Just Breathe Mom

“Surprise!”

“What did you do?”

“I made you polka dots mommy. Surprise!”

“Holy !@%$#%!!!!!!”

That was the conversation I had with my 4-year-old a few days ago. Oh, he surprised me all right, by redecorating every wall and floor downstairs with a collection of painted polka dots. Let’s start from the beginning…

For those of you that don’t know, I have a 4 ½ month old daughter. Of course, the baby takes naps and it is near impossible to put her to sleep downstairs with the boys around. Therefore, I rock her to sleep upstairs where the noise is at best, muted. However, it is always a crapshoot as to what I’m going to find when I come back downstairs. So far, the worse mess has been a picnic set-up with real food that included the dog as a guest. Leave it to my 4-year-old, the master planner, and his 3-year-old sidekick to top that.

My day started as one that would’ve put anyone teetering on the brink of insanity, over the edge. We were running late for a 9:30 dentist appointment and the van wouldn’t start. I couldn’t even get the side doors open. So, I had to squeeze my way in and maneuver car seats through the van and out the driver side door. Then I had to figure out how to install them in my husband’s car. I get all three kids to the dentist’s office at 9:40. A woman in the waiting room tells me that I should tell my boys to sit down. Nice. Then I ask the receptionist why it’s taking so long to see my son and she says that his appointment is at 10:30. Ugghhh! I had to cancel my 3-year-old’s appointment due to his ITP. Apparently, he had the 9:30 appointment, not the 4-year-old. Somehow, I remained eerily calm through all of this, not one ounce of frustration. I mean, not one ounce. I tried to maintain peace, so my day wouldn’t snowball into hell. Uh, that didn’t work.

Excuse this flashback sequence of events. I probably watched too many episodes of Lost! Stay with me, because now I’m going to take you back to the scene of the most horrific crime I’ve faced as a mother thus far. I emphasize thus far, because my oldest child has a mind that I think one day might include world domination. Just kidding, he’s not evil, just… ingenious. Yeah, ingenious describes him.

When I walked into the kitchen, all I saw were spots of paint on the floor and 2-inch in diameter colored polka dots by the backdoor. That is until I looked to the right. There I could see every wall covered in my children’s abstract art. I look to the left and see more. I immediately ask where the 3-year-old is and see his shadow running through the living room. Apparently, his assignment was the living room and dining room. Do you believe that he actually came into the kitchen and asked me to open the purple paint? His older brother brainwashed him into thinking painting mommy’s walls was a good thing. Actually, my 4-year-old did not run and hide as usually the case when he does something wrong. Instead, he proudly showed off his wall art. I might have a miniature Jackson Pollock in the making.

I know that I cannot come close to describing the mess that was made within 15 – 20 minutes of alone time. (I swear that I left them peacefully watching Noggin.) I couldn’t quite believe it myself how fast those boys worked. I tried to tell my husband over the phone, but even he was not prepared for the massive clean up that waited for him at home. Carpets, floors, walls, and unfortunate objects in the way of two determined artists were covered in paint. We now have to repaint every wall that was touched with a brush, because of course washable paint doesn’t really wash off.

You’re probably wondering how I didn’t end up on the evening news with a breakdown after this day, good question. When one of my friends saw the mess, she asked me why I wasn’t freaking out and why I was so calm. I really didn’t know the answer at the time. I thought maybe the Eckhart Tolle stuff is working and I’m really living in the present. Maybe I’m actually becoming an enlightened human being. Then I realized that it had to be some kind of divine intervention that put me in a state of shock, so I didn’t end up on the 6:00 news. Just like how people are in a state of denial after a traumatic event. This coupled with many other things was my traumatic event. Amazing how the mind works.

Here are pictures of some of the walls involved in the unauthorized art project. Unfortunately, fewer walls were left unscathed than covered in polka dots.

I am writing this blog about a blood disorder that I’m pretty sure many of you don’t know about. I didn’t know anything about it until my second son’s recent diagnosis. It’s not very common, but doesn’t discriminate and can happen to anyone. My objective is to educate anyone who is unaware of this potentially dangerous blood disorder as well as some of the symptoms. Also, I hope this story will be a reminder to listen to your gut instinct.

