THREE!

My Dearest Joe Joe:

I just peeked in on you and Daddy. You are both soundly asleep, left hand above your head, cocked in that funny sleep position you two always find yourselves in—you in your big boy bed, Daddy in the trundle. You both make me beam, both make my heart burst.

Could you two be any more alike?  

In a little less than 24 hours it will be your official birthday. Your THIRD birthday! And in the last week, I have wanted to say so many things to you—

I will never tire of going out of our way home from daycare at least once a week to pass Bloomington Hospital and say to you: “Joseph, that’s where we met you for the first time!” And then I ask you, “What did we say to you the moment we met you, Joseph?” And you respond, “HappyBirthday, Joseph Anthony!” And you never seem to tire of it, either. I know one day you will, and my heart aches for that time even though it hasn’t come—but for now, you love it as much as I do. You claim to remember that moment. Some days I am inclined to believe you, as you remember every little detail. You are my scientist, after all. Daddy says you see the world differently, the way he did as a child. I don’t care how you see the world, my sweet son, I simply care that you DO see it and that you feel it with all your heart.  

You finally came to us on 9/20/2009. You think that look of joy on my face is something else, huh, kid? I only wish you could have felt how I felt in that moment. I hope you know that feeling one day, Joe. There ain't nothin' like it.

I will always look forward to two moments in my day, even if I have the world’s poopiest, ickiest, crapshoot-of-a-day: you coming into our room when you first wake up in the morning, hair all in a swirly-do and either George, Nemo, or a hammer in your hand (you are always prepared for adventure!) and you running to greet me when I pick you up at daycare (expect for those days you are too engulfed in treasure hunting with your buddies). Those two moments perfectly bookend my work day and give me reason to always, always smile. Thank you, my sweet soul of a boy.

Crazy Joe Joe morning hair. And face. 

I will forever live for those unsolicited “I love you, Mommas” and the ‘just because’ hugs and kisses that you sneak me every now and then without me asking. After all, you are your Daddy’s son, and your shows of true affection are few and far between which makes them all the more special, even though I know you love me more than your words and your deep-thinking mind can possibly articulate. As with your Daddy, I can tell your love for me by the way you look at me (I catch you watching me sweetly), the questions you ask me (‘Do you like the color red, too, Momma? We both love that color, huh, Momma? It’s our favorite color together, Momma, we both love red!’), and the fact that there is no other place you’d rather be on a Saturday than at the market, followed by a walk, and a picnic dinner, with me (and of course your Daddy and Miss P). It is a good thing I adore your father, Joseph, because you are just like him. I have two JAGs, there is no doubt about it, and I’d have it no other way.

I will always cherish your warm little body on my lap as we read a book together. Ferdinand (known to you as ‘Ferdimand’), Caps for Sale, Polar Express, The Little Read Caboose, The Happy Man and His Dump Truck, Pink Me Up, The Giving Tree. Some of my favorites are now your favorites. I have loved sharing with you one of my favorite pastimes—reading—from the very day we brought you home. I’ll never forget it—the night you came home with us from the hospital, after we settled in with you and realized we were ‘for real’ parents (an ‘oh, crap’ moment!) and going this alone (no, the nurses didn’t come home with you!), I took comfort in taking you out of your car seat and laying you next to me on the floor, reading you your first Little Critter book. Daddy made fun of me for doing it, saying you didn’t understand. Joke’s on him now! You followed along in no time—you always paid attention—and now you are our little reader. Just today you recited Caps for Sale to us on the way into school. “You monkeys, you…you give me back my caps!,” your inflection and intonation spot on. *Smile.* Sometimes you ask me to read you a book, and I tell you I can’t at the moment because I’m doing X, Y or Z. In those moments, I’m sorry, kiddo, and I always regret them—please keep asking. And remind me that sometimes (in fact, all times) laundry, dishes, and picking up after you and P are just not important.

Your favorite pastime, much like mine

I will pray and hope for you a long life of joy and wonder, of self-love, self-knowledge, self-confidence. I only ever want to see you happy and fulfilled, my sunshine sugar bear Joe Joe. I will need to remind myself of this, I know.

