I read an article once about the discovery of people whose senses were different than what they are supposed to be. They didn't know they were different because no one had talked about it with them. It just never came up in conversation that when they listened to music they tasted sweetness on their tongue. Or that when they ate a strawberry it tasted like an onion. They just assumed that everyone who didn't like onions just didn't enjoy the sweetly acidic  summery taste of a plump juicy onion.

Stream of consciousness, anyone?

I've been searching my soul lately. The topics of teaching kids morality and decision making have been coming to mind a lot. And also support. How do I support my kids if what they come to own as their own beliefs differ from mine? I've been thinking about family and what that means beyond the obvious sharing of DNA. I am lucky to have a big family if you count the bloodlines and then add the chosen. I am surrounded by differing belief systems. Christians, atheists, Catholics, Jews, Humanists, Buddhists and on and on and on.  

These differences could serve to divide us. But, with very few exceptions, they don't. Somehow we have found a way to love each other without judgment. Without condescension. Without a wedge. 99% of the time. But it's that 1% that has me thinking today. The one or two relationships that cannot withstand that conflict of ideas that has me up at night this week.  

You've probably asked yourself, what the hell is she talking about? Yeah, me too. I don't know. I may never get to a point on this post. And I am well aware that I am vague-ing it up big time. So I am sorry for that.

I think about history. Mostly people's history. Relationships. I put a lot of value in the history of a relationship. I think about what they mean to people and if I feel them the same way others do. Or does an onion taste like a strawberry to me?  I tend to feel things, you know. My mom will call me an empath. I call myself a Feelings McFeeler (it has a really creepy ring to it, right? So, that's fun.) But it serves me well in this life. My feelings help me understand other people. They connect me to this life in a way that makes the good even better.  But there are times when they serve me not so well, too. They can take me out of my rational brain and force me to eat a bag of cookies (Not my fault!). They can overcome me and turn me into a zombie mom and wife. It's those times that I search for a switch to turn them off (yeah, you know, with frosting). But I can't turn them off. They are persistent little effers.

I have a tendency to romanticize things. I love this about me. Most of the time. Things like how I cry at the first snow every year and when Santa Claus comes at the end of The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade just like my grandma does. Or how I sometimes get lost watching my babies sleep. I stare at them and try to never forget the beauty right in front of me.

And with relationships I do the same. I look back on my relationship with Jessica, my original Laydee, and I see 20 years of love sprinkled with awesome dust. Sure we had some hard times in there where we argued, like sisters do, and needed to take a breather from each other. But I know that we will ever be undone. I mean unless she murders me or something, I know we are solid until the end. I have visions of us in our Jazzies singing show tunes to passersby at the mall. It's gonna happen. But I digress. I could relay a similar sentiment about all of my people but we'd be here all day and night.

This romantic way of thinking can sometimes bite me in the ass, though. Because of what happens when things do fall apart. When I begin to wonder if what I believed was true, just wasn't. This has happened to me a few times in my life. And when I am far enough removed and through the stages of grief (because we do grieve the living), I usually come to the understanding that I had been blind to something that was obvious because of romantic thinking. Even if it was staring me right in the face. I come to realize that while I have been thinking that my onion tastes like a strawberry, the other person knew that the onion tasted like an onion. And I wonder if our drastic sensory differences can ever come together and make a delicious salad. I mean throw a little vinaigrette in there and onions and strawberries suddenly taste really good together, right? Sprinkle some slivered almonds and...

Somebody stop me with this ridiculous food analogy! I'm tired.

So that's where I am at. And you know what? Sometimes relationships come back together. Sometimes they don't. But my romantic self, my heart,  always believes it's possible and dukes it out with my brain who is trying to be all logical and shit. Thankfully, for me, my heart almost always wins.

And that right there is how you barf out a stream of conciousness onto your blog.

There is something changing. Times are different. Unfamiliar.

And I don't know how to write about it. I have been thinking about this change for some time now. Lying awake at night trying to put into words what it is I am feeling. But there is no one feeling that pins it down. There is sadness and anticipation. Excitement and longing. A little fear mixed with a calming freedom. None of it makes sense. It's exhilarating and terrifying.

My babies are not babies anymore.

Of course they are my babies. Even when I'm squeezing in one last kiss before they drive away or walk the aisle. They will always be my babies. But that's not where I am at today. Today I am coming to a place of knowing that mothering an infant is now a part of my past. There is independence in this house and it's growing greater by the day.

I catch a glimpse of her looking like a big kid. Lounging and climbing and telling me "No". She doesn't need me in the same way that she used to. Wanting to be where he is. Thinking he created the Universe. Loving being his sister. Determined to earn his favor. Taking small steps away from me, the one who used to hold that spot in her world.

I hear him communicating with her. Using sentences. He's getting taller. Not letting me do anything for him because, as he would say, "I got it, Mama". He even does his part to protect her. In his own way. He loves her. I can see it. 

He's going to pre-school in a few weeks. And I just know he will walk tall onto that bus and be just fine. He is sure that he will come back. He trusts that. And that will encourage him to go on the adventure, unafraid. He will not know about the tears I will cry that day. Tears of joy and sadness for my lost baby and my found big kid. Or that she will miss him. Ah, this post is getting harder and harder to write through my tears.