A week and a half ago, my almost 3-year-old developed a weird looking rash on his chest. It almost looked as if someone took a fine-tip red marker and put dots all over him. The rash was flush to the skin and didn’t change color when pressed. It was unlike anything I had seen before, so I started to do some research on the Internet. It didn’t take long to pull up various sources describing the rash as petechiae (peh-TEE-kee-ay). Everything I read said to seek immediate medical treatment for your child.

At this point, anxiety is starting to fill my veins and I begin to pester my husband to read the information that I found. He was in the middle of trying to put the baby to sleep and didn’t see an urgent need to quit the process. He thought our son’s rash was probably some sort of heat rash. I on the other hand was becoming increasingly anxious and finally told him that he needed to go look at the articles, because I thought that we needed to take our son to the ER. In actuality, I had already decided that he was going to the hospital. I just wanted his confirmation. Our next step was to call the family doctor. The doctor on call said that we could probably wait out the rash over the weekend. I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt that she didn’t understand what we were describing. Thank God that the certainty I had for him to be seen by a doctor was overpowering. By this time, the rash had spread to every part of his body, including the inside of his ears, face, and behind.

Off we went to the hospital where he was born. The ER doctor said that in his ten years he only saw this rash a few times. The times that he saw it, the kid was really sick. My son acted perfectly normal and you wouldn’t know that anything was wrong him. Lab results came back that said his platelet count was 4,000. I had no idea what that meant. Embarrassingly, I wasn’t even exactly sure what your platelets did. Science, chemistry, medicine all fall under the same category as math for me… foreign language. I’ll quickly describe the function of your platelets for other right-brainers like me. Your platelets are the sticky cells in the blood, which are important in clotting and help to stop bleeding. A normal platelet count is between 150,000 – 450,000. As you can see, my son’s count was dangerously low. What does this mean? It means that if he were to get in an accident or even bump his head then he could bleed in the brain or internally.

Luckily, we live near a reputable children’s hospital and were sent to their ER for treatment. After more lab work and process of elimination he was diagnosed with ITP or Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. (People with ITP, form antibodies that destroy their blood platelets.) With the lab work, they check the white blood cells to rule out leukemia. Thankfully, the doctors are almost certain that is not the case with our son. A few days later, he had his first visit with a hematologist at the same hospital. His platelet count didn’t increase after his first treatment in the ER. (He was given a blood product by vein in the ER called Win Rho to stop the destruction of platelets.) The hematologist then ordered an infusion of another blood product (IVIG) to boost his platelet count. The infusion lasted over 5 hours. The little trooper sat there patiently the whole time hooked up to an IV.

We won’t find out until Thursday the results of the IVIG treatment. Each week he will have his blood drawn and they will look at his platelet count and go from there. Until then, we have to be extremely careful with him and make sure that he doesn’t get hurt, particularly his head. It’s no easy task keeping a 3-year-old boy from getting hurt, especially one with a 4-year-old brother. (Read Attention: Bloodshed In Aisle Six) However, I don’t have time to freak out. I’ve learned everything I can about this disorder, I’m keeping him as safe as I can, and I’m looking out for any of the signs the doctor told me warranted an emergency return visit to the ER. I have confidently given this disorder to the expert doctors at the children’s hospital. This is their business; they see it and treat it all the time. Nevertheless, if my gut tells me something different I will not hesitate to take action.

Quick Facts About ITP

• It can happen to anyone.
• Many children had an occurrence of a viral illness weeks before the onset of the disorder. (This is true in our case.)
• The US has approximately 200,000 reported cases of ITP.
• Children usually get an acute case between ages 2-4 that resolves itself in less than 6 months. Older children, more than 10 years-old, tend to get a chronic case lasting a few years.
• A child can look perfectly healthy or sick.
• Petechiae rash or strange bruising can be a symptom.

  Sources: Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center, familydoctor.org, Platelet Disorder Support Association, National Heart & Lung Blood Institute
  
  

The Universe has spoken. Apparently it was tired of my fertility flip-flopping and made the decision for me. Yes, I am pregnant with baby #3. And it just so happens that I got rid of most of my baby stuff just last month. Fortunately, I have plenty of fertile friends and family members who are willing to share. However, since most of them had baby girls earlier this year, I suppose I better start thinking pink.

