The Summer of Boys

I haven't been writing again lately. Obviously.

You see I'm living in this wonderful world of Little Boy Land and we've been busy squeezing every moment of enjoyment from it we can.

This is the summer when my children are no longer "too little". They're full on BOYS. They love sticks and dirt and bugs and asking questions about every single thing that might ever slightly occur to them.

"Momma, why can't vampires see their reflections?"

My after-work hours are filled with Nerf darts and Transformer masks, baseball gloves and popcicles.

Transformer mask + Batman costume = Perfection!

We've been to baseball games and parades, gone camping, taken off the training wheels and jumped in the pool. Fifty-six hundred times.

Will looks nervous for his turn.

We've gone out for ice cream at bed time, colored our hair blue and purple and climbed on rocks.

My life is a whirlwind of applying and reapplying sunscreen and Shout!ing out the dirt from the seats of my sons' shorts. I've attempted to teach them how to roast the perfect marshmallow, how to choose the right spot for your tent, how to put up that tent. Taught them how a compass works, how to use binoculars and to say "thank you for having me."

I've applied and removed temporary tattoos and stickers and Spiderman band-aids. I've put "itch medicine" on "skeeta bites" and Neosporin on scrapes. Explained why you shouldn't scratch either.

Grinning with bubbles on his tummy!

Its no wonder that I'm exhausted. But you know?

I'm unbelievably blessed to have all of this.


I needed to write this today, to remind myself of just how lucky I am to have my kids and the life I have. I had a bit of a breakdown last week -- some days it all just feels like too much. In addition to being a single parent and working my job and paying my bills and balancing a budget and making a home and trying to have some sort of personal life of my own...its overwhelming to always be the kind of parent who wants to give my kids more than what I had as a kid; to be the parent who does all of the "extras" and has fun and teaches and has patience through it all. Some days it feels hopeless to think that possibly...maybe...I might not always be doing all of this alone. I was feeling defeated and powerless and tired. Why do I bother to keep doing all these extra things for my kids? Do they even notice? Do they care? Does anyone? I needed a friend to kick me in the pants and remind me that when I feel like no one notices, she does. When I feel like no one loves me that I have her, and my kids...THEY love me, always. Even when I'm being stupid. And THEY are the reasons that I keep going...keep hoping...keep giving it my all. Even if no one else notices.

Proof that they really just wanna play with the box

So the move went fine (thanks to all who asked!) and in fact, looking back the whole experience could have been much worse. I had started packing well in advance, and the movers I hired were amazingly superb. In fact, I felt a little guilty Friday morning drinking my coffee and eating my fruit while I played Scramble with Friends while the moving guys did all of the literal heavy lifting...until I saw the bill. Then I realized it was totally worth every freakin' penny.

But as I'd mentioned, my kids were going a little stir crazy last week. If you've ever read anything I've written here, though, you'll already know that my children are amazingly inventive and creative. So of course they had a little fun with the moving boxes.

Man I'm lucky to have them!

In case you didn't catch it, Will asked to be called

"Bowling Shoes" for a few days last week.

No idea why.

 

Linking this up with Just Write.

The Crocheted Snowsuit (a.k.a. Fistfights Over Imaginary Things)

My children are insane. I've told you this before, but to be a good, imaginative child I think its required that one be off one's rocker just a titch.

A few weeks back I taught myself to crochet.

I know, I know. How very Ethel of me.

I've heard its therapeutic and gives you some sense of purpose and accomplishment as you physically create things. I've also heard that crocheting is like working worry beads - your mind is half engaged on the project, leaving the other half to wander and ponder things, leaving some of your woes behind with each stitch.

Or maybe that's just my friend and I overanalyzing the scarves we're making in the work cafeteria. Whichev.

Anyway, I set out a few weeks ago to make a giant comfy scarf for myself. My sons have seen me working on it, and Nick's even sat with me a few times, mesmerized as my fingers looped and pulled the yarn. I may just have him convinced that magic's involved but either way, they're both impressed I actually made something.

See? FUN WITH GREAT BIG GIANT SCARVES! Winter in the Midwest I tell ya...

So Sunday afternoon I took my kids out in the dreary cold January rain so that I could get some needles from the craft store with which to weave in the loose ends of my completed scarf. After that quick trip we stopped at the grocery store.

As we pulled into the parking lot, the following wisdom flowed from my eldest child's amazing little brain:

Nick: "So Mom. I know what we can do. We should get, like, a whole messa yarn. Like a WHOLE WHOLE BUNCH. And we could all - you know - we could all - what's that called?"

