Four Things Nobody (Except Me) Tells You About Pregnancy

This is a pregnancy story, but not the kind that you usually hear. This is the cold, hard truth of some of the things I have experienced across 17 months (and counting) of growing 2 tiny humans from scratch.

If you are queasy, or just plain not interested in the inner workings of gestational 'glamour', or if you don't yet have children, but want to someday consider it, or if you quite frankly don't want to be scarred for life, LISTEN TO ME: turn away from this post. Do not read further, do not let your inquiring mind take over. No offense will be taken by me, and we can still be friends. Just. Stop. Reading. NOW!

For those of you still with me, whether to relive your own experience, you're a rebel who didn't heed my very clear warning, or you're just here to laugh at my life, let us proceed:

Recently, we have spent quite a lot of time at the hospital due to Baby Boy #2 being, well, a second child. We seem to be okay for now, but it has been made abundantly clear that we will not be making it within a month of our due date, if we even get that far. So, when your uterus is apparently not-up-to-par living standards for your child and they show their appreciation for months of puking and discomfort by trying to vacate the premises early, you find yourself watched very closely by a swarm of medical personnel. Again, we're mostly fine, and he's growing and we're really close to being at a medically acceptable time for him to arrive. It may mean a stay in the NICU, or some other twists and turns, but pregnancy revelation #1: babies do what they want, when they want.

Over the weekend, I had a surprise extended stay at the spa de' labor and delivery floor of our local hospital, who is in the midst of quite the baby boom (which, if this is their summer/fall conception group, can you imagine what their winter/spring births will look like after this quarantine?? Just saying...I know how long we've all had at home together recently). I was told by a nurse that as of the 15th, they had delivered 100 babies this month alone, and I personally heard 6 lullabies play (which is super cute - they play a lullaby over the hospital loud speaker every time a new baby is born) that same day. Baby Sloan #2 got himself in line and has so far avoided having his own lullaby played, which has been a relief.

Not a relief, however, is actually being IN the hospital. We had nothing but wonderful care and attention, but dare I say that I had a little too much attention. Pregnancy revelation #2: nobody tells you about these terms before you take the plunge and make a baby. Only once you're knocked up with cankles does the truth come out. Buckle up.

First of all, I'm someone who generally cares about my appearance and likes to be presentable most of the time. During my first labor, I was literally straightening my hair during contractions so I'd be photo ready later. Priorities. However, there's just not much that can be done with a one-size-fits-all pastel green hospital gown with, here's the kicker, NO back. Just 2 sad little shoelaces who have been tasked with keeping the tent closed, but only against your neck and mid back, because GOD FORBID strangers see those body parts. All the ones you would like covered in front of everyone except who you made a baby with, those are left up to your/your partner's underwear packing skills. Glamorous, right? Anywho, since I knew that we probably weren't going to have a photo shoot just yet, I tossed my hair in a bun, but left my giant sparkly earrings in all weekend, because I'm a classy broad.

Next, came the questioning. So many questions. Never in my life have I been asked so many times how my bodily gas levels were doing, and how often they were vacating my body. Is this a number I should be tracking? Because my top concern is how soon a PERSON is vacating my body, but sure, we can check in 22 times a day about gas. And, it's always asked in front of your partner, who, hello, I'm trying to keep the magic alive with in my backless frock and ogre hair and very sparkly earrings, and this apparently very important metric measuring isn't helping!

Speaking of checking, and this is where you REALLY need to stop if you don't care to know about childbirth, because pregnancy revelation #3 is this: it's all disgusting and demoralizing and you will have no pride, or no shame left.

There's something called a cervical check, and it's done about a million times, and it's worse than actual labor. While chatting with a trusted friend who has recently birthed a tiny human, I mentioned that not only are they terrible, but they are always insulting and why, and she specifically requested that I include my paragraph long text message to her in my next blog post. I'll be happy to forward your comments/concerns/therapy bills to her. Quick lesson that's important to the aforementioned paragraph if childbirth is new to you - one of the numbers you get assessed by is from 1 - 10. Babies are born at 10, and smaller numbers mean it's not time yet. Still with me?

