Mom Knows Best

They should have listened.

My 12 year old youngest son was recently diagnosed with Juvenile Arthritis and had a follow up visit with the Rheumatologist on Monday.

Middle school football camp also started Monday.

I’ve been worried about this for months.

Jordan has always marched to his own beat. And it’s never been anywhere near the beat of a marching band at a football game half time.

He spent hours drawing, writing stories, and teaching himself the piano when he was younger. Outdoor sports? Hardly.

We tried soccer once, and my pale white creative writer nearly passed out in the Texas heat.

Other than swim team, which involves trees and water, let’s just say a Heisman Trophy is probably not in his future.

But, he’s determined to follow in the footsteps of his Jonas Brother like siblings and play football just like they did.

I tried to talk to my husband about this. But, I’m completely outnumbered by four males in my house when it comes to sports.

I pleaded in vain, ‘He doesn’t even really like football, he’s going to get clobbered!’

His oh-so-male response? ‘He’ll be fine. I played center and I’m not that big.’

Right. But, you are built like a bulldog. A cute bulldog, but short and stocky and things landing on you would not be an issue.

Jordan is built like a string bean plant that someone sprinkled too much plant food on. Tall, skinny, adolescent feet and hands way ahead of his frame.

I've envisioned a 250 pound Texas seventh grader landing squarely on my skinny kid’s face.

Yesterday, my neighbor picked up Jordan from football camp, and sent me a text message at work saying he was limping when she dropped him off. She was worried.

I called home immediately.

Jordan answered and sounded like a croaking bullfrog stuck under the front tire of an SUV.

Red flags went up. He sounded terrible.

I played nurse, asked about his joints, where the pain was located.

Finally, he managed to ribbit:

“Mom, have you heard of SQUATS?”

Red flags lowered.

I tried not to laugh.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of squats.’

I recalled the countless exercise videos I’ve done, and the millions of squats I’ve endured.

Should I tell him if he hurts this bad now that tomorrow his legs will feel like day old Jell-o?

Nahhhhhhhhhh.

‘This is not caused by arthritis. It’s caused by the couch.’

Pause. Croak: ‘The couch?’

‘Yes. When you spend your summer holding down the couch playing video games, with the activity level of a half-dead slug, squats hurt. I’ll bring you some muscle cream.’

Maybe I can bribe the coach into a thousand push ups tomorrow?

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Zoo? Not.

Jordan arrived home last night from his friend Daniel's house.

He had been there a few days, laying low ever since he decided to call Charlie a pansy without thinking Charlie might not appreciate that and reciprocated in a less than friendly way.

The husband and I are watching TV, Jordan comes in and says, 'oh yeah, Daniel's dog had puppies, can we get one?'

What is it lately with my kids and animals? Do they ever out grow this?

We've got a 3 year old pug, a 15 year old Australian Shepherd who is on her last legs (literally) and who in the world has time for another animal here?

But, you know, he mentioned the magic word: PUPPY, and I had to ask.

'What kind is it?'

He looked at the husband. Back at me. Back to the husband. Back to me.

'What is it? A Great Dane?'

'No, they are a mix of Chihuahua and Rat Terriers.'

That explained the look back and forth. My husband cannot stand small dogs that are rodent like.

He loves our pug. But anything with 'Rat' in the title won't be finding a forever home here, sorry.

But, I was still a little intrigued. They sounded kinda cute?

'How big are they?'

'Oh mom, you've gotta see them, they are like THIS BIG (showing me the palm of his hand) and their eyes are not even open yet!'

I gotta admit, Rat or no rat, they are sounding kinda cute....ya know....I could be like Reese Whitherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama and carry it all around in a little doggy bag or whatever they're called and buy a jeweled collar and doggie t-shirts?

Screeeeeechhhhhh.

(That's for me this time, being delusional. Maybe I should drug test myself.)

Like I am the kinda person who would be toting any animal around in a bag?

Like our house isn't a zoo enough as it is without a creature that small under foot?

And then my mind flashes back to the night before when Tyler was in here asking for some sort of mini Boa Constrictor?

I can see it now....Boa Constrictor (which by the way, I don't know how any snake could be considered 'mini.' A snake is a snake, no mini about it...) and a dog that is not much bigger than a rodent.

That should provide for PLENTY of blog material.

Until the snake gets out.

Then I can move on to writing about my search for a child therapist because one kids pet ate the others.

Yep, I think we're just fine for now in the zoo department.

