Teaching the Art of Mess-Making: A Pictorial

If there is one thing our Evan is good at, one area in which he is truly gifted, it is in the art of making the biggest mess you have ever seen. This afternoon, he and Zachy were playing in the baby's room, and I, completely oblivious, was doing other things while periodically peeking in on the boys. Of course a large tote of Zach's outgrown clothes (which I had been organizing and packing away) was obscuring my view. Lo and behold, when I was able, I went into the room to play with the boys. What follows is a glimpse of what I saw: Evan has taught Zach to make a mess, unbeknownst to me. And we couldn't be happy unless all of the toys were on the floor...


It starts with a few....

And just when Zach has found something he would like to play with, Evan shows him something else, to which Zach immediately crawls over to get a look...

Hmmm, there are even more toys to scatter on the floor....

I love this one. The boys playing together. And you can really get a shot of Zach's big-boy haircut. Turns out he has the same hairline in the back as Evan and I do.

This one kind of freaks me out a little bit. The flash was off on the camera. The light wasn't on in the room. It's cloudy outside. Where did this light come from? And it isn't the first time light has surrounded Zach in pictures in his room. And it doesn't happen when we photograph any other subjects.

He is really interested in this little drum. And that little elephant: that's been his favorite since he was old enough to bat at toys.

And with this one, I suddenly don't mind the mess. Zachy, looking less like a baby and more like a toddler with his new haircut, reels me in everytime with those baby blues. Suddenly it was less about the mess and more about brothers playing. Despite the huge age difference. Together.

Dental Woes

Evan. Evan Evan Evan.

So I am working the busy ER when my husband calls me to tell me that my beloved eldest child is complaining of a toothache and bracing the right side of his face in agony. I immediately feel horrible because I realize that in the blur of the year of pregnancy and bedrest and new Zach, we have neglected to take the big one to the dentist for his annual cleaning. In this busy house, the squeakiest wheel gets the oil. And so Evan's teeth decided it was their turn to squeak. So I told John to give him some ibuprofen and send him to bed, that we would get him in with a dentist the following morning. John responded with a call back to the ER to tell me that in my shining example of motherhood, I managed to stock adult ibuprofen and infants' ibuprofen, but nothing in between. In steps my trusty ER Nurse friends to save the day: Evan is old enough, give him 2 adult ones with a small meal to avoid stomach upset.

So it takes 2 days to get Ev in with a dentist. We chose one that does orthodontics as well, since we already know we are heading there. And John takes him while I sleep off 5 12's in a row and a couple of marketing papers. And he comes home, frantically waking me to tell me the verdict: Evan has 8 cavities. Eight!

I immediately blame the pig stage we are in. I mean, I make the kid brush his teeth. He emerges from the bathroom with toothpaste breath. I assume he has brushed. And he may have been all along. But apparently not well. One tooth is so bad that it is all the way down to the nerve and needs a pulpotomy. Seriously, Evan?

So yesterday, we got our care plan for the dentist. Pulpotomy first. If he handles that well, they will do the rest of the work in the office. If not, it is off to Cincinnati Children's, where they will do all of the remaining work under general anesthesia. And the ballpark figure of my expense for all of this after insurance? Only the bargain price of $1600. I mean, it isn't like it matters, right? The kiddo needs it and the kiddo will get it. But this whole experience requires some research on my part.

As in how in the blue hell did my 9-year-old son come up with 8 cavities?

So I declare it a new day. No more sugar. No soft drinks (not like he drank a lot to begin with...). No more brushing twice a day. Nope, not for Evan. He brushes after he eats anything from now on. But still...8????

And then I find it out. That John has been giving in while I am at work and allowing Evan to take snacks to bed. Cookies. Ice cream. Candy. Ahhhh, we are such great parents. Turns out it was easier for John to do this than to deal with Ev's meltdowns. So $1600 it is.

Hey John! Remember that backrest you wanted for the Harley? The backseat? The saddle bags? The stuff we were planning to do to the motorcycle this summer? I know exactly where you can find them. They'll all be in Evan's mouth.

The Faded Old Jeans

I am a huge fan of old clothes. Comfortable clothes. And the best example is the old pair of jeans. You know the ones. The pair that seems to remember each centimeter of the curve of your hip. Soft against the skin and faded to perfection. You can shop and shop for new jeans. I have. Designer jeans on which I have spent an arm and a leg. But they always have the stiffness, the newness, the unfamiliar quality to them. They’re perfectly fine jeans. They fit well and look nice, but when it comes to comfort, to being home, they will never hold a candle to the faded old pair.

Of course I am not talking about jeans here.

The young girls at work are on a mission from some higher power to “spice up” my marriage. Meaning that they think John and I are boring. It all started with an invitation to a Pure Romance party that another coworker is holding. Of course being the older voice in the room, I made a statement to the effect that no matter how freaky-deaky I could possibly choose to be in my private life, there  is no way in hell that I would order a sex toy at a party with my coworkers. Yes, I realize the reps at these parties take each customer someplace private to complete the ordering process. But you still have to sit through the presentation. Yeah, right. Like I’m going to sit through a dildo show with my colleagues. So they think John and I have lost something.  They’ve volunteered to watch the kids. One even joked that she was going to take me lingerie shopping and make us a Marvin Gaye-esque mix tape. Because we are so boring. I made the comment that we have been married 10 years, that we have two kids, for crying out loud. To which both of them exclaimed that this doesn’t mean we have to let the spark leave our marriage. I think these young whipper-snappers are confusing familiar, comfortable, stable with boring. And this is where the difference in what one values comes into play.

We have all lived for that spark. The fireworks of a first kiss at the end of a good date. The thrill of the dating game. The fun of courtship. Just like shopping for those great new designer jeans. But I think we all eventually reach that point where comfort is most important. It is in that comfort zone where we find security, peace, and in the right circumstances, empowerment. And we slip on the faded jeans.

My marriage didn’t start out this way, of course. It took years of practice, years of breaking in much like the metaphorical jeans. But because we have had those years together, he has become perfect for me. Where I am weak, he is strong, and vice versa. He always gets the perfect gift because he knows me as well as I know myself and can know in an instant what it is that I will like. He knows when it is that I need to be left alone and doesn’t follow then. But he also knows when I need him to be there with me, by my side. How I like my eggs cooked in the morning, and exactly how much creamer to put in my coffee. When we watch a sappy movie together, he will look at me and away from the screen at precisely the moment in the film where I am going to start to cry. He is the only other one to know from where we have have come and to believe in where we are going. To have been there for me in all of the moments where I thought I was losing myself, to be the one to remind me just who I am when I needed it most.

John and I don’t need lingerie or sex toys or expensive dates. We don’t need to hand our kids over to someone else. We are happy enough to just be. With Evan. With Zach. As a family. Evan’s and Zach’s presence doesn’t take away that before they came into the world, there was an us. We know that. And this doesn’t mean that we forget how to be a couple when they aren’t here with us, either.

Quite simply, we have evolved over the past decade to where we don’t need any of that any more. It isn’t that the spark is gone because in order to have what we have together, there have to be some embers glowing constantly. Sparks are just the fleeting part of it all, and that isn’t enough on which to build a life together. We have so much more than that.

So comfortable and secure does not equal boring. Taking simple pleasure in each others’ company doesn’t mean for a single second that our marriage is suffering or lacking in some manner. The opposite is true. John is my home.

Tough Love

We've been telling him. We've told him time and time again. We meant business, and apparently he thought we were just playin'.

