Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I'm sorry for what happened today, and I'm going to trade you 3 weeks of video games in exchange for still bringing me my presents. I was wrong to be mean to and spit on the teachers. I will never do that again. To earn my video games back I am going to feed the kitties every morning, help clean their litter box, make sure my animals don't fall on the floor, put my clothes away, and make sure my shoes and coat are put away.

I hope that I have done enough toshow you I am sorry and that I will still get the presents you chose for me. I am a good boy most of the time, and I am really really sorry.

Love,

Urban Maxwell

That is the actual email we crafted to Santa on Christmas Eve eve. Fun… What a roller coaster.

When Urban was 2 I bought a book called Parenting Your Strong-Willed Child by Rex Forehand and Nicholas Long. When I purchased it, I had absolutely no idea how much I would end up needing it.

Urban has always been a tour de force. He is the most creative, willful, independent, amazing kid I have ever met. Well, I should say, “…until his brother came along.”

Beringer is “spirited” in a whole different way. Where Urban is big, dramatic and playful; Beringer is focused, methodical and determined. It’s a whole new kind of strong-willed for us. Apparently, it’s time for that 5-week program… again.

Both of the boys are experimenting with their personalities. Beringer is just learning the basics of who he is and what he feels. Urban is testing out what he can do with what he knows he has.

Lately, the experimentation from Urban has led to calls from the school and a lot of my own personal soul searching. How much of his behavior do I take on as my responsibility? I look at the things he is doing in awe and frustration. I wrack my brain trying to figure out where it is coming from.

We have, like most parents, cleansed our language at home, but he still swears like a sailor when he’s raging. Is he learning the words at school? Is he using his rhyming games (“puck, duck, muck, shuck…” “itch, kitch, litch, snitch, pitch…”) to see which words elicit a reaction? Likely a combination of both.

He shouts things at us and see what stings. “DIRTY EYEBALL!” does not get the desired effect. But “FUCKING BITCH!” does. (I assure you, no one in my family uses that language –not even ‘dirty eyeball’. He does not watch TV or movies that use that language. The Lion King certainly does not talk to his father that way.)

So, why is he doing it? He always has reasons, sometimes they are epiphanies, but most of the time they make no sense at all. What I do know is that he is a highly sensitive kid. He feels the emotions and pain of others very deeply. He absorbs it all and doesn’t know what to do with it, and then it explodes out of him in these torrents of nasty words and spittal. It’s disgusting and heart breaking.

The scariest part of all is that it’s like he’s not even there. It’s like he is having an out-of-body experience, and then you say just the right thing, and he’s back and he’s so sorry. He cleans up his mess. He apologizes. He lies down like he’s just expendedeverything he has.

He’s needed a lot of hugs this week. So have I. Last night, I sat in Urban’s room with him on one knee and his arms wrapped around my chest and Beringer on my other knee and his arms wrapped around my neck. We rocked together and hummed. My boys. My beautiful, complicated boys. I love them so much, and I wish that I could take away all the stuff that makes them push over garbage cans in frustration (Beringer) or lie on the floor and wail (Urban). I wish that I could take all that confusion and wash it away with a kiss or a hug or a warm bath.

But for now, we take it one day at a time, and the more frustrated they get, the calmer we must become. The louder they yell, the softer we whisper. The more they push away, the stronger we pull them into a hug. The theory would be that all of this work we are doing now will produce boys who don’t swear and spit and push over garbage cans in later years. We can only hope, right? We can only hope…

Siezed with Guilt

In 2002, Brett and I decided to devote our lives to one another… long before we got married. We made promises to one another in private, to love each other and stay together no matter what. There were no rings or witnesses or legal documents. It is a promise that I hold very dear. We moved in together and decided that we didn’t need to get married, because we were devoted to each other, and didn’t feel a need for legal documentation of that fact. It was perhaps a bit naïve and idealistic.

Then, in July of 2002, things changed. My healthy, strapping partner was out on the weekend of July 4 th playing video games at a friend’s house. It was an activity he often engaged in, and rarely would I see him home before I went to bed. It was when my phone began to ring at 3:00 in the morning, that my heart stopped. I answered, and it was the police. Brett was being transported to a local hospital because he had suffered a seizure. A seizure. For no reason that was ever determined.

In the ensuing years, he would suffer 4 more until, finally, his meds were leveled and he remembered to take them regularly. The last one happened when I was 18 weeks pregnant with Urban – well over 5 years ago. His disorder is under control, and I live with only a vague inkling that something might happen again. Witnessing a loved one go through a seizure is almost more than I can describe. The feeling of helplessness and fear is heart wrenching, to say the very least. There is really nothing you can do.

It was the seizures that ultimately drove us to altar, oddly enough. Romantic, I know, but Brett needed health insurance in order to cover the new expenses that were beginning to pile up. And I needed the peace of mind that came with knowing the hospital staff would share everything to do with his care with me. His wife. Legally.

