The Best Parade EVER!!

Sure I was 36 weeks pregnant, considered full term and managing the biggest event the city of Mitchell sees in a year. But I could do it. No problem!! I am super woman, which includes super mommy and super volunteer, and I can do anything and control everything.

How many times has that little belief bitten me in the butt? Let's just say it has been numerous and mostly, I get proven wrong. I think God gets enjoyment out of showing me who's boss. He does have the right.

The bets were on. The laughter was numerous. Oh so many women looked at me that last week in September and said, "Oh honey. You're never going to make it to Saturday."

I'd come home and look at Beloved Hubby and say, "Do you know how many people insist on telling me I'm not going to make it to Parade Day? I've already talked to Little Man. He knows he has to wait." And we'd laugh.

We're still laughing.

In reality, planning the biggest event in Mitchell, also known as the Persimmon Festival, is one of those advance things. Decisions are made a year in advance. Pre-planning makes it a success and my counterparts and I pre-planned and planned some more. So in reality, I knew if I gave birth that week, which was highly doubtful, the festival would still go off and go off without a hitch.

That planning came in handy. Contractions started Thursday night and continued through Friday morning. By 1 o'clock Friday afternoon, I couldn't deny what was becoming obvious and I called my doctor. He advised me to go to the hospital, and at 12:45 a.m., on Parade Day, Little Man arrived.

We were no longer thinking about the festival.

He arrived healthy and happy. He weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce, and was 19.5 inches long. He looks like his Daddy. The baby everyone in Mitchell was calling Puddin' made his Persimmon Festival debut. And we barely recognized the significance. It took my boss, the newspaperman, to call me because he wanted to write about the Festival Chairwoman having a baby on Parade Day. That's when I said, "Wow. I guess I did, didn't I?"

Things were quiet around the hospital on Saturday. Everyone was at the festival, after all. But the hospital was abuzz with the news. The nurses would come in and say, "So you're the festival chairman and had the baby during the festival?"

I no longer think of it. Time has passed and we've moved on. The festival, I am glad to say, is over for another year. From now on, I am happy to be the bystander and not the planner. My festival was a success in more ways than just one.

And next year, I won't be waddling down Main Street. Instead, I'll be the proud mom pushing the stroller who knows she controls very little.

Little man

I realized this morning that I haven't touched my blog since well before Little Man arrived in the wee hours one fine fall day. Perhaps I've been a little busy?

But when I logged on, my last blog post was actually weeks before Little Man's arrival. Yes. I was busy then too. That was back in the days when I was planning a festival. (One that went off without a hitch I might add despite the fact that all that Main Street walking prompted Little Man to come four weeks early. It was quite the feat for Festival Guru to have Little Man on the Biggest Day of the Festival, otherwise known as Parade Day.)

These days center around nursing, sore nipples, diaper changes, midnight feedings and tiny little baby kisses ... We all steal them quite mercilessly around here. There are a lot of smiles, coo's, laughs and awwws around our house these days. I think two adults and three little boys have fallen madly in love.

I have a lot to write about. I doubt I get it all in today, but my first project is to write a blog about our birth experience. It was divine. But, first, I wanted to prove I was still here and post a picture of Master Emery, the picture perfect miracle who has kept Mamma so busy she hasn't had a minute to blog since his arrival.

And isn't that as it should be?

Thank you, God, for movement

Is there anything more comforting to a mother than the movement of her children? And is there anything more sweeter, from her perspective, than to watch them sleep?

Emery moves; he moves a lot.

I like that; I like that a lot.

Emery is new baby boy growing within. I can't see him, although ultrasound pictures have given us the closest glimpse. I can't hear him, although doppler has provided insight into how strong his little heart is. And I can't touch him, although I can lay a comforting palm on the right side of my growing belly and lovingly pat his bottom.

My hand automatically follows every little movement Little Man makes. He squiggles, and my hand follows. He rolls and my eyes look down. He tickles from within, and a giggle escapes my lips. I love to watch him roll, tumble and move within, because I am his Mommy and I thank God every single day of my life that he's given me the ability to produce life.

(And I say this even as yet another practice contraction takes hold of my growing uterus.)

The fact is that I don't mind any of pregnancy's little inconveniences. And you'll never hear me gripe about the baby's movements. It means he's alive and well within, and if I have a million pregnancies, I will never stop marveling at the joy that is growing within. It's beautiful, miraculous and an absolute wonder of nature.

