Drunk Driving

One of the things I really dislike about being pregnant is the morning sickness.  I find that if I always have something in my stomach, things seems to go easier on me, and that's resulted in the weight gain of 7 pounds so far.  This is not a good thing.  How can I be gaining so rapidly while I'm throwing up so regularly?  It's another side effect that just doesn't seem fair.

Last night I waited entirely too long to eat because Jordan was working late and I wanted to eat with him.  Silly me.  This is survival of the chubbiest and I'm here to win.  So, when things started getting dicey in the digestion area and I knew I couldn't cook anything at this point, I loaded the kids in the car and we made a mad dash to Carl's Jr.  I knew I was in trouble however, after I rolled up the window while driving away with our food.  The smell was overwhelming and I didn't have much warning- just enough to pull over, unlatch my seat belt and open the car door before I lost all dignity on the side of the road.  Almost immediately I was awash in the strobing red and blue lights of one of Douglas' finest and my first thought (right behind "Oh my good hell") was that he most likely assumed I was drunk.  Just then I hear him ask in a disgusted and exasperated voice "everything alright, ma'am?" and I knew I was right.  Mitch chooses this moment to yell "Daddy!" (because his dad turns on the over head lights when he shows the boys his work truck), and I hear the cop heave a 'why me' sigh at the knowledge that not only have I been drunk driving, but I have small children in the car with me.  If I had had any extra sympathy in me right then I'd have felt sorry for him, but unfortunately for him everything I had was all over the pavement.  I was still occupied, and couldn't even raise my head to look at him so I waved as cheerfully and reassuringly as I possibly could in his general direction and between heaves I called out "Morning sickness!" heave- couch-cough "I'm alright!"  groan- cough groan "So embarrassing!"  heave-cough-sniffle "I'm sorry!".  I tried to gesture to the bags of food next to me and told him the smell sent me over the edge.  Meanwhile the kids are in the back seat laughing like they HAD been drinking.  I imagined that it was going to take all night to sort out the situation but when I finally raised my head to look at the poor man through bleary eyes, I saw that he was actually more uncomfortable than I was.  He asked me if I wanted him to call someone to come help me, and as I shook my head I was hit with another wave so I was unable to continue the conversation.  He quickly mumbled something reassuring (I think I also heard a "congratulations" but I can't be certain) and backed away to the safety of his cruiser.   That was it- no breathalizer, heel-toe walking or counting backwards tests.  I was incredibly relieved, but also a little let down.  I guess I really have the whole motherhood persona down pat, if against all evidence it's hard to believe I'm anything other than a woman having morning sickness on the side of the road at 7pm.   I'm not sure if I should be offended or not.

Brad Pitt is my spirit guide.

Pregnancies have a lot of symptoms, some of them you hear about all the time; morning sickness, fatigue, weight gain just to name a few.  There are however, a few side effects that are not as frequently talked about.  One of those is crazy-messed up dreams and it affects me deeply.  If I say the words: "I had a dream last night" to my husband, he automatically groans because he knows it will tax his mental faculties just to follow along in the retelling.  Now through the power of internet, you get to experience it right along with him.  Enjoy.

Last night I found out that my husband was sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to have an affair with some random floozie down the street.  When I found out about it I was a puddle of misery, lying on the floor sobbing in despair.  The worthless swine, right?  Just as I was starting to think of ways to kill him slowly, Brad Pitt appeared to me and gently raised me from the floor.  He enfolded me in his understanding arms and held me while I finished crying, which didn't take long because I'm not sure if you were paying attention, but I sure was.  BRAD PITT was comforting me.  Even in my dream I knew this was a little bit strange.  So as I sniffled my last sniffle, he wiped my tears, kissed my forehead and stared deeply into my eyes.  He told me "everything is going to be alright".  Oh.  Okay.  If you say so.  I mean, Brad Pitt doesn't lie.  So I forgave Jordan and we all three happily went to the Louisiana bayou to go on an alligator hunt.  We were practically skipping in euphoria.  Nothing deals with a philandering husband quite like looking for gator.  Sigh.  I know.  It gets better/worse.

We were in this rickety boat, in the dark, in the swamp...  I cannot imagine a worse experience for me in reality, but in my dream we were having the time of our lives.  It was something we were planning on doing again and again for the rest of our lives.  Brad Pitt loved it more than anyone, as he was grinning from ear to ear.  And before you ask; yes, I'm aware that I keep calling him by both names.  I was unable to call him by just his first name, and Mr. Pitt seemed too formal for all that we had been through.  He didn't seem to care either way, thus he got last named.
Jordan couldn't see Brad Pitt, but he knew he was there.  Some things you just have to accept on faith, like Santa Claus and the Smurfs, and this was definitely one of those times.  Every once in awhile we would come to an intersection of sorts in the pathways of the swamp and Jordan would turn to me to ask if we should "try this one".  I would then turn to Brad Pitt, who was like an infinitely hotter Jiminy Cricket by this time, and raise my brow in question.  He would give me a small but decisive nod and I would tell Jordan that "Brad Pitt says it's okay."  My undoubting husband would then reply "Well if it's good enough for Brad Pitt, it's good enough for me." And off we'd go.  This went on for what seemed like hours.

When I woke up I had to make a serious effort to try to wrap my mind around the concept of the dream.  I lay awake pondering the hidden meanings and symbols etc., but I finally came up with this:  Brad Pitt came to me when I needed him most, he was sympathetic, caring and a true friend.  He helped me through the grieving and forgiveness stages of betrayal, then stayed with me until my confidence was back.  Everyone needs Brad Pitt in their lives.  He is all around us, and if we just open our hearts and accept him, I think that world peace would be possible.

 Or maybe I'm just dangerously low in iron and vitamin D.  I'll eat a few cheeseburgers while I think about it some more.  Brad Pitt says it's okay.

Power Rock

I inadvertently put the world at risk of nameless horrors today when I threw away Jack's power rock.  I bet you didn't even realize the danger you were in for about 7 minutes around 10:15 this morning, did you?  I didn't either until Jack set me straight.  It's such a normal looking thing that I had no idea the fate of billions rested on this one little rock that had found it's way under my foot all morning.  After the 4th or 5th time of stepping on it, I carried it to the front door and tossed it off the porch.  I actually felt the earth tilt a tiny bit as the universe's power was altered, but I dismissed it as my own stumbling feet.  I should have known better because not 2 minutes later there was a gasp, some panicked breathing and then an agonized wail as Jack realized his precious was gone.  At this time I still hadn't realized my mistake, and I asked him what was wrong.  He was so upset that he just couldn't get words out at first, but in between sobs and hiccups I was able to understand one question: "where my power rock at?"  Oh no.  It's a power rock?  I thought it was just a regular rock.  You can see how easy it is to confuse the two when the power is disguised as an every day, run of the mill rock.  It could've happened to anyone, right?  Apparently not, judging by the look Jack gave me when I explained what had happened.  He was equal parts baffled, annoyed, scared and disgusted with me.  So, shamefacedly I put my shoes on and combed the general direction in which I had thrown the rock of power. ( Note: if you ever throw away a random object that has been in the house for an unknown reason- watch to see where it lands.  Just in case.  It could be a power object.)  After holding up 4 potential candidates for Jack's frantic inspection, the correct rock was finally found and returned to it's bearer.  All was forgiven (I received a grateful and relieved "Hank you, Mommy." and a hug) and the world was safe again for everyone.  You're welcome.

Rules of Engagement.

As parents of growing and active boys we are constantly having to reevaluate the household rules to make it a safe and wholesome environment for everyone.  Most of the time the rules are for the boys, but occasionally we add a rule that applies to the adults.  The last couple of weeks must have been milestones in the children's development because we've had to add quite a few.  Here are some of the newest rules in our house, you get to decide who they were created for.

1. Do not drink your own bath water.
2. Do not put plastic fish into the fish tank with the real fish.  It freaks Stewart out when he suddenly has a killer whale as a tank mate.
3. Do not pick your nose.
4. Do not pick your brother's nose.
5. Do NOT drink your bath water.
6. Do not give Mitch anymore apples.
7. Flush the toilet only after you go potty, not before.
8. Do not eat out of the trash can.
9. Do not put Mitch down for a nap without closing the bathroom door first.  And if you forget to close the door, you are in charge of unclogging the toilet.
10. DO NOT DRINK YOUR OWN BATH WATER!
11. Do not leave the apples down low enough that Mitch can reach them.
12. Do not sit on your brother's head.
13. Do not touch the Christmas tree.  Good will towards men does not extend to little boys who use ornaments as bouncy balls.
14. Do not lick me.  Ever.
15. If you see bits of chewed up apple lying around the house, pick them up and find the uneaten portion before it rots and stinks.
16. Most importantly, under penalty of death- do NOT drink your bath water.

I'm not sure why the bath water is suddenly so irresistible, it's not like they are dehydrated.  Maybe it's the new soap that has made it into the flavor of the week, but we can't keep the boys heads from dipping down to take that surreptitious slurp every now and again.  We all know that Jordan's got a quick gag reflex, but this one gets me too.  Totally disgusting.

Thanksgiving

At pre-school on Tuesday Jack's class did an activity called "Let's plan Thanksgiving Dinner."  The teacher had cut out all the color ads of food items from the Sunday paper and since it was the paper the week of Thanksgiving, it was full of ads for the traditional turkey dinners.  The children then picked out what food meant Thanksgiving to them and glued them to a paper shaped like a plate.  Jack's friend Evan had a plate full of classic holiday fare: turkey, mashed potatoes, rolls, pumpkin pie...  Then I looked at Jack's project and he had a plate that had 2 different kinds of pizza, 3 different kinds of hot wings, chocolate chip cookies and Scooby snacks.  Jordan wondered aloud why Thanksgiving dinner meant bar food to our four year old, and I just chuckled and shook my head.  Who knows what Jack is thinking?  Not me, that's for sure.

