A Nut-Free Squirrel or Don't Feed the Gremlin

No eggs, no nuts, no peanuts, no lentils, no chickpeas, no soy protein. It is our mantra. Our Squirrel* was born with food allergies, which makes each meal an adventure. Every time we eat, we hope that his food is safe. Restaurants are no longer relaxing but instead a source of stress until I’ve watched him eat and then I wait. If ten minutes elapse without any excitement, I switch from being worried about food to worrying about people overhearing my children having an inappropriate conversation about plugging a toilet at the library (true story.)

What a stressful way to live. Sure, I guess. From what I read on blogs and discussion boards, there are people who avoid life because of food allergies. And that was certainly my knee jerk reaction too. “We’ll never be able to travel! To eat out! To visit friends and family!” We lived like that for a little while too. Life is definitely easier and safer at home. But what fun would that be? After the initial shock of learning about the severity of his allergies, we decided that we weren’t going to let it limit us. We’d just adjust. We pack snacks and meals if needed. We call ahead to restaurants and birthday parties. I research cities we are staying in for friendly restaurants. We wipe down plane seats. We watch the playground for kids eating picnic lunches of peanut butter sandwiches. We have a supply of cupcakes in the freezer for birthday parties. We travel everywhere with epipens and benadryl. I refuse to let some fucked up blood fuck up our lives. Is it scary? Yes. But life, if lived well, is scary.

Did you know that food allergies are considered a disability? Yet, I read articles about people making fun of kids and people with peanut allergies. We don’t make fun of other disabilities or people with cancer so why food allergies? This was how he was born; trust me, I wish it was different. “Why should we not eat a peanut butter sandwich just because it could ‘kill’ your kid. It’s called survival of the fittest!” Hey, I love peanut butter too! I eat nuts and eggs whenever I’m not around my Squirrel. However, not to get dramatic, but yes, a peanut butter sandwich would probably kill him; it has killed others. To say that your right to knowingly** expose my kid to peanut butter so you could eat a sandwich, well, that makes you a jackass in my eyes. Maybe you’ve never watched your child dying because their body was strangling them. I sure hope you haven’t. Car accidents, sky diving and emergency surgeries don’t touch the fear you feel when you see your son’s eyes roll back in his head as he turns gray, and loses consciousness as his body shuts down because of a bowl of cereal with the wrong milk. Milk. People, it’s supposed to do a body good…unless it is poison to your body. Then it will shut it down faster than a sober coed shuts down an obnoxious drunk frat boy. To hear someone callously laugh about how a peanut could kill someone and that’s just nature taking care of the weak makes me sad and also want to punch them in the face. Hard.

Food allergies don’t mean we are picky. It means that we have to take all food into consideration and God help us (literally) if we screw it up. If we screw up just a little, it looks like the Exorcist. If we screw up big time, then it is an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. And that is why it brings tears to my eyes when other people watch out for my Squirrel. There are so many of you out there! I am overwhelmed by good people! Maybe you are the mom who told him to watch out because someone was eating a peanut butter sandwich at a basketball game. You might be the group of parents at the party that want to make sure you bring the right food so he’s safe. You might be the parent who emailed me the day of the birthday party, when I am sure you are running around trying to get ready, to see what candy he can have in the piñata and then you go out and put together a special bag just for him. Perhaps you are his teacher, who called me at 6:45 a.m. to double check with me if the school lunch would be okay for him. Maybe you are my family who learned how to bake without eggs so we can have safe meals every time we are at your house, including Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. Whenever I experience these moments, I am emotionally brought to my knees because you cared about someone I love with all my heart. It might just seem like you are being a human being, but to me, your concern is worth more than gold. It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a city to raise one with food allergies.

Because of people like those I’ve described above, I can drop my son off at school, birthday parties and playdates. Thank you all for inviting the scary food allergy kid! I just tell parents to think of him like a Gremlin. Don’t feed him or water him and he stays nice and cuddly. And if you do feed him, please use the cupcake I brought along. I can deal with a kid jacked up on sugar, as long as it doesn’t have a side of nuts or eggs.

