Corn Fested

Yesterday was a big, giant, exhausting day. Matt & I hauled the boys into town and took part in that great tradition of rural America: the agricultural festival.

Here in Edina, we have the Knox County Corn Festival. And though yields are down and aflatoxin is up, the festivities seemed more festive than ever.

My day started early, as I walked in the annual Jerry Gudehus Memorial 5K. Thanks to the discovery of support hose, a couple weeks ago I decided I was up to running part of the race, perhaps 1/3 of it, even though I hadn't run for a few months. I've still continued a moderate exercise regimen, combined with my normal daily child-packing-and-chasing, so I figured I was up to it. But, a few days ago, I determined that something had changed and I feared running was not a great idea. My hint was the sharp stabbing pains in my lower abdomen that came on after less than two minutes of running. My goal was to start labor, not start a placental abruption.

So, I walked the entire 3.2 miles. Well, all but the last few yards. I ran those when I saw my mother-in-law standing at the finish line with her camera. I thought if I ran at the end and it got captured on camera, I might fool our child someday into thinking Mommy ran a 5K the morning of his or her birth. I did not, however, have a baby yesterday, or even come close. I wasn't really expecting it would happen, but, hey, a girl can dream of spontaneous labor, even after two non-eventfully-induced-labors.

Anyway, the "race" was fun, though not as much fun as running it, but there is next year for that. Plus, I got a t-shirt. The turnout for the race was awesome. It was great to see so many friends and neighbors have engaged in such a healthy habit.

Next was the world's longest parade with about a thousand antique tractors. My boys see tractors, antique and otherwise, everyday, but you wouldn't have known it by their reaction to the parade, particularly that of my younger one. They were impressed, to say the least. The parade was so long that my boys and pretty much all the other kids lost interest in picking up candy. I would have never thought I'd witness such a thing. John told me "Mom, I think I have enough candy now." And Patrick, who has the world's most insatiable sweet tooth decided his bag was full enough too.

I have always kept the existence of carnivals a secret from my boys. But this year, they noticed, as the carnival started setting up on Wednesday night, and we had to walk through it Wednesday and Friday to get into the Fitness Center. John quickly figured out that you could "ride in the machines", so that's what I heard about for three days. So, I told him we'd have to see how many ride tickets we could afford in our Carnival ride budget. Turns out for the bargain price of $25, you can buy 10 tickets, which is just enough to completely wear out 2 little boys (plus their cousin Levi, who had 5 tickets of his own), thanks to generous carnival operators that often let them ride twice for one ticket, and one entirely unsupervised maze/ball pit/tunnel slide attraction that required no tickets whatsoever.

John and Levi had been waiting all morning to ride the swings, but that ride hadn't been in operation, and I was hoping we would run out of tickets before it did because I really didn't think that my Patrick, at just two years of age, really needed to ride it, but I knew I wouldn't convince him otherwise if the big boys rode it. But, sure enough, just in time to use our last ticket, it was ready to go.

The two older boys were standing outside the fence dancing in fever-pitch anticipation of the ride on the "swing machine". I asked PW if he wanted to ride it too. He gave me that emphatic "is-the-Pope-Catholic?" type of yes that he does with a nod, completely nixing the idea of instead taking another turn on the previously-cool-but-suddenly-super-lame fire truck ride. (he uses this sort of "yes" to answer questions like "Do you want to go with Daddy?"; "Do you want a sucker?" "Do you want to read Family Reunion for Old Tractors for the eighteenth time today?")

So, against my better judgment, I relinquished my baby to the care of the carnival operator, who had just told me he didn't actually work for the carnival, was a local and was just filling in, as they were short-handed. (what I heard was he maybe was or maybe wasn't fully up-to-speed on the safety guidelines of the ride). He just asked me, "well, can he hold on?" And I was like, "He's two! Yes, he can, but I don't know if he will." The operator, who really was very, very nice assured me he'd stop the ride if Patrick started crying.

