Confessions of a Serial Swooper

Those familiar with my Facebook status updates, will already know that Little Brother’s been under the weather.   It’s uncanny, actually, because my kids have an unbelievable knack for getting sick on their birthday.  You all probably have great pictures of your kids blowing out candles with their little eyes wide saucers of delight.  Not me.  Most of my birthday photos are rosy-cheeked fevered boys with glassy eyes and a runny nose.  It’s horrible actually.

Anyway, the birthday was Monday so, predictably, Little Brother started acting weird on Sunday afternoon.

Me to Husband:  He’s totally getting sick, I know it.

Husband:  Stop.  He’s fine.  You’re making too big a deal of it.

Wrong.

Anyway.  Long story short we had a day of runny nose and fever, followed by a birthday of lethargy and fever, followed by a day of all three, followed by a day of non-stop coughing.

Notice I said “days of” those things.

The night?

Oh, the nights.

The first few nights, my job was to administer Tylenol and Motrin to keep the fever down.  Often, Little Brother would wake crying and I’d rush into his room, medicine in hand, to soothe and comfort until he fell asleep again.  Which meant a half hour or so of lost sleep three or four times a night.  But, at least we were accomplishing something.

But, as is always the case with my kids, they’re sort of into the medicine idea for the first few days.  By the third night they’re totally cranky little bastards who are completely pissed off that they’re sick.

So last night, Little Brother’s fever had broken but he was coughing up a storm in his bed.   His sleep was restless and, knowing his last dose of cough syrup was more than four hours ago, I decided to head into his room with a new dose.

I picture myself a little Florence Nightingale.

Little Brother?  Who was actually finally asleep when I came in and woke him up for medicine?

He thought I was more like Annie Wilkes.

Somehow I forgot the old “never wake a sleeping baby” mantra.   It didn’t turn out well for either of us.  It was a loooooong night.

Is it nap time yet?

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October 25, 2010

Dear Little Brother,

It’s hard to know where to start in writing a letter to you in honor of your third birthday.  There’s so much I want you to know about how special you are to us and how proud we are of you (and your brother) each and every day.

I’ll start with telling you that Daddy and I are somewhat selfish people (surprise!).  We always knew we wanted to have a family together but we also knew that having a baby was going to seriously alter our relationships with things we thought we cared deeply about —  like our sleep, our social life and our one-on-one relationship with each other.   So, when your big brother was born in 2004 (and sure enough, things changed), he lit up our lives with happiness and love.  But, we weren’t all that sure there would be another baby to follow.

Don’t get me wrong.  We never once regretted giving those things up to start a family.  But, it wasn’t easy.  Your big brother was colicky, I had a bout with postpartum depression, broke my foot and things were a bit of a mess for a while.   We pulled through it, of course, and by the time we moved to Vermont your brother was six months old, I was a happy Mommy (and a walking Mommy) again and our life as a family of three settled into a wonderful little routine.

Your grandparents (Marnie and Jeff) had just one child — me.   And while there are hundreds of stereo-types and psychological studies about lonely, spoiled only children, I never once felt cheated out of a sibling.   I had many friends and a busy social life.  I never felt lonely and I certainly never felt spoiled (does anyone?).    So, to me, the idea of having just one child was perfectly acceptable.

Your other grandparents (Grammie and Grampy) had two children — Daddy and Uncle “Mickey”.  Daddy and Mickey enjoyed life as brothers to the fullest.  They had (and still have) an eternal playmate in one another as they grew up with backyard games, team sports and the ever-present sibling rivalries.

I respected the bond they shared.  I loved the stories they shared about growing up together.  I loved that, in my marriage to your Dad, I gained a brother for myself.

But, I never envied them.

I never felt I needed a sibling of my own.

So, therefore, I never felt that your Big Brother needed one either.

Then Grampy died.

And, it was horrible and unexpected and so so sad.

We shed so many tears and, although four years have passed, I think your Grammie and Daddy and Uncle Mickey sometimes feel as though Grampy was with us just yesterday.  He was a wonderful man.

Suddenly, there was so much to do.  So much to think about.   So much grief and so many memories.  So many details to handle and support to give.

Your Daddy and your Uncle were amazing.  They found their way through those first dark days of rushing back home to Grammie, planning services, greeting friends and I can’t imagine how they got through it.  I’ll never know for sure.

But, I do know this.

They did it together.

At the most painful time in their lives, they got through it (and continue to get through it) by leaning on each other.  When Daddy was sad, Mickey was strong.  When Mickey was sad, there was Daddy by his side.

And, suddenly, I looked at siblings differently.  I looked at family differently.

Grampy died on October 21, 2006.

You, my sweet boy, were born on October 25, 2007.

Your big brother welcomed you with open arms.

It’s truly impossible to imagine we ever could have lived without you.

__________

This morning, as you slept in a little, your Big Brother was up at his usual 6 am.  He emerged from his room, enjoyed the breakfast I left out for him, watched a little Curious George and drew you a picture.  He slipped it into an envelope, tucked it under your door and waited for you to discover it.

You loved it.

Happy Birthday, sweet Little Brother.

We love you more than words can say.

xoxo,

Mom

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Growing up in Vermont, there were some pretty basic footwear requirements.  A good pair of flip-flops and tennis sneakers for the spring and summer.  A pair of hiking boots for the fall.  A good pair of rubber boots for mud season (which is, in Vermont, a season in itself).  And in the winter?

These.

The classic LL Bean boot.  Loved them.  (And readers may recall one of the greatest insults EVER to come from the snarky mouth of my brother-in-law that included an LL Bean reference.)

