Happy Holidays Eldridge 2010 Twas the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Every Eldridge was stirring, including the mouse;
The mouse took up residence in our garage last week,
Driving my panic to a new panicked peak.
The boys were all nestled all snug in their beds,
With Caden still screamin, at the top of his head.
And Drew with his cell phone, texting his new lady friend,
100 new messages, and then pressing, "send".
"Get off your cell phone, or your paying the bill!"
Jon's voice was gruff, staggering, and shrill.
When out from the next room, Bradyn chimed in as well,
"Dad, can I by a new book, Kindle's havin' a sale!"
When out from the third room, there arose such a clatter,
Jon yelled up the stairs to see what was the matter.
Away to the bedroom I flew like a flash,
Sort of muttering and stuttering in my self imposed dash.
Tripped on a lego, and swore just a little,
Watched the dog cock his leg, and threaten to pittle.
"Caesar!  You dumb dog! Get your butt out the door!"
Grabbed my poor foot, legos suck and are sore.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Jon in the front room, with a new look of fear.
Assembling a new toy is always a battle,
Christmas at our house, it's an uphill paddle.
"Oh crap, of course, this things missing parts!"
On to assembly, the three hour start.
To the top of the stairs, down the long darkened hall,
He tripped on the lego, and threatened to fall.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
His arms flung out skyward, as his butt hit the sky.
Whining and crying and hating his life,
He looked my direction, his now laughing wife.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard out the door,
The mouse in our house, looking for more.
"I thought you killed the gross rat last week,
This week for sure, or he'll start to reak."
I was delighted, Jon looked dismayed,
Eyeing the presents, and wondering who paid?
"We did it again, we do every year,
Again bought to much, for our children we fear."
Thier grim little faces if their lists are not read
While they rested soundly in their warm snuggly beds.
A bundle of toys Jon had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
As he watched me struggle making Christmas just so.
I sorted and struggled and showed all my teeth,
And the smoke it encircled my head like a wreath;
I had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when I laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
I was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And Jon laughed as he watched me, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
At now 8 months pregnant, wrapping presents was dread.
My arms felt like jello, my butt felt like lead.
I filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
The baby just kicked me, its one little perk,
To know that he's safe all snuggled inside,
This surprise blessing, now filled me with pride.
I looked at the tree, all the presents arranged,
Then realized my outlook, was slightly deranged,
A house full of love, no matter how nuts,
A spouse with a job, no real worries or ruts.
Little boys sleeping, a fourth on the way,
Soon left me speechless, with nothing to say.
I looked at my husband,
Took a good look at life,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to us a good-night."

Change the Blog Name?

My Mom asked me a couple of months ago, when I announced I was pregnant (okay 8 months ago) a couple of questions.  First there was a shock and awe, "really, really, REALLY?"  It wasn't a happy really, it was one of those, "are you sure, did you pee on the stick correctly" sort of really.  It was followed by a comment about my husband's genitalia being "snipped", why wasn't it "snipped" and when would it now be "snipped".  My mom doesn't have it out for her son-in-law's junk, trust me.  She is just a mom, and my third pregnancy was ... a little less than stellar.  That pregnancy combined with a doctor telling me a year prior, "another pregnancy is not possible, it could put you in the ground," was also not exactly a great omen.

After the really, the snipping, and the trying to talk me off the ledge, she asked one more question.  "Well, I guess you're going to have to change the name of your blogsite."  Huh.  Not something I was really thinking about as the thought of 4 college tuitions, a 3 year old an a newborn, pushing out another infamously large headed Eldridge child to the amazement of doctors and nurses, and general discomfort of the next few months.  Now this?  Change the name of the blog site?!  Admittedly, it was a nice after thought when I was in complete and total denial that this was happening ... and I've spent many a spare moment pondering this question.

A couple of nights ago, bam, it hit me.  I named the website, "The Cat Makes 5" years ago.  It was in ode to the fact that we had 2 children, Jon and I, and a transvestite Shitzu who thinks he is a cat.  Ere go, the #5.  Thinking of the same 5 number, I magically came up with an answer (thank you Rodney Rippon for all of your stellar mathematical teaching skills, apparently I can still add).  We DO have 5.  It's just no longer Jon and I inclusive.  The "cat" really does make 5 with the addition of the 4th boy in a few mere weeks.  Really, it's ironic, and maybe God and I should have discussed naming this whole blog site years ago. I didn't really take the issue to prayer, maybe I should have.  Maybe I should have consulted the powers that be about the fact that what I named my blog sealed my fate.  Unfortunately, I waiver in faith.

So there you have it.  The blog site name will not be changed for my 4 followers (yeah, you know who you are).  It will for now and forevermore remain, "The Cat Makes 5".  That 5 number won't change ... ever ... ever ... ever again unless there is another immaculate conception that is going to take place.  Mom has stopped saying, "really" and changed her response to, "I'm so sorry."  She's not sorry there's a baby on the way, oh no, she's sorry her daughter's body isn't exactly cooperative carrying around said baby.  I'm a horrible "vessel" to bring this child to earth.  God bless surrogates.  As for Jon's "situation", the lengthy, adinfinitum medical visits, lab workups, etc due to said pregnancy have successfully met our deductible for this and every other subsequent lifetime (thank you for good insurance, that's in the prayers tonight along with thank you for vasectomies).  This deductible situation lasts until December 31 ... again, a math problem.  This means Jon's ability to procreate lasts ... you got it. 

Parenting after 4 ...

On Thanksgiving my Aunt and Uncle in Colorado Springs invited us to their home.  I couldn't resist the lure of NOT having to cook this year, and I was excited to see some of my now grown cousins I only get to see about every 2 years.  My Aunt and Uncle's house was FULL, and dinner was delicious.  More importantly, I got to see some of those cousins.  One cousin in particular, is married and has a little girl (18 months) named Carly.  When Jansen and his wife, Yvette showed up at the house Carly was less than thrilled to see the enormous amount of folks there ... and my family complete strangers.  I felt for her, it was a zoo, and no self-respecting 18 month old handles that kind of stimulation without some sort of meltdown.

Carly was tentative, there was a minor meltdown of sorts as she tried to get her bearings and navigate the crowd.  Suddenly, Caden (my 2 1/2 year-old) appeared around the corner.  At once, Carly saw an ally in toddlerdome, and she and Caden took to one another like moths to a flame.  Caden being the third in line in our house of boys has little fear of people and crowds.  His initial reaction when we entered my Aunt and Uncles' house (a place we've never even seen before) was to scowl at everyone and start shouting off demands and "no!" when anyone asked him anything.  He wasn't tentative or scared.  He was, for lack of a better word, bitchy.

Caden's eyes lit up when he saw Carly and suddenly his bitchdom came to a halt as the two of them started toddling around the house.  Caden was talking nonstop to Carly about going here and doing this, etc. and Carly just sort of stared at him, but dutifully complied and both seemed happy.  Yvetter commented she had never seen Carly interact this well with another kid.  Bonus, score.  The second generation of cousins were getting along as smoothly as the first.  Now that I'm an adult I understand why our parents loved family gatherings ... the cousins got along so well we dissapeared, out of their hair, for a grateful few hours of self imposed respite care.

But, like all burgeoning relationships, Caden and Carly's was doomed to exit the honeymoon phase when they had their first turf dispute battle.  While gathered in the front room chatting with cousins, I watched out of the corner of my eye Caden and Carly.  It had been a few hours, dinner was over, Caden had NOT napped that day, and his ability to cope with anything was fast losing ground.  We had brought a few toys for Caden to play with, and he currently had his "truck" in his hand.  Carly, interested in the new toy, very quietly walked up to him and really quite pleasantly tried to take the truck.  She wasn't mean, grabby, or even bossy.  In fact, she was silent and matter of fact like Caden should just offer up the toy.  I hesitantly watched the exchange as Carly tried once, then twice, then a third time to take the truck.  I KNEW Caden was going to lose his crap.

Caden lost his crap.  Suddenly that all to familiar scowl (the one he reserves for his brother's in the heat of battle) creeped across his face as he screamed, "NO Carly, you stop that, you CAN'T have my TWUUUUUCK!"  Carly, an only child up to this point, sort of stared at him then she swung back and backhanded him in the head.  Caden was indignant and slapped her back.  Carly slapped again, then Caden one more time, and I sat and just watched the whole thing thinking, "well, I guess they'll work it out when one of them gets tired of smacking the other in the head."  Caden was in no mood, and Carly finally lost it as well just as her mother was rounding the corner. 

I told Yvette it was no big deal, jsut a turn dispute, both of them had slapped equally, Carly was nice about trying to take the truck, and Caden was just a train wreck.  At that moment, I realized I have become a seasoned parent.  Why?  I watched Yvette, now pregnant with #2, dutifully (and appropriately) get on Carly's level and try to coerce Carly into apologizing.  Carly was not interested, Yvette kept trying, and I just sat there thinking, "what?  there isn't blood, they're both still breathing, toddler law of the jungle."  I tried to put myself in poor Yvette's shoes and think back 13 long years ago when I was the parent of a single child.  I think I was probably a spaz.  No, I know I was a spaz. 

Drew was the result of years of infertility treatments, miscarriage, and prayers.  When he was born the earth ceased rotation as far as Jon and I were concerned and we were both convinced this child would be the only game in town since it took so much effort to get him there in the first place.  I dressed Drew like a fashion plate, I monitored his every move, and took HOURS of video of him playing in his excersaucer doing the same damned thing, but to me it was entertainment.  To those of you that had to endure the copies of said video and feign excitement, I apologize.

