The Many Faces of Kellen

The face of "Woo-hoo, here comes the cake!" (and yes, please take note that I remembered to buy candles this time, thank you very much ...):




The face of "How much longer until I can open my presents?":



The face of "Oooh, nerf guns, the best gift of all!":



The face of "Seriously, should the boy be this happy shooting round puffy balls at his friends??? What are we raising, some kind of militant gun freak???":



The face of "Total gayness and a career in cheerleading in case that NRA spokesman job doesn't work out.":



The face of "Ah, this is what I wanted ... for them to burn off as much energy as possible":



The face of "Kellen trying desperately to tackle his older cousin but dude, that kid is FAST!":



The face of --- Holy cow, what *IS* this really the face of???



Excitement? Happiness???



Total and complete sugar overload???




Oh, well, the best faces of all by the end of the night, "A boy and his dad spending quality time together ... bonding .... aiming beams of light at one another and laughing maniacally when they manage to hit one anothe ...." On second thought, perhaps we need to re-examine our faces and offer Kellen a Disney Princess party next year.



Happy (final) Birthday, Kellen. All I can say is I hope you and your friends had a good time, and I for one, am GLAD that it's over.


PS. I went to the gym again and walked another two miles today. I also added one lap warm up and one lap cool down .... and most importantly .... jogged ONE-HALF of ONE LAP. According to my calculations, that is almost 40 yards. And seriously? I liked to have DIED. The only thing that kept me upright was the fear that none of the elderly people in the gym would have the upper body strength to do chest compressions in the event I was to need CPR.

In truth, my shins are the part of my body that hurts the worst this evening, which leads me to believe I need new work out shoes, which should make it OBVIOUS to anyone reading this that my exercising will have to be put on hold until such time as I can go shopping. Shopping and maybe even lunch. Yes, definitely lunch. And then I'll probably be tired from all that activity and need a nap. (sigh, it's so exhausting being an athlete like this.)

PPS. Lynne, are you kidding me? You don't have the cookies in a tube that you slice apart and bake with pumpkin faces at Halloween and egg shapes at Easter and flags on the 4th of July??? Well, ok, naturally you probably wouldn't have the 4th of July --- but none of the others either? Ok, geez, I'm going to have to re-vamp any plans we might have had to ever visit Britain again. Sure, you've got Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London and Trafalgar Square and Westminster Abbey and Stonehenge and what have you ... but no cookies in a tube? That's barbaric!

Not On Your Life

The beginning of the year, we optimistically told all three kids they could have slumber parties this year to celebrate their birthdays. I mean, we finally had a house with closets bedrooms big enough for sleepovers, and I figured what better way for the kids to make new friends at their new schools?

Then Brayden had her slumber party in February, and I realized two things:

1. Three children, the amount of kids in our own household, is actually very manageable. Triple that number, and suddenly it's a whole different ball game.

2. I am not cut out to be the cool, fun parent who hosts slumber parties.

It was actually a good party (I think) but we had two little girls who not only refused to go to sleep, which was actually fine by me, but who refused to get in bed, which was NOT fine by me. Refused to quit playing in the closet, and slamming doors, and running (which have I mentioned the girls' bedroom is directly overhead of MY bedroom???) until finally at 3:30 am I went upstairs for the final time and told them if they didn't get in bed I was going to duct-tape them to the floor have them come downstairs and put in a movie so the other girls, who WERE trying to sleep, could do so.

Needless to say, all sleepovers since then have been limited to no more than two guests, and they have worked out much more nicely.

So no, Kellen's party last night was over at a respectable 10:30 pm. Which gave me just enough time to pick up the living room before falling into bed exhausted, in time to get up for our all-day Saturday Soccer Extravaganza .... a weekly event which as you know, I complain about out loud but secrectly love.

I'll share pictures of last night later this weekend, but something to consider before I go:

Does anyone besides me see the humor in the fact that the Survivor Maze that the kids got to go through before the laser tag actually started, a 5000 sq ft maze, was actually pretty easy for every boy there? Every boy there except ONE, and his FATHER, who not only were the last ones out, and who still couldn't find their way out, not even when I was standing at the exit yelling, "Follow My Voice!!!" but who the laser worker guy almost had to go in and lead out by the hand .... I mean, does anyone else think that is funny besides me??? That the other ten year olds got out no problem, but THE ACTIVE DUTY MILITARY GUY got lost in the survivor maze???

