The Bumpy Road Song

One day, when we were driving the 5 down to the beach, we suddenly heard from the back seat a peculiar sound from Sage. Since it got such a positive reaction (David and I laughing hard enough to almost need to pull over) it has become a regular thing.

So now, for your listening pleasure, Sawyer and Sage perform "The Bumpy Road Song Remix" - the remix for a couple added "CHEESE!" for the camera..

Mommy Knows Best

You never want anything to be wrong with your kid. There is something to be said for validation, however.

I've thought for the past few months that Sage is having speech issues (pause here for snarky comments about how she probably hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise at this house). I asked her pediatrician at her 18-month checkup, and he said that we'd investigate further at age 2 if she still was having issues.

Not good enough for the inner (?) neurotic in me. I had a nice conversation with my OB/GYN at my yearly about Sage. Turns out her two sons are both speech-delayed, and she encouraged me to have her evaluated.

So I did. She had an hour-and-a-half evaluation today. She is at age or advanced in motor skills and comprehension, but is definitely delayed in expressive speech. Just like I thought.

The big areas of concern were Sage's lack of parroting what we ask her to say, and also that she uses no verbs. She also incessantly says "Mommy" before pretty much any other word. The therapist guessed that it's because I'm the only one who has any clue what she's saying. One positive is that Sage is making all the sounds necessary for her to make words. She just hasn't put it all together yet.

The therapist said she'd recommend for Sage to go to private therapy twice a week. Then, when she turns 2, she would be eligible to go to their small group classes. Hopefully that won't be necessary.

We never realized how verbally advanced Sawyer was until we see how little Sage says. Then again, she is way ahead physically compared to him at the same age.

Not that I compare my children, of course. At least, not to their faces.

It's starting to sink in..

So...there are donations coming in. Talk about a great feeling! But also scary. Because I guess this really does mean that I'm going to do this race. And I really am going to have to figure out how to raise that $3,000. My good friends from high school were the first to donate. I was really touched!

I have been talking to Sawyer about the little sick boy, Demetrius, who is our Honored Teammate. I showed him the picture of Demetrius that we received in our informational folders. He saw the picture of a happy boy with floppy brown hair. Then he saw another picture, of a boy with a shaved head and a big bandage peaking out from under his shirt.

We talked about how this boy is almost Sawyer's age, and how he's really, really sick with someone bad called cancer. And how Mommy is trying to raise money to help cure him, which means that Sawyer will not be getting a new toy at Target every time we go. Maybe Sawyer can even pick out a toy of his own that the sick little boy might like. Sawyer wasn't too hot on any of these ideas, but I'm trying..

My new adventure

I finally did it. I signed up for my first marathon (CUCKOO, CUCKOO!). I'd wanted to run one before I turned 40, and I found an opportunity I couldn't refuse. I mean, I COULD have, but it just felt right.

I signed up for Team In Training (whose acronym is TNT, not TIT, just FYI)and will train with them to run the Nike Women's Marathon on Oct. 21st in San Francisco. The big draw for me was TNT is part of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Last year, TNT raised over $100 million for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

My best friend was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was pregnant with Sage. She went through chemo and radiation and is now cancer-free. My cousin, though, has been battling leukemia for a few years.

What really got me was each team (I'm on the marathon running team for my county) has an honored teammate. Ours is a little boy not much youger than Sawyer. He'd had chemo the day before the kickoff event this Saturday. I couldn't help but think about my own thankfully healthy kids. Talk about a motivator!

I have to raise $3,000 to compete in the race. If you'd like to contribute to support me and TNT, please follow the link: Racing to Save Lives. Seventy-five cents for every dollar donated goes directly toward the cause. And it's all tax-deductible.

Thanks!

It's official

My tiny baby, er, I mean, sturdy 20-month old climbs up the "big kid" equipment at the park. Up, up she goes, to the very top of the twisty yellow slide. She is so high off the ground her nose should be bleeding. I wait at the bottom of the slide, my head tilted so far back to see her I have a dent in my spine.

It is all I can do not to race up the steps and grab her. She's a good 15 feet off the ground. What if she decides to lean over, loses her balance and... The imagination knows no bounds.

I stand my ground, but my heart is attempting to burst from my chest and rescue her before she ... she ... she slides down all by herself, smiling and shouting "wheeeee."

Give me the badge. I'm now officially a second-time mom.

Sawyer is cautious by nature - and nurture. His personality is not to charge head-first into something, but I probably didn't help by worrying over him and teaching him that some things are scary. Some things are, in fact, scary, like dashing into the street or grabbing a hot pot on the stove.

Or, to me, those big openings on top of the playground equipment where he could possibly fall and be permanently disfigured, paralyzed, or worse.

