I'm not one to cry easily, but there's nothing like watching one of my kids perform to get the waterworks going. So if you hear sniffling while watching Ben's dance routine on the last day of kindergarten, that's probably me. (Check out the video on our share site: http://benpaulandgus.shutterfly.com/237. That's Ben in the straw hat and plaid shirt.) The day was an emotional one for me. Yes, I'm delighted to have a whole summer to spend with all three of my boys. But this milestone was a reminder for me of how quickly time passes. Sure, Ben's first day of kindergarten was a tearjerker, and I had the added benefit of fresh post-pregnancy hormones to spur along the sorrow of turning my firstborn over to the school system. This last day of school took on a whole different poignancy. How is it that I have an almost-7-year-old sleeping in the bed down the hall from me? It doesn't seem possible. Ben has morphed into a considerate, intelligent, creative kid. It is a privilege to watch him grow.
Now it seems that Ben's little brothers are hot on his heels. In this house, it seems that we're always on the verge of some milestone. Paulie will start preschool in the fall. Gus is almost walking and will turn 1 in less than two months. My baby! I guess my only choice is to sit back and enjoy the ride. And cry at the appropriate times. Sniffle.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Best friends
When my brother, Mike, and his wife, Kelly, found out they were expecting a boy, the fifth grandson in our family, the trend became undeniable. Those XY chromosomes run strong in these genes. At this point, it seems like a miracle that my mom ended up with even one girl. When we found out with Gus that we were having a third boy, I was pretty excited. With his cousin, Kelan, just nine months older, I anticipated that the two could become lifelong friends. Now it looks like that is coming to fruition. Of late, Gus definitely has become enamored of his cousin, attempting to copy Kelan's every action. Just look at these photos.
And speaking of best friends, these two are pretty tight, too - that is when they're not driving each other nuts.
And speaking of best friends, these two are pretty tight, too - that is when they're not driving each other nuts.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Take 31
In our ongoing journey to find discipline that works with our kids, Mark and I once took a class called 1-2-3 Magic. The idea is that when your child is misbehaving, you give him three chances to stop. (That's a 1, that's a 2, that's a 3 - take 3.) The child would then take a three-minute timeout. We always thought it made sense for our kids to sit out one minute for each year of age, so Ben would get six minutes, Paul three.
Not for the first time, I got to thinking how great it would be if I could take 31 (OK, so it would be almost 32 - there would be a reason to appreciate getting older!). I just read somewhere that you shouldn't discipline your kids when you're angry - you'll end up saying things you don't mean and making threats you have no intention of keeping. I think this is great advice. Makes perfect sense. But the calming down part would be so much easier if I could go to my room and take 31. Too bad at this stage in my life, it's an impossibility. Taking a timeout while caring for a 3-year-old and 9-month-old is out of the question.
Oh, but how I could have used a take 31 today. We're having a tough time with Paul's sleeping habits. He usually doesn't take naps anymore. However, on a typical day he's likely to catch a catnap in the car or on a stroller walk. Yesterday he fell asleep on the 10-minute drive to Target early in the afternoon, and when we got home from Ben's baseball game around 6 p.m., he was so sleepy, I could barely rouse him to eat supper. This, of course, was enough to mess with his going to bed for the night. He was in and out of bed, completely restless. He finally succumbed around 8:30. Of course, this morning he was up bright and early at 6 a.m. Clearly, nine and a half hours is not enough sleep for a 3-year-old.
So, today I put my foot down. I told him he needed to take a nap. He was going to do it, and he was going to do it on my terms. This nap would be early enough and just the right length so as not to interfere with bedtime. After lunch, I told him it was time. He was having none of it. He acted silly, he got up, he lay there and kicked the wall. Me? I tried everything. Rubbing his back and trying to help him to sleep eventually gave way to anger, resentment and threats. He would lose treats and cartoons if he didn't go to sleep. I would take away his guys. It didn't take long for those threats to rear their ugly heads. Finally, I had to come to grips with the fact that I had lost the battle. He laid in his bed quietly for 30 minutes but never slept. That was the best I was going to get. Score another one for the kids.
If only I could have taken 31, maybe at least I would have been able to save myself from the shame of those empty threats.
Not for the first time, I got to thinking how great it would be if I could take 31 (OK, so it would be almost 32 - there would be a reason to appreciate getting older!). I just read somewhere that you shouldn't discipline your kids when you're angry - you'll end up saying things you don't mean and making threats you have no intention of keeping. I think this is great advice. Makes perfect sense. But the calming down part would be so much easier if I could go to my room and take 31. Too bad at this stage in my life, it's an impossibility. Taking a timeout while caring for a 3-year-old and 9-month-old is out of the question.
