When a moment seems like a lifetime...

We just had one of those moments that will shake a parent to their core. It all started out innocently enough: I was trying to wrangle the children for bed and get their pajamas on. In typical fashion, my son was dodging me like a bullet. Tired of chasing him, I just sat on the bedroom floor and waited for him to come around my way again.

My daughter, being the Little Mommy she is, helped me by taking away the cars he was carrying around and started to lead him back to me. He, of course, didn't like this at all and started to wail. In fact, he threw himself down on the floor and got ready for an all-out fit. And then, suddenly he went silent. Although his face was the picture of a screaming baby, no sound was coming out of his mouth. My husband, Mark, was right there next to him and I could hear him trying to calm him down.

I got up from where I was sitting and went into the hall. I saw my husband and my son coming toward me, when suddenly my son threw himself face-first onto the floor. His body was thrashing about violently. Still emitting no sound from his mouth. {Looking back, I realize that this thrashing was probably the result of panic on my son's behalf, although it looked as if he was seizing} I leaned down to pick him up and he went stiff as a board in my arms. I looked at his face and it was purple. His lips were blue. Really, truly blue. His eyes had a vacant look, and although he was looking at me, it was like he was looking through me. Then, I watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He had stopped breathing.

I asked (well, screamed, is more like it) my husband if our son was having a seizure (we have a history of childhood epilepsy in our family), and my husband replied that he didn't know what was happening. I frantically thrust our son into my husband's arms and fled for the bedroom phone. I vaguely recall brushing past my daughter, tears in her eyes, as she stood watching nearby.

My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. I picked up the phone and dropped it. I picked it up and dropped it again. When I had finally grasped it (it felt like I was moving in slow-motion) in my hand, I headed back into the hall. My heart sank. My son, drooping and hanging like a limp rag doll, was completely unconscious in my husband's arms. His lips were still blue and he was not breathing. My husband was calling his name. Again and again. "No. This isn't happening," was the only thought running through my mind. I honestly believed that my son was dying.

Panic had already set in, but now it was in full overdrive. "Are you sure he isn't choking on something??" I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I pleaded to Mark, "Do something!" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him giving several hard blows to the back. I shakily dialed 911 while trying to gather the pertinent information in my head: my baby's age, what's happening, our address, my name. All the while, I was calculating how long since my son's last breath and how many minutes it would take for an ambulance to make its way to our house. My calculations gave me a feeling of despair and hopelessness. It would take too long for them to get here. It's already been too long since he last made a sound.

After I dialed, there was a long pause on the phone line. It wasn't ringing. I waited for what seemed like many minutes, but was probably only seconds. I glanced at my son and noticed him slowly lifting up his head. He gasped. His eyes were still closed but he was moving. I hung up the phone and swooped him up against my body. Hugging my baby, I turned and asked Mark a litany of questions, "Is he still blue? Can you see him breathing? Are his eyes open?" Mark assured me that the worst was over and everything was okay.

I started shaking uncontrollably and sobbing. And I didn't (and couldn't) stop for a long time. Holding him as tightly as I ever have, I buried my head into the crook of my son's tiny neck and stroked his hair. I hugged my tearful daughter and told her that we had quite a scare, but her baby brother was alright. My husband sat next to us on the hall floor and rubbed my knee, softly telling me that all is okay now.

As I laid in bed next to my little boy, waiting for him to fall asleep, I listened intently to his breathing. Was it regular? Was it too fast or too slow? Should I let him fall asleep or should we keep him awake for awhile? Honestly, he was wiped out. I think the whole incident physically and mentally exhausted him. While lying there, I thought a lot about feeling helpless and how awful that was. I have taken a few CPR classes in my time (I even reviewed my CPR handbook on a weekly basis when my daughter was an infant). Why, when it looked like I may need to use it, did my mind fail me? My child was blue and I panicked. I couldn't recall anything life-saving or, at the very least, helpful. I hated that feeling and I don't want to feel that way ever again.

With much mama-guilt, I replayed the moments of our day when I felt annoyed by my son's crying or his outright disobedience. I recalled complaining to my husband how difficult our son could be. Now here I was, overcome with tears, feeling nothing but grateful. And humbled. And I wondered to myself, how can I make gratitude and humility my constant companions without being forced to make their acquaintance through survival of a terrifying event? I don't want to be the kind of person who needs a wake-up call in order to appreciate the goodness surrounding me (even amongst the crying and whining and bickering). I'd like to think of myself as one who treasures life's everyday gifts (after all, I'm the one who annoys my husband by listing all of our blessings when he gets bogged down with negative thoughts and worries). I give thanks in prayer every single day. But, I think I could most definitely learn how to better differentiate between life's "big stuff" vs. life's "small stuff." Because, I have to say, I sweat it all. I make every little annoyance, frustration, and inconvenience a big deal. I do gratitude in a big way. But I also do grievances in a big way too. In fact, I give life's petty little downers too much weight in my life. I suppose that's a pretty human thing to do, isn't it? So, the question is, how does one go about being a little less human? ;)

He's a good sport...

Oh my.  It looks like I just may have to start supplementing our dress-up trunk with some more, um, "manly" props for my son.  He has suddenly shown an interest in costumes and such, as big sis spends a good portion of each day changing back and forth from a princess to a garden fairy.  So, to join in the fun, he really has no choice but to don a tiara or a jeweled necklace (complete with fairy shoes, as shown above).

Perhaps it's time I added some firefighter or pirate attire (I know my daughter would be thrilled with exciting options like those, as well).  Although, he certainly doesn't mind the plethora of pink and girly stuff now, he may voice an objection or two in the near future.  So, I best be ready with some options. 

Still, I can't help but think it's an adorable sight to see my little man dressed in his sister's ballet slippers.  I'm not so sure I want to rush him into being a fearsome pirate just yet.

