Shots

The Boy is fast approaching five years old, and it occurred to me last week that I'll need to make an appointment for him to get the rest of his boosters in order to attend kindergarten.

He hasn't had any shots that he can remember, so in my mind I was trying to figure out how to prepare him for this.

Yesterday when I was in the bathroom getting ready for work, he came in and said, "Mom, B**** turned five and now he has to go to the doctor and get some shots to go to big boy school. They hurt."

Me - "Who told you about shots?"

Him - "Miss Re**** did."

Miss Re**** is B****'s mom. She is one of the caregivers at his preschool.

I took this opportunity to tell him that when he turns five he, too, will go to the doctor to get shots in order to go to kindergarten.

"Will it hurt, mom?"

I told him it will feel like a poke with a pinch, but when it's over we'll do something to make him happy as a reward.

At dinner last night I spelled out to MFH that Miss Re**** so kindly told The Boy about getting s-h-o-t-s when you turn five.

He looked at me oddly and said, "Why would she do that?"

Exactly.

Sharing

When my son was so sick last week, all I wanted to do is take it from him. I told him many times that I would rather be the sick one.

Now?

"I gave my sickness to you, momma."

Yes. Yes, you did.

Back when I was teaching, after the first couple of years, I had built up so much immunity that I never caught what the little darlings brought in. I wonder what the hell happened to that.

The Boy is finally back to 100%, though, and for that I am thankful.

Cabin fever

The weather has me down in the dumps. I know spring is a month away, and I know we need the moisture especially in the mountains, but I am over it. As I read the paper and watch the weather channel, I realize it isn't just here in my backyard - it's everywhere. And you all are probably tired of it, too.

The thing is, I was prepared for this weather back in December and January. We had our cold snaps but not much snow. I knew in the end we would pay for it.

Speaking of the end, the hockey boys are done. They lost three in the best of five playoff series. Joel is heading home to Canada mid-week, and Paul isn't sure yet when he'll go, but probably this week as well. We'll miss them, but even more than that, we'll miss having something to do on Friday and Saturday nights. Hockey has occupied the last 6 months of our lives! The Boy still has the month of March to play and then hockey is over for him, too.

The boys are leaving in the nick of time. We have a player from last year returning to visit for Spring Break on March 10, and now we'll actually have a bed for him to sleep in. MFH told him that we'll be gone on the 10th because The Boy has a tournament in Big City, but to come in and make himself at home, and we'll be back on the 11th.

Isn't it a good thing we didn't bother to get our house keys back from him?

That's Hockey!

When The Boy was two years old, his daycare provider started taking him to the public library once a month. One book that he would bring home each and every time it was available is a book titled "That's Hockey!"

This is a story of children in Canada that play street hockey. The only gear they use is sticks and a ball. In it, the goalie is a little boy nicknamed Tooth because he has no front teeth. He had them knocked out twice in one year and his dad wouldn't buy him new ones until he quit playing hockey. I found this book in an online store and bought it for The Boy for Christmas. It was unavailable until recently, and it arrived in time for Valentine's Day. We are enjoying reading it again - every night.

The first year that we followed junior hockey here, The Boy was drawn to a player that was missing a front tooth. Whenever we saw Ross, The Boy would scream "Tooth" until one day Ross asked why and we told him about the book. He knew that book from his childhood.

Last year was the first year we hosted a player. Jake had players over to the house all the time, and one of them was also missing a front tooth. He had a fake one in it's place, but would remove it for The Boy upon request.

This year's team has no missing teeth. But last night, in the third playoff game, Paul body checked a guy from behind, knocking him face first to the ice. He laid there a few minutes, stood up, picked up his front tooth and skated to the bench.

The Boy was delighted.

When I took him to school today, he excitedly told the teachers how Paul knocked #33's tooth out last night.

They asked me what I'll do if that ever happens to The Boy. I'll admit I've thought about it. He has beautiful teeth and I'd hate to see a big gaping hole in there or a discolored fake tooth.

I have two words as a solution:

Face mask.

As long as I'm paying the dental bills, he'll be wearing a face mask.

The New Guy

Paul has been with us for almost two weeks. He is a nice kid. I love having veteran players at the house. By that I mean players that have been away from home before in hockey programs. He understands the term "make yourself at home" and does so. He is very good with The Boy, attending hockey practices with him, playing video games on request, and teasing him mercilessly. He has quickly made himself a part of our family.

Joel, on the other hand, has never quite achieved that, and I've always felt bad about it. Sure it's his first time away from home, but he's been with us for almost six months now. He's loosened up quite a bit now that Paul's here, and it occurred to me that he probably misses being in the house with people his own age. He has two siblings at home. This has brought us to the conclusion that in the future we should house two players instead of one.

I have been home with Sick Boy for the last two days and have had opportunity to visit with Paul. He went to military school for high school. I have always been curious about why parents would send their kids to a military school and he told me that they just thought he'd get a better education there. His family lives in Chicago. He has a younger brother at home and a half-brother who is quite a bit older.

As we were sitting down to eat last night, MFH says, "So, Paul, you have a younger brother at home?" to which Paul answered yes.