And why not think pink anyway? I’ve been floating in a sea of blue for over 6 years now. I need a proper caretaker for my sons’ neglected Snow White and Cinderella dolls. Although, I’d be thrilled if she preferred dinosaurs to the dolls. Because dinosaurs are just so cool. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow out of them.

A friend of mine has a theory about her circle of friends. She is convinced that the third child of her friend’s children will be girls. And why shouldn’t she be convinced� Every single one of her friends who have children, had 2 boys first. The only friends that have girls are the friends who had a third child. She is included in this because she just had her third child a few months ago. Oh yeah, it was a girl. Nobody has ventured into the scary 4 kids territory yet, so we don’t know what the future holds for them. But if her theory holds true, I’ll be looking at a little princess (or tomboy) in about 8 months. That baby is coming home from the hospital in a tutu dammit! I may be just the one though to knock her little theory out into orbit. All it takes is that XY chromosome.

Honestly though, all the talk about gender is fun, but it really doesn’t matter to me. I can accept and be happy as the wife and mother from the TV show Home Improvement. (Yes, my husband is a version of Tim the Toolman Taylor).

I need to worry about our sleep situation more than the gender of our unborn baby. Our 6-year-old and our almost 4-year-old, still bed hop at night. Most nights we are squeezed into our queen size like a can of sardines. Only some of our sardines are inverted and perpendicular. To steal a line (and replace one word) from one of my favorite movies, Jaws, “We’re gonna need a bigger bed!”

And that’s not all…

That more than twenty people will comment on this and all my blogs.

That I have a personal landscaper to take away all of my wrong decisions and the bug bites I obtain when making them.

That I am Samantha on Bewitched and can wiggle my nose and turn things around instantaneously.

That flies talk to each other and know they face certain death when coming into my house, so they don’t dare try. (Although, I am able to practice my ninja moves on the unsuspecting disease carrying buggers.)

That one morning I will walk downstairs and the dishes are clean, toys put away, and the floors cleaned.

That all of my photos stored on the computer will magically make it to print and a photo album before my kids go away to college.

That my baby will sleep through the night, every night.

That I have all of the time I need to work on my current passion, JustBreatheMom.com.

That the expression “shear exhaustion” doesn’t apply to me.

That I have quality time for myself.

That no person, place or thing can irritate or annoy me today or any other day.

That every mom & child knew that his or her dreams were only a thought away.

The dirty truth is that my life is filled with poop. Dog poop, cat poop, boy poop, and baby girl poop. It’s an awful word; one that I never thought would be a main part of my vocab, let alone clean up 50 times a day. Nevertheless, somehow it has entrenched my life. So much that now friends and family feel free to talk to me about their p**p experiences. I will protect the above by giving them anonymity. They tell me I’m the only one they’ve spoken to about their own dirty truth. Therefore, I seal my lips on their incidences.

My burning question is, Why me? Why am I inundated with everyone else’s dirty truth? Is it because between three dogs, three cats, and three kids that I clean-up so much of it I’m an expert? Is it because I give so much attention to it each day that I’m bringing more of it into my life via the Law of Attraction? Why has my life all of a sudden become about that dirty four-lettered word? Please tell me that I’m not the only one that scoops the litter, cleans the backyard, changes a pull-up, a diaper, and wipes a pint-sized butt (not mine, at least not since I’ve had 3 kids in 4 years) all before 10 am.

I can’t seem to get away from it. My boys don’t make it any easier with their obsession with the stuff. Oftentimes when I clean the backyard, they are there pointing out the different piles. It’s a competition on who can find the most. They act as if they scored the winning point with each find. One day, my oldest did show a little sportsmanship when he said, “I hope Hayden finds some.” Ahhh, brotherly love. Unfortunately it doesn’t stop there, my almost 3-year-old has to draw dog p**p on all of his pictures that include a house. He wants you to draw the house and he likes to draw circular objects falling from the sky that represent, well you know. Yeah, it’s going to be fun explaining that in preschool.

Oh well, if you need someone to lay your p**p experiences on, I’m here. There’s nothing I haven’t heard or seen. (Read It Was A Poop-tastrope.) After all, when you have three babies, your modesty has been thrown out the window. More people have seen me naked than when I was a single girl in my twenties. Go ahead and write on my tombstone…

Beloved wife, mother, daughter, and friend…
She really gave a crap.

