A Little TLC

I am a very particular person.  I like the bath towels folded just so, one particular stripe on my comforter to line up perfectly across the end of my bed, sleeves of shirts to be tucked in the folded product in a very particular manner.  I want the TV volume on 11, and only 11, unless it is late and then I want the volume on 8 and only 8.  The only exception is when watching Mad Men DVDs the volume should be at 19.  The dishes need to be stacked in a certain order, the 40 pairs of shoes in the coat closet need to be placed on the shelves in their precise locations according to my classification system.  Eli's diapers and Ian's Pull-Ups need to be stacked in perfect rows in the diaper basket with Eli's on the left and Ian's on the right.  And don't even get me started on the "proper" organizational flow of a closet.  In other words, I'm super easy to live with and a riot at parties.

Last night Cole was working late because he watched the boys over his lunch hour while I went to class.  By the end of the evening, the boys were near unbearable.  Neither had napped and therefore had the attitudes of junkyard dogs.  They were driving me crazy, but it was too early to put them to bed in good conscience and I hear that sending your children to the yard unsupervised is frowned upon (don't worry I would never actually do it), so I watched TV instead.  Oh, calm down.  We only have one TV and it's in the living room where the boys play all day so it's not like I went to a movie at The Beverly.  Anyway, I tuned into Hoarders since it was the only "G" rated show on at the time.  Ian and Eli were brawling by the train table so I didn't think they were paying much attention, but I was wrong.

Ian slowly began inching toward the TV.  He was blocking my view, but he was no longer assaulting his brother so I really didn't care.  He then spun around, his eyes as wide as dinner plates, and said, "What is that mess?"  I said, "It's just a really messy house, buddy."  He turned back to the TV, completely transfixed.  He then turned back to me and asked, "What are they going to do?"  I said, "They are going to try to clean it up."    He glanced around the floor of the living room which was so cluttered it looked like storm wreckage.  "We need to clean this mess up!" he declared with a look of terror on his face, and he then proceeded to pick up toy after toy and toss it into his wagon.

I don't know if Ian was concerned that our house was going to turn into a scene from hoarders or what.  His own mess has NEVER concerned him before.  Our house gets trashed on a regular basis.  I don't really care.  It's never anything permanent.  I let them play with whatever they want all morning, pick up during nap time, then let the boys do it all again after they get up, and pick up again after they go to bed.  A messy house means that a lot of creative play is going on.  I'd much rather wade through toys than have an immaculate house because the boys were couch potatoes all day long.  My confusion stems from a complete lack of understanding why Ian couldn't care less about disasters he makes but PANICS over messes made by someone else.

Eli enjoying first birthday cake

Ian panicking because, "Eli a mess!" while enjoying his birthday cake.

Yes, Ian bawled hysterically and had to be held by my sister because Eli had cake on his face and hands.  This wasn't the only time he has been driven to tears because of a food related mess.  And the stripes we painted in the kitchen last weekend........

....he doesn't like them.  Why?  Because we made a mess in the kitchen while we were painting them.  I thought he would be jazzed to have super awesome stripes on the wall.  Nope.  Not even close.

At Easter my cousin Jennifer told the most hilarious story about watching Hoarders with her five-year-old son.  They were watching together and while cleaning was going on in this house, a hissing opossum jumped off of a fridge and scared the hell out of Jenn and her little boy.  He then wanted her to change the channel because he was so freaked out.  A few days later, her little guy was refusing to help clean up his play room and Jenn said, "If we don't clean up the house will get really messy and then an opossum might make a nest on the fridge."  Her son immediately snapped to attention and said, "Okay, okay.  I'll clean up!!  I don't want a possum in our house!!!!"  (Please keep in mind that Jennifer is the most loving, doting mother on the planet and doesn't regularly use scare tactics to get her son to behave.)

I wonder if TLC realizes what a gold mine they are sitting on?  What parent wouldn't pay for a season of Hoarders on DVD if it got their children to quickly and dutifully clean up their toys?  In my opinion, it might almost be worth paying the extra DVR charge so I can record episodes and just happen to play them right before bed every night so Cole and I wouldn't be the house elves every night.  I mean, at some point in time those houses had to be clean.  You don't move that much crap into a house on moving day.  Is there really any harm in using Hoarders as a modern day "Scared Straight" to keep your kids on the straight and narrow and away from the fast paced, dangerous world of messy houses?  I think not.

1 of 2

This post was written over the course of a couple of weeks.  I would write a bit, get overwhelmed, stop, and come back to it another day.  It does not flow well, but it's my attempt at letting out five years of the highest highs and lowest lows.  It's kind of depressing, but it does have a very happy ending.  And, the heroine, is awe inspiring.


Do you remember what happened on September 9, 2006?  Probably not since that was five years ago, but that day is burned in my brain for eternity.  It was one of worst days of my short, sheltered life.  It was the day the Zimmerman family changed forever.  It was the day my parents dropped an a-bomb on me and my sisters.

My mom had been having a wide variety of odd symptoms for about nine months, and no matter what doctor she went to, there was no explanation for what was going on inside of her.  Finally, my mom was referred to a doctor at Barnes.  She didn't know until she stepped off of the elevator that the doctor was actually an oncologist.  She and my dad thought they were lost, but the receptionist assured them they were in the right place.  I won't get into too much detail, but a series of tests and exams and scans and pokes and prods were conducted and a few days later the news was delivered via telephone to my mom.  That was  Friday the 8th, and the next day, Septmenber 9, 2006, my parents passed the news on to me and my three sisters.

