Where Do The Years Go?

It seems like just yesterday I was in the hospital giving birth to my son . . . but it was yesterday that marked 21 years of his life - 21 amazing years of being the mother to my wonderful boy. I look at him and wonder where the years went, and how did they go by so quickly?

This child created adventure from the moment he decided he was ready to come into this world. He's always been a spontaneous kid, and I knew he was going to be when labor hit suddenly with the breakage of water and sudden onset of continual labor pains. No gentle contractions leading up to it - oh no! Not for my kid! One moment I was sleeping soundly, next I was kneeling on the bathroom floor in a puddle with red hot pain shooting through my body. I never had contractions with my daughter either, so I should have expected something like this - but the doctors had assured me that all births are different. Boy do they lie or what??? After literally nagging my ex out of bed - who was insisting that I had HOURS so go back to sleep - and crawling down the hall dragging my hospital bag with me, grateful my little brother was there to babysit our daughter, I finally got him to take me somewhat seriously, and after ironing his shirt (WHAT THE HECK?) and carefully combing his hair (AGAIN, WHAT THE HECK???), he slowly began the 15 minute (felt like 15 hour) drive to the hospital, where he made me WALK into the emergency room. We'd had 2 false alarms, since I didn't know what to expect I had thought I was in labor before, so he was sure I was making it up. Um, yeah. The water ALWAYS breaks for a false alarm. The nurses recognized me and had the audacity to patronize me. "Are we SURE this time?" UM, YES BI---! WE'RE SURE!" I'm fairly certain my head spun around a couple times and green spew came out - but it all was happening so fast I can't swear it. After an agonizingly slow trip to my room, followed by a quick peek by the nurse on duty, which was followed by an "OMG - I SEE THE BABY'S HEAD - DON'T PUSH!!!" (told ya I wasn't making it up), and a flurry of activity as they got me immediately into delivery, my doctor raced in the room, shoved her hands into gloves and caught G after one mighty push by yours truly. From moment of water breaking - 1hour 47 minutes. When this child makes up his mind about something, he means it!!!

It's been that way since. He was a very strong willed toddler, grew into a strong willed child, moved on to strong willed adult. But he has an equally strong conscience, intelligence, sense of right vs wrong, dedication to family and country, and is a man I am proud to call my son. He's handsome, with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, and a laugh that is as infectious as it is genuine. He calls life as he sees it, doesn't hide his feelings to spare someone elses, and lives by his own guidelines.

Welcome to 21 son - it seems like just a blink has gone by - but I know you're ready to face life as a full adult as you did your life as a child. With honor, integrity and a sense of fun thrown into the responsibilities of living. I'm proud of you.

More Memories of Kids and Chaos - Ah the Joy . . .

The memories of the grocery store antics of the kids got me to thinking of a couple other funny moments - but they didn't seem all that funny at the time. In retrospect though they were hysterical.

How about the time K, when she was about 6, had been told to go to bed . . . several times. It was getting late, I was getting frustrated, she was bouncing off the walls, and I finally had had enough. I raised my voice and shouted "Go to bed or you're getting a spanking!" I heard her scamper off to the other room with nary another whimper . . . and felt relief that she'd finally listened. Oh, she'd listened all right - the little snip - she came skipping back into the room, all wide-eyed innocence, handed me a wooden spoon and turned to present her backside to me. Confused I asked her what in the world she was doing. Her response? "You said go to bed or get a spanking. I'll take the spanking please." OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! GO TO BED NOW OR YOU'RE GETTING BOTH!!! That was apparently quite unfair because following my outrage came the mournful howls of despair "You saaaiiiiiiddd (sob-sniff-sniff) ORRRRRRR!" Oh brother.

