On Notice

My dear, sweet family….I love you all like crazy. I love being a mostly-stay-at-home mom. I love doing things to make your lives easier, and getting the things I know you like. BUT,  you are hereby all on notice of the following (frustrated momma rant comin right up):

  • I do not sit around all day waiting for one or more of you to call or text me, asking me to bring you something, get you something, do something for you. I am generally pretty busy all day.
  • If you need something for an assignment, class, project, meal, or sports team, I need a little bit more than 24 hours to get that handled for you.
  • I do have a job. Sometimes, I will not be home, won’t be able to answer my phone, won’t see your text until I’m done working.
  • CLEAN  UP AFTER YOURSELVES!!!!!!! The floor, kitchen counter, family room, and stairs are not your personal dumping grounds. Put your shoes in your bins or in your rooms, put your dirty uniforms and socks in the laundry room, put your books on your desks, your papers in your backpacks or desk files or your stack, put your towels in the laundry or in the buckets by the pool, throw away your food trash, put the milk back in the fridge, don’t get a new cup every single time, don’t leave your dirty cups all over the counter, put your snacks back in the pantry, put your dishes in the dishwasher. You are all FULLY CAPABLE of these simple tasks, trust me.
  • I really hate to nag, but I will nag if I must to get you to clean up after yourselves and do your chores. But please don’t make me nag. It makes me unhappy. Ever heard the phrase “happy wife, happy life?” Same goes with happy mom.
  • If you notice we are running out of something, or have run out of something, don’t wait until just after I’ve gone to the store to tell me. Write it on a sticky and put it on my computer, or put it on the whiteboard. Although the grocery store employees get concerned if they don’t see me at least a few times a week, they also start to look at me like I’m crazy if I’m there every single day. Boys, if you run out of shampoo or soap, please tell me….don’t just keep showering without washing your hair or bodies (yes, this has been known to happen).
  • Because I work, I’m sometimes not home in the evening. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. When it happens, please do not text me asking me what’s for dinner. Kids, this particularly applies if dad is home. But you’re all capable of opening the fridge/pantry and finding something to eat. I know all of you can cook to one extent or another. Part of me having a job is you all working it out when I’m not here. You can do it! Oh, and just make sure you clean up whatever mess you make – that’s part of the deal. If I have to work AND clean up your mess when I get home, I’m going to be a wee bit cranky (read: there might be some heavy sighing and cabinet slamming).
  • There’s a calendar on the wall for a reason. Almost everything is on there. Look at it, remember it, tell me if something changes, or you need something added.
  • I do the best I can, but I do sometimes forget something you’ve told me. I might ask a couple, or even a few times, especially if it’s a busy work week. Please be patient with me. I’m so not perfect, but it really isn’t fun to be reminded I’ve failed. Put a sticky on my computer. Or text me. Or email me.
  • Don’t take, use, or eat anyone else’s stuff without asking. And when you’re done with it, put it back (except for food you’ve eaten – we don’t need to see that again). Candy, charging cables, and headphones are not fair game.
  • I am NOT in charge of knowing where ALL of your stuff is. You can ask me if I’ve seen it, but it’s not my responsibility to keep track of everyone’s stuff. I have enough trouble keeping track of my stuff.
  • Looking for something means actually looking for something which means moving things around in the fridge/pantry,  and actually walking into a room to search

Whew…okay…I think my rant is done. Any of you moms out there ever gone on strike? I’ve considered it a few times, but I’m more worried my need for order would override my need to teach my family a blessing (lesson).

Something else they didn’t tell me

When you’re going through fertility stuff, you get to go through lots of bloodwork. When you’re on hospital bedrest for sixteen days, you get one or more IV’s, all of which are moved every two or three days. When you get a severe staph infection, you get a PICC line for four weeks (which might take three or four tries, including a trip to a surgery unit to finally get it in) accompanied by once-a-week bloodwork to check the status of said staph infection. Now, there were a lot of things they didn’t tell me when I was on that hospital bedrest, nor when Big Man was born 14 weeks too soon, nor when I was recovering from that severe staph infection. One of the things they didn’t tell me was that, for probably the rest of my life, my veins will roll and collapse when getting blood drawn or an IV line put in.

Phlebotomists and nurses get all excited when they see my veins. They look nice, pretty, and totally accessible, until they try to access them. Then forget it. Bye-bye veins. It’s not fun to them. It’s seriously not fun for me. I warn them, but almost to a t, they don’t believe me until they go to put the needle in.

I had to have blood work this morning. Right away, a pretty vein showed up on my left arm, but as soon as the nurse went to put the needle in, it disappeared. I told her what had happened to me, and this was not out of the norm anymore. She was really nice and worked with me, using the baby  needle and holding my arm in just the right spot. She got it in on the second go.

