Pitiful

This is what sick looks like.

104 degree fever.  Double ear infection.  A terrible diaper rash, the result of a week of antibiotics.  He tosses and turns and cries in his sleep.

A third trip to the doctor in one week.  A positive flu test.  And an emergency trip to the ENT who says his ears are in such bad shape that he needs tubes as soon as he is well.  The only up side?  Hours cuddling him in my lap, rocking him to sleep and rubbing his sweet, sweaty, little head.

My poor, sick baby.  My heart is breaking, I am sleep deprived and completely consumed by caring for him.  My pitiful, sweet boy.  

Different

My boys are very different from one another.  Alike in many ways, but different in many more.  And it is quite wonderful seeing life through two very different perspectives.  I catch glimpses of how different they really are all the time.  Today I was standing in the cow pasture with Jody as he fed.  The boys were on the other side of the electric fence, in our yard, playing. And this is what I saw...

My oldest, quietly doing his best to make the perfect snow angel.

And then I saw this.

My middle boy making and then launching then perfect snowball.

Different.  As different as can be.  And isn't it wonderful.

Our Christmas

 

Our Christmas.  Late nights.  Early mornings.  Vintage Davy Crockett buckskins.  Kitchen set.  EBay.  Hunting gear.  Toy knives.  Books.  Laughter.  Coon skin hats.  Doctor's kit. Movies on Apple TV.  The Grinch.  Gingerbread cookies.  Costumes, Costumes, Costumes...Colonel Jackson, Dinosaur, Great White Shark, Army Fatigues.  The Alamo.  Games.  Rocking horse.  Baby toys for my baby.  Cowboys and Indians.  Polaris four wheeler.  Art Easel.  Sick.  Fevers.  Colds.  Medicine.  Delicious food.  Stockings.  Candy.  Arctic Cat.  Hunting Boots.  Cowboy hats.  Leather holster and guns.  Smiles.  Family.  My boys.  A messy house.  Karaoke machine. Love.  Snow.  Joy.  The Christmas Story.  Farm toys.  John Deere combine.  Baby calves born in the snow.  Sleeping together on Christmas Eve. Sweetness.  Innocence.  Perfect.  Memories.

Merry Christmas!

Matching pajamas...check.

Three Santa hats...check, check.

Two very excited boys and one crying baby...check, check, check.

Please ignore the normally happy baby who is crying his sweet little eyes out.  He has a nasty cold, an ear infection, a top tooth popping through and he fell at Nana's and got his first bloody nose.  His tears are justified.  And really, what would a group shot be without one of my offspring crying?  

The Grinch

The Grinch.  My middle boy is in love with the Grinch.  It  began right after Thanksgiving when the boys saw the original movie at G-Ma's house.  Both the boys loved the movie and wanted me to buy a copy so that they could watch it whenever they wanted to.  And I did.  Jack was thrilled to be able to watch "that little green ant" anytime he wanted to.  And watch it he did.  Over and over and over.  In the house.  In the car.  Every single day.  We even bought a copy of the Jim Carey version and I was sure it might be a little scary for him and that he wouldn't like it.  I was wrong.  He loved it and was soon asking to watch the "pretend Grinch movie" and "the real Grinch movie."  I bought him the Grinch and Max stuffed animals and he carried them everywhere.  And then we discovered Grinch ornament kits at Michael's and we were soon busy decorating the tree in our kitchen with the Grinch, Max and Cindy Lou Who.  

So I have one son who adores Santa Claus and one who adores the Grinch.  It's quite fitting for their personalities.  On the night of their preschool program, Jack was being a little uncooperative.  Jody and I had each threatened him within an inch of his life if he didn't behave and do what he was suppose to do.  On the drive over to the church I pretended that Santa called my phone.  I talked for several minutes, telling "Santa" all about where we were going and what the boys were going to do in their program.  I hung up and went on with an elaborate story about how Santa was going to call me back later to see how well they had done and whether or not he needed to put all their toys on the sleigh or not.  My elaborate, long story had Sam wide eyed and quiet.  He vowed to do his best and behave.  I turned to Jack and asked if he was going to behave so I could tell Santa all about it.  

His response..."No, my not."   

"Oh, you're not."  Well that's too bad.  Santa will probably not bring you all your great presents then."

And without hesitation he said...

"Well, that's okay.  Cause I'll just get the Grinch to go steal all my presents from Santa Claus."

My son thinks the Grinch is real.  And that he is his partner in crime.  And somehow I am not surprised.

The Christmas Pageant

Last night the boys had their preschool Christmas Pageant.  It was wonderful and sweet and so precious to see all the children tell the story of Jesus' birth.  I worried how things would turn out since the boys missed preschool all last week with colds and because Jack was being rather difficult and vowing,"My not gonna do it." Here they are minutes before show time.  Sam, nervous and shy.  Jack, grumpy and stubborn.  He didn't want to wear his vest or hat and whined when it was time to line up.  Jody said he had mad cow disease.

