A few things that have little to do with one another.

I'm a worrier, ain't no two ways about it. I come by it honestly, with two parents who are worriers each in their own distinctive ways. My father will plot out a trip to an unfamiliar destination as far in advance as possible, probably do a test-drive or two, and still leave early enough on the day he has to be there to arrive at least an hour early. (I got that from him.) My mother worries in less predictable ways and often about unlikely scenarios (i.e. If I didn't call when I was supposed to, she might jump to the conclusion that I'm dead rather sooner than most). That's a mother thing, and I'm developing my own.

But I worry (ahem) when I see the same tendency in Alex. I don't want to label him because he's FIVE and he's CHANGING and there's no way to know if what he's experiencing is natural, age-appropriate worry or if it falls somewhere a bit higher on the scale.

He had fun at his Halloween carnival but only after we convinced him that it was fun. Before that he was just jittery and reluctant and infuriatingly close-mouthed about what was wrong.

He thinks ahead about things that he will worry about in the future, i.e. "I don't want to go to college because it's too far away from you and Daddy." My response? "Well ... let's revisit this in twelve years or so."

He worried on his school's Pajama Day that he would be the only one in pajamas, and asked us each on three separate occasions to check the calendar and make really, really sure we had the right day. As if we would play some cruel, traumatizing prank on our sweet boy and send him into a den of kindergarten lions to be made fun of for wearing his Mario pj's, which are pilled and tired-looking but the only ones he owns that actually fit. (No one needs to know my son prefers to wear pajama shirts that don't cover his navel and pants that don't come near his ankle, right?)

He is at the same time brazenly confident and heart-wrenchingly uncertain, and it's all part of growing up, and whenever I stop and think about it, the hugeness of everything that lies before him, I have to catch my breath and remind myself that he's got to do these things and that he WILL find his way. Just like I did. Just like we all do. But when it's your little boy who comes home devastated because his best school friend didn't wait to walk with him, it's harder to accept that truth.

And all I can do is tell him how wonderful he his, how bright and funny and sweet and kind and beautiful, how insightful and observant and emotionally more mature than your average fully grown man. Hopefully the words don't lose any of their impact spoken, as they are, by someone who still often has trouble being assertive, taking the first step, going to the grocery store with no makeup on.

I believe in him and I know, in my heart, that he'll be fine. He'll be more than fine.

But the mother in me, the mother that IS me, now, still watches, waits, and worries.

Katherine has woken to her world completely and lights it up everywhere she goes. She has a wide-open, crooked grin and a coquettish flirty smile, eyelash batting and everything, that she saves for her daddy. Her giggles are impossibly contagious; they sound a little like hysterical coughs, and the sound always seems to surprise her. She's still bald as a cue ball, and I love her that way. She's grasping things: toys, blankets, shirts, hair. She can roll from belly to back but not the other way yet, and I wonder if that's because she simply despises being on her belly. Why would she go to such lengths to get there?

She is eating rice cereal and carrots, and by rice cereal I mean she's had several bites on several occasions that did not immediately ooze back out onto her bib, and by carrots I mean I shoved a couple of spoonfuls in her mouth tonight while we were waiting for her bath water to warm up. I figured carrots = messy. Handy bath was a good idea.

Steven's recuperating nicely and returned to work on Tuesday. Next week they take the staples out. He asked me if I thought that was going to hurt. Um. Well. They're going to PRY the STAPLES out of your WOUND. It probably won't be ice cream and puppy dogs. But I didn't tell him that.

That's all I've got for now, for this "blog" that's quickly becoming more of a "dumping ground" for "random thoughts du jour." (Though, really, that should be the official definition of blog.)

Good night.

Stick a fork in me.

I'm so tired I can't make myself even try to sleep.

Granted, sitting around a hospital waiting room doesn't sound all that exhausting, but somehow it is, especially when you've been up since 4 and are worrying about someone you love while families gather and laugh and talk and share concern and kill time all around you while sucking down Starbucks concoctions. (Genius, having a Starbucks across from the main waiting room. Even I succumbed, and I find their coffee to be only OK.)

As for me, the bag holding Steven's belongings broke and my phone died far too early in the day, my contacts got hopelessly foggy and the book I'm currently reading is too depressing to keep me terribly committed to finishing it.

Hours do have a way of passing, though.

Steven's orthopedist was four feet tall and had a Napoleon complex and talked to me like I was a six-year-old with a severe learning disability.