Wednesday night was Pie Night at our house.  Pie Night is a wonderful tradition where we eat the dessert the night before Thanksgiving.  My mom came up with the idea after too many years of having to throw away uneaten pie after Thanksgiving.  She decided that everyone was too full after eating turkey, yams, potatoes and rolls to really bring their all to the pie portion of the evening.  Thus Pie Night was born.  It's brilliant.  This way, you know exactly which piece of pie to save room for the next day and you don't feel obligated to make yourself sick.  We invite everyone we know who is still in town for the holiday to come eat delicious things and visit at our house.  Jordan brought the dominoes out this year, so the men sat around the table mumbling while they ate, while the rest of us caught up with each other.  Most people bring their favorite pie to contribute, so we really get a variety.   The kids had so much fun playing with all their friends and eating junk food, it's like a child's dream party.  The night was a success in that I had just enough pie left over for after Thanksgiving dinner the next day, and everyone left full and happy. 

That night Jack got sick however.  Not from eating too many sweets, but fever and stuffy nose sick and I was up all night with him.  I felt awful that he probably got all the kids sick who had been here playing, but what's a major holiday without a little guilt coloring the festivities, you know?  Because I didn't want to contaminate anyone else, we had to cancel going to Aunt Linda's for Thanksgiving dinner and I just didn't want to think about what ever else we were going to eat.  I was tired.  I was grumpy.  I didn't get Megan's broccoli salad or any of Linda's stuffing.  I just didn't want to think about any other kind of dinner, so when Jack asked for pizza I said yes without checking to see if Little Caesars was open or not.  They were not, and that almost sent Jack into a tailspin until I remembered that I had a pizza in the freezer.  Hooray!  When I showed it to Jordan, he started laughing and said that it was kind of spooky how Jack had called it at school on Tuesday.  The pizza was a combo pack that included boneless buffalo wings with the pizza.  Jack's Thanksgiving dinner project came true.  Despite my best laid plans, we had pizza, hot wings and chocolate chip cookies for Thanksgiving dinner this year.  Spooky.  

Interrogation Techniques

Here's a question.  How do you successfully interrogate a four year old?  By successfully, I mean without losing your mind.  Is there a manual?  Is it written in English?  Can I find it on Amazon?  I'm getting somewhat desperate, in case that slipped your notice.  I can't ask Jack the smallest question with out it going completely south in a big, fat hurry.  He is unable to grasp the concept of a straight answer, and he quite literally boggles my mind in mere moments.  Example:

Me:  "Jack. Where is the tv remote?" 

Jack: "Yes."

Me:  "Hmmm.  Can you look for the remote with me?"

Jack:  "Ice cream in the soccer ball."

Me:  pause. "Ice cream in the soccer ball?"

Jack:  "Uh-huh."

Me:   "Okay, but that doesn't tell me where the remote is."

Jack:  "Shoes on, donuts for lunch."

Me:  "Here's the deal.  I will gladly give you donuts for lunch if you will focus for 10 seconds. Would you like that? Chocolate donuts with sprinkles and chocolate milk on the side. Does that sound good?"

Jack:  nodding his head; eyes glowing with the dream of sprinkles and chocolate "Donuts...."

Me:  "Now. Do you know where the remote is for the tv?  Take your time."

Jack:  runs from the room and comes back with a Transformer "Miss Twine, Mommy." 

Me:   sigh.  "Yep.  That's Optimus Prime, alright. Where's the remote?"
Jack: hands me Optimus "Truck form?"
Me: groaning with frustration; taking Optimus to change him into a truck for the 80th time today "Where. Is. The. Remote. Jack?"

Jack: "Donuts for lunch?"

Me: pause. sigh. resignation. "Yeah, buddy.  Let's go get a donut."

See what I mean?  I can't seem to stay motivated on the task at hand when the person I'm talking to has never been in a real conversation.  I wind up following his line of thought instead of throwing myself against his brick wall of unreason.  It's a defense mechanism, I think.  However, I need to come up with a less fattening defense strategy.  Soon.

Signs and Signals

Do all parents look at their children at times and think that they are the weirdest little creatures imaginable, or is it just us?  I mean, are there signs we should be watching for in case we need to take steps?  Like an intervention or something?  Sometimes I worry that we are laughing off the wrong behavior, and the act of filling the dishwasher with plush toys is a tiny cry for help that we've ignored.
Both boys have their own oddities that make my husband and I look at each other with expressions meant to reassure one another.  Mitch is physically unable to keep his shirt on if we have company.  Within moments of our visitors sitting down, our two year old streaks through the room flapping his naked, skinny arms and making spitting noises.  Jordan will look at me with a sick smile and I will shrug and nod my head like I understand and it will all be okay eventually.  But I don't know that for sure, and I'm positive it shows.  Does every child cause their parents to wonder what could possibly be going through their nubile young minds?  For instance, Mitch looks deeply into the toilet to ask "Hello? Anybody there?", he sticks his head under furniture (leaving his feet laying out in the room) to rest while  contemplating life, and he dances only with his elbows (think chicken dance meets 50 Cent).  I can't keep track of how many times a week either my husband or I will shake our heads and mutter "That kid is just so WEIRD!"

Not to be out done, Jack will run through a silent house yelling "Abort! Abort!", which doesn't leave warm fuzzies in a mother's heart.  The other day I woke up to quiet movements next to my bed at 6 o'clock in the morning.  I rolled my head to the right and came face to face with my four year old.  He started doing these elaborate military hand signals, so I elbowed my husband awake to interpret for me.  Jordan moaned and mumbled that Jack was trying to tell me that he wanted us to move forward, he's got eyes on us and we were to walk carefully.  Nothing like starting your day with a list of questions to make sure it's safe to get out of bed.  Why do I need to I walk carefully, buddy?  Why aren't you talking?  Oh, and who in the world taught you hand signals?

Just when they "outgrow" one strange behavior another takes it place, so every day is interesting to say the least.  It definitely keeps us on our toes around here, wondering how the kid's are going to interpret life today.

Play Nice

We are in the phase of life with Mitch that defies positive outlooks.  He doesn't want to be positive and under no circumstances does he want you to be positive either.  He's currently working on making sure that anything good  that happens now or in the immediate future will be ruined or at the very least forever tainted in our memories.  I'm not sure what's going on in his little head and heart, it's gut wrenching to see him so miserable, but I'm going to hand him his butt soon and make his life even worse.  He's been driving me nuts this last week and other than killing him, I'm not sure what will help.  He's hitting anyone who gets close enough to reach, wether they are trying to hug him or hurt him doesn't seem to matter much.  No one is safe.  We've been working diligently trying to teach him how to be soft, so now he hits you and immediately strokes your face while whispering "soft", then hits you again and runs away.  Not what I was going for, but it's a step.  I'm not sure what direction, though.

Today he's a shrieker.  For the last 2 hours there is a cat being stepped on sound that happens with no warning over things that only he sees as transgressions.  Small things that I just don't see coming set him off and his little body goes rigid, his head snaps back and his face contorts while this ungodly high pitched noise comes out of his mouth.  I'm unable to circumvent problems, because even he doesn't know what the problem is.  An offer of an activity that is usually a favorite makes him run in place with tears streaming down his agonized face, and if I don't let him do something that is known for being forbidden he acts surprised and throws himself to the floor in despair.  I told him to stop hitting Jack and to play nice.  The level of anguish that my saying that caused was unbelievable, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open, watching him unravel.  He's an emotional wreck and it's hasn't let up.  He wanted to draw on my grocery list and I was still trying to write = he shrieks.  I finally give him his own pen and try to write around him = he shrieks and throws the pen because he wants it all to himself.  I give him his own notebook = he shrieks and rolls around on the floor because he wants my list.  When I told him not to draw on himself and only on the paper = wow.  I'm surprised I didn't spontaneously combust.  He looked at me like I was the most disgusting thing he's ever seen and ran away screaming.  That hurt coming from a kid who plays with dog poop at the park.
The boys are playing like boys, which means there are a lot of heavy thuds and random crashes coming from their room, and usually that's fine.  But today, every few minutes Mitch comes running out to throw himself on my lap and wail like nothing will ever be right again and Jack follows him as far as the doorway to watch with a look of scared confusion.  He looks at me like he's asking "What is WRONG with him?"  I don't know, honey.  I don't know.
I keep telling myself that if I can stay sane and keep him alive until nap time it will all be okay.  He can scream in his bed and I can lay on the couch and scream into a pillow and somehow everything will work out.  Maybe after he wakes up he will be back to being my sweet little boy that gives kisses and hugs, who laughs at everything and is kind to others.  That thought is the only thing keeping me together right now, so don't burst my bubble, okay?

Dinner and a Movie

Jordan came down from the mountain on Friday to surprise me with a family date night.  I was so touched that he made the effort to come spend time with us, that I forgave him the fact that his goal this week is to kill one of my favorite animals.  When he first turned the knob on the front door however, I kind of freaked out because I wasn't expecting anyone.  He had left me alone and unarmed (he had taken my hammer that I sleep with up to the campsite with him for the week) which caused my heart to race when I thought someone was trying to get in.  I figured it was either a bad guy or the little 13 year old handicapped girl that hangs out on our porch and calls me "coach".  Both options were equally unappealing, but for entirely different reasons.  If it was a bad guy, all I had to defend my children was pure rage and a mother bear's ferocity.  If it was Esmerelda, it meant that she was to the point of just walking in without knocking and our relationship had progressed into the restraining order stages.

