Little Happiness

I am so blessed.  I have three wonderful, spirited boys.  Three happy boys. And my littlest is no exception.  He is happiness.  I joke that I should have named him Happiness.  Will Happiness Standley.  My smiley, giggly, perfect little baby.  He amazes me and makes me happier than he'll ever know.

Teeth

My dear, beautiful baby Will.  He really is the happiest, snuggliest, sweetest baby.  I am so thankful for him and continue to be amazed by how much I love him.  He is growing so big and learning so much.  He is already eager to eat table food and loves to hold food in his hand and feed himself.  His second tooth has just broken the surface of his gum and those two tiny, little teeth are so ridiculously adorable.  And ridiculously sharp. Those teeth will likely bring an end to breastfeeding.  I was fully prepared for a nibble every now and then. I nursed Sam and Jack well after their teeth arrived.  Eight months to be exact.  And and in the name of fairness, I so desperately want to nurse Will for an equal amount of time.  But I just don't know how much longer I can do it. Because Will doesn't occasionally deliver a harmless nibble.  No, he bites.  And I mean hard.  He has actually drawn blood and caused my eyes to fill with tears many, many times.  He bites and I scream.  My screaming in turn scares him.  He flails his body in panic and cries hysterically.  I am in a constant state of fear. I am anxious and frightened the entire time he eats.  I whisper to him, "Please don't bite, Please don't bite." That one tooth could be labeled as a weapon.  Seriously, he could eat peanut brittle with that little chomper. So I'm hoping he learns that there a certain things he shouldn't use his teeth on.  Like his Mama.  Two more months, sweet boy. Two more months and you can bite holes in every bottle I give you.  

Sweet Dreams

They rarely drift of to sleep before I sneak in one last hug and kiss and a final "I love you." But sometimes, they do. And I hate when that happens. When I look to find them sleeping before I've had my fill of goodnight hugs and kisses. But tonight when I found them asleep, my disappointment was replaced with smiles. I just stood there and looked at them. Matching pajamas, back to back, sharing the same pillow. I wished them sweet dreams and I love yous just like always. And I'll look forward to morning and their sweet hugs and kisses.

Cleanly Shaven

Sam has a new obsession. Facial hair. Beards to be exact. He is petrified of growing a beard. He ran in my room as soon as he woke up the other morning and said, "Mama, Mama! Am I gonna' have a beard one day?" To which I made the mistake of answering, "Well, yes son. When you're older, like Daddy, you will be able to grow hair on your face and have a beard if you'd like." Bad mistake on my part. My child, still wiping the sleep from his eyes, had a full fledged melt down, crying and pleading with me to promise him that he'll never have a beard. To which I responded, "Okay, okay, Sam. You can just shave your face every day and then you won't have any hair on your face." Another bad mistake on my part. Because it seems that my four year old is terrified by the mere idea of hair growing from his sweet little face. "This, Mama! This!" he shouted to me, while rubbing his soft cheeks. "This is how I want my face to be. Forever. I don't want to be a Daddy. I don't want to have hair on my face." Cue the tears and the panic attack. So I assured him that there was a special lotion he could rub on his face when he's older to prevent him from growing any facial hair. And it calmed him down. He has since told me numerous times that he really, really hopes he can get some of that special cream when he's older because he doesn't want a beard. I reassure him that I'm sure he'll have plenty of that special cream. A little white lie. A necessary little lie to keep my oldest from needing to breathe into a brown paper bag. Lord, forgive me.

How It's Done

The other night Sam was fully dressed in his cowboy gear marching through the kitchen.  I asked him to please freeze for a second so I could snap a picture of him.  My oldest, who usually patiently endures my picture requests with a smile, refused.  "Not now, Mama," he told me as he paraded into the playroom. Sensing my disappointment, Jack ran up to me and announced, "My do it, Mama.  Take my picture."  He then turned to his brother and yelled, "Saaa-ummm!  Saaa-ummm!  It's easy. Dis is how you do it."  And he turned to me and posed.  Shirtless, eyes closed tightly, hair in a rumpled mess and lips covered with pop tart crumbs.  How it's done.  Perfectly.  

Hey Good Lookin'

Will has a new best friend. And sadly it's not his adoring Mama. It's himself. He is totally in love with his own reflection. Every time we pass a mirror and he catches a glimpse of himself, his legs start kicking and he smiles the biggest smile. I always say, "Look, Will. There he is. There's that cute little boy you like so much." He can't quite figure out why his new best friend is hanging out with his Mama, and at times he will look at me in a state of confusion before shrugging it off and grinning and giggling again. He loves gazing into the mirror over his changing table and catching a quick peak as we pass the mirror in the dining room. It is adorable. Just like him.

