“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.

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
  
  

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.

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.”

But…

I’ll keep it real and simple by saying, some of us were just not born with bodies made to birth babies. The last few weeks have been the toughest. Top that with two little active boys that won’t cut their momma any slack. However, throughout this whole pregnancy I keep telling myself that this is it. This is the last time you’ll ever get to experience this again.

I’ve tried to envision myself as the mom in the Suave commercial that starts out independent and single, engaged, married, has a couple of kids and lets herself go by dressing up as the Easter Bunny. She then gets her old self back and looks glowing and beautiful pregnant with her third child. I love that commercial just for the inspiration and sheer accuracy of what happens to so many of us when we have kids.

If you haven’t seen this commercial, you can view it by:

1. Visiting www.suave.com
2. Click on “Our Story”
3. Click on “Advertising”
4. Click on “Anthem”

I decided to preserve myself in history as the “Suave Mom”; I had pregnancy pictures of the boys and me taken. I did this with my older son when I was pregnant with my second. The picture is adorable of him holding on to my stomach and looking up at me. Things didn’t go as smoothly with the addition of my second son. I tried to get the same shot with both boys hanging on to my belly and me out of the picture. That didn’t work, so I sat down clutching on to the youngest in a very uncomfortable position. Everyone is halfway smiling. Fine, I’ll take it. Then when I get the pictures back, I notice what my oldest son is doing with his hand. Nice.

Oh well, I guess this is my perfect and it doesn’t really matter anyway. In retrospect, having a baby is one of the biggest miracles of life. And, how lucky am I that I’ve had the opportunity to experience it three times?

Check out Pregnancy & Baby on JustBreatheMom.com.

Here’s my story…

My 3-year-old comes into my bedroom and tells me that his little brother took his diaper off and put poop on the floor. Ok, not so bad I thought. I can handle a little poop on the floor. After all, it’s not as bad as my friend’s son who smeared his poop all over her wall. Oh, but how wrong I was. I walk into the room and see my curious little 2-year-old poking at the dark round pile on the floor with hands covered in what I would’ve given my last girl scout cookie to be chocolate. But, it wasn’t chocolate all over his hands, shirt, chubby butt, or stocky thighs. Yes, once again, it was a poop-tastrophe.

I immediately picked him up and put him in the tub. Off went the shirt, in went the bubbles, and within 10 minutes all was well again in the household. That is until 1 hour later when the stinker came running in my office once again without a diaper. It turns out that he doesn’t like anything rubbing against his pint sized penis or plump rear, so he takes off his diaper. He then proceeds to tell me what he did in his pants. Now if only he could only get the concept of sitting on the potty before he does his business. Then life would be good, with two down and one to go in the messy world of potty training.

**Warning** The pictures that you are about to see do not contain chocolate.