"Evan, if you do not clean that room, we are going to throw away anything that isn't put away."

Of course I realize that as Evan gets older, his room becomes less and less our territory and more and more his personal space. And if you talk to some parents, they will tell you to pick your battles, meaning to pick another one and just shut the damned bedroom door.

Yeah, okay.

The child of the person who said that doesn't have a room like Ev's. I call Evan's Tornado Chic. But really, it was worse than that. I imagine it may have looked comparable if a tornado, earthquake, and meteor strike all occurred simultaneously with Armageddon. It was seriously that bad.

Broken crayons, naked of their paper wrappings, which were also all over the floor. Teensy tiny Legos. Hot Wheels sans wheels. All. Over. The Floor. Books with pages ripped out mingling with empty fruit snack wrappers in cahoots with the Diet Dew cans he apparently sneaks to his room once we go to bed at night ( I'm having flashbacks of the "NO SOFT DRINKS, EVAN!" rule).... About half of my plastic drinking tumblers and cereal bowls. And his dresser drawers and closet were completely empty because the clean clothes were...All. Over. The floor. Sheets stripped off of bed.

But the clincher? The nasty dysfunction had incubated and managed to creep and crawl out of his room and all over the basement floor. And boxes of stuff from the basement--old papers, old books, old clothes that have been packed in boxes with the word "DONATE" on the side--torn open and scattered all over the basement floor. Because the kid couldn't possibly have enough stuff. Heaven forbid I donate some of his outgrown clothes to charity so they can go to a kid who has nothing.

And so he thought I was playin'.

I wasn't.

I put on my Mean Mom face and armed with a fat roll of black heavy-duty garbage bags, I headed down the stairs to his room. I put Zach in his Pack'n'Play down there and spent the entire day sitting on my butt, using a broom to pull piles of crap to me, sorting through piles of crap, and throwing crap away. Of course John was with me in all of this. And Evan casually wandered from the living room and the Disney Channel to the basement where we were doing all of this, and back again. He never protested. He never said a word about what we were doing, as a matter of fact.

All in all, we filled 20 garbage bags with junk. Enough that we have to call the trash people in the morning and arrange for a special pick up. And some of the stuff was our stuff. CD's that had been dug up and left on the concrete floor, grating against it until they were useless. Books torn up. You get the picture.

We worked until our bodies ached. Then until it was too dark out to see into every nook and cranny of the basement, and then we stopped. We headed upstairs. We all bathed and ate dinner. Watched a little tv. And then? Then it was quiet time-the time when you don't necessarily have to be in bed, but you do have to be in your room and doing something quiet because we are trying to get Zach to sleep and unwind from our day. It's the time Evan usually plays with his Legos or train tracks or Hot Wheels.

And that is when it sank in. He came upstairs with his beautiful face streaked with tears and thrust his hands at me. His hands that held 5 Hot Wheels.

"This is all I have left!" he cried.

And we had to say, "We told you so, Evan." And I stayed firm, though this is normally when I would crumple and admit that I didn't really throw his toys away and that he can get them all back if he just keeps his room reasonably clean for a week or so. I couldn't say that this time. This time was no bluff. (Mind you, that is not all he has left in total, but all of the Hot Wheels where there used to be a huge storage bin full of them. He has other toys still, though. If it was put away, it stayed.)

And he went downstairs to play quietly with the remaining five.

And then I cried.

Because it gets to me, too.

It gets to me that he is hurt. I wish he would have taken us seriously. I hate to see him cry. I wish it wouldn't have come to this.

The waste gets to me. If I would have had ample amounts of time to do this, I could have at least given those toys to charity. If you don't have boys Evan's age, then you probably have no idea, but those Lego sets alone that he plays with are about $100 a piece. We probably threw out about $2-3K in toys today. Somewhere there is a little boy who doesn't even have 5 Hot Wheels and would have given anything to have what Evan treated as garbage. But alas, I didn't have the time. And so they are in the trash.

The sentimentality gets to me. Among the things he destroyed? A children's Bible my mother had given me and I subsequently passed down to Evan. Books. Oh, the books. For each gift-giving occasion--birthdays, Easter, Christmas...--I have given Evan a hardback keepsake version of a story that has special meaning, and have written pertinent inscriptions in the covers under the dust jackets. Guess How Much I Love You for his first birthday. The Polar Express when he really started to believe in Santa. On and on for 9 years of his life.The plan was that he would have them for years. That he would have them if there ever came a day when he no longer had me.Nope. But the one that rips my guts out? I tried to start the same tradition with Ben. And for Ben's first birthday, and incidentally the only birthday of his where he was with me, there was The Giving Tree. And some simple words inside: "Happy First Birthday, Benjamin. May you always find shade under my branches. Love Mommy." I trusted Evan with it, and now it is garbage. And then the bear. The stuffed bear we made when Evan was 2 at Build-A-Bear Workshop. I had jut graduated and made my first paychck with a number in the "net pay" column that required a comma. For the first time in my life. And we went out to celebrate. And we made that bear together. It's 7 years old. And he tore it to smithereens.

So there is that, and then there is the horrid, ugly hurt. I've told the stories on here, so I don't need to go into a lot of detail, but I didn't always make the money I make now. And even now, the money I make, though decent, isn't so much when you count it is the only income for a family of 4. But the thing is that even when we were dirt poor, when we didn't have money for medicines one of us needed or new glasses when mine broke, Evan never knew it because I have always made sure he gets not only what he needs, but the majority of what he wants as well. I don't keep a running tab of all of the times I have really, truly needed something and have done without in order to get Evan the latest toy he wanted. Even in the leanest of times where an extra trip in the car would mean not enough gas to get to class, or a trip through the drive-thru would mean not enough grocery money for the week. Evan never ever ever knew it. He never felt it. Because I thought it was my job as his mother to ensure that he never did. And then, as he got older and his toys more expensive and our way of life more expensive, I would work so many hours of overtime that I would run myslef into the ground. Just so Evan got what he wanted. Those toys I threw away were not just toys. They were my sacrifices. My good intentions. My overtime hours and lack of sleep. And he didn't appreciate any of it enough.

I hope, now that we've stuck to our guns, that he will know from now on that we are serious. I hope we never have to do this again.

Of course, before you think I am completely cruel, I should explain that this is all coming on the heels of a pretty rough patch for Evan: misbehavior at home and at school, rude to John and I, throwing tantrums. I have devised a plan for Evan to get more toys. For each day he brings home no behavior notices from school, does his homework without a fuss, and keeps the remaining toys he has picked up and his room clean, I have agreed to give him $10 toward his "new toy fund". We plan on doing this for one month, giving him the opportumity to earn up to $300 to use on nothing but toys. It isn't a lot, but he needs to be appreciative and earn the replacements for what I have just handed him before. I am not including in this gifts I would normally buy him or things I deem a requirement. Example: a bike is not a luxury in this house. It is a means to get him outside and more active and is thus good for him. Books are not luxuries, but rather the more time he spends reading, the sharper his reading skills. Art supplies spark creativity. Those things don't come from the $300, but rather from me.

Let's all hope this works...

A Night Out

The fam and I headed out for a nice night out this evening before I head back to work. Well, if you consider pizza and Chuck E. Cheese a “night out”. Of course we hate the Chuckster’s pizza. We opted instead to hit up Dewey’s first. Where I swear you can find perfect pizza. Both babies behaved themselves. John insisted on letting Zach try a hint of lemon, though I tried to tell him that the citrus was too acidic for Zach. Well, I’m wondering now if babies can taste sour, because Zach wanted to eat the lemon wedge instead of making the requisite funny face and turning away. I know they can’t taste salt before a certain age, so who knows.