Dear Blockbuster,

I am at the end of my rope with you. But really it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault that I’ve been too preoccupied to do the smart and simple thing and join Netflix. It’s not your fault that I continue to rent kid’s movies from you at $4.29 that are too scratched up to watch from beginning to end. And it’s certainly not your fault that frightening and grotesque DVD covers are mixed in the new release section sometimes right next to new release family fare. After all, I’m sure Experiment In Torture was such a highly anticipated new release after its blockbuster status during its first run at the theaters. Oh wait that’s right it never made it to the big screen. Well maybe that one is your fault. Hmmmm.

Regardless, this relationship is simply not working. I give, give, give while you take, take, take. I mean just the other day I rented a new release movie and tried to watch it. What a futile experience. After the 5^th time the movie stopped and I had to skip over another 5 minutes and miss crucial dialogue and action, I turned it off. I didn’t even care about how the rest of the movie played out at this point. So why oh why couldn’t you just let me exchange it for a different movie when I promptly brought it back the next day? I paid for this movie, it didn’t work. I should have been allowed something of equal value or my money back. But nope, I could only exchange it for the same movie that I no longer had any interest in. Blah!

I’ve been a loyal customer for years, especially since my children arrived in the world. We come back every single week to rent more movies. I think we have rented most of the titles in the kid and family section over the years. We’ve spent over 50 bucks on Scooby Doo and the Loch Ness Monster alone. If only my budgeting brain worked a little better, I would have bought the movie on Amazon ages ago and saved a fortune! But again, my fault not yours.

Oh well. With gas prices at record highs, I’m only hurting myself by continuing this relationship. Remember it’s not you, it’s me. (Well it’s a little bit you.) But I’m the one who has changed. You’ve been the same old Blockbuster. So now I must bid adieu. It’s what’s best for all of us. Anyway, adios! Arrivederci! Hasta la vista baby!

Hello Netflix!

I recently stepped out of my reality and into the reality of four New York women. In my late twenties and early thirties, I faithfully watched their lives unfold and likened their single-girl experiences to my own. Four years later, not only has Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte’s lives changed, but also so has mine.

Let me start with my not so Roger Ebert mini-review of the movie… I loved it. It was very funny and I would definitely go see it again. If you were a fan of the series, then you will not be disappointed with the movie. However, if you never connected with the series, then I doubt you will neither understand nor like any of the raunchy humor in the movie. Case in point, Mr. Ebert, a 66 year-old-man will never understand the importance of a bikini wax or what it’s really like to be a single woman. The only character he liked was the only one I didn’t, Carrie’s assistant Louise played by Jennifer Hudson. I hate to say this, because I really respect what Jennifer Hudson has accomplished in her career, but that girl cannot act. Grant it, I didn’t see her in Dreamgirls, so I can only judge her performance in this movie. Enough of my review, moving on to more important things, namely, what I took away from this movie.

What I took away from the movie is that I’m missing three things: my style, independence, and relationships with my girlfriends.

1. When I was single, I could see bits and pieces of myself in each one of the four characters. Now, one husband and three kids later, I can see the pieces of myself that I have lost. Being a mom and going through three pregnancies in four years, I’ve lost my sense of style. I have traded fitted clothing, heels, and a seamless backside for track pants, tennis shoes, and comfortable underwear. This never became so apparent to me until I saw Carrie running in the snow in stilettos. Obviously, this is an extreme example. My feet are way too wide for stilettos, not to mention I would look like a thirteen-year-old girl trying to walk in them. And when it comes to snow, all bets are off. I’ll wear whatever it takes not to fall on my ass. My point is that I hate my current style. I want to feel good in what I put on my body. Instead, I’ve become accustomed to hiding it until I burn off the last few inches the last kid left behind. Time to add some more flavor.

