May 28, 2016

People keep asking me "how I'm feeling." Hmm. Well. I'm pretty sure I just threw out my back trying to shave my leg, if that gives you any indication. You should try it. Fill a beach ball with sand, stuff it under your shirt and then try to shave. It's great entertainment. Until the ball starts pulverizing your insides because you are squishing it. 

I can't do the most mundane, simple tasks. It's VERY annoying. This is my FOURTH pregnancy.  I was in the rafters wiring and hanging sheet rock with my last three kids. (Because there is a strange correlation with me wanting to remodel immediately after getting two lines on a pee stick).

This pregnancy has been an absolute DOOZY. I had to leave the Dollar General after carrying around a Root Beer because my contractions had me on my knees. (Again- other three pregnancies- carrying SHEET ROCK; this pregnancy can't carry a TWO LITER).

I think I caused this. First, we planned to return to Mexico to have our baby. After doing some research, I realized we'd have to stay a month or two for all the paper work to come in just so we could LEAVE the country WITH our baby.  (Plus go a month before the baby since flying is restricted when you're about to pop). We aren't in any position to leave for three months with our businesses so we had to scratch that. (But not before we researched driving an RV across the Texas border. Apparently, from the mouth of a native with family living in one of the border towns, that is suicide).

So on to my next, glorious plan. I've always wanted to have a baby at home. That's weird, yes. I'm well aware. But it would make for an awesome blog. The way I figure it, I pushed twice with Brighton before he came out and Boeing literally slid out before I even got a chance to push. I figure this one will fall out when I'm walking to the fridge. (And I have nurse friends. For some bizarre reason they are NOT very encouraging. Something about wanting the baby to live). 

BUT I forgot about the contractions. I was induced with the last two kiddos, and the epidural made my deliveries easy, cheesy. (Besides Starling and cronies eating dough nuts in front of me while I was only allowed ice. That made me a tad bit homicidal. Lucky for them I was paralyzed).

I have NEVER had contractions like the ones I've had during this pregnancy except for actual LABOR with Brooklyn when I thought I was going to kill over DEAD before they'd even admit me. So maybe I needed a reminder that I am a BIG fan of DRUGS. I still have seven more weeks before this baby is due, and I'm already daydreaming about the epidural.

To keep us occupied, since I find things like walking difficult, I signed my kids up for t-ball and gymnastics. I mean- why not commit myself to as much taxi driving as possible? Nothing like screaming sweet nothings at the steering wheel of my car while my inner womb feels like its ripping apart. It's such a normal occurrence,  my kids don't even think it's odd. Boeing will randomly grab his stomach and proclaim, "AHHH!!! Tractions!"

I have to say I am VERY impressed with Brighton in t-ball. He has completely surpassed my expectations. (Which wasn't hard to do since I thought he'd be wrapped around my leg like a spider vein, crying, and refusing to go on to the field). He actually participates and LIKES it. He doesn't "get" the concept of t-ball, really, but I wasn't expecting a miracle. He had his first game and he stood on the pitcher's mound yelling, "Hit it to me! Hit it to me!"  And when he wasn't playing in the dirt, he grabbed a few balls. Proud Mama, right here.

And Brooklyn LOVES gymnastics. Of course, she loves everything. She also loved dance where they put her center and BACK trying to hide her during the performance while she executed a self-invented abstract rendition of the ACTUAL dance alongside her peers.

I think extracurriculars are insanely overpriced. I have to pay a monthly tuition PLUS a yearly MEMBERSHIP FEE? (They aren't satisfied with the arm and a leg. They want both kidneys, too).    

Good grief, I'm not sending my kid to the Olympics. Isn't there like a "I just want the kid to be able to do a cartwheel" discount class?

Boeing starts gymnastics tomorrow. He's the only one I actually feel like I am making an INVESTMENT in. This is like paying for preventative health care. As of now, he is flipping off everything he can climb and I would prefer him to NOT die. I was promised he would be taught how to land without breaking his legs (or neck) and safe ways to perform all his favorite tricks. If a teacher can miraculously guide Boeing's insane obsession with break dancing to safer/ or at least trained techniques, by ALL means, have at it.

Brighton watched Brooklyn and now he wants to do gymnastics, too. (He wants to jump into the foam pit. Let's just say it for what it is). But unless I find more members of my body to part with, my kids are going to have to do one sport at time. Getting a whopping $5 sibling discount just doesn't cut it.

Since my life is boring and I've found homes for all of my foster cats, Starling, who doesn't even like cats and complains about Jax, the one we have, jovially accepted a pregnant cat for me. The cat is hormonal, stalks around yowling, purring and hissing at the same time. She curls around Boeing's legs like she loves him, then threatens to shred his face when he looks at her. She adores Brooklyn, and then DID slap her in the face, but only because she was mad at Jax and Brooklyn was the closest scapegoat. She wants inside. She wants outside. She wants to be social. She wants to be left alone. She loves you. She wants to kill you. 

As I observed her insanity, I realized she is ME. In cat form.

And if expecting a baby and a litter of kittens isn't exciting enough, we have started the eternally LOOONG process of renewing our foster care license.

Since we were out of the country for a year, we have to start ALL OVER again. And wouldn't you know ALL the classes are in April and May. So I have to convince my doctor to let me get induced on a Monday so I can finish my last class on a Thursday. Otherwise it'll take months and months of WAITING until they schedule another class. And NO; I'm not getting new kids the week after I have a baby. Trust me, at the rate DHS rolls, it'll be several months before they process all the paper work, do a home study, and get us re-licensed. And then we'll play it by ear.

Everyone acts like having a new baby is the hard part. But, FOR ME, after being a whale balancing on stork legs for nine months, a new born is a welcomed RELIEF. I can PUT her DOWN to bend OVER. I can walk from one side of the room to the the other without wincing. The BABY weighs MUCH less than the STOMACH I have to lug around every day. And that's AFTER I turn her into mini sumo wrestler.  

There is truth to the saying, "After three, what's one more?" I'd take that a step further to say, no kid has anything on Boeing Johnson. I have fostered HOW many kids now? And again, I reiterate, NONE of them have anything on Boeing Johnson in ANY department. 

He can stretch a nerve like a new rubber band. Brookie and Bry need help getting drinks. Boeing needs help getting rocks unstuck from his nostrils. He's just a special breed of human. 

