The Prince at 4

Dear Eamon,

When you were a little baby, we used to call you "The Prince."  This title was in reference not only to the way I treated you, but to the way you seemed to expect to be treated.  We would swaddle you up and place you in our bed, head on a pillow.  You would look so regal and relaxed.  You were just the apple of my eye.  There is absolutely no comparison, as far as  photos taken, between you and any of your siblings.  I took more pictures of you than I could ever find uses for and I loved taking each and every one.  From your huge green eyes and bald head to your curly locks at 18 months, I couldn't resist just one more shot of my  prince.  

It is true that I don't call you "The Prince" much anymore.  You have outgrown that title and are more  commonly referred to as "Junior" or "Son".  Sometimes you are "Honey" or "Sweetheart."  Mostly, you are just "Eam."  The past year or so has been a bit tough.   We were faced with myriad fits, tantrums, yelling, hitting, and even biting.  Your self control has not caught up with your body size and that has made for a rough time.  I try to remember that you are often tired or keyed up, being a boy or having growing pains.  I try to remember that the girls and Trumie get the spot light and that you are the true middle child in this family dynamic.  I try to remember that you are sensitive and that you love your Mama so much.  I try to remember to be understanding.  

Just yesterday, Madeline commented that you have changed so much since turning four.  The fact is, I think she's right.  I don't  know if it's the fact that you are in school more, getting more sleep, getting more attention, or just growing up that is causing such an improvement in your behavior.  Sometimes I think that you take being 4 seriously.  That you think that you should behave better.  I think you think that you are now a big boy.  

I do know however, that you are so cute and so sweet and so in love with me.  You continue to be the apple of my eye and I will continue to try and understand when your behavior is less than stellar.  Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Four Year Old Boy.

Love,

Mama

Dear Sawyer

Dear Sawyer,

Happy Birthday!

I want to thank you for your awesome attempts at convincing me, the judge of our Apples to Apples game, to vote for your card last night.  Your powers of negotiation are in need of some work BUT, your skills at being cute are unmatched.  So I voted for you.  At 6, you are sweet, kind, smart, and fun.  You are friendly and girly and sparkly and you should probably have your own pony to hang glittery wreaths around while a rainbow shines overhead.  Yesterday, I bought you a bird whistle which is a little contraption that is shaped like a bird and holds water.  When you blow through it, it makes a sound similar to that of a bird call.  Upon arriving home with the whistle, you filled it with water and announced, "Mom, I'm going outside to talk to the birds."  You spent at least 15 minutes out there and were thrilled to announce that the birds were talking back to you.  You were further pleased that you  were able to translate the returning bird calls.  Dr. Doolittle has nothing on you.  Additionally, you claim to speak baby and are endlessly translating back and forth for  Truman and I.  Thank you for that, I'll take all the help I can get around here.  I am also impressed that you claim to speak Spanish and German.  It is no small feat for a 6-year-old WITHOUT bilingual parents to be such an accomplished master of languages.  I guess I don't really need to talk about how wonderful your imagination is  but,  I want to thank you for sharing it with Eamon.  As his most enjoyed playmate, he has learned a lot from you.  Imagination and languages are just 2 such treasures he has gleaned from his time with you.

Sawyer, you are the funny one, the cute one, and the one who can drive me absolutely crazy.  You don't give up on many of the campaigns you begin.  Especially if candy is involved in any way.  You make friends easier and more quickly than anyone else in this family.  Your birthday parties are out of control.  I love that you read, wear fake glasses, and make up stories.  I love that you are organized and put things away.  I love that you are mine.  I am proud as heck of ya and I wouldn't change you for anything.

I love you,
Mommy

A Mother's Legacy

I'm fairly certain that when my son reminisces about his childhood he will have fond memories. His life is enviable in various ways. He has his own room, enough Hotwheel cars to last a lifetime, and an endless stream of playmates at his disposal. He has a loving family, complete with two doting sisters and parents who are generally entertained by his every move. The one strange twist to these lovely memories will certainly be the fact that, when he imagines his mother's face, it will most certainly be with confusion. I can say with absolute certainty that Eamon will forever remember my face contorted into some look of disgust. I say this because I am constantly catching myself looking at him with a mixture of horror, awe, and disbelief.