 I was thrilled to find out it was neither of the two.  My next thought was that he had come home only because he was hungry and he was going to leave again just as soon as he got the tinfoil dinners he had forgotten earlier out of the freezer.  When I had found them after he left on Wednesday I'd wondered what he was going to do for food for a week, miles away from anywhere.  Worry reared it's vicious head and I had started having images of my husband huddled next to a fire, emaciated and looking forlornly across the flames at his buddy Justin who was eating a half side of beef in ecstasy.  In all actuality it was nothing so dramatic, he had left the dinners on purpose because he knew he was coming back.  What he hadn't planned on was me eating them in his stead.  Hey, just because I had visions of my husband slowly starving to death doesn't mean I had to as well!  He told me that he had been worried about leaving the dinners behind, that it might tip me off that he was coming back.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn't even consider his coming back, my initial response was to preheat the oven.

So after we made plans to go shopping for more food (I'm sorry!), he told me he was going to stay the night at home so he could watch Jack's last soccer game in the morning.  Did I tell you how much I adore this man???  I think I even started jumping up and down while squealing like a Justin Bieber fan.  I've spent the last day in a dreamy fog, sighing with contentment and happiness.  Not even the game cancelation (due to weather) this morning could dampen my spirits.  I love being in love with my husband, and I love that he loves loving me enough to do sweet things, just to make me smile.

THE HUNT

This year my husband decided to try his hand at deer hunting.  It started out as a lark- "Oh sure!  I think that would be fun!" and has steadily grown to encompass all of our daily lives.  There are piles of items stacked knee-high in our bedroom that are "for THE HUNT".  The kids are constantly getting in trouble for scaling those piles of gear as well as unloading backpacks full of Rambo knives and insect repellant.  I tripped over the 8 man tent last night on my way to the bathroom at midnight.  Just so you know, 8 men are not going hunting with my husband.  Only one guy is, but he's not sleeping in Jordan's tent, because "that would be gay".  No, Jord needs the extra room so he has somewhere to put all his hunting paraphernalia, that's how much stuff we are talking about.  We've gone shopping multiple times for said paraphernalia, and when I expressed concern about how much we were spending he assured me that this was a one-time start up cost and he won't have to buy anything else for next year.  I made him shake on that statement.   And sign a document.

He's actually really funny and endearing about the planning stages, (I mean, if you can overlook the end result of his killing an animal).  I've caught him holding up shirts against his front at the store with a thoughtful look on his face.  He didn't see me laughing at him because I ducked down the next aisle.  I had the hardest time not throwing comments at him like: "Oh honey, that's so last season.  THIS is what everyone is wearing now to stalk and kill.  Swamp camouflage would totally bring out your eyes but alas (sigh), we are in the desert."  There are quite a few purchases that I just don't understand however, and probably never will.  Camouflage house shoes is one of them.  I just can't wrap my mind around the meaning of them.   Are they really hunting gear?  Or is he disobeying fashion rule # 73: Do not wear the same pattern head to toe.  Actually, he is most definitely breaking that particular rule.  I walked into the bedroom to find him trying on his "outfits" (I don't know what else to call them).  He wouldn't let me take a picture of him though.  I tried reasoning with him that he probably wouldn't even show up in the photo since he was wearing so much camo, he'd just be a floating face.  He didn't take the bait.

The other day I found an excel spreadsheet that he made for organizing THE HUNT.  He blushed and reminded me that he is a nerd when I waved it at him with my eyebrows raised in question. He's right though.  He is a nerd.  It's one of the things I love most about him.  I'm kind of expecting a PowerPoint presentation later in the week on where he will be hunting and procedures for finding him in case of an emergency at home.
This has gotten so huge that whenever Jordan says something about THE HUNT, I see those words in my head in capitol letters, obscuring any other thoughts that might have happened.  Granted, there's not many thoughts in my head at any particular moment, or maybe there are too many for any one of them to be clear.  I'm not sure.  Either way, THE HUNT is very distracting for me.  I'm hoping that it's everything that he wants it to be, and that he comes back recharged and rejuvenated.  That would make all the rest of this completely worth the effort of dealing with a man possessed.

Double Trouble

The boys have figured out that if they work in a tag team fashion they can have twice the destruction with half the beatings.  For example: Jack dumped water on my night stand.  The night stand is full of books that are in queue for next week's reading, and the paperbacks took the worst of it.  After he got in trouble and helped clean the water up, I spread the books out on the floor on towels to air dry.  My mistake was in leaving the room, because Mitch moved in and immediately started making confetti out of them.  See?  Double whammy and only one spanking each.  The bad part is that I used what was left of one of the wet-torn books to smack Mitch's behind once.  I instantly felt guilty and had images of interrogators using phone books on prisoners, and wondered if he would have life long trauma going back the the wet book incident.  The guilt (and worry) didn't last long however, because five minutes later I found he had pushed the stool up to the counter to rub a stick of butter onto a pineapple.  Obviously I hadn't made as much of an impression on him as I had thought, so I tried again (not really, please don't call social services).

As I'm typing this, Mitch is standing next to me in his diaper with his baby laptop, frantically hitting the buttons with his little sticky fingers trying to be like mommy.  He is angelic and adorable and I wonder how he knows exactly how far to push me before I run away screaming.  The rolling around on the bathroom floor in Wal-Mart moment was a close one.  Also, stabbing his brother with a fork over a dinosaur (that we have 3 of), unrolling an entire roll of toilet paper into the toilet, and smearing ketchup on the tv screen are all prime examples of pushing to the limit situations.  Then he throws on the charm long enough for my blood pressure to return to normal, wraps skinny little arms around my neck for a kiss and runs off to start the process again.   He's got great survival instincts, and I count down every night until bedtime so I can breathe again.  I make sure to go in after he's asleep however, to gaze adoringly down on his cherubic form and take that image to bed with me so that I don't wake the next morning still thinking of how much butter we go through at our house.

It's curtains for me

I have a friend who told me I was awesome and something she aspired to, when in the course of texting I told her that I was ironing my curtains.  What she didn't realize was how traumatic the course of events leading up to my having to iron them were.   Here is what happened:  My little cherubs were jumping on the couch, and after I freaked out for the 100th time that week over them hanging onto the curtains for balance (thus bending the rod), they got a spanking each and sent to their room.  Thirty minutes after they were allowed to join life again, they found themselves drawn to the couch against their will.  I know that my angels wouldn't willingly go against my wishes, they were answering the siren like call of the pure bliss of curtain hanging joy.  Well, just when I was to the point of snapping completely, the curtain rod beat me to it.  Off to Wal-Mart we go, since I don't want the neighbors to see my bits parading in jammies after dark.  When we got home I tried to install the new rod, and while I was balanced between the handrail of the treadmill and the back of the couch I realized that the rod was exactly the length of the window, with none to spare.  If I twitched the curtains, the middle fell down and dropped to the floor.  The boys took this as their cue to start dragging the downed curtains all over the house while hitting each other with the jagged pieces of the broken rod (that survival of the fittest saying didn't factor in two and three year olds).  Naturally I needed to wash them before I hung them again, so I threw them in the laundry.  By this time it's dark and I'm in my jammies giving the neighbors a show, so a return trip to Wal-Mart will have to wait until the following day.  Now, I followed the care instructions on the labels to the letter and everything turned out fine, except the black thread.  The black thread in the fabric's design shrunk, so the curtains were puckered and misshapen, a bit like my sanity at this point.  I spent that night pulling them into rectangles again and making plans to spend an entire day starching and ironing to see if they'd be worth saving.  However, the next day was another setback when I found out that the store in town didn't carry a curtain rod that long, and I'd have to wait another day to drive the two and a half hours round trip to get a replacement.  So I ironed like crazy and displayed my wares another night with a headache and a sore jaw from teeth grinding.  Today, I am pleased to announce, we have curtains shaped like curtains and they are hanging on a rod at the window, I am comfortable in my nightwear, and the people that have been camped in our front yard have moved elsewhere.  One more night and I was going to start charging.  So you see, I am not an overachiever or a super organized June Cleaver.   I am just struggling to stay even.  As I typed the last sentence, both boys ran and jumped on the couch and my blood pressure spiked into the danger zone.  When people start wondering why I talk with my teeth clenched and nostrils flared- this is a contributing factor.

To help or not to help

Help/ v. 1. provide (a person, etc.) with the means toward what is needed or sought.  This is the word that Jack keeps using when he's following me around the house while I'm trying to clean.  I don't think he's familiar with this definition however.   What he is doing is closer to the definition of hinderance and Mitch is just plain endangerment.  There I was, balanced on the top rung of the ladder, trying to clean the fans on our 12 foot ceilings.  There Mitch was, lurking just out of sight, waiting until I was cleaning the bulbs to turn on the light.  When I was blinded, he turned on the fan and ran away giggling when I screamed.  Meanwhile, Jack was jumping on the bed and said "careful" in a bored, told-you-so tone of voice.  So I went down the ladder with stars in my eyes to turn everything off and when I turned around Mitch was all the way up the ladder and getting ready to jump onto the bed 3 feet away.  I guess I should be relieved that he's just an opportunist, and it's nothing personal.  He's the guy that completely takes advantage of "wrong place, wrong time", and makes it work for him.  Whenever I try to imagine his future I break out in a cold sweat and get shaky hands.  If he doesn't end up in prison we'll be grateful.