I will NEVER forget sitting in the sun room of my parents' house, talking and visiting, and my dad said, "Well, your mom got her test results back yesterday."  I could tell by the looks on their faces, the way my mom couldn't look at us, and the tone of my dad's voice that the results were bad.  "Your mom has Leiomyosarcoma," dad said and then proceeded to give us the skinny on LMS.  LMS is rare, VERY rare.  And on top of that, it is not known to respond to treatments.  What does that mean?  It means radiation and chemo will keep it at bay, but it won't get rid of it.  It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that my mom hadn't been given a diagnosis; she had been given a death sentence.  I felt like I had wandered into somebody else's life.  How could this be the diagnosis?  Mom was only 50 years old, and plus, she was my mom so wasn't she supposed to be immortal?

I sobbed uncontrollably the entire way back to Champaign.  I hated that I was now married and living with Cole in Champaign.  I should have been back at home with mom and dad, sleeping just a few feet and a flight of stairs away from them just like I was four weeks earlier.  The next couple of weeks were spent crying at the drop of a hat and hating the universe while waiting for mom's first surgery.

Her surgeon at Barnes is the BEST LMS oncologist in the world.  If you want top notch treatment, you go to him.  He treats more new cases a year than any other doctor: about 12.  Twelve!  I wasn't kidding when I said this is rare.  Her first surgery drug on and on and on.  It was hours but felt like months.  Afterward, her surgeon was optimistic that the cancer had been caught early and hopefully surgery would be all she needed.  We left feeling relieved that mom's living hell was almost over, but that relief didn't last long.

Shortly after the surgery, the pathology reports came back classifying mom's cancer as Stage III, Grade IV.  In other words, it was advanced and extremely aggressive.  She was going to have to have more treatments to get rid of this.  Six weeks after her surgery, she started radiation.  This was supposed to be uneventful, but of course, it wasn't.  Mom's cancer was already back in the form of a tumor the size of a softball.  She underwent the maximum number of radiation treatments a person can have in a lifetime in just a little over a month and prepared herself to start chemo.  Mom's chemo was brutal: 8 1/2 hours a day, 5 days a week, 2 weeks off, and repeat.  She was beyond exhausted and didn't have the energy to do anything.

Then, in early March of 2007 I lived through the worst day of my life.  I had gotten a call early in the morning from my dad.  He could barely get the words out, but I had to get to the hospital ASAP because mom was incredibly sick and it wasn't looking good.  Shortly after I got to the hospital mom was taken away for an emergency surgery.  My dad sent my sisters and me to go get some lunch while he and my mom's parents waited at the hospital.  It was the quietest lunch with my sisters I have EVER had.  The only part of the lunch I remember was my sister, Jessica, saying, "As shitty as it is, we have to accept that she [mom] isn't going to grow to be an old lady."  There.  Someone had finally said.  It was out in the open, and I now knew that I wasn't the only one who was having this horrible thought day in and day out.

The surgeon joined us in the waiting room shortly after we returned from lunch.  He didn't have anything good to say.  Every sentence he said was worse than the one before.  I don't recall how it all started but I distinctly remember my dad asking, "So how long are we talking?" and the surgeon responded, "A year would be optimistic.  You should be counting months."  My dad, who was sitting right next to me, crumpled into his chair and sobbed.  My grandparents, who have tragically already lost one child, completely lost their composure, along with the rest of us.  I could not believe what had just happened.  It was the worst feeling in the world.  And what was even worse, was someone was going to have to relay the news to my mom once the anesthesia wore off.

The months ticked by and mom's health didn't get worse.  It actually improved, but I just kept waiting for a call saying that things had changed.  When I got pregnant with Ian 8 months later I remember thinking, "At least she will get to meet one of my children."  The night Cole and I told mom and dad we were going to have a baby, mom looked happier and healthier than she had in a long time.  She was so excited for us, and you could see the happiness through her fatigue.

During the course of my pregnancy, mom continued to get stronger and stronger, but she was still sick.  Her cancer had spread to her liver, and the biggest concern was it spreading to her lungs.  All the while, though, she was doing her best to take care of me from 100 miles away.  No bad news was sent my way.  I had high risk pregnancies with both boys, and the entire family was given strict instructions that I was to be told nothing unpleasant in an attempt to keep me from being "thrown into labor" because of stress.  I appreciated the sentiment, but bad news is bad news no matter when you get it.

When Ian was three months old, mom's doctors decided to operate on the cancer on her liver.  She went back to her oncologist at Barnes for another consultation.  When the doctor entered the room my dad said, "I bet you never thought you would operate on her again."  The doctor said, "When treating LMS patients, you don't have the luxury of operating on people twice."  He was truly amazed that my mom was still alive, let alone strong enough to undergo such a massive and aggressive surgery.  She had 60% of her liver removed in order to get rid of the tumors once and for all, and it worked.

