You Were a Beautiful Baby

All chubby cheeks, big wet eyes, long lashes, and Chiclet teeth fit for a monster. Cooper has been a beautiful baby. For about a week the portents of metamorphosis have been lurking with every bite of an apple, flick of a tongue, or scrape of a toothbrush he made. His baby smile was evolving, and the adult grin was about to break through.

So each morning when I’d push him into line at school I’d say, “Let me see those baby teeth,” or “Can I see your baby smile one more time?” He’d always grant my wish. Every afternoon I’d pick him up fully expecting him to be toothless and carrying a nurse’s office issued treasure box containing one lower left central. But no.


Then tonight, it happened. I left the house to drop off the babysitter and returned to discover the transformation was complete. Boo! I missed it.

His note to the toothfairy read:

Dear Tooth Ferre. My name is Coop. I lost my tooth today.

Oh this boy was slow to grow those teeth. I still remember the copious amounts of sloppy wet drool that would simply drip off his big bee-stung lips. So so so so so so cute. He was a beautiful baby. And now, well now, he’s a strapping young first grader with an awkward smile and a big dark gash where a tusk used to be. I shudder to think what will grow in its place.


PHOTO NOTE: Couldn't find great baby picture with his little teeth in it (just lazy and didn't spend that much time). But look at how cute he is!?!?!?!?

From His Sick Bed

Collecting my thoughts is impossible. Organizing them is far worse. So, I could approach this from a chronological standpoint, or I could relate to you one little moment on one afternoon that will shed some light on some of the shi-izzle that is going down here.

Due to construction, everyone in our house has been reassigned a sleeping space. Little Mason's sleeping space is currently a mattress on the floor of his brother's bedroom. This is not an ideal situation for anyone, however, Mason seems to enjoy having sleepovers with Cooper and he has commented many times that he likes his space (though he did tell me I should turn it into a couch -- not actually have him sleep on a couch but find another mattress to lean against the wall next to the mattress that is on the floor and make a couch out of the bed). I have made every effort to make this nook very comfortable. I have moved in his favorite puppies and penguins. I let him buy new crib sheets from IKEA in what he refers to as "batman blue" for his little mattress. Cooper has donated two extra pillows to Mason's cause, just in case he rolls off the mattress. They stay up late reading stories to each other and singing silly songs. They have been tired every morning when I wake them up for school, but it is like an extended camping trip that they enjoy. Let me also add that while Cooper has a full size bed that he could share with Mason, Mason prefers the floor to sleeping with Cooper. I can appreciate this. Cooper is a furnace that never stops moving. Sleeping next to him is like sharing a sleeping bag with a feverish pot-bellied pig.

AN-Y-WAY... besides becoming Mason's sleeping space it has become his sick bed.
This past week Mason was with Cooper and me at the rec center watching Coop's karate lesson. He was sitting on a bench and I was running on a treadmill. He decided to get up and walk behind the row of exercise machines. He tripped and fell and when he put his hands out to catch himself his right hand hit the moving belt of the treadmill.
Now, I know treadmills are dangerous. I unplug the treadmill at my in-laws house when we are there. I don't let my children play on them. Mason wasn't roughing around, he wasn't trying to touch it. He just tripped and fell. He thought that getting hurt by a treadmill would get him in trouble. So when he got hurt he lied to me and told me he fell on the brick wall next to the treadmill.

Obviously there was like this big rush of first-aid and fretting (Note to gym managers, when a patron tells you they need first aid don't page the 16-year-old lifeguard. Call 9-1-1). Though I could see it was bad, I just kept thinking all he did was fall on bricks. He doesn't need to go to the emergency room. A lot of people saw it and the conclusion from everyone was to just wait until morning and see. Mason's opinion was that it "hurts worser than when my private parts got slammed." By morning it was swollen, encrusted, and oozing -- an appetizing combination -- and I decided to take him to the pediatrician. That is when Mason decided to confess. He had actually fallen on the treadmill and did I want to send him to timeout?