Ok, then, I said, and the ride started. It seemed like the longest 30 minutes of my life. I've never been so concerned for the safety of one of my children as I was then, and remember, I've willingly, even eagerly, consented to having my firstborn operated on surgically and later infused with multiple chemotherapeutic poisons. I suppose it was more like only 3-5 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to me. But he held on with white knuckles and handled it just fine. When the ride was over, I picked him up and couldn't tell if he was exhausted from the carnival and relaxed from the swinging, or nauseous. We went to the shade of the 4-H pavilion to sit down, and he immediately insisted in laying down in the cool dirt under the table, just like the hogs that wallowed in that same spot during the fair earlier this summer.

After the 5K, the marathon parade, and two hours of carnival, I was ready to do the same thing. Though my feet and legs were swollen and exhausted, my uterus was completely oblivious to the stress, and there was no indication that this baby will ever willingly evacuate my body. Oh, well, the weather was perfect, and we all had a great time. The carnival wasn't nearly as miserable for the parents as I feared it might be, and the lemonade and caramel apples were delicious.

The afternoon ended perfectly when we took the boys to evening Mass and they were really, really good, which doesn't necessarily always happen.

We went back into the festival for supper, and things went south fast. Turns out, we found out just what their level of festival-tolerance is. A scraped elbow was our cue to leave, and we fled before anyone had to make yet another trip to the port-a-potty. It turns out the port-a-potty is a thrill to rival the carnival itself when you are two, four, or five, and I'm terribly afraid we've all contracted hepatitis as a result.

Happy Sunday!

First Day!

We just put our first baby bear on the big yellow school bus for the first time. It's a day that seemed so far off four years ago. A day I prayed we would see.

Some parents will tell you this day is bittersweet. Well, it wasn't at our house. It helps that John was beyond thrilled to be going to "the big school" and really did not appear one bit nervous until maybe the first step on the bus. And only then, maybe just a little; he didn't hesitate a bit.

he's complaining about being cold.

It wasn't bittersweet for Matt and me. It wasn't bittersweet because, let's be perfectly honest and tell it like it is: we're just glad he's not dead!

I counted maybe three tears that I cried as the bus drove off with my firstborn, while Matt smiled and we congratulated ourselves. They were happy, happy tears. 

Still cold, and now staring uncomfortably into the sun.
It's too bad mom isn't a better photographer!

The more time and distance John puts between him and Stage IV neuroblastoma, the happier we are. But I really don't think it's John's medical history alone that accounts for this feeling. I've never been a mom who has lamented the passage of time and the associated growing up of my babies. 

"They're only little for a little while," those older and wiser than me will say. And my reply? "Thank God!"

My career goal, as a mom, after all, is not to produce a gurgling infant, a potty-going toddler, or a chattering preschooler. My goal is to produce strong, faithful, confident, considerate, productive citizens of our community. Wishing they would stay babies does not advance this goal.

No, I'm not wishing their lives away, but I enjoyed parenthood more when John was a toddler than when he was an infant, and more as a preschooler than as a toddler. And, each day with PW is a little more tolerable than the one before. (sorry Patrick, I know you'll read this someday, but you are, my dear boy, a challenge of a whole different sort)

Related: for the first time in 5 years, diapers are not on our shopping list! At least not for a few more weeks. Thank you, P. Dub! (and thank you, daycare for helping me out with this project!)

Barely related: parents who are potty-training, I recommend Pampers Easy-Ups over Huggies pull-ups. They're much, much less expensive, and the sides don't velcro shut, which I prefer because after all, the idea is they're NOT diapers, so you don't want your kid to unfasten them like diapers. Better yet are reusable waterproof training pants. I've purchased several pair via Etsy.

And now...he has Mom & Dad all to himself...
at least for a few more weeks.

John will get off the bus at Kids R Us and eat lunch there before Matt picks him up at noon. I'm so jealous that his teachers there will get to hear all about his first day before I do.

PRAISE GOD!