Jack's First Love

Tonight we went to a new restaurant here in town that is run by our old librarian Curtis and his son.  Let me just do a little advertising here first.  Amigos was really a great experience; to have that excellent of service, great food and a CLEAN building is almost unheard of in our neck of the woods.  The bathroom was sparkling, which is a selling point in and of itself.  And just as you may have guessed, the evening's entertainment was provided by our children as usual.  Mitch immediately pushed his hand through the curly cues of metal on the back of his chair, getting stuck like a baby raccoon.  I was thinking of flagging down someone to ask for butter when he finally came free.  Jack had chosen the table that was in direct line of sight to the TV which put us in the bar section of the restaurant, but as soon as he saw our server the TV was entirely forgotten.  He never had a chance once she smiled at him with her braces reflecting the neon glow from the BudLight sign in the window.  Her name was Jennifer and she had a certain flair that was unique, cheerful and incredibly endearing.  Jack started chatting her up almost immediately, laying on the charm just as thick as he could.  I think he even batted his eyelashes at her, giving me gray hair at the same time.  Even after we had ordered and she left to serve other customers, he couldn't take his eyes off her, she was like a siren .  Just as I took a bite of my appetizer, she walked past and he sighed saying in an awed-hushed voice "Wow. You're beautiful."  I did the only rational thing you can do when your four year old son hits on a woman in a bar, I choked on my deep fried dill pickle.  Jordan was so floored by the moment that he just watched me struggle for breath with big round eyes.  When he could speak again he asked Jack to repeat what he had just said, which Jack did- saying "she's beautiful" in a tone that also asked "She's an angel with a platter of hot wings, how do you not see it?".  So Jordan asked him if he wanted to tell her and Jack nodded solemnly while still murmuring "beautiful".  Right then she came to our table, almost as if this moment was meant to be for our blossoming young son, and with his heart on his sleeve and love in his eyes he opened his mouth and stuttered out the first thing that came to him- "Thank you very much. I eat chicken...."  Whew!  That was close.  I almost freaked out for a minute there, but since he has no game what-so-ever I felt like I could possibly relax and enjoy the rest of my meal without having to restrain Casanova.  But then it hit me.  My little boy had just had his first love.  HE'S GROWING UP!  That's when I lost it and started to bawl.  I mean sobbing into my pickle, bawling.  It came out of nowhere with no way to control it, I just had to ride out the storm of emotions in the middle of the dinner rush.  Jordan asked me how I think I'm going to handle it the first time Jack brings a girl home for us to meet.  I told him I had planned on hiding in the bathroom that day, or going to the dentist.  He can tell me all about it afterwards when there are no witnesses to my mini-breakdown.  But just thinking about  it makes my throat close up and my bottom lip quiver.  I'm years away from that particularly brutal experience, but I'm sitting here at my computer wiping my eyes and sniffling into a tissue while I think about my sweet boy being old enough to hold a girl's hand.  I'm not going any farther than that, even in my head, because if I imagine him kissing a girl I'll wind up going to bed early to weep into my pillow.

Moving quickly

Why is it that after four years of motherhood I still have ridiculously naive thoughts like "I'll quickly change the sheets on the bed, and I'll still have time to get to the kitchen to put away the milk before it gets warm."  Why did I think that?  What is it about the last four years that hasn't gotten through to me yet that there is no "quickly" anymore?  When was the last time I was able to move quickly?  When I was by myself at the grocery store last week while Jordan watched the boys, that's when.  You should have seen me, I was a virtual speed demon.  I was organized and moved gracefully and efficiently throughout the store.  I didn't stumble over anyone who had suddenly stopped 6 inches in front of my feet.  Nor did I forget anything on the list because I was distracted by sticky, wet hands grabbing random things off the shelf.  I didn't have to chase anyone down or try to find a time out location in a busy store.  I think I actually heard angels singing, and at the very least  I know I was humming 'The Jefferson's' theme song under my breath.  It took 20 minutes to do an activity that normally takes me over an hour and I left the store grinning from ear to ear.
Pre-Kid Callie could change the sheets in under five minutes.  Today felt like a victory when at the 45 minute mark I emerged from the bedroom with only a sore jaw from clenching my teeth and a headache.   The setbacks were random and many.  I had to pause to console the child I had backed into and sent flying head first into the wall.  Then take one of the pillows away from the other child and put the case back on the pillow.  I turned around to see that the first child had unpacked his dad's hunting backpack and was attempting to wear the minor's head light as a belt. After I repacked the backpack I had to stop to get someone a drink, open a pudding (I used this opportunity to put the milk away- so that's something) turn Optimus back into a truck and change a diaper.  Then someone got his car stuck in the spider web covering the piano as part of the Halloween decorations and pulled everything onto the floor trying to get the car untangled.  Every time I walked into my bedroom I was surprised all over again that the bed still wasn't made.  It didn't make any sense, how did the morning get away from me like that?  Imagine my dismay when I realized that I still had 2 more beds to go...

The Haunting

For those of you who don't know, we live in a hundred year old house.  It's beautiful and charming with original wood trim, two fireplaces, french doors in the kitchen, hardwood floors, picture windows and a ghost.  Not to worry, she is very kind with a great sense of humor.  She adores the boys and plays games with them when they are supposed to be napping.  Some days she's in Jack's room and I can hear him  over the baby monitor say "Boo!"  and then squeal with laughter.  When she's with Mitch you don't need the monitor to hear him laughing.  These are the days that I'm less than happy with having a house guest because if the boys don't get a nap, the rest of my day is just plain chaos.  Any other time we really don't mind having her here.  She is never really scary or even threatening.  Sometimes you catch glimpses from the corner of your eye and your heart will kind of skip a beat, your lungs will stop functioning and you make a garbled sound in the back of your throat that might have been an expletive if you hadn't have been caught off guard.  But when you regain your faculties, you can almost hear her laughing at you.  I like her.   Her name is Tracey and she only has one arm because of a tragic farming accident in her childhood.  I know this, not because we've had seances but because during a baby shower held here for my friend, I met an older woman who told me about the previous resident and how she had visited this house when her friend was still among the living.  She also informed me that Tracey had died here, so we are pretty sure  the person she described is our ghost.  Jordan and I were actually thrilled with this information because having a name for her changed everything.  She is now an honorary member of the family who gets addressed by name on certain occasions.  Apparently Halloween is her favorite time of year because she is out in full force lately.  I guess it's her moment to shine.  We have a doormat that screams when someone steps on it that is her new favorite toy.  It is activated only with pressure on the weight sensor, but at times I've stood in the foyer and looked out the window at an empty porch while the doormat is screaming every 15 to 30 seconds.  A few times the door has even slowly swung open after the doormat goes off.  That's a special kind of spooky, let me tell you.  It's like she's saying "Honey, I'm home!"  I know she's reading over my shoulder right now because the 'activity' during my writing this has escalated.  The doormat has been going nonstop, the broom fell out of the CLOSED pantry cupboard and we had a mini brown out.  I think she's excited that I'm talking about her.  The hard part is trying to figure out if she is flattered excited or upset excited.  I'm wondering if I should even bother posting this....  I'm going to go with the logic that if she wanted to lay low, she would have.  I think she likes the attention.  Am I right Tracey?

Rage

My husband works crazy hours with his job, and as a result he goes to bed most nights around 7 p.m..  He usually turns on some music to drown out the sounds of me wrestling the children into baths, pajamas and bed because if he hears us the guilt kicks in and he feels like he needs to come rescue me.  Since he's grumpy when he's sleep deprived, I try very hard to dissuade him from getting out of bed to assist in the mayhem and I encourage the music.  That being said, I cannot believe some of the music he can fall asleep to!  Nine Inch Nails, Tool, Queens of Stone Age, Mastadon...  this is what he listens to when he wants to fall peacefully into slumber.  And because the boys always seem surprised that they need to wear pajamas to bed (regardless of a lifetime of the same ritual every night), Jordan ends up having to turn the music up rather loud to mask the sounds of our negotiations.  Last night when I entered our bedroom after getting the kids down for the night, I walked into a wall of Rage Against The Machine.  It was so loud and so chaotic that I can only imagine he had passed out in self defense rather than actually falling gently asleep.  Don't get me wrong- I like Rage Against The Machine, but its just not calming enough for me to relax to.  I'm a classical at night kind of person with some exceptions.  Bjork I could fall asleep to, mostly because the lyrics are only five words repeated for three minutes so it's basically hypnotism.  However, RATM makes me want to run five miles and eat raw meat and since I know that Jordan listens to it when he's in a similar frame of mind, I have no clue how it can also be relaxing to him.  I was so curious about it that instead of my usual routine of turning Pandora off before getting into bed, I decided to try his version.  Half an hour later I had a mosh pit of thoughts inside my head, where one wild idea slammed into another and they both went careening through a crowd of similarly crazed and random ideas.  I eventually got up to fold laundry and read something soothing by Jeffery Deaver before I could attempt sleep again.  Should I be worried for him, or impressed?  I'm not sure.

Pioneer Family

We recently had the opportunity to travel to St. George, Utah to visit Jordan’s family and to walk in the parade that honored the founding fathers of the community.  One of Jord’s ancestors was one of the brave few who piled his family into a wagon and set off to settle a new land.  How harrowing and exhausting that must have been for everyone involved.  I’m grateful to know what they went through in order to establish such a beautiful place and the fact that that knowledge and all the stories that go along with it will be passed down to our children warms my heart and makes me smile.  That being said, it’s a freakin’ wonder they arrived at all.  We had fourteen people in our branch of the family that we were in charge of coordinating and we almost didn’t make it to the parade, let alone across the country.  First off, the costumes (you heard me- costumes!) were a week unto themselves.  We were asked to dress in pioneer clothes to re-enact the trek into the valley and all I can say is that it’s a good thing we were in a mormon community, where the odds are 1 in 3 that the nearest closet has pioneer costumes for every man, woman and child.  My mother in law raided those closets as well as begged, borrowed and pillaged for a week to find us appropriate attire, so I tried not to show how distressing the concept was for me.  I’m not sure why Utah cannot have a parade without pioneers in it, I guess it’s like October Fest without the chicken dance.  You know it’s coming and you even somewhat look forward to it, but when it happens you’re just embarrassed for everyone involved.  That was my initial reaction when it came time to pick out my costume for the parade.  After I let the embarrassment go however, I ended up having fun trying on full skirts and shawls.  I drew the line at bonnets however. 