How they assign this number is by manually feeling your cervix, which I'm no doctor, but by the feel of things, it seems to be located just under your eyeballs. Since it's not the best time for our baby to be born, a low number is a GOOD thing, but even when it is an appropriate time, you're always given an insulting number. Like, your medical staff's entire hand is halfway to your brain, WHILE you're having a contraction every 2 minutes, and they have the nerve to SMILE and tell you what a low number you're at and how far you have left to go. Seems like something that should be covered more elaborately in sex ed classes and perhaps we can cut that teen pregnancy rate while simultaneously giving our local labor and delivery staff a much needed break. But to be fair, the process DOES make you care a whole lot less about that butt-less mumu you're wearing. 

Next, there's the air boots. They go over the hideous-but-comfy gripper socks, and they alternate squeezing your leg like a blood pressure cuff every 15 seconds. All. Night. Long. With good reason, yes, as they prevent blood clots, which is just another item to add to your already miles long list of worries, and let me tell you - they are super attractive! Every night, the nurses sweetly tell you to get some rest, and then hook you into about 8 different contraptions that all light up, beep incessantly, squeeze, and administer medicine. Pregnancy revelation #4: there is no rest; ever. I legitimately slept better with a newborn than in any month of pregnancy or hospital stay in my life. Buy a good coffee pot and keep it close. Forget the swing and the stroller and the crib that converts until they go to college. You need diapers, wipes, food for baby, like 4 outfits, and caffeine. 

And speaking of sleeping at the hospital, I had it easy. I had a real bed that adjusted in every direction, while my 6'1 husband laid across a 4.5 foot long foldable couch that I'm guessing was repurposed from a grandmother's couch in the late 80s. A good partner (and I have the best) sacrifices sleep and comfort just like mom, and worries twice as much, because they are concerned for both of us. Find yourself a partner who loves you hard enough to do anything they can to help, and takes care of all of the million details so you don't have to. While you're at it, get yourself friends and family like ours who stepped in immediately, dropping everything, in the middle of a global pandemic, to make sure care for our child and dog and every other need was handled. We love you!

While I'm being serious, I know there are so many hopeful moms-and-dads-to-be out there who would gladly take every complaint I just tried to lay out in a funny-but-true manner, every single day if it meant getting their own tiny human. Please know that I see you, and care about your dreams, and in no way mean to diminish how thankful we are to get the opportunity (twice!) to bring a sweet baby into our family. We want that for you, too. 

And this concludes my speech on a glimpse into childbearing. Thank you for coming to my Ted talk. If you'd like further information on any of the following related topics, please reach out to me and I'll be happy to give every awful detail I have about:

- blowing 3 veins before getting an IV in

- shots that bleed through multiple bandages

- what a 'mucus plug' (they don't tell you about that one ahead of time!) is, and my newly acquired information that it can apparently regenerate over and over again, so the fun never stops. It's a Christmas miracle! 

Play Place PTSD

I consider our town a relatively small one (I said relatively, Ryan), and therefore, our entertainment options are limited. Especially for kids. There's the kid casino with a rat for a mascot (eww), or 3 fast food options with play places; 2 of which I refuse to support because of their anti-LGBT stance. The third, I refuse to eat at because their food is so gross that I can't even think about it without shuttering. 

So in winter in the frozen tundra where we reside, we don't have many chances to run off toddler energy outside of the house. By nature, I am a homebody and I'm really my happiest when I don't have to leave the comforts of my house. However, even I have my limits. 

Between the dreary weather, crippling pregnancy sickness, and the alley behind our home being an icy death trap for compact cars like mine, I realized today that except for a family outing last Friday, Clark and I haven't been out of the house in ten days. Because of this (and a coupon...which makes me feel even dirtier), I caved. Hard. 

I bundled us up, we braved the skating rink that is our parking lot, I prayed for the entire length of my alley that another car wouldn't appear and that I could keep our speed high enough to not get stuck, and as we made it to the freedom of a plowed and treated street, I compromised my morals. We drove to a fast food parking lot so crowded that I had to circle three times before finding a spot. 

