Lawyer Mama

Project Turtle: Los Angeles

I travel a lot. It seems to be happening more and more frequently and the boys don't like it.  But they do get excited when I send them photos of what I'm doing on my trusty iPhone.  In return, they tell me good night via video every evening.

This isn't a unique problem, but I wanted some way to keep my boys connected to me and to all of their relatives across the country.  That's where Project Turtle came in.  I bought four identical turtles.  One stays at home with the boys in Chesapeake, one travels with me, they've given one to Uncle B for his upcoming deployment to Afghanistan, and we're going to send the last one to their cousins in Montana.  The whole idea is for everyone to share photos of what they're doing and where they go with Turtle.

I really wanted to take Turtle to the White House Twitter Town Hall for his inaugural trip, but I forgot him.  Bad Mommy!  So Turtle had his first real break out on my trip to LA last week for Blue Star Families.  I really wish I'd had the presence of mind to ask one of the royals for a photo with Turtle, but I was floored to even have the chance to speak with them about military families.  So, the turtle had to settle for a picture up on the podium where the Duke of Cambridge spoke in front of 30x60 foot American and UK flags.

Without further ado, I give you Project Turtle: Los Angeles:

On the balcony of the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza. I tweeted a similar picture I took on my cell phone and the hotel retweeted me. Love it when they're paying attention!

At the Santa Monica Pier:

At the Hiring Our Heroes set up at Sony Pictures:

  I'm not sure if the boys were impressed with the turtle on the podium where the Duke would be speaking. But they loved the giant flags!

Checking out Operation Honor Cards at Sony Pictures:

I'm not sure what's next for Project Turtle, but I'll keep you posted!

 

Explaining War to Our Children

I've been such a horrible blogger lately.  It's not that I haven't been writing, it's that I haven't been writing here.  Hopefully I can take some time over the next few weeks to catch up on everything happening in our crazy lives right now.

In the meantime, I had a little something in the New York Times last week about trying to explain war to my kids.  This has been, hands down, the hardest thing about being part of a military family for me.  My boys ask questions and I don't want to confuse them, but I feel dishonest covering complex issues like war and death with platitudes deoid of nuance and the political realities in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Anyway, this was a wonderful opportunity and I actually got some good suggestions in the comments (I just ignored the "baby killer" taunts).  Read on:

Explaining war to kids is always hard, but when you’re part of a military family, the task is even more difficult because it’s so personal. When my sons were little, their father was in the Navy Reserve as an intelligence officer with the Seabees, the Navy’s construction division. The boys understood what the military was in a very hazy “It must involve a ship, Daddy going away, and a large yellow bee” kind of way. But because their father wasn’t directly in harm’s way, I was able to gloss over hard questions about war and just concentrate on the fun parts of having a dad in the military from a toddler’s perspective — serving the country and wearing really cool hats.

When my brother, a soldier in the Ohio National Guard, went off to Kuwait three years ago, that explanation no longer seemed sufficient.....  Read the rest of this post on the New York Times website....

Nooooooo!

I thought we had longer.

This evening Hollis, my six year old, asked me "How do I know that Santa's real? Because I think it might just be you and Daddy giving us stuff."

He asked this in front of his younger brother as well.

Knife. Heart. Ouch.

I remember the moment I discovered the truth about Santa well because it was such a shock to my young self. I was on the bus heading to school and reading Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing when Peter dropped that bombshell about no Santa into his narrative.

I was nine.

So maybe I've always been a bit clueless, but how did my kindergartner, who is an oldest child and the oldest kid in his Montessori school classroom, figure this one out?

And how can I rewind to December and enjoy that last moment of magic all over again?

Pardon me while I go weep quietly in the corner of my blog....

Maternal Pride

We were a little worried about Hollis going into the school year. We knew he was behind many Kindergarteners with language and reading. But we're not worried anymore:

I couldn't be more proud of my little guy!

 

The First Rule of Poo

In January, right after my son Holden turned 3, we decided to potty train him.  He was showing every sign of being ready.  He's incredibly verbal.  He knows how to tell us when he has to go.  Hell, he'll pee on demand for a piece of candy corn.  (Don't judge me!)  So we ditched the diapers and went for it.

On Day Two, I walked into the living room and discovered (through nose power) that Holden had pooped and went foraging for treasure in his underwear.  I controlled my gag reflex, cleaned the kid up, and we discussed an important Rule of Poo: Don't put your hands in your tushie.  We'll call this the Second Rule of Poo.

