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Who Are You, and What Have You Done With My Son?


I remember it like it was yesterday.  Actually, it was only a couple of weeks ago, but seriously, with the current state of this Momma's mom-brain, that's a win.  Anyway, here's how it went down:

Scene: It's after dinner.  Micro is asleep early for once!  Small and Mini are playing nicely, and Geegy is napping in front of the TV.  Momma decides to take advantage of the free-hands time to eat a delightful snack of milk and cookies, an endeavor that requires two hands.

Momma:  Minions, I'm getting some milk and cookies.  Would you like some?

Mini (jumping up and down): YES!YES!YES!

Small: Well, ok, but only one.  I'm trying to eat healthy.


Despite my surprise, I kind of laughed and didn't think much of it.  I mean, trying to get Small to eat "healthy" is like trying to get a snake to do jumping jacks in the snow.  But then, as the week went on, he started to do some REALLY weird things.  Things like, asking me if certain foods were healthy.  And wondering if riding his bike and playing hockey was enough exercise.   And then he stopped eating as much food at breakfast and dinner (no seconds!).  And then one morning,  as he was buttoning up his pants, which were quite loose, he said, "Ugh, my pants are too tight.  I need to go on a diet."


Let me explain something right quick.  Small is skinny.  He is so skinny, that he has no butt.  Pants with elastic adjustments and paired with belts routinely fall off his tiny "waist."  When he was a baby, he was consistently in the 95th percentile for his height, and the 25th for his weight. When he was four, he thanked me for his new shorts.  Shorts that he was wearing.  Shorts that were actually Mini's size 2T sweat pants. Terms like "stick" and "bean pole" don't apply, because those things are not skinny enough.  We buy "slim" pants, and still have to take in the waistband.  Skinny jeans are baggy on Small.  Get it?

Not only is Small skinny, but he is also only 8 years old.  And a boy.  Now, I would be appalled to hear my 8 year old daughter say she needed to diet.  I was absolutely horrified to hear it coming from my BOY'S mouth!  Calmly, I asked him why he thought he needed to diet, while my brain wrecklessly tore through the last couple of months, desperately trying to figure out where he heard me complain about my weight, or needing to diet.  I was only slightly relieved when he said, "Two girls at school said I was fat and I need to go on a diet."



Ok, whew, it wasn't me.

But seriously, what the heck?!? 

I mean, it's bad enough that kids these days are having to grow up faster than ever.  They are exposed to things at school that I would never allow at home.  And I have had some serious issues at the Minions' school when it comes to bullies and inappropriate classroom behavior.  But really?  Do I REALLY have to teach my 8 year old, super skinny son, that he is NOT FAT?

I want my boys to be confident.  I want them to be happy with who they are.  I want them to feel comfortable and special BECAUSE of who they are, not in spite of it.  I am actually quite glad that it is now summer, and they won't have to be around those kids, the ones that ridicule and cause others to feel bad just because they can.  And when I hear these things, it takes all my self control to not go to that classroom and get all up in those kids faces, and tell them just what I thought of them and their little attitudes.



This is new territory for me.  I thought that if I gave the Minions all the tools for self-confidence at home, that it would carry over into the world, and that words like that would just roll off of them.  I thought that if they could be kind and sharing and be able to solve problems with each other in the home, it would be easier to do so with friends and classmates.  I thought that if they had  good friendships with great kids outside of school, they would be more interested in playing with the great friends they already have, rather than trying so desperately to "fit in" with the kids that only mock them for trying.

The problem isn't just that he is now feeling insecure, and focusing on parts of himself that others perceive as being a problem.  The additional problem is that now he is starting to ridicule Mini, and calling him fat, and saying mean things just because.  And honestly, I can't stand it.  I despise that kind of talk, and that kind of treatment of others.  I absolutely DO NOT want it in my home!  When I hear it, especially between brothers, I want to rip those words out of their brains with my bare hands and set them on fire.  I get sick at the thought of my Minions really believing that tripe that the ugly, cruel and cynical parts of the world want them to feel about themselves.  And the problem is that the caring, courteous and carefree little genius that graces our home is getting harder and harder to find.

