Monsters of the Deep

Let me tell you, when G-man gets stuck on something, he really gets stuck on something. 

Yesterday after school, he came rushing through the front door, threw his backback down and gasped to my husband in one long breath, "There's a kid on the bus who says an eight year old girl was swimming in the ocean, and she got pulled down to the bottom by a huge, gigantic octopus, and she DIED.  Is that true?  Dad, hurry, look it up on the computer!"

His dear father instead redirected his focus to the backyard, where they played baseball for awhile, but G-man kept firing off questions off about this mysterious creature of the deep. 

I think my husband did a good job of deflecting his paranoia temporarily, but when I got home, I was instantly barraged with this story about a monster octopus and the demand that I get down to the bottom of it right away.

"Mom, are there really giant octopuses in the ocean?"

"Which ocean? The Pacific?"

"How many legs do they have?"

"If you're swimming in the ocean, how far out to you have to be to be near an octopus?"

"Is an octopus stronger than a person?"

"How long can you stay under before you die?"

"Do you want me to show you which boy told me?  Let me go get my yearbook, Mom, hold on.  I'll show you who he is."

Oh good grief.

I finally pulled out the laptop, and with G-man breathing heavily over my shoulder, searched "girl attacked by octopus."  Nothing came up news-wise except for a really old report.

"Well, it looks like there was a young girl attacked by an octopus in 1928."

My husband laughed out loud.

There was another link to some fictional movie clip that was on Youtube, but I won't let the kids browse Youtube due to its very uncensored nature, so I told him it was completely made up and NOT real.  Then we had a lengthy discussion about ocean creatures and their true nature versus how they are depicted in scary movies and fictional books, and how wild animals, while sometimes misunderstood, will always be unpredictable.  When he went to bed, he seemed fairly content with my animal kingdom knowledge.  Good thing I paid attention to the old Jacques Cousteau specials.

I thought the whole thing was behind us until I came home today, and he nearly knocked me over with excitement.

"MOM!  I found out that it was NOT an octopus that attacked the girl! It was a pilot whale!"

Now this I knew to be a true story, except it was a grown woman who had gotten too near a pod of pilot whales, and was pulled 45 feet under but then released.  It was shown on National Geographic not too long ago.

He harassed me until I googled the clip and let him watch it, and finally he was satisfied.

For now.

You've Been (Donald) Trumped

We don’t watch too many routine television shows around my house – invariably the set is tuned to ESPN, Fox Sports, CNN or occasionally (gritting teeth) Spongebob Squarepants.  We definitely never got into Donald Trump’s The Apprentice, and my boys have never watched it (to the best of my knowledge).

So you can imagine my surprise the other evening when my oldest son, upon deciding that my middle son was not playing Yahtzee correctly, grabbed the cup of dice and authoritatively announced, “You’ve been Donald Trumped!”

B-man and I both looked at him, and then I laughed.

“Where on Earth did you hear that?” I asked him.

“My teacher!” he said.

Well, that would have been about number ten on my list of top ten possible sources.  But then I remembered he landed a fun, quirky, cool teacher this year.

He went on to explain that she gives several of the kids an assigned duty, like passing out papers or cleaning up stations, and if you fall down on the job, well, you get “Donald Trumped.”  Or fired, to be more specific.

I told him he better stay on top of his assigned duty, which involves something at lunchtime in the cafeteria that didn’t make any sense to me, but he was too busy Donald Trumping his brother’s remote control abilities to explain it to me.

Oh modern television, what would we do without you?

Minor Leaguer

Even though it's still 100+ scorching degrees outside here, fall baseball has made its much-anticipated arrival.  Our oldest son (G-man) is absolutely ecstatic that his new team has started practicing and will have their first game soon.  However, the heat has most of the poor boys dragging their legs (and everything else) by the end of each session.  For their sake (and mine, let's not forget), I'll be ecstatic when the temperature hovers back down around 65-75 degrees.

Yesterday evening, my husband was collecting gear and getting G-man ready to leave for practice, and B-man made it perfectly clear that he planned on attending.  Lately we try to distract him with other opportunities so that he stays home, because my husband is an assistant coach and can't keep his eye on an industrious 4-year-old while giving drill instructions to a group of second graders.  It's just impossible.

However, he was not to be swayed.  So the 2-man outing became a 3-man with the promise that B-man would sit in the dug-out, follow all instructions and not cause any problems.  He swore to all of this with the most serious countenance.  So convincing. 

I had only been home from work for an hour when they were due to leave, so practice nights make me a little sad and disappointed that I get even less time to spend with them on those two evenings a week.

As they were heading out the door, I turned to Wee-man, smiled and said, "Well little buddy, I guess it's just you and me tonight!"

He grabbed his pack-pack, slung it over his shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, "Bye, Mommy."

I have officially been demoted to the minor leagues.

