Boundaries

~
I'm getting better at setting boundaries.

Since my post two weeks ago, where I wrote in a state of panic over everything I have to do, things have calmed down.

I'm more acclimated to my job.

My hubby and I have devised a plan that lets me work at home without having to worry about all the housework and all the child care. (I just have to worry about 75% of the housework. And no matter what he says, I'm still worried about all the child care.)

My kids are getting used to the idea of Momma working from home.

And even though I still have a to-do list as long as my left arm, I'm getting better at leaving it at home or asking for help.

For example, yesterday I had two tasks for work that were due at 5 pm. It wasn't happening.

So I prioritized. I did one of them and then I called my boss, begging for a weekend extension for the other one.

And because of that, I was able to take care of my most important priority: the pumpkin patch with my kids.

My son is the Hulk. I swear.

~

I went outside today during naptime to take a quick call. Since both my kids were sleeping, I figured it wouldn't be a problem. I came back inside to find this:

which led me to this:


which led me to this:

Child proof gate, my a@#

My Former Students Rock!

~

Up until two weeks ago, I was debating the idea of leaving the teaching profession. I mean, yes, I'm a SAHM, but I was debating never, ever walking into another classroom again. I was thinking about going to law school. Or working in a museum. Or opening a children's bookstore. Or (my sisters will die laughing) nursing even crossed my mind.

I don't know why... you just kinda hit the point where you are DONE. You're tired of the whining, the whatifs, the phone calls or emails at 8 in the evening. And that's just the parents!

But you begin to wonder: Am I even making a difference? Who cares? None of these kids are going to remember me anyway. They didn't care about what I taught. They didn't pay attention anyway.

And then 6 things happened:

1. I landed an awesome teaching job. One that lets me stay home with my kids and still teach.

2. One of my former students emailed me to wish me Happy Constitution Day. I was stunned that she remembered.

3. A different student emailed to tell me that it was the 90th Anniversary of the 19th Amendment. She even included a "Yeh for voting!" Not only was I stunned that she knew that, I put it into my calendar so I would know that.

4. I got another email from a different student who graduated last year:

"I shared the "I'm just a bill" school house rock video with everyone in my english class today! Don't ask me why because I really don't even remember how that came up but I just thought i should let you know!(:"

The fact that she remembered School House Rock and shared it with everyone in her class, and cared enough to tell me about it, made me smile. Maybe I did get through, I thought.

5. And then I got this email from a student (I should preface this by saying that voting is my soap box issue -- I would rail and rally my students to vote. I didn't care who or what they voted for, I just wanted them to vote. Okay, that's not true. I did care a little about who and what they voted for... )

So I'm determine to register as many people as possible around campus by October 18th, but I have one question so I don't give people false information. If they do not register with a party, who will they receive on their ballot for governor? Also, if they register as Independent is it the Democratic or Republican candidate that will show up on their ballot? It just annoyed me to hear that people didn't know how to register, or that it would take forever to do so. I decided to just help people out!

I got a little tear eyed when I read that. Not only did I get through, but she cared about what I was teaching.

6. Lastly, I got a long email from a former student; one who graduated two years ago (or was it three?). She was commenting on one of my recent blog posts, and she ended with this:

I want you to know that I always have respected you and think you are a wonderful teacher. You have touched more hearts than you most likely know.

I lost it. I started to cry, right in the middle of the coffee house where I had gone to escape my kids and do some work.

And I realized: I did make a difference. They did remember me. They do care about what I had to say.

Teaching has to be the best profession on the planet.

Making Momma Happy

~
My daughter's new kick is to make Mommy happy.

Before she does something, she asks, "Will that make you happy?" and when she's done, she says, "Are you happy now?"

I try to explain to her that I want her to do things to make herself happy. But she's three. She's happy if she gets two cookies instead of one. So making her bed, picking up her shoes, cleaning up her playroom... those aren't high on her happiness radar.

And I feel sort of guilty about it... That this is the beginning of some sort of problem she will have, a problem that I'm going to have to pay a lot of money in therapy for during her teenage years. Maybe she will be diagnosed with low self esteem or an inability to make herself happy if she is not pleasing other people. And I don't want that -- I don't want her to worry so much about making other people happy, I want her to do thing to make herself happy.

Still, though, this is a great tool for getting stuff done around the house...

The Second Child

~
Sometimes, I feel awful for Boyo.

Not because he can be a stinker. Not because he is a bruiser. Not because his sister walks all over him. Not because he has to do what he's told.

I feel bad for him because he is the second child.

I feel guilty that he didn't get the one on one attention that his sister got when she was an infant.

I feel guilty that I didn't rock him for hours on end, singing lullabies to him.