Sam played hand bells with his class and had a small speaking part.  I ached for him because I saw how nervous he was.  The sanctuary was full and I know it was overwhelming to be in front of  so many people.  He mouthed his lines over and over again as he waited his turn.  And then he stepped up to the microphone and said, "Glory to God in the highest."  My heart overflowed with pride and I couldn't wait to scoop him up and tell him how wonderful he'd done.

I held my breath when it was Jack's turn to come out.  He made me proud by walking out on cue and taking his place on the stage.  He added a little twist to his walk and had a look of, "Seriously, folks.  This is so lame." But he did it and that's all that matters.

I didn't know I would fall more in love with my children during the program, but I did.  They both made me so proud and I fought back tears the entire time.  I am going to be one of those moms.  The one who cries at every performance and embarrasses her husband and her children.  Maybe they won't hold it against me.

Ho.Ho.Ho.

Channeling Santa Claus...

Busy

Somebody is a busy body.

And he leaves trail wherever he goes.

I might get tired of it.  If he wasn't so handsome.

Sweetness

Will had finally fallen asleep after fighting it for entirely too long.  And then Sam begged to lay in my bed for just a minute to watch television.  Because, he says, my pillows are "so super soft" and they make him "so comfortable."  I told him he could, but only if he was very quiet and didn't wake up Will.  He promised and I walked out of the room to him watching Noggin and drinking milk.  I returned just a few minutes later to find him snoring softly, nuzzled next to his baby brother.  And I melted into a puddle of love and thankfulness.  

Well Dressed

I found this monkey in the boys' room sporting a bow tie.  I smiled when I saw it and didn't dare remove it.  I felt certain Sam was behind the well dressed monkey.  You know, the one who changes so many times in a day that I 've quit counting.  He changes when he has an idea of a new character to play or if a drop of water hits his pants.  As a result, I find myself standing in his closet, hanging up clothes from morning until bedtime.  Jody calls him Samatella Versace.  He is our clothes horse.

So imagine my surprise when Jack and I were in his room together and he pointed to the monkey,"Look, Mama.  Look what my did."

"You did that?  I really love it, honey.  Your monkey looks so handsome."

"Yeah."

"Why did you put the bow tie on him?  Is he going somewhere special and he needed to dress up?"

"No, Mama. My had to do that so I could cover up his ding dong."

"With a bow tie, honey?"

"Yeah, Mama.  He didn't want nobody to see his ding dong so my covered it up for him."

And off he ran.

And the bow tie stayed on the monkey.  To cover his private parts that are apparently growing out of his neck.

Typical

My middle boy.  The spirited one.  And mischievous one.  With the sweetest chocolate eyes I've ever seen. He has grown to love costumes as much as his older brother.  This is how I found him recently.  Giraffe costume. Perched on a drum, the drum on top of a bucket.  Like an animal at the circus.  Quietly watching a little television, like any good giraffe would do. Just another typical night at our house.

Locked Up

His offense?  

Having thighs that are cuter than should be allowed?

Or for giving his Mama attitude?

Or for eating our water bill?

All of the above.  

Paternal Supervision

I heard laughter coming from their room.   Laughter and squeals and giggles.  The laughter grew louder so I walked quietly to their door, hoping my appearance would not make them stop doing whatever it was that was causing such happiness. I smiled as I anticipated seeing a sweet moment between my three boys. I  peaked my head through the door.  And I found this.

I discovered my sweet, innocent baby was stuck ( I also discovered that the boys' dresser is in serious need of some scratch remover, the result of banging it with a stool as they retrieve belts from the top drawer in one of their many costume changes of the day).  My sweetie had been tethered to a drawer by the feet of his pajamas.  

And as he tried desperately to crawl away, the guilty parties stood by, admiring their handiwork. Some tried to look like an innocent bystander.

Others were so proud of their work, they danced and did a little finger snapping to celebrate.

Mama was not happy.  Especially since that lump you see under the covers was their Daddy.  He was snug and warm, watching television as our older boys anchored my baby to a dresser.  Paternal supervision at it's finest.

Message From Santa

My mom found this and shared it with me.  The Portable North Pole .  I created a message for Sam and Jack and called them over to the computer, announcing that they had received a special message from Santa.  My boys were riveted, their eyes as big as saucers, as they watched intently, listening carefully to what Santa was telling them. It's easy to create and allows you to personalize your message with pictures and even references what they want for Christmas.  And what better way to remind your kids to behave than with a message from Santa. The Portable North Pole joins Mr. Christmas in my bag of "best-behavior inducing" tricks.

Jack's Message

Sam's Message

Reality

I have high hopes.  Great expectations.  In all areas of my life.  Dreams about how situations will play out. Allyson has told me so often that I build up situations in my mind, hopes for how others will react, how moments will play out and how I will feel.  And as a result, she reminds me, I am often disappointed because I have created something in my mind that just isn't going to happen.

Like recently when I tried to get the boys to share all the things they were thankful for, only to have my perfect moment of thanksgiving nixed as the conversation turned to bodily functions that they were grateful for.

