In His Own Words

Since the school year is ending the boys are bringing home a year's worth of writing and art. This afternoon Jake and I sat on the floor and paged through folders of his drawings and poems and I found a "poem" he wrote about me.

My mom kisses me.
She says she is proud of me.
My mom's hair is beautiful.
I love my mom.
My mom takes me to the mall.
My mom drops me off at my daddy's office.
Me and my mom go to the movies together.

For all the things he could have said about me I am surprised, flattered and relieved this is what he came up with.

Day Three

Friday was Jake's turn - fever, headache, overall grumpiness. By Monday it was Abby. Belly ache, fever and diarrhea (or diary as she calls it), although when she returned to school today she told her teacher she'd had a stroke. (Your guess is as good as mine.)

And then today, it's Sam. He woke up with a sore throat and fever and before we could whisper "strep throat" he was puking. He always pukes with strep throat. This time it was in the bathroom, the car, the doctor's office. I am suddenly desperate for hand sanitizer and Lysol.

Bryon goes out of town tomorrow, so I'm eager to see what kind of mutant strep throat-flu-fever I'll wake up with.

Picking Your Battles

Before I had kids I thought it was really important that children don't eat sweets or watch TV and go to bed on time. And then I had kids. Sure, there are rules I didn't anticipate - table manners, respecting elders, gratitude - but I've loosened up on others, mainly those involving sweets, bedtime, TV and ... underwear.

You see, long ago, round about his third birthday, Jake realized he didn't like underwear. Whined about it, cried about it. For awhile we fought the battle. And then, like good parents do, we gave up. (I now know there are tactile disorders in which some kids actually find certain textures painful so while I know he doesn't have that disorder, there may be some legitimacy to his discomfort.)

Fast forward a few years and the kid never wears underwear, doesn't even own a pair. But last week, in preparation for Jake's end-of-year Spring recital, his teacher sent home costume requirements: All students must wear white underwear because the costumes are white. Since they didn't want to see little rocket ships and Barbies through the white costumes I can only assume they didn't want to see Jake's nethers either.

So I bought him underwear, little white briefs, which he hated. And then Friday morning he woke up sick. There is a part of me that thinks it had to do with his anxiety about wearing the underwear, but he did have a fever. So unless he is a yogi who can alter his heartbeat and body temperature with his mind, I guess he was really sick. Whatever the case, he managed to go another day without underwear.

At least now he has a pair.

The Secret

When I was a little girl, maybe 6, 7 or 8, I had a white canopy bed. My sheets and pillowcase had tiny yellow, pink and blue flowers on them. I loved that pillowcase. So much so that over the years, despite whatever happened to that canopy bed and the sheets, I kept the pillowcase.

I can't honestly remember when I stopped using it or how I got it from home to college to Texas so many years ago, but I still have it. It's threadbare now, with only the trim showing signs of those little flowers. Because it's so worn it's almost satiny and it's ripped about 2/3 of the way around, but it always seems cool and it smells like baby powder.

So the other night, after the kids were in bed and asleep (I thought), Sam came padding into my room. He was thinking about zombies and didn't want to go to sleep. We talked for awhile about dreams and nightmares and eventually the conversation came around to his lovey, the blue blanket we call Woo, and my pillowcase. After he calmed down and was ready for bed, I tucked him in, went back to my room and dug out the pillowcase. I gave it to him to sleep with.

Last night while Sam was waiting for the bathroom he said, "I know the secret to happiness." Having come off a particularly rough 45 minutes, I said, "Please, do tell."

"It's when someone you love very much gives you something they love very much," and he held up my pillowcase.

He just may be right.

(Incidentally I found the flat sheet that matched my pillowcase on Etsy today and bought it.)

Out of the Mouths of Babes

So Abby called her teacher a damn fool today. Yay.

Ironically I received my mother-of-the-year medal in today's mail.

About Mother's Day

Before I sat down to write this I re-read my Mother's Day posts from previous years. In most of them I am a little, well, underwhelmed, by my family's recognition of the day. This year could've been much the same. The morning started off chaotic because we needed to be three different places at once. But we reconvened at a local bar for the boys' School of Rock concert.



And all I can say is that the best Mother's Day gift I have ever received was that concert. I'm not sure I have ever been as proud, stunned, amazed and amused by my kids.