Lennox: "You're not leaving me behind!"

Lennox still isn't walking at 18 months. I'm quite certain that he can walk, he would just rather not. He'll stand up and walk with someone holding onto just a little pinkie finger, but he will not let go. I think he might be worried that if he takes that final step and lets go to take his first step, he's going to be left behind;


"If no one has to carry me everywhere we go, how can I be sure they'll remember to take me with them. Am I really ready to fend for myself?"


Quite frankly, I don't blame him. I can understand his concern and I appreciate his strategy. But...it's getting old, and now he's just mocking me. Every time I think he's going to take that first step and my heart starts pounding in anticipation, he just plops down on his chubby little butt and speed crawls away, thinking he's funny and clever.


Today, I decided to suck it up and give it my very best super corny, exhaustively spastic, i-pray-no-one-is-watching-me, display of encouragement, with that nauseatingly cheerful, high pitched voice that annoys even me as I speak it. I pried my pinkie from his super grip and stood in front of him, putting on my best super annoying performance. He stood tall, all on his own and watched me with a great big smile which he was kind enough to disguise as "laughing with me" and not "at me." He let me go on for quite a while as he stood there, wobbly legged, appearing to at least consider taking a step and divulging his secret in appreciation of my efforts. And just as I was about to jump out of my skin with excitement...plop...giggle, giggle.

Two years and a Baby Ginger later...

"She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts." ~George Eliot

I wish. It's been two years since the worse day of my life and not only am I still wrestling with the grief, but it still has me in a pretty tight choke hold.

How can it still hurt so much? How can it still feel like it was this morning at 5:56 a.m. that she took her last breath? Life without her is...different, and I can't seem to adjust to it. I'm not angry and I harbor no resentment towards those who could not save her, nor he who chose to take her away. But it still feels so very wrong.

Baby Ginger is my saving grace today. She is all smiles, more so than usual, and offers great reassurance that her namesake is still here, smiling on us. I get the subtle hints. I went to bed last night, thinking back to that horrible, long torturous night two years ago when we sat by my mother's side watching her chest move up and down, knowing each breath could be her last. And when I woke up four or five times throughout the night to check on my sleeping baby and watching her chest move up and down, I could hear my mother telling me to focus on my hope-filled future Ginger, rather that dwelling on the nightmares of that frail, fading Ginger. And as I hold baby Ginger in my arms (I can't seem to let her go today) and I watch her smile as she drifts off to a peaceful sleep, I feel a gentle reminder that her namesake is also at peace.

The pain of my mother's death feels dark and endless. Baby Ginger brings a very bright hope for a future filled with peace and healing. It's not just her name that she is carrying on, it's her quiet beauty, her curious expressions, her love filled eyes, her hopes, her journey. My mother's work here was not done. She wanted, more than anything, to watch her grandchildren grow. Baby Ginger is here to see to that. Why else would her perfect little name have chosen her. She is a fresh start with an unfinished agenda.

Hide and Seek...

Or in this case, hide and watch Mommy have a nervous breakdown.

It is a gut wrenching feeling when you don't know where your child is. Even if it's only for 10 seconds; When you have looked everywhere you know to look, and they're not there. Those first ten seconds will be the worst ten seconds of your life, filled with horrible visions of all of the worst possible scenarios; kidnapped, ran down the street into the main highway, eaten by a bear, fell in an abandoned well...and so on.

When I left him, Leo was in his brother's crib "reading him books" before nap time.
I had only been on the phone for a few minutes, but in that time, Leo decided to play a little hide and seek with mommy. Not only did he not tell me that we were going to play, but ironically, this would be the first time in the history of our hide and seek games that he didn't tell me exactly where he was going to hide just before he hid there.

When I went back to tuck him in for his nap (which, by the way, was the rebellious reason for his panic attack inducing trickery), he was no where to be found. I called for him, he didn't answer me (also a first in our hide and seek history). I tried to bribe him out, he didn't take the bait. I used my very best angry, threatening voice, he stayed hidden in fear.

Now I had to expand my search to outside. I spent about .2 seconds contemplating whether or not I wanted to be the crazy, lunatic mother running frantically through her quite neighborhood screaming for her missing four year old. And while I was spastically doing so, I floundered between hoping none of my neighbors were home to witness this and surely think to themselves "this poor woman can't keep track of all those kids", or wishing that they were all home and about to come out and form a search party to help me.