I added, "He also has a half brother."

MFH countered with, "And what's the other half? Sister?"

Poor Baby

My son is sick.

One thing that amazes me about him is that he responds immediately to medication. When he is feverish and I give him Tylenol, he feels better within minutes. Literally.

This morning, though, was a rarity. He threw up. That has happened only twice before in his life, but just as he's never had a potty accident, he knew he was going to "choke" and we made it to the bathroom. Because of his upset stomach I would not give him anything for his 103.5 fever. He slept most of the day, and now he's finally looking and acting like he feels better.

To all those moms who bring their kids to school sick because they are concerned with missing too many days and losing their jobs, thank you.

He cracks me up

The other day there was a commercial on television for S.pace B.ags - you know, those bags that you pack things in and then suck the air out of and they compress into practically nothing? I mentioned to The Boy how cool it would be to get some of those for our upcoming supposed move.

Also, my MIL told me that I should clear out my closets so they look roomier. Heaven forbid people try to envision their own stuff in my closet instead of my stuff stuffed in my closets.

I wonder how I could compress my shoe collection into these bags? If my clothing would deter people from buying my house, what on earth would they think of my massive amount of shoes?

Anyway, last weekend The Boy and I were wandering around Wal-mart when he said, "Hey mama, there's the s.pace b.ags. We should buy some!"

I turned around and there was an end display. Surprised, I said, "You're right! How did you know those were s.pace b.ags?"

"I can read now," he said, very matter of factly.

One Smart Cookie

We attended the regular season year end banquet for our hockey players Sunday evening.

There are a number of fundraisers for the team, including raffle drawings. The Boy's number was chosen and when he stepped up to the podium he was offered a choice of this jersey or a hockey stick signed by the team.

Later that night I said, "Honey, I love your new jersey. I'm curious, though, why you didn't choose the hockey stick."

He said, "Because, Mama, there was writing all over it and I knew you wouldn't let me play with it."

The rest of the story

This morning I took the opportunity to talk alone with the preschool director. There is a lot of illness going around, so there were few kids when we arrived. The other teacher is out with a sick child. I was not angry. I stated what The Boy said to me, and how he said he obtained the information.

As I suspected, the story involving babies in cribs everywhere is the story of H, the other Guatemalan adoptee, whose parents picked her up in an hogar (orphanage). It was a traumatic experience for them, and something they have spoken of in front of the other children. There was, however, no mention by her of dead babies.

The other teacher called me after I had gotten to work because she wanted to talk about my concerns. Her young daughter attends the preschool after regular school is out for the day. She cannot walk. I have never inquired as to why. Today I learned that she was born four months premature. At one point she was intubated and pulled the tube out. She was without oxygen for five minutes, and that is why she can't walk. Ultimately, she was dead. She tells this story. It is the only connection they can make to the dead baby in a crib reference.

Neither teacher could recall talking about how The Boy was born.

It's not such a big deal to tell him that he was not born of me. But I am his mother. Mommy. Mama. It has to be hard to hear of another mom that had you by birth but now you live with mommy. That is what I am afraid he can't process right now. We are close. He is as much a part of me as I can imagine any bio child ever to be.

I have read many opinions regarding adoption, and of informing people when such is the case. I know some parents that send a letter to the new teacher each year explaining the child's situation. I know some people feel compelled to tell everyone that's how they built their family. I don't, and I won't.

I am not ashamed of it. I just don't offer it up. The Boy is fair complected. He resembles his daddy. There are never any questions or even questionable looks in our direction in public. I get comments all the time that he acts like me, has daddy's hair, has grandpa's eyes. I simply smile and say thank you.

I could easily laugh and say, "Really? Because he's adopted, you know." But I don't.

I will not let being adopted define his life. There is so much more that he can be, and will be, than that.

The Talk

We've talked with The Boy about adoption since he was a baby, giving him as much information at any given time as we felt he could process.

Ever since he could speak he would offer up to anyone and everyone that he was from Guatemala. He has a book of pictures from Guatemala, and we've talked to him extensively about his pick up trip.

We've never really delved into his story, and we are still sorting out how much of that we will give him and at what time.

There is a little girl at his preschool that is also adopted from Guatemala. Her parents apparently willingly shared her story with the teachers, who seem to talk about it freely within earshot of the children.

Friday night on the way home from the hockey game The Boy asked me to tell him the story about all the babies dead in the cribs. Like in the cartoons, I shook my head and said, "What?" He repeated the question. I was able to piece together that one teacher told him about this, and I surmised that it must be his classmate's story. (Please let me clarify here that I don't know anything at all about dead babies laying in cribs.) I told him that I didn't know that story, and then I asked what else the teacher told him.

Very sadly he said to me, "I wasn't borned in your tummy, was I mommy."

Tears. Mine, not his.

"No, baby, you weren't. But you were born in my heart."

His face brightened and I was blessed with his smile.

I then told him that we would talk about the circumstances of his birth sometime alone, at home, when it's quiet. He was satisfied with that.

I'm angry. I feel violated.