Instead, I have a son who comes home from school and ridicules his younger brother for every. Little. Thing.  I have a son who is can't be proud of winning a gold medal with his hockey team, because he's not good at playing soccer with the kids in the playground.  I have a son who won't eat the special treats I secretly put in his lunch box some days because some kids that are on the "free lunch" program make fun of him for having treats that they don't get.  I have son who won't do his class work because students who aren't as fast call him names when he gets it done before them.  I have a son who is boisterous and disruptive in the classroom, and rude to his teacher, because being "funny" and getting in trouble for it is the only way these hooligans children will "accept" him into their elite little group.  And then once he gets to "hang out" with them, they torment him because he is still different than they are.  I have a son who has become sad and unsure, who is becoming afraid of trying new things, and becomes angry too easily, who comes home from school crying because his "friends" treat him so poorly.

As a parent, I know all the "right" things to say.  Intellectually, I know what I "should" say, and how to bolster him, and how to behave so that he can learn by example and blah blah blah.  But I'm unsure how to really, truly get through to him, to help him be that confident person that can rise above the negativity.  I don't know how to make my voice louder and more important than the ones outside our home.  I don't know that anything I can say will help him, because I was once him.  In many ways, I am still him.  I'm not sure that I will ever NOT be that person.  And if I can't teach myself how to be confident and self assured, how will I ever teach it to my Minions?

That's rhetorical.  I don't have the answer to that.
I'm so incredibly glad that I get to have the Minions all to myself for the next two months, because that means I have a hope of reminding them how special they are.  To remind them of how accomplished and awesome they are.  To remind them how friends and family treat each other, and how people treat each other.  To remind them that nice people say nice things.  To remind them that sometimes people are mean because it makes them feel better to make others feel bad, but if you already feel good about yourself, that you don't need other people to tell you that you are wonderful.  And that the people who tell you that you aren't good enough, are not good enough for you.  Because that isn't just something I want them to know in their heads, I want them to BELIEVE it, deep down in the core of their being!  Because I know that if they can see that in themselves, and KNOW that they are two of the most AMAZING children people I have ever known, and that if they will just be the sweet, smart, wonderful, funny, and kind people they are, they can be the happiest people on the planet!


And maybe, just maybe, I can remind myself of that as well.  Again.

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Mini's Hope for Presley


Hey there.  I'm Mini.  I am six years old, and I'm a boy.  I tell everyone that I'm a boy because a lot of people think I'm a girl.  But that's ok, boys don't usually have hair like mine, so I don't mind.  I have long curly hair that I have been growing my whole life.  Everyone always tells me that they like my hair.  Sometimes people say I should cut it, but I never wanted to, and Momma said that I don't have to if I don't want to.  Momma and I spend a lot of time together taking care of my hair.  She helps me wash and brush it.  I'm really good about letting her brush, because I know that my hair looks more beautiful when it's clean and brushed.  And I really like spending time with Momma when she brushes my hair.  We get to talk and laugh, and Momma gets to focus just on me.  I really like having time alone with Momma.

I love to wear my hair down.  At school, Momma makes me pull it back.  But when I'm playing, I like it to fly free!
Momma has been reading about a girl named Presley on her computer.  I don't know Presley, she is my cousin's cousin.  Momma knows Presley's Momma.  Sometimes when Momma is reading about Presley, I like to cuddle with her and read with her.  She has curly hair just like me.  We both like to ride bikes.

I feel sad for Presley.  She got sick, and it is going to be a long time before she gets better.  She has to go to the hospital a lot and get a lot of treatments.  The medicines that Presley has to take have made her body change a lot, and it made her lose all her hair.  I asked Momma if Presley's hair would grow back, and she said that someday it would, but until then Presley could wear a wig.

