True Love

I've been a mom for fifteen years as of yesterday. I have four kids. What does all this amount to? A lot of puke.

Vomit, throw-up, puke - whatever you want to call it, I have spent the best years of my life dealing with it. It's been everywhere. Beds, cars, new carpet, right next to the toilet (a personal fav), on my person, and on my children. And, like mothers everywhere, I have done my duty. I have choked down the gag reflex, pushed through the smell (oh, the smell!), and cleaned up mess after mess. (I'd throw in 'without complaint' here, but I do strive for honesty...)

Have you ever noticed that each kid has their own puking personality? My youngest, for instance, is of the silent-but-violent variety. One minute she's sitting there peacefully, and the next - well, you get the picture. And the worst part? Even when she's actually throwing up there's no sound. You know that pre-puke cough that can wake any mother from a dead sleep? The one that has you on the run before your conscious brain has even registered what's going on? Ya. No pre-puke cough for number four. After years of dealing with the no-warning aftermath, I've decided that God gave kids that cough for a reason, and any time I feel like he doesn't love mothers I immediately think of the pre-puke cough that has saved me from so many vomit-disasters, and know that I am loved.

I bring all of this up because my children are getting older. They no longer vomit on their way to tell me they might need to vomit, because they're now all smart enough to head straight for the toilet. I can't even remember the last time I had to deal in puke, and I am so, so, grateful.

And then last night happened.

It was C, my ten-year-old. He got sick. He had pains. He wasn't sure which end would be affected, so I gave him a bowl and sent him to the bathroom. He threw up, assured me it was just a little, and looked so much better that I was sure the crisis had passed and gave him the following instructions: dump the bowl into the toilet and then put it in the laundry room sink. I told him I'd take care of it when I was done doing whatever very-important thing I was doing.

Then he threw up again.

The good news? He was self-sufficient enough to go fetch his bowl from the sink in time to make it back to the toilet (he required coverage on both ends.) (Is that too much information? Sorry...). The other good news? He was so self-sufficient that he didn't even tell me he'd thrown up again until after he'd taken care of things.

Now for the bad news: He forgot the order of operations for puke clean-up.

In his defense, he knew there was a problem as soon as the contents of the bowl filled the bottom of the sink and failed to go down the drain... That's right, people, instead of dumping into the toilet and rinsing in the sink, he went straight for the sink. Which had other stuff in it. Stuff that was now floating around in the usual flotsam that happens when a ten-year-old loses the contents of his stomach. And you know what? I couldn't do it.

Maybe it's been too long, maybe there's just been too much vomit in my life, but for whatever reason, I looked in that sink and knew that I didn't have it in me to clean it up. I didn't even know this could happen to someone who had suffered through the pains of labor and child-raising, but apparently it's possible to hit a wall - the Puke Wall, we'll call it. The wall which stands as an impenetrable barrier between a mother and her ability to clean up puke.

This is where the true love comes in.

My husband was innocently sitting in the family room, watching a movie and minding his own business. I looked at him, felt a brief, fleeting moment of guilt, successfully suppressed it, and proclaimed the following:

me: Honey? I've been cleaning up puke for fifteen years. I can't do it anymore, so this one is on you.

him: (brief moment of silent staring as if he's not quite sure he understands the language I'm speaking, and then, miraculously,) Okay.

He said okay. Not only that, but unlike the 'Okay,' that really means, 'Sure I will...eventually...if you don't get to it first because you can't stand waiting for me to take care of it,' this was the real thing. In other words, it was accompanied by action, and he immediately got up from the couch and took care of the sink.

And when he was done he even shrugged off my thanks as if it hadn't been a big deal. As if. This was the singular most big-dealish thing any husband that I know of has done for his wife in a long, long, long time. I mean, technically, I found the puke, I was over-seeing the 'process', so I should have been on duty for clean up. Right?

But he did it. Immediately and without complaint. This is True Love at it's greatest, and to every woman who will someday hit the Puke Wall, may your husband also show such unconditional True Love, and save you from one puke too many.

Way Back When I Was Young...

The other day, as I was teaching piano lessons, we had a near disaster. Tired of trying to find someone willing to do it for him, C (now five) decided to make his own piece of bread and peanut butter - which he of course wanted to warm up in the microwave like his brothers always do. Always willing to help himself (whether or not he's able), C came in and asked me if how many minutes to put nuke it for.

Yes, a brief thought of caution flashed through my head, but I quickly pushed it aside. I was in the middle of a lesson, and he does know his numbers, so it shouldn't be too hard, right? So I said, "Push nine."

Meaning, of course, nine SECONDS.

Thankfully, the Lord blessed me with a phone call a few moments later, and I had to go into the kitchen. The smokey haze was seeping out from around the seal on the microwave door, and already hanging in an ominous cloud throughout my kitchen.

