Broke House

As I have been laying Everett down on the changing table to change his diaper, he has been putting his hands in the shape of a triangle and saying, "Mommy! Wook! A house!"

Then, he pulls his hands apart and goes, "Uh, oh! Broke house!"

I have no idea where that came from, but it cracks me up how clear it is.

This Parenting Job is Hard

Nora's been in Kindergarten for two weeks. Typing that is so weird.

Today, I was trying to make sandwiches for two screaming, exhausted boys at about 12:15, when the phone rang. It was the school nurse calling. Nora had bumped her head at recess (hard) and was really upset in the clinic. I asked, "Is she okay?"

"She doesn't have a cut or anything, but she has a pretty big goose egg," the nurse said.

I stood there blinking for what felt like an entire minute.

"Um. What do I need to do?" I eventually asked.

"Well, Nora really needs her mommy," is what I heard. She may have really said that.

"Do I need to come get her?" I asked.

"Well . . .  if you just want to pop in and hug her, you could do that. She will probably be okay once she gets back to class, but if you wanted to come get her, I would excuse the absence," she said.

My jaw dropped open as I looked at my two little boys, mopping the floor with their bodies, who desperately needed naps. There was no flippin' way I was going to be able to throw them in the car just to go comfort her. I knew it'd make it worse, too. If I went in there, she was going to come home with me.

Then, she let Nora talk to me for a minute. Nora begged for me to come "just for a minute." I tried to tell her that the boys were about to take a nap, and I just couldn't. I told her I was sorry she was hurting. (It was awful, by the way.)

When the nurse got back on the line, something took over, and it was like someone else was talking. "Look. I can't really go in there just to give her a hug. I think it'll make it worse. If she still struggles when you send her back to class, let me know. I will find a way to come get her."

That's something a parent would say. That's weird.

Blue Eyes Sinking with My Heart

Our sweet neighbor across the street asked us if we'd like to come over and swim in her pool today. She had asked us to come last year, but the weather would never cooperate with the timing. Things worked out today, so we went.

For most of the visit, Everett was too scared to really get into the water. Nora and Henry were in the entire time. Henry was in a life jacket, and he was a lot more comfortable than he ever has been in a pool. Nora started out in her life jacket and quickly moved on to be without it—shocking me with her swimming skills.

As our time was waning, Everett suddenly became a little more comfortable. So, I lingered a little longer than I'd have probably really liked—just because he was finally enjoying it. When it was time to go, and as I was wrapping things up (in conversation) with our neighbor, out of the corner of my eye, I saw flopping. Immediately, I gasped, ran, and hopped into the pool. As I reached out my arms, I saw two huge, bright blue eyes looking at me as they sunk down into the water. I grabbed him out, fearful that I was too late.

The moment the water rushed off his face, little Everett blurted out, "Go! Want go!"

He didn't even cough. Our neighbor said, "That means he was holding his breath that whole time!"

Oh, thank God.

I don't even know how he ended up under the water: he had been staying out of it. There was no splash. He must've willingly walked down the steps and lost his footing . . . so quietly.

At the end of each day, as I'm falling asleep, I find myself saying, "Everybody is here. Everybody is asleep. Everybody is OK. Thank you, God, for getting us through another day."

Another One of Those Sleepless Nights

Last night was possibly the worst in the top two or three worst nights of sleep we've ever had as a family. It was so unbelievable, in fact, that I had sit down and try to remember what happened and when. I want to be able to recall this stuff when I start sleeping through the night again one day. I'm pretty sure I'll look back on it and think, "How did we survive!?"

• 10 p.m.: I'm laying down, Everett starts crying. I grab him, give him some Tylenol (because I think he has a sore throat), sit down with him at the computer for about a half hour, then, try to lay him down. He starts to cry on the way down, so I just bring him to bed with me. He sleeps on my face.
• 10:30-45ish p.m.: Willis wakes up and goes, "Is he serious?" because Everett is squirming ALL over us. And fussing. He gets up with him and goes to the couch.
• 11:30ish p.m.: Willis comes back into bed, followed by a dog that sounds like he's going to barf. He says, "I just let him out, and I had to chase him to get him back into the house. Everett went down, though . . . for now." Then, he let the dog back outside because the dog was FLIPPING out, screaming, and gagging. Willis laid down and said, "I feel like that, too, but you don't see me flipping out like that." I said, "You feel nauseous!?"
• 11:45-11:50 p.m.: I wake up, remembering that the dog is outside, and I yell for him to come in. Luckily, he does, and he's quiet. Finally.
• Midnight: I wake up (somehow, I slept for a few minutes) to an alarm going off in one of the kids' rooms. I fumble around and figure out that it is Henry's. I shut it off and go back to bed.
• 1:30 a.m.: Everett wakes screaming again. I hop up, grab him, give him some Motrin, and try to sleep on the couch with him. He flops around so much that I'm afraid he's going to land on his head on the floor. I eventually realize that he is struggling a bit to breathe. So, I get up and give him a breathing treatment. I sit up with him through that and for awhile afterward to make sure he's OK and sleeping.
• 2:15-30 a.m.: I put Ev to bed, and I go back to bed. The cat has made himself comfortable where my legs go and refuses to move for the remainder of the night.
• 4 a.m.: We hear Nora turn her music on in her room. At first, it's really loud, and then, we can hear her turn it down. Willis gets up and goes in there to find out that she's probably not slept a wink the whole night and had no intention of going back to bed.
• 6 a.m.: The alarm goes off for me to get up and start getting ready for church. Willis let me make the call as to whether we'd go or not. I said a prayer that went something like, "What do we do?" Then, almost immediately, I heard a hack from the next room (Everett). I rolled over.
• 7 a.m.: Nora walks into our room, all chatty like she had never been asleep. Willis tells her to go watch TV, and she does. Henry comes out maybe a half hour later. He watches TV briefly before Willis gets up with the kids.
• Almost 9 a.m.: I get up, but I could have slept until noon.