I was that Mom like Yvette.  Thirteen years ago I would have not let Carly and Caden's argument ever get to the slap down point.  I would have stepped in and tried to help them reach resolution and make Drew apologize.  Realizing I'm now seasoned doesn't mean I've ceased to care, by no means.  I think it means I've come to recognize that sometimes you just have to let your kids work it out. 

My boys, as I've regularly documented on this blog, are boys, which means they are inherently stupid until at least 25.  They dig holes in my yard and call them "foxholes" to catch non existent enemies, they dump 5lb containers of sugar in the toy room and try to mash it into the carpet to cover their crimes, they turn the basement into fight town and use things like car seats to throw at one another calling them grenades.  These are events that if Drew HAD stayed an only child, would never have happened.  My hovering skills were to polished to let him out of my sight long enough to excercise his inherent stupid gene.  I think over the years if I stepped in before all such stupidity occurred, they might miss out on all these "memories" they can retrieve when their older.  The "remember when ..." stories.

My brother was recently here on a visit.  Even though there's a 7 year gap in our age, we still have "remember when ..." stories.  These stories aren't the cozy loving warm hearted stories of our parents acting like the Leave it to Beaver Cleavers, they're the stories that may have inspired terror at the time, but now laughter and some level of respect that our parents (and us) survived childhood.  Josh brought up the, "remember when we took that trip to Florida in the suburban and Mom kept threatening to come back there and smack you and Maranda if you didn't stop (whatever it was we were doing, probably fighting or egging Josh on to hysterics)."  I thought back to the time.  Maranda and I snickered under our breath, and I VIVIDLY recall one of us saying quietly, "uh huh, yeah, let's see you come over two seats within smacking range of the two of us."  Needless to say, mom had skills, and before that trip was over she had thrown off her seatbelt at least half a dozen times and crawled back over those two seats with lightening fast precision aiming for a well placed backhand.  She never missed.

The trip was my parent's call to action to make "memories".  Despite the fun, like trips to Epcot and Disney, it was that damned car ride for days that we remember.  It was ... in a word ... hell.   I can't imagine why my parents didn't leave us on the side of the road somewhere in mid-arkansa.  BUT, despite it all, it is a memory, one my parents may want to strike from recollection to maintain sanity, but a memory none the less. 

My boys are ... my boys.  With each succesive child (pregnant with #4, God help us all), I'm learning to step back, step in only where needed, and accept that the "remember when" stories only can come through me remembering what's important.  Kudos to you new moms.  Kudos for being attentive and loving and stepping in.  You're not wrong ... you just haven't mastered multiple levels of simultaneous chaos.  If there's no blood, I don't want to hear about it.

Are You Writing This All Down Somewhere?

This is Caden.  He's holding one of the zucchini's (one of the 1.5 million zucchini's) that gew from my 4 zucchini plants this year.  I think even a monkey could grow zucchini and eat well.  Caden is our most "verbal" child.  Being the youngest of three brothers, hanging out with me all day, or just having a strange early grasp of the english language could be any of a number of reasons.  Regardless, his brain still functions and reasons like he's 2, he just occasionally blurts out the most adult sounding responses and ideas.

I was relating a "Cadenism" story to one of my friends the other day and she said, "seriously, Cort, are you writing this all down somewhere?"  Not really.  I write down alot about my kids, but sometimes things are so random to me I don't really think to write them down.  So, here you go friend, and maybe Caden WILL one day appreciate me posting this for the world (okay, the 4 people that follow my blog) to read.

In case you haven't heard, I'm pregnant.  This news may not have reached the two individuals that live in a cave on the deserted island yet to be discovered.  What you may not have heard is that Caden is also pregnant ... yes, he's pregnant.  This pregnancy has not been "stellar".  Between my old uterus, overly active clotting blood, daily regiments of puking, and general complete bitchiness, Caden has been by my side.  When I'm over the toilet praying to God that there cannot possibly be another day of puking in my future, Caden is there, rubbing my head, and saying, "don't worry Mommy, I go get u a towel, k?"  I can't even get that sort of sympathy from Jon!

Caden is there at the doctor's appointments, sitting on the bed with me, holding my hand, and watching the screen looking at the "monster" (what he calls the ultrasound images of his baby brother) telling me,. "it's okay momm, the doctor will make you feel better, he get you some medicine okay?"  And during the two times a day that I have to "shoot up" my blood thinner inkections, Caden seems to instinctively know when this will happen and he joins me in the bathroom to say, "okay, u takin' ur shot?  It's okay mommy, u be okay."  Jon has to leave the room because he can't handle watching me inject myself, Caden doesn't even flinch.  I think Caden might be a little more help in the delivery room and I might have to retire Jon for this delivery.

I suppose that it was inevitable that Caden would eventually catch this whole pregnancy "disease".  A couple of months ago he casually mentioned "his baby" and I said, "oh yeah, your brother in Mommy's tummy?" to which he responded, "NO MOMMY!  MYYYYY baby!" and then he lifted his shirt up and pointed at his stomache.  Caden was pregnant.  I had two choices at that moment.  Since he's my third child and I have become rather laxidazical in my parenting compared to my first child that was potty trained at gun point and wore matching sweater vests 90% of his life, I took the choice to accept and congratulate him.

Caden has now been pregnant 4 months, 2 months less than me.  He begins most of his days telling me that his baby wants to eat this or that for breakfast.  When he gets cocoa, he grins and says, "this is deeeeeelicious, my baby lubs it!"  This love his baby has for certain foods is not limited to cocoa.  The baby also apparently loves french fries, hates vegetables, and needs apple juice about 6 times a day. I bought Caden his own "baby" a few weeks after his announcement, and he held on pretty tight to his "baby" for all of a week.  He named it baby, then Thomas, and then Baby Thomas.  Baby Thomas now sits on the floor in his room, and occasionally gets the pleasure of sleeping in the bed with Caden if Caden remembers to ask for Baby Thomas.

The whole pregnancy thing hasn't really worried me, as much as entertained.  I occasionally give into impulse to humand or Caden's pregnancy and ask him about his baby.  As of 2 weeks ago he announced there are 2 babies growing inside of him.  I guess he's having twins.  "TWO babies?" I said.  Where are the babies growing in there?"  According to Caden one is in his boob and the other one is in his ear.  Who knew babies could be so versatile in their locations?

The only time I have been "concerned" as in might need to seek a professional play therapist for Caden is when I came downstairs and noticed he had hijacked my baby doppler ... had the earphones in his ears, and the doppler on his gutt.  There sat my 2 year old, doppler on his gutt, checking his baby.  I just took a picture on my phone and sent it to his Dad.  What else are you going to do at this point?  Caden recently told my perinatologist that he's pregnant.  The perinatologist sort of just looked at Caden with a confused look on his face.  I think the perinatologist was trying to figure out WHAT Caden had jsut said because surely it wasn't that he was pregnant and had a baby in his tummy ... two babies no less.  Caden repeated, "I got two babies in here," and pointed at his gutt.  The perinatologist looked at me and I said, "yeah, you heard him right, he's pregnant, it's twins, and better to jsut humor this situation than try and figure it out." 

You would think a perinatologist that deals with babies EVERY DAY would have humored the poor kid, but instead he just sort of looked at Caden, cocked his head to the side, and said, "huh, really?"  I guess that's why the perinatologsit never went into pediatrics ... no sense of humor.  Let's hope he finds some funny bone before this baby arrives.  I can only IMAGINE the one liners Caden will come up with when the actual baby is born.  He might as the doctor to go ahead and take his babies out now as well. 

Ask me about the SWAT team at my house ...

Not a typo, yes, I said SWAT.  I can honestly say that the greater Longmont, CO police department has my vote for being great.  First, the important part.  Noone was hurt, nothing was stolen (as far as we know).

My only experience with a SWAT team (okay, how many people can say they have even had one experience with a SWAT team?  Seriously.) was when I was home visiting my parents.  Jon and I were living in Japan, Drew was a baby, Jon and Josh were out golfing, it was about dusk, Dad was tinkering in the garage, mom, baby and I in the house, and one of Dad's former "clients" showed up in a long blonde wig to catch up with Dad after having long been "on the run" years earlier.  Yes, he was crazy as hell,  Yes, Mom happened to go in the garage only to see that Dad had managed to talk the crazy man into the backyard, out of the garage, and he motioned to mom "911" when crazy person wasn't looking.  Anyhow, long story short, SWAT team ensued, crazy person was arrested and the North Ogden police department could yet again resume all of their efforts to the crazy girl that lives across the street.  Good times.

My kids go to two different schools.  Drew, the 13 year-old, goes to a charter academy across town.  Bradyn, the 8 year-old, goes to school about three blocks away within our "planned neighborhood" community.  Every day I drive across town to pick up Drew at 3:30.  I have exactly 15 minutes to get home to pick up and/or meet Bradyn at home (if he rode his bike).  I've always made it home before him, but occasionally worry there will be that "one day" I don't so I always make sure the front door is unlocked.  After all, nice SAFE neighborhood.  Uh-huh.

Tuesday afternoon I was running late, as usual, to get Drew from school.  Recognizing my time frame to get Drew from school, drive back across town, etc. being no less than a down to the minute strategic military operation, I pulled out of the garage with a fleeting thought of,  "wait, did I leave the front door open for Bradyn?"  I had this momentary internal conversation with myself about not having time to go back in the house, and it would surely be okay to leave the garage door open just this once in case Bradyn beat me home.  So, Ieft it open.

Picked up Drew from school, passed Bradyn mid-way home from school, and pulled up to the house only to notice something "wierd".  The garage door wasn't open.  I recalled the whole internal conversation I had in my head earlier, and thought, I KNOW I left that open for Bradyn, why is it down?  I pulled half way into the driveway, stopped, punched the garage door opener, garage opened, Bradyn pulled into the garage, I left the truck running, and told him to go get in the truck with his brothers for just a second.  I had this off sort of feeling something wasn't right. 