And then we headed to B&N, where I picked up a complete anthology of Jane Austen. It makes me feel dirty to buy her books in such a way, but I cannot wait to get lost in the vastness of all of it in one book. Now I have to make the confession that I have never read Jane Austen. Not Pride and Prejudice. Not Emma. Not  Persuasion. I know it’s awful. But I am going to fix it all starting tonight. But at least I didn’t just watch the movies and pretend I know all about her works. I never even watched the movies. That would’ve been even sluttier than cheating and buying all of her books under one cover.

And then we went to see Chuck. What more torturous experience than to hear Justin Bieber songs piped over a PA in the voice of a mouse? But Zach looked on from his stroller while Evan and John played. I did find the coolest arcade game EVER in the form of the giant Operation. Evan spent $25 in tokens to win a whopping $3 worth of prizes, but the point is to have fun and he did. I can only take that place in small doses and today was just right because hardly anyone was there. Code for not many screaming children, no long lines, and no worries that I am going to turn my head and Evan was going to go missing or something equally terrifying. Actually, the last time we were there, there was this really creepy guy sitting in a booth by himself, watching all of the kids play. Who goes there without a kid???? And so we haven’t been there in some time since then. But no Chester the Molester tonight.

So now Zach, exhausted by the stimulation of the evening, has gone to sleep before we even had a chance to fully clothe him in pj’s. Poor kid is just in his onesie. Evan is finishing up his homework and will soon be heading to a niv=ce bath and bed. John, though he doesn’t know it yet, is going to serve me a bowl of ice cream and brew me some coffee while I dive into my foot-thick book. And I may just get a back rub while I read. Life really can be good.

The Coupon Diva's Night Out

So the fam and I went out last night to dinner, to rent movies, and then to the grocery store. And I am going to use this opportunity to vent about kids' Valentines. You know those valentines everybody gives out because they're like 200 for $1? For the free meals? Well around these parts, that restaurant is Frisch's. Don't get me wrong--I love their onion rings and hot fudge cake, but it is decidedly crap. And those free meals really aren't free because you can't get it to go. Meaning Evan begs and begs to use it, and to do so, we all have to go. But we don't eat free. My guess is that risch's make a killin' on those things. And so last night, when John and I both wanted italian, Evan insisted. I can't complain though. Both children behaved impeccably. Zach, who has been rather fussy lately (either teeth, his cold, or the fact that he's been waking about 10 times per night these days) chilled in his Floppy Seat/ high chair combo at the table and actually interacted with us for the first time while eating out. Then, when our food came, he just munched on the straps of his floppy seat while we ate.

So then I get this wild idea. While the boys are behaving, I'm going to try to do something I have never done: use coupons! I have a coworker who can get stuff free by the way she uses coupons. I'm not talking that hardcore, but just want to save a few bucks. Usually my trips to the supermarket are kinda like the 80's show Supermarket Sweep where you hurry and throw random shit in the cart before Evan has a full-blown tantrum and Zachy completely melts down. But they're behaving, so I can do this, right?

Fricken-A Right, I can! First stop: BRU. We need formula and other general stuff. I am armed with a "$4 off of two cans of powdered formula" coupon, and gift cards I got for buying two big boxes of Pampers and a large box of wipes last time I was there
(hey, I was gonna buy them anyway...). Well the moral of the story is that I walked out of there with 4 huge cans of formula (manufacturer made cans with "25% more free"), teething biscuits, and 4-4 packs of the organic baby food I use when we go out. I spent---Ta-Daaaaaaaa!--$48!!!! When the little cans of formula I normally buy are $25 each!

So on I go to the supermarket from there, and I won't bore you with the details, but between the sales they were having with their frequent shoppers' card, and the coupons I had, I saved about $68 off of my order.

That's money I would have spent.

Holy crap!

I am a fricken COUPON DIVA now! I'm converted.

It's The Little Things

On today, of all days, which happens to be the most difficult day on the calendar for me, I am choosing to distract myself with the little things I am loving right now that make life grand. Here's my list:
1. It's downright spring-y out there! Which means the neighborhood stroller brigade is out in full force. And while I am working at least 4 hours a day for the next 5 days, I will be able to join them. I can also bust out the Ergo carrier and away we go. To the park. For long walks. Window-shopping downtown. Hell, I don't care. We can go. And for the first time in a year, nobody is having a million contractions an hour or recovering from a c-section while the weather is nice.


2. International Delights coffee creamer. Seriously, folks. John likes Skinny Caramel Macchiato while I am partial to Skinny Vanilla Latte flavors. Both are fat free and delicious and eliminate my need to visit Starbucks daily. Speaking of Starbucks, the last time the entire fam went in there, by the time I tipped the barista, we dropped $20 on 3 drinks. Fo' reals. So I am loving this crap. And my fridge is stocked with it.





3. Reebok RunTone shoes. Now don't get me wrong: I am most definitely not a part of this new idiotic shoe craze. I do not believe for one second that a shoe is going to melt the fat on my ass, despite the fact that just about every major athletic shoe manufacturer has come up with their own version. But these were cute. And on sale for less than $100. And I needed new gymnies for work. And I bit. And tried them on. Helll-oooooo, Fat-Feet Heaven! And so they are mine.




4. Motherlove's More Milk Plus. Whoooooot! Because after the pumping debaucle at work last week (or lack thereof) this crap brought the supply back up in about 3 days. Well, that and me pumping like a madwoman again. Actually my pumping output tripled in that amount of time. And it replaced the gazillion other supplements I take because it has them all in it. I was taking 2 Goat's Rue, 3 Fenugreek, and 3 Blessed thistle capsules 3 times daily. Now I take 2 of these babies 3 times daily. For a third of the price. Holla!

5. A while back, I fell in love with Pediped baby shoes. And bought Zach 4 pair in th 0-6 months size. And they fit so well for so long that I was sure he wouldn't need a bigger size until he started walking, and thus ordered the next size up in the "walking" versions instead of soft-soled. But they were huge on him, and I ended up ordering 4 more pair in the 6-12 months size of the soft-soled and put these on a closet shelf. Now that Zachy is getting bigger and starting to explore pulling himself up to standing, I tried these on him and they fit. I have several pair, but these are just 2 of the styles I bought for him. A-freakin'-dorable! And so I felt justified in ordering the next size up, this time in sandals and other spring/summer styles. Shopping for shoes, even if they are baby shoes, makes everything better.


6. I'm working tonight. A little 4-hour "princess shift". This time yesterday, I was off work for today. Then my boss called to tell me a coworker, who has never called in in the time I have been there, called in sick for today. And so I gave up my full day off to help out. Why would this be on this list? Well, because it is difficult to think of your woes and feel sorry for yourself when you are running to codes or trying to keep people alive. Talk about a distraction!


7. My house is full right now, even though Ben is absent. It will never make up for it, but it is good to know. I get to hear the sounds of John playing with our boys. Of Evan's laughter in the house while he is off of school today (no idea why--not a holiday or Holy Day--hmmmmmm). Of Zach's squeals of delight.


8. Zach has learned to give Eskimo kises and it is too cute for words.

9. Still-toothless baby smiles. Don't get me wrong-I want him to cut his teeth. But there is just something so innocent, so pure, so new about a flash of naked gums when a baby smiles. And I am choosing to enjoy it while I can. It won't be much longer. (Incidentally, Evan took this picture of his baby brother just minutes ago while I was typing this. I love that you can get a true glimpse of Zachy's reaction to his big brother in the pic.)





