Pink lines

Me: I don’t know, Mom.  I think I’m coming down with something.  I’ve been tired.  And I’ve been nauseas all week, but then when it’s time to eat, I just gobble food down.  Today I ate FOUR bean burritos from Taco Bell.  Two of them before I even parked in the parking lot at work.

My mom: Have you taken a pregnancy test?

Me: What?  No.  We’ve only tried for one month (and only one time).  No one who wants to get pregnant gets pregnant that fast.

My mom: Stranger things have happened.

Me: Right.

My mom: So where you going for date night?

 

And so it stuck with me.  As we ate at our favorite sushi place, I mentioned the conversation to The Husband.

The Husband: Maybe we should get one.

Me: That’s crazy.

The Husband: What’s the harm?

So we walked over to the grocery store, and I purchased the test.  We went home.  I went straight to the bathroom and used it.

I always wanted to make a short film of those three minutes.  I checked the clock.  I paced.  I read the box.  I drank some water.  I checked the clock.  I paced.  I reread the box.  I examined my face for pimples.  I read the insert.  I checked the clock.  I paced.  I drank some more water.  I checked the clock.  I checked the test.

Two pink lines stared at me.

I was pregnant.  It hit me like the knoll of a bell, straight to the pit of my stomach.

That was how I learned about Evan.

 

***

 

Me: I’m ONLY three days late.  It’s not like that has never happened before.  My body does this sort of random thing.  Evan, eat your eggies.  Daddy made them just for you.

Evan: Eggies!!

The Husband: But you’ve been off the pill a month!

Me: And we only had sex one time.  I think we totally missed the ovulation.

The Husband: How do you know?

Me: I don’t.  Which is why I wanted to wait a month or two to get a handle on my cycle.  Evan, don’t play with your food.

Evan: Eggies!

The Husband: There wasn’t a reason to.  I asked you to get the test earlier.

Me: And I asked you to get a paycheck cut.  When you forget to do that, I run out of money.

The Husband: Fine.  I’ll go get it.

Me: Don’t forget to deposit the paycheck.  (door slam)  Your Daddy is so funny.

Evan: Funny!

 

The Husband: Here.  Those things are expensive!

Me: Tell me about it.  No, Evan.  Play with Daddy.  Mommy will be right back.

So I went to the bathroom and took the test. 

One day I’m going to make a short about those three minutes.  I checked the clock.  I paced.  I read the box.  I drank some water.  I checked the clock.  I paced.  I reread the box.  I examined my face for pimples.  I read the insert.  I checked the clock.  I paced.  I drank some more water.  I checked the clock.  I checked the test.

Two pink lines stared at me.

I was pregnant.  Damn.  He has super sperm.

That was how I knew I was going to have Sean.

 

***

 

I texted: Sorry that it’s god awful early after your late night.  But it’s day 32, though I went 35 days last time.  Should I take a test?

BFF: No worries, I’m already up.  J  I probably would.  That sucks your body is messing with you.

Me: What are you doing up?  I know you need sleep.  I didn’t think about the day until now.  At least I’m not on pins & needles like last month.

BFF: Yeah, no kidding.  So did you make a decision?

Me: We’re going to the zoo today. I don’t know if I’ll have time to get the test today.  It’s unlikely I’m preggers.  But that’s how we roll.

BFF: Get the damn test.

 

The next morning I packed the boys in the car and drove to Wal-Mart.  On a Saturday.  Which is always a precarious thing to do on a Saturday, but at least we’re out early enough to beat the crowd.  I hoped.

I looked at the tests, debating if name recognition was worth the price.

Evan: Mommy, what are those?

Heaven help me, I opened my mouth to actually say condoms.  Honestly, I’m this close to being an idiot.

Me: Women things.  Just for women.

Evan: Oh.

Me: Sean, stay in the aisle.

F* it.  I’m saving the money.

Me: Come on, boys.

I herded the dancing boys to the register.  While hygiene products are close to the registers, it felt like it took forever to get to them.  But that was due to the ballet twins, not the item I was buying.

I ended up in the 10 items or less lane.  I threw in a few pieces of candy, just in case Evan divulges the trip to anyone.  The boys danced for the cashier and the grandma and grandson behind me.

Grandma: How old are you?

Evan: Four!

Grandma: Wow.  That’s big.  He’s five.  How old are you?

