Splish Splash and a Bar of Soap

Bath time in our house can be so silly/fun/maddening/crazy/chaotic/educational/hilarious.  Take your pick of any of those adjectives, because it usually starts with one, jumps to another and ends on something totally different.  You never know which combination will define the bath lottery on any given evening.

Two nights ago, B-man and Wee-man were sharing bath time, as they normally do.  It was going quite smoothly - neither one had hit, bit or splashed the other (or the entire floor and surrounding walls) and we were having a grand ole' time.

After a few minutes, I noticed that the water was murkier than usual, and B-man showed me why when he held up a decorative bar of soap that I usually keep in a cute little bird bath holder on the bathroom counter.  I guess he had grabbed it on his way to the tub and I hadn't noticed.

If you look at the picture below, it's the yellow bar in the back - the one that is much smaller than the others.

I didn't mind that he took it (that's what it's for right? and a boy CHOOSING soap!?!) - I told him to use it well and scrub all of his fingers and toes and whatever else he felt needed washing.  But not to get it on his face or in his eyes.  Typically I don't let them use bars of soap for this reason - they definitely don't adhere to the "no tears" claim and inevitably, someone ends up crying with soap in their eyes and the whole bathtime mood goes down the drain right then and there.

A few minutes later, I look at B-man and he is examining the bar of soap closely, and then smelling it (this particular one smells like vanilla).  Then, ever so carefully, he sticks out his tongue and touches the bar of soap with it.  Smacks his lips.  Smiles at me. 

I said, B-man, soap does not taste good, so don't eat it, okay? 

Blank stare.

Then he says, "Does Ralphie like it when he eats the soap?"

I said, "On A Christmas Story you mean?  When he gets in trouble for saying bad words?" 

B-man:  "Yeah.  What bad words did he say?"

Me: "I don't know.  But they were not nice, and his mom makes him eat soap and it does not taste good."

B-man:  "Well I think this soap will taste good, because it smells really good."

Before I could respond, Wee-man started freaking out because he had leaned back too far in the tub and accidentally went under, so I was consumed with calming him down, getting him out and drying him off.  I had sort of turned my back on B-man while doing all of this, and when I whirled back around, he had half of the bar of soap stuck in his mouth.

I said, "Oh no sweetie, that is going to taste so bad, take it out."

He took it out and stared at me for a moment.  I waited for the second freak-out once the horrible soap aftertaste hit.  Nothing happened.

I said, "Didn't that taste awful?"

He shrugged his shoulders and said, "No."

I sensed lying but said nothing.

I started to leave the bathroom to chase after Wee-man, and turned around at the door to see the funniest thing. 

B-man was furiously wiping his tongue and then gulping large amounts of bath water and swishing and spitting.  Then the freak-out started.

"MOOOOOOMMMMM!  MOOOOOMMM! AAAAAAGGGHHH!!!"

I casually walked back in (trying really hard not to laugh) and said, "What is it?"

He looked at me with an equal mix of panic and disgust and said, "It's yucky!! It tastes really bad, and this water tastes bad too, and I can't get it off! HELP ME!!"

B-man didn't realize that the water he was gulping and spitting was so laden with soap from having it in the bathtub that it was of no use for ridding his tongue of the horrible soap taste.  It would be akin to trying to lessen the effects of a jalepeno pepper by swishing with hot salsa.

After he had turned on the tap and guzzled about a gallon of water, he stepped out of the tub and said, "Poor, poor Ralphie.  I hope he got some chocolate milk after that."

I think my bars of pretty soap are safe for awhile.

A Thread on Gingerbread....

I can't believe how long it's been since my last post.....the hours and days this time of year seem to just slip away, much like the brown, crunchy leaves off the trees in my back yard.

I have been busy working, shopping, wrapping, decorating, going, doing, being, seeing.... and writing has fallen to the back of the "to do" list.  We've had school parties, work parties, family parties, friend parties and birthday parties.  December wins most festive month for us, hands down.

The boys are out of school and have been enjoying some time outdoors in the unseasonably warm weather we've recently had.  Despite it feeling like spring for a few days, they are totally focused on Christmas and upcoming visits from out-of-town family members, and of course from Santa Claus himself.

Disregarding the lesson I learned last year (and the year before), I gave in to a cute little red box on sale with even cuter contents, and purchased a ginger bread house for us to build and decorate for Christmas.

