Bleary and Bright

There's nothing quite like that stingy-eyed weariness all parents of young children have on Christmas morning. Your eyes burn and water; your head feels strangely hollow - yet heavy; you seem to be both moving and hearing everything in slow-motion. At least it helps the crazy reactions your children have to some gifts seem like a funny dream, when in reality they might be a tad frightening.

See what I mean?

(Whose brilliant idea was that?)

If you are, perhaps, one of those super-human-mommy types that have all your wrapping (let alone your shopping) done the day after Thanksgiving, you will never know the joy of a slap-happy Christmas morning. (Actually I choose to believe you are a mythical creature anyway. It makes me feel better about my own last minute dashes to the store in search of. . . well, everything that needs to go under the tree.) I know the bleary-eyed feeling all too well - no matter how hard I try, we seem to end up going to bed right before the kids start stirring.

Our hair looks absurdly similar, I'm sure. HOWEVER, you will find no pictures of mine.

Likewise, if you aren't nodding off through the carnage of the Christmas Wrap you just expertly finished being shredded to bits you will in no way enjoy the late afternoon Christmas Nap the way you should. It happens right after the breakfast cleanup has been finished, you've bid all visiting family good-bye, and tucked the children in front of the television with game controllers in their sweet little hands. (Game timers don't exist on Christmas, at least not until you've racked up an hour or two of pillow time.)

If you ask yourself every other day of the year WHY Santa brings video games, all you'll have to do is remember the blissful Christmas afternoon nap and it will all become clear.

If you're lucky you'll have a perfect little baby to cuddle up with too.

Later you can answer the age-old question: Which is funnier, the cat hopped up on kitty-weed or the dog trying in vain to get the stuffed antlers off her head? Or maybe go for a Christmas-light drive. Whatever ends up happening, it will all seem like a blur after you finally have your own well-deserved visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

Baby Silas

October nineteenth - one week and one day after the 'official' due date I never thought I'd make it to - started with a trip to the midwives' offices where I was informed that I was still in pretty much the same position as I had been for the last month. (Lovely) SO, after a little membrane separation fun I went home, stuck Nick in a stroller and went power-walking. . . for two hours. Then I did some serious vacuuming and mopping. Since I don't believe in mopping with an actual mop (seriously, what's the point of spreading the wealth of dirt around?), 'mopping' actually means scrubbing, rinsing , and buffing the floor on my hands and knees 'It's- a-hard-knock-life-Annie'-style. I even got the contractions going pretty strong, just like I had for the previous three or four weeks with every other attempt I'd made to get the baby moving. And I tried them all, by the way; running (stairs and the regular sort), 'curb-walking', jumping jacks, jumping on the trampoline, loading up on the hot sauce, foot massages, etc., etc., etc. The worst thing about trying to induce labor yourself is that you just end up temporarily more uncomfortable than you already were. Still, nothing much out of the ordinary was happening by the time the kids were out of school so I switched back into Mommy mode - homework, laundry and the like.


That night, and it was a dark and stormy night (really, it was), Max had his final flag football game. My contractions had started to be a little more consistent but they were only about ten minutes apart, so we went anyway- with the hospital bag in the trunk. By the time we got there the contractions were moving between ten minutes and six minutes, but we couldn't just leave! So we waited until the end, set the kids up with spaghetti (and my parents) and headed to the hospital. Apparently the shift in the weather sent so many girls into labor that there was literally no room in the inn. We sat in the waiting room with the family of some poor mother-to-be that had been at it since seven that morning and was 'taking a break'. They had pizza, donuts, and Chinese food. I was suddenly FAMISHED and ready to abandon ship for the nearest establishment offering Carne Asada Burritos, Chow Mien, or a Grilled Cheese Sandwich. Luckily for us all a room opened up before I could make a break for it.


An hour later the hospital was ready to send us packing anyway - I wasn't progressing at all. My midwife talked them into giving me another hour. SO we walked the halls feeling ridiculous (me, shivering in my drafty hospital gown). After passing another couple in the same situation Tyler decided all labor and delivery wards should come equipped with a treadmill room. Can you see it? A room full of women staggering along on treadmills, beyond the point of caring that their hospital gowns are flapping open, husbands wildly cheering them on (and trying to hold their gowns closed), nurses stationed in each corner wielding fire hoses for the inevitable moment when someones' water breaks. Brilliant. Tyler is a visionary.



ANYWAY, by the end of the hour I had completed several laps around the floor, an energetic aerobics routine, and three packets of Saltines. Oh, and progressed just a teeny tiny bit - but enough that we were given the green light to stay. That was at nine-thirty. The midwife broke my water, I took a self-hypnosis trip to my happy place and at eleven-oh-seven Silas Kingsley was born. He weighed eight pounds, two ounces (exactly the same as Max and Nick - Grey had an extra ounce on them) and is completely perfect other than the fact that he seems to have inherited my toes - rather like fingers, really. Poor tyke.



I will now toot my own horn. Ready? Isn't he beautiful?! I think so too.
I think we got the very best one.

Driver's Ed by Wendy - Lesson 1

So, I've got to ask. A.) Look like September to YOU? Not so much, eh?

You know, with the snow and all. But more important is B.) Does this road look big enough to accommodate anything more than one car going each way? The first picture is pretty much it's widest point.

All year long I drive this road. This twisty, turning, narrow road. At most points it's barely wide enough for a car going each direction. On the hairpin curves it is fraught with, it's a terror to drive, especially when someone coming the other way is too busy admiring the breathtaking views to stay in their own lane. All summer long I curse the ridiculous bikers laboriously making the ascent and then wildly careening back down the mountain with reckless - no, make that suicidal - abandon. (Oh, I know they're pushing themselves to the limit, and I should stand back in awe at their physical mastery. Blah, blah, blah. I've heard the same thing about everyone who takes their life into their own hands to conquer Mt. Everest. And you know what? I think they're all playing with half a deck too. Let's try working out your issues (and your physiques) somewhere that you're not actually endangering your life or anyone else's!) There IS NO ROOM for even a single biker on the side in many spots when two cars are on the road, and yet the majority of these spandex-clad maniacs ride in clumps. Single bikers will ride right in the middle of the lane (and flip you off if your horn ever-so-politely asks them to move over). Seriously.

I'm not sure the bikers are even as bad, however, as the Fall Color amateur-photographer freak show that stops and gets out of their cars all along the road to snap pictures of the leaves, and of their loved ones in front of the leaves. It's GORGEOUS. I get it. I can hardly go a day at the ranch without taking pictures, but get off the road before you do it! Go to a park. Take a hike. Or here's an idea - pull out on an actual turn-out in the road if you must shoot the scenery from the blacktop. But have some common sense. Don't park on the road, stick your children on top of a concrete guard rail and stand back in the lane your car isn't occupying to snap a picture with the disposable camera you just bought. Don't you see the myriad of disasters waiting to happen? The car full of like-minded color-gawkers that will momentarily come around the corner using both lanes and only watching the beauty drift by? Because they won't see YOU, they won't see your car, and they won't see your kids - not until it's too late for all of you.

Besides, you're in my way - just like the bikers. Grrr.

Bad Hair Day?

Having a bad hair day? These pictures might make you feel a bit better about any unruly locks you may be dealing with:

This look is pretty much par for the course this time of year. Forelocks, manes, tails - all full of trillions of tiny burrs and big fat thistles. So, don't you feel better?

