Boogers on the Wall

I know nothing about the sport of wrestling. But my oldest two boys fight and wrestle all the time so I figured they’d enjoy it. So I signed them up for a wrestling clinic at the local high school.

It brings a smile to my face when I think about watching them at the clinic.

You should see them summersault across the wrestling mats during warm-ups. They haphazardly tuck and roll in zigzag lines all over the place.

And I can’t even begin to describe their push-ups. My seven-year-old could not stick his rear in the air any higher when he’s doing them. Sometimes he’ll get done and tell the wrestling coach that he did one extra.

You should have seen their faces when the coach asked them to do cartwheels.

Then they had to do the monster walk. Watching them glide across the floor without touching the ground with their hands the first couple times was hilarious.

They have learned a few moves and stances. I love watching them practice on other kids in the clinic. They don’t really know what they are doing but they give it their all despite being awkward and clumsy.

But it’s not just my boys who have struggled.

There are a few kids who know a lot about the sport but generally speaking, all of the kids are just starting to learn. That’s why it’s a clinic. I’m glad it’s a safe, confidence-building place for them to try it out.

We definitely aren’t a wrestling family. So they don’t know any rules, stances, moves, point values – nothing.

But they are diving right in and giving it all they have.

Tuesday night they learned the half Nelson something or other and I nearly got the giggles when they kept trying it. They’d twist their wrestling partner half around and try to pin them down.

Keep in mind my boys are lightweights.

Last night they learned how to fall down into some stance over their opponent. That was great.

At the end of each session they get to play a couple of games. My boys’ favorites have been Sharks and Minnows and Steal the Flag.

They get to run around with their shirts off trying to attack one another and steal each other’s flags aka shirts.

Last night after the clinic my 8-year-old stepped outside into the cold night air and shouted, “I feel so alive!”

I think they are thoroughly enjoying wrestling – and the fact that they get to run around with their shirts off for a little while.

Here’s to learning more and feeling more alive.

There are nine days until Halloween. Which means my kids can still change their costume requests about 900 more times.

I’m hoping they won’t, but betting they will.

This past week we had a major switch. My three-year-old decided he no longer wanted to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He wants to be Jack Skellington.

Major difference.

I was banking on the T-Rex. He’s wanted to be one for half his life. He used to run around our house in just his underpants because, “A T-Rex doesn’t have clothes, Mom.”

He’s grown his fingernail claws extra long and cried real tears when I clipped them. He’s perfected his roar. He’s asked me a million times if I think he’s going to be a T-Rex when he grows up.

But thanks to Netflix and his recent binge watching of The Nightmare Before Christmas he is now claiming that he is really Jack the Pumpkin King.

So last week when we talked about him wearing his dinosaur costume that grandma bought him this spring (she gave it to him as a bribe for potty training) he informed me that he’s not going to be a T-Rex. He’s going to be Jack.

Oh really…

I love making costumes for my kids but this was a little last minute for me.

Then I saw how he started showing people how he is the real Jack. He folds his arms around his chest and rises up out of the ground like Jack. He waves his arms and screams like Jack. I’ve even caught him with a skeleton book at the piano claiming to play the “Jack Song.”

There’s no stopping him. He is Jack.

It reminds me of the year his older brother wanted to be a bat for Halloween. I sewed him an awesome bat costume. Then he changed his mind and wanted to be Hook.

He wore that Hook costume (and a drawn-on mustache) for nearly a year straight. I thought we’d never leave Neverland. It was adorable. It was crazy. I thought I was going to lose my mind.

I’ll never forget the look I got from other customers at the store when I took Hook grocery shopping. I have a feeling I’m going to get similar looks taking Jack around.

So call me crazy, I got my little boy a second costume. Well, made it. He even helped.

We painted a black shirt and pants based on this blog post. It was tedious but simple. Then I sewed a bat-tie bowtie and hooked it on with Velcro.

But no Jack is complete without his dog. We made Zero on Wednesday. We used a pattern from this blog and some fabric scraps from the basement.