I quietly opened the door and took a step inside.  I didn't even notice Caesar (dumb dog) wasn't there to greet me like every other day on the planet.  He always hears the garage open and comes to the door to attack people with licks when they enter.  I was suddenly "overwhelmed" by this horrible feeling of darkness and fear.  In the next second, I had this "moment".  It wasn't a nudge, it wasn't a feeling, it was an actual voice in my head that said, "Get out NOW!"  I obliged, closed the door, and walked back to the truck.  I pulled out of the driveway, closed the garage door, and parked in front of the house.  I called 911 and said, "I think there's someone in my house," and then recalled all the events.

The 911 operator dispatched the police, then started asking some questions.  I had my cell phone on the speaker so Drew was listening in on the whole conversation.  "Are there any cars in your neighborhood that don't look like they belong there?"  I started scanning the street and said, "uh, no, I don't think so."  Drew piped in and said, "Mom, there's that car again!"  I looked out the door to see a red car slowly passing our house, and the two people inside staring at me in the truck talking on the cell phone.  Of course, to add to what was now feeling past wierd to fear, the people in the car staring at me, had on Halloween "scream" masks.  Of course.

"That's the second time they passed our house, Mom!"  I looked at Drew, the operator heard him, and said, "get the plate."  I got the plate, told the operator, and while she checked the plate Drew told me when I went inside the car had driven by the house really slow with two people in Halloween masks.  The operator said, "let me see if that car even has reason to be in your neighborhood."  Apparently, it didn't.  A cop car showed up, no lights, and parked a few houses down, then came to the truck window.  I got off the phone with 911, and he said, "could you park another house away for me?"  Again, I obliged.

The cop approached the side of the house, stood there for a minute, then put his hand on his gun and started getting on his "walkie talkie" thing.  Suddenly, there was one, then three, then four cop cars parking on various parts of the street without their lights on, and cops running out of the cars with a couple zipping up "SWAT" jackets on their way to the house.  The cop returned to the truck and said, "I'm going to need you to park further down the street a few houses, and can I have the garage door opener?"  Uh, okay.  I sat there with the kids and watched 6 cops surround the house, hide behind the front porch, the side of the house, the back of the house, and in front of the electrical box in the front yard with their guns drawn.  Uh, not okay.

The garage was opened and all 6 of them swarmed the house, guns drawn, and dissapeared inside.  The next thing I noticed was the red car had returned, with the two "scream" masked people, and they drove slowly past the house again.  Again, not so okay.  During all of this I called Jon, he was on his way home.  Jon got there a second after the cops had gone into the house, and got into the truck with us... me, and the three crying boys that is.  Bradyn started the water works, Caden started crying because Bradyn was crying, then Drew started crying and yelling at Bradyn to stop crying.  Not boys I would ever take into combat.

Jon and I were calming them down, waiting, and then Jon told me the whole other side of the golf course across our backyard had a road block of cops.  The cops emerged from the house, signaled us to the house, and said everything was okay.  Jon went into the house with them to check everything out, and the kids and I stayed in the car.  Apparently, someone was in the house, but they "fled" out the back.  In the time I had left the house to get Drew, then came home, there wasn't enough time for whoever to steal anything.  The red car?  According to the cop, most likely the look out car.  How did the person get out of the house and not caught? 

I left the garage door open, when the person went in to "case" the house (according to the cop), they closed the garage door.  When I got home, and opened the garage door, they were most likely still in the house, (hence sick feeling) and I had "spooked" them.  Caesar not coming to the door?  Dumb dog without a guard dog bone in his body was probably busy hanging out by the back door as the thief was escaping, probably offering him a good-bye lick and thanking him for coming by to visit.

After I called 911, and the cop arrived, he did see a "shadow" or something, called for back up, but didn't go inside the house until they all arrived.  The road block, back up getting there, etc. all took time, and apparently it was enough for the thief to escape.  The cops were amazing, fast, and thorough.  When they were talking to Jon I commented, "what a stupid thief, boy did they pick the wrong house, we don't have stashes of cash and jewels in there!"  The cop was rather serious and said, "yeah, but that's not what the take, they don't take time to rifle through your drawers, they want the quick and fast electronics, and you have alot of electronics."  They said there was evidence that some of our electronics had been "tampered" with, but from what they saw, nothing seemed obviously stolen.  Jon concurred (had the thief taken any of Jon's precious electronical devices (television, xbox, computer, etc.), Jon would have been so miffed he'd have scoured the golf course himself with his own rifle to retrieve his "stuff".

We were instructed to make sure over the next few days we didn't notice anything missing or strange, and in the future to lock all the doors AND keep the garage door closed.  We're now installing a key pad garage door opener and activating the formerly inactive alarm system already installed in the house by the previous tenants.  I've tried to chat with Caesar (dumb dog) about who was in the house, but he's not talking.  I think he has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (yes, I can joke a little bit about this now). 

The kids are still a little spooked, but okay.  and Drew now sleeps with his air soft pellet rifle next to his bed (for sure, that would inflict damage, "I'll shoot you with one o' these pellets, and they have the potential to bruise the thickest of skins!) Of course, obviously, I feel violated in what I thought was our safest of neighborhoods, but I'm comforted by the fact that various factors came into play to not make the whole situation so much worse ... the closed garage, my dumb dog's absence of a bark, the sick feeling and voice in my head that gave me a stern order to leave the house, and the police's amazingly fast response time.  The scream masks and the red car are still a little haunting in my mind, but the people in the car looked like teenage boys.  Jon and I agree this was most likely a harmless, albeit illegal, attempt at a botched robbery, and not some fatal psychotics escaped. 

Oh, the world, the world.  It makes me a little sick in the gutt to think my boys now have a real life experience with a small part of what is bad in the world.  Lock your doors, hug your kids, and SHUT your garage!


 

Annual Pumpkin Farm Trip

This free scrapbook design personalized with Smilebox

Annual Doctor's Visits with SLOW CHILDREN

Yesterday we took the kids to the pumpkin farm.  Our first stop was a sign placed specifically for my children.  I had them pose for it and could barely hold the camera still a I was shaking with hysterical laughter.  After the past couple of day I had the pleasure of spending with my "slow children" this sign summed it all up. 
For those of you planning on having children, or adding to your already one child home?  Don't have children in the same month ... ever.  Jon and I made the fatal error of having 2 of our children in October.  We put alot of "effort" into these two children's arrival (thank you medical science and infertility drugs), so there was never any planning of "when" we wanted to have the kids, we were jsut ecstatic we were having any kids at all.  Our two eldest kids are exactly 5 years and 10 days apart.  Had I not been induced with #2, they would have been born exactly 5 years apart, to the day (yes, they had the same due date, go figure).  Thank you for induction.

When you have two children in the same month there is initial, "oh, how cool is that?!"  As they age, and birthdays go from a couple cheap toys to IPODS and Kindles, and blow out birthday parties with half the nieghborhood, the oh how cool part leaves the building only to be replaced by, "should we second mtg the house this month?"  While putting a second on the house, you also have to schedule annual "well child" visits with the pediatrician ... for two kids ... and you schedule them the same day thinking, "let's get this done in one shot."  Yesterday was that day ... and my kids are certified morons.

Drew is now a couple days shy of 13.  He had NO CLUE I was taking this shot ... trust me, a smile from him these days is a rare piece of camera wizardry.

Bradyn is officially 8.  He still likes to pose for shots, and was all to willing to pose for his post bouncy house excursion shot with a HUGE grin!

Both of them register on the intelligence scale somewhere a notch above a monkey with opposable thumbs.  (okay, seriously, apparently they are smart according to the school, but I think they leave smart at the front door to resume stupid at our house and all subsequent events wherein I have to take them in public.)  When Drew and Bradyn were a few years younger, I used to take them to the grocery store, etc. with me.  The trips were a living hell ... each and every time.  My opposable thumb monkey children can apparently not keep their damned hands off of each other (thank you Dad, who knew I would use the, "keep your DAMNED hands off of each other" line ot my own children one day). 

They hit, they squeeedl, they throw themselves to the floor, and yes, there have even been incidences of them taking things off the grocery store shelves to use as ammo complete with shooting sounds and grenade explosions (think chocolate chips, marshmallows, nuts, whatever they can grab fast and fling farthest at their sibling).  I finally stopped fighting the power and left them in an aisle about three aisles away from me one day.  They were busy acting like morons, so they had no clue I was not even in their line of sight.  When the finally found me, they resumed their moronic antics, and when people started to notice, I started walking away, staring at them, hoping people would realize that these were not MY children, and where the hell was the mother of these idiots running rampant through the store?  Sometimes it worked.  One time it worked really well when I fisihed my shopping and then had their nasty butts paged to the front of the store.  In their idiotic maneuvers they never realized I was on the other side of the store, they looked a little "deer in the headlights".  Drew was pissed, Bradyn was scared, and both agreed this was totally embarassing.  Two weeks later, we were right back on it.

The doctor's office doesn't offer the same poosibility of anonymity.  The doctor only has to assume these are your children you are accompanying into the office, although I am considering suggesting to the right ear taht these are my respite care children, and certainly not mine.  Yesterdays' visit began with a little beat down in the truck on the way to the doctor.  This would not be me beating anyone ... this would be Drew beating Bradyn and vice versa ACROSS the car seat with Caden in the middle.  There were some slang insults, a few tears, and alot of "moooooooommmm!"  I threatened them ... which I know is useless ... but I was hoping.