PS. Although he kicked ass in the laser tag. He even took out his own nephew, which I found particularly cold-hearted, but which I think made him feel redeemed after the embarrassing maze episode.

PPS. I hid the remote control device for the fart machine last night. Does that make me a bad parent?

Help me!

As I type this, I have twelve 10-yr old boys running like maniacs on speed around my house and my yard and my neighbor's yards. We have pizza, cupcakes, Nerf wars, ripsticks, skateboards, footballs, a remote control fart machine, and laser tag planned.

Yes, I am currently hiding inside. What an awesome chaperone I am.

(whimper)

Happy Birthday, Kellen!!

Why does this keep happening to me --- these kids, and the shock of how they INSIST on growing older when I’m not looking???

Kellen, I’m not quite sure how you snuck this one by me …. But you turned TEN this week! I am alternately horrified, and thrilled, that you are turning into such a nice young man. (But secretly, horrified at the thought my little boy is not so little any more.)

Yours was the pregnancy that proved God has his own timeline. Yours was the pregnancy that stunned us beyond words. So stunned, in fact, that I almost didn’t believe it was really happening until it was time to go to the hospital and deliver you. Yes, I gained 60 pounds and yes, the ultrasound showed there was a baby in there ….. but how could I be sure? Maybe it was just a tumor, or something. Seriously? After all those years of trying …. Pregnant???

Yours was the labor that refused to start on its own, and that then wouldn’t end. I say even now, at the age of 10, you’d still be in there if you could. Two weeks past due, and you had no intention of coming out and greeting the world, let alone your parents and older sister.

Finally, after being at the hospital two days, on meds to induce labor, not sleeping for over 36 hours, with the slowest-progressing labor ever known to mankind, the doctor asked what did we want to do …… turn off the IVs, get some rest, and try again the next morning? Or have a c-section? I replied, “I don’t care if you pull this kid out of my nose …. I’m tired, and I want it over with.” And so, a calm, controlled half hour later, you finally arrived. Fat, wrinkled, adorable.



Kellen, birth photo, March 25, 1998


You were the lucky one. We had already gone through all the newborn trials and tribulations on your sister, fairly recently. So you got none of the new-parent jitters or anxiousness; no parenting by trial and error. Actually, by the time you arrived, we were so exhausted that we must have seemed like the most laid-back parents on the planet. We had a newborn, and a 13-month old. We were thrilled, sure, but truth was, we were just too tired to worry about much.

Despite that, we loved you without measure, and still do.

I thought it was adorable that you were the fattest baby on the planet.


Kellen, age 4 months


And the smiliest. (When you weren’t crying and screaming and pitching a holy fit, that is, until I tossed my smug, superior parenting skills out the window and gave you a pacifier just to stop the screaming this kid screams all the time for goodness sake I just can’t take any more make it stop!!) But usually you were the smiliest.


Kellen, age 8 months


And although these were busy times, I still thought you were the cutest little boy on the planet. How could anyone not want to just squeeeeeeeeeze those precious little raccoon cheeks???


Halloween, 1999, age 1


Slowly, you started turning from a toddler into a little boy. Truthfully, I wasn’t too happy about it. I mean, sure, now you were a lot more fun, and I could see your personality traits starting to veer towards typical “little boy” interests.

You were perfectly happy making a mess. Toys, blocks, mud, food; it didn’t matter. Pictures like this one are especially dear to me, because the truth is, you ate like a bird (still do!), trying to prove to me that small children can survive on air. I love the photos that show evidence I actually do feed you, since Lord knows your scrawny little chicken legs and concave chest seem to say otherwise.


Kellen, age 2



And you were, are, always have been, and most likely always will be, a true child of the outdoors. Nothing made you happier and your joy was infectious. Still is.


Summer 2000, age 2


See what I mean?


Kellen, age 3


One of the things I love best about you is your ability to switch back and forth between being a rough and tumble boy, to being a sweet kid who would sit on his mother’s lap, to being the kind of kid who can play well with others, whether it be outside games involving sunshine and fresh air, or inside games involving army men and fort-building. You are truly a go-with-the-flow, agreeable little guy and I believe it will serve you well in life.