10. This. This right here. Big Brother reading to Baby Brother. Because even in Ben's absence, this house is full. Of love. Of togetherness. Because Ben is the only one who could mke this better for me. Other than that, this is as good as it gets. Life with my two miracles and the love of my life. And because I can look at the boys, with their love of books, and see myself in them. I am there. And if I am there, then Ben is too, even if none of them realize it. And that is a beautiful thing.

Yeah, Whatevs, We Didn't Make It

I don't even think I mentioned this but...

A little over a month ago,I got seriously frustrated with my fam. Now before I make it sound like John is my bitch, let me explain that I work very, very long hours while John is home. I also make concessions because I am pretty OCD about the house and Martha-Fricken-Stewart could not keep a house to my specifications. So while I have all of the faith in the world in my husband, I know he can't keep me happy on that front. But seriously.

There was one day where I came home from work and Evan's dirty boxers were on the windowsill in the bathroom. And I was beyond grossed out. And so I talked to John about it. And Evan, because, face it, Ev is old enough to know where his dirty skivvies go. And I thought they got it. And then I came home the next week to garbage all on the floor around the garbage can, but not actually in it. And when I confronted my beloved boys yet again, the response was just that it was so difficult to keep up with Zach and clean at the same time. He almost had me feeling kind of bad for him. Almost.

Then I started to think of the Ergo carrier I bought for that purpose, because John refused to try the MobyWrap. And then I thought of how Zach has to be the easiest baby on the planet. During the day, he needs not much more than a few diaper changes and a few bottles. And at night when I'm at work? Pffft! Zach goes to bed no later than 8 PM and doesn't wake until I come home in the morning.

And then something clicked in my brain. And I realized that while John and Evan couldn't possibly clean because Zach kept them too busy, they sure had enough time to be able to report to me anything and everything that had happened on television that night. So-and-so beat You-know-who on WWE Raw. Snooki's pouf was exceptionally big that night. MerDer had the sweetest moment on Greys. And Guess who's hubster was sleeping with what's-her-name's on Desperate Housewives. But the garbage was on the floor around my garbage can.

And I swear, I cannot believe I didn't catch on sooner. I mean, really? And so I thought deeply on the matter. Okay, not really "deeply". I thought for about 15 minutes. And then I cancelled out cable. Ha! Hahahahaha! Read some books, you brats! Take that!

Only it kinda sucked. And it didn't work. Instead of being more productive, they would just drop me off at work and then go and rent stacks upon stacks of movies. Evan's homework still suffered. The house was still a mess. The only difference was that I couldn't watch anything either. Me! I did what my mom always told me not to do: "Andi, don't cut off your nose to spite your face!" Well after that, my face had no nose.

So yesterday, the cable man came back, in the snow, to hook the cable back up. We are sad. We are pitiful. We cannot live without the television.

Happy 2011

Okay, so the New Year is upon us. Incidentally, I am now a year older, and don't even get me started about the Baby New Year stuff. I heard my whole life how I was the second baby born that year, and thus got the shaft.)

2011 has to be better than 2010.

Of course I started off 2010 with contractions. But 2010 was also the Year of Zachary. With this in mind, it was all worth it. But I remember that first trip to the hospital like it was yesterday. Crushing because I had held out hope that my pregnancy with Zach would be so different from the one with Evan. When I felt that first contraction, I knew exactly what it was. I held my belly and breathed deeply and waited. The next came 6 minutes later, and then 6 minutes after that. And I cried. Oh, how I cried. I didn't even tell my doctor right away. I continued having them like that for weeks before I finally admitted to my doctors what was going on. It took them getting to be 2 minutes apart before I told them I couldn't take it, and I admitted in defeat that it had been going on for some time. I know this seems crazy, but I didn't want to admit what was going on. And I had been to the show before and knew what followed. My hope is that you, the reader, will never have to hear your baby referred to as a non-viable fetus like I did with both boys. Because even at the size of a bean, he was still our baby. Somehow we made it through, though.

2010 saw Evan turning 9 years old. Nine! My baby! And when I stepped away from work and pre-medicine and I looked, his face stopped having the roundness of a baby's and took on the angles of John's face. He is in the midst of the last of his primary school years. Before I know it, he'll be a teenager, too cool for mom. And then he'll be in a cap and gown, and I will be regretting each and every minute I allowed to slip by without appreciating it fully. Children grow all too fast.

And my John and our 10-year anniversary. I found a gray hair on his head for the first time this year. And his crow's feet got a little more noticeable. Yet when I was reflecting back and looking at the pictures of the day we married, he looked the exact same to me. I don't know how this is, other than that he is still my JohnJohn.

My family is on the cusp of some great opportunities of which I cannot speak just yet, but I am convinced that 2011 is going to be stellar as I continue on with the three men in my life in this, my 34th year.

So Happy New Year. Be blessed. Be happy. Be healthy.

For Him

There are several songs out there that remind me of my husband. I have a hard time limiting it to just one. And of course John and I have complerely opposite music tastes, so I will hear a song that reminds me of him, and I will tell him to listen to it, then he talks straight through it. There is one in particular that I think of when I mention this, and it always seemed kind of depressing to me. And then my first gray hair appeared in my sea of brunette. And John started to get that little crinkle in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. And I know that we are getting older. It's no mystery. But we are doing what we set out to do, and that is to grow older together. In a world where marriage is not as meaningful and permanent as it should be, I feel like this milestone is a victory for us of sorts. And now, some things just take on a different meaning. Including this song. On first read, it seems to be speaking of death. Looking at it again, from this side of our decade together, to me it speaks of clinging to one another until the very end. So for my JohnJohn. My beautiful soul of a husband, who will not listen to my music, but will read, the lyrics to Now Comes the Night, as recorded by Rob Thomas. The only thing I can say is that the roughest of hardships have all been worth even the tiniest glimmer of joy that comes with having him by my side.

