A pumpkin, a bat and a few tears

Some days are just without words. They are….dare I say….perfect. The days when you don’t have a headache, your house is spotless, the weather is nice, there are no arguments within the household, your child is being the child you meant to raise….and everything is just in harmony. Traffic is clear, no bills in the mailbox, no stops on the way home. I’m sure you get my point. It started and nearly ended perfect here. Who knew a pumpkin would bring Elijah to tears? I joked about it. He smiled back at me. No tears. Sometimes, Elijah can be an emotional wreck when things don’t go exactly as planned in his little world. I’m not talking “hey, we changed our mind - no Chuck E Cheese tonight” and he throws a fit. I mean, he could be coloring a picture and mess it up, and next thing I know, the paper is wet from tears as he continues to correct it. He can generally not be consoled in these moments. He is beyond reason. He just wants to finish the project and move on. Put it behind him and get over it. I brought home two pumpkins tonight. Two reasons for imminent failure. I’ve been here before. I’ve carved the most imperfect pumpkins you can imagine. We haven’t carved pumpkins in 4 years. In 2006, Jason brought home three pumpkins, ringing in a total of $60 worth of messy goo, wacky carvings, and a bitter contest on which pumpkin was the best. I couldn’t imagine where you would find a pumpkin for $20 but Jason did. Not only did he find one, he proceeded to buy three. He was angry as he unloaded them, griping about the high cost of pumpkins. Wal-Mart is the devil. “You bought these at Wal-Mart? Are you kidding me?” I asked. They were big but not plated in gold. While I’m sure Jason had grander visions for the pumpkins, I knew the real torture that lay ahead. They wouldn’t even be worth a $1 when we were through with them. Elijah, of course, didn’t help at all. He was three. He barely remembers it.

Tonight, however, he’s vested in this project 110%. I merely cut the tops off so he could have access. I snicker, hoping this will be the last time I have to buy pumpkins. He was cranky just cleaning them out. The first reach in was fun. Aaah, yes, it’s messy and cold. By the third and fourth time, he was wanting me to put the camera down and help. I wouldn’t dream of it. He whined his way through it and I even convinced him to clean the second one out. We stenciled a bat onto his pumpkin. I explained to him, gently, that the bat on his pumpkin is not going to look like the bat on the picture. I know his expectations were unreal. But he took to it, slowly and tediously carving away at the pumpkin. I heard a complaint or two come from him, occasionally. Overall, I was rather impressed by his composure. Finally, he decided to cut the bat short and not finish it. The task had become to large for him to complete it successfully. Elijah knows his limits. He’s amazing that way. I smiled, knowing he was happy with what he had done. Things can change in an instant with Elijah. And it did. He was cleaning up his design. He had felt so confident in skills now. Things went downhill from this moment. He stood back and looked at the finish product…when he noticed it. A bat’s ear was missing. It had been there at one moment and gone the next. He looked inside the pumpkin and found the missing piece. Tears fell quickly.

“It was so perfect until I did this.” He held up the ear. “And I can’t blame you.” He reiterated all the perfect things about the carving: the ears, the body, the face, the one ear. *sniffle*

I tried to hug him and tell him it was still perfect. He wasn’t having any of that. He wanted a solution and he wanted it now. He wanted tape, glue, staples…anything to put this ear back on.

“We have to, at least, try to save it, mommmmmaaaa.” He whined, rubbing dried pumpkin all over his little face. He was defeated by the pumpkin. He was done.

Just like our pumpkin-carving days.  

I, for one, could skip this day....

This won’t be a surprise to those that know me but those that don’t, here comes a shocker. With every ounce of my being, I dislike Halloween. It scares me. I’m a big baby when it comes to Halloween. I wanted to discourage it with Elijah. I wanted it to be the one “holiday” (if you want to call it that) that we didn’t partake in. For several years, I almost made it. For his first Halloween, he was a bumble bee. It was adorable and that’s the only reason I did it. We live in the country - the opportunity to skip it was everywhere. People don’t trick-or-treat where I live. For many years after that, until Elijah entered kindergarten, we were able to ignore it altogether. Then he was a pirate, a Transformer, a Storm Trooper and this year, Darth Vader. I took him costume shopping for the first time. Generally, I find out what he wants, order it online and take him to church for the festivities. This was a huge mistake on my part as his mother. His eyes were opened to the horrors of Halloween (I dislike that my program automatically capitalizes the word, it doesn’t deserve that much respect) costumes. He saw the dark side. The gory side. The sadistic side. I was frightened for myself, for him and the sleepless nights that lay ahead. I had just recently cancelled his ability to check out the Goosebumps books from the school library. His vivid imagination could not take it. He pretended to be okay with it, read the book silently in his room, berated me with questions, then took the book back explaining to his teacher that he couldn’t finish it. I can’t handle Halloween. Elijah has received the gift of his vibrant imagination from ME, his mother. The one that birthed him also gave him the wimpy attribute that doesn’t allow you to watch horror movies, sleep in a dark room or walk aimlessly through a house, forest or school full of people and obstacles placed there to frighten you. I’m a wimp. I admit it freely. Big deal, I like cheery things. I like sweet, sappy movies with happy endings. I like sunshine, warm days and rainbows. Now, back to the costume shopping and the day that I thought I had surely ruined Elijah.