I am guilty of over-parenting him and not letting him figure out that if you stand up under the table you'll bump your head, or that bouncing on the couch can land your butt hard on the floor.

Parenting Sage has been completely different. Her personality is, when it comes to physical activities, much more daring. Plus, she's more coordinated than Sawyer was at the same age. When she falls, I avoid eye contact. She might cry for a second, and then she moves on. I want her to be tough. She has to be, with an older brother and a neighborhood filled with boys.

She has already had a fat lip, courtesy of a tumble off Sawyer's KinderZeat during which she smacked her head on the table and landed flat on her face. It is the first of what I'm guessing will be many bumps and bruises.

But today, Sage was so proud of herself as she went down that slide. Self-confident and strong. My girl.

Not-so-fast Freddy

Today we went to a regional park with my friend L and her son, J, who is three days younger than Sawyer, and her 6 month-old baby. The park has a train ride, a small zoo, a playground and, if that all wasn't enough, pony rides!

Sawyer was very diligent about eating all his lunch (after he'd gone on the train ride and played at the playground) so his reward was a pony ride.

The catch is the parent has to lead the horse around the teeny corral, which wouldn't be bad if my other arm wasn't supporting a 25-plus pound girl. Sawyer was very excited about the whole adventure and ran over to his pony.

Turns out, his name was Freddy. Sawyer had to wait his turn while J got strapped into his saddle and L led him out. This is what Sawyer had to say while waiting:

"Mommy? Freddy is sad."

"Why is Freddy sad?"

"Because he wants me to ride him."

And once Sawyer was strapped in, he announced that Freddy was, now, quite happy. Unlike Mommy, who hoped that Freddy was a burner on the horse path but found out that he is slower than the dirt on which he walked. By the end, my shoulder was two inches lower from toting Sage - who likes to Baaa like a horse (don't ask).

"Mommy, Freddy is really sweet. I'm having a great time."

That made it all worth it.

Why can't it be a baby bird?

Garbo is our big, fat pit mix with a brain that would make a T Rex seem like a genius. Her (only)saving grce is that she is VERY tolerant of the children. They can sit on her, dress her up and smack her upside the head and she just sits there, looking dumb.

She does have the incredibly annoying habit of following the kids when they are eating something, as if that one crumb they might drop will save her from certain starvation. She likes to sit under Sawyer while he eats at the table, and if she's especially daring, she will stick her head in his crotch to be that much closer if a noodle or bite of carrot should fall in that direction.

Today Sawyer was playing outside while Sage napped (oh yes, he no longer does quiet time OR nap, which is why yesterday he fell asleep folded in half on the couch at about 3:30 p.m., precisely two seconds after finishing a yogurt and asking for a cheese stick).

The dogs were outside. I looked over at Garbo and she was walking across the lawn delicately carrying something in her mouth like it was her own newborn pup (she was spade so has never known the joy of motherhood).

I hoped it was a mouse. Or a baby bird. Anything but what I knew it really was.

You know you're beaten down when you wish ill on a defenseless little creature because the reality it just too icky to contemplate. Maybe I should have prefaced this whole post by mentioning that Sawyer continues to poop in his pants. Did it twice today, ruining his Lightning McQueen underwear because NO AMOUNT OF BLEACH ON THE PLANET could ever remove the memory of that particular load.

So I yelled at Garbo to drop it, and she actually did it. I slowly walked over, my throat already gagging like I had just come face-to-face with mayonnaise on a stick. And there, in the grass, resting quietly on a patch of dead grass, was Garbo's prize: no feathers, no fur. Just a lovely solid dog turd.

At least I didn't step on it.

Happy Mother's Day

Everymom

I kissed Sage's soft, chubby baby girl leg today. Because I could. She was there, warm and squirmy, giggling. Alive. So very alive.

She might not be tomorrow.

The most profound lesson I've learned about motherhood came courtesy of what must have been a deafening sound of crunching steel. I wasn't there. I can only visualize what it felt like, to be in the driver's seat, with Grandma strapped in the passenger seat, the tired but happy children secure in their car seats in the back.

Maybe the conversation was about the carousel ride, or the water fountain the kids splashed in. Maybe one child dozed. Or there was a squabble over a toy. Maybe everyone was singing.

It wasn't even rush hour. But the traffic was backed up, as usual, to the exit for home. Waiting, the minivan all but parked behind a Tahoe. An ordinary day.

In an instant, it was over. A bigrig plowed through the back end until it became the back seat. Mom and Grandma turning around in horror.

The children. The children.

Emma, age 4, and Katie, age 2, died soon after being airlifted to local hospitals. Kyle, who turned 5 the day before, died later that evening in his mother's arms.