2. In the movie, Samantha realizes that she has given up her sense of self and independence. In a sense, she lost herself and forgot who she was. Something that is so easy to do when you become a mom. Although, Samantha isn’t a mom in the movie, the idea is still the same. Very often, women tend to give up a part of themselves for everyone else. By the end of the movie, Samantha remembers who she is and acts on it. The storyline reminds me of a scene in The Incredibles between Edna and Helen Parr (Incredible), a.k.a. Elastigirl. Helen is upset because she’s full of doubt about her husband and Edna slaps her in the face and says, “Pull-yourself-together! What will you do?” Is this a question? You will show him that you remember that he is Mr. Incredible, and you will remind him who *you* are.” I can’t believe that I just quoted a line from The Incredibles as a source of inspiration, but I swear that line invigorates me every time I hear it. And trust me I hear it a lot.

3. That brings me to my last lightbulb moment of the movie. (Hopefully, someone is still reading this after the ‘Incredible’ thing.) No matter which direction life has taken these four women, they remain close friends and get together to just hang out. Now, I still have close relationships with many of my girlfriends, but it’s more though the phone, email, or occasional kid birthday party. I don’t remember the last time I just hung out with one or two of my friends that didn’t involve a kid. Okay, I do, it was when I saw this movie with a new friend of mine, but it was only a couple of hours and no Cosmo’s were involved. Therefore, I’m asking myself, “Is it really that difficult to schedule at least one night a month to just hang out?” There are always the excuses of not enough money, time, babysitters, etc… C’mon! Wouldn’t we be better mothers, wives, and women if we started to do a little something for ourselves? Like fostering the relationships, we have or had with our friends. If the desire and intent is there, anything can happen, no excuses.

Whew, all of this from a movie a critic at the New York Times dubbed as “…vulgar, shrill, deeply shallow…” Oh well, it’s all subjective anyway.

Side note: I hope that it is understood that all of the examples I used in this blog are just that examples and generalities. I live in the Midwest not Manhattan, so I’m not saying that I should be wearing Manolo Blahniks. I’m also being general about Samantha and her situation and not comparing her personality to mine. Matter of fact, I took a Sex in the City quiz and it turns out that I’m most like Miranda. I don’t know what to think about that. Maybe someone who knows me could comment and tell me what they think.

If you haven’t seen the movie yet, catch this quick clip. Or if you have seen the movie, relive it and want to go see it again.

Since the birth of my daughter, I’m unable to do a lot of things with just my boys. When my husband is home I try and take advantage of alone time with me and them. They are both at an age now where it is much easier to take them places. Or so I thought, until the day blood was shed in aisle six.

The day started out great with a trip to the park. My 4-year-old and 2 ½-year-old listened and had a great time going up and down the slides. There was only a slight problem with the youngest when I told him it was time to go. He decided that he would rather crash the party in shelter #2 than go to the grocery store. After a slightly embarrassing chase through the shelter, I caught the party crasher and we were off. Little did I know that the real fun was on it’s way.

When we got to the store, I thought that it would be a good idea to give them each a little cart that they could fill with groceries. Who knew their minds would be able to keep a running total of who has what in each other’s cart. If only I had realized this before we got to the cookie ailse. So, I put a container of $3.99 cookies in my youngest son’s cart. The older one promptly takes it out and declares that it is his. The little guy isn’t going for this and takes them back. I’ve witnessed this scene before and know that it’s about to get ugly. My boys are small, but very scrappy. They don’t take any crap, especially from their brother. Before I know it, fists and food are flying. They’ve turned delirious and are acting as if they are famine stricken beings fighting over the last morsel of food. I wish I were exaggerating, but this shopping excursion has turned into a knockdown, drag-out fight. Somehow, amidst the stares of less than sympathetic shoppers, I’m able to pull them apart and grab a second package of cookies. This was my bribe to get them to the checkout lane.

Now they each have their own container of cookies, they act as if nothing ever happened. As if, they didn’t totally mortify their mother in the middle of the grocery store or try to rearrange each other’s face just seconds earlier. I did learn an unexpected lesson from the battle’s aftermath. I learned that it’s not worth holding a grudge. Kids don’t, why should we?

In retrospect, I’ve figured out that it’s not the taking them somewhere that is so difficult, it’s the combination of the two of them together and the competition that ensues. Unfortunately, I had to figure it out over a container of organic chocolate chip cookies in the middle of Trader Joes. The funny part is that the cookies weren’t even that good.

