like buzz, but bright red and with wheels

Henry is ALL boy.



With the exception of one small doll, that he'll carry around and endearingly refer to as "Baby", he does not like any toy that is pink - soft - or cuddly. He is very rough and tumble. He loves to run - be chased - and wrestle. Henry loves tools. He loves trucks. He loves robots and dragons and dinosaurs. But most of all (and next only to Buzz Lightyear), he loves little race cars.



I accompanied Henry to the church nursery this past weekend.



Based upon what all the workers had told me about how Henry morphs in to a vicious child - ambushing the other children and causing a host of violent problems - I was fully prepared for the worst. Instead, what I observed was that Henry zoned in on a play race track that had several of the "characters" from the movie, Cars.



There was Mater and the Hudson Hornet, the green one whose name escapes me, the blue one whose name escapes me, the yellow one whose name escapes me, and the teal one whose name (also) escapes me. Most of all though, Henry clutched on to the famous red Lightning McQueen and wouldn't let go.



Everything was going great, until a little boy toddled over and tried to pull Lighting McQueen out of Henry's hands and my son went nuts. Although ballistic is perhaps a better word. If his language was advanced enough to include profanity, there would have been some BAD words ditched out right there in the church nursery.



Fortunately, I was there to step in and my mind was reeling with how I should handle this. Henry was playing with the car FIRST and he'd only been playing with it for about five minutes before this other little boy wanted the exact car that at that moment, was the center of my two-year-old's universe.



All the other nursery workers were looking at me, probably wondering how I'd handle this. Debating what to do, I looked at my watch and told Henry that he had played with the car for a few minutes and now, it was this other little boy's turn.

Either he didn't understand.



Or, he didn't like what he heard.



Because once I issued my verdict, Henry went in to a boneless mass of screeching.



Imagine everything, his small hands, his attention, his eyes, his passion, his heart, orbiting around that shiny red car.



And now imagine someone plucking it away.



That someone being his mother.



The one that brought him in to the world and tenderly nursed him for the first 30 months of his life. Only to now do this.



He threw himself on the floor and arched his back and screamed until the windows rattled.



My efforts at distracting him with something else monumentally failed, so I scooped him up and carried him off to an area of the nursery where I made him stand with his nose in the corner for two minutes.



By the time the two minutes were up, he was still screaming, albeit not quite so loudly and when we walked back to where he had been playing, the little boy had already abandoned Lightning McQueen and moved on to something else.



Henry quickly picked the car up and gazed at it lovingly through his teary eyes, and then he gave me a wobbly smile that said, "Can you believe it?! I got it BACK!"



While all the other two-year-olds in the room seemed to have very short attention spans and would bore of something within a few minutes, Henry never once put that race car down.



And so it went for the next hour.



Henry would be fixated on playing with that one single toy - a roving toddler would come over and want what he had - and I'd have to peel his fingers back extract it from his tight grasp and show him how to "share. "



Moments later, the other child would inevitably abandon it, Henry would get it back, and then he'd run and hide somewhere no one would find him.



But they always did find him.



Because the room isn't that big.



Thankfully, it never happened that another child was as unwaveringly obsessed with the same toy as my son, or I would have had to have implemented a five-minute playing and then sharing rule, and from personal experience, I know that the only thing worse than pulling a beloved toy away from one two-year-old is pulling it away from two (or more) two-year-olds.



Although it pained my heart to take a cherished toy away from my little boy, I think this was the right thing to do.



It certainly didn't feel like it would be appropriate for me to tell all the other children that they could take a turn when Henry was done, because I could see that he had no intention of being "done" the entire duration of church.



Moreover, this was a great exercise for my little guy since at this point in his life, the concept of sharing is totally foreign. The triplets generally don't take things that their younger brother is playing with - and they are typically very good about sharing things with him that he wants.

So this was his first true lesson in understanding that just because someone wants what you have, that doesn't give you a free license to eat them for lunch.

But I must admit, it never did get any easier. Each time I extracted the toy from his hands, he would throw a fit unparalleled by any fit he's ever thrown. Except for the one he'd thrown about 10 minutes earlier - and would throw again, 10 minutes later.



You'd think that being IN a church, God would automatically make things like sharing among toddlers easier. Alas, He doesn't. So, I put that request in the suggestion box.

I'll be back with Henry at church next weekend.

Working on reinforcing what we learned this weekend.



From now until then, I'll be praying God gets my message.

because worrying is what i do best

As I've written before, there is a considerable difference in size among our five-year-olds. And for the most part, I've attributed that size difference to genetics.

On both sides of our families, Charlie and I have nieces that are over six feet tall. So the fact that one of our daughters is off the growth charts, measuring just a smidge over 50 inches tall at five years old, is a fairly good indication that she'll be looking several of her tall and beautiful female cousins, square in the eye, within the next 10 years.

