CSquaredPlus3

He Says Collecting, I Say Hoarding

Our five-year-old son loves stuff.  Talking with friends, having two older kids, and remembering my own childhood quirks, I know it's not uncommon for children to keep trash and trinkets.  Forever.

This child, the five-year-old, knows where every broken plastic toy, shred of ribbon, deflated balloon, popsicle stick with a joke he can't read, and object stolen from his older brothers, is located.  When I stealthily purge a few of his items, no matter how deeply buried they were beneath the latest additions, he busts me.  And hell hath no fury like... you know what I mean.

"Mom! Did you throw away part of my collection?"

"Honey, I donated a few things you don't play with.  There are children without toys who would enjoy that... stuff."

Recently, I thought to myself how well our youngest son has been maintaining his room.  Other than a few dozen lego creations displayed on his dresser, things appeared to be in order

The five-year-old has a bathroom attached to his bedroom that is basically unused.  He bathes in the master bathroom, brushes his teeth in his brothers' bathroom and doesn't require much lavatory drawer space regardless.

While putting laundry away, I was tipped-off that there might still be a problem when I opened his closet.  Balloons from his father's birthday that he claimed to have released to China!

 

I entered his bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain and found this:

 

Then I opened a couple of drawers and discovered my little hoarder is still struggling...

 

And, yes, I recognize we all have a junk drawer, but come on.

I'm both sad, that he's going underground... and proud.  I enjoy a worthy adversary.  I'm also impressed by his use of semantics.

Anyone else have a young, or not-so-young, "collector" in the house?

I Love You Too, Rocker

Labels are so unfair.  As kids, they can be difficult if not impossible to shake.  I had a buttoned-up image in high school.  One day I wanted to dress grungey instead of preppy.  Not only was I uncomfortable, but so were the kids around me.  Like, "Whatcha doin?"  Don't screw with the norm, man.

It goes without saying that we all have many facets to our personalities, but most of us settle into a recognizeable label or two, either by choice, or by allowing ourselves to be steamrolled into it.  It took me years to have the courage to pick at, peel, and rip the labels off of myself that I didn't want there in the first place.  I realized, Gee, that wasn't so hard.

I'm careful with labels and descriptors around our sons.  Pointing out one boy's emerging interest or talent has -- at times -- limited the other two, unintentionally.  All three boys are finding and creating their personal definition, and they deserve to feel comfortable editing well into adulthood.  I don't want my parental power [and yes, I still have some] to influence who they want to be.  Or, who they are.

Disclaimer complete.

Inspite of my careful word choice around the kids, they label themselves and each other.  The boys have -- in their own words -- been a birdwatcher, bug-catcher, chef, artist, scientist, nature-lover, the athletic one, the diabetic, the creative one, the polite one, the tidy one, the sloppy one, the ornery one, school boy, and the rocker.

Middle Boy [11] is a self-described rocker.  He wears his label loud and proud, but I remind him that he's like a Colorform set.  He's the laminated board and the labels he tries on in life, as long as he's careful and kind, are vinyl and easy to remove. 

**********

In an effort to get the following photograph for my parents' holiday card...

 

... we had plenty of outtakes like this one.

 

Christmas dinner was punctuated with exciting moments like this...

 

...and a tender moment -- where the young help the old make the "rock on" sign properly -- is captured below.  [Although, no one is doing it right.  But, shhh, don't tell.]

 

Even my mother and the son who chooses not to be a rocker, had fun playing with the vinyl label.

 

Middle Boy seems happy with his evolving identity for now.  He feels good about himself and is enjoying the Colorform scene he created.  Who knows how long it will last?

All I know is, my sweet boy thinks he's leaving me the "rock on" sign in the shower every day.  But the wonderful thing is... he's signing, "I love you."

Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Sheltered

Our recent houseguest, Jane Devin, smokes an occasional cigarette.  We maintain a smoke-free environment here at Casa de Ross, but have a special place for our smoking relatives and friends to discreetly burn one.  I call it The Smoking Room.  It's a small but private porch outside of the walkout basement.

 

The weekend delivered snow, so the boys spent much of Sunday afternoon building a snowman and snow cave in the backyard.  Jane was at Starbucks and I was upstairs when Chris heard simultaneous, frantic knocks at two of our doors -- a back door, and a garage door.  Oldest Boy [12] was at one, and Middle Boy [10] was at the other.

Chris answered Oldest Boy's knock at the back door first.  "Dad!  There's cigarettes down by the basement.  They're in a shallow dish."