The first doctor appointment was intense. The lack of attention the night before had created some scenarios that disguised the signals of his actual condition. The skin trauma was in fact severe enough that the pediatrician elected to table further testing to determine if Mason's fingers were fractured. This left us all focusing on two little fingers that looked as if they would require skin grafts to restore tissue loss.

We've since learned that the fingers are not broken. Phew! And we are fairly certain that plastic surgery to restore skin thickness is not necessary. Major phew! We're still changing the dressing twice a day and following doctor's orders to the letter because we want to avoid joint contracture. This just means that as the skin heals it gets a little tight and if we're not careful it will make it so that Mason can't open his hand all the way (I think that's what it means. Doctors talk this way to confuse mothers. Even smart mothers.). So far his range of motion is not affected.
All that mess has meant that Mason has spent some quiet time reading books and playing with sticker books because he can't draw as well as he would like. Oh, and he can't go to swimming lessons until the lesions are closed. His current plight is mild. And it would feel mild rather than frenetic if he were sleeping in his own bed, not sharing a bathroom with everyone in the family, and if his mother knew where she temporarily stashed the first aid kit.

Through this small medical mishap I learned that my job as a parent is to recognize the vulnerability that comes when a child realizes he made a mistake. I can't make the consequences of accidents and poor choices so scary that my children make more poor choices rather than trusting me.

And let me tell you, there are certain jobs I could never do. Being a pediatric nurse, physician's assistant, or doctor who has to debris burned skin on a small child or infant is one of them.

Lastly everyone in the family has been witness to the basic truth that sometimes more pain reveals new growth and if we can just endure it, everything will be restored with time. One other thing, brush up on your first aid.

Shadow

In a series of fast and unfortunate events I was the first to arrive on a scene in which I knew I would be the last to extend a little kindness to a life known as Shadow. Shadow -- a small black dog -- lay in the road with a halo of blood around his head, a heaving chest filling with fluid, and two miserably mangled legs. Bloody, muddy, and growling in pain his scared eyes told me the end was near.
As my horror-stricken children watched, I frantically called the number on his tag and delivered terrible news to the shocked and shaky voice on the other end. "Come quick your dog's been hit and he doesn't have long."
Then in my heels and skirt I kneeled in the road and sobbed as I stroked his dirty little back. I didn't pray he'd survive; I knew he was too far gone. Every breath he took was racked with the rattle of sure fate. But I hummed and I cried to him and I held his head. In minutes his momma came with fear in her eyes and the confused look of predictable circumstances -- knowing her dog would never come home, again. She took one look at her Shadow and sighed, "Oh Shadow, what have you done."
My heart couldn't hold the sadness of the moment. So I did what all good mothers do. I pitched in my strength with hers. She had come -- just as I'd instructed -- quickly, but unprepared. So she had no blanket to wrap him in. My mind went straight to the brand new picnic tarp I knew was in the back of my car. After all, I'd just enthusiastically selected it for it's lively red color. Though I knew I'd never get to use it if I offered it, I gladly handed it over and helped her move little Shadow onto what would be his last bed.
I had never met Shadow or his owner before this day, but the scene of his last afternoon plays over and over again in my mind. It even makes me gasp with emotion and begin crying in remarkably off-putting ways. I suppose it's the thought of the end that upsets me so. That and the raw need for unconditional love. Any of us who approached Shadow in his last minutes could have chided him; told him it was his foolish choice to run in the road that got him killed. In fact, I suppose I could have grimaced at the sight of all the blood and foaming saliva, even the grubbiness of his coat. But that is not what Shadow needed. All he needed was love.
While I am not a dog, I think I might be a simple creature. Despite the choices that make me, me -- when my last breaths are counted I hope someone rubs my back and says, "It's OK, little one. Close your eyes and relax. I'll stay until your people come."

