I Win At Losing

When my kids started grade school, they suddenly both got really competitive. Everything was turned into a contest between the two of them. Who could run faster, who could climb trees higher and who could hide the most vegetables from their dinner plates without getting busted by mom.

It wasn't long before their competitive streaks branched out in a different direction and suddenly my affection was the prize.

"Mom, who do you love the most?"

Answering that question is like choosing which breast you prefer. The right one or the left one? They both have their merits. The left one is slightly bigger but tends to have more whiskers sprouting up, while the right one is perkier but has an odd shaped mole on it. How does one choose?

For years I've successfully avoided scarring my children's psyches and have convinced them each I love all my children the best. And maybe my dog the most.

But as they say, all good things must come to an end and it looks like my long line of obfuscation and avoidance techniques slammed to a sudden end when I learned both Fric and Frac and their respective basketball teams made it to the regional play off games.

Scheduled on the same day, at the same time in two separate schools with about 35 km of rural farm fields between the two of them.

vs.

Suddenly my children weren't just worried about winning an important basketball game; they were equally as concerned with which child's game I was going to watch. Because as shocking as this may seem, I still haven't learned the fine art of being in two different places at the same time.

According to them and the informal competition they seemed to have created, my arse sitting in a gym means I totally love one child over the other.

Which, when I heard them talking about this, was totally and absolutely the truth. I loved Jumby the best right then at that very moment because he was the only kid under my roof not causing my blood pressure to rise. (He saved that for a few nights ago when he decided to yank out his adult tooth.)

I've yet to miss a game or competition that any of my children participate. I'm that mom.  Jumby and I are the unofficial team mascots, always on the sidelines and cheering for all the kids. Mostly because I have no life but also because I think it's important for me to witness my kids triumphs and failures as they run through their childhood.

My household, this past week has been rife with the scent of competitive puberty laced hormones, with both Fric and Frac trying to win me over to their team's side and abandon their siblings team. I may have even pitted one another against each other a time or two by announcing that the child who cleans their room the best will be the victor.

I'm not above using whatever ammunition I have as a parent to get them to pick up their smelly laundry and mold apple cores stuffed under their beds.

I wasn't completely sure which child's game I was going to watch and I was stressing over it, worried that I'd be inflicting some great emotional damage to the child who didn't have a parent cheering them on from the stands when my husband solved all our problems by coming home Monday night unannounced.

Two parents, two kids, two games, everyone will win, right?

Ya, you'd think.

With my husband stretched out on the couch, cuddling with his newly toothless son, I called Fric and Frac into the living room to settle the great game debate once and for all.

"All right Fric, Frac, here's the deal. Dad will go to one game, and I'll go to the other and you will both play your best and have fun, right?"

Both kids nodded and smiled, giddy on the fumes of their father's aftershave they so seldom get to smell.

"The question is, which parent goes to which game. So, it's up to you two. Who do you want to watch your game. Me or Dad?"

At which point, with out even taking a nanosecond to think about it, they both cried out "DAD! I WANT DAD!"

Boo wisely tried to contain his chuckles while shielding himself from the rays of my death glare by holding Jumby closer.

It was like the air was sucked out of my lungs. I could hear my ego fracturing into a million pieces and my well constructed image of motherhood shattering at my feet.

"What? What do you mean Dad? I'm the one who gets up in the middle of the morning every day to drive you to your practices! I'm the one who picks you up after school from practice. I'm the one who drives all over the province to watch each of your games. It's me who sits on the bleachers for every game and buys you sports drinks and cheers you on and flies my freak flag for every darn game! I'm the one who feeds you every day! I'm the one who carried you in my womb for almost ten months and then squeezed you out of my lady parts to give you life!! And you choose DAD???" At this point my voice may have gotten a tad screechy.

By now Boo was flat out laughing on the couch, his ego making him impervious to the arrows of hatred I was lobbing at his head.

"No offense Mom, but Dad only gets to see us play some of the time. And this is a playoff game. It's special," Fric said as her brother nodded his head.

Ingrates.

The playing field has suddenly reversed. Where suddenly I was once a hot commodity, now nobody wants me. I'm the back up plan, the loser's choice. I'm the chump. Talk about a fall from grace.

