8 Years

Nothing Like The First Day

Evan's fist day of 2nd grade....

Here is to a fresh new school year. To learning more, and making new friends. Harder math and more challenging reading. Improved handwriting.

But for us, as parents, it is always about so much more...

I don't know about others, but for me, it is always about being one year closer to the day he will leave the nest. One less year to have him with us. It is always the year I will be more involved, more patient about teaching him new things. Watching him grow a little more. One sad day, I will be able to sit back and see that my work is finished. But now, in the middle of the greatest responsibility the world has to offer, I am amazed and realize that these are the days for which to live.

Seriously?

Okay so seriously, it is that time of year. The only other time where it is more expensive to be a parent is at Christmas time. My little list started as just a few uniforms. We inventoried the closet to see what uniforms from last year could be reused and came up with a healthy stack. Next was the list of supplies. Evan's school does something differently: each year, when supplies are donated, they divide them up among the students. Say, for example, that each second grader needs 4 boxes of crayons for the year. If enough crayons are donated so that each child can have 2 boxes, the school does not make us buy the 4, but rather he 2 that are lacking. In the end, the supplies that are donated end up saving each parent some money. So now supplies are added to the list.

But then I start to think about things. He'll need new underwear, and socks. And undershirts. Oh, and shoes. We need a pair of gym shoes and a pair of oxfords. And we can't forget that he needs a couple of new belts. And a light jacket. And of course we cannot forget the backpack. Heaven forbid it not be the preppy one with his name embroidered in the center... And of course somewhere before next Wednesday, we will have to get a haircut. Before I know it, a couple hundred bucks for a few uniforms to add to what is left from last year...well, let's just say that the sum morphs into something else entirely. In the meantime, I mention to him that the plan for later in the day is for us to go school shopping. This is the look I get from him. (See above) Why is he so sad? You would think he was the one footing the bill.

My Baby Boy Is Coming Home!

Just for fun, Evan has been staying down at his grandparents' houses for the past few weeks. They do this every summer since we moved away. But this time it has been over 3 weeks and I miss him dearly. But today, his grandfather is bringing him home. I am so excited to see him!

Speaking of Babies, Did I Ever Tell You WHY Evan is a Miracle?

It was just a couple of weeks after we saw the two pink lines on the little stick when the beeding started. The OB referred to it as "threatened spontaneous abortion". Miscarriage. But maybe not, because there on the screen was a tiny beating heart. The shock of realization on John's face will never leave me. His baby, who he said looked like a bean, there in living color. So I started the visits to the oupatient lab every other day, where they would leave black bruises on my arms in order to siphon from me the blood that would tell them that our baby was thriving. And every other day, we would wait and cry and pray that he was. Or wait for the call that it was all over, that we would try again, that they needed to schedule a D&C. We just waited.

Then one day it was over. I was so happy on that day. I envisioned my body making the discovery that this angel was there to stay for 40 weeks. To stop trying to get rid of him, that he was no intruder, but rather a welcome passenger. The nausea and vomiting were signs of life within me, and they were welcome too. We picked names. Emily for a girl. But what for a boy? He should be named after his father, we decided. But we hated the idea of relatives in southern Kentucky calling him "Junior". So we perused the books for boy names. The control freak in me was beside heself. We needed a boy name. Brady? Tucker? No, too trendy. Then one day I saw it: Evan: Welsh version of John. Little Evan for a boy. Named after his father, but still his own person.

The happiness was short-lived. My body is stubborn. I felt the first contraction a few days later like a gentle tugging within me. But wait. Accoding to the calender, I still had 5 months to go. That gentle tugging turned to tearing, ripping, searing pain. Thoughts of all of the bleeding, John's excitement, Evan or Emily, pink or blue...they all swirled in my head as John rushed me to the hospital. And the first feeling I ever got of John-and Andrea-Against-the-World was when the young doctor told us that th medication did not work, that the contractions were continuing, that he was sorry, but I was having a miscarriage. I wonder what he thought of us, as we clung to each other, crying those big hot tears, grieving for the baby that wasn't to be. Married for about 6 months at the time, we were all each other had in that moment. I imagine it was pity he felt. Or determination. Whatever the reason, a second dose of mdication was given, and the contractions stopped. And we rejoiced. And I returned home a few days later. Only to return again. Same scenario, different day. Again and again we grieved for the loss of our baby, only to find out that it was another near-miss.

