Still Good!

     Guess what? It's been two weeks since my last post and Ian is still being good. The bad part though, is that I've been so busy running around that I haven't had much time to appreciate it and to soak up all the cute things he does and says. I feel bad about that. I seem to find plenty of time to write about him when he's bugging the crap out of me, I need to do better making sure that I create the time to record the good moments too.
     Yesterday we took the boat out for the first time this year. We went to Utah Lake on the spur of the moment just for a short test run. We had a blast. The water was too cold for any sports, but Scott let each of the kids, on down to Christeal, take a turn driving the boat. Everybody did really well, even Christeal. She kept the steering wheel turned to the left and I felt like I was on a water-logged merry-go-round. When it was Ian's turn, things got a little more wild. Instead of calm turns, we experienced sharp jolts that, had we been going fast, would surely have capsized the boat. Scott tried to explain to him how to turn slowly, but slowly isn't in Ian's vocabulary.
     For Ian's sake, I'm glad we took the boat out. He's spent the past two weeks in a swimsuit, helping Scott clean the boat, pull the boat out of it's storage area, and installing the new seats. He takes the ski rope and throws it over the side of the boat, hooking Christeal's stroller, then reels it in, saying, "It's a big one!" He hangs off the tow tower by one hand and cries, "Land ho!" And of course, he runs the battery down by turning the blower on the entire time he's playing. And creates a public nuisance by honking the horn twenty times in twenty seconds. But he is absolutely alive with anticipation and sheer joy.
     There is just one downside to his pleasure.
     Last week, Ian began getting a rash on his stomach. Since then, it has spread to his chest, legs, arms, and groin, and is on it's way to his back. I don't know what's causing it, but he itches like crazy. I've tried Eucerin Cream, antibiotic creams, and hydrocortisone. I give him Benadryl every six hours--which should make him really tired but doesn't--and I bathe him every night. Today I thoroughly cleaned his room and washed all his bedding and stuffed animals. I'm hoping it helps because in spite of his happiness, he's miserable.
     I don't know many people that can remain as positive as Ian does. He has so many struggles and issues. From his health to his academics, his life is a lot of work. But he never stops smiling. He never stops laughing. His sense of fun and adventure take over until his problems disappear. His humor is contagious and when I'm with him, watching him enjoy his existence to the fullest, I feel blessed to be his mother.

Happy Easter

     Wow. Where has the time gone? I can't believe we are already in April. Especially since it's still snowing. Easter wasn't the warm affair I was hoping for, at least not weather-wise. As for family and Ian? I couldn't ask for better. I know. Amazing isn't it? I finally have something good to say about my boy! So let's get started.
     I've never been a huge fan of the Easter Bunny. I find the whole idea of a rabbit laying eggs positively ludicrous and somewhat creepy. So I've never pushed that particular belief on my kids. But I haven't denied it either. To each his own. Ian made an educated decision on his own about the realities of the abominable bunny. He came to me on Friday, while I was putting on my makeup. He watched me for a moment, and then said, "Mom?"
     I turned a partially made eye towards him and raised the brow.
     He continued. "I want a police car and a helicopter in my Easter basket."
     I studied his little face.
     He threw his arms apart, "What?"
     "I'm just wondering why you are telling me this."
     "C'mon, Mom. The Easter bunny isn't real. So can I have a police car?"
     I smiled and nodded my head. And that was that.
     He was on his best behavior all day Saturday and into Sunday. I'm not sure why. Perhaps he was worried I wouldn't give him his Easter basket. On Sunday morning, he staggered into my room at 6:45 and said, "Happy Easter, Mommy!" That was my cue. Time to get up. How could I resist a wake-up like that anyway?  We had a nice pancake breakfast and after two hours he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to wake up every person in the house. You'd of thought it was Christmas.
     He begged me, "Mom, please hide our baskets so we can find them."
     This is something I've done in the past and the kids love it. You'd be surprised the places an Easter basket shows up. The dryer, oven, dishwasher, dirty clothes hamper... This year, for Ian, his basket rested on the floor next to the piano behind a quilt. It was also the first place he looked. And yes, he got his police car and helicopter.
     Later that day we went to Grandma and Grandpa's house for dinner, an egg hunt, and a pinata. That's where Ian got a bit hyper and his good behavior sort of disappeared. But we've had worse so I can't complain.
     That night, after the festivities, we were relaxing at home watching Extreme Makeover/Home Edition. There were two handicapped babies in the family being highlighted. Ian turned to Scott and asked, "What is handicapped?"
     Scott proceeded to explain, "It's where sometimes your arms or legs don't work right and you need to use a wheelchair or a walker. Sometimes you can't see well or hear well."
     A lightbulb ignited above Ian's head. "Oh! Like Grandpa and Grandma!"
     Touche. Happy Easter.

