I admit it. Openly and freely. I am a sucker for… my Little Man Boo.

For, oh I don’t know, somewhere around 3 years now, or so, I have been complaining about Boo sleeping with Hubs and me. Complaining that he really needs to sleep in his own bed; that we never should have started the bad habit of him sleeping with us; that HUBS never should have started this co-sleeping arrangement. I have been the one complaining that we never have our bed to ourselves; that we never have our ‘time’ because there’s always a little one happily planted right in between us; that it would be nice if I could enjoy our bed again. I have complained countless times; more than I can count.

Then I got this idea that we should convince our Little Man that turning four means he’s a “big boy” and he has to start sleeping in his own bed because that’s what “big boys” do. Literally, on his birthday, we began this ’sleeping in his own bed’ and it has been a success. Well, a success with a compromise. His bed is in our room, at the foot of OUR bed. Yes, he is still in our room, but in his own bed. I thought it a good compromise, a good start.

This has very much worked for a month now. It has worked so well, in fact, that my Boo is now of the opinion that he can NOT sleep in my bed anymore, ever, because he’s a “big boy” now. That is good, really. But what about those moments when I just want to cuddle up to my Little Man? What about that? I mean, can’t I have just ONE night of cuddling with my not-so-little-boy anymore? Apparently not.

“I not free now Mommy. I four. I big boy and sleep in myyyy bed not yous bed.”

“But don’t you want to cuddle with mommy just for tonight?”

“Noooo Mommy. I big boy. I not free now, I four.”

“But Mommy really wants to cuddle with you.”

“I dots to sleep in myyyy bed Mommy.”

“Ok. Give me a big hug then and you can go to your own bed.”

All my powers of persuasion couldn’t convince him to cuddle with me, in my bed. I tried, oh how I tried. I know what you’re thinking. I complained and complained about this very thing…but honestly, just one night wouldn’t hurt, would it? I mean, he’s so cute and sweet and I love it when he hugs and cuddles and it’s just ONE night. One.

He hunkered down in his own bed, like the big boy he is, and Hubs and I settled into ours. We were busy going through our good night ritual “good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite” and ‘night-night’ prayers, when Boo was suddenly hit by inspiration:

“If I free one night I can sleep in yous bed. But I four.”

Hubs nudged me and I couldn’t help giggling. So he DID want to cuddle with mommy after all, but he still wanted to be a big boy too.

“So if you’re three, you can cuddle with Mommy?”

“If I free one night.”

“Well, maybe you can be three for just tonight then?”

“Ummmmm….. OK.”

It took less than 5 seconds for him to plant himself and his pillow in my bed, curled up next to me, between his Dad and me. Apparently my powers of persuasion worked….. or I’m just one gigantically huge sucker. (Either way, I’ll take it!!)

I have blogged about the bickering and hatred spewed in comments before… but I have never, EVER, read such hatred as I did today. And I am pissed… I don’t know her beyond her blog but I feel the need to defend Heather against this lowlife troll for spewing such utter bullshit.

Comment taken from Heather’s Blog

Kelly says: You really need some therapy. You are not the only one to lose a child or a loved one. Be thankful that she was not older….think about how much harder it would be. I have no desire to read your blog anymore. Seriously stupid.

Seriously stupid is right… it is the perfect way of describing yourself Kelly. I feel sorry for you that your life is so obviously miserable that you feel it is ok to leave such hateful comments on someone’s blog. ESPECIALLY to a mother who has just lost her only child! It is people like you who keep hate and misery spreading world-wide. You are the very epitome of EVIL.

I have never, thank God, had to suffer the crippling pain of losing a child. But my husband has; and I’ve been witness to it for 16 years. (we were childhood friends, the best of friends)

It was his first marriage; his first child. She was a full term baby, born on February 3, 1993. She was a beautiful little girl. But something went wrong. Somewhere along the way, something was missed. She was taken from her mother’s arms hours after being born and whisked away to NICU. The news and events that followed are heartbreaking.

