it in small cubes)
6. Breastfeeding (just wait...there's going to be a BIG blog about this on or around May 13th)
7. Couponing (a special thanks to www.southernsavers.com and www.couponmom.com for their assistance on that)
8. Cheerleading (in the form of encouraging my kids)
9. Sending encouraging mail (not to toot my own horn, and I'm not even sure if the mail ends up being encouraging, but it's meant to be and I send lots of it...so I get to count it)
10. Jogging more than a mile without keeling over (second-ever 5K coming up on May 1st)
11. Creating my own circumstantial lyrics to the tunes of the Alphabet Song, Frere Jacques, and If You're Happy and You Know It
12. Feeling a deep emotional connection when I hear about ailing children
13. Retaining unimportant, but usually interesting bits of trivia
14. Sneezing in rapid succession
15. Knowing the different drink each of my 5 family members prefers at dinnertime
16. Wearing the same t-shirt for 10+ years (obviously I take them off to wash them, but you know what I mean)

This is by no means exhaustive, but I guess it's proof enough.  I am good at some things.

We all are.  

Some might say that women and moms fall into the jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none category.  I would probably agree.  But I also believe that we sell ourselves short.  I believe that I sell myself short.  The reality is that we are probably a master-of-all.  The tricky part is convincing ourselves of that fact.

Maybe I didn't quite nail the message of empowerment, but here's a little food for thought this Monday afternoon.

The most common way people give up their power
is by thinking they don't have any.
 

~ Alice Walker ~

Today, I challenge you to make a list (of course!) of five things you do well.  However simple, however trivial they may seem.  Because, believe it or not, we're all good at some things.

Edited to say that I would absolutely LOVE to read your lists if you're willing to share.  Thanks so much and have a blessed day!

Flashback Friday - There's something about mulch

No offense to the people who choose to employ pine straw in their gardens.  That stuff is just not for me.  I'm not sure if it's the allergic reaction I have just from thinking about it, or because it reminds me that the yard crews at my alma mater would wake me up whilst loudly fluffing it outside my dorm room window before the crack of dawn, or maybe because I can clearly envision the rat-sized roaches that used to crawl from its depths throughout campus.  (You say Palmetto bug, I say roach.  Six of one, half dozen of the other.)  Needless to say, pine straw doesn't give me the warm fuzzies.

So when we moved into our house four years ago, the pine straw had to go.  Quickly.

The alternative for us is brown mulch (wood chips, as Abby prefers to say).  I like the look better, and think it does a superior job of keeping weeds from creeping through.  It also doesn't require as much maintenance as the pine straw.  Abby likes wood chips the way some kids like a sandbox.  She comes home from her school playground every day with wood chip dust all in her scalp.  I can only imagine this happens when she throws it up in the air and lets it rain down on her white-as-snow head.  Have you ever tried scrubbing wood chip dust out of a blond head of hair?  It's not easy.

The first time we mulched, Abby was a mere 6 months old.  Ben was 3.5 and completely and totally pumped about having a big pile of wood chips to play in.  How disappointed he was to find out that wasn't a permanent fixture in our yard.

Abby and Ben were mostly spectators, and while we parents worked our collective butts off, she and Ben played (under the supervision of a helpful Grammie).  We took this picture, with me a nervous wreck, as Abby wasn't sitting on her own yet (the future would tell that she would master walking before unassisted sitting).  It remains one of my favorites of her.  Pure mischief...even at six months old.

A year later, we repeated the process.  It was a far smaller job the second year, needing minor touch-ups here and there.  We even got Abby to help.

The next springtime, when we ordinarily would have mulched, I looked like this (DANG):

So, we took the spring off.

In fact, we took the whole summer off from yard work too.  We cut the grass, but that was kind of it.  There was little time or motivation to go outside and work the fanny off with a newborn baby around to play with instead.  (Any excuse to avoid going outside in Georgia summer is a good one.) 

So after a hiatus from yard beautification, I went outside this spring to peruse our flowerbeds and almost had to avert my eyes.  It made me sad.  I was depressed and overwhelmed.  I voiced this to my husband, who I think shared my sentiments.  However, he is a man of action and fewer words than me, so his solution was to "do something about it".  

You know what?  I did.  

A few weekends ago, Sam had called a few places about mulch, but they weren't able to deliver it in time for us to work on it.  Time passed, playground projects materialized and then monopolized, and the mulch took a backseat.  

Then Sam left for Oklahoma for a week on a business trip.  (When you're smart and good at your job and all that stuff, they apparently send you places.)  That's when I got wild and crazy.  I decided to do it myself.  I thought it would be a nice surprise for Sam to come home to a well manicured yard.  Sure I had anxiety because of my all-or-nothing mentality (which I assure you I will blog about soon).  If I couldn't get it finished before he got home, I might as well not start.  

Last weekend, we de-grassed the bricks that line our flowerbeds.  On Monday, after a trip to Lowes for a new wheelbarrow (which, by the way is no small task for one mom and three small children), I mowed the lawn and weeded the flowerbeds.  On Tuesday, we got the mulch, waited for the rain storm to pass, and got to work!  It's been tricky trying to coordinate the work around Sarah's sleep time.  We tried to get some things done with her in the yard, but she's gotten pretty fast and has an affinity for heading downhill (towards the road), so that wasn't too productive.  But we worked it out!

