The time has come to say goodbye.

I’m leaving this site.

Because Greg rocks and set me up with my own URL.

Yes.  That’s right.

BECAUSE GREG ROCKS AND SET ME UP WITH MY OWN URL!

Yay, Greg!

I’m very excited to announce that we’ve graced the world with PutDownTheUrinalCake.com.

I know, I know.  I’m always thinking of ways to improve the lives of others.

And what better way than to make people look at the words “urinal cake” day in and day out?

So, if you subscribe to this site, please add PutDownTheUrinalCake.com to your reader.  Or, you can always subscribe via e-mail by clicking here.  I’d love to have you on board the Crazy Train!

Greg and I are still in the process of honing the new site, and you may notice minor updates for a while.  However, the format should be familiar and even easier to read than before.  (And I hope you’ll let me know if you have suggestions or find anything that needs fixing.)

It’s after midnight on Friday, and I’m a tired girl who must away to my bed.

Before I go, though, I loved, loved, loved my fortune at the Chinese restaurant today for lunch.  So I took a picture to share with you.

Why, yes.

I do believe it is.

See you all on the flip side!

And, in case you didn’t catch it, the flip side = PutDownTheUrinalCake.com.

Sometimes my kids call me “Leanne.”

Then again, sometimes my 11-year-old son calls me “STOP IT, MOM!  Just STOP it!” when I ask him to empty the dishwasher.  And then I’m torn.  Hug the child with expressive language disorder for putting together a complete, enunciated sentence, or send him to his room.

The room, ladies and gentlemen.

The room wins.  But, honestly, the room wins because I’m afraid that if I point out the speech success, Ian will freeze up, and it’ll stop.

Anyway, back to Leanne.  I love that my kids love her, and I’m happy to share the Mom title.  It takes a village, and Leanne lives in mine.

She watches my kids when I work my part-time job.  Or, as I like to call it, when-I-get-to-have-a-parenting-break time.  Or when-I-don’t-have-to-clean-up-spilled-juice time.  Or when-no-one-puts-any-body-parts-up-my-shirt time.  Or when-I-can-go-potty-all-by-myself time.

Anyway, back to Leanne.

Leanne runs a daycare out of her home, and she takes classes to improve her business.

I can’t remember the last time I read a book on raising children.  Do like-minded blogs count when they serve to bolster my already well-honed thoughts on how to raise kids?  No?  Well, then.

Aaaand back to Leanne.

I can focus.  Really.

Leanne wrote to me this week.  I thought you might be interested in taking a gander at my personal e-mail correspondence.  Because, like everything else in my life, it’s serious, poignant, and thought-provoking.

From Leanne to me:

I’m reading another child care course and just had to share.

If you see me winking a lot, it’s not a nervous tic.

It’s because this course has told me 437 times in 122 pages that I should wink at children to make them feel good about themselves.

I’m sorry.  I really love your children, but I don’t think I can start winking at them.

I will if you make me, but really??

What a timely message!

Why, this very week, in response to the Why Do You Read This Blog? survey question, my friend Webb answered “Because you winked at me on Match.com pretending to be my future wife.”

As you know, it’s true.  I did.  I went on Match disguised as my friend and winked at all the boys I liked.  It was fun!  Then they got married.  I am SUCH a good winker!

And so I got to thinking about the power of a good wink.

And then I got to thinking about how sorely Leanne is mistaken.

And then I got to thinking about how it’s my job to lovingly correct her.

After all, if our friends won’t boss us, there will be a great, big, empty chasm of non-bossiness.

And then people will be free to live their lives without the fear of being judged by others.

And then our world will fall into anarchy and chaos.

And, since no one wants a world full of anarchy and chaos, I felt compelled to write this letter to Leanne:

Dear Leanne,

I’ve felt for quite some time that my children have been missing out on being recipients of winking at your house.  I didn’t know how to bring it up, but this gives me the perfect opportunity.

I realize that your parents may not have winked at you when you were a child.  That means you may not feel the winking void.

Nevertheless, I think it’s important that you seriously consider the impact on winking on a child’s behavior.

For example, and as you know, Aden was hitting, biting, and kicking other students two weeks ago at school.  Her principal was in constant contact.  There was a threat of suspension.