Bunny Vision

I have concluded that I am ready to take bunny abatement to the next level this year. I'm spitting mad over the havoc they have wreaked in the garden. The only thing that has kept me from doing something more permanent in the past has been these two little critters.

I feel really bad about crossing over to the bunny-killer side of the fence. I didn't want my kids to see dead bunnies. But the rabbit colony is producing so many little ones they get trapped in our window wells and die of starvation or heart attacks, or injuries from the fall every year.

Now, where is the local IFA?

Problem Solved

Let it be said that my boys are inventive. Not to be deterred by his earlier mishap in the restroom, Mason has come up with a new position. Enjoy.

Shaun White is My Hero

Remember the shy little boy that lives at my house? You know the one, he cried at swimming lessons every week for a full 6 months. Well, he's got a secret. He's actually a little daredevil. Check out these pictures and do not turn us in to child protective services.

PS -- Please note my husband's face. He is genuinely freaking out. Mason is crazy and we all know it. Even Cooper won't do what Mason does on the staircase.

Not To Mention The Heartache

My husband and I agree there are some introductory investments well worth the sacrifice because in the end they pay for themselves. For instance, we pretty much agree that a $40 a month dry cleaning bill is cheaper than a marriage counselor. Likewise, no one can argue that a small fire extinguisher for your kitchen is much cheaper than a post-grease-fire remodel.

Today we learned that the $50 quiet-close / no-slam toilet lid found at the local hardware store is significantly cheaper than a panicked trip to Urgent Care after 5 p.m. on a Friday evening with one of your little boys screaming and yelling. Penile contusion, that's all I'm saying.

Invest in the little things.

I Love You Stinky Face

I found myself in the doctor's office with my two rugrats recently. During the visit the doctor had to excuse himself to take an important phone call. Which is exactly when my children started farting. The treatment room in which we were confined was basically airless and my boys were really getting smelly. Exasperated I asked, "Who stinks!?!?!?"

Without a moment's hesitation Mason answered, "Grandma Go Go."

Love you, mommy.

Do Me a Favor?

If you smoke... would you consider quitting? We all know that it’s one of the biggest killers in the world and causes disease and cancer. From what I understand, that's a bummer.

But here's my beef.

It grosses me out to find my 3-year-old anywhere close to an ashtray. In fact, I found him nearly kissing-distance close to a cigarette butt huffing and puffing at it. When I asked him what he was doing, he said, "Trying to blow out this stinky candle."

Just quit.

Showers are Safer

I have some mildly interesting news. And since Mason has taken it upon himself to tell everyone -- including our pediatrician -- I'll let him take it away.

"He (cooper) was grabbing the soap and he felled and then he bonked his chin, and then it bleeded. It was so gross."

You heard him right. Cooper fell in the bathtub and had his first run to the E.R. for stitches (we've had a few other events but none so messy). And here's where I start bragging a little bit. In a moment of horrendous timing, I put the kids in the bathtub at the very moment Steve left to go grocery shopping. So, I was alone when the mayhem got under way.

Like a million other kids his little chin smacked on the edge of the tub so hard he got an impact laceration. Which is a boring way of saying, with a sickening crack Coop's chin split open and instantly looked like an exploded hot dog. Makes you wanna bun, huh?

From what I understand, this is really a right of passage for something like 99 percent of males. So, here we are. He's ready to be a stud. I have been somewhat confused on how many stitches were in there. I originally thought 10, when I finally got a look at it I thought it was 8. The pediatrician took out 7. And then I noticed another little bit of blue thread wriggle out when I was cleaning it today. So, not entirely sure.

Look closely and you can see the scruffs of his stitches in this photo. And that my friends will probably be the last time you see any sign of injury there because the sewing was quite good.

Home Remedy

Mas has itchy skin. He always has it and he's always pulling off his clothes to get to it. He's an itchy scratchy kid. The fix? I lather him in lotion (I prefer Renew) and then I put these socks on him. Actually the socks were his idea. But it works, so I'm not changing the remedy. Take that, fancy-schmancy healthcare overhaul.

