Spring was well on it's way. The temps were warm, the daffodils made their appearance, I made plans to do all sorts of gardening and outdoor projects. And then the snow arrived. Again. It's just way too cold to be outside doing yard work, and planting is on hold.
I'm none too happy about this.
Mother Nature Is Not My Friend
We're Tightly Wrapped
Nearly a decade ago, Sam and I were debating whether or not we wanted a fourth child. We decided that we'd love to have another little girl, but in the event that our planned girl would be a boy, we would stop at #4 regardless. And because we both knew that our fourth child would be our last, Sam felt the need to add a clause to the contract. "Just because it's going to be our baby doesn't mean you're going to spoil it." ("It" because as of yet, this child we were speaking of was not even conceived, much less assigned a gender.) My reply was, "Duh, we have 3 other children. When will I find the time to spoil the fourth?"
Fast forward about a year, and we had a newborn with Down syndrome. This is not in anybody's plans, of course, and I clung to our newborn son every hour of my day as I tried make sense of our new world. When we had time to process the shocking news, and were able to form thoughts outside of the realm of the disability, Sam reminded me of his clause. "Just because Micah has a disability doesn't mean we're going to spoil him." To which I replied, "Of course we're not. I am."
And while I'm more than willing to take full credit for the spoilage of our youngest son, I cannot. Today we were at Walmart and Sam said, "I wonder if they still have those Buzz wings? Micah would love to have talking ones again."
So the boy has talking Buzz wings again, because we bought the very last pair in the store. And because Micah has us both wrapped around his tiny little pinky finger, even at 8 years old.
The Specter of Eight
Micah turned 8 this month, and it occurred to me that it wasn't a huge deal. I mean, other than the fact that my baby is 8 years old (my BABY!). (What's next? I won't even have kids in the single digit age bracket? All my kids are high schoolers or older? I'm checking into nursing homes? STOP THE TRAIN ALREADY.)
There was a time when the age of 8 was a huge and scary thing, looming in the darkness, taunting me. It was the magical number someone in a professional field pulled out of a hat, telling me that if a child with Down syndrome isn't talking by the time they're 8, chances are pretty great that they won't ever talk. Or at least not well. Or even normally. Or maybe not at all. One thing I have learned in the past 8 years is that nobody knows much of anything, and nobody likes to answer tough questions, and everybody is good at giving non-answers hoping to confuse a concerned parent long enough to push their questions off on someone else. So 8 was scary for me, knowing that it was coming closer and closer and I still had no answers. Last year, we got answers, and because I know, 8 didn't even phase me.
And yet, despite the fact that I came to terms long ago with the fact that my boy may never talk clearly, it still catches me in unguarded moments. Tonight, I was kicked in the stomach by one of those moments.
Micah left his Buzz wings outside in the rain, and while they still open and close like magic every time he pushes the button, they no longer talk. He was frustrated over this fact, and ended up taking them off and tossing them aside before huffing off to find something else to play with. Being a mom, my first thought was, "if you'd take care of your things, they wouldn't be broken." And along with that thought came another, because I'm a mom. I try to find solutions to problems. "He'll just have to do the talking himself when he activates his wings," I thought inside my head. And then I was kicked in the gut.
He can't. My boy can't talk. He can't supply his own words, and that's probably why he loved the fact that the wings talked. It does what he cannot.
Tonight, I hurt for my son, who lacks the words to tell me that he hurts for himself.
Classic Toys, Both New and Old
We've invested in a lot of toys over the past 16 years of parenting. A lot. Little Tykes and Barbies, hula hoops and stuffed animals and Matchboxes. And as the kids grew older, the toys grew up with them. Baby dolls gave way to basketball hoops. We now have a PlayStation and an air hockey table. And with all the toys that we've had, there are a few that have stood out as true winners.
The Little Tykes semi truck was the first winner we stumbled upon. We bought that for Josh when he was just 2, which means it's been with us for 11 years and has been through 3 boys. It's been used as a ride-on toy, pushed down countless flights of stairs, and left out in the weather for an entire summer. It's still in great shape and used frequently. Micah pretends that it's Mac from the movie Cars. Winner.