Sleepless in Sandy

     There's a recurring problem in my home. It happens every other twenty-four-hour period, when my husband is off-duty from the fire department. This issue plagues my life like no other, and has for at least the past two years. There appears to be no solution, short of offing my spouse. Here's what happens.
     "Ian, it's time for bed," I say lovingly.
     "No! Want Daddy!"
     "Go pick a bedtime story," I add. He does this part okay, as long as he's not watching T.V. or otherwise engaged in an activity involving his father.
     After reading the story, I say, with great tenderness, "Let's tuck you in now."
     Fleeing the scene and screeching like a possessed monkey he cries, "No! Daddy!"
     Now this is where it gets interesting.
     My husband scoops him up and tickles him and hugs him and loves him and strokes his ego, then declares, "Do what your mom says," sending him back my way.
     Uh-huh. Not gonna happen.
     Sometimes there's a tantrum. Other times Ian latches on to Scott's leg or neck and must be pried loose with a crowbar. Too often, my sweet spouse succumbs to the pressure and allows the delinquent to have his way for... oh... ten more minutes. Well, ten turns into twenty, which turns to forty. And every time I try to break them apart, Ian gets more agitated and hostile toward me.
     About two months ago, after a particularly difficult evening, I confronted Scott about his enabling behavior. "Well, dear, it's clear. Ian's balls are bigger than yours." A few more words were exchanged, but we don't need to go into that here.
     Since that time, Scott has made improvements. Now let me be clear about something. Scott was/is not always the enabler. He often tries to simply keep the peace and speak reason to an out-of-control and frazzled woman. We complement each other. He's the softy, I'm the tyrant. But with Scott's new efforts, something has become quite clear. My sweet little boy isn't just spoiled rotten the way I'd initially assumed. There is an underlying issue.
     Obsession. Hyper-focusing.
     I'm not sure what to do about this. Last night was the most apparent. The kid could not settle down. He knew that Scott was in the house, therefore, he had to be with him. Touching him, seeing him, basking in his angelic glow. The more I threatened the worse the obsession became. Scott and I were both exasperated. Eight o'clock turned into nine, which turned into ten, and still the kid could not sleep. He was exhausted, but his brain could not turn off the daddy switch. Julie described it perfectly the next day. She said, "It's like taking a smoker who's been nicotine deprived for 24 hours and slapping a pack of cigarettes in front of them, telling them not to touch."
     Scott is Ian's nicotine. The kid is addicted to his father.
     So as I post this entry during the wee hours of the morning, because I can't sleep, I wonder--is there a twelve-step program for something like this?
     "Hello. My name is Ian. And I'm... addicted to my dad."
   

No Pain

     I must admit that I have a lot of guilt over my last post. I wasn't very nice to my boy. But I'm not going to delete it. Ian is a hard kid and I need to be able to express the good as well as the bad. Fortunately his behavior is improving, at least on the home front.
     I've spent the better part of this evening immersed in a Baldacci novel while Ian quietly watched T.V. Every so often I'd head out to the family room and tell him he's too close to the screen. For some reason, he has to have his face pressed to the glass in order to see. Yet he always passes his eye exams. Go figure. The last time I ventured out I found him walking calmly out of the kitchen, a white dishcloth wrapped around his hand. He stopped me and said, "Mom? Can you finish cutting my pickles?"
     "Were you trying to cut pickles yourself?" I asked.
     "Yeah, but I missed."
     That's when I noticed the blood.
     "Ian? Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?"
     He unwrapped the dishcloth to reveal a bloodsoaked thumb, "A little. You are mad?"
     "No, I'm not mad. Let's get that cleaned up."
     He didn't protest as I helped him wash pickle juice off his hands and clean the cut. It was of those that makes you cringe and say to yourself Stitches? Uh...maybe...maybe not...maybe... In the end I settled for Polysporin and a thick layer of band aids. If he bleeds through I might have to rethink the stitches. While doctoring his wound I told him to let me do the cutting from now on. "You aren't quite old enough to use the sharp knives yet, okay?"
     "Okay."
     And that was that. He went back to the T.V. and I went to the kitchen to clean up the mess. On the cutting board I found two large dill pickles, evenly sliced into chunks. He got all the way through his cutting until the last part of the pickle, when his thumb got in the way. Not too shabby. I finished the last part for him. As I wiped off the cutting board he came back into the kitchen, got a paper towel, gathered up his dills and said, "I almost forgot my pickles."
    