On Day Three, I walked into the boys' bedroom and discovered an even bigger mess.  Not only had Holden ignored the Second Rule of Poo, he had smeared it all over his bed, his stuffed animals, and down the track of his plastic Thomas the Train set.  Apparently he thought a nice poo slalom would be exciting for Thomas and Percy and anyone else unfortunate enough to visit the Island of Sodor that evening.  After a lot of scrubbing, some bleach, a shower and a lot of gagging, we discussed the Third Rule of Poo: Keep it in the Pull Up, and it's corollary, "Don't gross out Sir Topham Hat."

Upon further investigation of the boys' toys we had to discuss the Fourth Rule of Poo: Don't put it in a tiny metal and ceramic pot and attempt to microwave it in your toy kitchen.  (We'll worry about the whole metal-objects-in-the-microwave thing later.  I have to have my priorities, you know.)  Holden thought he was making "brownies."  You may think I'm making this up, but if you ask him about it he'll tell you about it with great pride even now.  Needless to say, I'll never look at a box of Duncan Hines quite the same way again.

On Day Four, I successfully placed Holden on the potty before he pooed.  Holden is a "hider" and doesn't like an audience, so I retreated to the kitchen to let him do his thing.  When I returned to the bathroom, I discovered that Holden had smeared poo all over the toilet and himself.  We had a shower and discussed the Fifth Rule of Poo: Keep it in the toilet, a close cousin to "Keep it in the Pull Up".

On Day Five, I hid behind the bathroom door while Holden did his thing, determined not to permit him time to violate the Fifth Rule of Poo.  Man, the CIA needs to hire that boy because in 30 seconds he managed to poo, smear it everywhere, and begin to investigate the nearby basket of clean laundry.  He did this all silently.  We had another shower, ran some laundry, discussed Rules Two through Five again and I threw in the Sixth Rule of Poo: Keep it away from Daddy's clean laundry.

At this point I decided that Holden was not actually ready to be potty trained.  If he was, his deep and abiding fondness for poo play seems to be enough of an excuse to keep him in diapers until he turns 18 or goes off to college, whichever comes first.

I've recently begun to wonder if we should try the whole potty training thing again with Holden.  It seems that some of the rules have begun to sink in.  Yesterday when I was in the bathroom, Holden barged in, put his hands on my knees, looked right into my eyes and oh-so-seriously imparted the First Rule of Poo: "Mommy, don't poo on your hands."

 

This post originally appeared on the DC Metro Moms Blog on May 3, 2009. Now that the site is inactive, I'm slowly moving my posts over to my blog, starting with this, one of my favorite posts!

Pregnancy After Miscarriage

I'm 5 weeks pregnant. I'm just barely pregnant. I've known for 4 days.

In those 4 days I've gone through a whole host of emotions. First was fear. When I saw those two lines I was scared to death. A history of miscarriage will do that to you.

Next came elation. I was also thrilled.  We've been actively trying for more than a year.  We'd just started down the long, expensive road involving a reproductive endocrinologist, many vials of blood and an extremely awkward encounter between my husband and a plastic cup.

Then came the reservations.  I tried to check my feelings and remind myself that it's best not to get attached.  But the thing is, it's really, really hard not to start thinking of myself as expecting a baby when my life immediately had to undergo a number of significant changes for that baby.  First and foremost, my life now revolves around blood sugar levels, insulin and carb counting.  Because my doctor took me off of oral medication and is now slowly increasing my insulin to get my blood sugar levels back under control, I'm seeing some scary numbers I haven't seen in a long time.

And this evening I started spotting.

So now fear is back.  I'm scared to death that this is the beginning of the end.  Or that my high blood sugars are going to cause a miscarriage.  Or that I didn't have my sugars under tight enough control before I got pregnant. Or that my eggs are just old and a miscarriage is inevitable.  Or that there's no particular reason for it, but I'm going to miscarry anyway.

I'm equally afraid that this spotting is absolutely nothing and all is well.

You see, I spotted throughout the first trimester during my pregnancy with Hollis.  But my progesterone was also at a scary low level and my doctor was actually shocked that I didn't miscarry.  He never said this to me, but I can read faces and mannerisms pretty well.  Especially when they seem to be preparing me for disappointment.

So much of my pregnancy with Hollis was scary as hell.  And he made it.  He's now 6 years old and slumbering peacefully in his bunk bed with a stuffed U of Miami ibis, 2 blankies, a red bean bag chair and a blue feather boa. He's one of a kind. Right now, I'm dragging up all those scary pregnancy memories that I'd tried to forget in an attempt to reassure myself.

Until about 2 hours ago, I'd let myself be pretty relaxed about this whole pregnancy thing. But with that first spot of blood, I'm right back where I was 6 1/2 years ago, googling "spotting 5 weeks" and now "miscarriage high blood sugar" and trying not to cry.