The trampoline is the newest amazing wonder. We've had it for just two years now, and if the weather is nice enough to be outside, it's pretty much in use. Micah loves the thing, teens flock to it, and even we old fogies give it a bounce or five on occasion. We would highly recommend it to anyone with children. Or without, for that matter.
And of course, there's Woody. The first cowboy doll was purchased for Becky when she was 2. (It seems to be a good age for wonder toys here.) That first doll lasted through Becky, Josh, and Luke before finally being retired during Micah's reign. Micah has since retired (or killed) more Woody dolls than we care to remember. I don't know what it is about that cowboy, but he's a keeper.
So what toys have your kids loved?
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle, Too
The corgi pups. While tons of fun and cute, too, the fact that they're still working on the concept of housebreaking is driving me to the breaking point. This post is to remind myself that when I separate their messes from the equation, they really do make me smile.
Playing, puppy style.
What? Who? No, really, it's HER.
Yes! All mine.
And still, there's carnage left in their wake. Also, we've discovered that a stuffed animal is the best puppy toy ever. All these years, and we never knew that. Don't we feel dumb.
Sneaky Little McSneakerPants
The boy loves to be clothes-less. We've battled this for years. When we have a pool, he's in and out of it a hundred bazillionty times a day. He doesn't like wet clothing touching him, so when he's out of the water, trunks come off. After a dozen rounds of this per day, it was easier to let him to fancy free. The summer we worked on potty training we realized that it would be easier to not fight clothing at all. We would work on one big fight at a time.
Now that he's in big boy underpants, we took up the anti-nudist fight. It was a long and involved battle, but he'll keep underwear on while at home. Apparently, he's just most comfortable unhindered by clothing, because the moment he walks in the door from school he strips out of shirt, pants, and socks. He'll run around in his underbreeches all night, until dinner. At dinner he'll go upstairs and come down wearing something a bit more appropriate for a casual meal with the family. We laugh, but it's good that he has standards.
On the occasion that he wants to test us on our policy, we're very quick to yell, "get underpants on!" He's to the point where he rarely attempts nudity, knowing it'll be short lived and fraught with discipline.
The other day I had to run an errand just as he came in the door from school. Becky watched him while I was out, and when I came home I yelled, "Micah! Mama's home!" (He was upset that I was leaving, so I thought I'd point out that I wasn't gone long.) I heard some frantic scuffling, and was all flattered that he was coming to hug me in greeting. Silly me. As I walked into the living room, I noticed that he was trying to get his underwear separated from his pants so that he could get them on before he was caught.
Yeh. So much for compliance.
Growing Up Is Painful for All of Us
I walk Micah to his van each morning for school, opening the door for him and strapping his seat belt on. It's our routine that he grabs the van door and laughs until I tickle his arm to make him let go so that I can close it. Sometimes our routine varies. I carry him in snow; partly because his royal feet don't like the white stuff, partly because he takes a full minute per foot to kick the white stuff off as he's getting in. In rain we both kick things into fast forward.
He sometimes decided that he's going to be a big boy and go to the van all by himself. He'll have me put on his backpack, he'll wave goodbye (code for "you stay here, Mom, I'm going it alone") and he'll close the door in my face if I try to follow after him. And it's alright to grow up and do things on your own, because that's part of life. Even at 8 years old, he's still my baby, and on his Big Boy days my heart sighs a little as he takes another step in maturity.
Apparently growing up is hard on his end, too. Today was a Big Boy day, and with the light drizzle going on out there I wasn't too broken up about it. (I melt in rain. We've all got our weaknesses.) I helped him put his backpack on, he kissed me goodbye, and closed the door on his way out. I waited until he was down the steps before opening the door to be sure the van driver would help him if needed (she always does; she's a gem) and watched as he opened the van door himself. The driver helped him off with his pack and gave assistance with the seatbelt. Micah waved, and I waved back. But he wasn't happy. He held out his arms and looked at me. Even the driver knew. "Karen, he needs a hug."