What happened last year you ask?  Well, our pretty little gingerbread house had bites taken out of each side, missing gum drops, gum balls and sprees from the roof and windows, and the little sidewalk constructed of peppermints and candy canes was sporting some dangerous gaping holes.  I mean, no gingerbread man could have safely crossed.  At one point I just handed the whole thing over to them and told them to munch away.  This was on the same day we made it.  Uh huh.  Didn't even last a DAY.  But, it was fun.  And I appreciated the time we spent together to make it.

This year, the house has already lasted TWO days.  That's 'cause I stuck it up high.  But, we did work with less materials - because with each candy bag we opened, they insisted on "testing" multiple pieces.  You know, to make sure they wouldn't corrode the icing foundation or anything.

I also started with the idea of following some sort of logical decorating pattern, but then G-man said, "Hey Mom, why do we have to follow a plan?"  I said, "You know what?  We don't! Get creative! Go crazy! Be unique!"

Allowing them to decorate it however they pleased and in whatever fashion was, oddly enough, very freeing.  A former perfectionist and slightly OCD person about orderliness, I have really learned to let those characteristics fall by the wayside.  It's been very therapeutic and quite liberating.  I still drive my husband crazy with my occasional organizing freak outs, but I'm not as particular about it as I used to be.  My kids broke me, and that's perfectly okay with me. 

So anyway, I give you the Three Small Men gingerbread house:

I especially like how B-man broke up his candy canes and abstractly placed them on the roof.

G-man ate his.

Those two little slots in front of the house?  Those are supposed to hold two gingerbread cookies that you decorate as well - a Santa and a tree.  Well, Wee-man polished those off before we could even ice them.

But hey, we have a house, it's cute, and it's lasted more than a day!

And, to finish off the evening in true Three Small Men style (with a good laugh), G-man really amused me when he told me that he's really glad people don't live in gingerbread houses anymore like they used to, because it must have been a lot of work to keep the birds and squirrels from eating your house.  :)

     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Girl Wednesday

Tonight's post is short, sweet and has nothing to do with small men.

Sometimes, I have to step away from the testosterone and immerse myself in a decorating magazine or slather on a sea salt scrub or do anything feminine for heaven's sake. 

So, tonight I wanted to share two Christmas display ideas.  They would actually be really simple for anyone to do - even someone who is not Martha Stewart-ly inclined ('cause I'm sure not).

First - a super easy and eye-catching way I display all of our Christmas cards each year.  Get yourself some garland greenery (I use two long pieces connected together) and hang around a door frame.  Spruce up with ornaments, berries or clip-on birds.  When your cards come in, use a hole-punch and punch a hole at the top of each card.  Tie each card on with colored ribbon.  Voila. 

Next, a very rustic (and inexpensive - mine was free!) buffet or sideboard display. 

I gathered dead tree limbs from our backyard and arranged them in a glass hurricane with snippings from our fragrant rosemary bush out front (smells wonderful).  Then I tied on red ribbon bows and hung my grandmother's antique 1950s ornaments (can't find these babies in stores) on some of the limbs. 

It makes me think of my Mema. I love it.

See, that's it.  I told you it would be short and sweet.

Happy tree limb hunting!

Saving the Toys - One Suitcase at a Time

Yesterday morning started out like any other – the boys waking up too dang early and demanding their chocolate “muck” (milk) and cartoons.  Some days they bask around the living room, lazily starting their day and letting me hold them on my lap for awhile.  Other mornings (like yesterday) they immediately go into what I call “combat” mode and have initiated a game of seek and destroy hide n’ seek or a version of wrestling that inevitably ends with someone crying real tears. 

I was super tired and not feeling so great when I woke up, so I sat down at the kitchen table with messy hair, a steaming cup of coffee and the Sunday paper after they ventured off in search of something more exciting.  I started to peruse a few retail ads, and then -

BAM!

CRASH!

WHACK!

THUD!

I of course get up to see what is going on in the playroom down the hall, and am greeted with this visual:

In a matter of a mere 10 minutes, they had managed to “rearrange” the (somewhat) organized space into total chaos.  Every toy had been pulled from the bins.  Books were scattered.  They had even included pillows and blankets from an adjacent room.  All this by 8:00 a.m.  Who ARE these creatures?? 

I stood there for a second, them looking at me, me looking at the mess, them looking at me some more.

And I smiled and calmly said, “Well, thanks guys, this is the PERFECT opportunity to get rid of some toys!  Let me go get the trash bags!”

As I walk off, I hear shouts of “NO MOM!!” and “It’s okay, we’re picking it all up now, Mom.”  “Mom?”  “Mom?”

