Can a 5 year old have PMS?

As a mom, one of my least favorite sounds in the universe has to be the wailing of one of my kids from somewhere else in the house. Last night I heard THE noise start, and judging from the tone, volume, and panic components of said wail, I thought surely someone had lost an appendage, or at least injured herself badly enough that the next thing we would be doing is going to the ER. I have learned over the years that sometimes if I'll just sit very still and be quiet, the storm will pass. Not this time.
I jumped up and headed to the other room, mildly concerned that there might be blood involved. When I got there, I found my daughter sitting in a chair, sobbing as dramatically as an Academy Award-winning actress. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes were swollen. She looked like she had a terrible case of Chicken Pox.
Me: What's wrong, Baby?

Daughter: Well, it's just that, I'm going to miss Miss Lynn and Miss Diane! (These are her kindergarten teachers. The girls finish their first year of kindergarten next week.) And I won't get to see them anymore! AND I'M GOING TO MISS THEM SO MUCH!

More wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Me: Really? Honey, you'll get to see them in the hall at school every day next year. And I promise you will feel the exact same way about your first grade teacher. I liked every teacher I had in elementary school. It's going to be fine.

Daughter: But I'll miss them over the summer. And it'll be like one thousand days before I get to see them again! AAAAGGGHHH!

Stifling the urge to giggle, I sent them to get ready for their baths. This child cried the entire time she was in the tub and for 20 minutes after. I'm hoping they are this attached to me. Anyway, she finally calmed down right before her dad tucked her in. After she had been in bed about 15 minutes, I went up to say goodnight. One sister was asleep; Sobbing Sally was wide awake. As I leaned over her bed, she started to cry again.

Daughter: Mom, I just heard a commercial on the radio that said that 30 babies DIED last year because they were left in hot cars. You HAVE to be careful and check the back seat or else you might leave Sheridan in there. Then my baby sister would DIE, and I would be SO SAD! I don't want my baby sister to die!

Even MORE sobbing and wailing here. I mean really, this kid was having a "Terms of Endearment" or "Steel Magnolias" kind of breakdown here. Which leads me to ask the following question: Can a 5 year old child have PMS? If any of you find yourselves looking for something to do today, pray that my husband and I survive when they are all teenagers. Sheesh.

Mama Doesn't Have a Job

I find it interesting that I have three names. Okay, people call me a LOT of names, but I have at least three in my own home. One child calls me "Mama," one child calls me "Mother," and the baby calls me "Mommy." And no, I couldn't pick a favorite if I tried. I suppose it's actually quite handy with three kids. I know who's calling me by which name they are using. Take into consideration the fact that I have at least three distinct personalities and I guess it all makes sense.
My big girls talk a lot about growing up these days. They are about to finish their first year of kindergarten, and at some point during this year they have figured out that there's a goal at the end of all this school, something that they are working toward. They have also figured out that once it is done, at least one of their parents is expecting them to leave home. (That would be me. My husband says they can stay here until they die. He doesn't care if they ever leave. I really think he means it, too. Sounds like a topic we'll be discussing in therapy at some point.) Anyway, they have both declared on different days that they never want to leave home, leave us, leave their stuff, etc. I think that one was my favorite. One child told me that she didn't want to got to college because she wouldn't have her bed, her toys, and her blankie there. Good point, but she's still going. Or else.
Our sweet babysitter who has cared for my kids since the twins were about 4 months old is now in college, so it's a pretty hot topic around here. The other day we were in the car, where we have our best conversations, when from the back seat I heard:
Daughter 1: "Dad, does everybody have to go to college?"

Dad: "No, I guess they don't have to."

Daughter: (In the whiny tone that I hold so near and dear to my heart) "Well does everybody have to have a job?"

Dad: "Um, yeah. That's where money comes from. It comes from work."

Daughter: (Very matter-of-factly) "Well, MAMA doesn't have a job."