Me: "Uh, crochet?"

Nick: "Yeah. CROCHET - a whole bunch all together. And then your piece can get sewed to my piece and then we'll sew those onto Will's piece. And we'll have one big giant piece that we can sew into like, pants and a coat all together. For all of us to be all cozy in outside at the same time."

Me: "You mean like a snowsuit?"

Nick (eyes wide): "YEAH! A snowsuit! And we'd all go into it together so that if we go sledding then all we need are boots!"

Me: "Wow. A crocheted group snowsuit?" {Regretsy flashed to mind} "That'd be...awesome, Nick." {Awkward Family Photos flashed to mind}

Nick: "Yeah! And we could get one of those...wood things?"

Me: "Wood...wood things? What?"

Nick: "You know - that are like loooong sleds?"

Me: "Uh, a toboggan?"

Nick: "YEAH! A big long toboggan so we can all go sledding on it together."

Me: "In our crocheted family snowsuit?"

Nick: "YEAH!"

Me: {thinking that some mother probably tried making something like this back in the 70s} "So if we're all in this snowsuit together, how are we going to fit in the car? How will we buckle our seat belts?"

Nick: "We don't. We'd haveta walk. Or, you know, put it on at the sledding hill, DUH."

Me: "Watch your mouth little man! What if someone has to go potty?" {trying to get him to see the impracticalities of a group crocheted snowsuit}

Nick (shrugs): "We could put a potty in there somewhere."

Will: "Yeah. The potty goes behind you, Mom!"

Me: "Lovely. Just how exactly am I supposed to be able to sit on the toboggan with a potty in my pants?"

Both: "Hee! Potty in your pants!"

Me: "Hee! Potty in my pants!"

Nick: "Or we could just hold it."

Me: "Yeah, I think that's the wiser option."

By this point we're dashing through the puddles in the parking lot. I needed literally FOUR ITEMS.

So I don't need a cart, right?

Moms? NEVER THINK THAT. Just get the damn cart anyway, even if your kids are like 16.

At this point, my kids are still stuck on the idea of the family-sized crocheted snowsuit and I'm cursing Dr. Seuss, who seems in some way responsible.



You NEED a THNEED!

 Will: "I GET TO GO IN THE MIDDLE!"

Me: {wait, wha???}

Nick: "NO. I DO. It goes by age, dummy. First Mom, then me, THEN you. You're on the end."

Me: "Don't call your brother dummy."

Will: "NOOOOO! We take TURNS in the middle. DUMMY."

We get to the deli counter. The ancient old ladies behind the counter are s l o o o o w w w and unorganized. There also seems to be some disagreement as to just who's turn it is to shave more ham.

Nick: "Nuh uh!"

Will: "Uh huh!"

Nick: "Nuh uh!"

Will: "Uh HUH!"

Nick: "NUH UH!"

Will: "UH HUH!"

Me: "OK, OK! You both get turns being in the middle of the imaginary crocheted family snowsuit! Knock it off!"

After nearly 10 minutes of this I'm still at the deli counter, a bickering kid in each hand, attempting to put distance between them.

Gertie and Dot there, behind the counter, are getting heated. The woman in line in front of me gives up and accepts the .16 pounds of ham that is left, favoring a husband who's possibly irritated over a lunch meat shortage over the insanity that is the argument between my ridiculous children and the plastic-gloved face-slap that's becoming imminent behind the counter.

They ask for my order. My arms are being pulled from their sockets by two little ape children who are now "Uh huh-ing" and "Nuh-uh-ing" over exactly how the pretend family crocheted snowsuit will close - buttons or zippers.

And that's when I heard it. Nick had looped around behind my back and belted his little brother across the face. Because...

Nick: "BUTTONS JUST DON'T MAKE SENSE, MOM!"

Duh.

The Road to Hell

The other night, Will fell asleep in the car on the way home and stayed sleeping after I carried him inside and put him in his bed. That left Nick and I with about 30-45 minutes of "alone time" before his bedtime.

The kid was AMAZING. He was SO funny and cute and talked Non. Stop. It made me realize:

HE WAS DYING FOR MY ATTENTION.

It occurred to me that Nick is often overshadowed by his younger brother simply because Will is, well, younger. And pretty damn adorable. And quirky.