Also, Aden’s room smelled like butt.

And also also, Aden didn’t want to stop playing with her little brothers to go potty, so she urinated all over her top bunk mattress.  Several times.

In addition to consequences at school, Aden had consequences at home. She missed more than a week of screen time.  I may have planned two separate family movie nights during that time, just to make a point.  Aden also cleaned her room, bathed daily, and went through a gallon of Febreeze to eliminate myriad bedroom odors.  I know, I know; I’m the meanest mom ever.

(And let me take this break right here, dear reader, to tell you that this entire example is true.  Oh, yes.  I drew on real life for this letter.  Try not to be jealous.  This is a lifestyle blog, meaning you want this lifestyle.  Right?  Don’t ya?  But, back to Leanne…)

But then I remembered.  We’ve just been so darn busy, we forgot to wink.  The poor kid has been reacting out of a winkless environment.

We started winking, and all of Aden’s problems were magically fixed.  The power of positive winking can’t be underestimated.

I do hope you’ll consider my compelling evidence for winking.

In friendship,

Beth

In return, Leanne sent me this:

Dear Beth,

I was never winked at by my parents, it’s true.

It’s really hard to know if you have any worth as a human being when you live in a winkless environment, but I never would have realized that this was the root of all my problems if it weren’t for the Harvard-educated author of my course on understanding children.

I’m currently searching for a seminar, Winking is Winning, and hoping it will be in our area soon so I can apply this child-rearing technique posthaste.  I’m not sure I can do it correctly without professional instruction.

I’ve heard the practice sessions are grueling.

I saw a TMZ episode where a woman had to be taken out on a stretcher from one of their seminars because she was skipping ahead to advanced material on Alternating Eye.  Sadly, I will never be able to achieve Alternating Eye Winking as I have only ever been able to master the left.

But while the task seems daunting, I feel like I have to risk the failure if it means the children in my care could grow up to spread winking far and wide.  One day they may bring peace and prosperity to Earth.

Future generations might have ginormous, protruding brows from their overdeveloped winking muscles, but that is a small price to pay in humanity’s evolution.

Leanne

I hope this is a lesson to all of you.

Next time you feel the bossiness urge, by all means, follow your instincts!

And if you feel a wink comin’ on, wink on, friends.

You could change a life.  Wink on.

According to my 4-year-olds:

God died on the cross.

God came back alive.

He came back alive because he didn’t want to miss Easter.

He didn’t want to miss Easter because he really, really likes to color eggs and hide them with the Easter bunny.

Also, God had to find his Easter basket because it had candy, and candy is good.

As always,  I like my kids’ God.  She’s good times.

Hey, I’ve always been pretty thrilled that Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine.  What can I say?  I guess my theology is in line with my 4-year-olds’.

Cheers!

P.S. to people at my church:  Greg and I are scheduled to teach the preschool class this Sunday.  Easter Sunday.  If you need to make changes to the line-up at the last minute, I completely understand.

Although the survey is now closed, you can always post your comments or send them to me privately at fivekidsisalotofkids@gmail.com.

In case you’re curious, I’ve written up a few of the survey results below.

I wish I could’ve copied everything, but then you might sue me when your eyes bleed.  I, on the other hand, am a freak and enjoyed all the reading and analysis, for which I sincerely thank you.  (I like filling out forms, too.  See what I mean by freak?)

The results below are kind of long, mostly because I suck at brevity.  So if you’re short on time, scroll to the bottom and read the section titled “What else do you want me to know?”  It’s worth the read because you all are HILARIOUS.

Gratefully,

Beth

Five Kids: The Survey Results

Why do you read Five Kids?