I feel guilty that when he cuddles up to me on the couch, I only wrap one arm around him because my other arm is wrapped around his sister.

I feel guilty that I'm not as excited over his milestones as I was for his sister's.

I feel guilty that I'm not as patient with him because I know that while he is trying to decide on what truck/plane/car/ball to play with, his sister is wrecking havoc in the other room.

I feel guilty that I don't let him sleep in our bed as often as I do his sister.

I feel guilty that I don't read him 30 bedtime books a night, like I do for his sister. In my defense, he doesn't sit still for them. I'm lucky if I can get one in.

I just feel guilty.

And then...

...while I was feeling my most guilty...

...a friend said something to me. Okay, so it was an article in Parents Magazine. I'm lame. I know.

Basically, what the article said was: You love every child differently.

And this is true. I love my daughter with the wild abandon I think you can only feel with your first born, a type of disbelief that God has trusted you with this precious little person -- it's almost a fear that you will do something to mess this person up because you love them so much.

And while I love my son the same amount, I do love him differently. The way I love my son is similar to a boiling pot - as if all the love I have is in a pot, but he is the heat that makes it cook, that makes it boil and pop and spill over. I love him with a patient acceptance that I never had with his sister; I'm not afraid of him the way I was of her.

After reading that article, I realized that while Boyo doesn't get the same amount of Mommy/Daddy time that Girlie did/does, he gets something different, something Girlie didn't have until she was 18 mos.

He gets a sibling.

He gets his sister's love and attention in addition to Mommy/Daddy time. When he was born, he all ready had a friend in his older sister, ready and waiting for him to play. He has a partner in crime. He has a collaborator when working out a plan on how to score cookies from Momma. He has someone to play catch with, watch movies with, to twirl with, to play tag with, and to giggle with. He has a fan club. He has someone to talk for him and about him. He has a defender. He has this:

Big Boy Bed

~
There are so, so many reasons why I think we picked the wrong time to move our son out of the crib and into a big boy bed.

1. I just started a new job where I work from home, so nap time desperately has to happen.

2. I'm going to be working a few hours in the evening when my husband is home, so a routine bedtime is a must.

3. Since I just started a new job, my schedule is crazy and my kids are not getting quality Mom time. In fact, I'm mildly ashamed of how much TV they are watching. So I can't cuddle and soothe as much, in order to make this transition easier.

4. We are talking about potty training Boyo next month.

5. Boyo had slept in an Elmo Toddler Bed for awhile, but it scared the bejeezus out of him, so we weren't very consistent.

Still, none of this crossed our minds when my parents offered us a free twin mattress. And since there wasn't enough room for an Elmo bed, crib, and twin mattress in his room, the Elmo bed and crib were dismantled and stored in the garage. Boyo and I went shopping so he could pick out new sheets and blankets. We were good to go.

Bedtime on day 1 was a dream come true. Mattress is comfy, guard rail is up, and he loved the new bed.

Naptime on day 2 was perfect. He even took a 4 hour nap!! Still, I remembered when we made the switch to a mattress with our daughter: it was on about day 3 when she realized she could get out of the bed.

My son is a faster learner than she was at that age.

Bedtime on day 2 was a nightmare. He kept coming out of his room, peeking his head around the corner and saying "Hi," before he would wave at us and run back to his room. Finally, we dusted off the baby gate and put it up. So he sat at the gate and screamed for two hours.

Naptime on day 3 was no better. I finally thought I had him down when I rounded the corner and found this:
Great. Girlie's conspiring with him against me.

HELP!

~

I am so overwhelmed.

I am treading water frantically, but I'm still under a foot of water.

And I feel horribly guilty complaining about being overwhelmed because I wanted this job. I prayed for it. I was sure it would be absolutely perfect for me.

And now...

I have two kids that just want their mommy to play with them.

I have a To Do List that is 2 pages long. And that is just for work. And I only know how to do half of the crap on the list.

I have another To Do List that is 1 page long. And that's for my house.

I am an idiot and decided to have a garage sale this Saturday. Yeah, is it set up? No.

My daughter's field trip to the pumpkin patch is on Monday, at the exact same time as my first department meeting.

I'm in the process of hiring a nanny, which means interviews.

My kids' playroom is so thrashed that in order to pick it up, I have to jump over three piles of toys just to get into it.

I have four loads of laundry waiting to be folded, and five more waiting to be run.

I'm supposed to make a plate of sandwiches for a picnic today.

I have a sink full of dishes that desperately need to be washed... I'm afraid of the insect life that will be attracted to them soon.

I have a husband who tells me just to relax, he'll take care of it... and then goes outside to smoke a cigar.