Incidentally, I didn’t actually buy the second tub of cookies. I made sure the cashier hid them. I use this tactic often with my youngest son, because he usually forgets about the item he wanted so badly. My oldest son on the other hand doesn’t forget a thing. It took approximately five times before he quit asking me if he was getting a cookie from his container or his brother’s. I think this is the exact situation where it is perfectly acceptable to lie to your child. “Of course, these are your cookies, dear.”

Late last week I decided to take my sons swimming at my sister’s house. But before we could leave, my boys wanted to swing for a few minutes on our backyard swing set. Since they are getting older and bolder, they wanted me to push them a little higher than usual. Against my better judgment, I did. While my 6-year-old was at the highest point in the air during his swing, the rope attaching the swing to the swing set gave way and my son fell flat on his back.

I quickly scooped him up and took him inside to assess the damage. Thankfully, he seemed more shocked than physically hurt. He had a little red mark on his lower back and a couple of broken fingernails. (Which just proves that I don’t trim them often enough.) Anyway, I fretted over him for a few minutes, kissed his boo boos, and then moved on with the day.

But my clever son, clearly enjoying all of the attention and fuss I was making over him, wanted his falling out of the swing accident to be the theme of the day. He was going to let anyone and everyone know about it. And he was going to milk it for everything it was worth.

First, he needed a cookie because he fell out of the swing and hurt himself “so so so very very very badly.” His words, not mine. Cookies have magic healing powers when you’ve taken a tumble apparently. But apparently they aren’t the only thing. Toys seem to help too, according to my 6-year-old. I nixed the new toy idea quickly. There would be little boys falling out of our swing set daily if a new toy was the end result. So I said yes to the cookie and no to the toy.

Meanwhile, when we pulled into my sister’s driveway, my son reminded me to tell my sister and her family about his very scary incident. But I didn’t have to - he wasted no time the minute we walked into her front door. My little sympathy seeker sure knew how to work a room, let me tell ya. And he received all of the ooohs and ahhhs and worried expressions he was looking for. After his few minutes of uninterrupted attention, he was ready to move on for awhile. That is until his daddy got home and the whole process started over. I can’t say I really blame him for his attention seeking behavior because there will come a day when mom is the only one who will still notice his boo boos.

Love takes shape in many forms: in the form of words, gifts, looks, and actions. I personally prefer the form of action. Even though it is not my husband’s preferred method, sometimes he gets it right. I’ll explain, in a short-long kind of way…

Everyone has one or two things that just freak them out. I mean really freak them out. Ok, maybe not everyone, but I’m guessing I’m not the only neurotic person out there. My two things may seem like nothing to someone else, but to me they can put me in a state of crazy. I’m talking about mice and bugs.

Most of my friends already know about my dislike for bugs and my abnormal fear of mice, but probably not to the extent that my husband does. Every winter he dutifully evicts the latest unwanted rodents from the garage. Because he knows that if I see one of them, he might come home and find me in a catatonic state brought on by fear. Seriously. No, really, I’m serious and not even trying to be funny. (Well, maybe a little funny.) I am embarrassed to say that I’m a prime candidate for the Maury Povich show. (To clarify, not the “Who’s Your Baby’s Daddy” show, but the “I’m Terrified of…” show.)

My other nemesis, bugs, doesn’t put fear in my veins, but gross me out. Especially when the little buggers invade my home. In particular, I can’t stand the creepy cockroach looking Earwig. It probably stems from when I lived in Texas and went through cockroach hell. It’s not very common to have them in Midwest suburbia, so I wasn’t prepared for the constant battle I faced in the south. It took years after moving back to the Midwest to dissipate the anxiety I felt every time I opened up a box of cereal or turned on the light.

Anyway, enough about my neurosis and on to the love part of this blog. Since it’s been monsoon season in the Midwest, the bugs have come out in full force. Apparently, there’s not enough room for them outside, so they’ve decided to start setting up shop in my house. My husband is on it. Without me even asking or threatening to move, he called Bob the bug guy. Bob graciously rid our house of bugs and saved our marriage two years ago for a small fee. I would pay almost any fee to be bug free.

For me, my husband calling the bug guy without me asking = love. Validate my fears and rid my life of things that freak me out and I’m in it for the long haul. And that’s what I call love.