Seven Under Seven

This week marked my 16th year going to the beach with The Husband's family. You may remember last year's post, when we had Six Under Six. Thanks to us, we now have seven under seven. Don't worry, we aren't planning to make it eight under eight next year.

Seven children. Eight adults. Two floors. Six beds. One pull out couch. One tent. Four cars. One trip to Urgent Care. Forty-seven trips to Publix. 127 wardrobe changes. 612 meltdowns.

The first afternoon we got there we assessed the place and started bringing our things in. We arrived in waves, and the kids were more excited with each new arrival. They ran, they bounced, they air "fighted" with fists and kicks and spins. The Boy kept screaming "I have the power!" in his best He-Man voice. They jumped on beds, and we yelled "don't jump on the bed!" and "use an inside voice!" We would isolate one to make eye contact and ask them to calm down, then they'd be gone, lost in a cloud of dri-fit fabric and warrior calls. Then more cousins would arrive and it would start over, and they were all hopped up on sea air, freedom, and gas station snacks. It was like a continual ambush of tiny dwarf ninjas. 

Full contact movie watching. They are still like this for approximately 28 seconds. 

Here BeYoYo has on his cousin's Halloween Hello Kitty shirt, and is wielding two swords. 

Day two BeYoYo came down with a virus. His temp hovered at 100, and if he could talk he'd have said he felt pretty crummy. It lasted for about 24 hours, and he was back to himself. The next day was The Boy's turn. You know you're a real parent when someone says they're going to throw up, and you instinctively offer your hands just in time for them to fill them with vomit. By the end of the week, 5 of the kids and The Husband had had a fever, with some variation of chills, vomiting, sleepiness, and general crabbiness. The Husband's temp reached 102.5, and I was afraid for a minute I was going to have to drive us home without his help. And also for his safety, of course.

Sorry we brought a virus, guys. 

With four families on different schedules, and three sets of small kids all staying up later than usual, eating more junk than usual, and having to get along with more people than usual, there were bound to be some meltdowns. Like this one, which I don't remember the reason for, but I remember that as she was crying, another child snuck up on her and added a cape:

Classics like "Can I have some Cap'n Crunch? I want Cap'n Crunch. PLEASE please please please can I have some Cap'n Crunch?" Child receives Cap'n Crunch and screams "Noooo! Not THAT!" and falls in the floor like she's been slapped in the face.  A variation on that theme is the parent saying "Come eat your cereal. Come eat your cereal. You need to come eat your cereal before it gets soggy." and child shows up, takes one look at the cereal and screams "I can't eat that! It's WET!" These tiny people look at us, pleading for food and better treatment like they are on adopt-an-orphan infomercials instead of on family vacation. 

There were also the old standbys like I don't want to go to bed, I'm hungry but I don't want to eat, she bothered my thing, he's looking at me, it's my turn now, I don't want to go in, I don't want to go out, I have to pee, I don't have to pee, and I don't want to be doing whatever everyone has decided to do. There was also some incoherent shrieking, brought to you by these two, who didn't want to be left out:

We took the oldest six out to eat once, and grandparents kept BeYoYo. It was loud. And hot. And past their dinner time. And at the last minute the restaurant fryer quit working, so no chicken tenders and fries. Children, you'll have to make do with hamburgers or sandwiches or fish. No? Okay, then, just eat raisins and goldfish for dinner. There was a lot of grouchiness, but mostly just from me. 

Don't think we took them all on our own. The other adults just didn't make it in the pic.

The dwarf ninjas enjoyed the pool and the beach, the pirate museum, the old fort, and the light house. Mostly they just enjoyed playing with each other. 

The Boy said the pool was his most favorist thing of all. The Husband said we could have just stayed at home and gone to the Ho Jo and saved a lot of money. 

We had The Boy's birthday party at the beach and celebrated with his twin cousin. The Husband had made me promise not to make a cake, and I obliged. But.....the bakery I had been emailing with quit responding. So we agreed to pick up an ice cream cake and I'd make fondant decorations for the top. I know, I know, I can't leave well enough alone. She wanted mermaid, he wanted Superman. 

Here they are, happy at their party. 

We're four! We're best buddies! What could go wrong?

And here she is, blowing out the candle on cue, but before he was ready. 

And here he is, starting to pout. Check out her face. 

Afterward there were mutilated sugary body parts everywhere. It looked like a cartoon shark attack. 

Even though he won't be one for three more weeks, we celebrated BeYoYo's birthday at the party too. When in Rome. 

Turns out he loves cake. He gets that from me. 

Family pictures were epic. Legendary. The things family stories are made of. 

We wanted one decent picture of all the grandkids with the grandparents. This is one of the better ones we got. From left to right we have itchy, not sure what to do, he's touching me, starving, exhausted, confused, and I love my penis. You'll noticed even the grandparents aren't smiling. The rest of us are all behind the camera, threatening and promising and pleading for just ONE picture. I don't think Bebe is going to want to frame this, folks. 

And we got some shots of just us too. 

I accused the Husband of squinting here, and he said "that's just my natural grimace"

He accused me of reigning over everyone here. I told him that was just my natural position. 

