A Letter to Mountain View Ob/Gyn...

To the physicians, nurses, and staff of Mountain View Ob/Gyn:

On November 29, 2010 at 1:00pm, I came into your office for a routine obstetrics visit.  At just over eleven weeks pregnant, I was very excited to soon be moving into my second trimester.  When my nurse was unable to hear a fetal heartbeat, I was sent over to Hanover Hospital for an ultrasound.  At the hospital, I was given the most painful internal ultrasound that I have ever experienced.  The technician was so rough and inconsiderate, I felt as though I had been violated.  After I regained my composure and had gotten dressed, I was told that Dr. Neiswinder was on the phone for me.  Over the phone, in the ultrasound room, Dr. Neiswinder informed me that I had a missed miscarriage, that my baby had no heartbeat.  She told me to come back over to the office, to discuss our options.

My husband and I drove back over to the Mountain View office, for the second time that day.  When I arrived, I was told that there was no room available for me, and that we would have to wait.  We waited in the weight/blood pressure room for twenty minutes, before we were taken to an exam room.  It was there that Dr. Neiswinder discussed our options, and I chose the surgical option, which would take place the following morning.  She said that scheduling and paperwork needed to be done, and but that we could not stay in the exam room.  We were moved again to the "Video Room," a tiny room that looked as though it also served as a utility closet.  Only one metal chair could fit into the small room, so my husband had to stand.  After another twenty minutes, a nurse finally arrived, but only to move us again.  We were finally placed in a slightly bigger Video Room (this one had two chairs), where we waited with no privacy.  For over thirty minutes, I sat in the room, while nurses came in and out to get things that they needed.  I listened, as the nurse on the other side of the thin wall made calls to schedule my surgery and loudly complained to her coworkers about the large amount of paperwork that I required.  She then came into the room, apologized for my wait, and explained, "I have to do double the paperwork, because there's another patient here, like you."  When all of the forms were signed and dated, she informed me that I had to go back to Hanover Hospital, immediately, for my pre-admission workup, which I did.

On November 29, 2010 at 1:00pm, I came into your office for a routine obstetrics visit, and learned that my baby had no heartbeat.  And at 6:00pm that evening, I was finally able to sit down at home, exhausted, and weep in mourning for the loss of my unborn child.  It took five hours to diagnose me with a missed miscarriage, and arrange my D&C.  Almost two hours of that time was spent waiting, in your office, juggled from one room to the next.  Over a half an hour was spent traveling back and forth from the hospital to your office.  I was made to feel as though there was no longer a place for me at your practice, because I was no longer pregnant.

I am writing this letter, because I think you need to hear the perspective of one of your patients.  I think it is clear that due to the high volume of cases you see everyday, your staff has become desensitized to the emotions and humanity of your patients.  When explaining my procedure, Dr. Neiswinder told my husband and I that "the clump of tissue would be removed" from my uterus and discarded.  To us, it was not a "clump of tissue."  It was a baby... our baby, that I was going to nurse, and rock and love.  It was our baby, that we had begun to prepare a room for.  It was our baby, that we thought was alive and well, until earlier that afternoon.  When the nurse told me that there was "another like me," my heart ached for the fellow mother.  I wondered if she, too, had been shuffled from room to room, sitting alone in her sadness, staring at a blank wall.  I am certain, in all your years of service, we were not your first miscarriages.

I write this letter with a suggestion.  Perhaps, somewhere in your office, you could have a "Grieving Room."  It could be a room with a couch, flowers, soft music, and a box of tissues (which I was never offered).  It could be a place for "patients like me" to wait for options, for scheduling, and for paperwork, in private, able to grieve and mourn as they need.  It could be a place that would provide comfort in the saddest of times.

I would like to say, how much I appreciated the work of Dr. Naymick, who performed my surgery the following morning.  The warmth that he showed my family and I was the first sign of compassion that I had received from your office, since my ordeal unfolded.  I am eternally grateful to him, for that.  The staff in the Same Day Surgery ward at Hanover Hospital were kind and supportive, as well.

I beg of you all, at Mountain View Ob/Gyn, to open your eyes and hearts to the tragedies that your patients face, and treat them accordingly.

Thank you,
Anna Corbin

Tidings of Great Joy...

It's that time of year again, when I hate going to the mailbox.  Normally I dislike getting the mail in anticipation of bills or late notices, but none of them compare to the most dreaded mail of all...

The Christmas Letter.

No offense to those of you who write them.  I know it is a nice way to keep loved ones informed of the past year in your lives.  But, really... embellish much???  As I read these multiple page sagas of promotions, straight A's, trophies, and family sing-a-longs by a warm fire, all I can think is, "What a load of crap!"  No one's life is that perfect.  Just once, I'd like to read a truthful Christmas letter, one that keeps it real.

So, in honor of the holiday season, when you are supposed to be pure of heart and tell the truth, I thought I would write my version of an honest Christmas letter.  This is what I would say, about the past year:

Dearest family and friends:
            I hope this letter finds you all in good spirits.  2010 has been quite a year for the Corbin family.  It began with New Year's Day, which was spent in the Emergency Room.  My constipation had finally gotten completely out of control, resulting in a severe hernia.  The doctors repaired it with surgery and a mesh patch, but alas, I still can't poop.  We are hoping things move more smoothly for me by next Christmas.  We'll keep you posted.
            Michael has been the most successful of our clan.  He received a promotion at work, but that didn't compare to the joy and pride that we felt, when he finally beat "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2" on the Xbox 360.  A tear came to my eye as I watched him complete his final mission.  But, that may have been because my ears were bleeding from the high decibel gunshots I'd been listening to for three months.
             Our boys, Jackson and Henry, are doing well.  Jackson started preschool this year and seems to be making lots of friends.  We are trying to learn all of their names, so that we know who to blame when Jackson does something wrong.  Henry has even made friends at Jack's school.  In fact, the woman who he threw his clogs at on the first day, says "Hi" to him each morning.  The boys are very close.  At Preschool Drop-Off for Jack, Henry bids good-bye to him, in the same loving way, every morning by shouting, "Bye-bye, Poopy Head Jackson!!"  It warms my heart, to witness their bond.
              The other night, after we put the boys to bed, Michael and I lit candles, and sat on the couch, curled up under a quilt, reflecting on the past year, and how blessed we are.  After all, we made it one more year without needing Welfare!  As we high-fived each other, we realized that the Med-Ed bill must have arrived on time, because the electricity wasn't really shut off.  We quickly blew out the candles, turned on the lights, and settled in for some "Call of Duty."  Yes, we most certainly are very blessed.  Here's wishing you and yours, the Merriest of Christmases.  

Love, The Corbin Family

Letter to the Editor...

Part 2 of my Walmart Series will resume later this week.  For now, here is a Letter to the Editor that I submitted to our local paper this morning. 

Editor:
I have been following the local story of the unspeakable tragedy of Jonathan Nodine, the 11 month old child who lost his life as the result of child abuse. I pray that there is justice for his death. There is one part of the story that I cannot ignore. Jonathan was seen at the Hanover Hospital emergency room and released, only to suffer from cardiac arrest a mere 12 hours later. He died five days after that. I have spent time in the same ER. The last time was when my son was very ill and, like Jonathan, he was discharged despite my insistence that something was wrong. Each of my cries was ignored with lack of concern. It was only after we traveled to York Hospital that my son’s condition was diagnosed and treated and that he was able to make a full recovery. Jonathan’s family took him to the hospital expecting doctors to exhaust all efforts to make him well. Doctors take the Hippocratic Oath to care for patients. That means giving time, attention, and consideration to each patient. Instead, they discharged Jonathan Nodine, putting the final nail in his coffin. He deserved better.

Recently, in Tennessee, a family did not pay a required fee to their local fire department. When the family’s home caught fire, the fire department came only to protect the neighboring houses. The firemen stood with the resources in hand and watched a home burn to the ground. The family lost their home, their valuables, and even their pets, while trained firemen watched. They deserved better.

Everyday children are bullied. Classmates, teachers, and school officials stand by without offering protection. These bullied children have to suffer alone, sometimes until it reaches the point of murder or suicide. They deserve better.

Catholics celebrate “Respect Life Month” in October, which is commonly known as a Pro-Life campaign. I think that respecting life goes even deeper than the sanctity of the lives of the unborn. We live in a world where doctors, firemen, and teachers are not doing their jobs. Their jobs are to perform acts of humanity. Yet that seems to be too much to ask. All people, especially those who make a commitment to serve the community, should learn to Respect Life. We deserve it.

“And as you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.” Luke 6:31

Anna Kruk Corbin

Thank You For Choosing Walmart (Part One)...

For those of you avidly following my blog, you will know that I am a devoted wife and mother who loves her children unconditionally.  You will also know that I am in no way, shape, or form, what you would call a "People Person."  It may come as a shock to you, then, that I once spent five years at a job that forces one to eat, sleep, and breathe customer service.  That's right.  For five (long) years, I worked at Walmart.

I always say that you should not be allowed to enter a store unless you have worked in the retail industry.  You need to know what it is like to work in the trenches, before you are allowed to shop in them.  I have decided to give you all a glimpse of what it is like to work in an environment such as Walmart.  I have divided this entry into two parts, as to not overload you with the vital insider information I am about to share.  Keep in mind, I worked at Walmart when I was between the ages of 17 and 22.  My store, at the time, was not a Supercenter and did not have a Grocery section.  It was just a plain, old Walmart.  I am sure that much has changed since I worked there, but this is how I remember things.