Ashley was born with a rare heart defect that would take her life. This beautiful, visibly perfect little girl… was going to die. She was treated with the best of care at one of the nation’s top children’s hospitals; they did all they could do for her. On February 6, 1993, Ashley took her last breath in her daddy’s arms. He rocked his baby girl, holding her close with tears flowing like a waterfall, until she was no longer there. She was only 3 days old. For three days, he loved her with every ounce of his being. For three days he talked to her, held her, touched her, told her how much her daddy loved her. And then she was gone.

He was… devastated.

It didn’t matter that he’d only had her for three days. He LOVED his daughter with everything in him…every part of his soul, his being, was touched by this little girl, his little girl, his flesh and blood. Losing her broke him; shattered him into so many pieces I thought he’d never be whole again. (The same is true for his ex-wife, Ashley’s mother… but this particular post is about what I have seen grief and mourning do to someone, and is pointed directly at that bitch troll who left her hate on Heather’s blog.)

He grieved for his little girl; he mourned; he hurt; he cried; he drank. He buried himself at the bottom of a bottle because he couldn’t handle reality- life without his baby girl. He couldn’t fathom that it was HIS baby lying in that casket, lowered into that cold hard ground. His baby. HIS daughter. Gone. Forever. It was too much for him. The pain swallowed him.

People say time heals all things. To some extent, that is true. But I am here to tell you… Ashley would be 16 years old today… sweet sixteen. And her daddy STILL grieves for her. He still mourns his daughter’s death. He still misses his baby girl. He wonders what she’d be like; who she’d look like; what kind of music she would like; what her habits and hobbies would be; what kind of car she’d drive; if she’d think it lame to have had a sweet sixteen birthday party; if she’d go to prom; if she’d have gotten married and had children. It doesn’t matter that her life was cut short after only three days; it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been one day or thirty years… SHE IS HIS DAUGHTER. He lost his child. And he still grieves for his child.

He found his way out of the bottle- got away from the alcohol- but he still grieves. He told me once that he thought it would get easier, and that in some ways it has, but he can’t mention her name without the grief overwhelming him all over again. He can’t see a picture, or think about her without the flood of emotions coming back to the surface. He still asks himself ‘what if’. He will NEVER get over the loss of his child, ever.

I lost my 22 year old brother in 2005. I’ve watched my Mother and step-father go through the EXACT same things that my husband did when he lost his three day old daughter. The loss of a child shatters a parent to their very core. It is the most gut-wrenching pain anyone could EVER experience- no matter what the age of the child.

So, to you troll Kelly, how DARE you say such insignificant nonsense to a parent, a grieving mother. How DARE you say that it would be harder if Maddie had been older. HOW DARE YOU!

I just thought my ex was the one who is pond scum… but you, you heartless shell of a person, YOU are much lower than he. The words don’t exist- every degrading profanity ever known to mankind won’t even begin to touch on what I think of you.

The world would be a much better place without Evil Spawn like you.

My ex is the scum on the bottom of a 55 gallon drum of asshole. Correction- he is the fungus on the scum on the bottom of a 55 gallon drum of asshole. It’s true, and then some. There aren’t enough words for me do describe this piece of maggot shit, really.

After our divorce, he decided his first priority was his single life. Not surprising since his first priority during our marriage was always himself- never our kids or me, always himself. He’s bottom of the totem pole trash, honestly. He is, and has always been, an immature child in a man’s body. And he is, beyond any doubt, the most selfish, self-centered person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.

He was pretty rotten to me during our six-year marriage- from his addiction to porn to his verbal, emotional, and physical abuse. He, however, has always played little Mr. Victim. He, according to himself, never does anything wrong. It’s always the other person. He has such warped thinking, two years ago he recorded himself (web cam video) jumping on top of his then live in girlfriend and choking her. Yes, choking her. His hands around her neck. His body on top of hers, holding her down, with his hands around her neck. But, it was her fault. She was stealing money from him. Hmph. Whatever loser.