We managed to make the trek inside, order, and miraculously found a seat. As our food arrived, Clark caught a glimpse of the play place and couldn't even concentrate on a selfie, which was mostly just to prove to the world that I was dressed WITH makeup on and out of the house - quite a feat when I've spent the majority of the last 2 weeks cleaning toilets while getting sick into them!

While I can't name the scene of the crime, I can tell you that thanks to my husband, our four year old can rap every word of a Kanye song about said establishment. I know this because between every bite, our child loudly recited it. So proud. 

After his lunch was eaten, Clark made it to the promised land: the play place. Y'all, I was not prepared for what awaited me in there. 

For starters, they somehow managed to pack 800 children into 20 square feet of plastic play space. Yet somehow, I was one of two parents present. Was there some sort of drop off system that I missed where I can pay extra and leave? Because I would definitely pay more for that! I considered the odds of it being a Duggar situation and all of those children really belonging to one family, but there was so. much. screaming! I've seen the Duggars - they have some serious issues, but those kids are in line!

Looking around, I realized that parents much smarter than I were out in the restaurant area, peacefully eating their meal while their kids competed in the toddler hunger games. Only instead of winning riches, the victor gets to bathe in hand sanitizer and maybe avoid an antibiotic resistant strain of strep throat. May the odds be ever in your favor, Clarkie! 

As he happily clamored through the plastic petri dish and more parents dropped off their children, I noticed that literally each of them had 3 or more kids with them. And the parents were all at least 10 years younger than me. How do all of these 17 year olds (don't do the math, just trust me on this one) have 3+ children?! And why are they all screaming and trying to climb up the slide? And how are all the parents so nonchalant and calm when it's an underground preschool fight club in here?

Parenting is hard, and I try my very best to not judge other parents, but after what I survived today, that's a difficult task. These kids need less sugar, more Jesus, and a uniformed correctional officer with a taser!

Diary of a SAHM: Week 1

I have officially been a stay-at-home parent for 8 days, and so far, everyone is surviving, which is priority #1. So, I'm rocking it. 

Clark has been great, but Cletus the Fetus #2 has been a typical 2nd child and has caused me to spend roughly 83% of my time at home puking my pregnant brains out. Glamorous, I know. But, I can now confirm my previous hunch that being sick and miserable at home in my pjs has been significantly better than doing so in business attire in front of my coworkers. And while it's definitely a gamble, pregnancy seems to be a pretty effective weight loss program for me, so there's a pretty silver lining!

I've had big, fun plans for Clark and I for several weeks now, and little to none of those have been accomplished so far. That has been tough for this planner of a mom to handle, but Clark has been an absolute trooper. That kid has laid next to me on the couch and watched more movies than I care to count, all without a single complaint. I have worried about how I will divide my attention between 2 kids, but didn't expect that struggle to happen quite so soon, or for it to be this unbalanced. There have been more than a few tears shed at the realization that I'm not the mom I want to be right now, because I'm often too sick to offer anything beyond basic care. 

While we haven't had any big adventures or checked anything off my to do list, we have managed to play, I'm guessing, about 52 games of Trouble. We don't keep official score, but if we did, my record would be around 3 - 49. We have also kept the dishes from completely overflowing (if Grandma is reading this, send dishwasher tablets, please!!!), the floors (mostly) swept, and while Daddy has still had to eat a few ham sandwiches for dinner, he's also been fed more homemade meals than usual. Even if literally 95% of this has been achieved in our pajamas, I still call it a win. Also, we're saving the environment by producing less laundry, so you could call us world conservation heroes. 

Today, despite day #4 in a row of feeling like death, I decided Clark had earned a little cheat to our schedule and chose to be the fun mom and make s'mores as our afternoon snack instead of our usual fruit or yogurt. 