(QOTB: What's the strangest pet you've let your kid have? We had a hedgehog years ago, it was really cool until it died and tramuatized my oldest child who was 9 at the time. But it was a fun pet to have.)

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Welcome Home Jordan

Jordan finally arrived home last night.

Tyler and I had just finished pondering whether Jordan had reached the deviled egg smell yet and if his new found family would ever return him.

Not even 20 minutes later, my youngest child suddenly appeared, deposited safely on the front porch at 10 pm, Whataburger Meal in hand.

When your kids are gone for a few days, it's easy to forget the little things you love about them, the things that make them unique.

Unlike last week, when I was out of my mind with stress, and Jordan was looking for the nearest escape (or a friend, any friend, it didn't matter how good of a friend), he arrived last night smiling, grinning, back to being my happy, funny, sarcastic youngest child.

For Jordan, the thing that has always defined him has been his mouth.

And the fact that you never, ever know what will come out of it.

He was my surprise baby, so unplanned. And so different than his older brothers.

You know how babies are when they are, well, babies: they scream, howl, cry and then when they get a little older they babble incessantly and you always wonder what they are really trying to say.

Jordan came out of the womb with a look on his face that said, "I can't speak yet, but just wait."

Once he could speak, once he could utter even a few words anyone could understand, that look suddenly made a lot more sense.

And I started to question his paternity.

My mind started to play games on me: perhaps I'd had a horrible one night stand with David Spade that I had blocked out and somehow I had given birth to his love child.

Jordan has been blessed, or cursed, depending on who you ask (i.e. teacher vs mom) with absurd comic timing, always ready to drop the right phrase or word at the right moment. The more shocking, the better.

I once had a roadside fortune teller mention that I had two kids. When I explained that no, I have three, she said, 'oh, you were not supposed to have three kids, you were only supposed to have two. One of those kids was not meant for you, he is a hitchhiker, and you know which one it is.'

I knew it! Maybe I need to contact David Spade for a paternity test?

Fortune teller or not, he has always marched to his own drum, and we love that about him.

Well, most of the time. Unless he is mentioning Donald Duck in a group full of people, in which case it's no longer funny.

Even though they didn't drop him off until 10pm, as my mind was fading and I was half covered with facial cream, he came into my room, grinning, and talking quickly, excited about his mini-vacation right around the corner.

Here is how the conversation went, no breaths, no pauses, me in facial cream stopping to listen:

"So mom we went to Splashtown twice and it rained one day and I rode the Texas Free Fall and got a bad wedgie but the next time I went down it wasn't so bad and we shot off all kinds of fireworks on the fourth of July and a lady came out and told us she was gonna call the police on us because she had to go work the next day and Daniels dad is really crazy sometimes but its okay cause I wasnt scared or anything hes crazy in a good way and oh by the way, my right testicle hurts but its not swollen and Daniels mom said it might be a hemorrhoid do you think I have a hemorrhoid mom and what is that anyhow?"

SCREEECCHH
(There's that record scratching again. That seems to happen a lot with Jordan.)
Leave it to Jordan to mention an aching testicle and hemorrhoids in one breath, at 10:30 at night, hamburger in one hand, Coke in the other, wearing Daniels clothes (still not sure about the underwear, I didn't ask) and telling me his testicle hurts like he would tell me if he stubbed his toe. And I still hadn't removed my face cream.

That's what makes Jordan, Jordan.

He's missing that embarassment filter the rest of us were born with.

And it never fails.

I've been married almost twenty years and anytime we have a problem like a broken pipe, flat tire, or aching testicles on my almost 12 year old son, my husband is far, far away.

I calmly explained that a hemmorhoid and aching testicle occur in different body parts, and then proceeded with the normal mom/nurse questions: is it swollen (it wasn't), when does it hurt, how often, and decided an external exam could wait until my husband got off that boat.

And then I made one of those in the moment, executive mom decisions: If I must do an exam, I'm looking at the testicles first.

Robert can check him for hemmorhoids.

Sorry honey, you snooze you lose and I get to pick which ailment I'm examining for if it gets that far.

Then I started to think. Hemorrhoid?

I was still confused on that one and after some discussion and questions and pointing to certain body areas, I realized he meant hernia.

"Oh yeahhhhh, Daniels mom said hernia, not hemorrhoid. I got them mixed up. When can I go back to his house? We stayed up all night. Did I tell you what else we did..."