So, seizures, though they play a big role in our story, have not really been a hot topic for us in a long time. But suddenly I am finding myself thinking about them again – because on Sunday night Beringer, 21 months old, suffered a febrile seizure.

It was 10PM, both boys were asleep, and I was in bed reading. Brett had just come up to tell me about his afternoon with the boys because I had been out with Mom at a Christmas concert and dinner. Suddenly, we heard the most ungodly noise come from Beringer’s room. We looked at each other. “Nightmare?” I shrugged. Brett went back to talking. Then I heard a gasping sound and ran into Beringer’s room. He was seizing on his back in bed, and choking on his own saliva. I snatched him up and flipped him over so that the saliva would fall out of his mouth, and then I took him into the bathroom. There is better light in there. I laid him flat on the bathmat, and I saw that his jaw was locked and he was biting his tongue. So, I gently worked my finger between his teeth. His eyes lulled back in his head and his face was pale blue. Except his cheeks, they were bright red.

Brett and Mom stood at the doorway. Brett, who has experienced 5 seizures, has never actually seen one. We were all so scared. Finally, his body went limp. He was just a ragdoll in my arms. We bundled him up and rushed him to the ER where they told us he had a temperature of almost 105 and that the sudden spike had caused the seizure. He had blood drawn and a chest X-ray. They were thinking meningitis, and talked of a spinal tap. I was so scared.

Brett fretted that he had somehow passed along the “seizure gene” and that now Beringer would be doomed to a life of meds like him. I assured him that I thought no such gene exists. I’m no expert, but it seems unlikely. Still, he felt so guilty and helpless.

But, the doctors decided it was a viral infection in his lungs that caused the fever. It is possible that he will never have another. We just have to watch. We watched for 2 days. He’s getting better now…

On Monday, we decided Urban’s day should stay as normal as possible with all the drama from the night before, so with 3 hours of sleep, I drove him to school. He had a hard time leaving me. He kept talking about the seizure –about his brother. He called me from school 3x before noon, when I finally broke down and went back to pick him up.

He was a shell of himself. He said over and over that he was sad. His shoulders drooped and there were tears in his eyes. He told me form the backseat that he thought he had caused his brother’s seizure. That he was really scared and sorry.

I almost cried. I assured him that a fever had caused his brother’s seizure – that no person could cause that to happen to another person. “Is Beringer going to have to be on meds now like me and Daddy? Daddy takes meds so he doesn’t have seizures. He takes them every night. Seizures are really hard on your body. It’s what happens when your brain overloads and sends too many messages to your body. I take meds for asthma so I can breathe. Will Beringer have to take meds now?” Sometimes I think Urban’s big brain is more than he should have to handle. He understands too much and fills in the rest with make believe.

Oddly, because Brett’s disorder is so well-controlled, we have not had a direct conversation with Urban about seizures and what to do if someone has one. It appears he picked up all this information from listening to random conversations Brett and I have had over the years. Scary.

I told him that Beringer’s seizure was not like Daddy’s. Beringer’s seizure was caused by a fever because he was sick, and that meant that he would not have to take meds every night like Daddy. Urban felt a little better, I think. But still, he wouldn’t leave the family. He stayed home both days with us. He needed to know where we all were at all times. He is still clingy and tells me repeatedly that he loves me – that I’m his best friend and that we’ll always be together.

I have to admit, I kind of like all the extra love and attention, but I wish it didn’t come for such a worrisome reason. I just don’t know what exactly to say to a little boy who talks like a little man and has thoughts that are way too much for any little boy to process. I want to hug him and make it all better. I want to hug Beringer and make him not sick and have no more seizures. I want to hug Brett and take away all his pain too. Why can’t Mommy-magic really work like that? I wish it did. I would hug them all and, at the very least, take away all the guilt that is eating them up. But, then, it’s the guilt that shows in some twisted way how much we love and cherish each other.

Families are really complicated and weird, but I’m glad I have mine. They are all precious to me, even if they are all just a little bit dinged up.

Getting real.

I'm an overwhelmed mommy.  And, if one were to peruse the internet, it would seem my kind are a dime a dozen.  It seems that the world is flooded with "bad mommies".  If you read the blogs and articles of my ilk you would think that all of us vacillate between these superhuman mommy-machines and self deprecating she-beasts.  Is that who I am?  Really?

I feel that way sometimes, certainly, but it's not really what I signed up for.  My biological clock didn't click loudly at the age of 30 ringing with a chorus of "I MUST PROCREATE SO I HAVE SOMETHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT AND FAIL MISERABLY AT!"

