M.O.B.--Personal Space

Being the mother of a boy or M.O.B. means NO PERSONAL SPACE. Being the mother of anyone really means that. I didn't expect my boys to be so entranced with me all the time. I thought at some point they would attach themselves (rightly so) to their dad and I would be left waiting for a snippet of their attention as they stomped through their house in their muddy shoes newly home from some grand adventure with dad.

This is a false thought. My boys seem to find everything I do fascinating. It's like I'm some incredibly entertaining toy that they must always be around. It's as if they think they're going to miss out on something I say or do or some expression I make if they aren't with me and not just with me, but touching my body at all times. (O.k., I'm exaggerating about the "touching my body" thing.)

I've often wondered why my children don't have black eyes or beat up faces from the many times I've taken a step sideways and elbowed them or "hip-bowed" them. And yes, my hips would leave a bruise.

I recently commented to my husband that I'm the most popular person in our house. EVERYONE wants to be wherever I am. He whole-heartedly agreed.

Popularity is a new thing for me. Growing up, the word popular never would have been attached to me name. "Nice" would have---if you can believe that. Time does have a way of sharpening a person up. (wink, wink) I was a bookie, you know the type. That girl who was quiet and nice to everyone, but mostly because she was quiet you thought she was nice and she read all the time. I mean like ALL THE TIME. If you asked me what my favorite thing to do was, I'd have said and I quote, "I like to read books." Is it any wonder I didn't go to my junior prom? Or senior prom for that matter? : )

I can't say I love being the most popular person in our house all the time. Sometimes when I'm just trying to get from the sink to the stove and there's a little person (or big person...Zack) in my way, I get a little...impatient. Or when I sneak off to the back bedroom just to put up clothes or make the bed (who am I kidding, I don't make the bed) and John Owen packs up the toys he's playing with in the living room and brings them all back to the room I'm in just so he can "be where you are momma." And then I have to help him pack them up and move them back to the living room. I may get a little irritated.

But then I think of the rapidly approaching future. It's like the days are flying by in this house. And I know that ONE day, sooner rather than later, they'll be asking to leave this house to go somewhere else where the real popular people live, where the real fun people are. And then I try to soak up the attention and tattoo it to my brain and remember the sweetness of the moment and that it's actually kind of nice to be desired so much. One day I know they'll discover that I'm not really popular. I'm just mom and I do really nice things for them like change their poop diapers and wipe their butts.

Recently John Owen revealed to me that he didn't want me to go to Heaven. When I asked him why, he said, "Who would fix my breakfast, lunch and dinner?"

Sigh. They really are sweet...most of the time.

A Belt is a Magical Thing

Time is not my friend. Before my very eyes my little boy, John Owen is becoming a little man. It's like the dawn of every day brings some new growth or change in him. He has always been highly verbal--quite the talker. Usually he's used up all his word allotment by mid-morning. This does not deter him though. Never fear, he does not run out of things to say or ask. For months, he's been asking for a belt like Dad's and mine's. He hasn't really needed a belt until recently when he's in that awkward stage of not really being a size that you can buy in the stores. This perplexes me because I know he's not the only child to be like this--in between sizes. I just don't understand why retailers don't make some in between sizes. Not just 3t, but "No longer 3t, but not quite 4t" size. That's what size he is. So we go up a size and the 4t pants are too big.

I bought him a belt yesterday and brought it home to him. He promptly tried it on and learned very quickly how to loop it through his pants and fasten it. It's still too big for him, but there's no way he's taking it off. Except for the hundred times that he did unfasten his belt for the fun of it.

What's funny is that he'd say, "I have to poop", head off to the bathroom, unfasten his belt and not poop. He just wanted to undo his belt and fasten it back. He's so funny to me because he doesn't just do that, he has to actually go to the bathroom, sit on the toilet and then fasten his belt again.

It's brought lots of laughs today and I'm sure tomorrow it will be round two of "Breaking the Belt In".

I wish you all could be here for this. It's quite comical and eventually I just made him take the belt off.

Between John Owen fastening and unfastening his belt and James climbing on everything and jumping off of things, life is never dull around here. 

We're coming up on five months home with James Melaku. Can you believe it? It feels like always--you know that feeling of something or someone always having been in your life? That's how it feels with James. I remember life before him, but only in my head. My heart doesn't remember that time. I think a lot about Africa and Ethiopia in particular. I wonder when I'll see it again. I wonder about my friends there. About James' birth family. I wonder if they think of him. It's been fourteen months since anyone who knew him before he was Melaku have seen him. I wonder what his birth name was. What did his mom call him? But those are questions I have no answers to. I trust I don't need to know the answers; otherwise, I know I'd have them. For now, I just wonder and pray for those faces that I only have a glimpse of when I look at James'. When I look at the way his hair curls, or his eyes crinkle when he smiles. His bowed legs and narrow feet. I think about his time in the orphanage and how different his days are now. How different his life is now and how his future took a radical turn almost five months ago. 

God is good and faithful. Adoption is hard, for many reasons, but God is faithful and it is worth all the hard. Just like parenting in general is hard, but worth the hard.

Have a great weekend friends!

Just Quit It.