I walked back to the kitchen and told the hubby to gear up for a cleanin’ out, because we needed to make more room for new Christmas toys anyway, and honestly, there are lots of toys in there that never get played with that could totally make a less fortunate child’s day.

Lest you think we actually purchased most of these toys and/or that my kids are slightly spoiled, I will clarify here that we most certainly did not and that yes, they are.  With three small boys comes three birthdays a year, and when you figure they each get around 10 toys per birthday, well, that’s 30 toys.  Add in 10-15 toys per child for Christmas, and, well, you get the point.   We have a large family.  It accumulates.

I finished my coffee and two powdered donuts (really good fuel, those things) and grabbed a box of huge black trash bags in the pantry.

I shuffle back to the playroom (still in pajamas and slippers) and re-announce the most terrible plan they have ever heard.  As I’m speaking, I look down and notice that G-man is furiously stuffing multiple items into his little blue suitcase that has literally been covered in Lego stickers, so much so that you can’t tell it’s actually a Toy Story 3 suitcase.  I mean, he went to town on this thing one day, using up an entire 50 page book of Lego stickers.  Somewhere under there, Buzz and Woody were smiling, but maybe not anymore.

I said, “What are you doing?”

He said, “What’s it look like?? I’m packing.”

I said, “Are you going somewhere today?”

He said, “HELLO, I’m saving my toys.”

I said, “From what?”

He scowled, “FROM YOU!”

With that, he attempted to close up the suitcase, but it was so full of crap toys that he couldn’t zip it up.  So, in a panic, he closed it up best he could and clumsily pulled it down the hall to his room, probably giving himself a hernia in the process.

I commenced to de-trashing the playroom by, oddly enough, trashing items.  We ended up with three or four full, heavy bags – most to donate. 

Later on I walked down to G-man’s room to investigate what he had hoarded from the playroom cleansing, and he immediately informed me there was “an animal rescue center” in his closet that I was not to disturb, that the animals were scared of me and that I should under no circumstances open his closet door. 

I took a quick peek later that afternoon, and realized he had mainly rescued stuffed animals, a plastic leopard and an assortment of “dudes" (action figures).  What can I say, the boy has a soft spot for fuzzy bears and little wilderness creatures. 

A soft spot and bad packing skills.

The 7th Day of Christmas Brings: Ornamental Change

Well it’s all things Christmas around our house (at least on the inside), and the boys are as rowdy as ever, since the time change and rapidly dropping temperatures in the evening mean it’s too dark and cold to expel any energy outside.  So, my faithful couch pillows take the brunt of their pent-up boyish aggression, serving as weapons, airborne missiles, cannonball absorbers and fort-building materials all in one.  And, as much mystery goop as I’ve had to wipe off my couch and love seat, thank God we decided on leather some years ago. 

I did something new this year and bought an Advent calendar.  I've always wanted one for my own kids, as I have very fond memories of receiving one each year from my grandparents with little chocolates tucked inside each little door representing the days of December.  I got a good one on sale at Pottery Barn (20% off plus free shipping) with pockets generous enough to hold goodies for three kids and made of a sturdy burlap material that won’t fall apart the first time someone tries to swing from it (I hope). 

As you can see from the photo, I’ve already discovered that we can only utilize the top two rows at this point, because anything placed lower = free for the taking.  Try explaining “one a day” to a two or three year-old.  I did actually try, and also found out it didn’t work too well.  But, they can start to get the idea. Most of the pockets contain cookies or candy or inexpensive little toys I found at various stores (the whoopee cushions for $1 a piece were a BIG hit – go figure!)  The novelty is at its peak now, and my plan as we descend further into the month is to make the final week, or at least the final day, a charitable opportunity.  I’m still mulling over the various possibilities.

My mother-in-law (who I miss dearly) was an all-out Christmas aficionado and we inherited many of her seasonal treasures, including hand-made bead ornaments like this one.

I try to buy a few (meaningful) new ones each year, and happened upon this adorable nest with three eggs (perfect!) – had to have it, and it was only $3 at Pier 1. 

I also found three white, feathery angel wing ornaments there for $1.95 a piece.  That place is decorated to the hilt – I could have spent hours just browsing. 

Anyway, I went to place the new ones on the tree the other evening once six little eyes were shut, the house was quiet and a steaming cup of decaf coffee was warming my hand, and realized someone (or some ones) had so creatively rearranged various ornaments for me.  Upon closer inspection, I realized that not only had ornaments been moved, but they had been broken and then “disguised” (I’m guessing that was the idea) to look like completely new ornaments.  One broken glass ball had been “fixed” with a plastic toy vehicle sitting on top of it, and I found other similar artistic re-workings of broken or missing ornaments.