I’m whining. I get it. Worse things could have resulted from those experiences seventeen years ago. Quite honestly,  this is just an annoyance I rarely have to deal with anymore. But it’s a reminder, every single time, of 21 days of IV’s, four weeks of a PICC line, and just about everything else that went wrong that September. And it’s just something else they didn’t tell me would happen.

He didn’t look that different

On Saturday morning, I got to see Little Man play soccer for the first time in four years (if not more).  I was a little nervous. He is on an Under 14 team – I could only think of what Big Man’s U14 team looked like a few years ago – big, fast, skilled. I worried how he would manage, if he would be able to keep up, the potential for him to get hurt, how he would act with me there.

It’s been awhile since we were soccer parents. I had to write myself a note just to remember to take the chairs to the fields.  The soccer complex still looks much the same, with even many of the same people roaming around. It was surreal to be back, as I was convinced our years as a soccer family were done when Big Man finished his last game three years ago.  We took our seats on the sideline after chatting with some fellow teammates’ parents. Spouse is helping coach (totally in his element!) so he paced the sideline in front of us. The whistle blew, and the game started.

Our team got destroyed. We are a rec team, yet we played a comp team, which was evident pretty much right out of the gate.  We had one sub the entire game. Our boys were gassed early.  I lost track of all the goals the other team scored. We didn’t score one, although we did have a few shots on.

You know what I noticed more than anything else? Little Man didn’t look much different than his teammates. As in, if you didn’t know he was autistic, you’d never have guessed. He ran, he made a few passes, he moved around the field like he kinda knew what he was doing. He didn’t get taken out by another player. He could totally keep up. He did ask a bit more than his teammates to be taken out, but he played most of the game, and it was warm out there. He wasn’t a rock star, but neither was he just a body out on the field.

I can’t explain the level of relief I felt. He looked like everyone else. He played soccer! He did it.

I have to share this photo of him from in-game. Do you see the smile on his face? Good golly but seeing that did my heart so good. IMG_2030

In a year….

In just over a year, Big Man will be eighteen. That’s right – he will be an adult. Holy wow – how did that happen? He just keeps growing up. I knew this in the back of my mind, but then I really started thinking of what it will mean for him to be an adult.

First, he will still be in high school. Dang it – he’ll be able to sign  himself out if he wants. He’s a good kid, so I’m not super worried about this being available, but it’s there. It’s reality. He can sign himself off campus. He will be eighteen most of his senior year. I’m glad about that, and also terrified about that.

He won’t be able to go to his pediatrician anymore. She’s been his provider since he was just under two years old.  She knows him. She  knows his history. She knows his growth curve, his quirks, his diagnosis. I simply can’t fathom her not being his doctor. I can’t imagine having to explain his entire history to a new doctor. More than that, he will be able to go to the doctor on his own. The control freak in me is completely freaking out that. He won’t have to tell me ANYTHING about what the doctor says. I’ve played the primary role in all his medical stuff since day one. That will be near impossible to let go.

He will have to order and pick up his own medications. As an adult, he can refuse to refill them much less take them.

He will be able to enlist in the military. Yeah, that one I can’t even process.

He will have to fill out all his own paperwork. Hah! Good luck, son.

There are so many things he will have to do, be able to do as an adult that I haven’t even thought about. I’m beyond grateful he will still be at home his first year of adulthood. I feel I’ll have an opportunity to train him up before I send  him out into the world.  But it still freaks me out. In just over a year, my teeny, tiny, too-soon baby boy will be an adult.

What this day means

It’s been seventeen years since that day, and no matter how far we’ve come, this day is a sucker-punch every single year.

The minute we found out we were pregnant with Big Man, after more than 18 months of trying, a year of fertility treatments, and one early miscarriage, I started dreaming and imagining. I knew exactly how it would go…..I never thought anything would go wrong. That just wasn’t even on my radar, not for one second.  I firmly believed once we were past the first trimester, we were in the clear and it would be smooth sailing from there until the day my newborn was laid upon my chest.

That moment, on September 6, 2000, when I looked down into a toilet full of blood, my dreams were shattered….dreams of a picture-perfect, full-term pregnancy and birth. Those dreams were gone forever, replaced by fear, guilt, the possibility of death for my child as well as myself…..reality became steroid shots to help my baby’s lungs develop sooner than later, multiple ultrasounds, strict hospital bedrest, being away from home for who knew how long, and the lovely effects of magnesium sulfate. Reality became long, lonely hours in a hospital room. Reality became odds and percentages. Reality became praying every day for one more day. Reality became the knowledge that our baby was likely going to come too soon, too small. Reality became knowing I would never, ever take pregnancy for granted again…not for myself, nor for anyone else.

