I know, I know. This is baby number 3, how many questions could I possibly have. And to make things even smoother, baby number 3 is another boy. How hard could it be, you ask. Well, I have to say I pretty much had the infant stage down, the actual mothering of a child who couldn't speak, gesture, or even facially communicate with me. A crying baby means a few thing: hungry, wet diaper, maybe gas. Eliminate the others, conquer what remains. I got that. Baby number three was well fed, clean, and Mylicon-ed up, baby, thanks to the husband.
Fast forward a year or so and that instruction manual ranks at the top of my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other gift-giving holiday list. I have questions, people, er, God, and only You it seems have the answers. First and foremost I have an adorable (have ya seen him?) toddler who delivers "tant toos" (thank you's), kisses, and boo-boo kisses to all in need. This "angel baby" as I like to call him (while he's sleeping) has also been called "aggressive." Seriously, isn't that a term doctors use for some types of cancers? My sweet Tot likes to hit, push, and maintain rough play with other little ones and it's getting a little, ummm, awkward at the gym. When members would point at me in the hallways it used to be about my teaching: "yeah, she's the one-- great class." Now I'm afraid the finger points are heavier and mean "yeah, she's the one with the hellion in the romper.Keep your crawler away from him." Help?
Next, I know I successfully potty trained two older boys. The proof is on the couch, lying there in Old Navy boxers, engrossed in a Disney sitcom. But good Lord, that was years ago! I can't remember what worked: did we go to McDonald's with each success? Is that the reason I had mounds of MatchBox cars? Did I read parenting magazines and follow others' advice or did I just trust myself? Good gracious, what to do.
But by and far, I feel I'm totally incompetent when I find myself straddling my toddler at his waist (seriously, try to picture this), one of my hands holding both of his hands above his head while I wield a baby blue toothbrush in the other and try to make entry into his tiny little mouth. Surely this is not how God envisioned a nightly ritual.Some nights I think he's just playing hard-to-get, that he knows it's important to me to clean those pearly whites, so he giggles with each resist. Other times, I really think he hates that toothbrush and my hell-bent-on-cleaning attitude and the look in my eyes scares the poor Tot.
But I press on. One day I will find that manual for precious, sent-from-God baby boys, and in this particular daydream, I will find that everything I did so many years ago was exactly how it was supposed to be done. And my doctor, lawyer, professional athlete sons will be all the proof I need.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Father's Day 2011
It's that time of year again- gift giving (and Hallmark) never takes a rest, and so I'm racking my brain for a "Wow! I can't believe it" kind of gift for the man who gives GREAT gifts. I know it's hard to believe, but the man who dreams in play-by-play and delivers kick a** halftime speeches ALWAYS comes up with the most thoughtful, relevant, surprising gifts for me. The man who believes all aches and pains can be fixed with athletic tape and a 5 gallon bucket of ice buys monogrammed totes and sterling silver charm bracelets with our children's names and birth dates engraved. I know, I know, I should just sit back and bask in the holidays that center around me, but after 12 years of this, the pressure is ENORMOUS!!! It's time to hit hard or go home!
Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.
So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.
Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.
Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."
Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!
Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.
So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.
Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.
Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."
Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!
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