Milestones

Will has had quite a week. A week filled with wonderful new things and accomplishments. He'd been trying for so long to sit alone, but would always tumble over after a few seconds. I would prop him up next to me for support so that he could sit and play. I knew it wouldn't be long before he wouldn't need my support. And now, sadly, he doesn't...

After mastering sitting alone, Will decided to conquer something he had worked for on weeks...crawling. This poor boy has been trying so hard for so long to crawl. He would lift himself up, balance on his toes, squeal and then fall to the floor in frustration. He just couldn't figure out how to move his arms and then his legs in order to get where he wanted to go.

But now, my sweet little one has it figured out! He is crawling. Slowly but surely he makes his way from one toy to another or to his favorite spot...Mama's lap. I cheer and he laughs. Cheer...laugh...hooray...giggle...clap...smile. It's what we do now. He moves and I become his personal cheering section. He is getting faster every day and can spin in a circle in record time. He is so proud of himself and I love seeing him so happy with himself.

To top our week of firsts, his first tooth made it's grand entrance a few days ago. His bottom left front tooth is in and the one beside it is already visible under the gums. He's been his fussiest this week, but still laughs and smiles all the time. I had a long talk with him and explained that I was very proud of him, but he didn't have to do so many new things at the same time. To show me who's boss, he finished up the week of firsts with a doozy. His first ear infection. And a double one at that. Even with hurting ears, he is still my sweet little cuddle bug. My sweetie who is growing up too fast and changing every day. He is my happiness and I adore him.

I Should Get Out More

Maybe I'm crazy. Or maybe after a day full of children, I'm just in need of a little more adult interaction. Whatever. I have no shame over what I talked my oldest son into doing last night. You see, it's something I've been begging him to let me do for over a year now. And finally, last night, he obliged his Mama. I put mascara on Sam. For no other reason than I was really dying to see how those amazing lashes would look with a little something extra on them. I quickly brushed on a little mascara, marveled at my work, snapped a couple of pictures and then carefully wiped away my handiwork with baby wipes. Needless to say, his lashes looked spectacular.

I giggled like a kid as I "made up" my oldest son. And just because we snuck away to my bedroom doesn't mean that I was hiding from my husband. Because, really, there wasn't anything wrong with coating my boy's lashes with makeup. And if I needed justification I would just explain that I don't have any girls to "make up." And my own lashes are kind of skimpy so I've never seen such instant gratification from a tube of mascara. And Sam's Mema has been begging me for years to put makeup on him. And really, what a waste it would be not to let Sam's lashes reach their full potential.
So thank you, Sam, for letting your Mama have a little fun at your expense. You're the best. And don't worry sweetie, these pictures will never be seen in your high school yearbook or in a video on the eve of your wedding. I promise.

Sitting Pretty

Someone at the tender age...

of five and a half months...

is sitting sweetly, all by himself...

(and sometimes sneezing)

on his precious bottom...

and beaming with pride and happiness...

just like his Mama.

Reality

I am up to my ears in sick children. Jack has a double ear infection, one ear so severely infected that the doctor couldn't even see into his ear. On top of that, the antibiotic has given him a terrible case of the runs. Like four or five times a day. Lovely. Will has the croup and has finished his round of steroids but still feels crummy. Sam is now battling the stomach bug that I had all weekend (and am still battling) and has taken two naps today (unheard of). He plays for a while and then lays down where ever he is. And if I step on one more toy pistol or take one more blow to the back with a rifle, I'm going to lose my mind.

Taken Care of

Driving home the other day Sam suddenly announced to me, "Mama, if anything ever happens to my Daddy, you don't worry because I will take care of you."

"Oh, Sam.  That is so sweet.  I know you would do that for me."

"Yeah, Jack would go live with Ally and Will could live with Nana.  And I'll live with you. "

"Well, honey, I would want all of you to live with me.  You, Jack and Will.  I need all of you with me."

"Okay, Mama, they can live with us but I'll be the one that takes care of you.  Okay?"

"Okay, buddy.  That sounds perfect to me."

Happy

He makes me so happy. Blissful, contented, joyful. In our crazy, overactive, loud house, he is my quiet snuggle, warm, soft and cozy. He steals my heart every time I see him and makes me fall more in love with him than I was minutes before. He is my perfect place, my late night cuddle, my "please, please never grow up." He is happiness. My happiness.