It has been five years since the diagnosis was made.  It's been almost three years since the liver surgery.  The years have been filled with the highest highs and the lowest lows.  This story gives mom's experience a very glossy, serene feel.  It was FAR from that.  Outsiders could never really comprehend how sick my mom was because she never looked as sick as she really was.  Don't get me wrong, she didn't look well, but she still didn't look as bad as she was.  With her first surgery she had her left kidney, parts of her intestines, reproductive organs, back muscle, and a tumor the size of a volleyball removed.  She spent months in the hospital due to infections, she had a colostomy, transfusions, transfusions, transfusions, more infections, a blood clot, more infections, more transfusions, fat I.V.'s that ran all night to help her gain weight, she has ongoing problems because her chemo did so much damage to her healthy organs, and on and on and on.  It was a never ending nightmare.

When it was all going on, we didn't really talk about it as a family.  We all knew the reality of the situation.  It didn't do any good to beat a dead horse.  I didn't talk about it outside of the family either.  My mother-in-law, Karen, even commented one day after my mom was doing well.  "People would ask me how your mom was because they assumed we must know.  But, I would always have to tell them that we didn't know much either.  You didn't talk about it unless asked, and then the answer was very short and vague.  Your family is just very private."

We tried to make light of the constant whirlwind of crap we were living in.  One day I was staying with mom in her hospital room while she was getting a transfusion.  We were watching a movie about colostomies.  For the longest time, we watched the movie in silence together.  Finally mom said, "Can you believe this?  These people are acting like it was so inconvenient to use a toilet!  Like all that was missing from life was the ability to carry your shit around in a bag attached to your stomach!"  We laughed until we cried.  I also remember laughing until we were crying the first day mom needed to wear a wig.  My sister was trying to put it on her and she ended up looking like Dee Snyder.  It sometimes felt really messed up to be laughing at situations, but my dad always said, "If we didn't laugh about this stuff, we would just be crying."  And, that's just how we went about things.

Last summer I went to the Clay County Relay for Life opening ceremonies to hear my mom tell her story for inspiration to everyone there fighting their own battle.  I was so overcome with emotion I felt sick.  Even though I knew the story, it was gut wrenching to hear it come from my mom's mouth.   I can't believe how much things have changed in the past five years.  The good stuff and the bad stuff have all changed the way I look at things.  I can't comprehend how lucky my mom is.  Her doctor told her she was one of two, TWO, people in the world who have beat LMS.  How is that possible?  How can something be so horrible that people can't survive it?  It breaks my heart.  I can't even begin to explain how out-of-this-world-ecstatic I am to have my mom here today.  I can't imagine my boys only knowing their Nina through stories.  This whole horrific experience has truly changed my family for the better.  We are closer and don't take things for granted like we once did.  We have an absolutely, positively awe-inspiring story to keep us going when it might be easier to give up.  More than anything, I find myself amazed by the power of determination.  My mom was determined to survive, and that's exactly what she did.  And, now, five years later, my family is still complete.

Our First Born Turns 5 Today!

Today is a big day for the Andersons.  Our first born turns five years old today.  Uh-oh, talk about a scandal.  Cole and I just celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary August 12th, and today is our oldest's 5th birthday.  Yikes!  Did I mention our first born is five pounds and covered in fur?  Well, she is.

Today is our Yorkie, Miss Priss', birthday!  Prissy is the cutest dog in the whole world, and she is such a good dog even though she is quite bitchy.  (Get it: bitch = female dog.  I still meant it the other way.)  Prissy lived with Cole's mom until she was four months old because we were living on campus at U of I and couldn't have pets.  Once we moved into our apartment on the U of I golf course, she joined us!  At the time I had already quit my old job and was waiting to start at the U of I Credit Union, so I was a stay at home "humie" (we are Prissy's humans, not her mom and dad) for five weeks.  Prissy was SO attached to me.  I couldn't even use the restroom without sending her into a whining tizzy.

We started puppy training classes at Animal Outfitters in Savoy shortly after we got her.  She was by far the tiniest dog in the class, but she was such a good student.  She loved learning commands for treats, even the time when we were doing our homework and I fed her an entire hotdog that she promptly threw up.  On her Puppy School graduation night she got to do some of the agility dog obstacles in the room and although she was SO small, she was a total champ.

Once I started working, we took Prissy to Doggy Day Care everyday.  She loved it there.  Mark and Jean, the owners of Animal Outfitters, spoiled her rotten!  Jean would wet her food and warm it up in the microwave, and while Mark was doing office work, he would take Prissy with him so she could lay on a dog bed in front of a fan or space heater depending on the season.

Even though Priss was pint sized, she was still a pack leader at day care.  She was a complete devil to ANY new dog that came to day care, and she was best buddies with the big dogs.  Sunny, a golden retriever, was one of Prissy's best friends.  Whenever Priss was tired, she would wait for Sunny to lay down and then jump on top of her and take a nap.  Sunny would just lay there until Prissy got her beauty sleep.  We are pretty sure, however, that she got peed on by a Saint Bernard one day.  I don't know where Sunny must have been when that was going on, but my guess is that Prissy had it coming.

Once Ian came along, I quit my job and Prissy quit going to day care.  She was so bummed out, but doggy day care is expensive (seriously, it's EXPENSIVE), and we were down an income.  She has never disliked the kids, but there was definitely a period of jealous rage before we reached the point of acceptance.  Now that the boys are fully mobile, Prissy hangs out in our bedroom most of the day to avoid being stepped on.  But, when it's nap time, Prissy always shows up and hangs out in the boys' rooms while I rock them.  Cole and I joke that she is their Sleep Coach.  As soon as I am able to take a break on the couch during nap time or at night, Prissy is curled up on my lap getting her quality cuddle time in.