Now Comes the Night

When the hour is upon us

And our beauty surely gone

No you will not be forgotten

No you will not be alone

And when the day has all but ended

And our echo starts to fade

No you will not be alone then

And you will not be afraid

No you will not be afraid

When the fog has finally lifted

From my cold and tired brow

No I will not leave you crying

And I will not let you down

No I will not let you down

I will not let you down

Now comes the night

Feel it fading away

And the soul underneath

Is it all that remains

So just slide over here

Leave your fear in the fray

Let us hold to each other

Until the end of our days

When the hour is upon us

And our beauty surely gone

No you will not be forgotten

No you will not be alone

No you will not be alone

Have Baby, Will Travel

So we are getting ready for our exodus to John's mom's for Christmas. How appropriate that we will spend Christmas Eve (The Great Ten-Year Anniversary, incidentally) in the very house where we were married in a civil service all of those years ago. I'm also excited for John's mom to meet Zach again. The last time she saw him, we could count the number of his weeks on Earth with 2 hands. He's a completely different baby by now. What am I also excited about? 6 entire days off! I didn't even have to use any vacation time, just some creative scheduling and no overtime this week. (side note: It's amazing I have any vacation time, but I do--2 weeks' worth. It accrues by the number of hours I work, and I have worked that much since my return from bedrest.)
Anyhow...
What am I not excited for? The trip. Zach is on the verge of sitting, but not quite there. After a minute or so, he will do a complete face plant. Which means baby bathtub must go. Bumbo must go. Pack'n'Play, of course, must go. John is unloading the stroller from the car as we speak, and I am opting for just the Ergo for our travel needs. And then, just when I was singing the praises of the way we have chosen to feed Zach, I found the only drawback: travel. Between frozen and fresh breastmilk, homemade baby food, and more, I have to transport a lot of stuff that must stay cold. I'm trying to get creative because I don't think I could fit a standard cooler in the car if I tried. So I finally found the benefit of buying all of those pumps, in that each one came with a day carrier. Plus I bought an extra day carrier. And then there are also all of those little ice packs sent in my shipments of breathine to keep the syringes cold. I knew I kept them for a reason. But regardless, it is a Big Operation.
In the meantime, John is out there right now, cleaning out the car that looks as if homeless people live in it. He just came in and said, in complete amazement, "Ha! The mystery is solved!" As he proffered about a half dozen Avent pacifiers that he insists he found in just one floorboard of the backseat. We had been lamenting the disappearance of the binkies just yesterday. I buy them by the truckload, it seems, but can only manage to find one at a time. And I am OCD enough that I match his pacifiers to his outfits, so this has driven me a little nuts. (I know I may need professional help, but hey, my kid always looks good, right?)
Of course this is all going on when John reminds me that I work at the urban ER tonight, which doesn't have a cafeteria. And so I have to pack food for my shift tonight, my entire pump because there is no lactation room, and more. So God help me, but there is also a huge stockpot of homemade ravioli cooking away on the stove for both my to-go meal and the big boys' dinner.
Zach keeps farting, and so I know the Great Poop is coming.
Evan cannot find his car charger for his DS. (Seriously, can't the kid just read a fricken book???)
And speaking of chargers, where in the Blue Hell is the charger for my camera?

And, holy crap, I forgot about all of those Christmas gifts I have to take.
I should've Fed-Ex'd 'em.
Screw that. I should've stuck with my ghetto, giftcards-for-everyone philosophy. I mean, did I really need to get John's stepdad the UK Snuggie because it was so cheesy that I found it hilarious?

I need a bigger car.
I still refuse to buy a minivan.
Screw it.

Bathtub as a Think Tank

Okay so I decided, in the middle of the night, to take a hot bath. I lit scented candles and took my book in there. I got a hot cup of coffee. And I soaked. The last time I did this, I was doing so in an attempt to get raging contractions under control, and did so with heart palpitations from Brethine and a near-coma from pain meds. It's been too long. Honestly, what provoked me tonight was Boobs from Hell, but I talked about that in my previous post. I actually managed to lay on my belly in the tub and read while my hair soaked in conditioner and my boobs actually felt pain-free from the warm water. Ahhhhh.
And then I started thinking.
I hate when I do that.
I thought about how my hair is about 5 or 6 inches from being down to my waist and I really think it is time for the Mommy Cut. If you don't have kids or this is your first one, not all moms do this, but I will go out on a limb to say that most women who have babies end up cutting their hair off at some point in that baby's first year. It could be hormones. It could be provoked from a lifestyle change. It could even simply be to keep small fists from grabbing hold and yanking. But I call it the Mommy Cut. I think I need to do it. My hair is always in a bun anyway. But to do so would mean I have to find the time, and it seems the only time I have is in the middle of the night. If there were a salon open at that hour, I don't think I would trust them. Seriously.

I thought about how the book I was reading could possibly have been lowering my IQ as I read. Okay, I mean no offense by this. But. On my monthly trip to Half-Price Books (love the place and leave there each and every month with a stack of books to read for about $20 to $30) I decided that I was going to tackle the Sookie Stackhouse series from Charlaine Harris. I know plenty of people who read her and actually were fiending for the latest book when it was released. There had to be some merit to that and so I bit (haha, no pun intended). And they are very entertaining and distract me, which is sometimes what I want in a book. And sometimes not. Sometimes I want what I am reading to provoke thought or teach me something, whether about myself or some topic of which I had no prior knowledge. This book was not one of those. But it was entertaining enough for me to continue with the series.

Then I thought of the grammatical errors I found in the book and was peeved. Seriously, where was the editor???? I don't have perfect grammar, and I even intentionally use incorrect grammar on this blog (Helloooooo, incomplete sentences!), but I am not editing a bestseller to be mass-produced! C'mon, now.

I thought that I should send a card to my doctor who was involved in the code the other night at work. I heard that the woman's death hit him very hard. I credit him (and the rest of the practice) with Zach's presence here, and maybe it will make him feel a bit better to have that reminder of the good work he does. But I know I probably won't do it.

And I kind of felt guilty. Guilty for soaking in a tub? I guess with me working so many hours, I feel like I should spend my off time doing something more productive for the family. I don't know what. Organize Zach's Onesies and baby socks? Sanitize all of Evan's toys while he sleeps? To just soak in a baked-goods-scented bathroom while reading my mindless entertainment just seemed too self-indulgent, which made me think how we mothers are a self-denying bunch at times. I know women who have felt guilty over allowing their brastfed baby to have an extra bottle so they could get a mere 15 minutes of sleep. Who fret over sending their children to daycare so they can have some sort of life for themselves. Who worry that they may not have given their children the best start because they had to have an epidural during delivery for medical reasons. I am not above this, as I have been feeling down on myself for the number of hours I work. I do so, of course, for the financial well-being of my family. I know I am doing a good job, as evidenced by the fact that Evan is getting everything he wants for Christmas. By the fact that Zach, who doesn't even come close to walking, has a shelf full of designer shoes. That John didn't get a tie or watch for Christmas, his birthday, or our anniversary, but rather a $18K motorcycle.

And with that thought, the guilt I felt for the soak in a tub in the middle of the night and for the hours I work just ran down the drain with the bath water.

Ghetto Me

I've been bringing out my inner Ghetto self here recently. The evidence is as follows:

Exhibit A:
I have resurrected my maternity coat from last winter. I had been making my other non-maternity coat work--a lovely charcoal wool peacoat--until the lining got snagged and ripped. It came time to buy a new one. I had put it off over and over, but then I bought this beautifully tailord black wool peacoat from a maternity bouique. The thing cost a great deal more than I woud ever spend on a coat. And then I got put on bedrest. So other than a few rogue outings that were against doctor's orders, it never saw the light of day because I didn't. Unless you count the gazillion trips to the hospital in which I was so miserable that putting on my coat nver even came to mind. The beauty of this coat is that one could never tell it was maternity witout looking at the tag, and I noticed last weekend that it easily fits around Zach in his Ergo carrier. So I am wearing it this winter.

Exhibit B:
After our run-in with cooties, I need new furniture. I am seriously disgruntled about the bed. But the problem is our home. We live in a 2-bedroom. At the time, the price was right. Plus I was in school, and had no plans of any other children beside Evan. So here comes Zach. It was no biggie at first because I wanted Zach in my room, and if we lived in a 15-bedroom mansion, I still would have put his crib in my room. Plus, there is too much of an age gap to have him share a room with Ev. Evan will be in the throes of 'tweendom when Zach is a mere toddler. Well, my plan has fallen through. Zach has so much crap that it is taking over the entire house. (Incidentally, I forgot about this part of having a baby.) He needs his own room, and I refuse to move until we are ready to buy. I'm a big girl now and am tired of renting, but we are't exactly ready to make the leap because I cannot, at this time, afford a house that suits my above-my-means taste. So, as I am perusing furniture, I come up with what I think is a solution: a sleeper sofa! That's my bright idea. This way, as we are putting our life back together, Zach can have his own room complete with more room in other living spaces bcause his crap will be PUT AWAY in his new, all-to-himself, spcious room. John and I will sleep in the living room on the sleeper sofa. This means that is the only piece I have to buy, too. Of course I realize this will suck afer a while, but I think we can make it work for the interim before we buy a house that fits us better as a family. Then, once we reach that stage, and can be an extra bed for guests. Ghetto!