Oh, but how I could have used a take 31 today. We're having a tough time with Paul's sleeping habits. He usually doesn't take naps anymore. However, on a typical day he's likely to catch a catnap in the car or on a stroller walk. Yesterday he fell asleep on the 10-minute drive to Target early in the afternoon, and when we got home from Ben's baseball game around 6 p.m., he was so sleepy, I could barely rouse him to eat supper. This, of course, was enough to mess with his going to bed for the night. He was in and out of bed, completely restless. He finally succumbed around 8:30. Of course, this morning he was up bright and early at 6 a.m. Clearly, nine and a half hours is not enough sleep for a 3-year-old.
So, today I put my foot down. I told him he needed to take a nap. He was going to do it, and he was going to do it on my terms. This nap would be early enough and just the right length so as not to interfere with bedtime. After lunch, I told him it was time. He was having none of it. He acted silly, he got up, he lay there and kicked the wall. Me? I tried everything. Rubbing his back and trying to help him to sleep eventually gave way to anger, resentment and threats. He would lose treats and cartoons if he didn't go to sleep. I would take away his guys. It didn't take long for those threats to rear their ugly heads. Finally, I had to come to grips with the fact that I had lost the battle. He laid in his bed quietly for 30 minutes but never slept. That was the best I was going to get. Score another one for the kids.
If only I could have taken 31, maybe at least I would have been able to save myself from the shame of those empty threats.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
He's from Bah-ston
When my niece, Nora, was about Paul's age, my brother- and sister-in-law used to joke that she was from Boston because of the Northeastern-sounding accent she affected at the time. One day, Steve and Sara got a postcard from Boston, and Nora said, "Hey, that's where I'm from!" It must run in the family, because Paul's developed the Bah-ston-speak too.
As someone who had a speech impediment well into middle school and who hated to be made fun of for it, I shouldn't tease. But since Paul's only 3 and I fully expect him to outgrow this, I figure I can joke a little. Besides, I truly think it's chah-ming. The other day, he said, "Mommy where's my Stah Wahs chaht?" "Your Star Wars shirt?" I said, thinking he was asking about the t-shirt he would wear every day if I let him. "No!" he said, frustrated. "My Stah Wahs chaht!" Hmmm ... what was he getting at? "Oh! You mean your Star Wars chart?" I said. "Yes!" (He was looking for the behavior reward chart I had created for him. He's trying to earn a light saber.) Unlucky for him, chaht and shaht sound very similar, you see.
Now if you'll excuse Paul, he's going to pahk the cah in Hah-vahd Yahd.
As someone who had a speech impediment well into middle school and who hated to be made fun of for it, I shouldn't tease. But since Paul's only 3 and I fully expect him to outgrow this, I figure I can joke a little. Besides, I truly think it's chah-ming. The other day, he said, "Mommy where's my Stah Wahs chaht?" "Your Star Wars shirt?" I said, thinking he was asking about the t-shirt he would wear every day if I let him. "No!" he said, frustrated. "My Stah Wahs chaht!" Hmmm ... what was he getting at? "Oh! You mean your Star Wars chart?" I said. "Yes!" (He was looking for the behavior reward chart I had created for him. He's trying to earn a light saber.) Unlucky for him, chaht and shaht sound very similar, you see.
Now if you'll excuse Paul, he's going to pahk the cah in Hah-vahd Yahd.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Blog, how I've missed ye
As a parent, I expect to face challenges and the little stresses daily life brings as I rear my three boys. But the past month has been hard. I mean hard, hard. It started normally enough about four weeks ago. Ben got strep. That, unfortunately, is not a rare occasion in this household. A couple days off of school, and Ben was much better. No big deal. A few days later, Paul fell ill. I knew bringing him in to have a throat culture would be no picnic. Paul absolutely hates having his throat swabbed. "Don't worry, I'll be quick," the technician said. Paul was having none of it. Tears, kicking and screaming, a steadfast refusal to open his mouth. I laid him down on the examining table and tried to pry his mouth open. As the tech tried to work the tongue depressor in, Paul bit down on it, hard. "Come on, I don't want me to have to plug your nose," the getting-a-little-frustrated tech said. (Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. Traumatize him for life!) Finally, the tech managed get the swab past his protestations. The test came back faintly positive. That sounded about right, I thought. Probably not the best sample ever taken ...