I looked at the microwave. I have no idea how long it was initially set for, but by the time I got there, it had nine MINUTES and fifty seconds left to go. The piece of bread? A charred chunk of very hard, unidentifiable black stuff. Black smoke billowed out, and my house stunk like burned-microwave-food for two or three days. Nice.

This experience, and conversations with my mother, have taken me back in time to the acquisition of our family's first microwave. I am certain that I am not the only one in the blogosphere who remembers the day/night the modern miracle of the microwave made it's appearance in their life.

It was evening. I must have been about eight years old. My mother and brother staggered into the kitchen lugging a humongous and very heavy box between them. Our microwave had arrived, and boy were we excited. Baffled, and completely clueless as to what we should do with it - but definitely excited.

We all stood around and watched while my brother got it plugged in and settled on the counter. Can I just say that it was HUGE??! I probably could have climbed in there if I'd wanted! I distinctly remember all of us trying to decide what we could put in the amazing new toy we knew nothing about. I think are first experiment was with something really exciting like a piece of bread and butter. Woo Hoo.

For quite awhile, we didn't really do anything constructive with it. Well, not when Mom was around, anyway. When she was gone, my older sister and I would experiment with different things. Some of our better attempts were microwaved s'mores (graham cracker, several chocolate chips, marshmallow, and another graham cracker cooked until just before marshmallow exploded), and microwaved toasted cheese sandwiches (achieved by toasting bread in toaster, while nuking slices of cheese on a plate, and then using a spatula to scrape cheese off plate and onto toast).

Apparently, several other families in the ward were dealing with similar we-have-a-microwave-and-don't-have-a-clue-what-to-do-with-it issues, because it wasn't long before we had a "Microwave Cooking" Homemaking Lesson at our house. I still remember learning how "all microwaves have hot spots where they cook faster," and to find them you were supposed to cut a paper bag to fit the bottom of your microwave (of course there was no rotating plate), dampen it with water, and cook it to see which spots dried up first.

My favorite microwave memory, however, was our first Sunday roast cooked in the microwave. Of course it was Fast Sunday (when we fore go dinner and breakfast, and come home from church famished), and apparently my mother missed the memo about how microwaves cook in A LOT LESS TIME than conventional ovens.

She stuck it in the microwave, set it to cook for three hours, and we left for church.

Three hours later, with my teenage brothers dying of starvation, we pulled into the garage. We could smell it before we got in the house. Devastated, my brothers rushed to the scene of the tragedy, and emerged a few moments later with our dinner. It was roughly the size of a baseball, black, VERY hard, and fit right in with the rocks in the driveway. What a tragedy.

I could go on with stories about "crustless" microwaved bread, and all the special "microwave cookware" everyone bought, but I won't. I am kind of glad, however, that I get to remember things like "life before the microwave." For some reason it makes me feel just a little bit cool - almost like someone being able to say "I remember life before indoor plumbing." It's not necessarily something to be envied, yet it says something about me. I lived before life was as easy as it is now. We didn't used to be able to make s'mores in our kitchen. Wow.

Sister For Sale

The other day I was talking to my father-in-law (who lives in another state, and who we rarely get to see), and finally mentioned to him that I have a blog. Funny that it's taken me so long to get around to giving him this info, since originally our far-away-family was one of the driving forces behind my intro to the blogging world three months ago. Because this blog is all about my kids, right? I mean, I do mention them at least every ten posts or so... Do you think that's enough to incite grandparent involvement? I'm not so sure.

I did, however, decide that I should probably take a moment to put up some fresh Baxter children info - just in case someone in the inlaw-fam actually decides to check out the old blog. So here goes:

Today I was in the living room with my kids. I think I was cleaning or something (because I never waste time doing anything else), when I saw Meara whack Conan over the head with a toy. The attack was provoked, but still.

I'm busy reprimanding my violent daughter, and I hear Conan say "Why'd we have to have Meara? We should sell her. *sob, sob*"

I was going to ignore this remark due to the head injury (and the fact that he learned it from his brothers, although in their version it's usually him up for sale), when he tacked on the next part:

"Maybe Grandma will buy her."

Well. This proactive approach got my attention. Besides that, it was way too funny to waste on just me, so I quickly say, "Why don't you call Grandma and ask her?" (I know. Great parenting Jen - you're kid wants to sell his sibling, and you jump on the bandwagon. Yes, there should have been some lecture, and maybe a chorus or two of "Families Can Be Together Forever," but I couldn't help myself).

So we call. I dial, hand him the phone, and listen in to the following conversation:

C: Gwaaamma, *sniff, sniff* (he's still recovering from the attack), ummm, will you buy Meara?

G: Buy Meara?