All in all, I counted two broken glass spheres, a broken Santa, a disfigured gold star and three ornament hangers with no ornament attached – said ornaments still MIA and unaccounted for. 

In their place, I found little toy cars, a small plastic cow, a miniature plastic farmer guy and some hardened mysterious matter – possibly a play-doh creation.  At first I was infuriated, but that soon turned to amusement and then laughter as I realized that whoever did it had a streak of inventiveness to make such a whole-hearted attempt at masking the evidence of foul play. 

Obviously, having plastic toy cars and farm animals stand in for ornaments worked quite nicely for a few days, because I didn’t notice any observable gaps in the tree where my charming ornaments once hung. 

My kids can sometimes be naughty with a streak of brilliance.  Is there a middle column on Santa’s list?

Mono Mom-O Hits the Coast (and her pillow)....

Well friends, it’s been a super-dee-duper busy week since I last posted, what with a baby’s birthday, Thanksgiving, traveling across Texas, rounds of sickness, a trip to the ER for Bman and then mom (that would be me) getting diagnosed with an immunodisaster.  That’s code for:  I have mono, which basically means I have run my immune system into the ground and it’s giving me a good whipping in return.  It seems that high levels of stress, lack of sleep and not enough vitamins and minerals can actually shut your body down.  Who knew??  Apparently I am a lot weaker than I thought, because I know LOTS of moms out there who run on only Starbucks and McDonald’s for fuel and manage perfectly well with 4 hours of sleep and some really good under-eye cream. 

Anyway, I have been told to get lots of rest (ha!!), lots of fluids (does coffee count?) and take as much off my plate as possible (I’ll skip the carbs).  I would like to know which Disney fairy-land school these doctors attended, because everyone knows that a mother does not have the time nor extra effort it takes to do any of those things.  Well, ok, maybe it’s not that hard to drink extra water.  But sleeping and skimping on responsibilities?  Forget about it.  What really stinks is that during a season of plates piled high with caloric goodness, trans-fats and enough sugar to put you in a diabetic coma, all of which I can’t refuse, I’ve been told I can’t work out. Can’t. Work. Out.  If I do, something horrible could happen, like my spleen (which is temporarily enlarged) could burst and then I'm in a real pickle.  Well, I don’t know about my spleen, but my butt says this is a real problem, especially since my jeans now look like I’m wearing the ones from high school. 

So, my December resolution is to just revel in the delights of the season, and worry about getting back in shape in January.  They tell me this mono thing can hang around for months, and I’m already into month two, so hopefully the worst is behind me.  Well, it actually is, if you go back to the butt thing…..

Anyway, please understand that this new blogging venture is not something I’m going to “take off my plate,” but it may have to be something I put on the back burner for a month or two.  I love writing and I’m still going to journal the thoughts that I can’t stand letting go to waste, but some nights, I’m probably going to prefer the fluff, fluff of my pillow over the hum, hum of the computer.  

Now, for something more cheerful, here are some pics from our (awesome!) trip to my dad's house on the coast for Thanksgiving, which included uh-mazing food, hours of fishing, a toasty bonfire, Girl Scout badge-worthy s'mores and silly driveway chalk silhouhettes.  Please note the astonishing resemblance of me to the chalk drawing labeled "Mom" - I mean, my hair-do is the bomb.  I know the photo layout sucks, but guess what - I still haven't figured out how to change the settings.

     

And now, if you’ll excuse me, the fluff, fluff of my pillow is calling.

To My Third On His Second

Dear “Little” Wee-man,

On this day two years ago, you came into this world and stole my heart with your pink chubby cheeks and crystal blue eyes. 

I took one look at you and knew you were going to complete our life and our family.  I beam with pride at your growth and progress, and yet I feel a twinge of sadness, because I know with each passing birthday the small baby years for me as a mother come closer to an end.  Oh yes, there will be more years of childish play and boyish laughter that will fill the rooms of our home, and I will cherish every one, but I say goodbye to the tiny boy of yesterday.  As a mom, this is a rite of passage I cannot skip, rewind or replay, and that hurts a little. 

There are so many things I want for you in this world.  And so many things you will miss out on, too.  Like the way your Mema would have bounced you on her knee while singing some little tune, laughing all the while.  The way your Baba would have taught you to pick a guitar or tune an old violin.  The way your Grannie would have sat you right up on her kitchen counter while she baked and baked all day, letting you “help” by licking every bowl clean and telling you in between each one, “I love you, little boy.” 