Chris told Oldest Boy to hold on a moment.  He then answered Middle Boy's knock at the garage door.  "Dad!  There's a pile of cigarettes.  In a dish!"

Jane's full, shallow dish was sitting on a window ledge outside.  The boys had to walk down the snowy stairs to the lower porch and must have searched to find it.  They couldn't get to Chris or me fast enough.

It was tucked in the far left hand corner of this space.

Chris explained to each boy that the cigarettes were Ms. Devin's.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if it was okay that Ms. Devin smoked.  Chris said she was an adult and it was her choice to smoke cigarettes as long as she didn't expose others to secondhand smoke.

When Jane returned from Starbucks, I couldn't wait to tell her that the boys had visited The Smoking Room and discovered her habit.  Middle Boy considers himself an artist and writer so I think he was particularly disturbed to know that Ms. Devin smoked.  He glanced at her suspiciously for the rest of the afternoon but avoided eye contact, like he'd seen her naked by accident.

Later that evening, Middle Boy was still processing the cigarettes.  "I thought it was a joke at first, Mom.  Like they were fake.  But then?  I smelled them, and they were REAL.  I know it wasn't good for my lungs, but I had to know.  Then I ran and told Dad."

I still haven't educated the boys that the word for a shallow dish that holds cigarettes butts and ashes, is ashtray.  I also haven't told Middle Boy that simply sniffing an extinguished cigarette probably won't harm his lungs.

I DID show them the shallow dish we offer to all of our guests who smoke...

 

Resourceful

When a four-year-old boy has his favorite Lego sword taken away because he's been "battacking" the dog and his brothers and his parents, make sure he doesn't see where it's been stashed.  It's possible, he'll pretend he doesn't miss the sword for a day or two, then when you least expect it...

...curious noises are heard coming from his room, which is located above the office where his mother sits quietly writing.  Not terrible noises... just curious.

The noises cease and the four-year-old boy casually enters the office and ponders aloud, "I wish I could fly," as he sighs.

His mother smiles and replies sympathetically, "I wish I could fly sometimes too, honey."

An hour later, the mother makes one of her routine patrols of the house, picking up toys to be returned to their respective bins while dusting banisters with her forearms as she motors up the stairs.

Upon entering the four-year-old boy's closet, the mother discovers a project has been underway.  A project that had not been approved because it would have most likely resulted in severe injury or death.

 

Perched on the very top shelf of his closet, was exactly where the four-year-old's father had stashed the sword... for safekeeping.

There were no injuries or deaths, and the boy and his sword have been reunited.  The mother had cocktail hour early that day.

The Weapon

Chris was out of town last week.  I can now manage the the kids and the house while he's away without hyperventilating or leaving teeth marks on my tongue from biting it with frustration.  Toddler Child sleeps through most nights and we deal with a nightmare, an accident, or a blood sugar issue only occasionally.  I don't think a child has vomited once in 2009.  [I know.  I shouldn't tempt fate by sharing that fact.]

The week went fairly well.  Except for one day.  It was T-minus 24 hours until Chris was to be home.  I hate coming undone when I'm so close to the end of something that requires a little more from me.  I don't know if I create a self-fulfilling or a self-defeating prophecy in these situations. But I do it almost every time.

I was singing dorkily in the car while taking Middle Boy to his guitar lesson.  His disapproving, yet ironically not disrespectful, glances told me he was embarrassed by my grooves.  I asked him lightheartedly, "Do I ever do anything that annoys you?"

"Sometimes."

"Like what?"

"Well...  I can't think of the word... but sometimes... you're... ... ..."

I knew what he was thinking.  I instantly felt it.  He truly didn't know the word, but he was thinking bitchy.  I waited.  He was innocent and thoughtful as he searched for the word to answer my question.

"... sometimes you're...  grumpy."

I asked him to explain and give me some examples.  The look on my face and the tone of my voice told Middle Boy this wasn't going the direction either of us thought it would.  He nervously described how he dropped a perfectly clean, plastic fork on the floor and I got REALLY mad.  I don't remember this, and I told him so.  I wanted more examples.  I was aware of my subtle but palpable shift to defensiveness partnered with antagonism.  My son was aware too, and chose his words carefully as he answered the assault of questions I threw at him.

When we got home from the guitar lesson I told Oldest Boy about my question to Middle Boy and the answer I received.  He could tell I was irritated and politely and diplomatically supported his brother.  He said some days I'm very patient but other days I get frustrated with them a little quicker than usual.

