Some scary math...

So, the Big Boy is 3 1/2 today.
I discovered this, not because I am obsessed with his exact age but because he is obsessed with birthdays.
I mean, ob.sessed.
It's kind of cute.

This morning he announced it was his birthday. Again. Still. According to him, everyday is his birthday. Which, if you think about it, is not a bad way to live. Sure, you'll age a lot faster that way but you'll also eat more cake, open more presents, and blowing out all those candles would be good for your respiratory system (there. A little A&P for you. Enjoy.). Not such a bad life.
Anyway.
When asked how old he was today, he answered, as he always does, "Free!" I prompted, "How old will you be on your NEXT birthday?" "Free!" Ok, well, since every day is your birthday, I'll give you that. Touche. But I was looking for more a slightly more accurate accounting, so I asked him what comes after three... "FOUR!" Ok, phew. He hasn't lost his ability to count. I worry.

But our little exchange prompted me to think about what day it is and how old he actually is. Well, today he is exactly three and a half. Tomorrow he will wake up closer to 4 than to 3. That's depressing. And exciting. I love watching him grow. In Big Boy Birthdays, he's gone from requiring a cake, to a cake and balloons. To a cake, balloons, and presents. To cake, balloons, presents, and candles. To cake, balloons, presents, candles, and friends. You get the point. Now, daily parties require: a red cake with sprinkles and the letters for his name; 6 balloons--one for each color of the rainbow, as well as, a giant "3" balloon; friends, including, but no limited to: Nathan (his imaginary friend), Nathan's mommy, Nathan's baby (Nathan also has a younger sibling), all of mommy's friends (generous kid, no?), Grandma, Pop Pop, and a list of cousins longer than my arm; also, we need candles that "light up!"; and present that is in a square box and wrapped with red paper with balloons on it. Inside is often another cake. What can I say? Child has quite the imagination. But it's fun. It makes a momma happy. I love watching him grow.

And I hate it.
He grows bigger, smarter, cuter, funnier, and OLDER every day. Every day is one day closer to the day he won't need me anymore. It's bittersweet.

And while he approaches 4, his sister approaches 1. Chica Love will be 5 months tomorrow. My littlest miracle is growing up as fast as her brother. Maybe faster. She sits. Holds her own bottle. Jabbers constantly (genetics? Surely you jest...). She's trying like heck to move as fast as her brother (a feat she will have to accept is unlikely to ever happen...at least not if God loves me.) And, in perhaps the straight up cutest thing ever, she has begun to realize that just because she can't see momma doesn't mean momma isn't around. Same applies to her big brother--she is fairly certain the sun rises and sets on him and is at her happiest when he is not only in ear shot, but in her eye line.

I love my kids. More than I can say.
I'm a bit afraid to love my kids.
What would I do without them? I think they, and they alone, provide the oxygen I breathe. They're young, yes, but somehow they've always been with me. That's some crazy physics for you, huh? But it's true. And even as I write this, I know, I know, I can't let them be all that there is to me. Someday, they will not need me in the way they do now. Some day, hopefully some day in the way way way way distant future, the best thing I will do for them will be to let them go. As painful as that will be...I will have to.

And so, I do some scary math.
I will finish the preliminary part of this degree in a year.
Then two years for the pre-med program
Then four years of med school.
An intern year.
Four years of residency.

My big boy will be 15.
My chica love will be 12.
They will be almost grown and I wonder how much I'll have missed. How many soccer games, recitals, school plays, and birthday parties will I miss? How many firsts will not be mine to witness. Will I be there when the Chica Love has her heart broken the first time? Will I witness the Big Boy's first home run hit? I don't know. I want to be. I don't know how I can do it all. But some day they'll be gone.
Then what?

As much as they are me, as much as they are the very oxygen I breathe, I know it's not fair to them. I know they will miss me. I know they'll need me sometimes when I can't be there. But I hope, I pray, in the end, it's worth it. I just plug along and pray.

And I should probably stop doing math. Or maybe stick to calculus or whatever uses imaginary numbers. They're far more forgiving. 