C: Yeah.

G: Well, I'd like to, but I don't think I have enough money.

C: Oh. Well, you can just have her then.


I'm not sure which is worse - his lack of devotion, or his bargaining skills. He didn't even bat an eyelash, or reconsider the price! He definitely needs that lecture. And the song.

In his defense, however, I would like to report that he and Meara do generally get along. They've been playing together a lot lately, and their favorite game is "Puppy". In this game Conan's the puppy, and she's the tyrannical/adoring puppy owner. It's one of my favorite kid-games to eves-drop on. I'll be in the kitchen, and I'll hear her in the other room:

"Pu-ppeeey, (in her most authoritative two-year-old-boss voice) COME HERE! Puppy, SIT DOWN! STAY!" (complete with hand gestures, and immediately followed by...)

"Awww, puppy (in her most adoring two-year-old-obsessed-with-cute-puppy voice, as she hugs and kisses the puppy), nice puppy."

It's all very cute to witness, I have to say.

And now I have one more story regarding Conan. I think Rusty's finally realizing just how much his little son actually worships him. First off, Conan obsesses over the fact that he looks just like his father. Which he does, minus the red hair. Seriously, he's like a little, blond, Rusty clone. But then the other day he took it to a new level of adoration.

Apparently (I wasn't here for this one), Rusty and Conan were talking, and somehow the subject of getting old and dying came up. Rusty's way more brave than me, because he jumped right into how someday "Mommy will get old and die, and Daddy will get old and die." Since the major source of my childhood anxiety was this exact issue, I'll do anything to get out of admitting these facts to my small children. But once the information was on the table, Conan took a moment to digest it and came up with the following:

"Whelp, Dad" (whelp being one of his staple sentence starters) "when I get old, I'm gonna put my arms around your neck like this," (picture cute-four-year-old arms around big-strong-Dad neck) "and we can die together."

So, I don't care if he wants to sell/give away his little sister. The kid is priceless.

Bored Four Year Old Blues, And Other "Mom Issues"

The rest of you can refer to this as the first day of school. I prefer to call it "the first day home alone with my four year old." Yes, Meara is here too - technically - but in some ways that only complicates the issue. Since she has very poor fighting moves, no skill with numchucks, swords, or any other weapons, is not named Liam (frankly, even Niall would do at this point), and has the audacity to be a girl and play with dolls, Conan has absolutely no use for her. I dropped the boys off 55 minutes ago, and I'm already going crazy.

"There's nothing to doooo," "who can I plaaayyy with?" "Are we going somewhere? Whyyyy not?" "When does preschool start?" "[various crying, whining noises, while throwing himself around on the floor]". This is so not-peaceful. Preschool doesn't start for over a week. Insanity is definitely a possibility if things don't improve.

Hopefully, Conan will eventually relent and forgive Meara for being a girl. Meanwhile, I just want everyone out there who's even considering having only one child to rethink the issue. TWO IS SOO MUCH EASIER THAN ONE!! Once they're old enough to play together that is. And thankfully, now that Meara's two that does happen more frequently, so there is hope. And to any of my girlfriends out there who have four year old boys and are reading this - by Friday I WILL NEED A PLAYDATE!

On another note entirely, I have to say just one little thing about dropping the boys off at school this morning. Despite the fact that I am a hardened mother of a fourth grader and a second grader, well versed in "first days", I felt a little teary this morning.

I really didn't see this coming at all, and walked my children into their little three-room school feeling completely unemotional. Niall headed into his class, while I went in to have a word with Liam's teacher. On the way out, I decided to peek in at Niall and say goodbye.

I don't really know what got me - whether it was his anxious little face as he carefully unloaded his school supplies into his very first "desk", how big he looked now that he's out of the K-1st classroom, or how little he looked to be in with the 2nd-3rd graders. Who knows, but whatever it was, I suddenly felt very sad. Maybe it isn't so bad that Conan is a lonely, whining, four year old. Maybe I'll just spend some time cuddling with him - preparing against the day when he too, is a big 2nd grader with a real desk, and school supplies he doesn't share. It seems so far away, but experience tells me it will happen all too quickly.

Isn't that the way motherhood goes? You can't wait for the next thing, so anxious for them to move on (and stop being four), but when they do, you just want them to go back and be little. Yesterday when Liam and I were shopping, my sweet nine year old wanted to hold my hand. I couldn't help feeling scared that it would be for the last time, and I was sad. But really, I guess that's what it's all about. Loving them, teaching them, enjoying them, and sometimes not-enjoying them, until you've given them the tools to move on - whether that means second grade or out of the house. It is sad, but it's so incredibly worth it! Children are the greatest thing the Lord could give us, and I'm so grateful for mine. Love your kids today, everybody - they won't be little forever!