We had been married for nine months when we got the call.

We were going to have a kid–a three and a half year-old kid!

Wha?!

Parental responsibilities were to begin in forty-eight hours!

Holy shit on a cracker! In forty-eight hours?! What do I need? What do they eat? Where will he sleep? What does he do when we go to work? What about when we’re at happy hour?

There had been those three days a month after our honeymoon when I thought I might be pregnant, but it was a false alarm. Even then, I would have had nine months to prepare for the arrival. But this? We weren’t getting much notice.

Then I found out why.

Life with my sister has never been what you’d describe as predictable–life with a drug addict rarely is. I’d lived through screaming matches, visiting hours at rehab, sketchy friends, suicide attempts, rehab, dropping out of school, “your sister has run away,” “well, I’m going to live with Dad,” parents kicking her out, rehab, wrecked cars, the MS diagnosis, arrests for posession, rehab and then finally “I’m pregnant, can’t work, not married, but I’m keeping the baby anyway.”

Seriously, mom’s Christmas cards were always the first ones opened I’m sure.

I was fully prepared to step in if the MS ever got too bad for her to care for my nephew. This had been made clear to the husband when he was still just the boyfriend. Luckily her disease had progressed slowly and my nephew’s birth didn’t cause her any loss of mobility (as we were warned it might). The possibility of taking on his care seemed a long way off.

But of course there I was on the phone getting the “your sister’s in jail and you need to come get him now” call.

I know, hindsight is 20/20. I should have seen it coming, right? As stupid as it sounds though, I just didn’t.

Part II

In a discussion this evening regarding his new sneakers:

Mr. Sixth Grade: Mom, you wouldn’t know cool if it hit you in the butt.

Mr. Sixth Grade: I mean maybe in the 70’s or something*, but not now.

Then again, earlier this evening he threatened his younger brother saying that he wished he could “summon a magical unicorn to silence him” or he might be forced to use his “curls of fury.”

I may not be cool, but I am smart enough to record these conversations for future embarrassment.

*Would you take a look at the size of that swish.

And yet again I’m sitting here contemplating the extreme altitude of my level of suckiness as a mother.

My kids are good kids–for the most part they are well-behaved, kind and funny. They listen to me often.

And then some days, over the simplest tasks, I am completely drawn up by my inability to negotiate a desired outcome.

Mr. 5 was in desperate need of hosing down this evening. I mean I can excuse a little dirt, but he was on the verge of being “the dirty kid” in his class. A shower or bath was in order. He agreed. All was fine.

And then the time to get wet and sudsy came, and he refused my proposition.

Now granted, this child probably can’t be held responsible for his skills in the ways of obstinance. Being adopted we’re not so sure of the genetics I brought to the table, but considering only the known players it would be entirely accurate to describe my son as the Vortex of Stubbornness.

Case in point–the flip flops.

On a lark a few years ago, I bought my then two and half year old a pair of flip flops from Old Navy for the Fourth of July. I had no idea at the time that he would wear those flip flops for the next 18 months to the exclusion of all other shoes. That is until I was required to purchase two new pairs in the next size. He decided to mix the new pairs and wear one army green flop and one red, white and blue flop for the next twelve months after that. And god forbid I try to bring him the other set of mates. THOSE were not his flops.

But you live in Virginia Mamma, don’t you? I can hear you saying that now. Yes we do. And it does get cold here in the winter (for at least a week or two).

You most certainly didn’t let him out of the house in flops in the cold weather, did you Mamma? Listen kids, tonight isn’t the first time I’ve decided I suck as a parent. But no, I didn’t let him go out in flops. I had to buy him slip-on rubber sandals that looked like Birkenstocks (pre-Crocs days) so he could at least have socks on under the sandals.

Sheesh! I may take a certain amount of joy in the fact that my son asserts his individuality through the wearing of two different flip flops, but I will not allow his toes to freeze. I mean how would he get a date in high school if he didn’t have any toes?!

Now there was one little snow storm we had during one of the “flop winters.” Mother Nature treated us to eight inches of the lovely white stuff. School was cancelled, we stayed home from work (it is Virginia after all) and we ran to the closets and pulled boxes out from under the beds in search of our snow clothes.

And then I pulled out the boots for Mr. Stubborn.

Oh no! He was not going to wear those boots. They covered his toes for christ sake!

And so the rest of the family trudged out in the snow to frolic and Mr. Stubborn stood at the kitchen door watching us have our fun–with tears streaking down his face. I offered him the boots. He wanted to come out. But he was not about to cover his toes with SHOES.

And so he missed playing in the one decent snow fall we’d had in a long while.

Anyway…

Tonight the Vortex raised its ugly head. He was not going to bathe. He didn’t want to go to bed. And that was that. I tried to reason with him. I tried to be tough. I left him alone for a few minutes. I counted to five. I gave him options. I started the shower. I turned off the shower.

I failed.

And then the hubs went upstairs. And I heard the water come on. And then a chipper little guy came downstairs all clean and shiny.

Fucking husband! Parenting guru freak!

Mr. 3 after falling off the bench in the kitchen last night:

The Dad: Are you okay? What did you hit?
Mr. 3: The floor

Mr. 5 sitting next to me on the couch:

Mr. 5: I just farted.
Me: What are you supposed to say?
Mr. 5: It stinks.