All I want to do is drink a cup of coffee, lay on the couch with a blanket, and watch the week of TV that I have DVR'd. Or I want to sit down, drink a glass of wine and cry. Or I want to go for a run. Or to a yoga class. Or just AWAY.

And I'm blogging about it, instead of working...

CHOCalkers

My family is participating in the CHOC walk this weekend.

The CHOC walk benefits Children's Hospital of Orange County and all of the babies and children who desperately need care.

This cause is very near and dear to our heart. Why? Because CHOC saved my son's life. I don't mean that figuratively. They literally saved my son's life.

You see, when Boyo was five weeks old, he caught a cold. This would not have been a big deal for an adult, or for his 18 month old sister, who gave him the cold. But for a five week old baby, with a delicate respiratory system, it's a very big deal.

He started throwing up on January 10, 2009, his one month birthday. He was vomiting so copiously that he was struggling to breathe. My husband called the hospital advice line and was told that if Boyo developed a fever or the vomiting continued to bring him to the ER. I spent the night in the rocking chair, holding my son, praying for this to pass.

The next morning, he developed a fever of 102. I loaded him into the car and took him to the ER. I still remember what I said to my husband as we left: "It's probably nothing serious, but I'm going to take him to the ER anyway. Because with our luck, if I don't take him to the ER, it will be serious and if I do take him to the ER, it won't be. I'm sure the doctor is going to dismiss me as a nervous mother and send us home. We'll be back in an hour."

I didn't come home for three days.

At the ER, they checked my son's vitals in triage. They couldn't get his respiratory stats... when they finally got them, he registered 64. He should have been over 90. The nurse looked concerned, mumbled "That can't be right," and checked them again. His respiratory stats registered 76.

Everything happened very fast then. The nurse scooped up my son and ran to the back examining room. The doctor was in the room before we were. Now, those of you who have ever visited an ER know that it takes forever to see the doctor. The fact that the doctor beat us to the examination room made me realize that this was very, VERY serious.

The medical team basically shoved me into a corner, hooked my son up to oxygen, and began running tests. Blood work to test for meningitis. Chest xrays for pneumonia. I was questioned repeatedly as to my son's habits the week prior. My husband showed up, and the questioning started again. Through it all, we had to hold an adult oxygen mask to our son's face. He was so tiny that the mask covered his entire face.

Eventually, they told us that our son had RSV and pneumonia and since the hospital we were at did not have pediatric facilities to deal with these types of illnesses, they were going to transfer us to CHOC.

The CHOC ambulance showed up with a nurse and a respiratory therapist. We hadn't even made it out of the driveway when the nurse came up to the driver and me in the front seat.

"We need lights and sirens," she told the driver before she turned to me. She put her hand on my arm and I held my breath. I knew that this was going to be bad.

"I don't want you to worry, but your son stopped breathing for a little bit."

My blood turned to ice. She said something about a mask and oxygen, how it wasn't a big deal and they would intibate, but I'm fuzzy on those details. I spent the entire trip to the hospital peering into the back of the ambulance, staring at my baby while the respiratory therapist said things like, "It's okay. He's breathing now. He's fine." I didn't realize he was talking to me until two days later.

At CHOC, we were rushed to PICU. Five nurses and two doctors met my husband and I at the door. A doctor took my husband and I outside to ask us questions while they intibated my baby. I prowled the hallway, trying peer into my son's room to see what was going on. When we were finally let back inside, my son was on a ventilator.

He was on the ventilator for five days. We couldn't hold him, and it was impossible to find a part of his body to touch that was not covered in wires, tubes, or tape. When he came off of the ventilator, he still had an oxygen tube. We couldn't pick him up; the nurses had to pick him up and place him in our arms and then put him on the bed when were done holding him. And we couldn't hold him for longer than 10 minutes at a time - they didn't want too many people to handle him, for fear that he would have a relapse. I am still furious with myself that I was not the first person to hold him when he got off of the ventilator - I had taken my daughter down to the cafeteria and my husband was in the room.

Through it all, the nurses and doctors were compassionate and informative. The nurses especially were kind, understanding, and strong. They were the ones who reminded us to sleep and eat. A nurse even arranged for me to get a breast pump - I had completely forgotten that I was breast feeding. They brought my son toys and blankets. They changed his diapers and fed him. They kept him sedated so he wouldn't pull out the tubes and wires. They gave him pain medication so he wouldn't hurt. They talked to us and listened. One nurse gave me a hug and let me cry on her shoulder. They answered all of our questions, and when we forgot the answers, they answered them again. When family members came to help out, the nurses answered all of their questions too. They gave our daughter a toy and some crayons so she wouldn't feel left out. They kept telling us, "He's going to be fine. This is the easy part - you should go home and sleep, because when he goes home, the hard part is going to start."