But then I'm finding myself with a little breathing room. A few minutes of space each day as they play together in the big kid room. It's awesome and it squeezes my heart at the same time.

There are no more tiny babies here. They have been replaced by little kids excited to figure out this big world. And now it seems they are both big enough to actually give it a go. Less fragile. Walking their own stairs. Dressing themselves, or at least trying to.  

And now we must change to. Daddy and I. We are becoming different parents. Learning how to do this. How to parent these independent and awesome kids who are determined to grow. Just when we were getting rock solid in parenting little babies. It's time to change. It's time to evolve. This life is moving forward. I'm not ready but I don't get a say. So I am working on it. Writing about it. Shedding some tears while missing my squishy wriggly babes. And smiling from ear to ear watching them talk to each other. I imagine Mr. Pants will let Plum know that it's ok when Mama cries. I imagine that someday he might say, "Don't worry, Plum. Mama's ok. She cries all the time because she loves us. It's weird." and maybe he will take her hand and they will run off to play while I put myself back together.

I used to be a professional know it all about kids. A lot of what I knew, I lost the second I became a mom. Poof! It's was gone. I struggled and treaded water for a while before I found my confidence again. But one thing never left me. One bit of knowledge always stayed. Knowing what is a reasonable expectation and what isn't. For example it is not within reason to think that your three year old will make it through dinner without spilling something. Or that your one year old is safe to navigate climbing the furniture without a spotter. I am constantly evaluating my expectations of my kids. So it's coming as a bit of a kick to the nuts that I have no idea what to expect from Mr. Pants a week from today. Surgery day. I mean, there are the obvious emotions and recovery expectations but it's the severity of these that I won't know about until he is in it. I won't know until we do it. I hate that. My compulsion to plan out very possibility is sometimes consuming. The lists of comfort items, things for the freezer to soothe his pain, what activities will keep him happy, how to get him to take his pain medication, will he be angry, sad, scared (yes, yes and yes. But in what order and when!?).

When I sat down to write today, this is what came out, "I hate this". I stared at that for about twenty minutes. Hoping to find inspiration to write about anything other than this. But I got nothing. Because this is what's on my mind. I "know" that this is considered common. I "know" he will eventually be fine. I "know" that as far as surgery goes, there are kids and parents dealing with much much much bigger fish. So why am I stuck here? Why can't I write about anything else? Because no matter what other people's reality is, this is ours. This is our big fish for now. So my parenting in this situation is uncharted territory. And I am not a fan of the unexpected. I'm a thinker. Sometimes to a fault. Just ask Daddy Pants. I've been known to throw out probable outcomes like some people consider their lunch order. But instead of vacillating between the turkey club or the rueben, I move between scenarios and prepare for them. Before our recent vacation, I voiced perhaps a million times to Daddy that there "will be meltdowns" and that we needed to go with the flow and not expect too much. Not force things. Just go with the flow. Sometimes when I really get going I can almost hear him thinking, "DUDE, I know." It would seem it's time to take my own advice. Because there is no way to fully prepare. So I have to just parent on the fly.

I know he will be ok. At some point. It would thrill me to know exactly when, but I can't know that. So today I am focusing my plan on comforting him. Bringing comfort. Being comfort. Because that is something I know how to do. It's funny how we know our kids, isn't it? There will be looks that I understand. Words he will say to me that only Daddy or I can interpret. Gut feelings that will tell us how he is doing. An understanding of him that no nurse or doctor can tap into. Instinct that will guide us to help him recover. That is where I am putting my focus now. And as I came to that place this morning, it occurred to me that it's where I start in all of my parenting. I know my boy. I know this is going to be very hard on him. And because of that, it will be very hard on me. It's the price of parenting, isn't it? We feel our kids' pain. We'd trade places with them in a heartbeat. But because we cannot, we are given the blessing of that punch to the gut. It's in taking that and using it to know how to bring comfort that I am counting on. One week from today. One week from today, we tackle this. And I'm going in with no concrete plan. Realizing that concrete plans are never as concrete as we think they are anyway. And that revelation as I typed it just now, has helped me be ready. Daddy and I will be as ready as we can be. Armed with the best tools we have in our tool box. Knowing our son. Understanding him. Loving him. And also popcicles.

Exhale.

Today is the last day that Mr. Pants will ever be two years old. So it's as good a day as any to finally master the number two on his hands. On his way to school this morning, he finally got it. And of coarse, this achievment made me misty. Because I am the sap from the sappiest sugary-est tree.  Tomorrow we will begin to work on three fingers. I bet he gets that super fast. But for today, he is two. And what kind of sap would I be if I didn't start thinking about his whole little life as he walked down the driveway with Daddy to get on the bus? I mean, you know I did. I went all the way back to the very beginning.  Before he was even here. Yep, I'm a marshmallow. I went through his entire life in my head. Has it really only been three years? Because I feel like I've known him forever. As I sat down to write about him, I got stuck on something that my brother told me when I was pregnant.