He chattered along like he had been gone on a long backpacking trip to Europe and had just returned home after months away.

Eventually, I finally got my face cream off.

No bodily searches have been needed yet, thank goodness.

Welcome home, Jordan. We missed you.

In a few years, you'll know all about the differences between a hemorrhoid and a hernia.

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Deviled Eggs

Jordan was forced to call me today and check in since Robert has gone back to work for several days.

No more hiding behind Dad, time to call mom. I'm sure he was looking forward to calling me for that update about as much as I look forward to root canals.

But, since I'm feeling as good as your average over-worked mom on a three day weekend who can now fit into size 6 jeans (sorry, I cannot let that one go) can be, we had a typical Jordan-Mom type conversation:

Jordan: Can I stay at Daniels another night?

Me: Jordan, they are going to think I'm showing up at their house with adoption papers, I think you should come home.

Jordan: But mom, we're watching fireworks.

(At this point I start to give, the mini-guilt trip is working. Then, I do the mental math on how many days he has been gone.)

Me: Jordan, have you BATHED?

Jordan: Yes, I took a bath at Daniel's house today.

Me: Whose clothes are you wearing?

Jordan: Daniel let me borrow some.

(Bath. Clean clothes. Huge sigh of relief from me. Unlike my older two boys, this child does not smell good if he goes a day without bathing. Sort of like when your husband eats one too many deviled eggs at the company picnic.)

Suddenly, I am overcome with a horrible thought.

Me: Jordan-are you wearing the SAME UNDERWEAR from when you first went over there?

Long pause.


Jordan: Um, well, um, I'm wearing Daniel's clothes? (Note to new parents: an answer from a child that comes in the form of a question back at you is never a good thing. Big red flag.)

Suddenly there is a lot of noise back and forth between Jordan and Daniel in the background that slightly resembles Rosie O'Donnell trying to interrupt Bill O'Reilly on a talk show about gay parenting rights. I couldn't tell between the all that noise who was saying what as they tried to answer the question on the fly.

Boys, boys, always be prepared when you call your mother, for the underwear question.

Me: Jordan, WHOSE UNDERWEAR ARE YOU WEARING?

Jordan: Okay mom, gotta go, bye, I'll call you later! Click.

I still have no idea if he's wearing his own four day old underwear. Or Daniel's underwear, clean or not. Or maybe no underwear.

I thought about it for second. He's a pre-teen male. Clean underwear is not high on his priority list. He'll be fine

When Daniel's mom starts to look for the deviled eggs she didn't make, they'll quickly bring my third child home.

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Speechless

Warning, this post is not for the faint of heart, grandparents, or parents who have small children and have not yet entered the world of teenagers.

Actually, if you have small children, you might want to read this to get an idea of the speeding train that is headed straight down the tracks, straight towards you.

Today at the swim meet (yes, I keep coming back to that and no, I never found the parent of the blue Igloo), I had my Blackberry with me.

What working mom worth her salt doesn't have a Blackberry in hand during a Saturday swim meet?

An email arrived from Itunes with an invoice.

I keep Itunes password protected against purchases but the password inevitably gets out because the kids want to buy a song and I end up being too busy (read: tired) at that moment to get up and type it in for them.

One way or the other, the password gets out, and I have to change it again. Funny thing is, they've gotten really good at guessing my passwords so now I've had to get really creative at creating passwords that they won't guess but I can still remember, which is not easy.

Back to the Itunes receipt-on that receipt was a song Chase had asked to purchase.

No big deal.

But, right below that song were two free 'Apps' listed that someone had downloaded without my knowledge.

App #1: Sexy Babes, v1.0

App #2: Hot Bikini Babes at Baberoo Babes Lite

Hmmm....last time I checked my own Ipod I was not looking at Bikini Baberoo Babes. Neither version 1.0 or 2.0.

I don't think my husband was looking at them...although he might now that he knows they're free on Itunes. We'll talk.

I immediately start scanning the sea of heads at the swim meet for my angels.

Tyler appeared first. I knew it wasn't Tyler. Tyler is smart enough to either not download this type of App, or smart enough to cover his tracks. Tyler could have the entire Playboy Mansion on his Ipod but he would be smart enough to make sure I wouldn't find out.

I told Tyler to find a sibling, any sibling, and bring him to me. We looked at each other and both knew which sibling was coming first.

Jordan appears seconds later. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: "Jordan, I just received a very strange Itunes invoice, I'm hoping you can explain something to me."

