Mothers' Hideaway Blog

Tonight Should Be September

2012-03-28T02:16:16Z

I need to pour my heart out. I’m so glad Shell has this each week because lately I’ve seemed to need it so much more than normal. You should all link up!

We’re moving! Exciting, right?

My abs look awesome! Fabulous, right?

My house is so clean you could lick it, eat it, and gyrate on it and not get sick! Fantastic, right?

In theory it’s all fantabulositing, but when it comes to the reality of it, well……. it sucks harder than another Fast and the Furious movie. Except there’s no drooling over Paul Whatshisface. I’m stressed, I’m tired, I’m busy. I’m happy we’re moving. My abs look awesome because I’ve spent weeks scrubbing, cleaning toys, organizing, mopping, cleaning spills, cleaning, wiping, cleaning toys, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning clothes, folding, cleaning toys, and well…..you get the point. I am pretty sure my house has never looked so great and I admit, I wonder why it didn’t look like this the whole time. Then when I bend over to pick up the same toy I’ve picked up 506 times today and I feel the sore muscle of my back and stomach I remember why it wasn’t.

My husband is being a jackass. He doesn’t realize all the work that I have to do for each and every showing. In fact, last night as I mopped he read the paper, this morning as I fed the kids, vacuumed, cleaned everything because we had a showing and it needed to be done by 8:15am…well, he slept and then thought he was awesome because he dressed the kids. Whoopdiefreakingdoo. He bitches and complains about every single thing. I’m pretty sure that he looks for things to bitch about and things to get his man-panties in a bunch about. At one point I even told him to “man up” and get his “big boy pants” on and get us out of here by August. He backed down and let me handle everything. Only for him to bitch about everything again. Right now we’re not talking. He’s upstairs talking to his friend on the phone and I’m writing to let out some steam. It was that or go to see Hungry Eyes…or Games…or is it Hunger Games…by myself. I chose to sit here, write, watch Dodgeball on ABC Family, and save money. We need the money, after all, for everything we’re spending it on to fix this place up again. I wish all my kids were that easy to put into time out. Yes, I feel like the only grown up in the house. Don’t you?

I will say that while my kids have been frustrating sometimes, they’ve been great. They have their moments. They don’t keep anything clean. They are kids, but really…they’re my babies. They’ve been troopers and I remember that all of this is for them. I’ll keep scrubbing, wiping, cleaning, hugging, and dealing with my ~~third child~~ husband’s bitching and whining forever.

Tonight I’m tired. I’m sore. I’m annoyed.

Tonight, I really wish I drank.

Tonight, I wish it was September.

Then again, tonight I would never want to miss a moment with my boys. So we’ll keep letting the time go at the same pace that time keeps going.

Let the Panic Begin

2012-03-21T12:57:16Z

Tomorrow our condo goes on the market. I’m scared, excited, nervous, anxious, ready, unprepared, happy, panicked, etc, etc, etc. Yes, I’m the Las Vegas of emotions. Always feeling something, but not sure if I’m winning or losing even though I’m positive I’m winning. See, I’m full of conflict, but I’m not unsure. What the heck does that even mean?

I’ve had a chaotic few weeks and while I’m working my batootie off on trying to get it all done, I’m doing my best to keep it up.

I’m ready to move, I’m ready to get a house with a yard, I’m ready to take my boys away from the congestion of the city and put them on a cul-de-sac where I can teach them to ride their bikes, I can play kickball and tball with them, I can plan snowball fights and snowangels. I’m ready to pay less in a mortgage for a bigger place, less for preschool, less for gas and other goods. I’m ready to go.

I know it will work out, but as we go through this process I can feel the panic and stress circulate through my veins. I feel it slither through like a snake swimming out of your toilet bowl and biting you in the ass. Now you’re all going to be scared tonight when you sit on the pot in the middle of the night because you never know, there might be an anaconda there waiting to sink its teeth into your badumpbadump.

Snake or not, I’m ready and excited for the big changes about to come into my family’s life. It’ll be hard, but it’ll be worth it.

Guess What?

2012-03-12T22:38:07Z

“What?” they reply.

“I love you,” I giggle at them.

That’s normally what I say to my boys every once in a while. Except one day, Fireman changed everything up on me.

“Mommy?” he says my name as a question as my husband drives.