So I slipped on some shoes and went out in the rain to remind my son that he'll always be my little boy, even if he grows up.
Priorities. I'm Getting Them.
Life is so busy. The phone rings as I'm making dinner. Micah's TV is too loud and Luke is telling me about his day in great detail. Josh is asking if he can go to his cousin's and Becky is yelling for the dogs to come back into the house. Sam comes home in the midst of this and doesn't even get a greeting. I feel overwhelmed frequently. I deal with everyone so often that I rarely get quality time with anyone.
Luke is becoming increasingly harder to motivate. I have to remind him a dozen times to do something. I get frustrated by his "not my fault" attitude. I hate that he won't hear me when I administer correction. An explanation of what he's doing wrong, and suggesting how he can prevent that problem in future, only results in him finding someone else to blame for the reason he messed up in the first place. My head explodes.
And then I had an epiphany. Luke's behavior is a direct result of the fact that I don't give him enough personal attention. If I gave him one on one time more often, or listened with my eyes instead of just my ears, or made the time to play Go Fish with him like I promised after dinner (but instead let life get in the way of our plans, pushing him aside yet again), he'd be way more apt to listen to me. He'd have a more compliant spirit if he knows that I don't just listen, but actually hear him. His output is a direct result of my input.
I will be making my middle son a priority beginning today.
Rocks Are So Promising
Spring is here. Officially. This means that my house can be overtaken by dust bunnies and dog hair, laundry can back up, and I won't even care. I want to be outside, cleaning up gardens, planning new projects, and playing with rocks. I have accumulated a whole lot of fun in the rock department in the past week, and am excited about what they'll become this summer.
It was a long winter. We're all very, very grateful that it's over.
Sappy
There will be a natural gas pipeline run through our field at some point this summer. This was approved by us, of course, and talked about extensively. Negotiations happened about 18 months ago, and in our contract we had made provisions to save a pine tree that Sam had planted the year we moved in. I like rocks, Sam likes trees. It's who we are.
So the surveyors were out the other day staking things off, and I went out to talk to them to be sure that they were only taking out a few trees and not our entire hedge line. (I may or may not be attached to some trees as well. We're freaks here, we are.) They assured me that they were not taking out the entire hedge line, but they would have to remove the pine tree. I called Sam, and things were put on hold until he came home from work.
While I was away, Sam talked to the surveyors. If they moved the pipeline waaaaay down into the center of the field, they could salvage the tree. That wouldn't be good. Dilemma. Talking, and replanning, and head scratching ensued. Sam decided that losing the tree would be better than losing half the field. This decision came right about time the gas line representatives offered to buy the tree from us. (The last time they bought trees from us, the check had zeroes in the triple digits.) (And while I jokingly gave credit to my lucky green drawers, I know for a fact that my God is very, very good to me.)
Before Sam could answer that trading a check for a tree could be a very good option indeed, the head rep asked if the tree was sentimental. (It's a valid question because the tree certainly isn't pretty. It aspires to be Charlie Brown's Christmas tree when it grows up.) This question struck Sam's sensitive cord, and he teared up before answering that it was, indeed. The rep decided right then and there that the tree was going to be saved at all costs. He would MAKE it work, and the pipeline wouldn't run through the center of the field, either. We could have our cake, and eat it, too. But we wouldn't be paid.
This scrubby tree (that's too big to transplant without risk of killing it) now has stakes all around it and is roped off with surveyor's tape. The stakes have DO NOT DISTURB written on them. Red tape flutters from each pole, drawing as much attention to it as possible to passing motorists. And we will always have that tree as a reminder of Sam's sentimental side. Always.
We've spent the weekend laughing over this. Feel free to join us.
'Tis Me Lucky Green Drawers!
I've always loved St. Patrick's Day. Maybe it's the fact that I get to wear green shamelessly. I love green. Or just the subtle fun of the holiday. It's not over-the-top for decor or gift giving or plan-ahead type of celebration. At least it's never been in our families. It's just like a bonus day, with a lot of tradition and fun wrapped around it.