*Yes, I know it is ironic that I call him Squirrel but he can’t have nuts.

**I said knowingly because you do actually have a right to eat what you want. You don’t have to apologize for eating a peanut butter sandwich! I’m talking about the dicks that would go out of their way to expose my kid to an allergen. They are assholes. You, eating a peanut butter sandwich at a picnic, you are fine. You don’t know that my kid has allergies. How could you? And even if you know we are going to be there and you take precautions like washing your hands and giving us a heads up, great! You are totally fine. Basically, if you are worried about it, then you are not an asshole. 

Effing Phone or Living a Ben and Jerry's Life

Facebook, email, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat. So many ways to connect with people in our attempt to distance ourselves. Are you sick of reading about how we should be “hands free”? How our kids are drying up without our attention because we are glued to a screen? That we feel our self-worth based on the number of likes we get on Facebook? That someone is a social media celebrity as opposed to just being a celebrity? What the hell does that mean anyway? I’m sick of reading about it too but I think it’s because I’m guilty of it rather than being bored from another cliché article about screen time. So here’s one more!

Hello. My name is Jenny and I’m addicted to my phone. I’m not alone – in fact, you might be reading this while your family is running around you in the kitchen. Maybe you are killing time waiting for practice to get over. Maybe you don’t want to actually talk to anyone right now so you peek in to see how your 246 Facebook friends are doing. Maybe you just need to escape.

I’m not judging. I get it. I so so get it. There are moments that I need to be alone and if I’m in a crowd, looking busy on my phone will do the trick. Maybe I’m messing around on my phone because I’m bored and hate waiting. Sometimes I’m feeling lonely and this makes me feel connected. Whatever the reason, at the end of the day it numbs and feeling numb can feel way better than feeling isolated, ignored, overwhelmed and anxious.

This phone addiction is not something I’m proud of. I hate it when I realize I want to grab it when I’m chilling out with my family and honestly, I’m doing my best to curb it. But it’s not easy. And that pisses me off. How did I get attached to some stupid device? Why do we feel a need to overshare? And why can’t I remember that everything looks better through social media tinted glasses?

I was talking to my sixth grader about social media. He says everyone is on Instagram in sixth grade and I asked him if he wanted an account. He said no. He doesn’t like it when everyone only stares at their phones.

The first thing I thought was “Goddamned motherfucking phone! I have got to quit this shit!” (Yes, this is how I think. I’m not proud of the swearing either but you have to pick your battles.) I think I finally found my motivation. I would do anything for my kids* and here is my baby saying he doesn’t like it when everyone is always on their phone.

Oh the shame. He wasn’t referencing me but he might as well have been. And I’m so happy that he hasn’t started being on his phone 24/7 yet. There’s still time! I’ve got to act now before he starts to think that it’s normal to look down instead of looking people in the eye. My first step is to stop reaching for that fucking phone all the time. Start small and keep it in a different room when the kids are up. Maybe progress to ignoring it when everyone has gone to bed. What will I do with my time?! I could cure cancer, create world peace or just go to bed so I could actually try to get 7 elusive hours of sleep.

It’s not often when our kids catch us in bad behavior but thank goodness it happens occasionally. Because nothing motivates me more than the Moose and Squirrel. If this bothers them, then that’s all I need to help stop the madness. I might need a support group in a church basement to get me there, but I’m going to do my best to log off more than I do now. Just like ice cream, everything is good in moderation. I’ll take a full-fat life over a fat-free online presence any day.

*However I refuse to ever wear those team color overalls. That’s a hard no and a second tier golden rule in my house. No team color overalls. Period. I also won’t purchase them for anyone and I told the boys if I saw them wear them in public, I would literally cut them off their bodies right then in there. Hopefully they are wearing something underneath.

Games, Tournaments and Walking Tacos or Where is my Medal?