After 2 weeks of trips back and forth to the hospital, we met the doctor who would test our resolve. More pre-term labor. But this ime, the doctor and nurse came in to the room and pulled up chairs by my bed. They started speaking of babies with profound disabilities from prematurity. Of families wrecked with medical expenses. Of our youth. The doctor actually said the dreaded word next. Abortion. He told me to let God have our baby, that it wasn't in the cards, that we could have another. I didn't understand. Was the baby okay? Wasn't it just my body? Didn't they have medicine to stop the labor that had been working? Wasn't I at 20 weeks of pregnancy? The age of viability, as they had been telling me during previous visits? I didn't understand, but we knew we needed to find a docotr who wanted us to have our baby like we wanted to.

A couple of months went by, and we switched hospitals to one with a top-rated NICU in preparation for a birth of a very premature infant. We toured the NICU. The hospitalizations continued as we braced ourselves for heartbreak. I learned what the "Special OB Unit" was at Good Smamritan in Cincinnati. I spent over a month there, on magnesium sulfate drips. At such a high dose that I was not permitted to get up to go to the bathroom or even roll in bed by myself. I had chest x-rays every oher day because such high doses were associated with fluid on the lungs. They would cover my arms in hot packs to relieve some of the pain from the viscous fluid going into my veins. They said it was about the thickness of corn-syrup, and that is why it was so painful. Every third day, they would come in and stop the drip because it was not safe for me to be on it any longer than that. And every third day, the contractions would start back up. I got yet another course of steroid injections to prepare the baby for the early birth that could not be stopped. I met a maternal-fetal specialist who was the best in his field and began to get ultrasounds twice a week. We learned tht it was a boy in there. That there was no infection in the amniotic fluid, and no other reason for me to be having the preterm labor. "Sometims this just happens", they told me. But with each week, I got closer to the day that our baby could be born, that the rate of survival for him increased just a teensy bit.

I ws sent home. I was on a medication that would lower my blood pressure so much that when I would take a hot shower, I would pass out from the further dilation of my vessels. I was on another that caused such horrible acid reflux that I was essentially vomitting without wretching. Huge moutfuls of hot sour acid would wash up without any warning. But my baby was okay.

It got to the point where we thought Evan would survive, and we begged the doctors to deliver him. "You can help him", I woul plead. I just wanted them to make it stop.

A little past midnight, on September 1st, 2001, it finally did. I was havng hard contractions, and a nurse midwife who had never seen me before insisted that I was not dilating. And she said I wasn't due for anothr 5 weeks. We laughed at her like maniacs and begged for the on-call obstetrician. I blurted out words like fetal fibronectin,amniocentesis, ultrasounds, steroid courses in all 3 trimesters, hCg levels, magnesium sulfate, age of viability... She started telling me about "what is best for the baby", and a cried hot tears as I told her of the unspeakable hell I had endured for my body to continue to provide a home for this growing baby. I knew from my experiences that if you start labor at 36 weeks, they will let you go. I was 35 weeks. And I didn't care about a few more days. I couldn't do any more. My body was physically, emotionally, and mentally drained in every way imaginable.

The OB finally came in, and he ordered everyone to get off of me. He put his hands on my giant belly and felt as contraction after contraction ripped through me in waves. Contractions that felt like they were ripping me in two, but were not causing any results. And he told me to breathe through them. The monitors came off as he let me feel this last bit of pain unencumbered by the trappings of modern medicine. And he explained to me how they usully do c-sections after just a day of labor, citing failure to progress as the justification. And I had been in labor for literally 17 weeks. I had endured my hell, and he wanted to help it end for me with a c-section.

After that, I didn't feel another contraction. They never stopped, even as th doctor cut through the soft layers of my abdomen. And I was prepared for the silence that follows a cesarean birth. The birth canal doesn't squeeze the fluid from the baby, and often they need to be suctioned. Plus this was a baby who was early. The last to develop is the lungs. He may need help. But from the instant he was exposed to this world, my son let out the lustiest cry I have ever heard in a newborn. And tears choked my voice as I shouted out that his lungs were okay, long before I had ever laid eyes on his beauty.

There is not a day that goes by in my life wih Evan and John when I don't look at my little family and have waking nigtmares of what could have been. Where I do not thank God for the sloppy kisses and brown eyes that sparkle with laughter and amazement and wonder. Where I do not count my blessings. He truly is my Evan from Heaven. Our miracle. A tribute to God or Allah or the science of modern medicine. Or maybe a mother and father's determination.

My Animals Hang With the Animals

Today I took some time away with the fam for a trip to Cincinnati Zoo and Botanical Gardens. We had fun, aside from Evan complaining about his feet hurting after he insisted on wearing flip-flops. I'm glad I got this time with him, though. I have to work tonight at 23:00, and work twelves for the next 7 nights. By the time I am finished with this stretch, I will be back in class. He is going with his grandma this weekend to King's Island, along with John and his cousin Joanna, then making the trip back to Madisonville with her to spend the week at his grandpa's house. Summer is flying by. At least I got a little bit of time with him first.