Sean: FIVE!

Grandma: I can’t wait to see you when you’re ten.

Cashier: They are so adorable.

Me: Thanks.  Come on, boys.  Let’s go home and watch cartoons.

Evan and Sean: YEA!!

We got home, and I turned on Disney.  I went to the bathroom.  I pulled out the test.  I read it.  I reread it.  I took a drink of water.

Not one to waste precious alone time, I grabbed a book.  I used the test.  I finished the chapter.

Evan: MOMMMY!!!!! WHERE ARE YOU?

Me: In the bathroom.

Sean: Juice pease!!!!!

Evan: Can we have popcorn?

Sean: Corn!!!

Me: In a second.

Which I guess meant yes, because they ran out of the room.  I pulled up my shorts.  I turned to flush.  My eyes caught sight of the test.

Well, son of a gun.  Two pink lines.

I’m pregnant.

Where’s your hand?

Sean has decided he needs to put his hands in first when it comes to putting on his shirt.  Since I’m dressing him, I prefer to do it head first, but big brother Evan does it hands first, so too must Sean.

As we struggled with the shirt, Sean managed to get his right hand through first.  His left hand was still stuck in the shirt.

I began to tease him by saying, “Where’s your hand?  Where’s your hand?”

Sean pulled his right hand out of the shirt.  He reached through the left arm hole and pulled out his left hand.

“Here it IS!” he yelled with joy.

Hmmm.  I think I should just be quiet.

Breaking Penis Rule #2

Yesterday we went swimming as usual when it gets to be 106.  (Ok, usually it’s 101, but it’s still crazy hot.)  After we got out, the boys ran around air-drying themselves.  I took off Sean’s swimsuit because he has a habit of peeing right after he gets out of the pool.

Evan came over to inspect Sean’s penis.  He reached out and messed with it.  This was much more disturbing to my baby brother than for me.

Uncle M: Evan!  Stop playing with your brother’s penis!

Thanks, M.  I think the neighborhood heard you.

Evan: But Uncle M, I like playing with it!

Just the excuse we needed to hear.  I intervened before my brother could throw his two cents in about this turn of events.  Is that the sound of Papi trying not to laugh?

Me: Evan, Penis Rule #2 states we do NOT play with other people’s penises.  Next time you’ll be going into time out.

The Penis Rules

1. You can only play with your penis when you are alone in your room.
2. You are not allowed to play with someone else’s penis.
3. You must have pants on to go out front.
4. When in public, including the front yard, you may not take your penis out to show any one.

Little Brotherly Love

Yesterday Sean and I dropped Evan off at school.  Evan’s school is Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons.  We wanted to ease Evan into school, rather than drop him into the deep end as some of the schools we looked at would do.

I packed the boys into the car after lunch.  Each had his backpack strapped on to his back.  I reminded Evan to raise his hand during the class and to listen as I know these are his biggest weakness.  I had observed this last summer during his swim classes and then again at the open house where the teacher went through circle time with the kids.  Really, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

We arrived in good time.  The boys and I braved the sweltering heat as we marched to the classroom.  A few other moms stood around with their kids, talking.  I herded mine to keep them from running around in the landscaping.  No one else’s kid was doing that, so I figured I shouldn’t allow mine either.  Of course, it is desert-scaping; nothing can hurt it.

The teacher opened the door, and the children marched one by one.  Sean followed his brother.

I grabbed Sean.

Me: No, Sean.  That’s your brother’s class.  That’s Evan’s class.  Not for Sean.

Sean: Brothr!

He tried to wiggle out of my grasp.  He started to cry, wail, scream.

Me: Sean, it’s ok.  You’re going home with Mommy, and we’re going to have fun.  Do you want to have fun with Mommy?

Sean: BROTHR!!!

I picked him up, looking straight into his big brown eyes.

Me: I know.  You want to play with Evan and his friends.  But you’re not old enough yet.  We can go home and play.  We’ll have some special time.

Sean: With Dadda?

Me: Yes, Daddy is home.  We can play with him, too.  Do you think that is a good plan?

Sean nodded.  We walked away.

Me: How about a binky?

Sean: BINK!

Of course, Sean slept through the whole afternoon, missing any Mommy and just Me time.  Poor kid.