Our son left CHOC January 19, 2009. He was healthy and whole and unbelievably pissed off at the entire situation. He screamed the entire way home and then for the next two days - making up for lost time, I think.

Because of the nurses and doctors at CHOC, my son has gone from this:

to this:

So we are walking this Sunday to give back and to raise awareness. If you want to donate to this worthy and wonderful cause, you can do so here.
My family and I thank you.

Roller Coaster

~
I have been on a hell of a roller coaster lately.

First, I was struggling with the idea of being a stay at home mom.

Turns out, I didn't have to make a decision, since I lost my job.

So I applied for unemployment.

Then I found a new tutoring job.

And then I found out I didn't qualify for training.

So we applied for a loan modification.

Then I found a different tutoring job.

And then I found out that it didn't start until November.

Then we drained our savings.

Then I found out I lost my unemployment claim.

That same day, I found out our loan modification was denied.

Through it all, I have tried to maintain a sunny outlook for my kids. I did an abysmal job. They knew something was wrong. My daughter had to tell me to stop crying at least once a week. My son was extra cuddly, as if he knew I needed some extra compassion.

During this roller coaster ride, I have been talking to a friend about it. She's Catholic, as I am, but she's much better at it than I am. What I mean is, I struggle with my faith. Yes, I go to church and I go through the motions - say the prayers, make the donations, sing the songs. But I've had a real problem with the church's stance on social issues, and my faith took a huge hit when I lost my job and my unemployment claim, given that I was employed by a catholic school.

My friend doesn't struggle with her faith. She's serene about it. If something bad happens to her, it's part of God's plan so she can learn and grow. If something good happens to her, it's part of God's plan so she can learn and grow.

I didn't think I had it in me to follow that blindly. I wanted to. God knows, I've tried. But I'm too much of a control freak to simply give myself over to God when I don't know what's going to happen.

Still, He forced the issue.

My friend would gently remind me, whenever I called her up to complain or cry or whine about my circumstances, that God has a plan for me. She shared her mantra with me: "God knows your beginning, middle, and end. You don't and you don't need to." She told me that when I got overwhelmed and panicked to stop and breathe and remind myself of that.

So I did. When I found out I didn't qualify for tutoring, I took a deep breathe and reminded myself it wasn't part of God's plan. When I found out the training job didn't start until November, I sat outside and told myself that I needed to turn myself over to God. Every day I prayed. Every day I meditated. My family started going to church again. We started praying before meals and before bedtime. I could feel my faith growing, getting stronger, and that made me stronger. I was better at handling crises. I was calmer. I was happier.

And then I got hit with the two-fer: no unemployment and no loan modification. All of the work I had done over the summer to strengthen my faith was gone in the blink of an eye. I was back at square one, furious and scared, wondering why God was punishing me. I called my friend, hysterical. She cried with me. And then she said, "Shannon, I know you don't want to hear this, but God has a plan for you. Trust in Him."

My response was: "I can't trust anything but myself."

The next day, it rained, as I mentioned here. And, I swear, I heard God. So I danced in the rain. And during my dance, I fell to my knees and looked up to God. "I put myself in Your hands," I said as tears poured down my face. "I can't do it alone anymore."

Four days later, I got a call. I had landed my dream job - I'm now a virtual teacher; I work from home so I can still be with my kids. I can keep my credential current. There will be no real gaps in my resume. I will have a paycheck. My family will survive financially.

And this wonderful thing happened the moment I found the strength to turn myself over to God.

I know now that I needed to struggle and fear and ride this roller coaster. I needed to take this path to find my faith.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." ~Proverbs, 3:5

Thank You Boyo

~
A Thank You Letter To My Son:

Thank you for going with me to the mail box two weeks ago. Your very presence when I got hit with two pieces of bad news made me smile and take a deep breath instead of cursing the heavens and collapsing into fetal position.

Thank you for cuddling with me that night as I pondered how our little family was going to survive. Your sweet little body pressed against mine reminded me how lucky I am.

Thank you for dancing with me in the rain. Your delight and excitement in this new game made me smile and let me truly laugh for the first time in weeks.

Thank you for being quiet when I took the phone call that changed our lives for the better - the one that gave me the job I desperately needed but still allows me to stay home and play with you.

Thank you for cheering and clapping when I got off the phone and I started jumping up and down, screaming, "I got the job," like a lunatic. I know you didn't have a clue what was going on, but your joy was infectious and made me feel so proud and happy that I could provide for you and your "Sissy."

Thank you for your sweet smile and sticky kiss when I scooped you up and danced around the room with you. I needed that more than I knew.

Thank you, my darling boy, for filling my heart with love and for giving me strength.

I love you.