Or when G decided at the ripe old age of 4 that I was cruel and horrible and he just didn't want live with us any more. Apparently I'd told him NO to something 1 too many times for he informed me that "I hate you! I am running away from home!" Without letting him see the blood pouring from the gaping wound he'd just stabbed through my heart, I quietly set about laying out a large bandanna. I made a PB&J sandwich, carefully wrapped it and laid it on the bandanna. I laid 2 juice boxes out there, 2 pairs of underwear and socks, a flashlight, some gloves and a paper with our telephone number and names. I tied it up into a bundle, attached it to the crooked end of his hockey stick, got his jacket, gloves and hat out (it was late October at this point - and dark/chilly out early), some warm boots, bundled the now very confused child up, handed him his stick, showing him how to prop it over his shoulder with the bundle of goodies behind him, and gave him a hug. I said, well, if you really don't want to live here I can't force you. Have a wonderful life. I'll miss you horribly. If you could please call me when you get where you're going so I know you're ok I would appreciate it. I shoved him out the door, gave him a little kiss (by now he was struggling not to cry) and closed and locked the door. At this point K was sobbing - MOOOMMMMY, don't let him leave! shhhh, he's fine. I snuck into a dark room where I could watch him out the window - it was about 6 pm at this point. He walked down the steps and sat down, staring at the house. He heaved a huge sigh. Pretty soon, maybe 5 minutes, he got up and walked across the driveway, watching the door as he went. He sat down on the curb, opened his bundle and ate his sandwich, drank a juice and eyeballed the other stuff inside. He made it to the neighbors driveway, sat back down, drank the 2nd juice (it was 6:30 by now), shoved the underwear/socks/flashlight and bandanna into his pocket, and eyeballed the door awhile longer. I could see him staring down the road toward the gas station a few blocks away, back down the other way to the dark school yard, and back at the house. He headed back to the porch and knocked on the door. "I've decided to wait and run away tomorrow when it's daytime." He never ran away again, and "No" became slightly less traumatic from that day forward. Sometimes you just have to let them grow up and go their own way. They'll usually knock on that door and come home again, sometimes not even 1/2 hr later than when they left.

Memories . . . of the traumas left behind . . .

I read a comment on Facebook by a cousin today, and it brought back so many memories. She had taken her children to the Farmer's Market. One didn't want the corn, one didn't want the blueberries and another wanted everything and had landed in time out for begging. Wow, did that take me back.

How many times did I take my kids to the store, with the strict instructions NOT to beg for anything because we were short on money and we were there to get just what we needed? I couldn't begin to count. The trip would start out as usual, my daughter sitting in the back seat, next to my son's car seat, touching him . . . looking at him . . . making faces at him . . . to which he would scream, cry, or physically lash out. By the time we had gotten to the store K was wearing the face of indignation that comes along with being accused of said touching/looking/making faces . . . and not having her tearful protestations of innocence believed, and G was wailing his head off because he had been touched/looked at/faces made at . . . and had been unsuccessful in his bids for freedom from the car seat and had ended up with his head stuck under a strap it wasn't intended to be stuck under, leaning 1/2 in and 1/2 out of the seat in what didn't look like the configuration a human spine should be able to get into. Ah, yes, the grocery shopping trip had begun.

The struggle to get the wriggling toddler into the cart seat and strapped in would begin, with him raising his legs ever higher away from the cart until he was nearly pulled upside down, in avoidance of putting them into the spaces intended for them. After a battle of strength and wills, tears streaming down his face, he'd be in his seat, sobbing as if I'd beaten the tar out of him, rather than just secured him safely into the cart. I was so mean, huh? During the struggle, with strict instructions to hold onto the cart with one hand and not stray, K would be dancing in place, needing to potty, whining to "huurrrrryyyy". Oh great, NOW she tells me. Thankfully after witnessing the drama of the cart seating, I'm allowed to take the cart into the restroom so we don't have to have a repeat performance. And the potty procedure begins. Dance dance dance while the seat cover is placed carefully onto the seat . . . it slips in. Get another cover . . . dancing gets frenzied . . . finally get onto the seat, business done . . . skip to the sink for washing of hands. No I want to turn on the water Mom . . . but she can't reach it. Lift to turn on water, soaking front of shirt with the water standing on the counter top, lift to get soap, hold in place while hands are lathered, lengthy rinse process begins (to the tune of hollering 2 year old of course), followed by very careful drying of hands, wrists, shirt front, face, counter top . . . I'm exhausted and we haven't even shopped yet.

