Happy Birthday, Merrick (Late Again)

Merrick,

You know you're the third child when your mother --- on the actual DAY of her other children's birthdays -- posts long, loving picture-filled posts about these babies.

The third child?

Well, she forgot!

Worse yet, she went to Florida for a work conference and MISSED your birthday.

Merrick: "I can't believe you'we leaving me for my biwthday! Don't go!! Cancel that twip!"

Matron: "Honey, it's four days out of nearly 15 years. I really do need to go for work."

Merrick: "Then I'm asking Daddy to stay home."

Matron (same line she uses a lot): "Remember, Daddy and I are on the same team. If one of us says something, the other agrees."

Merrick: "I hate that team."

Honey, she fully appreciates that you do hate that team. But the team is sort of essential to mental health and parental stability.

And darling youngest child, your mother knows this has been a rough couple of months. You were recently (potentially - waiting for the neurologist) diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome. At first, your mother thought it best not to mention this to you until the official confirmation but here's what happened at your 8 year old check-up:

Pediatrician (after observing Merrick for ten minutes during her exam): "Merrick? Mom? Do you mind if I ask another doc to come in and we can play a game with Merrick. Mom, you can watch or wait in the hallway."

Immediately, the Matron knew something was up. How many times do TWO doctors play a 'game' with an 8 year old for his well child check up? It was a nerve wracking game for the mama who watched the the ten minute board game.

Both were in agreement: Tourette Syndrome . And they sprung this on the Matron in front of Merrick -- whose teacher actually called a few days earlier to note that she was worried about the 'tics.'

Teacher: "Mary? Have you noticed that Merrick has some odd habits with his mouth and with blinking? Is he under stress? Other students have started to notice and make comments."

Matron: "I think he needs lip balm and more sleep. But thanks for asking."

And then after the 8 year old well check up in the car on the way home . . .

Merrick: "Do have tuwnip disease? Will I die fwom it?"

Matron (who at this point, fresh on the heels of the diagnosis she knows in her heart to be true, really wants to pull over and throw up and then cry): "No, no. You can't die. It's not turnips but Tourette's. It's when your muscles want to pull. You can't stop it and it's totally okay."

Merrick, in a statement that really did break her heart: "Is that why I need to blink and open my mouth? Sometimes I need to blink weally weally hawd and I can't stop it. And my mouth too. It feels good."

Matron: "It's just who you are. Just like I yawn or wiggle with my hair."

Merrick: "Kind of like Stwyker having braces, wight?"

Matron: "Right. No big deal."

For the rest of her life, the Matron will be grateful to this observant pediatrician who--in ten minutes -- explained many of the things about which the Matron and her husband had been wondering.

Neurology starts in April. This, after five hours of tests last month to follow up on the heart arrhythmia. The irony is that this is her athletic, body-bound kid who can hit a baseball and win a tennis tournament without any effort.

But for Merrick's 8th birthday? A bit of a fork in the road, friends. Guess who plans on heading the National Tourette Syndrome Association in about ten minutes after the official diagnosis. Only half joking and she's now an expert.

Merrick -- The future might have shifted for you. But your mom and dad are steadfastly by your side. You're a beautiful, shining spirit. And that's what everyone sees first.

And it took the Matron a long, long time to decide she could blog about Tourette Syndrome .

My baby.

Happy Birthday, Merrick

Merrick, today you are five! Your mother never thought she'd have children. There's evidence of this somewhere, a wedding video replete with martinis and cigarettes, in which she swears off children like fleas. Three months later? Pregnant. Once she had one, she knew she needed a bundle of children, a pack. Not that she necessarily enjoyed children so much. Just that your mother recognized her own intensity demanded distribution among many rather than laser-like focus on one.

Because of -- well, big busy beautiful Life with complications -- your conception was delayed until your mother saw the big 4-0 bearing down, fast. Later, your parents decided, for the first time, not to find out which gender was brewing.

But one night, your mother got up to use the bathroom for the 200 millionth time. She looked out the window. Brittle snow and a bright moon, a black northern night. And as she turned from the window, she knew you were a boy. She felt you.

When you finally arrived (9 lbs and 11 ounces of you!), we simply threw you into the mix. One of the pack. So there was a lot of this:



You proved to be durable, of flexible purpose.


Usurped from her place as the youngest, your sister observed: "Merrick's head looks like a big chunk of meatloaf. He's a meatloaf head."

Mama asked: "How do you feel about your baby brother?"

Scarlett: "I half love him and half hate him."

Mama: "Have you ever seen meatloaf?"

Scarlett: "I have now. Meatloaf Head."

Meatloaf Head, your big sister's Love Half soon swelled to a Love Whole.




But the name stuck. Meatloaf Head or MLH for short. You also received no small amount of affection from your big brother.