These are things I wish I could grant you, because these are people that loved you without even knowing you.  They loved you because they loved me, and they knew that someday I would have children of my own and pass on to them the same love and family memories they bestowed on me.  I miss them every day.

But, here is what you will know, my love.  You will know that your Grandma had a dream about you before you were even a glint in my eye, and that when she told me I was going to have a third boy and that he would be named what you are, it was prophecy.  You will know that she was in the room when you were born, and she cried while I cried.  You will know that your father shed tears too, and he did so both out of happiness and because his own mother could not witness such a miracle nor hold you in her arms.  You will know that your big brother loves and protects you and thinks you are amazing. 

You will know that your Aunt Memmie loves you as her own and would risk everything for your well-being.  You will know that your Aunt Lala beams from ear to ear when you run to her with true love and joy on your face.  You will know that your Grandpa and Grandma Pete think you hung the moon and stars and that they would drive across Texas for you in a split second.  And mostly, you will know that you were an absolute blessing and surprise to a mother and father who didn’t think they would have a third little soul to share life with.

But here you are, and I love you.  Thank you for filling my heart and our home with your beautiful presence for as long as I have you as my own.  Someday you will go on to do wonderful things and the ties that bind us will stretch a little, but I know I will always have the memories of today, yesterday, last month, last year.  The ones of a chubby little boy with an outstretched hand and an angelic laugh that is music to my ears, ready to conquer whatever awaits us.  I will hold your hand and I will walk with you however long you let me.

 Happy Birthday, Wee-man. 

I Love you,
Mom



Sunday Night Smile

What a great weekend.  Do you ever go to bed on Sunday night with a smile still lingering on your face from the soul-nourishing events of the past 48 hours?  I love it when one of those weekends sneaks up on you.  It usually takes me by complete surprise, because it's often the days when I don't have all that much planned for us in the way of memory-making.

Today was amazing - I got to recharge my batteries with some fabulous college friends that I can always count on to make me laugh.  The mojitos and margaritas flowed, the stories turned heads at other tables (oops, guess we shouldn't talk about waxing at brunch), mascara was smeared (in a good way) and I enhaled some majorly delicious spinach-cheese enchiladas.  Afterwards I walked over to Starbucks to get my usual and it was perfectly concocted.  I went home refueled.  Sometimes a mama just needs that.

I also got a major case of the giggles Saturday night - I experienced something I never have before, which was accompanying five boys ages 6-7 (along with the birthday boy's parents) to the movies.  We went to see the new Harry Potter flick.  When you get this many little men together for a birthday party, I quickly figured out it can get pretty crazy.  Living with three monkeys of course leaves me fairly comfortable with the crazy factor, but holy cow.  You get five of them the same age and comparable mental/physical capacity, and you have The View on a sugar high meets Gladiator with nerf guns.  If somone wasn't talking or yelling, they were hitting or punching.  I was constantly trying to figure out where to look and who to listen to.

The five of them sat in the row in front of the three of us, and I'm sure everyone thought it was either a) hilarious or b) annoying that we kept having to lean over to tell someone to be quiet, tell another to keep their hands to themselves, or, in one case, settle an argument over whether a snake in the movie was a king cobra or anaconda.

The ride home was just as entertaining.  The five of them sat in the back while my friend drove, and we heard the following conversation topics for 25 minutes:

"Who cut the cheese?"
"OMG, you cut the cheese!"
"Drop it down low, low, low - EVERYBODY dance!"
"Who farted during the movie?  Oh wait, we can't say the F word."
"You wanna hear the entire list of who I'm inviting to my birthday party in a few months?"
"Blah Blah and Blah Blah sittin in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g"
"Guess who cut the cheese?"

Bathroom humor ranks up there as, oh, I'd say number one in their book. 

I won't give anything away, but the movie was a little darker and edgier than the last few - this has been the trend with HP all along.  I was worried something about it might bother Gman, but he didn't seem fazed by any of the scary parts, which is his usual take on stuff he knows is fake.  BUT (and without divulging too much), there is a quick love scene that alludes to nudity without showing any vital body parts.  Nobody mentioned it though, so I assumed it had totally subsided to a subconscious level.

Yeah right.  That would be way too easy.

This evening I walk in Gman's room to tuck him in and say goodnight, and he is madly thumbing through pages in the last book of the HP series. 

I said,"Hey, what are you doing there sport?" 

He turned around and said, "Well, I'm trying to find that part where they're naked.  I know it's got to be in here somewhere.  What stinks is that I can't read most of these words, so I'm gonna need you to look it up and read it to me." 

