Spirit Isn't Just for the Holidays

We've got spirit yes we do

We've got spirit how 'bout you?

  

I have spirited children.  Three of them. 

 

All three went straight from crawling to running.  Jumping on the couch, and off of it.  Mistaking the back of it for a balance beam, Dempsey included.  They flip off of anything they can get their feet on.  Beds, changing tables, and window ledges .  Racing in the house and in the yard.  Playing at the playground all year long.  Riding bikes, climbing trees, scaling fences, and digging dirt. 

 

Spirit rides without his training wheels.

 

And all along I thought couches were for sitting.

 

They dive into the bath tub.  And jump back out.  Then do it all over again.  Sneaking in fully clothed.  With blankees.  Before I get a chance to drain the water.   They run up and down the stairs at bedtime.  A lot.  Until finally crashing.

 

Spirit is loud.  And in your face.  At least a cute face, in your face. 

 

What a doll face.  When you're drinking spirits of course.

 

 

Brushing teeth and hair in the morning requires the four of us to squeeze into the bathroom, with the door shut.  So no one can escape.  Getting shoes on Dempsey means buckling him into the car seat first.  Or sitting on him. 

 

They don't eat much, sleep much, or sit much.   But they sure do love much. 

 

Dempsey hiding from nap time.  Spirit doesn't sleep.

 

When they do eat, they cheers their food and drink with one another.  They eat pie, right from the pie dish.  When they do finally fall asleep, I swear they are still running.  Just with their eyes closed.  When they sit, it's only to poop. 

 

Pie.  It keeps the spirit up.

 

After a night of running in his sleep.

 

Story time at the library was a disaster.  For every single child.  Every.single.time.  I tried.  Sure they love books.  As long as you are chasing them while you read it.  Do not try this at home. 

 

They celebrate Halloween.  All.year.long.  Just in case that costume may earn them an extra piece of candy spirit.  They were dragons for Christmas.  Roar.

 

Merry Halloween.

 

 

At nighttime, when they are supposed to be watching a show in our bed, they open every button on the duvet cover and climb inside. 

 

I couldn't figure out why our house seemed so cold and the front light was out.  I had just changed the light bulb.  This went on for days.  I didn't have time to think about it.  A spirit had clambered up onto the train table, and turned off the bottom five switches of the electrical box.   Train tables aren't just for trains anymore. 

 

Celebratory ice pops once the heat was cranking again.

 

 

We recently waited for a prescription to be filled at the grocery store pharmacy.  It had been called in, but still wasn't ready when we arrived.  The line was long. The wait was long.  The spirited ones talked to each other on the display cell phones and used the floor as a slip and slide.  They ran in circles.  They giggled.  They weren't hurting themselves or anyone else.  I let them do it.  With reminders when it got out of hand.  Onlookers may have called it inappropriate.  I call it spirit.  And damn entertaining.  I giggled too.

 

Even their clothes have spirit.  For Grady, it's a shirt, tie, and blazer.  For Lillian, it's princess garb one day, and her brother's sweatshirt the next.   Sometimes, something is missing.  And it's not the spirit.

 

I put the van in reverse, looked back, and saw this.

 

Spiritwear.

Grady at his preschool Christmas show.  This was taken immediately after he untucked his shirt and looked down his pants for a solid 30 seconds.  All while on stage.  I think there was some spirit in there.
 

 

    

At the mall.  See... I almost have a whole handful...already more than mom!
 

So here's to 2013.  Cheers!  Shirts off,  pops up, and don't forget to check your pants for spirit.  It's gonna be a great year.

 

We've got spirit yes we do

We've got spirit how 'bout you?







 





 



My Greatest Fear

My greatest fear is losing one of my children.  It's hard to write those words.

Lillian, Grady, and Dempsey are my morning, noon, and night.  My greatest accomplishment.  My heart.  My soul.  My world.  They make me laugh.  They make me cry.  They bring out the best in me.  And at times, the worst.   

I worried about my children long before they entered the world.

The first time I became pregnant, I was oblivious to the heartache that is a part of bearing and raising children of your own.  I was 27.  I miscarried.  The thought that this could happen had never crossed my mind.  I worried I wouldn't be able to have children. 

The second time I became pregnant, I worried.  I feared another miscarriage.   My water broke one day before my 37th week.  Lillian was born the next day, exactly three weeks early.  I worried it might be too soon.

When Lillian arrived, I anguished over SIDS.  I also doubted the driving abilities of others.  I didn't want her to ride in a car without me.  I was consoled by the thought that if there was an accident, at least we would go together. 