He also managed to capture her 12 year old daughter in the shower/bath tub with this web cam security camera he had installed. My son, then just 15, told me of this and showed me the recordings. Recordings that this…man… had kept on his private home computer for God only knows what reason. (Along with the largest collection of porn I have ever seen- from magazines to movies… sick, just sick). I, naturally, contacted the authorities about his little home recordings- and it is still in their hands.

As usual, I have veered into left field and totally off topic… (expect more of that- I could write a book on this cod sack)

This pathetic excuse of a human being who I desperately try not to hate even though it is the most impossible thing ever, spent a good deal of time trying to brainwash my oldest, Bubba. He was quite unsuccessful in his attempts, thankfully. He spent two years trying to convince my son that he should love with him rather than me; because if Bubba lived with him he could watch more tv, and he’d buy Bubba a dirt bike and four-wheeler and take him fishing; and all sorts of other ‘promises’ that would make life with Dad seem more attractive. But again, this was unsuccessful. By the time Bubba was 12 (six years of this brainwashing, people… 6 years!), he told his Dad he didn’t want to move, ever. I constantly said things to the ex about this, but of course he denied it and played it off as Bubba was making it up. Because, I mean, he never did anything wrong, remember? Mr. Victim and all.

Since his attempts with Bubba didn’t work, he moved on to greener pastures…. Mr. Man- my, then, youngest son. He began this same pattern with Mr. Man at about the age of 9. The difference, though, was that Mr. Man, who had never had any of his dad’s attention before, ever, craved love and affection from his Dad. (this man didn’t even change their diapers; never fed them; never had anything to do with them when they were babies or toddlers- EVER) So, being the selfish bastard that he is, he took advantage of Mr. Man and began trying to brainwash him. With small amounts of success. By the time Mr. Man was in his last year of adolescence, and old enough by state law to voice his opinion, desires, and preferences, he was convinced that life with his dad would be an everyday amusement park. His dad promised him (from his own words) a dirt bike, four-wheeler, his own pellet gun, and many more things I had told him he was too young and irresponsible for. Things that could cause harm to himself or someone else. As was the usual tactic, I was made out to be the bad, uncool, unfun parent while he was making himself out to be this wonderful, amazing, and fun Dad in his son’s eyes. A few months later, I was served with a summons to appear in court. That son of a bitch was taking his bullshit to a court of law.

The court system here is a fucking joke, let me say that right off the bat. Because everything I said was complete ‘heresay’ it wasn’t taken into consideration at all. And because my son voiced a strong desire to reside with his father, that is what the court considered. No consideration at all for the fact that the bastard has such a porn addiction that he was under investigation by the State, had been charged, and was awaiting arraignment. No consideration at all for the fact that there had been TWO, yes TWO, restraining orders issued against him NOT by me but by Child Protective Services. In simpler terms, the joke of a judge sided with him- the good ole boys network prevailed. My ex lied, and I mean blatantly lied under oath. And the judge bought it. That bastard sent my son in the arms of the spawn of satan.

That next school year, my son was retained because of 48 unexcused absences. The next school year, he was banned from public school and sent to alternative school. From there, he was arrested (along with the hoodlems his Dad let him run around with) for Breaking & Entering. Those charges were dropped, thankfully, for what good it did. He spent more time in the Juvenile Detention Center than at school or home. His Dad, this model father and citizen, let him come and go as he pleased; no boundaries, no rules. No parenting at all.

Now to the point of all this… can you guess the reason my ex began all this? Money. Yes. Money. It was more important to him that he NOT have to ‘pay’ me for “his” kids than it was to be a father to him. This bastard’s only concern was that he not have to pay child support; which, coincidentally, he didn’t have to pay once my son was given to him.