Exhibit C:
I really don't give 2 craps about this one! Unless you are my child, you are getting giftcards from me this Christmas. Sorry 'bout it! But odds are, if you got a card or gift from John and I, as a couple, in the past 10 years, I was the one who fought the crowds at the stores, fretted and waffled over what to buy for people who are as unlike me as anyone can get, then waited in line forever, ony to get home and gift-wrap the damned thing I bought. Quite honestly, I don't have time or energy for that shit this year. I have endured a hellacious pregnancy, fought cooties I brought home from my job taking care of sick people, and subsequently lost everything from said cooties. I attach myself to a milking device every 2 hours, whether I need sleep or not. I have a new baby and haven't done this crap in 9 years. And I work too much---so much that every offday is another opportunity to work more---about 70 hours per week. No matter how much I love you, I am not going to spend even more time away from my babies on your gift this year. Forgive me. I'll be less self-centered and tacky next year. Look at the bright side: your acceptance of a thoughtless gift means I may actually find time to take my offspring to see Santa, or give me a chance to bake Christmas cookies with Evan. My children will thank you!

So there you have it: Ghetto Andrea. Just a few examples of how I am losing my class.

In Pictures

So my computer has been acting goofy for quite some time. It wouldn't let me upload photos for anything! Well, I temporarily fixed it, though I will need to replace it soon. (Excuse to buy my MacBook, yo?!?) So this is what you've missed over the past month or so.

Exactly 6 months after his birth, taken on November 13 at 1:05 PM.

Zach works on crawling.

Zachy on our first really cool day.

Zach's new-found affinity for the remote control.

This has to be the cutest ear of corn.....EVER!!!!!

Ironman and company, ready for departure. Halloween, 2010.

Bribery Backfires

So I mentioned in the last post that everybody got flu shots today. This included Zach, John, and of course, Evan. Zach cried, John didn't. And Evan? Well.....

I had to bribe Evan. First with candy. I know, I know--that is so unlike a Parent-of-the-Year contender. But a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do. And I encounter some pretty serious crap at work, so if there is any way to protect my family from even a teensy bit of it, I'll do it. So Evan is getting this vaccine, come Hell or high water! Of course he proclaimed to the receptionst right away that he would like the nasal mist vax. At which point I had to explain what it is that I do for a living. And she cracked up in amusement at my 9-year-old who even knew there was such a thing. Me, on the other hand? I don't like it. It is live influenza and that gives me the heebie-jeebies when it is being inhaled by my child. Seriously.

So John goes first and tries to amaze Evan with the fact that he didn't cry. Okay, Ev's way smarter than that and so it didn't work. So Ev tells me he will get it if I let him eat the meant-for-afterwards candy bar right then and there. Before we are finished, before we have eaten dinner.....I took the bait and he smiled like the Cheshire Cat until the nurse brought in the tray. As in the tray full of syringes---Zach's 4 immunizations and Evan's 1 little flu shot. This called for more bargaining, and somehow I agreed to let him choose the place for dinner. So the nurse gets ready to give the injection.This is when he chickened out and all bets were off as my oldest miracle squealed and screamed and kicked and cried until we gave in and let him have the nasal mist. If he gets sick from it, I will have the biggest Mom's I-Told-You-So moment in history. After I get him treated, of course.

So later we are loaded in the car, headed to the pharmacy in the hospital to fill a prescription at the pharmacy employees are firmly encouraged to use, when Ev points out that I told him he could pick our dinner spot. Apparently I said "if you get this vaccine" and not "if you get the injection". (Seriously, do not have a smart kid--it just does not pay off in the long run!) So I can't go back on my promise and I let him choose. And he wants to eat at---dunh, dunh dunhhhhh- the hospital cafeteria.

Wait. The what?????? Huh? Mind you, our cafeteria is pretty decent. There's a grill that serves burgers/ fires/chicken fingers and more, a deli for sandwiches, a huge salad bar, a bakery section with cookies/cakes/pies, a pizza station with pizza/calzones/ stromboli, and more. And Evan thinks it is a five-star restaurant. It's okay compared to other hospitals, but not my pick for my nights off. And keep in mind that I will no doubt run into a gazillion people I know who all know I am not at work. What loser eats at work on their day off??? Me, that's who!

So we go, and do so under the guise that I am waiting for a prescription to be filled in the pharmacy next door. While this is true, that is not why I am there. And I run into coworkers-galore, all who ask, "Andrea, WTF are you doing here???" And I roll my eyes and explain. And run into another one--roll eyes and explain. And another one...okay, you get the drift. What I want to say is, "Because my kid is a weirdo, that's why!" But I can't do that because it would be even less Parent-of-the-Year than the candy bar in the doc's office and would likely crush Evan's spirit, as he is standing right there. So I try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, but Zach has found something amusing on the ceiling and is staring upward while alternating squeals of delight with gut-splitting belly laughs. (Wanna get attention? Have a chubby baby do this in a crowded hospital cafeteria while strapped to Mommy's chest a-la Carlos from The Hangover!) Of course this is occurring at the exact moment Evan decides he wants popcorn for dinner and I cannot find John and Evan gets the damned popcorn and tries to carry a tray with it balanced on there and it teeters and falls to the floor.....So I am standing there, on my day off, with laughing Zach and about-to-cry Evan, a sea of popcorn around/under my feet, and I cannot find my husband. Somehow I doubt that I blended in very well. I am disgusted. I am flabberghasted. I am appalled. And then Evan says something and I want to cry.

"See, Mom! I'm eating dinner at the hospital just like you! Is it better since I'm here with you?"

Oh. Oh my God. At once I wanted to cry and laugh and hug him and kiss him. And I realized that my son loves me. That he's proud enough of me to want to be like me. That he hears everything I say and our trip was less about an adventure in humiliation and more about him making my place of work more tolerable somehow. He had listened all of those times I griped about having to eat dinner alone at work when I would rather be with them. And I felt lower than the popcorn that had crunched under the soles of my shoes, knowing what his choice was about.

I love ths kid more than words.

Is This What It's Like?

....to be homeless? Nah, I'm being overly dramatic again. I have food and a way of cooking. I have hot water to take a shower. I have most all of my belongings. But still, this cureent state we are in is rather hellish.

I keep telling myself that I survived contractions so bad--basically was in an active labor pattern non-stop for 4 months--that there is no doubt in my mind that I can do this. I mean, really Andrea! C'Mon! Suck it up, right?

I am, of course, referring to the state of my house after I paid a crap-ton of money for the exterminators to treat it for cooties. (Incidentally, I am an ass and did not get them from my neighbors at all, and so I feel awful. By deductive reasoning, the exterminators hypothesized that I brought them home from a patient at work, which brings on a whole new scare factor!)

It was way worse than moving.When you move, you pack your stuff in boxes and move it until your old place is empty. What you don't have to do is treat everything before you pack it away, which was very labor-intensive. You can pack stuff neatly instead of sealing it in plastic bags. And you don't have to trip over the crap while you work your way through the house.