Payback

Payback. I'm up to my ears in payback. My middle child, I adore him so, but he is fully capable of driving me nuts on a daily basis. He is wild and spunky and now looks directly at me while preparing to do something naughty and asks me in his sweetest voice, "Mama, you not look at me right now." In other words, "Turn your head Mama, because I'm fixing to do something really, really bad." Like today as I tried to get all three boys ready to go to the pool, I left the room to retrieve a towel and returned to find that he had emptied an entire bottle of sunscreen on the carpet. And not in one pile. No, he used it to "draw" lines and circles all over the place. When I gave him a swift pop on the tail, he turned and looked at me in an absolute state of shock. He was shocked and appalled that I would pop his cute behind for doing something as minor as ruining the carpet. He is an endless ball of energy, a silly wild man and a human wrecking ball that has clogged the toilet half a dozen times this week with his new affection for toilet tissue. And a little warning to any future guests at our home. Don't bend over. Don't lean over. Don't even reach down to tie your shoe. Because the very second he sees you bend at the waist he will mount you like a champion bareback rider. I have learned the hard way, when I least expected it. Like when I'm picking up toys and think the boys are in another room...I bend over and BAM! Just like that he is on my back. Or when I'm up to my elbows in poop as I change Will's diaper...BAM! His arms are wrapped around my neck and he's spurring my sides with his cowboy boots. Unloading the dishwasher, folding clothes, wiping his older brother's heine...BAM! I am safe nowhere, no time. And as if his daily shenanigans aren't enough to make me think I will lose my sanity before he enters kindergarten, he has begun giving me "the look." The look I gave my parents probably on a daily basis as a teenager. You know because I was just so smart and they were just so not. So Mama and Daddy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being that patience-testing middle child. Sit back and grin and have yourself a little chuckle at my expense. Because now I get the look on a daily basis, full of sarcasm and defiance,from my spirited two year old. Payback, courtesy of my middle child.

Packing Heat

It's a sure sign that you're the youngest of three boys when you prefer a toy pistol as your personal teething ring.

I Would Have Killed Him

I have a fear of birds. Irrational, maybe, but it is a serious fear. It dates back to my childhood when my aunt and uncle had a pet bird who decided to make a nest out of my hair one day. I was traumatized (no hard feelings, Jane and Bob). I hate birds. All birds. Including chickens. Needless to say I was none too pleased when Jody decided to go into the "chicken business" along with the cattle business. The idea is to sell organic eggs, which he assures me will pay for our boys to go to college. And while I love the idea of paying for their education, I made it very clear from the beginning that I would have NOTHING to do with the chickens. I would not be collecting eggs or tending to the chicken coop. Because a chicken coop to me would be like entering the world's scariest haunted house for most folks. Just riding by the thing literally makes me shiver. And shake in my flip flops.

I hate riding the gator to the barn because I swear those stinkin' chickens hide and then run out at full speed at me when I pass by. I hate them, every single one of them, whether they fund my kid's education or not. So last week when Jody called me before seven to tell me I had to go let his chickens out because he had forgotten, I immediately refused. I may have even said "there was no way in @#!$" I was doing it. An hour passed and he called me again, insisting that I let the chickens out,"Ang, you have to. They'll die if you don't let them out. I promise you they don't even run out when you open the door. They take their time coming out. They are really slow. You will already be gone up the path before the first one even comes out." I believed him and I gave in, agreeing to do my part for my kid's college fund by letting the chickens out.

I was leaving for a doctor's appointment a few minutes later and G-Ma came in to watch the boys. I told her I was going to run down to the barn on the gator and let the chickens out. She gave me a strange look and said,"You're going to let them out." "Yeah, Jody told me how slow they are to come out of the coop and that I'd be long gone before the first one stepped out." She grinned, shook her head and said, "Jody, Jody, Jody." I knew at that moment that I had been lied to. She proceeded to tell me that she would let the chickens out for me because they run out in a fury, flying and flapping their wings. She knows I'm terrified and she single handily saved my life in that moment. Jody called me shortly after I left to see if I had been to the coop yet. I nicely told him that his Mom had saved me and told me how those birds come out of there. He dies laughing, says something about a chicken stampede and feathers flying everywhere. I was very unamused.

A few days later Jody drove me down to the coop to show me how the chickens react when they are let out. Let's just say, I would have died. Dead. Right there. I would have dropped dead in front of an old green chicken coop. And been trampled over by forty-six chickens. Forty-six. When he opened that door, a group of about fifteen were obviously waiting to see daylight because they sprinted like Flo Jo out of there, heads bobbing as they kicked up a cloud of dust. And then the next wave flew out. Flew. Like parakeets. Not like chickens. Like flippin' parakeets breaking out of a pet store. So after being trampled I would have been in the direct path of the remaining chicken as they flew, flapping wings and feathers flying, out of the coop. Yes, I would have died. Of heart failure or a stroke. But had I miraculously survived, I would have killed him. Especially after he mocked the chickens preparing to run out of the coop, showing how they stretch and adjust their sweatbands in preparation for their Olympic-style sprint out the door. Yes, I would have killed him. He's lucky. Very lucky.

