We started noticing Funk’s teeth about a year ago. She’s been an avid thumb sucker since the womb, and no amount of cajoling seemed to sway her dedication. Our dentist explained that even though it was wrecking her teeth, chances were extremely slim that we’d have any luck breaking her of the habit– research shows that most hearty thumbsuckers can’t be persuaded to work on the habit until they are at least four.

So we just let it be. We reminded her sometimes, of course, mainly because her response was so cute.

“Funk… what did the dentist say about sucking your thumb?”

“… ummmm… she said SUCK MY THUMB.”

Here lately, though, Funk’s teeth have been getting really crazy. Her palate is very high, her front teeth have moved forward, and she has a visible dip in her bottom teeth.

Classic Thumbsucker Teeth

We noticed that she was doing a lot of idle thumbsucking– not for comfort, but while she was watching cartoons, or listening to books. We were also concerned that with all of the flu going around, she would be more susceptible since she constantly had her hands in her mouth.

Research be damned, we decided to start working on the thumb thing a little more earnestly.

At first, we just told her that she could only suck her thumb in bed. That just led to her spending a lot of time with every toy she owned in her bed.

Then we told her that she could only have her thumb when she was sleeping. But there’s a lot of gray area between “sleeping” and “pretending like I am trying to sleep” so that didn’t help with the thumbsucking at all.

I decided that we should try cold turkey.

Enter… THE STICKER CHART (Da Da Duuuuunnnn.)

Now, I have no problem bribing rewarding a child who accomplishes a difficult task, such as changing a lifelong habit. The problem was, we had tried sticker charts with Funk before, and she just wasn’t all that motivated. Basically, she’s stubborn– if she’s set on something, no amount of bribery, threats, or begging is going to change her mind. I figured we’d try anyway.

I explained the sticker chard concept again, and asked Funk what she thought her reward for giving up her thumb should be.

That child did not even blink an eye.

“IwannahorsethathashairthatchangescolorwhenyougetitwetIsawitonTV!”

She’s apparently spent some time thinking about this.

Now, I had no clue what the hell she was talking about, but her willingness to even consider the chart had me excited, so I agreed to her reward. How bad could it be, I thought? And besides, what were the chances that she would be able to give up her thumb cold turkey for the agreed upon time frame– 20 whole days?

We made a cute little sticker chart, heavily utilizing Funk’s love of cutting and pasting. We hung it on the fridge.

Let me tell you, stubborn does not even begin to describe my daughter. She has not put even one millimeter of either thumb in her mouth for seven days, from the time that chart went on the refrigerator.

Last night I decided that I should probably do a little research on this “horse that has hair that changes color” thing. And, ugh. I am nauseated.

May I introduce you to the Barbie Shower and Show Horse. Now featuring forty million tiny parts for one’s baby brother to choke on, and a fuckuvalotta pink.

I guess I should be happy that there’s finally something she wants bad enough to quit jacking up her teeth. And I guess I lucked out that I agreed to a $30 toy and not something more ridiculous. After all, $3o now sure beats $3,000 on braces later. But still… It’s so… pink. Think there’s any chance I could slip her a Breyer instead?

Recent evidence to the contrary, we’re fairly watchful parents. The injuries my children have sustained have thus far been negligible. I once set Noise down in a chair and he flopped over on his head. One time Hubs pinched his chubby little thigh in his bouncy seat and left a bruise. Uh, Funk had that cough, but that wasn’t because of us.

And that’s it.

We’ve also gotten lucky so far in the major mess category– no writing on the walls, wiping their poo all over themselves and the furniture, or eating vaseline (I once did that as a baby.) They also didn’t put much in their mouths, even as babies. Funk was a thumb sucker, Noise a devout binky kid.

Our older two kids are really, embarassingly easy. This doesn’t have a ton to do with us as parents– I think it has to do with their basic nature. They are basically rule-oriented little souls. They aren’t very high strung and are rarely out of control. They are curious, but within bounds. Once we were able to teach them ‘no’ and help them understand our family concept, things went fairly smoothly other than the usual fits and starts.

Of course there were fits– they are only children, after all.

Again, I say, this had SO MUCH to do with who they intrinsically are. I don’t feel we can take all that much credit for it.

It’s becoming clear, however, as the months go by that Squeak just might be our E.R. kid. He has been crawling for three days. In the past 24 hours he has fallen off of the bed (our first child to do so,) headbutted a wall, tried to stick his finger in a (thankfully baby-proofed) electric socket, and possibly eaten a small Cootie part. All of these things happened within inches of a parent; he’s just lightening quick and fearless as hell.

When you tell him ‘no’ he only smiles.

You can see a glint in his eye.