My husband patiently explained that my job is taking care of them, that we share the money he brings home, and that he is able to go out and work hard because he doesn't have to worry about who is taking care of his girls. Have I mentioned that I love this man?
Anyway, to my dear, sweet, precious angel that I gave up my girlish figure, my sanity, and hours of sleep for: I sincerely hope that God allows me to live until you are a mother. When you call me complaining about how hard motherhood is, how you haven't had any sleep in days, how none of your clothes fit...I could go on for days here...I am going to gleefully remind you that you once said that I didn't have a job.
And it's not just my kids. People ask me all the time if I'm working. Do I have a regular job, or am I "just at home with the kids?" Maybe it's just me, but when I tell them that I'm a stay at home mom, people who aren't parents give me that knowing I-bet-you-sit-on-the-couch-and-eat-bon bons-all-day look. To which I say, "Have you ever MET my kids?" They have a sensor that goes off immediately whenever my butt comes into contact with a surface of any kind. Especially the toilet. Doesn't matter what else is going on in the universe, when my bare butt touches a toilet seat everyone (and I do mean EVERYONE) in the house wants to talk to me. And it's an emergency that I must attend to right now. I haven't made an unhurried trip to the bathroom in years. When I'm diagnosed with some as yet unheard of medical condition in the future, I'm going to blame it my kids rushing me in the bathroom.
I got an inkling of what was coming when I was pregnant with my twins. We lived over our veterinary clinic, in a loft apartment. I could hear everything, and I do mean everything that went on downstairs. I was on modified bed rest (three hours on my feet per day, including my shower) on and off throughout my twin pregnancy. Once when I was seven months along, I was doing my best to find a comfortable position with two other people squirming and kicking and pushing each other in my belly. (It started early and it hasn't stopped.) I heard a woman downstairs ask for my husband. When she found out he was out of the office, she asked loudly, "Well does his wife just not do anything anymore?" It took quite a lot of self control not to haul my hormonal butt up out of that chair and go crazy on her, but I didn't.
Not long ago, I heard through the grapevine that one of my classmates was wanting to leave her job. She told one of her co-workers that I should "just get off my butt" and come take her job, because I wasn't "doing anything but sitting at home with her kids anyway." See what I mean about people who aren't parents?
I've said all this to say: I love my "job." I have the most important job in the world, trying to teach the three precious people I gave birth to how to be productive members of society. I took time away from a career that I loved because being at home with my children was more important to me than being a veterinarian. And because I had a hard-working husband with a good job who agreed that this was where I should be. Loving, nurturing, playing with, and caring for them on a daily basis is the most important work I will ever do. It's not always easy, and it's definitely not always fun. But it's worth it. I love you, girls. You are the best job ever.    

Cancer is...funny?

The word "cancer" has touched my life early and often. Too often. It took my mother, my grandmother, and my great aunt. All different kinds, but cancer nonetheless. Do I worry about getting it myself? Of course. But I have decided not to go through my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. I try to really live. I love my family with reckless abandon, I try not to waste much of my time, and I make it a point to do the things that I want to do, for myself and with my girls. I try to enjoy my kids, each and every day, and if I want a deadgum cupcake, I have one. Or two. Maybe that's why my butt is so much wider than it used to be. My sweet husband reminds me that men love curves, but I think he's just being nice. Either that or he wants to sleep with me. Whatever. After ten years, butter me up if you want. I'm pretty easy to please. Mae West once said that you only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough. So here's to trying to do it right! 
Not too long ago, cancer touched my life again in the form of my friend, Beth. In my opinion, she's the most awesome kind of friend, with or without cancer. She's tougher than anyone I know. She's noble and strong, and all that other crap people say about people who are sick, but she's also FUNNY. Really, really, laugh out loud funny. I mean, she gave my kids a book called "The Adventures of Captain Underpants" that I am now forced to read aloud to them. She makes me laugh when she's not even here.
I make it a point to go and visit her now, which I should have done before she got sick, so shame on me. But I tell people that I go by to check on her and see how she's feeling, when in reality I go see her because she makes me laugh. EVERY time. Side-splitting, tears rolling down my face laughter.
I also get the chance to discuss things with her that I never talked about with my mom. All of the details about her diagnosis and treatment were considered too much information for me, so as a child I was often left to sit alone and wonder what the heck was going on. I hope that by sharing my recollections about that time with Beth's daughters, they won't feel the way I did. I also get to do the things that my 18 year old self was too stupid to realize I needed to do for my own mother. Boring things, like cooking dinner so that her family won't have to go out and she won't have to smell it cooking. Cancer patients get extremely nauseated. I do remember that about my mother's illness.
I hope that Beth gets something out of being friends with me, but I think it's pretty clear that I get so much more out of being friends with her. I've never been around someone who could look at something as ugly as cancer and find the humor in it. I mean, really who makes jokes about something so serious? I had never heard someone use the expression "play the C card" until I started hanging out with Beth. She is the most awesome example of  "do what you want to" ever. When I asked how she was one day, she looked at me and said, "Well, lying around, sleeping all day, lots of good meds for pain...it's a pretty awesome gig if you can get it." When my kids ask her (again) why she has no hair, she smiles at them and says, "I just got so tired of brushing it, and washing it, and putting bows in it. So I cut it all off. Want me to do yours?"
She has good days and bad days; I've caught her on both. Some days we talk about positive things and positive thinking, and some days we talk about how bad the whole thing sucks and how unfair it is. All the stuff I never really did with my mom, because I didn't have the chance. I assumed I would have more time to do all that, and we all know what assuming does! Mostly I sit there and think that this woman should write a book. I can't think of another group who needs to laugh worse than cancer patients and their caregivers. And who better to write it than someone on the inside? Beth, if you're reading this, you should write a book!  
My favorite "Beth" story ever has to be the one she told me the other day. I had made it a point not to ask too many questions about her situation. I figured if she wanted me to know something, she would tell me. Therefore, I didn't know that she was the lucky recipient of a double mastectomy. I'd never asked; she'd never told. I didn't feel like it was any of my business. So the following story took me by surprise, and it left me laughing until my sides hurt.
Beth: So I was having my treatment the other day, and I usually wear a stretchy tank top so that they can access my indwelling port without me having to take my shirt off. As the nurse was working on me, she lifted my shirt up a little and I noticed the guy sitting in the chair next to me looking at me. I mean, really looking at me, like he was trying to see something. (I guess even men who are cancer patients still want to see something naked.) So I looked over at him and said, "Hey, Dude, there's nothing to see here."
He smiled, and his face turned a little pink. Then in a minute, I saw him looking again! So I said, "No, really, Dude, there's NOTHING to see here." And I lifted my shirt up over my head! Yep, flashed the whole room. I mean, there's nothing there. I didn't think that was lewd or anything, do you? Bet that dude thinks twice before he does that again!
So after I picked myself up off the floor and was able to talk again, I agreed that he would probably be scarred for life. But she gave the nurses a good giggle, and I bet those are hard to come by in an oncologist's office. I for one am hoping that she keeps me laughing for a VERY long time to come. Carpe diem!