We have become THOSE parents. The ones whose weekends are dedicated to gyms and fields, who have gameday gear, and are constantly running a load of wash late at night so my kid’s uniform doesn’t stink out the other team on day two of the tournament. And to quote McDonald’s, we are loving it (mostly.) How the heck did we get here? Who have we become??

Years ago, back BK (Before Kids), we used to enjoy going to movies, eating out, sleeping in, dedicating weekends to long runs (enjoy might be a strong word for this) – basically doing whatever we wanted. And we’d look at our friends running to soccer and basketball tournaments that lasted the WHOLE WEEKEND and think, “Ugh. That looks disgusting. There is no way we are doing that when we have kids. We are not giving up our weekends just for our kids to play in tournaments. We will maintain that sense of self and not live our lives solely for our kids.” (Ha. Ha. Ha. Older me is laughing cynically right now as I type.)

Then we had kids. Mic drop.

I contemplated ending the blog there for a dramatic finish but I’m far too narcissistic to leave my thoughts unsaid. So as I was saying, then we had kids and found out that you don’t really have free will to do whatever you want when your job is to keep someone alive at least until they get to the age where they can reach the poptarts on their own. As our first kid grew, we put him in the typical sports programs through parks and rec. Then soccer league and basketball league. And then the day came when we agreed he could play his first soccer tournament. And I dreaded that weekend because I knew how bad it was going to suck. I was going to have to sit there under those stupid tents, WAITING around all day for my kid to play a couple of games against crazy soccer teams, WASTING a WHOLE weekend of my life when I could be doing much better things like anything else. UGH! I was gnashing teeth and pulling out my hair at the thought.

And then the dreaded weekend came and lo and behold, I got it. That tournament was a blast! I loved it (I think he did too…) This was so much fun – the anticipation, the excitement of the game, the comradery, hanging with the other parents. Sure it took up my whole weekend, but so what? I finally understood how my friends “gave up their freedom” for their kids’ sports and didn’t lose their souls in the process.

Maybe it’s because I just love sports in general. I am that parent yelling during the game, and admittedly I am pretty competitive. Not in that “living vicariously through my child” kind of way but because I love a good game. And I love my kid. And when those two worlds combine, a loss or a win is that much more emotional. My head is in my hands when we are down 2 points with a minute to go and my kid is at the free throw line, I’m jumping up when my kid blocks a goal, and I’m jerking around in my seat when the running back is running down the field as though my movements will somehow shift the space he can run through.  Through these short years I’ve already figured out to keep my mouth shut after a bad loss except to say that I love watching him play, to unpack the sports bag first when you get home to avoid serious stinkage, and to pack lots of snacks because I have yet to read research that says donuts are an appropriate pregame snack.

I’m not going to lie, it can get tough to get everything that needs to get done in a weekend completed in a few short hours because we are at tournaments Saturday and Sunday. Don’t get me wrong - I love the games. However, I’d like to make a couple of quick suggestions to anyone organizing these tournaments.

First, can the championship game please be played first at the end of the tournament? I feel like we are being penalized for being good because the number one teams in the brackets always play last. Why do we have to wait the extra two hours? Just a suggestion…

Second, has anyone considered setting up a discreet mini bar? There are times where just one beer would really take the edge off. We could be limited to just one, unless we are waiting an extra six hours and playing the 9 p.m. game because we are in the championship game and then we’d get one more.

And finally, can parents start getting the swag too? Sometimes after a particular tough and long-houred tournament, I feel like I too deserve a shirt or medal – really whatever you are giving out. Because even though it is Sunday at 8 p.m. when we get done, I still have to get groceries for the week. And that deserves a medal.