I used to watch my friends whose kids seemed to be running from the time they were 6 months old, into everything, and thank my lucky stars that mine were slower to walk, quicker to talk (and therefore be reasoned with to some extent,) and not incredibly motivated to explore at that frenetic level. I could not believe how busy these parents were, how much more watchful they had to be. To be on DEFCON 5 all the time– well, just thinking about having to parent at that level exhausted me.

But looking at it so far, I do believe the third time’s the charm.

(And just so you know, I had to stop writing this entry five times because Squeak kept picking fuzz off the afghan and eating it. We are screwed.)

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few)
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

When the phone rang from Noise’s school on Monday, my heart leapt into my throat. He was sitting right next to me, so I knew he was alright– but I was worried that he was in some kind of trouble.

I know. I know. Noise is the last kid you would expect to get into some kind of trouble. But I was still worried.

See, the Pairs are an extremely rule oriented gaggle of folks. So the idea that he might have done something that was against the rules instantly worried me. Of course, he was fine, everything was fine– his teacher was just calling to ask me to bring something healthy for the “Fall Party” on Friday. (Note: NOT a Halloween party. FALL PARTY.) Then she explained to me what “healthy” was. (No I will not shut up.) Then she asked me what “fruit” or “vegetable” I would be bringing. (Apparently these “fruits” are some kind of healthy food source for you humans?)

I committed to bring apple slices and various dips of questionable nutritional value.

Now, communication from Noise’s school is shoddy at best, and usually manifests itself in the creation of an ever-changing cadre of rules which I can neither understand nor keep track of. Thankfully, Hubs is even MORE rule oriented than I am, and he does drop off in the mornings, so I don’t have to keep track of the rotating set of expectations. So when Noise’s teacher actually took the time to call me personally about the healthy food rule, I took notice. In addition to this call, the school has sent home various handouts in the past on healthy eating, so I understand that it is an important part of the education going on there.

Today, I swung by the classroom to drop off the aforementioned “fruit.”

And fuck if there wasn’t a table full of cookies, chips, cupcakes, and candy. And my motherfucking apples were the only motherfucking thing on that motherfucking table that could in any way be construed as healthy.

Now don’t get me wrong– I didn’t have a problem sending a healthy snack– I sent the exact same thing to Funk’s class a few weeks ago when it was her turn to provide snack. The thing that pissed me off was that it was apparent that I was the only one who followed the expectations that were set out. I was the only one who followed the rules.

And now Noise is the kid whose mom brought FRUIT to the PARTY. ACK!

And also? Big ass bag of apple slices with dip? $10. Bag of chips? $2. Eating produce costs more.

And lemme tell you that it would have been a helluva lot easier to pick up a bag of chips from the grocery store than make all those dips and cut all those motherfucking apples.

And this is pretty much indicative of what happens to us all the time. We have a motto in our family– Pairs do the right thing. It means that we follow the rules, and try as much as we can to do the ethical, just, thing. Even when that thing is hard, or unpleasant.

Pairs do the right thing.

But it often seems as though we’re one of the few folks that follow that mantra. And all around us, people are breaking the rules and being rewarded for it. And that’s infuriating, because much of the time the only benefit to doing the right thing is the intrinsic value of being someone who does the right thing. Doing the right thing means you pay all your bills while the shmoehead across the street claims bankruptcy and fills his house with brand new shit. Doing the right thing means handing over the $100 bill you found in the parking lot, even when someone has stolen over $600 from you. It means teaching your children to be honest, kind, and trusting, even when many of the people they meet in life will be complete assholes.

I believe in karma. I believe that the energy we put out in life is what comes back to us. So Pairs do the right thing.

But sometimes that means we get screwed.

When I got my new butthole, I had a long, slow recovery that involved many pain killers and an inordinate amount of daytime television. I mainly watched the Food Network, but sometimes tuned in for the afternoon talk shows– Ellen, Oprah, and now and again (though it shames me to say it) Dr. Phil. (And when I say “tuned in,” please understand that this mostly involved sleeping on the couch with the TV on.)

Dr. Phil is this decade’s Jerry Springer. But without the breast implants and the paternity testing.

Anywho.

It’s not like I was paying the most attention– the excruciating pain and narcotics were quite distracting– but I do remember a specific thing that Dr. Phil said once.

He was speaking with a couple who had ongoing issues in their marriage. I can’t remember what, and the domestic turmoil that weaves its web over on that show is interchangeable anyway. But the wife went on a long recounting of her husband’s many flaws. He was dishonest, he was lazy, he was sometimes mean, he made promises he did not keep… The Jerry Springer watcher in me was all, “Oh no he din’t! You need to dump that sleazeball!”

As a woman, I felt an automatic allegiance to this woman, this stranger. I couldn’t understand why she put up with all of this dude’s shit. At the end of her diatribe of his faults, she reassured Dr. Phil that although he made it terribly difficult to do so, she still loved her husband very much.