There is a reason he was born so darn cute. 

SO THAT'S a LITTLE bit of what's going on with us. Same-o, same-o. 

Pregnancy #4:

Oh, being pregnant. How I have missed you. I haven't grown a pumpkin patch on my face in years. And I wear it with pride having not even attempted to cover my face with the slightest bit of make-up in a month. Why should I? Every time I throw up, tears flood my eyelashes making a lovely black and gray swirl foundation that is a bit darker than my, now, albino complexion. Well, albino everywhere but the circles under my eyes. They retained their blue color quite nicely.

Pregnancy has forced me to SLOW down and appreciate my life. I am now grateful for all walks, no matter the distance- from bed to bathroom. From bathroom to bed. And the joy of relaxing in bed all day... (with my vomit bucket tucked firmly between my legs). It's blissful. I love sitting there watching my children frolic about the house, while I consider telling them to stop using cereal as a form of confetti to decorate the tile floors, but finding myself too tired to beat them so I close my eyes and sleep instead. I love listening to the arguing and screaming as they self regulate their emotions with almost no parental intervention. And sweet Boeing running around making gagging noises and yelling, "I'm too tired. I have to take a break. I can't breave."

I believe pregnancy has enhanced my existing children. Their inventive ideas never cease to amaze me. Just now Boeing came to me with a new invention. I had to tell him, "No thanks, buddy. I don't want to pick my boogers with your used sucker stick." But what a genius idea. And Bry took all of the wooden slats out of his twin sized bed and built a race car track two rooms long. I didn't even mind breaking my ankle, foot, and falling into the wall tripping over it trying to find the bathroom in the dark. Today I even discovered that the boys had planted a garden in their room using berries. (CANDY berries). SURE about a cuzillion sugar ants had taken OVER their garden, but they were "sowing the seed" like in the scripture story we just read.

I've realized that my kids are quite capable of doing everything for themselves. Bry can make his own peanut butter and nutella sandwich, Brookie can fold and put away laundry. Even Boe, being only two, is completely able. In fact, he doesn't even need my help (or permission) to feed himself cookies hidden on top of the fridge. (Apparently my pregnancy has enhanced all his senses in addition to his mischievousness). He is so considerate so as not to wake me, he closes my bedroom door, the kitchen door, scales a chair quietly climbing onto the counter, stacks a variety of cereal boxes or whatever he can find to stack, and locates all the treasures "put out of his reach." After he climbs another shelf and uses the scissors to open his snack, he does a little mending on anything he sees worth chopping, (AH Daddy's khaki church pants- snip snip), then he remembers his snack and decides to eat. As you probably know, food is not meant to be jailed in containers. Upon opening food, it should be immediately freed, no matter the ginormous amount. Boeing is a stickler for cookie rescues and promptly dumps all 40 cookies in a pile on the tile floor, usually amongst a similar pile of cereal. But Boeing, with his tender considerations, takes it a step farther. He takes two handfuls of cookies from the kitchen floor and carries them, making a crumbly trail, through the living room and into either the kids' room where Brookie and Bry are playing or upstairs where they are playing. He then generously shares his bounty. Brighton graciously accepts, no questions asked.

Brooklyn, forever the only adult in the house at SIX, taps her foot, "Boeing, did you ask Mommy for cookies?"

"Umm, but no... but because Mommy is asleep."

I am then awaken from my sleep, which is my cue to puke, and told of the horrors occurring during my nap. "Lovely! So lovely! I'll just sweep that up." I stand, sway, gag.

"No. I'll just tell Daddy when he gets home."

Starling has been the MOST blessed by this pregnancy. He's always been envious of my household duties. What a grand opportunity to step into my flip flops! Laundry, dishes, sweeping, discipline. He's a natural. He loves it. Does he wait until every dish in the house is dirty to wash them? Of course he does. He loves a challenge! And has he fed us every single meal since I got sick. YEAH he has. He is KING of ordering pizza and food delivery. He is on call 24 hours. Thank goodness half the taco stands stay open past midnight, because sometimes, I just need to eat at midnight. (And again at 3 or 4 a.m. And again at 6...). Every day he tells me how great it is to live with an invalid. (Okay, he's never said it out loud- but I KNOW he's thinking it. I can tell by that expression of love he flashes me when I wake him up and start with, "Starling- can you....". Its super endearing. I can tell that he's NEVER been happier).

And can I just say how thankful I am for my super-sonic smelling power? I don't know what I've done without it for the last two and half years. I can smell someone grilling from 6 blocks away. And that is extremely useful. My "overactive sniff" combined with my overzealous gag reflex: I am just a happy go lucky time bomb. I haven't exactly pinpointed the need for the increased smelling abilities as it pertains to evolution, but I will certainly never accidently eat something inedible. Laundry detergent? Gag. Dishwashing liquid? Gag. Any "smell good" products that I once appreciated: perfume, cologne, deodorant? Gag.

But today! I have to say today was BETTER. The best day I've had for WEEKS! I actually got OUT of my BED and did LAUNDRY. (Starling did have to intervene towards the middle of me hanging clothes because I got to weak- but PROGRESS)! I think I'm finally bouncing back from Dengue, which I VERY fortunately caught at the SAME time as pregnancy. (Better to catch all the deathly ill at once and get it out of the way). I figure I'm filling my quota so I can be healthy as an ox next year. Or at least I'll think I am in comparison to now.

We are heading back to the States at the end of November. My brother is getting married and our visas expire. Our year long stay in Cozumel is coming to an end. I know my parents have to be thrilled to have us come live with them. Who doesn't want Boeing Johnson living in your house helping you reorganize everything you own? But it'll ONLY be until our rental lease is up on our house. So ONLY a month or so.... ONLY.... I can already imagine the joy a family of five will bring to the neighborhood... We might need to invest in a child size kennel. We are excited to see all of our MSippians. I'm ready for a big pot of greens and corn bread with a side of fried chicken. And every other MS food I've been without for the last year. I usually gain 50 pounds with my pregnancies. Just a gander... but the way I've been inhaling foot long subs and half a dozen tacos... I'm going with same-ole', same' ole. And that's the healthy stuff. I'm just counting down the days until I pull up into Sonic to get my 7 inch tall bacon cheddar toaster loaded with meaty, cheesy, onion ring, and bbq goodness....