I wanted to help Presley.  My hair is like hers.  I wanted to give Presley some of my hair for her to wear until she gets better and can grow hair again.  I asked Momma if we could give my hair to Presley.  That made Momma really happy.  She emailed Presley's Momma, and we found out that we could send my hair to a place that would make a wig for Presley.

So yesterday, we went to cut my hair for the first time.

First, Momma wanted to cut a little piece of my hair for her to keep.  She said that she always loved my curls, and wanted a piece for a special box she keeps of my things.

I always photo bomb pictures, even when they're pictures of me!



Here's my little curl for Momma's box.  She tried not to cry when she cut my hair, but I saw her anyway.  I told her that it was ok.  I didn't feel her cut my hair at all.

I wore orange for Presley to cut my hair.

I was a little scared to go into the salon when we got there.  I told Momma about it, and she held my hand and told me that it was my decision to do what I wanted.  But I think she didn't know what I meant.  I was scared that the lady cutting my hair would cut me with her scissors.  Momma told me that she gets her hair cut a lot, and never got cut by the scissors, and Geegy and my big brother Small get their hair cut all the time, and they never got cut either, so then I wasn't scared any more.

When the lady combed my hair, the curls got straight and it was even longer!

After the lady combed my hair, she put it into a ponytail.


 Then SNIP, SNIP, SNIP! 


 And just like that, I had a ponytail for Presley!


My ponytail measured 15 inches long!  I like the way my hair feels now.  It doesn't get in my eyes any more!  And I like how I look when I see myself in the mirror.  Momma thinks I look older.  What do  you think?


I love you, Presley!




Note from Minion Momma:
If you are a fan of my Facebook page, you have seen me post both about Presley and my nephew Reiss.  Presley, 3 years old, and Reiss, 2 1/2 years old, were both diagnosed with leukemia just one month apart from each other.   Please take a moment to browse their blogs.  These two babies are so amazing and strong, they inspire me so much!  You can also follow Presley on her Facebook page.

Words can't express how proud I am of my little Mini.  His kind and thoughtful act for a little girl he has never met is just astounding to me.  He teaches me every day how much love a person can give just through simple acts, and he reminds me that the greatest gift is giving of yourself.  He is such a bright and beautiful blessing in my life.  I am immensely proud to be his Momma!

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Momma's Boys

It only startled me a little bit when, recently, a friend handed Micro back to me with the comment, "He's such a little momma's boy!"

My first instinct was to bristle at the implication, this hockey momma ain't raisin' no sissy boys!  But the tone of her voice told me that she was paying me a compliment.  My secondary thought was confirmed when she immediately followed up with, "It's so obvious how much he loves you.  Look at how he lights up when he sees you.  That's the sweetest thing ever."

I had to think a little on my initial reaction to her comment.  Yes, Micro wants me.  A lot.  It could be that I am a little sensitive about it.  I don't usually get a break from him, and I don't mean leaving him with Geegy to go out for a wild GNO.  I  mean he won't sleep or nap unless I am touching him.  He won't take a binky, preferring to comfort-nurse at will.  He won't settle to sleep for anyone else.  He will go to others, but only for a few minutes.  He wants me, and he wants only me.  So I hold him.  I wear him.  We eat, sleep, play, work, shop, dance, sing, exercise, shower, and occasionally even use the toilet together.  It keeps him calm, and he's happy.  It's tiring, and sometimes aggravating.  Infant Micro is so different than his older two brothers were at that age.  I have to remind myself and Geegy often that we had an unusually EASY time with our first two Minions, and that every baby is different!  Then I go and do something all crazy like, such as leave his line of sight for 10 seconds when I thought he was asleep, and he FLIPS OUT with the crying and yelling!  I sometimes worry that I've spoiled him.  However, he's always been like this, so I'm pretty sure I didn't do it to him.  Sometimes people tell me that I need to teach him to be more independent, that I shouldn't continue to sleep with him, or nurse him when he wakes at night, or even pick him up every time he cries for me.  I try not to think of him as my "difficult" or "needy" baby, but he definitely is deeply attached to his Momma.