And Dr. Phil said, “You have to decide what’s more important to you. Do you want to be RIGHT? Or do you want to be TOGETHER?”

And that has struck me ever since.

I am, you see, a person for whom being right is very, very important. I love being right. I revel in it, almost unhealthfully so. It makes me feel competent, smart, confident.

And sometimes… many times… in my need to prove that I am right about something, I lose sight of the bigger picture. I have a hard time letting go of being “right” to preserve important relationships. I fight every fight to win it, regardless of the cost. I couch this in my deep belief that honesty is at the core of who I am, but in truth, my urge to win each fight is not always that altruistic.

I can hear you saying that any relationship worth having should include honesty. I get that. But unless you just walked into your bedroom, whipped back the sheets, and said, “honey, it’s not really all that big” I know you are maneuvering the truth too. It IS a part of a healthy relationship. Not out and out lying, mind you, but massaging our truths to be palatable, gentle, and fair. Every hill is not worth dying on, and I need to be better about letting some things go. (And for the record, that doesn’t change how right I am, it just changes how hard I push to assert that righteousness.)

I sometimes fail in this regard. I forget that at the end of the day, it’s probably worth giving up a few fights to preserve the love I value. And I’m not just talking about marriage. I’m talking about friends, family… even my kids.

I would rather be together than right all the time.

Sisters Of Mercy by Leonard Cohen

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who’ve been travelling so long.

Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.
It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul.
Well I’ve been where you’re hanging, I think I can see how you’re pinned:
When you’re not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you’ve sinned.

Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession to them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.

When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon.
Don’t turn on the lights, you can read their address by the moon.
And you won’t make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened your night:
We weren’t lovers like that and besides it would still be all right,
We weren’t lovers like that and besides it would still be all right.

Our house is not very big. It’s a three bedroom, but since it was built in 1961 the rooms lack the cavernous design enjoyed by modern construction. With three bedrooms, room sharing becomes necessary. Right now, Squeak is in our room.

All right, let’s be honest. Right now, Squeak is in our BED.

Ahem.

But we’re working on that.

Eventually, Squeak will not be in our room anymore.

We’ve been going along with random sleep arrangements for the better part of a year. Funk has a room, and her own bed, but she sleeps in Noise’s room on a pull-out trundle each night. All of her things are in her room, but her body is in Noise’s. I’m not sure when exactly we got into the nightly habit of her sleeping with her big brother, but they both really enjoy sharing a room, and pulling them apart has never been easy.

The plan initially was to “big girl” Funk’s room (it has not been changed since we got pregnant with Noise) and put the boys together.

Sunday, we went about the task of installing Funk’s new big-girl bed. We put her bed in her room, and set up the crib in Noise’s room. She was excited about the promise of Princess sheets to come, and the chance to decorate her own space.

When nighttime came, I sent each child to their respective rooms.

And that’s when the hysterics began.

It seems like neither of my elder progeny understood that once Funk had her own big-girl bed, we would expect her to sleep in it.

“We’re not READY!” cried Noise.

“Noiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise!!!” wailed Funk.

I explained to the kids that this was the whole point– they need their own space, and they have a nasty habit of keeping each other awake. Because they were terrified that this meant they could NEVER share a room again, I reassured them that they could bunk together on the weekends.

“Two nights is NOT enough,” bargained Noise. “How about FOUR nights a week?”

Because Funk’s room was still destroyed from the great furniture debacle, it was really not suitable for sleeping in. But because I had already put the crib in Noise’s room, there was no way to pull out the trundle.I gave her a choice: sleep in her own bed that night, or sleep in Squeak’s crib.

She’s been in Squeak’s crib for the last two nights.

The idea that they will eminently be separated has plagued them for days. It’s all they can talk about; the worry of every waking moment. They approach bedtime with fresh dread because the discussion with begin anew. They desperately do not want to be separated.

And I’m torn.

Really, there’s no reason to separate them right now. They could go on, the way they’ve been, for at least another year before gender issues rear their ugly head. They sleep better together, they have a strong bond with each other, and they are happy. It’s not hurting anything.

On the other hand, we can’t continue with the trundle bed– it makes the whole room a solid block of mattress and leaves them no room to play. With Squeak getting progressively more mobile, the older kids need a place to play with their chokeable toys that’s NOT the family room.

So I don’t know what to do. I am thinking the solution will involve purchasing a bunkbed. Right now, my thoughts are that this bunkbed should go in Noise’s room. We can move most of Funk’s clothes and toys over (that’s going to be a fuckton of crap in one room, but I’m trying to remain calm about that) and then keep the baby room a baby room. When the time comes, maybe when we move (which will hopefully be next year,) we can separate Noise and Funk again, and put Squeak in with his big brother.

By keeping the baby room separate, we maintain a space where a) the big kids can play with their non-baby-approved toys, and b) Squeak can sleep without restricting the access Noise has to his stuff.