What did I do with this honest and valuable information from my sons?  I chastised them.  All night.  I peppered what should have been a pleasant evening with, "And ANOTHER thing..."  I reminded the boys of everything I do around the house.  I reminded them how good they have it compared to other kids.  I reminded them that the "other mothers" who are sooo wonderful have GRUMPY days too.  I reminded them that some kids don't even HAVE a mother.  They were pink-eyed and trembly-lipped a couple of times.

Toddler Child was lying low.  Happy for once that he wasn't the boy on the receiving end of one of my manic lectures.

Dinner, showers, bedtime reading routines, all were accomplished successfully.  Toddler Child had been sleeping with something to protect himself and the rest of the family while Chris was out of town.  He requested it for one more night, in case he needed to battack someone.

NOTE:  We're not a gun family.  Chris nor I were raised by parents who hunt, target shoot or have a need for a gun, so we're raising our kids the same.  Our arguments are just passionate enough that if we had a gun in the house, it's possible that one of us would eventually be referred to as "Stumpy".  Or "inmate number 35704-019".

It was after 10:00 PM and all three boys were asleep.  In a span of seconds, I was painfully aware of how heavy I'd been earlier.  Selfishly, I entered Oldest Boy's room, hugged him and apologized for my rant.  He hugged me back and said, "I forgive you."  I repeated the scene in Middle Boy's room.  He's a sound sleeper and didn't respond.  I hoped somehow my words and heart penetrated his dreams.  I would talk to him in the morning.

Toddler Child hadn't been on the receiving end of my behavior directly, so I chose to let him sleep.  I also didn't want to invoke a battack by a plunger. 

One weapon had been drawn too long.  It was time to put them all down.

He Just Wanted to Say "Suck"

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy are in Arizona visiting my parents for a few days.  Their school dismissed them at noon last Friday for a two-week spring break.  We all need it.  We're trying to conserve money and minimize stress, so we chose not to take a family vacation.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were happy with the alternative we presented.  The chance to fly solo to see their grandparents, and enjoy valuable and rare one-on-one time.  The boys love it, and so do my parents.  The boys follow our rules better than Mom and Dad though.

Mom particularly enjoys pushing the limit.  She never does anything terrible, but things she knows we'd probably not do.  I don't know why she enjoys this so much.  For example, when Oldest Boy was six he was into marbles.  She said she had the perfect bag for him to store and carry his marbles.  A velvet, Crown Royal bag.  He didn't know what it was, but Mom loved the idea of a little boy carrying around a Crown Royal bag.  He still has it.

Before they were out of diapers, the boys were saying "Salud!" and trying to clink their sippy cups with other kids, thanks to Mom. 

They came home from an Arizona visit last summer with a picture of a dead snake.  Mom saw a coyote walking behind their property with the snake it's mouth.  She and the boys followed the coyote and when it dropped the dead rattlesnake, Mom took a picture of the chewed-on snake corpse for their scrapbook.  Cute.

Toddler Child declares anything gross or unpleasant, "Caca!  Kay-Kay says so!"  [The kids call Mother Kay-Kay after her attempts to have Oldest Boy call her "Nana Kaye Anna" failed.]

I called Mom and Dad's house yesterday to see how things were going.  Oldest Boy told me they were watching the movie Gremlins on television.  They'd never seen it and he was enjoying it.  Middle Boy shared the same information, but could hardly contain himself when he said, "Guess what channel the movie's on, Mom?  It's called Movies That Don't Suck."

"Hey.  You just wanted to say 'suck'."

"No, Mom.  That's what it's called.  Really."

The boys and I said our goodbyes, then Mother got back on the phone.  "Middle Boy could hardly wait to tell me about the channel Movies That Don't Suck."

"Well... that is what it's called, Honey.  There's one of those little logos on the bottom of the screen."

"Just so you know... we prefer the kids not say 'suck'."

I heard her sigh heavily, and I'm certain her eyeballs rolled back as she said, "All right.

We like to call it a naive charm.

Exhibit A
Oldest Boy (11) and Middle Boy (9) were laughing hysterically at something they'd seen on America's Funniest Home Videos.  I asked what was so funny.

Finishing each other's sentences, like an old married couple, the boys told me about a video with a man and a woman who were being filmed for some telethon.  The boys thought it was at a church.  The man and woman were cheerfully soliciting money for a cause.  Apparently, the man said, "I'll be your host this evening...", and the woman followed with, "I'll be your whore this evening too..." and continued talking, not realizing what she'd said.

