Mine.

Is there a point in time when your kids are no longer your property? MY son, MY daughter, MY kids, MY responsibility. Everything about them right now is mine. Their food? Mine. Their fun? I gave it to them. Their clothes? I bought them. Their toys? Technically mine (which I've had fun reminding them of as they battle over something screaming MINE MINE MINE!!. I like to say, 'Actually kids, it's mine. Give it to me. Now when you'd like to share MY toy, please let me know.'

I'm starting to feel this sort of shift.

Babies are easy to me. Taking care of the physical needs of infants never really rocked my world. I never felt so horribly tired or fatigued. I was never overwhelmed with the time it took to get out the door, or the amount of items we now had to pack in the car for a two night beach trip. But what I am finding overwhelming is managing their personalities. This enormous responsibility is hitting me. How will I be sure I'm doing the right things? Am I disciplining enough or too much? How do I make sure my people become good people. How do I make sure I'm giving them each equal attention and praise? Because that is mine, all mine to do.


One of MY kids in particular has recently developed quite the personality.

This is the boy that at 9:45 pm, was found playing his drums secretly in his room. His light was on, all books were torn from his shelf, and he had removed several shirts from their hangers and strung them around the room.

This is the boy who runs, everywhere he goes but can be found in a dead asleep heap right in front of his bedroom door.

This is the boy that spits incessantly, and sends out ear piercing shrills of joy all. day. long.

This is the boy that REFUSES to potty train.

This is the boy that when asked to do ANYTHING falls to the ground and screams 'MY KNEE!'

This is the boy that pleads, 'Mommy, read me just one more book please?' while pouting his lip and batting his long girlish eyelashes.

This is the boy that has his mother wrapped all the way around his chubby little finger.

This is the boy that was once my baby.

I can't believe he's 2 1/2 years old. I was thrown back in time Sunday night when he awoke at midnight crying in pain. Unlike two years ago, he's now able to tell me his tum tum hurts. Unlike two years ago, I can't fully cradle or rock him in my arms anymore and all soothing mechanisms (bottles, & binks and whatnot) are long gone. Okay, the bink has only been gone two weeks. But still. The only thing that was the same, was that he still needed me.

There is a stack of paraphernalia in the garage that includes a highchair, a porta-crib, a bassinet and a moses basket. Boxes of boys clothing, baby toys and a excersaucer litter our attic space. I don't have a baby anymore. I love my kids, but I MISS my babies. MOST of the time these days, I'm fighting an inner battle of wanting another baby or just missing the two I had. Do I want another college tuition? Do I want another wedding to fund? Another plain ticket to buy or another tab on the monthly daycare bill? Not really. But do I want another little face to call my own? Hell yes. Don't tell Sean, he's perfectly fine with two faces and a dog mug at this point.

I have a photo in each of the kids room next to their bed. Ian's is of him at 6 months. He's a chubby yummy, just sitting up on his own, chewing on a teething toy pile of cuddly goodness. OH LOOK, I found it! Man, I love technology.

Last night I pointed to the picture and said, 'Ian, where did my baby go?'. He said, 'That's me! Why is my eye broke?' (The frame I had cut it off just a little bit). I apologized and told him the picture was too big for the frame and he said, 'But that's MY eye'. My baby is starting to have things of his own, opinions and wishes of his own. I mean, is it too much to ask to have your WHOLE eye showing? Next he'll want the keys to the car, or his own car or will be petitioning us to build him an apartment over the garage because we are too un-cool to live with.

But until then, I'm going to hang on like hell to what I can. Like that toy in Ian's hands above? It's in the garage. I know exactly where. And for now, it's not going anywhere. It's totally mine.