By far my favorite pic of the entire trip. The goat kept trying to eat Evan's shirt, so Evan would giggle and step away, then try to pet it again. Each time, it would get a mouth full. It didn't tear the shirt, but it did give me a great photo op.
Too cute for words.
This damned thing. I was leaning over the glass, trying to get a good shot of the sea lion that was underwater playing with a ball. All of the sudden, this #$%^& popped it's head up at me, scaring me to death. Note that the camera was not zoomed for this pic!
Lucy wouldn't wake up for me and I was very disappointed. (See below.)
Awwww. Lucy the Baby Bearcat. Sponsored by the University of Cincinnati. Go figure.
The seductive ape. I kindly left the other one out of the pic, who was showing its hand in its mouth repeatedly. I had just said "What is it, bulimic?" when it purged its food into its hand to feed its baby. Disgusting.
This is "Francois". Some type of monkey that had Francois in it's name. It had a faux-hawk and white muttonchops, and was the coolest monkey ever.
I don't know what in the hell this thing was, but when we went to walk away, it made some weird crying sound until we came back.
The polar bear insisted on showing me nothing more than his browneye as he ate his lunch.
I think John was making funny faces behind me.
So peaceful here. I didn't want to leave this spot.
The big one and the little one take a break to eat popcorn.
I have this horrendous phobia of snakes. Just walking into the reptile house was a huge step in conquering my fear. And it was packed too. As I looked at the snakes through the glass, I was sizing people up to see how much effort it would take to knock them out of my way if I needed to make a break for it. Then I saw this S.O.B.....
Evan kept calling this rhinoceros "Clyde". I have no idea where he got that name.
Evan poses with the likeness of his father.
Is that the Fergie family? Mom, Dad, and Evan.....
The gorillas were pensive.
The bearcat would not be still for her photo shoot. I swear I stood there for about 15 minutes trying to get a good shot. No wonder UC thinks this is a good mascot....stubborn as hell!
I think I interrupted the sexy time of the "Giant Bait", as my hillbilly husband called them.
These lizards were looking at me.
The lemurs. This is when Evan screamed "Look, Mommy, it's Zoboomafoo!"

The Ball Tick and its Aftermath

When we were out in the country weeks ago, on John's Dad's property, we found ticks on us. Yes, as in multiple ticks. We got them off, even though I was grossed out entirely.

So fast forward a couple of days later. I think it was a McDonald's we were at for breakfast. For the umpteenth time that day, I caught little Evan scratching his nether regions. He never does that. Well, being that he is getting older and more aware that Mommy is girl, I sent John into the bathroom with him to inspect. Yep, you guessed it! He had a tick fully embedded.... there! So John tries to get it out, to no avail. I call the doctor, and she is going to get a male colleague to get it out if I will just stop by the office. At this news, Evan starts wailing. He doesn't want the doctor to do this. So I call the in-laws. They're country people and know more about this crap than I do. My father-in-law tells me to hold a match to it. Seriously? Did he even hear where I told him it was on Evan's body???? But the heat idea....hmmmm. So I get Evan in a hot shower, hoping it will back out enough to get the sucker out. Of course not.

I have no idea how I did it, but I managed to convince the kid to let me have a crack at it. I hope no neighbors were looking through the windows, because I had to have my son lay on the floor, and I had to get my face very close to see what I was doing. But armed with nothing but a pair of tweezers, I got the damned tick out. Ewww. The entire time, Evan was whimpering about the "ball surgery".

So here we are a month later. The spot where the tick was located looks awful. And Evan has developed this horrific rash all over the lower half of his body. We have tried every over-the-counter cream there is, from anti-inflammatories to anti-fungals. Nothing is fixing this rash. A week later, when it is actually worse, we take him to the doctor.

My child has lyme disease. So now we are on a one-month, three-times-a-day course of antibiotics. So much for summer!

Guilt and Sadness

Before I know it, Summer will be gone. Evan will be back in school. And starting tomorrow night, I am back to the grind. By the time I get off of work on Monday, it ill be time to head to another quarter of classes. And at the end of the Summer, this baby of mine will be 8 years old. I know I will not be getting a break until we are both off for Christmas.

I look at those brown eyes and I miss it all: the sloppy kisses and macaroni and cheese faces after dinner. The cuddling and giggling. Getting his bubble bath ready at night. Making sure he learns math. And I look at the stretch of time ahead of us and I realize that by the time I finish medical school, this little boy will be 13 years old. Is it worth it?