CADEN AND MOM riding the TRAIN ... Mom 6 months pregnant and SQUEEZING in the train ... Caden fearing for his life that if the train lurches fwd to fast, we're both going to fly from said train if our butts loosen their grip from the sides.
We checked into the doctor's office.  So far so good.  The threat was actually holding water.  Bradyn and Drew went into the waiting area with Caden while I signed some paperwork at the desk.  Caden immediately found the water cooler (moth to a flame) and started helping himself convinced this had to be a waterpark and not a doctor's office.  I ran to intervene his efforts, only to hear the echo on the other side of the room ...  "get off me you homo!"  Are you serious?  There, in the waiting room of the doctor's office was Drew and Bradyn, sitting by one another, now sprawled on the floor closed fist beating the crap out of each other trying to pull the other's underwear somewhere up over their head.  "Get ooooooofffff!  Mooooooommmmm!  Tell him to stop!  Get of meeeeee!"  They both were screaming the same thing with an occasionally derogatory slang of homo thrown in for effect (and to get me sued if an ACLU attorney was within ear shot).

I threw on my best, "I will kill you when we get home or perhaps beat the hell out of you right now if you don't pull yourselves together, " look followed by a stern, "GET UP!" muttered under my breath.  They mamanged to get themselves back into their chairs for 30 seconds, I got water boy situated, then again with the, "stoooooop iiiiiit, mooooooom!"  I turned for a second to see they had managed to both stay sort of in their chairs, but were now standing over their chairs, beating each other down from the side, one on top of the other.  Are you kidding me.  Gratefully, the nurse came out from the back and said, "okay crew, let's do this."  I saw fear in her eyes, I know I did.

The first fight began about who would be weighed first.  Of course, because hey, you're both getting weighed eventually, might as well turn it into a battle.  I finally slung Drew butt forward to the weight machine, he scowled, but the nurse was able to get his stats.  5' 83 lbs.  Wow,  He grew a little.  Bradyn, 4', 76 lbs, wow, he lost a few lbs.  Caden insisted he too get on the scale, shoving Bradyn none to lightly off the scale (I think he screamed, "get off now before I slap you!" (his new phrase of attack).  Bradyn was laughing so hard he obliged.  Caden.  38 lbs.  Let's do some simple math:  Drew, age 13 83 lbs Bradyn, age 8 76 lbs Caden, age 2 38 lbs.  Do you see what I'm getting at here?  Bradyn is catching Drew at alarming speed and they are 5 years apart.  Poor Drew.

Both of the boys managed to pull their crap together while in the doctors office minus the threat to dump over the pressurized oxygen tank, screaming and fighting over who would get to sit on the table, etc.  There were minor throw downs, and I am sure I just looked haggard.  We knew the nurse and I casually mentioned, "Oh yeah, Tekla, did I tell you we're having ANOTHER boy."  She looked at me, jaw dropped, and had to turn away to shake her head and say, "uh, really, wow."  Yeah, sort of my reaction.  The flu shots were accomplished (of course after the battle of who goes first to which I let Tekla decide and she opted for alphabetical, oh good, oldest to youngest.)  Drew was rather manly, Bradyn squeeled and asked for soemthing to bite down on (girl), and Caden screamed as I held him down, "do NOT give me that shot, get AWAY from me right now!!!"  The shot was fast, fairly painless, and they are now resistant to that strain fo the flu for the season.  At this point I offered Drew the car keys and both boys and said, "head out to the parking lot, get them strapped in, I'll be right there.

Now, admittedly, I toyed with the idea of taking an unguided tour around the hospital jsut to regroup my life and wonder why in the world God would be so cruel as to send 4 boys to this most impatient of mothers.  But, the doctor came in one final time to update me on all the things she found from their 30 second check up.  Drew has falled off the growth chart (jack sprat), Bradyn is also off the growth chart (and jack sprat's wife) to the other end, and Caden is following in Bradyn's larger than normal shoe steps.  Poor Drew.

"Heading to the pumpkin patch, the pumpkin patch, the pumpkin patch!  It's AWESOME MOM!!!"

Tomorrow ... the pumpkin patch.  Oh joy, oh bliss, hoping there will be horses and petting zoos so my allergies can rear their ugly head and as I try to feign a smile the tears and sniffles (allergies) will be minimal.  Maybe I should just take a pre festivity benadryl, then I will be high and maybe not remember their antics.  Stay tuned ...

Pulmonary what?!

Since I keep this blog as therapy and a pregnancy journal, how could I help but not document yesterday's events?  Yesterday ... sucked.  For a few days my breathing has been getting "shallow".  Since it's my 4th baby, and not my first rodeo, I figured, "huh, baby must be carrying high like all of my children..."  Around month 7-8 with all my pregnancies, I cease to breathe correctly as my children prefer at that point to hangoff my tonsils.  Their insistence on being this high in my body creates a tad bit of a space issue for my lungs, and my lungs always lose. 

But ... I am only 22 weeks, so this is pretty early.  Yesterday morning the breathing got a little worse and led to the light headed, pass out, nauseas (more than usual) feeling.  I waited a little while, then thought, "huh, maybe I'll call my perinatoligist (sp) just to make sure this is an okay sign for me and the old uterus."  Apparently ... not a good sign.  The nurse says, "hold on a minute,"  then the doctor ... "blah, blah, come to the hospital NOW, go through the ER and they will page me, pulmonary embolism, don't go to Longmont ER, they can't handle your situation and you'll end up getting life flighted here anyway"  That's about all I heard.  After pulmonary embolism left his lips I thought, "this is it, this is where my death issues have been coming from, I am going to die of a blood clot."

Of course the hospital I have to deliver at is in Denver (40 mins away).  I call Jon, he comes home, and he Caden and I head down to Denver.  Needless to say, it was the ride of hysterics, I already couldn't get a full breath, and the whole, "pulmonary embolism" situation wasn't helping me "relax" and breathe even a little bit.  Long story short ... into the ER,  checked in to labor and delivery a few minutes later, lots of tests, lots of blood, lots of oxygen, and alot of waiting.  The baby was fine (my babies always are, it's my body that gives up on the whole pregnancy situation), and despite my shallow breathing, (still) so am I.  Tests were negative, (yeah, thanks perinatologist for stirring up my death issues) and I have a follow up in a few days.

I still can't catch a full breath, and I am absolutely exhausted (asthma sufferers, I cannot imagine).   It's absolutely wierd ... and sucks, but doctor and tests say it's okay, so I'll go with that until the follow up next week.  Honestly baby, you cannot relocate yourself from my body soon enough.  It's okay you're in there, not your fault, but maybe you could open a dialogue with your current incubation unit (my old uterus) so that you stay in there until you are fully baked.

I've picked your name (even though your Dad says it's a maybe, you're named, and that's what I'm calling you), and I'm not telling anyone until the ink is dry on your birth certificate.  Be grateful I'm not letting your Dad have a say so in this decision ... you're avoiding a major bullet there ... like being named after a sports figure or a state park or a dog.  You're oldest brother was almost named, "Baxter."  Yeah, I know, dog's name. He should be forever grateful I insisted on Andrew instead.  Hang in there baby ... just a few more months for both of us.

Poop Shoot Out the Kennel Door ... nasty!

Hmmm ... Caesar.  Caesar is this little Shitzu we adopted 7 years ago.  He was 6 weeks old and looked like a Star Wars Ewok, so I caved and we became dog owners.  Caesar has endured two toddlers without biting, two different houses, one trip across the United States in the Expedition with our family, one plane ride, and only had to take puppy prozac one time (hell, even I was taking puppy prozac on that aforementioned journey from Las Vegas to New Hampshire with the whole family). Caesar is a "pure bred" and we allowed him to "father" one litter before we, as the kids would say, "chopped his balls off."  Despite the loss of his manhood, he still makes every attempt to get out the front door to pee everywhere in the neighborhood ... just to let the ladies know he's around.  He's been caught by animal control once.  Fortunately for him he was a first time offendor so there was no fee involved ... if there was, he might still be impounded because he just ticks me off to no end when he runs out the front door and I have to chase his butt.

By little dog standards, Caesar isn't that old.  But, he does have a weight problem, (probably because he sleeps 23 hours a day like a cat) which could mean a cholesterol problem, which might mean he's depressed after bringing home baby #3, which might mean he'll be suicidal when we bring home baby #4.

All this being said, we can depend on a few constants with Caesar.  First, he's lazy, don't ever try to run WITH him because at about mile one he will drop on his belly, flopping all four spread eagle, and refuse to go on no matter how much you scream, yell, and tug at his leash.  He would rather you just choke him with his leash, and you will eventually have to carry him home.  Second, he's part cat.  He sleeps all day in various locales, and seems to be fond of spaces much smaller than his fat body.  He manages to twist, turn, and contort until all of his hearty self fits.  Third, he snores, like a freight train, and will keep you up at night.  And finally, he will always and forever more sleep in his kennel in our rom because if left to his own device at night he will "go" somewhere inappropriate ... in the house.

We were always told, "don't worry, dogs won't pee or poop in their kennels, they just won't do it because then they'd have to sit in their own nastiness."  For 7 years this has held true... until now.  Two weeks ago we went to a memorial day party.  Caesar, because he has no control of himself, was left in his kennel while we were gone ... like we have always done with him since he was a puppy.  Never an issue.  We were gone about 4 hours.  Upon our arrival home a horrible stench filled the air.  As we attempted to locate the epicenter of the stench, my stomache dropped when I realized it was coming from my bedroom ... near Caesar's kennel.  What the hell?

