My five year old had a big day today: Pajama Day with Show-And-Tell at preschool. She wanted braids, as she gets compliments on the little blond wiry pigtails sticking out behind her ears. New glasses and pink flannel pajamas polka dotted with Disney Princesses completed the look. She grasped the Ball jar in her sweaty little hands, the cocoon inside too precious to go in the school bag. Excited chatter came from the back seat all the way there, “What is he doing in the acoon?” “Is he sleeping?” “Is he dead?” “Do caterpillars go to heaven?” “When is he coming out?” “How will he fly away?” “Can I get another one?” I say, “Honey, it’s a cocoon. Kuh-coon.” After practicing several times, it’s still “acoon”. I give up, smile and hug my chatterbox, wave good-by as she walks up the sidewalk into her school, and smile softly in the blessed quiet of my car.

So, my son’s first birthday was a week ago.

Let me repeat that. MY. SON’S. FIRST. BIRTHday was a week ago.

Can you feel the incredulity in my voice?

Is this why he can no longer wear the cute tiny outfits from Target’s Newborn section?

My son was born 3 months early. When he arrived so impatiently, he weighed 1 pound, 9 ounces; that’s 711 grams for any metric-based readers. Just over a pound and a half. He was the size of a shoe, about the weight of a loaf of bread. I realize newborns are small, but they’re not supposed to be that small.

Given the daily prayers for growth, the celebratory texts and eMails going out to family and friends announcing every gram put on, and the steak dinner in honor of reaching the two pound mark, I thought I would be immune to a Mom’s wish for her child to stay small. The Carter’s tagline on some hand-me-down outfits was, in fact, “If they could just stay little.” When I first read it, I snorted. I literally snorted with contempt for those moms who *don’t* want their child to grow.

He grew. He continues to grow. On his first birthday, he weighed 20 pounds, 12 ounces. He is now the weight of a car tire, an obese cat or a record-breaking fish. HE’S HUGE!

I recently, carefully and thoughtfully, went through Ollie’s wardrobe. It was a daunting process. We waited for two months for him to be BIG ENOUGH to wear a PREEMIE onesie, and now that same outfit looks like it would clothe a cross-dressing Barbie doll. I unfolded a favorite froggy outfit from his first days at home and thought, “AWWW….where did my little tiny baby go?”

I wander through the Newborn department and sigh with mixed emotions. I couldn’t wait for Ollie to fit in Newborn clothes. When he graduated to 3 month size, we celebrated; another happy text to update those who were there for the NICU journey. Now I miss the cuddles of a newborn, the tiny mittens he wore, the being able to lift him without a groan and “putting my back into it.”

It brought tears to my eyes. I cried because my son has grown.

I’m getting like a regular mommy now, aren’t I?

Abby do you believe in God?

No

I do.

Why?

I don’t know?

Well, how do you know? Where is he?

I don’t know – I think he lives with poor people…

There is a monster in my house, well not just my house, it’s everywhere. It’s real. It’s not an imagined shadow on the wall, or hidden under the bed nor does it disappear when the lights go on. This monster instills pure terror into James-z, my 3 year old, and leaves him trembling and sobbing.  I’ve seen it, I’ve even been able to photograph it. Over the last year it has used the happiness it sucks from James-z and fed its evil power to morph. It has become a shape-shifter. It menacingly takes on other shapes, seemingly innocent shapes that make most people smile. But not my little man. It shows up in different forms and different places, always taunting, always terrorizing. It is his worst enemy – his arch nemesis that strips him of his happy go lucky self and leaves him a trembling little boy scared to move until it has been exterminated, at least for the time being.

Two days ago, the monster lay in waiting for James. Lying still, it knew he would come -and he did. I was in the hall as James went flying past me laughing hysterically at his sister who was chasing him. In an instant, but almost as if in slow motion it happened, James leapt at the moment he saw it. His blood curdling scream gave him wings to fly over the top of the monster – it’s claws outstretched – reaching for him. I saw it happening and yet could not move fast enough to stop it, to help James before the beast pierced his fun with an arrow of terror. I ran into the room and scooped James up, I knew I had to hide his face, keep him from seeing the grotesque creature. But he was kicking, crying, trying to get farther into the corner away from the beast. I dropped him onto the bed and like a mother bear went after the monster.