Getting everyone to the designated places at the appointed times was the next major hurdle.  The morning of the parade was slightly chaotic and filled with comments like “We need to pack food for everyone.” “I’m bringing a change of clothes with us.” “Put everything on the handcart and we can pull it along with us.”  I was waiting for someone to ask if anyone knew where the 100 lb. bags of sugar were, or for Nana to say “You kids put down those bolts of cotton and get over here!”  I wanted to ask if they all remembered that this wasn’t an actual trek.  The original Everett’s had already settled this area, and today’s descendants have the benefits of cashing in on the luxury of a home in town with plumbing and a fridge.  We were walking twelve blocks in mild 80 degree weather and then coming right back to the house, but we still felt unprepared without pockets full of hardtack and gunpowder.  Once the parade actually was underway, it was a really good time and the kids absolutely loved the entire experience.  I think they ate more candy than they threw because Mitch was sticky from head to toe and his tummy was gurgling when I got him down from the wagon, but he was one very happy little boy. 

The rest of the trip was relaxing and rejuvenating for me since I wasn’t under any pressure to get Jack to school, coach a soccer game or plan a birthday party.  I just sort of sat around in between buying shoes, which is exactly what a vacation should be to my way of thinking.  Today was my first day back to the hustle and bustle of everyday life, and I was completely unprepared.  I’m still dragging my feet at returning to reality, and as a result I found myself forgetting important things like picking up my dog from my friend’s house where he’s been on doggy vacation playing with his buddy.  I also forgot to put my kids down for naps and to give them baths before bed.  But, I am unpacked and in the midst of house cleaning to get ready for Jack’s birthday party here on Saturday.  Tomorrow will be full of even more of life’s responsibilities as well as the chores I didn’t get done today.  In my head however, I’m already planning my next vacation. 

Soccer Treats

Today was a crazy, busy day in the midst of many.  School, endocrinologist, Christmas errands, car washed and vacuumed and detailed.  I was so wrapped up in checking things off my to-do list that I lost track of time. When I snapped out of it it was five o'clock and we had a soccer game that started at 5:15.  I yelled to Jordan to wake the boys and get shoes while I ran to the pantry to see if we had anything to bring for snacks.  I consoled myself all the way across town that no one besides our team is ever on time to any of the games, but isn't it the way of things that the ONLY time I am late, the other team is present and accounted for?  For all my accomplishments today, I felt like such a failure seeing my team standing around because of me.  Maybe I should start setting timers?  It could be like that game that you can only do a certain activity for a set amount of time and no matter where you are in completing it, when the timer dings, you start the next activity.  Oh, the chaos!
While it is undeniable that we will never be league champions, we ARE improving with every game.  Angelina made an awesome goal today, Evan kept up with the group and went after the ball several times. Logan got in the middle of things and stole the ball away once, Shane was on fire and listening to me, and Jack played the ENTIRE game.  Do you understand the level of dedication that takes for him?  It's never happened before!  He even kicked a penalty kick at the end of the game (I let everyone kick one so they all feel like they scored).  He has virtually no patience for the other players or rules, and if you think I can get him to wait for the whistle you are out of your mind.  But he stayed on the field and played for the entire 45 minutes which is outstanding and completely unlike him.  I think even he was impressed because all the way home he kept saying "I kick a ball."  I'm so proud of my little Warriors.  Angelina just might be my favorite female soccer player ever.  She got kicked in the head twice by a hyperactive and somewhat mean kid from the other team and she didn't cry, but she did remember.  The next time that kid got aggressive next to her, Angelina strong armed him to the ground and kicked the ball away from him.  Everyone saw it, but no one called it.  You could tell that she's got two older brothers and can handle herself.  She rocks.
Her mom brought the A-game for treats today too.  She handed out these little gift wrapped packages of lunchables, drink boxes and fruit snacks and for the second time today I felt like a loser.  My usual M.O. is to grab something off the shelves and throw it in the gym bag on the way out the door.  "I got a can of pinto beans."  "I got a bag of noodles."  "I got a rock."  No way around it, Coach Callie is not like regular Callie and there are no fresh baked goods at half time.  The one time I was organized, I brought orange slices for the kids and little Daniel Trujillo (Shane's 2 year old brother) has never let me live it down.  At the end of every game he now asks me with his sweet voice, "Coach Callie? Oranges???" and I have to look into those big pleading eyes and admit that today he's not getting oranges.  He may never again get oranges because I can't seem to pull myself together.   No, today he's getting crackers.  Mmmm.  Just what every kid wants after running around in 90 degree heat for an hour.  Not my best culinary moment.  Then again, it's not my worst either.

Vacation Checklist

Packing with small children in the house is an exercise in futility.  They keep using that word that doesn't mean what they think it means.  Helping, as in "I helping, mommy.  See?  I helping." does not mean that it's a good idea to re-sort (and thereby unfold) all the clothes that I had just piled on the bed.  It also does not mean you should jump on the bed while I am re-re-sorting the clothes you just wadded up.  And under no circumstances does helping mean you should tip the suitcase over the edge of the bed onto the floor so you have more jumping room.  I'm pretty sure I blew a blood vessel when I walked back into the room and saw that little gem of help.  Actually, Jack is the sorter and re-folder.  Mitch wants to try on every article of clothing available, whether it's his, mine or Jordan's... it doesn't matter, he'll look fabulous.  I don't know what gets into them, but when the boys see suitcases they turn into little berserkers, running around causing grief and misery where ever they go.  If I'm going through clothes in their room, they go into mine and throw all the pillows off the bed, rummage through the books in the night stands and empty my jewelry box onto the floor.  My job is to not lose it completely and clean up as they go, while still somehow packing for all of us.  It's a battle of wills where the stakes are my sanity and their very lives.  Whoever wins ultimately loses, because if I go crazy they lose their ticket to the golden life and if I ground them for eternity I'll go crazy and they lose their ticket to the golden life.  Either way, I'm not holding out a lot of hope that I'll make it to retirement age with all of my cognitive powers intact.

Learning Process

Everyday is an education for me, I'm learning new things all the time.  For instance, last night I learned that I am incapable of controlling the noises I make when I'm stalking a bug.  I also learned that Jordan is incapable of controlling his laughter as he listens to me stalk a bug.  The big jerk laid in bed and laughed his fool head off while I killed a spider in the bathroom last night.  It's a good thing he wasn't awake a few nights before when I had to chase and kill a cockroach.  It was late at night (when did 9:00 p.m. become late at night, anyway?) and I was reading, when a monstrously huge cockroach ran out from under the couch and across the room into the shadows.  By the time I found my weapon of choice (a shoe), I'd lost track of it and had to go hunting under furniture.  When I finally found the hideous thing after a fraught few minutes, I jumped and squealed because I caught sight of him in the corner looking at me like he had been watching my adrenalin crazed search and found me no match for his superiority.  Super creepy and very intimidating.  We had ourselves an old fashioned Mexican standoff just like at the end of The Good, Bad and the Ugly (he was the bad and ugly) and I expected the room to start spinning and theme music to begin, but he flinched and set off my natural killer instincts (stop laughing Jordan), so I attacked.  Unfortunately he was devilishly quick and I missed the first seven times I aimed but just as in the movie, good perseveres and I eventually squished the little monster.  The part that separates me from the stone cold killers was the fact that the entire time I was chasing down my enemy, I was continuously yelping like a small dog that's been stepped on.  I remembered thinking: "I sound just like Grandpa's poodles", but could I stop?  I could not.  I also had the thought to tone it down a bit so that I wouldn't wake Jordan up, but even the thought of him mocking me couldn't keep the animal noises in check.  I'm not sure why I was worried about waking Jordan though.  He went to Iraq while he was in the Army and doesn't say much about what went on there, he says it's because he doesn't like to talk about it.  I suspect he slept through most of it and doesn't want to fess up.  I was right outside the bedroom door scrambling around on my hands and knees, slamming a sneaker repeatedly onto the hardwood floor, barking like a madwoman and he didn't stir?  That's not right.  Convenient, but not right.  For now I'm grateful he's a sound sleeper because I only yelped once when killing the spider last night and he laughed so hard he had a coughing fit, can you imagine his hilarity over the cockroach?  I can, and it's not flattering for either of us.  It's probably better for our marriage that he's unconscious through the humiliating parts of my life and only hears of them secondhand.  Then again, he's got a really great laugh.

Apple Annie's Part Deux

It's October, which means Halloween is in progress at our house, but we didn't have any pumpkins!  Time for another trip to Apple Annie's to pick our own.  It's an hour and 20 minute drive from our house and the entire drive was filled with three year old chatter because Jack is physically unable to withstand the sound of silence.  His fall back question while waiting for inspiration on the next topic is to ask "So!  What we gonna do?"  It did not matter how many times we told him we are going to pick apples and pumpkins and pumpkins and apples, he would inevitably come back to this question within the next 10 minutes.  His mind races from topic to topic, and only half of it is recognizable to the rest of the world.  Jordan and I could randomly pick up only bits and pieces from everything tripping off Jack's tongue and all of it either amazed, frightened or embarrassed us.  There was one particular phrase that had us laughing and cringing at the same time.  We didn't have a clue what the poor little guy was trying to tell us, but it sounded exactly like "f*@% a turtle".  The more we tried to divert his attention from saying it, the more insistent he was in repeating it, increasing in volume and exasperation as the miles sped by.   His sighs seemed to say "I cannot be more clear about how crystal clear I am being, and these fools still don't get it." We were able to change the subject only if we saw a school bus, a mater (which consists of anything construction related.  He loves the movie Gnomeo and Juliet, and the machine that causes all the destruction at the end is called a Terrafirminator.  Thus- maters), or a large animal, i.e horses, cows and goats.  A few minutes after we finished singing a song related to the bus/mater/animal sighting we were back to the disturbing issue of turtles, which caused me to giggle into my purse while I pretended to look for something vital, and Jordan to turn up the radio while trying to convince himself that Jack was attempting to inform us about a flock of turtles.  This led to a lengthy  debate of what a large group of turtles are called, since herd seems too fast and school too fishy.  We never came to a decision, but that wasn't why we were so willing to natter on about it.  We were only concerned with talking over the sound of our son's voice.  It was completely by accident that we learned a few hours into our day at Apple Annie's what he was truly saying.  We were in the corn maze and Jordan spotted a tiny toad hopping through the corn stalks.  He called for the boys to come look, and when Jack saw it he yelled in victory "F*@% a turtle!".  You should have heard us (and I'm sure that everyone on the farm did) yell in return "Oh!  A FROG and turtle!"  Our new goal is to work on the letter R.  And G.