Prissy doing what she does best: sleeping.  This was NOT posed!

I was never a "pet person" growing up.  I liked other people's pets, but I never felt compelled to own one.  Cole's family has always had dogs, so having Prissy was totally normal for Cole.  I am SO glad we have her.  She is the best little dog in the entire world, and she is ridiculously cute!  I can't imagine life without Prissy.  It would be so boring.  I have many funny Priss memories, but I will just highlight the top 10 in honor of my dog-ter's birthday.

1.  Prissy eating a "skull" in the yard of our apartment.  The skull turned out to be a petrified Taco Bell burrito.

2.  Prissy zooming up and down the hallway of the apartment stairwell every night before bed.

3.  Prissy growling like a maniac at us when we mentioned that Mark (Animal Outfitters owner) was in need of a haircut.  I'm sure it was a coincidence, but it was hilarious.

4.  Me chasing Prissy around trying to get her to pee on a mailing envelope when we snuck her into our campus apartment and couldn't take her out to potty during the day light.

5.  Cole getting Prissy to "sing."

6.  Prissy zooming like a bullet across an open field while barking her head off at a bigger dog trying to play with her.  The big dog called her bluff.

7.  The way Prissy loves to eat her food out of shoes.  Weird.

8.  Watching Prissy try to bury her treats in the carpeting in our apartment.

9.  Watching Prissy stand as still as a statue whenever I forced her to try on a polo shirt.

10.  The way Prissy willingly rides in the basket of the stroller when she gets tired on our evening walks.

I never thought that I would ever feel as attached to a dog as I do to Prissy, but I love her so much.  She isn't our pet, she is a part of our family.  So, I must say, Happy Birthday Prissy Girl.  We love you!!!

Prissy celebrated her 1st birthday Animal Outfitters style.

A Meeting of the Moms

A while back my neighbor, Katie, who is incredibly outgoing and super friendly, asked if I would be interested in the Mom's Group to which she belongs.  I, of course, said "Sure, absolutely, definitely, please, please, please, please, please!" in a slightly less desperate manner and signed myself up.  Today was the first meeting, and to be honest, it felt almost like the first day of grade school.  I was so pumped but I was also freaking out.  What was I going to wear?  Who would I sit next to?  Who would be in the group?  AH!  All of the anxiety of childhood came rushing back. But, on top of that, I had to deal with the anxiety of leaving the boys in the hands of the daycare providers on hand to watch the kids while the moms socialize.  This was where my MAJOR anxiety was coming from.

I don't leave the boys with babysitters.  I know there are plenty of fabulous sitters out there; I just can't bring myself to do it.  I'm wack-a-doo.  Completely and utterly wack-a-doo.  When Cole and I went to Hawaii, the boys stayed with our parents.  I couldn't even relinquish control to them.  Honestly, when I sent the boys on their merry way, I sent with them a LAMINATED BOOK of instructions BOUND to their suitcase with the following information....

1. DETAILED daily schedules for each of the boys which explained the following
*how to prepare the boys' meals
*what lotions and potions to use and when
*how to put the boys down for naps and bedtime
2. Copies of our health, dental, and prescription insurance cards
3. Notarized letters granting permission to each set of grandparents to seek medical attention for the boys if necessary
4. Our flight schedules complete with multiple phone numbers for the airlines and airports we were using
5. All of our hotel information
6. Our COMPLETE itinerary including
*phone numbers for each company with which we booked tours/activities
*confirmation numbers of our tour/activity reservations
*all times on the itinerary were converted to Central time because in times of crisis who can possibly handle a time conversion to figure out where we would be?
6. Phone numbers of the people with whom we were traveling in case they couldn't get a hold of Cole or me

Yes, that was to leave my children with a GRANDPARENT! I'm an over bearing lunatic. Hopefully, my children are just as obsessive when they leave me in the care of nurses at the old folks home. (Not counting on it)

I started telling the boys last night that this morning we were going to go to a church (not ours) and meet new friends. They were both really excited and both kept saying, "Let's do this!" their common battle cry. The window for dropping off the kids was 8:45-9:10. I left early so we would have PLENTY of time in case the boys were hesitant to stay. The director of the group, Jenn, met us at the door, and she was fabulous! She led us to the daycare classrooms, and said that even though the boys should technically be in separate rooms due to their ages, they could stay together today to make it easier for them on their first day.

Inside the room everything was brightly painted and child sized. On one side of the room, small wooden tables and stools sat atop a tile floor, while the toys, costumes, instruments, a kitchenette, all resided in a carpeted area on the other side of the room.  Ian was a bit shy, but I could tell he was just seconds away from running in and having a great time.  Eli on the other hand was clinging to me for dear life.  The way Eli reacted to entering the room would have led someone to believe I was about to dangle him over an active volcano spewing lava.  I assure you, there was no lava.  The two supervisors introduced themselves, and they were both so nice to the boys.  They tried to convince the boys to come play but were never pushy to make it happen.