Still, doctor's office shenanigans aside, not a terrible experience overall. Until Gus got sick. He had been nursing cold symptoms for almost three weeks - lots of snot, but nothing serious. Then in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, Mark noticed he was a little feverish. I thought ear infection, and off Mark and Gus went to the weekend clinic. No ear infection, the doctor said, but Gus definitely had something. She just wasn't sure what. The possibilities, she thought, were strep, a bladder infection/UTI or pneumonia without a cough. She said she could run a blood test but recommended that we take a wait-and-see approach. Because Paul had had a UTI when he was a baby and Gus wasn't doing well, I wanted to do the blood test. Off we went to the hospital. The doctor said the blood work indicated that his infection was bacterial rather than viral and recommended we take Gus to the ER. We made our second sojourn to the hospital for what was sure to be an unpleasant experience. To make a long story short, the doctor, an arrogant fellow, was certain that Gus's problems were respiratory. I knew he probably was right, but it would have been nice if he had at least listened to our concerns. We took Gus for a chest x-ray. I'm sure the experience was terrifying for him. The x-ray showed "an arguable small spot of pneumonia." The doctor sent us off with a prescription for amoxicillin and me with an uncertain feeling. When you hear that your infant's blood work is not normal, you want to be sure that you have found the source of the problem. I was not at all confident.
The next day, things had gotten worse. Gus was spiking 104 and 105 fevers and was completely miserable. We brought him back to the doctor. His oxygen levels were lower than she was comfortable with, so she sent us to Children's Hospital. There, he received IV antibiotics, another chest x-ray and a new prescription. The pediatrician at Children's informed us that my friend the ER doctor's recommended dose was too low by half if Gus did indeed have pneumonia. If anything, the next few days were worse. On top of Gus's illness, he had thrush and a yeast infection, ahem, down below. I'm sure he was feeling assaulted from every angle. He'd had it with medicine (antibiotics, fever reducers, disgusting goo for the thrush) and rectal temperature takings. He was spitting his amoxicillin back in our faces and screaming at every diaper change. Of course, antibiotics cause diarrhea and make you more prone to yeast infections, so he was pooping like a newborn, and his yeast problem was only getting worse. This resulted in the worst diaper rash I've ever seen. And I've seen some bad ones. My house was a war zone decorated with detritus of illness. All around were clothes soiled with baby poo and amoxicillin from medication-delivery battles.
Finally, things began to improve. We were coming to the end of Gus's antibiotic regimen, and he was taking his meds much better. I had finally breathed a sigh of relief. Then the day before Easter, Ben felt sick. He was running a fever. Shortly thereafter, Paul spiked his own fever. I had so been looking forward to a fun Easter, but it looked increasingly like Ben and Paul would be sick. Indeed, that was the case. Monday, we brought them to the doctor. Ben: a double ear infection. Paul: strep. Again.
Today is Paul's last day of antibiotics. Pray with me that my refrigerator will be free of the dreaded pink stuff for a long, long time. And maybe I'll be able to get back to doing my beloved blogging more than once a month!
Still, doctor's office shenanigans aside, not a terrible experience overall. Until Gus got sick. He had been nursing cold symptoms for almost three weeks - lots of snot, but nothing serious. Then in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, Mark noticed he was a little feverish. I thought ear infection, and off Mark and Gus went to the weekend clinic. No ear infection, the doctor said, but Gus definitely had something. She just wasn't sure what. The possibilities, she thought, were strep, a bladder infection/UTI or pneumonia without a cough. She said she could run a blood test but recommended that we take a wait-and-see approach. Because Paul had had a UTI when he was a baby and Gus wasn't doing well, I wanted to do the blood test. Off we went to the hospital. The doctor said the blood work indicated that his infection was bacterial rather than viral and recommended we take Gus to the ER. We made our second sojourn to the hospital for what was sure to be an unpleasant experience. To make a long story short, the doctor, an arrogant fellow, was certain that Gus's problems were respiratory. I knew he probably was right, but it would have been nice if he had at least listened to our concerns. We took Gus for a chest x-ray. I'm sure the experience was terrifying for him. The x-ray showed "an arguable small spot of pneumonia." The doctor sent us off with a prescription for amoxicillin and me with an uncertain feeling. When you hear that your infant's blood work is not normal, you want to be sure that you have found the source of the problem. I was not at all confident.
The next day, things had gotten worse. Gus was spiking 104 and 105 fevers and was completely miserable. We brought him back to the doctor. His oxygen levels were lower than she was comfortable with, so she sent us to Children's Hospital. There, he received IV antibiotics, another chest x-ray and a new prescription. The pediatrician at Children's informed us that my friend the ER doctor's recommended dose was too low by half if Gus did indeed have pneumonia. If anything, the next few days were worse. On top of Gus's illness, he had thrush and a yeast infection, ahem, down below. I'm sure he was feeling assaulted from every angle. He'd had it with medicine (antibiotics, fever reducers, disgusting goo for the thrush) and rectal temperature takings. He was spitting his amoxicillin back in our faces and screaming at every diaper change. Of course, antibiotics cause diarrhea and make you more prone to yeast infections, so he was pooping like a newborn, and his yeast problem was only getting worse. This resulted in the worst diaper rash I've ever seen. And I've seen some bad ones. My house was a war zone decorated with detritus of illness. All around were clothes soiled with baby poo and amoxicillin from medication-delivery battles.