So, on the days when I am sick of my own voice and I feel like one more tug on my proverbial apron will send me to the loony bin, why is it all I can find to sooth me are other "bad mommies" at their wits' end?  Does it all go back to our formative years?  Those moments in high school where we solidified our girlfriend status by standing in front of the locker room mirror and playing, 'I'm fatter, no, seriously I am totally fat!"  I always sucked at that game.  Maybe that's why, not unlike high school, I have a hard time finding comfort in the "bad mommy" game.

So, why is it so OK to talk about all those annoying, embarrassing mommy gaffs, but less OK to talk about all the tender moments - those moments that make you proud of who you have become and who your children have become?  – The moments that might actually make you feel better about yourself and your situation rather than like you just need a stiff drink.  Although I have often engaged in a good vent, I never really feel any better after.  I just feel all the more worked up.  It's not until I step back and take a breath and look at it with new eyes, that a situation seems workable.

When I enter a mommy-circle, I feel self-conscious and unsure of myself.  My children have turned me into a person that is totally new to me.  Some days I hardly recognize myself, and that has brought me back to the uncertain place of my adolescence, where I don't know what to say.  I don't feel comfortable talking about all the amazing things my kids do, because I don't want to seem like I'm bragging.  But at the same time, I'm not happy sitting around talking about how every decision I make is potentially scarring and destroying my children, or how inept my husband is - because he's not, or how I really just need a bottle or two of wine - daily.

So, I turn to the internet.  I read mommy blogs and wonder, are we all super human mommy machines?  Or are we all self deprecating she-beasts?  I hope that I am neither.  I hope that my family has helped me to become a more powerful and focused version of me - one that can see outside of herself and give freely without giving it all away.  I hope that I am a good mommy.  I hope that when my boys look back they remember dancing to loud music in their rooms and the words to the lullabies I sing every night.  I hope they remember the strength of my hugs and how to drive monsters out from under beds.  And not the time I lost it in the Menards parking lot because they just wouldn't listen, and I was scared because I couldn't find them.  Or maybe I do hope they remember that, but remember that I Really was just scared and desperate and not merely a big angry face and a loud voice.

Not every little decision should be held up to the light and examined.  That is a difficult thing for me - not to overanalyze every step I make and check it for faults.  My children have stripped away all of the touch-ups and mending I have done over the years so that now every ding and scratch in my self shows.  And I try to look down on those dings and be proud because they give me the perspective to help me on my journey.  But it's hard, because I have spent a lot of years making sure no one could see them at all.

Children may not always bring out the best in us, but they do bring out the real.  And I'm working very hard to be proud of the real me - scratches and all.

I am a good mommy.  Somedays I yell.  Somedays I question every move I make.  Somedays I sit down and cry.  Somedays I create amazing memories.  Somedays I do nothing but enjoy the day with two precocious, growing boys.  But everyday I get the opportunity hug and kiss the people who make me the best me I can be.  The real me.  And that's worth it all.  Even when I'm completely overwhelmed.

Urban is at his best when he is focused, creating and has a concrete goal.  It's a good thing to know.  I know when to expect meltdowns, well, most of the time.  But, here's the thing...  It's exhausting.

I will admit that I have a lot of energy, and I too need a lot of activity to keep me busy and engaged, but planning for Urban's activities has become my only activity, and that makes me cranky.  On Saturday, for instance, here was what we did:
painted three beanie animals - a frog, lizard and fish that he had received as a gift
cut, clipped, drew and colored dozens of shrinky dinks to make a garland
shrunk the shrinky dinks in the oven and strung them together
watched 2 Christmas movies
cleaned the bathroom
cleaned out Beringer's closet
had lunch (Yes, we did all that before lunch)
cleaned out Urban's closet
Packed up things for donation
Watched Gnomeo and Juliet (for a second time in 2 days)
Took a bath

Can you see where this is going?  Yes, I got things ticked of my to do list, but I didn't avoi

Sucktastic

I had a dream over the weekend that I was on my own reality TV show.  Cameras followed me around documenting my life...which seemed to consist of every exasperating moment from the last 5 years...  Like, losing a job, Urban meltdowns, quitting a choir, many, many moments.  And to punctuate each moment, I would look at the camera and say, "See?  SUCKTASTIC."

I woke up kind of confused

HOW TO DRAW: by Urban Maxwell

This is a person.  Clearly.  You can tell it's a person because there are two eyes, a mouth, two arms, two legs and 2 ears.  Just like all people have.

This is another person.  You can tell it's a person because there are 2 eyes, a mouth, 2 arms, 2 legs and 2 ears.  Just like all people have.  But this person wears glasses.  That makes him happy.

This is a cyclops.  You can tell it's a cyclops because he only has one eye.  That's what cyclops means.

This is a cat.  You can tell it's a cat because it has four legs.  Just like all cats have.  Duh.

This is a cow.  You can tell it's a cow because it has four legs and black spots.  Just like all cows have.  It's a girl cow.  You can tell it's a girl cow because it has udders.  Duh.