I did three laps through the house and neighborhood and each time I came inside I tried to sound more frightening and serious to convince him that I was NOT AMUSED! By the fourth time back inside, I found his precious little pain in the ass standing in the middle of the living room giggling and boasting about his clever hiding spot (which I'm still not sure of, to be honest). I couldn't speak. I picked him up, hugged him, and locked him in his room where he screamed and cried for ten minutes and then slept for two hours.

Two hours later, he came out and we had a long talk about how ABSOLUTELY NOT OKAY IT IS TO SCARE THE HELL OUT OF YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT (basically), AND THAT IT IS ABSOLUTELY NOT FUNNY!

I explained to him that I was so terrified that I almost called the police.

Leo (with fear in his eyes): But if you call the police and they find me they will put me in jail!

Me: That's right! Remember that next time you think you're so funny.

Natural chilbirth. (it may sound like I'm bragging here, but that's only because I'm awesome.)

"This is gonna be fun." That's what your dad woke up to at 4 a.m. on the morning of baby Ginger's birth. I had been laboring for four hours by then and he knew the moment he rolled over and saw me smiling from ear to ear and heard me say those words that this would be the day. It was our 4th and final birth.  He thinks I'm a little crazy for enjoying labor so much. But I'm sure he takes some comfort in knowing that I have it all under control.

I don't know really know why I was so hell bent on natural childbirth. "Natural" just sort of implies that that's the way to do it. It's what we are built for. It's the single greatest claim which only we (women)can stake, and I wanted to embrace it as such. It's only natural, naturally. That being said, it hurts like hell. Seriously HELL. During each of my labors I questioned my stubborn insistence to do it "naturally". But that was always at that final and far too late moment when I knew the little (but seemingly GIGANTIC) head was about to rip through me. They call that moment the "ring of fire". Need I say more?  The key to my successful natural childbirths was trusting my body and listening to it every step of the way (though I did have some trouble hearing my body over the the screaming voices in my head cursing at me; "Seriously? Again? What the hell is wrong with you?")

And when it was over, it was truly over.  The very second I laid eyes on my babies, I forgot about the agony that only seconds ago, had me swearing I would never do this again (all FOUR times). I didn't need painkillers to shield me from the tears and burns that were still stinging; I had my baby in my arms. As I held and studied my firstborn, I felt such utopia that I didn't even notice my midwife's arm up inside of me and her fist pushing on my stomach trying to stop the hemorrhaging. In my new world, with my new family, and my new empowered self, everything was perfect.

I cherish each one of my birthing experiences. They were all strikingly similar with uniquely precious results; they all took about eight hours. All of my babies look like the same person when they come out, and yet they are nothing alike. My brother asks if I am in my "usual room" when he's coming to visit. Madeline does "this little piggy" as soon as she meets a new sibling. The staff feels like family and your dad makes his usual joke to them as we leave with our newest addition; "see ya next time." They used to chuckle. Now they just nod in agreement. And Dad handles his role with devotion, admiration and ease. A lesser woman may curse him for appearing so relaxed and calm while she is laboring tirelessly and painfully. I take great comfort in it. He has great faith in me.

With each of my childbirths, came the birth of a stronger, more confident woman. I want you all to know that I am willing to walk (or push) through (a ring of) fire for them. The agony I endured built me a suit of armor that will surely deflect every agonizing temper tantrum and painful adolescent "I hate you" that you will certainly pelt me with (though I do wish it had a thicker layer of patience). Sure, you will bruise me at times, but I will forever remember what I went through to bring you into this world. And while your attacks may be even more painful than labor, I will know I have the strength and will to survive it, and see us all through it.

four kids and seven days later...

Maybe it's too soon to declare this, but I do believe I've got this mother of four thing under control. It really hasn't felt much more challenging than having three kids. And not being pregnant anymore makes me feel like I could take on the world! I'm feeling new and improved, equipped with super powers that have enabled me to leave the house on two occasions, get kids off to school on time (and bathed), provide snack for Leo's pre-school class, help Madeline complete a 100 day of school project, cook a few meals for my family, continue waging the laundry war, squeeze in the occasional shower, get all the kids to nap at the same time everyday, spend hours on the floor playing (because I can finally get down to the floor comfortably) and still manage to feel pretty well rested. The crazy fat bitch has NOTHING on me!