Kellen, 3rd Birthday, 2001

*MOST* of the time, I can count on you to do what I ask without complaint or attitude, although you are getting a little cheekier as you get older. Sometimes lately I want to take you by the arm and warn you, “Hey, you’re fixing to make things a whole lot harder for yourself” ….. and sometimes I have to turn away because your smarmy comments and “Cut your nose off to spite your face” streak comes straight from my DNA. I don’t know whether to shudder or laugh when I see it right coming right back at me, from son to mother. Your sister started developing her “pre-teen” attitude about age three …. Yours, sadly, is just starting to rear its ugly head.


Summer 2002, age 4



I was so worried when at age 4 I enrolled you in all-day Pre-Kindergarten at our local public school. You looked so tiny, what was I thinking? Sending you away from me all day???


Summer, 2002, age 4




I needn’t have worried. You loved school, loved making new friends, loved learning, and loved having your creativity and imagination fostered. Too young for all day school? Hardly.


Halloween, 2002, age 4




I do look back on these photos, however, and wonder where the time has gone. Wonder where the little boy who was content to sit in my lap for hours and watch tv, drinking his chocolate milk and twirling his hair, has gone.



Age 5



Age 5



October, 2003, age 5



Mainly I wonder if I’ve done enough, or done well enough, these first ten years. Have your father and I taught you the lessons we want you to learn? Have we been patient enough, and fun enough, and empathetic enough, and creative enough, and firm enough?


Age 6


Summer, 2004, age 6


Summer, 2004, age 6



Will you remember the first half of your childhood as one filled with adventure and excitement and security and love? Will you remember parents who took time to play with you and teach you and guide you? Who found every single dinosaur picture you drew fascinating, and who took the time to pretend with you in the forts that you built? Parents who never missed a practice, or a game? Parents who were always available to help with homework, or play a game of basketball in the driveway, or look up shark facts on the computer?



Kellen, 7th Birthday, 2005


Age 7


Age 7


Florida, July 2005, age 7


Age 7



Probably not, because those parents don’t seem to exist in our household. We love you beyond measure, and want to do anything we can to help you succeed, but we’re human, too. Some days we are tired and don’t want to play catch, and some days we have to cook dinner instead of playing yet another game of Boggle or Yahtzee. Some days, to be completely honest, I don’t understand your math homework, or am just not in the mood to watch another skateboard trick. Those days, I worry about what failures we seem to be as parents, and whether love will be enough.


Kellen, 8th Birthday, 2006



Age 8



Age 8



So I guess for now, we’ll just cross our fingers and say our prayers every night that we’re doing an OK job. Not perfect, no matter how hard we try, but at least good enough.


Age 9


Age 9


Age 9


Memorial Day, 2007, age 9




When I look at these photos of you, and especially this most recent photo of you on your 10th birthday, and see the handsome, smiling, confident, caring, friendly, kind young man you’re turning into, I have a warm feeling inside that at the very least, we’re getting the LOVE part right.


Kellen, 10th Birthday, March 2008. And yes, those are toothpicks we are lighting. Because not only did he get store-bought cupcakes instead of a real cake, I didn't even realize until two minutes before this picture that I was out of candles. Don't you wish all your friends were as classy as we are????


Cold hard cash. The best gift of all.

I hope you always feel it too, buddy. But in the meantime, could you maybe start eating a little more? I’m afraid you’re going to shrivel up and blow away before the next birthday.

Happy Birthday, Kellen!

I won’t bore you to tears by recounting every single detail of my delivery of Kellen. (But you know I have to at least hit the highlights, right?) :)

Everything went fine, no drama. Despite the all-night application of the cervical gel, and the all-day administration of Pitocin (the contraction-causing hormone used to induce labor) my body still wasn’t ready to deliver him. But (explanation for Angela -- the placenta can only hold out so long, then it starts to break down, which is what was happening to me. Hence the reason my doctor wanted to move forward with the delivery.) That day, March 25, 1998 (nine years ago today) I dilated to a “9” and stayed there for almost eight hours without making any further progress. I hadn’t slept well at home on Monday night, hadn’t slept at ALL at the hospital on Tuesday night, and by 7pm Wednesday night, it was obvious the baby still had no intention of being born anytime soon. He gets all sulky and pouty and drags his feet like that now, too. I remember my doctor coming in that evening and giving me two choices …. Either turn off the pitocin, try and get some sleep, and start again in the morning, or just give up and have a c-section. I responded with “I don’t care if you pull this kid out of my NOSE, I’m pooped and I want it over with so I can get some rest.” His reply? “Good, because I have tickets to the Lakers game tonight and to be honest, you’re messing up my evening.” (Actually, that made me smile.)

