Several Worlds Apart

On Monday I took a little trip to the emergency room at our local women's hospital after having a severe cramp in my leg. Long story short, it was a wasted visit, everything was fine, although it gave me peace of mind. While I walked out of the hospital no longer worried about a blood clot, a new concern was weighing heavy on my heart. In the emergency room, just a thin curtain separated me from the woman in the next bed. All I saw of her when I passed her was her green striped pajama pants. I can't tell you her race, her hair color...for all I know she could have been my doppelgänger. As I lay in the bed waiting to be examined, it was impossible not to hear the conversation between the doctor and the woman in the green pjs. The woman was pregnant, due with her second chid on October 24, so around 36 weeks pregnant. She came in because she had an infected pimple in her ear that was causing her pain. Ok...no big deal. However, it was what came next that rattled me. Since she was there anyways, she decided it was a good time to try to get clean. She was hoping to start a methadone conversion. She was a drug addict.

As I listened to her I was in total disbelief. She told the doctor she was using 10 bags of heroin a day. In addition, she was taking around 10 benzos a day. The doctor asked her if she used cocaine or marijuana. The woman laughed and said "Can you believe I don't like weed?"

At this point I was fuming. My blood was boiling. I wanted to reach through the sheet and slap this woman. How was she laughing? How dare she do this to the little, defenseless baby in her very own body.

As far as cocaine? The woman said she no longer did coke and it wouldn't be in her system. When the doctor pried further and asked when the last she used it was, the woman told her Saturday. SATURDAY! That was just two days earlier! How could she say she didn't use anymore!

I lay there, repeating to myself that I needed to mind my own business.

Next I started crying. The woman told the doctor the baby's father was still involved in her life. In fact, he was the one who supplied her the drugs. She lived with her mother, who helped her take care of her two-year-old. She worked as a prostitute for a while. She has hepatitis C but hasn't seen a doctor for it in years. In the very beginning of her pregnancy she saw an OB, but it had been more than 20 weeks since she had seen one.

How is any of this possible? How? I saw a doctor almost every week of my pregnancy because of something that I had less than a 3% chance of happening. I resisted using Tylenol several times when I felt I needed it because I wanted to limit what I put in my body.

Here I was in a bed right next to her in the same emergency room in the same hospital, and yet I felt like we were from two different universes. We were both carrying a new little life inside of us, and yet I couldn't relate to her at all.

I had started angry, been resolved to tears, and ended in prayer. I laid in my bed praying for her, praying for her baby and praying for her little son at home. I prayed she would find the strength to get clean. I prayed her baby would be healthy. I prayed her son was safe.

I also prayed for myself, though. I asked God to help me not to judge and to find understanding when understanding seemed so far beyond my reach. At the end of the day, the reality is there is no amount of judgement I could pass on that woman that could change her. I have lived a life of privilege. My version of struggle in my 35 years would be a walk in paradise for a lot of people.

I am not so naive that I don't know this. It is not my place to judge her. It isn't what God wants us to do, and it won't make me a better person or set a good example for my children. Rather I will continue to pray for her and I ask all of you to do the same.

Personal Triumph Trumps Personal Best

Having had big sisters and being a big sister, I know first hand that big sisters aren't always the kindest or most supportive. They can be, but they can also be pinching, hair pulling, yelling, attitude-filled bullies.

My oldest, 10, is no exception. Being the first born she has decided it is her job to boss around her younger siblings and throw major tantrums when she is told it is not her place.

On Sunday, Pittsburgh had it's 35th Great Race. The Great Race is a family tradition for the Wolf clan. In my family, you run your first Great Race when you are 6 (if you want to). This was Presley's fifth Great Race, and her little brother, Nolan's, first.

As much as I had hoped to be able to run it with them, I had to make the decision that at 32 weeks pregnant it wasn't the best move for me or "Lil Boo." I asked a few people, but they weren't able to be running buddies with the kids, so my non-runner husband stepped up to the plate.