I pondered more on the "momma's boy" comment my friend had made while we were on a field trip with Mini's kindergarten class to a fishing lake.  It was Mini's first time fishing, and he was giddy with excitement in anticipation of catching a fish.  About half of his class didn't have a parent there, so each child with a parent was paired up with a child who was without.  Micro caught his fish almost as soon as the bait dropped in the water.  He proudly held it up on the line for a picture, then I helped him remove the hook while he held it's wiggling body firmly in his hands.  "I'm going to call him Squirmy!" he proudly told me as the trout tried to escape his grip.  I told him to hold on tightly and sent him to get Squirmy cleaned (read: gutted) while Micro and I waited with his little kinder-friend to catch his fish.  After another short while Mini's friend and I took his fresh-caught fish over to the cleaning area, where I found Mini sitting on a log, sobbing over a gallon-sized Ziplock bag with a still-twitching trout inside.

Now these were NOT the dramatic fake tears Mini had spent the last school year perfecting, designed to play on my emotions at the drop of a hat, that I had gotten used to.  These were the giant, crocodile, streaks-down-a dusty-face mixed with snot-pouring-out-the-nose tears of devastating and traumatic sadness, complete with gulping, choking, breathless sobs, that made me panic.  Something was terribly, HORRIBLY wrong with my baby!  I plowed over my little kinder-charge trying to get to Mini as fast as I could,  scooped him up in my arms, and held him as close as I could with Micro strapped to my chest.  I let him wet down my shoulder with his weeping goo for a bit, then, after giving him the once over to check for blood, asked him what was wrong.  He held up the bag and said, "Mrs. Ess tried to cut open Squirmy!  I don't want to kill Squirmy!"  Inside the plastic baggie, Squirmy gave a couple of flops as if to agree with his unexpected champion. 

I hugged Mini, and explained that this is what fishing is, that we would take Squirmy home and make some really yummy fish-sticks to share with the family, just like we did when Small came on the same field trip two years ago.  At the mention of eating Squirmy, Mini's eyes grew to the size of a small moon, or maybe a large space station, and the waterworks started flowing again.  "I don't want to eat Squirmy!" he wailed, "I want to keep him as a pet!"  Squirmy gave another twitch, and I could tell he probably thought it a fine idea.  I squished Mini up in a giant hug again, and while smoothing his hair out of his snotty face tried to explain that "fishing" is getting fish to eat, not to get fish for pets, and that we wouldn't have a place to keep a fish like this at our home.  Mini suggested everything he could to convince me to keep Squirmy, from the tiny beta bowl to the leaky koi pond to sharing the bathtub, but I held my ground.  "Sweets," I said firmly, "This is what the fishing trip was for.  We are not taking a pet fish home.  This fish is for eating."

That's when he turned his waterlogged chocolate brown puppy eyes up at me, his lower lip turned down all swollen and quivering, his dirt-smudged cheeks shiny with the new onslaught of fresh tears.  "But," *gulp* "I," *sob* "don't," *snuffle* "want," *snork* "to," *snivel* "kill," *whimper* "anything!"  *GIANT WAIL* "Momma, PLEASE don't make me kill anything!!"

Squirmy twitched in agreement.

My heart broke and melted, and my mind berated me.  Look what you've done to him! it shouted.  I tried not to notice the disapproving glares of the multitude of other parents and their respective kinder-kids milling about, listening to my little Mini beg me not to make him become a fish murderer.  I desperately looked around in hopes that a miraculous solution would present itself, while noting the brightly colored warning signs every ten yards boldly proclaiming that "catch and release" was absolutely not allowed on this lake.  I rebelliously entertained the thought of yelling out "Free Squirmy" while charging up to the side of the lake, knocking over a barricade of park rangers as I dove off the dock with the open bag into the lake, Squirmy's little body flying out of the bag while in mid-air, scales shining in the sun for a beautiful moment before landing in the water and swimming triumphantly away, all while Mini cheererd him on to just keep swimming!