That's Not Funny

I'm mad at you!

That's not funny!

I don't have to!

Don't! Want! To!

You not my friend!

This is basically what I hear all day, every day from Mason's sweet little lips. Yes, the cherub is no longer pensive, just obstinate. Oh, and he has a temper.

I honestly don't know where he gets it.

Yeah. Yeah. I'm laughing, too. Steve and I are two of the most stubborn, cantankerous, even mulish people on this green Earth. Seriously I know people have muttered jack ass after dealing with (or golfing with) both or one of the other of us. It's the truth. On the flip side of the coin, one of us is a tormenter.

Yep, a big tease. And this, my friends, is a big freaking genetic liability. Of the worst kind, if you ask me. And So Cooper has inherited the absolute compunction to provoke, bother, and otherwise upbraid his little brother's little lot in life.

Get where I'm going with this? Mason can't take a joke. Cooper pesters him and then ...

I'm mad at you!

That's not funny!

I don't have to!

Don't! Want! To!

You not my friend!

This always ends in tears, and very often blood. I would say, HELP ME. But something tells me, this is my penance.

My Kids Say Weird Stuff

At lunch Cooper abruptly grabbed his nose and said, "Ow ow ow ow!"

I asked, "What's wrong? Gotta a booger in there?"

He replied, "No! I think my heart is in my nose."

Please note, come back and visit because I got pictures of him grabbing him nose. Just haven't downloaded them off the camera, yet.

I Broke My Kid

Correction. I didn't break him actually, just a sprain. Here's a few things that crossed my brainwaves when I considered the idea that Mason might be hurt seriously.

1. But I just took him to the doctor 1 week ago.
2. I'm probably overreacting.
3. He could be overreacting.
4. I'm going to miss golf.


It takes a certain kind of person to forge ahead. Namely, I knew that I had endured 2 hours of interrogation the week before. The circumstances were pretty straightforward. While changing Mason's diaper this past Wednesday I noticed what I thought was a rash on his abdomen. After a chat with the nurse she urged me to come in right away.

So here's something I learned -- and you should know it, too -- the skin rash that is associated with meningitis does not fade under pressure. It kind of looks like a hickie. It might begin as a few small spots anywhere on the body and can spread quickly to look like fresh bruises.

So we rushed in thinking that he had a skin rash, not fresh bruises. Uh hmmmm... this is a poor attempt at foreshadowing.


Turns out the rash was fresh bruises. Bad bruises caused by blood leaking into the tissues under the skin. Seriously. Do you know what happens when you bring your baby to a doctor with buises this bad that cover his abdomen? The doctors and nurses and physicians assistants go into child-advocate-overdrive. I was --in all honesty -- asked the following questions.

1. Do you have a ping pong table? Could he have been hit with a ping pong paddle?
2. Does he spend any time with babysitters or in a daycare? Do you trust them?
3. Has he been crying a lot? How are you feeling?
4. Can we check your other kids ears? (This after checking Mason's ears and I presume wanting to check to see if I or anyone else had hit them hard enough to knock their brains into the ear canals.)
5. How long has he had that scar on his cheek? How did it happen?
6. Is this a burn (pointing to a small bump on his arm that he has seen a dermatologist for)? (In retrospect it looks exactly like a cigarette burn.)

Oh wait up, before I get ahead of myself. Did I mention that on the way to this appointment Cooper (the other kid) got such a horrendous bloody nose that I used every diaper and ever baby wipe in my car and walked into the office with him dripping blood? Yeah, that happened. So let's keep track here.