Presley is quite the little runner, and was entering the race seeded for the second time. She earned this honor by finishing second in her age group last year. We have a deal every year that if she gets a personal record she can pick out a stuffed animal as a reward. (Actually, this year she attempted to up the ante to a cell phone or Kindle Fire, but Mommy shut that down pretty fast.)

With tears in my eyes I got the kids all dressed in their pink "Pancreas Racing" shirts and pinned their race bibs on. After a couple of quick pictures I kissed them goodbye and promised to meet them at the finish. I couldn't believe I was missing the race with them.

I took the other 2 kids and we headed downtown to the finish line. I am proud to say I navigated my way through town, closed roads and all, found a parking spot and still got to the finish early. We secured a cheering section near the finish and waited for Presley. I watched the clock, waiting for 52:00, her goal time, to come along. It came, and went...53, 54, 55...I was getting so nervous.

Before I knew it the clock read an hour and still no Presley. PANIC! Was she ok? Did something happen? Finally, at 1:04, she crossed the finish. I tried to find her, but she broke plan and came to where she saw me standing. Eventually we found each other and by then she had her brother with her.

As it turns out, the kids lost their dad in the first mile. (It just so happens to be the same spot where we lose my dad every year.) Presley didn't want Nolan to have to do his first Great Race alone, so she stayed with him. She taught him our "smash the cup" game at every water station, she showed him "rainbow hill" where we like to see all the different color t-shirts as we run, she even gave him "boosts" where I grab her hand and pull her up to give her momentum.

She did all of this knowing she could not place or get her goal time. She knew that cute little Small Fry at Build-a-Bear would not be hers again this year. But she also knew that the Great Race is special not because so many people do it, but because she has done it with her mother and created all these great memories. She wanted to make sure Nolan had the same kind of Great Race she has always gotten.

She did eventually pull ahead of him around mile 5, but she knew at that point her goal time was out of reach.

I am so proud of her. I am sure today when she gets home from school and he is on the chair she wants she will yell at him and throw some elbows. The 6.2 miles didn't suddenly improve her contrary disposition. It did in that moment, though, give me a peak at the person she is growing up to be.

(And for the record, I thought she more than earned that stuffed animal! We made a mall trip yesterday!)

That Punched in the Gut Feeling

Some of you may know that my youngest child (well, youngest for the next 10 weeks or so) has some developmental delays and challenges. Beckett (aka Bean) has verbal apraxia, a speech disorder that makes it difficult for Beckett to communicate what it is he wants to say. He also has developmental dispraxia, which effects Beckett's ability to carry out sensory and motor tasks. Finally he has sensory processing disorder. This effects the way Beckett processes sensory input. He is sensory seeking and under-sensitive, meaning he seeks out sensory input and needs big, dramatic touches to get the right kind of feedback.

With the help of an amazing team of therapists over the last three-plus years, Beckett has made amazing progress, but he still has a lot of challenges. There are days I can tell within the first 5 minutes of him waking up it is going to be what we call "a high sensory day" for our Bean.

He used to run full force into walls and furniture. Luckily high sensory days don't involve that anymore. These days they involve a lot of him sneaking food, hitting his siblings and not being able to sit still. It is always a challenge for my husband and I because we need to reinforce proper behavior even though we understand why he is acting this way.

Bear with me...there is a reason for all of that background story!

This morning I was taking Beckett to therapy and he was rattling off the laundry list of jobs he wants when he grows up.

A police man, a doctor, a fire station guy and a bus driver.

I told him that his Great Aunt Mickey used to be a school bus driver. When he asked why she wasn't anymore I reminded him that she passed away last January. This was the conversation.

"Oh yeah. Did she have cancel?"

"You mean cancer. Yes honey, she had cancer. She is in Heaven now with God."

"Does she still have cancel in Heaven?"