Well, its midnight. Time to eat again. SEE Ya'll soon!!   

Depression: The Silent Killer

IN MEMORY of my amazing friend...

Depression. The silent killer. Depression is a cancer that slowly eats a person, left untreated. And sometimes, even the most aggressive treatments just aren't enough.

Depression is difficult to define, to explain in words, because depression isn't made up of words. It's made up of swirling emotions that are usually meddled with small bits of truths and bulks of disproportionate falsehoods.

All people have struggled with bouts of depression at some point in their lives, usually associated with a tragic loss or a stressful event. We have all felt sad, all felt overwhelmed, but usually time heals our wounds and we are able to bounce back to a normal routine, our emotions stabilizing.

In the past, depression was considered "the blues," and accepted that one would eventually "snap out of it." Now, after further explorations of the brain, depression is recognized as a medical condition.  Depression is a mental illness. It's not unlike diabetes or heart disease. Diabetes is an imbalance of insulin; depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain (with about a million contributing factors still being explored).

One cannot fathom the depths of depression until personally going through it. I certainly never did.

I observed my close relatives, their behavior often odd and confusing to me. The shifts in mood from warm to ice was an ever occurring phenomenon. As a young child, I often resented the adults in my life who seemed to love me one day and reject me the next. I was often harsh in my judgment of family members.  I wondered why they didn't just try to be happy. After all, happiness is a choice.

It wasn't until I turned nineteen that I began to understand my family. I began to experience shifts in my mood that were unrecognizable to me, as I had never struggled with disabling mood swings as a youth. Despite my exuberant optimism, which most people recognized as my most prevalent characteristic, those closest to me began to see a darker side.

Depression affects all people differently. This is my story.

The only description I can offer is "black hole." It didn't matter that I was an honor student in college, that I was President of the Business Club, that I had a serious boyfriend that I would later marry, that I had a job I loved, that I had amazing friends. Outwardly, my world seemed adequate enough. I felt blessed beyond belief. I laughed. I joked. I was happy. So happy. But like a rogue wave, I would be slammed into a state of utter despair. It was unpredictable. Sometimes trifling issues would proceed it, sometimes nothing at all. As an insanely prayerful person, I was convinced I could pray my way through the turmoil offsetting my world. I married. I finished my college degree (ironically changing my emphasis to psychology). I had three kids. I fostered over a dozen children. Through all of this, I battled a demon, not of flesh and blood, but of thoughts existing in my own head. No one outside of my home had a clue. How could they? I never went out when I was experiencing an "episode," a term my husband and I used to refer to my low points. I was often curled up in a ball wishing the earth would swallow me up, praying God would take me home where I didn't have to feel the desolation engulfing my own mind. Emotions that crashed over me included, but were not limited to, grief, despair, hopelessness, and guilt. The guilt encompassed more of me than anything. How could I be so ungrateful? How could I hate a life so filled with blessings? I was a miserable person. My family would be better off with someone who could uplift them, instead of drag them through the endless roller coaster that was my existence.

My husband was my constant buffer. He cared for the kids, no matter how many filled our home at the time. He was always loving and encouraging. He was my rock. After a day, sometimes two, it passed. And then I was happy again. Like it never even happened. I loved my family, I resumed my role as a bouncy trouncy mom and wife.

Along the way, I'd visited doctor after doctor, all of which deciding I was the most upbeat, happy person on earth and of course I was stressed out and overwhelmed. I constantly had between 5 and 6 kids under the age of 7 living in my house. Nothing was wrong with me. I just needed to take more time for myself. Take a happy pill.

I'd researched and implemented behavioral therapy methods, my first choice of dealing with communication and behavioral problems with my biological and foster children.  Despite my 100% anti-medicine mind, I finally gave up on controlling my mood. I finally realized there was no controlling a tornado. So I tried several different antidepressants. Some made me groggy out of my mind. I would ask my doctor, "Isn't there something else I can take? I'd like to load my dishwasher without pausing to take a nap."

I'd try something else. It would send me spiraling into raging mood swings worse than the ones I was already experiencing. Once I went ballistic and threw tomatoes at Starling's head. Why? Because I was making BLT's and he ate a piece of bacon that was not yet on a sandwich.

Finally, I talked to a psychiatrist, taking Starling with me. (This proved to be the turning point in someone believing that I was bonkers). When I jovially described my colorful episodes, I could never quite divulge the fullness of my lows. As it is sometimes with blissfully happy people, when we aren't sad, it's almost difficult to recreate a description of a low episode. We almost block it out, because we no longer associate with those ragged emotions. At least, not until they fester again. Even with the psychiatrist, I found myself laughing at the ridiculousness of my actions and the insane beliefs I held during my ugly moments. Not because I found any of it funny. Trust me. I didn't. Humor and sarcasm is how many people cope with depression. It's our own little defense mechanism.  

It was only when Starling spoke, that the psychiatrist stopped grinning. It was terribly uncomfortable for me, to be vulnerable with my illogical thinking and embarrassing behaviors filleted on the psychiatrist's desk. He diagnosed me with bipolar. But, I thought, the "black hole" wasn't me and it wasn't anything I wanted to be associated with. I wasn't like the people we'd studied in my psychology classes. They took crazy to a whole new level.

The doctor said the spectrum for mental illness is huge and while I was low on the spectrum in severity, (I wasn't blowing money, drinking, abusing drugs, having sex with random people, etc), he thought I would benefit from a mood stabilizer- anti depressant combo. After eight looong years, I got on the right medication. Wow. What a difference. Now I can reserve my crazy for my children's behavior instead of plunging into moments of imaginary problems. I consider myself one of the lucky ones.

Many people don't find the right medication. Many people are misdiagnosed. Many medications have terrible side effects, some leading to suicide. Even with the right medication, depression is still a life-long battle.

When depression takes a life, as it did one of my dearly beloved friends, it breaks my heart. It also makes my mind churn. I don't ask "Why?" I know why. It's the black hole of depression. Though I have never blogged about my diagnosis, I haven't been silent about it, either. You may have noticed, if you've read my blog, I'm not a secretive person. I've learned that owning my weaknesses gives me power over them. It also empowers others.