When you're pregnant for the first time people tell you all sorts of things. Mostly about how you will never sleep again (TRUE!) and how you should soak up every bit of them as babies because it goes by too fast (True times infinity).

When we found out that I was growing a boy inside my body (What what! Superhero powers!), I got a lot of additional material. Like, "Boys are hard". Or, "Boys are easier than girls". And, "I hope you like the emergency room" (Who likes the emergency room?). But there was something that my brother said to me that rang in my ears and stayed in my heart. It's the only comment I remember vividly. I remember we were standing on his porch. I was wearing a black t-shirt. He was wearing my husband's shoes. What he said, hit me like a ton of bricks and I haven't forgotton it. Not for a second.  We were joking about how wild he had been as a kid and  about how I was in for it with a boy, when he paused. He looked up and said, "It's good you are having a boy. It's a really good thing. Because you will teach him how to treat a woman. And how to be sensitive and all that. You are going to be good at that". I was at once touched and scared. See both of my brothers have a set of girls. Two girls each. There were no boys on my side of the family until Mr. Pants came along. The idea that we would have to parent him into being a good person, had suddenly occured to me. Oh shit. What if I screw up my kid and then he goes on to screw up his kids in a vicious cycle that started with me not letting him eat ice cream for dinner? What if he's a total jerk as an adult because I don't know how to raise a boy? It would be all my fault!

(At this point, I usually need someone to shake me by the shoulders or smack me back into reality. Not for real smacking, more like a verbal smack across the cheek. Thankfully, I always have my friends and family for that. )

So, I thought about this a lot before lil dude was born. A lot. It really did worry me that I might not have the nuts to raise a boy. Pun totally intended. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to relate to him. Understand him. But eventually I snapped out of it and realized I was not giving birth to an alien. I was having a human boy. And I would just figure him out. It helps that Daddy is also a boy, so my plan was to defer to him on boy related issues. Like when Mr. Pants became a nudist and slammed his junk onto things as he hurdled furniture ("I mean, doesn't that hurt him? Wouldn't that hurt you?"). Or when he got a sunburn On. His. Penis. Daddy nearly passed out at the thought. Because, you know, OW.  I just didn't think to put sunblock there. But Daddy sure did. Lesson learned. Protect the goods. Got it. Beyond that, I didn't have to worry. I didn't have to do anything different just because he was boy. I just had to be his mom. It's a simple idea. But sometimes the simplest solutions are the hardest to get to.

Then Ms. Plum came along. A girl. How would this change him? How would she be different?  She's more emotional. More dramatic. More relaxed. More affectionate. I think it would be easy to suggest that it's because she is a girl. But that's really not it. It's not gender that is determining these things. She just came that way. And he came his way. We parent them the same. I'm sure sometimes that doesn't happen but it's what we strive for. Boys get the same amount of kisses as girls and girls are allowed to climb and fall just like the boys are. As I type this, Plum is playing with a semi truck. And just last night, Mr. Pants nursed his Care Bear and changed his diaper. Comforting Wish Bear, "Don Ky! Iz OK baby!" and giving him kisses.  

So here we are. Today is the last  day that Mr. Pants will be two. Three years out from what my brother said to me. I would probably bet money that when it comes down to it, Mr. Pants has taught me more than I have taught him. And we obviously have a ways to go before he's learned how to treat a partner. But I have no doubt that he will get there. Because honestly? He has no choice. I refuse to raise a jerk face. So we plant the seeds now. And the best way to do that, in this stage of his development, is by showing him. By being the people we hope that he and Plum will also be. That, my friends, is not always easy.  We give hugs and kisses all day, everyday (easy part!) and we speak to them gently (most of the time) and with respect. And when I find that I am not parenting the way I believe I should, I stop, breathe and start again. Right in front of them. We apologize to them when we miss the mark. And we don't demand things of them that they are not yet capable of. We are not perfect. Not by a long shot. The longest of shots. I mean, I've got stories. But the foundation of our parenting style is that we have four equal voices living under this roof. They are not the second class. Neither are we. Their feelings and ideas count. They are as important as our own. And by enforcing that. By not always getting my way, we are teaching them to be considerate and thoughtful. At least I think that's what we are doing.  And maybe my brother knew that's how I would parent? Or maybe he just assumed I'd be  "good at it" because I am the greatest sister of all time? 

So as I sit here thinking of all the ways we have succeeded and failed in the last three years, I am so happy. So so happy. We are bumbling through this parenting adventure with an idea of how to do it. Not a map or a fool proof plan, but some ideas. Be kind. Show love. Show respect. Use honesty and laughter liberally. Temper our human tendancy for frustration and anger with reason and understanding. It's ok to be mad. Take naps.  Accept mistakes and don't dwell. Ask for help (the hardest one for me). Eat ice cream (note to self: buy coconut milk ice cream, stat!). Get dirty. Eat your vegetables. Never withhold affection as discipline. Always consider you might be wrong. And don't be a jerk when you are right.  

That's our way. That's how we do it. It's not the only way or even the right way. But it's what suits us.

So, I agree, Uncle Pants. I think it's a good thing too.