Within a couple of minutes, Ian was having a ball.  Eli was still not so sure that he wanted to be anywhere near this so called "play room."  Eventually, Eli decided that playing with a tractor would be an acceptable way to occupy his time, and I was able to slip out.  I headed back out to the communal area and looked around.  Most people were enjoying conversation with fellow moms or tending to little babies.  This type of situation is my own personal nightmare.  I can talk to absolutely anyone.  Heck, I could talk to a painting of anyone, as long as I'm not the one who has to initiate conversation.  I don't know why, but I can NOT initiate conversation with people I don't know well.  If I were a talk show host, I would excitedly announce the guest and clap enthusiastically as they walked across the stage, but as soon as they sat down I would just stare into space and you could hear crickets chirping.  I'm so awkward in that regard.  BUT, luckily for me, there are people who are the exact opposite of me and have no problem talking to a perfect stranger; even one who looks so horribly uncomfortable they might puke as soon as their mouth opens.  (Don't worry, I've never actually done it)

I took a seat and tried to adopt a look on my face that said, "I'm totally cool just observing the inner workings of this group" while secretly fighting the urge to grab the boys and run for the car, never to return again.  Then, out of nowhere, another mom, Stacy, came and introduced herself.  Immediately, my heart rate dropped dramatically and my sweat glands (again with the profuse sweating, disgusting!) decided they were tapped out.  I tried to play it cool, like, "Oh, sure, you can talk with me.  It ain't no thang." but I was absolutely JOYOUS to be involved in a conversation.  Stacy and I made small talk for a few minutes and then she said, "Well, I'm going to go over to this table to eat.  You can join us if you like."  I'm surprised I didn't knock over all of the chairs and the table in my haste to seat myself before she changed her mind.  I tried to once again play it cool because I didn't want to freak anyone out with my sweating, and then Jenn said within 5 minutes we would start the meeting.  I was so jazzed.  After the meeting began I wouldn't have to talk to all of these strangers; I could go back to being a silent observer and then talk to them after I had absorbed more information about them.

When I walked into the meeting room, practically all of the seats situated around the white linen-covered round tables were taken.  It was honestly a huge relief because I didn't have to worry about taking so-and-so's chair.  Phew.  I took the crappiest seat available because I knew nobody would actually want this particular seat as the positioning was not fabulous, and therefore I would offend no one.  At this point in the meeting (the very beginning) all of my anxiety washed away.  There was a present at every single seat!  Who doesn't like presents?  I mean, uh, nobody I know!  I felt like a small child on Christmas morning.  Initially I thought it was some kind of bracelet.  This assumption was based solely on the shape of the box, and Lord knows, this girl LOVES her jewelry.  I was already imagining what the bracelet would look like.  I thought sterling silver links, possibly some beading, maybe a small charm with an inspirational saying or a mysterious symbol or something.  I pictured myself striding through an alley with the collar of a Burberry trench flipped up to keep out the rain and shield my identity, showing up at an unmarked door under the cloak of darkness, looking around to make sure I hadn't been followed, and flashing my bracelet to prove that was worthy of entrance to some secret party.  A discreet yet identifiable token that ONLY the moms would understand.  Oooh, this was getting good.  I couldn't wait for what I was about to see.  We were then told to go ahead and open our gifts and see what was inside.  I was praying that my secret society bracelet was a 6 3/4" because 7" bracelets are too big for me.  When I removed the lid, I was so confused.  It wasn't a bracelet; it was an ink pen.  What the heck happened to my bracelet?  How am I going to gain admission to all of the secret society parties with an ink pen?  I couldn't believe that I didn't get a bracelet like everyone else.  I looked around furiously, but everyone else had an ink pen too.  What was going on?  Where the hell were the bracelets?!  Come to think of it, nobody said it was a bracelet in the box, and nobody had ever given the impression that this group hosted secret parties.  Hmmm......  Oh, well.  The ink pen was super cute and flashy.  I and LOVE flashy.  I love flashy so much that I can't wait to retire, move to Boca and be the gawdiest old woman in the entire retirement community: cocktail rings on every finger, gigantic gold rimmed glasses, hot pink lipstick, and a metallic gold wind suit.  Aaah, 65, hurry up!!!!

Here's my super cute pen!  But, I plan on referring to it as "this old thing" in an attempt to seem less spastic.

The meeting was mainly informative: introductions, general schedule for the year, meeting formats, plans for next week.  We did however get to watch a very entertaining little video about the many hats we women must wear.  Check it out:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZsqN2Fm_c0  Then, OH THEN, I found out that MICHELLE DUGGAR is going to be speaking at the Hearts at Home conference next spring.  I was on the verge of dancing on the table upon hearing this little tidbit.  I adore Michelle Duggar, and if there was one person in the world I could have dinner with, it would be her.  Go ahead, make your jokes and roll your eyes, but I think she is ab fab and so admirable.  We played a little game, where I had to toss two pennies in a jar for drinking coke before 10 am (this is frowned upon?) and then we eventually broke into small groups for more discussion.  Stacy, you remember the girl who talked to me first thing, was in my group along with a mother of five!: Lisa, a girl with fabulous earrings: Kristy, and a girl who sells Jimmy John's franchises (I didn't even know the job existed): Mallory.  I say "girls" but I really mean women, I just like the word "girl" way better, and they were all way more interesting than I made them sound here.  Our small group had some members missing today, but I'm looking forward to meeting the rest of them next time.

Once our groups were dismissed, it was time to collect my babies!!!!  Oh, my gosh my babies!!!!  I had been thinking about them the entire time, but trying not to (literally) sweat it.  When I got back to the room, the boys weren't anxious to leave, but they weren't overly excited to see me, which I took to mean: they had a great time, but they were ready to be with me again.  Perfection!  As I collected the boys' things, I was thrilled to see their artwork for today.  Heart puppies!  Are you kidding me?!  How adorable are these?!  I'm raising a couple of creative geniuses.