First steps

Yesterday Evan went to school for the first time.  He actually coordinated his outfit with a blue football shirt and a blue shorts.  I made him wear tennis shoes, instead of the boots, which need to be retired soon.  He carried his new Transformers backpack on his back.

Sean couldn’t go on without his own backpack, so he had a small Kung Fu Panda backpack.  He walked next to Evan.

Even with The Husband in tow, we arrived early, and I snapped pictures. 

The children lined up to enter the room.  Evan found himself in the middle of the line.  One by one the kids entered the class as the teacher greeted them by name.  Evan allowed two kids to have cuts as he came near the door.  He stopped at the door.

Teacher: Hi, Evan.  How are you?

Evan: I’m a little scared.

My eyes welled with tears, which I kept in check because I knew if I cried Sean would too.

Teacher: That’s ok.  Everything will be just fine.  Come on in.

Evan took his first steps in without looking back.  The teacher’s assistant helped him off with his backpack and sent him to play.

I stood there not knowing when to leave or what to do now.  But a couple of minutes went by, and I didn’t hear a cry for Evan.  I called Sean, and we went home.  My first child is in pre-kindergarten.

Charts and stars

When my mom sent me to pre-kindergarten, she was shocked at how much the teachers had the four-year-olds do.  It changed her philosophy.  No longer did she pick up our toys.  No longer did she dress us.  No longer did she helps on and off with our coats.  She was a liberated woman.

Since she’s a convert, she’s forever telling me what my boys should be doing.  But I, like so many other moms, find it easier to just do it because it’s faster.  Oh, Evan, take off the underwear off your head and give it to me.  Now step in.

Of course, it is high time Evan started doing things on his own.  No matter how much longer it takes.  Even if getting dressed is now a whole half an hour affair.  (Thank God, we couldn’t get him into the morning class.)  No, you can’t wear pants today; it’s a 102.  You know very well both legs are in the same whole.

I reorganized his chore chart and decided that it was time to make sure Evan did these things on his own instead of reminding me to brush Evan’s teeth.  (I know.  I’m a bad mom.)  I also made Sean one, so that I would remember to brush his teeth too.  (Yeah, I know.)

Now Evan will brush his teeth, wash his face, comb his hair, actually putting on his clothes, and making his bed without any help from me.  Ok, with some minor help.  He’s supposed to do this between breakfast and playing.  Once Mommy has declared it time to get ready for the day, no more playing until it’s done.  No leaving the bedroom until it’s done.  No kung fu fighting on the bed until it is done.  I don’t care if Ti Lung doesn’t wear a shirt you have to.

I started it last week with touch and go success, but they had enough stars for a treat, but I forgot all about it.  So today I showed Evan his new chart with the added bed making, since I forgot last week, and I told Evan if he completes all his chores and gets all his stars, I would take him out for ice cream.

Not only will my mornings begin to run smoother.  (Stop chuckling; it could happen.)  But now I get to go out for ice cream on Saturday.  Win-win.

Sleeping

 

Sean and I had been up for quite some time, watching cartoons, playing pirates, when I heard Evan talking in his room.  I went to investigate to find Evan talking and prancing on his top bunk bed.

Me: How did you sleep last night?

Evan jumped down and lay down on his pillow.

Evan: Like this.

 

Questions of the Week

Why?

Why does that man have grey hair?

Why is Papi so big?

Is Papi Daddy’s son?

Why can’t I stay at Papi and Grandma’s house?

Why do we have to go to Grandma and Papi’s house?

Why do I have to eat my dinner?

Why can’t I have dessert?

Why can’t I watch you pee?

Why does Seanny say “bink” when he wants his binky?

Why did Grandma-Great go to the zoo with us?

Why can’t we go to the water park?

Why do bees make honey?

Why are the fossa scared of a lion?

Why are some animals bigger than others?

Why do I have to learn to write my name?

Why do I have to take a nap?

Why did that shark eat that seal?

Why do misquitoes bite?

Why do we have to go to Target?

Why can’t we go to McDonald’s?

Why do we have to go?

May I have more juice?

May I have a cookie?

May I watch DVD time?

Why did you do that?

Why does Papi have no hair?

Why does Grandma-Great leave alone?

What’s in heaven?

Why can’t I have a toy?

Why do we have thunder?

Why can’t I go play in the rain?

Why do I have to go to bed?