One thing that has always been more or less a child's myth to me is the pot of gold to be found on St. Paddy's Day. This year, however, I've been proven wrong. There really is gold to be had. I had no idea.
Today was Day Before Pay Day, which means I take inventory of our bills and set up payments to go out for the morning when the paycheck will be deposited. I discovered a few interesting bonuses that translated directly into gold.
1. The electric bill has an $18 credit on our account. They're telling me that I paid twice last month. And by twice, it would be twice plus $18. I'm not arguing with them. If that's what their records show, my records will show it as well. This is HUGE, because while $18 isn't much by any standard, the lack of a $100 electric bill this month is astronomical.
Gold.
2. The credit card that I paid off last month shows a balance of $1330, with a $3070 pending payment. Do the math. That means I'll be getting a check back in the amount of I'LL TAKE IT! I have many, many questions about this, including "who put me in charge of finances again?" That overpayment will be sa-weet indeed when the check shows up in my mailbox as promised.
Gold.
3. The company installing the natural gas pipeline in our field this summer proposed cutting down trees a few months early to make way. In lieu of compensation, they were willing to pay us for the inconvenience. (I'm questioning what the inconvenience is. The trees will be cut down regardless.) The cost of being inconvenienced has 3 zeroes.
Entire pot of gold.
I've always heard that wearing green on St. Patrick's Day is lucky, but only if you wore it without planning and forethought. It has to be random to be lucky. This morning, I put on green undies, and it was mid morning before I realized that it was even St. Patrick's Day.
Dear Future Me:
Green underwear are very, very lucky. You may want to buy ONLY green underwear in future, that way you'll be assured of putting it on randomly and accidentally on future St. Patrick's Days.
Love,
The Me of 2011 that Found the Pot of Gold
A Sure Sign of Spring
Spring is here. I know it's not officially not here until next week, but as far as I'm concerned, it's here. The snow finally melted, and we have none on our four acres anywhere. This is epic, really, because generally we're one of the last to melt off. Despite persistently cold temps, precipitation is rain and not snow. My daffodils are poking their green shoots up. And the birds are riotously singing in the trees. The other day I counted no less than a dozen robins in our pear tree. It was so wonderful.
Most of all, I know spring is here because of the time change. Once again, Micah changed his internal clock all on his own and continues to get up at 6:30 without missing a beat.
How? How do kids do that? And why?
Teen Parent Training 101 - 103
I grew up in home where things weren't generally discussed. My parents never had the Birds and Bees talk with me, and we never used anatomically correct words. To even think about such things would make us blush like a twelve year old boy in Hooters. You can imagine how equipped I am to parent teens, based on my past.
And yet, we have teens. And in the coming years, we'll have more. I'm terrified daily that we'll mess them up so badly that they'll be life long failures. I'm hoping that what we learn with Teen Parent Training 101 translates easily to Teen Parent Training 102 and Teen Parent Training 103, but I'm not delusional. The training classes are as individualized as each teen is. Just like raising them as toddlers was vastly different, and yet comfortingly the same.
We thought we were doing all the right things as parents. We ask where they're going and with whom. We give them a time to come home, and make sure their cell phones are charged. We have all their login information for emails and social media sites written down. We talk to them. And it turns out that it's not enough. We learned that kids need adults with them at all times. Adults that we trust, if that adult is not we ourselves. We learned that having login information does no good if we don't actually log in. We learned that a charged cell phone needs it's own set of rules.
And perhaps most of all, we learned that talking to teens is one of the most important things that we can do. Doing more than asking how school was and what they had for lunch is in order. I learned that while it's the most awkward thing I'll ever do, talking to kids about sex is necessary. Mandatory, even. Frequently. Weekly. Daily. Over breakfast. It has to be as easy to discuss as the weather, because kids have to know where they stand on the issue, and why.
And by golly, parents need a lot of Oil of Olay, Clairol and caffeine.
I'm All Bark
I had a realization. The louder I yell at a kid's offense, the lesser the offense really is. Strange, I know, but I'm grateful for this.
