Owen Atticus Krouse

Owen is breathing softly beside my bed, in the darkness at 4 AM.  Little does he know, I was just awake with the baby…so I was laying there waiting for it…”Mom…can I sleep in your bed?”  Lately I can’t ever find a reason to say no…not initially…not since Max is sleeping thru the night more often.  The swiftness of Max’s maturity has reminded me of how quickly these years go.  It makes me think that maybe Owen got the shaft.

He was the last of a line of four kids.  By the time he came along I had twin 4 year olds and a 2 year old sapping all that I had to give.  My stress-o-meter was reading somewhere around “MAX CAPACITY”.  Looking back…I can’t believe I got thru it.  It was no award winning performance…but I’ve lived to tell of it.  I remember crying on the edge of the bed a lot.  Those days are a little more distant feeling now.  Things are still hard, but its a different kind of hard.  I can handle this hard.  This hard is the consistent position of reasoning with the unreasonable and walking beside them while they try out all their own terrible ideas…and maybe keeping a first aid kit on my person at all times.  This hard doesn’t feel as one sided.  Hard with babies is a helpless kind of hard.  If you can’t make them stop crying then you CANT MAKE THEM STOP CRYING…what can you really do?  I’ve learned to lay that baby down and walk away…feeling helpless but OK.  Low and behold, they went to sleep…they just wanted you to leave them alone.  This knowledge only comes with experience, which is why Max has felt like my favorite baby.  Not because of Max, but because of me.  I know me better.  I know what I can and can’t handle.  Forcing myself to hold the screaming baby while 3 other kids need my help didn’t do any of us any good.  I can read a baby better now than I could 5 years ago.  I’ve gotten a chance to get far enough away from something to have some perspective and then I’ve gotten a chance to try it again.  It’s really a treat.

Naturally there is some remorse for being impatient and snappy with my other children when they were younger, and they know that I’m always looking for new ways to manage the stress that 5 kids can help manifest (yoga, mindfulness exercises, mommy timeouts, taking 10 slow deep breaths, sitting with a blanket over my head, eat.)  It’s important for me to have honest communication with my kids.  I try not to make it that they feel responsible for the way that i’m feeling.  Sometimes I say things like, “All four of you guys are telling me things at the same time and I can’t hear even one of you clearly and it is making my head feel explodey.”  What they do with that information is up to them, but at least i’ve said my part.  So sometimes I feel that Owen got me during the height of my “STRESSD OUT YEARS”.  Poor guy.

SO there is Owen, in the darkness.  I tell him he can hop in.  He moves 1000 times more than is necessary in order to get himself situated.  My eyes are closed.  Silence.  30 seconds of silence.  I am dozing off, after my half hour intermission with Max and the bathroom.

“Mom, can we make gluten free pancakes in the morning and can I help you make them?” His soft whisper shows me that he’s trying to be considerate of his sleeping parents…but not considerate enough to just go to sleep.

Imagining that a speedy answer could bring my slumber back, “Sure.  But only if we get up early enough.”

I’m reminded of how big he is getting when I feel his toes all the way down at my shin.  I turn toward him and put an arm around him.

“Mom, I still gotta do my homework.” He comes home with roughly 2 minutes of homework per evening and we usually get it done right away…yesterday we took Iris to piano lessons and then went to the Farmers market and then back to pick Iris up and then to the grocery store and then to the park and then we had supper and then the neighbor boys came over for treehouse/campfire action and those 2  homework minutes slipped through the cracks.

“It’s ok.  We’ll have time in the morning.” I whisper back.

Silence.  My eyes are heavy.

“Mom, do you know I know how to spell NAIL?”

I turn away from him.  May it discourage any further communication.  “Yes.”

“No mom, ask me how to spell NAIL…” still whispering.  So considerate.

“Hey buddy, if you want me to get up to make pancakes and help you with homework then we need to go to sleep…or you can go back to your bed.”

“Oh. Okay.” It’s official.  We go to sleep.

Lately he has been walking around the house singing “I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNO LIE!”  He only knows that one line of the song, THANK GOD.  I believe he told me he heard it on some cartoon movie.  It’s not a big deal, except that I would rather hear him sing something else.  It’s a catchy tune to I tried to help a modified phrase naturally make its way into that little brain.  On my first try, coming up with something that rhymed with “BUTTS” I went with “PEANUTS”.

“Hey Owen, how about ‘I LIKE PEA-NUTS AND I CANNOT LIE!”  He seemed cool with it…until it fully backfired on me.  It didn’t feel natural to leave out the word “BIG” so now it just sounds like he’s singing “I LIKE BIG PENIS AND I CANNOT LIE!”

Well, that worked out.  Im realizing that a lot of times, my over involvement tends to make things worse.

Last Saturday we were entertaining four good friends, and the boys had a friend sleeping over while Iris was away for the weekend.  I could tell that Owen was fading as 10 o clock approached.  I intercepted his sleepy gaze and asked if he’d like to go read a book and get in bed (when older kids are hanging out I find I have to treat it like a cool, fun thing to go to bed when NOONE else is going yet…a book and a brief cuddle help ease the transition.)  We went to the bathroom so that he could brush his teeth.  Fully adorned in his Spider-Man underwear, he marches over to sink and steps up on the stool…leans as close as he can to the mirror.  Adjusting head in the light, looking closely from different angles.

“Whatcha doin?

“I’m just checkin to see if I have any hair on my face.  There is a boy in my class who has a mustache…I wanted to see if I have one.”

I couldn’t contain the smile on my face.  I took the mental picture of all mental pictures.  My five year old, straining to locate a hope, a shred, a glimmer of peach fuzz on his upper lip.  He nodded off before we were half way thru the first book, because…thankfully…he isn’t as big as he thinks he is.

A few years ago I wrote “a children’s book” using Owen as the star.  I wanted Chris to illustrate it, because while I’m great at folk arty-vintagey-70’s inspired furniture art, Chris is an amazing fine artist.  I pictured it being done in water color.  He loved the idea and that morning before he left for work he said “Sure, you write it and I’ll illustrate.”  I called him at 11 o’ clock and told him I had written it.  He didn’t like that.  He attempted to begin illustrations that evening and quickly lost patience.  I would have also.  Especially when you are used to being paid for your time and when you aren’t, you’re surrounded by little kids who mostly want to get physical with you.  But I would love to share this little tribute i wrote to The O Man.

Quit Growin’ Owen!

I know a little boy named Owen.  He is just small, but everyday he is growin.

He used to stand wide eyed and watch his brothers ride bike, but you could sense there was something about this that he just didn’t like.

As soon as he learned about training wheels, all you could hear were his tires squeal.

His hair was once short but soon it grew and it curled. As he sped through the streets his mane whipped and it whirled.

Every day theres a tune he would carry.  While it always sounded the same, the lyrics would vary.

Somedays he would sing about grandmas and flowers, other days about brothers with super powers.

At dinner each night, between his “Nom-Nom”, he would turn and politely say “Thanks for making this yummy food, Mom.”

When he began to grow tired and the world seemed less grand, he had a favorite treat…the middle two fingers on his left hand.

No matter the day or the house or the town…one thing was for certain…this boy wasn’t slowing down.

So at night before bed, his mama would beg..

As she squished him and squashed him to slow down the pace, of his wild growth that felt like a race.

What more could she do to get this thing slowin?! Nothing but beg, “QUIT GROWIN OWEN!”

He is like no one I’ve ever met.  I feel so blessed to have been a partial vehicle in his creation.  You are loved and adored Owen.  Thanks for being mine.