I grabbed this thing with a fierceness that only a mother could do, it fought back. He flew out of my grasp and tried to run. I grabbed it again and took it down the hall. Looking around frantically for anything that I could use to send it back to it’s own world. Where is the portal, the magic box that once shut cannot be opened from the other side to let them into our world… I looked around frantically and then I saw it. The gateway portal to this thing’s world, I had to send it away, I had to keep it from terrorizing my son. I grabbed the golden handle and swung open the box, with a rush of part adrenaline, part “don’t mess with this momma” attitude I flung the creature high and far and slammed the portal shut.

My knees were weak, I slid down to the ground as my high from adrenaline dropped and left me drained. I realized that there seemed to be peace in the house, I had done it. My son was going to be free from the terror this horrific creature brought to him. My son was free, I was free.

Hailey, my 5-year old ran to me. I knew she was going to see me as fierce and brave; her mom, the hero. Her mouth opening I waited to hear her give me the praise I deserved;

“Uh, Mom, why did you put my singing dog in the closet?”

I just stumbled upon this site, Saving Moms Money.  From my brief venture through it’s pages, it seems really great.  And of course, how could I not share this wonderful giveaway they’re having!

Giveaway: $50 Picaboo Photo Books Gift Card!

I have heard of the term “spirited child”, but in all honesty I always thought it was a nice way of telling someone that their kid was an evil terror.  Now I am beginning to realize that there really is such a thing as a spirited child, and I believe that I have one of my very own.

Cyler has always been active.  From the time he was still in utero.  I remember during an ultrasound the technician was having a difficult time getting a good shot because he was moving around too much or blocking with his hands.  I remember nights when I would toss and turn because the little guy was doing back flips in my belly.  Once he was born, it continued.  He was always extremely alert.  Always staring intensely at whatever he was studying in that moment.  As he became more mobile, his energy levels were through the roof.  The kid never stopped moving.  And still doesn’t.  He loves to jump and can sit and bounce in his jumperoo for more than an hour straight.  If he’s on your lap, you had better hang on tight.  Diaper changes have become nearly impossible as he twists and rolls in acrobatic poses as I beg him to “hold still for 2 seconds”.  I find myself constantly having to distract him with a new toy or activity.  He will not sit contently with one object for more than a minute, before he’s onto the next.

He is intensely aware of all of his surroundings.  When we are somewhere new, his head is on a swivel taking in every little detail.    He cranes his neck to see the person around the corner, or practically jumps out of my arms to get a better view of something colorful or flashy.  But while this intensity and energy has left me exhausted and at times a little frustrated, I can’t help but giggle to myself on occasion at his blossoming personality.  I have a feeling that there are many silly moments ahead.  I smile to myself to think of the cute little Cyler-isms yet to be.  I know he’s going to be an entertaining little guy.  I look forward to those moments, but in the back of my head I just know, I’m in for it!

After almost 8 years of a relationship and dreams of what our wedding would be like and should be like, we’re planning to not plan our wedding. Years of thinking about how I want that day to be and what special touches i want and making sure to make notes about those things that annoy me and i don’t want to be apart of our big day, I’m throwing all that away. Well, not really throwing it away, per say, since it will be more than we’ve ever dreamed of and the end result will be the same. We will be married. 8 years down the road and 3 kids later i just don’t have it in me anymore. The planning, the stress, the over thinking, the worry, the hopes, the inspirations, the time consumption, and the financial planning is taking all the fun out of it. So we are left with one choice.

Elope.

That one word makes me giddy, makes me feel alive and makes it all fun again. We are going  to go to Hawaii and pay someone else to make our wedding everything we want it to be. Simple yet elegant. Stress free. Wedded bliss. We will have a lot of pictures and a video to show off to everyone else and plenty of memories for just the two of us.