(with my comments in parentheses)

1. You capture the mom experience with all its pathos and humor!
2. Because you winked at me on Match.com pretending to be my future wife.  (It’s true.  I did.  I went on Match disguised as my friend and winked at all the boys I liked.  It was fun!  And then they got married.  I am SUCH a good winker!  The end.)
3. I’m gleaning tips on how to be succinct from you.  (Bahahaha!  You should probably reconsider.)
4. Don’t feel stalked, but I look for you at the library, the park, or even the dentist’s office.  (As I told my friend, Leslie, I’ve never had a stalker I didn’t like.  I think that’s one of the advantages of being utterly unknown.  I’d look for you, too, except for that whole, silly anonymous survey thing.  You’ll have to talk to my original stalker, Kelleigh, though, if you ever want in on the stalking action.  She already called it.)
5. I greatly enjoy the tone of your posts, and the message that you constantly are putting forth, which I would describe as “Family, it’s why we’re here.”
6. I’m your dad… and Mom makes me.  (Aw!  Thanks, Dad!)
7. Your blog makes me hear your voice in my head.  (I hear my voice in my head, too.  Sometimes, it’s uncomfortable and weird.  You might want to have a medical professional check that out.)

What topics should I cover more?

Well, this was certainly an eye-opener.

Eighty-seven percent of you think I should post about whatever I want.  What a coincidence.  I LOVE posting about whatever I want!

The other 13% of you think I should post more about adoption, special needs, poo (oh, how I like you, poo person), my job, myself, my friends Jody and Heidi (hi, Jody and Heidi!), and especially marriage.

Greg, did you see that?  They want me to post more about you.  Hehehe.

Finally, one person wrote, “There are topics you’re NOT covering?”  Yes, Dad.  There are.  I can give you a list.  Hanky panky’s at the top.  You’re welcome.

On Ads and Giveaways

Advertisements:

1. 92% of you are OK with them or think I should’ve had them up long ago.
2. 1,000,000% of you hate pop-ups, banners, scrolling crap, and otherwise irritatingly intrusive advertising.  Hear, hear!
3. 0% of you click on them.  Yeah, I don’t either.

Giveaways:

Only 30% of you genuinely love giveaways and contests.  And most of the 30% said it’s not about the stuff.

I’m shocked.  Shocked, I tell you!  And thrilled that so many of you want to read for the sake of reading the blog.  I’m sending you all little heart icons right this second.

So then I thought about giveaways and contests and why I like hosting them.  My conclusion: ‘cause it’s like a little party on my blog!

When I do contest or giveaways, more of you comment and tell me your stories, which I love to infinity, because then I get to meet you and carry on conversations with you.

For entries, most of you wrote something like:

• Please don’t make me do anything other than comment!
• Please don’t make me do Facebook and Twitter for an extra entry. That’s crazy annoying.
• Please don’t give away my information.

To which I respond:

• OK.
• OK.
• Never!

What do I say or do that you just can’t stand?

One of you responded, “This is a dumb question.”

Ha!  I laughed and laughed.

Then I realized how true it was ‘cause the rest of you said, “If I couldn’t stand it, I wouldn’t read it.”  Um, oh yeah.

If there’s one thing you could change about the Five Kids blog, what would it be?

(with my comments in parentheses)

1. Recipe section.  (Alright.  Here you go.  Toast, by Cai:  First, toast a piece of bread.  Then butter it.  Then slather ranch dressing on it.  Eat and enjoy.  Ta da!  Are you sure you want a recipe section?)
2. I don’t know if there are marital rules established so that funny adventures concerning Greg are off limits, but I find it fun to commiserate about the differences between moms and dads.  (There’s another one, Greg.  There are lots like this.  How’re ya doing?  Hyperventilating yet?  Yeah.  I don’t blame you.)

What else do you want me to know?

This is the best question ever asked in a survey.  Ever.

Ever.

Because these are a few of the things you said (with my comments in parentheses) :

1. I don’t like to pee right after someone else. For instance, at work, I have a favorite stall. If the toilet has just been flushed when I go in, I won’t use it. I’m a mess in a public rest room. That’s probably not what you meant, huh?
2. I think I have a date for prom!  (Yay!)
3. Tell your sister-in-law Kim hello for me. I went to college with you and she sent me a link to your blog a while back.  (“Hi, Kim!”  Done!  I love checking things off my To Do list that easily.  Awesome!)
4. I have an almost 4 year old who only eats go-gurts and granola bars.  (Hey, you!  You remember what else you said?  The survey anonymity is killing me.  Email me.  We’ll talk.)
5. It’s almost 10:00 and my 10 year old had a McDonald’s fudge sundae for dinner.  Yep.
6. When I was in high school my room smelled like cat pee and I couldn’t find the source until I found a paper bag under the bed that my cat had decided to use as a bathroom. It was such a relief to find the source!
7. You should get this published.  (Yes, please.)
8. I dislike surveys.  (How do you feel about ridiculously long survey results?)
9. My 13 month old son decided to eat one of his own poop nuggets.  (Hey!  Remember the person who wanted more posts about poo?  This is serendipity!)