I hate to store Noise’s bed– it is a beautiful piece of furniture that I love and he loves– but there’s nowhere to put it if we bring in bunk beds.

Argh. It’s like trying to stuff ten pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack.

Thoughts?

This past weekend we baptized Squeak. (And lemme tell you, Squeak is no longer any type of nickname for this child. How about ear-deafening wail?) As per usual, we invited our families to celebrate this milestone with copious amounts of food and fellowship.

But getting some folks to show up was like pulling teeth. And several people didn’t come– for no apparent reason. And it left my feelings really hurt.

I know everyone has lives to attend to, pressing matters, and important things they are juggling. And some of them couldn’t help it– it’s been a rough year.

I know that we’ve have been home a lot, so folks have seen us quite a bit in the last six months.

I get it– I do.

I get it, because the drive from here to my hometown, or here to Hubs’ hometown, is EXACTLY the same distance no matter who’s doing the driving. Which is to say, 70 runs both ways, my peoples.

But my feelings remain hurt, and maybe that makes me a brat.

We really want our children to know their extended family. Living in Kansas, we knew it was going to take some extra effort to make that happen. We simply don’t live down the street from the kids’ grandparents, aunts, and uncles– and we never will. We knew when we settled here that there were going to be long drives and many phone calls.

Lately, for whatever reasons, it seems like we are making the lion’s share of the effort in that. We are the ones who load up the van with too much stuff and three kids and drive 5 hours across the state. We are the ones who make the phone calls home. We are the ones left making pathetic excuses to the kids when someone stands them up.

There are several members of our family that have not been here since Squeak was born. He is over 7 months old. There are some who haven’t even been here in the last year. In the time that they have not been here, they have been all over the country– all over the world– for visits and vacations.

But not here.

And it gets harder and harder not to take it personally.

Because it seems like they don’t realize that us traveling there is no more convenient– that we have lives, too.

Because it feels like they don’t care that they don’t know our amazing beautiful children.

Because it seems like everything else is more important.

Because it feels like I’m not– we’re not– good enough to be considered.

I’m fiercely proud of what we’re building here– our home, our family, our life– and to have parts of our family take so little interest in that is disheartening at times. I feel like we are doing our part to make sure that they feel included in that life, but we can’t MAKE them care. We can’t make them show up. We can’t make up for their lack of effort.

There are some members of our family who really know the kids, and have spent a lot of time with them. The way the kids interact with those family members is vastly different. The fullness of those relationships is evident.

There is a part of me that says, “you know what? It is what it is and it is THEIR LOSS. THEY are missing out on knowing your kids.” And that part of me knows that my children’s lives are still full of plenty of people who love them.

But there’s another part of me, a petulant whiney part, that says, “this is NOT FAIR. Why can’t my kids be important? Why can’t they put in the effort? Why does it have to be so one-sided? Why do I have to ask them to CARE?”

I know I shouldn’t take it so personally. Chances are, it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with other folks’ choices. But it is days like yesterday, when our home is full of love and family and friends, that the absence of who is missing is most palpable. Those are the days when I think, “So-and-So is really missing out. Because this was a beautiful day.”

I’m trying to kick-start my blogging mojo, if you haven’t noticed. Like, I have ENTRIES. Woot!

And I have a post written for every day this week– over at Midwest Parents.

Those lovely ladies were kind enough to have me back, and I am loving the way the new format is shaping up. Go over there and check it out!

I promise more of this:

… back here next week.

Now get over there!

I really want my nose pierced.

No, not like that.

Seriously.

My husband thinks it’s ridiculous, and maybe even a little gross, but I’ve always wanted it done. I’ve had my eyebrow, my ear cartilage, and of course my ears pierced. Only the simple lack of a flat stomach has stopped me from piercing my belly button.

I wasn’t allowed to pierce anything for a really long time– my father thought it was “barbaric.” I had to get straight A’s to get them pierced. I am not sure why that made piercing my ears less barbaric, but I wanted my ears pierced badly enough to do it.

I really want it done– nothing obtrusive, just what my friend Jessica calls a “sparkly freckle.”

But… Hubs really really hates the idea. He would NEVER tell me not to do it– he’s supportive of the fact that it’s my body, and also aware of the fact that if he TOLD me not to do it, I would be sporting two nose studs and a septum ring before you could say “Hepatitis C.” I’m spunky like that.

And if I did it, he would still happily attempt to get into my pants on a regular basis.

But I’m torn. The women’s lib part of me is all, “it’s my nose! It’s my body! Grrrrr!” And the partner part of me– read that carefully, because I am a PARTNER not a subordinate– really feels like I don’t want to do anything to make myself less beautiful in my husband’s eyes. Because I love him, and when he’s happy I’m (closer to) happy.

Thoughts?