I had a talk with Evan just now, asking him if he wanted Mommy to go to school to be a doctor, even though it is going to take a long time. He looked at me with those big brown eyes and said yes, very emphatically. When I asked him if he would still think I was a good Mommy if I continued to be away, he said yes again. I asked him why he wanted Mommy to be a doctor, and he told me that he has the smartest mommy in the world, and he knows I can do it. So now I am sitting here at my desk typing this, amidst the crepe paper flowers and finger-painted rainbows he has given me from art class in school, and I have found out the truth.

I am so very blessed. For some reason, whatever higher power is out there has decided that I am deserving of this amazing little person in my life. How lucky could I be?

I Did A Good Job

We went to the grocery store as a family, which is usually a mistake. For the first time in a long time, little Evan was very well-behaved. When I told him no to the sugary crap because it wasn't "good for our bodies" he replied with an "Oh, okay". He helped me keep track of what we needed here at the house. Overall it was a nice experience. When we get to the checkout, he asked for a candy bar. I thought it over and said he could. Hershey bars were 2 for $1. He got 2.

Later we get home, and I have finished putting the groceries away. He comes up to me with this huge smile on his face and hands me one of the candy bars. I ask if he is sure he doesn't want to save it for another time. He shakes his little head and says, "No, Mom. This is for you because you did such a good job picking out groceries."

Endless Downloads, Cracker Crumbs, and More

OMG.

I hadn't been into my office in days. I have instead been vegging out with the laptop on the sofa, which is infinitely cooler than the office in the absence of AC.

So today, I walk into my office only to discover that my desktop on the big computer is covered with icons for those free game trials you can download online. I have spent all day getting those off of there and making the computer like Fort Knox so I won't ever have to do that again.

And Chhez-Its. All over. The carpet beneath my feet looks like a pale shade of orange because they are ground into the carpet. They are between the keys of the keyboard, in the mouse, everywhere.

The kid is now banned from the office.

Refreshed

So how was the trip back to Madisonville? Short. I stopped on the way and splurged on something I have wanted for a while now: A Nikon Coolpix camera. I would never spend the money on one because I tend to lose and/or break digital cameras. I tend to stick with the cheap ones (under $100). But I have coveted this camera for a while, and now it is mine. I love it. The pics from this weekend were all taken with it. The blur of the shot above is because I was playing with different settings on it on the ride home from the boonies.
This was also the first trip we have taken in the new car. I must say it was much more comfortable. The 120 outlet in the console came in handy: I plugged in my laptop, stopped and bought Evan a few dvd's he has been wanting, gave the kid a set of headphones, and the rest is history. It was kind of like that infomercial with the rotisserie: Set it and forget it! He was entertained the whole way, and there were several points in the 4-hour trip where we thought he was asleep because the backseat was too quiet.
We managed to get time in with both John's mom and dad. The boys spent the day Saturday playing with water in the 85 degree weather. Grandma made a run to Walmart for a Slip-and-Slide and some Super Soakers, and I sat on a nice shaded country porch and studied while the boys had a blast. Saturday night was all about some good ol' country cookin'. John's mom made my fave: her fried chicken with homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, cornbread, fresh corn-on-the-cob. For dessert.....homemade banana pudding, baked with the meringue on top like I had never seen done until I maried into this family.

Sunday morning, we met John's dad and his girlfriend Annie for breakfast, then followed him to his house. This is when the redneck came out of my husband and he spent hours fishing for catfish in his dad's pond. Evan got to drive the 1969 model Harley Davidson golf cart with his grandpa helping him, then the guys all loaded onto quads and the cart and chased each other at high speeds around the property. I got the brilliant idea of perching in the sun and studying while they had fun. Bad idea. See the pics in the post entitled "A Weekend in Pictures" to get a glimpse of the sunburn from Hell. To break of the monotony of studying plant diversity and evolution of land plants, John would get me onto the quad and take me zooming around the property. I screamed in his ear everytime he turned to sharply or went up or down steep hills, making me feel as if I were going to fall off of the back. It was just simple fun, but for that brief amount of time, we were just John and Andrea again. The country boy showing the city girl how to unwind, throw caution to the wind, and have fun. At that point, there was no such thing as bills or parenthood, pre-med or code blue, MCAT or 80-hour workweeks. I needed that, and more importantly, without my saying a single word, John knew I needed that.
The ride home Sunday night seemed to go on forever. We stopped at about the midway point, and I picked up some cd's I have been wanting for a little while, and we jammed the entire second half of the trip. I finally realized just how red I had gotten in the sun (it got worse as the night went on) when we stopped at Walmart to get me some aloe gel for my first official sunburn of the year, and other shoppers were stopping and staring at me with mouths agape.