You’re going to have to give me a minute.  I’m laughing too hard to keep going.

What’s Next?

I’m working on the practical application of all I learned, and you’ll hear more in the days and weeks to come.

One thing I gleaned that I can implement soon is your request for a Frequently Asked Questions page.  It’s in process, and there’s a post coming soon which will answer one of your most pressing questions:

Hey, Beth.  You post a LOT of personal stories about your family.  Like the story about your mom’s butt scope procedure.  Is that OK with your family, or are you sometimes afraid they’re going to smother you in your sleep?

Have I mentioned how much you make me laugh?  SO much.

I’ll ask you again when I actually post about the FAQ, but please feel free  in the meantime to ask me (frequent) questions through comments or by emailing me at fivekidsisalotofkids@gmail.com.

In Conclusion: THANK YOU

The parts I left out of all of this… (here’s where my dad says, “You left stuff out?”)… were the amazingly kind and thoughtful comments you all left.

Frankly, you were all pretty useless in the “what can I improve” department; all compliments.

In fact, I can’t go outside anymore because my head is too big and people will point and stare.

Oh, heck.  If pointing and staring stopped me, I’d have been a shut-in way before now.

What I mean to say is…

THANKS!

Abbie and I were discussing creep-out levels, because she started it.  See me placing blame?

I’m placing blame as a proactive defense for the gross things I’m about to reveal.

Oh, sigh.

Fine.

It’s all me.

Poor Abbie merely mentioned the phrase “creeping you out,” and then I escalated the creep level all by myself.

I was telling Abbie that she’d have to do something really epic if she ever wants to truly creep me out.

For example, I once helped my screamingly constipated baby get his poo out by gently scooping off the emerging poo with a rubber baby spoon.

Gross?  Yes.

Medically approved?  No.

Effective?  Yes!  Happy, pain-free baby.

And now you can see that my creep-out level is very, very high.

This is the point of every post where I wonder what in the world I’m doing.

Just thought you’d enjoy sitting here with me for a minute.

How’re you doing?

You doing OK?

You ready to move on?

Take a deep breath.  That’s what I’m doing.  They say it helps with nerves.

So, as I said, the whole creep-out thing got me to thinking about some of the weirdest things I’ve ever done for my kids.

I settled on this:

I think the weirdest thing I’ve ever done was for Abby when she was 3 years old.

We were on an airplane.

We were descending, and the Fasten Seatbelt sign had been on for probably 5 minutes.  That meant, by my inexpert calculation, that we had around 25 minutes until we were on the ground.

That’s when Abby announced that she had to go potty.

Of course she did.

I asked her if she could wait.

Of course she couldn’t.

We waited anyway.

I had her wait 2 minutes.  Then 2 more.

Then 2 more.

She went from talking to crying.

Then from crying to wailing.

It became clear she really, truly couldn’t wait.

My dilemma:

1. Be the passenger who disregards the seatbelt sign and compromises the safety of my child to get her to the potty.
2. Be the passenger who lets her kid wet her pants in the airplane seat.
3. Come up with an alternative.

Door #3 felt like my only real option.

I told her to hold on.  Mommy was thinking of a Plan.

Just like my brother and I used to groan whenever my parents told us we were about to have an Adventure, so my kids groan whenever Mommy has a Plan.

Even at 3, Abby understood the implications of The Plan.  She whimpered quietly.

I took all 3 barf bags from the seat pockets in front of us, and I used them to line her seat, scooching them firmly underneath her bum without removing her seatbelt.

I took off my sweatshirt, triple folded it, and put it under Abby and on top of the barf bag seat liners.

I put Abby’s jacket over her lap and scooched down her little pants.

And then I told her to pee.

Pee?  She looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

Oh, sweet baby Abby, your mother lost her mind long ago.  Wait ’til you see me with more than one kid.

Yes, pee.