Cleaning out my closet

In response to Michelle's comment, yes, I was forced to switch to new blogger. When I tried to sign in yesterday, I couldn't. I was instructed that in order to proceed I must sign up for a Google account. Once I did that I was informed that my blog was being transferred to the new format. It really is no different, other than having to sign into two accounts instead of one, which admittedly is a pain in the butt.

Paul, the new hockey player for the remainder of the season, showed up last night at around 11:30. He is not a Canuck, but was simply transplanted there to play on a hockey team. He is originally from Chicago, and is 19 years old. In response to Jessie, The Boy will be 5 years old in April. Having hockey players for surrogate brothers has been an awesome program for him. He gets a feel for what it's like to have a sibling, albeit a much older one, plus so far we have been blessed with good role models.

Poor Paul is in our only free spare room which I fondly call the "pink room". The Boy calls it Grandma's Room. The closet and dressers in there served as storage space for us, so we had to clear it out. MFH used to manage a moving company and he never burns bridges, so he procured some moving boxes for us and we proceeded to clear the room. Remember my crafty MIL? Yeah. The closet was FULL of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Easter decorations, many of which I had forgotten about.

The only evidence left that it was Grandma's Room is the mauve carpet and one shelf that has a heart motif. He should get absolutely no shit from the rest of the team over that.

Paul showed up with one small suitcase and his backpack as he packed in a hurry to be able to get here in one day, so we probably wouldn't have needed to clear the closet.

But, that's one room less to pack up when we move. If we move.

May the force be with you

I don't like being forced to make changes.

Imagine my surprise when, as I tried to log into blogger this morning, they forced me to switch to new blogger.

It makes me wonder if Big Brother Blogger is watching and reading, and sensed my indecision about switching on my own.

In any case, here I am. So far it has been painless.

Time will tell.

In other news, when I got home last night we had a message from the assistant coach of the junior hockey team to please return his phone call. He needed a favor.

This is the final weekend of the regular season. Playoffs begin next week. Our team is currently tied at second place, so they are sure to make the post season. With that said, and because of injuries that have benched some key players, the coach is adding to the team. A new player is arriving from Canada tonight at 10:30. Would we be willing to house him for the rest of the season?

Another Canuck.

Oh heck, why not. It's winter in Montana. Nobody is going to be visiting to use that spare bedroom anytime soon.

Just between us moms

At hockey practice Monday night I got to re-live the glory of The Boy scoring two goals in the wrong net.

One mom wasn't there, but saw the incidents on the video her husband took of the game. She laughed about it and asked if The Boy had fun.

Another mom, J, has two boys in hockey. The oldest is very talented. The youngest, on The Boy's team, is a good puck handler, but The Boy is a better skater. Rarely do the players excel at both skills until later in life. She really didn't have much to say. I do like her and was surprised she couldn't laugh at it with the rest of us. It was almost as if she was being smug - like "my boys would never have done such a thing."

The other mom, K, cracked me up. She had this to say, "I consider it a successful game whenever my son is not found laying on the ice making angels."

So there you have it.

It can always be worse.

For the record, he still doesn't know he did it. Should we tell him? Obviously it's something he needs to know. You know, just so he scores for his own team next time.

Fun-damentals

Saturday The Boy had a hockey tournament in a neighboring town. They played two games, one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

The kids play five on the ice at a time, in one or two minute shifts. When the buzzer sounds they know to skate back to the bench and the next line comes out to play. It is the first time The Boy has played an organized game.

It is important to mention here that at this level they play with nets to score in, but without goaltenders to guard the nets.

I've wondered many times how the kids know what to do in a game. Sure they know to skate after the puck and to try to shoot the puck into the net, but what about the rest?

Apparently they haven't learned the rest. Because, towards the end of the second game The Boy finally scored. Twice. For the other team.

Everyone cheered. The parents, the other kids, the referee. The Boy celebrated his goals. The coaches gave him high fives. It was really quite cute.

Thank heavens at this level they don't keep score.

I know the goaltender's purpose is to keep the puck out of the net. Maybe it's also to remind the rest of the team to shoot at the guy wearing the different jersey.

Idol-ized

The only reality television I watch is American Idol. I look forward to every episode, from the auditions to the final competition. In the Stiletto household we crack up and make fun of the weird people, clap for those with great voices, and even feel sad for the ones that are just not quite good enough.

Yes, I vote, if there is a contestant that I am passionate about.

Like Bo. *heavy heavy sigh*

There seems to have been more press this season than ever before about how mean the panel is, in particular Simon. I have seen some of the auditions floating around the internet and read blog entries about how awful it is that these people are ridiculed on nationwide television.

Here's the thing.

It's a singing competition. If you suck at singing, don't go.

Sure your friends say you are great when you sing karaoke. That's what friends do. They don't want to hurt your feelings.

Your mama might even say you sing like a bird. Perhaps she lied to spare your feelings, or maybe she's tone deaf. Of this I am sure - I love The Boy with all my heart and I want the very best for him - but if he couldn't sing, the last thing I would do is let him appear on television and make a fool of himself.

In reality, these people probably know they suck. They might be the class clown seeking attention of any kind, but more likely, they just want their 15 seconds of fame.