Cover your eyes!

As is often the case in parenthood, today I had something happen that has never happened before. My family had a conversation that ended with us laughing until we cried about...wait for it...fungicide. My daughter started this whole cascade by complaining that her toes were itching. Dr. Mom had a look at them, made a clinical diagnosis of athlete's foot, and off we went to the pharmacy for fungicide. On the drive home, her dad mentioned that he had bought her some medicine. As this particular child has a severe aversion to any oral medication, when she heard the word "medicine" she started freaking out.

Dad: Hey Babe, it's not something you swallow. It's a spray. You spray it on your toes, and it makes a big POOF and you'll feel better. See, it's in a can.

Daughter 1: Well, okay...POOF it, Daddy! I want to see it.

Both daughters, in perfect unison:  POOF IT! POOF IT! POOF IT! We want to SEE IT!

Dad: Hey girls, it's not frickin fireworks! It's a spray can of fungicide.

Daughter 2: (From the third row of seats in my Suburban, mind you) EVERYBODY COVER YOUR EYES!

Daughter 1: How are you gonna see it if you cover your eyes?

Dad: Good point. I ain't gonna spray it until we get home!

Daughter: (going into cheerleader mode) Why not? Puff it! Spray it! I want to SEE it!

I had no idea that a can of athlete's foot spray was so entertaining. Sadly, the poof was rather a let down when it actually happened. Hey, life's full of little disappointments. It was however, interesting enough that the other child insisted on having her non-fungus infested foot sprayed as well. I mean, because if we didn't, it wouldn't be FAIR. Being an only child, I have little experience with the F word. As a mother of three, I have become intimately acquainted with this four letter word. I despise the F word, and it WILL be the subject of another lengthy post. Just to give you a heads up.  

Focusing Ain't Your Thing

I am not a morning person. I admit this gleefully and with pride. I have never been a morning person, nor do I have any plans to become one. This morning I was standing in the kitchen fixing lunches and my super delicious protein shake breakfast simultaneously when my husband came in from feeding horses. He asked me a question about something totally unrelated to lunches or breakfast, so off I went to the bedroom to find the answer. When I came back, here's how the conversation went:

Me: Here, I found what you wanted to know.

Husband: Thanks! You're such a good mom.

Me (suddenly noticing that I have put my daughter's lunchbox in her backpack without its ice pack, as said ice pack is still sitting on the counter): Thanks! I'm such a good mom that I forgot to put the ice pack in Savannah's lunch. It probably won't stay cold without it.

Husband: Well, that was my fault. I came in here and distracted you from what you were doing.

Have I mentioned how much I love this man?

Husband: I mean, let's face it, focusing ain't your thing.

Me: Excuse me? (Picture non-morning person face here.)

Husband: I just meant that you have a lot of distractions in your life these days. Makes it hard to focus on any one thing.

Oh, really? So he, too, has realized that there has been some collateral damage from this whole motherhood thing. Fascinating. I honestly believe the short people climb out of their beds, sneak down the stairs, and suck microscopic amounts of my brain out through my ears while I sleep at night. I also believe that they multiply in the closet, but that's a story for another day.
Fine, I admit that my attention span was never going to set any world records, as evidenced by the fact that the only thing I ever got in trouble for in Kindergarten was talking to the person next to me. And lying to my mom about how many times I got in trouble for talking. But again, I digress.
So I colored my picture faster than the other kids. I was done. I was bored. Get over it. I managed to rein it in often enough to graduate a few times, which I consider a major accomplishment.

