Birthday Poo

In one hour I'll be THIRTY SEVEN YEARS OLD.

Yes.  I'm yelling!  Because HOLY COW!  That seems like a LOT of years.

My husband recently invented (on the fly) a brand new version of the Happy Birthday song.

My children love it. I, however, do NOT.



 

In case You missed the words, they are as follows:

Happy Birthday to You
You need to go poo
I hope it's not smelly
We'll flush when you're through

My goodness, I'm so proud.

*sigh*

Fit or Fat?

My boy and I were leaving the pool yesterday when he asked (out of the blue) if I was skinny.

Odd.

But I answered "no", I am not skinny, but I am not fat either.  Just sort of regular.  And then we went on to discuss how neat it is that God makes people in all different shapes and sizes.  Some tall, some short, some round, some thin.  It makes for an interesting world.

I felt good about my answer.  And William seemed satisfied and moved on to other subjects.

And yet I can't stop thinking about his question.  Why was he asking?  Was he comparing me to other mothers?  Did he notice that I'm not as thin as I was last summer?

The answer is: of course not you freaking lunatic! 

But all my insecurity about my size got me thinking.  If he'd asked me if I was smart, or funny, or kind, I would have answered him and moved right on down the road.  I never would have thought another thing about it.  Why? Because I KNOW I'm smart and funny and kind. 

But I never have KNOWN for sure what I look like.  Not really.  My body image is so wacko that I've never (EVER) been able to look in the mirror and see myself for what I am. 

Which means I've spent the last 24 hours questioning my son's motives for asking me about my size because I don't really believe all those things I told him.  That I'm *regular-sized*.  And that it's GOOD that God made me this size, so that the world will be interesting. 

So that is my goal for this, my 37th year.  I wish not for thin-ness, or even beauty, I simply wish to be satisfied with my "regular" size.

Because I've been DIS-satisfied for, oh, 30 years and that's just not working for me.

I'm Worth More Dead Than Alive

My husband's family is *really* crazy about water skiing.

And when I say "crazy", I mean that they are quite literally CRAZY when it comes to skiing. They've been doing it for so long (and for so many generations) that "normal" skiing is just boring.

So they entertain themselves by performing outrageous things on the water.

I believe they have a death wish.

Examples:

Skiing WITH small children on your skis. SAFE!

Skiing while holding the rope WITH THEIR TOES. 

Jumping over the wake of the boat. 

 

Spraying unwitting skiers in the face.  SO KIND.



And THIS?  DO YOU SEE THIS?

And here? Standing on a bar stool balanced on a table top.

See what I mean?  Completely WACKO!

So this weekend, when Dave and I had the opportunity to ski together (which is rare, as one of us is usually driving the boat while the other one skis), I was excited to be out there with my husband.  I finally feel confident enough on my ski that I don't feel panicked at the thought of having another skier out there with me.

Except that my husband decided that my confidence meant that I was ready to Move On to the Next Level.  The next level being INSANE SKIING BEHAVIOR.

I have never crashed so much in my life.  At one point, I started to suspect that he was just trying to collect on my life insurance policy.  I have never swallowed so much lake water in my life.

And although, in the end, I *was* able to stay on my ski while he (essentially) performed insane skiing all around me, I still contend that these people are INSANE.

And perhaps want to kill me.

p.s. Here's a video of our ONE successful "trick". 

Killer Book

I recently read To Kill a Mockingbird as part of a book club focusing on classic literature.  I remember loving the book as a kid (I think I read it in the 8th grade), but reading it as an adult was even better.  It truly is a "classic" in every sense of the word.

If you haven't read it - go right now and get yourself a copy.  It's not your "typical" classic (think: Tale of Two Cities or The Hobbit), because it uses everyday language (none of 'ye olde english', or even worse, Runes) It's an easy read. 

And speaking of 'getting a copy', I had a heck of a time securing a copy of this book.  I've almost completely converted to reading things electronically via my Kindle or iPad.  However, when I went searching Amazon for an electronic copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, I found that such a thing did not exist.

Gasp!

I was forced to my local book seller for an Actual Paper Copy.  The horror! (Ok, truth be told, I started out annoyed, but I'd forgotten how nice it is to hold a book in my hands.  I miss books a little, as it turns out. )

So that is how it was that William saw a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird resting on my nightstand.  He read the title out loud and was horrified.

"Momma!  Why are you reading a book to teach you how to kill birds?!"

I never did convince him that the book had nothing to do with birds. 


p.s.  - Tonight we're watching the Gregory Peck version of the movie.  I hear it's almost as good as the book! (which is un-heard of, yes?)

I Made it Seven Years and Two Days Before He Asked

Last Thursday I had accumulated quite a List of Things to Do.  Which meant that I had to drag my poor children to several places.  The bank.  The grocery store.  The gas station.  The tailor. 

They were not thrilled.

The errands required several trips in and out of the car (my GAWD I will be glad when everyone can buckle themselves in without the help of ME.).  When we were finally finished and headed home, William piped up from the back seat, completely out of the blue: "Momma, did Grampa Noble stop liking Nana?".  Which was a weird question, so I inquired further.  "Well, if he was married to Gramma Jane TOO, that must mean he stopped liking Nana, right?".

Oh.  Shit.