My three-year-old stuffed his head and helped position his nose. Then he proclaimed, “Oh I LOVE him.”

We are nearly done with the final Nightmare Before Christmas piece – a Sally costume for little sister. (Which I patterned after this post. Her wig I made after reading this post.) If all goes as planned then Jack, Sally and Zero will be the Clemens family Nightmare trio.

This whole costume project started off as a stress but ended up being great. I’m just glad that Jack and Sally both have uneven lines and raggedy stitching. That made my rushed, amateur crafting skills perfect for the job.

Seeing my baby boy with his costume on, his dog under his wing and a Jack-style smile stretching from ear to ear made it all worth it.

He really is Jack.

Let’s hope he stays that way for nine more days.

To the women who keep telling me that the time raising my kids will fly by – you need to stop.

I know that you mean well. You’ve been there. Your kids are raised and you have seen firsthand how fast they grow.

I don’t blame you for saying these things to me. I am sure I will say them to young moms once my kids are raised. But the thing is, you aren’t telling me anything that I don’t already know.

When you tell me to savor each moment, to let them be little and to enjoy each stage, know that I already am.

My tiny baby princess girl turns one next week and I’m kind of freaking out. How can nine sickly, painful, anxious months in the womb last so long but the 12 months following can flash by in the blink of an eye?

It’s not fair, it’s unexplainable and yet it’s happening.

She’s my baby and she’ll be one whether I like it or not – whether I’ve savored each stage or not.

But thank heavens I have.

I have cuddled her close and held her more than I should have – which may explain why she’s a week from turning one and just barely starting to crawl.

I have kissed her cheeks at least 50 times a day.

I have held her for hours at a time while she’s napped and I have caught up on my latest book club book. I have lied next to her on my bed while we both have rested.

I have taken a picture of her every single day of her life.

I have painted her cute baby toenails and polished her fingernails. I have combed her beautiful blonde hair and styled it in as many baby pig tail/pony tail designs I can think of – yesterday was her first baby braid!

She has by far been treated like a baby for the longest out of all my kids.

She stayed sleeping next to my bed in a bassinet until she was at least eight months. I still nurse her every three hours (mainly because she won’t eat real food all that well yet). And although she’s five days from turning one, she shows no sign of trying to stand let alone walk.

I’m grateful for her willingness to oblige me. For not trying to rush out of her baby stage either. We have a mutual understanding – I won’t rush her and she won’t race away from being my baby.

But it’s happening. And neither of us can avoid it. I’m afraid if I blink five times she’ll be married with a baby of her own. It’s coming and I can’t stop it.

Even though I have filled this year with cuddles, story times and late night snuggle feedings, it’s still flown by. Even though I have thoroughly enjoyed having my pink little baby bundle, the time has still betrayed me.

Don’t get me wrong, I want her to grow and develop and I can’t wait to see what type of woman she becomes.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to cry next week when we put her first birthday cake in front of her and try to get her to smash into it. I’ll probably cheer, laugh and then cry. Because I know that means that my baby is not going to be a baby much longer.

And when she’s no longer a baby I’ll be the one telling people to enjoy the time they have with their little ones. Because, like I said earlier, I thank heavens that I did.

Sometimes I’m the mean, grumpy mom who won’t ever buy my boys ANYTHING. Like at the restaurant when they want to buy a soda; or at the State Fair when they want to ride all the rides; or at the local amusement park when they want some ice cream.

I tell them we don’t need it and we’re saving our money for other things.

But there is one thing that I will buy for them freely – books.

I’m a sucker for buying my kids things to read. I don’t love taking them to the book fair but I do love filling out scholastic book orders and taking them to the library.

I ran to Wal-Mart earlier this week to get my oldest the latest book in his favorite series – Michael Vey. He has a hard time finding things he loves so if he’ll read it, I’ll buy it! (We have a very extensive shark book collection because that’s all he would read when he was first starting out.)

I wrapped his new book in a red ribbon and wrote a “Happy Reading” note to go with it.