When my friend left this world, she left a multitude of loved ones, people she loves, people who love her. People I haven't talked to in 10 years have reached out to me, and vice-versa. And I notice a trend. Nearly everyone I talked to said the same thing, "I know what depression is like. I struggle with it, too."  Most of them keep it a secret, scared of the little black box hidden in their sock drawer. It could happen to any of us. A predisposition to depression significantly increases the risk of suicide.

Depression singles out our insecurities, magnifying them. It convinces us that we are alone in our sorrows, the only one fighting a losing battle. Well. We aren't alone. There are millions of us. It's time to stop hiding in the shadows. It's time to own it and beat it. You are not alone. You are never alone. It helps to talk to others who walk in your shoes. My door is always open. Well. I live in Mexico. My fb messenger is always open. And those of you who live with a person suffering with depression, there is a special place in Heaven for you next to my husband.

I love you, Mary Ellen Ray. We made a great team winning those debate trophies. I don't know if anyone could make up "facts" like the two of us. (And leave our opponents' mouths agape). Thanks for the memories. I'll always smile when I think of you. You left this world too early. Your life has touched more people than you know. I only wish you could have seen the out pouring of love from your friends and family before you left this earth. Maybe you do see it. I hope so. I know your heart is no longer troubled. I have a testimony that families are forever, that our Savior has welcomed you into His loving arms. You'll always have a special place in my heart. 

Love one of your many friends,

Wendi

The Stitches

Yesterday we went to eat at Margaretville with Starling's parents. They flew in for 10 days and Les, Starling's dad, went to USM with Jimmy Buffet, so we wanted to show him the place. (Okay. Truthfully, we were craving their nachos). The plastic surgeon's office (where Bry had to get stitches) is a few doors down. We needed to check in with the doc to make sure Bry's head was healing appropriately. After we ate, we started walking. There are signs on the sidewalk. Little advertisement signs beckoning people into stores to get jewelry, purses, and tattoos. Well. No. Not little signs. Massive, 'you can't miss me', signs.

Brighton ran SMACK into one. It was not a delicate greeting. It was a slam his face, fall flat on his butt, stare at the sign with little cartoon birdies flying over his head in a halo, smash. (Irony being we were going to see if he could get the stitches out of his face. Sucky thing- I didn't get it on video). While Bry and Starling were in the back of the doctor's office  talking to a nurse, I had the joyous responsibility of keeping Boeing occupied in the adorable cereal box sized waiting area. We played with the "jelly fish" on the desk. (That's kind of what breast implants look like, right)?

When we LEFT the office (with stitches still in), Bry ran into the SAME sign AGAIN. That's when I realized... he has some of his mama in him.

But why did he need stitches in the first place? Well... some kids are just born more accident prone than others. Some kids just have crappy parents. Apparently... Bry got dealt both hands, bless his heart.

Brookie and Bry got new boogie boards for their birthdays. (Boeing calls them skateboards. The other two kids call them surf boards. Both names implicate STANDING on the board = correct usage ). That's problem number one.

I told the kids (Brooke and Bry) to give water to our pup and kitty. Boeing insisted on helping. That's problem number two.

Boeing's enormous cup of water never made it to the water bowl. It dumped out all over the tile in the living room. The tile is slick like glass. That's a combo problem number 3.

Me. Problem number 4.

Starling. Problem number 5.

"Boeing! Seriously? The floor JUST got mopped! Water is everywhere." I almost slid down and busted my butt, which, like all normal people, gave me a great idea.

"Hey! Bring your boogie boards! This is going to be AWESOME!"

I demonstrated how to run and JUMP on the boogie board. I zoomed all the way through the living room and out the door. "It's exactly like a slipping slide." (Except not. You might die).

"COOL, MOM! We wanna try!!!"

Usually there is one responsible parent in a relationship. This would have been the time when that parent, the "bad cop" or parent with "common sense" or "rational/sane" parent would have intervened and shut down the party. BUT, it was just Starling.

"That's all you got? You have to get more momentum than that!"   

The kids increased speed, slid farther.

"Weak sauce!" He taunted.

After 15 minutes or so, once we had solidified the proper form and speed for complete and total disaster, we left our kids to enjoy their new game.

About 15 or 20 more minutes passed and in runs Brookie, "Bry is bleeding. Seriously. He is! He really is bleeding. Seriously. For real." I heard no screaming and crying and bleeding is a common occurrence in our house, so I wasn't too alarmed. (Although, he could have been unconscious somewhere. But Brooklyn would have told me. Four to five times).

After I finally said, "OKAY, Brooklyn. I heard you. Bry is bleeding," Bry walked into my room. He didn't look too worried or too hurt. He just had blood draining down his face like red syrup. He, of course, wiped it like he would wipe sweat, and then touched me. And my computer desk. And anything else that could hold a bloody hand print.

"Mo-om. I'm bleeding," he half whined, obviously out of annoyance that he had to stop riding his boogie board because blood was getting in his eye.

Really? I never would have guessed.

"Stop touching it."

"But its bleeding."

"Yeah. Brookie get a wet rag. Bry! Seriously. Stop touching your face!"

"But Mo-om, it is still bleeding."

"If you touch your face again you are going to time-out," I snapped. (Along with being an AMAZINGLY sound minded parent, I am also extremely sympathetic).

"Fi-ine. Yeeees Maaa'aaam," he moaned, slouching his shoulders impatiently.

I took a good look. My stomach went somewhere. Else. Gone. Evacuated. I started getting light-headed. (To add to my other motherly qualities, I'm also 100% incapable of looking at blood. Yes, Starling hit the jackpot on wives).

"Starling, I think you might need to handle this. And by might, I mean, now."

Starling took one look and said, "Yep. That's going to need stitches."

"What's stitches?" Bry wanted to know.

"Well. I may be able to super glue it."

"What's stitches?"

"Let me call the vet."

"Bry, look at me- I need to take a picture. Hey, stand still, man," I chimed in, camera ready.

"What is stitches?"

"We are going to need to go into the light."

"DAAAADAAAY! What is stitches?"

I answered because Starling was in the zone. He can only focus on one thing at a time. He is shockingly talented at tuning out anything other than his own brain.