“Mooooommmmaaa.” He said to me, drawing it out in shock.

“What?” I asked.

“Death.” He said the word slowly. “Why would anyone want to be death?” He pointed to the costume, a long black gown, dark mask with glowing eyes and a sickle. “Is that really death?”

“No, Elijah. No, it isn’t. Our "death" is in Heaven, surrounded by Jesus and God and all our family members that have passed before us. It’s safe, secure and peaceful. There is no pain, no sadness and no tears.” I was proud of my explanation. Self-assured. Aaah, I had redeemed myself. I imagined patting myself on the back.

He looked at me with big brown eyes.

“Where’s that costume?”

This isn't funny....

I often do not admit how strong I really am. I’ve come to realize that tears do not make you weak, sadness does not make you weak. Thriving when you really don’t want to is a sign of strength. And what I mean by thriving is walking out the door each day, fixing dinner for your family, helping your son with his homework, spending time with my family - just basically functioning. I used to say “if it wasn’t for Elijah…” That’s not true. It’s not fair to put that much pressure on Elijah. He is a grounded, well-rounded little boy. We’ve taught him what we thought was best about Jonah. He understands it. We’ve also taught him that at any time he can talk about Jonah, he can cry for him, he can be mad that he’s not here. It’s all okay in the grieving process. He’s only 7 and it breaks my heart that he had to learn how to grieve. But such is his life.

I went to his parent-teacher conference. Straight-A’s. His reading level has increased. His math level is superb. He’s a great student and she enjoys having him in her class. Then the conference took a more serious note. She looked at me and said “Elijah did cry about Jonah one day.” I shrugged, and thought I cry everyday for Jonah. She explained that he did it privately to himself and she consoled him. This should have been the end of the parent-teacher conference for me. But then she suggested counseling with the elementary school counselor and she immediately apologized once she saw my face.

Our stance has always been this - if Elijah needs counseling, we will get it for him, preferably with a Christian background. We do want to monitor who discusses death with our son. This is a private family matter and we prefer to discuss it with Elijah ourselves. Elijah has not been acting out, not sleeping, having nightmares, drawing weird pictures, appearing depressed, not eating, etc. The doctors that took care of Jonah told us what to watch for with Elijah - and to always keep Jonah as an open conversation. And he is. We are all on this journey together and we grieve together. Elijah has asked questions and we answer them. Overall, he has adjusted to his life without Jonah. I hope and pray that Elijah always grieves Jonah. I pray that he never forgets him and can always cry for him. People can criticize us for the way we have handled Elijah in regards to Jonah. In fact, they have. Please take note: until you are forced to take this path, do not offer your advice or toss your criticism around.  While I’m sure people believe they can handle it better or differently, we are doing the best parenting we know how to do given what we’ve been handed.

Elijah has his eyes wide open through this whole process. He is not filtered. He always lets his mind go to the baby brother he will never get to torture or teach new things to. For Elijah, my heart grieves, too.

“Anyone can give up, it's the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that's true strength.”

Repeat after me: You're Elijah and I'm your Momma.

I don’t know when it happened. In the blink of an eye, literally. I was sitting here on the computer, Elijah at the dining room table. He’s coloring a picture for his teacher. She gets more pictures than I do these days. Priorities, *sigh* and a slight eye roll. Elijah looks so adorable as he tells me okay to a question I asked him. Too cute. I could have jumped up and ran across the room to hug him. But the moment passed in an instant. He followed it up with a statement I didn’t want to hear.

“Mommmma, I’m going to start calling you mom.”

When did I grow to be a mom? I absolutely loved being a mommy and I was appreciating being a momma. Now, I’m reduced to mom. Listen, Elijah, we do not change our names through the course of time. Pick one and stick with it. Seriously.

Instantly, I had a rebuttal.

“You can’t call me mom.”

He looks at me, baffled. “Why?”

“Because I can’t call you Eli. I can’t shorten your name, you can’t shorten mine.”

He laughs, big toothy grin and all. “Mommma.” He shrugs. “I can’t stop saying it anyway.” That abruptly, I was back to being a momma again. It feels delightful and comfortable. Cozy.