1. One child walks into office sputtering blood all over the place.
2. The other child has petechiae bruising.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Does she beat her kids? For the record, I have no idea how Mason got the bruise. I think he got it at the gym playroom. But I have no idea. Cooper gets bloody noses because he has talons for nails and he does pick his nose. And I should also mention that during the process of checking Cooper's (the other kid) ears his nose started to bleed, again. This time so bad that every member of the nursing staff was attending to him, blood splattered on the wall, the carpet, the nurses, and me, AND they had to spray Afrin up his nose then plugged it with a tampon. (You can see evidence of some of the bloody noses he's had since here.) The whole office looked like a C.S.I. scene. No joke.

Seven days later Mason falls off the climbing wall at the local park. And I am certain he is hurt but I have absolutely no desire to take him to the doctor. First the bleeding, then the bruising, now a broken leg? Not a formula I wanted to be a value in. So I pretended it wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. The next morning was golf league day so I scrubbed up my kids and took them to the babysitter.

I got only 1 hole of golf in before the dreaded call from the babysitter. "Ummmm, I'm sorry to bother you but Mason is rolling around on the ground saying his foot hurts. I think you should come and get him." Fun stuff.

Now, let's face it. He's not hurt very badly. Turns out it's hard to break an ankle, very easy to sprain it. And that is probably exactly what he did (the doctor didn't even feel it should be x-rayed). It also turns out that even when you bring your kids to the doctor more often than the doctor works they don't arrest you. Thank goodness for those child advocates, though. Because sometimes the bloody nose plus the bruised abdomen plus the broken foot do equal child abuse. Keep up the good work, doc (and nurse, and PA, and teacher).

PS -- My favorite moment of the day was when the doctor actually wrote on a prescription pad that I should carry him whenever he asks. Thirty. Two. Pounds.

Scarface

You may have noticed in the past few posts that Mason has a new mark on his face. It's a result of a playdate gone wrong. But what I find amusing about the situation is that I catch him looking at himself in the mirror every day. And every day he looks at his little owie, then winces, and then says, "Tori did it. That makes me sad." Then he gives a little whine and pouts his lip as he slumps away from the mirror. Awwww, my little scarface.

Shoes Off

You know how when some people come to your house they walk in and immediately ask if they should take off their shoes? This is such a kind gesture and one I rarely think of when I go to other people's houses. The answer to this question is tricky for me. I always want people to feel comfortable in my home. If that means they want to leave shoes on, then they can leave shoes on. If they want to take shoes off, then they can take shoes off. I honestly DO NOT care. But, I always hesitate before I answer.

The problem lies in the fact that I think it's a liability to be in my home without your shoes on. Seriously. From the LEGOS that feel like shards of glass to the actual shards of glass, it's really taking on a lot of risk to run around my house sans shoes. There you have it, the general disclaimer for hanging out in my house. Take off your shoes and you might cut your feet on something. So, it is with little shame that I reveal to you yet another hazard of our humble household.

Black Eye?

I just got home from a little art market thingy and found that Mason got a black eye (or something) while the babysitter was here. Hmmmmm. I can't decide if I'm worried about it, or not.

True Grit

After a record-breaking heat wave, we were blessed with rain. Lots and lots of rains. During those wet days we forgot to put the cover on the sandbox and now we have a veritable swampbox. I've managed to keep the boys out of it for almost two weeks. There's the obvious danger of them drowning in it. But then there's the stench, the gnats, and of course, the mess! Last night my success in keeping them away from the tempting quagmire ended with a splash.


Or rather the adventure known as SAND began. First there was the initial dive in. I believe it took little Mason by surprise. Surprise quickly turned to mischievous mirth and merriment as he and Cooper started slinging swamp patties at the tomato plant. Pretty soon they got cold -- and perhaps sicked out by the smell -- and started running around the driveway. Mason's soggy bottom inhibited his ability to run and he had a Lolo Jones moment on the driveway. This is when I declared an end to the exuberant escapades in the sand and moved everyone inside for baths.


My little swamp monsters left me quite a mess to hose down (I'm still working on the laundry).