Now I am back home. The plan is to get my finals done. I finished Bio this morning, have another exam this afternoon, and a paper to write. I have three more days off of work, which I am going to spend giving the house a nice and thorough cleaning, and studying ahead a bit for my summer physics course, which is sure to be a nightmare if the textbook is any indication.

Knee-Deep

It is brutal around my parts today.

Every community, every town, every county is under a Snow Emergency of some level. We have a Level 2, which translates to only being on the roads if you absolutely have to be. I am sitting here in my office and can here the ice hitting the roof as it falls from the sky. Everything, from cars to trees to sidewalks, is encased in ice.

Evan hasn't had school for 2 days now. UC closed yesterday evening. My chemistry course was still on, but I couldn't make it. I had a biology exam scheduled for this evening, and it is no longer now. I have a chemistry exam at 11 AM tomorrow, and I am starting to wonder if that will be cancelled as well.

Yesterday was sort of nice. We were all snowed in, and we just hung out at the house together. I woke up and took a shower only to put on clean sweats a veg around the house. Actually, I'm not sure I would call it vegging. I got some heavy-duty biology work done. Today? Well, after I tinker around a bit, today shall be all about chemistry. I have a 3-hour online lab to complete, and then there is the exam that is supposed to be tomorrow. I am wondering if it will be cancelled, but must plan for it still going on.

Evan is driving me a little crazy at this point. He is tormenting Pixie and making a general mess all over the house. I really feel like I should do some cleaning. John is a complete crab. He and Evan are in the living right now, arguing about the whereabouts of the cable remote. But in my office, it is peaceful and quiet. Maybe I should just hibernate in here all day and forget the world.

The Handprints They Leave

My boys, that is. Let me explain. I firmly believe that the people that come and go from our lives leave evidence that they were there in their wake. Some leave us smiling, and some leave us crying. Some stay longer than others. We are born alone, and we surround ourselves with others throughout our life, and we cannot take them with us when we go.

As I flit around from class to class, campus to campus, to work and to home and back again, the evidence my John and Evan leave behind is hard to miss. I spent the largest part of my day infuriated yesterday. You see, I stopped at a carwash to clean the salt grime that winter driving leaves on a car. And I thought to myself, "Self, why don't you vacuum it out while you're here. It will save you the hassle of tangled extension cords and a cumbersome Kirby being dragged to the curb at home." So I did. And for the first time, in the glaring light of day, I actually looked at my car. (Since John's car died a while back, he has mainly been driving my car and chaufferring me to the places I need to go.) What I found pissed me off beyond belief. Scuffs from gym shoes on the backs of the seats. French fries under the floor mats in the backseat. Dirt everywhere. What was supposed to be a quick stop turned into a 2-hour cleaning frenzy. Let me remind you that this car was brand spanking new in September. A 2009. The first new car I have ever purchased for myself. I was livid, and the boys got quite the lecture about respecting the things we own. I even broke down $20,000 to Evan in his terms, explaing that I could buy x amount of Webkinz for the price of the car, thinking maybe he would realize just how expensive automobiles are, and would respect the car a little more.

So I go back to class, and am a little early. I whip out my MP3 player from my backpack and am going to listen to some tunage while I am reviewing my notes for our quiz in biology. No music. What???? Why does it not work? The battery is charged, but it keeps trying to reboot itself. I try to remember the last time I used it. Or the last time it was used, period. And I flashback to a vision of little Evan wearing it and be-bopping around the house with it. He has his own, but mine has more memory, and thus more songs. Now I need a new MP3 player.

There is evidence all over the place that the boys are here. A discarded pile of school uniforms in the laundry room, holes in the knees of the pants or stains on the shirts (Pant: $45/pair, Shirts: $25/ each). Piles of shoes that are not outgrown, but simply worn out because they don't treat them well (I don't buy them the cheapies, either). Dirty dishes piled on the counter. Litlle pastel colored Post-It's all over my desk because the little one thinks they are "make-your-own" stickers. Money missing from my purse because someone, at some time, removed it for something they needed. It would seem that my boys don't leave handprints. They leave a path of destruction.

But wait...

This is the same little boy who came up to me early this morning and hugged my neck, telling me how I am the best Mommy he has ever had (LOL!). The one who gives me sloppy kisses on the cheek and presents to me Crayola masterpieces and macaroni sculptures, that I accept with such glee that you would be convinced that they are from Van Gogh. The one whose rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" would have given Beethoven a run for his money.