Having Kids is Hilarious

After school today, Nora asked me to draw her a Santa hat so she could cut it out and write a letter to Santa on it. I fully expected her to ask for something for Christmas in this letter, but, no. It was a prep-letter for when she plans to see him in person this Sunday. Check it out. (She had actually tried to write the letter herself, but she wanted me to translate it for her over the top of what she wrote.)


"I love you, Santa, but please don't 'Ho Ho' in my face. Thanks, Nora."

I'm pretty sure she did this because we watched A Christmas Story last night. She seemed a bit taken aback that a kid would actually freak out in Santa's lap. So, to prevent that sort of incident for herself, she's taking precautions.

I'm pretty sure she's Willi's daughter. I am pretty sure I've never thought that far ahead, like, ever.

Terrible and Beautiful

Last night, I took the new computer back that we had bought over the weekend (there was an, um, issue with Best Buy that got resolved—another story). Nora had gone to be with a friend, so I had just Henry and Everett with me. Everett was a 15-month-old disaster at Best Buy, which is pretty standard. (I have a four-year-old, and I can say, with confidence, that the hardest age is just walking until fully talking.)

The whole time we were at Best Buy (it took forever, which was unexpected, but not surprising), Henry kept reminding me that I had said that we could go to "Benard's."

I told him that we have to wait until we're all done, and if he wasn't going to listen to me, we couldn't go. So, he did his best. He just laid down on the floor of Best Buy. At this point in my motherhood, I just let that happen. I probably got judged, but people can go fly a kite.

We left Best Buy, Henry reminded me about "Benard's," and I decided that he had behaved well enough to go (and I could strap Ev into a cart this time). The thing about "Benard's" is that they have ONE cart that is kid-friendly. It has a car on the front, and Henry asks me every day at least 86 times if we can go to "Benard's that has the yellow car."

I'm not even kidding about that.

So, we got to "Benard's," and we spotted the cart. As I herded my two boys into the store, two, slightly older boys darted into the store and headed straight for the cart. Henry went running after them saying, "Nooo!"

My heart sank . . . before Henry even said anything. I watched (almost outside myself) as I heard these little boys basically tell him "tough."

Henry had the hugest tears, and his cries were so full of anguish. He just doesn't get out much, darn it.

Anyway, what could I do? I just started to try to comfort him, and I said, "Sorry, buddy. We just missed it. Darn it."

Oh, it was painful. I about cried, too, honestly.

Luckily, over his cries, I barely heard the mother of the boys yelling, "You know what, guys? You need to let those little boys ride that car."

She actually walked over there and made them get off. I think she hated doing it, and I felt bad that she felt she had to do it (and, yet, that's honestly what I would have done had I been her). I couldn't help but to be pissed off at "Benard's" for only ever having ONE of those STUPID CARTS at EVERY "Benard's" STORE.

I told her "thank you," but it might have been lost on her. I made Henry say "thank you" to the boys. Believe it or not, the boys actually seemed to be OK with parting with the car once he said that.

It was terrible and beautiful all at once. Life is hard. You know it? Jeez.

Henry's Upsided

Just in the last few weeks, Henry has really started to connect some synapses in his brain or something. He makes so much more sense all of a sudden, and I've found that I'm not spending most of my mornings ripping my hair out with him. It's a welcomed change. He's starting to understand quite a bit, and he's actually starting to be really sweet and helpful.

One of the things that he says lately that I do not want to forget: when he gets excited about something (like when we say we're going to go out to eat at "the car place"), he always gasps, opens his eyes wide, and says, "I be so upsided!"

It makes me laugh every single time.