It takes every ounce of sanity I can muster to keep myself from hating this man. It takes every ounce of decency I can scrape to keep from blurting out what a sorry fucking loser he is every time I hear his name. He has nothing to do with my oldest, Bubba; and hasn’t since he was triumphant in brainwashing Mr. Man. He got what he wanted; and that is not a relationship with his sons. I keep telling myself that one day, ONE DAY, he will get what’s coming to him; he will pay for what he’s done; he will reap what he has sewn. I can only hope.

The moral of this story… before you procreate with someone; make sure that someone isn’t someone you could possibly dislike in the future. Make sure the man you pick to be the father of your children isn’t a louse; that he isn’t someone that will make you want to scratch your eyeballs out every time you hear his voice; that he isn’t someone that will make you want to hate more than you’ve ever wanted to hate anyone in your life; that all those little things he’s passed onto your children don’t make you want to scream every time you see or hear them. Because as long as there are kids… that person will always be in your life, whether you like it or not.

I love days when Boo is being sweet and loving. Those days are few and far between as he gets older and more ‘independent’. Today has been one of those days. It started when he first woke. I heard the pitter patter of his little feet darting through the house and into his room. Usually, when he wakes before anyone else, he makes his way from room to room waking the entire house, starting with his sister. This morning, however, his first run was to his room. After a couple minutes, I slipped out of bed and sneaked around to take a peak. As I turned the corner, I caught sight of him digging through his drawers, stark naked. I have to say, seeing my Little Man in his birthday suit is such a cute site I often have to snicker. Back in the days when he still sported the ever-so-cute baby fat, I would immensely enjoy seeing him run through the house as a naked baby blur. There was just something about those pudgy little baby butt cheeks bouncing around the house that made me giggle.

This morning, however, wasn’t one of those days. Seeing my now four-year-old standing there bare bottomed reminded me just how quickly he is growing up. Gone is that pudgy baby fat that I so adored. Gone are those cute little dimples that made me smile every time they appeared. My little baby is no longer a baby. Now… he’s a tall and impossibly skinny little boy; a little boy who insists on dressing himself, bathing himself, feeding himself, and all the numerous other things that big boys do without the help of Mommy. He’s developing such a sense of independence that it’s almost frightening. He’s growing up… too fast.

After he dressed himself in one of his favorite outfits (that is really too small but he loves so much that I can’t bring myself to toss it) he bounced his way back to my room and climbed into bed with Hubs and me; planting himself right square in the middle after climbing over me as if I were nothing but a pile of blankets. It was one of those too sweet moments… one that called for my cuddling him like I used to when he was still that pudgy little baby who loved Mommy’s cuddles at nap time. This moment only lasted about a micro-second though as my sweet little Boo quickly announced “You breaf tinks Mommy” while pinching his nostrils together and grinning from ear to ear. Well, at least he speaks his mind, eh?

Later in the morning, after we’d made our way to the family room and situated ourselves comfortably in front of a tv blaring those horrid cartoons that he so fervently loves, his moment of sweetness found its way back as he climbed into my lap and wrapped one arm around my neck. Ahh, those moments.

I quickly wrapped my arms around him and buried my nose in his neck, reminiscing about the days when those spots still held the smell of baby. I asked him “Are you Mommy’s baby boy?” and he said “I not a baby ann-yy-more Mommy. I a big boy now.” A big boy now. How true that is.

“Mommy wants you to stop growing now, ok? You’re growing too fast.”

“But I gots to dit big like Daddy.”

“I know, but you can slow down just a little can’t you?”

“Noooo. I dots to dit big like Daddy. I can be a big boy dhen.”

“But don’t you want to be Mommy’s baby boy?”

“Mommy. *snickersnicker* How bout I be da baby boy amorrow. But wight now I dot be big boy like Daddy.”

Then, the moment was gone and my not-so-little-anymore boy jumped down and went about playing. It all happened in less than 5 minutes, but a precious 5 minutes they were. I cherish those few minutes of sweet loving-ness I get from my Boo… those few minutes he takes out of his busy play day to show me that even though he is growing so fast and becoming more and more independent, he still wants and needs his Mommy.