But even though we have some tall stock in our family, I've had worries about just how fast Carolyn is growing. She would often complain that her back and legs hurt. When her brother and sister would run across fields of green grass, she would sit on the ground and watch them. On those occasions when she did get out and run, her stride was awkward and it looked like she was in pain. Moreover, once every couple months, I'd notice that she would go through a particularly clumsy stage as her coordination was struggling to keep up with her rapidly increasing height.

I've taken my concerns up with her pediatrician several times over the past few years and he consistently attempts to reassure me that everything is fine. Especially since last year she received a clean bill of health from a pediatric orthopedist.

Still, my worries were there.

When I spoke to my mother and voiced my concerns, mom reminded me of a girl I went to school with. At the age of 14, she was 6'2". It wasn't until she was a teenager that she was diagnosed with an overactive thyroid and put on medication that would help stem her growth. The medicine definitely seemed to help - but because she towered by such a large margin over everyone else her age (both boys and girls), her self confidence was extremely shaken. To try and minimize her size, she'd walk with her shoulders hunched over and as a result, she started to suffer back problems.

A few months ago, I went back to our pediatrician and told him I wanted Carolyn's thyroid checked. Just to make sure that everything was OK and just to make sure that if there was an issue, we addressed it sooner than later. Our pediatrician gave us a referral to the lab and told us that to have the thyroid checked, all that was involved was a "simple" blood test.

However, there is no "simple" blood test when it comes to MY five-year-olds.

Because to take blood, they'd need to put a needle in her arm. And this might not seem like a big deal, unless you happen to have a five-year-old who doesn't respond very well to needles and a practically painless tuberculosis skin test took FOUR adults to hold her down.



Because I believe in being honest with our children, I told Carolyn, straight-up, that we would need to take her in to the doctor and they would be taking a small amount of blood from her arm. When she asked how that blood was going to come out and I told her a very teeny absolutely tiny needle, an immediate and hysterical fit ensued.

This wasn't a critical procedure, so time was not of the essence. And although I'd had plans to take her to the lab within the next few days of receiving the referral, we ultimately didn't go for several weeks. In large part because everyday, Elizabeth would ask, "Is today the day that Gracie gets a needle?" and another round of hysteria would commence.

I started to notice, however, that each successive round of hysteria was slightly less than the bout of hysteria prior, so I began to hold out hope that with time, the idea would sink, and the procedure would go off without a hitch.

In the midst of all that, I tested positive for ANA and a possible autoimmune disorder. Armed with that information, I scoured the internet for what the presence of positive ANA markers meant for me - and for those related to me. Most notably, my children.

It alarmed me when I saw that ANA is linked to juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, or JRA. As I was reading about it, so many of Carolyn's symptoms came to mind. Particularly the stiffness, limping, pain, and unwillingness to move. And although I can't find the reference now, when I was first looking in to JRA, I stumbled upon an article that suggested there might be a link between a significantly accelerated (or significantly decelerated) growth rate and the onset of JRA.

Once I read that, the very next day, I asked my big and strong husband if he would take Carolyn to the lab for her blood test. The results would (hopefully) rule out both JRA and any issues with her thyroid. But we wouldn't tell her where she was going - because we wanted to spare her from any unnecessary stress until the last possible moment. So while the other three children stayed home with me, my strapping man took Carolyn on an outing. And let me tell you, she was positively tickled to be going somewhere one-on-one with her daddy.

But according to Charlie, once they pulled in to the doctor's office parking lot, Carolyn stopped her happy chattering and very seriously asked, "What are we doing HERE?" Before my husband could answer, Carolyn started to thrash about in her seat and scream, "ARGH! ARGH! I'M GOING TO GET A NEEDLE!! A NEEDLE!! A NEEDLE!! THERE'S GOING TO BE BLOOD, ISN'T THERE?!! ARGH! ARGH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

My husband parked the car and waited 10 minutes for Carolyn to calm down. He very carefully explained to her that it would be a FAST procedure. It would hurt for not even a second. It would be over with before she knew it and after, they would go pick out a special present for her. Several more minutes and much coaxing later, my daughter tentatively climbed out of the car and began walking towards the building, while gripping my husband's hand.

She made it about 20 feet before she collapsed on to the ground screaming.

Charlie scooped her up and realized that they just had to DO THIS. So he carried his screaming, nearly 60 pound daughter in to the building ... because I suspected that would happen, that's why HE went and not ME. According to his testimony, everyone, and he means EVERYONE, turned around to see what was happening. He said there were at least 60 people waiting for doctor's appointments, prescriptions or completing their registrations - and they were all staring at him and the little girl who was flipping out in his arms.

Who was this man?

Who was this child?

What in the world was happening and why was she screaming and thrashing about in such a terrible state?

Should someone call the authorities?!