Mitch ate more apples than we could keep track of today.  Every time I looked at him he had a different one in his hand.  I'd ask Jord, "Hey honey, did you give him the Roman Beauty?"  "No.  I gave him the Granny."  "Okay, well I gave him the Golden Delicious so I have no idea where he got this one."  And so it went throughout the afternoon.  At one point he had a Roman Beauty and a Granny Smith, one in each hand and would alternate bites from left to right and back again.  When we got home I called 1-2-3 NOT IT for diaper duty because I've been dreading the consequences of letting the baby loose in the apple orchard.  When will we learn?

The FLU

My poor boys have dragged this 24 hour flu bug out all week.  Jack was sick Sunday night, but acted great all day Monday so I took him to school.  I thought we must have been living right because no one else got sick.  I was so very wrong, because Mitch turned poltergeist on us last night and threw up 9 times in 90 minutes.  He's so confused about the whole thing, and acts like an old dog who can only puke if he's on the carpet.  He won't keep his head over the bucket, and instead runs around the house yelling and looking for the worst possible place to lose it.  Meanwhile, I'm chasing him with the bucket and I have to wrestle him to the floor and hold him still, which means that I changed my clothes 4 times in 90 minutes and Jordan changed his once as well.  After the 90 minutes were over, it was like someone had flipped a switch, and my sweet little smiling boy came back.  He was singing along with the radio by bedtime.  I'm so grateful he got it all over and done with while we were still awake and didn't wait until three in the morning.  He's a very considerate fellow.  I'm thinking that in a few days I could be the next person in line for that bucket however, based on our friends experience.  The Walker's have had the same bug, and I'm thinking that Evan got it at school with Jack because they were the first and they were sick within hours of each other.  His little brother Ethan got it next, and currently their parents are busy dying on the couch.  This does not give me hope for Jordan and I.  We were violently exposed last night with our little Tasmanian Devil.  I'm trying to plan ahead for the next few days, and I just realized that I'm entirely too busy to get sick, therefore I politely decline.  Thank you, but no thank you.  Do you think that will work, or should I do some sort of ritual with a chicken too?

The boys entertained themselves while I disinfected the house today by putting a blanket on the floor to cushion their landing when they jumped off the chair.  I nixed that one, and put the dog pillow under the chair.  I figure that if I can't stop them from performing a death defying act, I can at least teach them to put some thought into it.  They took it one step further and brought all the couch cushions over to really make a soft landing.  Smart boys.  Can you picture it?  A dog pillow and four giant cushions covering the living room floor, and yet somehow Mitch still couldn't seem to hit a soft spot.  Every few minutes I'd hear a particularly solid thud followed by crying and the sound of his little feet running to find me.  He'd look at me like I was supposed to make it better, so I'd rub his back and tell him that if it hurts, he probably shouldn't do it anymore and maybe he should go find something else to play with.  He'd stomp back to the living room, only to repeat the entire process.  He'd make a few weak jumps at first, but as soon as his confidence came back he'd get crazy and hit floor again.  Finally Daddy came home and broke the cycle by putting the couch back together.  Why didn't I think of that?

Skinny Jeans

Today is a momentous occasion in the weight loss struggle:  I am wearing jeans that have been bottom drawered since I got pregnant with Mitch!  People who know how I cook will realize what a celebration this must be, because I use a lot of butter.  Real butter.  I don't think anything non-fat or even low-fat has ever entered my home.  If it has, it certainly didn't remain so for very long, when I cook you gain weight just smelling what's in the oven.  I've had visitors stop by, and three steps over the threshold they proclaim "Your house smells like butter."  Why, thank you!  When we get to the dairy section of the grocery store Jack automatically runs over and selects a package of butter to throw in the cart, and I automatically tell him he's a good boy.  So you see, it's incredibly hard to lose weight when you are making cookies that tell you to 'melt a pound of butter in a skillet' (german sand cookies- melt in your mouth perfection).  Yet, here I am!  Ta-Da!  Want to know how I celebrated?  German Sand Cookies.  Mmmmmmm.  Want the recipe?

I can't believe how much Mitch is talking now.  A lot of the time he is saying things that Jordan and I need a decoder ring to figure out, but sometimes we get lucky and realize that he just answered us!  That's when we look at each other in amazement, gasp and completely freak him out with a jumping up and down screaming fit.  If we don't scare him into silence, he should be ready for conversational English by Kindergarten.  Yesterday he melted my heart when I realized that he was singing along with Buck Owens (don't judge me- it's Jordan's cd.  Something's happened to him that only therapy will fix), so we listened to 'Stranger in Town' nine times in a row.  Not what I envisioned his first sing-a-long to be, but I'll take what I can get at this point.

Today is a game day.  I'm excited to see what The Warriors do on the field.  Let's face it, I'm also wondering what they'll do off the field.  It's so hard towards the end of each game to keep them all engaged, a couple of them spend time hanging on the net of the goal, one usually has his shirt over his head wandering blindly, and someone always sits down right where they are and refuses to participate any longer.  Most of the time that last one is Jack.  He's not afraid to just say "I all done".  He will wave his hand at you like a Jedi when he says it, like he's trying to bend your mind into thinking it's okay to just ignore the lump on the center line of the field.  It's too cute to get frustrated by, and so it works.  He's been using it on me for years and now my mind is officially bent.  But I'm in my skinny jeans!

Dump truck

What does it say about me as a person that every time Jack shoves an entire pack of fruit snacks in his mouth I ask him to say dump truck?  I know what it says about me as a parent, but am I a bad person as well to think it's funny to make an almost four year old curse?  I don't do it all the time, just every once in awhile.  "Hey buddy, say dump truck... Good boy."  It it awful of me?  Yes, and I'm sorry.  But obviously not sorry enough to stop.  I don't think I'll go to hell for that alone, but combined with the fact that I look forward to Monday's, Wednesday's and Friday's for the little thrill I get from watching the kids slip and fall on the wet, freshly mopped floors most likely ensures my reservation in the seventh circle.  To be fair, they fall after I've asked them nicely, begged, scolded and flat out yelled at them to PLEASE sit on the couch and watch the cartoons until mommy is done.  They don't.  They run, skip and jump around my mop, like a wet floor Russian Roulette, practically asking for it.  I can't help laughing, with an I-told-you-so-smugness that I'm not proud of, at the look on their faces when their little butts hit the floor.  It happens three times a week, and it never fails to surprise them.  And it never gets old for me.  Should I feel bad about that?   Probably.  I do my part and warn them about the danger, I predict in my best mom voice that "You guys are going to fall if you aren't careful...", they aren't careful though, and that's the fun part.  Maybe I need to get out more, find a hobby and seek entertainment in more appropriate forms.  Or maybe I'll just pass out snacks and wait for Monday.

Building a cemetery

The first step in building your own cemetery (besides obtaining a body) is to collect sticks of various lengths and widths.  The problem with living in a virtually treeless state is that it's impossible to find sticks, so we drove over an hour this morning to find the nearest trees in order to turn the front yard into our very own Halloween graveyard.
During the drive we listened to The Trading Post, which is a show on the local radio station where people call in to tell the DJ what they have available to sell to the listening public.  It's so awful and boring it's great.  At the beginning of the program you are thinking to yourself that you are not interested at all, but after a few minutes you are envisioning all the wonderful things you could do with a half gallon of yellow interior paint, a bucket of clothes pins, a screen door without a screen and a .22 rifle.  The power of suggestion is very strong, and this show survives on that principle.  You don't NEED an '87 Chevy carburetor kit, but now you desperately want one.  Today I ended up wanting/needing a chandelier, which I repainted black in my mind and made it a Halloween decoration.  I was so wrapped up in imagined renovations that I didn't write down the contact phone number, so it was all in my head which is just as well.

When we arrived at the nearest wooded area we pulled over on the side of the road because the turn off to the campground is still closed from the fires that happened there this summer.  The sign naming which road we were parked next to was right in front of the car and when Jordan looked up he said "42F.  Everybody remember where we parked."  We are such city people.

Everyday I am amazed at the differences in personalities between the boys.  Jack is cautious and organized, while Mitch is the very definition of pell-mell.  Today the difference was in-your-face apparent when we got them out of the car in the canyon.  Mitch immediately starts running through the trees, pulling off his clothes and screaming "Woo-hoo!"  I'm not exaggerating at all, the term 'getting back to nature' apparently translates into 'streaking in the woods' for a two year old.  It was like we had released him back into the wild and he couldn't wait to shed civilization forever. Meanwhile, Jack attempted to organize nature by collecting branches and rocks and sorting them into piles and lines.  They both love getting dirty though (they are boys after all), so we spent the rest of the afternoon throwing rocks into the creek.  When it was time to go, I felt like Marty Stouffer on an episode of Wild America trying to get Mitch back to the car.  I could have used some leather gloves at the very least.

Another example of the boys personalities; on the way down the canyon Jordan took a curve a little fast and Jack cautioned "Whoa! Careful." while Mitch yelled "YEE-HAW!".  He's never getting his driver's license.  His wife can drive him around for all I care, but he's not to be trusted behind the wheel of a car.  Or even a lawnmower.  Ever.   I'd give Jack the keys tomorrow.