Which doesn't mean Nick isn't. Nick, in his own right, is amazingly cute -- the near stereo-type of the six-year-old American boy, right down to the freckles on his nose and the cow-lick in his hair that just won't ever let it lie down quite right. He says crazy-smart things that sometimes hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. He cannot tell a lie (either he'll admit his fib to me out-right or the smile on his face provides a dead giveaway) and has a pretty awesome imagination.

But the total amount of minutes in any given day where Nick is the sole focus of my attention are sadly very few, and like any working Mom (or any Mom with more than one kid), I hate that. Which led me to think that maybe he could really use some one-on-one time with me, especially considering that our lives have been a little turned upside-down lately.

So I emailed the idea to my Mom and she agreed that one night next week she'd come over after work to watch Will for me so that Nick and I could have a "Mommy Date Night". (Will to get his own "Mommy Date Night" sometime shortly thereafter.) With the boys in their beds last night, I pitched the idea to them.

"Guess what? We're going to have Mommy Date Nights! Won't that be great?" I looked at their faces. They had no idea what the hell I was talking about. "Each of you gets a turn to go somewhere special -- and we'll do anything you want, you get to pick! -- with JUST MOMMY. All by yourselves. Won't that be fun?" They each appeared to be pondering this.

"Nick gets to go first because he's oldest, then it'll be Will's turn. Will, Grandma is going to come over next week to hang out with you while Nick and I go out!" I wanted each step of this to sound as fun-filled and magical as possible, but I could quickly tell by the look on Will's face that he did NOT consider this my best idea. As his face began to fall I added, "You get a GRANDMA DATE NIGHT!"

This was apparently NOT any consolation. Will's bottom lip quickly jutted out and he screwed his little eyes shut tight. He threw his head back, mouth wide open and a loud "WAAAAAH!" came out before the tears began to fall. Nick, on the other hand, was smiling excitedly.

"Will, buddy! What's wrong???" I did my best to hug him up on the top bunk.

"I -- no -- you -- can't -- LEAVE -- ME!!!" He was sobbing as if I'd just taken away his birthday cake.

"No, no, buddy, I'm not going to leave you. YOU get to have a SPECIAL NIGHT, too. And you get to hang out with GRANDMA while its Nick's turn!"

It wasn't working. In fact, each thing I said made him only cry harder.

"I get to be with YOU TOO!" He shouted. "Dad says! When you're not at work I get to be with MOMMY!!! You can't go without me!!!"

There was no consoling him. Finally I just had to say, "OK, OK. Never mind. NO DATE NIGHT." Several minutes of rubbing his back and two tissues later he was ready to be tucked into bed again.

When I sat on the edge of Nick's lower bunk to hug him goodnight he whispered, "We still get to go, right?" To which I just nodded, whispering, "What would you like to do?"

His eyes practically DANCED with excitement as he looked at me and shouted, "WE'RE GOIN' WATER SKIING!!!"

Oh Lord...

God's House

"...and when we get old we can go to God's House." We were standing in front of the open refrigerator. Will looked up at me with his big, dark brown eyes, fully involved in his story, chubby hands waving in the air to make his point. I don't remember exactly how we got on this topic, but he's very interested in all things having to do with God lately, so I just answer as best I can.

"Yeah baby. When we die we go to Heaven." I ushered him out of the way of the fridge and shut the door, setting his juice on the table.

He skipped right past this. "God's House is very very far away."

Thinking he was still meaning Heaven, I said, "Yes baby. It is."

"God's House is waaaaaay up north. By Little Papa's." I choked back a laugh. Both my dad and the Hubster's dad share the same first name, and both requested the moniker 'Papa'. Somehow they became Little Papa (my dad) and Big Papa (his dad). Whatever, goofy kids. (The grandmothers, on the other hand, each have their own unique name. Big Papa's wife goes by Nana, The Hubster's mom goes by Mamaw, leaving my mom with the term 'Grama', which somehow wasn't enough for my kids...they call her "Grama Grama". Emphasis, of course, on the first "Grama". And often times, they still feel the need to explain, "You know, Mom - YOUR Mom." Oh...HER!)

Sitting down at the table, I somehow muttered a, "Oh really?" without laughing.

"Yep. You have to drive a long time to get there."

It was at this point that I decided not to just play along, but to feed the kid a little. See how far he would go. "What type of house does God live in? Log cabin? Trailer?"

"Nope. He has a castle. A BEEEEG CASTLE." Will's eyes went wide and his arms made giant circles as high as he could reach.