Moderately embarrassed and sweating profusely, Charlie made his way to the lab and checked in. As luck would have it, they promptly took him back and the phlebotomist was a young man. A young, strong man. Who called upon another young strong male phlebotomist to come in and assist. Between my husband - and two other men - they were just barely able to hold down one five-year-old well enough to inject an itty bitty needle in to an itty bitty vein and draw the blood necessary for the test.

Charlie said it was the most amazing thing he'd ever witnessed and he still doesn't know how they got that needle in to her arm, since it was flapping around like a fish out of water despite their best efforts to hold it still.

But once the needle was pulled out, Carolyn IMMEDIATELY stopped screaming. She flipped her hair out of her eyes, sniffled her cute little nose and then smiled broadly as if nothing had happened. While the phlebotomists stood in awe at the rapid transformation from spit furious child to delightful angel, she launched in to a discussion about how that didn't hurt AT ALL, her mother had recently had blood drawn from HER ARM, she might get a puppy soon, kindergarten starts this year and her FAVORITE color is yellow.

Tee Hee!



Then, spotting the stickers and lollipop a nurse had brought in as an offering during her conniption fit, she brightly added, "Oh goodie! Princess stickers and grape lollipops are my favorite! I LOVE princess stickers and grape lollipops!!"

Tee Hee! Tee Hee!

The blood results came back less than a week later.

Much to my incredible relief, everything checked out perfectly fine.

And my fears are once again abated.

(At least for now.)

During our recent trip to Legoland, we realized that Carolyn is tall enough so that she can go on almost any ride - including the rollercoasters - by herself. Meanwhile, Elizabeth and William who are at least four inches shorter than their sister, are very frustrated that they have to take turns riding with either their father or I, while Carolyn is able to go on the ride EACH TIME.

The fact that Carolyn can go on rides by herself that her siblings cannot...

That makes her stand up even a little taller, still.

favorite thing friday

Whether you are an outdoor enthusiast or not, and whether you have a clean face or not, I think everyone needs to have a headlamp.

I bought my first headlamp when I went on my first backpacking trip about 15 years ago. The reason I purchased the headlamp was because it was always so difficult to take my contact lenses out and clean them at night in the pitch black. Up until the point I had my Lasik surgery a few years ago, correcting my nearly blind eyes to 20/20, the whole contact lens issue was the greatest challenge I faced with camping. Especially since on one of my prior camping trips to Big Bend National Park, I had lost a contact lens - and then, the next day, fell headfirst in to the Rio Grande River and lost my glasses. Although my glasses were miraculously found a short time later, downstream in the murky brown water, the thought of being a few thousand miles from home with NO means to see, was quite concerning. Particularly since I needed to drive.

With the purchase of my first headlamp, I was able to see exactly what I was doing while having both hands available to do whatever needed to be done. Whether that be taking out contact lenses, brushing my teeth, washing my face, cleaning dishes, opening a bottle of wine, or setting up a tent at midnight.

Since that time, we've found that our headlamp is just as valuable at home. For instance, if Charlie is up in our tiny crawl space - running stereo speaker lines - he will don a headlamp so he can see where he is going as he has one hand pulling speaker cable and one hand knocking down cobwebs. We'll use our headlamps whenever we are working beneath the dark sink or if we need focused light to search the ground for something that's been dropped. Charlie uses his headlamp when he goes running on moonless nights and the the children will use them so they can read in bed.

We recently upgraded our old halogen bulb headlamps to a style that uses LED. The advantage of LED is that the bulb lasts for a long, long time. The version that we now have, made by Petzl, has a very comfortable and adjustable head strap and is equipped with a low and high beam light. You can pick one up at a number of places - including Amazon or your local outdoor / sporting good store.

Headlamps: They're much better than a flashlight (although they can certainly be used in conjunction with a flashlight) and they make a great gift for anyone. Particularly kids.

Of course they're also a very necessary accessory if you ever want to dress up as a miner.

gestures of love

Last night, when I arrived home from my trip to Los Angeles, the children were already in bed sound asleep. But when I went in to my room, a few hours later, I found that Elizabeth had drawn a picture for me, and placed it next to some fresh flowers that she had picked from our yard and put in a glass on my bedside table.



Borrowing from something her father does - for each one of us - every night, she had also put my pajamas on my pillow and made certain that the heater on the bed was turned to low so it would be nice and warm when I crawled in.



The smallest acts can make the biggest impact on someone's heart.

thoughts from the south bound train

I'm now on the train ride home from my meeting in Los Angeles.

I'm traveling high speed over a network of tracks that criss-cross tens of thousands of miles across the entire country. The sheer engineering that goes in to this, boggles my mind. From what I heard today, they are building a high speed train that will soon travel from San Francisco to San Diego in two hours. I'm in one of the largest cities in the United States and there are currently less than 10 people in my car that probably sits 100. I don't know why more people don't use public transportation. I really love trains. Especially when we're flying by cars that are stuck in traffic. I wish my mother was here. She'd love seeing southern California by rail.