2nd Grade Top Ten

Okay, so it's been about a gazillion days since I felt like writing.  Also, we've had a very fun, busy summer and my kids have been going to bed at 10 pm, which means I don't have "me" time at night to blog or do much of anything else.  So I took the summer off!

With school starting back on Monday, we'll fall back into our old routine (I hope.)  They all went to bed at 8 pm tonight, which is nothing short of a miracle.  In celebration of this seemingly small (yet monumental) occurrence, I give you my second grade top ten list.  My son is starting second grade in a few days, and I thought back to the most memorable things that happened when I was his age.  Some I haven't thought about in awhile, most I have never admitted to anyone.  This is pretty much my second grade diary, all rolled into one short summary:

10.  How weird it was to go to a private school.  This sounds totally insane, but the public school I attended in first grade did not have a second grade the year I was to start it.  I have no idea if there weren't enough teachers or enough funds or what, but it was just ludicrous at the time that we would all have to find a new school for one year.  The alternative public school options were not appealing (nor safe for that matter), so my mom opted to enroll me in a private Lutheran school for second grade.  I liked it, but it was weird having to change schools and friends for one short year.

9.  Learning cursive.  My handwriting now is a mix of cursive and regular print, and I often don't even keep the same letters identical in one paragraph.  Meaning I might write an "r" in print in one sentence and then write it in cursive in another.  Sometimes my y's have loops and sometimes they don't.  I have no idea what this means, but I'm afraid that it could be indicative that I can't make up my mind and am somewhat fickle, so I refuse to consult a handwriting analysis guide.  Most teachers strict on handwriting would probably run out of red ink grading my penmanship style.

8.  The metal dome climbing apparatus.  I have no idea what the real name for this structure is, but they used to be on playgrounds everywhere, and have for the most part gone extinct.  I cannot tell you how many hours I spent swinging, hanging upside down or jumping off of this thing.  Given that my sister fell off of one and busted out every last baby tooth she possessed, I'm sure they resulted in too many lawsuits and so therefore had to be sent into retro toy retirement.

7.  Re-enacting the most recent episode of "V" on the playground.  I honestly can't remember who was in this show or what the premise was, but I know there were aliens and space ships and that was cool.

6.  Karen's ridiculously dark, thick, long eyelashes, which framed the most ridiculously blue eyes.  I can't remember Karen's last name, but she had eyes that any girl would covet, especially girls like me who have nearly translucent lashes.  I used to think that her mother let her wear mascara in grade school, but after she cried her eyes out at lunch one day and nothing smeared, I realized that she was just born incredibly lucky.  One day she asked me why I kept staring at her, and I couldn't think of anything to say except, "I love your eyelashes."  Yep, even at a young age, I was gifted at creating awkward conversation moments.

5.  Being in love with Judd, the second grade "bad boy."  He shaved his head, wore a black leather jacket and was always getting in trouble.  He was totally not my type, yet completely attractive and adorable in a Colin Farrell sort of way.  I think he might have even had an earring, but maybe I'm just making that part up.  I realized I could never snag him after he took one look at Karen's eyelashes.  Oh well.  The bad boys aren't my type anyway.  I still like shaved heads though.

Colin Farrell and some beautiful girl, probably Karen.

4.  Being in love with Doug, the nice, polite, yet slightly nerdy boy in class.  He watched "V," too, and would play with me on the playground instead of the boys.  Looking back, I'm not really sure if Doug liked me in the romantic sense or if he was perhaps more in touch with his feminine side, but I'll go with the former for nostalgia's sake.  I did learn to appreciate smart, sensitive guys after hanging out with Doug.

3.  The class clown, who I was privileged to sit next to all through first, second and third grade, because our last names were alphabetically consecutive.  I cannot tell you how mentally jacked this guy was, and looking back, I should have laughed at his ridiculous antics, but seeing how they were often directed at me, I could not stand the kid at the time.  A quick run down on his weekly activities:  passing gas nonstop (again, I had to sit by him), holding his breath until he passed out (he was always expelled for the day for this, but that didn't phase him), flipping his eyelids inside out, looking up the teacher's skirt, writing my name on the board for talking (he knew this pissed me off), burping the alphabet, chugging down eight cartons of chocolate milk without pausing, throwing rocks at recess and wiping his boogers on anyone within arm's reach.  I have no idea what this guy does now, but I have a few guesses.  Oh, and his mom had three or four boys.  I would really like to see how her mental state is holding up these days.

2.  The day I threw up Rice Krispies cereal in front of the entire class.  Our room had to be evacuated, because due to the wide-slat wood floors, my vomit seeped through every last crevice of the floor and the odor stayed for days.  Thank God it was a Friday.  I think.

1.  My teacher sending out a nice year-end thank you note for all the wonderful end-of-school cards and gifts, along with a P.S. that we should all go get tested for mono, because she had just been diagnosed.  We all kissed her goodbye on the last day.

And that, my friends, was my second grade year in an A+ worthy synopsis.

For Emily.