Oldest Boy, laughing heartily said, "And Mom, they were at CHURCH!"  Middle Boy howled.  This was a real knee-slapper.

"Do you guys know what whore means?"

Again, finishing each other's sentences and clearly of the same mindset, "Yeah.  You know, like scary or creepy.  She horrified them.  Get it?  She's a horror."

Exhibit B - Part 1
All three boys shower and bathe in our bathroom, more for efficiency than anything else.  Oldest Boy typically showers but occasionally likes to take a bath.  Chris was keeping everyone on task.  Middle Boy had moved from the wash to the dry cycle, Toddler Child was being coaxed out of the tub, and Oldest Boy was still washing in the same tub.  I was in Chris' and my closet tidying things, and I heard the following...

[Loud blowing of nose sound.]

Chris:  Hey.  Don't do that, Buddy.

Oldest Boy:  Mom said it's good to get your nose clean with warm water.

Chris:  She meant in the shower.  Now all that junk's gonna float around in there.

Oldest Boy:  Ohhh.

Chris:  I'll get the bucket.

Exhibit B - Part 2
I walked in to help Toddler Child out of the bathtub.  I lifted him, placed him on the mat and started the hurried, sometimes too rough, towel dry.  "Do you want to go potty in the toilet before we put on your pajamas?"

"No.  I peed in the tub." [quick smile to punctuate]

Chris and I find comfort in the fact that, although they might someday be President and Vice President of the Chess Club, or graduates of the Pond's Institute, the boys know how to have a good time...

[They're drinking root beer and sparkling cider on New Year's Eve in our basement.  They begged to stay up until midnight (a big deal at Ross Inc.).  Toddler Child and I were sleeping, which is why they were partying in the basement - so as not to wake us.  They'll be considerate hell-raisers.  We're so proud.]

Eddie Haskell lives here now.

Middle Boy got in trouble last night.  The issue was attitude and I addressed it with him before Chris got home.  That makes it sound like I had a, "Now son..." conversation.  It was more like I was dying to get my hands on him, but knew I shouldn't touch him, because I might touch him too hard.  So I spoke loudly, my face very close to his face.  You know, so he could read my lips if he wasn't hearing me clearly.

I punctuated the conversation with the humiliating Mom-Chest-Poke move.  Before sending him to his room to think about what we'd discussed, I said, "DO [poke] YOU [poke] UNDERSTAND [poke] ME [poke]?!  [Poke, poke, poke - just because.]  He did.

Chris got home, talked to him again and didn't poke him.  We both hugged him and helped him lick his wounds a bit without removing the new expectation.  He was sorry for what had happened and was smiling and in good spirits before dinner.

Eddie Haskell Appearance #1

Middle Boy:  Can I help you Mom?

Me:  Sure.  Would you like to set the table?

Middle Boy:  Yes, please!

Me:  You don't have to answer "Yes, please," Honey.

Middle Boy:  Sorry.

Me:  You don't have to be sorry.

Middle Boy:  Okay. [smiling]

I had cooked a roast in the Crock-Pot.  I threw in a few diced onions, carrots, roasted garlic, a few other spices, and two cups of red wine.  It simmered all day and tasted good, but wine was definitely flavoring the meat.

Chris complimented the meal and asked how I had prepared it.  I told him.  Middle Boy looked concerned.  I explained that it didn't taste exactly like wine and the heat burns off the alcohol.  Try it, I said, you'll like it.  [He'd only eaten his potatoes up to this point.]

He took a bite.  His eyes watered a little and his nostrils flared.

Eddie Haskell Appearance #2

Me:  What do you think?

Middle Boy:  Well [smiling and blinking], the bad taste is 80% gone.

Me:  So it only tastes 20% bad?

Middle Boy:  Yes.

Me:  Would you like a hot dog?

Middle Boy:  Yes, please. [smiling]

As we were clearing the table, I noticed the boys need haircuts.  I cut their hair typically before a shower or bath.  They hate it.  Not having short hair, but the process, whether I do it or someone else does.  It's like flossing to them, or putting gas in the car for me.  Needs to be done, but how about later?  I understand.

Eddie Haskell Appearance #3

Me:  You guys need a haircut.  Want to get it over with tonight?

Oldest Boy: [silent]

Middle Boy:  [smiling and blinking] If you don't mind, I'd rather not.  I was unsuspected.

Me:  Oh.  Okay.  I'll give you more of a head's-up in the future.