Unimaginable. Unfathomable. Unexplainable.

I have cried often about this since I saw the accident pictures in the paper Saturday morning. More so the next day, when I saw for the first time pictures of the smiling, warm-eyed beautiful children.

I studied the photos on their website. They looked so familiar. Could I have met them? They live in the next town. Or is it just that they are a version of the Everyman - in this case, the Everymom. I feel like I know her because I could be her: a mom returning in the early afternoon from an outing with her kids. I've gone to the same places they have. Driven the same highway. It could have easily been my car that was hit, my children's lives ended before they'd begun.

The pictures show a life full of birthday parties and sunny days at the park. Smears of 1st birthday cake surounding a toothy smile. Christmas. A grinning Dad. The two older kids gazing at their newborn sister. Emma kissing Kyle on the cheek.

And now...

Lori is a stay-at-home mom with no children to take care of. No pretty hair to untangle, no warm top of the head to kiss, no soccer uniforms to wash, no urgent cries of "Mommy!" to hurry and come see the lizard on the patio.

Only silence.

I'm sure she did what we all do to try to keep our children safe. We put them to sleep on their tummies from the moment we meet them. When they start to explore, we cover outlets, pad the sharp edges, gate our stairs. Carseats are safety-inspected and always buckled tight. We slather on the sunscreen. Tighten their helmets when running just isn't fast enough and they master scooters and bikes.

We do all these things and more, but the truth is, there is no way to completely protect them. There are terrible illnesses, maniacs with guns who think college students make good target practice, trucks that don't stop.

That is the risk of becoming a mother. The only emotion that can possibly match the overwhelming love you feel for your child is the equally intense sorrow of losing them.

The family has a website with a guestbook. Coble Memorial Website

Many of those who have signed are like myself, women who feel a connection because we are mothers. Many also talk about faith, often writing about the children being in a better place.

I hope the family does find comfort in the religious sentiments. They don't do much for me, though. I wonder if those who say the family should not ask "why?" because "only G-d knows" believe it simply because it's less terrfiying then the knowledge they live in a world where three precious, beautiful children are killed for absolutely no reason.

I can't imagine being Lori and Chris Coble today. Or in the days, months, years to come. What can silence the scream that must continuously eminate from the very core of their beings? How are they not reminded with every breath of those that no longer breathe? The house is full of not just toys and clothes but memories. Of the musky smell of Child. Of children.

Can they look at the kitchen and not see the first gummy mouthful of rice cereal? Be in the living room and not see the first of many steps? Finding a small hidden sock in the couch, seeing a girl who walks just like Emma or Katie - our children become our lives, how can they no longer be?

So I must become a better, more gentle, more tolerant mother. I must laugh more, scold less. Delight in the small things. To do less would be to dishonor the lives of Kyle, Emma and Katie.

To my own Sawyer and Sage, sleeping as I type, I love you more than any words can say. All the way to the moon - and back.

The body is an amazing thing..

The conversation while Sawyer was sitting on the potty..

Mommy? Can I eat my penis?

Mommy's thought bubble: If you could, you'd be the luckiest - and most flexible - man on the planet.

Mommy's response: No, honey, you may not.

Mommy? Can I pretend to eat my penis?


The conversation while Sawyer was playing outside...

Mommy, my nose is very important because it has two holes in it and that's where the boogers come out. They come out of the two little holes. That's why my nose is very important.

The conversation when Sawyer pooped in his pants - for the sixth time in one day...

Sawyer, if you can't poop in the potty, we're going to have to put you back n pullups like a baby.

Mommy, that sounds like a GREAT idea!

Huh?

It's all about the marketing

I am afraid the 1 p.m. naptime for Sawyer is a thing of the past. Truth is, he's just not ready to sleep at that time. Unfortunately, he's also not ready to lose his nap, as he can fill an entire vat with his whine. So right around 2 p.m., I tell him it's time to go to his room for "quiet time." He can bring any toy or books he wants to, much to his surprise. And the only rules are he has to be quiet and he can't get out of bed. We've done it all this week, and each time, he has eventually fallen asleep. The best part? Hearing him say "Mommy, I love quiet time!" several times a day. Am I a genius or what?

The good child

Never thought I'd type those words about Sage, but there you are. She has been such a joy lately. She still isn't really talking much (although she has her own sounds for things, including an "aaah" when she wants a drink or is talking about water) but she is crying a lot less and is becoming quite the clown.

These pictures were taken at The Flower Fields in Carlsbad. It was a gorgeous day, and ranunculas are my new favorite flower!

