Beans and cornbread had a fight

My Hubby enjoys food. He will eat almost anything put in front of him. This made the early part of our marriage much easier, since I wasn't a very good cook. No matter how charred, runny or lumpy a dish was, he always cheerfully dug in.

I am a picky eater, however, or rather a recovering one. I was the kind of child who would sit in front of a hated dish for hours rather than try it.

My brother J. tells a story about how I once ruined Thanksgiving. I tried a small bite of something I disliked because my mother threatened to take away dessert. My stomach rebelled, and I GROSSMENT puked all over the steaming turkey. END GROSSMENT

We had KFC for supper that night. J. was bitter for years.

Little I. seems to have inherited his father's cheerful love of food. But Super A. inherited my taste buds along with my imagination. I'm philosophical about it: He is healthy and growing, if a little skinny. I don't make him different food. If he doesn't eat, he goes hungry until the next meal or scheduled snack. It's his body. Whatever.

A.'s pickiness drives Hubby crazy. All A. has to do is say the magic words, "I don't like...." and Hubby's blood pressure shoots. He gets a wild look in his eye and a sneer on his face.

"You try that," he intones.

A. takes a small bite, makes the gross face and spits out the food.

This is where I usually intervene and remind A. of the table rules. One bite of everything. No spitting at the table. No complaining.

Lately, the fight has gotten worse. Hubby is pressuring him to eat more, and A. has been eating less and less.

Today at Thanksgiving dinner, Hubby looked like he was going to jump out of his seat, all over some uneaten potatoes.

What I can't get him to see is what is going on in A.'s head.

It's simple: he is sensitive to food. To its smell and taste and texture and temperature. Stress makes him more sensitive, so pressuring him to eat only makes him like the food less.

I am the same way. Even now, my food must be piping hot or ice cold. I can't eat lukewarm soup or melted ice cream or room temperature meat. Texture is important to me, too. I get it.

I don't know how to diffuse this. But in the end, eating is A.'s problem, not Hubby's. Until he accepts that, he's making it his problem.

I just have to avoid making it mine, too.

M4 W4 D4: The adultness of life

I was a very sensitive child. Oversensitive, really. I always had intense emotions. I was wildly happy, deeply sad, overwhelmingly hurt. I also had an uncanny ability to sense a person's true mood, even when they were faking another one.

This was not easy on my parents. I was always bursting into tears about something, out of sadness or happiness. I realize now it must have been intensely stressful.

A. is the same way. His goldfish died on the same day that we sold the tank of tropical fish (angelfish, a gourami, and sundry others. Yes, we had two tanks of fish!) Losing all of his pets on the same day was just too much for his little heart to bear, and he sobbed about it for 20 minutes, curled in my lap. Then he looked at me and said, "Loving is hard, Momma."

Oh yes, it is hard. A.'s first lesson in the adultness of life: Loving is hard.

I've been watching that happen around me this month. Friends struggling with love and family and loss.

A family that attends our church lost a son to suicide this week. My heart is broken for them. How inexpressibly awful. And yet they pray and hope and struggle to work through this grief. My admiration for them knows no bounds, as well as my sadness for their son and for the disease that took him from us.

I've also been watching three sets of friends struggle with married love. I'll say no more about that here, except I love them all and am praying for them.

In my own family, my grandmother saw her heart doctor in the past two weeks, and was greatly relieved she would not need another heart operation. But my mom and I want to shake her because she would have been fine if she'd listened to her doctor rather than a cab driver. The doctor told her to take her meds. The cabbie told her not to. She listened to the cabbie. So now she is on a much "tougher" drug for life.

One of my life's mentors, a childhood friend of my father's, is very very sick again. His cancer has returned, and he's too sick and weak for chemo. This man has now had cancer three times in his life. I'm praying for a miracle at this point. His mother's prayers produced one when he was a teenager. He is one of the kindest people to ever walk the Earth, and we will all have lost something if he leaves us early.

Loving is hard.

And yet, with all this, my life continues with its busyness and happiness. I have always felt deeply, but then the feelings move on. Happiness is never really far. I wonder if I am essentially shallow.

But then I remember the quote another blogquantance recently posted, from Albert Camus: "In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."

I have always had that invincible summer. God willing, I hope I never, ever lose it.

Calm out the window

I can't believe how much can change in less than 12 hours.

I'm done. I'm just done with being ignored and picked on and provoked. If these kids weren't my very heart, I would walk out the door.

The baby cried all day -- every time I put her down. EVERY time! So I got nothing done. I stayed home all day to clean and got no cleaning done.