Now, this particular day was day #2 after Jon's ER visit for the gout in his knee.  He was still taking pain killers, (super fun at the party trying to make sure he didn't say something ridiculous) and I was in charge of this familial ship.  As I got to Caesar's kennel, I felt the whole ship sink.  There, outside of his kennel, a good 3-5" away from the metal door of his kennel, a spewing of diarrhea... not a little crap, alot of crap.  Somehow that dog had managed to shimmy his rear to the kennel door and blow his poop all OUTSIDE of his kennel because, after all, he didn't want to sit in his own shame.  Jon was on drugs, this is a puking pregnancy for me, and I had to take a moment to regroup realizing I would have to clean all of this up. 

First, I puked.  Got that out of the way.  Then I gathered supplies, mini carpet cleaner, etc. etc.  THEN, and only then, did I get closer to the kennel to let Caesar outside.  He was curled up towards the back of his kennel (obviously ashamed of his behavior and smelling his own nastiness).  I assessed the kennel situation to make sure when I let him out he would not "travel" with any "residue" left on the kennel.  To my surprise, and admittedly pride, that dog had not gotten one smattering of poop on his kennel ... not on the door, nowhere.  How he managed this, I will never know.  I wish we had a hidden camera on sight, because even the Dog Whisperer would not believe this one.

I set Caesar free to go outside, then cleaned up his nasty mess while Jon stared at me sort of glazed over (high) as he apologized that I was pregnant and had to clean this up.  I puked one more time, managed the mess, and wiped my hands clean (no pun intended) of the mess assuming this was a totally freak incident that would never happen two times in one dog's lifetime.  Until this morning ... I ran the first of 2 carpools this morning only to come home between carpool #1 and #2 to smell a familiar foul stench.  Bradyn went upstairs to let the dog out of his kennel, and came back downstairs saying, "Mom, it's so gross!"  Yes, yes, again, Caesar had blown poop out his kennel door.  However, this time, it was grosser (how it could be grosser, I would never imagine), and he had not shown the same finesse to keep the kennel poop free this time.

Let him out, cleaned his mess, and am now considering taking him to the woods and leaving him there.  Perhaps I could give him to the circus?  Has anyone else ever heard of a dog who shimmies their back side with such accuracy as to shoot poop outside the kennel door?  I didn't think so.

Gout, ER, Narcotics, Mi Casa, and Starbucks for everyone ...

What is gout. Gout is a build up of uric acid in your diet that forms tiny crystals in the shape of diamonds form in various and asundry joints of your body.  The crystals resemble little jaggez razors, and therefore shred and tear said muscles, tendons, etc. in their appointed area of delight. Gout has been called the "rich man's disease" because high uric acid producing foods involve alcohol, fatty foods, rich foods, etc.  Over a course of centuries, the royalty of every nation have had "gout".  Jon is not a drinker, but Jon's favorite foods are fast ... and greasy ... and slide right down his gullet with ease. 

Jon has gout.  Jon has had gout for about 5 years.  Every male in Jon's family has gout, but every male also drinks, alot, so Jon was slightly pissy when his gout appeared in his big toe 5 years ago.  He is in denial about gout being from his grease lovin' dietarty habits.  Gout in Jon's big toe has occureda few times over the past 5 years.  I have never personallyexperienced gout, but apparently even the sheets on the bed rubbing against the afflicted big toe cause excruciating pain.  The gout sufferer has a couple of meds they can take, but for the most part, you just have to ride it out until it gets better.

On Friday Jon's knees started to hurt.  He suspected gout in his knee (a new locale), and started his medication regime followed by his internet searched remedies of cherry juice and baking soda chasers.  By Saturday evening, he couldn't walk, his foot was turning blue, and his leg was doubling in size.  We kicked out our BBQ company (see, karma, inviting last minute BBQ people and not telling me was rendering it's payback to Jon in the form of gout), and I took a highly resistant bitching husband to the Longmont, Colorado ER ... at 8 0'clock ... on a Saturday night.  Awesome.

On the drive there Jon was in excruciating pain, and I felt really bad for him.  But I have to admit, I was hoping two things upon arrival at the ER.  A) a quick in and out visit (yeah right) B) if not a quick on and out visit, and least a portion of Saturday night regulars would be there for cheap entertainment while we waited, a cop with a prisoner in shackles high as a kite denying they have a drug problem would be an extra bonus point for sure.

We managed to get Jon into the hospital.  As he was checking in, I checked out the waiting room.  I was in luck!  We had walked into a virtual motherlode of saturday night regulars.  When I saw a cop walk past me a little thrill of delight shot up my spine!  Jon was in horrible pain at this point, and again, I felt really badly for him.  He tried to walk into the waiting room and his poor knee finally gave out.  I caught him, sort of, and when the nurse offered a wheel chair he tried to be manly and tell them no.  I responded, "Jon, I'm pregnant, you're not a light weight, I won't catch you, I promise, get the chair."  Begrudgingly, he dropped his man pride, and into the chair he went. 

The waiting room.  Oh gosh, motherlode for sure.  As I looked around I noted a few things.  (Before I begin, let me clarify I am NOT racist, again, NOT racist, so don't start making wierd judgment calls on this next part.)  Jon and I were the only caucasians.  There were small children (like 18 months) crawling around on the hospital floor, contracting the plague, I'm pretty sure.  Hospitals are filthy and gross, let's be honest, they're full of sick people, and my overwhelmingly unhealthy fear of germs makes the hospital almost as bad as my fear of public pools.  Most of the people knew each other.  I don't know if it was a family party gone awry, a neighborhood party at the ER, not sure.  All I knew was that when I heard a cell phone ringer belt out the same tune I had heard earlier at our favorite Mexican restaurant, I was relatively enterained.  I didn't know that was a ring tone. 

My Spanish skills involve one year of a 7th grade electie course.  I can ask you what's for dinner in the kitchen, how do I get to the bathroom, or other nonsensical useless conversation.  Everyone seemed pretty happy to be there, and I wasn't sure where the ER emergency situations were.  One mom was limping, but when her 2 year old ran across the room, she took off in a dead sprint, limp magically cured, until she caught the errant child, and returned to her seat, limping.  One guy called out to the crowd something about, "la Casa" then said he was going to "la Starbucks" and who was interested.  Suddenly there were orders being shouted out for frappucinos and lattes and regulars.  Huh, I really didnt have words. The entrance back to the actual ER rooms seemed like a revolving dooor.  More and more people were coming in and out of the doors, again, everyone seemed related, and again, I had no words.  Jon was in so much pain I don't think he was as attentive as myself to our surroundings.

Gratefully, the nurse got Jon a room pretty quickly for ER time (an hour or so).  When we got into the room, Jon was greeted by his CNA, Omar.  Omar wasn't to concerned about Jon's pain.  I think Omar had been having a rough night, and I'm pretty sure he immediately pegged Jon as drug seeking.  What Omar didn't know is Jon NEVER takes narcotics.  His leg could be severed, falling off, and he'd ask for Motrin.  Not kidding.  The nurse came in and did the whole triage thing.  By this point poor Jon was a mess.  He was on the verge of tears, and I was really worried about him.  The nurse said she wanted to get him "comfortable" since it was a busy night and it could be some time before he saw a doctor.  She offered morphine.  Jon initially refused, but when he accepted the offer, I KNEW this was bad.  I told her Jon's adament hatred of narcotics.

The morphine was not the best idea.  For a peson that never takes narcotics, a shot of morphine straight to the vein elicited an immediate response.  He started grabbing his chest and saying, "I can't breathe."  The nurse didn't seem to concerned, I was convinced he was having a heart attack.  I said something to the nurse and she said to Jon, "guess you don't do enough heroin, this is your body reacting to the shock of the morphine."  Hmmm, check.  For those of you that don't want a heart attack from morphine, start doing heroine asap.

The heart attack symptoms stopped, but the pain wasn't letting up much.  On the other hand, Jon was now high, and I had the pleasure of sitting in the room with him while we waited for the ultrasound.  Jon's high's involve the following, panic attacks, emotional outbursts, non stop babbling that he thinks is completely coherent, total loss of bodily function (he was farting, repeatedly, and at one point said, "uh, that one might have been productive, I might have pooped the bed."), and life affirming reflections on his life.  He asked for my phone so he could check in on his facebook.  Okay, yes, I had a moment where I almost let him have the phone wanting to let him see the "next day" affects of what he might write to the world, but I took pity on the poor guy.  He asked for his laptop so he could get some work e-mails done.  Again, this was a no.  Jon need not be fired. I'm pregnant with #4 and I would not do poverty well.

Ultrasound was clear, no clots.  Good deal.  Jon was still in writhing pain.  The doctor came in, checked him out, diagnosed no gout but perhaps a lingering back, nerve issue (jon also has back issues) gone awry.  Doc asked about Jon's diet to assess his gout.  Jon said, "uh, it's not great."  Doc asked what set off his gout typically.  Jon said, "uh, I dunno."  I finally had to step in.  "Well, the Wendy's BACONATOR is one of his favorites, he had that Friday night."  The doc looked at me wide eyed and said, "really?  There's a sandwich called the baconator?"  Uh, yeah, Jon snorted that one out months ago.  Doc suggested strongly Jon avoid future baconator trips ... but this was not gout.  This explains why the gout pills were not touching the pain.  The doc then suggested prednisone for the swelling, and another narcotic for the pain so Jon could actually walk out of the hospital without wanting immediate amputation.  Jon was in so much pain at this point, he again agreed to more narcotics, the morphine had worn off. 