“Yes, baby?” I reply, not thinking much of it.

“Guess what?” I look at Hubs and we smile as I beam that Fireman’s about to tell me he loves me.

“What?” I ask him.

“CHICKEN MONKEY PANTS!”

And with that we all laugh and we are constantly surrounded by Chicken Monkey Pants. Soon, I’m going to figure out a cute recipe for it and make him eat them.

Ha!

You Go Ahead and Get Started

2012-02-28T02:29:47Z

We’ve been working a lot lately with getting our four year old to start helping a bit more. This means general things. You know, cleaning up toys, putting away laundry, wiping his own butt, the normal things.

The problem is…he doesn’t want to do anything besides play. Or maybe that’s not a problem and I’m just a hard core mom.

Anyways, the other night I told him he needed to have his toys cleaned up. I told him I’d help him after I finished cleaning the kitchen. He sat his tush on the couch and just….chilled.

“Fireman, get up and clean your toys, please.”

He does not move.

“Mom, I’m working on relaxing.”

I do not move. What in the world am I supposed to say to that?? Great? Good for you? Get off your ass right now or else??

Instead, I opt for, “By the time I get back from putting B to bed you better start getting these toys put away. You have five minutes.” I walk away sure that this time the little turd will follow through.

I go through the motions of B’s bedtime. Brush his teeth, change his diaper, rub him down with lotion, put his jammies on, read him a story, sing him a song, and put him in bed. Of course, as I do this I listen to hear the progress in the front room and then I daydream about the day someone will brush my teeth, rub me down with lotion, put my jammies on….but I don’t want to be in diapers….then again...maybe I do. I kiss B and walk out to the front room.

And there he is sitting on the couch sucking his freaking thumb.

“Fireman! Why aren’t you cleaning???”

“I’m working on relaxing, Mom.”

“I appreciate that, but you can relax after you finish cleaning. C’mon…I’ll help you, but you have to get up now.”

And then it happened. I caught a glimpse of my future fourteen year old son (God willing he’s not sucking his thumb then!). I saw a smelly teenager vegging on my couch not wanting to do any of his chores. Yes, I caught this devastating bit, but I was stabbed in the heart when he looked up at me and said…

“Mom, I’m working on relaxing. You go ahead and get started.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m officially in trouble. Let’s hope he gets the smart-assedness out of his system now and his teenage years are easy as pie.

I wonder where he learned it from.

Don’t Take Yourself Too Seriously

2012-02-20T05:04:48Z

I’m funny.

Yup, you heard me. Yes, you may laugh.

I’m funny. I’m so funny that I make other people cry. Happy tears.

I also give them cramps. No, not those cramps. I said I was funny…not a bitch like Mother Nature. I give the laugh-so-hard-you-split-your-side type of cramps.

Wanna know a secret?

I forgot how hilarious I was and how hard I could laugh. That is, until I saw my Tittylicious Tribe this weekend. Don’t get me wrong, one of my best friends and I have the humor of twelve-year old boys and are quite proud of this (BEWBIES!!!) and quite often our one goal in life is to make the other cry whether it be for a good release to our stress or because we each think the other is that funny. In fact, I’m positive that this friend of mine should join the Tittylicious Tribe because she does have awesome BEWBIES!

Anyways, this weekend. The craziness that happened. The Tittylicious Tribe.

We’re funny and we make each other laugh. We each say something, put it on a tee, and someone will inevitably hit it out of the park. In fact, that is how we became Tittylicious. Without the tassles. Although, I may need to get us all some tassles.

I was trying to explain to Hubs why I loved being with these women so much and why each time I see them we enjoy each other’s company. I went through some of our antics, our commentaries, and our routines and then I realized the one thing that made us all work.

We don’t take ourselves too seriously.

We are us. We are what we want to be. We are smart asses or listeners. We care what others think, but yet…when we are together…we don’t give a damn what the others may say. My self esteem flies when around them because (with the exception of a few of my friends that don’t live in Chicago) I don’t think that in the eight years since I’ve moved to Chicago I’ve been able to be so much myself as I am with them.

We each have our own voice. Our own heart. Our own personas. We say stuff that no one remotely gets, but we all laugh at. We make fun of ourselves and each other, but never take it to heart. We don’t know all of the details of each others’ lives, but we know what matters.