(red face, raised eye brows. panic. On him, not me.)

I hand him the Blackberry to see the email.

Me: "Care to explain that, does any of that look familiar? "

Jordan: "Okay...(long pause...at which point Tyler looks at me like, yep, we knew it, and walks away to avoid the scene I am sure he thinks is about to ensue)...it was me."

Just like that, he confesses.

No torture, no threats, no heat lamp in a dark room, he confesses just like that.

Me: "Why would you download this? (At this point, I'm really calm actually. I've got three boys, nothing shocks me anymore. That's all about to change.)"

Jordan: "Well, I didn't do it. Charlie did it."

That's when the blood started to flow.

Me: "Jordan, Charlie doesn't know the password to our Itunes account, so do not blame this on Charlie."

At this point, the conversation goes downhill quickly into Jordan trying to 'explain' to me how when Charlie spent the night at our house, he 'made' Jordan type in that password and download those Apps.

I have patience for a lot of things.

Not accepting responsibility for what you do is not one of them. It makes me crazy. He had been doing so good to confess but totally lost it when he blamed it on a friend. Nope. Not in my house.

We don't own weapons. Last time I checked, 13 year old Charlie didn't bring a gun over and force Jordan to download those apps on to his Ipod (which by the way, I am certain were still on there at that very moment.)

Me: "I am taking up your Ipod when we get home."

That gets his attention. Electronics are a prized possession of any 11 year old. He was horrified.

Jordan, who is now incredulous that I am taking up the Ipod and speaking loudly, acting totally insulted, says: (And I swear, I am not making this up)

"Why are you taking up my Ipod when Chase's Ipod has an App with Donald Duck having an orgasm?"

Whoa.

Newsflash.

Somehow I missed that invoice.

So yes, my 11 year old son has just announced in the presence of a sea of parents, who I am praying were not listening to this due to the heat, that my other son has an Ipod application that involves Donald Duck and orgasms.

I'm not speechless often, like I said, I've heard it alot with three boys.

At that moment it's fair to say I was tongue tied.

I said a quick prayer to the parental Gods that no other parent heard that conversation, and in a low, so sweet of a mom voice, in case anyone was listening, I said: "I believe they've called your next event, good luck!"

Ipods collected.

But I'm still speechless.

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Memorial Day & Super Glue

So today is Memorial Day, the day that we are all so grateful for because...there is no work. Not that we don't all get two days off each week to rest but somehow the third day off seems like a blessing from the work Gods, especially when the said day of rest falls on a Monday.

I think there need to be more Memorial Days, really, we might all come to work more refreshed. Maybe? I would love to say that we all appreciate Memorial Day because of what it was originally intended for-a day to remember the men and women who have given their lives and continue to serve in order to protect our country. But, I think the reality is we are all just glad to have a day off to rest and maybe spend some time with our family. I hope to be thankful for both these days.

The kids have managed to spend the day outside.

Given video games and the internet, every moment they spend outside, I dont care if they are in a street brawl at this point, every outside moment they have makes me happy.

Okay a street brawl with no injuries would be preferable.

The less time they spend with some form of an electronic gadget in front of them or in their hand, the better.

That being said, I received the following call a few minutes ago:

Chase: Mom, I sort of fell at Charlies pool and scraped my face. Will (Charlie's 16 year old brother) said the cut is deep.

Me: Come home and let me see.

Chase: Well can't you come get me?

Me: Is is THAT bad?

Chase: Here Mom, talk to Will (and yes, I am wondering by now, is there an adult onsite?)

Will: Well, he fell and his face is cut, it's um, like a centimeter and well, last time I did that to myself, I super glued it and it came out fine, so I super glued his face and I think he will be okay.

Me: You super glued his face? Please send me a photo, now.

The wonders of technology-a few minutes later a crystal clear photo arrives on my phone with Chase's closeup.

For a brief moment, I'm less interested in the cut and more wondering what sort of cell phone they use that the photo came out so clear?













We've seen much worse with 3 boys.

A few years ago, Tyler was playing street tackle football (yeah, I know, who plays tackle in the street?) and 'donated' his shirt to a friend who was shirtless.

He was re-thinking that decision on the next play when he was tackled in the street, we ended up in the emergency clinic on that one.

I am not sure what they super glued.

I don't ever recall super glue being mentioned during any first aid classes I took.

I am not sure whether to thank Will for acting as a pseudo paramedic or warn Chase about having people offer to super glue his face.

I'll probably do both.

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