Niagara Falls

We took the boys to see Niagara Falls. Artist didn't seem to care one way or the other. Superhero was ecstatic, as he had been looking forward to this for a few weeks now, since Daddy showed him pictures online. But Fighter--my Fighter was in heaven. He stared at the falls, with a patented Fighter smile that is a private expression of joy, and is somehow both closed off in such a way that you feel like you're somehow invading his privacy by looking at him and simultaneously so joyful that he almost seems to glow with it, and you have difficulty looking away. He tilted his face to the sky, closed his eyes, and held out his hands to feel the spray. After fifteen minutes or so of just enjoying the sight and the feel of the falls, Fighter seemed to come back from wherever his area of inner peace lives long enough to hold out his wet hand to me and say 'water'. He then leaned forward, put his wet hand against my cheek, and smiled as he gave me a kiss, like he was thanking me for sharing this new, wonderful thing with him. Recently, Fighter frightens me more than my other children, with his firm refusal to talk much, his random and sudden weight loss, and a myriad of other tiny things. But there are also moments when I am convinced he feels things more deeply than the other two, and I struggle to remind myself daily of his sensitivity without labeling him as a 'sensitive' child.

This parenting thing? Not for the weak of heart.

The truth, or the whole truth?

Last week, while visiting John's grandmother, she took Superhero to visit the grave of one of her pets that had died since our last visit (for the record, I wasn't consulted first, and I'm not sure what my reaction would have been if I *Had* been asked. Sometimes, I'm glad the decision is taken out of my hands--reduces my second guessing and anguish immensely). This week, one of my aunts died. So Superhero has been asking us lots of tough questions about death and dying. Once again, some of our basic parenting philosophies were called into question, specifically our beliefs that you should be as honest with your children as possible, and what I call the Jim Lile rule--never answer more question than the child has asked. The second part is generally the easiest--just remind yourself to answer exactly what you've been asked, get a clarification of the question before answering if you're not sure how much the child wants to know, and give the child lots of open air after your short explanation, because if they want more details, they'll ask for them. Surprisingly, I'm finding the first half more difficult. I never dreamed I would WANT to lie to my children, but I find that my instinct is to protect them at all costs, even from the harsh realities of the world. I was in a funk for weeks after having to explain to Superhero a few years ago that there were people in the world who would hurt him--for the first three years of his life, it honestly never occurred to him that every single person in the world wouldn't want to love and care for him, and as his mother, it was horrifying to me that *I* was the one who took that belief in the inherent goodness of the world and the people in it away from him. I had a similar dilemma when talking about death this week. Especially when he said 'I'm glad I'm never going to die,' and after a gently delivered statement that all living things die, and therefore he was going to die at some point, it was agonizing to hear 'but mommy, I don't want to die!!'. I'm ashamed to admit that I chickened out a little--rather than delivering the 'None of use knows how much time we have, so we should make sure every day that we have lived a life we can be proud of, rather than waiting until some point in the future to do all those things we want to do' which is a basic tenant of my own life, I simply explained to him how old and sick the people he knew who had died were, and reassured him with a child's belief in the infinite nature of time. In his reality, the 57 years my aunt lived and the nearly-90 years John's grandfather lived before dying is such an incredibly long length of time that he didn't have to be concerned with dying, as a nearly-six year old would take two days past forever to be 90. I didn't LIE to him, exactly, I just left out the possibility of illness or accident or one of the other things that keep me up at night with the knowledge that they exist, they could hurt or kill my children, and there's really very little I can do to protect them. The truth, but not the WHOLE truth. So, I followed both tenants--I told him the truth, without answering a single bit more of the questions than he had asked. And yet I worry. I have built an insulated world for my children, a world where the news is read on laptops so that they won't overhear more than I want them to, a world where they are safe and protected. A world where death is an 'other' event, effecting their lives only marginally. A world where I tell them the truth, always--but rarely the whole truth. I tell myself that I am giving age-appropriate answers, but in reality, I'm not just protecting them, I'm protecting myself. The truth is important, but it's also harsh and often painful. While life is about fear and pain, and the measure of a person is how they deal with all the harsh realities of the world, I still hate to see my children hurting or frightened. And so I tell them the truth, and I leave the whole truth to be discovered at some point in the child-time-version of the future. I guess only time will tell if the truth is the best course of action, even though it leaves out a world of knowledge, or if the whole truth would have been a better choice.

Sleep is overrated

Artist has decided he's a frat boy in training. Even if I get him to sleep at a reasonable hour, he gets back up sometime between midnight and one, and stays up until four or five. Even worse, he wants to be downstairs, and if we try to keep him in his room or ours, he throws a tantrum that wakes his brothers, so we have THREE cranky boys up in the middle of the night. He does this no matter how much or little sleep we allow him to have during the day, whether he gets up early or sleeps in late, whether we've had an action packed day or a laid back day. I am exhausted, John's having trouble sleeping even without the demon-like screeching in the middle of the night, and the wear is even starting to show on the other two boys, though you'd never know it with Fighter's continued desire to greet the sun with a smile as soon as possible after it appears. I know that conventional wisdom says a child begins to have difficulties sleeping just as they're about to have a major advancement (in Artist's case, I'm hoping for a language explosion) but I honestly don't know how much more of this our family can bear!

Hold the slime, please

John: What would you like for dinner little man?
Superhero: ooooh, spaghettios!! (not ten minutes after I read aloud a spaghettios recall notice)
John: Dinner is real food. How about steak?
Superhero: Can I have that slimy steak that I like?
John: What?
Superhero: You know, that slimy steak, with the slime all over it? The kind I like?
Me: You mean 'salisbury steak', Superhero?
Superhero: Yeah, salzberry, you know, with the brown slime all over it. I want that kind.