Look at that chocolatey smile! Worth every empty calorie, crumb left to clean, and the impromptu sink bath that followed. No photo of me, mostly to protect my pride, as I looked like I had been attacked by an angry mob of chocolate chips and marshmallows. Hey - the "baby" needed those two, err, number to remain unmentioned s'mores! 

The stacked boxes of baby things that need to be gone through and the cleaning and the getting-dressed-by-noon-and-actually-leaving-the-house will get done 

eventually. This new gig has been brief, but it has already taught me that some days, success isn't measured by productivity. That's new for me, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. :)

Threenager Life

From the time Clark was born, fellow parents have warned me about raising teenagers. And to be perfectly frank, I remember being one and it must have been pretty terrible for my saint of a mother. I was the worst. Entitled, disrespectful, and generally obnoxious. And those were on the good days!

Of all the ages I have been warned about parenting, teenagers are always at the top of the list. Followed closely by Terrible Twos, which we sailed right through. Three, on the other hand, has been a ride that I was not prepared for!

I have always sort of hated the term 'threenager' (nor do I love aforementioned 'Terrible Twos'), as kids are not terrible or any other derogatory connotation. They are just small people with big emotions that they are learning to control and understand. I was never a fan of such generalizations...until I had a 3 year old. 

As we get ready to close out Clark's year of being 3 in a few short weeks, I cannot think of a better word to describe that 3 foot, 36 pound bundle of pure will and personality than 'threenager'. The similarities are striking:

Recently, Clark was moved from a crib to a toddler bed and all the freedom that comes with that transition, namely the ability to get out of bed 137 times per hour to pee. I try to be a pick-your-battles parent, so I grant amnesty most nights for the first several ventures out of bed. One night in particular came along recently where I called up from the bottom of the stairs that his field trips had come to an end and he needed to get into bed. Subtlety not being his strength, my usually sweet, kind, obedient child screamed at the top of his lungs and slammed his door with all of his strength. My first door slam! 

I grew up in a household where if you slammed your door shut, it immediately came off the hinges and you had no door left to slam. As I marched up the stairs to make it clear that this was his first and ONLY door slam, the mom lightbulb came on. We have older style door handles that his chubby little baby hands can't quite grip correctly when tightly shut. So after a stern chat about privileges and the loss of them, Clark spent a night with his door shut after only 112 trips to pee beforehand. The horror! But also, go me for thinking on my feet!

Also new and teenager-y is the chance I take daily of embarrassing him by merely existing. We were late for dinner and he was stuck at work with me finishing a month end 911 and he was hangry. He asked to go see some of his favorite coworkers of mine before we left, and I tempted fate and said 'yes, but it needs to be quickly'. After giving his usual hugs and answering a few questions, my coworker and I got a little sidetracked in a conversation, and aside from holding his hand so he didn't dart out in front of a moving vehicle (I'm an excellent parent!), I basically forgot that I had promised a hungry kid brevity in my conversation. 

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my hand and as I looked down at him to listen to him, my soul was burnt into by the raging fires of Satan coming from his eyes. Nose crinkled angrily and teeth gritted, he whisper-screamed "Mom! We are NOT doing this! We have to go!" Eyes still actively rolled to the back of his head, we walked to the car in silence; save for a few very annoyed deep breaths from the 3 year old. 

And just this week, we sat Clark down to tell him that Mommy is going to stop going to work every day at the end of the month and he and I are going to stay together! Sidenote: this has been a goal of Ryan's and mine since I went back to work when he was 10 days old. I've endured years of nasty comments about him probably thinking I'm daycare and daycare is his 'real' mom, I've been told how others could never choose work 'over' him, and also, I really freaking miss him. For four years, I have been blessed with a job that I love, with coworkers that I truly enjoy 96% of the time, that has allowed me to help provide for our family and offer Clark the chance to learn and grow with other children. The same job and boss bent over backwards for me 18 months ago when I said I needed to cut my hours and spend every Monday with my child. Without hesitation, I was told to do what's best for my family. (No boss is perfect, but I will never forget that gesture. BP - you are one of the good ones. You will always be the one who supported me every time and in every way I needed, and you are one of the hardest people to leave. Loyalty goes both ways in a job, and you made sure that your staff knew that you had our backs. Two people who feel as deeply as we do aren't always a good combo in a work atmosphere, and we have had our share of sparks over the years, but I always knew we were still on the same team, even when not each other's biggest fan that particular day. Your leadership and friendship made this the hardest professional decision I have ever made.)