The doctor asked the standard, "any allergies" questions.  Jon said no, but that he had taken some narcotic one time that my little brother had given him and it had some wierd side effects.  OMG.  I had a flashback.  Jon had a severe gout attack a year prior and we were visiting my Mom.  Josh (my brother) was there, and he offered Jon some pill he had so Jon could at least sleep through the night.  Jon had not brought his gout pills on vacation.  Jon finally accepted the offer.  Again, since Jon never takes anything stronger than Motrin, he's a raving idiot on any narcotic.  I told the doctor that I couldn't remember what the pill was, but the side effect was a little more than "wierd", and heaven help me if Jon was given that particular narcotic ever, ever, again.

I then proceeded to tell the doctor about my night from hell when Jon took the magic yellow pill.  He spent the better portion of the night waking me up, repeatedly, beginning with, "honey, honey, I'm going to poop my pants ... seriously, going to poop my pants!" followed by his narcotic induced plan to NOT poop his pants, "honey, honey, we have to have sex or I'm going to poop my pants."  His sex to not poop his pants plan went from a passing thought to an insistent urgent need to solve his poop his pants problem.  He was dying, possibly pooping his pants, and sex was the only cure.  This went on ALL NIGHT LONG.  The doctor sort of looked at me dumbfounded trying not to laugh his ass off.  I told him it was so NOT funny, and so completely true. 

The nurse gave Jon some prednisone, narcotic cocktail.  No heart attack this time, but immediate "high" for Jon.  When the nurse left the room Jon informed me that he would drive home, and the hospital bed was big enough for me to "hop on" and have sex in this most sexy of places, the ER.  It seems Jon's "id" (for you psyc majors) takes over when he's high.  Then the babbling began, he wanted his cell phone to call some friends and employees to talk about office crap, he wanted to know why the waiting rooom was Tijauana, he wanted his computer, he wanted me to go home, he wasn't "high", he loved me, he was not as attentive this pregnancy, he needed to mow the lawn when we got home (mind you, it was midnight now), he wanted Drew to be his new apprentice at work, blah, blah.  He would NOT shut up.  When the nurse retuned I told her I would give her $1000 to shut him up because I could not take this babbling idiot home.  She just laughed, it wasn't funny, then Jon started telling the nurse she was "awesome" and "the best nurse EVER!"  Heaven help us all.

We finally got out of the ER.  Me driving the idiot home, exhausted, grateful his pain was gone, but telling him to shut up repeatedly.  When we pulled in the driveway I told him, "Jon, you're high.  You may not think you're high, but you are.  Don't go into the boys room to tuck them in, you'll scare them.  Get to the bed, immediately.   He was insistent he was "good" and I threatened him.  He made it inside, then started stumbling around insistent he wanted to kiss the kids goodnight and make sure Caden was covered up with his blanket.  He's a caring Dad, even when he's high.  I had to be firm and stern and direct his butt to bed.

I was downstairs getting him some toast and water so he could take his pill.  Then I heard a thud at the top of the stairs followed by, "uh, I think I need a towel."  I thought this was it, he had indeed pooped his pants wiht this narcotic.  Fortunately, he had just tippd over at the top of the stairs and dropped his glass of water.  Relief.  Got him into the room, he had to go potty, he fell asleep on the potty.  I was so tired and torked at this point I jsut left him there.  He came around about an hour later and mumbled something about, "I'm okay, I'm good,"  He crashed into the bed, I gave him his pain pill, and he proceeded to continue blathering like an idiot for 2 freaking hours.  It was now 3 am. 

I had to wake up at 6 am because Caden was up.  I got him situated, then had to go to the pharmacy to get Jon's prednisoe, narcotics scripts filled.  Fortuntely, when I came home he was in bed watching cartoons with Caden.  Caden didn't mind his blithering nonsensical talk.  Of course, Caden's 2. 

Jon's asleep now ... I'm awake on this computer, and I had about 3 hours of sleep last night.  He talked about getting to church this morning then moved on to mowing the lawn then again requested his phone and laptop to get some work done.  Then he passed out.

There are no morals to this story.  I'm just tired.

You Can't Handle Drive Line!!!!

Drew (the 7th grader) is attending a charter school this year.  I won't tell you specifically WHICH charter school for fear he will be booted from the school.  It's one of the few local charter school in our district, and we were ecstatic he made it up the "waiting list" for this year.  However, I am findiing that charter schools are their own animal.  Despite amazing test scores, and Drew finally being "happy" managing the rigors of middle school, charter schools ... hmmmm.  Thus far, I have attended one back to school night. I was surrounded by clogs, broom skirts, no bras, and questionable personal hygiene.  I wanted to take off my bra to fit in, but Jon suggested at 4 months pregnant, this wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.  I concur.   

The principal was very excited about back to school night.  So much so that he made the comment, (seriously, I can't make this up), "Students and parents, this is my favorite night of the year, I am just BURSTING with excitment!  In fact, I am bursting with so much excitement, those of you in the front row jsut might have to wipe it off your front brow."  I tried to look around the gymnasium at other parents and students to see if their mind went the same place as mine ... but I was to involved trying to get my shaking husband (shaking uncontrollably with inner laughter so he would not burst) to pull it together.  Noone, from my viewpoint, seemed bothered by the bursting principal.  Jon had to leave the gym.

The "dean of students" talked about creating relationships with the students to maintain communication and thus high grades/test scores.  They actually have quite the intervention system in place for kids who even begin to struggle.  I was impressed.  However, in their quest to create relationships, there are certain tactics put into place I think better reserved for a pre school classroom (at least that's the last place I saw this tactic utilized, in Bradyn's MONTESSORI preschool where feelings are VERY important).  There is ... wait for it ... daily circle time.  Now, you have to understand, Drew is in 7th grade.  Please imagine in your heads what YOUR 7th grade year was like.  Would "circle time" EVER have happened without utter hysterical laughter and a crying hopeless teacher?  No, it would not.

I asked Drew after the meeting about circle time.  He was insistent he had no idea what I was talking about.  I probed further and asked Drew if during said cirlce time the person holding the stick was the only person who could speak.  Long silence ... "it's a flower."  It's a what?  "Freaking hell mom, it's a flower, okay, and it means love and peace ... "  I don't remember exactly what the rest of the flower meant ... because at this point I had lost all semblance of control and with my old pregnant uterus pushing down on my old bladder, peeing my pants was becoming inevitable.  Hmmm, so I probed further and asked Drew more about "circle time".  He tried desperately to defend this special time of day saying, "geez mom, okay, we all turn our chairs around and are in a circle!"  What do you talk about in circle time?  "I dunno."  Seriously, do you have circle time every day?  "Fine, we do, today we talked about if we were a superhero what power would we have?"  Hmmm, what was your power?  "To fly ..."  In my mind I thought, "perhaps to fly out of circle time?" 

Since the parents of the charter school have bought into this "circle time" you can only imagine the vast amount of extra time on their hands ensuring their children's safety and success.  Many of these children are still breastfeeding, I'm pretty sure, no concrete evidence.  Which leads me to carpool ... in public school you pick up your kid and at the end of the day if there are any kids left the office may get worried and call you, maybe.  The public school is pretty content with the fact that if your kid comes back the next day, they were probably picked up by someone the  day before and made it home.

Charter school ... a carpool nightmare lovingly referred to as “drive line”. Drive line at charter school involves a higher advanced degree of education to be understood. I asked if there was a “drive line” class and was snickered at for my obvious idiocy. There are numbers assigned to kids, blue tooth devices flashing on television screens in each classroom when said numbers enter the drive line parking lot so students can exit said classrooms, and parents vying to be on the “car pool” list. Apparently car pool list is a special honor reserved for the parents that sign up early enough in the summer, and have multiple kids in their SUV’s and mini vans. Personally, I’m pretty sure it’s for the parents who donate the most $ to Flagstaff … since we’ve already been hit up twice for money … after paying the $300 in “student fees”. Oh, and to put lemon juice in an already obvious drive line open wound, the school is being sued by the business park across the street for not getting said parents OUT of the street fast enough during drive line.

I don’t think anyone at chsrter school has time to graph CSAP scores, they’re still trying to master drive line. Perhaps this complicated drive line system could be enlisted at all schools ... and start charging a per kid $300 student fee every year. You could use the fee to pay instructors to teach the new drive line system, and pay for the blue tooth devices and subsequent computerized system telling kids in each classroom when their number comes up and they are excused. Parents would be so engrossed and confused, CSAP scores will no longer be important … or any other classroom activity in general. Your teachers will cheer for the welcome break from complaining parents with WAAAAY to much time on their hands. Maybe that’s charter school's evil plan?

Despite it all, drive line, circle time, and a principal bursting with excitement, Drew's happy and at the end of the day that's what is most important.  Bradyn will never leave public school, he's far to social ... and I'm pretty sure the first day of circle time would be his last.  Bradyn isn't a quiet follower like his brother, he'd probably have to make a comment ... which would trigger a phone call home ... which would be his last day.

IAB ... it's a boy, and my body is not pleased! LOL!

An updated tour through my uterus.

Last Friday I went to lunch with Jon. Immediately following lunch, I got a sudden searing pain followed by contractions. I assumed it was horrible heartburn (we had noodles and company and I doused my noodles in hot sauce, this kid is loving everything hot) from my overzealous use of the hot sauce. When the contractions started, I got a little concerned, and Jon took me to the ER. Long story short … after a WAAAY to long visit (I hate and avoid ER’s at all costs) and multiple tests/ultrasounds they determined a couple things: a) I am having early contractions, b) I have a complete placenta previa c) my placenta has torn a bit off the side of my uterus (hence sudden pain) d) I have a clot in my placenta (which I already knew about from a couple weeks ago and the doctor is hoping it just resolves itself e) my cervix is low.