I have also had some random thoughts running through my head this past week—

Will you ever be potty trained, my dear one? Will we forever be coaxing you to the terlit with M&Ms, Oreos, and stickers? I’m starting to think Pili might catch you, even surpass you, on this milestone. I get it. You just can’t take the precious time to do your business! It’s kind of like when I have to remind your Daddy to eat, otherwise he’ll forget. You Goetz boys just always get wrapped up in your projects, God love you.

Somewhat related, will you always laugh when you toot, and then say ‘It’s from those beans I ate!’ even when you haven’t had beans to eat in days? And will I ever stop joining you in that laughter? Sometimes I forget that I’m the adult.

Will we ever go a week without watching Rudolph or Charlie Brown Christmas or clips of Polar Express or A Very Monkey Christmas in the house? Don’t tell Daddy, but I secretly hope not. I’ve finally found my Christmas soul mate—I just had to give birth to him! I can’t wait to take you to French Lick in December with Daddy, P, and Nonna and Papoo to ride the Polar Express. And I can’t wait to spend our first Christmas in Bloomington together this year. I also love that you and I sing ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Harkthe Herald Angels Sing’ no less than once every few days. Yesssssss.

Our first baby is now such a big boy (but no worries, kiddo, you will always be our ‘baby’). Maybe it’s time for another? We asked you recently if you’d want to have another brother or sister. You said you wanted another sister, much to our surprise. Will she be Lourdes? Giselle? Jude? Inmaculada? Or will she be a he? Another JAG? Or will there even be another? Or will there be more than another? Sweet baby Joe, these choices are not ours to make, but we will be listening closely to God (remember He whispers and the world is a loud place) to see if that’s in the cards for our family. If it is or it isn’t, I hope you and Pili will always be thick as thieves and take good care of each other. Even if that means we’ll have to fish you both out of a heap of trouble, just like your favorite race car, Lightening McQueen.

One big heap of Double Trouble 

How will I ever get you to eat your veggies?

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to tell you if you keep touching your peep in the bathtub it will fall off. I’m not sure why it occurred to me to say that to you tonight—but it set you off on a fit of giggles, which of course set me off on a fit of giggles. And only made you touch it more. Doh.

Did I ever tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes? ONLY EVERY SINGLE DAY! They light up a room and are most certainly the window into your very old soul. Keep smiling with those eyes, handsome.

Will you ever stop drooling and/or putting your hands in your mouth? The best part is you’ve taught your sister this skill well.

Will you ever stop sneaking icing when we make cupcakes? Are you going to turn into a big ole block of cheese one day (because you eat enough of it! And all kinds—Brie, Manchego, Gouda.)? Will you ever like ice cream? I mean, what kind of kiddo doesn’t like ice cream? MY kiddo, that’s who! You are the only kiddo I know who orders a side of Oreo crumbles at Hartzells…and I love that about you.

And the list goes on and on…

Joe, I’ve wanted to tell you these many things and ask you these many questions in the last week. But I have to pick my moments to tell and ask, because I know you are a thinker, a listener, an internal processor. You are always listening, so I choose carefully the things I say to you. When I do tell you things, I keep them simple. I tell you when you are eating breakfast at the island that “I love you thiiiiiis muuuuuuuch,” the same way my Daddy (your Pappy) always told/still tells me—and I do our special motions to go along with it. I tell you when I drop you off at school in the morning, “Be kind and gentle to your friends.” I tell you when we are playing in the evening that I’m proud to be your Mommy. The last thing I tell you at night before you close your eyes and I’m putting you to bed is that you are my bestest boy and biggest helper, and the boy I always wanted. You sometimes respond with words, or with whispers (you are finding your voice, and what a joy that is to see unfold), but always with understanding in your eyes.

Those eyes. That drool! What a keeper. 

I adore you, my Joseph Anthony. You are one of a kind, kid. Happy Third Birthday. You have helped me find my camino; I can only hope to help you find yours. 

Love,

Your Proud Momma

Momma said there'd be days like this...

If you would have told me Wednesday morning that when I went to bed Wednesday night I’d be more worried about Joe than P, I’d have called you crazy. Or cray-cray, as the cool kids say. But so it was.