Middle Boy: [cheerfully] Thank you, Mom!  I'll go take a bath now.  Toddler Child, would you like to join me?

I wish it were that easy.

I try to shower right after Chris leaves for work and school with the older boys, but before Toddler Child gets out of bed.  Sometimes I don't make it.  If Toddler Child gets up before I've showered, I either have to let him take a shower with me [doable but not ideal], or make sure he's happy and distracted while I shower quickly with the door open, trying to finish before he notices and wants to join me.

Chris and the two older boys left this morning, happy it was Friday.  Toddler Child was awake and content.  I quickly showered while he watched television.

I was finished with my shower, in the bathroom, running a comb through my wet hair.

Toddler Child enters the bathroom, looks at my bare rear, smacks one of my butt cheeks with his little hand and says, "I gotta pop those balloons."

She's a Handsome Woman

[While this song was playing, Toddler Child stood in front of the computer smiling and said, "Wok and woll. I like wok and woll."  I chose the Muppet version for him.]

I saw my nasal surgeon today.  It's been six months since my "nasal surgery NOT a nose job".  As a result of the surgery I can breathe great, and I'm generally happy with the aesthetic improvement, although I wish it wasn't quite so subtle.  I've heard when girls buy new boobs they often wish they'd gone bigger.  I'm having that feeling about my nose.  I was so afraid of not looking like me that I cautioned the surgeon multiple times to be conservative during the aesthetic part of the surgery.  Now I wish my nose was a little more refined.  I should have gone *BIGGER*.

Because my surgery was complicated, I'm still swollen.  I know I need to wait a full year post-op, which will be May 2009, for all swelling and tenderness to subside.  Today the doctor injected steroids into the sides of my nose directly above the nostrils to help resolve the swelling.  YES, it hurt, but it was quick.

I had Toddler Child with me.  I wasn't expecting to get shots in my nose.  I was concerned I might make disturbing noises and scare him.  I DID make noises and tears shot out of my eyes, reflexively, not boo-hooey.

Toddler Child asked, "The doctor make you feel better?"  I told him yes and that I was fine.

The nurse came in and cleaned the pen marks off my nose.  I expected the steroids to resolve the swelling immediately - like right then - but it takes about six weeks.  When I looked in the mirror, I was disappointed to see I had even more swelling where I'd been injected.  The nurse assured me it didn't look that bad and would be gone by the end of the day.

Toddler Child studied my face as I carried him out of the office.

He said, "You looooook handsome."

NOTE:  We have pictures of my nose immediately after the surgery and after each follow-up appointment.  Chris usually takes the photos, but he's in Denver today.  I don't know how people take all those artsy self-portraits.  You should see the 75 other shots I took to get these two lame ones so you could see my nose.  I took some close-ups, but I'm too vain to post those.

The Justice League

Halloween is not one of my favorite holidays.  For many reasons.  I don't like how creepy it's gotten over the years.  I've seen toddlers wearing the Scream mask, and others with graphically drawn wounds on their faces.  What happened to clowns and old, fat farmers?  Gypsies, and little boys dressed like their dad, using their mother's eyebrow pencil to draw a mustache on their face?

It's also a problem at our house because of Oldest Boy's diabetes.  A little candy once in a while is fine, but to gluttonously "go for it" isn't good for him - any child really.  Middle Boy's allergic to wheat and dairy, so again,  presents a problem.  Now that they're older, 11 and 9, they understand the limitations of their individual bodies.  It was much more difficult a few years ago.

Without further ado...

I knew Toddler Child was going to be Batman, so I excitedly bought Mary (the dog) her Wonder Woman costume.  I begged Chris to be Robin... he wouldn't do it.  Middle Boy had a Superman costume from last year and I picked up The Flash for Oldest Boy on sale.

I confess that Oldest Boy and Middle Boy only wore these for the photos.  They said they'd be mortified to be seen in the neighborhood actually trick-or-treating in them.  I think they had fun once they were in them though...

 

After pictures, the two older boys changed into their real costumes and got on with the more important business of trick-or-treating.  [For Toddler Child, it was "twinkle-tweeting".]  Oldest Boy was a Jedi and Middle Boy was a CLONE trooper, not a stormtrooper.  They both made their costumes (except the helmet).

 

Once the kids were off, Mary had her own important business - guarding the Ross Cave and running upstairs to stare at the bird periodically.  You never know when a parakeet might attack.

 

We feel sooooo much safer with Wonder Mary on watch.  Her costume commands the respect she's always deserved and the Lasso of Truth concerns us all...