So much for my assumption.  Luckily he can't read most of HP because it's about 4th grade level minimum, and he's not there yet.  I took the book and did a quick flip through and said, "Well, whaddya know, that part's not actually in the book."

Sue me for the little white lie.  I have no idea if that part is in there or not, but if it is, I have another few years before he figures it out.....I hope.  

Goodnight, friends.  Mama's going to bed with a smile on her face.

Faith, Love and a Dash of Fate

April showers will bring.....a baby girl.    

I just found out that my fifth tour in the Adventures of Auntie-hood will bring only the second girl to a family of nine cousins.  My mom and K-dad have nine grandkids total, and the current boy to girl ratio is 8:1.  You can imagine the rambunctiousness at family gatherings.  My sweet little niece, who is about to turn four, is the absolute epitome of everything the boys are not.  She loves shoes, jewelry, ballerina tutus and glitzy hand bags.  Not to mention she is as quiet as a mouse.  I have to routinely check to see that she's still breathing over in the corner while the boys run circles around her.  I think the noise level and aggressiveness just consume and overwhelm her for the most part.  I am thrilled that a new little being will be joining her side of the turf.  8:2 is still outnumbered, but hey, it's something.  And finally, I can buy cute frilly things on the pink-hued side of the baby universe once more.  This new girl will feel the love, that’s for sure.

On a related note, I've been stewing on this whole boy/girl ratio thing for the past few days, ever since my co-worker told me they are adopting a child from a third-world country.  As if that's not noble enough, this man is bringing a fourth (yes, 4th) daughter into his life to raise.  He and his wife already have three girls of their own - ages 7, 4 and 1.  He said he couldn't imagine having anything other than another girl and that they had prayed about this for a long time and simply felt the calling.  I was just floored and astounded.  This is a man who loves hunting, sports and grew up in a house with all boys.  He plays fantasy football and cooks on the grill and is an avid outdoorsman.  And yet he feels space – no, make that the need - in his heart for another little girl.  Living a life far different from our own, there is a pregnant mother in a pitiful shack or hut right this second who has heard the whisperings of an answered prayer for her unborn child.  I had to suppress tears when he told me the news.

After it sank in I thought, how appropriate, really, their choice of another girl.  To be honest, I have considered the possibility of someday bringing a fourth child into our home, but it would be several years down the road and only if I thought we could handle the tremendous emotional and financial responsibility.  In my conscious thoughts, I have always envisioned a baby girl, because that is what circumstance and genetics did not give us.  When I heard the surprising news that I was expecting my third child, everyone assured me it would be a girl, because what would be the odds of having another boy?  Well, actually they were pretty good.  Turns out if you have two children of the same sex, the percentage of having a third child of the same sex is no longer 50/50 – it’s more like 56/44.  Now, that isn’t a huge jump, but obviously it made it less likely we would be buying anything pink.

But this brings me to my next point.  Maybe some of us are destined to be parents to just boys or just girls.  Maybe what I need to consider, should we ever decide to adopt, is a fourth boy.  It’s what I know.  It’s what I love.  It’s what fate decided I should have.  And, to be honest, a girl would have to possess a lot of moxie to survive our rough and tumble household.  It may sound cliché, but I am one of the many who believe things happen for a reason.  I think there is a greater purpose and calling for most of us; it’s just a matter of figuring out what that is.

My friend discovered his in the eyes of a mother in need, one that conveyed to him the hopes and dreams for a baby who would otherwise be chained to a life of hardship and despair, or possibly even no life at all.  And he answered.  His answer was the one that no one would have guessed, but it was the one that made the most sense.  His choice made it clear that we should appreciate what we’ve already been given.  That we should rejoice in the gifts that are right here, right now, and to put to rest any doubts about what we might be missing out on.  Their family doesn’t need a baby boy to be complete any more than mine needs a baby girl.  I have three amazing, healthy boys with which to share life, and should I feel the calling of a child in need, fate will decide which one speaks to me. 

In the meantime, I am going to be one awesome aunt.  Patent Mary Janes and pink striped stockings await you, little one.

Something's Kinda Fishy

I recently picked up this book at Barnes & Noble called Lies You Learned at School by Michael Powell for the bargain price of $7.  It turns out a bunch of stuff I thought was true really isn't.  For example, Napoleon wasn't actually French-born, George Washington didn't really chop down his father's apple tree, and it turns out that the Great Barrier Reef isn't even the world's largest living organism.  There are about 80 common myths debunked in this little book, and I just thought it was interesting.  