This is the man who looks deep into my eyes and tells me how convinced he is that I can do this when I am doubting myself the most. The one who kept his hand on my leg and wore lead the entire time I was getting head scans done for a brain tumor, just to assure me that he was there, that he was not leaving me. The one who cried with me when the doctors told me to consider aborting our child who was sure to be too premature to survive.

My life with these boys is messy. And expensive.That's a definite. Yes, they leave paths of destruction through it all. I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, truth be told. These are all such small prices for the joy they can bring to my life.

Which One Are We in Now?

This is 100% True.

John picked me up from my day of Chemistry yesterday, and Evan is in the backseat, himself fresh from school. He is very excited to tell me something.

"Mama, did you know there is another Ohio that is by Indiana?"

I tried to explain to him about state lines, that we live in Kentucky, but as soon as we get onto a bridge, we are in Ohio. That the same Ohio we cross into when Mommy goes shopping or to school is the same Ohio that borders Indiana. That the Indiana that Ohio borders is the same Indiana we lived in, albeit briefly. That the Kentucky where Grandma lives is the same Kentucky we live in now. It just takes so long to get there because it is in another part of the state.

He insists I am wrong. He could not fathom that the same places he frequents were the very same ones in the textbooks at school. I am racking my brain to come up for a way to teach him this concept. Why couldn't it be a science problem?

The Christmas Con

So we know I have this kid. He is beautiful and bright and amazing. He is also very, very spoiled and has caused quite a bit of Drama this Christmas. (Capitalizations intentional!)
Let me just say, without faltering, that even when I had no job, when I was a full-time student, when we needed public assistance to buy groceries, I still managed to provide the child with everything he wanted.
My in-laws came in this past weekend because I have the work schedule from Hell and we were sure this was the only way they would be able to see him for Christmas. I had already had a conversation with Evan, explaining to him that people do not stop being sick just because it is Christmas time, and that Mommy has to work. In fact, Mommy does not have a day off of work until January 2nd. Together, we decided that it was acceptable for Santa to come late for Christmas so we could all enjoy the time together as a family. Secretly, I was delighted because this agreement meant that around the time I would have a day off of work to shop, there would be the enormous after-holiday sales. I had it all planned in my head: this obscene display of lavishness where John would get Evan out of the house so Santa could come. Evan would return to find this spread of everything he wanted. Everything! Keep this background information in your mind.

So this past weekend, they come into town. They are armed with cash to spend on Christmas gifts for Evan. We visit Toys'R'Us, where Evan is to pick out what he wants within his budget. Evan rattles off the list, and we start to fight the most insane crowd you could imagine in a toy store the weekend before Christmas. One of the items on his list, like every other kid in America, is a Wii. I had planned on buying one for him. But despite the crowd and the demand for the game system, they actually had them in. His grandma explained that if he chose the Wii, that would be it. Instead of getting a large quatity of cheaper presents, he would just get the one big one. He was fine with that. I was as well, thinking that it would be better for him to get it now while they had one in. I just planned on spending the same amount of money on accessories for it, which can be pricey.

John's sister comes up with the idea of taking Evan down with her for a visit this week. Yes, it is Christmas, but I will be working anyhow. We all agree that it is fine. It sucks that my son is not going to be here on Christmas, but neither will I. It is better for him to have some sort of celebration with family. We pack his stuff and when they make the return trip to Southern Kentucky, Evan goes along.

Now here we are. Evan is with them until Saturday. After a heated discussion with John's mother, it is revealed to me that I apparently spend no money on my son, that he is deprived. I cannot believe this is being said about the child who wears nothing but designer clothes. The child who has a room that looks like a toy store, whose mother works 60-70 hours per week to provide him with a private education because public school was not offering enough of a challenge. I am completely dumbfouded and have to step back from the situation for a minute to even think of a response to this. After a minute, I call his mom back and ask where she could possibly get an idea like that.

Where did she get it? From Evan. From my poor underpriviledged, malnourished, neglected little angel. You see, one day Evan had asked me if Santa could fit through the little fireplace at the new house. It didn't seem like too illogical of a question. The fireplace in the living room is small, and Santa is fat, right? My response?

"Well, Evan, Santa has magic on his side. Even when our house didn't have a chimney, Santa still found you, didn't he??? So Santa will find you."

Apparently this got twisted just a bit. My angel went and told John's family that he was told that Santa couldn't fit through our chimney, therfore no Santa this year. As a result, John's mother and father have gone and bought a whole new batch of presents for Evan to open down there on Christmas to make up for his alleged non-Christmas here at home.

