Getting all the shit out of the way early

So here we are. It's been about three weeks since I last logged into this blog. I've been thinking about it and how I want to write something (and respond to the thoughtful comments about Sandy Hook), but life has been a bit of a roller coaster—and not the good kind that tickles your stomach, but the kind where you cover your eyes, scream the entire time and then hurl as soon as you get off.

(I never did like roller coasters. I get nauseous driving down steep hills in the car.)

Since December 16, we've had two deaths in the family, Christmas and its accompanying windfall of wrapping paper and house guests, an open heart surgery, New Years, a friend with an illness, a cat with a tumor, a birthday for Everett (#2!), a birthday for me (closer to 40) and a radio that's been playing itself at night (more about that in the next post, I promise). 

And now we have the stomach bug.

But listen, I didn't sign onto this blog to share all my Debbie Downer moments of late. In fact, one of the reasons I miss blogging so much is that it gives me the chance to remember the funny moments interspersed in all of life's muck.

Like this morning when, after puking, Junior wobbled down the stairs and said, "I'm kind of shaky, Mom. I think I should lie on the couch and get my strength back." His voice cracked with concern. All I could picture was him at 50 in his flannel bathrobe and slippers, puttering down the stairs after having the flu or whatever and telling his wife the very same thing. There's an old soul in there—the most cautious, worried, tentative of souls.

It makes me smile, that I get to tend to this gentle man-boy.

Then there's Everett, who had puked just days earlier. The kid literally opened his mouth, vomited, and went back to playing. I can hear him calling Junior on the phone when they're adults (my God, by then they might be able to teleport to each other's homes) and telling him to suck it up; stop being such a grandpa. He's a little shithead, but Junior's going to need someone like that in his life.

I love watching these two grow. I love every day of learning more about who they are. I love this gift.

And now if you'll pray for me: I really, really, really don't want to get the puke bug.

Perplexing and vexing all at once: 4

At four-and-a-half years old our first son, Junior, isn't quite so junior anymore.

Lately he's been throwing us for a loop. He can do it all by himself. NO, HE NEEDS HELP. No, he can handle it. NO, MOM I NEED YOU. One minute he's beating his chest and declaring, "I'm brave! Braver than Dad!" In the next breath he's whimpering up at me, pleading with me to pick him up and carry him.

At close to 50 pounds, that's no small feat.

He loves nursery school, so much so that he gets into the car before me and yells to me to hurry up. Yet he won't tell us what he does at nursery school. We're able to piece together some of his activities based on the sheer volume of crafts he brings home, but I'm convinced he took an oath of silence the day we registered.

He uses the word "like" a lot. He got that from me, which means I'm a valley girl who doesn't know it.

He's musically inclined. I prefer it when the performances take place after 8:30 a.m., but I realize that's not always an option.



Junior has my temper and I'm sorry for that. When I watch how Chuck handles him at his finest, I see how lucky we are to have such a patient man in our lives. When they cuddle on the couch, I see how lucky Junior is to be so loved.

When I asked Junior what he was doing the other day and he replied, "Not kicking Everett," it made me realize that when Everett is big enough, Junior's probably going to have a few black eyes.

Junior's been seized by the jealousy bug—to the point of counting seconds on hugs and kisses and claiming that Everett's lasted longer. He's also been seized by the "NO, EVERETT! DON'T TOUCH THAT, EVERETT!" bug.

He has no idea what his brother is going to do to his toys.

It's best that way.

I miss the malleable mini man Junior was at three. Some days I don't recognize the little giraffe who is racing around the house, demanding that I watch "the coolest move ever." He is quick to say no and even quicker to offer a bargain. I had no idea that four-year-olds were such used car salesmen.

But I love Junior at four. I love his "Mom, I sneezed and tooted does that mean I snooted?" I love his crazy self-portraits.



Most of all, I love the fact that even though I have known him his whole life I am still finding out who he is.