The words that I share today are lovingly dedicated to my youngest sister, Emily.

(She also answers to Emmie, Emmie-Pop, Emmawee, Mommy and Memmy.)

And here’s the story.

When I was eight years old, a lovable little bundle came into our lives that my mom brought home from the hospital in an oversized red stocking.  She was born right before Christmas and her name was Emily Ann.  She was pretty much the neatest thing I had ever set eyes on, and I decided right away that I would take this little person under my care. 

Yours truly (Dorothy Hamill haircut and all) and her cute-as-a-button little sister, Emily.

My mom may have been worried about having a fourth child, but I was perfectly happy to assume all maternal duties from the get-go.  I did many of the bottle feedings, changed the diapers, rocked her to sleep, carried her around like precious cargo and made sure she never cried a peep.  Or at least not much more than a peep.  In no time at all she became quite spoiled rotten.  I would hurry off the school bus each afternoon consumed with thoughts of playing baby, while lip synching to Madonna with my two best friends, Kim and Jessica, ran a distant second.  I was also very protective of the youngest and bossed my middle sisters around to the nth degree any time they were around Emily.

The years passed by, and she was the one sister I never fought with.  Never argued with over toys, books, jewelry or clothes.  We were too far apart to be interested in the same things at the same time.  For a few years we shared a room, and I assume all responsibility for transforming her into somewhat of a neat freak.  When I moved out of the house during my first year of college, she was only in the fifth grade. 

The next several years went by in a flash – college, studying, dating, Greek parties, work, graduating, getting engaged, planning a wedding, getting married, going to everyone else’s weddings, starting a career, buying a first home.  During all of this, while my life was spinning wildly to arrive at a destination, Emily went and grew up on me.  Somehow I missed a significant segment of her growth, right between middle school and adulthood.  Not because I was disinterested or indifferent, just simply because our lives were individually transforming us in very different circles that only semi-overlapped.  So you can see how it was hard for me to accept that at some point she became a grown-up. 

I was unaware until a few years later that after all of those years of me caring for her, the big sister protecting the smaller, that the tables would turn significantly.  The hourglass would take another turn, and the protected would become the protector – not of me, but of my children.

You see, Emily has been the weekly caretaker of my boys for several years now.  It started with G-man, and then B-man, and now she is down to just Wee-man.  The older two are in school and growing up quite quickly – too quickly, really, and Wee-man will be joining them later this summer when he starts at the same preschool B-man attends.  In just one week from now, Emily will take on two newborns – our niece Miss C and a friend’s baby boy – and a final paragraph will be written in a long chapter of the Three Small Men. 

We both knew this day would come, but that won’t make it any easier.  We are saying goodbye to a ritual, a slice of time, a piece of the boys’ childhood and even a stage of our own lives.  It is hard in some ways for me to accept that my boys are moving on, growing up and becoming more independent.  I know it will be just as difficult for Emily to accept that, besides some babysitting here and there, the days of one of my boys sleeping soundly in her bedroom, leaving small handprints on her glass door or snuggling with her on the couch at eight o’clock in the morning have almost come to a close.  What will make this transition easier is the presence of her own son, as well as other precious little ones who will fill the gap and offer their love, adoration and another half-decade worth of memories.

Looking back, I cannot imagine a better person to help raise my baby boys into the little men they are becoming.  I never worried for their safety.  Never lost sleep over what their day was like while I was at work.  Never feared that they would suffer any lack of love, compassion or attention.  They had all of those things and more.  They had an aunt who loved them as her own, and for that there is no price tag and no comparison.  My sister adored them, coached them, encouraged them and protected them in the hours I was separated from them.  I owe her more than I could ever express in these mere written paragraphs.

All of Emily's men.

Emily – you are a beautiful old soul, a born nurturer and a blessing to our family.  Thank you for loving my boys all these years with an open heart and open arms. You are an amazing person, and we love you.

Earth Day MVP & a Crossing Guard

I am lounging tonight in a fresh smelling room, the byproduct of today's professional carpet shampooing in an attempt to eradicate evidence of recent (and not-so-recent) household events.  I won't gross you out, but let's just say that three small boys and two dogs means that our carpet perpetually looks like a splatter mat underfoot.  Okay, it's really not that bad, but about every three to six months I decide I can't stand staring at the offensive spots anymore and I pay a small fortune to a very nice and super competent guy who can make the ole' shag look almost new again.  Just kidding - we don't really have shag carpet.  But sometimes I wish we did, because it would most certainly hide some of the atrocities so much better.  Anyway, my tactile senses love the results too, because you feel this crisp crushing underfoot as you walk across newly cleaned carpet that is beginning to dry.  I know, I know - totally absurd.  Yet still satisfying.

Apparently this carpet cleaning got me in a rather proactive and productive mood, because I really shocked myself earlier by encouraging G-man that we should start on his Earth Day lunchbox project that's due this Friday.  It's only Tuesday.  This is a big deal for me - Miss Procrastinator Extraordinaire that I am. 

