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.

Ahhh, I love the peace and quiet

To celebrate our first wedding anniversary, hubby and I planned a trip to New York City. Long weekend full of love, fun and time together. It was his third trip to the Big Apple, my first. I was looking forward to all the sights, sounds and taking in all that city life had to offer, even if it was just for three days.

Insert two blisters, countless headaches and a few outbursts later, and let's just say that yours truly will likely never venture back to NYC again. It was nice seeing the grand lady, but I think my vacation time will be put to better use in the future.

Not that it wasn't grand, beautiful, interesting and wonderful. It was all that and more, but taking this little country gal out of her rural roots and plopping her down in the middle of NYC probably isn't the wisest course of action.

Our hotel was seven blocks from Times Square. I could see Macy's and the Empire State Building from the front door of our hotel. A subway entrance was just feet from our door, and Broadway was a stone's throw away.

But do you know how long seven blocks is when your feet are screaming for mercy? Do you realize that you have to go through airport security to get in the ESB? Do you know how many horns honk on Broadway, or how many people are in Times Square? Ever priced anything inside Macy's flagship store?

I was happy to spend a weekend with my adorable hubby. Anytime with him is happy time. I was blessed to have finally seen the Big Apple. It's a grand place to visit, at least once in your lifetime. And I loved touring Chinatown -- it was the best shopping and best food we ate during our stay. The Statue of Liberty is a grand lady, who still looks beautiful after more than 100 years in the sun. And I was moved to tears just standing near Ground Zero, remembering the heartbreak felt by the nation, not just NYC, nine years ago.

Let's say I wouldn't trade the experience for the world, but it was an experience. And, right now, I am happy to be home, where horns are a cause for concern and blisters only come after a vigorous workout in brand-new shoes.

Shocked? Not me.

I wasn't shocked. Not in the least.

According to an AP article, the mother of a 2-year-old southern Indiana boy who was allowed to remain in her care after he tested positive for methamphetamine has pleaded guilty in his beating death.

A few months ago, I had the pleasure of dealing with the Department of Child Services in May of this year. In a nutshell, the agency sucks. Really sucks. And it didn't take myself or Henry very long to tell them that they, indeed, suck.

The mission, according to the state Web site, says that DCS, "protects Indiana's children from further abuse or neglect and prevents, remedies, or assists in solving problems that may result in abuse, neglect, exploitation, or delinquency of children."

And, once again, I told them they need to re-read their mission statement, because it doesn't quite hold true. Apparently, someone else needs to ask them to re-read their mission statement if they can allow a 2-year-old who tested positive for methamphetamine to return to his home, only to find him dead a few weeks later.

I suppose the case worker found this little problem in Dubois County to be unsubstantiated. Guess the kid is just another meth head, out there looking for a high, while watching Dora and Diego on TV.

Get real, DCS.

Start looking at yourselves and re-examine whether or not your mission statement holds true. Kids need protected, and you're not doing your job.

Wake up, DCS, before it's too late.