We made a stop at a desert museum on the way home and saw the exhibits of snakes, turtles, etc.  Since the boys had been good, we let them pick a reward from the toy section; Jack chose a 4 ft. plush snake and Mitch chose a bird that chirps when it's butt is squeezed.  The boys held them and cherished them all the way home but when we stopped for lunch, they grabbed their silverware and immediately started autopsies on the poor things.  I've never seen such fickle devotion as these two had for their supposedly beloved toys, and they instantly reminded me of that mean boy on Toy Story- what was his name?  Sid?  The one that operated on and amputated his toys.  I reassured myself that surely my kids can't be that bad, but then I remembered that Sid's mom probably deluded herself with that same fantasy so I made a mental note to find a therapist as soon as possible.  For me as well as them.

I love running naked in the woods days, because afterwards the kids basically put themselves in bed for their naps.  When we got home, Jack took off his shoes and went straight to bed, waiting for me to tuck him in.  When I came out of his room, I found Mitch standing next to the pack n play, holding his squishy bird.  So while they were sleeping, Jordan and I assembled our crosses and made the cemetery.  It looks great, and we had several people laugh and wave as they went by, so I'm pleased with the results of our efforts.  If you have a dirt yard, I say you have to do what you can to make it work for you, and halloween is the only time of the year that things really go your way.  I wonder what people would think if I left it up all year, though.

Horseshoes and all knowing Dad's

One of my random afternoon treats is to watch a movie that isn't animated with Jordan during the boys nap time.  Today had just we settled down to our one and a half hours kid free bliss when we hear a crash, followed by another and two more by the time we burst through the bedroom door.  The room is in complete disarray, and there's Mitch balanced on the arm of the chair, holding a horseshoe in his hand and looking surprised to see us.  I guess he assumed that horseshoes was a silent game outside a 2 foot radius.  Man, was he upset to be put back to bed.  I think he would've got 3 on the next throw, but his parents are rude and uncaring.  Not everyone has a baby who plays horseshoes at nap time, but as I recently had pointed out to me, not everyone keeps horseshoes in their bedroom.  Point taken.  I don't know why Jordan has a pile of horseshoes on his bookcase, they've been there for months and I've never questioned his collection, I just dust around it.  So I guess I should blame myself.  I look at them and see a pile of rusted metal.  Jordan sees treasure, and Mitch sees Chinese throwing stars.

Because he had destroyed our room, the car keys were missing (they WERE on the ironing board, but since that was tipped over onto the bed, the keys ended up under some clothes under the chair- literally the last place I'd have thought they'd be) and Jack and I were late to soccer practice.  We only got a 15 minute practice, and we have our first game on Thursday.  I'm not at all concerned that none of the kids like the idea of only using one ball.  Or the fact that no one can remember which direction they are aiming for to count for their team.  Or that everyone keeps asking me to play sharks and minnows instead of plain old boring soccer.  All of those things will be sorted out by the time November rolls around.  We have games three times a week for the next six weeks (Does this seem a little excessive to anyone besides me?) and I'm sure that at the end of the season they will either have talent scouts on the sidelines or they will hate soccer forever.  There is no middle ground when you are three years old.  Jack is already burned out on the idea of sharing the ball, only to have some random kid run up and take it away.  Instead, he spends his time sorting rocks and moving the cones.  He also alternately raises and lowers his socks every five minutes, depending on climate and moods. Jordan worries that Jack isn't getting the idea of soccer.  I've had to remind him that for the last three years of Jack's life we have drilled it into him to "SHARE!" and have followed up that directive by taking whatever he just swiped and giving it back to the other kid.  Now we are yelling at him to get in there and "TAKE IT AWAY FROM HIM!". No wonder he stands mid-field with a look on his face that is part revulsion-part fear.  He has no idea what happened to the people who raised him, and instead has to deal with this blood thirsty couple who LOOK like mom and dad, jumping up and down and screaming.  Five minutes off the field and we are back to "You better share with your brother, or I'll take it away."  I bet he's wondering where that sense of fairness goes when he puts on his funny shoes and tall socks.  I can totally get where he's coming from when all he wants to do is put blades of grass down the inside of the orange cones.  Sometimes that's all I want to do during practice too.

Mitch had the most frustrating drive home from school today.  It's an hour drive and when I drive the kids alone on Jordan's work days, Mitch can get away with a lot more than when Daddy is driving because I am shorter and can't see him in the rearview mirror over my headrest.  Mitch usually uses this opportunity to do quick double taps on Jack's arm with his fist, and still has plenty of time to turn huge, innocent blue eyes to me by the time I can glance over my shoulder to see what's going on.  I know they are double taps by the distinct slapping sound, but I can never catch him the act.  However, Daddy was onto him.  Jordan was wearing his dark sunglasses while he was driving and he had the mirror tilted so he could see what Mitch was doing as he was doing it.   Mitch couldn't figure out HOW Daddy knew what he was doing without looking behind him and it ticked him off.  Jordan would say Mitch's name in his your-in-trouble voice just as he would make his move, and you could feel the frustration level rise in the car as the miles sped by.  Just as we were pulling into town, Mitch forgot about his brother, took his sandals off and started chewing on them.  Conversationally, Jordan started to tell him that mommy doesn't like it when he chews on his shoes, but as soon as he said his name, Mitch flipped out.  He threw the shoe across the car with a growl-yell and hit the back of his head into his car seat.  It seems he couldn't catch a break because Dad saw everything.  Score: Parents; 3, kids; 152, 743.

Parenting Re-cap

The last few days I've been thinking about all the things that I've done in the last four years.  Things that I do now without blinking, but they would never have crossed my mind before I had little kids.  Some of these things are precious and joyful, while some of them will make your skin crawl.  Here are some of the highlights from the last few years.  Actually, now that I think about it, most of this stuff happened this week.

1. Finding 1/4 c. blue dyed macaroni in the toe of my shoe.
2. Having midnight discussions with a two year old about why now is not the appropriate time to play with every toy that beeps.
3. Replaying the same 47 second intro to RIO for an hour and a half just to keep the savages happy.
4. Having to scrape poop out from under my fingernails after a particularly bad diaper.
5. Having to wipe my face with my sleeve after kisses.
6. Vacuuming the house with a colander on my head for reasons that are only clear to the two year old.
7. Wishing vehemently for the batteries to run down in that psychotic toy.
8. Scrambling to find fresh batteries and a screwdriver while one child runs in place, screaming and the other child writhes on the floor.
9. Having to dig through the toy box whenever I need to baste meat or bake muffins.
10. Having skinny, little arms wrap around my neck for an unexpected hug.
11. Staying up all night just to make sure they are still breathing.
12. Singing the intro to the backyardigans for 50 miles.
13. Having my body adorned with Hot Wheels at five in the morning, while telling myself that this counts as quality time.
14. Being peed, puked and pooped on, all in one day.
15. Hearing "I love you, Mommy." whispered in the dark when I tuck them in at night.
16. Delivering a spanking while saying something ridiculous like "Stop hitting your brother!".
17. Knowing each of the Wiggles names and what they did before making it big.
18. Wondering why I replaced the batteries in that psychotic toy.
19. Having chocolate chips thrown at me in the shower by a barking two year old.
20. Going to the store in 90 degree heat with a child wearing a cable knit sweater, shorts, rain boots and a fireman's hat while carrying a skull.
21. Taking a live cockroach out of the baby's mouth.
22. Smelling the wall to see if it's chocolate or poop.
23. Finding out it's poop.
24. Taking the phone away from the 3 year old, only to find that he's called my insurance company and changed my plan.
25. Getting nervous when it's quiet.

Speaking of which, I don't hear anything...

Post script

Jordan took my car this morning, so all the errands I talked about last night... didn't happen.  Instead I spent 4 hours on the phone coordinating between everyone needing uniforms, delivering banners and missing keys.  Now I'm sitting here listening to Mitch scream like the witch king of agmar (he's still got a fever) and wishing I was at soccer.  I'm stressed wondering if it's going okay, and if I forgot to do something vital.  There's not enough chocolate in the world right now, and I just realized that I've eaten half an apple pie today all by myself without my being fully cognizant of it.   Great.

Fevers, drama, headaches and other good times.

Trying to get everything ready for tomorrow's opening ceremony for AYSO is going to send me into an early retirement.  Jordan's going to have to put me into a home, where I can play bingo with the help of someone in a white coat while I drool on myself and laugh at nothing.  I get a call this afternoon: "Hey, Callie?  It's me, Bambo.  You know, from soccer?".  Right.  Thanks for clarifying.  I have so many Bambo's in my life, it sometimes gets hard to keep them all straight.  Once we established his identity we got down to the business of soccer, or at least the behind the scenes of soccer.  Apparently, Angelina's uniform finally came in (cutting it kind of close for tomorrow's activity) and erring on the side of caution, the company sent 13 uniforms for her.  Better safe than sorry, right?  What they lack in quality and timeliness, they make up for in sheer numbers.  You want uniforms?  Here's a case.  I need to pick one of the uniform's up and get it to Angelina before noon.  They sent my coach's shirt in the wrong color, and in a child's size medium.  Yeah, I wish- try again, funny guy.  We had a game scheduled for tomorrow, but no one knew what time it was supposed to be, since it was listed as TBA on the schedule.  Well, no one announced it, so we canceled it.  I'm actually really proud of this decision, it's one of the first rational things they've come up with this season.  The banner that I was told to order was finished this afternoon but, for reasons that I will list later, I was unable to pick it up.  Then Bambo informed me that I really don't HAVE to have the banner, but it would be nice.  Thanks, buddy.  You tell me after I fork over the money for it.  Oh well, it's done and after I track it down in the morning we are going to display it with pride.  Then I find out that the games that I was informed would all be on Saturday mornings are mostly on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.  Thank you for letting me schedule things in my week before you tell me this.  All the parents on my team are feeling the same way.  I feel like such an idiot when I have to get hold of them all to say, "Oops!  Sorry, they changed it again.".  And the photographer who has a contract with AYSO was rude to me on the phone, so I complained and am using Tara Huish Photography instead, with Bambo's blessing.  Except, when the other guy heard he lost business, he freaked out somewhat and started a voicemail stalking campaign asking me to please call him back to set up a time to take my team's picture.  No thank you.  You should have been nicer to me.  This guy is apparently a big shot in the community, and knows EVERYONE.  If he doesn't take your picture, you don't get it in the newspaper etc., and AYSO has been trying to figure out a way to get away from him for awhile now.  The problem is, that he's so in touch with who's who in town, that he doesn't even need to bid on the AYSO contract anymore.  They just hand it to him while grinding their teeth.  And I've ticked him off.  When I step on toes, I go for the biggest feet around.
All of this needs to be straightened out by noon tomorrow, and the boys have chosen today to get sicker than sick.  Jack's chest makes a death rattle when he coughs, and Mitch has a fever of 102 with Tylenol. He's laying on my lap right now, just whimpering.  After I failed at apple butter, I got caught up with the kids as they got worse and I didn't go pick up the banner in time, so I've got to go in the morning after I get the uniform.  Jordan has to work tomorrow until 2, so I have no one to watch the boys during the opening ceremony and I'll have to ask for an assistant coach.  I really hate that.  I hate the idea of dumping this historic mess on someone in the eleventh hour, and just saying "Good luck, let me know how it goes!"  Heather is fabulous, though and volunteered before I really had to ask.  Since she's the one I've been venting to about the day to day screw ups, she's already apprised of the situation and is still game to cover for me.  That's friendship, right there.