Maybe it's because I had girls first. Maybe it's because I'm just a bad mom. Maybe it's because my son is a menace. I'm not quite sure. Maybe I should be more understanding when my son feels the need to finger paint with his barbecue sauce or use bar soap to write on the bathroom wall rather than wash his hands. Maybe I should be able to comprehend why my son believes that yogurt, pudding, and toothpaste are superior to shampoo. I guess I should be more reasonable about his need to throw EVERY item he comes into contact with, rather than setting it down nicely. Maybe I should reframe my ideas about little boys not being magnetic when it comes to dirt, grime, and sticky, unidentified substances. And, as far as reframing goes, maybe snot and old bits of toothpaste left behind on the sink are appropriate sources of nutrition. I guess I'm kind of a stickler when it comes to things like wearing seat belts, not driving a car when you're two years old, and leaving the house with clothes on. I suppose I should lighten up and just let my son play in my mini-van with my car keys for several hours of the day. Maybe he is old enough to walk out the front door by himself naked and dig in the dirt while talking about his penis to anyone who happens by.

Because of his constant need to touch, break, disobey, and be involved in any number of unacceptable situations, I am constantly thinking, "what a dummy" when I look at my son. I try my best to keep it to barely above a whisper but sometimes I say it out loud and although name-calling is not a condoned activity in the DeWitt household, I almost can't help it. I can't believe the things this kid gets into. It is truly comical. His sisters call him a "cotton-headed ninny muggins" and I can't argue with them. It is quite possible that Eamon's memories of his sisters faces will be similar to his experience of my own- a little bit of pride, a little bit of disgust, and a ton of love.

On Being Relatively Average

Today as I drove to drop Sawyer off at preschool, I was listening to NPR. Alice Walker was the guest on whatever talk show filled my ears for my 15 minute drive. She is, of course, the author of "The Color Purple" and various other inspiring novels on race and gender. Interestingly, she was not speaking of her novels but of her love of raising chickens. Yes, this accomplished Pulitzer Prize winning author was talking about her absolute love of chicken-raising. She eats and gathers their eggs. Many of you know that I have an obsession with healthy eating (and with junk food to balance things out) so I was interested in this discussion; dreaming of the day when I might raise my own chickens, should I have the space and time. During this discussion, fans were calling into the show to thank Alice for the inspiration she has provided to them throughout their lives. She had clearly touched these people in many ways and they were obviously familiar with more than just her one award-winning novel and the subsequent movie.

As I listened to these callers, in all of their hero-worship, I started to think about my existence and the impact it will have. Certainly it is nothing like that of Alice Walker. I have no interest in fame. I will likely never have wide-spread impact on the world at large. Now, before you start assuming that I'm looking for some kind of validation that my existence is important, let me continue. I am a stay at home mom. When people ask me if I plan to return to work when my children are in school full-time, I'm never sure what to say. Frankly, I don't want to return to social work. I don't really feel that I have the power to change the world and my heart is not truly in the practice. Maybe I'm just lazy. I just don't have the kind of ambition necessary to really do something. That is not to say that I don't want to help this world become a better place or that I lack interest in activities in general. Quite the opposite is true. I like everything. I have just come to the realization that in general, my existence is relatively average. I have some guilt about this fact. I feel like I should be making money or changing lives or writing the great American novel. Instead, I try to read interesting books, volunteer when I can, and cook meals for my family. I would like to garden, quilt, and sew. These average acts are not going to gain any notoriety for me. So be it. Some might say I set the bar pretty low for myself. Ok.

Poor Truman 2.0

In my repeated attempts to bond with my 3-year-old son, I have tried various strategies.  Some include: reading together, cooking together, writing together, asking him 1000 questions that he has no interest in answering, taking him to eat ice cream, hugging, tickling, smiling, telling him how handsome he is, etc.  My attempts at bonding are not because we have a poor relationship.  These attempts are in hopes that an increased bond will serve to limit poor behavior.  It seems that Eamon is having some real difficulty behaving at home.  I know.  I know.  He has been replaced.  He is a sensitive Mama's boy who has to stand by and watch as I nurse, snuggle, and sing the praises of Trumie D.  I know.  That still does not excuse acting like a complete tyrant in my home.

My most recent idea was hatched in order to kill two birds with one stone: Prepare Eamon to be dropped off at school 5 afternoons per week AND enjoy an experience together.  So, why not stop at the flower shop, pick some gorgeous flowers for his new classroom, and chat lovingly about the beauty of flowers?  Perfect, right?  Nope.  Thus far, this post has been about my cherubic, but hateful 3-year-old.  Now, I will switch gears and give absolute proof that I should have had to get a license prior to bearing children.