The one thing that makes us all work and get along….

That each of us are bat shit crazy. And when you’re covered in guano there’s no way to take yourself too seriously.

So, thank you to my Tittylicious girls. I’m finding my voice again and I remember that we are funny.

And we all wear awesome jewelry

TASSLES FOR EVERYONE!

Bitch, Stole My Babysitter

2011-09-28T02:10:34Z

There are few things that we are protective of as women and mothers. We’re protective of our children, our spouses, our homes, our cars. So many of us become mama bears when any of these things are even approached by others looking to steal the love, the good, the support, the time of these items. We have no problem admitting that we’ve been known to yell, fight, or argue to make sure no one steals our prized possessions. In fact, we have been known to go bat shit crazy because well let’s face it…all of us have a sprinkle of crazy in us.

But one thing not many moms admit is saying…

“Bitch stole my babysitter.”

You heard me right. How often have you not given your babysitter’s name or information to a friend because you are scared of losing the only person that is a part of your sanity. Forget your husband, your friends, your family. No, my friends, your babysitter is a prized possession who you desperately need for that moment out of the house without a snot nosed child wiping themselves on your shoulder or leg or a scream in the background while you’re on the phone. You need that babysitter so you can take a moment just to eat dinner…peacefully…without dodging flinging ketchup and green beans…so you can have an adult conversation without refereeing a fight between siblings.

Yes, my babysitter is my prized possession and without her I’d die a long ketchup and snot covered death by suffocation.

But I need a new one. A daytime one. I need one that will be there so I can work out without my kids pulling down my gym pants. So I can do a pilates plank without 50 pound of little boys climbing onto my back. My core is strong, people, but it’s not that strong. I need one so I can go to my GYN appointments without having to hide the boys from the sight of that man with the metal duck going near their mommy’s girly bits.

Yes, I need a new one because the one problem with day time sitters is they all get jobs. Or a life. And I’m left to scour the planet (or city) for the one person that is a good sitter. I’m a babysitter snob. I will rate you, judge you, and find out if you’re good enough for my boys. I want you to be that person that my boys get excited to see, that I trust will follow the rules, and let the kids have fun but not let them be brats.

I need a replica of me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty dang complicated and I’m “special” so it’s a hard find in the sea of babysitters.

I ask around to my mom friends. They tell me that they have a great one and they’ll let me know if she has any availability. They won’t tell me more than that. They hold their sitters close to their chests. Clinging to it as if though their sanity is dependent on their sitters flexible schedule.

I never hear from them again.

They hold their cards to their chest like a poker player holding pocket kings and scared the flop is going to give you the upper hand instead.

The sitter is busy.

The bitch won’t share her babysitter.

Too bad, because I have a really good evening sitter for her….if I don’t need the sitter myself. Yes, I’m a bitch that won’t share my babysitter either.

New Uterine Tenants

2011-09-15T05:23:23Z

“Holy shit, that poor girl,” I hear the doctor say outside the exam room door. I can’t help but chuckle. Clearly he doesn’t know I can hear him. He lightly taps on the door and walks in. I’ve never met him before. I’m here for the first time because my she-parts are malfunctioning and I am due for my yearly exam. Anytime a new doctor learns about my plethora of issues they shake their heads with amazement. He is no different.

“You’re a mess,” he announces without introduction. I like his style. His irreverence is calming in a warped way. I liked things warped.

“Yeah. Doctors see me and they cringe,” I reply not missing a beat.

“I’m not cringing,” he says as he washes his hands. “I feel sorry for you.”

“Eh. It is what it is,” I shrug. I’ve lived with this body long enough to know that there’s nothing I can do about its hate of me.

I go through my problems and concerns with him. I tell him about my raging PMS, my migraines, my cramps, my bleeding through one super tampon an hour and being left to die on the couch with my ibuprofen and heating pad.

He sits there and interrupts with questions digging for more detail.

I explain the weight in my stomach, the problems with weight consistency, the feeling of hormonal imbalance, the bleeding in the middle of my cycle for a week, the sex that is more uncomfortable than fun. I tell him everything I can think of, sure that something is wrong with me.

He tells me he thinks he knows what is going on, but with my annual pap he wants to do a biopsy and send me upstairs to have an ultrasound. He tells me to undress and he will be back to exam me.

