STELLA

With his brutish disposition and penchant for sweaty, dirty undershirts, we should have named him Stanley.

Smother's Day

That's the Mother's Day card my mother-in-law sent me this year. Usually she sends me a beautiful floral card with a lovely message about how awesome I am. I'm guessing the memories of raising her own three kids must have hit her hard this year when she picked out this very realistic depiction of my life.

Mother's Day was kind of a big deal at Casa WB this year. I wandered downstairs at the late hour of 8:15AM to find Cap'n tending a griddle full of french toast while two small people got in his way helped out. The smallest of the small people was pouting in his room and would grace us with his presence later (and then immediately be sent back to his room for some hellish behavior).

I noticed that Big D wasn't talking much and was kind of holding his mouth in an odd position. I chose to be grateful rather than concerned and sat down at the table with my breakfast, my coffee, and my brood. As is typical, conversation ran the gamut from how much the kids loved me to how much they love Super Mario Brothers. Love was definitely in the air.

And as Big D glanced over at me to tell me something totally awesome about Luigi, or Nabbit, or Princess Peach, something caught my eye. Something was missing. My sweetest boy's face wasn't the same! It was growing up before my eyes, and on Mother's Day, no less. It looked something like this:



Now, if you're a regular reader of this blog, which is completely impossible since I'm not a regular writer of this blog, you may remember that Big D worries- a lot- about everything, all the time. And so, for a month or more there had been crying and fretting over the impending loss of his first tooth. It would hurt, it would bleed, there would be string! That's right, string, and don't you try to argue with that! Cap'n, A-Train, and I spent countless seconds trying to convince him that it wouldn't be so bad and even if it were, the Tooth Fairy would be coming!

So when I realized that the tooth was gone, I needed to tread lightly. But I didn't. I half-yelled and scared him a bit. Then I sent him off to the bathroom to have a look in the mirror. As he came back to the table looking proud and happy and gap-toothed, I cried. Cried at the knowledge that one tiny piece of the little baby I'd made was gone.

And it wasn't just gone from his mouth, it was gone-gone. We searched his bed thinking he may have lost it in his sleep. No tooth. We searched the kitchen. No tooth. And then, in his sweet and suddenly-lispy voice he said, "I wasn't talking much this morning because I could feel my tooth was very wiggly." And I had a lightbulb moment- not Oprah-style, just regular mom-style. The tooth had gone the way of the french toast and we would never see it again. Well, at least not without a pair of rubber gloves and a bucket- an idea I banished before it could come to him.

He actually took it pretty well when I explained what happened and where the tooth was, especially when I told him the same thing had happened to me as a kid. And I busted out my not-so-secret weapon- the Tooth Fairy. She comes even if you don't have the tooth. He knew this to be true because A-Train had lost a tooth in the ocean last summer and the Tooth Fairy came then, so surely she'd come if your tooth was in your tummy. Brief discussion began about whether or not one should sleep with one's tummy under the pillow. Then, from just a few feet away from me, I heard something.

In reference to the Tooth Fairy, I heard a small eight-year-old voice say, "I don't think that's real." I needed to play it cool, and this time I did! I left Cap'n to finish up with Big D, who seemed not to have noticed his brother's revelation, and motioned for A-Train to follow me. We went up to my bedroom and sat on my bed. The conversation we had went something like this:

Me: (In a completely unaccusatory tone) Why did you say that you don't think the Tooth Fairy is real?

A-Train: Well, she always comes at night, right?

Me: Right.

A-Train: So I think she doesn't want to be seen, right?

Me: Right.

A-Train: So I think maybe she's somebody else.

Me: Like who?

A-Train: Like you or Papa.

Me: You think I would give you $3 for a nasty old tooth?!?!

A-Train: Maybe. I think that you would.

Me: Do you want me to tell you about the Tooth Fairy, or do you want to figure it out for yourself?

A-Train: I want you to tell me.

Me: OK. This is a big day in your life. Are you ready for whatever I might tell you?

A-Train- (Looking a bit concerned, but afraid to turn back) I'm ready.

Me: I'm the Tooth Fairy.

A-Train: (Speechless but with an expression of triumph)

Me: Now that you know, you have a responsibility. You must never tell your brothers or any of your friends. And once you're old enough to know about the Tooth Fairy, you're old enough to be the Tooth Fairy. That means you have to carry on the excitement for The Littles.

A-Train: OK.

Me: How do you feel about knowing the truth?

A-Train: Good.

Me: Are you mad at me for tricking you?

A-Train: No.


And I could see that glint in his eye that let me know he was proud to have been let in on a secret.

The next morning at breakfast I asked Big D if the Tooth Fairy had come. When he said he didn't know, A-Train offered to go with him to look under his pillow. He gave me a wink as they left the kitchen.

On Mother's Day, our family said good-bye to a bit of enamel and a bit of innocence. And while there's no going back, there's plenty of wonder and excitement ahead of us.

But Santa Claus, you're on notice!

Mr Butler's Big Day

Three years ago today I went to my obstetrician feeling fairly certain that I was in labor with Mr Butler. He wasn't due to be born for another 3 1/2 weeks. And once the doctor confirmed that 12/29/10 would be Mr Butler's birthday she told me not to worry; the risks of being born at that stage were minimal, but I should be aware that I'd probably be having my first small baby.

A few hours later, as the moment approached, doctors and nurses started streaming into the delivery room to attend the birth of my sure-to-be-tiny late-term preemie, each announcing his or her specialty. Cardiac Team. Pulmonary Team. Neonatal Team. Within a few minutes, a seven-pound-twelve-ounce Mr Butler came screaming into the world. And while I don't remember this, I'm told that my first words upon his birth were, "The pulmonary team can leave."

