Proud of petite progress

Ahhh, Lucas. What can I say really? To know him is to love him.

Little Lucas, tiny and vibrant, skilled yet different. Always stood out. Grabs your heart, twists it and never leaves it the same. Yep, that's my Lukie.

It wasn't very long after his birth that I realized Lucas was different. He whimpered, cried and craved me. He awoke every hour to nurse and couldn't be put down. But it wasn't until after his first birthday that I realized Lucas was really different. Things just weren't right. I'd only had one other kid, but I knew in my mamma heart that my quiet, backward toddler wasn't where a 2-year-old needed to be.

At his 2-year well child exam, I said as much to Dr. Sorrells, who agreed and pointed me in the direction of First Steps for speech therapy, because my tot was talking. That was the beginning of a long, often discouraging journey that has created moments proud enough to bring mamma to tears.

I cry a lot when I think of the steps Lukie takes in life. I cry for the little boy who works so very hard to take those big steps. I'm crying now. He just does that, ya know?

Lucas was diagnosed with both developmental and speech delays. He had a developmental and speech therapist for more than a year, then he went into the special needs preschool, where he worked at becoming a big boy for two years. Then, he went into kindergarten. Here, he spent another two years developing. Then, we took the very big step of first grade.

Two months into first grade at the parent-teacher conferences, his teacher explained that we would have to look at holding Lucas back again. He just was not progressing, couldn't read and was really struggling to keep up with first grade work. He was just too far behind. She would work with him, she said, and we agreed to do our part. I cried for my little guy. Another big step ahead ...

We got Lucas' report card today. He got an A+ in spelling, B+ in math and a C+ in reading. In previous report cards, Lucas wasn't meeting "grade level expectations." Now, I'm thrilled to report that he's exceeding them. Yes, exceeding, not just meeting -- all in just five months.

When I told my little man how very proud I was of him, he said, "I did good, didn't I?"

Oh, Lucas, you did good buddy. You hit it out of the park.

Lucas has to take very big steps in life. It doesn't come easy, but he works as hard as any little person ever has. He accepts every challenge head-on. It may take time, but he wins the race.

I couldn't be prouder of my tiny, yet tenacious first-grader whose well on his way to second grade.

Don't question maturity

“You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers.”

— John J. Plomp

“Mom, have you noticed in the past few months if my voice is getting deeper? Because I feel like it has gotten deeper lately.”

Just days past his 11th birthday, I had to stare my oldest son in the face and answer, “No. Not really, but remember, I hear you talk every day so I might not notice it as much as someone who hasn’t seen you for awhile.”

He’s pretty anxious for puberty.

But, really, who isn’t at his age?

Maturity looks pretty good until you reach it.

And to be quite honest, he’s starting to reach it.

I talk to my mother quite frequently on the phone. For the past few months, I’ve talked to her about my eldest son and the changes I’ve witnessed in him. They’ve been behavioral, for the most part, as he takes on chores with zeal and procures model behavior. Funny thing is that I was just thanking my lucky stars that one of the three was acting good, and never chocked it up to maturity until a couple of weeks ago.

It happened as I left him at the sitter’s house to head to work. I kissed all three boys, telling my first-grader to behave himself at school and on the bus. When I got to my oldest son, I kissed him on the forehead and said, “Be good.” He replied, “Mom, I’m always good. I don’t get in trouble at school or on the bus.”

There were occasions when he did.

But, he’s right, I no longer have to worry about those things with him.

And as the wheels continued to churn in my head I realized that my son has been maturing right in front of my eyes.

When I run to the store these days, only two little boys run up begging to go. The oldest says, “Mom, I want to stay here.” When he has an issue or a question, he says, “Mom, can we talk in private?” And I was even asked, ever so quietly, to buy deodorant to help with perspiration during August football conditioning.

All of this is new. He’s the first-born, and to be frank, I am used to a myriad of little boy issues. Cuts, scrapes, dirt and tears — got those covered. Now, we’re facing a new frontier.

And although I’m not quite ready to walk down that road, I’m getting there.

My oldest has been fun to raise thus far.

His questions often make me scratch my own head as I search for an honest, yet toned down response to his query. And when he searches his brain for what he deems a grown-up response, yet doesn’t quite get his wording right, I can only smile. He’s helpful, prudent and serious. A friend, in describing his own first-born son, told me, “If there was a cliff, not only would be not go anywhere close to the edge, but he would stand 100 feet in front of the edge and warn everyone else of the impending danger.” That’s pretty much a dead-on description of my own first-born.