Balls. Dropped, juggled, and otherwise thrown.

Well, I dropped my first ball. First of many, I suspect.

Being the super vaccine loving mother that I am, at the first sign of illness in the Big Boy I made an an appointment to get him his annual flu shot.

Yes. I said, "Flu shot."
Let's clear up some myths about the flu shot, shall we?

• It is not a government conspiracy.
• You will likely not get sick. Unless you have the nasal spray, the virus isn't even alive.
• You can still get the flu, but are less likely to suffer the worst symptoms or have complications.
• Just because you've gone 10 years without having the flu (or shot) does not mean you won't get it this year.
• It does not contain dangerous levels of mercury.
• You (and by "you", I'm including "your child") are more likely to die from the flu than you are to have a serious complication from the flu shot.

 So now that we've established why I'm not afraid to get my kid the flu shot, let's discuss WHY I do it. It's pretty simple, actually. I don't want him to suffer. I don't want him to give the flu to his sister who is far more likely to die from flu complications than he is. I don't want him to give the flu to anyone else--especially someone who is elderly, immunocompromised, can't get the shot due to allergies or other medical conditions, or is very young. Basically, I believe that protecting him protects you. You're welcome.
Also, I really, really, really do not have time for the flu. So everyone in the SoccerMom house gets it.

Ok, so back to my story. I called to set up his flu shot. They offered me a choice of two appointments. Wednesday at 4:50 or Saturday at 10:30.
Neither was an excellent option for me. I have class at 5:30 on Wednesdays and orchestrating a simultaneous kid-exchange/doctor's appointment could be tricky, especially when you fact in Boston-area rush hour traffic. Hmmmm...maybe Saturday would be better. Except Saturday was already booked with a Kid's Consignment sale and already-paid-for trip to the Renaissance Faire. Hmmmm... Wednesday it is! I can't miss a sale or a giant turkey leg! Priorities must be managed!

The plan was to bring both kids to the appointment 15 minutes early and hope they could get us in sooner. It should be just a quick needle jab to the arm but appointments for the Big Boy, regardless of reason, tend to also include a height/weight check. This goes back to his first post-natal appointment. He was a scrawny little dude. Oh, was he scrawny. He's never been much of an eater and with his host of health issues, growth had always been a concern. Fortunately, he managed to turn that around in his third year and caught up with his peers. UNfortunately, he has some powerful genetics and now we carefully watch his weight to make sure he doesn't tip the scales in the wrong direction. (Don't worry, pearl clutchers, we don't discuss this with him. He doesn't "diet". We just help him make good food choices and scale back his "treats" if the scale starts creeping. No big deal.)

Anyway. Plan was to bring both kids early, hope for a quick appointment, and do a kid hand-off in the parking lot before I ran to class. Big Boy gets his shot, nobody (knock on wood) gets sick, and I even have time to stop for a latte. Perfect.

Or.
I could completely forget about the appointment, bring the kids to the mall 1/2 hour away from class, and attempt a kid-hand off in the parking lot of the Husband Guy's office. Also an option.
So that's what we did.

The problem with this plan is that it put me 1/2 hour away from school, in the wrong direction, during rush hour traffic.
I had to drag the kids out of the mall because I lost track of time. If you saw a lager than average woman on the escalator with a stroller and a toddler, that was me. (Yeah, I know. Escalator and stroller are not compatible. Whatever. It worked out. I never promised to be perfect. In fact, I believe I promised the exact opposite.)
The hand-off took longer than expected because the HG couldn't find his car. (seriously? Dude, you have a master's degree in Computer Science. Just.saying.)
I had to drive the HG's car and I can never figure out the stupid radio in that car. I know. Cry me a river.
And (I think everyone can get behind my pain on this one) I didn't have time to stop for coffee.

AND
During all of this, the pediatrician's office was calling to remind me of the appointment. My failure to respond (the phone was on vibrate. I can't hear vibrate.) resulted in a missed appointment fee. DAMNIT.
It's one thing to drop balls. That generally results in an inconvenience or two. But this cost me money. Now I'm annoyed. Annoyed and decaffeinated. And $75 poorer. Again I say, "DAMNIT!"

