When is one more never enough?

I suppose one more is never enough when you’re eating Pringles or Lays potato chips or blueberries…mmm blueberries. Or trying to get in one more minute of sleep. Or hunting for a new pair of swanky shoes. Or if you’re Kenny Chesney, it’s when you’re drinking tequila. It’s endless.

Here’s the thing: for me, one more child is never enough. Whoa! What?!

This stretch of time shortly before the Fourth of July all the way through the lucky 13^th of July is a sorry, sappy and sore time for me. No, that’s being a bit dramatic. It’s not like this every year; only some years, like this one. Sometimes the events of this stretch of time 16 years ago slap me in the face just like it happened all over again. It’s amazing how death and dying can seem so distant and foggy one day and so real and raw on another day, even years later.

Let me bring this back around for you:

On the afternoon of July 3, 1995, I found myself seated on the lawn of my uncle’s house in New York with a look of total disbelief as the ambulance jetted off to the Albany hospital carrying the motionless body of my oldest brother, Matt. This memory is so vivid in its every detail: how the grass felt under me, how the air wasn’t quite stuffy hot, but wasn’t cool, and the faces of my two remaining brothers. I remember looking at my older brother, Jon, both of us staring at each other in total shock. I remember thinking, “What the f--- just happened?”

I’m going to leave that memory right there. Suffice it to say I was left with this one, distasteful - yet defining - thought that I’ve continued to carry in the back of my mind: my two remaining brothers. And it didn’t, and still doesn’t, feel like enough.

So after trying on the brilliant gown of motherhood, I’ve quickly become sold on the idea of surrounding myself with children. Till the day I die. In fact, I desperately thirst for more children (a wee bit pathetic, I know). I want to reproduce until my body can no longer handle that responsibility. I want, I want, I want…one more.

My husband told me in a heated discussion one night, “One more will NEVER be enough for you!” And it is so true. It won’t. I crave the Brangelina family. Adopted, my own, whatever.

Selfish? Yes. Trying to fill a void within myself? Most definitely. But I want one more.

And then one more after that.

Do You Know the Muffin Man?

For the past couple of weeks, the muffin man has been on my three-year-old's mind. Now, I don't really know the muffin man. Do you?

Camille, though, seems to know him pretty well. And is frightened of him. It started as casually as a simple statement, something along the lines of, "the muffin man is not very nice." I didn't think anything of it, "Oh this must be a silly game that the kids play at school."

That is, until a few days ago when I went in to wake Camille up for school, and she was shaking and told me that she had a bad dream. "The muffin man was trying to get me," she said. Again I asked who the muffin man was and she replied that he was not very nice. 

Now I was getting spooked. Has that ever happened to you? Something your kid says or does that makes your skin bumpy? For me, it's happened when Clara's been on the changing table staring into a corner of the room, the corner maybe slightly above and over my shoulder, and nothing you do to get her to look away works. "What is she looking at? Oh my God, there's a ghost behind me. Okay, just be calm." I always do the glance back while trying to play it cool.

Anyway, I was getting spooked. Who was this muffin man? Is he an imaginary friend of sorts? 

So I did some research the other night. It's a rhyme! Oh! Is that all???!!! I guess he was also mentioned in Shrek a few times, but nothing more than a casual reciting of his rhyme was done by Gingy. So what the hell?

First, I was a bit upset with myself that I did not know this rhyme. I don't mean to brag, but I know a lot of rhymes and regularly recite them to my babies. This muffin man annoyed me. 

Second, I was determined to find out who put this muffin man into my child's head. Was it a friend? Her teacher at school? Here, you have to be careful. I've realized that while Camille asks lots of "why" questions, she still doesn't really get the "because" part. Needless to say, I've been in many circular conversations with her, that have gone on for about five minutes before I've realized that I'm not getting anywhere - slow learner, I am. The trick is to NOT ask her any "why" questions.

So yesterday morning, I went into Camille's room to wake her up for school, ready to kick this muffin man to the curb.

I asked her if she had a good night's sleep, and the first thing she said? "I had a dream about the muffin man, and he was nice to me, mommy!"

Damn muffin man.  

I have a little shadow

Do you have a little shadow today? You know the type. The little clinger that follows behind you as you try to clean up the kitchen, cook dinner, go to the bathroom, etc.

Whether my mother knew it or not, she imprinted the following poem within the folds of my mind as a child. Not only is it one of my most favorite poems, but OH! the therapy it has offered! Learn this poem friends. Recite it to your little shadow. You will certainly find some comfort in its rhythm and your shadow will learn one of the greatest poems ever written.  

My Shadow by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.