On my sweatshirt.  In the middle of a crowded plane.

No one was looking.  I swear.  Window seats are awesome.

After she was done, I pulled my sweatshirt out from under her, replaced her pants to their upright and locked position, and moved the barf bags from the seat and into my garbage bag.

We deplaned 25 minutes later.

Me with my urine-soaked sweatshirt tied around my waist, my child in one hand, our bags in the other.

Abby with a smile on her face.

I told the flight attendants to check the seat.  “My daughter may have had a little accident.  I think we caught it in time, but the next passenger might appreciate it if you make sure.”

Like most of my parenting decisions, I did the best I could at the time.  And I will forever question it later.

Just makes you want to book a flight somewhere, doesn’t it?

I dare you not to think of this the next time you’re on a plane.  Special present from me to you.  You’re welcome.

• If you feed your children sugar cereal, they’ll grow up to be fat, lazy and have bad teeth.
• If you feed your kid rice cakes, rye crackers, plain cheerios (not the honey nut kind – are you crazy??), your children will grow up to be healthy, contributing members of society.

Those facts are true unless you’re my husband.

Or me.

OK, so they may not be true at all.  But it sounded good when I started.

Greg was raised on Lucky Charms.  I’m pretty sure Greg’s mom offered Raisin Bran, too, but I’m almost positive Greg didn’t eat it.

Greg has never had a weight problem.

Greg is a smart, healthy, contributing member of society.

Greg thinks he should eat only when he’s hungry.

Seriously.  Please feel free to be as irritated by that as I am.

We have conversations that go like this:

“Greg, do you want some of this double chocolate fudge layer cake?”

“No, thanks.  I’m not hungry.”

I’m sorry, but are you kidding me?  What does double chocolate fudge layer cake have to do with hunger?

Nothing, I tell you.

Not one thing.

You eat double chocolate fudge layer cake because it’s yummy.  And because it makes the bad feelings go away.  (Ha!  Just kidding on that last one.  Kind of.)

In fact, one of the main reasons I run is so I can eat double chocolate fudge layer cake.  I saw a van once when I participated in a relay race.  The women in it had decorated all the windows.  One window read, “We run so we can eat.”  I wanted to hang out in that van.

By contrast to Greg’s childhood, I was not allowed to have Lucky Charms.  My mother was very good about having a healthy house.  We ate Adam’s natural, no sugar peanut butter.  And then I bought and hid tubs of Betty Crocker fudge frosting under my bed to eat by the spoonful.  Or went down the street to my friend Shannon’s house where I’d beg a Carnation Instant Breakfast bar off of them.  Heaven!

Enter parenting.

I kind of preemptively lost the sugar cereal battle.

Like, what am I gonna say?  I’m so much healthier for excluding it?  Eating Adam’s-peanut-butter-and-natural-honey-covered rice cakes gave me such a good attitude toward food?

Greg brought home more Lucky Charms this week.  (Actually, it was a bag of Magic Stars, the knock-off brand, but that doesn’t have the name recognition.  Name brand cereal while feeding five kids?  Hahahaha!)

Lucky Charms makes the natural Mommy in me crazy.

No one noticed the difference, though, since I operate on Crazy most of the time.

When Cai saw his Daddy’s bag of crappy goodness, he did an actual happy dance.

We pray before dinner on the nights when we sit down to eat all together.  My kids fight over who gets to pray.  There’s yelling.  There are tears.  It’s darling.

Cai won the knock-down, drag-out prayer fight the night Greg brought home more Lucky Charms.  This was his prayer:

Dear Jesus,

I played wiff my fwends.

No timeouts at We-anne’s house.

Daddy bought Wucky Chahms!  Yay!  YayayayayaaaAAAAAYYY!

Amen

I’m so proud.

Sometimes, they snuggled right down.

Sometimes, their ridged little bodies turned stone stiff and refused to relax or bend.

I am not sleepy, and thou shalt not comfort me, Oh Maternal Harbinger of Naptime to Come.

Even when they couldn’t talk, that message was loud and clear.

Until I’d say, “Lay your head, little one.  It’s OK to lay your head down.”

They sighed and their hard heads dropped with a loud ker-thunk onto my collarbone, which is sincerely one of the sweetest forms of pain in the known universe.  Especially with the accompanying whiff of baby shampoo in the wind.