As much as this has been our goal, I still sat in my General Manager's office and bawled while tendering my resignation. A lot of people say their coworkers are like a family, but I find it hard to believe that many could feel more like one than my work family. I enjoy going to work most days, and getting to see the people I work alongside, knowing about their lives and their successes and being there to pick one another up when a tragedy is faced. 

And if I'm being blunt, I'm pretty good at what I do. I'm not 100% sure I'll be a good stay at home mom, but I have known for a while that I needed to try or that I would regret losing out on this time. I left my 10 day old to return to that job - if that doesn't say something about my sense of being part of the team, loyalty, and love of that company, I'm not sure what does. Still, that GM who so graciously listened to me cry over leaving, told me, without hesitation, 'do what's best for your family'. Knowing that me leaving means headache for him, he still supported my choice. Those are good people and I am really going to miss them.

Back to Clark, after arriving at this decision through months (and arguably, years) of pros and cons with Ryan, we finally agreed this week that this would be our next chapter. As my sadness waned and my excitement at getting to see my kid more bubbled over, we told Clark about our schedule that will begin at the turn of the new year. With anticipation, we gave him the information and waited for his glee. 

I'm still waiting for the glee. His first response was "No fair! I don't want to quit daycare!" We carefully explained to him how we will get to see each other and go places and make new friends. I, again, waited to see joy spread across his face. Instead, I saw the wheels turning as a smirk opened across his face and he asked "Mommy, can you go to work and I stay with Daddy every day??"

So, if you're thinking I'm questioning my decision, it's clearly going great. Exactly the reaction I hoped for while wallowing about sacrificing a job that I love that pays actual money. I'd totally rather not get paid and have my boss completely pissed that I'm around all the time. Can't wait to see what he thinks of me when he's an actual teenager. #Winning. #BringOnFournado

*Late edit: I see that I made the grave oversight of no photos. Enjoy these 'teenager-like' snaps from the past few months and tell me which you think I'm most in store for in 9 short years.

From Rags To Dollar Menu Riches

For as long as I can remember, I have always been pretty lucky. From drawing a family member’s winning raffle ticket when I wasn’t much bigger than Clark all the way up to winning things like free concert tickets. I have been to countless concerts where I have left with a pick the artist played with – once, I got one while sitting in the 10^th row. Landed right at my feet. Typically, I have to forfeit said pick to a whiny older sister who tells me that she “had a moment” with the artist who actually meant to give the pick to her (you know who you are!), but nonetheless, they were actually given to me.

When I lived in larger cities like Phoenix and Las Vegas, I had a way of winning more concert tickets than I ever actually purchased. Whether I had to be caller 10, caller 30, or answer a trivia question, my phone got through the crowded lines on a regular basis, without ever needing to redial. A quick mental count reminded me of 11 different concerts I have seen on a radio station’s dime, plus several experiences won through random luck or writing contests, and countless goodie bags. Granted, I always have the radio on, so the law of averages suggests that I would have several marks in the win column, but I think it happens even more than that. I’m just plain lucky.

So it was no surprise to me today when I got into the car for work and turned my radio on that I heard a trivia question that I knew the answer to – it happened to be about Vince Gill, who I just adore and  happen to have tickets to see in a couple weeks when he is in town. I grabbed my phone, dialed, instantly heard it ring and had my call quickly answered. I gave the correct answer and immediately started answering all sorts of questions about myself that I will need to answer correctly when I arrive at the station to pick up my prize. The prize that I didn’t hear advertised, because all I had time to do was hear the question and call. I incorrectly assumed that it could be closer tickets to the upcoming concert, since Vince was the answer and he will be here soon. After thinking about what else it could be, while still answering a million questions, it occurred to me that our county fair is this week and it was probably tickets to that. Finally, the thought crossed my mind that this station periodically gives out money in increments of $1,000! I could most definitely find something to use that on!