The doctor consulted with my perinatologist in Denver and I was ordered to “stay down”. Perinatologist called me Monday and said I needed to come in for an appointment, and stay down until I did. In that conversation he ran over all the worst case scenarios, permanent bed rest, hospitalization for months towards the end, early delivery, cesarean, etc. etc. Sometimes I think specialist are a little too careful. With three kids, this is totally NOT an option! Jon and I weighed all the news over the next few days, checked into the exorbitant costs of a nanny ($1500/month for 5 days a week with Caden!), I stayed down, and finally saw the perinatologist yesterday.

Perinatologist said the following: until 20 weeks when the baby gets heavier, he’s not horribly concerned, I am on light activity, clot is resolving, blood thinners are working, placenta IS torn from the side of the uterus, but it’s a small tear and the placenta still has a chance of, as I say, to “grow feet and crawl back up my uterus where it is supposed to be”. The placenta NOT crawling back up the uterus can cause problems later in the pregnancy as the baby gets larger, there is more pressure on the cervix, etc. and there is a chance of loss of oxygen/nutrients to the baby and an emergency cesarean for me. The baby and I chatted about this situation. He has grown rather fond of food and oxygen, and I am rather fond of no cesarean, so we’ve agreed the body needs to get on board on cooperate. Early contractions, sort of normal with multiple pregnancies and an (he tried to put this lightly) “older” uterus, and all blood work looks fine. Most important, baby is growing steadily, except it has a penius and hat’s just not right. = ) But, Jon and I make cute and cuddly little boys (carbon copies of course) so at least I already know what it will look like and it's another chance to actually take early baby photos to tell all the boys was "them as babies" when they ask as adults ... since they all look the same, I can pull it off.  I'm so bad at getting their picutres taken.  Again, no worries until the baby is heavier.

Despite everything, I’ve been incredibly lucky with my healthcare. My perinatologist is literally considered to be “the best in the west”. Women come and see him from all parts of the western united states (Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, Nevada, etc. etc) because he’s “the best”. How I managed to become a patient of his is a series of events that all fell perfectly into place from day one. So I told mom when the supposed “best” tells me not to worry right now, I’ll take that.

On a lighter note, literally, as of yesterday’s appointment I’ve lost 18 lbs since my first weigh in back in late June. The nurse is not pleased, and I’m pretty sure she thinks I have an eating disorder because I give a little delighted cheer with every weigh in saying, “hmm, losing weight in pregnancy, now there’s a concept.” She nudged me last appointment to gain weight, she demanded yesterday when she sees me again I WILL have gained weight and not lost any more. Jon tried to tell her that maybe I lost another pound because I puked on the way down to the hospital. LOL! I told her the baby could live off the fat of the land for some time, including the extra 30 lbs still on my frame from baby #3.

She said, “uh, no.” and suggested I drink two smoothies every day with protein powder. Uh, no. She then tried to tell me she knows Moms that lost 45 lbs a week after giving birth, so I need to gain weight and not worry about it. I looked out the doorway into the hallway at all the multiple pictures of my perinatologist holding bundle after bundle of quints he delivered. I thought, “yeah, maybe if I had quints I’d lose 45 lbs in a week.” Pretty sure she lies. Then she suggested eating just before bed, and in the middle of the night, followed by one more chow round upon waking (with, of course, a cooler packed by the side of my bed, idiot) so I wouldn’t puke on command every morning. When you KNOW you’re going to chuck up whatever you put down your craw, food sort of loses it’s comforting pleasure.

BUT, cravings are still weird as hell. Jon and I stopped at Cracker Barrel on the way home for lunch and I proceeded to chow down a bowl of collard greens like a prisoner on death row eating their last meal. Who knows why? I never ate that crap when Grandma made it, but yesterday it was delicious. Everything I eat has to be HOT, and there is not enough hot sauce on the planet to help me in my endeavors. I think I might ask Kati for some of my brother in law Juan’s favorite delicacies. LOL!

Pregnancy update ... grrrr

I went to lunch with Jon and Caden Friday.  We ate at my FAVORITE place, Noodle and Company.  I haven't had lunch with Jon in forever, so it was a grateful respite from my typical day filled with piles of laundry, cleaning, taxiing my kids around, oh, and cleaning.  Gross.  We had a pretty uneventful lunch and afterwards as I was taking Jon back to work I suddenly got this horrible "pain".  It's a hard to describe "pain", all I knew was that it sucked and I was doubling over. 

Jon asked if we needed to b-line to the ER and I grimaced and said, "uh, no, I'm good, just give me a second."  The pain thought otherwise of my "give me a second" plan and suddenly kicked in full gear with accompanying "pressure" in the pelvic area.  The pain sucked, but the pressure worried me a little.  I've passed the magic "12 weeks" marker for being out of the woods with a miscarriage, but this felt hauntingly similar. 

Fortunately the Longmont ER wasn't busy Friday afternoon (I think it gets busier come Friday evening, at least that was my impression when we finally left the hospital only to see a cop and his "shackled" prisoner checking in at the front desk), and they got me right in.  The "pain" continued ... but quickly went the other direction when after incessant begging the nurse INSISTED I have an IV.  I tried all routes of deterring this event telling her, "look, I'm pregnant, I'm not taking anything for the pain, so this is really stupid."  Apparently it's policy to stick everyone evenly in the ER.

Caden was with Jon and I for the whole initial check in process.  The second we walked into the room Caden found a seat, sat down, and said, "don't worry mommy, the doctor's coming with some medicine to make you better."  How could that not melt you a little?  I was in the ultrasound room before too long, and the pain was sort of starting to temper down.  The ultrasound took over an hour with the tech repeating, "I'm so sorry this is taking so long ..."  Poor tech, it wasn't her fault my body wasn't cooperating.  Apparently I was having contractions and they wouldn't let up so she couldn't get the pictures she needed.  The word contractions immediately launches fear in any pregnant woman when it's "too soon".  She assured me this was okay and not to worry.

After the ultrasound and giving gallons of blood, the doctor appeared to tell me the news.  THe radiologist had read the ultrasound, he had been in contact with my perinatologist, and the tests were all back.  "Well," he starts, "first of all the baby is fine."  Of course the baby is fine, it's MY body that gives up on me, but it manages to always protect my babies, in reality a grateful blessing.  "But, your placenta has torn a tiny bit from the uterine wall (hence pain) and you have a complete placenta previa.  Unless the placenta tries to crawl back up your uterus in the next couple months, you will have to have a cesarean, and the complete previa can cause bleeding, possible hemmorage, you could be on extended bedrest, etc."  Great.  My fears of death in delivery are realized at the words, "posssible hemmorage" (sp?:).

Placenta previa for those of you that may have never heard such a term (even my understanding was a loose understanding and this is my 4th baby!) means that the placenta, which is SUPPOSED to be placed somewhere on the side or above or generally out of the way of the "cervix" decides to cover the cervix.  Now, again, for those of you with no basic understanding of the miracle of labor and delivery, the cervix is that part of your body that bends and stretches itself to an enormous size so the baby can be "delivered".  Think of it as the gatekeeper and protector to keep that baby in to term.

In my case, the placenta is covering the gatekeeper not letting any baby come out, ever, so it guarantees a cesarean, unless of course the placenta grows feet and "crawls back um, up the wall of my uterus".  Seriously.  The problem is that as the baby grows, the pressure on the placenta grows, and this can all make for a difficult situation for me and the baby.  I'm on "take it easy" orders, but not bedrest.  I told the doctor "take it easy" was a little unrealisitc with three boys, he wasn't amused and informed Jon he needed to now step to the plate.  The pain has sibsided a bit, but the pressure is still disconcerting.  The placenta covering the cervix is apparently not going to ease up the whole pressure situation, and I guess I'm jsut going to get used to this new perk of being pregnant.

Summing it up ... 15 weeks into this thing.  So far, blood thinner injections 2x day, a blood clot on the placenta (apparently resolving itself, but being "monitored"), and now the placenta won't cooperate and go where it's supposed to.   25 more weeks to go ...  oh little baby, you're not going to make you're entrance into this world easy on either of us, are you?  I rubbed my growing belly yesterday and the baby and I made a deal... we're a team and both of us are going to get through all of this intact.

   

Dear Coach ...

Drew played football for the past two years ... this year he decided to stop playing the game ... and the reasons are pretty sad.  I kept my mouth shut for quite some time letting Drew make his own decision on whether not to play.  I participated in Youth Sports, so did my husband.  I thought they existed to promote a healthy lifestyle and teach kids sportsmanship and most of all to have FUN!  It is sad to me that there are coaches in this world who place winning second to teaching a kid the skills to become a better adult.  When I was made aware (painfully, Drew broke down in tears) of the WHOLE situation from last year and why Drew made the decision to stop playing a game he really loved .... I could no longer stand quiet.  I hope people who read this letter I sent to Drew's football coach from last year (who is still coaching, incidentally) will take a minute to step back.  If adults have the opportunity to ever be coaches with their kids or otherwise, I hope they will remember this letter... and what's really important in life.  On a side note, thank you from a mother to the coaches who have touched my children's lives in a positive way. Coach John from New Hampshire, how do you feel about Colorado?  We could use a good coach around here!  miss you.

Mr. Coach (name excluded to protect privacy),


Jon and I are still receiving all of the football e-mails, and Jon is still hoping that Drew will change his mind and want to play. I know you coached with Jon last year, and he loved the opportunity. Jon has coached many, many, kids teams in the time he and I have been married, as well as played semi-professional baseball. He coached a High School champion baseball team when we lived in Japan, he was on the local baseball board in our town in New Hampshire. Jon is a sports lover and player to every extent, and he has a quiet respect for athletes in every facet of any sport. Many years ago a teenager on a team Jon was coaching broke his bat on the fence after striking out. Immediately the umpire told the kid he was suspended from the rest of the season for his behavior. Jon could had chewed the kid, but instead he got the kid into the dugout, put his arm around him, and asked what was going on. In a nutshell, the kids parent’s were in a messy divorce, his mom was admitted to the hospital earlier that morning, and he has smaller brothers and sisters he was in charge of. His “tantrum” had a reason … and Jon knew and loved his kids that much to actually ask why? Jon has a love of kids, their future, sportsmanship, personal integrity, and from my experience and side comments from other parents, is a phenomenal coach.