Suddenly I have this burning desire to ask my kids, "So, who do you love more? Me or Dad?"

Only I'm fairly certain, given my children's reactions to their father being home that I wouldn't like their answer.

The Tale of The Toothless Wonder

When I was 8 and my brother was 9 the two of us thought it would be a smart idea to wander across the street to go play in a newly constructed Safeway parking lot. He was riding my bike and I was running along side him and we were racing. I was showing off to him how fast I could run, and he was showing off how well he could pop a wheelie.

Being the observant children we were, we neglected to notice the newly planted trees in our private concrete jungle were being supported with invisible wire. I barely jumped over a wire holding a tree up and avoided doing a face plant but my brother, a nano second behind me, wasn't as lucky. The bike hit the wire, he flipped over the wire and landed face first into the pavement. The bike flew into the air and landed on his head, driving his face further into the concrete.

I ran home immediately, across the street, in a state of panic and shock, the only mental image I had was my brother looking up at me and his face covered in blood and strangely toothless. That's right. I abandoned my injured brother to go tell my father who was at home unaware his dental bills were about to become astronomical.

I had just barely blubbered out our tale of sorrow to my dad when my brother walked through the door, annoyed with me for ditching him and leaving him to walk the mangled bike home by himself, along with a fistful of two broken teeth.

My dad leaned in to examine my brother's broken smile and cursed loudly upon discovering the teeth he had lost were his two permanent front teeth.

I don't really know what happened after that, there was a cup full of milk and talk of saving roots and all of a sudden I was left alone as my dad shuffled my big brother out the door only to return hours later, grim faced and unhappy.

One tooth was saved, the other still missing.

Almost thirty years later and my brother has had plates and falsies and finally an implant and while his smile may be intact now, he'll always be the toothless wonder to me and the dental annoyance to my parents.

I will always be the girl who maintains her innocence in the debacle and for the record, I totally won that race and not by default either.

I've carried that incident with me all these years (but no guilt dammit, because I'm INNOCENT) and when my kids were born I made sure to safe guard their teeth so that no one would grow up with the scars of having gap toothed smiles as adults.

So far, 14 years into this parenting gig, I've been successful. Fric and Frac have all their pearly whites and it's my hopes all their adult teeth will remain in their heads until I'm no longer responsible for paying their dental bills.

But then came Jumby.

My sweet Jumbster. The boy with so many medical problems, dental care, while important, is the least of our concerns.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday was a holiday Monday here in Alberta and I spent the entire day kvetching about how my children were driving me insane. Fric spent the day singing as loudly as her lung capacity would allow in her bedroom, Frac spent the day yelling at her to shut up and Jumbster went from one hard surface to the next to find new and exciting surfaces to bash his head and feet into.

He never bangs his face hard, more like a gentle bump and I wasn't overly concerned about him hurting himself because he never has in the past.

That right there was FORESHADOWING. High school lit for the win.

At six I went into the kitchen to make supper. Jumbster was kicking the stove with his feet and I bent over to tickle him and moved him out of my way so I could start cooking. He was whole at this point, everything intact. He was a happy little head banger indeed.

45 minutes later, I was standing over him, freaking out because somehow, through the course of making dinner and feeding his older siblings my little man knocked out his front tooth. His single adult tooth on the bottom. He didn't just knock that sucker out, he ripped the whole thing out, root intact and everything.

The boy doesn't even know he has hands let alone fingers that work. It's like the tooth fairy shot out from no where, grabbed a pair of pliers and pried that tooth out herself. Mystery of all mysteries, I tell ya.

Commence my parental freak out.

My dog, the ever helpful mutt he is, was helpful in locating the tooth and was politely licking it clean when I pried it from his mouth. At least Jumby wasn't choking on it. Small favours and all.

Maybe I can make a necklace with it?

I spent the next hour on the phone with every medical and dental emergency clinic I could reach. Jumbster spent the next hour laughing his head off because look Mom! There's this wicked cool hole in my face and boy does it feel funny!