I hated being pregnant(could you tell)? But all along, I kept reminding myself that one day it would be over; the crazy fat bitch would be gone and life would return to normal...with four kids. I anticipated labor more than a kid does Christmas. Darren tells the story about waking and finding me in labor. He rolled over and saw me laying there at 4:30 a.m. wide awake with a big smile on my face (between contractions)and all I could say was "this is gonna be fun!" I had just completed my fourth pregnancy. Childbirth and four kids would be a peice of cake.

Yes, four kids seems a bit daunting in theory. In fact, it seems to be the point in which people seriously start to question your sanity. I'll never forget some of the priceless moments during my pregnancy when I would tell people about baby #4, like the oil man who came to fill our tank and upon realizing i was pregnant again, told me so (literally as if I didn't know) and looked at me with a fear in his eye that had me reassuring him that he was not the father. Or the priceless look of astonishment and speechlessness on my brother's face when he heard the news. Or my father's genuine concern after sharing our news "are you...ok?" Or our waitress who was about to offer us some parenting advice until she heard it was our fourth and quickly realized she could teach us nothing. Or the co-worker who told me that he thought I was the "hottest chick" there until he found out how many kids I had. Or the handfull of strangers who would politely ask if this was my first child and then rudely respond "why?" when hearing it was my fourth. (Why not?) And finally (for now) the lawyer who is drawing up our wills who told us that we're pretty "standard", other than having four children. Yes, the only person to take it all in stride was Darren...seriously, he didn't even flinch.

There have been only brief, fleeting moments of panic and adjustment so far. The day I got home from the hospital, I immedietly took a shower while the baby was sleeping and the other kids were still with their grandmother. While I was showering, the kids came home. Lennox went down for a nap before I could even see him. Hours later, we had a visitor. "Where's Lennox?" she asked? "Oh shit...!" Yes, after months of hearing his grandmother jokingly say that we were going to forget about little Lennox, and reassuring her that that could never happen, we forgot about him. I don't know how long he had been awake and crying in his crib, but he looked pretty pissed, so it could have been a while.

There have been only one or two moments when two or three kids are crying at once and I freeze, momentarily, and stammer "oh God, oh God, oh God!" Yes it's more of a state of panic, but it's also a sincere prayer for the strength to survive the moment.

I've only been nearly sufficated a few dozen times when all four children sworm me at once the moment I sit down, because if mommy is sitting down, they must know why I'm sitting and when I plan on getting up again to meet their every need.

There are daily pleas to the oldest children begging them to try their very best to listen, cooperate, try to get along, and try to do for themselves. An almost 4 year old Leo always offers his very best assurance that he will be the very best boy, but seems to forget about his good intentions the moment he walks away, and 7 year old Madeline insists that she will try, but cannot make any promises. Points for honesty.

She remains my biggest challenge. She is the one single factor that can make me channel the crazy fat bitch. I happen to know that she is far more capable than she prefers to let on, and I find it infuriating. I know this because she has slipped up a few times and proven herself. Last month, for example, she kept her room perfectly clean for nearly three weeks(I have never kept anything clean for that long). But there has to be something in it for her. Asking her to do something simply because it is her responsibility and she is perfectly capable and "I HAVE FOUR KIDS TO TAKE CARE OF NOW! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE HELP ME OUT A LITTLE!!!!!doesn't get me very far.

I suppose I should give credit to the calmest, most content baby I have ever given birth to, and they've all been pretty mellow babies. I know that a constantly screaming baby in the background of a house with four children would be a total game changer. I am lucky. Her guardian angel hasn't stopped hugging her since she was born. She is peaceful and angelic, always.

I have always, at the end of every single day of motherhood, thanked God for my children, even on those days when I had to shut them in their rooms two hours before bed just the get them away from me. I have added a special thanks this week, for knowing better than I did, that I was meant to be a mother of four.

I feel incredibly blessed. Sometimes I wonder how everything could feel so perfect when I just lost my mother (and yes, it still feels like I "just" lost her) and she isn't here to share all of this with me. But in the words of Charles "Pa" Ingalls, "how can you ever know true happiness if you've never known real sorrow?" I have known both, and one does indeed teach you to fully appreciate the other.

Leo: If Santa brings another baby brother or sister, can we keep it?
Me: Heck yeah! If Santa brings it, we can keep it.

I'd be up for one or two more under those circumstances.