As if being left in the car (hypoglycemia, remember?) wasn't bad enough, it turns out my inability to work the stroller/car seat combo has also placed poor Truman in danger.  So back to my story.  My cherubic, yet angry Eamon is yet again fussing  about having to get out of the backseat of my mini-van while I try to remove Truman's seat and click it into the matching stroller.  While trying to click the stroller,  I am coercing Eamon out of the back seat with promises of beautiful roses and sunflowers that would be a perfect addition to his new class, which was scheduled to begin the next day.  I confidently place the infant carrier into the stroller, take my older son by the hand and fight my way in the door, as I always do when pushing a stroller (that looks cool but ultimately sucks).  The first room you enter in this particular flower shop houses the check out area and very little else.  Customers must walk down a very short ramp (probably a former step) to get to an area filled with bucket after bucket of lovely, fresh flowers of all kinds.  As I head down this brief ramp with Eamon in tow, the infant seat detaches from my sucky stroller, does a 180 in the air and lands FACE DOWN with my 6-month-old suspended by his 5-point restraint.  My brain apparently needed a moment to catch up because it took me longer than it should have to realize what the hell had just happened. And to react.  After processing the gravity of the situation, I uttered, "OH MY GOD" and lunged to pick up my darling son who was quietly whimpering, his nap having come to an abrupt end.  I calmly MADE SURE to click him properly back into his stroller and placed my hand gently on his chest and belly, speaking to him softly.  I stayed calm.  Eamon gave the play by play, "Mommy made Trumie's seat flip over and then Trumie was on his face and then he cried and Mommy picked him up."  As if I wasn't aware of what an idiot I must look like, even Eamon was amazed that I could do something so horrible, endangering a defenseless baby.

I stayed calm.  I removed Truman from his carrier and held him tight, speaking ever so softly to him.  He stayed calm.  I looked at him and tried my best not to burst into guilty, scared, embarrassed, horrified tears.  I took deep breaths.  I tried not to look into the eyes of judgement all around me.  Finally, the store owner approached me to make sure that we were all ok.  It was all I could do to hold it together, but I did.  I did.  I assisted Eamon in picking out the perfect white carnations and pink-tipped roses to share with his class; we paid and were on our way.

That is until the owner insisted on getting the door for me and "walking me to the car."  She then proceeded to say, "I need to tell you something; you ARE a good mom, I can tell that you work hard.  YOU ARE a good mom."  Uh, ok.  My first thought was, "Do you honestly think I don't know that?"  My overt response was, "You're very sweet.  Thank you."  But she kept it up, "Just know that you are a good mom."  My second response, "Thanks, I have four children and they have all lived."  Ok, thanks for the patronizing comments, please leave me the hell alone.  I know that seems really rude of me to think that way.  I know she was trying to make me feel better.  I know she was trying to be nice.  I know that she felt badly because everyone else in the flower shop thought that I was a total moron. The fact is, I don't care what anyone in that store thought about me or my very obvious lapse in judgement.  I will not pretend that my life looks like it does on Instagram.  Sometimes things happen that I am embarrassed about.  Sometimes I make poor decisions.  I screw stuff up ALL THE TIME.  I just happen to always be doing it in front of people.  And I think it makes people feel better about themselves to know that they aren't the only ones who flounder.  At least, I hope it does.

As for Truman, he is no worse for wear and has no idea that he flipped around as though on a roller coaster and could have been seriously injured.  Eamon told everyone we saw about this incident for the rest of the day, and I cried on the phone to Jason about how I might really irreparably damage our son. And then I thought I might blame Britax for making a sucky stroller (but I didn't). And then I told the story 10 times and have been laughing my ass off, knowing that I really am trying my best to make all this work.  

Poor Truman

Truman has been such a delight to this family.  I think the kids were just old enough to appreciate him and not too old to find him a nuisance.  He hasn't caused much of a stir because he is just so darned relaxed all the time.  So relaxed in fact, that we can all go about our business and he will wait...quietly.

I know this sounds terrible, but if Truman makes it to his 1st birthday, it will be miraculous.  I will be completely honest about what has happened to Truman since he was born in February because I know that I will look back on all of this one day and laugh.  Right now, I'm a bit nervous that we might one day lose or hurt Truman in a way that is irreversible.  I'm not kidding.  You will believe me if you continue to read.