Why?

Why?

Why?

The Apple and the Tree

You’re singing again, making up random songs as you go along.  Your lyrics are clear like the ones on the radio, but you rarely sing the ones you here.  You like making up your own.

I used to sing all the time, making up random songs as I went along.  I would swing for hours, singing my own songs.  Ask your grandparents.

You’re telling stories.  You like making up adventures.  You’ll sit and go on and on and on, explaining the characters and what they do.

I would tell stories at your age, and I still do.  I would sit at my desk and scribble, pretending it was script as I wrote along, once everyone was tired of listening to me.   

You like to talk.  Woe to the adult that catches your eye.  You ask questions and explain things.  You just like communicating.  Everyone knows everything you’re thinking, wondering, understanding.

I still talk a lot.  I was only a year older than you when I talked eight hours straight except for my nap, not repeating myself once.  I think of it as a gift.

You’re a different person every day.  You’re Super Turtle, Ti Lung, a ninja, a knight, a Tiki, a pirate.  Every day you’re trying on someone else’s skin.  Your imagination has no boundaries.

I was also trying to be someone else.  A princess, a knight, a doctor, a queen, a fairy, an angel, She-Ra.  Sometimes I still pretend I’m someone else, to work out stories in my head or my favorite an au pair when you and your brother act up.

Oh, right.  One day you’ll also pretend you aren’t related to me.  I’ll understand.  I’ll hug you in front of your friends, but I’ll understand.  You’re just an apple that fell too close to the tree.

Wicked Witch

I’m the wicked witch.

 

Pick up the balls please.

Pick up the balls.

Evan, I told you pick up the balls.

Pick up the balls right NOW.

Good Lord, child, pick up the balls!

Ok, how about you pick up the balls or go to time out.

 

My voice cracks.  It goes up a few octaves.  The tone is like nails on a chalk board.  It reflects my desire to be somewhere else, any where else like getting a root canal or watching my mom try on a dozen dresses as I sit in the boyfriend’s set dreaming about the ice cream shake I deserve but won’t get.  Basically I sound like a nag.  I hate it.

 

Pick up the trains, please.

Pick up the trains.

Evan, pick up the trains.

I told you to PICK UP the trains.

Keep picking up the trains.

If I come back in here and the trains aren’t picked up, you’re going to time out.

 

I sound like my mom, a broken record.  I sound harsh, unforgiving.  I sound angry, hateful, bitter.

Obviously I’m not doing this right.

 

Evan, get your shoes on; we’re going to Grandma and Papi’s.

I start out nice, respectful, often polite.

Get your shoes on.

Then it comes out like a command.  I move away doing something else, dealing with Sean, cleaning, brushing my teeth.

Evan, where are your shoes?  Get THEM.

Then I start to get angry.

Evan!  Get your shoes on.

Then I bark.

Get your shoes on now or you’re going into time out.

Then I threaten.  Usually he does what he’s told to at this final moment; sometimes he does not.

 

But I find myself muttering a phrase I heard in my past.

How many times do I have to tell you to do something?

Then I know I’m channeling my mother. 

That frightens me.  She had horrible PMS when I was growing up.  You know the projectile-vomiting-fire-breathing-head-turning-things-flying-bed-levitating-dear-god-where’s-the-holy-water kind.  She had an excuse.  I do not.  Or maybe three children just constantly pressed her buttons (and God knows what my dad did, i.e. last post) that it would send her on a psychotic tail spin once a month. 

Because I see myself heading that way.

Maybe I need to throw him into time out the first time he doesn’t jump to do what he’s told.  Maybe I’m too soft.  Maybe I should have stronger consequences.  Maybe I should just send him to a military school.  Maybe I am my mother.

All I know is I want to be the peaceful, patient, kind, loving mother all the time.  I don’t want to be the snarling, screaming, tired, frustrated mother that is starting to pop at several times a day.  I hate her.  This is just one child pressing my buttons.  I’ve got Sean pressing the terrible twos, and I look at him, thinking didn’t Evan put away his juice cup at that age, I didn’t let Evan get away with hitting at this age, shouldn’t he have learned by now to throw his temper tantrums in his room.

This job, this household, heck, their childhoods would be infinitely more pleasant if they would just do it on THE FIRST TIME. 

Really, is that so hard to ask?