Mmm.  Content baby.  Content mommy.

Lay your head.

I still get to say it for just a bit longer to my 4-year-olds, even though their legs dangle below my knee-caps when I pick them up.

What got me thinking about this today?

I walked by a photo I keep in the house.  Like most decorative items, it’s faded into the background a bit over the years.  But today I picked it up again and reminisced.

It’s a photo of my friend’s wedding.

I was maid of honor and Abby was flower girl.

We took a picture of the three of us.

There’s always been a rather marked height difference between my friend and me.

So, well, I laid my head.

And then the bride laughed.  And the photographer snapped one of my favorite photos of all time.

Just goes to show, you can dress me up, but you can’t take me anywhere.

I’d say “I can’t imagine,” but I realize I often say that, and then I find myself imagining.  Sending myself through make-believe scenarios.  Wondering what I’d do if my children were with me.  Wondering what I’d do if we were apart.

I guess when I say, “I can’t imagine,” I really mean “I can’t know.“

So when I read Holly’s story about her earthquake experience, I found it beautifully written, and, perhaps oddly — ’cause I’ll admit I’m a weirdo — I found it comforting.  Comforting because Holly’s story means I can cease my imagining and rest in her experience.

In addition to being a beautiful writer, Holly is an artist.  Or, maybe more accurately, in addition to being a beautiful artist, Holly is a writer.  Her blog, Love 2 Scrap in Japan, showcases her truly lovely digital and paper scrapbook pages.

See?  Beautiful.

With Holly’s permission, I’ve reprinted a portion of her April 8th post below, reflecting on her experience being a mama in Japan on March 11, 2011.  I thought you, like me, might find it amazing.

Hugging my kids,

Beth

For the Record

by Holly in Japan

I don’t have pictures of her procedure.

I could have had pictures of her procedure.  I understand there are pictures of her procedure.  In fact, I was offered pictures of her procedure.

But I was strong and right, and I refused.

You’ll be glad very, very soon.

Me:  Cael, did you know Nana had surgery today?  Just like Cai!

Cael:  What kind of surgery did Nana have?

I didn’t think this far ahead when I started the conversation.  Since it really isn’t hard to deduce where the conversation would go, this shows how very thoughtful I’m not.

Me:  Well, Cael, Nana had a scope put up her butt.

Cael, more horror-stricken than when he caught his big brother, Ian, playing a brain-eating zombie computer game:  WHY?!

(FYI, I think Cael’s right on the money.  I’d way rather face down a brain-faced zombie than a butt scope.)

Me:  Um, a scope is like a camera that a doctor can put inside our bodies to see if things are OK and good in there.  Like, a doctor can put a scope down our nose or mouth to see if our throat or tummy or lungs are well.  But you know not to put things up your nose or in your butt, right, Cael?

At least that last question shows I’ve gained some wisdom on this parenting journey.

Cael:  Duh, Mom.

(Sidenote: Cael’s 4.  None of my other kids starting duhing me ’til they were at least 6.  Cael’s so advanced.)

Cael, continued:  Soooo, Mom?  That scope that Nana put in her butt will  tell the doctor if the butt is any good?

Me:  Pretty much.

Cael:  What will the doctor do if the butt isn’t good?

Me:  I don’t know, exactly.  I bet there are a lot of things doctors can do for butts, like surgery and medicine.

Cael:  I hope the doctor makes Nana’s butt feel better.

I didn’t say that I doubted Nana’s butt felt better at that particular point in the day, immediately post-butt-scope procedure.  So, kudos to me on keeping my mouth shut!

And, just in case you ever wonder — like I admit I do — whether or not your butt is any good, Dr. Cael has the criteria all figured out.

Cael:  Mom, there’s red poop, green poop and brown poop.  That means there’s three colors of poop.  My poop is all those colors.  And that means I have a good butt.

Good to know, Dr. Cael.  Good to know.

If only you’d thought to tell Nana earlier.  She could’ve avoided that whole butt scope thing in the first place.

Let’s call them Abby, Ian and Aden.  Because those are their names, and, I’ll be honest, I can barely keep that straight in real life, so I can’t really change them for a blog.