Losers

A rambling stream of consciousness on lost items and the losers who lose them:

If we're friends on Facebook, you're aware that one of our cordless phones has gone missing. We have two interchangeable handsets: one upstairs and one downstairs in my office. The batteries are so worn out on each of them that I frequently swap them; one phone usually won't last me the whole day in my office. Leave it off the charger? Well, that's bad news.

The beauty of the cordless phone is, of course, also its weakness. You've never lost an old-fashioned, wall-tethered phone, have you? It's not possible.

At some point in cordless phone history, manufacturers became aware of the tendency of the handset to go AWOL, and added the "find the phone" button to the base unit. It's pretty simple: just push the button, and the missing handset starts to beep like crazy, thereby saving, minutes, hours, or in our case, theoretically even DAYS of searching. A wonderful innovation...as long as the battery is not dead in said phone.

The problem is, I couldn't remember that I needed to press the "find the phone" button when I was in proximity to the base. You see, the one handset that isn't missing, has been in my office because a tax accountant does have some need of a phone this time of year. Since one phone was right there on my desk, it didn't really register (at such a convenient moment) that I should push the button. I would remember when I was upstairs, with a need to use the phone, but, I guess that's when my cell phone would come in handy (assuming it wasn't lost at that moment).

I finally got around to pushing the handset locater button yesterday. Guess what. My phone that won't keep a battery charge for 5 hours...won't keep one for 5 days either. There was no beeping. The phone is still missing.

No, PW, I don't think it's in the barn.

I hear my mom's calm, logical voice inside my head, just as clearly as if she were standing next to me, "Think back to the last place you saw it..."

Oh, wait, that's not her voice; that's mine.

A dozen times a day, John and I have the following conversation:

John: "Mom, can I have some apple juice?"

Me: "Yes, where is your cup."

John: "I don't know."

Me: (patiently) "Think back to the last place you saw it..."

John: "I don't know!"

Me: (less patiently) "Go find it. We're not starting a new sippy cup every time you want a drink. Only one cup per day; that's the rule."

John: whine, whine, whine, whine

Me: "Go look for it if you want a drink."

John: more whining

Me: I start looking for it, while he goes off to do something totally unrelated, largely unproductive, and entirely unlikely to result in location of above-referenced sippy cup. I finally give up, with the realization that the 20 minutes I've spent looking for the damn cup will not result in 20 minutes of time-savings from not having to wash an extra sippy cup that will serve as proxy to the cup that theoretically still exists somewhere in the house and will at some point, with enough searching, be located, albeit full of chunky, foul-smelling milk, or fermented juice .

When something is lost, I think of Uncle GAR. (not my uncle, the boys' uncle) Uncle GAR is good at losing things. Keys, hat, sunglasses, wallet, cell phone...nearly every time he and his long-suffering wife are home for a visit, it seems the weekend ends with the same scene: Auntie MAR making repeated trips to load the car, while GAR frantically searches for this, that, or the other (sometimes it's this, that, AND the other).

By virtue of being prone to losing things, Uncle GAR is very good at finding things. I think his secret is persistence. He doesn't give up; he looks until he finds it.

The night before John's big surgery...his exploratory laparotomy with excision of retroperitoneal mass...I was panic-stricken. John's Marian medal had gone missing. It had been given to him, along with one for me and one for Matt, when he was first diagnosed. It said "O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee." I pinned it to his onesie every day using the safety pin that held the ends of his broviac (central line) in place. And at night, or in the hospital, while his central line was accessed (negating the need for the safety pin), I pinned the medal to his silky green blanket.

Because we had to be at the hospital very, very early for surgery, we were staying in Columbia at Uncle GAR and Auntie MAR's house. That evening, when we discovered it was missing, we all looked and looked for it, to no avail. All four of us, but especially Uncle GAR. We finally gave up and went to bed without having located it.

So we left for the hospital the next morning without it.

In the PICU, following above-referenced exploratory laparotomy.