And three years later, he's still barreling and screaming his way through life each and every day!

Happy Birthday Mr Butler!

Have To and Need To

(Forgive me, for this post will contain zero pictures of my beloved children.)

Before the day even started, I was wondering how on Earth we were going to do everything we had to do. We had to be up early. Big D had to be at school at 8:30, A-Train at 8:45, and Mr Butler at 9:00. I won't bore you with the details here, but the drop-off process involves an hour of driving in a big circle.

While the kids were at school I had to go to a meeting with the ED of a non-profit I volunteer with. I had to get groceries. I had to go back to the grocery store to get cat food. I had to get a cup or coffee before I knifed someone. I had to do a load of laundry before we all went naked.

I had to pick the kids up at 11:45, 1:00, and 3:30.

Somewhere in there, I had to go to Home Depot and be talked down to by some guy wearing an orange apron.

I had to get A-Train to his hour-long OT appointment at 4:30.
And Big D to 5:00 soccer practice.
And A-Train to 6:15 soccer practice.
And make dinner to be served at our usual 6:00 dinner time.
And have Mr Butler in bed at 7:30.

Yeah, that's where it fell apart. All day long I did mental walk-throughs on how I was going to make all of this happen. I'd have to get a kid dressed in his soccer gear two hours before practice started. I'd have to pack up another kid's soccer gear so that he could change in the car after his appointment. I'd have to pack a picnic dinner to be eaten field-side at soccer practice. And, of course, I'd have to be in at least two places at the same time.

Somewhere in the mid-afternoon it hit me. The kids didn't have to go to soccer practice. Life would go on if they missed it. Though they could both use to get in another practice before their first games this weekend, they didn't have to have it. A five and a seven-year-old missing a soccer practice is not the same as a cardiologist missing a surgery. No one was going to die!

So, instead of doing what we had to do, we did what we needed to do. We came home and called Cap'n because the boys needed to hear his voice. And we ate cereal and instant oatmeal for dinner at 6:15! And we sat at the table and talked to each other. And we said what the best and worst parts of our days were. And then the boys basked in the warm glow of various electronic devices for a number of minutes that was far beyond reasonable.

And then, in turn, I needed to read The Diggingest Dog and The Fantastic Mr. Fox and Harry Potter and I needed to snuggle in with each of my boys and tell them that I love them and that I'm proud of them and that they make me happy every single day.

And not once did they ask me why we weren't doing what we had to do.

The Doctor is In

I've always had boys in my life: three brothers, guy roommates, a couple of live-in boyfriends, so it only seems fitting that I'd be the mama to three boys of my own. And while I've had my entire life to accept, and even embrace, the boyishness, I never suspected that I would become a boy myself. (Now before you get all riled up, rest assured that I'm not about to tell you about my plans for gender reassignment surgery!)

Owing to my fondness of all that is boy, my propensity for being at least two years behind the rest of the civilized world, and my well-documented frugality, I bought this - quite near the end of its shelf-life and on mega-sale- yesterday:

I also bought the Zombie Lab version. But, because my transition is not yet complete and I can still be totally grossed out by some things, I left the Snot Shot version on the shelf.

I set to work putting the contraption together this morning so that we could all participate in time-tested family bonding activities such as "licking bursting blisters" and "drinking foaming belly brew." Then we gathered round the table, Mr Butler excluded because, well, because he's a menace, and set to work making ourselves ill.

That's Big D going in for a blister lick.

A-Train pumping the plastic heart to force some sort of nastiness through a series of tubes into a plastic stomach.

And then we drank it. Some of us going back for second and third tastes. And no one died!

When the fun was over and I was washing Belly Brew Activator out from under my fingernails I yelled to the boys as they ran up the stairs, "I had fun making blisters with you!" And Big D yelled back, "I had fun making poopies with you!"

And I laughed.

Transition complete.

Batter Up!

A few words in honor of the last day of the SDLL Red Sox's Spring 2013 season:

You'll get 'em next time. Good eye. Good swing. Good cut. Good play. Run it out. You're a hitter. Be picky. Fast hands. Quick bat. Get out of the dirt. Get your glove dirty. Step out of the box. Baseball ready. Eye on the ball. Watch it come in. Don't throw the bat. Where's the play? Get it to the pitcher.

Busted Up and Breaking Up

When last I wrote, I was anxiously awaiting the strength and fortitude that Spring 2013 was surely going to bestow upon the WBs. While Spring is not yet over, and I suppose there's a chance that things could turn around, since my last post we've had:

2 Ear infections (Mr Butler)
1 Six-day hospital stay (A-Train)
1 Gnarly case of poison ivy (Big D)
1 ER visit (Mr Butler) which required six staples to the head


It's a damn good thing he's cute, because he is TROUBLE!



Adding insult to, well, injury, the WBs endured a big loss last month. Our nanny, Melissa, who has been with us for six years (which means she has been with this family longer than my two younger children!!) left us to open her own daycare. We miss her so!

She wasn't just our nanny, she was a second mom to my kids, and a friend to me, and a part of our family. The kids she's looking after now are so lucky (and I hope their mamas know it!), and we are so lucky to have had such a wonderful six years. And though we all knew this day was coming, breaking up is hard to do! Especially when you're breaking up with someone you still want to be with- different life paths, and all that stuff.

And Melissa's departure means something more. It means that I don't have any babies left. My babies are growing up and don't need the full-time attention that I've been doling out for the past 7.25 years. And so, a new chapter begins for me too.

I hope this chapter involves a full-night's sleep.