It's hard to think of stress right this moment, as one of my three boys is with his Dad, the other is sleeping and the baby is happily cooing in the background. And to complete this peaceful picture, I'm drinking a Sangria. At the moment, life ain't to shabby.

So what do I do with this wonderful couple of hours I have to myself? Instead of sitting outside and reading a novel, I'm blogging about the stress that is my everyday existence. Now don't get me wrong, I love being a mother, I would have it no other way. I am also happy that my boys are very close in age. I chose the (three boys in three years) road. The hope is that they will be best friends and live out their childhood as one big adventure. So far so good, despite the occasional smack up side the head from the oldest to the middle one. But Mr. Middle is fighting back now, and he is pretty big, so it's just a matter of time before the biggest brother gets a taste of his own medicine.

Did I tell you about the two most stressful days of my 32 years on earth?
Went like this: day one, picking them up from my friends house, shepherding them out to the van, when the two year old heads for the road. He makes it out a quarter of the way before I come careening from behind and land on top of him. He was fine, and I had scared the living daylights out of him, so I hope that now, he has an understanding about the danger of the road.

My friend had yelled, "Aim there is a car coming". I dropped the baby (he was safely in his car carrier) and ran into the middle of the road to stop him. The way the car was coming, the driver could not have seen my boy running into the road, because there was a parked van blocking the view. I sat in the road and held him and cried a good ten minutes. After calming myself down, we drove home to my husband who helped me work through the residue of emotion that was jumbling around in my body and brain. I managed to joke with the kids and say "That's it kids, we are never leaving the house again."

Day two, the very next day. My oldest son almost cut his penis off. Ok, slight exaggeration, but it felt that scary. It was during the day so I was home alone with the kids. I had just finished giving them all a bath. Ruben came downstairs, got the piano bench, and used it to get to something he wanted on the counter. At the point of the incident, I was standing right beside him, and I still can't tell you what happened. He fell off the piano bench, and he began crying. Falls happen about 50 times a day here, so it was not a big deal until he said, "Momma, my penis is bleeding." I am pretty good in emergencies, so I got him over to the changing table where I see how badly he was hurt. I had already thought ahead and brought the phone with me. When I pulled the skin back it was another layer of flesh. I knew it was a 911 situation. I called. It stopped bleeding as we waited. Ruben was bawling, and very scared, so my main focus was to keep him calm. I did not wish to look at it any more. I just knew that the bleeding had stopped, and the rest would have to wait until the experts came. I called my husband, told him what happened, and to come home.

The EMT's say that it needed to be looked at. I wanted so badly to go with Ruben, but Ramon insisted that he go. In retrospect, of course he should have, I don't have a penis, what do I know? Apply the same logic to my own reasoning behind having a woman gynocologist, (ummm if you don't own one, you don't know, I don't care how many you have seen.)

My husband took Ruben to Mercy First Care, where the doctor there admitted that she had no idea, so she arranged for Ramon and Ruben to go to the urologist. My husband was quite familiar with these friendly folks, as he had just gotten the good ole snippity do da, (we ain't having any more chillins) there a few weeks before.

They had to wash it out. Ruben freaked out, another reason I'm glad I wasn't there. It was as bad a cut as it could have been, without going into the layer beyond the foreskin. It was at the top of his penis, right where the penis meets the body, so thank God it was not worse, or his sex life could have been ruined. He had little steristrips on there for 2 weeks, they fell off, and it had healed nicely. He will have a battle wound. He's not the only one, apparently stress has some pretty sneaky ways of leaving its mark.

My entire life, well since I was seven years old, I have gone to the same dentist. He's a great guy, I have watched his children grow up in photos over the years.
25 years, that's a quarter of a century. Dr. Burke has looked at my teeth after the hygienist has done her cleaning and her congratulations talk. "You have beautiful teeth, so white, wow you never even had braces, you have healthy gums, you're a great patient Amy, we wish we had more like you." For twenty five years, this is how it has gone. After the hygienist makes her speech it's Dr. Burke's turn. He comes in, does his two second check, and reiterates what the hygienist just said.

Well not this last time folks. That's right, you did not think that parenting could affect your teeth. Dr. Burke says, "Amy you've been grinding your teeth at night I see." To which I respond with "mmmm, I don't know". He says, "we have some wear on T2r9." I say "Oh"? He then launches into this whole speech about how I should seriously think about getting this handy dandy 850 dollar mouth piece to wear at night. I say, "ya that 's not going to happen."
He proceeds to tell me just how serious it can become if I keep grinding. I could have trouble with my mandible, and that could cause migraines and then I'll have to have jaw work done. I tuned out right about there. I thought to myself, well I guess if it gets that bad I can always have my head removed.

Since then I have been more conscious about my grinding. Before he mentioned it, I had no idea I was grinding at all. However, I've got to tell him at my next appointment that it doesn't happen at night. I clench my jaw throughout the day; often. I'm trying to avoid ruining my beautiful teeth, but Jesus, I'm gonna need more than a mouthpiece to make it through the next quarter century. With kids running in roads, and half broken penises, maybe I ought to take up alcoholism for the next couple years, cause this here Sangria sure is doing the trick.

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