I don't remember exactly when, but sometime that day (I think that morning before he went to work), Uncle GAR found it. It had mistakenly been thrown away with the medical supplies we had used to flush his broviac the night before. Yes, Uncle GAR had dug through the trash to find it. You know...it's always in the last place you look...

Thank you, Uncle GAR and St. Anthony.

John with Uncle GAR and Auntie MAR

Playing at the grain bin job site

I still haven't found the phone, but when I was looking for it this evening under the couch, I did find something else that had been missing...PW's gum boots. So, maybe we'll call it a wash.

A Reason to Get Out of Bed

I'm not a morning person. I've never been one of those people that can sleep in until 10:00, but I enjoy snuggling in my nice warm bed as long as my boys will let me (which, truthfully, isn't very long).

I used to be a night owl to compensate, but motherhood changed that. I generally turn into a pumpkin if I'm not in bed by 10 pm.

But this time of year, my internal clock seems to reset. I find myself, lying in bed, long before dawn, waiting for the coffeepot to kick on. Often, I find myself just getting up and turning it on manually. We're talking early here. Somewhere between 5 and 6 am.

I normally try not to get out of bed before 7:30.

I just can't stay in bed knowing accounting awaits me downstairs in my office. I love accounting. To you non-accountants, this may seem odd, but I do.  Running my own tax & accounting practice is the realization of a dream I've had for years.

So, I disentangle PW's fingers from my hair, ease out of bed, put on my bathrobe and slippers, and get a cup of coffee for me and a sippy cup of milk for PW, in hopes of keeping him off my trail for a little while. If I'm lucky, he'll stay in bed with Matt for a while, drink his milk, and maybe go back to sleep. Generally not, but maybe.

Side note: this kid really doesn't require sleep. He went to sleep about 10:30 last night (2.5 hours after bedtime), awoke in the middle of the night, maybe 2 am, I'm not really sure; then, per his usual habit, found his way into our bed and dozed restlessly with his fingers entwined in my hair until I got up about 6:00. He typically wants to get up when I do, unless I can get him to stay in bed with the milk strategy.

Some days, it goes better than others. I get to my desk, start with my e-mail, as I watch the dawn break out my office window. (the picture below was taken as I was standing under our dusk-to-dawn light, hence the funny foreground glow...Sunday's sunrise was better, but I didn't get a pic)

This morning, as I was working, I heard a chair dragging across the kitchen floor; not entirely unexpected or uncommon. Fortunately, there is another adult in the house, in the very next room, so I didn't worry too much.

 Then my firstborn comes downstairs to eagerly report he has gotten dressed all by himself with no whining. (he gets a sticker for his sticker chart if he does this in the morning). So, I tell him he can go get a sticker. He runs back upstairs, and immediately, the most mournful my-dog-was-hit-by-the-school-bus-while-I-watched-type-of-wailing starts.

 It turns out, PW had dumped tea all over John's sticker chart, and one of the pictures he had so proudly glued on it had been torn off. This is a big deal when you're 4. PW, meanwhile, is just sitting at the table eating a cupcake.

We assured him it would dry, soothed his ruffled feathers as much as I could, and went back to typing this post. Now, PW is crying, and as near as I can tell, it's because his dad won't let him have a second breakfast cupcake.

I should go upstairs, but, strange as it may seem, accounting seems more attractive than dealing with two mad boys and, understandably by now, a not-so-chipper daddy.

So, now, I'm questioning my motives. Do I get out of bed early because I love accounting? Or to escape the morning?

Yes. My initial thesis is correct. I'm eager to count those beans; escaping the morning is just a happy side benefit.

More crying. Gotta go. Have a great Monday!

Happy Birthday, John!

Four years ago this morning, I woke up with a baby in my arms.

John Matthew Clark was born at 1:17 a.m. on September 12, 2007. He weighed a robust 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and if I’m remembering correctly was 22 ½ inches long, although to me, measuring a baby for length seems a bit subjective.

The day before, I finally gave in and agreed to an induction on my doctor’s advice. My due date was supposed to have been the 1^st of September. It’s funny the little things you worry about when considering the day your child will be born.