I tell you all of this because I want you to know the respect I have for my husband as a coach and father. Over the years I have seen Drew play various sports, and I have seen the disappointment in Jon’s eyes when Drew has proven repeatedly to not be the superstar of any of them. Unfortunately, Drew inherited his mother’s ineptitude for sports. Poor Drew.  Despite his disappointments, Jon has continued to teach Drew that playing any game is not about how good you may or may not be, but the heart you are willing to offer the sport and the team. From some of your comments, I believe you have seen that heart in our son, and it is with this in mind that I am writing to you now.

I was very quiet last season. I was busy chasing an 18 month-old around and didn’t have time to get to know any of the other parents. But I came to almost every game … and I was disappointed. Drew started playing football in New Hampshire at the beginning of his 5th grade year. I knew Drew was not a superior athlete, but most importantly, I knew he would be one of the smallest players and the thought of him being pummeled scared me to death. The first practice Drew participated in I sat nervously on the sidelines. New England football is far more physical than Colorado football. I wish your team could play a New England team just once, it would toughen all of them up! = ) The team had been playing together for a couple of years, and Drew was new with a couple of other kids. They had played with the same coach, and it only took a few minutes of practice for me to see why they kept playing. Drew’s coach did not have a son on the team, his two sons were grown and had gone on to play football in college. He had a love of the game, and the kids, and was there because he wanted to be there.

The coach reviewed with the kids exactly “how” to take a hit. I was never an athlete, but I was an aerobics instructor, and I knew the importance of knowing the “how” kept you safe from injury. The coach yelled, he screamed, he cussed, he pulled kids around by the mask of their helmets, he slapped them around when they didn’t listen. I’m not an overprotective parent that couldn’t handle this “football coaching” style. Drew was not the fastest kid, he wasn’t the kid you wanted to throw in the end zone in a tie game with seconds on the clock, and he certainly wasn’t the kid you wanted taking out the quarterback. He was Drew … the 70 lb kid managing the 110 lb kids, the kid who took a hit from the biggest players on the team and opposite sides and never cried, never complained, and always got up. I watched my son literally thrown off the practice field with one good hit from the biggest kid on the team during suicide drills … I was convinced this would be the moment Drew would quit, but he didn’t. He laid there for a minute, the wind knocked out of him, and his coach pulled him up by the mask and told him to shake it off. Drew did, I don’t know how, but he did.

Drew’s coach in New Hampshire was phenomenal in a few ways. I asked him on the first day to be hard on Drew and not let him slide under the radar. Drew is a smart kid, and he would play it safe if he was allowed. As a Mom, Drew knowing how to take a hit was more about his safety than the competition of a game. The coach obliged … but I don’t think it was from what I said, it was from the sheer amount of coaching experience and heart he saw my son was willing to offer the team. In New Hampshire there is a minimum play requirement. Each kid must play 12 plays, and the tally for the plays is kept by a parent from the opposite team. At the end of the game, a team not having played all players at least 12 plays automatically lost with a reason of, “unsportsmanship like behavior on the part of the coach”. Our coach managed to play the kids all 12 plays, every game. Drew and a few other kids were referred to as MPR’s. I knew he wouldn’t play a lot, but he would play. Drew was at every practice and every game. His coach tried him at various positions, and finally settled on putting Drew in as a nose guard. Why? He was tiny compared to the other teams nose guards? But his coach knew one thing, Drew could take a hit and always get up. More importantly, he knew Drew needed to take those hits so that his fear of being the smallest, or the slowest, etc. didn’t matter.

Drew was a bruised mess and I had to tell the school I was NOT beating him at home (lol), but he trudged through. His coach allowed him and every other MPR far more than their 12 plays a game. There were a few phenoms on the team, and they admittedly played a lot, but when one of them decided to do a dance after a touchdown, the next practice the coach yelled at him unlike I have never seen an adult yell and told the whole team that this was a TEAM, he did not make the touchdown alone, his behavior was ridiculous, and the kid ran laps … for 2 hours. He puked a few times, he cried, but in the end the coach ran the final few laps with him and had the kid in a sobbing bawl of tears nestled into the coaches chest. In one swift swoop he taught that team the meaning of team, and that young man the meaning of sportsmanship. By the end of the season the kids were in the final championship game. The MPR’s had become great players with a coach willing to play them in games no matter the score, the phenoms helped the MPR’s along, they were a team. I saw my son turn from a kid terrified of taking a hit, to a football player facing down 110lb players with no fear. Drew couldn’t wait for the next season … then we moved to Colorado.

Drew could not wait to play last year. He was excited, Jon was excited to help coach, and it was all I could do to immediately find him a local team from the second we moved here last Spring. Drew came to practice, Drew paid the sheer physical price like every other kid on that team. He took the hit, he ran the laps, he admittedly dropped the ball, but he played with heart. I watched helplessly every game as Drew was played in few plays. I watched him stand on the sidelines, in full gear, and wait. My mom flew in from Utah to see one of Drew’s games and it finally became painfully clear to me that Drew was not playing. He played 5 plays the whole game. I started watching more to see if maybe that was just an off week. It wasn’t. Every week I watched the same kids playing the whole game, and the same kids standing on the sidelines. The great players got better and more experienced while others (including my son) became complacent, never getting better, never getting a chance to become better.

Jon was an assistant coach, he and I did argue at home after a few games, I wanted him to advocate for those kids on the sidelines and have every kid play more. I recognized the importance of winning, I recognized there were kids on the team who were phenomenal players, but after watching the growth of my son and his team in NH a year earlier I also recognized the importance of being a team and building up the players who were on the sidelines by letting them play. Jon defended your choices on many occasions and tried to explain to me the mechanics of why your coaching decisions were what they were. In many instances I understood. Please don’t misunderstand, I was not a pathetic mother trying to get her kid more playing time. I know/knew Drew’s limitations, I knew he wasn’t the clutch player or secret weapon, but I knew his love for the game and his “heart” were fast leaving.

Drew attended school at Trailridge Middle School last year. He was in the 6th grade and moving from a town with 100 kids in his grade, to a town with 400-500 kids in his grade. It was new, it was scary, and the only kids he knew were on the football team. Drew tried to remain friends with these kids eating lunch with them, hanging out between classes. Jon and I didn’t worry. The kids on his team in New Hampshire were a team, the respected one another no matter if you were the prize quarterback or the MPR kids. It wasn’t until months later that my kid with all the “heart” for the game came to me with tears in his eyes and told me the kids from the football team were “assholes”. It would appear that his “teammates” (a few in particular) were bullying him mercilessly. One day in particular, the day that finally broke him, was the kids having a conversation about the next year’s season. They went around the lunch table asking who would be playing the next season and when Drew said he would be playing one of the kids stated, “Why? Let’s hope not!” Drew was devastated and told me, “Mom, I tried, I practiced, I was at all the games, I took the hits and ran laps and I know I made some mistakes, but I hate football, I hate those kids, and I’m never playing again!”

Drew stuck to his promise when the season registration started. Jon tried for months to change his mind knowing there was a time Drew loved football more than any other sport he had ever tried. Drew was adamant. Not one time did Drew ever mention that he never played in games, not once. It was me that told Jon I didn’t blame Drew. To put in all the work, to try and be his best, only to never play and have the kids who always played become his worst nightmare at school. Drew was offered an opportunity to go to Flagstaff Academy this year, he couldn’t wait. He no longer attends Trailridge and he is relieved to not have to face “the team”. He has a few friends from the team that we see occasionally at the house, but overall, the kids who played, every game, all game, were his biggest bullies.

I am telling you all of this because I know you have coached these boys for years, and I know that in your heart you want the best for all of them. You had in your grasp a young man that loved the game, and in your words, did have more heart than most kids and was willing to give you and the team whatever he had to offer. You had a young man who knew the meaning of team, who knew that being allowed a chance was bigger than being sidelined. You had a young man who may have never been your best player, but had the potential to be a great player. I am not a coach, but I am a mom to three sons. I know the importance of self esteem during these awkward teenage years. I know the damage a few words can inflict on the toughest male skin. I know the rage that can come from that damage. Most importantly, I have learned from my husband that at the end of the day it is the heart and integrity with which you play the game that matters most. Drew is not playing, and I fear that he and others like him will start falling off the team one by one never having their potential tapped into.

As a coach and mentor, I am hoping you will take these mother’s words into consideration. I am hoping you will not allow this “team” to become a small exclusive group of a few star players willing to belittle their teammates in the name of football. I am hoping you will see past the small, slow, inexperienced kids on your team to see that if offered a chance, they too can start to build the heart my son had for the game. Your opportunity with these boys should be taken as a sacred honor. You have the chance to give these boys at the beginning of their most awkward adolescent journey lessons in life. Those kids look up to you as a coach, they will follow your lead and your example. Teach those kids the importance of team, allow the faster, stronger players an opportunity to learn the meaning of team as they buoy up the smaller, slower players. In a nutshell, teach them to be men. Men who don’t bully, men who help others, men who exercise integrity, and men who know winning has its place in this world, but giving all your heart to whatever you do in life is the real test of a man.

Respectfully,

Cortney E. Eldridge