I'm sitting next to a sweet elderly couple. Although I'm not intentionally eavesdropping, I am overhearing a conversation that the wife is having with who I believe is her husband's medical provider. She is pulling out various prescription bottles and reading off dosages. He's been battling nausea and exhaustion. He's losing weight. They are on their way to San Diego to check in to an alternative medicine clinic. They need to try something new because nothing is working. Hopefully this clinic will help because their grandson is getting married next month in Chicago and if he's not feeling better, they won't be able to attend. Sure, I might be a few pounds heavier than I was last year. But I am healthy and I feel great, as do my husband and our four children. For that, I am enormously grateful and couldn't feel more blessed.

Today I met with a variety of government officials. Not a single one of them had white skin. Not a single one of them spoke English as their primary language. Each one of them had names with lots of vowels and they spoke with strong accents. Every one of them was passionate about the job they were tasked to do.

I've got to admit, I was so impressed.

Not just by their rank and obvious passion for work, but by the fact that every single one of them migrated to this country. They took off for a land, far from their home, that was completely unknown. Along the way, they learned how to speak and write English so well that they can effectively understand and communicate highly technical data.

It's my opinion that a vast number of Americans are totally smug when it comes to immigrants. It's like we have a sense of entitlement - or superiority - when in reality, a large number of people that have migrated to this country could run laps around us on the intelligence and motivation track.

Compared to these brave souls who have taken off to pursue their lives in a new and different environment, I feel so sheltered and overly cautious. I've been to Canada and Mexico but the only stamp I have in my passport is from he Bahamas. We've got but only one life to live. So while I still have my good health, I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to travel around the world.

By train.

what's in you wednesday

Stress is some powerful stuff.

My sophomore year in college, I broke up with a guy I had known and been dating since the ninth grade. In high school. We always lived a few hours away from each other, but the second half of my freshman year, he transferred from his big university in North Carolina to be closer to me, at my small university in South Carolina. Less than six months later we split up.

Although I felt that the time was right to move in our own separate ways, the stress resulting from that one decision, when I would see him in the cafeteria - or on my way to class - or at social functions, was crippling. He had been such a huge influence in my life, through what I consider some of my most formative years and I was in a baaad state.

During that time, my appetite dwindled to the point that the only thing I could really tolerate were Club Crackers. Whenever I'd go in to the cafeteria, he was there, so I'd grab a handful of two-per-pack crackers and retreat to my dorm. I don't remember how much weight I lost during that diet by heartbreak period, but I do recall that a size 2 pants were too big.

I also remember that I broke out in a rash, which no one could diagnosis for several weeks. It started out on my abdomen and worked it's way all over my 'trunk'. The doctors first thought I had ringworm or possibly scabies, which meant sharing clothes with my highly fashionable roommate was completely off limits. That turned out to be almost painful for me to bear than breaking up with my boyfriend of six years.

Eventually, my skin condition was diagnosed as pityriasis rosea. Which is noncontagious. And which happily, meant cute tops, sweaters, jeans and skirts could again be shared.

The rest of that year, I intentionally sustained from dating any one. Instead, I built a lot of wonderful friendships with girlfriends, took spur of the moment road trips, stayed out late and ate hashbrowns and waffles until 3:00 AM. I also buried myself in to schoolwork so by the time I transferred to California the following year, I had a 4.0 and was totally renewed.

And ... that's when I met Charlie.

To this day, that sophomore year in college marks one of the most stressful years of my entire life. And there is no doubt, stress has some funny ways of manifesting itself. It can cause you to break out in a rash, develop hives or an ulcer, make you sleep a little - make you sleep a lot, make your appetite soar or totally crumble.

What with returning to work full time, my husband being laid off, having multiple job opportunities presented to me, debating school for our children - moving - career changes - weaning - losing precious friends and family to cancer - concerns about my extended family - topped off with month after month (after month!) of illness - this past year has definitely ranked up there on the stress o'meter.

Unlike 1990, however, this year I'd be lucky to fit one of my arms in a size 2 pant.

In contrast to my sophomore year in college, to combat what seems to be unending stress this time around, I've been snacking on comfort foods. High carbs. High fat. High yummy. Come here you hot toasted bagel smothered with cream cheese and you too, you squishy blueberry muffin!

Get in my belly!!

Perhaps it's the weaning coupled with the lack of training for a marathon, but this past weekend I hopped on the scale for the first time in months and was stunned to see that I was about 18 pounds heavier than I was last year at around this same time. Because I'm not quite so open that I'll admit my exact weight, I will divulge that last year there was a "4" in the grand tally and now there is a "6".

I can't believe I admitted that.

Next thing you know, I'll be telling you my age.