 

Weekend Update

It's really not that exciting.

Friday afternoon and early evening.
I was thrilled to have been invited to a "happy hour" of sorts with a handful of other mothers and their kids.  We were to meet immediately after school at a friend's house and visit for a bit while the kids played.  Although I still felt sick and was exhausted, I desperately wanted to participate.  These are women I've wanted to get to know better, but logistics have prevented me from accepting invitations in the past.

Because I don't socialize too often, I suffer from temporary arrested development.  I say temporary, because I have hope that I'll get my groove back with a little more practice.

At the "happy hour", I pointed out my newly emerging nose herpes [I get cold sores in and on my nose.  They come once or twice a year when I'm stressed and generally run down.  It hurts and it's gross, and I'm very self conscious.  I prefer to point it out when it happens, making everyone around me uncomfortable.], I used foul language too frequently and maybe in the presence of kids, told inappropriate jokes, talked about RELIGION (idiot) and people who WEREN'T THERE.  Do it.  Say it.  Get the laugh.  Get the raised eyebrows.  Feels gooooood.

These are things many of us do, but usually around people we have history with and the knowledge that we're not going to be judged because we're already accepted.  Not when we're speed dating new friends.  Water under the bridge.  Moving on.

Friday late evening.
Chris arrived home.  He'd been out of town all week, so it was wonderful to see him.  He showered and climbed into bed.  I said, "I've missed you, but please don't touch me.  I have a nose herpe and my head is pounding from the Valtrex and red wine.  I acted like a 14-year old boy at the happy hour thing.  I'll give you details in the morning."  He said, "I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

Saturday ALL day.
We stayed in pajamas.  We cleaned the bird's habitat.  We ate weird food - anything we wanted - anything we could find.  No rules.  I showered early evening and changed into fresh pajamas.  It was great.  The boys' hair was sticking out, even Oldest Boy's, who prefers a pseudo Alfalfa hairdo.  We were a frat house the day after a party - minus the lingering drug/alcohol high, the hangover, or the feelings of sexual triumph or regret.

Sunday morning.
I was still fighting my cold and my nose herpes. Toddler Child woke up and said, "I'm sick."  We had another "day-after-the-party-at-a-frat-house" morning.

Sunday afternoon.
I had some errands to run.  Middle Boy wanted to tag along which surprised me.  We hit Cabela's [we don't hunt, but I wear overalls], a few housewares stores, Nordstrom's, Costco, and Target.  He was tough.

At one point in the car I told him my neck hurt, that I must have slept on it funny.  I asked him if that ever happens to him.  He said no but he has pain "right here", pointing to his chest.  I asked if this happens a lot.  He said no.  I asked, "When does your chest hurt?"

"It's not really my chest.  It's more like on an insect.  My thorax.  It doesn't happen very much."

"Let me know next time your thorax hurts."

Sunday evening.
Middle Boy and I got home after 6:00.  We all unloaded stuff, ate a late dinner and got ready for bed.  Chris and I hit the "reset" button on the house and went to sleep ready for a new week.

See.  I told you it really wasn't that exciting.

Use that word in a sentence for me. Please.

It was Mother's Day at the boys' school on Wednesday this week.  In addition, it was their first Cotillion class of the season that same evening.  I was simultaneously looking forward to and dreading the day because it was logistically full and I'm single parenting this week with a head cold. 

We ultimately managed the day okay.  A neighbor watched Toddler Child while I went to the school in the morning.  I got home around noon, picked up Toddler Child, packed dinners for everyone, got the boys' Cotillion clothes ready, popped some Vicodin Advil and hit the road for our long night.  We went to bed tired and I was proud no child had my fingernail marks in their arm.  The older boys were helpful.  Toddler Child was what one would expect.

My friend Corbie blogged about her Mother's Day experience at the school.  The punchline of her post was that her second grader made a comment about his "nuts" in front of his science class and all the well-dressed, visiting mothers.  It's a cute story.

Through some email exchanges I told Corbie I doubted Oldest Boy and Middle Boy even knew what "nuts" were.  I was like Tina Fey's version of Palin regarding the Bush Doctrine.  Smiling and shaking my head I said, "They don't know what that is."

On the way home from school yesterday I decided to ask them.  "Boys, do you know what it means when someone's referring to their nuts?"  They surprised and actually pleased me when they said they did.  [Our boys are a bit sheltered which is good sometimes, but we struggle finding balance so they're not completely counterculture.]  Oldest Boy said he never says "nuts" though.  He said it was cool in the 2nd and 3rd grade to say "nuts" a lot, but it's not cool in the 5th grade.  It's no big deal.