More choked-back laughter. "Oh. I see. He have a big yard around that castle?"

Standing there, not quite at my eye level, he began swinging his arms back and forth so that they almost touched in front of his body when he replied, "No. But he has TEN jumpolines!"

"Wow! Really?"

"Yep! And he lets you jump from one to tha other to tha other!" Clearly, this was a very exciting point. And clearly, something my children have tried to convince me is a good idea.

"Wow. Well, if anyone could save you from falling off and breaking your head open while doing that, it'd be God!"

"Yep. He jumps on them all day long!" Again, something my children have tried to convince me was a good idea. In fact, they've tried to convince me they should sleep out in the yard, on the trampoline.

"Wow. Well God is probably really good at getting other things done while he's jumping."

"Yep." He smiled wide and I patted the chair in front of me, onto which he scrambled.

"How do you know all this, anyway?" I sat back like I was skeptical.

He looked at me like I had two heads, "Cuz I do!"

"Alright, alright! I believe you. Tell me more. Does God have any pets?"

He took a swig of juice before replying, "Yes, but no dogs. Only a cat."

"Really? Why not a dog?"

He began to swing his little legs back and forth beneath him. He shrugged. "He doesn't like 'em. He likes just cats."

"Oh. OK. What's his cat's name?"

"Milkshake."

But of course...

Thank you, Harry Potter

"IF YOU DON'T PICK THESE TOYS UP RIGHT NOW I AM GIVING THEM AWAY TO ORPHANS!!!"

Its one of the threats I use when I'm really, truly at my last and final straw. The kids had been pushing my buttons all morning -- The Hubster was sleeping after an all night shift and they'd been squabbling and wrestling and not listening to a word I'd said. They were obnoxious and loud and the play room was in  worse shape than when they'd started "cleaning" it.

But then Will said, "Mama, what's orphans?"

"Orphans are little boys and girls who don't have any parents - no one who buys them nice toys like all the ones you have."

"Oh," he said, thoughtfully. "Like Harry Potter?"

"Yes, like Harry Potter." This finally made me stop and smile. Yes, every book off the bookshelf was still in a messy pile on the floor, but my three-year-old was obviously very interested in this topic.

"He got a Mommy and Daddy but they were way mean to him, right?"

"You're right. His Aunt and Uncle adopted him and they weren't so nice."

"What's dadopted, Mama?"

He was standing stark still in the middle of the room - more still than I'd seen him all day, so I dropped down to his eye level to answer. "Its when people decide that even when they're not someone's real Mom or Dad that they'd like to be that kid's Mom or Dad anyway, and they take that little boy or girl home and love them."

The little gears in his head were turning. He was thinking about this deeply.

"Do you know who's adopted?" I went on. Will shook his head. "Cousin Luke is adopted."

His eyes got big. "COUSIN LUKE IS LIKE HARRY POTTER?!?" Luke's coolness level was instantly ratcheted even higher than it already had been because he was now like Harry Potter.

I laughed. "Yep. I guess Luke is like Harry Potter."

"How did they dadopt him?"

I was a little lost for words. How do you surmise, in toddler terms, the process of adoption?

"Well baby, his Mommy and Daddy didn't have any babies of their own - but they wanted one. And they found Luke and they knew that he was perfect for them and they were able to bring him home and love him very very much - just as if he was their boy in the first place."

He was thinking some more. "When he was a boy - like me - his Mommy and Daddy dadopted him?"

"Actually, no. His Mommy and Daddy adopted him when he was a teeny tiny baby."

Will simply nodded, accepting all I'd told him and knew it to be true. "Oh."

"Actually, I remember when Luke was a baby. I was about the same age that Nicholas is now - I was six. I was so excited to have a cousin to play with!" I smiled, remembering how the six year old me had offered my aunt baby sitting services, and how she so sweetly agreed as if it were a great idea and then stayed in the other room so I could "take care of the baby by myself."

"Luke's in the Marmy," Will said proudly, rubbing his arms.

"Yep. Luke's in the Army."

"And he has tattoos. Lots and lots of them," he went on rubbing his arms to show where he knew Luke's tattoos to be.

"You're right. He does."

The arm rubbing continued. "And he has muscles. BIG ONES." He flexed, showing me how big his muscles were.

"Yep. That he does."

"He's super duper strong. He can lift houses."

I chuckled. "Well, not exactly, bud-"

"YES HE CAN. Like TWO houses," he interrupted.

"OK then. He can lift houses."