We went through over 250 black trash bags this past weekend. Somewhere after 250, I stopped keeping track. I just know I had to keep sending John back to the store for more. He finally had had enough on the last trip and brought home more than I asked for. I think fear motivated him. He had purchased those huge storage tubs,5 bottles of rubbing alcohol, a large bucket, 5 large boxes of garbage bags, and a ton of plastic sheeting with which to wrap the furniture, and he came home visibly perturbed. "Andrea! I am sure by now that the people at the store think I am trying to dispose of a body right about now, and I am not going back!" Poor John.

So now my basement is completely full of filled black garbage bags. We can't start putting it all away until the exterminator does our follow-up 2 weeks to make sure there is no more evidence of cootie-infestation in my house. And even then, as we unpack the stuff, we have to treat it all again. Bag by bag. Honestly? This sucks. In more ways than one.

First of all, I have this addiction to designer handbags. It is my crack/ heroin/ crystal meth. Seriously. I live for the 2 times per year where I go and buy a really expensive bag. But the drawback is that my closet had shelves where they were all lined up neatly like a little army. They had to be treated somehow and the only things that effectively kill any hidden cooties are alcohol (NOOOOOOO!) and heat. And so I had to do it. I had to fill my dryer full of handbags that were on average of $400 a piece. I swear you would have thought someone made me put my children in there. I cried and fretted and whined and bit my nails for the entire 35 miutes they were in there. And when the dryer buzzed to let me know it was finished, I ran down the stars to rescue them as if Jesus himself was trapped in my dryer. Thankfully they all emerged unscathed.

This experience has also taught John just how much crap I buy. Nothing reveals a shopaholic like having to go through the house, item by item, mentally taking stock of what all one owns. In other words: Shit, I got busted! Good thing I am the breadwinner or I would probably be divorced right now. Evidence of my excess: Zach has 16 fricken snowsuits. And after treating load upon load of scrubs, John started counting as we were folding and bagging them. Lets just say that, since I am only obligated to 3 days a week, I could go most of the year without having to wash uniforms if I wanted to. And gym shoes---I'm a fatty, and I work long hours on my feet, running around a hospital on concrete floors all night. I am constantly in the market for the miracle shoe that will reverse the effects of gravity that my fat arse exerts onto my poor fat feet. I have paid a ton for shoes, only to discard them a week later because they didn't do it for me. Mind you, these are perfectly good gym shoes, and are great for a trip to the mall or taking the kids to the park. Or running errands. Or even running on a treadmill. Just not for work. So I have to keep them, which translates to a closet full of gym shoes that have each been worn a week or so. So after raiding my closet, I don't think I am allowed to buy anymore shoes. Ever.

In the meantime, every square inch of my basement is covered with trash bags. My living room furniture is gone. John and I have been sleeping on the living room floor for days now. (We tried an air mattress, but as uncomfortable as the floor is, it's better than that air mattress, which felt like it would pop like a balloon every time you moved on it.) Zach is sleeping in his Pack&Play. About the only one of us unaffected is Evan--his bed had to be stripped and his dresser drawers removed so they could treat, and his stuff was also bagged up and treated, but he still has his bed because nothing was found downstairs. As a matter of fact, my computer has even been swathed in plastic for 2 days. Sucky.

So until November 10th, we have to live out of these bags. That's when the follow-up appointment is scheduled. Lucky us.

The 'Tots Survived

B said she could see a blog post coming on this and she was absolutely correct!

It all started at about 1 AM when John said he wanted a midnight snack. He decided to make some tater tots, of all things. Our deep fryer died some time ago, and with my husband's relatively new struggle with diabetes and hypertension, I was not about to replace it. A normal person would have baked them in the oven. But this is John. My love, my life, my soulmate, the father of my children. But living with him is kind of like what I imagine it to be like for the Man in the Big Yellow Hat to live with Curious George. Seriously.

So he fills a pot with canola oil and heats it up. I am in the bedroom, just around the corner from the kitchen, playing on Facebook, when I hear him ever-so-calmly ask, "Honey, do we have any baking soda?"

And I think to myself, "Why in the is he baking at 1 AM?" And so I ask him why he needs it. And I hear him say what I think is, "Oh, fire." Just like that. Casual, nonchalant. So I get up from my perch at the desk to investigate. Surely that isn't what he said.

And I peek around the corner into the kitchen...

Yep. That's what he said. Oh my God!
I just see 4 feet of flames shooting from my stove. What happened next is a bit of a blur. I thought we had a fire extinguisher under the sink. Guess what! We don't! And so I started randomly jerking open cabinet doors. (Like the one with drinking glasses in it...what in the hell was I thinking?) And John is screaming at me "Get me SOMETHING!!!!!!" I did't think about the flour that was in the cabinet right behind John, which would have worked with the grease fire in place of the baking soda. I couldn't think of anything other than the flames, which were getting higher and higher. And I yelled at John, "Should I call 9-1-1?????" And he shouted back "Ummmm, yeah Andrea. GOOD IDEA!!!!!" (Hey, I do not appreciate that sarcasm, Mister!) And so I reached for the cordless phone while simultaneously screaming to Evan in his downstairs bedroom. The poor kid ran up the stairs in his little boxers, looking all bleary-eyed and confused.

"Evan, baby, run downstairs and throw on clothes and go outside though the back door. Hurry, baby, please!
So he tries to come up through the kitchen, and I had to shout at him, "No Evan! FIRE! Get OUUUUUUUUT!" And bless his little heart, he did. In the meantime, the only thing nearby for John to grab was a neat little stack of Zach's receiving blankets that were folded on the kitchen table, waiting for the next morning to be put away once Zach awakened. So John is fanning the fire with, trying to smother it, but only making it worse. And there are huge chunks of burnt blanket wafting through the air. I dial 9-1-1, and as soon as the dispatcher answers, I shout "FIRE!" at her as well. I don't even remember the rest of that convo. I know she asked if everyone was out, and I told her I was working on it. I grab Zach and run outside to meet Evan and wait for emergency people to arrive. The local police are first, and just as I am teling them that my husband may be mildly retarded and started a grease fire by frying tater tots, John emerges from the house, arms full of charred baby blankets and breathing rather heavily, to tell us the fire is out. (Incidentally, this is the point where I think, "Shit! I haven't treated smoke inhalation in a long time---do I remember how?????)
Wthin the blink of an eye, the police officer is on the phone to let the fire people know it is out, yet within three minutes, there are 3 enormous fire engines lined up on the street in front of my house, sirens wailing. Zach is looking in awe at the lights, and I look over and saw Evan put on shorts and a huge parka--that's it! No shoes, no shirt, no long pants. Thankfully a neighbor brought over a blanket for him.
The fire people get a great laugh over the fact that my father-in-law is the Fire Chief in his town and John was a volunteer firefighter for years, yet we didn't have anything to put out a fire in my house.
So anyway, with the fire out and the family safe, we were still not permitted to re-enter the house because of the smoke. When the fire people opened my living room blinds and opened the window, I gasped. The smoke in the house was so thick you couldn't even see anything other than opaque white. With the fire department's industrial fans and my opened windows, it cleared relatively quickly, and we thanked the people who helped us and started to head inside. And then it happened.

By it, I mean the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard come from my husband in almost 10 years of marriage.

"Andrea, do you want some 'tots? I saved them for you!"

Because I Love Him

The craziest thing I have ever done was to marry John.

Let me explain.