One small entry I overlooked but then revisited after an event in our house this week: 

Lie:  Goldfish have three-second memories.

Truth:  Scientists have proven that fish have quite sophisticated behavior patterns and can remember for up to 2.5 million times longer than previously believed - instead of three seconds, think three months.

Hmm.

We have a fish in our house - not a goldfish - but a very beautiful Betta named Phinneas.  Get it?  FIN-ee-us.  Because he has fins.  Genius, I know.

Anyway, we have to put the bowl that Phinneas calls home up very high, because of previous incidents involving goldfish in our house.  I'll spare you all the gory details, but let's just say that after spending $50 on a pirate ship tank, treasure chest home, cool plastic plants, fish food and two goldfish named Bob and Joe, there was a very nice ceremony involving tears and a porcelain flush just two days post-purchase.  We also had a very valuable (I thought) lesson on how fish don't like to be petted or squeezed, and although they swim, they don't like to do cannonballs back into the tank. 

Apparently this talk went down the pipes when the poor fish did, because if Phinneas is not guarded by the two tall(er) people in this house, he would be subject to the same demise that Bob and Joe were, bless their souls.

So, here is what happened the other day.  B-man (who is a very intelligent and fairly creative three-year-old) waited until Dad was momentarily out of the room, and proceeded to pull a chair over to where Phinneas's fish bowl sits.  Now, B-man often complains that we don't give him enough cookies, candy or chocolate milk, so I'm guessing that he assumed Phinneas is probably just as deprived and in need of a personal culinary savior.

I post Exhibit A below - on the left side is the normal amount of food Phinneas is supposed to consume in one day - three or four pellets.  I know, I know - seems like some sort of animal cruelty, but the pet store expert assured me that any more than that would likely kill him.  On the right, I have displayed the (approximate) amount of food B-man so generously supplied to our fish in one feeding.

Luckily, Dad walked in the room in time to scoop out a large portion of the pellets, but not before Phinneas enjoyed some of the smorgasbord of a buffet sprinkled before him.  Now, you can guess what I figured would happen next.  I assumed that our poor fish would literally explode overnight and that I would have to play mediator when G-man found out what B-man had done and proceeded to strangle him in broad daylight in front of his own mother.

But, I give you Exhibit B.

Two days later, and Phinneas is still chillin' in his posh pad.  Obviously, he can consume more than his weight in food and live to tell about it.  And, since it turns out he has a three-month memory - or more - I'm sure that (for the short-term at least) he has decided that B-man is infinitely much cooler than the grown-ups in this house. 

Maybe he does fit in around here after all.

Midnight Talker

When I was much, much younger, I used to think the words of that song by The Steve Miller Band went something like this:

I'm a joker
I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight TALKER

Of course, I grew up and figured out that Mr. Miller was not, in fact, singing about late night chatting sessions with your best friend during a sleepover.  Too bad, because I'm all for staying up 'til midnight discussing the intricacies of life over a cup of coffee.  In a house full of loud and rowdy boys, I rarely get such a chance unless my husband and I actually find a few minutes here or there to discuss something of importance before someone a) cries b) breaks something or c) invents yet another use for bathroom toiletries (FYI: some shampoos, while seemingly awesome follicular cleansing agents, also masquerade as permanent carpet stainers.  Who knew?)

The thing about having boys is that I almost never get a lengthy or informative conversation out of them during daylight hours.  They are way too busy,  in constant states of motion or physical exertion.  If I were to ask my oldest son a slew of investigative questions on any given day, the answers would range among the following four responses:  yes, no, I don't know and I don't remember.  

However, if you tell a boy it's bedtime, he'll grant you an interview worthy of the top spot on 60 Minutes. 

One of my friends and I have had numerous conversations on how the absolute best time to get useful information out of your child is at bedtime.  Suddenly, the idea of telling you anything and everything you ever wanted to know is highly preferred over the dreadful and boring alternative of sleeping.  I have been privy to all sorts of top secret elementary school information during our "midnight" (code: 8:30 pm) talks, such as who got in a fight at recess, who talked back to the teacher and who (gasp!) cut in the lunch line.  These interesting (and often hilarious) reports are usually prefaced with "Mom, you will not believe this," so that I grasp the significance and/or severity of the information he's about to divulge.  These discussions usually leave me walking away with a big grin on my face.

But then some nights, they turn more serious or inquisitive in nature. 

Our "midnight" talk from Tuesday night went something like this:

Gman:  Mom, when I go to college someday, can I take all of my books with me?  Like, even my Lego book and my Flat Stanley book and my yearbook?