Don't ask how Eli's turned out "better" than Ian's because I don't get it either.

Walking to the car, I got the skinny on the boys' morning courtesy of Ian.  They played tractors.  Then they played tractors with their friends but no names were exchanged.  Then they ate goldfish and drank juice.  (Juice!  Dear Lord, help us all.  One sip of juice has a stronger effect on the boys than an entire case of Ex-lax for any normal human being)  At the end they watched a Veggie Tales video called, "(Gibberish) Potato (more gibberish)."  I then asked Ian if he had fun, and he said, "I love church school.  I want to come back later."  Awesome!  Just the answer I was hoping for.  If the Mom's Group hadn't been a good fit for the boys, I wouldn't have gone back no matter how much I enjoyed it.

I am so, so, so grateful to my neighbor, Katie, for extending the invitation to join The Mom's Group of "Anytown U.S.A."  I wish I would have joined a group three years ago, or at the least, two years ago when we moved to Anytown.  I am so excited for the year ahead and growing the group of moms with whom I socialize.  This is going to be so fabulous as long as I remember to leave strict "NO JUICE" instructions next time.

Eli's Favorite Flash Card

Ian's fabulous Godmother, Jessica, gave him a set of Dr. Seuss flash cards as part of his birthday gift.  As Jessica says, she is determined to make sure Ian is the smartest kid in his class.  (This is why I love Jessica.)  We have been working on the flash cards quite a bit because there are only 12 cards so you can go through the deck quickly before interest wanes, but they are double sided so there are still many different things to drill Ian and Eli on: colors, shapes, textures, letters.

Early on, one particular card caught Eli's eye.  When he first told me what the picture was, I thought that I had misunderstood what he said, but when I asked him again, he gave me the same answer.  I thought maybe it was still a fluke and decided I would see if he was still giving the same answer in a few days.  Well, it has now been a couple of weeks, and Eli is still giving the SAME answer so he must believe this really is the right answer.  Here is the card.....

Cole has always told me that I have a very skewed idea of what I look like.  Personally, I think I know exactly what I look like.  Maybe it's a slight case of Body Dismorphic Disorder; I don't know.  What I do know is that Eli must have inherited this bizarre trait, because Eli is CONVINCED that ol' Lorax is HIM!  That's right.  Eli thinks this is a picture of him.  Every single time I have asked him about this picture, he has pointed, smiled, and proudly announced, "Eli!"  Lord have mercy, I do not understand what goes through that child's head.

The Capers of Ian

Last Friday Ian turned three.  It was a bitter sweet day.  He is SO much fun right now, but I'm so sad that the time is passing so quickly.  I wanted to have a day full of fun and allow the boys to do things they aren't usually allowed to do.  I would say we had a very wonderful day, and it went a little something like this.

Ian woke us all up at the normal time, 6:20 am, but he was content to hang out in his room for about twenty minutes before he was ready to escape.  I went into his room singing "Happy Birthday" with much gusto.  When I finished he said, "Oh, mom, that's so sweet to say it's my birthday!"  I then had to explain that I wasn't pretending; it really was his birthday.

While Cole changed Eli's diaper and got Ian out of his Pull-Up and into his skivvies, I ran to the store.  I needed tape to wrap Ian's birthday present (I know; I'm a bad mother since it wasn't wrapped already), and while I was there I grabbed a bag of Hostess Chocolate Donettes so Ian could have a special birthday breakfast.

When I walked in the door the boys were ready to eat!  We eat first thing in the morning around here, and you don't mess with the eating schedule.  Cole held their attention with Ian's gift from his Godfather, Kenneth, and I snuck into our room to wrap Ian's gift.  I could hear "Wow!" and "A new tractor!" coming  from the living room, and I couldn't wait to give Ian his next gift.

I walked down the hall, and was met in the kitchen by the boys.  I handed Ian his next presents (two!), and again he told me how sweet I was.  (Little charmer)  Ian unwrapped a dense foam bat and ball first.  He was so excited.  Next, he opened a tee-ball tee.  Of course, he had no idea what this was but was still super excited. While we were assembling the tee, he picked up the empty box, which was about the same size as a pizza box, looked inside and asked, "Is there a helmet in here?"  I had to laugh.  He hasn't quite figured out the concept of something "fitting" into something else.

I served up bowls of Donettes.  Cole had to take a pass.  He didn't feel like going to work with chocolate wax plastered to his teeth, I had four, Eli didn't like his, and Ian loved his.  However, the idea of going outside to play was way more appealing than eating Donettes, so we were in the yard playing tee-ball by 7:30.  I have video of this inaugural game, but it's pretty ugly.  The majority of the video is Eli showing his back side.  He was screaming and yelling, throwing himself to the ground, and demanding turns.  When it wasn't his turn he would run up while Ian was getting ready to bat and run off with the tee.  It was not his finest moment.

We continued to play in the yard for the next couple of hours, and then Ian proudly announced, "Mom, look! I'm peeing in the grass!"  I whipped my head around, and sure enough, Ian was peeing in the grass.  The only problem was, he didn't pull his pants down first.  Oops!  I got him cleaned up, and we went right back to playing.

