My nine year old daughter was born ten weeks early, during an emergency c-section. I went to the hospital for a routine ultrasound and they didn’t let me leave until they had strapped me to a table, cut my stomach open, whisked my baby away to be put on a ventilator, and fed me Percocet and chicken broth for five days. Ahh. Good times, good times.

Her brother was competitive from the get-go. Although he was only seven weeks early, he came complete with four heart defects, a kidney disorder, a missing right tear duct and a stomach flap that wouldn’t close…thus allowing breastmilk to freely flow out of where it had recently gone in.

Needless to say, my husband and I spent a lot of time in the hospital when our kids were young. And, each and every time we entered that place we had to scrub our hands with a very distinctive smelling anti-bacterial soap.

Now, whenever I visit someplace that has that same soap, be it a hospital, restaurant, or gas station, I get a flood of memories when the aroma hits my brain. Usually that flood is somewhat traumatic.

The smell of ginger takes me to Hawaii, the fragrance of roses to my Grandmother’s back yard, and I can’t even buy apple cinnamon oatmeal because, when warm, I revisit some seriously nasty diapers.

I have read other blogs and comments that make mention of this phenomenon, and my best friend has a story about chopping green beans when she received a phone call from someone bearing bad news. Guess what she thinks of when she smells green beans now?

What I want to know, boys and girls…where does your mind travel when you get a whiff, and what’s that you’re smelling that sends you on your way?

Tomorrow is my son’s sixth birthday. When he was born, we didn’t know if he would live, so his birthday is a true celebration.

The boy who came into this world seven weeks early, is now the master procrastinator. He will wait until the last minute to eat, get dressed, and my personal favorite…pee.

The boy who was barraged with needles and tubes, and who hated to be touched or held because he feared it would be painful, now greets his friends with hugs each day.

The boy who we never thought would talk, now sings and reads bedtime stories to us.

The boy who didn’t walk until he was almost two, now runs, climbs, plays, and gives me heart palpitations when he jumps off the furniture.

The boy who never wanted to eat, who gagged, choked and often vomited on his food, is now an unstoppable eater. We call his stomach the bottomless pit.

The boy with the defective heart, now has more energy than his parents.

The boy who frustrated me, now makes me laugh. The boy who failed in everything he tried to do, now can do anything. The boy who was weak, has taught me what real strength really is.

Happy Birthday Boo. We are blessed that you were born.

My (nearly) six year old son is developmentally delayed. He doesn’t have autism, aspergers or down syndrome. He isn’t living with cerebral palsy, has never had a brain injury, and extensive genetic testing all came back negative. He is simply behind.

Part of his delay is due to numerous health problems, hospital stays and surgeries. Every event, illness, and needle poke caused him to regress. This boy has had more medical procedures than most people have their entire lives.

The most noticeable delay is his speech, which came to pass because he couldn’t hear well for five out of six years of his life. We kept telling doctors, but my son kept passing hearing tests. When he finally failed a screening last year, we were actually relieved.

Before this school year started, I met with his Pre-Kindergarten teachers in private. I explained my son’s health history and his delays. They had been great when my nine year old daughter was in Pre-K a few years ago, and I had high hopes they would be wonderful partners in the game of catch-up my son has been playing. I failed to take into account that my daughter sprouted a halo when she was born.

These teachers, who had been perfect for my angelic daughter…well, I’m pretty sure that combined they have been teaching for 90 years. And in that time, I don’t know if they’ve had much experience with a special needs child. It’s nearly the end of the school year and so far they haven’t had much luck at keeping my boy in check.

I’m not going to sit here and say my son is perfect, because he’s not. He’s as ornery as the day is long. He has a wicked sense of humor, which is a particular benefit to this Mom blogger, but to his teachers…not so much. Yesterday, he told me he was pretending to be at a party, which is why he put mulch in someone’s hair. Confetti…Mulch. Potato…Po-taht-uh.

And, when they told me he disrupted snack-time the other day because he wouldn’t stop singing his ABC’s, it almost brought me to tears. Not because he was being bad, but because I can remember when we never thought he’d know his alphabet.

I took away toys, the computer, and TV to discipline him for not listening to his teachers. But, do you know how hard it is to punish a kid for singing, when you never thought you would hear him sing?

I have a problem. The hem on my daughter’s school uniform has come undone and it needs sewn, but I don’t know how to do it. As a matter of fact, I recently gave my sewing machine to my in-laws because they will actually use it. Poor thing sat in my closet for 10 years without being touched. My husband bought me that machine with much wishful thinking, but I never even learned how to thread it.

But, sewing isn’t the only task I do miserably. It is just one of many reasons why I make a lousy housewife…

I am a rotten cook, my husband frequently runs out of clean underwear because I haven’t done the laundry, and the kitchen sink is often overflowing with dishes.

The most I can seem to run a sweeper is twice a week, when it should really be done every day. My dog sheds so much that I am constantly telling the children not to sit on the floor. I keep a lint brush handy, so their teachers won’t think I make them sleep on top of the dog’s bed, in their school clothes.

There is dust covered furniture with dust-bunnies underneath…and you don’t want to know what I find when a ball rolls under the oven and I have to pull it away from the wall.

The basement is cluttered with things I plan on putting out for a garage sale…the one I’ve been meaning to have for three years now. The floors need mopped, the curtains need washed, toys need disinfected, and the cabinets need scrubbed. I REALLY could go on and on.

But, I am good at some things…

I’ve read Barney books so often that I have them memorized, and I can whoop some butt at Candyland, PayDay, Chutes & Ladders and Sorry.

I have the patience to spend an entire Saturday afternoon putting together a jigsaw puzzle with two kids, and I wait for, what seems like eons, while my five year old says his prayers each night.

I can give a kid a good bath in two minutes flat, undo knotted shoelaces and necklaces in record speed, pack a lunch faster than a speeding bullet, and I always get my kids to school on time.

I manage to keep files from work, school papers, homework, committee documents, insurance forms and therapy instructions in order. And, I can be enthusiastic while watching magic tricks and shows put on by a five and nine year old. Over, and over, and over…

I can give a haircut to a squirming kid, floss the back teeth of a child with a severe gag reflex, and thanks to a “failure to thrive” diagnosis, I, along with my husband, managed without much sleep in order to feed our boy every three hours, round the clock, for 13 months straight.

I can heal boo-boos with a kiss, make up stories and songs to sooth a tired child, once danced around the lab at the hospital to distract my son while his blood was drawn, and have somehow mustered the strength to watch him get taken to surgery time after time.

So there. My daughter’s hem is out and I need someone else to sew it. I’m no domestic goddess, and I’m not a Super-Parent either, but I think I make a halfway decent Mom.