PART ONE:  THE ASSOCIATE

Walmart employees are known as "Associates."  There was an understood hierarchy.  Not among the managers, but among the Associates, themselves. 

Cashiers were the low men on the totem pole.  Little respect was given to Cashiers, because they only had to run the registers.  They weren't very important to anyone, but the Customers, and everyone knows that the Customers are the enemy.  They were considered a nuisance if they had to page a Floor Associate for something as trivial as a price check.  After all, the Floor Associate had important work to do, like stocking shelves, making price changes, and answering stupid questions.  It was customary for a Floor Associate to make clear to the Cashier how much he/she was inconvenienced by a price check page.  The Floor Associate usually did this by finishing his/her soda in the Break Room, before answering the call.  Plus, Cashiers were coddled.  They had their own highlighter wielding managers (CSMs), who made sure that they all took their breaks at the proper time.  All Floor Associates secretly resented them for that.  As a Floor Associate, you were lucky to scarf down some Butterscotch Krimpets from the vending machine in the middle of an eight hour shift during the Christmas season.   On slow nights, the CSMs, would send Cashiers to help the Floor Associates "Zone" (clean up their departments).  This was always more trouble than it was worth.  The Cashiers were fresh meat on the floor, not knowing where anything was located or how to help the customers.  And they were always so excited to have their shackles removed from the register, that they were too perky and energetic.  Floor Associates were jaded and hard and that helped them get through their day.  Floor Associates had no time for "perky." 

Floor Associates were divided into two sections:  Softlines and Hardlines.  Softlines consisted of the clothing departments - Mens, Ladies, Boys, Girls, Infants, Lingerie & Accessories, and the Fitting Room.  Hardlines was everything else.  While equally respected, the two sections were very separate.  I spent a good bit of time working in Softlines. When it was decided that I would move over to Health & Beauty Aids, in Hardlines, I was all but given a going away party by my friends in Softlines.  Sure, I was still working at the same store and was moving to a department only fifty feet away, but we all knew that intermingling between Hardlines and Softlines just wasn't done.  It couldn't be done.  They were just two very different worlds.

Stockmen were your multi-purpose Associates.  They were really there to push in the carts, but they were so much more.  They were good for getting things off of the very top shelves in the Stock Room by using the big ladder that scared me.  They had the best jokes in the Break Room and were always there when you needed them... unless they were out smoking weed in the parking lot.  But the main job of the Stockmen was to be eye candy.  They were tanned young boys within my age group at the time.  To this day, I can't see a college boy in a fluorescent orange shirt without my heart going all a-flutter.

And, finally, there was Lawn and Garden.  The Lawn and Garden Associates were like their own exclusive club.  They all hung out together and spoke their own language.  They worked weird hours, half of their department was outside and they got to wear shorts in the summer.  The coolest of the cool worked in Lawn and Garden and that was without question.

There is something interesting that you may not know, about the employees of Walmart. Walmart Associates do not have last names.  Like the Men In Black, it is a privilege that you surrender the moment you put on that Blue Vest.  You become your first name, followed by your department.  Frequently overheard in the Break Room:

"Did you hear that Anna in Ladies Wear is dating Nathan in Electronic, again?"
"No, that's funny, because Karen the Cashier told me that Anna in Ladies went to lunch with Dan in Pets yesterday!"

(Yeah, that's right.  I didn't change names.  There are no secrets in the World of Walmart.)

The Break Room was our only solace.  It was a place to vent, ignore pages, and, most of all, gossip.  The gossip was out of control.  The stories that were told, made-up, and exaggerated in the confines of the Break Room were the stuff of legends.  I've witnessed firings, fights, nervous breakdowns, and nasty breakups, all while standing at the vending machine, deciding between Doritos and Krimpets for my seven minute dinner break.  However, the drama was necessary.  The harsh reality of fanny pack wearing moms beating their screaming kids were just beyond the swinging double doors behind Layaway.  We had to keep our World of Walmart interesting, to maintain our sanity.

Well, that's it, for now.  Hopefully, you have gotten a better understanding of the inner workings of a Walmart Associate.  Be sure to tune in to my next entry, when I discuss the most ridiculous of all creatures:  The Walmart Customer.  (If my blog had a soundtrack, now would be when you'd hear the ominous "Dun-dun-DUN!")

Letter to NBC...

This is a letter that I am currently sending to any media outlet who will listen.  It's pretty self-explanatory.

To whom it may concern:

On September 22, 2010, I tuned into NBC for the highly anticipated season premiere of Law & Order: SVU. Imagine my surprise when I began to view a show that fights for the rights of the violated and had to watch as my children and I were the ones victimized.

In the episode, “Bullseye,” a character was featured with a severe mental disability who, because of his disability, had urinated in public and subsequently had been placed on the sex offender registry. When his speech became vulgar as he talked to the detectives, his mother asked for forgiveness. She explained that he didn’t know any better because he has Noonan Syndrome.

I am to assume that you have no experience or knowledge concerning Noonan Syndrome (NS). Most do not. You have no idea what it is like to speak to friends, neighbors, teachers, and even medical professionals who have never even heard of NS. They have to be told that NS is characterized by short stature, delayed puberty, specific facial features, bleeding tendencies and most importantly, heart conditions. They also have to be told that NS very rarely affects cognitive function.

I have longed to raise awareness for Noonan Syndrome, to give it national recognition. Being labeled as having a “syndrome” brings with it the unfortunate stigma of stereotypes and assumptions, fueled by the ignorance of others. On Wednesday, September 22, over eight million people tuned into NBC and heard the words, “Noonan Syndrome,” for the first time. Those eight million people watched a character whose portrayal of one with NS was so exaggerated, so grossly inaccurate, it was offensive to those of us who do have Noonan Syndrome.

I have Noonan Syndrome. Both of my children have Noonan Syndrome. We have a mutation of the PTPN11 gene, the gene mutation that accounts for over 50% of the documented cases of NS. I would like to make clear that I did not find your portrayal of NS offensive because it implied a cognitive disability. I am offended because the portrayal was incorrect and you randomly chose a disorder without doing any research, not realizing the damage that could do. If you had made the character look younger than his age, be significantly smaller than his peers, or have a heart defect, at least you would have been on the right track. But, the large bulky man who attempted to fight two detectives, had none of the qualities of one with NS.

It is too late to ask for an apology or any kind of redemption. What I do ask, is that in the future you do better research when tackling the responsibility of portraying a disability or disorder in the media.

My children are much smaller than other children their age and look a little different. They have bleeding disorders associated with NS and they both have heart defects. They have been hospitalized more than once for their issues and are extremely brave. I can only hope that as they get older, they never see the Law & Order: SVU episode, “Bullseye.” I hope that they never see what NBC thinks personifies Noonan Syndrome. I hope that they will never see one of the seeds that was planted to contribute to the stereotypes, assumptions, and adversities that they will eventually have to face. Fortunately, they will never see it in my home, as I have watched Law & Order: SVU, for the last time.

Thank you,
Anna Corbin

Welcome, Fall...

I love summer.  I love wearing tank tops and flip flops.  I love to feel the sun on my face while getting the mail.  I love to feel the wind in my hair, riding on my stepdad's boat.  I love to feel the sticky skin on my boys' cheeks, as I kiss them goodnight, after a sweaty day at the pool.  Summer is my favorite season.  However, oddly enough, I am never sad to see it go.

There's just something about Autumn.

Autumn brings warm colors, bulky sweaters, blue jeans, and evenings with wide open windows.  As a child, Autumn was synonymous with the start of school - a happy time, for me, because I loved school.  This year, things have come full circle.  Jackson, my oldest, started preschool and began a new phase in the lives of all of us.  When he carried his book bag across the threshold of his classroom, he shook the "baby" dust off of his shoes.  I have heard that mothers cry when their children start school.  I did not grieve.  Jackson starting school is a wonderful thing.  It has been exciting for our entire household.  It gets us all up and moving in the morning.  It gives Henry and I some alone time.  Dinnertime is filled with joyful stories of new friends and finger painting.  It has been an amazing new chapter in our lives.

I have always found it interesting, that Autumn is a season that completely revolves around death.  The leaves change and fall to the ground.  The crunching of the dead leaves under our feet becomes the soundtrack of the Fall.  People flock to corn mazes, chasing each other in and out of dead corn stalks, loving every minute of it.  Neighbors fill their yards with artificial gravestones and hang skeletons from trees for Halloween.  November second marks the Feast of All Souls, when we pray for those who have gone before and honor the dead.  However, knowing that each Autumn from now on will signify that my boys are blooming and growing, I can look past these underlying themes. 

Because for me, Fall is not about death.  It's about rebirth.

Summer is over, but it will return.  The flowers are drying up, but they will bloom again.  My boys are getting older, but they are growing and learning and using the values and lessons that we have planted in them.  Being a part of that transformation is a beautiful experience. I have come to realize that as my boys are prospering and flourishing, I am as well.

This evening, I put on a sweater and stepped out into the cool air to hang a red, gold, and orange wreath on the door.  I stooped down to pull a few brown leaves off of what is left of my front porch plant and I smiled at the irony.  This year, beginning a season that is shrouded in death, I have never felt more alive.

Sing, Sing a song...

People always say that it doesn't matter if you aren't good at something.  They say that as long as you try your best, put effort into it, and give it your all, that's what matters.

That is, unless, the "it" in question is singing.

If you aren't a good singer, things like, "trying," "effort," and "giving it your all," mean nothing.  You are either a gifted vocalist or you aren't.  Sometimes lessons don't even help, as American Idol has proven year after year.

I have a terrible, terrible singing voice. 

At parties, I mouth the words to, "Happy Birthday." 