All the suspense FINALLY culminated, and I was ready to hear my grand prize. Well, I thought I was ready to hear it. I was imagining things like “you have won backstage passes and front row seats to see Vince Gill!” or “We have a $1,000 check we are writing to your name as we speak!” Instead of hearing something along those lines that would cause me to scream right into the phone, I heard “……gift card”. Not wanting to be ungrateful, I was still excited to hear where I would be spending my newfound inheritance, thinking maybe I could have a clothing shopping spree, or a couple of really fancy dinners. I told them I was having trouble hearing and asked them to repeat my prize. This time, all I heard was “Wendy’s”. Quickly using my college educated brain to piece those words together and try to think of what fancy store I knew named “Wendy’s”, I could see it flashing in front of me: Wendy’s. Gift Card. Wendy’s. IT’S A WENDY’S GIFT CARD. I flashed back into the conversation just in time to hear “Baconfest is currently going on at your neighborhood Wendy’s”, which means absolutely nothing to a vegetarian like myself.

I went from winning coveted, front row concert tickets, backstage passes, a shopping spree, and a thousand dollars to winning a fast food gift card in an instant. If you need me, I’ll be crying into a frosty.

Won't You Be Our Neighbor?

No, we aren't moving again (thankfully). And to the best of our knowledge, nobody on our street is selling their home. But the next time we do move, there will be some pre-interviews to find out what we're dealing with before taking the plunge.

Ryan and I have moved 4 times in the nearly 8 years that we have been together, and it wasn’t until recently at lunch with friends that we realized just how bad our luck with neighbors has been. As we were reminiscing, the stories really started piling up. Join me on a walk down the strange avenues we have lived on:

The Stalker

When we moved into the first home we purchased, a man was standing in our driveway when the moving truck pulled in, waiting to introduce himself. How long he had been there or how he knew what day we would be arriving is, to this day, a mystery. After exchanging pleasantries, our new neighbor handed us a SEVEN page poem he had written about a Bible story, along with a letter detailing how he enjoys reading these poems to small children he meets while running errands. As if that isn’t creepy enough, there at the top of the first page was our engagement photo and our names. OUR ENGAGEMENT PHOTO! That you can’t find on Google….trust me, I have looked.

The Swingers

At that same home, the couple across the street owned a snow blower, and a couple times each winter, would snow blow our double sidewalk and dig our fire hydrant out. As a thank you, I always prepared some kind of homemade goodie and we would walk across the street to deliver them. Like in a movie, after we knocked on the door, we could hear several locks being undone on the other side of the door, before the husband opened it just enough to stick his head out the door, grab the treats, close the door, and lock all 7 locks. I would see the same couple pretty often at our neighborhood nail salon, always with another couple, always sitting in pedicure chairs in every other person fashion, always holding hands and putting on a PDA show with the other couple.

The Witch

Most neighborhoods have one of these, and ours was a real doozy. Our backyard was in a valley, and this neighbor was up on top of a small hill. She would constantly point her gutter drain hose directly INTO our backyard, so it would routinely flood. We thought maybe we could have a civil conversation with her about it and see if she would kindly put it on her own property. Which would have been a great plan if she would have EVER spoken to us, but even when we said hello, she would look right through us and refuse to speak, but she did make sure to flip us off every time she drove by.

The Dog Owner

Before we lived in a house with a fence, we had to take Mia outside on a leash to do her business. One afternoon, Ryan was outside with her when a small dog wandered directly into our yard and walked right up to them. Ryan told Mia to sit and to be a good neighbor. The two dogs sat down, facing one another, and things seemed to be going well until the small dog (it’s ALWAYS the small dog, isn’t it?) reached a paw right up and booped Mia’s nose. Now, I wasn’t there, but Ryan assures me that in a split second, Mia took one paw and had the small dog pinned to the ground, letting it know that it couldn’t come into our yard, start a fight, and be welcomed. Ryan handled it quickly and told Mia they were going inside until the rude four legged neighbor left. Approximately three minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Ryan opened it to find SOMEONE WE WENT TO CHURCH WITH, asking if we had seen his small dog that got loose. Oh, the one that assaulted our dog and that our dog could have torn to pieces in five seconds had Ryan not been there? Nope, haven’t seen her.