My son is here, seventeen years later. It was a battle, but he’s here. And prematurity does not end when you leave the NICU. His physical scars are minimal. My emotional scars are forever. I know exactly the fight my brave boy has inside of him because I watched him fight every single day. I know just how stubborn  he is, because it’s been his timeline from day one for every single milestone.  I know how tender-hearted and caring he is because I see the hugs he gives everyone, how he connects and relates to people. I truly believe that comes from him being handled by so many caring, loving nurses for three months. I know his eyes don’t close all the way when he sleeps, and I know he holds his hands in loose fists, with his thumb out, because I spent 93 days watching him intently, especially as he slept.  I know the long, narrow shape of his head is due to him laying on one side or the other in his isolette and then crib for months on end (and is a common look for preemies who do extended NICU time). I know more medical terms than most lay-people, because we lived in the medical world for a long time.

September 6th, especially when it falls on a Wednesday, will always be a pitfall for me. It will always bring back the worst of the memories. It marks the beginning of a journey……

“Empties”

I started watching the Netflix series, “Atypical” last week. If you haven’t seen it yet, check it out. It’s really good. It’s about a family with two teens, one of whom is high-functioning autistic. Sounds dark, but it gives a great perspective on the reality of life with a high-functioning ASD kid.  It is actually funny, while at the same time, it can be gut-wrenching, particularly as the mom of a high-functioning, ASD teen. It gives me hope for his future as well as makes me aware how long and difficult his struggles will be.

Episode 5 about killed me the other day.  I had to stop it at one point – the neuro-typical daughter was talking about what life was like as the sister to an autistic person. She explained that when she was younger, she would hear her mom talking about her as her “NT” kid (neuro-typical)….She thought her mom was calling her an “Empty” and it made sense to her, because she felt she had to empty herself out in order to make space in their life for her autistic brother, the brother who took up so much space in their family.  I immediately started crying.

Little Man was diagnosed relatively late, at eight years old, but I still feel his diagnosis and subsequent therapies, etc took over our lives to a certain extent. We didn’t stop living, didn’t stop activities for the other two, but Little Man’s autism consumed me, especially emotionally.  One of my biggest fears has been how his autism affects them, what it does to them, how they feel about it.

Big Man and the Princess have not been at the same school with Little Man for years. It’s been five years for Big Man, and four for P since they shared a campus with him. That may change next year, as one of the options on the table for high school for Little Man is their school…..the public, traditional high school just down the street.  We’ve talked extensively about the possibility of him going there…..the worries of him being able to navigate the campus, deal with the number of students, handle the homework load, much less the possibility of being bullied, his differences so obvious. They’ve said they would help him, that they and their friends would look out for him. But what level of that is appropriate to expect of them? At what point do they feel they have to become “empties” so that he might be safe and successful? What is too much to expect?

We may not have to face this issue to the extent I worry about it. Time and his needs may find him at a different school entirely. They are still, however, his siblings. The day-to-day reality of that still weighs heavy on my mind. At what point do they feel they have to become “empties”? I hope I never intentionally lay that expectation on them.

Re-Shaping

I am a mom of a certain age…..I’ve carried and birthed three children, and, well, I’m not so  young anymore.  I’ve always tried to keep myself in good shape, to a certain size/weight.  But with age comes changes we can’t always control, no matter how much we try.

I checked out this summer, busy with just living and enjoying the people around me. I didn’t exercise much, ate what I wanted when I wanted, imbibed adult beverages a little more than usual. Put myself on the scale this past Monday. Ouch. Let’s just say I’d given myself a red line for my weight – that number I simply could not go above. Well, I’m above it by a couple pounds, which isn’t bad, except I just really did not want to be above that red line. Dang it anyways.

Saw my girl doctor yesterday. Talked to her about the weight gain the last couple of years. She just smiled, and then let me know women, on average, gain ten pounds at this point in life. What in the ever-lovin….NO THANKS!

I put myself back in gear this week, getting back to Pilates, getting back to running, and getting back to my normal eating routine. Haven’t lost a single ounce, which is a bit depressing. I told myself though, it took two months to gain those lbs….they aren’t going to come off in four days. I’ll keep trudging along.

Here’s the deal – as we women get older, our bodies change, again. It’s not really fun, but I’m trying to be gentler on myself while at the same time not giving in. I refuse to go crazy though – life is too short to spend it denying myself every good thing.  I’m not cutting out all carbs. I’m not going vegan. I’m not trying to con myself into thinking cauliflower “rice” and zucchini “pasta” are better than the real thing. I’m not working out two hours a day. I’m not eating lettuce morning, noon and night. I am taking Pilates three times a week. I am running or walking four or five days a week. Yoga starts in two weeks. I am drinking water all day. I’ve cut out the sodas again. Sweets were never really a downfall for me. I have re-added fruits and veggies back into the routine for snacking. My FitBit reminds me to keep moving.

I will re-shape me from this place I’m currently in. And I will also learn to accept I’m never again going to look like I did when I was 20, 25, 30, or even 40.  At the same time, I’m going out swinging. I refuse to just fold up shop and start wearing mumus.  So you can take that, aging process.