I have never even attempted Karaoke. 

I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

I will never be a rock star.

Despite these facts, I perform two sold-out shows a night.  On nights that I cannot appear, riots have broken out.  My encores are so in demand that I barely get to my second venue on time. 

Fortunately, for me, my stages are right across the room from each other.

My first gig is usually performed in Henry's bed, just before 9:00pm.  My set usually opens with a little "Wheels on the Bus," followed by some, "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes."  Sometimes Henry likes to switch it up and requests that I make up a song, based on a topic of his choosing.  Inevitably, I close with "Over the Rainbow."  It's Henry's favorite and puts him right to sleep.

I then creep over to Jack's bed.  Jackson is a little more predictable.  He prefers a repetitive set.  I sing an old family lullaby, "Dear Little Dolly," to him eight or nine times in a row.  Sometimes, I throw in "Jesus Loves the Little Children" to break up the monotony.

My audience is always pleased.

My husband, on the other hand, likes to shout words of "encouragement" from the next room.  He gets particularly critical on nights when I'm really feeling "Over the Rainbow."

"Oh wow, Honey!  That last note was so awesome, I think you broke three glasses... and I can hear some dogs howling!"  And then he laughs manically.

Humph.  I've heard him warble through "Country Roads," to the kids on nights I have taken a break and I think Mr. Two-Cents should keep his mouth shut.  Literally.

The important thing is that talent or no talent, howling dogs or not, I sing to my children.  They love it and they are too little to know that I am not any good.  It's their mommy's voice and even if it sounds like a screeching cat, it has been a comfort to them since they were in the womb.  It's the love behind the voice that soothes them.  The best part about babies, especially, is that they don't even care what you are singing, as long as it's sung.  I've dictated grocery lists, given instructions for dinner, and had entire arguments with Michael to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," while rocking my newborns.

Michael, Michael, please come here,
I am going to punch your face.
I need help with the laundry,

I am not your freaking slave.

Anyway, even if it's only for a half an hour a night, I guess I get a taste of what it would be like to be a rock star.  I have two adoring groupies who cheer wildly when I enter the room, are always thrilled with my performances, hug and kiss me as much as they can, and have even thrown their underwear (and diapers) at me.  (But, we'll save that story for another blog.)

Little do they know that it's the two of them who are the true rock stars.  There is nothing that they do, that I do not find extremely fascinating.  Just being in their presence makes my day.  They provide constant entertainment to our household.  So, if it makes them happy for me to sing to them each night, even if it's embarrassing I don't mind doing it.

It's my way of showing them, that I am their biggest fan.


"....Don't worry that it's not good enough, for anyone else to hear.  Just sing, sing a song." 

Love and Gore...

A little late in the game and with much resistance, I have jumped on the Twilight bandwagon. I am reading each book in the series and following it immediately with the corresponding movie. While watching New Moon tonight, I became as giddy as a schoolgirl when Jacob Black, sensing Bella was in danger, jumped over the railing of his porch, took a flying leap into the air, and turned into a werewolf before hitting the ground.

It was so hot.

My husband was watching with me. My husband. My love. My soul mate. I sighed, knowing that he will never do what Jacob did. I don't mean I'm upset that he'll never turn into a werewolf. That's ridiculous. I mean that I don't think that Michael could gracefully hop over any railing to come to my rescue. Ever. If a pack of wolves cornered me outside of our house, he would probably hide inside, call 911, and cross his fingers. And in the event that he HAD to come outside, he would still ignore the railing shortcut and walk gingerly down the steps, being cautious enough to not stub his toe, or snag his flip flop.

There was a time when vampires and werewolves were the main characters in horror stories.  Now, they are the main characters in love stories.  These creatures have become representatives of romance and of true love.

At  first, I didn't get the appeal of the Twilight Saga.  Now that I have given it a chance, I am obsessed. And I totally get it.

The franchise makes vampires and werewolves become the sexy heroes.

The entire concept is genius.  No one cares about romantic comedies anymore, because they are "real" people doing unrealistic things.  Men do not ever interrupt weddings to steal the bride away from the groom.  A man wouldn't stand in the pouring rain embracing his lover, oblivious to the weather.  Men don't travel miles and miles to profess their love to someone they just met.  Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, has done the perfect thing.  Since men will never live up to our romantic expectations, she has given us something that will:  the supernatural. She has made every tween, teen, middle-aged, and elderly woman in the world who have read her books, stop wishing for Prince Charming and start yearning for Dracula.  She made unrealistic, romantic dialogue acceptable, because the creatures speaking the words aren't real in the first place.

Vampires aren't real.

That's why it seems totally plausible that a vampire would utter the words, "Bella, you give me everything just by breathing."

If I heard Hugh Grant fumble that line, I'd change the channel while gagging.  Robert Pattinson says it, with his pale skin and amber eyes, and I swoon.

There is nothing remotely attractive about Robert Pattinson, in my opinion.  But, as Edward Cullen, the love struck 109 year old vampire who jumps between his soul mate and a minivan, smashing the van to smithereens, he's a dream come true.

Werewolves aren't real.

That's why it seems plausible that a sixteen year old boy, dressed in nothing but some frayed denim shorts, would jump twenty feet over his lady love's head and transform into a werewolf in mid-air, to protect her. 

My friend Chrissy says that Taylor Lautner, who plays Jacob, "looks like someone hit him in the face with a frying pan."  And she's absolutely right.  But, his tan, flexed abdominal muscles, glistening with sweat while he pleads with Bella to choose him... *sigh*.  Those sixteen year old abs, alone, transform me into a dangerous creature myself - a Cougar.

Some women read romance novels and dream of a pool boy or fireman who will come sweep them off of their feet.  These fantasies leave them drowning in disappointment when searching for their perfect mate.  However, women know that they will never find a mate like Edward Cullen or Jacob Black, because not only are they fictitious, they are mythical.  There can be no comparison to regular men. Stephanie Meyer has created her characters to be romantic, compassionate, thoughtful, protective... and as far from human as possible.  And therein, lies the appeal, and the perfect fantasy.

So, it's okay that my husband is not the bravest of the brave.  It's fine that he is not very athletic.  And it's completely understandable that his belly is shaped more like a small keg than a six pack.  Of course, he's not the "perfect" man.

He is only a mortal, after all.

"Short" Stories...

Four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches.

Since I was fifteen years old, I have been four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches tall.  I have found a few ways around this.  (My license reads 5' thanks to clever shoe choices, and some overly fluffed hair styles.) 

I have learned to accept the fact that I am vertically challenged and I believe, as my mother always taught me, that "Short is beautiful."  But it wasn't always easy.  I thought it would fun (and therapeutic), if I would share some amusing (or sad) moments in the life of one with little height and how they affected me.

In Kindergarten, I came home from school everyday with wet pants.  I had been potty trained since I was two, so my parents were concerned.  After some interrogation, I admitted that the bathroom door was too heavy.  I was too small and weak and could not open the door.  I was also too shy and too embarrassed to tell the teacher.  So I peed in my pants.  Everyday.  It was finally decided, after a meeting with the school, that when the designated teacher would take the children who were in Special Education to the bathroom, she would take me, as well.  I still remember that the Special Education van would arrive a half an hour after school started and it would "beep."  Upon hearing the beeping through the window, the other children in the class, who were cruel, would giggle, because they knew that Jenny, the little girl with braces on her legs, would be entering the classroom soon.  I never giggled.  I smiled a smile of relief.  With that beeping, I knew I would get to go to the bathroom.  Besides I loved Jenny.  She was just like me and couldn't open the bathroom door, either.  She was also very nice and ended up becoming my friend.

Being small taught me tolerance.

I entered First Grade in a new school, in a new state, with no kind Kindergarten teacher and no Jenny.  My parents again became concerned when I began arriving home with cuts and bruises everyday.  I explained that the second graders loved to play "House" and because I was so tiny, I had to be their "baby." They carried me around the playground at recess.  Only these second graders liked to drop me when their arms got tired.  My parents told me that I was nobody's baby but theirs.  They told me to go to school and tell the second graders not to touch me and if they did, to tell the nearest teacher.  I marched to school and told the only "friends" that I had that I did not want to play with them anymore.  It resulted in many lonely days on the playground, but I didn't care.  My bruises healed.

Being small taught me to stand up for myself.

After two years of unsatisfactory supervision at public schools, my parents decided to transfer me to Catholic school.  My favorite way to participate in the Mass was to lector - to read the readings for the Mass on the altar.  Of course I always had to request that a stool be placed at the pulpit for me.  My parents told me, "You are further away from the microphone than everyone else. Be sure to read in a loud, clear voice, so that the people in the back can hear."  Lectoring developed into a love of public speaking, leading to success and national rankings for me on my high school and college speech teams.  As an adult, I am still a lector at St. Vincent de Paul Church and every other Sunday, I loudly and clearly proclaim the Word of God.  And now, if I wear high heels, I don't *always* need a stool.  I love when my fellow parishioners say, "How does such a little girl, have such a big voice?"

Being small taught me to compensate for my size with my other strengths.

Looking back, I wouldn't want to be any taller.  Sure, there were bullies who called me names, but they never hurt my feelings.  I had so much positive reinforcement at home that nothing anyone else said mattered.  I learned to see myself as "big" when I looked in the mirror.  And I didn't care what anyone else saw.  And, of course, I am teaching my boys the same principles, that I have learned.

I took Jackson, who's four, to the pediatrician a few months ago.  There was an 18 month old boy in the waiting room who was a head taller than Jack.  When the diapered bully, gnawing on his binky, took a toy out of Jack's hands, Jack shrugged and picked up another.  He looked UP at the child and said, "It's okay, you take it.  I know that you're just a little baby, who doesn't know any better."