I need to get better at all of this.
Either that or I need more balls.

Icky icks

That's what we have in this house. The icky icks.
Or as The Big Boy says, "I'm not feewing so good. All my parts hurt." Poor little bubba.

And I'm worried The Chica Love is next. I can handle a Big Boy illness. We had our fair share of scares with him when he was an itty bitty, so it's all just par for the course. We roll with it and know it'll pass eventually. The Chica Love isn't even 4 months old yet. I worry. A lot.

Worry is kind of my thing, though. Some people breath oxygen, I eat worry like tic-tacs. If I ever stopped worrying, I'm pretty sure my lungs would collapse and my heart would immediately cease. Or something equally as dramatic (oh, I'm also just a smidge dramatic sometimes. I know, right? Who knew?). So, since the Chica Love coughed like 4 times after the Big Boy had a fever for three days, I have spent hours (no really, hours) reading all the SIDS research I can get my hands on. Not the smartest move I've ever made. For a couple of reasons.

For one, I learned absolutely nothing. Not true. I learned that nobody has any freaking clue and there are a lot of crazy people out there. Some have even claimed SIDS could be the result of vaccinations (::shakes head no::) and that the medical community is suppressing the evidence. Which really leads me to ask: why? Like, where is the logic in that? Really? (I just deleted an entire argument for why this is a stupid hypothesis is ridiculous, but I was rambling. Yes. More so than usual. If you're interested, read this.) So, I really need to know: What is it about vaccines that scare people so badly that otherwise normal people turn into raving Conspiracy Theorists? Whatever. I don't even care. I'm too tired.

So my point, is that between a sick Big Boy and crazy obsessiveness about something I can't control. I've had very little sleep in the last few days. And I have absolutely NO idea what the point of this entire post was. I had a point at the beginning. Now? Not so much.

I guess I can sum up: My kids are sick.
I'm tired. And neurotic.

Oh, and hungry. I also started a new diet.
Yeah. It's only Monday and it's been that kind of week.
Nowhere to go but up?

One down...

Class, that is.
One down, 3 billion to go.
By my rough estimate, anyway.

Tonight was Spanish for Medical Professionals. I know. Thrilling. The good news is that it's self-paced, so I can wrap this puppy up quickly. The bad news is that I'm pretty sure I'm older than my professor.

This is something I need to get over. If being the oldest in my class is going to be problem for me, I might as well just pack it in now. Because I will be the oldest quite a bit of the time. It's something I can't allow myself to get worked up about. I am very good about getting worked up over things I shouldn't. This can't be one of them. I'm already scared enough that I won't do it.

Won't be able to do it.
Won't want to do it.
Won't be able to afford to do it.
Won't get in.
Won't follow through. As usual.

I can't let myself stop or worry about something completely out of my control. I am 37. I am. It is what it is. If I let that number (Treinta y siete, thank you very much) worm it's way into my brain, I'll never get anywhere.  It's not even that old. I mean, yeah. It's old. But it's not THAT old. Right? (RIGHT?!)

Really, the only thing I can't control is affording it. And even that I have some control over. I've heard tell of something called a budget. I'm not sure how it works, but someone (The Husband Guy) swears it helps you not spend more money than you have. Interesting concept. In fact, he (The HG) has already suggested a few cost saving strategies. This is a conversation that invariably gives me quite a bit of guilt. He works a lot. He works hard to provide for our family. I feel like if I really appreciated him, I'd just follow the "right" path.

Get the kids to school. Go back to work. Earn an income. Take some burden off him.
But no.
**I** need to go to Med School.
I need to take money that should go for other things (retirement, savings, kids' college. Beer.) and go to med school.

Add guilt to my list.

Won't be able to do it.

Won't want to do it.
Won't be able to afford to do it.
Won't get in.
Won't follow through. As usual.
Won't be able to shake the guilt.\

I need to take this one step at a time. One class at a time.
So, one down. 3 billion to go.