Mr. 11 calling me at 6:30 p.m. while I’m in Target–and it’s raining outside:

Me: Hello?
Mr. 11: Mom, it’s me. Have you seen my shoes?
Me: Um? Not since this morning. I’m at Target.
Mr. 11: I can’t find my shoes.
Me: Did you look around? Did you look in my room?
Mr. 11: I can’t find them anywhere! I don’t know where they are.
Me: It’s raining outside and dark. You don’t need them right now do you?
Mr. 11: I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find them. Moooom…
Me: I can’t do much about it right now. I’m at Target.
Mr. 11: Well! I can’t find my shoes. I’m not going to be able to go to school tomorrow.

Friday night me and the hubs got a little time to ourselves. It was late. We tried to start something, but we just couldn’t–um–finish. I got a little upset, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I then woke up to the sound of the hubs dry heaving in the bathroom–bad sour cream we think.

The next day…

Me: Do we need to talk about last night?
Hubs: Um.
Me: Is there something wrong? Is our sex life over?
Hubs: No. No.
Me: Was it because you felt so bad?
Hubs: Yeah, that sour cream killed me.
Me: Well why didn’t you tell me to stop?
Hubs: I didn’t want to say “Hey babe I gotta stop I think I’m going to throw up.”
Me: Awww. You wanted to save my ego?

Am I a lucky girl to be living with these four guys or what??

In a few years, when eldest son is looking through his “School Days” book and asks why it smells the answer is “I don’t know” NOT that his littlest brother peed all over it when left for three minutes without a pull-up.

What? He said he “tried his hardest” to pee ten minutes earlier.

Oh yeah, and for all you worrying potty-training parents out there, he’ll be four in a few months.

I’m laying with Mr. 5 tonight trying to get him to fall asleep. We’re chatting about our day, and so goes the conversation.

Me: What one thing do you think you’re going to ask Santa for Christmas?
Mr. 5: I don’t know. Maybe a car. You know a big one.
Me: The kind with a remote or one you push with your hands?
Mr. 5: The kind that goes on it’s own. You know.
Me: ??
Mr. 5: Like the kind our friend has, that you can ride in.
Me: Oh does she drive it?
Mr. 5: Not anymore it broke.
Me: We don’t have room for one of those.

Changing the subject…

Me: You know there are some kids who don’t get gifts from their parents on Christmas?
Mr. 5: Why?
Me: Their parents don’t have money to buy them.
Mr. 5: holds up his hands and begins spreading some of his fingers apart
Me: I was thinking we might buy some presents for those kids, you know so they can have presents too on Christmas.
Mr. 5: nodding to his hands Do these look like chameleon hands to you?
Me: Were you even listening to me? I’m trying to talk to you about something.
Mr. 5: Yeah, yeah. Kids don’t get Christmas presents.
Me: Yes. I think we should buy presents for them.
Mr. 5: I heard you, but now it’s time for me to talk. Don’t you think these look like chameleon hands?

Trying another approach…

Me: What do you think we should get Daddy for Christmas?
Mr. 5: I don’t know.
Me: What do you think he’d like?
Mr. 5: Something boring. You guys always get boring presents.
Mr. 5: Can you make chameleon hands?

I tried…

While standing at the table doing puzzles:

Mr. 3: I fart in the tub and bubbles come out.

Mr. 5: Awesome.

Here in Northern Virginia school follows the old time traditional calendar. Classes don’t begin until after Labor Day and they let out in June.

Here at Mamma’s house we have a guy starting Kindergarten next week. And while it took some time before our friend was convinced he’d actually attend, I was completely unphased as a seasoned mom convinced that everything would be fine. J has an older brother who will be a sixth grader, and we’d been through this all before. I’m on the PTA, I’ve been the class mom, I survived Colonial Days (yes it required me dressing up in period dress) and I’ve spent more money at fundraising auctions and on wrapping paper than I care to admit.

But the oddest thing happened this evening.

I was filling out all of the paperwork and questionnaires tonight and when I finished I decided to read the Kindergarten teachers’ newsletter. It was filled with much of the usual talk about “our community of learners” (oh that’s too sweet) and all kids reacting to beginning school differently (yadda yadda yadda) and then I reached this phrase: “we’re here to help them as they make their transition into the big wide world.”

And tears welled up in my eyes.

Guess I’m not so seasoned after all.

The team was down 6-2. They had just come out of the bottom of the last inning holding the opposing team to no runs, and you could finally feel some energy building in the dugout.

The first three batters got on base and stayed on base. In other words, the bases were loaded.

And then my ten year-old son came up to bat.

And there was a pitch.

And there was a swing.

And the ball hit the bat perfectly.

The ball–that beautiful ball–soared over the infielders’ heads, over the outfielder’s head and straight out over the center field fence!

His first home run. A GRAND SLAM!

And I was cheering. And I was yelling. And I was trying to capture it on video. And I was jumping up and down.

And to go along with the theme of this season…

I peed.

Just a little.

This post made me cry harder than I ever have reading others’ blogs. It may be one of the saddest, yet most beautiful pieces of writing, because it is so clearly straight from this mother’s gut.

The sheer number of comments reminds me how wonderful the citizens of the blogosphere can be.

I am sure Liam is now a brilliant star.