Those big kids touched the moon! Later bedtimes! Books they could read without Mama! The freedom to stand up and grab a glass! They could perform miracles like making Barney appear on the television, cut shapes from paper, and make Grandma's voice come through the telephone. Their powers were magical, enviable.

So there was also a whole lot of this:




You are all about catching up. Keeping up. But sweetie, you stand alone in your love for our puppies. Here you are with the regal Thurston. We miss you, gentle friend.


Your brothers and sisters came without the Zap Tingle Itch Ow! Skin with which you were born. Shorts? One pair will do, those with the perfectly worn elastic and tag long cut off. Shirt sleeves must fall 4 exacting inches below the shoulder with a neckline soft and pristine. You now need 20 minutes to put on your shoes because of that dreadful sock seam. The sock seam is Satan. And he hurts your skin.

You loved motorcycles early, and still do. You got your first ride on a real motorcycle when you were three (ssshhh! don't tell Child Protection!). It was just 5 miles an hour and one block long, but still--you had arrived.



Even though you scream "Don't say that!" when I do: you are my sweet baby. You know that book, Love You Forever? Every night I sneak into your room and stare. How lucky did I get ?

Last night I tried to read that book out loud to you and Scarlett. But I couldn't. I can never read that book without utter collapse. Last night was no exception, choking up -- sadness, love, happiness, the rub and roar of all this that is you, me, the great big family. When I couldn't continue, Scarlett took the book and said, "Let me read for you, Mama."

Then you asked me why I started crying even harder.

Merrick, you love weaponry, dogs and cats, stuffed animals and spicy rice and tofu. You are always good for a cuddle. You are a good friend and are lucky enough to share your brother's wicked sense of humor. If your Ninja Turtle Sword is on the third floor and you're in the basement, your legs will hurt and tummy churn and certainly, your Mama will retrieve it? You have a way with balls and sport, batting like a 10 year-old, making basket after basket and catching Daddy's hard balls.

You might be the one to support us.

Till then, we'll do the supporting and more. With joy. Happy birthday, babe.

Happy Birthday, Merrick

Merrick, today you are six! Your mother never thought she'd have children. There's evidence of this somewhere, a wedding video replete with martinis and cigarettes, in which she swears off children like fleas. Three months later? Pregnant. Once she had one, she knew she needed a bundle of children, a pack. Not that she necessarily enjoyed children so much. Just that your mother recognized her own intensity demanded distribution among many rather than laser-like focus on one.

Because of -- well, big busy beautiful Life with complications -- your conception was delayed until your mother saw the big 4-0 bearing down, fast. Later, your parents decided, for the first time, not to find out which gender was brewing.

But one night, your mother got up to use the bathroom for the 200 millionth time. She looked out the window. Brittle snow and a bright moon, a black northern night. And as she turned from the window, she knew you were a boy. She felt you.

When you finally arrived (9 lbs and 11 ounces of you!), your parents simply threw you into the mix. One of the pack. So there was a lot of this:



You proved to be durable, of flexible purpose.


Usurped from her place as the youngest, your sister observed: "Merrick's head looks like a big chunk of meatloaf. He's a meatloaf head."

Mama asked: "How do you feel about your baby brother?"

Scarlett: "I half love him and half hate him."

Mama: "Have you ever seen meatloaf?"

Scarlett: "I have now. Meatloaf Head."

Meatloaf Head, your big sister's Love Half soon swelled to a Love Whole.




But the name stuck. Meatloaf Head or MLH for short. You also received no small amount of affection from your big brother.



Those big kids touched the moon! Later bedtimes! Books they could read without Mama! The freedom to stand up and grab a glass! They could perform miracles like making Barney appear on the television, cut shapes from paper, and make Grandma's voice come through the telephone. Their powers were magical, enviable.

So there was also a whole lot of this:




You are all about catching up. Keeping up. But sweetie, you stand alone in your love for our puppies. Here you are with the regal Thurston. The family misses you, gentle friend.


Your brothers and sisters came without the Zap Tingle Itch Ow! Skin with which you were born. Shorts? One pair will do, those with the perfectly worn elastic and tag long cut off. Shirt sleeves must fall 4 exacting inches below the shoulder with a neckline soft and pristine. You now need 20 minutes to put on your shoes because of that dreadful sock seam. The sock seam is Evil Incarnate. And it hurts your skin.

You loved motorcycles early, and still do. You got your first ride on a real motorcycle when you were three (ssshhh! don't tell Child Protection!). It was just 5 miles an hour and one block long, but still--you had arrived.



Even though you scream "Don't say that!" when she does: you are the Matron's sweet baby. You know that book, Love You Forever? Every night she sneaks into your room and stare. How lucky did she get ?

And when she can't get through that book without weeping? Scarlett steps in. "Here, Mama. Let me read that for you." Thanks, darling. Only makes her cry harder.