I am also getting another intraductal yeast infection. It hurts to nurse. Thanks, antibiotics.

Little I. moped and whined and tantrumed and refused to talk to his father on the phone.

A. blatantly ignored me all evening, even as I was telling him he had poop on his bum and to NOT touch it. He looked me straight in the eyes, touched it and almost put his freaking finger in his mouth. I grabbed it just in time and frog-marched him to the sink. I wanted to shake him. It took every last ounce of my strength, and probably the arms of his guardian angel, to hold me back.

I ended the night a bawling mess. I would never hurt my kids, but I think my emotional state frightened them.

I sat down on their bed and apologized, making it clear that I am responsible for my actions, not them. They sweetly forgave. "Mommy," Little I. said, shaking a finger, "you frew a tantwum! You need to cool off!"

I want to EAT, but just keep telling myself that food fixes hunger, not a broken mommy heart.

M2 W2 D6: Treats and tricks

I have noticed a pattern. A. punishes me every time he gets a special food treat.

I'm sick today. I have a kidney infection and needed to see the doctor and go on antibiotics (I hate antibiotics, and if you breastfeed and have ever had thrush, you know why.) The children spent the doctor's appointment at the MFRC (have I mentioned lately how much I love the MFRC staff? These women are my rock.) Afterwards, I realized I had zero groceries and was too sick to go shopping, and the boys were snackish. We picked up some Timbits.

I ordered pizza for supper tonight; I was just too sore and tired to stand at the stove and cook.

After supper, A. was acting up. I corrected him. He proceeded to tell me he hates me and I never do anything nice!!!!

I sent him to his room because I was this close to hitting him.

After I calmed down, I went to him and calmly informed him that I have noticed a pattern; all of his major tantrums and general treating-mommy-like-garbage moments have happened after he has had a treat (usually a food treat, but sometimes an adventure.)

So I am not buying any food treats for a week. Nor am I baking.

He was extremely upset, but c'mon. In what world are you rewarded for walking all over someone? Not in this world. If he is going to treat me like garbage after a treat, there won't be any treats for awhile.

I'm done. The parenting experts may be shocked, but he's got to learn he is not some prince and I am not the cook, maid, butler and nanny. He treats me like sh*t, he loses a privilege.

I did tell him I loved him and always will, treats or no treats.

M2 W2 D5: Mommy and me

I took A. out alone today, just the two of us. It was the first time we've been alone for an hour since the Hubby left.

He loved it. He smiled and laughed and talked my ear off. This is the A. I remember.

At one point he said, " You like to listen to me, don't you, Mom?"

The poor little guffer. I wiped my eye, smiled and said, "I love to, little buddy. Tell me some more."

He was an angel the rest of the day.

Month two, day four: We can work it out

A. and I seem t be settling back into our "new normal." The angry outbursts have ended for awhile. He is telling me how he feels, and is asking for paper and crayon to draw how he feels when we're having a disagreement. It's a beginning; I'm glad the stress level has dropped somewhat.

Baby N. is having a dispute with her own mouth. Her very first tooth is fighting its way through her bottom gum. Princess is not amused. She whined and moaned her way through yesterday evening, shoving cold teethers in her mouth and giving me a reproachful look that clearly said, "Well, aren't you doing to DO anything? I'm in pain here!" Some Tylenol soothed it enough to allow her to sleep.

Her Royal Highness is highly resentful I won't let her teethe on my nipples. Ouch!

One full calendar month: Clean bathroom

I am the owner of a shiny clean bathroom. It does not have toothpaste smeared on the sink or hairspray on the mirror. There are no stray hairs on the floor. I am so happy I could dance.

I decided I needed a change from folding freakin' laundry every night after the kids go to bed. That and it was so gross in there I was avoiding going to the toilet. After all, it hadn't been fully cleaned since the Hubby left. (YES MOM, I scrubbed the tub down after the poop incident. And I've been spot-cleaning the sink.)

A. and I had a good day today. He behaved very well at church, at home and at Grandma G.'s. It was nice to have a mental break from the War of the Oldest Child.

The Husband called today. He had the day off, so we got to talk for a full hour. He's having a rough time. His main superior has decided to scapegoat him. Basically, everything C. does is wrong. No one gets treated worse. His master corporal met with him at the end of week four and tried to guilt him out, and C. basically told him he was giving 120 per cent, and if that wasn't enough, then kick him out.

He's still in. And his attitude now is he can only do his very best. If that's not enough, it's not enough.