I had went to see what he was writing his teacher. He’d drawn her a picture of his family with Jonah way at the top of the page, looking more like an insect than a child with wings. He always tells me that Jonah is not just his brother, he’s my superhero. When I ask why, he says because he can do everything Superman can but better. I’ll never argue that point. Of course, Jonah isn’t stopping crime or a speeding bullet but he can be Elijah’s hero.

Back to his picture, he draws us proportionate. Small Elijah, medium momma, Jonah lingering above and a large dad. Dad? What?

Elijah looks at me and asks, “It’s okay that I call Daddy, Dad, right?”

Yes, Elijah, it is. I sneer. Let Jason’s name mature but not mine.

I love to relive how it all came about for us to take Elijah home from the hospital. Elijah was born on Valentine’s Day (I think I’ve said that before.) He was sickly, scrawny and sickly. I thought I had given birth to an alien. All I saw was arms and legs flailing around at me. But he was mine, all mine. After a few days, we took Elijah home. The first night home, he slept 10 hours - straight through the night. I couldn’t believe why I had heard some mothers complaining about this. This motherhood thing was a breeze! The kid never ate, he slept all the time - I could do this in my sleep. In fact, I was. The next day, the home health nurse came out to weigh Elijah. He was 21 inches long and weighed 6 lbs. 3 oz. when we brought home. Let’s remember that and see if we can all do the math. Less than 24 hours later, the nurse placed him on the scale to see that he weighed a whopping 5 lbs. 8 oz. Yay…oh wait, we’re going the wrong way. In about 23 hours of my care, he had slept about 75% of the time and lost 9 ounces. You know what they do then? They recall your baby. Yes, we went immediately back to the hospital. He was put back in the nursery and I had to sleep in a tiny little room next to the nursery. I was allowed to see him as much as I wanted, I just couldn’t hold him, nurse him or change his diaper. I basically couldn’t be his mother. He was sick and should have never been released from the hospital. Come to find out, it wasn’t my fault. After four or five days of this, he was back to complete wellness. I packed up my tiny room so quick the room was spinning. We were given our walking papers and I was going to do just that. The nurse brought Elijah out, bundled up, in one of the bassinettes. I finished packing quickly, ignoring Jason saying “this isn’t our baby.”

I looked at him and looked at Elijah. “Of course, he’s ours. Pick him up and let’s go.”

“I’m not touching him. He’s not ours.”

“Jason Cox. He’s ours. Let’s go.” I looked at Elijah. So cute, cooing at us. Anxiously waiting for us to pick him up. I accused Jason of being scared of Elijah.

“I’m not scared. That’s not our kid.” Jason said to me sternly.

I put my bag down as I watched the nurse walk next door to visit with the other family. Their son had been doing well and they were planning a trip home soon, too. I waved for the nurse to come into our room.

“Where’s our son?” Jason almost yelled at her. For fear, they had given Elijah away.

She looked at the baby. “Well, he’s right there. Elijah."

She motioned for our arms to check our wristbands. Horror came across her face as she realized what Jason knew and I didn’t. “I am so sorry. We would have checked your wristbands before you left. I promise. Let me get Elijah.” And she pulled the bassinette away and to the family next door. They came to our room to rehash the story as the nurse went to get Elijah.

There were several issues at hand that was brought to everyone’s attention: why had the hospital brought us the wrong baby, what if we had actually left before the nurse came out, etc. But the only thing that kept going through my mind was: why didn’t I recognize my own son? Comfort me how you will: it had been a stressful week, I was medicated, hormonal, deranged, whatever. I could not have picked my child out of line-up.

Have Wisps, Will Travel

"If you knew exactly what to do, I wouldn’t have to remind you every step of the way." This is a line I use frequently on Elijah. He’s in transition between complete dependency and independence. The transition is painful for both of us. I wake him in the morning with a list of things to be done: eat, get dressed, brush your teeth…in THAT order. He always responds with “You don’t have to tell me every morning. I know.“ I always find him at the breakfast table completely dressed, ultimately taking a good chance of changing a shirt or shorts or both. I sigh and go about my morning. He’s trying to be independent, I remind myself. TRYING, the operative word here. He disappears to the bathroom for a good ten minute and returns to the living room with an armful of silly bands and smelling like he just walked through the cologne aisle at Dillards. I look at him and he knows what’s coming and he’s preparing his response. “Did you brush your teeth?” He jumps up in a panic and yells “Not yet.” He scurries into the bathroom for a millisecond. He always returns muttering something to the effect of “…you didn’t give me enough time….”

There are many things I would like Elijah to do in the morning, i.e. make his bed, tidy up his room, clean up after his breakfast. But I only give him the 3 most important tasks, hoping like heck he gets those done. I am the frantic mother wanting my child as close to perfection as humanly possible.