Empty Bucket

     I've tried for several weeks to find something positive to write about. I've tried taking some of Ian's outbursts and thinking of them in a comical way. I've tried looking at him when he's sleeping, hoping to dredge up some maternal love, but my bucket is dry and my patience withered. There's only one thing I want at this point: to inflict bodily harm--to give him a good taste of what it's like to be his mother.
     During sacrament meeting yesterday, Ian decided that his matchbox cars needed to jump benches. And then he decided he should follow them. While the deacons passed the sacrament, he was running up the aisle, not caring about jostling water trays or glares from the bishopric. When I attempted to reign him in by taking away his toys, he tried head-butting me and started repeating, in his screeching voice, "I want it! I want it! I want it!"
     "That's it!" I hissed in his ear. "You are going out!"
     Which is what he wanted. I dragged him--none too gently--out into the foyer where I stuck him in a corner by the garbage can. Oops. My mistake. Shouldn't have put him by the trash. He tried pulling the liner out. I moved him to a different corner. He started jumping and banging the coat hangers together. I moved him again. He began to kick the walls with his shoes. I took his shoes away. He threw his socks at me so I kept those too. We were beginning to draw a crowd and all I wanted to do was gouge his eyes and cane him to death. Instead, I stuck him in an empty classroom informing him, "This is spirit prison. Good luck getting out," and then I shut the door. It was a relief not to see his face. He was safe from me and I was safe from him, not to mention he wasn't disturbing anyone. Until he decided to throw his body against the door. Over and over again.
     You might be asking yourself why didn't I just take him home and put him in a time out? I didn't do it because that's what he wanted. He hates being at church so he's determined to make it miserable for everyone else. I was waiting for sacrament meeting to be over so that I could turn him over to the primary and he could be someone elses problem for the next two hours. Which is what I did. And then I went home for a time out.
     This is what my life has been like since my last post. I don't know what is up with my kid, but he is an absolute menace. He screeches constantly like a two-year-old banshee, he trash talks everyone around him, he's violent and stubborn and obstinate and I can't think of one good thing to say about him.
     At a birthday party last week, he loudly informed an overweight woman that she had a big butt. He said, "Hey, fatty! Get your big butt out of my face!" I was horrified. We don't talk that way in our home. Where was this coming from?
     Tawni brought a friend home the other day. She was Asian. Ian took one look at her and said, "Hey, China! China, China!"
     I've come to one conclusion. My kid is a shit. Plain and simple. One minute he explodes like diarrhea, and the next he's as stubborn as constipation. Sometimes he's messy and other times he slips right on by and you never see him until it's too late. He can be sneaky, hard, loose--but one thing is certain--his bad odor lingers long after he's left the room.
        

Sensitive Soul

     I laugh when I think of Ian's antics over the years; the trouble he gets himself into and sometimes talks his way out of, his creativity in trying to cover his tracks. When he was younger and wanted to do something that he knew wasn't okay, he would tell me, "Go away, Mom," or "Close your eyes, Mom," punctuating his statement with a slight shove. I think he's finally come to the realization that when he says these things, I'm totally on to him.
    This endearing little human has embarrassed me on many occasions. During a Sacrament Meeting several years past he loudly declared, "Jesus is stupid! I hate Jesus!" Mortified, I acted immediately, removing him from the worship service. Much to my surprise, he walked calmly down the aisle beside me, a permagrin attached to his face. Smart stinker made the hideous outburst for the sole purpose of being able to hang out in the foyer. Imagine his fury when his devious plan backfired and he had to spend the entire time on my lap. It was not pretty and many people stared, probably wondering if they should call 911 because this poor child was obviously being abused. Funny thing, I was the one who got headbutted in the mouth and had scratches up and down my arms. I kept staring at the sign hanging on the wall stating that Reverence is the atmosphere of Heaven. Well in that moment I'd found Hell right in the middle of church, complete with a demon on my lap.
     Over the years I've tried to instill a sense of love, generosity, compassion, honesty, and reverence in my boy. It hasn't been easy. Many days I feel I've failed. But then, something happens to let me know that my teaching is not in vain. Somewhere, somehow, something is getting through.
     I recently had the misfortune of being a victim of muscle spasms in my lower back. Quite severe to be honest. Ian seems to understand pain when he sees others hurting. Particularly if he knows the pain took them to the emergency room. He is well aquainted with the ER. So when I told him I needed his help because my back hurt, his compassion came shining through. I was kneeling on the floor, gritting my teeth, attempting to change Christeal's diaper. She was wiggly and kicking, making the task insurmountable. Ian came up behind me and began to run his little fingers up and down my back. He said, "This will help, Mom. It always makes me feel better." And you know what? It did. At the beginning of this week, we went to dinner for Tawni's birthday. I attempted to extract myself from the car in the Sizzler parking lot. Ian stood beside me and said, "You need some help, Mom?" and offered me his hand. And finally, last night, Rebeka came to me in tears. Ian was immediately concerned. It turns out that Zack was trash-talking her and managed to break through her rock-hard exterior, because it takes a lot to make Beka cry. Ian marched himself downstairs, full of righteous indignation, and pounded on Zack's bedroom door.
     "You come upstairs right now! You are in so much trouble! You made Beka cry!"
     After I dished out the guilt trips and asked Zack, "Is that how a Deacon should behave?", Ian sat on the piano bench watching Beka. I said to him, "Ian, can you think of something nice to say to Beka?" He put his head down a bit and said, "Sorry."
     "Why are you sorry? You didn't hurt her feelings."
     He replied, "I was mean earlier today."
     I've learned a lot being Ian's mother. I can't sweat the small stuff, I have to pick my battles and look at life in a humorous way. I've developed a lot of patience, but still need to work on more. Probably one of the greatest lessons is to never give up. Because just when it seems that nothing is getting through, I see a light shining in his eyes, and I can look into his soul and see how beautiful he is.

