Childhood Dreams Morph Into Adult Realities for St. Peters Mom

When I was 10 years old, I had a plan for how my life would turn out: I would grow up and marry one of the Duke Brothers from the Dukes of Hazard (Bo or Luke, I wasn't picky). We would have twins: a boy and a girl, of course. We would drive around town in our silver Corvette and live in a dream mansion, not unlike Barbie's, on the beach.

Woody Allen once said, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."

Though I didn't marry one of the Duke boys, I did manage to snag me a good ol' farm boy. Our beachside mansion looks more like a cookie-cutter suburban home smack in the middle of America. Our Corvette is suspiciously SUV shaped. While I never had a girl, I was blessed (or cursed, depending on the day) with two rambunctious little boys.

E. entered the world kicking and screaming on a cold November evening in 2001. The spitting image of my husband with bright blue eyes and dimpled chin, he has kept us on our toes ever since. The past seven years have been a blur of doctors, therapists, and counselors. I've spent more time in the principal's office since E. started school than I did during my entire education. E. is a cocktail of AD-HD, OCD, and anxiety-shaken, not stirred. Your kid is on the honor roll? Mine is too, the difference being my kid will tackle your kid for no apparent reason.

I was pregnant with C. when the red flags began popping up with E.. In the middle of all the worry and stress arrived a cherubic little guy with double chins who just wanted to snuggle. C., age 6, is laid back to a fault, but sneaky as the dickens. We may have proof of a manipulation gene: When he was 1 years old he found a keychain that belonged to his brother. He held it out to E. and swung it back and forth. When E. reached for it, C. snatched it back and laughed. Too young to speak, but already knew how to push his brother's buttons. 

My husband MJ grew up a stone's throw from me in a small town in West (by God) Virginia. A practical man, he keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground. We're a team, or so he claims. Once the boys came along, I believe all bets were off. More often than not, the menfolk are partners in crime. When our bed frame broke a few years back, MJ scratched his head and wondered aloud how it had happened. He's a horrible liar, which is one of the many qualities I love about him, but I should have known then something was up.

Still, it wasn't until after a few nights of sleeping with mattresses on the floor that I uncovered the truth. Behind our closed bedroom door I heard squeaking and giggling. I threw open the door to find MJ in a mid-air flip onto our mattresses, the boys looking on in awe.

I play ringmaster in the circus taking place around me daily. Dressed in my Mom Battle Gear (jeans and a hoodie or a sweater set if I really mean business), I set out to coordinate doctor's appointments, school meetings, dinner menus, and MJ's business trips. Armed with hand sanitizer I shuttle my kids to cub scouts and birthdays at Brunswick Strike Zone all while stroking their fragile egos, building their confidence, and trying to help them grow into conscientious, contributing members of society.

 Being a mother is everything and nothing I imagined it to be. It's the hardest thing I've ever done—and I've been to boot camp. My nickname growing up was Holly the Holy Terror. I suppose it's only fair that karma pay me back in full. Our family is perfectly imperfect. Even when I find myself hiding in the pantry binging on chocolate after a particularly stressful day, I still feel lucky to be a part of it. While MJ and I have our differences of opinion when it comes to raising our children, the one thing we all know how to do is raise a little Cain.