"Yep," he said. "He's like a super hero."

Little dude, I'd have to agree.

My cousin Luke is serving with the 2nd Battalion, 320th Field Artillery Regiment and is currently stationed in Afghanistan. This is his second active tour (his first was in Iraq) and he's scheduled to come home this spring.

Overheard at dinner

The Hubster surprised us yesterday by taking the afternoon off from work. It was supposed to be his 'short day', when he normally works a double, so it was nice to have him home for dinner. The kids celebrated the best way they know - by talking non-stop and asking 32,000 questions. File this one under "I've just gotta write this stuff down!"

"Mom, what's six plus five plus four plus twenty-hundred?"

"Prince Fielder's at bat...he does a practice swing -- now William, you pitch to me, OK? You be Dave Bush."

"I'm not eating my vegables. I don't like vegables." [Five minutes later] "Why I not get any salad? I want salad!"

"Nicholas, stop adding and eat your dinner. NOW."

"Mom, how old will you be when I'm 100?"

"So if I'm good and eat all my dinner we can have rootbeer fizzies?"

Which of course, naturally transitioned to 'beer':

"Mom likes beer. Right Mom? And you go to the bar. With your friends. And drink beer."

Oh Lord. I can hear the kindergarten teacher calling now.

So I try to change the topic. "Sometimes. You know Mommy's friends, right?" They name a few. Then Will says, "And that lady? That got locked out? Behind the bars? She's your friend, too, right Mommy?"

"If I could write you a song, and make you fall in love, I would already have you under my arm." (x 412)

Followed by "NICHOLAS! Stop singing and EAT.YOUR.DINNER."

"Here comes Ryan Braun at bat...and it looks like...ITS A HOME RUN!!! WOO HOO!"

"Stop pretend-pitching to your brother and eat your dinner."

"Mom. What's five plus five? You don't know, do you? I know. Shhh...William, don't tell her."

"William, don't you dare throw that up. Don't you dare! Don't you -- DAMN."*

*Its a consistency thing with him. If he chews something too long he gags and sometimes pukes. Totally gross, but totally not a real sickness.

The #1 reason you DON'T want to be standing too close to your overzealous three-year-old brother while mini-golfing.

Why I oughta...

My Mom came over on Sunday because she hadn't seen the boys in awhile. Like any Grandma worth their salt, she is notorious for spoiling my children. She often brings them candy, lets them eat it while I'm putting dinner on the table, and generally lets them get away with anything because she's the Grandma and its her right, dangit.

So Sunday night I made dinner, and like always, Nick was the last one at the table, dilly-dallying his way through his meal. Will had gone back outside to play, and my Mom had left the room as well.

Looking thoughtful, Nick tilted his head as he does when he's about to make profound comments and said, "Mom, I wish Grandma was my Mom."

"WHAT?!?" I pretend to be more surprised and outraged than I really was.

"Yeah. She's like, a better Mom and stuff." He chewed away at whatever piece of meat had been in his mouth for ten minutes already, swinging his feet as little boys are wont to do. "That would be cool."

"Well poop on you, Jobu!" I said, picking up the last of the dinner dishes and putting them in the sink.

"Well, she'd like, not make me sit here and finish my dinner." I surpressed a chuckle. He was probably right on that one.

"Fine. Whatever. Go tell Grandma. I don't need you, anyway. I've still got Will." I kept moving, wondering where this conversation was going to lead.

"Well, don't you love me, Mom? Don't you want me to not go live with Grandma?"

"Not if you're going to tell me I'm not a good Mom. Don't I let you do all kinds of cool stuff? Take you fun places and make sure you're always OK and not scared or hurt? I always FEED YOU, don't I?"

"Yeah," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger so close together that they were all but touching, "but Grandma's just THIS much better than you."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Oh really? So how do I get better? You know, beat her out?"

He stopped swinging his feet and sat up straight. "I dunno. I guess you just got to get prettier, or something."

New car FAIL.

Back in April, when I went back to working full time, the Hubster and I realized we needed a new car. The job required a bit more of a drive than I was used to - a commute of roughly 45 minutes each way. (On a good day, when its not rainy and I'm not already running late.) The '99 Chevy Blazer I'd been driving for 2 1/2 years was very nice - it could hold the kids and all our stuff without being a minivan, and we didn't have payments for it. And it was not a minivan.

But it left something to be desired in the gas mileage department. The transmission in Hubster's vehicle had started to go, and we decided that he'd get my Blazer and I'd get the new car.