I was reluctant to induce that day in particular because I did not want him to be born on 9/11. Dr. Early gave me the option of waiting until the next day to induce, but I feared that would result in me having a baby, not on September 12, but instead on the 13^th, which didn't seem like such a lucky day to me. So, as it turned out, we agreed to do the deal about 1 o’clock in the afternoon on the 11^th, which resulted in John being born about 12 hours later on the 12^th…sandwiched right in between 9/11 and Friday the 13^th.

So, today John is four, though his capacity to worry is sadly far beyond his years. Last night before bedtime, he told me shyly and sadly “Mom, I love you. I hope a great sickness does not sweep through our town.” I’ve known for a few months that John greatly fears that his parents (and his mother in particular) will die. He watched the Veggie Tales Story of St. Nicolas last week, and “a great sickness swept through Nicolas’s town” and his parents died. I can certainly relate to this fear, as I lived with this very real fear about half my life. It’s heart-wrenching to see John coping with this same fear. And I can’t lie to him; he’s too smart for that.

So, yesterday, while the rest of the world was commemorating the 10^th anniversary of 9/11, we were celebrating John’s 4^th birthday, just one day early.

I will freely and self-consciously admit that when it comes to my kids’ birthday parties, I have a weakness. I just can’t help myself. When I start planning, I always intend to keep them small, low-key, and requiring a minimum amount of effort from myself and those I con into helping me, but somehow, it never works out that way. (Thank you, M.A. I know that I have no business throwing a party without your help!)

It starts with selection of the theme so that the cake order can be placed with Lynda the cake lady. I tell Grandma Cleva what the theme is, my idea for the cake; she tells Lynda, and she brings it to life. And, it typically snowballs from there.

It amuses me to think over in my mind the theme of each birthday party, year-by-year. John’s first birthday party was rubber duckies, complete with a swimming pool full of little rubber duckies. He splashed in the pool with a rubber bib over his shirt because we had to keep the dressing on his Broviac catheter dry. I also made ducky-shaped mints and ducky-shaped chocolates.

Birthday #2 was an M&M theme, and the pool that held the duckies a year earlier became the site of a corn scramble…a great way to get rid of the parade candy acquired at the Corn Fest earlier that day.

Buzz & Woody took center stage when John turned three, and this year, for John’s fourth birthday party, it was all Thomas, all the way. I was lucky to find red, green, and blue gingham fabric on the $1.50/yard rack at Wal-Mart, which made the perfect Thomas tablecloths. I even made Thomas-themed pennant-flag banners. Patrick went crazy when he saw them for the first time. He was thrilled.

John got an insane amount of presents, including trucks and trains, books and clothes, and even a tiny little bicycle from Grandpa Dennis. And some age-inappropriate gifts from Uncle Ben, specifically, real live ammunition for the .22 that Ben got him before he was born.

The weather cooperated fully, and we roasted weenies at noon and feasted on homemade chocolate ice cream and cake. And the kids all played NICELY together and shared the loot fairly well.

We even had the honor of hosting a collection of students Matt’s cousin Jonathan brought home with him from Benedictine College in Atchison, Kansas. Some of them had also attended John’s 2^nd birthday party, too. I think there were four of them besides Jonathan, but I can’t be sure. If I’m remembering right, Jonathan brought home a total of nine friends from BC for the Corn Fest weekend, but some of them had left for home the night before. He seems to collect people, has followers perhaps. We were thrilled to have them, and they seemed to have a good time.

So, my children are admittedly spoiled when it comes to their birthday parties, and this is most evident by the fact that John & Patrick really don’t seem to think their birthday parties are that big a deal. After all, there is a “Happy Birthday” banner that has now officially hung in my kitchen for a full year. I never got around to taking it down after John’s 3^rd birthday party. So maybe it’s obvious to them that every day is somebody’s birthday.