Regardless if my suggestions are ever taken into account, I concede that my 21-year old self didn’t get it. I understand how much fun it is to sit in a gym or on a soccer field for the whole weekend. I have learned to maximize those short hours in between games to run errands if possible. My bleacher seats and soccer chairs take up a permanent place in my trunk. I bought a Subaru Outback over other cars solely because I was picturing whether football pads would fit in the back. I would probably wear facepaint to a game if another parent suggested it. I am all in. Now if only the music concerts could be as entertaining. My youngest seems to be more of a rock star than a soccer star and I already have a headache at the thought of his recorder concert – only 4 short years to mentally prepare myself for that one.

Choose Your Own Adventure - It Really Doesn't Matter or A Bucket Full of Sugar Makes the Medicine Go Down

Everywhere you look, there are ways to increase your child’s happiness for a fulfilling childhood. We can throw “Just Being You” parties, customize every item of clothing and accessory for them, celebrate fake holidays (“National Hot Dog Day!”) and check out the list of 50 great things to do on an average day. Life is fun every minute! And then with another click of a button we can read a lament about how we should go back to the way things were, when we drank real Kool Aid and watched Three’s Company without understanding the sexual innuendos. Our kids should be doing homework at night – but not too much homework – and doing chores around the house to earn money. No screen time and family game night...every night.

It makes me wonder (and laugh, and tag the article to refer to later, and roll my eyes because I can’t decide if I’m on board or think it’s insane), what the heck is “good” parenting anymore.  I look over my day, week, year and sometimes I’m Super Mom and sometimes I’m Barely Holding It Together Mom. Every day is a highlight reel and a bloopers clip. Depending on the time of day, you could think I’m amazing or be on the phone to DHS.

For example, here’s a sample of my successes and failures:
• I refuse to do Elf on a Shelf or the stupid leprechaun for St. Patrick’s Day. Why would I want to create more of a mess in a house that borders on a Red Cross disaster zone? I am a fun hater.
• Reportedly, I make fantastic monkey bread in the mornings after sleepovers.
• I like to bake from scratch and have no problem whipping up a batch of cookies after a long day at work.
• I don’t keep track of screen time, not because they aren’t on the ipad and TV, but because I’m lazy.
• I bring healthy snacks from home instead of eating at concession stands during games. I hate concession stand food.
• Sometimes I skip stories at night and my bedtime routine consists of repeatedly saying in louder and louder tones “Brushyourteethgopottyandgotobed.” I simply do not have the energy at the end of the day for elaborate bedtimes and besides, they don’t go to bed anyway if I do. Instead, please go eat one of my fresh baked cookies right before you brush your teeth.
• I make breakfast on Wednesdays because it’s hump day.
• I swear. A lot.
• I have endearing (in my opinion) nicknames for my babies.
• We eat dinner as a family almost every night and go through everyone’s Pit and Peak, including any guests (sorry if this is awkward for you - no one is exempt.)
• We haven’t been to church since Easter and I’m not even sure where our church is going to be next.
• Game night often ends in someone being sent to their room.
• I make a fruit tray every week so there is always fresh fruit available, if hell should ever freeze over and they choose that for a snack instead of pretzels or a granola bar.
• I coach my son on how to text a girl.

Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books from our childhood, where you could decide what happens to the character next and it changes the outcome of the story? Well life isn’t always that easy. There are people out there with horrific childhoods that are amazing adults and people who grew up in privileged homes that are assholes. You can hit all the marks as a parent and it still does not guarantee how your kid turns out.

Am I a good mom because I make dinner every night at home or am I a bad mom because the boys eat sugar like Buddy the Elf while on the ipad? Neither. I just get some things right and other things not so right. And you do too. Who cares? What I’m saying is do your best. And there are days your best sucks. And I’m going to try not to judge you for it. Well, I’m totally going to judge you if you hit your kid or intentionally emotionally scar them – because then you are a piece of shit. BUT if you are out there doing your best, there will be sunshine and accidental bruises along the way. Heck, you look the wrong way at a hormonal middle schooler and you'll make them cry or stomp off - and that's without even TRYING to tick them off! None of us have this figured out and trust me, I only highlight my successes on social media, just like everyone else. No one is posting that they found a bucket full of candy wrappers in their six-year old’s room (true story) but they are snapping pictures of the super healthy dinner they just served. Too bad my six-year old is too full of sugar to eat it.