I was allowed to go back to recovery after he'd been there almost two hours, and he was still groggy and IN PAIN and nauseated and seemingly very surprised and kind of ticked off that he wasn't ready to hop out of bed and drive home.

The important thing is that the surgery went well, and bones and ligaments are back where they should be. Steven is worse for wear but I'm hoping the fact that he went to bed at 7 tonight and hasn't made a peep since bodes well for his feeling at least marginally better tomorrow.

My parents came over at the crack of dawn so they'd be here to get Alex off to school and to stay with Katherine until we came home, which turned out to be nine-plus hours later. Thank God for family.

My kid doesn't like me. Does that make me a good mom?

Well this seems blogworthy, if only to document the date and time of Alex's first outright tantrum. I know, I know, we got lucky when he was little. He was more of a stomper-off-to-his-room, which turned out to be a good thing since it gave him a place to vent where we didn't have to hear it. But tonight, oh. my. lord. I came into the conflict in the middle, so I'm not sure what happened except that he was playing DS and forgot to watch his wind-down show, which then became my fault even though I wasn't even in the room. Then he hit himself in the face with his DS in frustration, and if you know of DS-gate, you'll know that's a BIG NO-NO. So Steven took the DS away and told him to pick his books. The screaming, yelling, out-and-out freaking continued, even after I gave him to the count of five and then NO books. He calmed down a little but then ramped it up again, so guess what? No books.

Then he turned his unfiltered fury on me.

"MOMMY? I'M NOT GOING TO BE YOUR BEST FRIEND ANYMORE ... IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE!"

"MOM? YOU'RE NOT VERY NICE."

"MAMA? I DON'T LIKE YOU RIGHT NOW."

"YOU'RE A BAD MOMMY!"

At which point Steven reached into his hidden pocket of parental tricks and basically silenced the child by, well, telling him to knock it off. Why didn't I think of that?

Beach, Bones, and Blues

A girls' trip gives the soul a chance to breathe, usually in quick gasps snatched through uncontrollable laughter.

Three days away from the three most important people in the world make them even more important than they were before; make them vital, absolute, irrevocable.

I am ridiculously blessed to have had both experiences this past weekend.

I have to admit that when I had my feet sunk deep into blinding white sand, a diabetic mimosa in my hand and newly downloaded music in my ears, surrounded by people with whom I've traveled a bumpy road that didn't manage to shake us apart even at its rockiest, all I was really focused on was relaxing. We had flawlessly blue skies, a steady breeze that took the bite out of the sun (and maybe only just enough that I didn't recognize I was getting slightly burned until it was called to my attention). Relaxing, yes, and a little soul-searching, as that's what I do at the foot of the end of the land.

My mind was everywhere and nowhere, but the little boy who kept trotting by pulled my thoughts back home to Alex, and the sound of a baby anywhere, at any time, made me yearn to sink my lips deep into rosy, smiley, squishy cheeks.

And of course I was thinking of Steven, with his broken shoulder, never letting on that he's in pain and never willing to admit that he needs help with anything. Thankfully, his mother knew better. (Thanks again, Kirk and Cindy!)

I'm lucky. Lucky to have friends like those who forgive my moody tendencies and inclination to zone out a bit during shop talk, who say HILARIOUS things and are just so irresistibly themselves that you have no choice but to love them.

I'm lucky to have my husband who claimed he would have tied me to the top of the car and driven me to the beach himself if he had to, when I protested that I shouldn't leave him there by himself with the kids and his injury.

Lucky to have a little boy who met me at the top of the driveway jumping up and down and threw half his body through my car window to give me the first of many "welcome home" hugs.

Lucky to have a baby girl whose eyes light up like a Christmas tree when she's happy and whose funny little mannerisms make her adorable even when she's not so happy.

Steven has to have surgery on his shoulder. Turns out the bone broke in pieces and severed the two ligaments that hold those bones in place. Or something like that. It's not outpatient, and it's not minimally invasive. It's going to require four to six months of recovery, and I know that hurts him because he's been training for a half marathon and really wanted to do the Vulcan Run. And his weekend bike excursions have to be put on hold indefinitely, which breaks my heart for him because I know how he loves those.

But, realizing how much worse it could have been, I feel like we're pretty blessed there, too. It wasn't his neck, after all. He came home, after all. And it's easy to say that's melodramatic in retrospect, but no one knows what could have unless it does. And then it's too late.