I think that is a great attitude. I know he'll make it through.

Month two, day one: It got worse.....

Yesterday was so awful I can only do a list:

• A. told me he hated me and wished I was dead because I wouldn't let him watch a favourite program after a major bout of misbehaviour.
• I received an enormous, unexpected tax bill I can't afford to pay, and can't call Revenue Canada until Monday because they're closed.
• I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because the children took it in turns to wake up. So A. would be up, and I would just get him to sleep when I. would wake up. As soon as I would settle him, N. would wake up. The cycle repeated all night long.

G. came this morning at eight to pick up the boys for the day. I called her at seven, crying. All the children have been awake since six am.

I just want to run away and never come back, to be honest. It's a good thing I love the little buggers more than life, or I think I would!

I'm going back to bed.

10:19 p.m.: The children are all asleep, and I am sitting here feeling as if I've been to the spa. Megan and I went to lunch today, since the baby refused to nap. She gave me a bunch of skin care stuff from Bert's Bees. So I have now cleansed and exfoliated and toned and moisturized. I smell like citrus and almonds and carrots. I think this is the most relaxed I've been in weeks.

Oh, baby's awake.

Week four, day five: Mr. Big Stuff

My oldest child put his foot on the path to school today. He had his kindergarten-readiness screening.

Getting to the screening was a bit of a challenge: my minivan froze up last night and wouldn't start this morning. I had plugged it in, but one of the children mistakenly pulled the plug out of the socket. Add that to the -38C weather and the Bratmobile wasn't going anywhere.

So I called my friend D.'s husband J.. D. is out of town and J. is alone with their oldest son. He dropped A., Baby N. and I off at the public health unit, then took Little I. and his own son for Timbits. Thanks J., you saved my neck!

The nurse weighed and measured A. She checked his sight, hearing, speech and comprehension. He passed it all with flying colours.

Then she gave him his booster shot (diphtheria, tetanus, polio and pertussis -- it's called the quadracel vaccine.) A. was NOT happy about that, and almost refused a sticker. He changed his mind once he saw the one with the big truck on it.

Funny, even though he had a needle, A. seemed very happy about the visit. He was well-behaved the rest of the day. He was cheerful and helpful. He is happily snoozing right now. I only just figured out why: for 45 minutes I paid almost exclusive attention to him. Baby N. was there but she just sat in her seat like a puddin'.

He got to be the centre of attention. He was praised for his efforts in a concentrated way. And he was comforted and fussed over after the shot.

This clinches it. Next Wednesday I am dropping I. and Baby N. off at childcare and taking A. out to do something for an hour. I bought a trainer cup for N. today -- I'm hoping I can teach her to drink breast milk out of it before then.

The Hubby called today, sounding exhausted. He said today was the very worst day he's had. He didn't want to get into it, just wanted to talk to the children and to hear some light and funny things. He said it made him feel a bit better.

He says he is NOT considering quitting in the least, but he feels one of his superiors may have taken a personal dislike to him. I just wish I could hug him tight.

Week four, day three: The floodgates burst

Poor little A. finally opened up to me about how he is feeling. It was more like his floodgates burst open.

We had a good day today. After I put the boys to bed, I sat on the floor with a book until I. fell asleep. Then, just as I do every night, I kissed A. on the forehead, blessed him and said goodnight. He cheerily replied good night. I went to do laundry.

Ten minutes later I heard him sobbing and saying, "Oh no, oh no." I ran into the room -- had he wet the bed? -- and found a little boy with a broken heart.

"Mommy, I miss Daddy so much! I'm so sad for my Daddy. I want him to come home. And I'm sorry for being bad. I miss my Daddy. And my guardian angel is sad for Daddy too."

"A., it's okay to miss Daddy. It's okay to cry and be sad. I miss Daddy too."

A's skinny little body, so tense as I held him, melted.

"It's okay?"

"Yes, but it's not okay to be mean to Mommy or I. or Baby N. It's okay to be sad or even angry about Daddy going away. But you need to say it with words."

"Okay, Mommy."

So for the next 10 minutes he poured his little heart out. We talked about the fun things he's done with his father, he things we wished Daddy had done with him since he left, what he'll tell Daddy the next time he calls.

I stayed in the room until he fell asleep; he told me he was scared to sleep without Daddy in the house. I tried to reassure him; I told him I would always be in the house while he slept -- and if not me then Grandma G.

I'm glad this happened. It cleared the air between us. And he now knows he can tell me about his feelings, no matter how negative.