(39, a week from yesterday.)

This is bothersome, because it's not like I'm eating EVERYTHING in sight and it's not like I'm doing ZERO exercise. I'm just not exercising the way that I was when I wasn't working full time and most days, I spent chasing children all over creation and eating whatever small scraps they had remaining on their plates.

Alas, these days, whenever I feel stress, I reach for the baked goods and my stretch pants and pull up a chair to my work computer. As a result, I'm blowing up like a balloon while my husband is winning FIRST PLACE in triathlon relays. Talk about throwing salt in my full time working wound. Not only do I have to spend my days away from my children, now I'm getting F-A-T.

SPLENDID!

Although I have considered throwing in the towel on these "What's In You" posts, I want to keep writing them because I really think that the struggles that I'm facing with balancing motherhood - career - family - and maintaining personal health is something that a lot of people can relate to. (At least that's what the comments and e-mails I receive suggest.) And while I might not be an absolute beacon of physical health at this very moment, I don't want to stop thinking about it.

When I stop and think about it, and put those thoughts on paper, I try to do better.

I make time for walks or (VERY short) runs that I otherwise wouldn't make time for. I'll also take 15 minutes in the morning, or just before bed (or sometimes both!), to stretch, do some yoga, maybe throw in a few sit-ups.

These are small things, but they're better than nothing.

By writing these posts, I also think a bit more about what I'm feeding myself. For instance, when I wrote about Jack LaLanne last week, I have really strived THIS week to reduce the amount of food that I'm eating that has been "Made By Man." I've consumed a lot of fresh fruit, vegetables and protein, and have significantly reduced flour. When my sister, Eileen, was in town last week, she introduced us to Ezekiel bread which has been a delicious and much healthier substitute.

I'm writing this post from a train northbound to Los Angeles.

The last time I traveled to LA for a meeting, it took me four hours, one way. This train, which departed at 6:10 AM, will get me there in less than three hours, I'll be two blocks from the office where my meeting will be held, and I won't have to deal with parking. As I'm writing this, I'm flying past bumper to bumper traffic on Interstate 5 and it's very difficult to not feel GIDDY.

However, to get on this train, I had to leave the house at 5:00, which meant I had to be up at 4:30, 4:35, 4:40, 4:45 4:50 AM, which is very early by my standards and meant I was in an exceptionally groggy state.

A few blocks from the train depot, I was stopped at a red light. As I was sitting at the light, I noticed that across the intersection, the crossing gate was dropping down to signal the approach of a train, heading FAST in my direction. A few feet in front of my car I could see that there were railroad tracks, but I couldn't see the crossing gate on my side of the road. That's when I saw it in my rear view mirror and realized it was BEHIND my vehicle.

To say that the stress that washed over my body, in that very moment, was unparalleled to moving or career change or full time work schedules, is a gross understatement. For a very long split second, my husband and children's bright faces, that I might never see again, flashed before my panicked eyes.

VERY lucky for me, the train was crossing on the opposite side of the tracks and I survived. (Obviously). But once the nausea passed and my heart started beating again, I had an inexplicable craving for a donut.

Instead, I had an apple.

And that's tremendous progress.

eagle eyes

This morning, Carolyn comes in to our room at 6:30.

She climbs in to bed, nestling herself between Charlie and I and then promptly launches in to conversation about anything and everything. She's not really looking for any response from us, she's just talking to talk. (I guess you could say she's much like her mother in that way?)

As is often the case, her topics start in one place and end up somewhere else, entirely (also, very much like her mother), and usually touch upon the subject of her overwhelming love for guinea pigs and fishing.

(On a side note, Charlie took the children fishing last week. The text message that I received from him less than 30 minutes after they left read, "At the lake. Carolyn cast her lure in to a tree twice. Broke her rod and fell headfirst in to the water. Good times. We'll be home in a few.")

This morning, after a few minutes of chatter, she rolls over and faces her father. "Daddy!" she yells out, alarmed. "What are these ROLLS on your face? And all of this SKIN? You've got big DENTS everywhere!"

I had to stifle my laughter as she continued, "And what's this? Oh no! Look at all of your white hair! Daddy, you are growing up. You are getting OLD!"

Charlie sighs loudly, reminds his daughter that his triathlon team WON their relay on Sunday so her "old" daddy is actually a very strong athlete, and then he gets up to make a pot of coffee.

Once her father is gone, Carolyn rolls over and faces me and immediately she begins scrutinizing my face. "Oh no ... Mommy," she begins, "I think you have a problem here..."

I quickly started humming and jumped out of bed to join my husband in the kitchen before I could hear another word. Although, I must admit, I was happy for such a hilarious start to the morning, even if it was at my aging husband's expense.

Seriously ... with three highly observant and highly communicative five-year-olds under the same roof, it's like living at the Improv.

who cares what anyone else thinks?