The instructions said to create a lunchbox out of something recyclable at home that they can tote their lunch in on Friday and parade through the other classes for all of their friends to oooh and ahhh over.  Well, this for sure demanded that I break out the fancy scrapbook supplies.  Don't worry - I didn't "girl" it up.  We found a sports paper pack and he made a baseball-themed lunchbox out of an old shoebox I had in the closet.  We cut and glued various paper to the box to camouflage the fact that it once housed a coveted pair of Arturo Chiang pumps, and then adhered some cut-outs of favorite players as well as several baseball stickers.  My husband broke out his power tool (project coolness factor: +25 points) and drilled two holes in the top and we created a handle out of a string looped through and tied underneath.  To make sure the box stayed together without the top falling off when he picked it up, we put some Velcro stickers on the underside of the box top and then on each side of the box so that the lid can be secured.  I'm guessing that Velcro isn't exactly "green", but I can't have his lunch falling out all over the hallway or who knows where else, because I know my son, and I can guarantee this thing will be put to the G-man test.  Only the strong survive.

And so voila!  We have a "green" lunchbox that is pretty cool if I say so myself.

Who's the Earth Day MVP?  G-man!

After cleaning up our mess and patting myself on the back for not only starting but also finishing this project so early, I revisited a pile of teacher notes and classroom work that B-man had brought home yesterday (he goes to an intensive pre-school three days a week).  I read more about the songs and letters they worked on, studied a very interesting abstract finger painting masterpiece, and then came across the below paper that I somehow missed in my quick flip-through yesterday.  

It seems his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grows up, and she wrote down his response.

It made me smile.  Totally putting this one in my pocket for a rainy day.

Zoo Sunday

I know what you're thinking.

TWO posts, back-to-back??  What is going on here??  I don't know what's gotten into me either, but just go with it.

This morning's glorious arrival seemed to whisper the promise of a beautiful day, so we loaded up the three small men and the red Radio Flyer wagon and set off for the zoo.

If you've never been to the Fort Worth Zoo, you are missing out on one of the best in the country.  Don't quote me, but I think it is nationally ranked.  It really is quite amazing, and they are currently hosting a unique exhibit called Dinosaus Unleashed, which features life-size robotic replicas of the prehistoric beasts.  Some of them (the more imposing ones, of course) move their heads, tails and claws and even roar.  Wee-man did not care for them whatsoever, but the other two thought they were pretty neat.  The T-Rex and her baby garnered the most "whoa!" and "awesome!" accolades from G-man and B-man.

Mama T-Rex and baby

We are looking forward to an event later this month that we have attended for the past two years, which is Friday Night at the Zoo.  It benefits The Warm Place, a local non-profit grief counseling center that supports kids who have lost a loved one.  Our friends (and neighbors) are very involved with this group and asked my husband to reproduce the headboard he recently made for our bedroom as one of the auction items, so he's been busy in the garage again.  I hope it gets some good bids!

I am excited about the event because it's great people, good food, fun auction items, a scavenger hunt for the kiddos, carousel rides and a nighttime train ride.  I don't know why, but there's something kind of cool, primal and even somewhat eerie about being in the zoo at night.  Probably because you can hear the animals, but can't see them!

I'm signing off with a few photos from today.

You know how they say everything's bigger in Texas?
Check out the humongous suckers.
Not dentist-approved in the least bit, but totally kid-approved.

The Yellow Rose Express - we're not allowed to leave until we ride it.  Every time!

G-man and Wee-man on the train.  Choo choo!

A Week in a Nutshell

You know that old phrase, "in a nutshell"? 

Well, that's what today's blog is all about, 'cause I'm way behind in my posts.  But I do have some good excuses.  And, I'm summing up my week in a nutshell with one-liners (or maybe two) and photos.  So here we go.

SATURDAY:

One sick child, backyard water slide for the other two, roses galore and 2 birdhouses made.



The amazing rose bush in our front bed.
It was here when we moved in, and we have no idea what kind they are,
but the first bloom is always incredible.



B-man painting his bird house.
  

Wee-man didn't paint a birdhouse, but he did put his cute face in some
wooden frames just for grins.

SUNDAY:

Donuts with kids, mojitos with friends, Chuck E Cheese with kids and then one sick, sick mama.  My weekend blogging plans went down the toilet.  Literally.

Where I spent my evening.  Not by choice. 
 A damn shame all those mojitos went to waste.
I can't say the same about the Chuck E Cheese pizza.

MONDAY:

Mom still sick.  'Nuff said.  Oh wait, some "stylist" butchered my son's hair when Dad took him for a haircut.  He's not trying for monkhood, okay? 


See? B-man is horrified, too.  Thank God his hair grows fast.

 TUESDAY:

Hallelujah, Mom discovers her tight pants aren't so tight anymore.  Thank you, stomach bug!  And enough work piled on her desk that she had to stay late at the office. 