"No, baby. When we are in Heaven with God all of the bad stuff goes away and we aren't sick anymore."

"I wish I were dead."

Well you can imagine how I reacted to my beautiful baby saying this. What he said next, though, broke my heart and amazed me at the same time.

"Well sometimes I don't want to fight with you and I tell my brain that, but my brain doesn't listen and do what I want. I don't like that."

At just five-years-old, my little guy knows that something isn't quite "normal" in how his brain works. Not just that, but it already bothers him enough that he knows he doesn't like it and wants it to be fixed.

This is a huge wake-up call to me that I need to find more ways to reinforce to him everything about him that is good. I also told him we will do a fun activity to come up with ideas of things to do when he can tell his brain isn't listening.

As sad as his statement made me, I am so so grateful for this little peak into his thoughts so I can try to be a better mom to him. It is so easy to get wrapped up in the craziness of life that I forget to consider how the things that stress me out and upset me could be having the same effect on my babies.

If you are somebody who believes in prayer, I ask you to offer a little prayer up for me today to help me grow and learn to show my son what a truly amazing gift he is to me and to the world.

The #1 Rule We Should Be Teaching Our Children

"People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel. Remember what you do echoes in eternity."

I read a heart-breaking story yesterday about a 15-year-old Connecticut boy who committed suicide after years of being bullied. The young man somehow got into the family's gun locker and took his young, precious life. Along with his life, the hopes and dreams his parents had for him were killed, the youth and innocence of his friends was taken, and a future that might have been amazing was snatched away in an instant.

This hurts my heart so very much.

The young man was from Poland and he was very tall for his age, 6 feet 3 inches. Apparently some classmates used these facts to tease and torture this poor kiddo over the years. After his first day of 10th grade, Bart Palosz couldn't take anymore.

We have helicopter parents who obsess over every homework assignment and call the teachers like it is their job. We have little league moms and dads who brawl with umpires and coaches. We even have some parents who buy beer for their high schoolers and drink with them on the weekend.

I think a lot of parents have mistaken "being involved" for good parenting. Parents get so busy pushing their children to be good students and good athletes, but how many are being taught to be good people? Kids are always watching us. ALWAYS. I have learned this lesson the hard way when my kids repeat something I said on the phone or to my husband when I thought we were having a private conversation.

This means how we talk to and about other people is how our children learn to talk to and about other people. How our children see us treat other people is how our kids learn to treat other people. Look back through your conversations and interactions over the last few days and think about the message you have been sending to your children.

One of the things I teach my kids is "it is nice to be smart and it is nice to be pretty, but the most important thing you can be is kind." It is so simple but really important. I would love to believe my kids are always nice. That they never get caught up in petty childhood arguments. I am not that naive. I do believe that more often than not, though, they are kind and compassionate.

There were two other stories I recently read on CNN. One was about a woman with a special needs son who was left a terrible, hurtful note by a neighbor saying the child should be "euthanized." The other article was about a woman out to eat with her special needs son who had a melt down. The note she got was the opposite. A stranger had paid their bill and sent a note saying "God gives special children to special people."

Of the two authors, whose children do you think are more likely to be kind, loving people.

I am going to leave you with the same challenge I leave my kids with every day before they get on the bus. Be kind to someone you don't know today. Smile at them. Pay them a compliment. I promise it will not only brighten their day, but yours as well!

The Goodbye Middle School Bus Stop Kiss (or lackthereof)

"A child's kiss is magic. Why else would they be so stingy with them." - Harvey Fierstein

On the first day of school, my oldest child, Presley, missed the bus to the middle school. I felt so bad for her. It was her first day of middle school and you could tell it killed her juju a bit. Don't get me wrong. My complete hatred of mornings has resulted in many missed busses for my kids over the years; just never on the first day.

She recovered quickly, as children typically do, and had a great first day.

