It’s not what you think.

His mother isn’t my mother and his father isn’t my father. We aren’t related, by blood, in any way.

However, I am married to a man who is the ultimate competitor. A man who always has to be right. And, of course, there is the teasing and knowing just what will drive me crazy…and doing all of those things on purpose. More than anything, there is his enjoyment of doing anything “kid-like”.

On Saturday, we took the kids sledding. Did I anticipate that my husband would come up behind me, tackle me to the ground and then shove snow in my face? Or, that he would put himself on a toboggan with two kids in order to be the heaviest, and therefore the fastest, sled on the hill?

Did I realize that he would make our SUV do doughnuts on the ice in the empty parking lot until our daughter was car sick?

Did I know that if I asked him whether he was going to smack his gum for the entire car ride that his reply would be, “Only if it irritates you”?

I should have.

My husband is kid in a 38 year old body. Don’t get me wrong, he’s responsible and he works hard, but he would rather spend the day having light saber fights with our son, or taking our daughter to see Avatar in 3-D while I stay home with the grumpy seven year old, a barking puppy and an old dog with a bladder infection. Not that I’m bitter about it.

In all honesty, I love it. My husband is the reason that our kids are kids. He is the one who plans the trips to amusement parks, takes them for bike rides and forces me out of the house on the coldest day of the year to listen to our children giggle on the sledding hill.

He is the person who took our children on a wild ride down the street on a furniture dolly that he pulled with a moving strap. He is the guy who took us fishing and had the patience to load the lines on all the reels, then redo every one of them when we (okay, I) managed to tangle them on our first casts.

He took our 11 year old daughter on a zipline canopy tour through the forest, he has gone skydiving and white water rafting and done all the things that I am too scared to do. My husband is instilling his adventurous spirit and enthusiasm for life in our children.

And if that means I have to put up with some gum smacking, then bring on the bubble gum.

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My 11 year old daughter and I were discussing the insane amount of dog hair our vacuum picks up when I told her that after our puppy dies, her dad and I will likely never get another dog.

“But, you have to get another dog!”, she cried.

I asked, “Why do you care? By the time Daisy gets old, you and your brother will probably have moved out of the house.”

Then she replied, “Because when we come home from Hollywood or New York to visit, we’ll want to have a dog to play with.”

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On Monday night, my mom, the kids and I went to dinner to celebrate my sister’s birthday. We hit the local Chinese restaurant, where we were all happily chomping on rice noodles when my seven year old son took a sip of his lukewarm tea and started to cough.

I remember when I would cough like that as a kid and my mom would make me put my arms in the air. I do that with my son too. I also make him look me in the eye as I slowly count to five, then tell him to take a breath. I do anything I can to get his attention off of coughing because, with him, coughing almost always leads to vomiting.

I held my napkin under his chin, as if that would contain his bellyful of Lo Mein and mushrooms. He began to gag as his sister firmly shut her eyes and plugged her ears, as she frequently does. Then my son threw up about a tablespoon of liquid before calming himself down.

I was thrilled! I was so proud of him! His grandmother even gave him a dollar.

He didn’t vomit, and vomit, and vomit some more as he did on the first day of Christmas break. He had a cold and started coughing in the car as we were leaving the school, which is where he started throwing up. He coated his jacket and his booster seat, then leaned out the window and threw up some more. He finished on the ground in the parking lot where I had hurriedly pulled into a spot. I undressed my son next to the car in the frigid temperatures before driving him home to do laundry and bathe him.

That scene, or one like it, plays out about once a week. If we’re lucky. Sometimes it’s more. You might think this is disgusting. But, these are the moments that define the mother I am.

I am the mother of a sick kid. I am the mother of a boy who weighs 38 pounds and will soon be eight years old, who is hard to understand when he speaks and who hears everything as if he is holding his hands over his ears.

I am the mother of a child with OCD tendencies, who easily gags, and chokes, and has horrible reflux, heart defects, hearing loss, a missing tear duct and stubby ear canals. I work as a lunch lady so I can be there to watch over him when he eats. I give him stomach and allergy medicine, sinus rinses, eye drops and ear drops. And, I carry special bags in my car to catch his vomit (when I can).

I am the mother who helps my kids with homework as I am making a dinner that I know my son can eat. Nothing stringy, nothing too spicy, nothing pasty or with an odd texture. Bites need to be dime-sized.

I am the mother who drives her daughter to basketball practice and makes sure to bring a blanket to keep her son warm, because his heart problems make him extra cold.

I am the mother whose son sees not only a pediatrician, but a cardiologist, gastroenterologist, opthamologist, geneticist, allergist, ENT…oh, and we were just told to consult with an orthodontist too. I am the mother who is a pharmacist’s dream and a health insurer’s nightmare.

I am also the mother who cheers when her son doesn’t throw up in the middle of a restaurant during her sister’s birthday dinner.

I am the mother who takes her victories whenever she can.

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My mom is known for being ever-so-slightly off on her pronunciation of certain words. Home Depot isn’t pronounced, “Home DEEP-oh” but, “Home DEP-oh”. “Nickolodeon” is “Nickolode-UM”. And once, when someone was talking about the song “Back in Black”, Mom started singing, “I want my baby back, baby back, baby back…”. You know, the Chili’s song.

It turns out that my seven year old son takes after his grandmother. Most noticeably, when he calls his AquaDoodle a “croc-a-doodle” or when he says, “I love you as big as the whole, wide wheeled“.

But yesterday, he was more than just a little off. As my husband was eating popcorn my son looked into the bottom of the bowl and saw the leftover kernels, then he looked at his dad and asked, “Are you going to eat those pimples?”

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