So now we are planning to not plan.. and if it all falls thru there’s still a court house right down the street!

When we found out I was pregnant, we started looking for daycares in the area. Why wouldn’t I continue to work? On top of the tiny life brewing in my belly, we had a new mortgage, a new car payment, and lots of lovely workmates and a career that I love. But, Ollie had different ideas on how life should be and with his prematurity, we thought it best to keep him out of daycares and the germs they famously promote.

So I haven’t worked full time in almost a year.

In the months since, my family has set me up on a couple “blind dates,” if you will.

Someone in my life has met another mom and thought, “Lisa would like her; I should set them up, they will be friends.”

But I can’t get over the idea that these meetings are essentially Blind Dates. Using the same thought process that might have been used if I were single and looking for a romantic mate, my husband has thought, “This woman could help complete her life, to fulfill her need for a buddy in mommy-hood. This woman could be my wife’s pal.”

They’re odd, these dates. It’s like an interview. The same interviews I went on when I was in the process of meeting my husband. Weeding through the answers to see where our similarities lie, thinking about the things I shouldn’t have said.

The wrong answer will destroy these baby friendships; a wrong word could make me seem callous…or even (gulp) “attached,” and the decision is made right then and there that this match is “not the right fit for our needs at this time.” Or, more pointedly, “you’re not what I’m looking for.”

Like a regular date, I can tell when they go well. I tell my husband that I liked That Mom and the person responsible for the other set-up calls the next day and says, “Oh, This Mom really liked you, she wants to go out again.”

I recall the meeting. I was poised, funny, didn’t burp or fart loudly, didn’t drop the F-bomb and saved my secrets for when This Mom is ready for them. I realize I “still got it.”

The second date is being planned, I worry I won’t live up to my first impression. I’m afraid that spark won’t be there again.

Kinda like my second date with my husband.

According to the March of Dimes website, 543,000 babies are born prematurely each year. Five-hundred-forty-three thousand are born too early.

It’s something I never thought I’d experience. A cousin was born two months early a few months before Oliver. I thought “how sad, I hope she makes it.”

After 3 months’ worth of twice-daily visits to my NICU (West Allis Memorial in Wisconsin is a wonderful place with wonderful nurses), willing my baby to live, cheering on the tiny accomplishments he figured out that day, worrying, praying fervently, changing tiny diapers, and feeding him through a tube, I’d experienced it.

I’d experienced it the way that almost 550,000 parents do a year.

I’d experienced it the way the hundreds of thousands of parents of a micro-preemies do.

I’ve experienced it first-hand. And it’s horrible. Terrifying. Something I wouldn’t wish on the worst people in the world. To go through the experience changes you; reveals your strength, forces you to allow yourself to rely on someone else, makes you grateful for small feats, takes the wonder of babies to the highest levels. How a baby so tiny and fragile and so helpless can make it through is impressive and honestly, a feat of God, a miracle, and a testament that the research and medical advancements done in years’ past are needed and necessary.

The following is from the March of Dimes website…

For the second consecutive year, the United States earned only a “D” on the March of Dimes Premature Birth Report Card, demonstrating that more than half a million of our nation’s newborns didn’t get the healthy start they deserved.

The March of Dimes advocates for national and state health policies and programs that benefit women of childbearing age, infants and children.

As part of the national Prematurity Campaign, at the federal level, the Foundation is advocating to:

* Increase access to health coverage for women of childbearing age (especially those who are pregnant), infants and children
* Fund implementation of the PREEMIE Act (P.L. 109-450)
* Secure federal funding to implement the next phase of the National Children’s Study
* Secure federal funding for increased interdisciplinary research to find the causes of preterm birth and to translate those findings into clinical care strategies
* Enhance data collection by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to improve understanding of prematurity, birth defects and infant mortality.

In years past, early babies were put in shoe boxes and kept warm by the oven. Thanks to the research and strides made by organizations like the March of Dimes, we’ve come so far. But we need to go even further.

If you can, visit the March of Dimes to donate or learn more.