Wasted time, apples and lotion

The apple butter was an epic failure.  I've very rarely made anything so tragically awful that I immediately throw it in the garbage, but that's what happened.  The recipe seemed like it should have been good, I just don't understand what went wrong.  Or maybe this recipe was for apple butter that tasted like you had a mouthful of cinnamon sticks and cloves.  My tongue went numb with the first bite, and no amount of apples and sugar added made any kind of a difference.  I pretty much doubled the recipe trying to get the spices to mellow out, and it's still gross.  Everyone told me "Oh!  Apple butter is so easy!  You'll love it."  It's not easy, and I don't love it.  I feel lied to.

The apple pie is sitting on the counter, cooling and waiting until after dinner, and I keep looking at it with nervousness whenever I go in the kitchen.  That's the problem with making something horrible, you start second guessing yourself.  Did I remember to put sugar in the pie?  Did I accidentally add to much salt?  Should I just go to McDonald's and order 4 for $2?

Since I spent 6 hours in the kitchen this morning, the rest of the house was left as the kid zone and I'm paying for it now.  There are crushed graham crackers in the carpet, cinnamon toast crunch under the couch and apple cores in the toy box.  That last one makes me anxious.  Jack collected the apple cores this morning from the counter as I was peeling and chopping, and I thought he threw them away (I even remember praising him, but distractedly. 'Oh what a good boy you are to help me!  Thank you!'  I'm such a sucker).  I look back now and wonder why in the world would I think that he'd not see them as treasure to hoard?  What if that's not the only place he hid them?  A week from now I'll be blogging about the wretched stink coming from the air intake vents in the bedroom.

Mitch was supposed to be napping, but I heard clinking noises coming from my room.  Clinking is never a good sound when Mitch is involved, so I ran in there to find that he had moisturized my dresser and everything on it.  Jewelry box, perfume bottles, framed photos, etc.  His face is glowing with a youthful radiance that can only be had for $20 a bottle and 2 year old pores.  Trying to wrestle him back into the pac n play was like trying to catch a greased pig at the fair, only without the judges ( I like to believe I would've got a high score if it had been judged.  He's still alive, after all).  I tried to salvage as much as I could by rubbing my face on his leg and arms that were thick with lotion, but it wasn't worth it because he smelled like an old apple and wet dog.  An hour later and I'm sitting at the computer getting wiffs of Ivan, and thinking that it's been days since he was even in the house- how can the baby smell like him?  Are boys really made of puppy dog tails?  I thought it was just a cute poem, but Mitch is proving it a scientific possibility.


I think I'm going to pretend that today didn't happen.  I'm going to clean up all evidence of it's disasters, and start again tomorrow with a fresh attitude, a new recipe and a baby with unbelievably baby-soft skin.    Unless the pie is fantastic.  Then I'll eat pie and call it good.  I can always BUY apple butter, right?

An apple a day

After Jack used his cold, wet fingers to pry open my eyelid this morning at 6:30, it was kind of difficult to get back to sleep.  So I pondered the question he had asked upon my waking.  What are we going to do today?  Jordan and I decided that a trip to Apple Annie's was in order, and off we went.  I've been wanting to try my hand at apple butter, so we went to the orchard side of the complex and had a fantastic time picking our own apples.  Jack was all about riding in the wagon as long as we were willing to pull it, while Mitch used the apple picker as a lacrosse stick.  He'd pick up an old, rotten apple from the ground and put it into the basket, then turn and hurl it onto Jack, who would put it in the bucket.  Then Jordan or I would take it out of the bucket when they weren't looking.  Teamwork.  The morning went by so quickly but obviously we worked up an appetite, because guess who ate his very first apple today?  Jack picked a Rome Beauty right off the tree and ate it without me begging, bribing or coercing him!  This is the first time he has ate fruit willingly and with full knowledge.  I've been pureeing fruit and sneaking it into foods for over a year now just so he can get the vitamins, and I had almost given up on his ever coming around.  I took a thousand pictures, thinking that it was probably a one time deal and we'd never see this moment again but he surprised me by asking Jordan if he could have another to eat in the car for the drive home.  Mitch also discovered how great apples were, and after Jordan gave him a ripe apple and took the brown, squishy one away (Jord gagged the entire time), he was a very happy kid and he ate the entire apple.  Do you understand that I mean he ate the core, seeds and stem?  The entire apple.  Down the hatch.  And another one in the car on the way home.  I looked back in time to see him push the last bite of core into his mouth and when I told Jordan, he gagged again.  Sometimes it's fun to see how many times the kids can gross their dad out in a single outing.  Speaking of which, here's a friendly tip to those of you thinking of getting your kids to eat apples for the first time:  Do not give them carte blanche with a bushel of apples before a long car ride.  And for heaven's sake, don't feed them cheese curds during said car ride.  Not unless you like riding with the windows down. I think Jack started to get a belly ache, because he didn't finish one of his apples, and after I threw it out the window he tried to spit the bite he had in his mouth out the window too.  He realized immediately that Jim Croce knew what he was talking about when it came right back into his face and all over the inside of the door.   He's heard the song, but some things you just have to find out for yourself.  He hadn't spit all of it into the wind however, so I had the distinct pleasure of having chewed up apple drooled into my hand.   When I showed it to Jordan, you'll never guess what he did.

I know now that I am not cut out for a life of crime.  I just don't have the physical endurance it takes to live on that kind of edge.  I made a snake wreath the other day, using spray paint for the finishing touch and my pointer finger hasn't been the same since.  I've got tagger's finger (I think it's a cousin to tennis elbow).  If my finger can't handle a single can of spray paint, there's no way I could work my way down the side of a train in a night.  How do they do it?

Because I am currently engaged in an activity that makes watching the children turn into just keeping an eye on the children, Mitch has recognized an opportunity and has stolen another apple.  He's standing here next to me with obvious and extreme gas, and lets everyone know to hold their breath by yelling "EEWWWWWW!"  There are no words for this moment in motherhood.  I was so happy they were eating fruit...

Three going on insane

I feel as though Jack and my relationship would be so much stronger if I were just made aware of the rules of engagement.  There are so many situations that go awry because I've done something incorrectly for his three year old sensibility.  Case in point: Yesterday, on the way to to school, Jack asked me "Where da cool bus?".  That's 'where is the school bus' for all you non preschooler speakers.  We usually pass a few on our hour long commutes, and he looks forward to the sightings.  He didn't just ask it once or twice, however.  No, he asked it continuously for 23 miles with hardly a breath in all that time.  I can honestly tell you that I've never been so relieved to see a blasted school bus when one came into view and I exclaimed with delight, "JACK!  There's a school bus!"  Apparently there was a protocol that I didn't follow because he started to cry and said "Mommy, NOOOOO!"  What?  What in heaven's name did I do wrong?  If he didn't want me to point it out, why, why, WHY did he ask me where it was for 23 MILES????  After I apologized and he calmed himself down, there was this awkward silence in the car that was broken only by Kenny Chesney boasting of his farm equipment's sex appeal.  We ended up passing another school bus a few minutes later, and it caused my heart rate to speed up and my mind to race.  Do I point out the obvious, or should I act like I don't see it?  I decided to play it safe and go with the ignorance is bliss plan,  and I didn't say anything at all.  I knew within seconds of it's passing that this was the wrong coarse of action, because Jack said "MOOOOM!  Da cool bus!".  I chanced a look in the rearview mirror and saw his huge brown eyes filled with hurt and betrayal.  They seemed to ask so much- how could I NOT have seen the school bus?  Didn't I love him in the least?  These are the moments in motherhood that really need a manual.  What are the rules, and how can I get a copy?  Is it too much to ask for them to be consistent in their insanity, or do I have to wait until he is five for that?

Today he has discovered that he has a hangy-down thing in the back of his throat, and he's certain he's only got moments left to live.  All day, every half hour, he comes running and yelling with panic in his voice for me to check for mutations.  After I reassure him that all is normal, he looks at me as though I've done nothing but lie to him his entire life and goes to the bathroom to look for himself.  A few times I've heard the sound of a cat with a hair ball caught in it's throat, followed by the sound of Mitch's laughter.   Since we don't have a cat, I can only assume he's trying to remove said hangy-down thing in the operating amphitheater of the bathroom. And why should I be concerned?  If I were to remove a hangy-down thing, there's no better O.R. nurse I'd rather have than Mitch.  Cool under pressure, that's Mitch.