A Jedi you are not

It's been a fun--but crazy--weekend. We visited with our nieces and nephew--it was our nephew's 6th birthday, one of our nieces was two a few weeks ago, and the other is brand new, not yet two weeks old. The boys had a blast at the party and visiting, and I of course tried to get over my 'baby-itis' by monopolizing the newborn as much as possible. But after the party and the traveling (which included a side trip to visit great grandma on the way home) we decided today should be spent doing absolutely nothing. So we lazed about the house all day. I've done a couple of quizzes and some discussions, as well as some reading for school (yes, that IS a day off for me--I'm trying to get far enough ahead that I don't have to worry while we're on vacation), but otherwise, nothing. So now we're settling down for the evening. Superhero has asked his daddy several times if he can have video game time, and daddy keeps saying he can, and keeps playing his own video game (some medieval role playing thing that is too complex for Superhero). This went on for about an hour, until Superhero finally sighed in that world-weary way that only a five year old can get away with, looked up at his daddy and said "Daddy, you're SO not a Jedi." In Superhero's world of late, there is no greater insult!

Oh, Canada!

Those of you who know our boys well (or even just chat with me sometimes and end up listening to me worry) know that our twins are speech delayed. The jury is still out on whether or not it's at a level that is worrisome, and we are certain it is within the range of 'usual' for twins, but it's become a fact of life around here that Superhero talks enough for all three boys, Artist chatters sometimes and uses sign language most of the time, and Fighter sings a lot but rarely utters a real word. Today, we had to run some errands to get ready for our trip to Canada in a few weeks. Superhero has been asking us almost daily for MONTHS now if it was time to go to Canada yet, and we've talked about it quite a bit due to the need for passports and other arrangements necessary for transporting two two year olds, a five year old, and all their assorted necessities 1400 miles each way to an unairconditioned cabin with a HUGE body of water nearby, but of course we assumed the twins were oblivious.
Today, we took them to buy their fishing poles (I insisted they have those crappy cartoon character things with the plastic plug so they can cast and reel in without risk of catching a real fish) and Artist surprised me by saying 'sponge bob fish!' when choosing his reel (no, he doesn't watch that show, but he does watch Superhero play the sponge bob game on his V-smile and the XBox). But the true gem came when John and I were chatting about all those last-minute things that come up before a trip of this size, when suddenly from the back seat, so clearly I thought it was Superhero at first, Fighter yelled "CANADA!". Instantly, the stress of planning, the work of packing and organizing, the nightmare of a drive that is ahead of us are all worth it. My Fighter has some powerful magic--with a single word, he can completely change his mother's perspective.

My IQ is called into question.

Last night, after fighting with statistics until my brain was mush, I stumbled upstairs to what should have been three sleeping boys. Superhero was asleep. Artist and Fighter had both climbed into their crib (they haven't slept in it in weeks--usually one sleeps on a small cot while the other shares Superhero's bed. They take turns on some schedule I can't crack, but it seems to be a pretty even split). They were lying on opposite ends of the crib with their feet occasionally touching, both curved around so that they could see each other, chattering away in their private language. Both were completely naked, their pajamas in a pile on the floor right beside their diapers. I came into the room and asked them what was going on (no matter what you may imagine, I wasn't the least bit upset. First, I'm used to their nudist lifestyle. Second, as much as I wish otherwise, since it's probably not good for them to be so indulged, I have a LOT of difficulty being angry with them when they are clearly happily and contentedly enjoying being twins.) Fighter, of course, immediately smiled happily at me, mumbled 'Ov oooo mama' around his thumb, then pulled his blanket up by his face and waited to see what I would do. Artist, on the other hand, stood up with a challenging squeal and waited for the question he seemed to know was coming. "Why are the two of you naked?" Artist then excitedly explained to me, using words, syllables, gestures, sign language, and I believe a little bit of song, that he had pooped in his diaper, so he took it off, and since he took off his clothes, Fighter wanted to be 'no diapie' too, and then they were playing and got sleepy. I stood there, staring on my mostly nonverbal child, utterly shocked at how much detail he had managed to communicate to me. Artist, apparently, understood my silence to be confusion, so he then repeated his story, more slowly, more loudly, and with more emphatic gestures than the first time--you know, exactly as you would see a person trying to explain something to another who did not speak the same language. Or, of course, someone of lesser intelligence than yourself. I may be the mommy, but I think most days *I* learn the most.

My Blessed Life

I had an epiphany standing in my kitchen today. I had just finished a marketing quiz and put the twins down for a nap (they, of course, were not sleeping). Superhero had decided to pick at his lunch after not eating any breakfast--he informed me he doesn't like food today (I suspect this is due to the fact that he has eaten like a baby elephant for the past week--even growth spurts need a break). I was cleaning up the twins' lunch mess, doing some laundry, loading the dishwasher, and thinking how much I wish my mommy-job had BREAKS. Then I stopped and thought, "What would I be willing to trade for breaks?" Tantrums and messes, of course, but no negotiator would go for THAT deal. So only the good stuff. Hugs, kisses, smiles? A sticky hand reaching up for me with delight written on an upturned, grubby face? A new word, the excitement in the eyes of one of my sons as he discovered something new? The sound of laughter on one of those unique times when they play peacefully together rather than play the 'that's MY toy' game? No, thank you. I don't sleep much, personal style is a thing of the past, and the work never ends. But I wouldn't trade one "uv ooo mama" for a week at the best spa, a vacation in the most beautiful location, the most expensive jewelry. So, the next time you see me exhausted, mismatched, and stressed to the max, just remember that it's a temporary condition, and under the tangled hair and broken fingernails is the happiest, most blessed mommy in the world.