This one sums up our week the best: The Husband is rubbing his eye, BeYoYo is like "hey guys!", The Boy is sticking his tongue out, and I'm wasting my time trying to wrangle them all. 

My brothers in law did manage to get this shot of the oldest six. BeYoYo was asleep, and I'm not complaining. Is anyone good with photoshop? 

We made it home on Saturday with a liberal mix of screen time and junk food. Prissy was so excited to see us that she ran in circles and threw up in the floor.  BeYoYo laughed from his car seat saying "More! More!" Then he blew out a diaper, and another. I went to put the cloth diaper in the washer, and a mouse darted out from behind the washer to the garage. We'd been home 15 minutes. Welcome home. If you need me I'll be back at the beach. Or the Ho Jo. 

Vintage transportation nursery

BeYoYo is 11 months today! So I figured it's time I show you his room. We went with a vintage transportation theme, mostly because I saw a metal pushcar at an auction when I was pregnant and felt like we *needed* it. Don't blame me, blame the hormones.

The crib was free, given to us by an old neighbor. I found the Pottery Barn train bumper pads at a consignment sale for next to nothing. The art is from etsy, and I made the mobile myself. 

The dresser was my grandparents' and the baby gown was my granddad's when he was a baby in 1925.

My mom was particularly proud of the mobile, considering how I'm always proving I can't sew. Also, she helped a lot.

Big brother made this train as his contribution before BeYoYo was born. Actually, my mom helped with that too. 

Airplane shelf is from HomeGoods, natch. 

And the blue dresser is an antique store find. We had the green rocker/recliner from The Boy's nursery. 

The dormer window is the perfect size for a changing table (from goodwill!) and the metal car that inspired it all. I don't actually let anyone play with it because it's metal and sharp and turns out, super impractical.

Car hooks were on clearance from Hobby Lobby, and hold one of the john johns his daddy hates but I put him in for church anyway. He's got the rest of his life to wear t-shirts. Carpe diem.

I just scored this awesome car rug made from fabric scraps for $5. Woot!

And my favorite thing of all is the quilt my mom made. The train is made from fabric from some of our grandparents' clothes. The whole thing was a surprise to me and made me do a long pregnant ugly cry. Sometimes when I rock BeYoYo I wrap us up in the quilt and get right sentimental. 

And what does BeYoYo think of his room? 

He's not particularly impressed. 

An Almost 4 Year Old

The Boy will be four tomorrow.

Four.

In human years.

He is inquisitive and energetic and exhausting. He is reflective and funny and smart. He is outgoing and determined and friendly and independent.

When he gets nervous he gets silly, and when he gets silly he uses made up words. He brings home leaves in his pockets and says they are special because his friend gave them to him. He is a great big brother and every night he thanks God for BeYoYo and no one else. He's obsessive about them wearing matching clothes and is disappointed when they can't.

He calls tank tops "tick tocks", and he knows the names of all the ninja turtles: Michaewangewo, Weonardo, Donatewwo, and Wafeal. He says he weawwy, weawwy woves us, and that he loves his brother the most. That's okay with me.

He makes increasingly more valid arguments about why he should or shouldn't do things. He pees outside. He appreciates a good meal. He's good at soccer, but sometimes he runs into the refrigerator at home. He eats at least two breakfasts every day.

His favorite movie is "Hoy Story." He still lets me rock him before bed while we read a book.  He asks big, big questions about the world and God and life, some that I don't know the answer to.

His favorite toys are Super Heroes and he loves to wear a cape. He plays dress up and makes up wild imaginary scenarios with many, many sound effects. He gets in trouble for playing too rough at school. He watches Curious George, The Wot Wots, and bizarre shows he's found on Netflix. He's mastered the ipad. He knows how to take a selfie. His favorite songs are Queen's Flash and We Will Rock You.

Tonight I continued our tradition of asking him some questions on his birthday, like I did last year. Here is what he said.

                                                                How old are you? 

"Free and a half, almost four"

What’s your favorite thing to do? 

"say 'SORRY' (in a monster voice) with Henry"

What do you want to be when you grow up? 

"I don't want to grow up"

What’s your favorite food? 

"butter noodles"

What’s something you’re good at? 

"riding my scooter"

What makes you laugh? 

"tickle my foot"

What’s something scary?

"I'm gonna die"

Who’s your best friend? 

"Henry. And Nate."

What do you like to do with your family? 

"pway with them"

Where do you like to go? 

"I wove to spend the night at the cabin."

What do you like to learn about? 

"how do people die"

This morning we were talking about his birthday and he said "I'm going to be four when I wake up tomorrow. Do you think I'll be too heavy for my wittle bed?"

He has challenged me in ways I could never have imagined, and expanded my heart in ways I didn't know possible. I'm so thankful for the energy and the joy and the life lessons he's brought in the last four years.