The Worst of it

Out of all the weird things pregnancy does to a girl, the out and out craziness has to be the worst part. Worse than water retention? Yes. Worse than dropping everything you try to pick up? Yes. Worse than forgetting every word you've learned since the second grade? Yes. Worse than acid reflux, and restless leg syndrome, and peeing every thirty seconds, and having no room left in your body for your lungs, and constantly craving pellet ice, and not being able to paint your toenails all the way, and being moodier than a fat kid at boot camp, and, and, and. . .? YES!

Monday Night:

I am standing in the kitchen chopping up veggies for a stir fry (with a very sharp knife mind you) and bawling. Why? I don't know. Literally - I don't know, which is fine with me. I'm crazy pregnant lady and crying for no reason is in the job description. What isn't fine is trying to explain that I don't know why I'm crying to poor Mc-fix-it husband who innocently stumbled upon the scene. If he would have showed up fifteen minutes later I may have been just bubbly. Wish I could have stepped into his brain to watch him process the information.

Wife crying. Has knife. No blood. Belly very large. Says doesn't know why crying started. Can't stop it. Crying harder. Wow, belly even larger from side view. Take knife? Too risky. Abort mission. Call authorities. Retreat. Retreat. Retreat. Wonder what's for dinner.

I feel bad for him - for all husbands really - as they watch their wives lose their mind. There's nothing to be done. It's all about waiting and hoping the crazy goes away. And, MAN, do I hope it goes away.

P.S. Scary belly shots follow. Continue at your own risk.

Oh my, lost something.

No, no. False alarm. They're right there.

And Izzy too. Wow. I'm like a human sun-shade, or umbrella - if you will.

One of Us

Remember my favorite Christmas gift this year - the one I'd been asking for for at least the last twelve or thirteen years? A little Jack Russell Terrier of my own? Have I told you how perfect she is for me? I have? Well, pretend I haven't, because I'm about to again.

Izzy with her friend, Todd.

So, little Izzy comes to the ranch with me. She runs alongside the horses when I ride. (and, NO, I haven't done that for a couple of weeks now. What are you? Tyler's spies?) Her tiny little legs keep up too, inexplicably. When she wants a break she jumps up and down next to me until I lean over and catch her. Then she rides with me - or whomever else she chooses - for awhile. She trees Wild Turkeys, plays hide-and-seek with the deer, terrorizes the pot-guts (and poor squirrels), and basically thinks she owns the place. Last week she was almost dinner for a hawk. (I'm NOT kidding. She was inches away from being carried off in the evil bird's talons. Now the relentless thing is stalking her. Good thing it can't seem to hunt quietly.) Basically, she's proved herself in that arena of my life.

Izzy bossing around one of the horses we were looking at buying.

She's been an amazing playmate with the boys from the start, so that was never a problem. The only thing close to an issue is that she isn't convinced Nick is her superior. Watching him try to walk her is hysterical. That's okay, he needs a friend to hang out with now that school is back in.

Wrestling with Nick

Last week we took her out on the boat with us, which Tyler has done before. This time, however, she took the plunge - literally - and came swimming. Grey was so nervous she was going to drown if she got in the lake. Once we all got in to swim a bit she jumped right in. So, we can cross that element off the list too. She's a boat-dog. If I could figure how to get a service-dog vest for her we could cross off 'likes to shop' and be set.

Driving the boat.

Getting ready for another swim.

I just hope she doesn't go postal when the baby comes.

Oh my.

I knew I hadn't posted for a long time, but I had no idea it had been this long - I just looked at the date on my last post. So, to update:

1. I have officially locked Nick out of the pantry because I am fed up with finding fruit snack wrappers shoved in every nook and cranny (and couch cushion). Not to mention he stole my Icebreaker Sours and raided my dark chocolate covered nuts.


2. The boys have taken to sleeping in a tent - on the trampoline. (It's a good thing Tyler has WAY more energy than I do or this summer would have been horrible for the boys - boo Mommy, we want Dad!) I was ready to nix the whole thing after the first night without the tent resulted in a ga-zillion mosquito bites (Yes, I sprayed them with repellent. Sheesh. How irresponsible do you think I am?) and itchy, whiny boys.


3. As I was fulfilling my motherly role and explaining why we don't touch or try to re-light fireworks that don't go off, Tyler was brilliantly (out of my line of sight, of course) demonstrating the 'what not to do' portion of my lesson and nearly blew his fingers off. All boys in hysterics. (Again - boo Mommy, we want Dad!)


4. Took Izzy with us to watch fireworks on the fourth so she wouldn't be home alone and scared of all the noise. Not sure that was my best idea yet.


5. Actually wore yoga pants to work today. Don't worry - I skipped the boots and went with tennis shoes since I've stopped riding. . . really. (Haven't been on a horse since, um, well, Sunday.) Thought it would be more comfortable than wearing jeans. Turns out 29 weeks along is just uncomfortable no matter what. How do I forget these things?
6. The lovely girls at Juice and Java give Izzy a milk bone everyday when they give me my Chocolate Milk. She refuses to take it out of their hands, she just licks it until I take it and then she stays in the window hoping they'll pet her more and tell her how cute she is again, and again, and AGAIN. THEN she 'buries' the bone in the car. After a few days I have the boys bring in any remaining milk bones so she can bury them in the sofa. Occasionally I think she eats one.
7. Weeding / Watering the other night with the boys' 'help'. After about 30 minutes Grey stood up and shook his fists over his head saying "Curse you Morning- Glory! You will be defeated!". Three evil (and very manufactured) laughs ensued . . . and the helping came to an abrupt halt as all three boys became more interested in their sinister laughs than in actually 'defeating the morning glory'. Drat, foiled again.
8. It's been a week since I started this post. So, NOW I'm 30 weeks grumpy, I mean pregnant. I've begun growling at everyone like the Clint Eastwood character does in Gran Torino. Maybe I'll go back to riding and see if I can bump this baby along a little faster.

Ho, Ho, Hoe

Note to self: the hoe is not your friend. Step away from the hoe. Asked Tyler to show me how to run the roto-tiller to weed the rows in the garden. He said "I don't think that's a good idea for you right now . . . you know, in your condition". "What condition?" I mumbled as I tried to bend over to pick up the the hoe without doing a second-position plie (however that's spelled). Two days later and I still can't take a breath deep enough to sneeze. Imagine that - your back also effects your ability to SNEEZE! I learn so much every time I hurt myself.

After a particularly chaotic day at the ranch which my boss unfortunately witnessed, he told Tyler "I think your wife forgets she's pregnant". (Apparently pregnant people don't chase horses or dogs up and down the hills - who knew. Wonder what 'they' do when the entire animal kingdom plans a revolt . . . on the same day.)Tyler never actually told me what his response to that comment was but I'm sure it included an eye roll. Meanwhile, the bubble-bellied characiture of me needs a back rub because although I certainly haven't forgotten that I'm pregnant I'm really not sure how to accomplish everything I need to without ending up unable to sneeze for a week.

P.S. I'm still thinking the roto-tiller couldn't have possibly been a worse idea than the hoe.

What little boys are made of

I was being SO productive today. Gardening, shopping, selling SCHTUFF via virtual garage-sale, cleaning house (regular and the spring-type), directing chores, feeding animals and humans (of course), bathing children, de-ticking the dog(seriously) . . . AND during it all I managed to get all the way through EIGHT loads of laundry. Granted, you have to have a lot of laundry stored up to manage that task, and I know that's nothing to toot my horn about. I am what I am. It is what it is. (Did I mention the laundry is nowhere near being done?)I've been busy collecting the dirties for days now (not telling how many). On top of that I decided it was finally safe to stow away the winter gear - after it's washed, that is.

ANYWAY, just as I finished pulling the tick out of Izzy's belly -and simultaneously patting myself on the back - I discovered THIS lurking under the clothes in the washing machine.