"What?! I don't want to have to go to a doctor!" Bry shouted in horror. It was the first time he actually looked upset about the whole ordeal.

"The vet said he'll do it for $300 pesos. So like $28 bucks or so."

"Wow! That's awesome."

Starling came back from the vet with Bry about ten minutes later.

"That was quick," I said surprised.  

"Yeah. The vet said he thought I was talking about a dog."

"Ah. That sucks."

"He recommended a plastic surgeon on the frontage road. I mean, it is his face. We don't want him having too big a scar. But I'm going to do some research. I may can glue it myself."

Bry and Brookie went off to play while Starling hit Google and YouTube.

"Bry! Come here, bud."

He looked at Bry's wound. "I think it's too deep and wide to glue. See?" He opened it up with his thumbs, "It goes all the way to his skull."

"Starling. Seriously? You are really showing me this? What is wrong with you?" I melted into a green pile against the wall, my eyes threatening to roll into the back of my head.

"It says super glue kills the skin sometimes."

"Why are you still talking?"

"We want this flap to-"

"STARLING! Just do what you are going to do and don't tell me about it!"

 "We're going to a people doctor, bud."

"Thank goodness. Just go. Oh- and take some pictures," I moaned barely hanging onto consciousness.

About that time the Cable Guy arrived.

"bla-o, bla-o. somethingo, bla-o." (That's what I hear when Starling talks really fast Spanish to someone. And he never translates for me. Ever).

The man nodded at Starling and set to work doing something to our internet that, quite frankly, was working just fine.

"Can I go play now?"

"Oh." He remembered his son. "No, I need to go ahead and take you to the doctor. You can finish up with the Cable Guy, Wendi."

"Sure thing, babe." (I may have rolled my eyes a little because my Spanish is like the babbling of a 6 month old).

The cable guy finished fixing whatever wasn't broken. I don't know WHY Starling is always FIXING things. Something about adding something to something.

The guy explained to me exactly what he did. In Spanish. I blinked away my blank stare and nodded enthusiastically when he paused, assuming it was supposed to be my turn to talk. "Muchas Gracias, Amigo! Es muy bueno." He looked at me confused and left.

Bry returned with some nice stitch work and a sucker in each hand.

"Good, I'm glad your back! Do you want to go swim with Dillon?"

"YEAH!"

So we walked over to my friend's house and the kids played in the water while I stuffed my face with the kids' snacks.  

Then I had to cook something for our Wednesday potluck church meeting. I "made" chips, guacamole, and a bunch of sweet bread from Mega (the glorified Wal Mart).

All in all, it was a super great day. I was reminded how much home-schooling rocks and my kids now know how to ride a boogie board. And that is the moral of the story. Sometimes fun costs $60 in stitches.  

THE JOYS OF LEARNING

I suddenly have time to blog. My kids are glued to the television with their father watching a documentary. On crackers. I’m being serious. I am an apparent misfit in my family when it comes to exaggerated enthusiasm about how things are made. Especially crackers. I care how they taste. And if there is something to put on them.

I’m so glad Starling enjoys learning. I do, too… just not about anything boring. Or confusing. Or useless. Or useful but I’m never going to do it, use it, or make it.

It started with Bry asking me how waves are made. I don’t know. Something about the moon? Wind? But, when you are a home school parent, you can’t just pawn off your kids’ questions on their teacher and let them teach your kids the crap you don’t care about. Because I’m it. Here I am.

So I started researching. I am SO glad we live in the internet age where I can go to YouTube and type in “How are waves made?” And boom… all kinds of teachers pop up to teach ME, (and if I go through enough of them, usually one will start to make sense), and then I let them teach my kids or, if I magically understand, I teach them myself.

As is always the case with my children, one thing led to another and we began watching documentaries on tidal waves, tsunamis… and of course earth quakes since they cause disastrous waves. And historical documentaries that only throw in science facts as it relates to the thing I’m watching, in this case the Japan Tsunami of 2011, completely spike my interest. I was as glued to the t.v. as the rest of my family.

(That’s how education is supposed to happen. A question is answered and it leads to more questions. Eventually even the most UNINTERESTED person- in My fam ALWAYS me- finds a strand of curiosity that pulls her into a learning environment without even knowing its happening).

Of course... I just WATCHED the documentary. Starling was on his phone the entire documentary reading about the tsunami WHILE watching about it, WHILE looking up answers to all of his questions and spitting out facts that the video failed to mention. Bry asked why fire was on top of the water. (I wanted to know that, too, but not enough to spend time researching it when Starling the "I'll wreck the car trying to fact check something on my phone that my wife just said" was in the room). 

The difference between Starling and me is this: I typically answer or find the answer to specific questions for my kids and then I’m done. NOT the case with Starling. At all. If the kids give Starling even the smallest inkling of some interest in any subject whatsoever, he is GAME on. He not only tells them what they want to know, he blows their MIND with info. They’ll spend days together learning about whatever random thing they dared question. (This is fantastic. The kids LOVE it. This is also the reason I don’t ask Starling questions. Because I usually don’t REALLY want to know. I like two word answers. "The car exploded? How?" Just tell me the gas tank got busted in a crash. DO NOT take me on a ten day hike through the great research of Starling's brain and explain to me about vapors and engines and what parts were altered in the crash. I'm already lost, my brain has already left this conversation, and all I want to know at this point is what's for dinner). 

But, unlike me, the kids eat up information. Take electricity. Brooklyn asked me how electricity works. I researched it for all of about 2 seconds and realized I couldn’t even FORCE myself to care, or fit it into a nice package of two sentences, so I forwarded that question to Starling

The kid drew power poles (in her spare time for FUN) for a solid week.

Starling took the kids to the airplane show here in Cozumel. 

Me? “This sounds like a fantastic Daddy and kids bonding opportunity. I’m going to stay home and work on my novel. Have fun with that!” 

Starling’s enthusiasm was so great that Brighton is now convinced he wants to be a pilot when he grows up, and he needs a co-pilot. Brooklyn has eagerly agreed to join him as such. Starling and Brighton watch all things air plane. I won’t even pretend that I’m interested in airplanes, because I’m not. (I might feign interested in the making of a cookie because I want to eat it. But there's really no benefit to pretending to like engines). However, since my children are obsessed with planes, I find myself spending a massive amount of time drawing and cutting out airplanes.