The Queen and the Crazy Fat Bitch

I've been trying to get my children to take it easy on me, just for these last few weeks of my pregnancy. It's for their own good, really. I don't want the crazy fat bitch terrorizing them anymore than they do. And while I can see the light at the end of this looooooooooong tunnel, I am also at the end of my rope.

Entirely unlike my usual self, I am impatient, intolerant, and irritable, to say the least. And while I am riddled with guilt over not having to super human strength it takes to be super mom to three little ones, I am done trying for the next few weeks.

A friend suggested that I ask my children to treat me like a queen now. I knew it wouldn't be quite that easy, but I make a heartfelt plea to my darling children:

Me: "I just need you to take it easy on me now, to be gentle with me. Try to remember that I am very big and uncomfortable and I have an actual little baby inside of me who often feels like she's trying to kick her way out of me. Keep in mind that it's very, very hard to bend down, and it would be very helpful if you would not leave a trail of your stuff everywhere you go. Try to pick up after yourselves so that I don't have to do it all day long. And then, if you pick up your own stuff, maybe you won't have to come to me a million times a day to ask me where everything you want or need is when you want or need it.

And when you do want or need something a millions times a day, perhaps you could ask your dad, rather than walking right past him and searching the entire house for me just to make me do it. He can do most things almost as well as I can.

Or, maybe you could even try doing some things for yourselves once in a blue moon. Perhaps you could move an item or two and look around a little when you can't find your mitten, boots, book, toy, shirt, homework, brother, sister...........!

It would be nice if you could try not to fight with each other too because the whining and blood curdling schreeches kind of make me feel like my head is going to explode.

Maybe, on the rare occasion that I ask you to do or get something for me, you could do it without the dreaded MOMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! and the angry foot stomping.

If you could try not to follow me into the bathroom every single time I have to hide, I mean use the bathroom, that would be nice. That twenty seconds of alone time would be very useful right now.

And finally (for now), if you could please remember that I am very fragile right now, and please not run at me full speed when I'm not looking and fling your little body into me just because you "love mommy sooooo much!", that would probably curb my urge to want to body slam you. A gentle hug would be very nice (if you insist on touching me at all).

Basically, just treat me like a Queen right now, ya know, like I've been doing for you every single day of your lives?"

Madeline: "But Mommy, I'm just going to look at you and see that you are CLEARLY
NOT a Queen."

CLEARLY, I'll just have to suck it up a bit longer.

Ma'am who?

I don't care for Ma'm. And I don't think it's the hormones talking. Don't get me wrong, I've used it plenty, on women my age i'm sure (when i was NOT my age). But now that I have become a Ma'am target, I would like to apologize to all those women.

Bottom line is, it implies "older". And who needs that implication thrown in their face. I'm well aware of it already, thanks. I have no problem being older. In fact I quite prefer it and wouldn't change a thing. But I am MISS Castle, and if you don't know my name, you can call me "miss" for short. It just makes more sense. As one fellow Facebooker pointed at in the midst of todays Great Facebook Debate "Ma'am or Miss", it's not "Driving Ma'am Daisy." That's just wrong. Just as calling me Ma'am is wrong.

Other Facebookers suggested that women are too sensitive about their age if Ma'am offends them (mostly men, obviously). While others claimed it is said out of respect. Trust me, no woman is going to be called "miss" and feel insulted. No woman is going say "excuse me, that's rude. It's MA"AM, not miss." No. In fact, they're going to walk away from that conversation thinking "Wow,what a sweet kid."

I can tell you that I do NOT feel like I have been granted some higher social status because some 17 year old kid called me ma'am. And to be honest, it wasn't THAT long ago that I could still make a kid like that nervous and tongue tied just ordering a cup of coffee from him. Now i'm ma'am? I certainly don't long for those days, but isn't there an in between that allows me go out into society and not be slapped in the face with the obvious? And why do men get the timeless "Sir"? Why don't they get a special title out of "respect", for their aging process.?

I am quite certain that every woman who hears ma'am for the first time (or even the first fifty or so times, or is that just me?)is going to instinctively look around for some other "ma'am" And will, in turn be baffled that it's her.

Regardless of all of this, one thing is for certain, "ma'am" is entirely innapropriate for a 30 something,even if she is driving a mini-van with 3.5 kids in tow. In fact, especially if she is has 3.5 kids in tow. Clearly that woman does not need another reminder that she is no spring chicken.

Call me miss until the day i die. I won't think you rude or be the least bit offended by it, I promise.