***Update: I did miscarry. The spotting was the beginning of the end. We're right back where we started and our next appointment with the RE rescheduled.***

Children, Perception and Infertility

I've written a bit about my infertility issues.  For the most part, however, I keep it on the Attain Fertility website and Facebook community.  While I do discuss the fact that T and I have been trying to have a baby for an eternity awhile with friends and family, we never, ever discuss it in front of the boys. Nonetheless, I swear they somehow know.

Perhaps this is just the age when they get curious about their friends' little brothers and sisters and where new babies come from, but both T and I have recently fielded quite a few questions lately.  Most of the questions are about how babies get out of their mommy's tummy, but T also got one uncomfortable question about how they get in there.  Because the question came from our 4 year old, T neatly dodged it by saying that you had to be married first.  Don't worry, we'll clear up that misconception at a more age appropriate date!

I have never once directly indicated to either of the children that we would like another baby. But, man, they are perceptive!

A few months ago I was looking through the teeny, tiny adorable little baby girl shoes at Target. Not because I even hoped to think I might eventually have one of those, but because I needed them for a photo shoot.  While I tried to decide between the mini red ballet slippers and the shiny black mary janes, Hollis, picked out his own favorite.  He brought over a tiny pair of pink mary janes with a white stitched flower on the toes and handed them to me saying, "When we have a baby sister, she can wear them."

My heart melted.

But I held back my tears and casually told Hollis that I didn't know if he would ever have a baby sister. I still purchased his little pink shoes. (See photo above.)

In the time since that day, I strongly suspect the boys have discussed the possibility of having a baby brother or sister.  While the boys were in the bath last night and I was at a parent association meeting, T overheard an interesting conversation.  Holden asked Hollis, "When is Mommy going to have another baby in her tummy?"  Hollis replied, "Mommy can't have a new baby. She has to get fat first!"

When T told me about this I nearly peed myself laughing, but then I had to pause to wonder where my very perceptive children have picked all of this baby stuff up.  Because, you see, there's this:

I just took a test yesterday afternoon. Only a few hours before Holden began quizzing his younger brother.

When the double line immediately started to appear, I called T upstairs and waited until he'd seen the test before I burst into tears.  After 16 months, several rounds of clomid and one cancelled appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist, I am finally pregnant.  And apparently my children are more reliable than EPT.

I'm also scared to death. Part of it is the usual, "holy crap, what have we done, I'm turning 38 29 in two weeks, we must be insane" stuff.  But the rest of it is about all the pregnancies that have come before this one.  So many times this beginning has ended badly. I'm almost afraid to let myself hope and yet, for some completely irrational reason, I actually feel good about this.

I'm trying not to wait for the other tiny, pink, flowered shoe to drop.

This is what 6 looks like

Hollis, my little man big boy,

I should be resting right now, preparing for the early hour tomorrow when you will rush in to my room and demand I take your first photo as a 6 year old.  I can't sleep.  I can't sleep because my heart is too full of you.

This year has been full of first for you and, because you're my first child, they're my firsts too. 

You rode your bike without training wheels.

You were in your first wedding.

You lost your first tooth.

You made your first snowman.

You learned how to swim.

You started Kindergarten.

You visited the White House. Twice!

You learned to hit a ball without the tee and how to dribble a soccer ball.

You've learned to be a real friend, even to your "annoying" little brother.

I blink and you're an inch taller. You tower above the kids your age, but you keep growing, growing into your lanky boy frame.

I get choked up when I write that you are a boy, but you are.  Boy.  And in my boy, I see the man you will one day be.  It fills me with equal parts awe and terror.

And, oh, there's so much more I could say. So much more about your generous heart and your kind thoughts and your little idiosyncratic habits that all add up to ... Hollis.

Happy birthday, my little not so little man.

Love,

Mommy

 

 

Forever Friends

I have a hard time making friends.

Acquaintances are easy to make. They come and go. Hell, so do friends sometimes, but those aren't the lasting relationships I'm talking about. A Facebook friend used the term “forever friends” the other day and it so perfectly describes what I mean that I had to lift it. Forever friends are those special people that aren't related to you but that you know will be there for you, even if it's been 2 months, or 2 years since your last call. If you live close by, you can call your Forever Friend anytime, for anything and she'll be at your door in 30 minutes. With vodka. And ice cream.

Forever friends. Those are the hard ones to find.

When I was a teenager, my 11^th grade English teacher told me that at the end of your life you will be able to count the true friends you've had on one hand. If you're extremely lucky, you'll move on to the second hand. I scoffed and looked around at my circle of high school friends and actually felt sorry for the guy. How sad was that? Only 5 real friends in all his ancient years? (In actuality, I think he was in his late 30's at the time, an irony that is not lost on me now.)