But along those same lines, he likes rules. So, obviously, when he’s told at school that x, y and z happens at the onslaught of puberty, then my tween looks for all the signs, and just to be sure he’s noticing, he asks mom. And I like that he does. I like that he’s not afraid of important questions, because I fear that there will come a time when he’s not as open as he is today.

As Albert Einstein once said, “The important thing is not to stop questioning.”

And I’m learning not to question his maturity.

Happiest Baby in the World!!!

Emery smiles a lot. He smiles over nothing. He laughs. He cackles. He literally loves his life. And, to be honest, every one of his smiles makes us smile.

I am convinced he's the Happiest Baby in the World.

And I know he gets it from his Dad, who is the Happiest Daddy in the World.

They smile alike, look alike and I love them both beyond measure.

Having a fourth child isn't a burden. It's a blessing. Emery has blessed our lives, all of our lives. His brothers adore him, and marvel over his every move, and his Dad loves to make him giggle.

We're blessed with a lovely family. Thank you, God.

Forget the dirt, pass the chocolate

It’s a running joke in most large families. You’ve all heard it before or experienced it yourself: The baby of the family is spoiled or treated differently because, by the time mom and dad had him, they were worn out.

I’m here to tell you that’s pretty much true. I’m worn out. Almost daily.

But in all seriousness, it does seem that the more kids you have, the more your parenting style changes.

Let me explain ...

My oldest son hates chocolate. And it’s my fault. Probably not, but I take the blame.

I love chocolate. I think it’s better than just about anything else you can put in your mouth. Just ask my hips.

But when Jacob was a tyke, I wouldn’t let him have candy. No chocolate. No suckers. No nothing. It was bad for him, and I was holding my ground. Now, he hates chocolate. Couldn’t pay the kid to eat a Hershey bar. I doubt there’s truly a direct correlation there, but who knows?

It goes back to my parenting style in those days. I wouldn’t let him have anything but real juice, either. He probably didn’t touch a Capri Sun until he was 5 years old. And he never left the house without his hair in place and his clothes perfectly pressed. We even had designated sand box time to where, I had to have enough time to give him a bath before our next “appointment.”

He was the first child and the only child for four solid years. I even worked part-time while he was young. My entire focus was on that child and making his life as perfect as possible. That meant cutting out sugar and making cleanliness a virtue.

Fast-forward 11 years.

Life has certainly changed.

Capri Sun costs $1.99 a box. We go through several boxes in a month.

Lucas and Alex, sons No. 2 and 3 respectively, have been known to wear super hero costumes to the grocery store or just about anywhere. When they want to wear their rubber boots, I say, “Why not?”

Suckers are the least of my worries.

And the boys have been known to get in the sand box before church, but only if I don’t catch them first.

I’ve certainly become more lax — at least with some things.

Each family has a value system.

There are things in each family that parents find important and refuse to give up. Some of the smaller things, I’ll admit, seem to fall by the wayside as more kids join the fold.

We have a lot of things we value in our family. Take respect, for example. We command respect. And family meals are integral. We don’t eat in front of the TV in the living room. Even if it’s a McDonald’s night, it’s consumed at the dining room table. Video games aren’t played in church, and we don’t spend hundreds on each kid for Christmas and birthdays.

But if you want to dress up like Batman and wear your skull-dotted rubber boots to the grocery store, who am I to complain?

Before I had children, I would look at my niece and nephew and say, “My kids will never walk around with snot dripping from their nose.” And as much as I try to curb that, it happens. Kids are kids, and snot happens.

I just choose not to sweat the little things anymore, and that’s certainly going to manifest itself when it comes to my children.

Some would argue I’m treating my kids differently, and in a way, I am.

But mostly, I’ve just swallowed a chill pill and decided that enjoying them is way better than fussing over a little dirt.

'Tiger Mother' not lacking in approach

I first heard about the “Tiger Mother” on Facebook when a friend in Colorado, who doesn’t have children, asked what mothers thought of Amy Chua’s controversial parenting techniques.

I was the only person who answered.

When I, too, asked friends to comment about her book, it was the same muted response.

Do parents even care about the “Tiger Mother” or has the media overblown this author’s attempt to explain much stricter Asian parenting styles through her controversial book, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother?”

Regardless, I couldn’t resist writing about her parenting styles.

And you’ll find I won’t be critical of her methods, just asI would expect her not to be directly critical of how I raise my children.