If the kids piddle and poke while getting ready to head out the door, I'm all "For crying out loud, can you move faster than a snail?! Pick up the pace already!" (I didn't say it was rational. Or even acceptable.)
When the toddler overturned an entire tray of planted seeds, undoing an hour's worth of work and $30 worth of seeds and soil, I sighed and started all over again.
My kids have come to realize that I'm all bluster and blow. If I'm yelling, they simply move out of my range of hearing and lay low for a while. It's just mom, destressing.
This very weird anomaly has turned out to be a good thing now that I'm the parent of teens. When they do stupid things like blatantly disobey us, they'll get yelled at royally. But when Big, Bad Things happen, I turn on my listening mom ears and let the kids talk. Even if it's summed up in just a sentence or two, teens are almost always saying something behind their actual words when they've got serious things to share. The thing is, I can't even begin to pick up on the vibe of these hidden words if my own words are drowning out anything else around me. Also, nobody wants to divulge dark and scary secrets if they're going to get yelled at for it.
Parenting. It's never what you think it is.
The Unthinkable Came to Pass
It finally happened. I knew it would one day, and I feared it's coming. That day was this weekend.
I slept, and didn't hear that Micah was up.
I have so enjoyed having kids grow out of the toddler stage and being trustworthy enough to allow them to be up and about in the morning while I lay in bed with one ear open and both eyes closed. It was a sweet reward for being up at night for too many years with babies. And then Micah came along. Micah couldn't be trusted when I was awake and in the room right beside him, so there was no way that I could trust him while I faux-slept. Micah is Mr. Independent personified. He *will* do it, thankyouverymuch, and no, he doesn't need help. He can do everything that the rest of the family can do. Just ask him. Some things that Micah has attempted to do in the past:
*Pour himself some milk. This resulted in a half gallon of milk on the kitchen floor. The dogs were lapping like there was no tomorrow.
*Help himself to shredded cheese. He loves it. The dogs love when he helps himself to cheese because he dumps the entire bulk size bag of it into his bowl. Whatever doesn't fit into his bowl overflows onto the floor. We've fed more 2-pound bags of cheese to the dogs than I care to count.
*Microwave something. He knows the concept of how the microwave works, but just can't get the timing right on things. He once put a piece of pizza in for 23 minutes. I caught it somewhere around the 1.5 minute mark. Thank goodness.
*Let the dogs out, just to be a good job helper to mommy. The dogs then roam the hood (because 4 acres isn't enough to roam) and we've had to call the Humane Society asking them to look out for a collarless corgi. We then get in Big Deep Trouble by said society for not having the dog neutered. It mattered not to them that said dog was used for breeding purposes; in fact, it made matters worse. Our name is probably on a nation wide black list.
So you understand why sleeping past Micah's wake-up is not a good thing at all. I've no idea how it happened, and when I looked at the clock and it read 8:00 (rather than the standard 6 something), I instantly stopped breathing and listened. Micah was up. Crap. The boys were also up. Maybe not as crappy as it could be. Upon entering the kitchen, I saw that the boy was at work again. I've no idea where the other boys were, but Micah was busy and unattended for quite some time. Also, he was hungry for salad and feeling generous. Micah chopped an entire head of lettuce, divvied it into six bowls, and topped each bowl with carrots. A whole bag of carrots. I'm incredibly grateful that we buy the baby carrots and those didn't need chopped.
My kitchen counter is sporting a lot of new nicks. I'm not happy about this, but am incredibly grateful that there was no blood anywhere.
Saturday Shots, Another Birthday Edition
Beck's Big Gift was inspired by Pottery Barn. Because we're way too cheap to pay $599.99 plus another $99 in shipping to get that thing here, Sam took it upon himself to do it himself. Plus, handmade gifts are so much more appreciated. It was a group effort at the end. Josh helped, and so did The Nephew. The nephew decorates dry erase boards like nobody's business.
Last minute tweaking and smudge wiping was in order before the presentation.
It was a huge success. Huge is an operative word.
I was told not to expect mine to look that nice.