At 33 months of age, Henry still has a pacifier.



I never would have believed that I'd have an almost three-year-old sucking a pacifier, but I do. Then again, I never imagined that I'd nurse a child until they were 2.5-years old, but I did that, too. And I'm very glad I stopped when I did, because there is NO way he would have self weaned before Kindergarten.

And that would have been awkward.

At least for me.

"Uh. You want an apple? Here's one, love!"



A few weeks ago, I wrote that when Henry wakes up from his nap, he'll sit on my lap and put his hand under my shirt to touch my skin. I received more than one e-mail from people who felt compelled to tell me that it is TMI and totally inappropriate.

Totally inappropriate?

My goodness, he's not GROPING. He's got one hand resting on my waist. Or back. Or somewhere in the abdominal region, pinching my belly roll.

What? Your toddler doesn't do that?

Maybe it's because I nursed him for the first 2.5 years of his life that Henry's bond is touch.



Every morning, he'll crawl in to bed with us and curl up next to me for an hour or more. It's one of the highlights of my day. He won't get up until I do and even then, he'll cry because all he wants is for me to hug him close. If Henry had it his way, he'd stay curled up next to me always. At least until someone opened the front door to the house, and then he'd take off running just as fast as his little legs will carry him.

There is no doubt, he is the most cuddly of our four children. Which is shocking to believe because when he's not cuddling with me he can be an absolute tyrant, swiftly taking down children twice his size. Although Henry hasn't been back to the church nursery for over a month, after watching him in a jump house at a friend's recent birthday party, I could see why he was booted out of the nursery.

Repeatedly.

Having birthed multiples once before, I've always believed things would be far less complicated if Henry had a twin. Because everyday of his life, he has been surrounded by children that are bigger and older than he is. Children who will often run away and not show any interest in playing with him.

Sometimes, the older kids are running away because they like to see their little brother chase them. Other times, they're running away because they don't want to be bothered. In either case, I'm always watching and always encouraging that they play nicely and not hurt his feelings, or - I'll find something for Henry to do so that he isn't invading their quiet time.

(Henry! Quick, come touch Mommy's bell roll!!)

Whenever Henry is in the company of children who are the same size or smaller than he, I can tell that he is socially unprepared and perplexed.

How do I communicate with these little beings?

Do I hit them? Kick them?

Body slam them?

While I'm very strict when it comes to playing gently with other children, I'm especially aware that I grant Henry much more leniency than I did with his siblings. When the triplets were his age, they were on a very strict schedule. Mealtimes, bed times, play times - everything was so carefully orchestrated throughout our day.

But now, with *only* one toddler, I find myself making concessions left and right.

He gets away with so much more.

Sometimes we're out doing things, so Henry naps in his stroller, in his car seat, or doesn't nap at all. During Henry's tenure, there have never been any baby gates in the house. Henry has free reign. And if he doesn't want to eat dinner, he doesn't have to. While everyone else is seated eating broccoli, he'll climb out of his booster seat and run around while chomping on a banana because Mommy and Daddy quickly cave since they don't want to hear the screams of protest.

None of us can tolerate the screaming.

Even the triplets will beg that we let him down from the table, even if it means they still have to sit there and eat their vegetables.

Sure, he goes in to time out, but we lack consistency. Because there is only one and because he is so stinking cute. Even when he's throwing a tantrum. Throughout it all, I almost always remain certain that Henry will turn out just fine and this stage of unbelievable defiance is just a blip on the radar screen of childhood.

My primary goal is to hang on and enjoy this awesome ride.

But I'm not always so confident.

One day last week, we were at Legoland and Henry was dressed in his tattered Buzz Lightyear costume. It was drawing close to nap time and he was getting a little punchy and a lot loud, so I slipped him his pacifier and pulled him on to my lap. But only after he had thrown himself on the ground kicking and screaming and drawing a load of stares because I wouldn't let him hold and eat an ENTIRE box of crackers.

Once he was in my arms, one of his little hands was immediately searching for skin.

It doesn't happen very often, but I felt very self conscious. The out of control toddler, the dirty costume, the pacifier attached to him with no less than three carabiners, the little hand up my shirt resting on my waist. I doubt that more than a hand full were really looking at us, but it certainly felt like they were.

Who is calling the shots here? Me or my toddler?



For a moment, I had the feeling that my lack of consistency and discipline was catching up to us and now, I'm ruining our child and I'm an absolutely reckless and careless mother. Never before did our triplets throw a monster tantrum like that when we were out in public (at least not that I can recall?), because they were always so well rested and scheduled.

I need to throw down the law.

Who's the boss?

I'M THE BOSS.

I will not be run over by a two-year-old.