But instead I hugged my son as tight as I could, and promised him that I would never, ever force him kill anything, ever.  I told him that I was proud of him for not wanting to hurt another living being, and that his sweetness, kindness, tenderness and compassion were parts of him that I loved best.  I then told him that we would find a way to help Squirmy, and then guiltily I carried the bag to the nearest spigot and put some water in for the poor nearly doomed fish.  We put the listless Squirmy in the cooler with the rest of the class's gutted and cleaned fish, while sharing an understanding and empathetic look with the teacher. 

Mini, Micro & I spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the lake, counting turtles on logs, looking for frogs in the lily pads, and supposing what kinds of animals lived in the various sized holes we came across as we walked along the shore & trails.  When we stopped for lunch, I sat there on a log with Micro grabbing at my food from the carrier, and Mini cuddled up as close as he comfortably could get, not caring that he had just smeared his applesauce on my jeans or that he had just left a peanut-butter hand print on his brother's leg.  As we sat there eating and laughing, another mom walked by and asked if Mini had gotten over the "fish thing" and was alright now.  I said we were all just fine.  Then she nodded to Micro, winked at me, and said, "I'm sure next time it will be easier for him.  I bet you hope that one grows out of that thing soon!  Maybe he'll be a little stronger and more independent!"  She chuckled at her own cleverness and walked on.

It never occurred to me to think that, despite children being a challenge, I would ever want them to grow up faster.  It made me sad that she implied there was something wrong with Mini because of his empathy toward a fish.  I'm especially shocked to think that any parent would actually want their child to find it easy to kill an animal.  I admire Mini for being able to stand in the middle of his friends and teachers and other adults and refuse to do what they were all doing when it was against his nature.  Could I ask for a stronger child than that?  And that word, independent, it really sticks with me.  I've heard it several times before, and it's supposed to be this positive thing.  I wonder what it is that makes people want to make babies be independent?   Babies are the most dependent creatures on Earth!  And the only comfort they have is the people who love them.  I absolutely believe that a baby can not be spoiled or trained.  Babies that are left to cry do not learn that crying doesn't get them what they want.  Babies that are left to cry learn that the people they depend on are not there for them.  Is that what makes them independent? 

I don't think the Minions lack strength or character.  I have heard the Minions tell their friends when they think something isn't right, or if someone is doing something they feel is wrong.  They are not shy, or clingy, or scared of new experiences.  Most of the time, when we take them someplace new, be it first day of school, hockey, scouts, or any other of the myriad of first social events a child can have, they jump right in, excited for the chance, sometimes even forgetting to hug, kiss, and say good-bye to their ol' Momma.  Isn't that a sign of independence?  Isn't that a sign of a child who is comfortable with who he is, who knows that no matter what happens, there is a soft and comfortable place he can return to?  Doesn't that give a child the confidence to go out and try MORE things?  Great things?  Impossible things?

Even after all that, do we ever really grow so independent that we never really need our Mommas anymore?  I am nearly 40 years old, and there's not a day that goes by where I don't want to talk to my Momma.  There's not a problem I face without wondering what advice my Momma would give.  There's not a joy I have that I don't want to share with her.  There's not a sadness I have that I don't wish she was there to wrap me in her arms and tell me everything will be ok.  When I'm sick I want her to care for me, and when I'm having fun, I want her beside me to laugh with.  Does that make me a Momma's Girl?  Does that make me less independent?  I would like to think that, no matter how old the Minions get, they would always feel comfortable coming to their Momma with all their joys and sorrows, their triumphs and fears.  Is it a relationship built on dependence and uncertainty, or trust and love?

So does allowing Micro to use me as his sippy cup, binky, and security blanket really hinder his ability to grow into a confident person?  Is shaming Mini into doing something that is against his sensitivities really going to make him a stronger person?  Does forcing Small to sleep alone when he has regular night terrors really teach him to be a braver person?  Does comforting my babies when they are feeling alone or sad or scared, whether they are six months, or six years, or sixteen years, truly make them "Momma's Boys?"

And if the Minions are, in fact, Momma's Boys, is that really so very bad?

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