Pink Elephants and other rambling stories

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I'm baaaack

OK. So it's been a while.
Hello Internet. Or rather, hello the 12 people who follow me.

OK. More like, hello the 12 people who follow me who I already know and have talked to recently because nobody else follows this blog. But whatevs. Let's not split hairs.

 Where did I go? Why am I back? And, most importantly, what kind of shoes am I wearing? All important questions. I'll start with the shoes. I'm barefoot. I was wearing a very cute pair of plaid Sperrys earlier, but after an  hour or two at the mulch covered park they were filled with little mulchlets and I took them off so as to avoid splinters and chipped toenail polish. Now my toes are cold. Told you it was important.

Where did I go?
I felt like I had nothing new to say. I think everyone and their sister is sick of mommy blogs. What unique did I bring to the market? Not much. I mean. Sure, I'm cute and witty. But so are at least 2 or 3 others. I was finding it difficult to have anything I thought was interesting enough to post. I'd start a post. Read it. Roll my eyes at myself. Then go play on Facebook for an hour. Which invariably ended with me going to bed too late to function well in the morning. And there is nothing toddler boys do better than smell out weakness in the mother figure. After too many mornings allowing Dunkin Donuts to feed The Big Boy, I stopped. I wish I could say that curbed the Dunkin Donuts habit. Or the late nights. Or the Facebook addiction. It did none of the above. "A" for effort?

Oh right. I also had a baby.
The Chica Love joined the family in May and she is the straight up sweetest baby girl ever. Ever. Sorry, other moms. She really is. I mean, I'm sure yours is cute and all. But someone has to be best. There is nothing wrong with second. Chica Love simply won't ever have to experience it. She's that awesome.
Chica Love's arrival is something I'll have to devote an entire post to. Someday.

Which brings us the bigger question: Why am I back?
Excellent question. So glad you asked.
I have kind of a lot going on right now. New baby. Potty training (also another post. Maybe another blog. Potty training is not for the weak. I wonder why people ever gave up diapers in the first place. I think we should start a movement to make diapers socially acceptable. Who's with me? I know the Depends Lobby is straight up salivating at this idea...). Keeping the house clean ("clean": Nobody from Hoarders is knocking on my door). Dieting. You know. Nothing new.

But there is Big News. The real reason I'm back.
Med School.
Maybe.

I know what you're thinking: "Shouldn't you pick a career you could actually start before you die?" Probably. But I've never been known for doing things logically. Where's the fun in that?

So I'm back. Mostly to blog about how it all goes down. Some to try to figure it out. It's not an easy decision. It's a major life change. It's a big deal. I'm 37 in my early 30's not as young as I used to be and considering a complete career change that involves 12 years of education and training. I have kids. A house. I'm pretty sure a husband in the mix somewhere. How is this all going to work? Will it? SHOULD it? I don't know. But I figure, if I'm going to do it, I might as well share it with the world.

Or the 12 people who actually read this.
Or at least pretend to.

Sleep Wars: Episode One

The Phantom Menace, indeed.


Sleep, that is. It is both phantom and a menace in this house.

And everyone's a critic. Why is it that as soon as you mention sleep issues everyone has a solution? Everyone's solution is to "Cry it Out". Well, that's lovely. But if Darth Spawn is not crying but flat out refusing to stay in bed or make any other gesture towards agreeing to at least leave you alone for an 8 (or more, please GOD, let it be more) hour stretch, what, pray tell, is the solution?

Answer: cry.
Second answer: wine.

Real answer: I don't know.

And, frankly, neither do any of the well meaning people who offer solutions. What you have is a flat out battle of wills. And I am old. Which means my will is old. And we all know old people fall asleep sometime between the early bird special and prime time. So by the time Bedtime for Bubba (look out for a children’s book. I will write it as soon as I clear 2 years of sleep deprivation from my brain. So sometime in roughly 2037...) rolls around, my will has hit the hay.