He returns, takes the biopsy, and does the pap. We make small talk, crack jokes at my stretch marks, and how 3 weeks more of gestation from my youngest was all it took to destroy my stomach. He sits in front of me.

“You have polyps and I think you have endometriosis.” I tense up as he continues. “We will see what the ultrasound today says and then we will have you come in the office to do a saline ultrasound as well.”

He continues with more explanation about what this means, when my biopsy results will come in, and what comes next. We say our good byes and I head upstairs for my first ultrasound.

During the ultrasound I lay on the cold hard table with a sheet over my knees. I wonder what the sheet is even for since they’re seeing all my girly bits anyways. I clutch to it nevertheless. As I lay there looking at the screen making out the organs of my reproductive system and when the goes over to my ovaries I gasp, “Oh My Gosh.”

The ultrasound tech stopped, quizzical, and asked, “What do you see?”

“The cysts.” There were at least ten staring at me on the screen.

“Don’t you have PCOS, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome?”

“Not officially, but I’ve thought that I have had it.”

“Why?” she seems doubtful. Perhaps she is concerned that I am Dr. WebMD.

“PMS problems and pain,” I answer not sure I should even be telling her this. Radiologists aren’t supposed to say anything to you at all about what they see. Then again, I saw it and there’s no denying those 10-15 black empty sacs as being anything but cysts.

“Hmmmm. I’m sending this to your doctor immediately.”

“Ok.” I have nothing more to say. I have so much to digest.

I walk home that afternoon worried, sore, and in pain because whatever is in there has been jostled around by the doctor and ultrasound. That day, I discovered I have polyps and possibly PCOS and Endometriosis. Great. It could be worse though. It could be fibroids and cancer instead.

The following day I return to my gynecologist’s office for the saline ultrasound. I’m sore from the day before and I hobble around the waiting room. Even sitting sends shooting searing pain through my pelvis. The exam begins and as they insert the saline the doctor pauses.

“I see a fibroid,” he says with almost a moan. The ultrasound tech agrees and they capture a picture.

I throw my head back in annoyance.

“Oh, there’s a second one.” Yet another picture is snapped.

Great. Then to my ovaries and at this point I close my eyes. I’ve seen these before and really don’t want to be reminded.

After the ultrasound we walk into his office. He sits me down and sighs. He puts his hands to his forehead as he reexamines the ultrasound pictures.

Somberly he begins, “Ok, so we have multiple issues going on here. You have one large golf ball sized cyst on your left ovary, both ovaries are polycystic, you have possible endometriosis, there are quite a few polyps in a good portion of your uterus. And you have two large, not huge but definitely larger, fibroids in your uterus cavity.”

And that is when my personality takes over and I speak without thinking, “I guess my uterus realized I was done having kids and put out a “For Rent” sign and everyone showed up.”

He started laughing and said, “I like you. You mean business, but take the punches.”

“Yeah, but I have a mean right hook.”

My hysteroscopy is scheduled for today. I will find out if any of this is cancerous in the next few days, but my doctor says he’s almost 100% positive it’s not. We will see. I will have surgery in two weeks to evict my uterus’ new tenants and possibly my complete endometrial lining of my uterus.

Until then the “For Rent” sign remains and my tenants annoy.

This is in response to the writing prompt “An inappropriate time to laugh.”

I Need Some Jeans Men

2011-09-09T16:25:47Z

I’ve decided that I need as many men as I have jeans. I need a ~~man~~ pair of jeans for each mood. I need a ~~man~~ pair of jeans for each season. I need a ~~man~~ pair of jeans for each look.

Shoot, I’ll just say it how it is…I wear a ~~man~~ pair of jeans as an accessory.

Could you imagine how wonderful life would be? I have five pairs of jeans that each help me and each make me feel better than a fat kid in a candy store.

Speaking of fat kids, I need a Fat Jeans Man. A man that feels good to put on when I’m bloated bigger than roadkill. A man that makes me feel comfortable and beautiful even though I feel gross. A man that wants to get jiggy with it even though I’m a psychotic raging bitch. Yes, a Fat Jeans Man would be really great to have…but only one week a month. Any more than that and then I’m going to blame him for my fatness. In fact I’d probably blame him more than I’d blame my post pregnancy body.