WEDNESDAY:

I got nothin', but I was so exhausted that I went to bed early despite my best intentions to blog.

THURSDAY:

I became an aunt again! We welcomed a new baby to our family - Miss Charlotte, 9 lbs 10 oz!  Reminded once again of the miracle of life and all its beauty. 

Me, my sis and Miss Charlotte.  She has no idea how much she's loved.  Yet.

FRIDAY:

Strolled through the local arts festival at lunch, visited my sister and Miss C again after work and tried to teach B-man how to use my digital camera.


As you can see, his centering skills are exceptional. :)

TONIGHT:
I have a hot date.  Gotta go get ready. 

Happy weekend everyone!

Take Me Out to the Ballpark….And Feed Me.

We took the two older small men (G-man and B-man) to Opening Day at The Ballpark in Arlington Friday afternoon for the Texas Rangers vs. Boston Red Sox game, and it was a phenomenal day.  The sun was shining gloriously, it was a balmy 85 degrees and there was a light breeze carrying the unmistakable smells of baseball – hot dogs with onions and relish, fresh roasted peanuts, sweet cotton candy, ice cold beer and sunscreen.

Only G-man had been to a major league baseball game before, but neither had experienced the ritualistic ceremonies of Opening Day and all of the fanfare that goes along with it.

Their little minds soaked it all in – the chants, the cheers, the songs, the players, the fans, the colors, the sounds, the smells. 

G-man about to give the ball a good whack at Little Sluggers Field.

And their bellies?  Well, their bellies soaked in all sorts of caloric goodness.  First it was hot dogs.  Then nachos and popcorn.  Then cotton candy and ginormous pixie sticks.  Then ice cream sandwiches.  All washed down with an icy Orange Crush.  The sugar high was off the charts, like out in homerun territory or maybe even past that.
  

G-man: 1.  Giant pixie stick: 0.



B-man and his pink cloud of cotton candy.



To top this off, we find out a few innings in that we’re sitting right beside The Cookie Lady.  No seriously – this woman has “The Cookie Lady” engraved in a silver plate on her chair.  As in, permanently.  I couldn’t be happier about this, because I love, love, love cookies.  So much so that my husband often calls me the Cookie Monster.  I peer over while she’s engaged in conversation with a friend and see that she has about six dozen homemade snickerdoodle cookies carefully stacked away in two large plastic containers.  Jackpot, baby.

Every usher in site and half the concession walkers working that day stop by to chat with The Cookie Lady and collect their sweet treat.  She asks them all about their kids, their wives, their jobs, their college classes.  I realize she is a fixture around the ballpark and a real gem as well.  She sweetly offered us cookies about halfway through the game, once she realized there was a small boy behind her fixated on the cookie container and repeating over and over, “I really do like cookies.”  And who could say no to his sweet face?  Certainly not a grandmother toting baked goods.

The other angels at the game who couldn't tell him no was the couple behind us - grandparents as well, with a brood of 8 boys and 2 girls (not with them - they came alone).  So, while they weren't rookies to the noise and activity of small boys, I figured they wanted to enjoy the game in peace on their Friday date night.  So much for that.  B-man talked them up the entire game, managed to eat half the guy's Snickers bar and a few of his cheese fries, and by the 8th inning was playing some game of arm wrestling with him.  I turned around several times to apologize, but they were so nice and understanding that they would hear nothing of it.  What I think is that most Rangers fans are just nice people.  Good folks.  And we hit the lottery Friday night in terms of seat-mates. 

The boys had a blast and can't wait to go back.  I was thinking that their affection for the game (at least for now) was entirely related to the endless sugar buffet, but then they surprised me this evening by joining their dad in the living room to watch tonight's game on TV.  I walked into the room and G-man was giving me the play-by-play on what I missed.  I love that they are developing a love and understanding of one of America's favorite past times.  I am all for any activity that will further sew the threads of our life closer together.

In fact, we basically turned the entire weekend into Texas Rangers family weekend, with dinner outdoors at our neighbor's house on Saturday night followed by the game on their patio TV.  I captured two photos that made my heart happy that evening on our way over - one of my husband toting our son's backpack (full of diapers and wipes for the youngest) and one of G-man and Wee-man manning the Radio Flyer wagon full of caesar salad and deviled eggs up the street, with B-man way ahead of the group (as usual). 

To me, it's the needle pulling the thread through more loops and a little tighter.  Like the stitching on a good ball glove.

"That's the way baseball go."  ~Ron Washington

 

P.S.  The Rangers won 9-5 that first afternoon (and continued their winning streak to sweep all three games of the series).  Off to a great start!

P.P.S.  We also went to Sunday's game with my sister and brother-in-law, and it just so happens The Cookie Lady was back – this time with homemade pineapple sandies with brown sugar icing.  Heaven.

A Burger and a Bet.

So, something really funny happened yesterday evening.

Well, something good and something funny.