The Proof is in the Poopy

Maybe. This is my latest theory on my darling little spawn of Satan. He is still having a tough time pooping. Specifically, and sorry if this is TMI but really this is my blog so you already know what you're in for, he prefers to poop standing up. And while wearing his underwear and shorts. He usually will not inform us verbally that he has to poop until it is actually sticking out like a curious turtle.

We are on to him way before that, as he does a very distinctive poop dance (come to think of it, I might have waxed poetically about this in some previous post) that involves him clenching his butt as if he's trying to hold a $100 bill in there and dancing around on his toes. This process can sometimes stretch out for hours until the poop finally makes its appearance. And in the interim, his behavior can escalate. Probably because he's uncomfortable. Nothing that taking a good healthy shit won't cure!

So yesterday, when he was supposed to be napping, he instead killed one of his fish by throwing a heavy sock into his tank right on top of the poor little guy. He eventually got up and pooped - then slept for a few hours.

Today, after viewing the poop dance, I let him stay up and play. Eventually, he went outside to "play" and pooped (in his underwear). I soon after sent him to his room for "quiet time." I told him he could read his books or play nicely in his bed, and that he did not have to sleep. He complained a bit, but eventually, he was in there with a couple trains, and within 30 minutes, he was sound asleep. Still is sleeping.

And his aquarium is blissfully free of little boy debris.

Poop = happy kid. An equation to live by.

Is he a psychopath..or is he just being 3?

That has been the burning question around these parts the past couple days. Just when I was congratulating myself on surviving Sawyer's second year, even going so far as telling people that 3 has been so much more delightful, my darling boy has had a series of transgressions that leave me wondering if he's too young for electroshock therapy.

A few highlights:

1) Clocking his sister in the head. She proceeded to bawl, and when I pointed out to Sawyer that he hurt her, he stared at her like she was a science project. No remorse.

2) After a morning at the aquarium during which he was a perfect child, he decided he didn't want to take his nap. Instead, he arrived at the top of the stairs and announced he did poopy and peepee - in his pants. After cleaning him up in the downstairs bathroom, I ran upstairs to grab him a clean pair of underwear - only to find he had used the 10-gallon aquarium in his room as a repository for paper, toy cars and glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs. The three fish that we've managed to keep alive for the past few weeks were not amused. Nor was I.

3) I interrogated him with compelling questions such as "why did you put stuff in your aquarium?" just so I could hear equally compelling testimony such as "Because I did. He dared to smile. There was not a single tear shed. By him, anyway.

4) I decided he was not going to nap (and I really didn't want him in his room)so I put him in timeout at the bottom of the stairs. He then stood up and ran into the bathroom and closed the door. David arrived home, and I sent him into the bathroom, where he found Sawyer dipping a full roll of toilet paper into the radiation-blue, chemical-filled toilet water.

5) He somehow survived the rest of the day. He fell asleep in our bed for an hour or so, had dinner and finally, at 9, he was in bed. He was not allowed to have any of his "friends", which include two stuffed sharks, a dolphin and Shamu. I checked on him at 9:30, and he was still awake. In fact, he'd been busy - PUTTING CRAYONS AND MORE CARS INTO THE AQUARIUM!!!

No amount of yelling, taking things away or prolonged time-outs make a dent in this kid. He simply does not care. Couple that with no impluse control, and you either have a psychopath in the making, or an adorable 3 year-old boy..

Shake that thing

Sage's first milkshake!

Another badge of motherhood

So I'm bending over, trying to tuck my muffin top back into my pants, and I can't help but see the OLD LADY WRINKLED SKIN bagging below my belly button.

I just read a story in the paper yesterday about this morbidly obese man who went to have the gastric bypass surgery but had to have his pannus (no, this is not a typo) removed. The pannus is "an apron of abnominal fat that hangs below" the knees.

Now, I'm not saying I'm anywhere near to requiring a panniculectomy, and I obviously don't want to make light of a serious medical condition (altho it is kind of interesting that it has a name and a procedure). However, gravity just might pull my OLWS in an all-out sprint with my saggie baggies to see which reaches my knees first

Easter Egg hunt

Future proctologist?

Let's hope not!

Forever young

Mommy, I'm growing up so fast.

Oh no! I will miss little boy Sawyer so much!

That's okay, Mommy. I'm still right here. I'm not going into the forest. I'm right here!

Fashion Loves Company

Sage's newest fashion accessory is her Little Einstein's hooded towel. The child wakes up in the morning, comes downstairs, and starts yelling for Rocket. She wears it constantly around the house, but what's trendsetting if you're not showing it off to the world?

She will not leave home without it. She's worn it to Target, to the grocery store, to preschool to pick up Sawyer.

And she thinks Garbo looks really cool wearing it too..