We are finally shopping, K holding on to side of cart, not straying from my side (thankfully I'd instilled a healthy fear of strangers into her!), slowly wandering up and down each aisle putting things into the cart off the list. Five minutes of peace has passed by, I know it won't last long . . . the battle begins in the cereal section. "Mommy, can we have (insert sweetest, nastiest, least nutritional cereal name here)?" "No, we can't. We're getting X cereal because it's healthy and it's on the list. If it's not on the list we aren't getting it." "But Mooommmmyyyy, I've always wanted to try THAT one, and it looks so good!! Please???" "Not this trip Honey, maybe next time . . ." but at this point the argument is on. Big blue eyes fill up with tears, the sniffling begins, G is grabbing whatever he can reach while I console K, trying to avoid a scene. I'm grabbing and replacing whatever it is he's getting a hold of, he's getting frustrated (join the party kid!), and starting the banshee cry. We have about 1/4 of what was on the list, the window of good, pre-nap moods, is over. The tearful sniffles of K are now full blown crocodile tears, complete with loud, audible sobbing. She has the appearance of a severely neglected child, in her ruffled outfit with matching shoes, hair artfully coiffed as was the style in the late 80's (remember? BIG hair? Oh yeah, she had it going on!) who has just never been given ANYTHING her little heart desired (yeah, right!), and G? Oh he's reaching monumental tantrum proportions by now. I consider ripping his screaming butt out of the cart and giving him the spanking he should have coming, along with the spanking his sister now deserves - but Ms. If You Touch Either of Those Kids I'm Calling the Cops is glaring at me like I'm Ted Bundy in drag. So, I do what any frenzied mom of 2 does . . . I go ahead and rip the screaming, flailing child out of the cart, grab my purse and fling it over my shoulder, take the hand of Miss Drama NW in my free hand, and dragging her out behind me, leave my cart and would-be purchases where they stand, and with my own glare at the interfering looker-on, I take them to the car, spank them both before getting them seated in their belts, and crying my own tears of frustration, head home to throw them both in bed for a nap. I'll go back tonight and leave them at home with their father. Why didn't I think of that before? Geesh!

For Now My Thoughts Can Be Spoken Freely . . .

There are some moments in this life that you take a step back and just say "Wow!" at the absolute inability for some people to accept that you just don't agree with them. For the 8 years of the Bush administration all I heard was griping and gnashing of teeth from the left leaning contingent. Sure President Bush made mistakes - doesn't everyone? It comes with the territory of being human, and the last time I checked there was only One who was deemed to be perfect - and He died and rose again many years ago. Apparently that wasn't good enough for those who view the world as a place to paint with only their own ideas, feeeeelings (we all have to feeeeel good, right?) and opinions. If you differed with them you were slammed between the teeth with the virulent poison that passed as their idea of truth.

Apparently even those I deem to be nice people and liberal at the same time (they are not always easy to find, but they do exist) don't appreciate it when I exercise my right to put it out there that I think every single person who voted for the current regime had their heads up an orifice that was dark and stinky. They didn't use even two brain cells to THINK about what it would mean to elect a wannabe dictator who wishes to strip us of our every constitutional right - one by one. He wants to put us firmly into a socialist way of life - killing the freedoms that we have come to hold so dear. I took one of those polls on Facebook, one that asked me if I would vote to re-elect President O. Well, I stated something to the affect that at least 73.8% of those who voted were using their brains and would not vote to re-elect him. I offended someone - oh poor girl. She's a nice lady and I've had many fun conversations with her, but she's under the misunderstanding that her choice for President was a good one and she commented back to me that she found what I said to be insulting. Well so sorry. Um, no, I'm not.

I'm NOT sorry for exercising my right to say what I feel out loud, and with pride.
I'm NOT sorry that I am a free citizen of the greatest nation in the world, and for the time being it IS still the greatest nation in the world. I'm NOT sorry for insulting this lady - perhaps, just perhaps, there's the smallest chance that she'll think a little before the next go-round at the voting booth. I doubt it, but there's a chance. You see, some people can't admit it if they are wrong. I can. If I turn out to be wrong - which I sincerely doubt will happen - I will admit it. I won't like admitting it, but I'll admit it. But would the left do the same? I doubt it with all of my heart.

So, Let Freedom Ring - Let Your Voices Be Heard - while you can still let those thoughts be spoken freely.

My Country Tis of Thee . . .

Do you remember those old TV commercials with the Native American standing on a ridge, looking down over what used to be rolling hills filled with Buffalo, taking in a scene now filled with litter and careless destruction, while a single tear fell down his weather worn face? That's how I feel lately, every time I turn on the news, log onto my computer, open a newspaper . . . I see the destruction of everything our forefathers put their blood, sweat and tears into building - and it's not a careless destruction.

This is deliberate, done with hatred for the freedoms we hold so dear. It is done with selfishness, with a determination to control. It is done with disdain for those of us who love God, Family and Country with all of our hearts. It is done to ferociously attack and tear down, constitutional right by constitutional right, all that we are as a country, as a people, as a free thinking nation.

It is up to us, the free people, while we can still call ourselves free, to take a stand - no matter the risk - and say ENOUGH! Our forefathers did. They stood up and fought - and many died - for the rights that those in charge are systematically trashing. They stood up and said WE WILL NOT TAKE THIS LYING DOWN! And the didn't! They did what had to be done, took a stand, fought and won. When are we, as a people, as a cohesive voice for freedom, going to come together not in pockets of dissent here and there, but as ONE and fight for this country before she no longer exists?

The line forms here . . .