I broke the rules of being a cool middle school mom, though, and on the second day of school I walked to the bus stop with her to make sure there were no issues. There were two other parents in their cars, but I was the only one bold enough to stand in the designated driveway and wait for the yellow bus to come barreling down the road.

As it came to a stop the kids formed their little line to get on, and my daughter turned and walked away.

But wait. Where was my kiss? She forgot to kiss me! As she got on the bus she turned and waved to me. She didn't notice I was trying my best to hold back tears of heartbreak and disappointment. She always kisses me! She isn't too grown up to hold my hand as we walk around the local amusement park. She tells me she loves me around her friends. So why all of a sudden do I not get a kiss before school?!?!

When she got home I teased her and asked her if she is suddenly too cool to kiss her mom at the bus stop and she just laughed.

This morning we were running around and she asked me to walk her to the bus again. I was very surprised and didn't feel much like going down there. My pregnant body has been pretty sore and I still had my pajamas on. However, I am never going to pass up on my "big girl" still wanting to be my "little girl" so I slipped on my flip flops and headed out the door.

Again I was the only mom down there. I told her she didn't have to stand with me and could go over with the other 10 or so children, but she was content hanging out with her mom, even if I did have pjs on!

As the bus pulled up, totally on her own, my beautiful daughter turned and kissed me good bye! Right in front of the other kids at the stop, right in front of the kids already on the bus. Then she hugged me and walked away.

I am so blessed I can't even begin to express it! It wasn't just a kiss. She was trying to make a statement to me by having me walk her to the stop and kiss me. She didn't need me to walk her the 100 yards to the stop. I would have been happy with the kiss goodbye at the front door. At only 10, though, she understood that her little public display of affection would tell me "I love you" louder and clearer than any note, text message or sky writing ever could!

A blog entry dedicated to her can't begin to compare with what she gave me this morning, but I hope I show her in enough other ways how much I love her and what she means to me!

The "F" Word

With four small kids around, I try to be very careful when I choose my words. Among the list of banned words in this house is the "f" word. Seems obvious, right? But you are probably thinking about the wrong "f" word. Guess again.

Fat.

Fat might seem like a strange word to add the obvious list of swear words and insults like stupid and hate. In my mind though, fat can do more damage than any of the other words, especially for two beautiful daughters.

It wasn't a totally banned word until about a year ago when my youngest son was at speech therapy. He has verbal apraxia and that day had been working on his ffffffff sound. One of the words they did in his session was fat. While transitioning to his next therapy, they passed a larger woman in the hall and Beckett innocently said, "She is fat." The therapist was mortified, I was mortified and Beckett was clueless. I felt so bad that this happened, but I used that opportunity to think about how that word is used and the many ways it can damage self-esteem.

We don't own a scale in our house and we never have. I have no plans of ever buying a scale for our house. I make a point to not say a dress or a pair of pants makes me look fat in front of my kids. (To my husband or texting my friends is a different story.) This isn't that I don't think it around them or I don't wonder about fluctuations in my weight, I just don't want my kids to know I think it.

We live in a society where overly skinny girls earn spots on magazine covers. Our society accepts the fact that these already tiny models are airbrushed to look even thinner than they already are. None of this is an opinion, it is all fact.

I have no expectations that I will be able to change these skewed standards we as a nation have come to recognize as normal. What I do have control over is what I teach my children about their own bodies. In our house, instead of talking about weight, we talk about health. Healthy eating, healthy choices, staying healthy through exercise...it is all about their health.

My college cross country coach used to check our body fat on a regular basis. More than once he told me I was too fat and needed to lose weight. He would criticize the team's meal choices. While he had a lot of redeeming qualities, his view on women and their weight was not one of them. I was fortunate enough that all of the insecurities I've always had, my body image has never been one of them.