I smiled behind my magazine.  The cycle continues...

A place for everything...

Not long ago, I was chatting with my mom on the phone, having my morning cup of Coca-Cola.  I was looking pretty stunning that particular morning, wearing a pair of Betty Boop pajama pants that were purchased at a yard sale, one of Michael's old, grey fraternity t-shirts from his Penn State days, and my dirty hair was pulled up on top of my head in a loose, floppy bun.  My mom said to me,

"I'm so happy for you, for getting just what you wanted out of life.  You are right where you've always wanted to be."

I stepped over the boys, who were laying on the floor, fighting over an action figure (one of twelve thousand that were scattered all over the living room) to peek at a mirror.

I giggled.

"Mom, please tell me you  are being sarcastic."

She began to explain.  I was a bit socially awkward, growing up.  Any school dance I ever attended, I attended because my parents forced me to go.  I was a bookworm and a home body.  I was also a late bloomer, who was still playing with Barbies when my friends were getting their first boyfriends.  Because of my late development, late puberty, and small size, my parents always wondered if I would be able to have children.  Although, they'll never admit it, I am sure that they also wondered if I'd ever get a boyfriend, much less a husband.

Lo and behold, I came out of my shell and met Michael.  First came love, then came marriage, then came... well, you know the rest.  I am an ambitious, competitive person.  I have many years left to get the most of life and to settle myself into a successful career.  And I know that good things are in store for me, because I have a desire to achieve.  But, first things first. I have done what everyone doubted I would ever do.  I have a loving husband.  I have two beautiful boys.  I have a home and a family, and that is my primary focus right now.  My mom was right.  I am a very lucky girl.

This past week, for the first time since the boys were born, Michael had to go away on business.  At first, the boys and I celebrated having a break from the family neat freak by leaving dishes on the table, letting crumbs fall to the floor, and not putting DVDs directly back into their cases.  But by the third day, I began to miss having someone to share a smile with when Henry told a new knock-knock joke or when Jack said something only a forty year old woman would say.  Thursday night I had trouble sleeping.  Why was it so quiet?  Why could I hear every creak that the house made?  Then I realized that for six years, Michael has been in bed next to me, sleeping, breathing, snoring.  I've gotten used to him being... there.  That's not to say that half of the time I want to whack him with a frying pan when he's not looking.  But the other half of the time, our life, as a family, is awesome and it makes me thrilled to know that it's "forever."

Yesterday afternoon, excited to see my husband, I took a shower, shaved my legs, applied some makeup, and even flat ironed my hair.  I put on a cute sundress and the boys and I headed to the airport to pick up Michael.  We had a joyful reunion at the airport, and then the four of us came home.  It was nice to all be together, again.  Through the baby monitor, I listened to Michael read to our giggling boys, putting them to bed, while I went upstairs to change.  I washed the makeup off of my face and took off the cute sundress.  I put on my Betty Boop pajama pants and Michael's old, grey ATO shirt.  I twisted my hair up to its comfortable position on top of my head and went downstairs to join Michael on the couch.  We shared some milk and cookies and started watching some DVR'd "Attack of the Show."  As Michael drifted off to sleep halfway through the episode and began to snore, I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.

Everything is as it should be and just the way I want it.

Spinning Out of Control...

Based on my own parents, I always viewed parenthood as primarily a position of authority.  I always knew that I wanted children.  Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a bossy control freak.  Naturally, motherhood would be a perfect fit.  I imagined having a tribe of miniature Annas, who would share my balance of liberalism and Catholicism, love Motown, and have "Gone With the Wind" memorized by the age of five.

Boy, was I wrong.

There has never been a greater feeling, of loss of control, than in parenthood.  It starts from the beginning.  There is no planning in parenthood.  My husband and I wanted to wait two years after getting married to have a baby.  I saw a plus sign on a stick, five months after the wedding.  During my first trimester, I wanted to eat a strict diet of fruits and vegetables, only to find out that everything except Taco Bell made me vomit.  And then there's "The Birth Plan."  To this day, Michael and I giggle every time we hear a first timer talk about her Birth Plan.  Let me share with you my idea of a realistic Birth Plan:
1.  Get drugs
2.  Sleep and/or cry
3.  Get more drugs
4.  Get the baby out as quickly as possible
There was nothing to prepare me for how much labor hurts.  If my husband would have even mentioned an Enya CD or a focal point, I would have kicked him in the face.  I was thrilled when I found out that my second child would be a scheduled c-section.  "Finally," I thought, "I can be in charge of my delivery."  Then my water broke five weeks early.  And the plans we had for pre-conception college funds for our kids??
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!

As children grow, the lack of control exhibited is more of an annoyance than anything.  I loved "The Muppet Movie," as a child.  Before my children were born, I planned on showing it to them one day, because I knew they would love it and we'd have a "moment."  A few months ago, I sat the boys down and began the first official viewing of "The Muppet Movie."  Fifteen minutes in, they lost interest, stopped watching, and went to their playroom, leaving me alone with Kermit and the gang.  I resisted the urge to duct tape them to the couch and shout, "You WILL watch this with me!  It's FUNNY!  We're having FUN!"

One of the biggest surprises of parenthood is the ability to love someone so much.  It's different than any other kind of love.  Sure, I love my husband, but I'd have to think about it before I'd jump in front of a truck for him.  (I mean, who would take care of the kids??)  For my sons, I'd jump in front of a truck to prevent them from getting a paper cut.  That kind of love is a scary, scary thing.

As hard as it is, I can handle the boys not sharing my love of all things Muppet and I can cope with the fact that I gave birth to boys, who will probably never play Barbies with me.  Those are little things.  But the feeling of helplessness that sometimes occurs as a result of no control is downright painful.  As a bossy, control freak, I was not ready at all for the true trenches of parenthood.  Labor was nothing compared to watching doctors repeatedly stick your toddler, searching for a vein, while he tearfully begs you to make them stop.  Waking up to your water breaking before your planned delivery date is much better than your baby waking from a nap with a diaper filled with blood.  College funds are the least of your worries when you are scrambling to put together enough money to prepay your copay, so your child can have a surgery that he needs.  Watching children refuse to play with your son, because he's "too little" makes you want to duct tape the little brats to the floor and MAKE them be his friends.

Everything in parenthood is out of your control.  You will never be prepared.  You will always be surprised.  Honestly, that's what makes being a parent so wonderful.  There is no way to ever maintain control, so you just do the best that that you can.  And sometimes, that means that as everything around you spins in a million different directions, you just hang on... and try to not get dizzy.

Foam hats and playing catch...

There are some movie quotations that almost everyone recognizes.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a d@%*."
"Go ahead, make my day."
"Toga! Toga! Toga!"

In my inner circle (meaning my mom, my sister, and my husband), we like to use obscure movie quotations and references in everyday conversation, to make valid points and to express ourselves clearly. As a result, we sometimes communicate using sentences that probably wouldn't make sense to anyone else. Unless, of course, that "anyone else" was a movie buff.

To demonstrate what I am talking about (if I haven't lost you, already), I've decided to share my top five favorite quotations used by my family and how we relate them to everyday life.

"And that's when the big bucks start rollin' in!" ~ Coming to America

Maurice (Louie Anderson) explains the fast food hierarchy to McDowell's new employee, Hakeem (Eddie Murphy). He says, "Hey, I started out mopping floors... but now I'm washing lettuce. Soon, I will be on fries and then the grill. And pretty soon, I'll make Assistant Manager. And that's when the big bucks start rollin' in!"

We usually use this one, sarcastically, when we are discussing ways to improve our financial standing, by taking baby steps.

EXAMPLE: "Don't worry. Soon it will be September, and I can sell the boys' old winter things on ebay... and that's when the big bucks start rolling in!"

"I think I'll start a paper route, right now." ~ Pee-Wee's Big Adventure

This is the line, announced by Pee-Wee Herman (dressed as a nun), who is about to steal his beloved bike back from a movie set. He thinks by saying that he'll start a paper route, he can just ride off without any trouble.

This one we use as a reference when someone does something underhanded or tries to avoid an issue, thinking no one will notice.

EXAMPLE: "Did Henry ask to take a snack to bed?"
"Nope. He just started a paper route and took the cookies into the room!"

"Those little lights aren't twinkling, Clark." ~ Christmas Vacation

I love when Clark W. Griswold's father-in-law, Art, points out this minor detail after Clark puts on the most magnificent Christmas light display in the history of the world.

This is used when someone is being nitpicky.

EXAMPLE: "When you unloaded the dishwasher, you forgot this fork."
"Oh, thanks. And I bet the little lights aren't twinkling, either!"

"It's not my fault that you wouldn't play catch with your father!" ~ Field of Dreams

Terrence Mann (James Earl Jones) exclaims this line when Ray (Kevin Costner) tells him that reading Mann's book caused Ray to boycott playing baseball with his dad.

We like to use this, when someone is being used as a scapegoat.

EXAMPLE: "Great, Mom. You called, to chat and I didn't get any laundry done."
"Oh, please. It's not my fault that you wouldn't play catch with your father!"

Foam Hats ~ Dumb and Dumber

Okay, so this isn't a quotation. "Foam hats" refers to the scene in Dumb and Dumber, when Lloyd goes to the store, with the last of the duo's money. After being told to only buy necessities, it shows him walking with a bag of goodies and wearing a giant, foam, cowboy hat.

This is used, exclusively, between my husband and I, whenever he goes to the store and strays from both the budget and my list.