I’m probably supposed to be worried about both of my kids equally as a Mum, but more often than not when I go to bed at night, one of them is weighing heavier on my mind than the other. I guess this is normal (at least I hope), and I’d say if I took a poll I’d split down the middle the number of times it’s Joe and P. So now that I’ve justified in my head that I worry about them both equally, just on different days, we can move on with the story (stupid mom guilt)—though I should give fair warning: this story is not meant for certain audiences, i.e., folks who want to have kids but can’t decide for sure, or folks who are thinking about having another but are afraid to take the plunge. If that’s you, you probably just want to stop here. Another fair warning: this blog post may contain mental images unsuitable for some. Reader discretion advised. Disclaimer: I’m so grateful and blessed for two healthy kiddos—I thank God every day that the only things we’ve had to deal with so far are ear infections, bouts of pneumonia, stomach bugs and irritating coughs. I’ll take those one thousand times over any day when compared to the illnesses that some parents face. So I’m in no way complaining here. I’m simply sharing our day so that we are reminded to laugh at ourselves—and so others know they are not alone. If we didn’t laugh at ourselves as parents, we’d probably just pull our hair out (that’s not possible for Jack) and/or cry (sob).

Wednesday Miss P was having surgery to get tubes in both of her little earsie doozies (that’s ‘ears’ in Steph speak), so the night before, Pili was heavy on my mind as I laid my head down to sleep. The deal was that I was taking P to the hospital for the surgery, Jack was taking Joe into school, and then Jack would catch up with us at the hospital. We both would have liked to be there, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles when one kiddo needs to get one place and the other to another, our nearest family is 2.5 hours away in the Nati, and we found out about the surgery the day before so couldn’t get anyone to B-town to cover Joe for us. Buf.

Back story: Pilicakes has had an ongoing ear infection since late July. After the first round of antibiotics, Jack took her to the doc for a re-check, at which point the doc said her ears didn’t even look like they’d be treated. Boo. On to second round of antiobiotics. Shortly after the second round, she went in for her one year appointment. No surprise to hear the doc say she had a double ear infection. Argh. Time to pull out the big dogs: two shots of antibiotics, one in each leg, on that Friday, and another two the following Sunday. Oh, and time to go to the ENT to check out the tube option. Tuesday was the appointment with the ENT (mind you, this is after four shots of antibiotics)—he takes a look at her ears and says ‘Yuck.’ Groan. As Miss P looked at him, sweet as can be and smiling, he could see the desperation in my eyes. ‘We’ll get her in as soon as possible,’ he says. ‘And if you think she has a great disposition now, wait until you see what she’s like with her ears fixed!’ He wasn’t messing around—his nursing team called me later that day and said they would take her in the next day. I didn’t have time to worry and didn’t have time to fret, it was happening—and soon.

More back story: Unfortunately, the Goetz kiddos are no strangers to ear infections, and no stranger to tubes either. Joe had his first set right around P’s current age: one year and one month. Joe got a second set less than a year later—just three weeks after P was born. Joe’s also been to the ER on two occasions because of such bad pain in his ears caused by ear infections. As the nurse who attended P yesterday said, ‘You make darn cute kids, but you give ‘em terrible ears.’ Well, thanks, Miss Sunshine, that makes me feel awesome about myself as a Mom. Bottom line: we’d been down the tube road with Joe. Twice. And we saw how much each set helped. Even so, we were hoping not to go down this path with P. I mean, who wants that for their kiddo? She did great the first few months of her life. Her first ear infection was at 5 months or so. But once they started, they didn’t stop. And to think she had a perpetual ear infection since July—and it wasn’t even the bad time of year for colds and snot and such? Yeah, we knew where this was headed.

On with the present story: so the morning of the surgery, I got up, got ready and scooped up our Pilarina chiquitina and loaded her in the carseat, with her little buddy Violet tagging along.

We got there and it was an adventure for P. Ohhhh, the lobby! All the magazines! A nice cold floor to spill out onto! Once admitted to pre-op, she began to charm the staff immediately, ‘Oh, she’s so sweet.’ ‘Oh, look at those eyes.’ ‘Oh, what a cutie.,’ But P is a whipper snapper and could smell something wasn’t right. She looked around then made eye contact with me and immediately reached out her hands and waved her hands upside down (that’s ‘Pick me up!’ in P speak). I picked her up and kissed her and she clung to me like a koala bear. I then got her into her hospital gown and that’s when she really knew something was going down. 