The good part first.  My ever-creative chef of a husband whipped up the best burger ever.  No really, the best.  We quit eating red meat (for the most part) a few years ago and we have turkey burgers now.  Once you get used to them, you suprisingly discover that you actually prefer them over beef.  Well, we do anyway. 

So, I come home from work and he's cooking:

FETA AND MUSHROOM-STUFFED TURKEY BURGERS WITH BACON AND GARLIC MAYONNAISE.

I felt that the A-list ingredients needed their own banner of capitalized letters.  Because the burger was amazing.  It was soooooo good.  I mean really.  He even made the garlic mayonnaise himself.  I'm not biased or anything, but he's a culinary genius.

Anyway, we're sitting at the table enjoying our burgers alone, in rare peace, because the three small men are out back doing their normal boy stuff, and they had already scarfed down their slightly-less-than-gourmet meal of grilled hot dogs and mandarin oranges.

Our kitchen table is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, which give us a clear view onto the back porch and the backyard.  I usually open one when they are out there so I can hear when someone starts their shriek of terror from a) self-inflicted injury, or b) the more common sibling-inflicted injury.  We also hear all kinds of conversations that they believe to be confined to the perimeter of their outdoor sanctuary.  Last night was no exception.

I'm halfway through my gourmet burger and I hear, "Hey Bman, I will give you ALL of my money if you stick your whole head in this ice chest of water."

Gman was referring to the 3/4 filled cooler of icy cold water (six bags of melted ice specifically) from his birthday party the previous day. 

There it sat, a beacon of sloshy, slushy perfection just waiting for the ideal victim.

I see Bman open the chest and take a longgggg look and then he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Well, okay."  Followed by a nervous laugh.

My husband and I sit there watching this spectacle unfold, curious to see how this would play out, although I had a pretty good idea.

Bman, with Gman and Wee-man anxiously looking on, grabs both sides of the cooler and KERPLUNK - confidently dips his face and head right in the ice bath.

He comes up quickly with a look of sheer panic and pain, then the tears start.  Big crocodile tears on a strawberry-red face dripping with ice water.   I ran to get a towel and new shirt and of course wrapped my baby up and told him it was all going to be okay.  It was a weird combination of hilarity, sympathy and pride all rolled into one moment.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry with him.

While I'm tending to Bman and his brain freeze, we notice that Gman has casually strolled in and plopped himself right in front of the TV, (seemingly) oblivious to his poor brother's predicament.

My husband authoritatively announces, "Gman, go get your piggy bank.  You have to pay Bman ALL of your money."

"WHHHAAATT??"  (Gman's response, with eyebrows raised)

My husband looks him in the eye and says, "That's right.  We heard your bet. You told Bman you would give him ALL of your money if he dunked his head in the ice.  Well, he did it.  So you are going to make good on your bet."

Gman's mouth fell open so wide I thought he might tip over.  This was followed by shuffling and skulking down the hall, and one minute later he walks back into the room and begrudgingly hands over the plastic container to his father.  And also points out this is the "stupidest" thing ever.  He proceeds to get a glassy-eyed stare while watching my husband count out $26 and some-odd cents that then gets deposited into Bman's piggy bank.

My husband turns to Gman and says, "Let this be a lesson.  Never make bets with people unless you want to pay up.  Next time, bet someone one dollar, two dollars, five dollars.... but NEVER bet all you have.  Also, I hope you know that your brother is not scared of anything, for future reference."

Then he turns to Bman and says, "You don't have to do everything your brother says.  Also, next time you make a bet that is going to hurt, ask for more money."

So, one kid's richer and they're both (hopefully) wiser.

I got a great laugh, a funny story and a kick-a burger in the same evening.  Monday nights are rarely this good.

Taos.

Well the dust is slowly settling from spring break madness and our trek across Texas to the white-capped mountains of northern New Mexico.  We took the small men skiing in Taos last week, and that was an adventure of epic proportions. 

First off, we’ve never spent that much time traveling with our kids, and we definitely had never experienced the pure bliss and delight of being trapped in a vehicle with them for twelve hours straight.  It's going to take a high-powered vacuum and some Goo-be-Gone to transform my ride back to its previous state.  If you happen to see an SUV around with about 50 dinosaur stickers stuck to the inside back window, it's mine.

Secondly, we’ve never taken a vacation that required so much crap gear.  We’re typically beach bums – a few flip flops, some sunscreen, a couple arm swimmies – all set.  Well guess what.  Skiing (or any snow-related sport for that matter) is not so minimalistic. 

Finally, only one of the five of us actually possesses any winter sports ability worth claiming, and it sure as heck ain't me.  I grew up knee-boarding and skiing on bouyant salt water, which is a far cry from the unforgiving nature of frigid, hard-packed snow.  I had only skiied twice before, and that was in high school. 