EXAMPLE: "Michael, why did you buy Reese's cups and a Mad Magazine??"
"Don't be mad! I only bought a few foam hats!!"



Many times, we have said these things in public, only to see people give each other questioning looks, like, "Isn't she a little old for a paper route?" "They don't sell foam hats here!" or "What does cooking dinner have to do with playing catch?" But, that's just us, my quirky family. I understand them and they understand me. I hope that you are enjoying reading about them.  I'll try to keep you entertained.  I may be just a disgruntled mom who started a blog, but I am hoping to get a lot of followers and then maybe even a book deal.

'Cause that's when the big bucks start rollin' in!

It takes a village...

Once upon a time, a little boy was born. He was a happy boy. He giggled and cooed. He was a bit precocious. He liked to run and to climb and to explore. He gave his mom hugs and promised to buy her "coffee drinks" and "pretty dresses," when he grew up. He shared cookies with his granddad, who lived with his family, and watched "Old Yeller" over and over again. He was a happy boy.


The little boy grew. He went to school, and he made friends. He became an altar boy, a job that he took very seriously. He played Little League and his coaches and teammates called him "Smiles" for obvious reasons. He tried to find ways to embarrass his teenage sister, as little brothers do. He became an idol and role model to his little sister, as big brothers do. He liked to make his sisters laugh, doing celebrity impressions and reenacting his favorite parts of movies. His family swore that he would grow up to be a comedian. He was a happy boy.


Then, one day, the boy started high school. He made the golf team as a Freshman and that made him very happy. But then, his grades began to slip, and he was no longer able to participate on the golf team. He stopped making his family laugh, he stopped smiling, and he became withdrawn and angry. He was a sad boy.


When his older sister came home from college, one Thanksgiving, she discovered, through a friend, that her brother had been targeted by bullies. Apparently, when the boy made the golf team, he took the position previously held by a Junior. This Junior and a few of his friends, cornered the boy daily. They had been humiliating and torturing the boy since the beginning of the school year. When the abuse resulted in the low grades that cost the boy his position on the golf team, they turned to psychological warfare. They called him "stupid," and "worthless." He was a very sad boy.


When his parents began alerting the authorities, the school, and their Church about what was happening, life changed dramatically. One bully was expelled, but the others were given a slap on the wrist. When the boy's father asked the principal why the other bullies were not punished as severely, she replied, "Well, their parents are upstanding members of our community and their support is valuable to Delone Catholic High School."

The boy changed schools.

The boy's Parish priest was confronted about the church's intramural basketball team, that the boy played on, because one of the bullies was also on the team. The priest, like the principal, referred to the bully's family as an influential benefactor to the Parish.

The boy and his family stopped going to Church.

Friends that the boy's family had had for years, stopped visiting. They were supporters of the Church and the school, and did not understand why the boy's family needed to rock the boat. Instead of supporting the boy's bravery, members of the community began condemn him for challenging the perfect world in which they all lived. The boy's parents began to argue. They argued over how everything could have been prevented. They argued over treatment of the boy.

The boy's parents divorced.

When the boy graduated high school, he moved away. His visits home became more and more sparse, and then they stopped all together. He said that his home was no longer his home. He said that the town he had grown up in was never supportive of him. Everything was a reminder of his past.

It has been said, that it takes a village to raise a child. While that may be true, it can also be said that it can take a village to destroy a child. In fact, a village has enough power to destroy a family.

It has been a little over ten years since the episodes of abuse that my brother endured at Delone Catholic High School. I don't think that any of those who are familiar with what happened, know of the lasting effects it had on our family. My brother was a victim, yet he was never treated as such. The loyalties to the town's only Catholic high school in our area, are disturbing. They are loyalties that are stronger than morals, friendships, and the love for a child. Our family crumbled, yet the school, and the community, still stand, proudly, full of hypocrisy and greed.


Saturday was my brothers birthday. He turned 26 years old. I haven't seen him in over two years. His nephews are growing up without him. I miss him everyday. He was such a happy boy.

The Great Outdoors....

You would never call me "one with nature." I am not a fan of the outdoors. I don't mean the "outside." Give me the sun, some sand, and the ocean any day. I mean the "outdoors"... as in tall grass, lots of trees, creepy crawlies, and wild animals that require traps to be set.

I will never own a cabin.

I will never live somewhere in which a view of the road is blocked by trees.

You will never, ever, hear me say, "Yeah, Michael and I are packing up our sleeping bags and taking the boys camping this weekend."

Fortunately, I married a man who shares my opinions. If he can't plug in the charger to his Nintendo DS and I can't plug in my hair dryer, we aren't going.

I am writing this while on our summer vacation with my husband, my boys, my mom, and my stepdad, Jim. My mom and Jim treated us to two weeks in a lake house at Deep Creek Lake. This is the third time we've been to the lake and we love it. The house is gorgeous - air conditioning, floor to ceiling windows, remote control fireplace, dishwasher, washer/dryer, an outdoor hot tub, and two bathrooms. My husband and I were discussing the other day how Deep Creek Lake is as close as we get to "roughing it." And by roughing it, I mean we have to walk in grass that hits just above our ankles to get to the dock and we have to wear swim shoes, because the bottom of the lake is muddy and rocky.

We are not snobs; we are too poor to be snobs. We just think that God gave us mattresses, air conditioning, and running water for a reason and we should take advantage of it.

That's not to say that I am an anti-environmentalist. I love our planet and I do what I can to save it. I recycle, I turn the water off while I brush my teeth, and I do... other stuff. I appreciate nature, even if I don't like being in it.

Last night, after my mom and Jim went to bed and the boys fell asleep, Michael and I took the baby monitor and some iced tea, and headed out to the hot tub. As the warm bubbles surrounded us and the multiple jets massaged our backs, we sat back and observed the outdoors in all it's glory. The cool wind blowing through our hair, the chirping of the evening bugs, the smell of the lake a few feet away, and the clear sky, lit up with stars, was all quite breathtaking.

"Wow," Michael said, "This is just gorgeous."

I took a deep relaxing breath, closed my eyes, and agreed.

About three minutes later, I opened my eyes.

"Michael, I'm kind of hot. Let's go back in to the air conditioning."

"Oh, good," he said, clearing the side of the hot tub in one leap, to the deck. "I was hoping you'd say that. Let's go watch some T.V."

*sigh* We're soulmates I tell ya.

Time to meet my elephant...

It's been said that when there is an elephant in the room, you should introduce it. For those of you reading my blog, you know that I have mentioned Noonan Syndrome and I am sure many of you have no idea what I am talking about. Since I wanted you to get to know us first, I have chosen to delay telling our story. But I think it's time.

When Henry was six weeks old, we found out that he has Pulmonary Valvular Stenosis (PVS). We came home from the Cardiologist and as I tried to explain to my mom what was wrong with her grandson, I realized that I couldn't. When the doctor spoke with Michael and I, all I heard was, "Congenital heart defect," and after that it just seemed like static in my ears. So I turned to my friend, Google for assistance. As I attempted to sort through reliable medical websites, I noticed that "Noonan Syndrome" was often listed as a factor regarding PVS. Curiosity got the best of me and I clicked a link, since I had never heard of Noonan Syndrome. What I began to read was a bit overwhelming.

- Delayed puberty (I got my period at 17, and went from a B to a C cup, naturally, at 21.)
- Short stature (I'm barely 5'.)
- Large, widely spaced eyes (Umm... have you met me?)

As the list went on and as I read it aloud, I began to have an odd feeling in my stomach. When I finished, my mom and I spoke at the same time.
Mom: "That sounds like you!"
Me: "This sounds like me!"


I became convinced that I had this genetic condition and had passed it on to Henry and possibly to Jack. My husband was skeptical and tried to tell me that I was crazy. But after I made him read the information that I had printed, even he became nervous. In August of 2008, the boys had a joint doctor's visit - Jack for his three year check-up and Henry for his six month. It was at that visit that we found out that Jackson had dropped off of the height chart. I brought up Noonan's to the pediatrician. I'll never forget the look on her face. It wasn't doubt. It was as if she, too, had a moment of clarity. She set up the blood work for the boys. Genetic testing takes five weeks. It was a L-O-N-G five weeks. The call finally came in one September morning.

"Mrs. Corbin, there was a mix up at the lab. You're going to have to bring the boys back in, to be retested."

Nice.

Fast forward ANOTHER five weeks. I still remember it; I was in the kitchen making fettuccine alfredo. Michael was on his way home from work and it was almost 6:00pm. The phone rang.

"Mrs. Corbin, how are you? Sorry to call at this time. Are you in the middle of dinner? Oh, what are you making? That sounds good!"

(Let me give you all a bit of information that I have learned from experience. When a doctor calls you and makes small talk, it's bad news. Good news, they'll tell you right away. Bad news, they like to butter you up.)

On that night, October 23, 2008, we learned that Jackson and Henry, both, have a mutation in the PTPN11 gene - Noonan Syndrome.

So... yeah, thank God for Google.

I went for my blood work the next day. Five weeks later was the Monday after Thanksgiving and the doctor called.

"Mrs. Corbin, how was your holiday? Did you cook, or did you visit relatives?"

Uh-oh.

That was probably the weirdest phone call I had ever received. It's not every day that you find out at age 30, that you have a genetic condition. A genetic condition that is defined by subnormal development and abnormal facial features. I hung up and spent forty-five minutes staring at myself in the mirror, because all of a sudden, I looked like a different person. Geez, after that phone call, I became a different person. This was all supposed to be a hunch - a crazy Internet hunch. And now my boys and myself had a medical condition that we didn't know anything about. I called my mom.