Although I've spent my entire life moving – the curse of the Air Force brat – and making friends, I am an introvert. People laugh at me when I say this, but let me be clear; I'm not shy. I'm not shy at all. I am reserved, but I have no problems talking to strangers, networking or making … acquaintances. Of those many acquaintances, some with shared backgrounds or interests or children or ideas do become friends. Of course. But those friendships often fade away through time or distance or because what once brought us together, whether it be children of the same age, a job or a photography class, isn't as important or immediate. I call them situational or superficial friends. Yes, they are still my friends. They riddle my Facebook page and we exchange cards and, on rare occasion, visits.

Forever friends. Those friends are very rare.

My forever friends, women and men alike, they get me. I get them. And it doesn't matter if we have completely different political ideologies or careers. It doesn't matter who has children or if they're even close to the same age. Geography is irrelevant. These are the friends I will keep my entire life. I will watch their children grow up. I will cheer on their careers and love lives. I will wipe their tears, even if I need to have the ice cream and Grey Goose delivered via Fed Ex on dry ice. I will go to their weddings. I will mourn them when they die or they will mourn me. Because, you see, we will be friends forever.

I can count these people on one hand. On less than one hand.

A few times in my life I've met someone that I thought would become a forever friend only to discover that I was … wrong.

We've all had friends like this. You talk and talk for hours and hours. You have so much in common. You really seem to click. But after the initial charming rush of doing many things together, you slowly begin to realize that you are the one who is usually making the calls, doing the inviting, suggesting the outings or waiting for the phone to ring. It's not deliberate or vengeful or malicious. You just aren't … the first friend who comes to mind.

It hurts. We've all been there.

For the introvert, however, I think it hurts more. You see, we introverts, we live very much inside ourselves. We keep the best parts of ourselves inside; the funny; the snark; the big ideas. Not many people ever get in there. Not really. So when we let someone in, when I let someone in, it's kind of a big deal. A really big deal. And I don't think that most people realize this about me; that I'm not really a thick skinned extrovert with tons of friends. I'm actually a quivering mass of goo who will sometimes even cry if someone forgets to call.

I'd much rather keep myself closed off until I know someone is a forever friend. But that's not possible. Because every forever friendship develops precisely because we get to see that quivering mass of goo inside another. And we manage to keep from running away screaming. Forever friends always start out as superficial or situational friends, but it would be so much easier for ME if they could just come stamped with a nice big F on the forehead. So I'd know.

Superficial friendships drain me. They're exhausting for an introvert. They're exhausting for me. I never know if that offer to have dinner, or get the kids together, or have an outing is a real one or if a superficial friend will just forget about it. I struggle with whether to tell Hollis that he's going to do X with his friend Y because I have no idea if Y's mommy will actually follow through. And that's where this whole friendship thing gets even more troublesome.

Because, you see, the kids are involved now.  And Hollis is just. like. me.

If Y's mom doesn't call or follow through, then I'm the one left picking up the pieces when Hollis's heart is broken. Because I can't tell him that I'm sure Y's mom just forgot or lost track of time or was really busy. No matter what lies I tell him or how many times I tell him that things just didn't work out, or we couldn't get schedules to mesh or even take the blame all on myself, Hollis will take it personally. No matter what I do, he will have his little heart smooshed because some thoughtless person didn't realize that the offhand comment she made was taken to heart by a little boy who was listening.

When this happens, I sometimes feel like I don't have any real friends here at all, although that certainly isn't true. It makes me want to move. Somewhere where I have ties, and roots and all my friends and family. Somewhere where I know that my children will always have friends and family they can count on.

But that somewhere doesn't really exist. My forever friends and my family are flung all over the country. I'm a military brat. I don't have a home. Well, this is home now.

Usually, it's all fine. Ninety-eight percent of the time, it's fine. But when my heart hurts and it's all caught up in the pain my little guy will feel and in figuring out how to make the blow as soft as possible for Hollis, it's not fine. No matter how small or insignificant this all may really be it's not fine today. And I find myself cursing my high school English teacher because he was right.

I need to call one of my forever friends. Send vodka. Don't forget the Chunky Monkey.

Two Type-A Parents = Ultracompetitive 5 Year Old

Today we went to a birthday party for a friend at Motorworld in Virginia Beach.  We had gorgeous weather and the kids had a great time.  However, at the kids' go kart track, we discovered that we may have created a monster.

T and I are, admittedly, a little competitive.  About pretty much everything.  So why does it come as a surprise to discover that Hollis doesn't fall far from the tree?

Here, Hollis is trying to overtake his brother:

Hollis ended up bumping his brother out of the way, Mario Kart style.  Here he is after he passed Holden:

But I think this last photo says it all:

I think we're in trouble.