Anyway, all-said, we had a grand time.  The two older boys spent three days in ski school and loved it - Gman was skiing blues by the third day.  I spent one day skiing, remembered that I totally sucked at manuevering those narrow and gangly sticks attached to my boots, and opted for snowboarding lessons on day two and three.  I loved it.  Granted, I wasn't very adept at the intracacies of looking like Shaun White, but I did okay.  Good enough to stay upright for a few turns before eating snow.  I worked muscles I never knew existed (and definitely felt the next day), but there was immense satisfaction in knowing I opened myself up to something new and embraced it.  And I was incredibly proud of the boys for tackling a fresh, unfamiliar challenge with valor, optimism and enthusiasm.  They inspired me.  And, Gman thought it incredibly cool that his mom was snowboarding.  So, apparently my newly acquired skill has upped me a few notches on the motherly coolness scale.  Score.

I'm in the middle, pretending to know what I'm doing.

As for Taos, a kitschy, quirky, laid-back atmosphere prevails.  Many of the locals and ski instructors work on what my husband and I call "island time", which is ironic considering it's in the mountains, but truly they are in no hurry around there.  There's less hustle and bustle and more attention given to small talk, and many people there really try to live green.  The women wear minimal make-up, the men sport beards and dreads and I swear that every local has at least three tattoos.  I noticed that the really popular spot for one was right on the breast plate/neck.  Honestly.  I went into a local pizza parlor one night (which was incredibly unique, cozy and the perfect spot for a Jack Kerouac poetry gathering) and every single one of the employees sported huge, intricate tattoos right on their chests - even the women.  And by the way, the pizza rocked.  Truly one of the best I've ever had.  Ever. 

When I showed up for my snowboarding lesson, the instructors all routinely used words like gnarly, rad and bitchin' - and they knew instantly (and pointed out I might add) that I was a snowboarding rookie.  Apparently I stuck out like a palm tree on the mountain top.  But you know what?  I sort of just went with the flow and soul of the place and kind of fell into a relaxed rhythm.  Don't get me wrong, there were many stressful moments with six kids in one house (we shared with our cool neighbors and their kids), a hundred pounds worth of snow gear to haul back and forth, minor injuries, altitude sickness and respiratory infections - we had to tote coolers just to keep antibiotics preserved. 

But even through all of that, Taos infused itself into our conscience (and maybe our subconcious too) and shared a secret or two about how to let go.  Unravel.  Decompress. Enjoy.  Live. 

It was gnarly, dude.

Seven Going on Seventeen

G-man is two days away from turning seven, but sometimes I feel like he's seven going on seventeen. 

The other night we were having one of our nightly chats, and he said, "Mom, the girls in my class really stress me out."  He said this while grabbing his hair in his fist to illustrate the frustration.

I tried really hard not to laugh and instead said, "Oh really, why is that?"

He said, "Well, they say I look like Justin Bieber, and they think he's cute or somethin', I don't know."

I sat there for a moment perplexed, because Justin Bieber has a round face, big brown puppy eyes and dark shaggy hair, and my son has a long face, bright blue eyes and stick-straight strawberry blonde hair.  I mean, they're both undeniably cute, but they look nothing alike.

I chuckled and said, "Well, maybe they just say that because they think he's cute, and they think you're cute, too."

His eyes got very big and he sat up and blurted out his new favorite phrase:  "ARE YOU SERIOUS?"

Tonight, he was lamenting that they get out early on Thursday for afternoon teacher conferences, but have to complete a full curriculum day on Friday, which I will agree doesn't make any sense, seeing how Friday starts off their week of spring break.

G-man: "You know Mom, you CAN check me out early if you want, you know.  On Friday."

Me: "Yes, I'm sure I can, but the school makes the rules about what days you need to be there."

G-man: "That is so STUPID!  Who do they think they are?  The school is not the boss of the world, you know." 

Me:  "Oh yeah?"

G-man: "Yeah.  They haven't read the rules, because you know who IS the boss of the world?"

I had no idea what was coming here, but said, "Who?"

G-man:  "God and Jesus, Mom, that's who.  God and Jesus."

What can I say?  The boy has a point.  The boy who is wise way beyond his years.

Seven going on seventeen...or maybe twenty-seven....

I Love Sundays

I love Sundays. 

I love Saturdays too – they possess their own charming appeal with birthday parties and youth sports and shopping - but Sunday always brings a leisurely, relaxed rhythm that is not rivaled by any other day of the week.  Sunday often means a late morning cruise for a drive-thru latte, popsicles in the yard, bicycle rides around the block and some kind of project strewn out across our dining room table, living room floor or grassy lawn.  There is a palpable sense of laid-back ease in knowing that the day is yours and a yearning for it to stretch out as long as possible before the hustle and bustle of Monday morning makes itself known.