Yeah. So, ever wonder what would happen if you didn't check your children's (or husband's) pockets before starting a load of laundry? Ponder the question no more. You will have a little window into their world if nothing else. I'm feeling a little like I dodged bullet seeing the green crayon that could have very well been melted into the entire load had it made its' way through the dryer too.

Can you identify everything? I get the peanuts - know where those came from even. The dried (well, some-what soggy now) pinto beans though? Who raided the pantry and thought those looked tasty? I would have liked to have been there to see the look on the culprit's face when he bit into one. Yummmy.

Highlights from the end of Kindergarten

Grey has had serious reservations about the school year coming to a close, not that he has any choice in the matter. He loves, loves, loves his teacher, Mr. Kay. All else aside (mainly the prospect of staying at school for lunch - how thrilling!)I think he would almost rather stay in Kindergarten than move on to first grade next year just to keep his teacher. Kindergarten gets out a week earlier than the rest of the school so Grey is officially done. They had a lot of great activities over the last couple of weeks, and I just had to post a couple of the highlights because I love the pictures that came from them!

First - the Kindy 500. All of the Kindergartners 'drove' around the school in their own little cars visiting different American landmarks and symbols. (IE: Mount Rushmore, The Statue of Liberty, Betsy Ross and the American Flag, etc., etc. We won't mention who was dressed up as the Statue of Liberty though. . . nor will we be posting any pictures of that lovely sight. Sorry, Charlie. No can do.)

Crazy Hair Day was actually for the entire school, but Grey's hair was too great to not post. I told him he looked like Albert Einstein. "Who?" Yeah, should have stuck with a Harry Potter reference, I guess. At least now he knows who Einstein is, kind of. (I didn't get a picture of Max before he left and his hair had fallen almost to normalcy by the time he made it home!) Nick was sure, of course, he needed to be in the picture too.

Um, this one I just found on my camera. Grey's bed-head is almost as crazy as his crazy-hair day do. I love this whole picture - the hole in his sweats, Izzy's disobedient ear standing straight up, the fact that Grey is just sitting in her bed with her looking like an orphan, AND that I don't know how the picture came to be on my camera in the first place.

For graduation Grey's teacher put together a program for the families. He introduces each of the kids, tells about their favorite things and what they want to be when they grow up. The kids are all supposed to dress like what they're going to be. It is seriously one of the cutest things I've ever seen. There are always a couple of the girls that want to be a princess and a couple of boys that want to be a superhero. (The first kid out in Grey's program is going to be Indiana Jones) I love that at that age those are really options in their minds! Grey is dressed as a paleontologist (working in his lab), in case you couldn't tell. I think he's messing with all his "bone-cleaning tools" in this picture.

After their introductions the whole class sings a bunch of songs and then everyone watches a video of the kids and the activities they did throughout the year. So cute. I just missed getting a picture before this one where the little girls on either side of Grey are both hugging him. (He didn't look upset, at all.) Bad timing! This one will have to do!

At the end of their program they had a balloon launch. Each of the kids had written where they thought their balloon would go on a piece of paper tied to their balloon string. Grey's said "My balloon will fly to a magical land where leprechauns live". Then they said goodbye! Oh, so sad. All good things must come to an end, Grey!

No painting parties here.

Well, it's official. I am the mother of boys, boys, boys. No end in sight - unless the mini ultrasound machine they used (since the big one decided to BREAK right as I got to the doctor's office) made the cord look like something else. I will not be re-painting a bedroom, or buying masses of pink baby things, or selling all the baby-boy things I've collected over the last three babies. Nope. Not me. At least I won't have to figure out how to do all those cute twisty hairstyles on a squirming little girl before church. AND, if I thought keeping my boys in matching socks was hard, I can't imagine throwing little flower barrettes and tights into the mix. Now it's time to go to work on names. . .

Not My Child

Bed-headed Nick realizing flip-flops are not a good footwear choice around manure.

You know those things you hear about other people's children doing that make you think a.) Didn't their parents teach them anything?, b.) MY kids will never do something like that, and c.) Where were their parents?Well, if we weren't before, we are now officially 'those parents'.

I was out shopping for maternity clothes (both a mother's day gift and a nightmare) and Tyler had Nick. They were at Tyler's mom's house - which is right next to ours - and she was leading Tyler through his latest to-do list in the making. Nick was bored and asked to go home, so Tyler told him 'yes' and that he would be right there. When he did get home a few minutes later Nick wasn't there. Tyler went back to his mom's to see if Nick had changed his mind and just gone inside her house. No Nick. Back to the house. He searched inside, outside (upside down) to no avail. No Nick. Finally he decided to walk up the street a bit to check Nick's new favorite friend's house.

Nick's scooter was on their front porch. Before Tyler could even knock on the door our neighbor opened it with a huge grin on her face, saying something about Nick. "Oh, so he is here," Tyler responded. She proceeded to tell him that she just got home. When she walked past the front door she noticed a little pair of shoes sitting neatly inside, then she came across Nick, ALSO INSIDE. "Oh, there you are," he says, "Can Michael play?" So, he was there playing when Tyler got there. Eating fruit roll-ups, taking a 'nap' on the couch. (Yes, he asked for blanket and curled up for a minute or two.) These are all things he does when he goes to grandma's to 'play'. I'm surprised he didn't ask our neighbor to turn a movie on for him. Maybe he thinks the same rules that apply at her house apply everywhere.

Seriously, how embarrassing. Have I ever thought to teach him 'never just let yourself into someone else's house'? No. Didn't really think it was necessary. Don't they come with some common sense? Apparently, this one didn't. Silver lining? I have to give him credit for politely removing his shoes at the front door. That was thoughtful.

Too much

I don't know where to begin. Today was, all things said, too much. Simply too much. A day that begs the question 'why do I surround myself with animals?'. They're so much work and bring such inevitable heartbreak. They seem to be in and out of our lives so quickly, yet the time they are with us they are SO with us - and would be every second if we let them.

Sadie's liver suddenly shut down last week. The dog with the insatiable appetite stopped eating - completely. The vet had little hope for her when I brought her in on Friday. He said he could run a barrage of tests but he doubted we would be able to save her even if he could figure out why her liver was failing. We tried some antibiotics and a special food to help her liver over the weekend just in case it was something minor. She ate every meal and even raided Izzy's bowl again. She seemed happy and energetic again. When I let her out this morning she was romping around the back yard with Izzy like she was a puppy too.

Then in the arena parking lot one of the horses stepped on Izzy's foot. Stepped, turned and stood on her foot. It was awful. We brought the horses back home and I rushed Izzy to the vet. I had only been there a few minutes when Tyler walked through the door with Nick. I thought they had come to see how Izzy was doing, but he told me Sadie was in the car barely breathing. He had seen her laying on the grass and had called to her. After a couple of times with no response he started towards her. She was semi-deaf anyway so he figured she just didn't hear him. Then she flopped her head back to look at him. She couldn't even get up. Her lungs were collapsing. I'm still so shocked. There was nothing left to do, so we had to put down our second dog in just over six months. I still have a hard time believing Duke is gone, and now the Golden we brought home to help him (and us) cope with losing his best friend, Gert, almost eight years ago, is gone too.

Miss Sadie - Max's 'twin' sister; master of finding dead carcasses (and rolling in them); terror of all pot-guts everywhere; lover of all things edible (and many things questionably so); falsely accused and wrongfully imprisoned chicken slayer; consumate wanderer; biggest, furriest, happiest Golden Retreiver ever - I can't believe you're gone, and I'm so, so, so very sorry you are. You were simply the sweetest, most gentle, loving dog. We miss you so much already.