"Mom, I have the gene mutation, too. I have Noonan Syndrome. It was me that gave it to the boys. All three of us have to go to a geneticist at Johns Hopkins, as soon as possible, to be evaluated. I ..."

"--Anna," My mom interrupted, sobbing. "I need to get off the phone for a minute. I just found out that my child has Noonan Syndrome and this is a little hard for me, too."

That moment was when it all became very real. This was really happening and it was going to change our lives.

After going to the geneticist, we got a better handle of what we are dealing with. More testing needed to be done, because Noonan's affects the development of everything - including organs. As it turns out, the boys have numerous health issues as a result of NS. Some that could potentially be life threatening and others that are not as serious.

Emotionally, it was difficult at first. It was hard enough learning at 30 that I've had a genetic condition since birth. But, the fact that I had passed it on to my children? That was the worst feeling in the world. I had a rough couple of months.

I felt sad that this was happening to our family.

I felt angry at all of the kids on the playground when I was a child, who had ever said, "Hey, Shorty - what's wrong with you? Why are you so short? Are you a midget?"

I felt guilty because although I have the same condition, I have had a relatively healthy life and yet my boys have so many problems.

Slowly, as I saw how brave my boys are and how they just eased into the lifestyle of children with NS, my bad feelings faded. Noonan Syndrome is something we have, not who we are. I have not had all of the required testing, to determine if I have any of the health issues relating to Noonan Syndrome. I have chosen to focus on the boys, first. They have a great team of doctors at Johns Hopkins, from Cardiology, Hematology, Genetics, and Endocrinology. They are in good hands.  We are learning how to deal with all the issues that they have and all of the issues that they may develop.

I am much more at peace with our situation. God doesn't give you anything that you can't handle. (He must think I am something else!) It's been a year and a half since our diagnosis. I tease my husband, because he is the minority in our house. I have a spontaneous mutation of the PTPN11 gene and had a 50% chance of passing it on to my children. Instead, both of my children inherited it. With Michael's love and my mom's guidance, I have stopped looking at myself as "damaged goods" - which is what I called myself for awhile. I know that these things happen, and they happen for a reason. My boys are awesome. I'm not sure if they know that they have NS or not, but they definitely know that they go to the doctor a lot. And it doesn't even faze them. The Noonan Syndrome Support Group has been wonderful. I can't even begin to describe the comfort of knowing that you are not alone.

My husband and I discovered something, after contacting other families affected by Noonan's, seeing photos of their children, and looking at our boys. Each case of NS is different, but thing is clear: Noonan Syndrome makes for some beautiful babies! Seriously, BEAUTIFUL babies. We can't believe that medical journals would say that these children have "abnormal facial features." In fact, we often wonder, if our boys didn't have Noonan's would they have been as cute??

So, that is our elephant. I am the mother in a family of four and three of us have a rare genetic condition. But I am okay and my boys are okay. If and when the day comes when one of us is not okay, we will be prepared to deal with it. For now, my job is to keep my boys as happy and as healthy as possible. And to make sure they never feel insecure or "different." Fortunately for them, they will always have each other and myself to turn to, as they deal with the many issues that this condition presents. And in our house, at least, "different" happens to be the norm!

We have a ritual that we perform every morning. The boys get dressed, and then look in the mirror, and I say, "Well, how do you look?" Jackson says, "Handsome!" and Henry says, "Pretty!" and I say, "Absolutely." As I watch them walk, confidently, out of their room, I know that they believe what they have said. They believe it, because it's true. They are two pretty handsome boys and they are amazing.

Wishing for Ward...

When I started dating my husband, I made myself clear: I did not need special treatment as a woman. I was strong-willed, my own person and I could open my own doors. I wish I could go back to that independent twenty-one year old girl that I was and smack her upside her head.

Little did I know that there would come a day when I would learn that it is a little difficult to open my own door while eight months pregnant, with a two year old on my hip, and my arms filled with a diaper bag, a boobah, and a cup of Cheerios. I also didn't know that when put in that situation, the sight of my husband strolling leisurely to the car (empty handed) would have me teetering on the edge of divorce.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, women's lib is awesome, but it has taken all of the enjoyment out of the role of a stay at home mom (SAHM to my fellow Facebookers and Bloggers).

Don't get me wrong, I still see myself as an equal. But, what is "equal?" Women are expected to be superheroes. Back when it was acceptable and common to stay home, and raise your own children, THAT was your job. Now that SAHMs are the minority, it's as if we have to work overtime to prove ourselves.

June Cleaver can bite me.

Of course, she could perform all of her duties wearing pearls, with perfectly coiffed hair, in high heels. All June had to do was cook, clean, and occasionally remove Beaver's hand from a jar. Ward did the heavy work. I cook, clean, take care of the boys, refinish furniture, repair appliances, paint baseboards, fix doorknobs, do yard work, and handle our household finances. And then I feel guilty because I only have time to shave my legs a few times a month.

In my husband's defense, he's not useless (necessarily). I choose to over work myself. I feel guilty that the burden of supporting our family lies with him. We live in a society where men and women are both supposed to fulfill the financial responsibilities of a household. Our society makes me feel as though I need to overcompensate by taking on many jobs of the home. I find it interesting that now that the role of full time mom has become so much more difficult, there are less moms doing it. Things were easy for June. She could make friends, because all of the women in her neighborhood were SAHMs, too. I have trouble finding peer interaction for myself or my sons, because I know of few mothers who are home during the day like I am. June was respected in her community, just because she was a devoted wife and a good mother. When I go to parties and state my "profession," the other moms give me a look of pity and say, "Oh, well, the boys will be in school before you know it, and you can go back to work." Ummm.... I really don't want to rush my children's childhoods, but thanks. Even running errands was simpler in the Fifties. All June had to do was throw Wally and the Beav into the back of the family's Ford Fairlane and be on their way. When I take my boys to the grocery store, I have to budget a half hour of time just to get them in and out of their state required car seats.

I do love my job. I love that I will remember every moment of my boys' lives. I guess I just long for a simpler time, when it was good enough for a woman to "just" be a wife and mother. I wish that a successful day for me would be to have the dishes done, the living room vacuumed, and dinner on the table, all while looking fabulous. So, I suppose my animosity toward Mrs. Cleaver stems from the fact that I envy her. I may have once been a feminist, but now I guess, I am just a mom, who wants to be June Cleaver... except for the heels. I hate high heels.

Generic Wisdom....

Today, I think I'll try something new and share some words of wisdom that I have learned, living these last few years on a tight budget. Before I quit working, we lived in a name brand world. When we started living on one income and the boys' medical bills began pouring in, we learned that we needed to make some changes. In order to adapt to our new frugal lifestyle, we began experimenting with generic products. We quickly learned that while there are some things that are worth the savings, there are other things that are definitely NOT worth the sacrifice. There are good generic products, and bad generic products. Please, use my knowledge, based on years of trial and error, and save yourself some trouble, in case you ever find yourself in the riches to rags situation, as we did.

THE BEST:
1. Instant Oatmeal: I don't eat oatmeal, but my kids love it. What's even better is that they prefer the generic brands. I haven't figured out the reason, but they really don't like Quaker Oats Instant Oatmeal. Considering that the price difference between generic oatmeal and Quaker oatmeal is over $2.00 a box, I'm not complaining.
2. Contact Solution: My husband and I both wear contacts. Once we discovered that a DOUBLE pack of Equate Multipurpose Solution is less than one box of B & L Multipurpose Solution, we have never looked back. My optometrist told me that B & L is better for your eyes, but I think she's on their payroll.
3. Cleaning Products: As Clint Eastwood said in Million Dollar Baby, "Bleach is bleach." And I don't know anyone who wants to argue with Clint Eastwood.
4. Candles: Ya'll can keep your Yankee Candles. Dollar Store candles mask the smell of baby poop as well as anything. I don't need to spend $30.00 to make my house smell like Sugar Cookies. I can do that by baking a batch for a couple of dollars.
5. Chili: You have heard it here first - GREAT VALUE (Walmart) CHILI WITH NO BEANS = BEST CHILI EVER!! I am not kidding.... spread this heavenly goodness over your hot dog, and your taste buds will thank me. I've served this at countless cookouts and my guests always beg me for the recipe. You can even mix it will melted cheese, for an amazing nacho dip. At $1.07 a can, it's as much a treat to your wallet as it is to your belly!!

THE WORST:
1. Cereal: Generic cereal is just plain awful. If you are unable to afford name brand cereal, perhaps instead of spending money on generic, you could go out to the street, gather some gravel, roll it in sugar, and pour some milk over it. The taste and texture would be about the same. Budget or not, we buy Honeycombs and Cheerios. Sure, the cost is a bit extravagant, but we feel we are saving money by not having to pay dental bills for cracked or broken teeth.
2. Cotton Swabs: If you have never cleaned your ears with generic cotton swabs, I DO NOT recommend trying them. In addition to only a thin layer of cotton protecting your tympanic membrane from the plastic stick, you risk causing permanent damage while using tweezers to remove the remnants of cotton left behind in your ear canal. If you value your hearing, trust me... Q-tips or nothing!
3. Soda: I hate any form of generic "cola." There is no substitute for Coke or Pepsi. Period.
4. Toilet Paper: Using generic toilet paper is like using 20 grit sandpaper on your most sensitive of areas. I have given birth to two children and have had hernia surgery in the last four years. I have enough trouble using the bathroom. I would face a foreclosure of my home before I'd give up my Quilted Northern.
5. Toothpaste: I'm not saying that generic toothpaste doesn't work, but it tastes like a mouthful of baking soda. If Crest or Aquafresh is not in your budget, you would be better off really saving money and using, well, a mouthful of baking soda.