Darth Spawn, on the other hand is just getting his stubborn groove on.

Please, come, join me for a bedtime journey.
7:00 Bathtime. Usually goes off without a hitch. (Shampooing is never fun for either of us, but you know. It's fine. I SAID IT'S FINE.)

7:30 Time to go upstairs.

7:35 I said, "time to go upstairs"

7:36 "Ok, here we go. Momma's going to carry you up."

7:37 "Yes, momma carry you."

7:38 "Ok, do it yourself. Thank you."

7:39 Finally, upstairs. (After climbing each stair as slowly as humanly possible.)

7:40 "Do you want the pirate jammies or the striped jammies?"

7:41 "Do you want the pirate jammies or the striped jammies?"

7:42 "Do you want the pirate jammies or the striped jammies?"

7:43 "OK, striped jammies it is. Ok ok ok ok fine. Pirate jammies. Please come put them on."

7:44 "Bubba, please let momma help. Ok ok ok ok, do it yourself."

7:45 "Bubba, please let momma help. Ok ok ok ok, do it yourself."

7:46 "Bubba, please let momma help. Ok ok ok ok, do it yourself."

7:48 "Bubba, please let momma help. Ok ok ok ok, do it yourself."

7:49 "Yes, Bubba, momma would be happy to help you. Thank you for asking so nicely." (Unlike Elvis, Patience has not left the building yet.)

7:50 "Five minutes of trains, then it's time to chose a story." (commence countdown by minute...)

7:55 "Ok, chose a story, please."

7:56 "Bubba, please chose a story."

7:57 "Do you want Sneeches or George?"

7:58 "Ok, George it is. Oh, ok, we'll read Potty. Come here."

::Commence story reading::

8:15 "Shhh, Bubba, it's time for prayers."

8:16 "Shhh, Bubba, it's time for prayers."

8:17 "Shhh, Bubba, it's time for prayers."

8:18 "Ok, no prayers. Good night."

::place child in bed with lots of bedtime kisses:: (Hope, as it were, is still alive. He will sleep. He will sleep. He will sleep)

As recommended by at least 7 of the top 19874719 sleep experts, I stay in the room and silently place him back in bed every time he gets up.

He's on the floor. Back in bed.
Between the wall and his bed. Back in bed.
On the floor. Back in bed.
On the floor. Back in bed.
On the floor. Back in bed.
DID HE JUST ARMY CRAWL ACORSS THE FLOOR TO HIS TRAIN TABLE? OH NO HE D'INT. (yes, yes he did) Back in bed.
Between the wall and his bed. Back in bed.
Between the wall and his bed. Back in bed.
On the floor. Back in bed.
Seriously, child? The army crawl, again?! Do I look stupid!? (DON'T ANSWER THAT.) Back in bed.
Between the wall and his bed. Back in bed.
What are you doing? You're not seriously pushing your bed around the room? No. Seriously. You are. Really?! Back in bed. Push bed back to original position.
On the floor. Back in bed.
Pushing the bed around the room. Again. Back in bed.

...You get the point.

After an hour of this, patience has officially left the building. Time to call in troop reinforcements. The Force is strong with this one.
ObiWanDaddy steps up and takes over. After another hour, success is claimed! Victory is ours!

Or is it? He's sleeping on the floor.

Sleep experts need to offer real life solutions. Cry it out? Absolutely an option. If your kid cries. Then there are kids who, like mine, cry with such gusto they can't breathe. I suppose one could argue not breathing would stop the crying problem, but it seems a rather drastic approach. Toss in some asthma for good measure and you have a kid who can't be left to cry.
Ok, cross that off the list.

The above method was developed after reading up on some "no cry" solutions. ("No cry" by the way? A total and utter lie. Told by lying liars who lie. I cried. No cry. My ass.) Clearly we can cross that off the list.

What's next? I'm considering duct tape. But I hear CPS frowns on that.
That basically leaves prayer, hope that someday he'll sleep, and lots and lots of coffee.
Unless someone has Yoda on speed dial.