Black and white

I am heavy with worry on this one. I am sad for the families of the victims of the Charleston church shooting. I am sad for the black mamas across the nation who worry every time their sons leave home that they will not return. I am sad for those who are not sad about this, and I'm afraid that means we are becoming tolerant and complacent about racism. I'm afraid it's easy to deny that it exists because it is 2015 and it's been more than 50 years since MLK had a dream.

As my sons grow up, I will worry if there are pesticides in their foods, and if they do their homework and drive carefully. I won't worry about their safety if they wear hoodies into gas stations, or get stopped at traffic stops or if someone they don't know comes to their prayer meetings.  I worry that I don't remember often enough that this is a reality for many people. I'm ashamed I forget the luxury I was dealt when, through no choice of my own, I was born with ivory skin.

The Husband and I had a long talk about racism today. Though he doesn't like what happened in Charleston or across the country lately, he doesn't understand why it would make me cry, or why I feel a heaviness about it for my own children. I asked him "how do we raise children who not only don't hurt others because of the color of their skin, but also don't tolerate it, and work to stop it from happening?" His response was "maybe you model that." Yes, yes, yes.  But have we been modeling that? We don't hurt others, but do we work to stop it from happening? Maybe tolerance is not enough.

He asked me why this made me cry more than another killing would. Why, say, didn't I cry about the Boston marathon bombing? Valid question. I had to think before I responded "I'm sad about any time anyone is killed because of religion or race, but I think this feels different because this was committed by someone from our race, and I feel a responsibility to do better for our race." Maybe it's easier to face hatred coming from an Islamist extremist than someone who could be my child.

We talk about race at our house. The Boy knows that people have different color skin, and that the rule of our family is that we love people no matter how they look. But he doesn't know that some families don't have that rule. And if we think that modeling intolerance of injustice is the place to start, maybe that means my kids need to know that injustice exists.

So today I sat down with The Boy and told him that in Charleston, in the city that our friend lives, someone hurt some other people just because they had brown skin. I told him that I knew he knew that our family loves people no matter what color skin they have, but that some families don't have that rule. I told him it is not okay to hurt others or say unkind things to them because of the color of their skin, and that he and his brother should always work to protect others if someone is hurting them. I told him through tears that this made me very, very sad, and that the people that were hurt were good people. He asked if the one who hurt them would go to jail, and I told him yes, because what he did is not okay. We talked about the importance of not just not hurting others, but standing up for them and helping them.

I don't pretend that telling my child about racism is the key to stopping it. I don't pretend that blogging about my feelings helps any of the victim's families find peace. I wish I knew an answer. I wish I knew of something that I could do to change the pattern, to stop the hate. But I do think that talking about it, and claiming intolerance for it is the first small step I can take. And I hope to model for my children to love and protect our friends of all races, because tolerance isn't enough. May no one wonder where I stand.

And as much as I worry, I am grateful to know that so many of you out there stand with me in solidarity, wanting to do something, wanting to stop the hate and the violence. I pray we come up with something more than words. Until then, here are some words from Dr. King's I Have A Dream speech that resonate again today: 

"We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children."

Soccer

The Boy just finished his first soccer season. The 4U league is hilarious. By the last game they finally had things mostly figured out, and actually scored goals and whatnot. The Boy did pretty well for his first season, immersing himself into the soccer culture (when BeYoYo tried to pull up on the furniture, The Boy said "he's taking a knee!").  Thankfully we were in a low-pressure, low-skill group of first timers. Parents cheered for both teams, and parent coaches looked less like Walter Matthau in Bad News Bears and more like Seth Rogen, before he thought he was cute. 

Here's a clip from their very first game. If you aren't sure which is The Boy, keep your eye on the ball. Yes, that's me yelling. I'm such a soccer mom. 

So, like I said, by the end they got it all together and he even scored goals without using his hands. Here are some rules from their playbook: 

1. The show must go on. Even if you are trampled, and even if it's us that tramples you. And even if the other team isn't all that close or interested in the ball. 

2. Position, position, position. This is important, and sometimes positioning can be more like a giant game of chess. 

3. Show some leg. 

4. In case of boredom, ride the flag. Other appropriate boredom busters include taking the flag off and delivering it to the coach, or chasing trash across the field mid-game. 

4. You really gotta get in there to guard your goal. 

5. Intimidate them with the frog pose. 

6. Make sure you can see your teammates at all times. Use binoculars when necessary. 

7. Two words: victory dance. 

7b. We really can't overemphasize the victory dance. These are in no way tied to actual athletic effort or outcome, by the way. 

8. Sneak a little brother on the field for extra support. 

9. Speaking of brothers, it's fine to run off the field mid-game to hug yours. Boosts morale. 

10. Assume the stance. 

11. Pouting gets you nowhere. You'll want to play when it's not your turn, and you won't want to play when it is. Life lessons are hard. 

12. In sports, stealing is allowed. But preferably not from your own team. 

 

13. In soccer you aren't supposed to use your hands. To remind you, put them up your nose instead.


14. Fake 'em out with the ole "I broke my back" pose. They won't realize you are really a threatening eagle until it's too late.

15. We're all winners! When my dad asked The Boy if his team won, he said "yeah, but we're all still friends, wight, mom?" Wight, buddy.