Middle Boy said he only says it when he needs to and he thought it was more appropriate than "weiner" and "penis".  I asked him how he used it.  He said, "If I get hurt there, I say, 'Aw.  My nuts.'"

This was all very matter-of-fact.  There was no embarrassment or giggling.  They answered my questions, gave me examples, and just like that, the conversation was over.

I chatted with my Dad last night.  I told him how our week was going and about my long day on Wednesday.  Dad knows the rules of courtesy and basic etiquette, and would agree that it's important to teach kids these things, but he's not an advocate of Cotillion.  He never directly criticizes our decision to send the boys, but it's evident to me that he thinks it's overkill.

I told him about the "nuts" conversation and he laughed.  I thought he'd be happy because he's a "boys should be boys" kinda guy.  Then somehow I looped back around to a Cotillion story.

Dad says, "Now why are you having those boys go to Cotillion?"  I told him it was for lessons in common courtesy and age-appropriate etiquette.

Dad said, "Oh.  So they won't say 'nuts'."

Yeah.

I remember when teenagers were old...

Oldest Boy turns 11 on Monday.  We promised him a "room pet".  He researched, snakes, rodents, reptiles and birds and decided he wanted one parakeet.  He originally thought he wanted two parakeets so they would keep each other company while he was at school, but the bird guy told him they would bond with each other and be difficult to tame.

We bought the parakeet yesterday, and we've all been talking to it, singing to it, complimenting it - all in an effort to socialize the bird - per the bird guy's instructions.

I walked in Oldest Boy's room last night and he was playing The Beach Boys.  I showed him how to do the Twist and we danced for a few minutes.  Middle Boy and Toddler Child joined us.  I told the kids how their grandparents used to dance to this, then I asked Oldest Boy why he was listening to The Beach Boys.

"Because the bird guy said my parakeet would enjoy classical music."

"Strategery." - Will Ferrell as George W. Bush on SNL

George Dubbya has occasionally used the wrong word, pronunciation, or just created a word while speaking.  I think supporters and non-supporters alike can agree on this.  Kinda like I do when I sing along to Janet Jackson songs - especially The Pleasure Principle and Rhythm Nation.  I can groove and mumble, but the only line I know for sure in Rhythm Nation is "We are part of the rhythm nation."  I've also been known to pull a George Dubbya in a normal conversation.  The key to doing it properly is simply...the confidence.

Oldest Boy has mastered this skill.  He's not embarrassed and he believes he's pulled if off - like George Dubbya and I do.  It's easy to convince yourself that no one's noticed.

Examples
The following are examples of Oldest Boy's abilities, who has the excuse of being a 10-year old child.  I'm sure my family and friends could share examples of my George Dubbya's, but I don't have an excuse.

"Know what's sad?  That Middle Boy has a sensation to chicken."  (sensitivity)
[After receiving some allergy test results for Middle Boy.]

"Have I had my tenacity shot?" (tetnus)

"I wash my hands, but not repulsively."  (compulsively)

"Did he totally obliverate the flowers?!"  (obliterate)

"That would be nice.  I've been a little cabin sick lately." (cabin fever)
[When asked recently if he'd like to go to Costco.]

"That's a perm whale." (sperm - I know it's not necessary to explain all of these.)

"You have nice elbows." (boobs, breasts, whatever)
[Said while looking at my chest at a very young age.]

I do believe it is now time for me to conclusify this post.

Road Warriors

Friends recently visited us while on a business/pleasure trip.  They road tripped from the east coast to the western states with their two kids (travelin' age kids, not babies or toddlers) and their pet horse dog named Wilbur. 

Wilbur is an 8-month old Bullmastiff with a brindle coat (I looked that up - it's tiger stripey).  His family says he weighs 130-ish pounds - emphasis on the "ish" - with 80 additional pounds to look forward to as he matures.  Wilbur simultaneously fascinated and terrified the kids and Mary.  Ultimately fascination took over.  Wilbur vocalized like Chewbacca, drooled, blew snot bubbles, lumbered around like Baby Huey, and had the most expressive face.  We decided his face was a cross between a bear and an orangutan.