As these thoughts are passing through my mind, I look over and see a little boy who was about four-years-old. He had just come off a ride and his mother was waiting for him outside the exit gate. Once he joined her, he started to throw a fit until the mother reached in to her bag and pulled out a baby bottle. Then, she opened her cooler and took out a can of Crush orange soda.

Cracking open the bottle and then the can, she poured the soda in to the baby bottle, screwed on the top, and handed it to her son, who plopped down on a bench and proceeded to suck it down, entirely. Fortunately, I was wearing sunglasses to hide my eyes which were bugging out of my head, because then the mother pulled out a can of chew, shoved a wad in to her mouth, and sat down next to him.

She appeared happy.

He appeared happy.

I am in NO way going to judge this mother's methods.



Although, I am going to feel slightly relieved because surely she'd draw more stares than me.

to infinity and beyond

Henry is infatuated with Buzz Lightyear.

I'd wager there couldn't be more than a handful of children on this entire planet who dig the space hero as much as our little tyke.

Relying upon the one remaining very well worn and permanently stained and partially shredded Buzz Lightyear Halloween costume that I bought for his siblings two years ago, he will put on his suit and run around the house pushing the button on his arm to trigger the "laser."

(Here he is with his cousins who were also depressing their laser beams.)

He knows all the words (or at least the melody and chorus) to the title song, "You've Got A Friend in Me." And he has a stash of mini characters from the Toy Story cast that he carries around with him at all times.

We don't watch the movie very often. Maybe once every couple of weeks. But whenever we do watch it, he goes absolutely nuts. Screaming, yelling, pointing "BUZZ! MOMMY! DADDY! MOMDADMOMDADMOMMYDADDY! ID'S BUZZ WIGHTYEAR!!" If I'm in the kitchen preparing dinner, he'll leave the movie and come running to find me, grab me by the hand, and drag me in to show me Buzz Lightyear on the big screen.

And then he goes in to such a tizzy he almost passes out while yelling, "WOOK!! WOOK!! ID'S BUZZ WIGHTYEAR!!!"

If his language skills were more advanced I'm sure he'd add:

The greatest being ever concocted is HERE.

In OUR living room.

We have a friend, Jeanmarie, who has triplets the same age as our trio. When the children were younger, we would get together once a week - and whenever we did - I always thought it was interesting that her daughter would be dressed up as a Teletubbie.

Although Jeanmarie would tell us that her little girl had picked out her own clothes and she had NOTHING to do with dressing her up as a Po, I was hard pressed to believe that a two-year-old would have such a strong opinion on matters.

And then I had Henry.

So to Jeanmarie, I'm very sorry I ever doubted you. I'm currently of the mindset that it would be easier to part the Red Sea than to convince my son to wear something OTHER than his Buzz Lightyear costume.

Whenever we go out and Henry is in his uniform, with Toy Story characters clutched in each pudgy hand, I get a mix of looks. There are those that give me funny stares and raise their eyebrows as if to say, "What kind of parent lets their kid go out of the house in a costume that looks like it has been on the bottom of a dumpster for the past two years?"

And then I get the kind smiles and nods of understanding from those people who at some point in their life, must have had first hand experience with a head strong two-year-old. I know what battles I'm willing to fight and Henry's obsession with Buzz Lightyear isn't one of them.

When the triplets were Henry's age, they had their blanket and stuffed animal loveys. Buzz Lightyear, in any form, is Henry's lovey.

He has hand sewn Buzz Lightyear pajamas, courtesy of his talented Aunt Kathy. He has a six foot long Buzz Lightyear towel, courtesy of our neighbor, Karen. He has a Buzz Lightyear bathing suit, courtesy of his brother who spotted it while we were shopping at Costco. He has an assortment of Buzz Lightyear action figures, courtesy of the Easter Bunny, Santa Clause, and his mother who caves every time she sees one in the store. (Yes, I know I'm feeding his addiction.)

And now he has a Buzz Lightyear lunch box that he takes with him everywhere he goes.

I can just imagine him toting his lunch to work in this thing when he's 30.

Of course if he is, I suspect he'll also still be living at home with us.

what works best for the team?

Yesterday, as I was trying to get something finished up - and Charlie had to dash off to the store to pick up some cleaning supplies for the woman who was here scrubbing our house and apparently we'd run completely out of bleach and Comet and Pledge and every other cleansing agent known to man - I was solely responsible for watching the kids.

And it was crazy difficult. Because Henry had just gone down for a nap and the triplets were running around the house, acting rowdy and clearly still feeling the effects of the Easter candy they inhaled five days ago, and I was frazzled. Beyond belief.

It might not have normally been that difficult, but as I mentioned, I was trying to get something finished up. Which I know is the Cardinal Sin of Motherhood, that whole attempting to accomplish something while there are children under your care.

So as the kids were running around my feet, I growled at them.

Like a bear. Or a rabid dog.

Through clenched teeth, I growled at my children.