 (I’m pretty sure my kids would have done just fine in the days of paper dolls. They play with my card board cutouts ALL the time. If only Boeing and the dog weren't in competition for destroying everything I own).

And then of course, there are the questions that kids ask that have no truthful answer. LIKE Brooklyn. She lost her first two teeth. She was so excited that the “tooth mouse” (which someone told her comes in Mexico instead of the tooth fairy) was coming that she became a trumpet of questions. She was sounding them off faster than I could comprehend them. (Not that it isn't normal. I can go wash dishes and do a load of laundry before Brooklyn finishes her 20 questions on a daily basis. I don't even have to answer. I don't even have to be in the room. No idea WHERE she gets that from..). 

Before I knew it, I was convincing her that the tooth mouse is a nice mouse that works for the tooth fairy. No he won’t crawl over her face. No he won’t get tangled in her hair or bite her in her sleep. No our cat isn't going to eat him. So she left him a note and cheese. Under her pillow. (And no. I didn’t play the ‘Santa eating the cookie.’ A stray animal got to eat that cheese because I flung it over my gate while wearing a flared upper lip and fighting a jumping gag reflex).    

Today I found myself lying to my OTHER kid. “Brighton! You better brush those teeth or the tooth fairy isn’t going to buy them! They’ll be too gross for her to use.”

Brooklyn said, “You mean the tooth fairy uses our teeth? For what?”

I was in such a rush to get out of the door for church (ironic I know), I just didn’t think that one through.

“Of course she uses them. She gives them to people who don’t have teeth. The people that got their teeth eaten up by cavity monsters.” 

I was so grateful today that Brooklyn couldn’t speak Spanish. She was eyeing all the elderly people in church with missing teeth. And trust me, if she could have said something, she would have said something.

And then there is Boeing. Dear sweet darling Boeing. He never asks questions. Why should he? He is two years old and knows all of the answers. So he just tells us all we need to know. “It’s mango. It’s good.” “It’s me-i-cine. It’s yuck.” “I not want to wear khakis to church. I’m gonna wear my swim soup. It’s okay, mom. It’s fine.”

Today the kids ran into the kitchen and asked if they could have a drink. “Sure. What do you want?”

Brooklyn said, “hmmm…. I’ll have pickle juice, please.”

(Such a little me. I keep a jar of green olives in the fridge door just so I can pop one or two after I eat anything sweet. Ice cream? Yum! Better chase that with a green salt block).  

I filled her cup with pickle juice. (Which counts as healthy right? I mean- it has remnants of vinegar-ized cucumber- WHICH is a veggie).  In barged Boe. “I WAN some of your JUICE, Bwookie!” She was going to tell him what it was, but I hushed her. “Let him have some. Starling, do watch this, dear.”

He took a nice looong swig. Then his face turned into a pile of squishy wrinkles, and I stepped out of the line of fire, with the thought he might projectile vomit. “Dat juice turned gwoss!!”

(THAT is how I deal with my life. The little victories). 

Just when I think all of my teaching and time-outs, and butt popping have gone unnoticed by Boeing, he’ll surprise me with a burst of knowledge. While we were in the MIDDLE of scripture study, Boeing slyly shimmied his way towards Starling’s guitar propped on its stand. When he saw Brighton glance his way, he announced fervently, “Bwy! You touch dis guitar, it’s a no no! And Bwy will need a pankin on his butt!”  

I can count the number of times I have spanked Brooklyn or Brighton on one hand. A time out and a talk? They listen to reason, they feel remorse, we move on with our lives. Boeing is a DIFFERENT story. I am having to COMPLETELY relearn parenting. Nothing that works for my other two works for him. I think age is the only thing that is going to “fix” him. He doesn’t flat out tell me no. He tries to “reason” with ME. (And most the time he has sound logic behind his argument, which only further irritates me, because all I want is a ‘yes ma’am’ and quick departure).  

I say, “BOEING JOHNSON, sit at that table to eat your cereal.”

“Mom, I’ll sit by you and eat my cereal. I’ll be so careful. I won’t make a mess.”

“NO.”

“Oh! It’s okay, mom. I’ll say pweeze nicely.”

What? He spends a LOT of time in time out. And even THEN he’ll come to me and say, “Mom! Time for me to get out cuz I’m all done cwying! Wook! I’m not cwying anymore!”

If my face were to freeze in the expression found most often on my face, I would be frozen with one eyebrow raised in complete perplexity, one eye frozen in a twitch, and crazy would be a frozen vapor seeping out of my ears. And my gaze would be directed at the last location Boeing stood.

He gave the dog gum. That worked out nicely. Then he had a picnic in my bedroom with crackers that Starling told him he could not have. He put an entire SLEEVE of ritz crackers on my floor. (Freshly swept and mopped). Starling spanked him and said, “Pick EVERY cracker Up, NOW.” He did as he was told. He picked every single cracker up off the floor and put them ALL on my bed.

Yeah. My pillow has scream marks.  

I don't know why I've been stressed. (Besides the whole- we moved to Cozumel in December and sunk our first boat EVER to own in April).

Some people eat when they get stressed. Some people exercise. I usually bang on my keyboard, write a couple of songs that relate to absolutely NOTHING even remotely resembling my thought process, have a girls night, and blog out anything I forgot to vent. THEN I move on with my life.

This little Mexico think put me in quite the dilemma. My keyboard is in Mississippi. And I can't write songs without my keyboard. Okay. I can. But I like to bang on my keyboard for good measure prior to writing a song. But, like the good little girl scout I am, I improvised.

I turned into the craft version of Martha Stewart.  I went PINTEREST crazy and started as many projects as my brain could conjure without stopping until the boat was safely on land and my husband came home before midnight.  

I gave Starling fair warning that I was going to paint an ocean mural in the kids room, I was going to write a novel, and write my series of kid books. I told him I was going to make sea glass decor to go over the whole house. I was going to paint ALL the ugly yellow in our house white. I was going to label every object in our house with its Spanish name and our entire family was only going to speak in Spanish. I was going to paint a sunset mural in OUR bedroom and get rid of the beautiful ORANGE and YELLOW walls (which is a shame because it matches the pinkish gray tile SO 

well...). I'm sure I'm leaving out some of my projects, but you get the point. Like he always does, he smiled and nodded, assuming I'd move onto something more simple like eating ice cream. 