Life (and sun) over Laundry, everytime

Did I mention I don't even want to come inside when it's nice out? (except to fall into deep-coma-like naps every other afternoon) It's true. Consequently the dishes got out of control for a few days there, not to mention the laundry. I wouldn't mention the laundry, in fact, if this post didn't completely revolve around it. (it's okay, you can go now. I can tell you're bored already by yet another laundry post.) Alls-I-know-is I HAD to do a little wash. I told Grey to put a pair of socks he was wearing (outside without shoes, of course) in the hamper. He yelled back to me from the laundry room that he couldn't because the dirty clothes were "too tall"! Very nice. Don't you feel better about yourself now? Good - that's what I'm here for.
And now I'm off to ignore the new pile lurking behind the laundry chute doors and play with the horsies in the sun.

SFOD - it's catching

With all this beautiful weather all I have been able to think about is planting. Flowers. Trees. Shrubs. Vegetables. Herbs. I find myself driving by nurseries NOT on my way. . . slowly. I picture elaborate landscape designs and mentally spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on foliage I'm not sure will survive in this climate, and I'm quite sure I don't know the names of. It's an obsession, possibly even a disease. A self-diagnosed case of SFOD - Seasonal Flowering Obsessive Disorder. Heard of it? It's an up-and-coming condition, I swear. Once the pharmaceutical companies discover its' rampant existence you'll be able to medicate for it. (Not me. I'll suffer. Besides, medicine is yucky.)

So, I decided Wednesday was the day to kick of the season with a well-deserved bang. After all I have done a little weeding, and I was devoid of horsey duties for the day (other than the whole feeding thing). Trying to convince Tyler of the actual need to do this was, of course, another story altogether. Maybe I should have picked a day he was working. Note to self: Don't mention needing flowers to husband. So, in discussing our plans for the day, our conversation went something like this:

Tyler- SOOOO, what are your plans for the day?
Me- Hmm. Laundry. Little housework. Work in the yard.
T- Oh, you have the day off.
M- Something like that, yes. I thought I'd just run to the store and pick up a few things to plant and then get started.
T- You're planting ...what?
M- Flowers for the planters and some more stuff for the terrace.
T- So, is that really what you want to do?
M- Um, yeah. ( Was I speaking in code?)
T- I'm just wondering if there's something else you'd rather spend money on?
M- I SO don't get the question. . . (flowers, flowers, flowers, flowers. . .)
T- You want to buy flowers?
M- Yes. Flowers.
T- I was thinking fence posts.
M- You want to know if I want to buy fenceposts?
T- Yeah, to finish the fence.
M- (Flowers, flowers, flowers, flowers) Wellll, yes, but today I want to buy flowers. (And trees, and shrubs, and vegetables . . . besides, YOU buy fenceposts. Not quite my thing.)
T- I was also thinking we should get Max some of those hard tires for his bike.
M- O-kay. (and this has WHAT to do with my flowers?)
T- But you're thinking you want to buy flowers.
M- Yes. Flowers.
T- I was also thinking maybe we should go out for dinner.

I'm thinking maybe he was just thinking aloud. That's what I'm thinking. Otherwise it seems our lines of communication have completely broken down. Is it because of the flowers? I mean, I realize that prettying things up a bit doesn't enter into the realm of the logical male mind. I also realize - increasingly - that a large majority of decisions in my life seem to be based solely on a cuteness-factor that definitely lacks a certain logical factor. AND I'm thinking the consistency of that little habit may have finally short-circuited my oh-so-logical husband. The flowers are pretty though. AND, the herbs smell delicious. Maybe they'll bring him back to his senses.

Can Open - Worms Everywhere.

So, I guess it's about time to let the cat out, of the bag that is. It's been pushing it's nose out for months now - just little glimpses here and there, meowing incessantly to those close and possibly even scratching some eyes out. Cats. I do realize that some of you saw it for what it was right away, mostly due to the following facts:

• I have been simultaneously nauseous and famished 24 hours a day.


• I have leaped to new heights of anti-social behaviour - mostly due to the above fact.


• My nap time suddenly knows no bounds.


• I teared up during 'Chuck', 'Lost', 'Grey's Anatomy', and 'Bones'. Not to mention 'Monster's vs. Aliens'. I mean, really! Get a grip.


• Hot Chocolate has lost it's appeal. If you didn't know - that's huge, by the way. Huge.


• I'm wearing a short-sleeved shirt. . . and it's cooler than seventy-five degrees out.


• If it didn't completely gross me out, I think I could burp the alphabet at least twice - anytime after four p.m. . . . daily.


• My super-sensitive nose has turned into a near bionic phenomenon.
• I can't seem to hold onto anything! Loose joints, I tell you. Something my husband thinks is bogus, but I assure you, I'm not usually THIS clumsy.
• My bladder thinks it's the size of a peanut.
• What skinny jeans? They're in hibernation, bring on the fattys now and see how long they'll last before I have to add rubber bands to the fasteners.

That's right. I got myself knocked up (blasted husband :) Heh, heh). I've got a bun in the oven. I'm a defective typewriter. I'm glowing. I'm three sheets to the wind. Oh, wait. That's something else entirely. Scratch the three sheets comment. I'm eating for two. I'm prego, expecting, with child, hungry. AND I couldn't be happier. I was starting to think I should be on the lookout for hot flashes. Now I'll be getting a heat wave instead. Yay. (Not so much on the actual internal heat wave as on the baby-thing itself.) Anyway, here's to the second trimester energy actually kicking in one of these days so I can spend more time sitting here with you; because sitting really takes it out of me, you know.

Ah, such an idyllic life

A couple of weeks ago I was heading out to do the nighttime feeding (of all creatures great and small) when I heard my mother-in-law calling to me from her yard. "One of your horses is out!" I looked up in alarm, naturally. Surely if one was out the rest would be close behind. Luckily, it was Tyrone, the big Tennessee Walker that has no use for boundaries. As much as the others may want to follow his lead sometimes, very few ever do. I think they are stopped by one of two things; either they know Ty can simply leap tall fences in a single bound (and they can't so much or are too lazy), or they don't want to be caught following the low man on the totem pole anywhere - brilliant escape plan or not. So there stood the big beast calmly trimming our ever-so-patient neighbors' perfect lawn. (The soccer-field neighbor, not the not-so-nices' obviously) Apparently it was just too much for him to be in a nearly grass-less existence with all that tantalizing green so close. The fence line that separates our yards is simply ancient - it consists of cedar posts, some cedar rails, and a LOT of wire animal fencing. We haven't replaced anything there yet and it's weak spots are significant. My mother-in-law said she watched Ty pushing his head further and further through the fence, stretching his lips out to nibble the grass until she heard a crack. He broke the top rail, stood there for a minute and then stepped right over into their yard. The other horses were tearing around, rearing up, kicking, and generally just having a great time seeing one of their own on the outside, unaccompanied. The youngest mare, who is slightly less-than-graceful at times literally fell and slid at least twice (that I saw). 'All riled up' is the term that comes to mind. If any one of them had broken free anywhere - let alone in a field of grass - they would be nearly impossible to catch single-handedly. Tyrone, however, is that kid that's just not like the others.

It's not just the fact that his ears are a bit donkey-ish, it's not his fault, just his breed. I swear if he could talk his voice would come out sounding just like Eeyore's. Very sweet, but maybe a little dopey. So he just stood and waited for me to get almost up to his neck and then began to meander away with Izzy bolting around his feet yapping.