I dropped him off at the bus stop one morning. He turns to kiss me and I get the faint smell of something but it’s not mint and it’s not clean. “Did you brush your teeth?” He forgot. Of course, he did. On a morning where I’m sure I asked him once, twice, possible three times and watched him scurry off each time. I held my breath and left him there, stinky breath, yellow teeth and all. I raced to Wal-Mart. Yes, at 7:15, I went to Wal-Mart, knowing I could get there and back to school before Elijah ever walked into the classroom. I bought Wisps. I never thought I would buy Wisps. I did. I was at school by 7:50 to see him playing on the playground. I bought snacks for his class, too, in order to cover my OCD-like behavior. His teacher met me in the hallway, so happy about the snacks. I asked to speak to Elijah and she spotted the Wisps in my bag. She knew the horror I had faced that morning. She raised two boys, she had been there but never THERE. Never to the moment that you are carrying a ready-made toothbrush into his classroom. Never to greet your child in the hallway and say “open wide.” I used two Wisps on him that morning for safe measures. Yes, I had accomplished all my mothering skills for the morning. I kind of thought I was a little bit crazy when I walked out of the school, carrying two wet Wisps and a smile on my face. It was validated when another mother spotted me. I couldn’t hide the Wisps quick enough. I laughed and told her what happened that morning. And as I replayed it step-by-step for her and she stared at me in horror, I realized I’ve become THAT mother. The overbearing, neurotic mother. I had become the mom the school office didn’t want to see walk in. Or have I been her the entire time?

In the beginning....

I’m blogging. It’s come to this. I don’t know to be happy or disappointed in myself over it all. Part of me dreads it - as I know some people will take it too seriously or read too much into it and I’ll get phone calls. Please understand this is just the lighter side of my life. I live a wonderful, fabulous, sometimes heartbreaking life. Normal, occasionally. Last night, as we were taking the short ride home from a football game, Elijah told us he was going to have a near-perfect life. Jason pointed out that no life is perfect, there are ups and downs, etc. Elijah smiled and said, “It’s still worth living.” Yes, that’s true, Elijah. Wise words from my 7-year old. One thing that I’ve learned from Elijah is to look at life through his eyes. Everything is black and white to him. There is no middle ground. My child has suffered this past year. He has suffered tremendously. I think few people realize that. Never forget that a child’s heart breaks just as easy as an adult, if not easier.

I’ve been married now, going on 10 years, to a man that makes me laugh everyday. He’s odd, at best but he has a large sense of humor and doesn’t take it all too seriously. He has values, morals and guns. He loves God, his family, his friends, his country and would gladly take a bullet for any of it. He has a heart of gold that few people get a chance to see. Things happen to us. We still manage to have fun together. And I never know what to expect from him. To say he keeps me on my toes is an understatement. But I love him for it all.

We were blessed with Elijah on February 14, 2003. (MY SWEETHEART) He is a quirky, complex combination of both of us. But he’s far excelled us. He’s witty, bright and full of comedy. Elijah has a heart - a large heart. He’s sensitive and sweet but he’s also ALL boy. He wants so many things in his life and I hope and pray he achieves them all. To sum Elijah up in one sentence would be impossible. He’s always there to remind me of what’s really important in life: him. I’ve never been able to fool this child. He doesn’t ask a question, allow me to give a simple answer and move on. He’s inquisitive. I remember him asking me the typical question, “why is the sky blue, momma?” I don’t remember my answer but it was something mundane and simple. He smacked his lips and said “Let’s Google that. We might need to double check your answer.” That’s when I realized I might have gotten more than I bargained for with him.

Then there is Jonah. You won’t hear any funny stories about him. Jonah left us on August 6, 2009, from many congenital heart defects. Our world was shattered and turned upside down once he was gone. Elijah was 6 and only wanted a little brother. That’s all he wanted. We tried and tried (and I’m not going into that) and we had Jonah. People say the strangest things to you when you lose a child and I don’t know what possesses them to do that. I register it all, remember that person and have learned who my true friends are. The most amazing thing was “such is life…things happen.” And a sympathetic shrug. No, no, no. CHD’s are a horrible thing and while they do just happen, it’s not something to take lightly. It’s left us empty. We cry. We scream. We love unconditionally. We know that life is precious. We learned a huge life lesson in 17 days that many people will never learn in their lifetime. But it’s not for me to teach. I am blessed. Blessed, blessed, blessed. For the people that wallow in their own self-pity and can’t see their blessings, I am sorry.

Our life is unintentionally heartbreaking, crazy, funny and blessed but it’s also our life with an only child.