The post pregnancy body that has me wearing Mommy Jeans. No, not high waisted, camel toeing, butt wedgying Mom Jeans. No, my friends, these are Mommy Jeans and with them I could wear a Mommy Jeans Man. Someone that I can deal with daily. Someone that made me feel cute, yet functional. Someone that doesn’t mind having spit up, snot, dirt, ketchup, or even poop or pee wiped on him. This man would take the screaming baby, the whining toddler, the attitude ridden preschooler and say “Honey, you need a break. Why don’t you go out with your friends tonight and have some fun.”

And then…my friends…I’d find me a Party Jeans Man. We’re talking low rise, in the club, worn with high hot heels, a cute sexy top, and a body that kills. Yes, he’d buy me drinks. He’d know how to dance. He’d even make my ass look good (because when you’ve got some badunkadunk you need jeans to tame that booty down!). He’ll know which places were good to go to have fun. He’d know how to have fun. Most importantly, all of my friends would love him and I’d feel sexier than a Pussy Cat Doll during a concert tour. Yes…I’d look and feel fantastic. Until the next morning, when I wake up exhausted with a headache and few recollections of what happened the night before.

No, now it’s time for me to get on my Working Jeans. It’s time to do home improvement projects, clean, paint, whatever it is that you do when parts of your home needs fixing. Then walks in my Working Jeans Man. He’s wearing nothing but his own working jeans, a six pack of abs, and a tool belt that has everything I need. Yes, my Working Jeans Man would help me get stuff done around the house, I could stand back at a distance and admire his muscles as he carries those two by fours up the stairs so he can build on to my deck in the glistening sun. Yes…I’d drool and get paint all over ~~him~~ my jeans. Then after all of that hard physical labor, all of that cardio work, all of that hammering and pounding (*wink wink*) I’d get to wear my skinny jeans.

Skinny Jeans. Jeans I was afraid to wear until recently. Jeans that suddenly when I bought a pair actually made me feel fashionable (even though my sister said it reminded her of Junior High School when I was the least fashionable. Shoot, I was just ahead of my time!). With that would come my Skinny Jeans Man and I would feel like one of the Real Housewives of Orange County because he would be like “My Gay”. He’d dress me, fashion me out, and make me look like a million dollars all the while making it look like I wasn’t trying at all. Yes, I’d be the Kourtney Kardashian Type Mom of Chicago and I’d look fabulous all the time.

Yes, it’s decided. I need as many men as I have jeans. Yet for now I’ll have to make do with training the man I already have and love. He’s my All Purpose Jeans and I’ll wear ~~him~~ them through the shreds, the dirt, and snot and slobber. They’re comfortable, they always fit, and I suppose I’ll wear ~~him~~ them for the rest of my life.

Even if he doesn’t wear a tool belt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This post was written for Write On Edge.

We all have a relationship with jeans. They can make us feel a range of emotions, and this week we asked you to write a piece in which jeans figured prominently.

Cheryl got a little steamy with her continuing story about the widow in I’m still alive.

How did you do? Link up, but ONLY if you’ve done the prompt.

Try to read as many as you can so we can keep our community strong and growing.

Monologue of an Almost Four Year Old

2011-09-08T02:38:11Z

It’s been one of those days. You know those days where you love your children yet wonder how you’re going to survive the life sentence of parenthood? Those days where if another scream, argument, whine, or just another person climbing on you will just about throw you over the edge (Sorry Hubs, consider yourself warned for tonight)? Those days where you envision yourself on top of a cliff overlooking the Grand Canyon and the magnificent beauty and calmness of it…and then you jump.

Yeah…it’s been one of those days.

It’s also been one of those days where you wonder what the hell is going on in those little minds of those that love to torment you. They’re half your height, but have ten times your endurance. They will take you down scream, whine, and misbehaved action by action. Then it happens…you suddenly have an epiphany…

Right after your almost four year old boy spits out milk…

out your patio door…

onto your door, floor and…

your neighbor’s patio below.

You yell “What are you doing???” As if though he’ll answer.

He answers, “I’m making a lake.”

No shit, you think. You grumble in silence instead.

“Are you supposed to do this?” you finally ask as you wipe of some of the Milky Lake knowing that he’ll answer correctly.

“Nope.”