Despite all of the goodness, I've been a little down lately. Slightly overwhelmed and under-productive. I could work morning till night and I'm not sure I'd get everything done that I would like to. I'm running a race that has no finish line. So I settle for day to day to-do lists and hope that the rest falls into place.

I've been told I'm too hard on myself, but I feel like that's letting me off the hook for living up to the standards I've set. And so what if that proves their point?

I'm willful that way.

Just so they know...

I can't promise my kids as much as I'd like to.

I can't promise them I'll never screw up (I already have, a lot a lot). I can't promise them I'll never yell, or nag, or be unfair, or blame them for something they didn't do.

But I can promise them that I'll always love them, unconditionally, for who they are and for who they will become. I can promise them that I'll look at their faces and see the babies they were, even when they're twenty-five, and that I'll do my best to empower them even when I don't agree with their choices. Because without empowerment, without someone to tell you you're good enough and strong enough and that they believe in you, achieving a dream is that much harder. Not impossible, because the human spirit is nothing if not resilient, but harder, and less likely.

And I can think of no greater tragedy than a grown-up child who doesn't because no one said they could.

Days Like This

Today was the day that was.

Alex woke up cranky that it was only Monday and that his grandparents won't be back until Thursday, and beSIDE himself that I forced him to wear long pants because of the sudden change in morning weather. (Of course, this being Alabama, by noon it's virtually sweltering, so tomorrow we're going with shorts and a jacket and his little legs can just freeze if he wants them to.)

I was very proud of the haul of new fall clothes I bought for him today, until he tried them on after dinner and we discovered that I am abysmal at size guestimations and maybe don't really have a clear grasp of what my kid looks like. I'm pretty sure the excess length on all the pants could've been made into similar pants for at least one additional kindergartner. So tomorrow I'll drag the girlchild back to Old Navy to swap out sizes in every single item of clothing I bought today. I love doing the same job twice. It's like I never left publishing.

I will also, as it's late and this horrendous day is over and I'm dreaming big, get something done work-wise. Today that was almost literally impossible, as someone swapped Katherine out with an identical-looking but temperamentally opposite baby in the night. Nothing appeased her, nothing distracted her unless it was something that had the effect of ramping up her displeasure a few notches. She seemed to hold me personally responsible for everything that was bothering her, which seemed to be everything she was feeling, seeing, thinking, touching, and otherwise experiencing.

Everything I did today, every breath I took, every key I typed, was set to the background of "ehhhh. ehhhhhh. ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

If that won't make a person crazy, what will, I ask you?

I had to take an important work-related phone call in my bedroom while she screamed bloody murder from her crib and I tried to pretend I couldn't hear her (and hoped that the person I was interviewing actually couldn't).

I ran back to her as soon as humanly possible and scooped her up, but she was too upset to let me comfort her right away, so there was back arching and the screaming turned to heartbreaking wails and her (still) blue marble eyes silently accused me of bad! bad! things! Like leaving her alone for five minutes when I should have been holding her, all the better to hear her ceaseless vocalizations of all-encompassing protest.

When Steven came home at lunch she managed a few smiles for him and when he made his standard joke about taking her back to work with him I agreed, but unfortunately he thought I was kidding.

There were some good things. Alex got possession of Bobby Bear for the night (though we butted heads over his "homework," which was to have an adventure with Bobby and write or draw a picture about it; Alex wanted to write a book, and aside from the fact that he's only allotted one page, I couldn't be of much help to him with his sister "ehhhhhh"ing in my ear. Right the heck in there; she does it on purpose.)

"Mommy, how do you spell 'Bobby Bear and I had a lot of fun today playing games like football and my DS and jumping on my trampoline'?" How do you SPELL that? You spell that "Ask your dad when he gets home."

Mother of the Year, right here.

I managed to make dinner but not to do the dishes. I managed to change my spit-up-soaked clothes four times and Katherine's three but not to throw them in the laundry. I managed to finish my article that's due tomorrow but not the ones I need to have written before I leave on Friday for a God-blessed girls' trip to the beach with some of my favorite people.

And that's what I'll focus on now, as I try to find the restful room in the tower of sleep. Lately I've been sleeping in the room that lets you think and think and think yourself into a nervous mess who shouldn't even BE in bed and ends up nursing fears and worries, two steps away from rocking in a corner somewhere.

Tonight I took an Ambien, so maybe the restful room will be easier to find this time.

If not, I'll just hope that Pod Katherine sleeps it off, whatever "it" is, and will be my happy angel baby again by morning.