Some days, its good to be me.

Having sworn I would never ever ever buy a brand new car ever ever ever again some years ago, we began to look locally at used. And then I saw an article on CNN - after all of that economic stimulus whatever-the-heck they did back when they were offering cash for clunkers, auto manufacturers were still struggling to keep their heads above water, and were offering all sorts of cash-back incentives and next-to-nothing interest rates on new cars. Their used counterparts that were just two years younger? Were only a few thousand dollars cheaper, and you'd be looking at 6 or 7% interest (if you're lucky) versus 0% or 0.9%. It would have been dumb to buy a used car.

So after searching the Web to find the dealership with the best offer, we headed out one night, sans kids, to test drive and purchase a brand new car.

OK, so its a Honda Civic. But its MY Honda Civic, and its pretty. And smells new. And its pretty freakin' zippy.

What do you think? Is she more a 'Shelia' or a 'Rhonda'?

So off I go, on my merry way, through rush hour traffic, drive through lines and the great wilds of Northern Wisconsin.

Now, as I've said, I'm a "do it easier" kinda Mom. My kids are disciplined, but we pretty much go with the flow. I keep books and toys in a basket in the backseat, which typically buy me entire minutes of quiet before my boys start to fight over who gets that one I Spy book they both must have.

So when Nick asked if he could keep his activity book and crayons from BW3s, I was like, "Eh, sure. Why not?" And it was the best idea he'd probably ever had. I actually put other coloring books in my car, enjoying the semi-quietude they provided.

Until one hot June day, when, on the way to the park, Nick said from the backseat, "Uh oh Mom. My crayons got all yucky."

Uh oh.

"What do you mean, 'yucky'?"

"Um, this one just feels GROSS. And I can't get it out of my crayon holder."

Oh crap. Crayon holder? We don't have a crayon holder.

When we stopped a few minutes later I walked around to open his door, not entirely sure what I'd find.

"See Mom?" He was pointing to the door, and this little "cup-like" thing next to the door handle. Well, of course it was exactly the size of four or five crayons, and of course they had completely melted into a multi-colored lump of wax and paper.

This was the best I could do.

It took me 20 minutes and my brand new Honda Civic key to dig those puppies out.

Brand new car #FAIL.

You can't say they're not creative.

I've been busy this week. We've had a big out-of-town event every three weeks this summer, and in preparation for our next one (a family reunion in western Wisconsin) I've been updating our family directory again.

So, because I have no complete thoughts left in my head after all of this running around, I thought I'd share a little video with you.

It seems my children can take a baby toy and..."repurpose" it.

Playing baseball in the house from Colleen Vanier on Vimeo.

They came up with this idea all by themselves...I'm so proud.

Two-man duck duck goose

Two-man duck duck goose from Mommy Wins on Vimeo.

Now go enter my giveaway!

Just wait till HE has kids.

While Hubster and I were in Jamaica, our boys partied like kindergarten rock stars with Grandma for a few days, and then for a few days with Grandpa. They had so many things going on and ate so much sugar that they never really realized we were gone.

The end of their week was spent at my Dad's house in northern Wisconsin. They fished, they rode around the yard on ATVs, and probably best of all, spent time with two of their uncles. When we picked them up on Wednesday night, my brother Jeff got quiet and then looked at us sheepishly.

"Uh, guys...I sorta taught them something bad. On accident." 

Riiiiiggghhhhttt. Accident.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I thought it would be funny to teach them to say 'gnarly, dude!' but um, they, uh, I guess they didn't hear gnarly dude." He paused. "Hey, Nick! Show Mom and Dad that thing I taught you."

Nick smiled wide, and making the 'hang ten' sign with his fingers, shouted, "GNARLY BOOBS!!!"

Small children are really just tiny insane people.

So when I said we were no longer very close to a grocery store, I kinda lied. See, there's a Piggly Wiggly about a mile or two from our house. Its the little country grocery store that sells pretty much just the necessities at a price that makes you slap yourself in the forehead for forgetting to get said necessities at the bigger chain store in the first place. I've been inside that Piggly Wiggly exactly TWICE with my boys.

They know its a grocery store.

They know we buy foodstuffs there.

There are no toys. No swing sets. No giant mice walking around in costume.

Yet somehow its the greatest freaking place on earth.

I'm not an anal-retentive person by nature. I'm very easy going. Very "go with it" and very "as long as you're fed and happy I don't care if you wear red sweatpants with a light blue camouflage shirt". But I do do lots of things simply because they're easier.