With one doctor after another, I spoke of Jumbster's complicated medical history, and it all boiled down to the same things: Jumby's health, the lack of anesthetic, holiday hours, location and it all culminated into the perfect storm of Jumby remaining toothless and my remaining powerless.

As frustrated as I was, each doctor I spoke with (and I spoke with more than I care to count) all confirmed what I knew was true; it wasn't just unlikely to reinsert his tooth, it would be unsafe. And when push comes to shove, Jumby's life is worth more than one single adult tooth and I'm not willing to risk his fragile health with complications due to wanting him to have a perfect smile.

I had about made peace with the situation and was cuddling my new toothless wonder on our couch when his father walked through our front door unannounced and unexpected.

The man's sense of timing is almost flawless.

"Oh good, you're here. We may have a small problem." I'm the Queen of Understatement.

Boo set his bags down and hung up his coat while raising an eyebrow and asked, "Really? What might that be?"

How does one explain to the father of her children that their youngest child just yanked a permanent tooth out on her watch?

"Um, I have no money, and the tooth fairy is going to be making a stop at our house tonight."

"Really? Awesome!" His face lit up like the innocent father he is and he scooped Jumby up to examine which baby tooth his youngest son just lost. "You lost a tooth buddy? Look at you growing up!" he cooed as he pried Jumbster's mouth open to sneak a peek.

I watched his face as he peered into his son's mouth and I knew the moment he realized the problem. I had a sudden urge to go fold some laundry so I stood up to walk into our laundry room. My fight or flight instincts had just kicked in. I chose to flee the scene of the crime like I did, almost 30 years ago with my brother. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

"What the hell Tanis???"

What could I say? Just, welcome home Boo. Welcome home.

I've now added a new goal to my parenting strategy for the Jumbster. One involving a hockey mask, and keeping all his teeth firmly in his head. Who says goals have to be lofty?

Everyone loves a toothless wonder, right?

Two Years with Jumby

Two years ago, on Feb 16, I was told I would be bringing home my fourth child.

Luck intervened and we were able to bring him home a few days earlier, but Feb 16 marked the day I was first legally responsible for another child.

It's been two years.

Two years ago, I held a strange child in my arms and promised myself that one day I would love him like I loved my other kids. That I would feel as completely and wholly his mother as I do the three that came before him.

I worried that I may have bit more off than I could handle, may have made promises I couldn't keep.

Two years have passed and it seems like forever this child has been mine. I can't imagine my life without him in it.

Today marks the day we first became Jumby's legal guardians, and then a year later his official parents. And today is the Jumbster's day.

Today is the day his past can officially no longer come back to haunt him or threaten to take him away.

Today is the first day, in two years, he is absolutely and forever, mine.

Today is a good day.

The first ever snuggles Jumby and I had, only hours after first meeting.

The first time Fric got to meet her new little brother. Tensions were high all around, wondering if this was going to work. One look was all it took to assure us this would turn out okay.

Frac meeting his little brother moments later. We introduced them separately, one at a time, to make sure everyone's feelings were being properly looked after. My heart was in my throat the entire time.

Just weeks after bring Jumby home he had his first major health challenge and spent the next three weeks in hospital. It was trial by fire, learning to parent in a hospital all over again.

Jumby, however, is very resilient and recovered beautifully. He then proceeded to come home to explore his new home and get stuck under every piece of furniture we had.

Jumby's standing frame. We call him Hannibal when he's in it. He spends time in this generally while I cook or bake, so he can help get right in there and make a big mess. Like little boys are supposed to do.

Jumbster exploring his world and learning that occasionally there are soft things on the floor that purr when you roll into them.

I spent hundreds of dollars on buying therapy tools and new toys to help amuse and educate my new son. He prefers to wear a bucket on his head.

It's always a party in the kitchen.

Fric spoils Jumby rotten.

Brotherly love. I hoped the boys would take to one another but I underestimated how attached my kids would become to their newest sibling. My kids rock so hard it hurts sometimes.

Two years I've been able to look at this face and call him my son.

It's been two of the best years in my life, kid. We love you.

*****

Coincidentally, I'm celebrating Jumby's second anniversary as my son by guest posting over at Aiming Low. I'm talking mullets, minivans and wheel chairs and everything in between. Hop on over and check it out.