The (Alleged) Drug Dealer

Our next neighbor was one for the books. Picture a half-naked (always), nice, but way too loud character who stood outside and argued with his wife who was inside. Now imagine that for 10 hours a day, every day, a slew of shady looking cars pulled into the middle of the street, left the car running, and had one person jump out, run inside the house, emerge three minutes later, and speed off shortly before the next arrived. I always said I don’t believe they were smart enough to cook meth, so I’m pretty sure it was only a misdemeanor. Really, the nicest guy though. He always invited Ryan to go fishing, and offered up his wife as a babysitter for us. It was of course a hard pass from us, but he really did try to be our friend. And after a quick tally, we both voted him in as our favorite, which should really tell you something about our luck.

The Driveway Patrol

For a very brief period of time, the street we lived on was having work done and we could not use it. Clark was very small and I had just gotten out of the hospital after an episode of a racing heart and fainting. Our only options were to either park 3 blocks away, or to use our backyard. We decided to use the backyard since it would only be a day or two. Up until that point, our neighbors were very friendly and we would always speak to one another. In order to access our backyard, we had to put two car tires on the corner of the very end of said neighbor’s driveway. Thinking it wouldn’t be an issue, we drove two tires on the last square of driveway that touched the street. We were very wrong. The next day, we awoke to find a lengthy note on our windshield about respect and our lack of it. We half considered leaving him a note about walking through our yard to place the note on our car, but chose to be the bigger people and never speak to them again, and then move.

The Hot Mess

The first time I met our current neighbors, they were plastered and snuck up behind me while I was getting Clark out of the carseat, and drunkenly asked me if he was just getting home from daycare…at 8pm. The second time I saw them, the boyfriend was being taken out of the house in cuffs. The third time, she was being taken out of the house on a stretcher. The fourth time, I saw her half-dressed at midnight with a firetruck outside. And the fifth time, she arrived on our front porch needing to use a phone. I gave her mine, she struggled to dial, and then looked at me and said “I forgot my mom is dead. I can’t call her.”

Kids Say the Darndest Things

People say that you will always get an honest answer out of a kid. There's some serious truth to that - kids don't understand social norms and what might be hurtful, misconstrued, or inappropriate. They just say whatever comes to those growing brains of theirs. And while it is sometimes embarrassing for their parents, it is a quality that I deeply envy, and I think it's often beautiful.

These tiny humans understand things like love, forgiveness, and truth that we adults seem to learn to filter over the years. In between the funny, inappropriate, and sometimes mortifying moments, Clark (and others his age) speak such profound wisdom that it stops me in my tracks. 

I am the kind of parent who believes in never burdening little people with the problems of big people, but I am also a truthful parent who wants my child(ren) --- NOT an announcement --- to know that whenever they have a question, that mom is going to tell them the truth. It's a big part of the reason people treat us like criminals because we don't do Santa or the Easter Bunny. I don't want to ever blatantly lie to him.

First, the funny -

My child is completely literal. Being that he is my only child, I don't know if it's just him, or if every child is this cut and dry, but it CRACKS me up. Below are just a couple of recent conversations that highlight this -

1.) The Ins and Outs of Milk

C: Momma, if you mind, can I have a glass of milk?
H: Sure!
C: Fank you.
H: You're welcome. Do you know where we get milk from?
C: *looks at me like I am a moron*
C: Yeah...from the old ladies at the grocery store.

--- True, that is where we get OUR milk. ---

2.) Snake Hunting

*We were watching a show and a family found a live snake in a box in their home.*

H: Clark, what would you do if we had a real, live snake in our house?
C: *shrugs* I don't know...catch it and make it dead.