Originally, I felt shocked and sad that my baby actually believed I was not going to get him anything for Christmas. But then I stopped and thought back through all of the conversations we have had about Christmas. I made it clear that Santa was going to come. I even made sure Evan understood why he would come late so as not to upset him. If he didn't understand, I would've found a way to celebrate on Christmas and not late. If this were some other child, I would feel like I had failed. This isn't any other child!

This is my gifted son. This is the child who knows exactly how to manipulate others to get what he wants. He has a memory like you would not believe and he knows what was said. This is not miscommunication or confusion. This was a lie. I know my son better than John's family, apparently. They got played. He knew what he was doing all along, and it worked. They got upset and felt badly. Despite the fact that he already got wonderful presents from them this past weekend, they went back and bought him more out of sadness for the poor little boy without Christmas gifts.

I do not know whether to be mad at my son for the conniving way he played them, or angry at my in-laws for not seeing through it. I think it should be a combination. One look at Evan shows anyone he is not deprived. They have seen his bedroom. They have seen the clothes I buy for him. They know he is in private school.

I have not decided what I am going to do about this. I am tempted to not buy him anything for Christmas. I don't know if that is a good enough lesson. I think he needs to learn about true deprivation. I cannot decide if this should mean that he will need to personally box up all of the extra Christmas gifts and physically hand them over to charity, or if I am going to take him to a soup kitchen and make him do some age-appropriate task for them so he can see what it is like. That while he is throwing around these statements and ideas, there are others without food or shelter. There are children living on the streets, with no warm clothes or hot meals. Heaven forbid the Wii was his only Christmas gift fro his grandparents.

Which One?

I have decided that somewhere, amidst all of the madness, that the family needs a vacation. I need a vacation! John and I have been wanting to renew our vowels on one of our milestone anniversaries, since we pretty much eloped years ago and never had the romantic ceremony. I was going to have my dream wedding for the vowel renewal in a couple of years. But recently, I have been toying with the idea of going to one of the all-inclusive Caribbean resorts, just the two of us, for a little romantic getaway.
But then I did the dreaded thing: I checked on Disney rates. No, I do not want Mickey to be our officiant. But little Evan has never been to Disney, and the child wants to go so badly that he has even tried to register for flights online. (Thank God he does not know about my debit card, or the flights would be more of a reality!)
So I discover that for almost the same exact price, all three of us could take off to Orlando for some Disney fun. The price was only like $4K and included airfare, lodging, six days of park admission, car rental, and 3 meals plus 2 snacks a day for everyone. Basically I would have to take about $1K for spending, and that would be the only other expense. A romantic trip for John and I, to a Jamaican resort for 5 nights/ 6 days will run me about $8K if I do not skimp on the room I want. I could save about $3K here, but I want to be in luxury, not just so-so accomodations.
So I am sitting here and pondering the decision. I'm a Mom. 10 bucks says I end up choosing Disney.

Grrrrrrrr........Arrrrrgh!

We have theis really cool backyard here at the new place. It is hard to describe, and I am sure there is some sort of word for it if I were well versed in landscaping terms (terrace?). But it is like my lawn is higher than street level: a lawn on a platform of concrete, completely fenced in. I was completely at ease with my child going outside to play there when the weather is more appropriate. I can see everything he does from the window in my office that is situated on the back wall, and there is also a window that overlooks from the kitchen. It would've been so nice, but...
There is Beowulf. Beowulf is our neighbor's German Shepherd. Beowulf looks out-right frightening, as if he could unhinge the Gates of Hell. That is not the issue. He actually is gentle enough that I have found myself comfortable with Evan playing with him unsupervised. But he is enormous, and therefore has enormous...droppings. It never crossed my mind to be concerned about this. I assumed that, being that we are all living in close proximity in an urban setting, Beowulf's owners were being responsible pet owners. When one has their own lawn, one can be free to allow the dog to leave enormous piles of crap everywhere. But this is a shared lawn. And I have a 7-year-old little boy who loves nothing more than to scoot around on his knees in dirt with huge toy trucks. These two scenarios just do not mesh well.
I didn't realize this. Our short time here has basically been composed of me going to and from my car, down the front walk, as I am coming and going from work. But this morning, I am trying to sleep in a little as I work tonight, and John and Evan are in the bathroom, where John is helping Evan with his unruly hair. I hear muflled voices mumbling something, and it went like this: "HMMMMMmmm mmmmmmmm hhmmmmmm DOG POOP." Huh? What? I ask John what he was saying. "Nothing", he replies. I insist he tell me.
Apparently, my sweet son has taken his miniature version of solid white leather shoes I have provided and tread directly into the center of a pile of Essence de Beowulf. What's more is that the boys hid this from me. I don't know if I need to elaborate on this or not, as there was an entire post in days past devoted solely to the type of shoes I buy my son. As we speak, right now, John is deconstructing the shoes and placing all of the parts into my washing machine with enough Clorox that I can smell the bleach through the floorboards. I am trying to figure the most diplomatic way to address Beowulf's parents, and am wondering if gift-wrapping a Pooper-Scouper for the holidays is entirely too passive-agressive.