The New F Word or You Can Be an Asshole, But Not a Fat Asshole

Friends, if you know me well, you know that I swear like a sailor. I am not saying I’m proud of this trait but it does seem to be well-engrained. The one thought that helps me sleep at night is that at least my children will know how to drop a swear word here and there properly because nothing makes you look sillier than stringing random swear words together in the attempt to look cool – people will know that my kids mean business when the swear comes out of their sweet little mouths. Naturally I’ve set ground rules which are, unless you are in severe pain, you cannot swear until you pay income taxes, in which case, you’ve earned it.

Now there are only a few words I won’t utter. Most of them refer to female anatomy which I find just vulgar. Can a cuss word be uncouth? But there is another word I won’t say when referring to a human (animals are exempt because well, they are animals) and that is the F word. Now you are thinking, hmmm…she is a liar because I’ve heard her say “fuck” in front of her own mother and just last night I whispered very quietly “for fuck’s sake” as my sweet Sugar Bear pitched a whining fit for 20 minutes in the car because I didn’t take him to the gym (I was trapped and was exerting all my effort to not yell.)

No Friends, I’m talking about the other F word. It’s a word that has been tossed around forever and used casually but viciously. I’m talking about the word Fat.

I thought we had an unwritten rule in our house that we don’t use that word as a derogatory adjective about people. Sure, I call my cats fat all the time – because they are fat and my cat Sydney is lovingly called Fat Syd or Shamu (she is black and white and likes to bite so this is really a genius nickname if I do say so myself.) But I was having a conversation with my Moose and we were talking about a kid he doesn’t like. He told me that he calls the kid Fat XXX (leaving the name out for obvious reasons) within his circle of friends. I was stopped in my tracks with horror. “Absolutely not! We do not ever use the word Fat to put someone down! You won’t say it again. I don’t care what else you want to call him – jerk, asshole, douche – whatever. But you will not say the word Fat. And you can tell your friends that Fat is the ONE word your mom won’t allow.” (Side note, I think I will also outlaw the word Cunt but that’s for another time.) I was shocked that my sweet demeanored baby would say something so hurtful; all I can think is that he really doesn’t understand the damage that the F word does. I’m not going to get into how society perpetuates beauty with success, blah blah blah. I could get on a soapbox and never stop typing but let's be honest, you've read it all before. It’s crazy the power shapes holds in our society but it is life in America until we see a major change in thinking. Fat is the one last acceptable form of discrimination (btw, it’s not acceptable.) But I’ve got a more personal reason why the word is simply not allowed.

See I come from a long history with the F word. Somewhere during my teens I decided that nothing could be worse than being fat, which has led to a twenty plus year cycle of either starving, over exercising, or binging - all with a healthy helping of self-hatred. I wish I could explain how insidious an eating disorder is, that even when I look healthy or even (gasp) fat, I am constantly battling with it. You could call me the worst name in the book and I wouldn’t think twice but if you say I’m fat or big-boned, I will literally curl into a fetal position for 12 hours. After more than two years of therapy I am finally getting to a point where a setback in life doesn’t equal a fast. Much like an alcoholic, I realize that this will be something I will likely deal with forever. Honestly I wouldn’t wish it on anyone - and sadly there are a lot of anyones out there dealing with it too. I recognize that I can relapse at any time and what’s fun about an eating disorder is that when you are really skinny, people cheer you on, which just further perpetuates the behavior, until you look like a skeleton and people think “Ew, gross.” And it all starts with the F word. Which brings us back to this moment.