What's goin' down, Ma?

Baby girl went from suspicious to downright pissed after about 25 minutes. We weren’t allowed to give her anything after 12:00 midnight and it was 8:30 already—torture for a little gal who still wakes up between 5:00 and 6:00 for a bottle. So she began to chew on everything in sight, while simultaneously pointing at her purple backpack, to the pocket that she knows holds the bottles, and grumpin.’ She looked at me, then looked at Violet, with pleading eyes. ‘Please, guys!’ she seemed to say. So I took her out to the nurses’ station where she made more friends and got easily distracted. Then the doc walked into the hospital and it was game time. 

Since I’d done this before, I knew the drill. They’d whisk her away and I’d hide into the room until she was out of sight. I hated this part, hated it. My gut tied up into a million knots and I fought back the tears—without Jack there, I had to keep it together. After a few moments, I left the room and went out to the waiting room to sit and wait. I prayed for the doc to have a steady hand and for P to be brave. I’m sure P was brave, she always is. I, however, was not. Tears and more tears.

I tapped my feet, texted some folks and generally fidgeted for the next thirty minutes. Then the doc came back out to report that, while the procedure went well, he found some gunky fluid in her ears that hadn’t drained and had hardened to what he likened to rubber cement. No wonder the gal felt awful. He said her ears were in good shape after the procedure, but that ‘she’s not happy right now.’ I figured as much. P is not shy to let you know when she’s happy—but all the same, she’s not shy to let you know when she’s pissed off. I love my baby girl, she wears her heart on her sleeve (finally, a trait one of my kiddos gets from me!).

P, super hungry and borderline deranged

He took me back to recovery…and Pili was not even crying—she was growling. Mad, hungry, and coming out of anesthesia, she was like a little lion cub fighting the nurse, swatting at her and knashing her two bottom teeth together with her one top tooth. When she saw me, she calmed somewhat, but then gave me a crazed look as if to say, ‘Not cool, Mom, how you gonna leave me and Violet back here with no num nums and in the arms of a stranger?’ I apologized to her with my eyes and my arms, soothing her back to normal. It took almost thirty minutes for her to cool down, and when she did, she drank 8 ounces in less than 5 minutes. She was still not very happy with me—so Jack’s arrival to the recovery room was well-timed. She reached out for him and snuggled right up. Figures. Mom does all the work, Dad gets the glory.

We gave her a few minutes to snuggle with Jack, then packed her up to go home. Violet got to take home some rad hospital gear, and the nurse gave us some gear for big bro Joe, too, so that he could play ‘doctor’ later.

Miss P fell asleep on the way home, and I had no intentions of placing her in her crib or on a bed—in my arms is where she was going. All day. Cuddling my little snuggle buns, I got a call from daycare. Joe was struggling to breath—he had a coughing fit that really freaked out his teacher. Whatty? Rather than wake the sleeping lion cub again, I called Jack and off he went to get Joe. On the way, he made an appointment with the doctor. Right away I began composing a letter out loud:

“Dear Sh*t:

Why must you hit the fan all at once? And why must it be today? Take your whirling, swirling storm of poo and dump it on someone else, please.

Begrudgingly (and not the least bit lovingly),

Steph”

Whoever/wherever Mr. Sh*t was, he did not care and did not listen. Poooooo, I mean, Booooo.

Jack called me on the way home from the doctor’s appointment with Joe and asked me if I cared to guess what was wrong with our son. I knew it was either something totally bogus (Joe falls prey to the strangest things—strep throat in the middle of summer, pneumonia 24 hours after being checked by the doctor and looking fine, things of that nature—and I blame his maladies on the fact that he—still—puts everything in his mouth) or nothing at all. “Strep,” I took a guess. “Nope,” he said. “Nothing at all. Doc says his lungs are crystal clear, ears are fine, and that he’s just got a yucky couch caused by all the drainage he’s had.” Neat.