The third time I became pregnant, I miscarried again.  I knew what was happening before it actually happened.  So I worried.  About everything.

The fourth time I became pregnant, Grady arrived, many worrisome months later.  We should have just named him Worry.

With Grady, I doubted we would all make to his third birthday.  I feared broken bones, head injuries, and lacerations.  They all happened.  We made it.  To three.  Now I worry about four.

The fifth time I became pregnant, people started asking if we knew how this whole getting pregnant thing worked.  I assured them we had a pretty good idea.   I worried that we already had two healthy children, would we be as lucky the third time around?  Dempsey was born.  Healthy.

By the time Dempsey blessed our family, I wasn't worrying quite so much.  Maybe I just didn't have the time to think.  About anything.  I worried that I wasn't worrying enough.

It's a wonderful thing, being so busy.  My mind is often preoccupied.  I don't have a lot of time to worry.  But there are still plenty of things that I worry about.   I worry one of them will get hit by a car.  While playing, waiting at the bus stop, or walking through the grocery store parking lot.  I worry about car accidents, a fall from a window, and drownings.  I worry about brain tumors and childhood cancers.  I anguish about anything that is irreparable.  It's a mother's right and duty to worry. It's what we do.  All day.  Every day.

Never before have I worried that one of my children could be gunned down in an elementary school classroom.  That's irreparable.  There are twenty moms, just like me, whose babies aren't coming home.  They worried about the same things I do.  But never that.  I'm sure of it.

Twenty children are gone.   I am holding on to my three for dear life.  Twenty mothers had their right to worry torn away.  I am worrying like I've never worried before.  And thankful that I still have children to worry about.   God bless the children.  Their mothers.  Their fathers.  Their sisters.  Their brothers.  Their families.  We should all be worried.

Thank you.

A Mother's Request

My mother called to tell me that she is embarrassed by my poop stories.  Which is ironic.  Because every time I talk to her, I have the urge to poop.  This stems from my college days.  When I called her every day after lunch.  Lunch in the dining hall.  So I struggled and I struggled tonight.  I will not write about poop.  I will not write about poop.  I will not write about poop. 

I had a two hour, morning break, from two children.  A week and a half ago.  What would I do with this Single Threat time?  Poop. Get my oil changed.  There is nothing like fresh poop fluids.  I went to Sears Auto Center.  It's at the mall, instant Dempsey entertainment.  Sears said no.  They were too busy pooping.  Mr. Sears said afternoons were best. 

This past Wednesday, I show up with my full brood at 2pm.  After noon.  Mr. Sears says the oil change will take 3 hours.  I ask when is the best time to come?  He looks right at me and says Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons.  Except during the holiday season.  Mr. Sears Poop Number Two, interrupts from the other counter.  He corrects Mr. Sears.  It will take two hours today.  I instantly like Number Two.  I give Mr. Sears my cell phone number.  He asks for my home phone number to look up my account.  I concede, but tell him that we no longer use our home phone.  He reminds me that lots of people don't use their home phone anymore.  However, he still needs it in case they need to leave me a message.  Which works out perfectly...since I don't use it anymore.  I request the regular oil.  Mr. Sears reminds me that he already knows this.  That's why he looked up my account.  With the home phone number.  The one I no longer use.   The same one where Sucks Sears will leave me a message.  I ask if I should leave my cell phone number.   In case the technician needs to call and tell me that my van is about to explode and I'll need new brakes, air filter, and/or some sort of random plug.  While I'm pooping at the mall.  Mr. Sears says they won't have time to speak with me. They're too busy pooping.   They only leave messages.  On your home phone. 

Two hours later, the Triple Treat is full of jelly beans and lollipops and poop.  Two times waiting in line for Santa.  Never actually making it to the front of the line.   Six times taking shoes off.  And putting them back on.  Three times visiting the bathroom.  To poop.  One time trading my coupon for a free pair of underwear at Victoria's Secret.  While the children fondled Victoria's secrets with their poopy sticky hands.

Driving home from Sucks Sears, I notice the heat isn't working.  Poop Cool air is blowing from the vents.  By the time we reach home, the air feels warm.  I forget about it.

Thursday morning I start up the van, preparing for double school drop offs.  Thirty minutes later we all fumble in.  It's freezing.  Thirty degree outside and inside.  No heat.  Poop.

Within the hour, the van has been dropped off for repair, not at Sucks Sears, and Enterprise is picking us up.  Love.