So.  I picked up Yankee Magazine today.  I loooove Yankee Magazine.  Flipping through this month’s issue, I came across an article that included ten tips for carving turkey. (I read six out loud before Husband asked me to stop. Apparently, he has it all figured out.) I came across a piece on the best winter strolls and was simultaneously delighted and disappointed to read that my own town’s Christmas Stroll was one of three listed in Massachusetts.  (Like parking isn’t hard enough.)

Then…

This.

A new Manolo Blahnik.

Really.  I kid you not.  Look ’em up yourself.

Good lord.   I mean, is there any chance people will actually buy these?

I’m so out of touch.

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I don’t get kids fashion today.  Don’t get it.

We all know about the pants thing.   Pull up your pants, son.  I don’t need to see your underwear.

(Although, those of you who grew up in the 80s might recall that gender-neutral fashion trend of wearing boxer shorts that hung down below your athletic shorts.  Preferably styled with a pair of Sambas.  Remember that?)

Anyway, the latest fashion trend that’s making me crazy (crazier?) today is the baseball hat thing.  Whatever happened to the cute kid in the worn baseball cap positioned straight on his head?  The kid with the nicely bent brim that framed their cute face perfectly?

(I have no idea who these kids are, by the way.  Found this picture on internet. But aren’t they wholesome and cute?  Yes.)

There’s really not much better than a well-worn, well-shaped, well-loved baseball hat.   This one belonged to some freaky Kevin Sorbo-obsessed Hercules fan.

The hat-wearing fan’s prayers were answered when he got up close and personal enough with Sorbo to ask for an autograph.  On the hat.  Here it is:

“Stop Sweating On Me!”  — Kevin Sorbo

Anyway, despite his questionable obsession with all things Kevin Sorbo, I actually have more respect for that baseball hat-wearing guy than I do for this guy.

Um, yeah, peace out, dude.  Now, put your hat on straight.

And what happened to the brims?  No one bends brims anymore!    You can be a geek (sorry, guys)…

or a rapper…

or an ACTUAL baseball player…

…and no one bends their brims.

But, you want to know what’s even lamer?  Do you know it’s considered cool today to leave the stickers and price tag on your hat?  I kid you not.

I’m glad someone pointed out to me today that this was a new trend.  Because I would totally go up to that kid and, thinking I was being helpful, reach up and remove the sticker.

You’re welcome.

Sigh.

I actually think that baseball hats reflect the slow disintegration of our society today.

Hear me out.

I love a man in a good baseball cap.

— A well-worn baseball cap shows me that its wearer has loyalty.   He doesn’t toss the old hat aside because it’s aging a little.  A good man appreciates the memories formed when man and hat were each a little younger.   And, he looks forward to making new memories together.

— A baseball cap positioned straight on the head shows the man has a serious side.  No adolescent hijinks here.   He’s got nothing to prove.

— And, price tags?  Name brand labels?  I think not.  Peel ’em off.   A tag-less hat shows confidence.  No need to brag.

So, I may be the lamest Mom in the world, but I’m bending brims, removing stickers and placing my boys’ hats on straight.

Hopefully, they won’t get beaten up on the playground.

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Got an email this morning from Travelzoo, an online newsletter I subscribe to that sends out some really great travel offers.

Now, I’m no travel agent but don’t you think $29 is a little steep to fly one way from Boston to Boston?

__________

From: Travelzoo

Date: October 5, 2010 8:18:21 AM EDT

To: serialswooper@mac.com

Subject: NEWSFLASH: JetBlue Announces 1-Day Sale from Boston; Fares $29-$139

From the Travelzoo Newsdesk:

BOSTON–OCTOBER 5, 2010– This morning, as part of a one-day
sale, JetBlue cut fares from Boston for travel through mid-
December.

Sample nonstop fares from Boston (each way):
– Boston … $29
– Baltimore … $39
– Washington, D.C. … $44
– Chicago … $69
– Bermuda … $79
– Phoenix … $109
– Las Vegas … $139

These fares are valid through Dec. 15, however Nov. 23-30 is
blacked out. This sale ends 11:59 p.m. ET tonight.

JetBlue flights feature leather seating, unlimited snacks
and 36 channels of free DirecTV. Plus, the first checked bag
is free on all JetBlue flights.

__________

But, maybe that’s just me.

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There are those moments in life that stay with you forever.  Those moments where you can look back and know precisely where you were, what you were thinking and how you felt “when you knew.”  A million years ago, I wrote here about how Husband and I once discussed where we were when OJ Simpson was rolling down I-405 in Al Cowlings’ white Bronco (we won’t be discussing that again).  Depending on your age, you may also remember where you were when Prince Charles and Lady Diana wed and then, tragically, where you were when you learned of her death in a tunnel in Paris.   And, of course…you remember September 11th.

But, then there are also those personal moments that are woven into the fabric of your memory.  Happy memories like your first kiss.   Your wedding day.  You baby’s first words.  And, sad memories like the death of a loved one.  The words you wish you could take back.

I started this blog in September of last year (with a blog about a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts) so that I could capture some memories that I may have otherwise forgotten.  Many of the entries since then have been silly, random slices of daily family life but a few served as a way for me to work through something difficult.

Tomorrow, Husband and I celebrate 8 years of marriage.  I remember our first kiss (outside a bar in Boston).  I remember when he met my parents (he got carded at dinner) and I remember when he asked me to be his wife.   But, will I always remember how I felt?

Anyway, in my usually verbose way, I’m trying to let you know that (now and then) I’m going to try to do a blog that explores some “When Did You Know?” memories.  Because, to me, it’s more important to record and remember the moment when I knew I’d met my future Husband (or when I knew I was suffering postpartum depression or when I knew I was pregnant) than it is to remember the name Dodi Fayed or stupid “Kato” Kaelin.

No?

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