Chris and I were simply fascinated by our friend's ability to:

1)  drive from the east coast to the western states;

2) do this with two kids (our travelin' age kids have a rough time on road trips);

3)  share the trip with their horse dog;

4)  not just bring a bag of dog food, but travel with several pounds of frozen, raw meat to feed Wilbur.  (I had never heard of feeding raw but dogs are carnivores and many people feed their dogs raw meat because it's healthy for them - look it up.  I did.  Mary's not getting any though - meat that is.)

These are hardy, compassionate, life lovin', dog lovin' people! 

Chris and I have been on vacation strikes for years at a time because of traveling-with-small-child induced exhaustion.  Toddler Child almost killed us in Colorado and the two older boys complained about the long car ride. 

We've taken Mary twice with us to Mother and Dad's in Arizona.  The first time was right after her near-death experience and she sat on my lap for 11 hours with 50 staples in her stomach.  I don't know why we took her the second time.  Maybe we thought it'd be "fun" to take the family dog on vacation.  Mary spa's it now.

A few years ago Middle Boy was interested in studying and drawing dogs.  We bought him a few books on dog breeds and dog art.  He spent a lot of time alone in his room reading and drawing.  We saw several sketches of Old English Sheepdogs, Dalmatians, and mutts.  We didn't know the extent of his breed knowledge.

Shortly after Middle Boy became the dog expert in our house, we planned a trip to Arizona.  I packed Mary's suitcase for the Little Dog's Salon and Resort.  Chris and the boys waited in the car while I handled Mary's check-in.  An outdoor play area was visible from the parking lot, so all the little dogs could wave good-bye as their humans drove away.  Middle Boy had been quietly observing the dogs.

As we headed towards the airport, Middle Boy said, "Did you see those two, white Bitchin' Fries?"

Virginia is for Lovers

When I was pregnant with Toddler Child, Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were 7 and 5 years old.  They'd never really asked too many questions about the difference between boys and girls - they simply had friends.  As the baby was developing and my stomach was growing, questions began.  They were easy questions and didn't require much detail.  Chris and I purchased an age appropriate book that had illustrations of boys and girls, men and women, and only went so far as to explain that when a Mom and Dad love each other, sometimes they get a baby!  All of the drawings looked like Cabbage Patch Kids - even the adults.  This was a VERY macro level book, clearly with an old fashioned, conventional bent.  But it satisfied both boys.  It used all the proper words for anatomy and answered the question "How does the baby get out?" with "Through the birth canal."  Like that's crystal clear.  But it worked.  Chris and I were relieved.

I've talked with so many friends, a few doctors and a couple psychologists about when and how to educate kids on "the birds and the bees".  Seems to me, eventually everyone figures it out one way or the other.

It was a couple weeks from the baby's due date, Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were eating lunch at the kitchen table, I was standing a few feet away washing dishes in the sink.  Oldest Boy says nonchalantly, "Mama.  I know why you don't have a penis." 

"Why?" I said.

"So when that baby comes out, he can come right out your VIRGINIA."

Bad 5-Letter Words

Part I

One day Oldest Boy comes running out of Middle Boy's room and yells over the balcony, "Mama, Mary had a CRAMP on Middle Boy's socks!"

"WHAT?!" I said.

"Hurry, Mary CRAMPED!"

This was about 5 years ago when Oldest Boy was 5 years old.  Middle Boy was 3 and Mary was still a puppy.  I ran upstairs thinking maybe Mary was having a seizure and Oldest Boy didn't have the word for that.  She'd never had a seizure before, but I truly couldn't imagine what had happened.

I walked into Middle Boy's room with Oldest Boy right behind me.  There sat Mary and Middle Boy, neither alarmed nor stressed and not far from Oldest Boy was a pair of his dirty socks on the floor with a pile of Mary's poop on top of it.

I turned to Oldest Boy and said, "Mary had an accident and pooped.  'Cramp' is not a nice word for poop, please don't say that anymore."

"I didn't know," said Oldest Boy.

I cleaned up the mess and chose not to correct the boys on the proper use of the word "cramp" or "crap".

Part II

Mom and Dad were visiting from Arizona several months later.  Dad and Middle Boy were in Middle Boy's room playing with trains and tracks.  I thought how nice it was that they were up there so long, Dad laying on his side on the floor, watching Middle Boy push trains around the various tracks they'd made.

Dad finally came downstairs and joined us in the kitchen.  He grabbed a handful of nuts and casually says, "Middle BOy really enjoys those trains.  He got mad when one of them wouldn't do what he wanted, and he said, 'Oh, CRAAAAMP!'"

We cuss in code at our house.