Defining Owen

I always seem to pick the slowest line at the store.  Yesterday wasn’t any different.  It wasn’t until I had everything out of the basket and on the conveyor belt that I realized the cashier was in training.  Not only was he painstakingly slow, he also didn’t respond to my repeated requests to please scan the boys’ baseball set and bumpy ball so they would stop asking for them.  Isn’t it in Cashiering 101 to appease all small children first?

The cashier who was doing the training sensed our impatience enough to try to keep us entertained.  We often hear the same things about our boys.  “Look at their beautiful red hair” and then “Oh, those curls!”  Owen knows this is for him and then he gives a cheesy little smile that says, “yes, I know I’m cute”.

I knew what was coming next.  “How old is he?”   But this time was different, before I could say anything, she and Owen spoke in unison.  Hers a question?  “Two?” and his a proud statement, “Two”.

I didn’t know which direction to target my beams of joy.  Towards Owen for engaging in the conversation without my coercion?  Towards this stranger who thought he looked two?  Or back to Owen for actually looking like a two-year-old?  Or, wait, should it be to the woman because she didn’t follow the question with a look that asked, “so…what’s wrong with him?”

It’s funny how such an innocuous question like, “how old is he,” can feel like a loaded inquisition.  I’ve posted in the past how I had stopped correcting Owen’s age long before doctors did. But, I will admit, I still often felt the need to explain.   I guess I never questioned that need, until in this instance, when I didn’t have to.

After confirming Owen was two, she turned to Kellen and asked if he was 5 or 6.  He beamed too.  She said she was surprised he’s only four because Kellen is much taller than her four-year-old.  You know, I didn’t feel the need to say, “he’s tall because I’m 5’10” and his dad is tall, too.”  I felt no need to explain something that is meant to be a positive.  I mean seriously, think about it, when your kid is said to be smart or attractive, do you ever feel like you need to explain it?  (It should be obvious it’s because they have stunning geniuses for parents).

Why do we (I) feel that we have to explain why our kids are less than average in something?  Owen actually is pretty big for a former micro preemie (~34″ and 24 lbs at 27 months), but his abilities are not that of the average two-year-old.  Yes, there are several reasons why Owen is where he is.  But (and it’s a big but), I feel like every time I explain that he’s amazing “all things considering”, I’m reminding him (and Kellen) that he’s different…in a less than way.

The truth is, there probably won’t be a day in his life that Owen won’t think about the fact that he was a micro preemie.  Even IF he gets lucky and is one of the few micro preemies that doesn’t have life-long disabilities, every time he looks in the mirror he’ll see scars covering his abdomen, on his back, on his neck and his arms and wrists.    Every time he goes to the beach or gets intimate with a girl (or boy), he’s going to be asked to explain.

Being a former micro preemie is a part of his story and I want Owen to be proud of how far he has come.  However, being a former micro preemie does not define Owen…and I never want it to be his excuse for giving up on his dreams.  Owen has the rest of his life to define who he is.  It’s my job to make sure that he understands his possibilities…not in spite of his disabilities…but regardless of them.

Thank you, Target Cashier Trainer-lady.  I needed that reminder.

 

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I Never Planned to Be a Stay At Home Mom

If you would have asked me all the possibilities of my future… I wouldn’t, in a million guesses, have guessed a stint as a stay-at-home mom would be part of it.

First, before the haters come after me, I must qualify that I have never seen anything wrong with being a stay at home mom.  My mom stayed home with us and I loved that as a kid.  She was a great role model and I’m proud of her and the way she raised us and cared for our home.  I have all the respect in the world for both choice and circumstance stay at home moms.  It just was never the path I imagined for myself…kind of like I never imagined myself as an astronaut.

Maybe it’s because I was the only girl in the family, or maybe it’s just innate, but I’ve always seen myself in leadership, or what was more traditionally considered masculine, roles.  In Kindergarten, I remember taking a field trip to the hospital.  At the beginning of the tour, each child was able to choose a doctor’s hat or a nurse’s hat for the tour.  With only one exception, every girl chose nurse and every boy chose doctor. I was the exception.  I was the sole female doctor and until my teacher, Mrs. B, pulled me aside to commend me on being brave enough to make my own choice, I didn’t even think anything of it.  I wanted to be the doctor, so that’s what I chose (I’m both proud as hell and often exasperated that Kellen inherited this same independent-minded spirit).

When I was six, our family took a trip to New York City.  I fell in love and knew I was going there.  The image I had in my head was of me in my business suit walking down the sidewalks of busy Manhatten with a briefcase in hand and going to my important office job in one of the towering buildings.  I never really had a princess stage.  No fluff, just streamlined silhoettes…like business suits.  It was the early 80’s so I’m sure the suit in my head had some fabulous shoulder pads.