Each time he moves, I smile.

Blissful, content and loved. That's how I feel as Emery grows within, because I know I've been given no greater gift than to feel those little movements.

Mommy Mistakes

I wouldn't exactly call myself a perfectionist. I just hate to make mistakes. It carries over from work to home, and it's simple. I don't mind admitting when I am wrong, and I don't mind being wrong. Matter of fact, I am wrong a lot. I just hate to do something, then do it badly.

If I write a story, there's nothing I dislike more than to see I spelled a name wrong, or got a fact wrong. My job is to get it right, and so I'm going to try my best to make it correct. I only get one chance. Print is print. Can't erase today's newspaper and start over again.

But those mistakes aren't the ones I'm reflecting on now. Work is work. Let's face it, there are more important things in life.

What I want to talk about is harder; they're called Mommy Mistakes. We speak of them in hushed tones. We don't want to admit we might be less-than perfect mothers. We all have to be the best, but when we're not, the ones who suffer the most are our children. That's a tough pill to swallow.

A few years ago I was involved in a Bible study group on Sunday nights with a bunch of women who were all nearly twice my age, if not more. It was a wonderful group, and among other things, it made me realize that I am not the only woman who makes Mommy Mistakes. They all shared about their experiences as young mothers. One admitted she still harbored guilt over slapping her daughter in a hurried moment before church one day. She wondered how she could sit in church, knowing what she'd done just an hour before. The moment, more than 20 years old, brought tears to her eyes, and we prayed over her pain.

I've had plenty of Mommy Mistakes in the past 11 years. Just the other night, I blew up because I threw away my son's homework. It was a simple error. It was a Friday. He normally doesn't have homework on Friday, and I looked over everything, then threw it all away. He told me, more than a day later, there was homework mixed in. I was so mad at myself. I yelled at myself, but he saw my frustration and anger, and that hurt me. I hurried out the door, ran to the trash trailer and started digging through the bags. It helped let out my frustration, and only me and the trash knew how hurried my hands were. I found it, relatively unscathed, and little boy completed his homework as intended.

I know discipline is necessary, and I don't mind handing down necessary punishment. I know it has to be done, but it never doesn't hurt me inside, even if it's just a little. But to me, a Mommy Mistake is when I get overly upset and yell too much, or when I yell over nothing at all, or I get mad over a mistaken mistake.

Mommy Mistakes happen. When they do, I often fall to my knees, long after boysies have forgiven mom and have received fair share of hugs and kisses, and pray for God to grant me the wisdom to know when Mommy Mistakes are on the horizon. I pray for His help and guidance as a parent and ask him to help me strive, every single day, to be a better person and a better parent.

I don't think Mommy Mistakes are ever going to be OK, and I won't say, "Hey, Krystal, you need to be a little less hard on yourself." I should strive every single day to be the parent God wants me to be, and that's a forgiving mother who loves and cares for her children, but spreads that love and forgiveness on herself ever now and again.

Mommy wants to nest

The urge has been overwhelming me lately.

And, quite frankly, all I want to do is stay home and be a mom.

Of course, as I say this, my phone rings. It's another call about the Persimmon Festival. I don't scream into the phone, "I'm 32 weeks pregnant!! Who cares about French fries, rides and vendor contracts??" The urge hasn't made me crazy. Not yet.

But the urge is there.

Instead of screaming or getting testy, busy Kryssy has just been busier, and she's been nestier. She wants to stay home and play with her house. She doesn't even want to shop or visit friends. It's all about her little house, nestled out in the sticks. She wants to cook, clean and do laundry. Even hubby has been staying closer to home. Matter of fact, on their nights alone, they've spent a lot of time just gazing at one another over take-out at the kitchen table. Many date opportunities have been skipped in favor of time at home.

I don't remember a time with the other boys that the feeling was this strong. Matter of fact, I can remember, as a relatively new mother, searching for signs of nesting. I wanted to be nesting because, in my mind, it meant baby was on his way. I am over that these days. I don't believe Emery is any closer to arriving than God's plan for him. He'll come, and he'll come when he's darn good and ready. And just because I am nesting doesn't mean I'll be anymore ready for him. In the days leading up to his arrival, I'll still be running around the house frantic trying to figure out if there's anything we're forgetting and making sure there are batteries in all the contraptions.

But, right now, I am having fun being a mom and looking forward to continuing that. I can't wait to meet my little man and introduce him to the brothers who will love and protect him from here on out. I'm looking forward to spending time in my jammies and staring into the faces of the guys who've made my life complete.