Accidents Happen

Potty training. It's a tough thing to master for busy, little boys. Boys who would rather play than stop to use the bathroom properly. Some boys even struggle to wear their brand new super hero underwear the correct way. Instead they wear them inside out and backwards. And he will quickly tell you that "that's just the way he likes them" if you try to fix them for him.

How is one suppose to want to stop running around and having fun outside and go inside to use the bathroom? Especially when you could just drop that super hero underwear and "go" on the sidewalk? And then you get caught. By your Daddy. And all you can do is rub your eyes in frustration and disappointment. Because you certainly thought this was a good idea.
But it wasn't a good idea. Especially when your Daddy is nearby. So you then receive a stern warning about stopping what you are doing to use the bathroom in the right spot...the toilet.

And to further drive his point home, your Daddy cleans you with the very cold water from the garden hose. Talk about tough. This whole potty training thing is tough some days. Thankfully, Jack, you have tomorrow to try again.

Lucky

I am the luckiest girl in the world.  My oldest always runs in my room every night for one more "goodnight hug." My middle baby still asks me to cuddle beside him announcing to me, "Mama, My need your hair."  And my youngest.  I snuggle beside his warm body at night and wake up every morning with the world's happiest, sweetest baby boy.  I love mornings with him.  I love knowing that I will be greeted with his bright smile and that the minute I call his name, he giggles in delight, kicking his legs and spinning his warm, soft body around in a circle.  He smiles and coos until I take him in my arms and cover him with kisses.  He snickers as I nuzzle his neck and wish him a good morning.  In that moment, I know there is nothing on this earth better than his morning smiles and his chubby arms wrapped around my neck.  And I find myself wishing he could stay just like this forever.  Oh, I would give anything to keep him like this forever. I am so lucky.  

Always

Maybe it's because his new haircut makes him look like a seven year old. Or maybe it's because he'll start preschool in a month. Or possibly because he reminded me today that he will be five on his next birthday. Whatever it is, I am so sad that he is growing up so fast. I see him changing before my very eyes on a daily basis. I am so proud of him and all that he is becoming, a boy with a pure, sweet, caring heart. But, oh, how I wish I could freeze time. I want the days to pass slower and our hugs to last longer. I want to soak up every minute of my time with him. Precious time. Priceless time. And I hope he'll always know what he means to me. This little boy who made me a mother and taught me about love. May he always know he is loved, he is cherished and he is wonderfully made. May he always know that regardless of old he is or how tall he grows, he's my baby. My first baby. Always.

"There he is, my little man
I'm sure he'll get in trouble every now and then
And I pray to God that when he does
I'll be just as understanding as my father was
'Cause the last thing that I wanna do is let him down
So instead of being angry, I'm gonna throw my arms around him

And I'll say in the sunlight or the rain
Brightest nights or darkest days
I'll always feel the same way
Whatever road you may be on
Know you're never too far gone
My love is there wherever you may be
Just remember that you'll always be my baby"

Five Month Old Sweetie

You, my precious boy, at five months old...

There are so many things that you can almost do.  Like...sit up with no help, crawl (you currently make a small lunge and plop down in frustration), hold onto your biter biscuit tight enough to actually eat it, tolerate your car seat for longer trips, and shine off your pearly whites (I see two bottom teeth peeking under your gums).

You can also do some other things pretty well already.  Like...roll over and over and over, flip yourself out of your bouncy seat, gnaw on your fingers, suck your thumb, eat solid food, eat the occasional puff without gagging, use your hands to grab and hold onto objects (your hand/eye coordination is pretty impressive), stand on your legs easily while holding Mama's hands, watch your big brothers intently and flirt with perfect strangers.

And the other things.  The things, that at a mere five, months you are a pro at.  Like...snuggling, drooling, giving Mama sloppy "kisses" while trying to gnaw my face, laughing, laughing, laughing, smiling the happiest, widest smile, scratching your face up because your nails grow faster than I can cut them, kicking your legs wildly when you're excited, waking up the happiest person on the planet, talking to yourself while we ride in the car, lighting up when you see me, making me fall hopelessly more in love with you today than yesterday and making every day sweeter and more fulfilling than I could have ever imagined.

Will, you are my amazing, beautiful, wonderful boy and I love you so very much.  I love you, I adore you, I long to always be near you.  You will never know how much I love you.  You will never know how simply the sight of your sweet face makes my heart skip a beat and overflow with pure, perfect love for you.  You, my littlest boy, my five month old baby, I love you, I love you, I love you.  

Biker Boy

Could you be any more precious?  Any more adorable?  Any more delicious?  With your do rag on, looking like the world's cutest biker dude.  Too bad that I, as your mother, refuse for you to ever plant your sweet bottom on a motorcycle.  Never.  Never ever, sweetie pie.