When my sisters and I were younger, Sundays meant early morning worship with my Papa and Nana, where we stuffed ourselves silly with donut holes in the church kitchen and endured numerous pats on the head by the elders as they commented on how much we'd grown.  After that, we'd play outside for hours - a game of hide n' seek, Simon Says, bike rides to the park or some secret adventure where we would concoct our own rules and objectives.  I remember once we constructed an "office" (made out of cardboard boxes and old sheets) in our neighbor's driveway, and we set about collecting various insects in jars and bringing them to the "office" lab to investigate and catalogue.  Whoever was able to capture a black widow spider would be the ultimate bug-catching connoisseur - even though none of us had ever actually seen one in real life other than at the city zoo.  I will also publicly admit that we tried a few bug recipes - crushing up roly polies with sugar and eating them (gross, I know).  Other times we would play school or charades, or I would spend the afternoon totally immersed in a library book - The Dollhouse Murders, Nancy Drew or Adventures in Babysitting. 

I loved Sundays, and I still love them.

Mine have changed in many ways, yet remained identical in others.  I still play outside much of the day – but with boys instead of sisters.  I still work on projects – but they involve Lego construction and train sets as opposed to paint-by-numbers and beaded bracelets.  I can often be found sifting through grains in the sandbox while I instruct B-man how to use just enough water to create the perfect sandcastle, pulling Wee-man up and down the street in his red Ryder wagon or explaining to G-man for the umpteenth time that the 2x4s in the garage cannot, unfortunately, be assembled into an operational roller coaster.  And, thanks to my husband, I am also rediscovering my affinity for bike rides, as he just bought us an adult pair so that we can pedal around the block with the boys.  Our next mission is to find some really great bike paths to explore. 

I am so thankful every day that my kids find such delight in being outdoors.  I think they would live in a tent in the backyard if I let them.  This love of nature can be learned and respected over time, but it cannot be inherently instilled – I think you are either born an outdoorsy sort or you aren’t.  You love camping or you don’t.  You crave a salty ocean or you don’t.  You would hike all day for a killer view or you won’t. 

I think many kids are born with this natural love and instinct in them, and it often gets smothered by parents who protest or fear The Great Outdoors.  Not all parents dig dirt, and I mean dig in the “it’s cool” kind of way.  I will admit, when my kids troop inside looking like they just dug a tunnel to China and back, I sometimes gasp at the filth and run to hide my good throw pillows from the clutches of their dusty palms and soil-encrusted fingernails.  But then I remember: the pillow covers can be laundered, and their bodies rinse clean in a warm, sudsy tub. 

What nature covers your soul with, however, sticks to you forever.

It’s Monday, and I miss Sunday.  But it’ll come around again, and we’ll be waiting.


~Ralph Waldo Emerson



Up in the Stratus-phere

Ok.  So it's been a whole MONTH since I last blogged.  I know, I know.  I fell into that rut - the one where you can't think of anything to write about, you've lost inspiration and your zest for creative prose, and you feel like no one out there's reading it anyway, so who will notice the hiatus??

Honestly, I kind of needed the break, because parts of our house have been turned upside down for the past two or three weeks.  We completely repainted/redecorated our master bedroom and bath, and I have assigned my husband so many projects that he could start his own DIY show by now (if you want to know how to turn a plain 'ole door into an amazing headboard, he's your guy.)  I'm thrilled to announce that we found the perfect shade of gray for our bedroom - Stratus - and that greenish Winter in Paris turned out to be a great spa-like shade for the bathroom. 

We also finally switched from a queen bed to a king size, and I feel like I have been lounging in a high-class hotel suite for the past week.  I mean, it's the size of a small island!

Many of our friends gaped and gasped at the fact that we had three kids and were still snoozing on a queen-sized mattress.  And I have to agree, on the many, many nights that one or two small beings slept between us and I struggled to stay on my sliver of sleep space, I realized just how small it was. 

But, I have this weird nostalgic tie to inanimate objects that is completely and utterly ridiculous, and for some reason I had a hard time letting that mattress go.  It was the first one we had in our first home and moved with us three times.  It saw me through three pregnancies and three babies, all of whom slept right by me on that mattress for months into their first year.  It endured six small jumping feet and a countless number of Olympic-worthy cannonballs.  It definitely had put enough time in.  I do feel better knowing that our old mattress will undergo a restorative process and will then be donated to one of three groups in our area devoted to assisting families in need.  Another mother out there will be able to tuck her babies in at night, and that gives me peace.

Oddly enough, the three small men did not even notice the change.  They took right to the new bed, ensuring that it received a proper welcome and initiation by jumping on it thoroughly and then making a tent under the new duvet cover that minutes before had been spread out all even and wrinkle-free.  Exactly what I expected, and you know what?  The bigger bed makes my kids look smaller - almost like babies again :)  

Here are some photos post make-over, and later this week I'll share some funny stories about the small men.  They've been busy 'round here.

Happy March!

Fell in love with this lamp from Pier 1.  Got it 10% off plus $20 off that!



Our awesome crackle-finish headboard.  Made from a $30 door from Lowe's.  Yep - thirty dollars!



The chalkboard says it all. :)