Dempsey and I arrive at preschool, in our rental, to reclaim Grady.  Grady's teacher calls us into the classroom.  Grady hadn't made it back from the playground in time.  He peed in his pants.  Dempsey, Grady, and I filter into the bathroom.  I set Grady on the toilet to finish peeing and pull his change of clothes from his backpack.  Dempsey chucks something into the toilet.  The one filled with Grady's pee remnants.  It's the rental van keys.  Two of them.  Since those Enterprise people were kind enough to give me a spare.  The automatic ones.  With buttons only.  No metal key for this mom.  The kind with a computer chip.  That costs hundreds of dollars to replace.  Times two. 

I fish the expensive keys computers from the pee water.  With my bare hands.  I'm too afraid to rinse them.  I dry off the pee with a paper towel.  It worked.

The repair shop calls.  When Sucks Sears checked my fluids, they neglected to replace the radiator cap.  Coolant leaked out.  The heat didn't work.  I shouldn't be surprised.  A couple of years ago I purchased a new tire after the original was punctured by a nail.  Sucks Sears actually replaced the wrong tire.  I don't learn the first time around.  That's why I have three children.  And darn it if every single one of them doesn't poop pee.

In the end, I just couldn't listen to my mother.  The Triple Threat don't listen to me.  I learned it from watching them.  Poop.  Poop.  Poop.  I think I'll tell her to call my home phone next time. 

Just kidding mom.  I love you.  Now I have to poop.  Call me.  xxxxoooo

Lillian's Nativity scene set up.  Jesus has returned.  Uninjured.  I'm sure he nearly pooped himself during the recent Baby Jesus sibling bashing incident.

Utterly Disgusting and Inappropriate Things. What Would Jesus Do?

I find myself doing utterly disgusting and inappropriate things on a daily basis.  Like today.  I found one of Grady's used and discarded socks, on the floor, turned inside out.  I wiped Dempsey's nose with it, turned it right side in, put in on Dempsey's foot, and then put his shoe on.

I don't always wash my hands after changing dirty diapers.  And after I pee or poop.  My skin is dry.  And well, I just forget.  And then someone is breaking something.  There.  I said it.  Don't peace me at Mass anymore.  I'm sure your germs are way worse than mine anyway.  And while you're at it, stop with the lame, dead fish handshake.  Jesus wouldn't approve.  What would Jesus do?  He would shake like he's never shaken before.  Regardless of the poop stains.  He's a strong guy after all.  He had nails driven through his hands.  Suck it up.  You'll survive.

Lillian peed in her shorts at basketball practice tonight.  I did notice the clenched legged, potty dance under the basketball hoop.  But I never thought it would happen to my girl.  The one that put on underpants one day and never looked back.   Over two years ago. 

The coach called for a water break.  I followed my player.  Her water break had already happened.  Jesus.  Stop laughing.  It's not funny.

I took her to the bathroom.  Her shorts and underwear were soaked.  I did what any disturbed mother would do.  I told her to finish peeing and put the shorts back on.  No one would notice. 
Everyone has colds these days.  They won't smell it either.  I'm pretty sure that's what Jesus would have done.  Lillian didn't agree.  So I did something inappropriate.  I attempted to trade her pee shorts with Grady's fresh ones.  I scooped him up and pulled his shorts down.  His penis popped out.  Someone forgot his underwear.  He screamed.  He hollered.  I yanked.  It wasn't working.  He was holding on for dear life.  "These are boy shorts!" he exclaimed.  Then Dempsey dipped his hands in some unflushed poop water and  threw our consignment shop basketball against the stall door.   I huddled the ball in one hand and wrangled Demspey with the other.  Then I slipped and fell.  Probably on pee.  I was handless, sprawled onto a floor that was dirtier than a peace hand.  I had two pantless kids and another one elbow deep in poop.   My jig was up.  This would not have happened to Jesus.

Like any fabulous mom, I initially had two plans of action. An A plan.  And a B plan.  Plan A.  Switch shorts and have Grady wear pee soaked bottoms for Lillian's last fifteen minutes of practice.  Hide him on the sidelines and pray to Jesus.  Plan B.  Give Lillian Grady's dry shorts.  Carry Grady out to van in underwear and re clothe him in one of the multiple outfits that Jesus had left in our van for these moments of despair.  Thank you Jesus.   But you forgot the underwear this morning.  I'm going to discuss this with your father.

I ended up with Plan C.  Lillian's plan.  It makes too much sense and isn't the least bit entertaining, so I won't even tell you about it.

Dear God,

Please help me.  Did Jesus ever pee his pants?  And what did you do?  Text me back. 

Sincerely,

Mom of the Triple Threat
xxxxoooo

Oh no I didn't.

Um, yea, I did.

We all wear the same clothes.  Interchangable when we pee our pants.  Rock on Conor.