I love being his Mommy.

My Little Man Boo is a total clutz. I’m not exaggerating, in the least. He manages to get more boo-boos than any of the other four kids combined. And, he manages to do this all in one day, most days. I should own stock in Band-Aids and Neosporin because I promise we buy Wal Mart out everytime the shelves are restocked. I have even managed to stock all three bathrooms with my own version of ‘Little Man First-Aid’- consisting of a bottle of Peroxide (large), bag of cotton balls, box of Q-tips, large tube of Neosporin, and every shape and size Band-Aid known to man. Better to be prepared, right?

I can’t possibly make you understand how quickly he goes through these homemade first-aid kits. There have been times my Boo has had assorted band-aids on every extremity, in more than one spot! He’s had them on his forehead, his chin, both cheeks, his ear, his neck (front and back), both arms, both legs, his back, and his tummy. The only place that hasn’t been band-aid’ed yet is his behind and his wee parts… although he did catch the wee part in a zipper one day while zipping up in the bathroom. No blood, thankfully, but he wasn’t a happy camper; and he refused a band-aid for that boo-boo. Honestly, I should have probably named him after the inventor of Band-Aids… it’d fit his personality so fabulously. Ironic that I call him Boo… and it has nothing to do with his plethora of boo-boos!

His grandparents chalk it up to him being ‘all boy’, whatever that means. (Of course he’s all boy, uh, he is a boy after all.) Most days he laughs at his own boo-boos. Most days he’ll come to me and say “Mommy, you dot dit dat box. I dots a boo-boo.” Most days, however, he doesn’t really want me to touch said boo-boo. He wants them ‘doctored’ but without me having to actually touch them. I have mastered the art of applying boo-boo medicine with a Q-tip and very soft touch. It takes years to master that, really. I’m just -that- good. Heh.

So the other day he was running around playing, wide open at 150 mph as usual. The grass was about ankle high, not having been mowed yet, with a few little flowers growing here and there that prompted him to ‘pick it’. He bent over to pick a patch with hands and, somehow- and I haven’t figured out just exactly how yet- managed to fall right over on his head. Apparently he’s top heavy. As he was falling, he turned his head and hit the grass cheek first. This ended with a nice boo-boo under his right eye and just above his right temple. I promise my child is the only one who can successfully fall in a patch of GRASS and end up with a scrape and bruise. It looked as if he’d been in a fight with a baseball bat and the baseball bat won. He didn’t cry over that one; only came in for me to work my mommy magic and “fix da boo boo”.

Later, he was chasing his brother around the shop, in one door and out the other, around the building, then back. My ever-so-graceful Boo found the only spot of dirt on the floor and managed to slide across it as if it were a nice slippery sheet of black ice. Only… when he landed, he landed front first… on the concrete floor. This one resulted in a nice goose-egg in the center of his forehead and scrapes and bruises on both knees. (Nothing serious, thankfully, because it could have been.) Again, he came to mommy to the magic cure and was out the door within no time, laughing and showing off his newest band-aids. (He did cry, though, when he fell… I would too if I fell and hit my noggin on a concrete floor.)

As if that weren’t enough, just as the fore-head bruise was nearly gone, he was running around his Daddy’s truck and clothes-lined himself on the tailgate. He rounded the corner and…bam. Smacked right into the tail gate. It could easily have been a scene in a movie, or maybe a Road Runner cartoon, as our eyes could only see it in slow-motion. As he hit the tail gate, his running stopped immediately but his body didn’t… he landed right smack flat on his back as if someone had picked him up and laid him down. This resulted in yet another goose-egg on the center of his forehead. (Again, not serious, thankfully.) This one makes the fourth, in nearly the same spot.

At this rate, I’m expecting a concussion before he’s five… or maybe he just has the hardest head in human history. Gives a whole new meaning to “hard-headed.” Heh.