Merrick, you love weaponry, dogs and cats, stuffed animals and spicy rice and tofu. You are always good for a cuddle. You are a good friend and are lucky enough to share your brother's wicked sense of humor. Here, you decided that getting tied to a tree would be a really good time.



If your Ninja Turtle Sword is on the third floor and you're in the basement, your legs will hurt and tummy churn and certainly, your Mama will retrieve it? You have a way with balls and sport, batting like a 10 year-old, making basket after basket and catching Daddy's hard balls.

You play with this dog like you were one of the breed. Don't be. Remember, we're talking about Satan's Familiar.


Even though you can't read yet, you can slide down the stairs on your belly and will volunteer to be buried alive.


And you put on footie pajamas-- the minute you get home from school, every day! She figures you're a Coach Potato in training. You wear each pair until the toes are frayed and failing.



Six years on this planet! A wink and eternity. Happy birthday, babe.

Happy Birthday, Scarlett!

Scarlett, you are growing up. Today, you turn 12. Your mother is astounded that a decade and two years have transpired since you entered the world.

This year, you endured some hardships. All you want to do is be on a stage somewhere, with people clapping. But your fall and winter seasons were unexpectedly cancelled --and suddenly, on the cusp of Junior High with all those changes -- your identity and vocation were in the balance.

Retreat to bed? Cry or worry? Instead, you asked your mother to get you auditions, quick. Now that you're the lead in this show and immediately afterward have a nice role in a very cool adult theater, you seem much happier.

Still, your mother knows you're worried about what's next -- because there must be something.

There's a big movie audition ahead but you toss that off.

Scarlett: "If I get in, great. If I don't, I'll have fun at school. Either one is good."

This was your first time on stage. Check out that face, moments before curtain. Uh, can we say the opposite of stage fright? Joy!

The Matron thinks the above actually came from your eighth birthday! (Isn't she adorable?!) Your brothers should thank their good lives for your existence. Why? When your Mama was a Youngish Miss and newly pg with your big brother, she decided to find out the baby's gender.

You know what THAT answer was! Look at that boy glare at his Mama! The big red forehead tattoo would be his suction cup marque. The child decide to deform himself before the first day of school. But see how sweetly the daughter is smiling on her first day of first grade!

Way back, when the ultrasound technician innocently told her that her firstborn was to be a boy, Youngish Miss tried hard for repose. She burst into tears. Because she wanted, this!


Not even necessarily Annie --


Or Ramona or Helen or any of the roles or an actor. Sure, Scarlett, the Matron can thank you for some stupendous-can't-beat-em cocktail party lines: "My 11-year old has agents in L.A. and Minneapolis." But she knows that's pretty much smoke on the water.

She's happy you know that, too.

No, your Mama simply wanted a daughter--a girl who would be kind to animals and brothers(sorta related). Your Mama harbored dreams of a reader, a girl with books permanently stashed in the leather pouch she carries everywhere. She wanted to meet a fierce spirit--a girl more fearless and confident than she was when young. Your Mama dreamed of the kind of girl who would, gracefully, set aside her plans for her 11th birthday because another family needed a great big helping hand-- a real emergency -- and suddenly there was a surprise overnight and two tiny tots in the house on the actual bona fide anniversary of your BIRTH and instead of complaining? This daughter would play stuffed animals, tag, and help - - all day.

That's exactly the daughter she got.


Monday, in honor of your birthday -- and the dizzying potential your big beautiful life holds-- four of your best friends from elementary school will be participating in a "Red Carpet Hollywood Party" tomorrow night, and probably stay awake until the wee hours. You have asked that in lieu of presents, your friends donate any money they might have spent to a homeless shelter.

Twelve is the cusp, my dear. You are not yet a teenager nor are you a small child. The world is suddenly both open and mysterious. Your mother is amazed by your generosity of spirit and strong friendships. Never once have you been anything other than kind and patient --and continually fighting for the underdog, wherever you may find him/her. If there is a mean girl culture, you are not only not part of it, you're an active opponent.

Scarlett: "Mom, everyone is mean to Shaquita at school. Is there a way we can help make her feel more a part of the classroom community? Could we invite her over with some other friends to help everyone get along?" (actual words).

You're a person who organized a play with 30 child actors at age seven --and demanded that no parent watch a rehearsal! A person who is considered by local adult actors a "colleague" and not a child actor. Even better, you know when to play with your little brother and when a dog needs a little extra love. Plus, there's that extra Uterine Tracking Device (UTD) in the house.

Stryker: "Where's my iPod?"

Merrick: "Where's my football?"

John: "Who took my wallet and cell phone?"

Scarlett: "Living room coffee table, backyard in the left corner by the roses, on your dresser."

Happy Birthday, Scarlett! It's quite a ride. Your mother's greatest gift is that she gets to tuck you in every night and listen to your dreams.