Is this parenting gig hard or what? And I only have two kids. I can only imagine what a day is like for those who have way more kids than I. A lot has been going on around here which has compounded the toughness of parenting. We are replacing the shower in our master bathroom. Really, I mean Zack is doing it and I'm checking in every now and then to see how things are going. I've been busy with some things from church, so our normal daily routine basically hasn't existed this week. Add these monsoons that we've been having that have been exchanged for blazing hot days and we've got some rowdy boys 'round here, y'all. Not just rowdy, but grumpy, too. Or maybe I'm the grumpy one!
I've had some parenting fails--someone should follow us with a camera and then upload the videos to youtube. We'd be an instant hit with the "What Not To Do When..." just fill in the blank.
Most of the time when I'm tired or distracted and one of my kids starts misbehaving or having some complex because he is shy or scared or something, I just want them to quit it. That's basically what I say, "Quit it."
Of course they just cry or things get worse and then I have to say something sarcastic because that's what sarcastic people do in awkward situations. And then that feeling washes over me and I realize that I really have zero control over how my children act. You talk them through situations, they seem to get what you're saying to them and then the situation happens and it all goes out the window and they're standing there being obstinate or crying or if they're mine--screaming. See the post about the suit fitting for proof.
And so I just pray--even harder---for wisdom and some creative way to connect with my boys besides connecting with their backsides. (wink, wink).
It's humbling to know that in reality, I can do what I know is right. I can keep working at it. Never give up trying to guide them. I can pray for them and for myself. I can show them grace and mercy and tough consequences when necessary, but ultimately I cannot completely control them.
In this, I must trust the Lord. And that's hard. But it's the right choice and so when you see me and you'll know it's me because I'll be the one with the screaming boys whom I love dearly. My heart nearly bursts open when I think about how great they are. Even when I ask them what they want to drink and they say, "Liquid." From the mouth of a three year old who is well on his way to a career in stand-up comedy.
Trusting the Lord is a tricky thing. Just when you think you're doing stinkin' awesome at it, you realize there's another area that you've taken on yourself. So here's to trusting the Lord and gritting our teeth during the tough parenting times. And so you know, I've been making a lot of cake and cupcakes around here. It's a good thing I run.

Being a M.O.B. (mother of boys)

This August will mark four years that I have been a mother to a boy. One boy for three years was interesting. Now that we've added a second boy, well, life is really interesting. There are some things about boys that have surprised me somewhat. 

For example, they really like their mamas. Before becoming a M.O.B., I thought they'd be all about Dad. They do love their dad, but my boys seem to find everything I do riveting. Like showering. It's the one thing I like to do alone. I shut the door, turn the water on and enjoy the five or ten minutes of solitude. I keep the bathroom door locked during this "mommy time". And then I hear it. An bone-chilling scream coming from the living room. What can it mean? Did some intruder enter the house? Have they gotten into the steak knives and cut off a toe? I stop the shower, grab a towel and race into the living room. They are where I left them. Sitting in front of the t.v. watching an episode of Clifford the Big Red Dog. I love that dog and that show. I scan the room for an intruder or any sign of blood and/or toes. Nothing. And then I ask, "Why did you scream, little one?" The response, "I couldn't get my applesauce open." I see. My almost four year old couldn't get his applesauce pouch open so he did what he thought the situation called for--screamed.

I would tell you that this was an isolated incident, but something like this happens every time I take a shower and don't allow them in the bathroom. I think it's a conspiracy. They may be young, but clearly they have come up with this plan to worm their way into my "mommy time".

Another surprising thing is how early they become Big Ole Babies when they're sick. Previously, I thought this was something guys learned in high school or college. Like it was some secret class offered that girls didn't know about. When they separated the boys and girls in health class, they weren't really talking about anatomy, they were teaching the boys the horrors of the common cold or worse yet a paper cut. 

I've had three "under the weather" guys this week. Yes, you read that right---three. They are all three legitimately sick--snotty noses, stuffed up noses, coughing, just feeling poorly. Just the other day, I had two wrapped up tight in blankets on the couch and one in my lap. They were pitiful. Terrible. I worried they wouldn't make it, but we survived it all with only one trip to the doctor and one  co-pay.

Until today when John Owen woke up with a nasty allergic rash and so the saga continues.

If they all three weren't so lovable and just plain awesome, I might have sent them packing by now.

But they are sweet, even in their whiny, snotty, congestedness. And I love them. A LOT. And I love being a M.O.B.

Wrestlemania

My boys like to wrestle.  A Lot! I used to wrestle with my brother, which really meant I tried to keep from dying when he jumped on me. My brother is only thirteen months older than me. Yes, you read that right. Thirteen months. I was the perfect wrestling partner for him because we were always about the same size, so it didn't seem like he was a big kid whoopin' up on his little sister. 

Here at our house, John Owen is bigger than James, but the whoopin' up happens all the same. So far there have been no broken bones or any blood. I call that "playin'". I heard them "playin'" today and found John Owen holding James from the back, running and falling on a mattress we have on the floor. 

(Why do you have a mattress on your floor, you ask? Good question friends, but it's come in handy for days like today. )

I did what any caring mom would do and I videoed it. 

While these sweet boys can be so rough and tumble, they have their sweet moments where they join me in the kitchen for cupcake making. 

That's James "helping" me make cupcakes. He's the best batter taster. 

They took turns licking the spatula. Never fear. They only got to do this after the cupcakes were in the oven. 

They are the BEST two boys around (even when they're whiny and cry a lot).