Where Do I Start???

I am home. As in I can walk outside in the brisk winter air and see the skyline. It is so surreal.
The new house, well it has been interesting. Cable hook-up was an adventure, and my phone and internet were installed before Thanksgiving and we never knew it because apparently the phone jack was not hooked to anything other than the wall. But all is well now. I am back where I have always belonged. Cincinnati.

So I am here in my new office, just off of the kitchen. It is very drafty in here, but I like things cool anyhow. I can see cozying up in here with thick socks and cozy sweats with a piping hot cup of coffee, studying away. The house, or better yet, the part of the house we are renting, stretches straight back. In order, it goes like this: Our bedroom, Evan's bedroom, the living room, the bathrooms and pantry, followed by the kitchen. My little area is at the very back, and all I can hear are noises from the street. Absolutely perfect.

Okay so what next? Evan's school...We started my baby boy in his new private school. It is amazing how they treat the children when you are paying them large sums of money. His first day was consumed by testing. He did very well, scoring 92% overall for the tasks he should have mastered for first grade. On many of the sections, he scored 100%. The principal said he is "exceptional". There are some areas that need work, such as handwriting, so they kept him in first grade. But because they have such small classes, they were able to tailor-make a curriculum just for him, so the areas in which he excels will be handled differently for him than they are for his peers. When we went to pick him up from his first day, his teacher actually walked him out to our car and told us how he did that day. Our only main obstacle is that we need to find uniforms for him. Nothing major: a baby blue polo with navy blue khakis. No problem, right? Wrong! Have you ever tried to find a little boy's baby blue polo in the middle of winter? I am hoping that now that I am back online, I will be able to find what I need via the internet.

I guess the only item left to update is my great return to a higher learning environment. I have officially been admitted to the University of Cincinnati as a Cell and Molecular Biology major. I just officially accepted my small fortune in student loans to pay for this next step in reaching my goals. The stage is set. I'm ready.

A Mother's Wishes for Her Son

Playing with MovieMaker again. Making myself cry.

Drawing the Line (With a Broken Pencil)

Evan comes home from school yesterday, walks through the back door, and flings his backpack on the kitchen floor while telling me that he was on "red card" today for behavior. John's immediate words were: "Son, you are grounded." Evan looked dejected and sad but did not protest. I think he has gotten to the point where he accepts his punishment with defeat. And I cannot help but notice that while last year, Evan loved school and would be heartbroken on days when he did not go, this year he dreads it.

So my baby boy spills it to me. He was using a little boy's pencil for one reason or other. We know this little boy and his mother and the child honestly cries over everything. Anyhow...Evan was using the pencil and pressed too hard on his little paper and the lead broke. I made sure I clarified that the lead broke and not the entire pencil. Evan's response: "No mommy, just the black part at the tip." Of course Whiny Butt started to cry. Mrs. X sharpened his pencil for him, and all was right with the world. Until she disciplined my son for that.

I have gotten to the point that I am not taking the school seriously. It feels as if they are ganging up on my little boy and I will not stand for it anymore. If they are going to punish my son for accidentally breaking the lead of a pencil, I can no longer go along with their methods. Up until recently, if Evan was on red card, for whatever reason, he has been punished here at home as well. It is a slap in the face to know that I may have been punishing my son for such trivial infractions. That I am spending a fortune to take him to a private child psychologist for "behavior issues at school" when the misbehavior is this.

For the first time since all of this has started, I called the school and let them know I was pissed. As a matter of fact, I told them this: "If pencils are such a rare commodity at an elementary school that a child has to be reprimanded for accidentally breaking the lead, then please let me know and I will be glad to send a case of pencils in with my son the next time he attends your school."

I also instructed my son that the next time someone teases him, he is to tell that child this : "My IQ is twice your parents' annual salary, so please do not speak to me." And when someone is physically agressive toward Evan, he has been instructed to report to the nearest school employee with this statement: "I do not appredciate X's physical aggression toward me and would appreciate it if you would address it." He may only be 7 years old, but he will use those words, too. I cannot wait for him to do so.

I'm tired. I do everything I can as a parent to help my son learn to value education. I try to be as active a participant in his education as I can, backing up the teachers and administration. But through this process I am now starting to turn the focus on advocating for my son, who is being mistreated.