There you have it. A guide to the best and worst generic products. You might agree or disagree, but these are the basic guidelines we follow at the grocery store. I could elaborate further, but it's time for lunch. And for some reason, I am really in the mood for a chili dog.

This little light of mine...

Sometimes, all we need is something small to remind us that we are not alone. Sometimes, the tiniest thing can serve as a sign that everything will be okay. And sometimes, you can find all that you need in own your backyard.

Last summer, the boys had orchiopexy surgery at the same time. As usual, the simple procedure required an overnight stay at Johns Hopkins to receive IV medicine that helps their blood to clot. Henry went through surgery and recovery with flying colors. Jackson did not fare so well. He was three at the time and did not like the hospital experience. He hated the IV and the fact that he couldn't get out of the hospital bed, and he just wanted to go home. The next day, when we brought the boys home, my mom came over to give us a hand. (For the record, I do not recommend having your one and three year olds go through surgery at the same time - it's exhausting!)

Within an hour of arriving home, Jackson started vomiting. A call to the pediatrician confirmed that Jackson's anxiety triggered Cyclic Vomiting had returned. The doctor told us to give him Pedialyte, and try to get his spirits up. We tried everything to make him happy and nothing worked. He was weak, lethargic, and vomiting every half hour. We were all very frustrated, over whelmed, and felt as though we were out of options. I had almost reached my breaking point. After eight hours, we decided that we should probably head to an ER, because dehydration seemed inevitable. At that point, he couldn't even walk himself to the bathroom. My mom went outside to get some fresh air and immediately ran back inside the house. She yelled for us to come outside and to bring Jackson. Michael carried out pale, practically lifeless, little boy to the backyard and what we saw took our breath away.

Our yard was filled with lightning bugs (fireflies, to Yankees). Actually, "filled" doesn't do it justice. It was as if there was a lightning bug resting on each blade of grass in our lawn. Our tiny yard had more blinking lights than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It was one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever seen.

I should mention that lightning bugs are Jackson's favorite. He watched the extraordinary light show that nature was putting on behind our house, for a few minutes. Then, he slowly slid out of Michael's arms and began running to them. As he ran, those beautiful blinking creatures swarmed his body and circled his head like a halo. It wasn't long before the glowing vision was accompanied by the equally gorgeous melody of Jackson's giggles. As he danced among the lightning bugs, we began to see his spirit renewed. When he grew tired, he ran over to me and said the words that I had longed to hear all day:

"Mommy, I'm hungry."

That was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. To my mom, my husband, and I, it was something that we shared that can never be duplicated. It was an isolated moment of divine intervention, that will remain with me forever. Sometimes, I need to remind myself of that night... of a time when I felt so helpless and something so simple, brought me so much peace. I have always been spiritual and I try to never doubt my faith. Witnessing an obvious sign from above made me reflect the simple things and how grateful I am to have so much faith and love in my life.

Spring is once again upon us. The other night, I happened to see three or four flickering lights buzzing around my front door. And with each flash, I said a silent prayer of thanks.


"If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because, if it isn't there, then I never really lost it to begin with."
- Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz

Nothing wrong with a little competition...

My parents always taught me to not be a sore loser. The way that they instilled this lesson was to teach me to always try to win... always. I come from a very competitive family and we love to win. This has turned me into what my husband calls "a sore winner." I not only love to win, but I enjoy winning LOUDLY. I've been losing friends playing board games, since I was five years old. I'm frequently accused of "taunting" and "being obnoxious."

But, like I always say, if you don't like to lose, you probably shouldn't play games against me.

All of this stems from my mom and dad teaching me from an early age how to lose. My dad never threw a game of Candyland in my favor. But I learned to try. Playing catch for the first time with a real baseball when I was seven, resulted in the only black eye I have ever had. But I learned to keep my glove up when Dad threw his fastball. My youth group had a "Mother's Night" when I was a teenager. We played an ice-breaker game called, "Birdie on a Perch" ("Musical Chairs" with people). My own mom knocked me to the floor to reach her partner first. But I learned to not let ANYONE get in my way. : )

I should clarify that I am by no means an athlete. I am not the best at sports. (Except Wiffle Ball - I will beat you down at Wiffle Ball!) That doesn't mean that I don't play, when given the chance. That doesn't mean that I don't try my best. And that doesn't mean that I don't exhaust all efforts necessary to win, despite my lack of ability. It's not that I think winning is super important. I just like the feeling that I get when I win. It feels good... it feels really good.

This is why I have such a problem with children's sports. In our area, youth soccer and little league teams don't keep score. That doesn't even make sense to me. Why play a game if there's no winner at the end? What is that teaching our children? I can tell you what it's NOT teaching them. It's not teaching them to try their best to achieve a goal. It's not teaching them sportsmanship, because they never have to congratulate or feel empathy for the other team. Most importantly, it's not teaching them how to lose.

As I said, I am not a sore loser. I know this because I have lost many times. I don't like to lose, which is why I try so hard to win. Our children need to be taught how to lose. A child who thinks he can never lose develops a false sense of entitlement. They don't have the desire achieve, because there's no reason for it. I can't help but think that there is a direct correlation between Generation Y's "slacker" reputation and the fact that competition (and, therefore, ambition) is no longer taught. Winning isn't everything, but the truth is that life is one big competition. Not everyone gets into college. Not everyone gets the promotion at work. Not everyone can run the beer pong table, winning every game for four hours straight, the first time she ever plays. *clears throat arrogantly*

In our house, we thrive on competition. We keep a tally of who guesses correctly during the "Head, Gut, or Groin" segment of "America's Funniest Videos." Jackson does a victory dance when he beats his dad and I at Yahtzee (fair and square, I might add). My husband and I throw elbows to get to the sink, first, to brush our teeth at bedtime. My boys will need ambition as they get older. Being different, they will have to deal with bullies. Being small, they will have to struggle to be heard. Being sickly, they will have to fight for their health. It is my job to teach them to compete, to teach them to reach for their goals, and to teach them to get back up and to try again. They will be a force to be reckoned with.

The other night, Henry, my two year old, was randomly pushing buttons on his brother's Nintendo DS. The battery died and the screen went black. Henry raised his fist triumphantly, smiled, and shouted, "I win!!"

I was so proud.

Just like Mommy...

As the mother of little boys, modesty and privacy are two things that I rarely experience. If I take my chance to enter the bathroom, alone, it's not long before four little sets of fingers begin reaching through the gap at the bottom of the door.

"Mommy, what are you doing?"
"I'm thirsty."
"Are you pooping?"
"Can I have a cookie?"
"Are you almost done?"

My quiet time finally comes when my husband gets home. While he occupies the kids, I take my nightly bubble bath. I soak in the hot water with a washcloth over my face and I forget that there is anyone else in the world.

For a few minutes, at least.

During one of my bubble baths, Jackson tapped impatiently on the door.

"Mommy, I have to go to the potty."

Oh well, I was about to get out anyway. I pulled the plug, wrapped a towel around myself, and opened the door. Jackson sat on the potty doing his business while I tried to discreetly get dressed. Jack sighed, dreamily.

"Mommy, I can't wait until I grow up and get big boobs, like yours."

I stifled a giggle and told him that I am girl and he is a boy. Girls get boobs; boys don't.

He was not convinced.

"Well, Daddy's a boy and he has boobs."

This time, I giggled out loud.

"Oh, Jack, he does not."

"Yes, he does," he replied. "I've seen him get out of the shower. He's really got boobs."

I took great pleasure in relaying the story to Michael, who was not amused and fiercely defended his man boobs.

"It's muscle," he insisted.

Again, I stifled a giggle.

When I was young, I dreamed of having little girls. Little girls who would want to be like me and play Barbies, wear makeup, and let me curl their hair. I grew up to have little boys, who wrestle, put worms in their pockets, and..... want boobs like mine.

Henry got into the boys' art kit, the other day, and strategically blotted a stamp on each of his cheeks. "Mack-ut!" he proudly proclaimed. (translation: "Make-up!")

I spend a lot of time with my boys, so it's no wonder that they want to be like me. I know it won't last long. Someday, I will be begging them to spend time with me, instead of begging for privacy.

It's only a matter of time before they want to be like their dad and they won't need me anymore. There is a special bond between fathers and sons, one that is similar to the bond between mothers and daughters... one that I will never get to experience with my children. My husband will get to do the important things with our boys. He'll get to teach them how to shave, how to tie a tie, how to pick up girls, how to work on their pecs....

Okay, nevermind... maybe they'll still need me, a little.

Nothing to be ashamed of....

A few weeks ago, while we had company, our telephone rang. I peeked at the Caller ID and hit a button to silence the ring. Jackson, in an effort to impress our guests, gave an exasperated sigh, rolled his eyes and said, "Probably just a bill collector."

Clearly, we need to teach my four year old about proper dinner conversation.

Our visitors just pretended that he hadn't said anything and my husband and I happily ignored him, as well. Before my readers begin sending me messages about debt consolidation or money management programs, let me stress that "bill collectors" do not call our house regularly. As those of you with children know, you can say something ONE time in front of your child and they will inevitably repeat it, at the most inopportune time.

That being said, this blog ain't called "Coasting in on Fumes" for nothing.

Yes, Jack has heard us say the phrase he repeated. I am not ashamed of that. I don't want pity or advice and I definitely don't want to be judged. What I do want, is for people to understand the choices and life situations that are made by families such as my own.