By the time Joe and Jack arrived home, P had risen and was a little fireball. Almost like she got two brand new ears! She was jibber-jabbering, getting into all the toys, scarfed down a lunch of grapes and cheese, and was getting stronger by the minute. On the contrary, Joe was getting worse by the minute. He was coughing literally every 15 seconds and was holding his sides, telling me his tummy hurt from wretching so much. Jack and I looked at each other desperately. “Anything we can do for him?” I asked, knowing what the answer was. “Not really, but the doc did have a good suggestion for a cough suppressant—honey.” Joe gets one of these colds about five or six times a year, mostly in between the months of January and March—and we’ve tried all the home, herbal and Western remedies we can find. The kiddo takes puffs of albuterol, we elevate his bed, put a humidifier in his room, pump him full of Vitamin C—you name it, we’ve tried it. We’d never tried honey before because, well, we kinda knew he wouldn’t take it. But desperate times call for desperate measures. We tried to get him to take it, telling him it would make his cough feel better, would make him sleep better, etc. No dice. Time to pull out the big guns: “If you take this, we’ll give you M & Ms as a treat.” We are not above bribery in our house.

Joe nodded, a bit hesitant. Jack had diluted the honey with water and gave it to him in a medicine spoon. Joe had maybe half of it down and I began to see The Heave. The Hurl Heave. His shoulders lurched, his throat extended, his eyes began to water, then raaaaaalf. Joe puked up his lunch. He began to get upset at having gotten sick and started to run around the island, stopping to spew every few steps. Really? Really? P was on the floor, and began chasing after him, thinking it was a game. Once again…really? I threw Jack, Joe and P out to the porch and started cleaning up the mess. I glanced outside. Joe was still periodically puking. The kiddo has the worst gag reflex. Ever. What were we thinking trying to give him thick and sticky honey?

Once the mess was cleaned up Jack had to go back into work, since his earlier attempt to do so had been thwarted. So there I was with a fragile Joe and a rambunctious P. Awesome. Joe was so tired at this point (he missed his nap because naptime was replaced by a doctor visit) that he couldn’t see straight. So I took him upstairs to try and put him down for a nap. I was reading him stories, and Miss P was coming up to us groping at the books and playing peek-a-boo all the while. Every time she’d reach for the book, Joe would grump, “NO, Pili!” and P would grump back and start tugging at his shirt or pants—then look at me as if to say, “Mom, it’s MY day to be doted on!” Poor gal, never ever gets her fifteen minutes of fame. Part of being the second child, I guess.

Did she really just have surgery? P's a tough cookie, and she just soldiers on

I tried to corral her and take her into her room with some blocks and clean laundry (she’ll normally play all day in a pile of clean laundry—rub her nose all over it, put it in her mouth and slobber on it, smother it in her grubby post-lunch hands), but five minutes later, she’d push Joe’s door open and charge us, thinking it was a huge game of hide-and-seek. At one point I almost had him asleep, then in she came, bull in a china shop, and his eyes darted open. “Didn’t you just have surgery?” I thought to myself. I was delighted she was feeling so well, but was pleading with the sleep gods to give Joe just a few minutes of shut-eye, and P was not helping. No use. It was almost 5:30 at that point, and we missed the naptime boat, plain and simple. I tried one last time to settle him in and he downright refused…then, to put the nail in the coffin, he wailed “I want my Daaaaaaddy!” Time to move on, clearly sleep was not in the cards.

I asked Joe what would make him feel better. He said to watch Polar Express. Right on, pal, Polar Express it is. I went downstairs only to find that Polar Express was missing. Okay, not funny. Toddler on the verge of a meltdown, P growing hungrier and hungrier by the moment, and also needing a nap herself. Where in the eff is Polar Express and who messed with it? Joe didn’t take the news of no Polar Express well. In fact, he spouted off his favorite insult at the moment: “You can’t come to my birthday party, Mommy!” Grumble, grumble, grumble. I realized I was starting to hit my low point when I almost responded to him, “I don’t think so, buddy, because I’m THROWING your birthday party! Neener, neener, neener!” Thankfully, I kept that to myself, along with the second letter I was drafting in my head to Mr. Sh*t.

“Dear Sh*t:

Could this not have waited till the weekend? Could you not have been so kind as to throw us this curveball of crap when we were a tad bit more rested and not so zombie-esque? If you haven’t guessed already, you are on my sh*t list.