Me:  Of course you can!  I have lots of books from when I was young and they are still on my bookshelf.  If you take care of them, they will last a long, long time.  We'll just pack them up and you can take them wherever you decide to go.

Gman:  Ok wait a minute.  Why would we pack them up?

Me:  Well, if you go to college in a different city or state, you will have to move.

Silence......

Gman:  What college is in our town?  Because I like my room, and my stuff, and I think I just want to stay here.  Forever and ever.

Me:  Gman, college is a long way away, but there are a few around here if you wanted to stay at home.  This will be your room for as long as you want (what am I saying??)

Gman: Well, if I went away, would you just have new kids to stay in my room and use my stuff?  I guess that is okay, but they can't touch my Legos.

Me:  Oh heavens no, honey, your dad and I are done having kids.  But, your brothers will still be here.

Gman:  Yeah.  I guess they could use my stuff.  They can sleep in my room, on the top bunk even.

Me:  Well Gman, that's really sweet, but you know, Bman might be in college the same time you are at some point, so he might not want your Legos anyway.

Gman:  Wait a minute!  They are going to get bigger too?  MOM!  What are you going to do when there are no kids to live here??

I sat there and looked at him and said, I don't know.  Because I don't. 

The idea of not having a child to bathe, dress in dinosaur jammies or read a book to at night is unfathomable.  The thought of no more "midnight" talks with someone who tells me that his bus driver is actually a spy from another planet is just not an option I can consider.  I know there are several years left for blanket tents and hide-n-seek and happy meals and sidewalk chalk, but how many more years will I have of these whimsical and unpredictable bedtime chats?  I figure I've got a good 5 or 6 years left before my first born hits mute on the nightly gab fests, and maybe 10 years total when you combine my younger two, so if you do some math and multiply all that by 365 days in a year, I've got about 3,650 nights left where one of them can tell me another absolutely amazing, incredible story.  That's a lot of nights and a lot of stories, but I have a feeling it will fly right by.

Goodnight, midnight talkers.



 

Once Upon a Birthday

Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham, Field of Dreams:
"You know we just don't recognize the most significant moments of our lives while they're happening."

True words, my friends, true words.  Here I sit on the eve of a 30-something birthday, and I find myself finally embarking on a journey I've wanted to begin for some months now but haven't found the time or conviction to set words to ink, so to speak.  I've been fidgeting at the edge of the diving board, hesitant to dive into the deep end.  There are words at the bottom of the pool, and I figure if I take the plunge, they'll come into focus.  My mom is a fabulous writer, and I inherited the same love of words, not to mention the ability to get lost in a bookstore or library for hours, but does this make me worthy of publishing the constant stream of thoughts swimming through my head on a daily basis?  Maybe it just makes me a literary nerd.  Well, so what.  You love what you love.  And, being 30-something means that I'm totally okay with embracing all sides of myself.  It just means that while enjoying a major league baseball game, I also want to read every inscription at the stadium that might contain some magic link to the past. 

But I digress.  The main reason I'm here, the catalyst for finally embracing this challenge: three small men that reside both in my heart and in my home.  I am starting this blog not so much so that other people read about what goes on in our lives or in my head - although I love the thought of sharing life and ideas - but so that I feel committed to recording moments of everyday significance that are passing us by like cars on the highway.  I would like to put each one in reverse so that I can start from the beginning, but I think that starting now is better than not starting at all.  I want my boys to someday be able to read these (mostly) unedited journal entries of their young lives and their mom's perspective on things - the good, the bad, the funny, the sad - although I will emphasize the comedic, because they are truly miniature versions of the three stooges, and who doesn't need a good laugh these days.  I have mulled over starting this, not starting it, using our names, not using our names, using our photos, not using our photos, and I'm just going to stop thinking and start writing.  What will be will be, and I hope it is something that lives and breathes and continually inspires me.  It's going to take me some time to figure out the myriad of options for settings, photos, color schemes and what the heck a "gadget" is, so please be patient.  I'll (hopefully) get the hang of it.  I actually figured out how to put a music playlist AND a photo on here, so voila.  Progress.  

Thank you Mom - for bringing me into this beautiful world at 8:11 on 11:8 and for inspiring me to blog.  And thanks to my friend and fellow Scorpio Lisa (yes, we are horoscopically matched), who reminded me that the best material I am ever going to get for writing about family life is right here, right now, and that I should embrace it.  I should celebrate it.  And I am going to.  Happy birthday, me.

My awesome WonderWoman coffee mug and Gman's artwork. 
I can do this.