Our eight-year old neighbor (Ben's friend) has been an amazing little helper.  He volunteered to spread the mulch around, surpassing my expectations.  I didn't even have to sacrifice any plants to careless feet.  The best part was his wage; he worked for a popsicle.  I love child labor.  Wait.  Am I allowed to say that?

It isn't finished, but it's dang near close enough.  So, Sam, if you're reading, it's done (or will be before you arrive tomorrow).  One less thing for both of us to think about!  Love you!  (Now come home so I can take a nap!)

Happy Friday, y'all!

About these "unanswered prayers", Garth...

I fell in love with Garth Brooks when I was a senior in high school.  Well, his music anyway.  Maybe it was some sort of premonition I had because I was going to end up in the South.  (You know, because all southerners listen to country, right?)  My love for pop country has always been rooted in this man's songs.  (Excepting that whole Chris Gaines thing.  What was that about?)

Just like smell is supposed to be the sense the evokes the strongest memories, songs tend to do the same for me.  When I hear a song, I'm instantly transported back to the time with which it is associated.  For instance, when I hear Garth's "The River", I'm reminded of the weekend I went to Elijay, Georgia with some hallmates my freshman year of college because that's when I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I would end up marrying my dear husband.  (If memory serves me correctly, he was in Sylvania babysitting his cousins at the time, fielding lots of phone calls from a lovesick Jennie.) 

Garth's made many other songs, lots of them brilliant (not unlike "The River").  In fact, his greatest hits cd is on my list of all-time favorites, and is one that Sam and I used to listen to regularly in our dating days and on our early road trips to and from Maryland.

I have always liked listening to the song "Unanswered Prayers", but at the same time it has always made me a little uneasy.  (Hey, look, four paragraphs into it and I'm finally reaching the actual point of this post.)  I think that most of us can relate to the message in a what-might-have-been kind of way, but here's my beef, Garth - God always answers prayers.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the song, you can listen to it here.

The chorus goes like this:

Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers

Remember when you're talking to the man upstairs

That just because he doesn't answer doesn't mean he don't care

Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers

Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's semantics.  Either way, I don't feel comfortable with the insinuation that God ever deliberately doesn't answer prayers.  (I also have a little problem with irreverence of calling our Heavenly Father "the man upstairs", but I won't get any more nit-picky than I am already being.)

Whether it goes the way we want it to or not, God answered.  Sometimes it's not the answer we wanted in the timetable we set, but that is the will of God.  However minor an example this is, I'm reminded of the time I prayed for patience, expected it overnight, and instead, was granted a job babysitting for the summer.  Learning patience is a long, slow process.  And you do have to learn it.  Hey, lookie there, God taught me that!  Prayer answered.  (Well, I believe he's still teaching me.  It's a very long, slow process.)  On Easter Sunday, our pastor said something in his sermon that stuck with me, "When it seems like God is late, he's right on time." 

None of us know what our futures hold, nor can we truly understand the master plan that is the will of God.  It might not be possible to understand why God answers our prayers the way he does, but the point remains -  

God hears and answers every prayer.

I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked for health that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among all men, most richly blessed.

~The Prayer of an Unknown Confederate Soldier

It is up to us to acknowledge God's work in our lives.  Sometime it's not obvious, but it is there.  And it is purposeful.  The best and only way to recognize it is to stay in close communication with Him.

Remember that even Jesus prayed to God, " nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done."  Luke 22:42

So, sorry, Garth.  I would have to respectfully disagree.  Sometimes I thank God, but it's for his ever-appropriate, however mysterious answers to my prayers.

Yet another day in the life of Mom...

While you love that your son is independent, you consider that it may have been premature to let him make a PB&J all by his lonesome when, afterward, you cannot step anywhere on the kitchen floor without landing in a glob of jelly.

Not a day goes by where you don't have to clean the syrup/grease/mud/other unidentifiable muck off of at least one doorknob.

You're excited to finally have a reason to use the short forks in your silverware set.  (The refined would call them salad forks, but we hardly have a need to set a full place setting in our home.)

You've experienced a child whose waist was inexplicably small and whose legs were inexplicably long.  So much so, in fact, that not even spandex leggings stay up, giving everyone a glance of the undies.  The phenomenon can best be explained visually as seen here:

Sometimes it isn't until years later when you look at the pictures from any random event that you discover your kids shoes were on backwards, and you wonder - were they like that the whole day?

You know that the best way to stop your kids from doing whatever it was that they were doing (good or bad) is to pull out the camera.

You fear that your infant is destined to follow in his daddy's engineering ways when he completely ignores the mobile with the red-nosed bears hanging above his swing, and instead watches the hinge swing back and forth, as if already trying to figure out how the thing works.

Dress-up is not just a game, it's a way of life.

You keep a stash of popsicles in the outdoor chest freezer for refreshments on hot summer days, to gain popularity with the neighborhood kids, and to use as payment for yard work when your 8 year old neighbor wants to help you in the flower beds.   (Hey, it's cheaper than a high schooler!)

At the first sound of a burp or toot (as we call them in our house), your kids' eyes brighten up and a devilish grins creep up on their faces.  After all, bodily noises are timelessly funny.