So, forty-five minutes later, Kellen was born via a calm, orderly c-section. Weighing in at 8 lb, 13 oz, it’s probably just as good that I never got around to pushing. I’m sure my vagina thanks me.

What I remember about that day:

*Worrying about Brayden and if she was ok with the girlfriend who was babysitting her, especially since we hadn’t planned on her being there anywhere near that long.

*Thinking that the man who invented epidurals should be sainted.

*That the air conditioner in my room wasn’t working and despite maintenance coming in to work on it, while I was in labor, it still felt like a sauna. I was relieved to get to the cool atmosphere of the operating room, even if it meant that oh holy crap, I was fixing to be cut open and a live baby was going to be pulled out of me, like a rabbit out of a hat!

*Vomiting on Blaine when they increased the meds for the section. (I’m fairly confident that is NOT one of his favorite memories.)

*Blaine looking at me during the delivery, with a mixture of disgust and horrified fascination on his face, and saying to me, “Oh my GOD, your guts are laying all over your stomach.” Ooh, that’s nice.

* That after the c-section, and then all the other junk they do before sewing you back up (I’m assuming they put all my guts back where they belong? Just a guess.) and then they take you to recovery, and take the baby away to clean him up and get his apgar scores and prick his heel and put drops in his eyes and play canasta or whatever it is they actually DO with newborn babies, it was after midnight before I got back in my sauna room. I hadn’t slept for approximately 60 hours, had gone through all the stages of labor, right up to the pushing part, and had just had my middle section sliced open. I. WAS. EXHAUSTED. Blaine had left, finally, and I was alone in my room, unable to pull myself into a sitting position, stuck like a turtle on her back in the bed, and this chipper, too-happy, perky little baby nurse brought Kellen to me and asked, in an annoying cheerful voice, “Are you ready to breastfeed your baby?” I almost cried. In fact, I think I might have cried. Yes, I definitely cried.

*Choking on my dry eggs at breakfast the next morning and having to cough, and thinking I was going to rip open that incision and the staples from my c-section would probably shoot out and poke someone in the eye and blind them and that my guts would be all over the place again from the forcefulness of the coughing. Gosh, that hurt. You have NO IDEA the number of times each day you use your stomach muscles (even someone with stomach muscles as flabby as mine) until they’ve been cut open. Coughing, laughing, sitting up, laying down, getting out of bed, getting into bed, talking, breathing, watching tv …. It all hurts. Every single bit of it.

But of course, like all women everywhere who’ve suffered through the physical pains of delivery, no matter the method, it was worth every single twinge and second of discomfort. Take one look at this smooshed up little face and tell me it wasn’t worth it:




Although, this picture makes me laugh every time I see it because I was still in my “What do you mean I can’t lift anything over ten pounds with a c-section? The baby by **himself** is almost ten pounds!” phase and I asked Blaine to dress Kellen in the outfit I brought for the Obligatory Ugly Hospital Photo (OUHP). Not only did Blaine put his hat on backwards, as evidenced by the seam going right up the front of his head, he also had his ear all flopped down and didn’t notice. So really, it’s funny. Even if my baby does look like an orphan already.

Almost as funny as the fact Brayden was flipping all of us off in her OUHP.

Can I just say that the first pictures I got of them together make me smile even more?

Brayden, meeting Kellen for the first time:






And I knew, instantly, that despite the fact none of this had gone as planned, and the pregnancy certainly caught us by surprise, that it wasn’t going to ruin Brayden’s life. I smile now when I remember how on the day before I was induced with Kellen, I sat in the middle of the living room floor, holding her on my lap, tearing up and apologizing to her for what was about to happen. Oh, sure, there are days now when he’s annoying the crap out of her and they’re fighting like cats and dogs that I’m sure she wishes he’d been swapped for a life-size Barbie in the hospital, but overall, they’ve loved each other since day one.

And if the very long labor wasn’t enough to convince you he is my child, let me tell you what he said after soccer practice yesterday. After the games, the parents normally trot out on the field and make two lines facing each other. We hold our hands up and make a tunnel for the kids to run through, as we yell congratulations to both teams. It’s just a fun, silly little ritual they do in our soccer league and probably in every league across the country. This is Kellen’s first season in the older kids league, though, and the first game the parents didn’t do the tunnel. I was a little sad, thinking how they must not do it for the older kids. And thinking about how basically Kellen and the other kids must be too old to enjoy it, and soon he would be shaving and driving and dating and then some little bimbo in a tight skirt would break his heart and I’d have to squash her like a bug …..