My focus isn't on work. And festival-planning is nearly done. It'll all work out, and I'll take care of what needs to be done.

But, right now, my focus is on more important endeavors. And I can certainly feel the maternal pull. The glow isn't from pregnancy; it's from what lies ahead.

The first day of school

Taking stock in the first day of school:

• After being home with big brothers all summer, Alex returned to sitter’s house, where he asked Jamie, “Are you sure my mom is going to pick me up?” He was also quite concerned about chocolate milk. He needed to have the correct kind, as the kind she tried to use was “spicy” ... She learned later she accidentally bought “sugar-free” Nesquick. Guess Alex knows best. He crashed midway through the morning wearing his Buzz Lightyear costume. Mornings are rough.

• Lucas couldn’t remember anything that happened. Not sure if he even made it to school. Then, I opened his backpack, found mounds of papers I needed to fill out and realized, yes, he made it, and no, it obviously made no impact on him. When asked how his day went, he replied, “It took a wong, wong time, but I did get in twouble.” Thank goodness. I was afraid he’d make I through the entire day without being reprimanded.

• Jacob wants to run for class president. He asked if I would help. I said, “Certainly.” He goes, “I ran in both third and fourth grade but you refused to help me.” Refused? We chatted and agreed mom was actually just uninformed of his decision to run. Jacob exaggerates his word choices. (Really??) He said I am good at art and creative so I can help with the posters, but Henry gets to run his campaign. Henry asked him if he though he would win, to which Jake replied, “I don’t know, but I want to try.” Good enough. We have another campaign blossoming in our family. I did get the “I just hope you’re not in the hospital when I run” ... And I explained the hospital stay is relatively short-lived and I am sure we can get the campaign done around the whole inconvenience of having his baby brother.

• Preschool kicks off Sept. 8. Not sure we’ll have the same problem as we did with Lucas. (Remember the whole kissing/sexual harassment incident?) Alex, I am sure, will bring a whole new set of problems. Mainly, he says what he thinks and pretty much believes the world is his stage. Last night, while he was trying to take our minds off the fact that he had to go to bed, he began shaking his little behind at us, trying to make us laugh. Henry laughed and left the room. Alex kept shaking, and I said, “Alex, stop. It’s not nice to do that to mommy.” He goes, “But it makes daddies laugh.”

My tombstone will read, “She did her best to raise four sons.”

Ewwww ... that's gross!

When God chooses you to be the mother of boys, he throws a good dose of laughter into your heart — just in case. I think he makes us pliable, yet strict, in preparation for what lies ahead.

And let’s face it — we never know what lies ahead.

But being a mother of boys and having a good sense of humor is never going to erase the fact that, yes, I am female, and yes, there’s a certain “gross” factor that still exists, even after spending more than a decade surrounded by little boys.

As any good parent knows, it’s always good practice to keep one ear to the grindstone at all times. I don’t call it eavesdropping, more of a personal protection policy against what’s pretty darn likely to happen next. The problem with this insurance is that it works OK when you’re at home, all hands are free and you can pretty much move in any direction at any given time. Doesn’t work so well when your hands are on 10 and 2, you’re watching the speedometer and navigating busy streets.

Take, for example, the conversation that tickled my ears last week.

I was driving through Bedford with my two youngest sons, ages 4 and 7. We were a few minutes from swim lessons at the Bedford pool when I heard toddler son Alex say, “I have two boogers. Don’t tell mom.”

Mom, of course, is only 18 inches away from toddler son in a quiet car. As soon as I could, I turned — against my better judgment — to see toddler son sitting in his car seat with each index finger pointing in the air, just inches away from his face.

That’s when older and much wiser son Lucas said, “Don’t eat those, Alex. You’ll die.”

Oh, yes, the conversation does get worse.

Being a person who prefers truth to fiction in parenting matters, no matter how little or well-intended it may be, I had a split second (all the while driving) to determine how I was going to convince toddler son not to eat his boogers, while also trying to explain to him that eating them won’t make him die.

The only thing I could come up with was, “Ooooh, Alex. Don’t do that. It’s gross.”

I know that wasn’t a stellar response, but give me a break — I’m still a girl.

“Seriously. It’s really, really gross,” I yelled to the back.

I won’t expand on what happened next. I handed back a Kleenex, and I can’t be sure if it was used or not. Really, though, I don’t want to know. Let’s face it. There are still a few things my parents don’t know, and sometimes, it’s best that way.