As parents I think it is an easy formula to shelter our children from developing these issues. First, don't keep a scale in the house that they know about. If you really want one, keep it somewhere in your room. Two, make healthy meal choices so they learn what healthy eating looks like. That doesn't mean fast food never happens, it just needs to be done in moderation. Three, be active and keep them active. Let your kids try a variety of sports until they find the right one for them. Don't let it end there. Take time to be active together. Whether it is taking evening walks or a family bike ride. Four, watch your language. When they hear you complain about your body or criticize somebody else, you are sending them a negative message. Instead, if you are having a "fat day" talk about feeling the need to work out.

We get to be the number one influence in our children's lives if we choose to be. We can build their wall of confidence so strong that no classmate, commercial or magazine cover can destroy it. Let's teach them to put more weight in who they are than what they weigh!

What Defines a Super Mom?

I am a stay-at-home, pregnant mother of four of the most beautiful, intelligent, well-behaved children in the world. (I may or may-not be biased.) Even biased, I had to cross well-behaved off the list. I adore them and they are my universe, but I am not foolish enough to believe these little munchkins have halos following them around.

Kind of like baseline testing for concussions, I think baseline stress level testing would be interesting. If such a thing existed, my stress level right now would measure off the charts. Way off. My hubby and I are fortunate enough that we were able to take my mother-in-law in during a transition period in her life. It makes me feel good that we have been able to provide this for her, but it is never easy adding another adult to a full household.

As I already said, we have four children, plus there is my husband and I, our two large dogs, our cat and the three guinea pigs. We live in a small, split entry house with three bedrooms and a game room converted into bedroom number four. Needless to say, it is close quarters.

Combine the stress of adding another person to the mix, a high risk pregnancy and a summer of four very busy children, and I don't know many people who wouldn't be stressed. Two of my favorite stress relievers are wine (which clearly is not an option) and running (which is a lot harder than it was pre-baby bump). Basically I've taken three paragraphs to tell you I'm stressed. Very, very stressed.

Yesterday I had to run errands with all four kiddos. My husband was out of town helping his mother move some items and so me and the gang were crammed into his small, 2-door Kia Forte Coupe. The 8-year-old and the two 5-year-olds (Irish twins, not actual twins) were in the back seat and just.would.not.stop.

He touched her. She looked at him. He breathed in my direction. For the love of Pete it was nonstop bickering.

I started by asking them nicely to stop. I asked again. I reminded them of the fun evening I had planned. I asked again, a little bit louder. I stopped asking and told them they needed to quit. I begged. I cried. And then, after 20 minutes of non-stop misbehaving, I flipped out. I grew horns and started spitting fire and morphed from loving mommy to the big, bad mommy-monster.

They shut up fast.

The rest of the errands were normal stressful without any more major flip outs by them or by me.

When we got home I made them the special "shark dinner" I had planned for a fun-filled night of cheesy Syfy movies and family time. We enjoyed our fish fillets, lifeguard guts (cheesy hash browns) and surfer eyeballs (grapes). We drank our "blood in the water" beverages (cherry pop) and finished the evening with blood and gut sundaes (ice cream with whipped cream and strawberry sauce).

I shared the plan on Facebook and a few people commented on what a good mom I am. Somebody even called me "super mom". Super mom? I went psycho on my kids just hours earlier. I didn't raise my voice. I full on YELLED. I yelled so much my youngest told me he doesn't love me when I get mad.

So I wonder, what makes somebody a super mom or a super dad? Is it doing fun things? Is it never losing your cool? Is it giving your kids their own way?

I think super mom is really just doing the best you know how and continually learning to do better. I think being a super mom is loving your kids unconditionally. And, when I start feeling bad about my "less than super mom" moments, I try to think back to my book, The World According to Mister Rogers. In it, he says that parents teach their kids an important lesson when we let them see us as parents have a whole range of emotions - anger, joy, sadness - and still love our children through all of those other emotions.

I don't know if I am a super mom or just a mom doing the best I know how...but I do know I love my children with all my heart and soul. Whatever that makes me, I will take!