When we were almost to the back end of our neighbor's property, and passing our hay barn a white flash flew in front of us. It seriously took me a minute to figure out what it was, and then it dawned on me - Bunny the flying goat. I never knew she could jump through the space between the animal fencing and the barb-wire on the backside of her pen. In fact, I don't she realized it until that moment. She does this to herself no less than once every other day:

Then I have to spend an agonizing five minutes or so trying to get her head twisted just the right way to get her head and horns back through the fence - all so she can jubilantly ram me with her new-found freedom.


So, really, who knew?



And so, Ty kept meandering, Izzy kept yapping, I kept walking, and Bunny followed us all - except for the break she took every 30 seconds or so to stop and stand in front of me, or head-butt my thigh, or chase Izzy. (Why do we have a goat again? Oh yeah, it's cute. Almost forgot.) Ty rambled all the way out of their yard onto the covered canal where he turned South, and where at least it's fenced off at the end of our property. I breathed a sigh of relief. If he would have turned the other direction we could have been in for a long walk, and who knows what other random farm animals we would have picked up. He came to a rolling stop at the fence and let me halter him and lead him back all the way through our neighbors' yard, onto the street, around through my mother-in-law's yard, and finally back where we started. Remember, this me leading a horse whose back I literally can't see over, circled by a loud and annoying goat, chased by a yapping, jumping Terrier that suddenly thinks she's herding sheep. My only consolation is that (to the best of my knowledge) no one captured this twisted-pied-piper scene on tape. And this is where the story should end, except it doesn't. Because apparently I'm slow.

Back in the pasture I lost hold of the rope when I was latching the gate behind us - and Ty once again meandered off. Dragging his lead rope. Not a good thing. About that time he realized how excited all the other horses were and he decided to take a victory lap around the pasture. Not that big of a deal, really. UNTIL Bunny decided to play interference. Every time I got close to catching the little (big) twit Bunny was suddenly in front of me head-butting me or jumping sideways in the way only a goat (or a moron) would. Sideways, seriously. Finally I had to grab her and drag her off (making ridiculous choking noises, the big faker) just to get to my original mark.

In the end everyone was returned to their proper place. I even fed them.

Happy Belated

So, I've been completely non-existent in the blogworld for weeks now and I have so many posts stored up in my head that I'm not sure where to begin. How about this little beauty of a picture.

Awww, isn't he cute? Weren't the seventies sad?

And, I know. There are hardly words. BUT, first I have to point out a couple of things. Tyler SO thinks he's not a redhead, and granted, he's not so fiery now as he is in this picture, but still. There's no other color his hair could possibly be. RED. We spent the last week in Palm Desert with Tyler's brother and family and I'm pretty sure I heard their boys calling him Carrot-top during a heated game of 'Chicken' in the pool. . . Next, can you make out the pink ruffle peeking through? Enough said there, pink ruffle. I think he said he was ten in this picture so I thought it a fitting tribute photo for making it through a full three additional decades. Oops, did I say that? He told the boys he was twenty-five. Well, Happy Belated 'twenty-fifth' Baby! So, maybe we'll finally have that belated house-warming party mid-summer (once the you can safely walk in the back without muck-boots) and call it a belated 'Big 4-0' celebration instead.

Then there's this guy:

Greybug (our other March 25th birthday) turned six. I marvel at how much personality is packed into this little body! He's quite seriously a laugh-a-minute. And he's SO excited to be six now, he hasn't stopped talking about it for weeks on end - "I wonder what I'll look like when I'm six?", "I think I might like black beans once I'm six" . . . As far as I can tell, he's pretty much the same now, but don't tell him that. His life has been completely transformed as far as he's concerned.

Desperately Seeking Girl in Cookie Costume

You know how you have days where you hit late, late afternoon and you're suddenly so famished you're sure you're wasting away to nothing. You think as hard as you can, but can only come up with a handful of nuts and a glass of milk for your day's nourishment? (No wonder you're STARVING!) Friday was not that day. And Friday makes the days I lose track of time and forget to eat okay. For the record I'm pretty sure it wasn't really all my fault. I started out well - yogurt with a little bit of Grape Nuts sprinkled on top, breakfast of champions. Then I got down to feeding the boys and here we come to accomplice #1. Grey has been begging for Toaster Strudel. (because he saw a commercial for some and can't get them out of his head, along with the sham-wow, the snuggie, some black-head extractor and the most horrible carry-all purse that he is sure will solve all my problems. I digress.) Anyway the begging has been going for at least a month and I finally caved. Too bad the real thing wasn't quite as delicious as what he had hoped. All three boys left at least half of their tasty toaster treats on their plates. Too bad for me really, because I ended up eating most of what was left over. Not so bad, actually.

Inexplicably I was hungry again around lunchtime. I was getting ready to head out to the horses for a ride, I'd need my strength, folks. Frozen Burritos to the rescue. Mmm. Such a very guilty pleasure. (I think I might need one now. . .) And I'm quite willing to take full responsibility for that one. Never met a burrito I didn't like. Surely, you say, you stopped the madness there. But, no. That wasn't all.

After school I rounded up the boys, my lovely niece and her lovely girls and we all headed to the mall to meet another lovely niece and do a little shoe shopping for the boys. (Max informed me the day before that he "now [had] a new hole in the side of [his] shoe". New hole? I asked. Then he showed me how he could take the middle of the sole out through a hole in the bottom of his shoe! He was so proud of it, and I was so horrified. a.) How many people has shown THAT trick to? b.) How long has that been there?! c.) I can't believe we haven't seen child protective services, or at least had new shoes dropped off anonymously on the porch.) ANYWAY, as we pulled up to the mall I said something to the effect of thinking one of those soft mall pretzels sounded good all of the sudden. Enter accomplice #2. Lovely niece number one says, "Ooo, yeah. Have you ever had the little pretzel bites?" No, I hadn't. But let me tell you, I have now. I was feeling very empty bellied after the shoe store and numerous terrifying trips up and down the escalators with five little children - most of which who refused to hold anyone's hands. They were de-li-cous. (The pretzel bites, that is.) soft. warm. all buttery. and salty. Yummy.

As we loaded back into the car to head to our next shopping destination I realized WHY we were hungry and the kids were so whiny. It was basically seven o'clock and we hadn't really fed them or ourselves yet. So we hurried through some equally delicious jeans shopping and ordered some pizzas to pick up on the way home. Yeah, pizza would top off the day nicely. Luckily, lovely niece number two had the sense to insist on picking up salad 'stuff' (along with lovely nieces three and four) on the way back.

Not so luckily, ten minutes from home, warm pizza boxes on niece number one's lap, what to our wondering eyes should appear but accomplice #3 - a DANCING TAGALONG. You heard me. An enormous dancing cookie motioning mid-macarena to the girl scout-mothers sitting behind a table in the stripmall. (At whom we waved a twenty and asked "how much can I get for this?. . . wait, we've got more!") First off, a note to all you girl scouts:

For the two weeks or so I spent in girl scouts, we went door to door to sell our cookies, dressed in ridiculous little brownie outfits. (Wonder why I only lasted two weeks. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the stupid 'sand-art' bird we made at one of the three meeting I ever attended. It was always about the cookies. And starting fires. Boy Scouts make fires, thought the girls would too. No such luck. Filled up a sprite bottle with different colored sand, glued on a feather and googly eyes. I was out of there before the glue dried.) Where are all the Brownies now? All we see are your mothers. You don't realize what you're missing by NOT knocking on my door. Seriously, I am a veritable gold mine. No one has enough Samoas or Tagalongs to fill my freezer. Let me order them from you, little girls. If we're not home, leave us A CARD. You don't have to do the Macarena on the street corner (although, that was fairly impressive in itself.), or sit at a table outside a grocery store selling a measly few boxes at a time. Come. Sell in bulk. Go home happy.