Anyway, back to the tunnel.

After Saturday’s game, I heard some of the kids on the team yelling, “Hey, where’s the tunnel?” and then I heard the coach holler, “You parents didn’t do the tunnel the first game … do one this time!” and I felt so happy, and even got a little misty-eyed, thinking about the tradition of the tunnel and how my baby, my sweet, precious little baby is still TOO young enough to enjoy the tunnel. Then, from across the field, as loud and clear as anything, came Kellen’s voice, for all to hear: “Who cares about the tunnel? Where are the SNACKS???”

Ah, yes. He definitely sprung from THESE loins. We do have our priorities.

In the meantime, happy birthday Kellen, my nine-year old boy. I love you more than life itself, and will never let you live down the fact it practically took a stick of dynamite and a load-lifter to get you to come out on the day you were born. And I’ve adored you every moment since.

MORE TALES FROM THE CLOSET

Kendrie -- day 101 Off-Treatment
Blaine -- we’re hoping to hear something this week

Two things I noticed this weekend with regard to my kids’ closets; proof positive that I’m going insane. Or that I’ve already been there for a long time, courtesy of my children.

Yesterday, hanging some of Kellen’s clothes up, a shirt of his kept falling off the hanger. I still use those kid’s sized hangers that you can buy ten for a dollar …. but the neck of some of his shirts are too big. After bending over for the second time to pick the shirt up off the floor, it struck me:

“UUUGH! I’m going to have to start hanging his clothes on ADULT size hangers!” (said in a grumpy voice)

Then it struck me:

“Waaaaahhhhh! This means he’s big enough for adult-size hangers!” (said in a sad, pathetic, how-can-they-be-growing-up-so-fast voice!)

Also, when I woke up yesterday morning, the kids were already outside playing in the backyard. More specifically, digging up roly-polys, their latest obsession. I peered out the dining room window, looking closer, and realized that although it was Saturday, Brayden was completely dressed in a school shirt, khaki pants, and favorite school shoes. On her hands and knees. Digging in the dirt. Looking for bugs. My mantra, I swear, should be “Do you think I do laundry for the fun of it?” because honestly, I must say it a thousand times a day.

So I called her inside and told her to change into some play clothes. Which of course meant she had to STOP digging for roly-polys, a fact which upset her greatly, causing her to argue with me, “But we’re going out for dinner tonight for Kellen’s birthday and I’m already dressed.” Yes, I know we’re going out for Kellen’s birthday dinner tonight, but that’s not for ANOTHER TWELVE HOURS and in the meantime you are not going to dig in the dirt in your school clothes on a Saturday morning.

Stomp, stomp, grumble, grumble, in she came to change into sweats. That she wore outside for half an hour, before deciding she was done playing outside, coming inside, changing BACK into her school clothes, and putting her sweats in the dirty laundry basket. Half an hour later, she decided there was nothing good on TV, so she wanted to go back outside. I told her to put her play clothes back on, a suggestion which upset her GREATLY. I look up ten minutes later, and she was outside, wearing a completely different set of clean play clothes!

Am I the ***only*** person who understands that when the laundry baskets in their rooms get full, that is a signal the clothes must be washed? Am since **I** am the one doing the washing, perhaps NOT wearing seven different outfits a day, some for only half an hour, and then putting them ALL in the basket, would conceivably be helpful??? Is nine too young to be taught to do her own laundry? Or maybe I should just charge her a quarter for every load I have to do for her, taking it out of her allowance, until she figures it out for herself, or goes broke, whichever happens first.

Maybe I should just focus on the positive …. the fact they actually put their clothes IN the basket, instead of leaving them laying all over the house. {{ Stay grateful … deep breaths …. silver lining… at least they use the baskets }}

I guess the flip side is Kellen, who would wear the same underwear and socks all week if I didn’t remind him to change every morning when he gets dressed. And I’d assume that’s a boy thing, but Kendrie is the same way, so who knows?

Oh well, if that’s my biggest problem this week, then I’d say our Spring Break is lining up to be a good one. Full of laundry, yes, but good nonetheless.



PS. Happy birthday, Kellen, my 8-yr old boy, with big-fat neck shirts!