I know my tendency to make a big deal of my kids’ birthdays was at least partially formed by our experience with John. At his diagnosis, I feared he wouldn’t see his first birthday, and every subsequent birthday is made that much sweeter as a result. John was a fabulous host yesterday, making sure his friends had their party favors and cups to drink their tea. He patiently (at my insistence) thanked each person for their gift before moving on to the next present. We are so very proud of him.

And, in case you’re wondering Patrick’s first birthday party featured a shamrock theme, inspired (duh) by St. Patrick and some old shamrock bedsheets I found at a yardsale to use for tablecloths. His second birthday party will feature Bob the Builder. It’s not till February, but you just can’t start planning these things too early, especially since tax season can get pretty hectic in February.

***I can't believe I forgot to mention it, so I'm adding it here. When John opened each present, he gasped and exclaimed, "I wuv it!" and "Just what I wanted!" (regardless of whether he had ever thought about wanting that particular item or not.) It was just too darn cute! 

The Proverbs 31 Woman & Some Other Stuff

Me & the Proverbs 31 Woman

Sometimes I like this passage of scripture. Sometimes I do not. The “Proverbs 31 Woman” inspires me on a good day, but she haunts me on a bad one. This scripture was in my head today (guilty conscience, I think) so I decided to read it tonight, and take inventory. What follows is part serious, part tongue-in-cheek, but all honest. (The scripture part is in italics, and Proverbs 31:10-31, The New American Bible)

When one finds a worthy wife,

Her value is far beyond pearls.

That’s why engagement rings have a diamond, not a pearl.

Her husband, entrusting his heart to her,

Has an unfailing prize.

She brings him good, and not evil,

All the days of her life.

Well, I try.

She obtains wool and flax,

And makes cloth with skillful hands.

I guess I should get a sheep.

Like merchant ships,

She secures her provisions from afar.

I secure my provisions from Sam’s Club. That’s afar.

She rises while it is still night,

And distributes food to her household.

I rise at dawn, so I can sneak out for a run, lest I get stuck having to fill someone’s sippy cup.

She picks out a field to purchase;

Out of her earnings, she plants a vineyard.

Matt picks out the fields. I planted a garden this year. It was a total failure.

She is girt about with strength,

And sturdy are her arms.

Because I pack children around all day. Able-bodied heavy children.

She enjoys the success of her dealings;

At night her lamp is undimmed.

I like it when people pay their bill. I like it when I sell stuff on Etsy. My lamp is undimmed because I’m blogging.

She puts her hands to the distaff,

And her fingers ply the spindle.

I don’t do this.

She reaches out her hands to the poor,

And extends her arms to the needy.

I help people minimize their income tax liability, thereby preventing them from becoming “the poor.”

She fears not the snow for her household;

All her charges are doubly clothed.

And they all have gum boots.

She makes her own coverlets;

Fine linen and purple are her clothing.

Fine sweatpants and paint-spattered are my clothing, though I have been known to make a blanket, or two.

Her husband is prominent at the city gates

As he sits with the elders of the land.

He talks with the guys at the auto parts store. And at the elevator.

She makes garments and sells them,

And stocks the merchants with belts.

I make aprons for sale on etsy.com.

She is clothed with strength and dignity,

And she laughs at the days to come.

Yes, strength, dignity, and sweatpants; I laugh because it’s better than crying.

She opens her mouth in wisdom,

And on her tongue is kindly counsel.

People pay me for tax advice. And, I’m pretty nice about it.

She watches the conduct of her household,

And eats not her food in idleness.

I enforce time-outs. And I sneak M&Ms during naptime.

Her children rise up and praise her;

“You’re the best ever mommy; the best mommy ever!”

“Good supper, mom.”

Her husband too, extols her:

“Many are the women of proven worth,

But you have excelled them all.”

Yep, that’s pretty much what Matt says.

Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting;

The woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Give her a reward of her labors,

And let her works praise her at the city gates.

A full night of sleep would be nice, once in a while, too.

So, there you have it, a quick, very literal inventory of my womanly worth. 