If you haven’t heard about the “Tiger Mother,” let me explain.

Chua is a Yale professor of Chinese descent who uses the book to explain her tough-as-nails parenting style, comparing it, in contrast, to a more lax Western parenting style.

For example, her daughters aren’t allowed to have sleep-overs, playdates or any grade lower than an A on their report cards. They can only play the violin or the piano, and practicing those instruments takes hours. Her children aren’t allowed to chose their own extra-curricular activities, and she was once ostracized from a dinner party for calling her daughter “garbage” for not showing her respect.

And none of this shocked me when I first read the excerpts from Chua’s book. Although I wouldn’t necessarily chose some of the routes she took in raising her daughters, who am I to say it’s wrong?

First, I am one of those semi-lax Western mothers.

Second, my children are still children. My success as a parent, in my opinion, will be contingent upon how my sons tackle their teenager years and travel into adulthood.

Chua can write a book like she did because her methods have seemingly worked thus far with her daughters. Had her girls, ages 15 and 18, rebelled by burning their instruments in protest, I doubt the book would’ve even made it to the publisher.

But more than any of that, I think the parenting style is just that — a style. Let’s face it — Chua is still being a parent. And who can argue with that?

In my job, harsh reality tends to slap me in the face. On almost a daily basis, I read national, state and even local stories about abusive parents who have harmed or taken the life of their innocent children.

Those people aren’t parents. They’re monsters.

The fact of the matter is that Chua is not afraid to be a parent, nor is she afraid to admit what kind of parent she is. It doesn’t shock any of us because her children are alive, well taken care of, adjusted and enjoying success in their lives.

If we don’t agree with Chua’s methods, then we just do it differently. The important thing, in terms of parenting, is that we do it.

Is there an app to help me?

My smart phone is loaded to the brim with apps for my kids. Matter of fact, outside of the old standby boredom beater, Solitaire, all of the apps I’ve downloaded thus far were found with little people in mind.

And the preschool learning apps have especially intrigued my thirdsie, the little guy who is gearing up for a big change this fall.

Rarely a minute goes by that Alex doesn’t say, “Can I play coloring on your phone?” I open the app, hand him the phone, and with his nimble little fingers, he pieces together puzzles, dot-to-dots and coloring pages. Let’s just say technology has trumped anything I did at his age.

What he doesn’t realize is that he’s learning and honing his fine motor skills.

And that mom is secretly trying to prepare him for kindergarten.

But what I am slowly learning, is that he’s smarter than me.

I asked to him last week, while playing a puzzle game that spells out words, if he would spell the words to me.

“No. I don’t like to spell,” was his response.

And there went one of those teachable moments right out the car window. Or, so I thought.

Then, without warning, he started spelling.

It flew back in.

He spelled “boat,” “kitten,” “goat” and even “matryoshka.”

Alex is a pretty smart cookie, but only when he wants to be, because as smart as Alex is, he’s just as stubborn.

Each time he would finish spelling a word, I would say, “Good job, Alex.” And he’d spell some more. Finally, he said, “Mom, I like it when you say, ‘Good job, Alex.’” Ahhh, and who said kids weren’t precocious?

Alex entered preschool in the fall, with great zeal.

And as soon as he entered preschool, I started looking toward kindergarten.

Sure, he knows he’s going to big brother’s school next year, but what’s “next year” when you’re 4 years old?

So as big brother hones his reading skills, little brother is getting the practice he needs to be on the right track.

Kindergarten is a big deal.

Sending my third to school is a world of difference from sending my first.

I should be an old pro by now, but as is always the case, each kid is different.

Jacob was much more adult-like than his brothers, as the first, and Lucas suffers through developmental delays that made his trip to school a little bit rockier. Alex only wants to be like his older brothers, but on his own time with his own set of rules.

But, after sending two different kids through kindergarten, I am learning the importance of making sure they’re ready.

And that takes more than reciting the alphabet and being able to count.

It’s a big world, and these days, most kindergartners leave that first year of school knowing how to read, write and even have math skills. And the lesson I took away from sending the first two sons to school, is that it takes more than just academics to get them through kindergarten. So as we read books, recite our address and practice body parts, we’re also instilling a healthy dose of maturity.

And that’s hard, especially for mom.

Alex doesn’t know what’s going on, but I know I’m sending a little boy off into the great big world.

And, even though I know he’ll be emotionally ready to take that step, I have to wonder, will I?

But that’s the age-old question now isn’t it?

I wonder if there’s an app for that?

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.