As if Starling's life wasn't stressful enough (figuring out how to move a boat over 50 foot long off of a BEACH), the kids eagerly surprised him with "Mommy's coloring on the wall!" It was past midnight. Yes, we were all up.

He tried not to choke on his, um... excitement, when he walked into the kids' room and saw pencil drawings ALL over their wall. (Oddly enough... pencil doesn't erase off of a concrete wall..).. Don't worry. I had drawn out a lovely- round about IDEA- of what I hoped to accomplish on PAPER before I started. It took me all of about 10 minutes on paper. Perhaps it was a bit VAGUE. It was going to be magnificent. I even researched how to do it! (Since I've painted all of about 4 times in my life. All during some moment of duress). I figured if my husband can watch a youtube video and remodel a house, watch another one and fix an engine, learn masonry, learn how to fiberglass... I could learn to paint a dang mural.

The video was very informative. It said to start with the background. Well here's the thing. After a little while of drawing I couldn't really tell what was what. And I tried to wash off the mess ups, but the pencil didn't even SMUDGE. So I tried to rub it off with my flip flop. (That seemed like sound logic at the time, since shoes can remove scuff marks off of floors). Nothing happened to the wall. My flip flop, however, looked like it had encountered a swarm of piranhas. (When I think about it... the video never even said to use a pencil to draw the picture first).

So the youtube video went out the window and Wing it Wendi took the stage. (I'm beginning to see a pattern here. I think this is why I can't cook. Patience isn't really a characteristic God saw fit to give me). I just started outlining crap in black paint. A dolphin here, an octopus there, a turtle up yonder... The kids yelled out things for me to paint, and I tried to include them. (Until Bry asked for an ANGLER fish. I looked that up and I'll have you know -bc if you do know you are weird-in a smart/good way of course-it is that possessed fish thing that lured Nemo's dad and Dori to the bottom of the ocean with its tail hanging out its forehead). To paint a shark or THAT monstrous demon fish, would be succumbing to the fact that my children will NEVER sleep in their room. (Not that I hold some massive amount of hope that they will, since they can't even sleep alone in the bed BESIDE my bed).  -(Another story for ANOTHER day). Brighton screams, "It's too scary! Turn it off!" when the T-Rex fights the mom at the beginning of Land Before Time. And Boeing doesn't want to get into the ocean if the little boat with a shark painted on it is anywhere in sight.

The mural was supposed to be realistic. But, really? How realistic is a mural where all the fish have to be smiling? (Which was, not surprisingly, a MUST).

"Don't worry, Starling! I know what I'm doing! It'll be fine..." I pride myself on NOT lying. That claim...reaching into the very depths of my justification pool... was warranted due to the fact I know how to hold a paintbrush and make paint appear on a wall. When I looked at my mural the first day, it looked like a coloring page. An incomplete black and white coloring page.

So I started painting in my sea creatures. My dilapidated excuse for a turtle made little improvement, and my octopus turned into a purple grape.

Oh yeah. I was supposed to buy like 40 different paint brushes? I bought one. And I had a few plastic ones that the kids use during art to paint their legs instead of paper. The concrete wall crew cut my paint brush after two seconds, and those little plastic kid brushes were like trying to drive a car without power steering. (And I can't drive a car WITH power steering, so you can imagine how that went down).

I could have waited until morning, sure. I could have done a little more research, bought some different paint brushes. But do I wait to do anything? NO. Why would I wait and do something RIGHT when I could go ahead and screw everything up immediately? (Serious flashbacks going on of every hair cut I've given myself, because no one could see me until 'later in the week.' Or my sudden urge to have bangs. Oh gosh. And the perm I got at the Wal Mart salon because they were the only ones that could do it THAT NIGHT. And it HAD to be then, because I decided THAT afternoon I wanted curly hair).

Well. I lost interest in painting a WALL with a paintbrush thinner than my pinky. SO. I improvised AGAIN.

My authentic painting, turn cartoon characters, turn coloring sheet, has now turned into FINGER PAINTING!

And my novel? Started. And my kid books? Started. And my sea glass? I have a whole ice cream bucket full.

But my stress level has resumed a relatively normal state (which is still higher than most, reflecting the daily experiences with my two year old) so today we did school and walked to the beach.

I'm hoping that all the "little stressors" in my life keep me motivated long enough to AT LEAST finish the stupid "mural." (And don't worry. I'll post pics so you can relish in the fact that you keep your crazy hidden better than mine).

I have mild motivation. During this whole boat thing our van's timing chain broke, our washing machine caught the 50/50 ( it only works 50% of the times), and today my kitchen sink stopped draining completely.

The van is in the shop so Starling has been driving the jeep and scooter. (I can drive neither). I have been walking everywhere, which I like. I have found out how to get all over town. It's AMAZING how much Cozumel makes sense when you can go backwards down one- way streets. (Plus I haven't wrecked once).  

LAUNDRY, on the other hand? You see all of my pics on fb? My kids don't wear clothes. So, please explain to me HOW my dirty clothes pile can practically touch the ceiling. I didn't want to cause a scene with the neighbors, so I didn't beat my washing machine into metal bits with the machete Starling bought to cut up our coconuts. I just heaved ALL of my laundry UP the stairs INTO the bathroom and WASHED THEM BY HAND IN MY BATHTUB. Oh that's right. It turned out great. Boeing heard water and belly flopped into my laundry suds. We got to bond over laundry. And after he stood up and PEED on my clean laundry, we got to bond AGAIN.

After washing and rinsing, my clothes spelled phenomenal. (Maybe I overestimated the amount of fabric softener). But were they clean? Who knows. I hung them out to dry. (That's right! Little Mrs. Domestic). I don't wring the clothes out enough to put them in my dryer. I do a "load" a day. Sometimes I wash too many clothes and have to get creative with places to hang them. Then I look like the freak that dresses up her plants in t-shirts and underwear. Of course, I'm already the freak that thought my windows were tinted on the OUTSIDE, not just the INSIDE. My poor neighbors. Why do glass doors even exist? You can't hang curtains over a DOOR. (Although I might try. It'd be a lot easier than trying to remember to wear clothes everyday). Our bedroom door is also glass. Seriously. I wonder if I should PAINT the glass. I'll ask Starling. 

