Cussing in front of my Kids

“Oh, my freaking heavenly days.”

“Tuck, I would like for you to not say that anymore.”

And in retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have said it myself.

(Although that combination was altogether his own.)

“Oh, my freaking word.” + “Oh, my great day.” + “Oh, my heavens.” = A sum greater than all its parts.

I kind of love it. Might need to use that line, actually.

Like My Mom Always Says

Weather changes are tricky for twitchy lungs.  Bring on the cold; bring on the breathing treatments.  Nothing to worry about since we’ve learned the signals, and Tuck is good at communicating when he needs some help catching his breath.

I got a call from the school nurse.

“Tucker needs his inhaler.  I don’t mean to alarm you, he’s really doing okay, but there’s a slight wheeze.  We could use your help.”

I know exactly the condition he’s in.  I’ll be there in five.

After Tuck was breathing easy and on his way back to first grade, she told me about their conversation.

He had called me from the office phone, listened to my voicemail, and said to the nurse, “No, that doesn’t sound like my mom.”

(It was though.  It was me, my phone, my voicemail.)

She made a second call, same number, same voicemail, and left the message.

“Okay, Tuck.  I told your mom, so now we’ll just wait for her to call back.”

“She won’t.”


“My mom doesn’t do callbacks.”

Nice, Tuck.

Where did he even learn that phrase?

It’s not exactly a motto I live by.  And yet he didn’t miss a beat.  He may as well have said, “Oh, it’s like my mom always says…”

In the Wee Small Hours

I spent the night sandwiched between two boys.

Children in my bed is not something I love, promote, encourage, or allow, and yet it happens.  Tuck was there because he was sick and I didn’t want to make three dozen trips down the hall during the night.  Tyler started out in a ‘nest’ of pillows and blankets on the floor next to my bed (because who on earth could ask him to sleep in a room by himself??), and then he migrated under the blankets with me.  Us.

Throughout the night, one child or another put his finger up my nose, elbowed me in the neck, put his knee in my spine, and stepped on my hair.

Tyler woke up this morning and said, “Wow.  That was such a quick night!  I feel like you were saying good night prayers, and suddenly it was morning.  Such a quick night.”

Not the word I would choose.


I updated my iPhone, and now I inadvertently receive all the updates Robb had set up in his google calendar.

Change the furnace filters.

Heart meds for the dog – his dog – that I gave to a family with a daddy.

I didn’t ask for these updates.

And I can’t decide if I want to delete them or not, change the settings or not.

Continue to know his thoughts, or not.


Tucker is sick today.  Hooray for three weekends in a row filled with opportunities for me to humble myself in the most graphic roles of motherhood.

I’ll spare you the details.

But I will also say that the blood vessels in his eyes are showing the stress of dry heaving.

Maybe that was too much of a detail.

I’m working all my tricks to get him healthy, which mostly involve stroking his hair, reminding him he’s doing a good job being sick, sitting beside him, and offering my best options for a stomach settling lunch.

I brought him a small bowl of applesauce and offered the spoon to his lips.

He backed away in resistance.  It seemed the very thought made him nauseous.

“Do you want to wait on this, buddy?  Have it later instead? It’s applesauce.”

“Oh.  I thought it was my throwup.”

For crying out loud.  Let’s look at our history.  When have I ever brought him his own vomit in a bowl and offered it to him with a spoon?

Seriously?  My word.