We adopted Ian in 2003 when he was 3 years old.

If you ever wondered why you shouldn’t send a baby to bed with milk, juice or, in my sweet baby’s case, sugar water, here’s why:

Take a good look at those teeth.

They weren’t crooked.  They were rotten, and bits had fallen off.

So, a month after his adoption, Ian had surgery at the hospital to remove four teeth, and repair and save as many as possible.

At the time, Ian was entering his two year phase of Only Daddy Will Do.  I’ll tell you quite frankly that adopting a special needs toddler wasn’t a cake walk.  Ian used to gag when I got too close to him.  That made buckling his car seat a real bear.

It also made surgery a challenge and put the comfort burden squarely on Greg’s shoulders.  I wield a mean point-and-shoot camera, but my photography skills weren’t all that helpful given the circumstances.

It sucked, putting my new kid, who couldn’t understand what in the world we were doing to him, in the hospital and under general anesthetic.

Doctors and nurses assured me it would all be OK.

I wasn’t sure… about Ian’s surgery or about life in general.

Turns out, they were right.

……

Then, 10 months later, Miss Abby had to have mouth surgery, too.

I was strong and brave.

HA!  That’s a total lie.  I cried like a baby, and I made both Greg and my bestie, Melissa Anne, come with me to the hospital.  I learned I needed better surgery distraction.

Melissa played with Abby, but, more importantly, we read trashy novels aloud to each other in the waiting room.  Inappropriate?  Yes.  But, as a distraction, it was perfection.

Before surgery, the anesthesiologist asked me if there was any family history of negative reactions to medications.  I cried again and said, “She’s adopted.  I don’t know.”

It may have been more of a wail.  “She’s adAHpted.  I don’t KNOW!”

The anesthesiologist held my hand.  She didn’t roll her eyes, as much as she must’ve wanted to.  She told me about her son who was the same age as Abby.  She assured me she’d be next to Abby the entire time.

They gave Abby a sedative.

I was jealous.

But at least Abby let me hold her.  So that was a great, big heaping spoonful of happy for the mommy.

Doctors and nurses assured me it would all be OK.

Turns out, they were right.  Again.

…….

Yesterday, Cai had surgery.

He needed ear tubes to restore hearing loss.

Oh, my, how things have changed now that we have five kids.

Was I thrilled that one of my babies had to go under?

Nope, not a bit.

I had the stress headache and panicked Facebook status update to prove it.

But we had some new ammunition in our arsenal this time, and I wasn’t quite the basket case I’ve been in the past.

First, we tallied all of our family medical procedures.  Cai realized he’s the only member of our family who hadn’t had stitches, a broken bone, or surgery.  He was SO excited to join the club.

Second, Cai’s a grab-life-by-the-horns kind of kid.  He didn’t see any need to let an adventure as grand as surgery pass him by without some serious enthusiasm.

I mean, does this look like an anxious kid?

Yeah, didn’t think so.

The medical personnel weren’t quite sure what to do with him; especially when they found out that he spent days counting down sleeps until he “got” to have surgery.

They offered him a sedative but retracted the offer when I asked him how he felt about surgery and he actually applauded…

The anesthesiologist came to collect Cai for his trip to the operating room.  I think the nurses were on stand-by with that sedative in case my kid balked at the last minute.

But not Cai.

No way.

When they asked if he wanted to ride to surgery on his bed or walk, my little man jumped right out of bed to march.

Fine.  I teared up a little at this point.  But no one saw me.  I swear.

Next came recovery.

Recovery time = snuggle time = the mommy is happy time.

Thank goodness Cai didn’t make me feel entirely useless.

But, of course, recovery only lasted 10 minutes.

After which Cai got a cool wheelchair ride,

as many popsicles as he could eat, and balloons from his Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kim.

(Note the “congrats” balloon message, as opposed to something boring like “get well”… which just goes to show that Kim and Jeff know my kid!)

I’m pretty sure that Cai’s entire hospital experience was so lovely that he destined for one of two futures:

Doctor/Nurse

or

Hypochondriac

Dear Nice Hospital People,

You’ve either created another hero or a lot more work for yourselves.  Be proud.

I’m sincerely grateful.

Mama to Cai