Eventually, it was time for lunch.  While I prepared lunch, the boys played tractors in the living room.  Ian was playing with his new Cat Wheel Loader from Kenneth.  Silly me thought all was well, and then I heard Ian sobbing uncontrollably.  I came to assess the situation because things can get kind of sketchy when the boys are unsupervised.  Ian was kneeling in front of the couch, looking directly at his new tractor and bawling.  He was finally able to explain to me that he had broken his tractor while we were playing outside.  This, of course, was not true.  It takes the boys a good two days before they are able to break a die-cast model.  This particular model is articulated so there is a pivot point in the middle of the tractor.  No matter what I said, Ian would not believe me that it was supposed to be that way, and so, he continued to cry for THIRTY straight minutes.  He even cried through his "happy birthday phone call" from Aunt Tee-duh.  That's when I knew the situation was serious.  I finally called Cole and asked him to talk to Ian because Ian thinks that Cole's job is to look at dump trucks all day so he should be knowledgeable in Ian's eyes.  Cole was finally able to talk him down, thank goodness!

As the afternoon progressed, the boys wore down and their behavior became less and less desirable.  I decided it was time to rock and read with Eli for nap time and went back to his room to close the blinds and curtains.  When I walked through the kitchen I saw the actual cause for Ian's better mood.  He had gotten the bag of Donettes at some point and had eaten the chocolate covering off of fifteen, yes, FIFTEEN Donettes and then tossed their uneaten centers into a bowl or back into the bag.  I don't know why I am still surprised when I make discoveries such as these, but for whatever reason, I am.

We met Cole after work and went to Toys 'R Us so Ian could spend his $3.00 gift card from Geoffrey the Giraffe.   He had been talking about buying a new guitar for days, but we had to shop quickly because Prissy was in the car.  Don't freak out, it wasn't that hot outside.  Ian proudly told the girl at customer service that it was his birthday, and she outfitted him with a birthday crown and balloon.

Not the best picture, but he looked SO cute!!!!

We let Ian walk around and look at everything to decide what toy he wanted to buy.  This was a good idea for about three minutes, but then he found a display train table, and........that was the end of the shopping.  We couldn't get him to look at anything.  Any time we asked him to look and this or that he would say one of two things: "I can't.  I don't know how." or "I can't.  It's too hard."  Oh, geez.  Eventually, we just had to make him choose and walk to the register.  On the way to the register, however, he saw something different and changed his mind.  He ended up purchasing a remote control train.  It's very cute and very loud, but Ian is very good at driving it.  He held it up on the drive home so the train conductor could see out of the car window, too.

That night we stayed at my parents' house, and of course, Ian LOVED having all of that birthday attention from Nina and Papa.  The only problem was as soon as Ian saw my dad's guitar standing proudly by his chair, Ian had buyer's remorse (yet another reason why I know Ian belongs to Cole) and no longer wanted the train and wanted a new guitar instead.  Lucky for us, Aunt Tee-duh and Travis bought him one for his birthday!

We had an AMAZING birthday party, which I will write about in a different post, and just an all-around great weekend celebrating Ian.  Anyway, watching Ian and Eli play with all of these new, exciting, flashy, rumbling, talking toys made me realize how well everyone knows the boys.  They were all able to buy the perfect gifts.  There wasn't a single "dud" gift in the whole mix, and while the noise level of the toys seems to rise with every passing birthday, I still enjoy watching all of the fun those new toys bring.  I hope that when my birthday rolls around that someone is able to fulfill my birthday wishes as well as Ian's were fulfilled.  I don't need anything flashy or exciting, I'll leave that to the boys.  My deepest desire is to have another healthy year watching the boys play and grow.  But, a great pair of earplugs could be really nice, too.

Ian Is Three!

Holy cow!  Is it really birthday time again?  Yep, unfortunately it is.  I can not believe that Ian is three today.  Every night, after the boys are in bed, Cole and I talk about all things Ian and Eli.  We could do it for hours.  Even while we were on vacation for our anniversary we constantly talked about the boys.  Every other sentence was, "Oh, the boys would love this," or "Can't you just see Ian/Eli doing that!" or "Gosh, I wish the boys were here so we could go _____."  Cole and I were absolutely, positively meant to be parents.  We love it more than anything in the world, but with our kids, who wouldn't love being a parent?

Ian was the best baby on the planet.  The day he was born, EVERY member of our immediate family plus our close friends, Grant and Lindsey, came to the hospital.  Everyone was so happy to finally see Ian, and he was born happy!  And other than our second night in the hospital when he was starving because he still couldn't latch on, he was three weeks old before he really had a crying spell that lasted more than a minute.  Ian was a dream baby.   He ate well, slept well, pooped well (thank you breastmilk), and was always happy. I remember cheering him on when he was learning to roll over, sit up, crawl, and then walk.  Other people thought they had the best baby in the world, but they were wrong.  I did.

When Eli's due date was just around the corner, I was worried about how Ian would handle becoming a big brother.  He had some, ahem, "jealous tendencies" when I held other babies.  Sixteen-month-olds don't understand, "Don't hit the baby's soft spot!"  I was so concerned that two babies would just be more than I could handle.  I was almost right, but not because of Ian.  Ian was an incredible helper at just 16 months.  He would get burp cloths out of Eli's dresser drawer and pick up dropped pacifiers and toys.  He was an amazing helper, and an incredibly wonderful big brother who Eli admired from the time he could focus his little eyes.  I have always been so proud of every aspect of Ian.