It’s why I carry sanitizing wipes in my glove box — I’m not just a mom of boys, but I am a prepared mom of boys.

A lot of people tell me boys are easier to raise than girls. I honestly wouldn’t know. I only have boys, after all. Those same people talk of how boys bring less drama to the picture, and explain that shopping for clothes is easier and less expensive.

Although I’m not entirely convinced all of that is true, boys are just that — boys.

I don’t have screaming, whining and crying, for the most part, but I do have jumping, climbing and boogers. And if you take away the bodily fluids, I’ll gladly opt for the daredevil feats over the drama. (I do have nieces so I’ve learned that much.)

I tell my best friends, who just all happen to have girls, that my biggest dilemma in a day is getting my boys to tame the “eek” factor. It usually means reminding them to change their clothing, take showers, brush their teeth and aim. And we share a good laugh when their girls show up at church camp with suitcases, while my son rolls in with a duffle bag.

I’m sure it’ll get worse, so I’ll just keep carrying the sanitizer and hope for the best.

And baby will make six ...

Four boys?

Four boys?

Seriously? We're going to have four boys!!!

We giggled like school children in bed that night. Hubby said, "Four boys? We're going to have four boys?" To which I replied, "Think about it, honey. Is there anyone more equipped for this adventure than us?" He nodded with a smile.

We found out Monday that baby who kicks mommy constantly and loves to do somersaults within my womb is a baby boy. No question. Emery Keith Shetler is growing within.

And I can only smile.

Little man is beautiful, healthy and mommy is doing good. We're closing in on the 30-week mark, and life couldn't be more wonderful. (Although I am still trying to figure out how my belly has gotten this big, this fast.)

As he kicks me now, I am filled with love.

Life is an amazing thing. You meet your soulmate, fall in love and God graces you with a child. Our family circle is nearly complete.

All I can say, Emery, is that you'll join a family who is ready to welcome you and already loves you. We're a rowdy bunch (after all, we're mostly boys with a mommy mixed in), but you'll fit right in.

Brood of boys

Guess I never grew up figuring on having a brood of boys. (And I say that in the same Ellie Mae tone as which it was intended.) I think when I played house, with all my dolls, tucked neatly in the closet that served as my cramped homestead, complete with blue and green flowered kitchen and self-created (used to be a shelf) bunk, I probably had an equal amount of girls and boys. Maybe more girls than boys, perhaps, as dolls usually seem to be a bit more on the feminine side.

Now, I have a brood of boys that is growing ...

Of course, only God knows if No. 4 is a boy, but I suspect he is. I suspect I was meant to be a Mom of Boys ... I mean, seriously, who could do this job with any more sanity than me? Who can laugh in the face of accidental cuss words, and shut up an entire car of screaming, yelling boys with a single stern voice? Who else would let a little boy fall asleep covered in sand and sweat, yet insist he brush his teeth? Who can kiss a slobbery face, seconds before that same slobbery face asks me to see if he has stinky feet, which of course, requires my nose to go where no nose should ever go? Who can do this and still love those little stinkers and laugh about their antics a million times a day?

That would be me, Mom of Boys.

I keep a notebook by my bed. I record antics as they happen, as MOB's memory often fails her. Yesterday's favorite? Alex, "Mom, will you give me a kiss?" Mom, "Of course. You can have a kiss anytime you want." Kiss transpires. Alex, "Thanks. Mommies are supposed to give kisses." Yes, indeed. Mommies are supposed to give kisses. Mommies are supposed to adore little boys, with sand in their toes and bugs in their hands.

Yes, I was meant to be a MOB, but fate only goes so far. After that, we simply must enjoy our privilege. Today, I thank God for making me a MOB.

The Good Son

Jacob has always been my "good son." And I say that knowing that any mother with a first born, parent-pleasing child will understand what I'm talking about.

He is the son who hates to disappoint. Hubby laughed last night when I told him that Jacob never even got dirty as a toddler. A speck of dirt on his hand would send him into panic mode, and he'd run into the house to wash his hands. His room was always tidy; toys never littered the floor. Harsh tones will break him; spankings were truly rare.

Yes, he gets in trouble. Yes, he doesn't always listen. Yes, he's been disciplined.

But, overall, he's been a breeze to raise.

Well, except for his affliction to all things pertaining to school. And his disdain for work.