I don’t think my Moose understood the hurt that the F word can cause. He’s not the kind of kid that looks to destroy people’s feelings, which is why it’s important to cut him off at the pass early. He’s going to meet a lot of people in his life and if he can avoid inflicting major damage, even if they deserve it, he will sleep better at night when he’s 80. He’s got my permission to call people a Motherfucker for all I care (well, maybe we’ll save that one for high school.) But just don’t call them a Fat Motherfucker. Because then you’ve crossed a line.

Celebrating the Fail or Those Disney Princesses Need Therapy

What a week. I missed the gym too many times. I got chewed out by a student at work. I had 4 instances of missed communication at home. I ate a cupcake which put me way off my healthy eating plan. I still have yet to find the time and energy to paint the small bathroom. I was on Facebook too much and when I wasn’t, I bought another dress on Zulily. The clean sheets still haven’t been put on the beds. I honestly have no idea what my new middle schooler has in terms of tests or homework. I forgot to turn in the Squirrel’s paperwork at before/after school care. Overall it was a typical week full of small failures and while moments sucked, it was still a good week. And let’s be honest, most of these failures were things that only I was keeping track of – nothing of true significance that raised alarm. And as it turns out, that is an issue.

See during one of these moments of failure, I learned that my dear Moose thinks that he has to be perfect. And that is a problem. While I have been walking around blissfully unaware of tests and homework in sixth grade, some of my mom friends have been more successful in getting information from this new tribe of secretive moody pre-teens. And one of those mom friends alerted me that there was a Math Quiz and that it was Bad. Hmm I think. That’s funny because I have asked Moose how things are going and he’s always said they are fine. Lesson learned. Preteen “fine” means ask again.

So over dinner I ask, “I heard there was a tough math quiz. How did it go?” And that’s when things got real. Tears erupted and my brain started sounding one of those alarms that are on submarines that signal that water is onboard and everyone is going down. Turns out math is in another language this year, we don’t know what’s going on, we are flunking, we are stupid. Whoa. Where did all this come from? I thought everything was “fine.” Nope. Things are decidedly not fine. Things suck. Moose cries as he explains that he flunked the test and everyone else didn’t. He is a Failure.

And that’s when it occurred to me that while I have learned that I experience failures, I know they aren’t typically Failures. And even if they are, I regroup and ask for help. But Moose doesn’t know that. He doesn’t see that I fail epically on a daily basis. He somehow thinks that the rest of us are getting things right all the time and that we know everything (insert laugh track here.) Turns out looking like I have my shit together is a failure – did not see that plot twist coming.

“Moose, did you ask questions in class if you don’t understand the math?” A look of horror crosses his face – of course he didn’t; everyone would KNOW that he was stupid then. Someone cue the Full House music, we are about to have a moment. And I start to explain the following:

1. You have to ask questions. Your teacher’s job is to explain things in a way that you understand. If he isn’t doing that, he isn’t doing his job, but he doesn’t know until you ask. I ask questions all the time. People who know everything are boring. Curious people are interesting to be around.

2. We all need help. I ask for help every day. Whether you need to stay after school for study hour or need a study buddy, there are people here to help you. I am here to help you. Needing help is not a sign of weakness.

3. Failing now is fantastic! I’m glad it feels terrible – it means you will fight hard not to feel like this again. And flunking a test in sixth grade is perfect because doing it early means you will learn how to study differently and ask for help before it really matters like in late high school and college. Please. Fail now. I’d much rather we get this out of the way in sixth grade than have you fail out of college because you didn’t know how to ask questions. Now is the time to learn how to make good habits.

4. We will always be on Team Max. We will always be proud of you and love you. Follow the Four Golden Rules* and we will always be fine. A sixth grade math quiz is not one of the Four Golden Rules. We will get upset when it matters but not before then.