So, long story short, the endless carb fest ended with BBQ Chicken pizza, refreshing salad, and too, too many scrumptious Girl Scout Cookies. . . which are now gone. We are now desperately seeking the dancing tagalong once more. Hope you stocked up, girlies.

Babies Come From Heaven

Baby Max

Back in the day when I was thinking about someday being a 'mom', I only thought about the little kid mom-issues. Didn't sound too hard. Diapers, play-dates, Kool-Aid - nothing I couldn't handle. I never for a second approached the thought of my kids needing 'the talk'. (The first whopper of a step on the way to being a teenager, ugh.) Suddenly that seems to be an issue. Grey, who will be six this month has asked me repeatedly over the last week, "Sooo, how exactly do babies get in the mommies' tummies?". First I told him that Heavenly Father puts them there when he's ready to send down a new child. He squinted his eyes, furrowed his brow and said, "No, how exactly?". Great. I'm SO not getting into 'how exactly' with a kindergartner! Then, a feeling of relief overcame me as I realized I didn't ever have to tell him about the birds and the bees - this must be my reward for having only boys. I pawned the whole thing off on 'daddy', who told him to ask again in a couple of years. (Which means, of course, he'll keep pestering me about it until he moves on to some other mystery. Meanwhile, Max, who wouldn't dare ask that question if his life depended on it, has sat through each of Grey's little interrogations as silent as a stone. I'm thinking we got 'the talk' when were in, what, fourth grade? I hear so much about kids 'growing up' faster now with the onslaught of information that is constantly thrown at us all. Does that mean the point on the timeline where he actually needs in on that fun discussion has been moved to sooner than later? I mean, I'm pretty sure he still believes in Santa Claus; surely he can't be ready for this. Tyler is no more excited to sit down with him when the time comes. After all, his dad simply gave him a book titled "Now that You're Twelve", told him to read it and ask him if he had any questions. Right. "Um, Dad, I have a question about page six. . .". He was fourteen at the time, by the way. It didn't matter that his parents kept him out of the sex-ed program at school. His friends and brothers had already filled him in on all the gory details long before. So, he doesn't really have a good 'talk' to base his off of! I can't say I'm anywhere near being ready to have my little 'angels' knowing all there is to know. . . but how much time do we have left? A year? Two?

Feels like SPRING

A couple of days ago it was sunny here. And no, it wasn't a dream. I felt the warmth on my face, even had to shed my jacket - not something I do lightly. I know for sure the sun was out because my solar-powered husband was outside all day working on fence lines. And, man, was he happy when he came back in all dirty and sweaty with blisters on his hands. That man loves his sunshine. He'd work outside all day long as happy as a clam - as long as the sun is out. Even the horses were all full of themselves (and spring fever) with all the sunhsine warming them up. They seemed to work in shifts - one half sprinting around and bucking while the other half lay like dead, bloated versions of themselves soaking in the sun. I took one that doesn't mind being out on his own on a little ride and it was a rodeo just getting him to the street. He pretty much pranced the whole time we were out too - because I wouldn't let him run.

We have the horses separated into two pastures. The biggest of the beasts (an almost seventeen-hand Tennessee Walker), however, feels no need to be restricted by fences and squeezes himself through one section of fence that doesn't have a middle rail almost daily. I had never seen him do it, but that's the only possible way, short of jumping an incredible height, for him to get back and forth.

Anytime we ride out from the house all the horses remaining run along the fence line to the end of the property, just in case we never bring their friends back, I guess. So when my furry friend and I were riding on this very warm day I wasn't surprised when all of the horses in the east pasture came running to see us off. Then I heard the strangest noise. It took me a second to get what it was - heavy duty vinyl . . .bending. First I thought it was Tyler since he was working on the fences. But as I turned toward the sound I watched the last half of the monstrous Tennessee Walker squeeze through the fence and bolt across the pasture at lightening speed whinnying the whole time. A.) So cute. B.) So very him. C.) So Spring Fever. At least now I know exactly how he gets back and forth, not that it means the problem will be remedied, nothing will change until McTyler gets another sunny day off. It was nice to have my suspicions affirmed though.

Who Needs Directions - it's a POPTART!

So, one part of the New Year's Resolutions that I officially didn't make was to only shop for groceries once a week. (Oxen and mire notwithstanding) The theory is that in so doing I will a.) be more organized - have a weekly game plan for meals, etc.; b.) save money due to 'a'; c.) save time; and d.) eliminate unnecessary mental anguish caused by taking children to the store. (Please see this post if you need concrete examples of said anguish.) AND, so far, it's working brilliantly. (toot, toot! That's my horn . . .) The one drawback seems to be the brutal amount of time I actually spend in the blasted grocery store when I DO go, and the fact that I seem to pick the busiest times to do my shopping. I know I should just abort the mission when the only parking spaces left are closer to the other stores around than they are to the one I'm headed to. Unfortunately doing things the easy way (should read 'the sensible way') has never been my forte.


Last week I was in line long enough to have obtained my fill of headlines from the 'Enquirer' to 'Outdoor Living' and I still hadn't made it past the candy. What else could I do but peruse the shopping carts around me to see what everyone else was buying. Now, I would be quite horrified to be subjected to this same scrutiny myself. That said, the cart peeping was SO amusing I might never have to read magazines in line again. I saw some things that have always made me ask, 'who buys that?' . . . and now I know. A LOT of people buy a LOT of ridiculous products, and not that I think anyone reading this is one of those people, but I have to ask? Why would you buy. . .

• Cinnamon Sugar? There's no secret ingredient here, folks. It's just Cinnamon. And Sugar. You can't go wrong when you mix it up, in fact , you can make it to your preference! Wow. If you're buying it for the cute shaker jar, you are totally forgiven for the 'cuteness exception'. Just don't do it again.
  


• Peanut Butter and Jelly . . . in the same Jar. Really? Have so little space you don't have room for two jars? PB&J too labor intensive when you have to get TWO jars out? Do you refrigerate it when it's open, for the jelly, or put it in the pantry where the peanut butter BELONGS? Does it make you kind of gag when the two get all smeared together inside the jar? What if you want another flavor of jam?
  


• 'Easy Mac and Cheese'. As if the regular box of Mac and Cheese wasn't easy (and yucky) enough. I feel the same way about this little Mac & Cheese innovation (if you will) as I do about Pop Tarts not only having toaster directions, but MICROWAVE directions. If you don't have enough time to make a box of that dehydrated cheesy goodness on the stove (or to pop a pop tart in the toaster), perhaps it's time to reevaluate some life choices, huh?


• Disposable Toilet Wands. A.) Seriously, get a pair of gloves and a sponge. That's the only way to get it clean anyway. B.) Get over it! C.) Try to save the environment a little bit while you're at it.


• Pre-made, pre-portioned Cookie Dough. Sometimes it's nice to take the shortcut, I get that. BUT isn't it easy enough to spoon/cut/whatever the dough out of the little tube? Do we have to have the dough already portioned for us? Is there really some way to mess up the process? So, so sad.


• Lunchables. First, ewww. Have you seen the 'pizza' ones? Just looking at them is enough to send my gag reflex into overdrive. I wish I could say I had never bought one of these sorry excuses for a lunch, but whiny kids will make you do crazy things. Bottom line (pizza lunchables excluded): cheese. crackers. lunch meat. in a TON of packaging. Not. Rocket. Science. Amen.

Hmm, you get the idea. Thank goodness no one was keeping track of how many bags of Chocolate Chips were in my cart.