When we first started giving him chores, Jacob ran screaming in the other direction. We persisted, however, and one day, we realized that no matter what we told this child to do, he did it -- no questions asked.

Granted, we don't ask much -- take out the trash, feed the dog, bathe the dog, clean your room or help pick up sticks and/or trash in the yard. He has very age-appropriate chores. Yet, not only does he do his chores without a gripe, but he often volunteers for more.

Because of this, parental units chatted and decided Jacob deserves an allowance. We settled on $5 a week, with bonuses for extra work. Jacob is thrilled. And we're quite proud of our 10-year-old.

A little work never hurt anyone. Work, in my opinion, has always taught a certain amount of responsibility. For Jacob, this is a big step and a very grown up step.

As Horace once noted, "Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work."

Story time with Alex

A pile of clothing, still warm from the dryer, created a mountain on my bed. Scattered hangers littered the room, while Alex was cozily amongst the chaos with his blue blanket stuffed under his nose and twirled among his tiny fingers. SpongeBob Squarepants played on the TV, and Alex said, "Mommy, lay down with me." I just couldn't, not then. I wanted to. The Lord knew I needed to, but there was a pile of clothes beckoning my attention.

So I folded, hung and put away the mountain of clothing.

And, then, I laid down with Alex.

He looked up at me, smiled and said, "Kiss me, Mommy."

So I kissed his tiny cheek, and he smiled.

Then, he said, "Tell me a story."

Translation? Tell him a story. Don't read a story, but make one up.

To grab Lucas' attention, who also meandered in the room, I started out, "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Lucas ..."

But was quickly interrupted.

"No. Tell me a story about a little boy named Alex."

So I started again. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Alex." A grin spread across his face, so I continued, "He was a silly little boy ..."

"No. Tell me a story about a little boy named Alex who lived in a house with his family."

The story started again. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Alex, who lived in a house with Jacob, Lucas, Steelie, Henry and Mommy. He loved to play outside with his new horse tire swing and pool. The end."

A smile spread across his face. He was happy. So was I.

I guess it doesn't matter if the story is fiction or non-fiction as long as a mommy and her tiny son are curled up in a big bed just a kiss away from happiness.

Did you really say that?

Out of the mouths of babes.

Yep. That's the story of my life.

With an ever-increasing number of babes, I often wonder what exactly will spill from their lips next.

Take Baby Boy, for example. Always seeking attention, he gets sillier by the day. This week, he's already announced that he wants a parrot for his shoulder. And kindly looked at the baby-sitter's chest and asked her if she was "getting ready to feed a baby too." And that was just two simple statements out a myriad of the ones he's spilled forth in the past couple of days.

To be honest, I never know what's next.

Even Eldest Son has his moments. The hair stylist cutting his hair Monday afternoon mentioned that Middle Son doesn't talk much, but ES does his fair share. His response? "I only talk to people who aren't creepy." She was happy not to be creepy. As for Henry and myself, we buried our faces in our laps.

I've gotten over it being embarrassing, because once upon a time, it really was. ES would open his mouth, and I cringed. While I was pregnant for MS, he asked one of my male colleagues if he, too, was having a baby. Sometimes I could see the wheels turning just enough that I was able to clamp my hand over his lips in time to catch the inevitable phrase -- but that didn't happen as often as I would like.

Now, I just laugh.

I chalk it up to what kids say, and I giggle knowing that they're only little and innocent for awhile. One day, I will wish such honesty would spill from their lips. One day, what they say will no longer make me laugh. Sometimes it'll even make me cry.

So, I'll enjoy it now. Pardon me if I giggle.

Versed in pregnancy

Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
It would take a woman stronger than me to be well versed in pregnancy.
Funny how each one is different.
Funny how my body adapts, changes and grapples with the wee one tucked below the folds of flesh.
But I am getting there, slowly.
The person who said "age is nothing but a number" was never pregnant with her fourth child in her 30s.
For a few weeks, exhaustion threatened to completely take over my life. Then, raging amounts of hormones running rampant through my body decided that being tired wasn't enough. I could hear them screaming, "Let's make her incredibly nauseous!!!"
Never had I experienced symptoms of this magnitude during gestation.
But I think it's reaching its end ... Now I am just ready for all the joys of pregnancy, like feeling a moving baby with a strong heartbeat.
The first trimester is nearing the end ... For that, I won't complain because I am all too ready to feel like a pregnant lady, rather than a bloated hormone dumpster.