Motivation

I've decided that children are very useful in regards to household chores. Especially boys. SURE they may decide to clean your BRAN NEW laptop with a rag and SPRAY bottle rendering it a waterlogged piece of useless metal or dump your full bottle of shampoo down the shower drain trying to make a bubble bath, but think... If I didn't have boys....

1. Would I REALLY mop my kitchen every day? Of course not. My boys, what with their inability to hold a sippy cup upright for more than two seconds after it being handed to them, always give me the motivation I need (rather it be because I slip DOWN in an unknown puddle of yogurt or my foot keeps walking when my flip flop can't because it has become glued to a pile of sticky), to mop often.

2. Would I bathe my dog often enough? I really can't count on myself to remember to bathe my dog. I'd probably go on for DAYS waiting until she got DIRTY before I lathered her up. But thanks to my two year old, I know when to give my dog a bathe. When she gets peed on.

3. Laundry? I can't imagine my poor wash machine without children. It would probably sit there for hours on end, maybe even an entire day, lonely, collecting dust... But thanks to my boys, who love to share the majority of their meals with their LAP, I get to wash three sets of clothes PER kid DAILY.  

4. Bathrooms? Could I possibly remember to clean 3 bathrooms every week if I didn't walk into them and gag a little? I'm guessing I'd let a bathroom go an extra week if my two year old hadn't tried to paint the entire toilet and surrounding walls with his urine stream. And lucky for me, he has to pee in a different spot EVERY time he needs to take a leak. It's quite a talent, actually. It starts with, "I need go pee! I need go pee!!" To which I dumbly reply, "K! Go to your bathroom and use your stool." The dance starts. "No, no. Need to go to dat bafroom..." Halfway there, toilet in sight... MIND CHANGE. "No, no... need to go to de odder bafroom..." There is a ME trotting behind him having mild strokes. "Huwwy, mom! Huwwy!" Because I'm just sitting on the couch NOT flinging my arms wildly trying to capture the indecisive two year old? I finally CATCH the wild banchi and barely get his drawers ripped off before he shoots. He takes great care to grab his fire hose and put out ALL kinds of imaginary fires, none of which are in the toilet bowl. Despite the fact that cleaning bathrooms WASN'T on my "Chore List," it gets bumped to the top replacing things like "Take a Shower."

5. How Often would I sweep my tile floors? I'd probably be that dumpy person that figured I could get away with a lazy ONCE a week sweep. Can you imagine? Despite the rule to sit at the table to eat ANYTHING, my boys take it upon themselves to help me be a better sweeper. They drop fruit loop trails from one side of the house to the other, even taking the time to go upstairs and shoot them out of their cup like a water sprinkler. But, they don't stop there. I am raising over achievers. Each cereal must be GROUND into the tile and/or moistened by water or another equally soluble substance, to insure a final product resembling cement. It makes sweeping MUCH more interesting. I enjoy NOTHING more than using a metal scraper prior to a broom. And for kicks, and to keep me on my toes, my boys time test me by doing this minutes before guests arrive.

6. Bed Sheets? My sheets would DEFINITELY not be washed two to five times a week if Boeing didn't use my bed as a "house" for his sand toys. AND liquidate his assets while he sleeps. He is kind enough to only pee on MY bed since it is only a month old and is the ONLY bed without a plastic protector. But don't worry. The other 3 beds in the house get equal attention. Their sheets get ripped off to become capes, ropes, and mounds for a slightly less jarring jumps. All of which gets left on the floor and stomped by grocery store feet, sand, and grit.

7. Managing Time Wisely? I KNOW for a fact I would be a daily reader if I didn't have children. I would always have a book in my hand getting lost in words longer than three letters. I'd probably forget all of my colors, numbers, and certainly my name "MOM."  Luckily, my kids give me momentary pop quizzes usually while I'm doing something I shouldn't be doing anyway- bathing, peeing, brushing my teeth... "MOM??" I'm given less than two seconds to respond or the frequency increases and a resounding, "MOM MOM MOM!!!" erupts at which point a verbal response is useless and a physical appearance and sometimes a good shake, is required to make the alarm stop. Sometimes I am actually needed, but usually it's just a drill. "Hey mom! I was just wondering where you were."

8. Overeating? I can't even imagine sitting down and eating a full meal undisturbed. My kids make certain that I can't gain a calorie from a single bite, without burning a few, running errands for them. They are so kind as to wait for me to be completely seated with fork mid air before asking for refills, ketchup, or napkins. And they always take turns asking so I don't cheat and get them all a drink at the same time. And, of course, me sitting down to eat is cue for the boys to take a poo. Nothing says, "Delicious!" Like returning to a bowl of chocolate pudding after wiping a 3 year olds butt.

9. Patience? Seriously? That is a dumb one. What on earth would I do with patience if I didn't have kids?

10. Personal Grooming? I would be a flippin' mirror hog if I didn't have kids to keep me humble. I would be waking up at reasonable hours plucking out my uni-brow, SHOWERING, BLOW drying my hair instead of reserving electricity and letting it air dry, unbrushed and unconditioned, because all the conditioner has been used to make the tub into a slip n slide. I'd probably want to show off my legs and armpits because I would have taken the time to shave them. My phone would be blown up with selfies instead of side-sies and other unflattering angles that can only be taken if you are less than three feet tall and aiming at a mom that is still in pjs with no make-up. My perfume would smell pleasant, instead of like cleaning supplies- or worse- the big nasty I'm cleaning.

11. Outtings? I would not be the social butterfly I am without children. My "dates" would only consist of five or six women. With kids, any outing becomes a "play date" and there are guaranteed to be no less than 15 people. It's wonderful. The kids ensure there are no awkward silences by never letting me talk. When the day comes to an end, the kids throw tantrums, resulting in another calendared play date, sometimes within the same week.

I could go on ALL day about the benefits of children, but I am currently being "motivated" to cook French toast. I am craving anything but that, since I've made French Toast every morning for the last 7 days, but since my angels can eat the same exact thing every day of their lives, I get to experience little or no food deviation. It's wonderful. It takes out all the guess work of wondering if I might actually enjoy eating something that day. I already know. I won't.