My life. . . streamlined

I pretty much balk at the idea of New Year's Resolutions, always have. This year, however, I just had too many things bugging me (I know, me, bugged, who would have guessed) to NOT make some changes. I'm not saying I got all official and laminated a list or anything. It's all floating around in my noggin, and there it will stay. One thing I will say is that I'm trying to simplify in many ways. In that spirit of thrift I thought of the Strunk and White mantra "omit needless words". Taking those words totally out of context I wandered very stream-of-consciousness-like to thinking about how much time I waste in the copious amounts of text floating around the web. Then, for a fraction of a second I considered checking out of the blog-o-sphere altogether and imagined HOW much time I would have to do. . . well, anything else. Good thing I didn't entertain that idea for long; because if there's one thing I learned from the very first journal I ever kept, it's that writing is cleansing. Doesn't matter if I'm babbling (kind of like now) to myself and breaking every language usage rule there is. It clears my head, period. So, with THAT explanation out of the way I thought I'd share with you a few of the other streamlining ideas I rejected.
I was thinking. . .

• hairless cat? (and shave the dogs, and the kids for that matter)
• make the kids' socks out of swiffer sheets? (if only I could really sew)
• throw kids' dirty clothes in the tub with them?
• read kids whatever book I'm reading to myself?
• don't sleep?
• stop wearing makeup?
• use paper plates?
• maid? (was sure that one was a keeper. . .)
• feed the kids cereal for every meal?
• move the chickens to the basement? (saving in SO many ways there)
• leave hay barn open so horses can help themselves?
• stop answering the phone?
• don't exercise. . .or work. . .or shop?
• toilet train cat and leave dogs outside?
• boarding school?

I could go on all night, but that would be wasting valuable time.

The Mom Song

I must be stuck in those late winter doldrums (which is a complete 'mom word' by the way. . . and because it is, it is so very fitting for this post. Alas, I digress.) because I simply haven't had much to say now for days on end. I still don't, even though the sun is out. Maybe it's because the Cardinals lost. Maybe it's because I'm trying to budget - which I hate. Maybe it's because I've had a stupid tennis elbow for months now. . . and I don't play tennis. (And there's a story for you there too. . .) Maybe it's because Grey caught the tail-end of Walker, Texas Ranger today and has a new hero. ('Mom, I'm Walker, Texas Stranger and I just shot a guy in the bum!' Lovely, no?) I don't know. But I DO know that when my brother emailed me this video clip I laughed out loud. So, if you're feeling 'oogy' (can you match that term with it's movie of origin?) you should watch this video. If you're not, watch the news and then come back.
AND, since I can't seem to figure out how to change playlist back to manual start, you'll want to pause that little gadget. So much work. Ever so sorry.

um, brrr.

You know those 'tests' you used to do in grade-school, junior high, maybe even high school, where you answer a bunch of random questions on one of those impossible to make paper flower things, and the test results tell you your future? On all those tests I always answered 'horse' to the question 'if you could be any animal, which one would you be?'. I was thinking, of course, of the beauty, grace, and sheer majestic power of the beasts. When I fed the horses Monday MY coat was soaked through before I came in, and I was out for less than an hour. Poor big, strong, majestic horses.
On Tuesday they had a layer of ice over their coats, icicles hanging from their whiskers, and ice-dreds in their manes.


See the clump of ice hanging there in front of his eye? It's not suspended in mid-air, no siree. Hanging from a whisker-type hair. Ouch. (Not to mention annoying)

And then, there's the shot below. You know when you're out in the snow for a long time and you don't realize you have ice in your hair until you turn your head and it whacks your frozen face? Imagine it's completely covering you. At least the guy in this picture has a winter coat a Woolly Mammoth would be envious of. . . maybe he doesn't know he's a horse Popsicle. Granted, just when I think they must be freezing one of them drops down in the snow to roll around, but still. How comfortable can it be, really?

As much as I love dogs, you know where they have to go to do their business. No such thing as a 'dog box' or 'doggy litter'. Although judging from the way Sadie plays around in the snow, I don't think she's really all that cold either.

This one runs back to the warmth of the kitty bed on the porch if we're out too long. No winter coat there. Aww, isn't she cute?

So today, I'm thinking it's not so much a dog's life either. Today, I'm thinking 'cat'. Definitely a cat. Not a barn cat. Certainly not an alley cat. A prissy house cat curled up in front of a nice warm fire while the storm rages on the other side of the window. 'Want to go out today?' my nice human would say. I would flick my tail at them and have them follow me to 'my' bed so they could pet me. Then maybe I'd take a nap - far away from outside, and the cold, and the wet.

Do they make something for that?

On Saturday Nick was a infuriatingly small eater - with the exception of breakfast. His nutrition for the day looked something like this:

Breakfast - 1/2 grapefruit and Four (count them, FOUR) bowls of Cocoa Puffs. (P.S. I know I'm an evil mother for providing 'treats' for breakfast. I'm over it, now you have to be too.) He was very proud of himself for drinking the milk in his bowl after EACH bowl of cereal. I'm thinking it's not such an impressive feat when the milk is chocolate instead of cheerio-flavored.
After-breakfast-snack - Batman Fruit snack that he snuck out of the pantry. We can only hope he stopped at one. He's become as adept at hiding the wrappers as he is at getting the snacks off the high shelves.
Lunch - Ham and Cheese Sandwich. . . except that it sat, untouched, on the counter until I decided it was too gross to force him to eat it . . . and I threw it away.
After-non-eaten-lunch-snack - Chocolate Chip Cookie he snuck from the cookie jar.
Warm Drink after being outside in the slush - Swiss Miss Cocoa with 'smarsmehwos'.
Dinner - (would have been. . .) Beef Chow Mien and Green Salad.

By the time Max and I had finished eating and Grey was within a bite or two of being excused Nick hadn't taken a single bite. I decided to take action and feed him myself. He was really pretty willing to take the first bite after I bribed him with extra story time if he hurried. Bite in, head turns (towards Grey luckily for me), and all the chocolate goodness of the day came spewing out. Grey didn't get hit but he grabbed his mouth and ran out of the room trying to avoid being the next contestant in the barf-o-rama.
AND . . . dinner's over! Who wants a bath?

SO, while I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the mess, I couldn't help thinking (as I always do on these occasions) about ALL the things we mothers clean up. Most of the messes are a direct result of bringing our own little human monsters home from the hospital. I get that. BUT if you would have told me just how many diapers I would change; how many accidents I would wish the diapers had held in; how many times I would strip dripping sheets from little beds; how many types of partly digested food I would mop up from various surfaces, I have to wonder if I would have been ready to procreate. Now, I'm down to 'it's nasty, but I've seen worse, and where are my puke-mopping-rubber-gloves?'. Before kids, I would have likely been the first one out the door just based on the smell factor alone. What has happened to me, and HOW? Some parts of motherhood just aren't pretty. At least the miracles don't stop when that first cry begins - somehow, if we let it, motherhood molds us into real mothers. Over time our weak girl-arms can outlast the strongest of men as we rock our babies for hours upon end; our wills bend to accommodate the needs of our little ones; our hearts grow and soften; and last, but not least, we clean up the rottenest of messes without running for relief, or tossing our own cookies.

But now I'm found

Ah, yes. After months and months of the things we settle for when 'Lost' isn't on. . . it's finally back! Hooray for suspense, plot twists and that downward spiralling-to-a-crash noise in the soundtrack when something crazy and important has just happened. The kiddies are tucked in bed, the dishes are done (dishes are done, man), and I just took more sinus medication for my ridiculously persistant head-cold. I'm figuring I have about two hours before I'm totally incoherent again. Tyler better hurry it up and get home or I'm firing up the DVR without him.