Now, for a couple brief updates on what I haven't blogged since the last post:

Grandma Elizabeth fell in May and broke three ribs. After a week in the hospital, she's been in the nursing home since. Hopefully, she'll be able to live on her own again. At any rate, I really don't see the harm in letting her try, if that's what she prefers.

We lost our dog, Ernie, to kidney failure in May. He would have been 10 in November. My dog Maggie was Ernie's mother, and I gave him to Matt when I was a sophomore in college after we'd been dating a little over a year.

John had his routine CT and MIBG scans the last week of June. Both scans showed there is no active neuroblastoma in his body, which means he won't have another scan for a whole year, just a urine test in December. That's incredible to me. Three years ago this summer, I feared he would not see his first birthday, and now, he's nearly four years old, and cancer-free. John is healed, and I pray that he will stay healed.

He is healed, and I pray that I will be one day too. But I fear I will never be. I will never know normal. So much has changed since that summer he was diagnosed. I no longer carry a thermometer in my purse. Or EMLA cream. I don't have his oncology nurse-practitioner's pager number memorized. I don't panic if the gas tank gets below 1/2 full (we always kept it filled up in case we had to make a quick trip to Columbia). I don't pin a medal to John's shirt every morning, and I don't wear one that matches around my neck every day (mostly because PW would break the chain if I did.)

But a lot of stuff hasn't changed. I feel a twinge of panic when he tells me he has a tummyache. Or a cold sore. Or a bug bite. If he doesn't take a nap for a week, I panic because of his restlessness. If he naps faithfully everyday for a week, I panic because I worry about why he's so apparently exhausted. If he wakes up sweaty, I panic. If he feels a little warm, I whip out the thermometer, pronto. (Fevers and nightsweats can be tumor symptoms). 

When PW is unusually crabby and clingy, I fear that he has cancer and briefly toy with the idea of calling his pediatrician to have a urine study done to check for neuroblastoma. I did even do this once, and she agreed to it, bless her heart.

Enough of that. I guess my recovery will be a lifelong process.

What else?

Patrick has started talking...single words, unintelligible to all except his family. Like John at this age, "socks" and "hot" are among his first words. Recently he's added "boots"; and it really frustrates John when PW picks up a shoe or a sandal and calls it a "boot." He's very proficient at animal noises. He loves to watch TV, and Shrek is his favorite movie. I am ashamed of this fact. But he also really, really loves books. He even enjoys "reading" them on his own, not just being read to. And, what's even better, John likes to read to PW, and PW likes John to read to him. This is a wonderful thing in my life. I really find Patrick's love of books and TV/movies amusing, as John was indifferent to the television, and he downright loathed books of any kind until after his second birthday. Patrick is very fond of both Papa Larry and Papa Dennis. His favorite foods include grapes and dill pickles, and he has an insatiable sweet tooth that rivals my own. He's also trying to learn to jump off furniture, which makes my heart stop several times a day.

John never stops talking, and it's hard to believe that a little more than a year ago, he could barely express himself verbally. One of my favorite things to do is to eavesdrop on the conversations he has while he's playing. Invariably, the scenes he acts out with his cars or trains involve someone's birthday party. About a week ago, he told me, "Mom, I am very angry. I am very angry because Levi is having a baby sister, and her name is Car-wee, and you know that I want to have a baby sister. And I want one." This went on and on as I kept explaining to him that it's hard to get a baby sister and maybe it would be ok if he had another baby brother. And, clearly frustrated, he would again explain to me that he is very angry (specifically angry and me and not Levi or anyone else) and so on and so forth. Obviously, he thinks the only thing keeping him from having his very own baby sister is his own mother's stubborn unwillingness to get him one. (I am, by the way, not presently pregnant). John is unbelievably sweet and lovable, but also short-fused, independent, and bitterly determined against anything he decides to be bitterly determined against, including using scissors properly, eating scrambled eggs, and receiving any kind of assistance in getting into or out of a shopping cart.

Hopefully, I'll post again in less than 3 months!

bdc