“Then why did you?” you get up to grab some paper towels to help your efforts while the eighteen month old screams and laughs from the high chair. Your almost four year old runs to play with something else. You don’t chase him and instead you begin the monologue of what went through his head.

Hey, look at that. There’s a tiny little hole between the screen door and the gate. I wonder if I can get through it, he looks at Mom to make sure she’s sufficiently distracted. Hell yeah (Yeah, my son talks like a bad ass.) she’s busy. Ok…if I do this my mom is going to go ape crazy on me. She’ll probably put me in time out. I might even lose my firetruck…again. Worth it? Not worth it? Worth it? Not worth it?

He looks at me again. This time our eyes connect and I know something is up, but he is smarter than me and wilier than me. That, and he has those big powerful brown eyes that can hide and kill. I know…I have the same pair.

Dude, it’s going to be totally worth it to see the mess. (Yeah, my son talks like a surfer, too.) He grabs his milk and chugs. I see him and am glad that he’s finally decided to drink it. I turn back to the kitchen to get some more food for them until I hear…

***SPLASH***

What the hell??? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, almost four year old boys are smarter than us. They are wilier than us. They weigh the positives and negatives of their actions and let it be known that ….

Making a huge fucking mess is worth all sorts of time outs, toys taken away, and a very very pissed off mom.

Peace out, Firetruck. See you next week.

My son in 11 years

You Got Me, Mommy.

2011-09-06T03:55:10Z

Lately I’ve been having an internal struggle with spirituality. My life has been in chaos (or at least seems that way to me) and I can never seem to get a grip on things around me. As soon as I figure it out it all starts to fall out of balance again. So when I put my son to bed last night, his words hit me like a ton of bricks.

Last night I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well the night before (a usual as of late) and I had had a long day with the kids. My irritability had been sensed by my husband and he made a well timed exit to his Sunday night class. Which left me alone…with the boys..and a splitting headache that was about to make the Andes Fault Line look like scratch.

But that’s ok. He deserved his time away. He needed it.

After a bath that landed more water on me, the walls, and the floor than the kids. After screams that bath time wasn’t over yet. After a story and a song to a certain very tired toddler boy. I sighed, One down, one to go.

I’m sure something in me screamed “I need a break!” or “Mommy can’t take much more!” Whatever it was, my preschooler silently understood and walked with me happily as we went through our night time routine.

“Brush my teeth. Put my jammies on. Cuddle on the couch. Watch TV. Story and song and go to bed!” he sang as we went through each step.

We brushed his teeth and as we sat in his room preparing to put his jammies on he wandered off to play with a toy. I laid out his Pull-Up, I picked out a pair of jammies, and then he said it. He said it so thoughtlessly as he played with his truck.

“Mom, you got me and put me together,” I stopped what I was doing to listen to what he said. “And took me home with you and I loved you.”

He suddenly ran to me and hugged me. He planted a wet kiss on my exhausted cheek.

“What do you mean, honey? What did I do?” I ask him trying to see where he had gained such infinite wisdom as I shuffle on his Pull-Up.

Willow Tree's Mother and Son Statue

“You chose me,” he said matter of factly as he continued to play. He said it as if though it were yesterday. I almost felt that he was remembering something I have long gone forgotten. Or I was never privy to in the first place.

“Where did I choose you?”

He paused and stopped everything. He looked off and said, “The airport.”

I giggled. Why, of course, that’s where we pick up the people we love. At least, that’s what we do here.

“What do you mean I put you together, baby?”

Without a moments hesitation he said, “You came and got me and put me all together. And I loved you!”

My eyes begin to water, but I refuse to let him see. I hurriedly put his shirt over his head and regain my composure.

“Where did I put you guys together?” I ask trying to see where he must have gotten this from. I have yet to talk to him about the birds and the bees or even that babies come from their mommies belly if you’re lucky enough to get pregnant. I put his jammie shorts on him as we finish our conversation.

“At the airport. Mommy, you got B, too. And you put him together, too. I make you happy?”

I pulled him close to me and with tears streaming down my face I said, “You make me so happy, baby. So very very happy. I love you and B so much and Mommy is very lucky to have you both.”

He pulled me away and looked at me closely.

“You got me, Mommy,” he said and with that he grabbed my hand and we watched his trains movie. Except this time…he got an extra fifteen minutes so I could cuddle him that much longer.