{this moment}

{this moment}

hitting life's "pause"  button

no chit-chat

just a single photo

a glimpse

our life, here and now

forever etched in my mind

and in my heart

....inspiration courtesy of SouleMama

The Golden Spatula

I've been scrambling my morning eggs with a soup ladle. Why, you ask? Because some cute little fella has claimed my spatula as his very own:




This spatula (he originally referred to it as "Bat-cha!" and then that morphed into the current, "Spata") goes wherever he goes. It accompanies him in the car, on nature walks, during nursing sessions, reading time on the couch, and, as you can see above, he even sleeps with it.

I dropped the children off at my Mom's last week while I went Easter shopping. I noticed the precious spatula sitting next to my son's empty car seat after I arrived at the first store. Oops. I prayed he was too distracted by the "new" toys at Grandma's house to notice his spatula was not by his side. When I went back to my Mom's to pick up the children, my Mom told me that Rascal had spent 10 minutes standing in the kitchen, frantically gesturing toward her counter top. After handing him spoons, salt/pepper shakers, potholders, and anything else she could suspect that he wanted, she finally picked him up and let him show her what he was pointing to. Of course, he reached way in the back of the tool crock and grabbed the lone spatula. She couldn't believe that he had even spied it from his vantage point. But, this boy has some sort of extra-sensory perception when it comes to spatulas.


I've drawn the line at taking his prized spatula out in public places because I do occasionally sneak it back from him in order to cook something where a ladle won't do. Like making pancakes, for instance. The first time I wouldn't let him take it into the grocery store with us, he screamed like I had made him leave a limb behind in the car. So, once in the store, I made a beeline for the cookware aisle and promptly gave him a shiny, new, red spatula to hold onto during the shopping trip. You would have thought I gave him the biggest, sweetest candy on earth. He couldn't stop grinning and showing every passerby his new spatula. Now the cookware section is the first one we hit upon arriving at the store. He and his sister get to pick out new kitchen gadgetry/cooking tools for playing with while we shop. Naturally, I don't actually buy him a new spatula every time we go out -- it's just for holding while we shop. It doesn't actually come home with us. Although, I really should buy a backup spatula, because I hate cooking eggs with a ladle.


This post was the result of Steady Mom's 30-minute Blog Challenge (and was completed, amazingly enough, in 27 minutes. I think that is most definitely a personal record!)

{this moment}

hitting life's "pause" button

no chit-chat

just a single photo

a glimpse

our life, here and now

forever etched in my mind

and in my heart

...inspiration courtesy of SouleMama

A Weekend Recap...

I hope you all had an enjoyable and peace-filled Easter weekend. Ours was lovely: just the right amount of busy activity and relaxing downtime. We started the weekend off by attending an Easter "fair" of sorts: complete with a bunny petting zoo, horse-pulled wagon rides, lots of food, games, and face painting (which both of my children refused to have done...I'm not sure why. But the mere suggestion of such brought my daughter to near tears. I guess some kids are afraid of clowns and some have an irrational fear of face painting. Go figure.)

Here is my daughter holding one of the precious baby bunnies they had there. Don't let her serious look fool you, she was on cloud 9 holding that little bun. The fur was like velvet. It's been a long time since I held a rabbit, but I have no recollection of them being that soft. So, so sweet (and so, so tolerant...being passed from child to child a dozen times or more in the 20 minutes we sat in the petting area).

And, of course, no Easter community event would be complete without an Easter egg hunt (or as my daughter kept calling it, an "Easter Bunny hunt"). Before the start of the hunt, she was a little nervous. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had decided she didn't want to go along with it. But, I was so proud of her: she bolted past the other children and went straight to the top of the hill, snatching up as many eggs as she could. Fortunately, my little competitor knew that it wasn't all about "winning" (I saw her give a couple of her eggs to some of the little ones whose baskets were nearly empty). And yes, she is wearing her winter coat and her fleece hat with the ear flaps. We had snow flurries that day, believe it or not. Not the traditional garb for an Easter egg hunt, but there you go.

I really try to avoid the cheap junk at the holidays. I don't see any point filling baskets (or stockings, at Christmas) with stuff I'm going to toss a few days later, just for the sake of making their baskets look "full." So, this year I went with several animal figurines (both wooden and by Schleich), new paintbrushes and watercolors, kitchen gadgets (my little ones love using real measuring spoons, sifters, whisks, basters, etc. to play in flour, sand, and water), and books. I read about the book Zoe and the Fawn on this blog, and knew it would be perfect, what with all the deer we see each day around our yard. Never mind that the shipping (from Canada) cost more than the book itself!

I ended up lining each child's Easter basket with fabric chosen expressly for them (which I will turn into summer outfits, I hope). We attempted to grow our own live Easter grass this year, but on Day 8 (after sowing our grass seeds) Rascal pulled one of the baskets off the windowsill. Wet potting soil and seeds everywhere. Then on Day 11, he proceeded to pull the second basket off the windowsill. Repeat the whole wet-soil-and-grass-seeds-everywhere scenario (complete with much exasperation and grumbling on my behalf). One might be wondering why I didn't move the location of the second basket before its demise. Well, hope springs eternal, I guess. Or maybe it was just laziness. I thought for sure after he witnessed my reaction (overreaction?) to the first basket tipping episode, he wouldn't dare yank another basket off the sill. I was wrong. Regardless, the fabric-lined baskets served their intended purpose (and maybe I've even started a new tradition: a sneak-peak at a future dress/shirt/shorts/jumper or what have you for the warmer months ahead).

{this moment}

hitting life's "pause" button

no chit-chat

just a single photo

a glimpse

our life, here and now

forever etched in my mind

and in my heart

...inspiration courtesy of SouleMama