Happy Birthday (But Two Days Late) Merrick!

Merrick,

You know you're the third child when your mother --- on the actual DAY of her other children's birthdays -- posts long, loving picture-filled posts about these babies.

The third child?

Well, she forgot!

More accurately, she was busy organizing the World's Most Amazing Birthday Party in the History of Childhood (At Least Yours). Why? Because the birthday party featured special guest Uncle Steve (married to Daddy's TWIN sister) the Canine Cop and Cody the Police Dog.

Merrick, at your birthday you and seven of your closest friends watched a 90 pound German Shepherd take down Daddy. Who was wearing protective gear, but a major success, nonetheless.

Even though Uncle Steve does not share your blood, you share the same He-Man spirit. This is as close as it will get, honey.

Saturday, you turned seven. Let's just trip down memory lane, shall we?

Your mother never thought she'd have children. There's evidence of this somewhere, a wedding video replete with martinis and cigarettes, in which she swears off children like fleas. Three months later? Pregnant. Once she had one, she knew she needed a bundle of children, a pack. Not that she necessarily enjoyed children so much. Just that your mother recognized her own intensity demanded distribution among many rather than laser-like focus on one.

Because of -- well, big busy beautiful Life with complications -- your conception was delayed until your mother saw the big 4-0 bearing down, fast. Later, your parents decided, for the first time, not to find out which gender was brewing.

But one night, your mother got up to use the bathroom for the 200 millionth time. She looked out the window. Brittle snow and a bright moon, a black northern night. And as she turned from the window, she knew you were a boy. She felt you.

When you finally arrived (9 lbs and 11 ounces of you!), your parents simply threw you into the mix. One of the pack. So there was a lot of this:



You proved to be durable, of flexible purpose.


Usurped from her place as the youngest, your sister observed: "Merrick's head looks like a big chunk of meatloaf. He's a meatloaf head."

Mama asked: "How do you feel about your baby brother?"

Scarlett: "I half love him and half hate him."

Mama: "Have you ever seen meatloaf?"

Scarlett: "I have now. Meatloaf Head."

Meatloaf Head, your big sister's Love Half soon swelled to a Love Whole.




But the name stuck. Meatloaf Head or MLH for short. You also received no small amount of affection from your big brother.



Those big kids touched the moon! Later bedtimes! Books they could read without Mama! The freedom to stand up and grab a glass! They could perform miracles like making Barney appear on the television, cut shapes from paper, and make Grandma's voice come through the telephone. Their powers were magical, enviable.

So there was also a whole lot of this:




You are all about catching up. Keeping up. But sweetie, you stand alone in your love for our puppies. Here you are with the regal Thurston. The family misses you, gentle friend.


Your brothers and sisters came without the Zap Tingle Itch Ow! Skin with which you were born. Shorts? One pair will do, those with the perfectly worn elastic and tag long cut off. Shirt sleeves must fall 4 exacting inches below the shoulder with a neckline soft and pristine. You now need 20 minutes to put on your shoes because of that dreadful sock seam. The sock seam is Evil Incarnate. And it hurts your skin.

You loved motorcycles early, and still do. You got your first ride on a real motorcycle when you were three (ssshhh! don't tell Child Protection!). It was just 5 miles an hour and one block long, but still--you had arrived.



Even though you scream "Don't say that!" when she does: you are the Matron's sweet baby. You know that book, Love You Forever? Every night she sneaks into your room and stare. How lucky did she get ?

And when she can't get through that book without weeping? Scarlett steps in. "Here, Mama. Let me read that for you." Thanks, darling. Only makes her cry harder.

Merrick, you love weaponry, dogs and cats, stuffed animals and spicy rice and tofu. You are always good for a cuddle. You are a good friend and are lucky enough to share your brother's wicked sense of humor. Here, you decided that getting tied to a tree would be a really good time.



If your Ninja Turtle Sword is on the third floor and you're in the basement, your legs will hurt and tummy churn and certainly, your Mama will retrieve it? You have a way with balls and sport, batting like a 10 year-old, making basket after basket and catching Daddy's hard balls.

You play with this dog like you were one of the breed. Don't be. Remember, we're talking about Satan's Familiar.


Even though you can't read yet, you can slide down the stairs on your belly and will volunteer to be buried alive.


And you put on footie pajamas-- the minute you get home from school, every day! She figures you're a Coach Potato in training. You wear each pair until the toes are frayed and failing.

You are still comfortable in body and not in book. But she's learning that's okay.

Seven years on this planet! A wink and eternity.

Oh, and your Mama? The one who had her last baby (that would be you) right after turning a certain ROUND NUMBER starting with 4 (but cannot be named sorta like the elder son) has officially become a sentimental weenie: one big fountain at the thought - seven.

My baby.