The past three years have gone by in the blink of an eye, and as much as I hate how quickly the time passes by, I LOVE the stage we are currently in.  We are well on our way to being completely potty trained.  Hallelujah!  Diapering one child instead of two is SO easy and fast!  I had forgotten how much easier it is to only have one hienie to diaper.  (At this time I would like to recognize Fisher Price, the makers of Trio building blocks: the perfect motivator for potty training.)  Ian is so polite and has the kindest heart.  He will comfort Eli when he is upset because he can't stand to see anyone crying.  He shares and takes turns with his little bro.  He doesn't always do this willingly, but it's getting better all the time.

One of my favorite things about this age is all of the funny stuff Ian says.  Ian is HILARIOUS!  Everyday he says or does something totally off the wall, and I just crack up.  He is a fan of the "Skippy Jon Jones" book series.  For those unfamiliar with Skippy Jon, he is a Chihuahua who thinks he is a Siamese Cat.  Since he has been potty training and wearing skivvies instead of diapers, we have been calling him "Skivvie Jon Jones."  He likes this name and also refers to himself as "Skibbie Jon Jones."  The other night I made pancakes for supper, and of course topped them with syrup.  About half way through dinner Ian looked down at his syrupy fork and hands and as serious as can be said, "I'm a Sticky Jon Jones."  Of course, Cole and I just laughed and laughed and laughed.  What a clever little boy.

He loves to pretend he is a talk show host, thank you "Word Girl."  Weird, I know, but it is so cute!  He will stand on a chair and loudly announce, "Welcome ladies and gemmelmen.  Today is.......Aunt Tee-duh's birthday!" and then we have to clap while "Aunt Tee-duh takes the stage."  By the way, Aunt Tee-duh is Tyla.  Even though Ian has been able to say her name properly for a LONG time, she is so charmed by the mispronunciation that she prefers to be called Tee-duh by the boys, so we are keeping it going.  His "talk show" mainly covers family birthdays which all seem to occur multiple times a year.  According to Ian's calendar I must be nearing my 348th birthday.  Being the classy little man that he is, he ends each and every show with a bow.

Ian's main love right now is "The Sandlot."  He knows EVERY line to the movie, and while he is watching the movie he is acting out every scene.  Everyday he is a different character from the movie, but his favorite is Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez.  During every meal he acts out the scene in the tree house when Hamilton Porter teaches Scotty Smalls how to make S'mores.  It doesn't matter what we are eating, he will make a stack of food, S'mores style, and eat it.  When we go to the pool, each time we walk past a female lifeguard, he'll clutch his chest and say, "Oh, Wendy Peffercorn.  My darling, lover girl."  Whenever there is something, anything laying on the ground he will pretend it is the fence that squished poor Hercules and he'll yell to me, "Benny, help!  He's hurt!" and together we will dramatically lift the object and save Hercules' life.  You get the point; Ian LIVES "The Sandlot" or as it is known at our house, "Baseball Kids."

Ian is 100% boy!  If I would set his bed up in the yard, hey, we have a fence, I would NEVER see the kid again.  He LOVES to be outside, and he LOVES to play in the dirt.  We have a collection of heavy equipment toys, Cat naturally, that stays in the garage so he can play in the dirt every single time we play outside.  When he isn't in the dirt, he wants to be at the pool.  He is such a little pollywog.  When he isn't outside or at the pool and is forced to be inside, he spends his time creating elaborate, dare devil stunts that will surely give me gray hair within the next few years.  He will jump off of anything and climb anything to find yet a higher diving platform.  The worst part is that while Ian has some semblance of a mental, danger assessment center, Eli does not, and since Ian is Eli's hero, Eli follows along with whatever Ian is doing and then adds his own personal flair that should land us in the ER any day now.

And Ian is SO smart!  When Cole and I got engaged the first thing people would say wasn't "Congratulations."  They would say, "You guys are going to have the smartest kids!"  I always thought it was kind of an odd reaction, but I took it as a compliment anyway.  Ian is ridiculously smart.  He has always been totally off the charts for verbal and cognitive development.  It makes me so happy to see his face when he has mastered a new skill.  He takes such pride in learning, and that is such a wonderful trait to have.  He is always up for something new, and will gladly say, "Yeah.  Let's do this!" whenever I suggest trying something new.

I have been head over heels in love with Ian since the moment I saw him.  I loved him so much that I needed to have Eli because Ian was so saturated with love, that he just couldn't absorb any more and I didn't want that love to go to waste.  I am so, so, so, so, so grateful that I have been a stay-at-home-mom and have seen every minute of his day since the day he was born.  I'm not going to stay that every day was enjoyable, because trust me, there have been some rough days, but I can't imagine not knowing what he was doing for nine hours every weekday and getting just a few minutes of a recap from the sitter each afternoon.  I am the biggest proponent of the traditional family.  I encourage every single family to make whatever sacrifices you have to make to be a traditional family.  You will NOT regret it!!!!

Ian has been the greatest addition to our lives, and the past three years have been more amazing than I could have ever imagined.  I read a study one time that said being a parent does not make people happier.  In my opinion, they must be doing it wrong.  I don't see how you could not find your children's presence makes the sun shine brighter.  All I know is that Ian is perfect, I have LOVED every second of the last three years, and I know the next 70 some years are going to be just as awesome!  Happy Birthday, Ian!