Boys Will Be Boys

Being the only girl growing up I always kind of thought I knew everything about boys. (I also felt like I knew what it was to be an only child - just with more battle scars.) Turns out I was wrong on both fronts. I get new glimpses into the male psyche every day through the four male minds I am now surrounded by. Most of the time the glimpses I get are endearing, but some of them simply reaffirm how completely different our two genders are.

Glimpse #1 - Boys on Cleaning

Me- You know what I hate? (not waiting for an answer) Dirty dishes left in the sink.

Tyler- You know what I love? That this sink is big enough to hold so many dirty dishes.

Glimpse #2 (literally, ha, ha) - Little Boys on Hygiene

Upon walking into the bathroom I discovered an un-flushed toilet - apparently this is the final stage in potty training, even my oldest (not the grown-up boy, thankfully) forgets this all too important step! (Just let it go children!) HOWEVER, instead of being upset I was overjoyed at the fact that at least whomever forgot to flush, used toilet paper! Hooray for small miracles.

Glimpse #3 - Boys on Onomatopoeia

You know how little (and big) boys use sound effects for everything? Half of Nick's names for things when he first started talking were really just the sounds those things made. Now he's progressed enough to have the following one-sided conversation with me:

"Mom, dis so funny. Gaba Hud (Jabba the Hutt) is all 'Bwaa, uhh'. An den Wuke's yike 'Whaauun-Whaauun' (light saber noises, I think). Den Tooey's (Chewie) all 'Awgghh'. And Gaba goes 'Oooogh! phhhhh!'. and dat's so funny. He goes 'Phhhhh!' Yike dat."

And Mommy 'goes' "just smile and wave, boys, smile and wave", because if I hadn't seen whichever Star Wars movie that scene was from I SO wouldn't have known what that conversation meant. Any boy -Star Wars fan or not - would have.

Glimpse #4 - Boys on Hats

One 'boy' in our house who has great hair can hardly be without his precious baseball hat - ever. If he was having a 'bad hair day' I would cut him some slack. If he were balding I might understand. If he were heading off to, say, play a baseball game I would get it. But, seriously, he gets out of bed in the morning and the hat is on before his feet hit the floor. He's not dressed, why is the hat on? 'Going somewhere', I ask? 'Yeah, downstairs', he says. 'Pants?', I say. No,no, not necessary yet, but the hat is. Today I witnessed him putting the hat on when he was heading to the shower. I cocked my head like a confused hound dog. How does the shirt come off with the hat on? Seriously. He just smiled at me, took the hat off, took the shirt off, and put the hat back on. Is it some sort of grown-up-boy rebellion?

Glimpse #5 - Boys on Hampers

Clothes Hamper: convenient, tidy receptacle for dirty laundry. AND the clothes form a pile adjacent to said hamper. We put a laundry chute in our house thinking the little boys would have SO much fun throwing their dirty clothes down it I would never have to search out their dirty underwear again. That lasted about, mmm, three days. Action figures are much more likely to make the journey down than a pair of jeans. Max actually goes to the effort of shoving all his dirty clothes (except his socks which he shoots into various hidden nooks and crannies) behind the clean clothes hanging in his closet. My biggest boy puts his unmentionables in the hamper and lays the rest of his 'worn clothes' in a pile at the end of our bed because he might wear them again. . . I say (girls against sniffing out the dirty laundry unite!!!) if it's not clean enough to put back with the clean clothes. . . probably not clean enough to wear. Maybe that's just me...

Glimpse #6 - Little boys on Kissing

Even my little Nick now covers his eyes and says, "Ewww" any time anyone kisses in a movie.(Okay, so that's pretty much just Anakin and Padme. . . or, maybe a few others.) I'm quite sure all the little girls of the world just blush and giggle.

In 'real life' even kissing has to have some goal behind it, some undetectable prize. As any purpose for kissing is lost on the little ones Nick has remedied all kissing situations (such as goodnight kisses, owie kisses, etc.) by deciding it's a contest of sorts and pronouncing a winner each time. Don't know what the rules are. Doubt there is a system of points. All I know is that upon being kissed, or delivering a kiss he shoots his hands over his head and shouts, "I WON da KISSING!". Boys.

Glimpse #7 - Boys on Fun

Tyler used to always say "A dogs' happiness is directly related to how dirty they are". So true, and so true also for little boys. Holly and I took the boys with us to ride at the arena today. I planned for their warmth - coats, hats, gloves, and cocoa. I planned for their entertainment - backpacks full of toys / books / you name it. I planned for their tummies - they had cereal, grapefruit, and eggs before we left and three snacks for while we were there. I didn't plan for the dirt factor. Why? Because I'm a girl, and no matter how much time I spend around horses and horsie-places, I would never intentionally get down in the soft, stinky, manure filled dirt. Just wouldn't. Why would anyone. . .unless they were boys. You would think I would have learned by now. We had been riding for maybe ten minutes with the boys safely stowed on the bleachers when Grey called to me. I knew they had been running circles around the bleachers but was still surprised when I looked up to see him covered from head to toe in the extra filthy dirt of a riding arena. I'm not talking 'I got my boots. . . dusty' covered either. I'm talking I'm-not-sure-what-color-his-jeans-used-to-be, didn't-I-just-wash-that-coat, why-does-my-five-year-old-have-a-mustache covered. When I asked him why he was so dirty he simply said, (with an expression of bewildered innocence) "I was rolling". Yes, rolling. Like, 'duh, rolling, Mom'. Of course he's rolling - look at all the dirt! Later in the day he said it was his best day ever. I'm thinking it was the dirt. No wonder they don't like to clean.

All things said, I love my boys, all of them. I love that they are such boys. I love their funny boyish ways. I love that I can see my own ridiculous girlie habits and quirks more clearly through their eyes, and hope I am the better for it.

* photo courtesy Kiera Eve Photography

What are you Wearing?

Remember the good old days when you could pick up the phone and call anyone you wanted to . . . anonymously? Before caller ID? (What a bad day that was, huh? The first time you prank called someone and they called you right back - oh, the end of an era, that. At least I was past the calling-boys-and-hanging-up-if-they-answered-the-phone stage.) AND, remember when anyone could call YOU. . . anonymously and ask if your refrigerator was running, or just breathe heavily into the phone and say "what are you wearing"? (Now, only your husband would pull something like that, and you're really not fooled even if he calls from a work phone.)

My little brother played a really funny YouTube clip for us the other night that made me laugh at myself and my usual choice of comfy pjs. (It made Tyler laugh at me even harder.) Inexplicably, it also made me think about the random heavy-breathing prankster of yesteryear and I imagined the conversation we might have now . . . if caller ID didn't exist.

Me- Hello?
Heavy Breather- (Heavy Breathing)
Me- He-llo?
HB- (Heavier Breathing)
Me- Okay, then. Thanks for playing.
HB- What (Pant) are you (Pant, pant) wearing?
Me- Um, really!
HB- Oh, yeah, reeeeally.
Me- Pajama Pants and a sweater. Excited?
HB- It's four in the afternoon.
Me- Your point?
HB- Okay. . . Mmm, hot. Is that all you're wearing?
Me- Not even close.
HB- Tell me (pant) more.
Me- I'm omitting the undie-details, but, wool socks, tights, long underwear, a turtleneck, and an apron.
HB- Are you (Pant) outside?
Me- Right. Without my ridiculous eskimo-ish coat, fur-lined boots, beanie, scarf, insulated gloves and hand warmers? Nice try.
HB- What's wrong with you?
Me- I have warmth issues.
HB-
Me- Hello?
HB-
Me- Pervert.

So, what are you wearing?