John and I met through a mutual friend 10 years ago. I was a cashier at this huge party store, and so was my friend. And she was telling me all about her good guy friend named John. He kept getting involved with the wrong women, and I with the wrong men. I jokingly told her, "Well, if he is such a great guy, introduce us, because all I can find are jerks." But he lived 4 hours away. Apparently she knew him through a friend of hers from Cincinnati who ended up moving to the town he was from. They dated and she ended up being one of the bad seeds, but not before John had made friends with her friends. C'mon. 4 hours away. I forgot all about it. Then about two months later, there he was, up to visit. Riding his motorcycle, fresh from the Marine Corps, wearing Levi's that were faded in all the right places. Of course she introduced us. And we hit it off. As a matter of fact, we hit it off so well that everyone around us at a party thought we had already been a couple. We ended up pretty much spending the weekend together before he had to get back on his motorcycle and head home. I didn't want him to go. We had fit together so well. He said he would call, and in my cynicism, I thought "yeah, riiiiiight". But he did call. Not only did he call when he got home, but called on the way home. Pulled over in the rain, motorcycle perched on the side of the road under a bridge. And he called again when he got home. We pretty much stayed on the phone for a little over a week. Then he cashed his paycheck, quit his job and moved to Cincinnati to be closer to me. After just a couple of weeks. Crazy.
Within a month, I was so over-the-moon in love with this guy that I felt insane. We hadn't been together long enough to feel the way I did. Was I losing my mind? What was even crazier was when he bought me a beautiful princess-cut solitaire. And with that, we were engaged after one month of meeting.
We started looking at the idea of planning a wedding. I do not have cheap taste. I wanted the elegant venue, drenched in crystal and roses and candlelight. The fairytale dress. I always have and still do. But at that point, neither of us were in position to pay for it. My parents had passed, leaving just us. And we decided that if we couldn't afford what we wanted, then we didn't want any of it. With that, we eloped. Well not really eloped. We were married on Christmas Eve in front of a Christmas Tree at John's mom's house. The dating, the engagement, and the wedding altogether took about 3 months. That's it.

Everyone said we were insane. We didn't care. We were insanely in love. He had my very soul. And just a couple of months later, we discovered ourselves to be expecting a little boy--our Evan.
A lot has happened since then. Educations were completed. Children were born after horrendous pregnancies. We've had some pretty big trials, and we have made it through. Together. Just us.

Remember the motorcycle? I made John get rid of it. It scared me. He loved it, too. But he did so because he didn't want me to worry. Throughout our whole marriage, all 10 years we have been together, he has longingly looked at replacing that motorcycle. It was Kawasaki Vulcan, he says, because he couldn't afford a Harley Davidson back then. He wants a Harley so bad I swear he can taste it. And because I love him, I want so much to be able to give it to him. I have literally envisioned me finishing med school, and with a doctor's salary, surprising John in front of all of his family and friends with a new Harley. But it never happened and is never going to now.

I was thinking to myself that I would approach my favorite loan lady at my bank for a loan for John to have a motorcycle for his birthday in November. On the heels of Zach's pregnancy, John is feeling aged, and I wanted to make him happy. After all, I would give him the world if I could. I didn't know if it would happen though...

Well, the other night, as I was doggedly schlepping through the halls of the hospital, I noticed a sign on the door of the in-hospital branch of our credit union. They were selling a 2006 Harley Davidson Softail Deluxe, apparently a reposession. These are pretty common lately, as our hospital recently purchased another area health system, and with that merger, our credit unions merged. Therefore, our credit union inherited some bad accounts. There for awhile, they could have stocked their own used car lot with all of the repossessions. I made a few calls and discovered the asking price was about $3K below what I would pay a dealer, and so I put in a bid for it for the asking price. That was approved. Then I put in for the financing, and it was approved as well.

I just bought John a Harley. The look on his face was worth it. He has dreamed of having one for as long as I have known him, and I made that dream come true. I cannot put into words how I feel. It is so much more to me than a motorcycle. It is a chance to give back to John for the years I have had him by my side, through it all, without fail.

Evan and the Wedding

So our niece got married. Incidentally, I used to refer to her only as John's niece, but sometime over the past decade of our marriage, the "John's" became "Our". She was 11 years old when we brought Ev home from the hospital. And I remember on our wedding day, her mom (John's big sis) telling her that she now had to listen to me as well.)

So she got married. She picked Evan and her other cousin Ev's age to be ushers. I questioned the wisdom of this. Sure enough, after I was seated, I was trying to juggle between keeping Zach quiet and watching Evan perform his duties. When I no longer saw him seating the guests, I thought to myself, "Uh-huh, I knew it was too big a job for him!" But before I knew it, the processional of the wedding party had started, and there was my son, with a different tie on, walking down the aisle. And he looked so beautiful and grown up. He did so well. It turns out that the ring bearer fell ill right before the wedding, and Evan got yanked from his role of usher and thrust into the role of stand-in without the benefit of the rehearsal the night before. (Incidentally, this is why his tie is a tad too short in the photo--it wasn't intended for him!) I was so proud. But a small part of me had a flash-forward of the day my son will find a life partner and tie the knot. And with that in mind, the bawling commenced.

I should also mention that I definitely need practice with my new camera. I tried to snap pictures of the wedding party in real time, especially of my baby boy standing at the alter, but had a slight problem. A digital female voice kept talking to me: "Saving to memory card" every time the shutter was pressed. And I was starting to get dirty looks. All while I was trying to balance Zach in one arm and quiet my digital friend with the other. So while I have pictures, they are blurred from both movement and having the camera in the wrong mode. Bummer.

Grandparents

We left Madisonville, Kentucky on Sunday afternoon. I am usually eager to return home after a trip like that. I am just, by nature, a city person. This time I cried when we left.

I never had the chance to know any of my grandparents. They all passed away before I was born. And so I looked forward to the day my mother would meet my children, but then she passed away before I could even think about the idea of having kids. Dad soon followed. But John's parents are still here. My boys get to know them.

So Sunday afternoon, John's mom held and rocked Zach while John packed the car. I brought the carseat over to her to put Zach in. He had fallen fast asleep in her arms, which was pretty much where he spent the whole 4 days we were down there, anyway. She seemed sad to have to put him in his carseat, and held him up for her husband to kiss on the top of his little head. It seemed so....final. We were leaving Evan down there to spend a couple of weeks, but Zach had to come home. He is just too young. I honestly felt like I was taking him away from her.

So I held it in. But once we started to pull away from her house, to back out of the driveway, I started to sob. John's mother and I have certainly had our differences over the past decade, but she has always been a shining example of what I always envisioned a grandparent to be. Is our staying so far away going to prevent her from being close to Zach like she has been close to Evan?

We were going to leave her house to go to John's dad's house to drop off clothes for Evan. He will be down there for a little while, alternating between staying with John's dad, John's mom's and stepfather's, and John's sister's. He gets to have a blast with all of them. I am so appreciative and value that more than anyone can know. But as we are pulling away,and the tears were flowing, here comes John's dad on one of his motorcycles. And Evan is on the back. After I got over the first thought of "OH MY GOD MY BABY IS ON A MOTORCYCLE!!!!!", I realized how cute he was there with his grandpa, and that I could trust John's dad to keep Ev safe, even to his own detriment. And so I snapped a picture. It could not have captured the moment better (other than me being able to actually work my new camera and the picture being clearer). There is my cute, sweet Evan having a ball with his grandpa while John and I drive away, with John's mom's house in the rearview mirror.