    
    

Tribulation

     I don't even know where to start. So much is going on I'm overwhelmed by it all and I'm not the one dealing with it. My poor husband is. Bless him a million times over. It started Sunday night, with Ian. He started throwing up at midnight and several hours later it was coming out both ends. Scott stayed up with him, cleaning it all while letting me sleep. Monday morning came and when I changed the baby's diaper my look of horror would have shocked an entire audience in a modern Michael Meyers flick. Her legs and butt were covered in some kind of rash that looked like small pox and chicken pox and the black plague combined. Meantime, Ian's condition began deteriorating. I hurried to schedule two doctors appointments for the kids. I had to plead with nurses to be seen that morning instead of in the afternoon. I myself was scheduled for surgery at 2:45 to have the right half of my thyroid removed due to a suspicious growth. Nothing like the threat of cancer to make your Christmas season merry and bright. I had to drive downtown for Christeal's doctor appointment and Scott took Ian to his. Christeal has some kind of bacterial skin infection and the doc put her on antibiotics immediately, both oral and topical. I got a text from Scott saying that Ian was so dehydrated he needed to go to the hospital for an IV.
     By this time I was a blubbering mess. I called Julie, sobbing into the phone, asking if she could take me to my surgery so that Scott could stay with Ian. That's all it took. My amazing ward was summoned and they responded like the army of Heleman.
     Suzanne went to the store for gatorade, Christeal's prescriptions, and pull-ups for Ian. Sharlene Wells checked Beka out of school so she could come home and help. Julie picked her up and brought her home. Tawni's teachers were nice enough to let her go home early also and she came to help Beka with Christeal.
     Alta View Hospital couldn't help Ian with what he needed so they sent him in an ambulance up to Primary's with Scott following behind. They poor kid ended up being hospitalized because his electrolites were so screwed up.
    All of this took place by 2:00.
    Service on our behalf continued. Scott's sister, Mindi heard of our plight. She called the girls, checking on them. I think she even went to the house. I'm not sure. I heard about all this after I came out of the anesthesia. She took some dinner to Scott up at Primary's and later spent the night with Ian so Scott could finally come and be with me. Chris Derieg also took dinner to Scott and Brent Schumann showed up to help give Ian a blessing. Dinner came in to my home as well along with phone calls and well wishes. Julie stayed with me.
     I don't know what time it was when I finally got to see my husband. It wasn't long enough for either of us. Christeal started throwing up and he had to leave me at midnight to take care of her.
     It is now Wednesday. Christeal is over her pukes but the rash is still hideous. I'm home. Ian and I both came home yesterday. It's hard to be a mom and know your kids are hurting and you can't be there for them. As soon as I got home I sat with Ian and just rubbed his skinny little legs. It was so good to see him.
     Last night Beka and Zack started throwing up. Tawni locked herself in her room with a can of Lysol hoping to keep the illness at bay. I hope she succeeds.
     My sweet, sweet, husband is taking care of everyone. He cleans up vomit, washes blankets, holds crying people... you should see our family room. Ian is on one couch, Zack on the other, Christeal on the ottoman and Scott brought a cot up for Beka. He's making me stay in my room. The only thing I can do is change Christeal's diapers. He'd do it himself but he has a severe severe allergy to formaldehyde based products and any kind of wipes are the worst. He's exhausted but he keeps saying he's mentally stable. I don't know how. Perhaps there is some divine help. I think there probably is.
     Good news for me. The growth on my thyroid was benign.
     I apologize for the mispelled words/names, scatter-brained thoughts, and bad punctuation. I'm under the influence of Lortab. But the thanks I feel in my heart for my family, friends and neighbors is not under the influence. That is crystal clear. I love you all.