Where did this tendency to be perfect come from?  Meh, I can answer that since I struggle with it too. But I can break this cycle of perfect. I can be more transparent about my failures. I can show that you can brush them off or that they are not the end of the world – that eventually the sun rises the next day and that things will smooth over. You can ask for help and you will find people who care – and if they don’t care, they are assholes and don’t deserve to be in your circle of trust. As we see babies fall into holes so deep and dark that they think the only way out is to end it all, believing that high school drama is forever and that Facebook is for real, we need to start celebrating failures for what they are - opportunities to learn and grow. Do you really think all those Disney princesses really rode off with the princes happily ever after? No. You know that Cinderella has an obsessive compulsive cleaning disorder driven by her need for acceptance from a hostile step parent – that shit isn’t going to change just because she lives in a castle. She’s going to need some serious therapy.  I’ve got the name of a great therapist -you just have to book her early because she is so fabulous.

Hopefully next time the Moose feels alone and lost he knows to come to his parents. As his parents, we will try to high five the failure and come up with a game plan so it doesn’t happen again. And if it does again – big deal - we learn to regroup and brainstorm other solutions. I am prepared for the fail to not be as simple as a math quiz too; eventually this will get more complicated so I’m glad we had this test run. As Mom, maybe I’ll use this experience to highlight my epic failures to show that we all struggle and aren’t perfect. Perfect people are boring anyway - at least that's what my therapist says.

*The Four Golden Rules
1. Don’t smoke.
2. Don’t do drugs.
3. Always respect women.
4. Always practice safe sex.

The Second Class Second Born or Why Is Mom Crazy

“Crap. Library was today wasn’t it? Looks like you’ll have to take your book back next week,” I tell my youngest. Here it was, only the second week of school and I had blown the first library due date. It’s not like I hadn’t had fair warning – I got the newsletter AND the email that clearly stated that library books were due back on Friday. And still I forgot to stick the book in my kindergartener’s school bag. Nothing like setting low expectations with the kindergarten teacher early. Unfortunately this was not the first time it was evident that my Squirrel was a second born. 

See, I never would have dropped a library book due date with my first born, the Moose. Heavens no! And if I had come down with a severe case of food poisoning and was physically unable to lift the book and place it in his book bag, I would have sent a long apologetic email to his teacher, promising that he (and I) were responsible human beings. With my second born, I simply shrugged and figured library day would come around again next week. 

Thus is the fate of the second born. While the first born received books from every book order form that darkened our kitchen counter, the second born is directed to the bookshelf in our house which holds all the previously purchased book order form books and his order form is quietly “filed.” The first born had Friend Birthday Parties beginning at the age of four, complete with themes, goodie bags and treasure hunts. The second born is getting his first this year when he turns six. Instead of a whimsical party at home, I am looking at prefab parties at the Science Center or Skyzone. 

Maybe I’m just getting senile or maybe I just am constantly dropping the ball. But the second kiddo is definitely getting the shaft. I am up to my arms in washing football pants and soccer socks now, which was never a distraction when I was bringing up the first born. While my first born has every second of his life documented in photos, my youngest will have to settle for Facebook posts instead. 

Do I love these babies differently? No and yes. I love them both the same – so much that my heart literally bursts when I think about them. But with my first born, everything was a first and we were EXCITED and ANXIOUS for each new milestone, pushing him through them and forgetting to enjoy the moment, always reading what was supposed to happen next week. I have deleted every single one of those weekly emails with my second born. With my second born, everything is a last – the last time I will experience first steps, the last time I will hear a first word. I rejoiced the day I stopped nursing my oldest. I sobbed for two days when I stopped nursing my second, and still now it tugs a little at my heartstrings when I think of it. With my first born, everything is new – we are starting to experience hormones and I’m already looking forward for that newness to pass. With my second, he will catch me just staring at him and will smile at me, probably wondering what happened to the mom who ha her game together. All I’m doing is soaking in these moments of his age, wishing they would never end – because I know what happens next. Not that the future is bad, but there is nothing like whatever age he is at the moment. I know now not to speed it up.

Maybe if I am still long enough, time will stop and I can revel in it a little bit longer. In the meantime, I am begging forgiveness on library fines and promise to hit the bookfair at conferences. Ask my first born, he’ll vouch for me.