Or maybe it was the 90’s version…

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I mean seriously, even in the 90’s who had their grad pictures taken in a business suit?  It’s probably the last time I enjoyed wearing a business suit!

In part, I wonder if I never imagined myself as a home-maker (or nurse or admin or insert any other stereotypical feminine role here) because I knew I’d stink at it.  When I think of the skills and traits that I imagined were important for a stay at home mom, I don’t excel at any of them.

  • Nuturing and snuggly:  I have a bad habit of laughing when people fall and hurt themselves.
  • Enjoys spending time with kids:  Truth?  Not really.  At least not 24/7.  Kids crack me up and are a lot of fun, but my patience with repeating myself is kind of extremely low.
  • A green thumb:  I can barely keep a plastic plant alive
  • Enjoys arts and crafts:  I like sewing, but not as an art-form, if that makes sense.  I like the idea of art, but my brain isn’t creative in the artistic way.
  • Home decorator:  I think it took 5 years before I got all the pictures on the walls in our house.
  • Cooking:  Hate it and stink at it.  Kyle still does most of it in our house.  When I do it, we sometimes are pretty hungry at the end of the meal.
  • Clean:  I grew up in a house of neat freaks.  I was the outlier.  I do not like dirt.  But I’m lazy about picking up… To this day, I don’t make my bed and clothes are often strewn on the floor of the bedroom.  That is, until I get mad about something or I’m avoiding something, and then I go into a cleaning frenzy and nobody is welcome to talk to me until you can eat off the floors, counters, sinks and toilets.

Truth be told, since I quit working and focused pretended to focus my energy on the home, it’s gone into a shambles.  I look around it feels like a tornado (particularly two strawberry blonde F8s) have come through and the city decided it wasn’t an area worth revitalizing.  (Seriously, why clean when you get one room done and it’s dirty again before you finish the next.  I know futile efforts when I see them…that is, unless I’m in the frenzied “zone”).

It’s Kyle who takes the brunt of my SAHM mom inadequacies.  He knew when he married me that I’d never make a good housewife.  If that’s what he wanted, he would have stayed far, far away from me.  I think he actually pities me a little.  It’s like taking a hibiscus and expecting it to thrive in the desert (or any plant and expect it to make it a week under my care).  Thankfully, he loves me and he probably has to remind himself daily that it’s temporary.

We are also pretty honest with ourselves that, even though I am at home, the house falls pretty far down on my list of priorities.  My job is to manage Owen’s health and development and, without trying to brag, I’m really good at it.

  • A strength of mine is talking to experts about really complicated systems and then simplifying them for everyone else to understand.  I don’t get overwhelmed by the realities of the below picture and I intuitively understand how each area affects the others.  I have zero interest or skill in biology.  This is just the way my brain works.  In the past, I’ve used the skill to understand food manufacturing systems, apparel construction and multi-million dollar marketing campaigns.  Today, I use it to understand a 23 pound little boy, who by even doctor’s standards, is pretty complex.20130619-152032.jpg
  • I’m also really good at setting goals and helping the team develop strategies to achieve them.  In my opinion, Owen’s doctors and therapist are consultants.  I’m the decision maker and it’s my job to accept or reject their recommendations.  That probably sounds cocky, but I call that advocating and trusting that I know Owen best.  They are subject matter experts, I’m the big picture, Owen, expert.
  • I’m also good at communicating and understand what pieces of information are important to which care provider  (we are down to 7 specialist, 8 therapist, a pediatrician, a respiratory therapist and lots of nurses).  I keep everyone in the loop and let them know specifically where I’m looking for help.  I make the most of each visit; I feel lucky to have really good providers on Owen’s team, but I also realize that it’s my job to help them do their job well.

I know, without a doubt, that I deserve an F grade in my home-making skills, and some days…especially over the last month, I beat myself up for it.  And by beat myself up, I don’t mean I take action…I get so overwhelmed by how bad I am at it that I curl up in bed and get lost in a crappy romance novel instead of dealing with the reality in front of me.  Many days, I feel like I’m out of my element and am completely scattered brained.

And then I take Owen to an appointment and my head clears and I recognize me again.  It’s in those moments, that I realize that I’m Owen’s mom for a reason and that just behind God and Owen’s natural drive, I know that I’ve played an important part of how well he’s doing today.

I take pride in knowing that I helped make this transformation possible:

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Maybe in many ways I suck at being a stay at home mom…but, in this case, I know I am the best woman for the job.  I think the six-year-old me who dreamed of business suits and important business jobs in her future would be proud of where she is today…no business suit (or shoulder pads) required.