When I stumbled blindly into the mother "hood" I had NO idea what I was getting myself into. Remember, I lost my mom at 18. We had barely discussed my wedding, much less pregnancy, childbirth, and all that other crap people don't tell you about becoming a mom. I could write for days about the physical damage alone.

Carrying multiples is not for the faint of heart. I completely blame my husband for our twins. I mean that in only the nicest way. The day I told him I was pregnant, his first words were, "I hope it's two! Maybe we'll have one of each!" In his mind, he was thinking, "and that way, we'll be done!" To which I said, "You better bite your tongue. There's not enough room in this body for one other person, much less two!" To which I say: we plan and God laughs. My stretch marks have stretch marks, nothing is where it used to be, and there are multiple issues that are not going to be resolved without general anesthesia, a scalpel, and sutures. Lots of sutures. I get to answer fun questions like, "Mommy, why is your bellybutton deeper than mine? And all blurry?" I now have a much deeper understanding of why the women in National Geographic look the way they do. I thought it was because they didn't wear bras. NOPE! It's because they had babies. Lots of babies.
A couple of years before I got pregnant, I went shopping with a friend who was expecting twins. As she was trying on clothes, she said, "I'd let you come in the dressing room with me, but you don't need to see this. You might not ever want to have kids!" Maybe I should have insisted. After a third child, she has either had plastic surgery or looks good enough to make people think that she did. More power to her!
I suppose I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that my body would change. And, yes, the first time around I was one of those people who were stupid enough to think that having a baby (or two, as it turned out) wouldn't change every facet of my being. But I never figured on the mental part. I have forgotten everything, from the very mundane to the really important things since my kids were born. I have to say, I consider the fact that I can do just about anything with a screaming kid or someone saying, "Mom, mom, mom, mom..." in my ear to be pretty remarkable. Hey, maybe my ability to focus isn't as bad as I thought! What was I talking about, again? Oh yeah, the mental damage motherhood inflicts. Anyway, if I forget your birthday or show up somewhere with all of my makeup on except my eyebrows, think nothing of it. Apparently I left my modesty and my memory on the table in the delivery room. 

On your mark, get set, go!

I can't remember a time when I didn't want to be a writer. Like all good stories, my life and my plans took a few detours along the way, but the voices in my head telling me to write just won't shut up. They say the rule is that you should write about what you know. So here goes: I know a little about a lot of things and a whole lot about nothing.
 I know about being a motherless mother. I know about trying to raise three kids without your mom's advice. I know about finding yourself in a situation you feel totally unprepared for. I know about being a veterinarian who decided to give up a career that I loved to stay at home with my children. I know about depression, postpartum and otherwise. And, last but not least, I know about horses. Barrel racing is the passion I pursue when my life allows.
So this blog is an outlet for me, a place where I can remind myself and others that no one's getting out of this thing alive. We may as well learn to laugh at ourselves and enjoy the ride. I hope you will get a giggle out of my adventures in motherhood. I promise to share the good, the bad, the ugly, and the positively insane.
My children are the greatest source of joy in my life. They are also the reason that I find myself looking around and wondering, "How the hell did I get here?" Before I became a mom, my body was my own. When I was tired, I rested. When I was hungry, I ate. When I wanted to ride my horse or travel, I just did it. There was no need to plan a trip weeks in advance or hire a small army of babysitters. I could sleep and pee in peace. I didn't forget things every single day. I could listen to a news story and move right on to the next thing without thinking, "What if that were my child?" There are things that happen to you emotionally and physically when you become a mother that no one can prepare you for. I don't care how many hours you've spent babysitting Sally Sue down the street, it's not the same as being a parent.
And while we're on the subject, to my girlfriends who had kids before I did: you all SUCK. None of you warned me about the things that were about to happen to me. None of you explained that I would now be losing control of my own body, not just for 10 months (and it is TEN months, by the way) but basically for the rest of my life. No one told me about all the "joys" of pregnancy. You know, things like your body doesn't just snap back into shape like a rubber band after the baby is born (and if yours did, trust me, I don't want to hear about it.) Or the fact that when someone calls their child a "pain in the butt" they meant that literally. For those of you who don't know what the previous sentence means, have a baby and you will. I read "What to Expect..." Here's my version: Expect to be reduced to a ball of quivering human goop. Your body, both literally and figuratively, is about to become human jello. This tiny, precious newborn who has already begun to suck the life out of you will continue to do so slowly until you die. Congratulations!
All that said, please understand that I am MORE than grateful for my three healthy children. Becoming their mom is without a doubt the best thing I've ever done. But anyone who says that motherhood is all rainbows and butterflies is a fan of modern pharmacology.

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Sending a test post from my phone. If this works you will be subjected to ALL the craziness in my life. Scary.