Finally, things began to improve. We were coming to the end of Gus's antibiotic regimen, and he was taking his meds much better. I had finally breathed a sigh of relief. Then the day before Easter, Ben felt sick. He was running a fever. Shortly thereafter, Paul spiked his own fever. I had so been looking forward to a fun Easter, but it looked increasingly like Ben and Paul would be sick. Indeed, that was the case. Monday, we brought them to the doctor. Ben: a double ear infection. Paul: strep. Again.
Today is Paul's last day of antibiotics. Pray with me that my refrigerator will be free of the dreaded pink stuff for a long, long time. And maybe I'll be able to get back to doing my beloved blogging more than once a month!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hair's the thing
I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday looking for the hair of a Lego guy - actually a Lego gal. Willie, aka the Screaming Girl, is Paul's latest favorite toy. I'm not really sure if her name is really Willie or if that's something Paul conjured. She is a Lego figure with two faces - one happy and one screaming in fright. Willie, part of an Indiana Jones Lego set, sports a platinum-blond hairdo that you can rotate to reveal the face of your choosing. The problem: her hair is prone to popping off or being removed and then lost. Further complicating matters is the fact that Paul likes to bring her everywhere he goes. In his few short days of owning her, we have already had many close calls of losing the hair forever.
That brings me to yesterday. Paulie had brought Willie on a walk with us. I brought Paul in the house and had seen Willie's hair on the kitchen floor. I made a mental note to pick it up. I told Paul not to leave his sunglasses on the floor. I put said sunglasses in his room. I ran out to retrieve Gus. Paul told me Willie's hair was missing. These are the facts of the case.
I must have retraced my steps three or four times. It was driving me crazy. I had just seen the hair. I literally crawled around on the kitchen floor looking for it. There it is! I thought once. But alas, it was only a nugget of Kix. I retraced my steps. Had I had a mommy moment and somehow dropped it in the refrigerator when I went to get the one daily Diet Coke I allow myself to get through the long afternoon? I wouldn't put it past myself. No, not there. Not in either bathroom. Not in the wagon or on the driveway. I checked all these places, though I was sure I had seen it on the kitchen floor. I pictured myself breaking the news to Paul in a sober tone, detective-style: "I'm sorry, son. However, statistics show that the longer the hair's been missing, the less likely you are to find it."
Then a break in the case, or so I thought: I found on the living room floor Willie's tiny tiara. Surely the tiara must be close to the hair! No, Paul said he had removed the tiara. I had all but given up hope. Would the Lego company send me a replacement set of hair? I didn't think so. Dejectedly, I went to change Gus's diaper. That's when I saw it. Willie's 'do was sitting next to Paul's sunglasses. It was a mommy moment after all.
Happiness is restored in my household once again. Until the next time we lose the hair. Yes, it's a strange, strange world I inhabit.
That brings me to yesterday. Paulie had brought Willie on a walk with us. I brought Paul in the house and had seen Willie's hair on the kitchen floor. I made a mental note to pick it up. I told Paul not to leave his sunglasses on the floor. I put said sunglasses in his room. I ran out to retrieve Gus. Paul told me Willie's hair was missing. These are the facts of the case.
I must have retraced my steps three or four times. It was driving me crazy. I had just seen the hair. I literally crawled around on the kitchen floor looking for it. There it is! I thought once. But alas, it was only a nugget of Kix. I retraced my steps. Had I had a mommy moment and somehow dropped it in the refrigerator when I went to get the one daily Diet Coke I allow myself to get through the long afternoon? I wouldn't put it past myself. No, not there. Not in either bathroom. Not in the wagon or on the driveway. I checked all these places, though I was sure I had seen it on the kitchen floor. I pictured myself breaking the news to Paul in a sober tone, detective-style: "I'm sorry, son. However, statistics show that the longer the hair's been missing, the less likely you are to find it."
Then a break in the case, or so I thought: I found on the living room floor Willie's tiny tiara. Surely the tiara must be close to the hair! No, Paul said he had removed the tiara. I had all but given up hope. Would the Lego company send me a replacement set of hair? I didn't think so. Dejectedly, I went to change Gus's diaper. That's when I saw it. Willie's 'do was sitting next to Paul's sunglasses. It was a mommy moment after all.
Happiness is restored in my household once again. Until the next time we lose the hair. Yes, it's a strange, strange world I inhabit.
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