Lets Hope Stupid Can Be Unlearned
Mom, I don't understand this. It says, "Frown is a four letter word." But frown has five letters. It doesn't make sense.
The lesson we learned today is that knowledge does not automatically come with age. This tidbit is brought to us by the brand new 16 year old in the house. Also disconcerting is that fact that her best friend has no clue what the phrase "mums the word" means.
Either I'm older than I realize, or the upcoming generation is scarier than any hatched yet.
*Sniff* So Grown Up
Way back in 1995, Sam and I were married a mere 2 years. He was in the Air Force, stationed in Alaska. I was incredibly pregnant with our firstborn. Sixteen years ago, on March 10, 1995, we met our daughter for the very first time. That night, as Sam was driving home from the hospital, the Northen Lights danced in rainbow colors in the frigid night sky. We were amazed that even God celebrated the birth of our daughter.
Today, Becky turns 16. We're so incredibly proud of who she has grown into, and what she has become. She is such a mature young lady, and I count her as one of my very best friends.
Happy birthday, Becky. You have no idea how much we love you.
Pillow Confessions
Daddy had taken Micah upstairs to get ready for bed. As I was cleaning up the remains of the whirling dervish that we call our son, I heard things like, "Go potty," and, "put your pajamas on," and, "lay down, Micah." I could tell by the tone of voice that I was hearing that our boy was swinging from the last available nerve left in that day. I figured I'd better head upstairs to help out before someone's nerve snapped. On the way uptairs I heard things like, "Micah, lay down," and, "Micah, lay down," and, "Micah, lay your head down!"
I'm not sure why I thought I'd be good in the reinforcement department, because by the time Micah's bedtime rolls around my last nerve is shredded into tatters. I braced myself for a battle royale since apparently the boy was not going down without fighting sleep off as long as he could. As I walked into the bedroom, Micah saw me as a perfect opportunity to stay up a little later.
"UM!"
"Hi, Micah. You need to lay down and go to sleep. Move over and let Mommy sit with you." I was focused on Micah as I walked in, and the room was rather dark, so I didn't notice immediately that the sheer scarves framing the window were hanging sadly from one side of the window and puddling onto the floor.
Micah wiggled down between the covers and took my pillow.
"What the heck happened to the curtains?!" I so calmly asked.
Micah sat up and looked at the curtains.
"I wondered that myself," Sam answered. "Looks like someone was hanging from them."
Micah wiggled out from under the covers. "Lay down, Micah. You need to go to sleep," I reminded him. "Who the heck would have done that?" I asked nobody, rhetorically.
Micah tapped my arm. "What, Micah!" I was a bit exasperated.
"Uke." And he laid his head on my arm to go to sleep.
Little tattle tale. It was probably Micah all along, swinging like a monkey, but if he told me it was Luke while snuggling with me, he wouldn't get in trouble. The boy is good.
NERF Rocks the House
After downloading videos to Micah's iPod, we realized that the speakers were lacking for video watching. Especially in our busy, chaotic home. External speakers were necessary to make the video watching a happening experience. We searched high, and low, and around and around, and in the end NERF pulled through for us.
Nerf iPod covers are genius.
Besides being speakers, it's NERF. I mean, the boy can frisbee that thing up against a wall and it's going to be pretty much alright. Also, it doubles as a kicking steering wheel for gaming. It's been a hit with all the boys.
But the speakers are most impressive. Micah turns the volume up on his iPod, then turns the NERF speakers up, and it's like a rock concert right here in the house. This is espeically fun at 5:30 in the AM. Even though Micah has the party happening downstairs in the living room, we can hear every word loud and clear in our bedroom with the door closed. When we entertain this summer, we now have music the entire 4 acres can hear. I only wish I were kidding.
And yet, the boy still does this.
And remember how we actually bought the speaker for video watching? It's a huge hit. Not only will the kids sit around a party table watching movies, but it's so much better than a portable DVD player for the van because there are no discs involved. Micah can choose what videos he wants, start them, change his mind, fast forward or reverse, and hear it loud and clear.