As soon as my boys were of whatever the correct size and weight it is to safely do so, we moved them from their car seats to booster seats. Unlike the hellish baby car seats which nearly require some sort of advanced college degree that I did not get (I was a journalism student, thankyouverymuch) to fasten and unfasten them in and out of your car, these pretty babies simply sit on the back seat and one pulls a regular humanoid seat belt across their kid to buckle them in. (The belt feeds through an opening near the top so as to guide it across their bodies properly, and not across their face.) Need to hand off a seat to Grandma? Great. Takes 32 and a half seconds, approximately.

What's also great about them is that both boys have the exact same seat. There's no "his seat" and "my seat", its just "get in where you fit in" or wherever the hell Mommy happens to put you.

Until we moved.

We pass the aforementioned Piggly Wiggly (or "Pid Widdly" as Will calls it) every single time we drive into town to do, well, anything. This is where I blame that damn Porky Pig looking douche on the outside of the building for my woes: the kids started calling out when 'Pid Widdly' was on their "side".

As in: HEY! I WIN! PID WIDDLY IS ON MY SIDE!

Which would then be followed up by an, AW! THAT'S NOT FAIR!!! MOOOOOM...HE HAD PID WIDDLY ON HIS SIDE LAAAASSST TIIIIIMMEEEE!

Which was often followed by a WHAAAAAA!

Leading me to curse the very existence of that fat pig and want to shove some play-dough-like substance into my ear canals.

Aha! I thought one day. If I put kid 1 only on the driver's side and kid 2 only on the passenger's side, then each kid will get a turn on the goddamned Pid Widdly side - one on the way to town, the other on the way home!

(I'm so brilliant sometimes I'm in awe of myself.)

And all was well.

For awhile.

Then my stinkin' kid had to go and get, like, all smart and stuff on me. You see one day, after picking up our highly nutritious dinners from Qdoba (I swear all the food groups are in there) we walked back out to the car to find someone had parked their Mercedes juuuuust a bit too close to my car for my comfort.

I saw it and had the typical "Mommy response". I stopped dead in my tracks, picturing my five-year-old happily flinging his door open and climbing inside like a good little boy...oblivious to the fact that he also just gouged the hell out of the paint job on a $75,000 car while doing so.

"WAIT!" I cried. "We're going to all climb in on this side today." Holding both their hands (cuz we were in a parking lot, yo) I juggled my purse, keys and our bag of yummy, healthy, well-balanced dinners.

Nick protested. "No Mom! I can do it myself. See?"

He shook himself free of my grasp and sprinted around to the other side of the car. Before I could say another word, he was reaching up to grab the handle.

"NO! DON'T TOUCH THAT!" I knew I was being one of those Moms. I was slightly too loud and slightly too panicked for the situation, and I was unsuccessfully juggling, um, everything. But there was no way I was going to let this tiny little outing turn into a $5000 lesson.

"But I can just..." and just like that, his car door was opened and I believe I actually clutched at invisible pearls with my full hands, quite possibly hitting the three-year-old in the head with a bag full of burritos.

It was all for naught. My five-year-old is quite skinny, and instead of flinging the door open wide like I imagined he would, the way he always does, it was only open a mere six inches, and before my heart could beat regularly again, he was in his seat, the belt pulled across his lap and the car door was closed.

Well thank God for that.

I put all our goodies on the passenger seat and strapped Will in for the short ride home. Fast forward ten minutes later.

"HA HA! PID WIDDLY'S OUT MY SIDE!!! ITS OUT MY SIDE AGA-AIN!"

OH. NO.

There was a short beat of silence, as the reality of what Nick was saying hit home with Will.

"BUT ITS MY TURN. ITS MY PID WIDDLY TURN! THAT'S NOT FAIR!!!" Which was followed by a melt-down from Will of epic proportions.

Nick had taken advantage of my preoccupied state to do the advanced five-year-old math and cheat his way into sitting on the stinkin' Pid Widdly side twice in a row.

I turned and looked at him. He was grinning from ear to ear, swinging his converse-clad feet in little boy joy. He was clearly very proud of himself. To be honest, I was a tad proud that he was able to figure that out as well, but so stinkin' angry that this was what my life had come to. I mean, really? THIS is what they were fighting over? Who gives a CRAP who has a freakin' GROCERY STORE out their car window?!?