I think I was more excited for him to get it than he was. It brought back memories of working the Friday night shift as a young reporter when Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince came out. I convinced my editors to let me cover a giant Harry Potter party in Salt Lake City. It was magical. Quidditch, butter beer, mystical creatures, you name it. It was there and I got to be a part of it.

It also reminded me of the time I waited in line at midnight to get my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Then there was the time recently when I waited for hours with my two oldest boys to get autographs from Richard Paul Evans and Brandon Mull.

Just this week my 7-year-old got a typed letter from one of his favorite authors Mary Pope Osborne. He wrote her about a year ago and finally heard back. He proudly read what she wrote while grinning from ear to ear.

He was so happy.

And that’s what I want. I want my kids to be happy – happily reading.

From bright colored shapes and letters in baby board books to thick chapter books like Percy Jackson, I love seeing each of my kids delight in reading.

That’s why I’ll whip out my wallet to buy them a book. Every. Single. Time. It’s worth every penny.

I’m always terrified that something is going to happen. A car accident. A kidnapping. A freak choking episode.

Anxiety and stress keep me on my toes and I worry about my kids from sun up to sun down.

Most of the time it’s simple things like: Are they getting along with their friends at recess? Are they eating their school lunch? Are they learning to share?

But sometimes I worry about big, major things. Are-they-going-to-make-it-through-the-day? type things. Talk about posttraumatic stress.

It’s irrational and illogical but I can’t shake the worry that plagues me.

This worry makes it terribly hard for me to leave my kids. My husband tries to get me to do it a couple times a year. My mom and mother-in-law offer to babysit. But my nerves cripple me and I just can’t do it.

Until now.

I did it. I was gone for five days last week and my kids survived just fine without me. I’m pretty sure they were better off.

I feel a little guilty about having a good time without them. I also feel bad about pawning them off on their grandparents (because I know how crazy life with them can be) but it was totally worth it.

It gave me a much needed break from the 24-hours a day, 365 days a year job I call mothering.

I didn’t cook. I didn’t clean. I didn’t fold any laundry or sweep any floors.

I didn’t have to say things like, “Eat your food,” or “come on, we’re in a hurry.” I left those phrases and others like “Leave your brother alone,” at home.

I didn’t have to argue with my oldest on what he wanted to wear to school. I didn’t catch my 7-year-old making any type of “potions.” And I didn’t have to clean up any “accidents” left by my 3-year-old.

I’ve been a mom for more than 9 years and this is by far the longest I have had a break. (We did have to take our 11-month-old baby with but she is NOTHING compared to her brothers.)

It was liberating.

My husband and I flew across the country to Boston, MA.

We rode around on mass trans while we took in bits and pieces of the freedom trail. We toured the JFK Presidential Library and Harvard. We bought cheap, fresh fruit at the Haymarket. We watched the Red Sox crush the Phillies at Fenway Park.

We hung out with family we hardly ever get to see.

We ate where we wanted to eat, when we wanted to eat and I didn’t have to search on my phone for places with kids-eat-cheap discounts.

We didn’t argue with anyone about what souvenirs they could buy and no one complained that we had walked too far.

It was awesome.

I’m not going to lie I was a nervous wreck when we left. My stomach was in knots and I hardly slept the night before our trip. But I talked to my boys a couple of times a day and their rushed, I’m-having-a-great-time conversations reassured me that they were fine – probably too fine to be honest. I think they could have gone without me for twice as along. (They were more excited to see their little sister again than they were to see me.)

I don’t know when my husband and I do something like this again but for the time being it rejuvenated me.

If any of you get a chance to take a trip without your little ones, just do it. Don’t worry. I can’t promise you that nothing will happen while you’re gone because sometimes things do happen. But I can promise you that you will be a mom forever. If you wait to do things when you are “done” you will not do things.

Take the trip you’ve been planning for a long time. Read the book that’s collecting dust on your bookshelf and wear out the soles on your pair of running shoes.

I know I’m going to.