Here's hoping his behaviour improves now that he got that off his chest.

Week four, day two: Failing A. and failing Christ

For the past week, I've felt I am failing my oldest son, A. Oh, I have been taking care of his bodily needs. I have been caring and affectionate. But A. is reacting to his father's absence and the change in our life in typical ways, the three Rs, if you will: rage, regression and revenge. And I have not been handling it well at all.

A. has always been the sort of child who is easy-going, fun, affectionate and eager to please. He likes to help, dotes on his younger siblings, and goes with the flow. At least, that used to be the way he behaved.

Since The Hubby left, he's been having fits of anger and frustration. He's thrown tantrums (at five!). He's teased and tormented his younger brother. He threw something at the baby the other day, although he did not mean to hurt her, and tearfully rushed to me to confess his wrong when I asked what happened. He loudly misbehaved in church. He refuses to eat foods he enjoys. He refuses to dress and undress himself in a timely manner. He's been talking back.

He is doing things he knows annoy me, such as winding himself and his brother up before bed with a sound he makes. It sounds like a laugh, but it's really a fiendish, nasty, mirthless squeak that means, "I'm being as bad as I can and I want you to know it." I hate that sound.

The stress of all this makes me want to vomit.

I'm generally a no-nonsense kind of mom. I try to say what I mean, mean what I say, and do what I say I'm doing to do. Tantrums and public misbehaviour means we go home NOW. I try hard not to yell or to guilt-trip. But A. has been testing me on so many simultaneous fronts that I am losing my cool. I am yelling far more than I like.

In church the other day, I asked him if we needed to leave, and he said he wanted to go. Well, there goes my usual consequence to poor behaviour! I was stumped, until my friend G. suggested that before we leave the house, I calmly explain a consequence to poor behaviour on top of leaving. So we will now leave anyway, and the consequence will be the TV does not get turned on for the rest of the day.

I have used this at bedtime once (the consequence to purposely misbehaving on the way to bed is now no story before lights out) and it worked very well. But honestly, I don't want his obedience to be based on the stick. I believe in consequences that are reasonable, simple, and practical. This fits, but it still feels like a punishment rather than discipline. Perhaps I need to make it clear that if he misbehaves, we won't have time for a story.

But the reason I feel I am failing him the most is I know the main reason why he is doing this: we haven't been alone together, just the two of us, since November. I have alone time with Little I. when A. goes to play school. (Alone except for the baby, but she's still a bit of a nonentity when it comes to playtime.) But I never have time when I. is away and A. gets to be the centre of attention.

We used to do that all the time before I got pregnant and sick.

I'm going to try to fix that this week, if I can. I'm going to ask a friend to watch I. and maybe baby N. while I take A. on a short outing, just the two of us. And I'm going to try to do that at least once every two weeks.

What makes this all sting even more is I am failing Christ. Every night when I go to bed, I ask Him to make me holy. Holiness is just another word for loving others the way Jesus loves us: completely, despite our faults and failings and the way we hurt Him. So I have been asking for opportunities to love those who are hard to love, and here is my son, the first child born alive from my body, who is driving me up a wall. And instead of embracing the moment to love him totally while disciplining firmly, I am ranting and railing at him. I am not really forgiving him after an annoyance or slight. And I feel I am not really giving him what he needs right now; I'm either too firm or too soft.

I'm not looking for parenting advice here in this forum; my mom and G. have already gotten lots of phone calls and will probably get a few more, and I trust their advice. I just needed to vent. Now that I have, I think I need to hit a confessional booth before Mass this Sunday.

A., if someday you read this, I'm really sorry, although I've said that already. I'm trying my best.

Day 10: Construction Zone

Yesterday totally sucked rocks, so I'm not going there. Let's just say that A. is testing me.

Today, for the first time since university, I assembled a piece of furniture by myself -- and for the first time ever, did not swear or break anything. Woo-hoo!

I ordered a toy sorter before The Hubby left -- y'know, one of those things with nine or ten plastic bins so the kids can sort their toys into different categories when they clean up (dinkies in the dinky bin, animals in the animal bin, etc.) It arrived today, and the boys love it. It has characters from their (current) favourite movie, Cars.

After putting it together, we went through all their toys. I took out a whole garbage bag of broken toys and half-there puzzles. The boys' room is so neat and tidy, and you can actually find specific toys now.

Hubby called tonight. Still doing well, still has his eyes on the prize. We got the baby to laugh into the phone for him. Sounded as if he might cry, but he kept a straight voice and face. He can't cry, he's in the Navy now!