My boys have Noonan Syndrome. As a result, they both also have Von Willebrand Disease, which means that their blood doesn't clot properly. Last September, Henry had a GI bleed. I discovered this when he awoke from his nap with a diaper full of blood. We took him to York Hospital's ER and they discovered his blood count was dangerously low. We were rushed to John Hopkins by ambulance, because York Hospital felt he needed the best care possible. When we arrived at Johns Hopkins, we were informed that they did not have the time to find the source of the bleed. All they knew was that if he did not receive a blood transfusion within an hour, his heart (which was at 214 BPM) was going to give out.

After the transfusion, a million tests, and three days in the PICU, they discovered that a Meckel's Diverticulum (very rare) had ruptured in his stomach. Since Henry's blood doesn't clot, it had put him in a life threatening situation. He had surgery, which required more platelets and more monitoring. I spent ten days with Henry at Johns Hopkins Hospital throughout the ordeal. Words cannot begin to describe what it was like. It was easily the worst ten days of my life.

I can honestly say that we did not bother to pay any bills or even look at our checkbook during the ten days in which we wondered if our son would live or die. In addition, Michael had limited vacation time, so he had to take four days off with no pay. Yes, bill collectors began calling our house. I am not ashamed of that. For those of you who have never had the experience of an unexpected, extended hospital stay, insurance does not cover late night trips to the vending machines. It does not cover gas money to get home to check on your four year old, who doesn't know where his brother is. And it most definitely does not cover the $25 that you have to spend at the hospital gift shop to buy an outfit to take your baby home in, because the only clothes he has at the hospital are soaked with ten day old blood.

It's been seven months since we almost lost Henry. The physical, emotional, and financial scars are still there. We are coping. We are dealing with what comes at us, as it comes at us. Jackson makes inappropriate announcements because we teach our boys to not be ashamed of who we are, what we go through, or what we have. If people want to judge our lifestyle or how we manage our money, that is their problem, not ours.

When we left the hospital on the day Henry was released, he was back on a normal diet. After a seven day liquid diet, he had had three days of hospital food. I also knew that the veins in both of his feet and both of his hands had collapsed under the strain of the five different IVs he had. Because of that, his last four blood draws in the hospital had been taken from his head. And I knew that if there was ever a child that deserved a treat of McDonald's french fries and a Coke - it was him. Despite the money problems I knew we were going home to, I counted out the change in the console of my car and went through the drive thru for my brave boy before we got home.

And I am not ashamed of that.

"I had it first..."

I hear these words at least one hundred times a day. They are usually preceded by a four syllable version of "Mom," followed by either tears or an act of violence.

"Mo-oo-oo-om!! I had it first!"

I hate these words.

The best part is that the "it" in question is usually nothing of importance. I've seen my kids come to blows over a piece of aluminum foil that one of them got out of the trash. True story.

I make an effort to teach the boys that it does not matter who had it first, what matters is how they resolve the conflict. After all, more often than not once one stops showing an interest, the other does too. In my house, I do not care who "had it first." I have one rule: No fighting. Period. If an argument occurs, the toy gets taken from both boys. Unless, of course, one boy gets injured. In that case, the injured party gets the toy and the injure-er gets the corner.

I wish more parents did this. Unfortunately, the emphasis most parents put on such trivialities tend to perpetuate the aggression, causing a vicious cycle. Many parents feel that who had it first is not only vital information, but an easy solution to any disagreement.

EXAMPLE (as witnessed by me, at a recent gathering):

We'll call the children "A" and "B" to protect the guilty.

A takes a toy from B.
B slugs A in the stomach, very hard.
A crumples to the floor in tears.
"Mom": "What happened?"
A: "B punched me in the stomach!"
B: "Because A took my toy!"
His mothers response?
"Who had it first?"

After deciding that if A hadn't taken B's toy, he'd have never punched his brother in the stomach, "Mom" hands the toy to B, steps over A (still laying on the floor, probably suffering from internal injuries) and walks away, pleased that the fight is over for now.

At that point, I wanted to slug their mother in the stomach.

These are the same people who, as adults, can be overheard saying, "Did you see how she decorated her porch with hanging geraniums? She knew I hung my geraniums first!"

Ugh.

As for myself, I will continue to teach my boys that who had it first is not important. Sharing is important. Wanting another person to be happy is important. Not causing your brother to have a concussion over a Trick or Treat pumpkin in March is important. I am a person who just doesn't care. I allow someone to cut in front of me in line at the grocery store if they have two items and I have a full cart. When they ask, I don't say, "Well, I'd like to help, but I had this place in line first."

I hope that one day my children will understand these lessons and philosophies that I am trying to teach them. I hope that they will have respect for others. I hope that they will never use violence to retaliate against another. I hope that they will learn to not covet what others have in the first place. And I hope above all, that they begin to understand that having something first is not all it's cracked up to be.

Of course, when they are older, I will have to explain that there are exceptions to every rule and that yes, every once in awhile, it should matter who had it first. Just ask the American Indians.

Ode to Mimi....

My family has been watching the series "Life" on the Discovery Channel. The more I have watched, the more I can relate to those animals whose lives and behaviors have been captured so beautifully on film. No matter the species, the theme of motherhood is universal.

I was moved to tears watching the strawberry poison dart frog, the size of a postage stamp, carry each one of her tadpoles one by one up a one hundred foot tree to safety.

I was mesmerized by the octopus, who after laying her eggs, settled in to protect them for the rest of her life. Keeping a constant vigil on her babies, she eventually starves to death.

Perhaps I most identified with the young elephant who had just given birth. When her baby became stuck in a mud pit, she tried unsuccessfully to save him. Just when it seemed that all hope was lost, her mother became frustrated and knocked the young mother out of the way with her trunk. Then she effortlessly rescued her grandchild from the treacherous mud pit.

With the exception of a brief rebellious period, I have always been close to my mother. Our bond became stronger when I became a mother myself. She has been a hands-on grandmother (lovingly called "Mimi" by my boys) since day one. When I went into labor with my first child and realized what horrible, excruciating, agony I was about to endure, I attempted to get into the bathtub, as suggested in our prenatal classes. Unable to even lift my leg over the side of the tub, I laid down on the bathroom floor. I yelled to my husband through clenched teeth, "CALL MY MOTHER!!"

I still have the memory of her, walking down my hallway, swinging her metaphorical trunk, knocking Michael out of the way to pick me up off of the floor.  I remember her calling out, "Okay Michael, if you are going to take her to the hospital, she's going to need some clothes!!"

Now that I am up to my neck in the mud pit of parenthood, my mom isn't trying to pull me out. She doesn't need to... I am happy here. Instead, like the devoted octopus, she has opted to jump in with us. There have been times when she has shown up at our door with the milk and bread that we so desperately needed, overdrawing her own bank account in the process. She was by my side when my boys and I were diagnosed with Noonan Syndrome a year and a half ago. She has traveled with me to Johns Hopkins appointments for the boys more times than I can count. She held my hair when I threw up as my husband drove us home from my hernia surgery a few months ago. And, she'll be there tomorrow, when I call to tell her I have made another blog entry. (She was my first follower.)

I consider myself very fortunate. I am fortunate just to still have my mom, but I am most fortunate to appreciate her and to already value the time I spend with her. Although I can't imagine life without her, I know that day may come. So I attempt to incorporate the lessons that she has taught me into the way that I parent my boys.

As I struggle to carry my boys safely up the tree of life, I know that my mom is behind me to give me a nudge when I slip. And knowing that she is there makes the climb so much easier to make.

Unbroken vows....

Today was not one of the boys' better days. Nothing was easy. They didn't want to get dressed for Easter Mass. Henry decided to go on a hunger strike... ALL DAY.  Jackson threw tantrum after tantrum. The two of them fought from the time they woke up this morning.  It was not a picture perfect Easter Sunday.

Bedtime turned out to be the biggest struggle of all.  When they were finally asleep, I crawled onto the couch, still grouchy over the day's events.  I kept thinking,
"What have we done wrong, to cause this behavior?"
"They aren't getting any Easter candy tomorrow."
"I need to come up with better punishments."

My mind was racing.

When Henry cried out about an hour later, I became even more aggravated.  I went into the boys' room, and picked him up to move him, so to not wake up Jack. But he stopped crying as soon as I lifted him. I stood as he lay on my shoulder and I swayed gently until he settled.  I laid him on his bed and he opened his eyes just slightly and said, "'Nugs??"

('''Nugs" is short for "snuggles" - how could I resist?)

I climbed into bed with Henry and he wrapped his chubby arms around my neck and I rubbed his back until he fell asleep. As I lay there, listening to the sound of his breathing while his damp curls tickled my nose, all of the anger and tension that I had been feeling went away.  I had scolded Henry at least one hundred times today.  But he wasn't upset; he didn't hold a grudge... he just needed my love.

It made me think of marriage vows.  You take the same vows when you become a parent, only they are stronger.  You don't stand in front of witnesses and proclaim them.  You don't use rings to symbolize them.  And you don't sign a license to prove them.  Those silent parental vows come from the depths of your soul.  You can't break them, because they only exist in your heart. It is a biological, emotional, and spiritual connection that is there for life.

I got up from Henry's bed and looked at Jackson, who was sleeping peacefully.  I felt guilty, because he did not get any "nugs" before bedtime - just a threat of no TV tomorrow.  So, I went to the edge of his bed, kissed his cheek, and whispered in his ear:

"Jackson Corbin, Mommy loves you. I love you for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

And sleeping soundly, he smiled.

Happy Easter, everyone!!