Recently, I again saw my high hopes for a perfect family moment fail to come to reality...the purchase of our Christmas tree.  I envisioned bundling up my babies, browsing the selection of trees while my boys giggled and sang Christmas songs.  We would find the perfect tree, take some pictures and rush home to begin stringing the lights and hanging the ornaments.

I should have known things were not going to go as I'd hoped before we left home.  Sam insisted on wearing camouflage since we were going to "look for trees."  Apparently he thought we were going into the woods to cut down the tree ourselves.  After hearing the many reasons he had to wear his hunting clothes, I gave in, knowing that the picture I had envisioned of my boys dressed adorably in their winter best wasn't going to happen.  Jack was tired and ill and had a meltdown over having to wear a coat and hat.  He whined and complained, cried and fussed.  And when he nearly tripped over his bottom lip as I ushered him to the truck, I knew my dreams of a wonderful outing were disappearing before my eyes.

We arrived at the tree lot and Sam was on my "Let's Make Memories" bandwagon, smiling and overflowing with excitement.  He ran around, laughing and jabbering about this tree and that tree and even stopped and said, "Mama, take my picture by this one." And at that very moment, he may have become my favorite child.

Meanwhile, my middle son had ripped of his the hat that I had lovingly placed on his head and was walking up and down the rows of trees kicking every single one of them.  Walk.  Kick.  Move to the next tree.  Kick.  Moan, whine, call the trees "stupid," kick.  Move to the next tree.  Kick, yell "My not like trees!", crush his Mama's dreams one kick at a time.

Sam insisted on bringing his gun to make sure there were no varmints hiding in the branches.  I told him no. And he told me he needed to make sure there were no squirrels or snakes or lizards hiding in there that would scare me when we we got home.  My sweet little redneck.  How could I say no to that?  And just like he'd promised, he walked from tree to tree, shooting his gun and scaring away any critter that might frighten his Mama.  

My sweet baby, the only one bundled in the winter clothes I wanted him to wear, slept like a sweet angel. Unfortunately, he napped during his entire first Christmas tree purchase, but he sure looked handsome doing it.  Handsome and well dressed.

We picked our tree.  Actually, Sam picked our tree.  It was smaller than we usually get, but I was happy to let him choose.  Especially since he had worked so hard to free it from any wild life.  I told Sam his pick was excellent and was thrilled that my dreams of a perfect evening weren't all lost.  A gentleman that was working the lot, walked over to us and asked us if we'd decided which tree we wanted.  We told him that we had, indeed, decided and  I pointed to Sam's choice.  He made small talk, thanking us for our purchase and telling us they would gladly put the tree in our stand for us.  He then turned to speak to Sam.  He praised him for his choice, complimented him on his camouflage attire and said he sure liked his gun.  

This is the point that I should admit that his gun is real.  A real bb gun.  His Dad, my husband, bought them each a bb gun.  He explained to me that we have spent a small fortune on toy guns that last a few days before being busted to smithereens.  He told me they are cheap and poorly made and that a real gun would not break and would last more than a few days before being tossed into the burn barrel.  I wasn't thrilled, but obliged when I knew they would never receive bbs and thus couldn't harm themselves or anyone else.  I should also explain that Sam's gun is pretty powerful and makes a loud pop while releasing a burst of air.  It can easily startle unsuspecting bystanders.  He knows the rules.  Don't point it at anyone.  Don't shoot it near anyone's ear.  Don't scare anyone.  And he obeys the rules.  Usually.

As the nice man admired his hunting gear and what he thought was a toy gun, my son hit the trigger.  And the barrel of the gun was pointed at that poor man's face.  He heard the pop and was hit in the face with the burst of air and dust.  And his knees buckled.  And he gasped.  And I gasped.  Jody yelled at Sam.  I began apologizing.  Jody apologized.  I was mortified.  I apologized again.  And again.  The man soon laughed and told Sam, "You shot me, boy!"  And I began to apologize again.  He threw his hand up in the air and said, "Don't worry about it.  No big deal."  But I had seen his knees buckle and heard him make a sound that I only thought girls could make.  I knew it had scared him.  I knew for a small instance he thought he was a goner.  And so once again I began telling him how sorry I was.  He must have felt sorry for me or he really wanted us to leave, because he offered to take a family picture of us in front of our tree.  Wow, I thought.  A picture.  With me in it.  That never happens.  Maybe this night isn't a total loss.  He took the picture, I grabbed my camera and headed to the truck with my youngest two, leaving Jody and the rifleman behind to collect our purchase.

I bombarded Jody when he got in the truck. "See.  See.  That's why they can never have bbs.  Never.  Or at least until they are like twenty or something.  And Jack.  Jack can't have any until he's thirty five.  And I mean it.  I really mean it.  Never.  Absolutely never."

And then I turned on my camera, excited to see a rare shot of the five of us.  I was thrilled to have a picture of us together and felt that somehow that rare surprise would make up for all the mess I had just experienced.  And then I saw the picture.   The picture that the gentleman proudly bragged about saying, "Okay!  I think I got it and it's a good one."

The perfect ending to our night.

High hopes.  Great expectations.  

And a little thing called reality.