School is in Session

I'm one of those bookish people who gets excited smelling newly sharpened pencils and crisp, lined paper. While I hate homework, I love to learn. I believe our academic pursuits begin and end at home. No, I'm not a homeschooler. But I feel strongly that as parents -- my husband and I -- carry the responsibility to ensure our kids are ready to start school and perform well there.

The great thing about learning at home is you don't need a lesson plan. But the exhausting thing is, you have to keep your eyes open for any human experience that can enlighten you and your kids. Yesterday's lesson started when I went to the garage to dispose of a dirty diaper (I'm telling you, you have to be on the lookout for opportunity). I heard a strange noise, a cross between a buzz and a flutter, that scared me. The garage was dark and I was convinced someone was hiding in there. (Our neighborhood has been having trouble with mountain lions drinking out of kiddie pools.) After opening all the garage doors and flipping on the lights I assured myself that I wouldn't get eaten alive and found a dragonfly in distress.

"Quick! Boys come here!" I issued the call that school is now in session. They came running with erudite looks of, "Let's get ready to learn." (Just kidding. They were looking a little white trash with bare feet and their own clothing choices.) We watched the dragonfly for at least 30 minutes. It buzzed it's way all the way down the driveway and into the gutter where the boys started offering it pinecones and woodchips. Then Cooper named it -- Pretty Princess.

Eventually the dragonfly buzzed it's last buzz. The boys picked him up and placed him on the porch where they fashioned a funeral bed for it. I rejected requests to set the pyre aflame. My miniature entomologists then began looking for new bugs to observe. I'm confident the boys learned a few things... dead means dead and there is no taking it back, dragonflies don't eat pinecones and woodchips, and the addition of "fragile" to Cooper's vocabulary.

Unfortunately the lesson ended with Cooper getting stung by a bee.

Unnoticed

How often do you go unnoticed? I'm not referring to the missing accolades you may think you're entitled after a job well-done. I mean, in how many situations are your silent gestures the most heroic?
This summer has been a string of silent, heroic gestures that have shook me to my core. Including one, that in it's pedestrian simplicity warmed my heart. But first, the major, complicated, scary heroics of a handsome, young man named after a city with soul -- Austin.


This member of my family has risen to his calling. In July he bravely underwent a series of heart surgeries -- you know, like crack open your chest and fiddle with the innards -- and he is but 15 years old. To be 15 is to be awkwardly stuck between temper tantrums and cognoscitive powers. Plainly put, you know enough to be afraid. But he did not melt into fearful rampages. Instead, he drank from his cup and endured. Over. And. Over. And. Over. Again. His brio buoyed his family, in fact all of us floated on the hope of his silent stature.

Recovery and adjusting to his new future will be a long road for him. Something most people he encounters will never notice. Which brings me to a pair of wet shorts.

We don't need human experience that is drastic, mortally intense, or even serious to learn the importance of going unnoticed (thank goodness). You could, for instance, sit in some root beer and not complain.


Coop attended yet another birthday party. The guests included boys and girls (among them two of his love interests) and he ended up at a table with three girls. He didn't complain even though I know he was watching the other boys at the other table. Then -- as always happens in a group of too many toddlers -- someone upturned their root beer. It spilled across the table and splashed on the little girl sitting next to Coop.

She was literally hysterical. There wasn't much wet -- that I could see -- but this girl cried enough to sink the Titanic. Cooper watched in silence as a few grown-ups rushed to her aid, cleaned her up, and even offered her a bigger piece of cake than the other kids. This was the last event of the party, so following cake Cooper politely thanked the hostess, hugged the birthday girl, and marched his way home while outlining to me the highlights of the party.

When we got home Cooper asked to change his shorts. Only after he did, did I realize why. His shorts and underwear were soaked through with the root beer. In the tip-over incident he had actually received the majority of the muddle. But he hadn't complained, cried, or even said a word.

Obviously, heart surgery and a soggy bottom hold nothing in common -- either in experience or magnitude. But they both prove why women always fall for the strong, silent type.