This post is in no way endorsed by NERF, but we are recommending this to the general public regardless. Gosh, what a winner. We all scored on this. Except at 5 in the AM when the party is in the house.
S'Mores Pops
I saw these on the wonderful world wide web (I can't remember if it was someone else's blog, or a Google search for a picture) and we made them for a take-in snack for Micah's birthday last week. People, they're about fourteen kinds of amazing. And so simple that even I can make them.
Start by spearing marshmallows onto a stick. We used barbecue skewers because we had them on hand. Anything would work, really, or nothing at all if you just use a fork, then set them on their bottoms to dry.
Lacking a photo, you'll need to melt chocolate to dip them into. We found a cup of melting chocolates at the grocery store that you just pop into the microwave. Perfect. But we did learn that this is a very hands-on project. If you simply dip them, the chocolate will be too thick and will mess up the next step. To correct this problem, we dipped the tops into the chocolate, then used a finger to wipe the chocolate down over the sides. It worked like a dream. (I made Becky do the messy part. One couldn't photograph the process while doing it, of course.)
Then immediately roll the chocolate covered fun into crushed graham crackers. We poked the sticks into a vase filled with golf balls to hold them upright to dry. (What? They were for Micah. And they were his golf balls. He was happy.)
Yumminess galore. Our family debated long into the evening whether they were actually better than real s'mores, or just as good. We ran out of test material before we came to a final conclusion.
It Was the Happiest of Birthdays
We had the Round Up Gang waiting on the couch for Micah when he woke up in the morning, balloons on the floor, and our Happy Birthday banner hung in the kitchen. When Micah went downstairs, it was evident that something fun was going on. I followed him down, gave him a hug and a kiss, and said, "happy birthday, Micah! It's your birthday today!" The look on his face was something that I want to remember forever. His eyes lit up, he looked up at me to be sure that he heard correctly, looked at the Happy Birthday banner, back at me, and grinned from ear to ear. He understood that it was HIS birthday. Another intangible that he was able to grasp. It was a huge moment, and I got to witness it. That was his gift to me on his 8th birthday. Our gift to him was a pair of Buzz wings. He was equally thrilled.
Eight Years. It Seems Like Yesterday.
My baby boy is 8 years old today.
How? How does life zoom by so quickly?
I vascillate between lamenting the fact that my boy is growing too quickly, and reveling in what he's growing into. My baby is only that in title now. There's so very little that's, well, little. As he's growing and maturing, we celebrate daily who he's become.
Happy birthday, Micah. We love you immensely. And we thank you for growing us in more ways than we ever thought we could in the past 8 years. You amaze us, dear son. God has been very good to us.
Sweeter Than Sleep
I heard him in the bathroom, and I instinctively looked at the clock. 5:57. Seriously? Maybe he'll go back to bed. Please just go back to bed. He'll go back to bed, right?
And then Micah headed downstairs.
Crap. This isn't how I wanted to start my day.
I corralled him back up the stairs and made him get into bed with me, just to be sure that he stayed put and didn't roam again. It was still dark for crying out loud. And not even 6:00 AM. Okay, it was now, as in 6:01. And I had an hour before my alarm went off. Surely he'd go back to sleep, right? He did the other morning at 6:45. It was awesome - he slept until 7:30. He'll go back to sleep this early and we'll both get a bit more rest before we start our day.
"Ick."
Shhhh, go to sleep, Micah.
"Ick. Wa."
Micah, be quiet. Lay down and go to sleep.
"Ick. Wa. Eee."
I looked over at him to see what the heck he was talking about, and I saw him looking at the clock. 6:13. Ick, wa, eee. Six, one, three. My boy was watching the clock like flashcards flipping before him. Six, one, four. Six, one, five. After so many years of struggling with learning, I couldn't ask him to stop. Even at 6:13 in the morning when every fiber of my being just wants to sleep, I couldn't stop him. Instead I lay there listening to him reading off the numbers on the clock, telling me that we were drawing closer and closer to morning and I'd not get any more sleep. And it was very, very sweet.
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