We all know of stories of parents who have let their children roll off the bed (yes, this happened to Sawyer), or children who have inadvertently fallen down the stairs (check), kids who fell off the couch (check), and many more horrific accidents that all end in a benign fashion.  We have been lucky so far.  All of our accidents have been placed in the category of "near misses" and we have never had to visit the emergency room for any type of injury.  I'm pretty sure our luck will soon run out.

Truman has never been handled with kid gloves.  He has been handled by children of all ages since   his birth.  He has flopped around like a fish in the hands of his 5-year-old sister.  He has been man-handled and wrestled with-Eamon style.  Madeline has carried him up and down the stairs with one arm.  He has been placed in laundry baskets and suitcases, obviously for safe keeping.  I have left him to play on the floor and honestly forgotten about him while I cooked, later finding him sucking on the leg of a living room chair.  He is so quiet.  However, this is nothing in comparison to the major incident I will now share.

I am not kidding when I tell you that while on a driving vacation this summer, Jason would ask me if Truman was in the backseat; often after an hour from our previous stop.  He is that quiet.  It happened every day of the vacation, sometimes numerous times. He was always in the back seat.   And then it happened.  Several days after our vacation had ended, I took Madeline and Truman to Madeline's orthodontist appointment.  Madda had her braces taken off that day.  Sawyer and Eamon stayed with a sitter so that we would not create complete mayhem in Dr. Burns' office, therefore Madeline and I had time to chat in the car, after her appointment.  She was excited and chatty about her brace-free teeth, her neighborhood book club, and going to show her Daddy her new smile.  We pulled into his office parking lot and continued our chat about books and taking care of her teeth properly.  We continued our happy talk as we walked into and down the hall of Jason's office.  It was about one minute (and the greeting of almost every employee in Jason's office) until I realized that I had left my sleeping baby in the car.  So, just as a new employee approached me to ask if I needed any help (he had no idea who I was), I uttered, "OH MY GOD!" and ran back out the door, to the parking lot.  I grabbed my baby (still asleep) and sheepishly returned to my husband's office; through another door that would avoid contact with any employee.  I had left my baby in the car.  How could I forget my baby?  He is my dearest darling.  He is my baby boy.  Oh my goodness.  I was horrified.  And in front of people.  In front of Jason's employees who now think I'm an idiot.  OH MY GOD.

I sat down in Jason's office; Madeline near me.  I said to her, "Madda, what do you think about your Mama leaving our baby in the car?"  Her response?  "Mom, it's not like he knows."  She. Is. Awesome.  We both started laughing and I forgave myself.  Because I have to.  I just have to.  I have to chalk it up to a moment of weakness or  hypoglycemia or exhaustion or just plain stupidity.  But, I know it won't happen again and maybe I have avoided some other more disastrous outcome by learning my lesson.  As parents, we have to forgive ourselves.  We try our best.  We are imperfect.  We forget our babies sometimes.  And it's ok.  If it's only for a minute.

9

Dear Madeline,

Yesterday, you made me the proud parent of a 9-year-old.  It is hard to believe that your Daddy and I have been at the parenting game for that many years.  You were a wonderful surprise who has turned into a wonderful little person.

I am proud of you for so many reasons.  I believe you to be kind, smart, thoughtful, responsible, and beautiful...in no particular order.  No one of these adjectives defines you,  you are so many things to me and to others.  As I said, you are now a little person.  You are not just my baby; you are also a friend, a student, a team member, a piano player, a singer, a sister (x3), and a leader.  However, you were mine first.  You were my daughter first.

We do not always agree.  We are not "just alike."  We see things differently and have different interests.    I am not always thrilled by your clothing choices or hairstyles.  I see you trying out your pre-teen chops.  I know that you are not perfect; that you probably are not quite as model a citizen as you tend to be in your home.  I know that the day is coming where you will think (even more than you do now) that I have no sense and that I am unreasonable.  I know that we will clash.

I will still love you.  I will still be proud of you.  I will still look at you, in wonder of your beauty and elegance.  Amazed that you are so intelligent.  I will be beaming with pride, knowing that your beauty means nothing to you in comparison to your book collection.  I will love you when you hate me.  I will be proud of you when you do not meet my expectations.  I will always be here for you because you were my daughter first.  I waver in my thinking, wondering if I am too hard on you.  I wonder if we expect too much.  You just keep delivering more on every front.  You have made my life easier, filled it with joy, introduced me to a sense of pride I had never encountered.  You are brave and confident when I am worried and conflicted.  You skin is thicker than mine.

I am so thankful for the surprise that is you.  What a treat.

I Love You,
Mama