BE QUIET. GET OUTSIDE.

I need a few MINUTES to get something done.

Why does it seem like I ALWAYS need to get something done?!

Of course I'll sit down and play with the children, but within moments, I'm pulled off in to something else. There is always something to be done and if I see it, I'm the one to do it.

A load of laundry needs to be folded. Random crumbs on the floor need to be swept up. There's a dinner that needs to be thought about and prepared. I'll set up paints for the children, but instead of sitting and painting with them, I'm organizing furniture on the patio, or putting away a load of dishes. It's impossible for me to sit down and just enjoy the moment.

Charlie, on the other hand, is a master of enjoying the moment.

It once drove me CRAZY that my husband would feed the kids breakfast and then abandon the dishes on the table because he's taking the kids on a bike ride. Or to the zoo.

"Jen, I'll clean that stuff up later because if I do it now - it will add 30 minutes to us getting out of the house. And the important thing is to GET OUT. I can always clean later."

I've come to admire his ability to not get bogged down by something trivial because I could never walk away from dirty dishes on the table. The house might be on fire and I'd still be in there hurriedly wiping down the counters and loading the dishwasher.

(Which broke again. For those keeping tab, this would be the fifth time in 10 months, or 17th time in four years. Because we finally caved and bought a service plan last year, we are now automatically qualified for a new dishwasher under the lemon law. Yay. Although it might not be here until June. Boo. Thank goodness for Dixie paper plates.)

Tonight, as I was tucking the children in to bed, I apologized to William for growling at him. As I always do, I told him that I love him and I'm so glad that he came to live with me. But then, as I stood there by his bed, I was thinking.

WHO AM I?

Sure, I'm a mother, first and foremost.

But am I the kind of mother that could be home with her children all day, everyday?

I like to think that I could.

I certainly like the way that it sounds, because I say it enough.

I DON'T WANT TO MISS A SINGLE THING.

I WANT TO BE HOME ALL DAY WITH MY CHILDREN.

But is it entirely true?

Having done it on a full time basis, what with a full year of maternity leave on two separate occasions, I know that being home full time with your children is the most exhilarating - exhausting - energizing and yet sometimes, most depleting job in the world.

In my heart, a mother should be with her children. Because I'm fully aware of just how fast time is flying past and how quickly these kids are growing up - I'm trying desperately to freeze the here and now and be with them, non stop.

But when I look at the unending patience that oozes from my husband, I can't help but wonder if I'm even the right person for the primary caregiver job? I mean, how many parents GROWL at their kids? Good Lord, I wasn't with them for more than 10 minutes and I'm spewing saliva. Sadly, I can't even remember what I was doing now, but apparently, at the time whatever it was, was so critical that I acted like a wild animal.

Once Charlie returned home from his cleaning agent restocking mission, he pulled a steno pad out and sketched shapes, letters and numbers. And for the next hour, he calmly worked with them. As of this writing, three of our four children are fluent in all of their shapes including squares, circles, triangles, rectangles, ovals, diamonds, domes, hexagons, pentagons and octagons. They know all of their lower case letters and are able to correctly identify all numerical values up to 30.

Then, to exercise the other half of their cerebrums, Charlie crafted life-sized images of the children using sidewalk chalk which he had them color in.

Not once did he lose his patience.

Not once did he growl.

I am so fortunate. Not only to have healthy, happy, beautiful children, but to have a husband that will go to any lengths to support his family, even if that means putting his own career on the back burner. There is no doubt, Charlie and I are a team. We work together, for the most part, seamlessly. He possesses strengths that I do not, and vice versa. And I have always believed that by tapping in to our individual strengths, we are able to provide the best for our family.

In traditional families, the father is the primary breadwinner and the mother is a homemaker, caring for the children. Instinctively that seems like the right thing to do and the more I am drawn away from that, the more conflicted I feel. But in our situation, due to a number of events that have transpired over the past few years, our situation isn't traditional.

It's the exact opposite.

Although there is an overwhelmingly large part of me that wants for that to be me out there patiently interfacing with the children the way that my husband does (while also keeping the table cleared of dirty dishes), I don't know if I can do it as well as he can?

I don't want to be absent at all from our children's lives, but I'm also incredibly apprehensive to give up my career because it is so atypically great in today's world. Moreover, I feel like I would be capable of providing such stability for my family - now and in the long term - if I remain with my employer.

Of course, none of these thoughts would even cross my mind about working away from the home, if I didn't have an amazing husband who is willing to remain at home and who does an amazing job with our children.

Maybe Charlie really is the best one to be home with the kids? Or maybe I'm just trying to rationalize what appears to be an inevitable situation and this is my way of coping?

I honestly don't know anymore.

I'm going to go jump on my mini trampoline and ponder this topic further because obviously thinking about it 1,440 minutes a day for the past 10 days hasn't been quite enough.