--- Good point, kid. ---

Next, the inappropriate - 

1.) The Penis Rules 

C: Boys has penis.
H: You are right.
C: I show you my penis?
H: No, that is private.
C: Ohhh. Okay. I just touch my penis?
H: No, not unless you really have to, and if you do, go to the bathroom. Otherwise, leave it alone.
C: *blank stare*
C: *In the middle of the living room, opens his shorts*
H: CLARK! What are you doing?!
C: I'm just looking at it! I CAN look at it, can't I??
H: *Facepalm*

--- It's ALWAYS about a penis with a boy, isn't it? ---

2.) The Old Man at the Swimming Pool

*Ryan and I took Clark swimming, and we had to wait a few minutes in a long line.*

C: *Swinging his arms*
H: Please be careful, you almost hit the people in front of us.
C: Sorry, mom. It was a ass-ident.
H: It's okay, but I don't want you hitting the guy in front of us.
C: BECAUSE HE IS AN OLD MAN?!
H: No, it's just not nice. And don't scream.
C: BUT HE IS AN OLD MAN! (He was like 40, tops)
H: *Frantically trying to change the subject*
H: What do you want to do in the pool?
C: *Pointing*
C: Is dat OLD MAN going to da pool, too?
H: *trying to become invisible while pondering moving 3 states away*

Now, the wise -

It should be no secret to anyone who knows me at all that I am an ally and advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and inclusion. And it is probably also no secret that I am angry, hurt, and disappointed in the United Methodist Church's decisions at the most recent annual conference to continue being a culture of exclusion. It further complicates things that my husband is employed by the United Methodist Church, and he is also very good at that employment and loves being there.

One of the million reasons why I love that man is that he never tries to tell me what to believe, or how to process my emotions. I told him that I couldn't, in good conscience, attend our church for a few weeks or more. I needed time to step away and sift through my broken heart before I could decide my next move. He supported me through that and gave me the space and the time that I needed to heed some great advice that highlighted the fact that nothing changes by abandoning it.

So one Sunday morning about a month after the vote, I told myself and my Lord that I was going to get up, get dressed, and be a part of the change I want to see in the world. Which meant attending the church that I love and continuing to campaign and fight for what I believe Jesus would do.

It was an unusually quiet ride to church, as I was still sorting through everything and pretty nervous to be in attendance after such a long absence. Kids are so dang smart and perceptive. From the backseat, a little voice piped up and this was our conversation -

C: Momma, are you okay?
H: Yes, honey, I am. I'm just sad.
C: Why?
H: Because some people not really at our church, but connected to our church did some things that really hurt my feelings.
C:
C:
C:
C: (in the toughest voice I have heard from him to date) Who did it, Momma?!
--- I think he was ready to defend my honor ---
H: Some people that you don't know.
C: What did dey do?
H: Well, they are being kind of mean to families who have two Daddies or two Mommies (the best way I could explain it to his understanding). You know, like your friend at daycare who has two Daddies?
C: Ohhh, yeah! Dat SO cool!
C: Why are dey being mean?
H: Well, these people don't want families with two Daddies or two Mommies to be able to be a pastor, or to marry each other. And I am sad because I think we should love everyone.
C: I wish I had two Daddies. My Daddy is such a good Daddy, Momma! I wish I had two of my Daddy!

Now, I understand that he is 3 and that he by no means understands the full spectrum of LGBTQ+ issues, nor do I completely understand where his beliefs will lead him, but I DO know that I explained it to him the absolute best way that I could, and that he responded with nothing but love. He was reminded of a family structure that looks different than his family, and he thought it was cool and wished he had two Ryans in his life. Again, that shows that his understanding of the situation has some growing to do, but it also shows that his first instinct is to lead with love. Kids understand that on a deeper level than we give them credit for.

I'm proud of my boy and the way that his brain works. And I am proud that I am raising such a compassionate kid, even if he is a blossoming smartass who calls people old and pays WAY too much attention to his penis.