I told him that Will was going to get to sit on the Pid Widdly side for the next FIVE trips, which then caused Nick to wail like I'd just set his hair on fire. I ended up finishing that ride with dual sirens bawling away in the back seat.

By the time we pulled into the garage, the cries had subsided into sniffles. We climbed the steps to the house in relative quiet, and the boys sat at the table not uttering a word while I dug out plates and cups and forks and napkins.

I set their food on their plates, cutting into pieces those items that required such, and doling out equal portions of rice and sour cream and guacamole. As the final required item before I could sit down and enjoy my (now lukewarm) food, I opened the fridge to grab the milk and pour them each a glass.

I stopped short - again - in front of the open door. No freakin' milk.

Some days I think I must have been a real a-hole in a past life.

I muttered something about how I wished that "Daddy had mentioned we were out of milk" before grabbing the juice and deciding I no longer cared.

I sighed heavily as I began to pour it into their glasses.

"Well, Mommy," said Nick, his lashes still wet with earlier tears. "We could just go to Pid Widdly..."

There are some days when my children are cherubic little angels...

...and other days I need to look at pictures of them being civil human beings to prove to myself that they're not always so ridiculously crabby and whiny.

I love my children...I love my children...I love my children...

Some days its a good thing they're cute!

Meet Will's friends...

...its always the little things they love, isn't it? He carries around these game pieces from Candy Land and plays with them all day long!

Colorful characters

My kid will want to kill me one day for sharing this, but what kind of Mommy-blogger would I be if I didn't?

I now work part-time from home. Its great to get up in the morning, have breakfast with my jammie-clad kiddies and then retreat to my office in yoga pants and a sweatshirt for a few hours of work. The only issue I have with the set-up is that my office has a door, which, as any mother knows, increases their child's interest in what they're doing exponentially.

So yesterday I'm working away when Will comes downstairs. I notice what look like scratches on his face.

"Will, buddy - what happened? Where did you get those scratches?" The kid, in turn, looks at me as if I've grown an arm out of my forehead.

"I no skatches, Momma."

I lean closer. Aha. Its marker.

"Honey, did you color on your face?"

"Nope. Nit-o-nis colored on me." Asking a two-year-old why he would let his brother color on his face is futile. I might as well ask the cat. Instead, I call on Nicholas.

"What Mom?"

"Did you color on your brother's face?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry."

"Why would you do that? You know you don't color on anything but paper."

"I know. But I already colored on my peter and my butt, so..."

"YOU WHAT?!?" My kids know the proper names for their body parts, but I'm sure you can guess what he was talking about.

It was just this moment that Jay came downstairs and heard the conversation. Without saying a word, he picked the boy up and pulled down his pants.

Sure enough, his little boy bits were red. As were the scribbles on his derrier.

Choking back a laugh I asked, "Why would you color on that?"

"I dunno. Just cuz." He shrugged. I may as well have asked why he was wearing gray socks.

Jay and I both doubled over in laughter as we realized what Nick had said...that marker touched his little brother's face after it had touched his nether regions.

I am in such big trouble in a couple of years.

The difference between men & women (again)

"I'll get up with the kids, hon."

What it really means:
(Women) - "I'll get up at 7:30 a.m. with the five-year-old, even though I was up until 1 dealing with a sick two-year-old. I'll start the coffee, feed the kids, the dog and the cat and break up the fights that occur over the last stale donut hole and who gets the blanket from the back of the couch while they watch Hip Hop Harry."

(Men) -

Weekly Winners, the Xmas Edition

It was a rough holiday - the Hubster worked (and a double on Xmas Day at that) and well, I worked my tail off shopping and wrapping and cooking and packing it all up and driving it down to Milwaukee only to pack it all up and bring it all back home. Three days in a row.

I'd like my Xmas to start now, please. ;-)

Brotherly love
Xmas Eve '09


My brother's girlfriend made this beautiful blueberry pie.
It was scrumptious!


My brother Jeff, rockin' out


Some families sing carols and drink egg nog on Christmas Eve.
We drink beer and play Metallica Guitar Hero.


And then little Will sees his uncles having fun and wants to join in with what was one of the best gifts of Xmas - his own little guitar!


The boys opening gifts from Santa Xmas morning


Twas a very Nerf Christmas. This is my brother Mark doing what any good uncle would do - shooting his nephews as they ran around screaming.


D'OH! Got him!

For more weekly winners, check out Sarcastic Mom!

Christmas card photo FAIL

Well, Mommy doesn't always win...