Not so respectfully yours,

Steph”

I managed to convince Joe that Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer would be a fair substitute for Polar Express (we watch Christmas shows in our house year round, you see). He settled into that (still coughing every 1-2 minutes, laying on his side, eyes bloodshot and snot pouring from his nose) and in walked Jack from work. I asked him if he knew where Polar Express was. He walked over to the armoire and pulled out Polar Express and several other DVDs that I couldn’t find for some time from behind one of our picture frames. Well, dang. He put in the DVD. Joe was still moaning and crying, even though his beloved movie had started.

Meanwhile I plopped P in her chair to give her some yogurt, which she scarfed and then proceeded to lick from the bowl herself, attempting to self-feed. It turned out pretty messy. The sleepy-eyes face then became apparent. I told Jack I was going to go out and pick up dinner (Fast Food! A rarity at the Goetz house, and only an option when we’re stressed and need to indulge), hoping P would catch a nap along the way. Ha. Hahahaha. Not so much. P was talking up a storm to Wendy’s and back. She fell asleep about two minutes before we returned home. Perfect. Yet another plan thwarted for the day. Wheeeee!

We all attempted to eat dinner—a few bites in and Joe declared he didn’t want anymore, said he wanted to go to bed. So Jack stopped mid-dinner to take him upstairs and try to put him down. Again. Nope, he came crying to the top of the stairs and said he wanted me. So I abandoned my dinner, and headed upstairs. We did three stories and prayers, but he just couldn’t settle in. And the cough kept coming, a deep, and guttural cough from his toes. Every time I thought he’d maybe settle down, there it crept back up again. Finally, I decided to try something I would have wanted tried on me had I been in his shoes. I pulled up his little white Hanes tee and rubbed Vaporub all over his chest, again and again—and every time I could feel the cough coming on, I pressed down on his chest a little as if to try and suppress the cough with my own two hands. Twenty minutes in and it seemed to be working somewhat. Joe finally closed his eyes and seemed to be on his way to a deep sleep. So was I. I fell asleep holding Joe in my arms, flat on my back.

At 2:30 a.m., I woke up, totally disoriented and with the world’s worst kink in my neck. I got out of Joe’s bed to see what was going on with P. I found P down the hall in the guest bed (she’s been refusing to sleep in her crib lately—it’s awesome) and Jack in our bed, both conked out. They looked peaceful. Joe sound asleep, P and Jack sound asleep—Steph wide awake. I went downstairs to my half-eaten dinner, which I threw out, and then proceeded to clean up the kitchen a bit. Crap, I had a presentation to give the next morning, so I needed to look at that. I glanced over it, and then went back upstairs to curl up to P, who I felt I had neglected all day. I hoped she would forgive me (she did—the next day when I spent all day with just her after my presentation). And I also crossed my fingers that Joe would sleep through the night (he did—thank heavens).

7:30 rolled around and P woke up chipper, as did Joe. I even felt half-way decent, and so did Jack. It was a new day.

A few days later and Jack and I can see the humor in the sh*t storm that was Wednesday—in fact, the days since Wednesday have been calm and normal—but in the moment, we were floundering, drowning, bleary-eyed and fatigued, throwing a serious pity party for ourselves and thinking we were the only parents to have ever had such a bad day. ‘Yeah, right,’ you must be thinking. I know that’s dramatic—but if you’re a parent, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t felt the same at some point. Told ya.

Jack and I have this thing we do at the end of the day to gauge how we were as parents that day, and if we are potentially ready for more kids. We always ask each other “What kind of day was today? A two kid kind of day (meaning it was a bad day—and we’re not having any more kids)? A three kid kind of day (meaning we’re feeling pretty okay at the job we did that day as parents—and our kids even cooperated)? A four kid kind of day (I think that’s only an option when wine is served with dinner and Nonna and Papoo put the kids to bed or when we are on a long weekend alone)?” Thankfully, we didn’t have a chance to re-group that night and ask each other our nightly question.

To whom do I thank at the end of this blog? I always end the blog with a nod to so and so for helping me find my way, or el camino, in this crazy life. I think it’s our kiddos I have to thank. For testing me on that day, for forgiving me the next, and for loving me all the same. They’re two pretty great kiddos, even when they’re sick. I'm blessed. 

As for a third or fourth—let's catch up on sleep first. And let's see if it’s part of the Big Man’s plan. For now, Violet is shaping up to be a nice fifth member of our family. 

Violet, the fifth member of the Goetz family (and P's faithful companion in surgery)