I was glad he was sitting in the back seat so that I had time to wipe the look off of my face.  One of grasping and searching for the right response to that question.

As many of you know, my dad passed away when William was only 16 months old.  He remembers nothing about him.  We have pictures up around the house, and I speak about dad often enough that William knows there was a person named Grampa Noble.  He knows Grampa Noble was my daddy.  He knows his Nana is my mother.  And when he has asked questions about my mother's current husband ("Is Poppa your daddy?"), I would simply say "no, remember, my daddy died".  Which worked.  In his mind, my daddy died, and then Nana married his Poppa.  Nice and neat and orderly.

Except.

William *also* has a Gramma Jane.  My dad's wife at the time of his death.

Apparently, after 7 years and 2 days William finally put it together that this Grampa Noble person had two wives.  My mother and his Gramma Jane.

I told William there was this thing called "divorce", and that sometimes married people decide to live in separate houses.  So when I was thirteen my daddy started living in a different house.  So then I had two houses.  A mommy house and a daddy house

"Does that makes sense, buddy?"

"No".

Yeah.  I know.  It really doesn't, does it.

Thankfully we pulled into the driveway just then and he wanted to go inside and get back to the Important Task of Building Legos.  Which means I've had a few days to think about what I will say to him when he (inevitably) gets around to asking me about how married people can then RE-marry other people.  And how I will tell him that, in the end, (and in my situation) those re-marriages have turned out to be lovely, and better than if my parents had stayed married.

And what will I say when he asks the inevitable question: "Will you and daddy get a divorce?".  Because we all know the question is coming.  And how do I answer that?  How does *anyone*?  I suppose I'll tell him that I love his father very much and that I certainly hope that we will be married forever.  That I have no intentions of divorcing his father.  Ever.

Which is, I'm sure, exactly what my parents would have said to me when I was seven years old.

And the scary thing is: I think they would have meant it.  They had no idea what was coming.

I suppose none of us really do.

Frank You Very Much

So this evening I glanced up at the clock around 5pm and had a sudden pang of guilt.  Somehow, time got away from me and I'd completely forgotten to cook (or even think about) dinner.  I blame the 6,000 Lego creations William received for his birthday - all of which required me to "help", where "help" means: "stand nearby in case I need you, but whatever you do DO NOT PHYSICALLY HELP ME.". Because touching a Lego means robbing my child of happiness.  Touching even a single Lego brick during the building process renders the entire thing POINTLESS and FREE FROM ALL JOY.

OMG with the Legos.

Ok, where was I?  Oh right.  Dinner.

So when Dave called at 5:45p to say he was on his way home, I confessed that he would be arriving home to a cold, dark kitchen devoid of all things Hot and Tasty.  He was pleasant, and took this news in stride.  But I felt guilty.  I mean, he *could* have said "dear God woman, you have no JOB, the LEAST you can do is whip up some dinner".

But he didn't say that, wise man that he is.

So I began the dinner hour by making William a peanut butter and honey sandwich.  And just as I was cutting it down the middle, Dave noticed that there was only one slice of bread remaining in the sack.  One slice in which to make himself a sandwich.

Him: Well my GOSH, is there only one slice of bread left? 
Me: Don't be ridiculous, there is another loaf in the drawer.
Him: You mean *this* loaf? (holding up a second bag with only ONE piece remaining.
Me: (meekly) yes.
Him: So... what?  You want me to make a sandwich using THESE two pieces of bread?  They're from two completely different loaves.
Me: Well, it's all bread isn't it?

Left: rectangle   Right: square

Him: HONEY! You want me to make a FRANKENSANDWICH out of this mis-matched bread?
Me: I suppose that is your only alternative. 
Him: Fine, but you're blogging about my Frankensandwich tonight.  The Internet needs to know about this. 
Me: (Feeling guilty, and in need of a public flogging) I'll get my camera.
Him: Now let me think of a title.  How about FRANKS A Lot.  Or Franks But No Franks.  No wait! I've got it!

Go FRANK Yourself.

My goodness, it's like he was reading my mind.

Not Your Typical Tuesday

Today was the perfect Birthday for William.

Solitude for building complicated Lego creations.  Unlimited video game time (the first I've ever let *that* happen).  Cheeseburgers and Oreos for lunch.  Pizza and cake for dinner.

And a party. 

With a Super Mario theme (The kid is obsessed.  Totally obsessed.).

And all of his most favorite friends.

I checked on him just now, and I swear he's up there smiling in his sleep.

Three, Seven, Thirty-Seven

big

Tomorrow my firstborn child will be seven.  Seven years old!

Seven is big.  It's the year he will begin (I assume) to suspect our stories about Santa might not be all we've built them up to be.  It's the year he'll learn to read a novel - all on his own.  I predict it will be the year he truly becomes separate from me.  Just today he tried (in vain) to fold himself up so that I could cradle him like a baby.  He held my hand when we shopped this morning for last minute birthday party items. 

I anticipate all that will change this year.  Cradling and hand-holding will become extinct.  Maybe I'm wrong.  But I've looked around at children this big age, and I think I'm probably right.

On this last day of his sixth year, William is devoid of even the slightest trace of baby fat.  The cheeks that used to be so chubby and adorable now play host to equally adorable freckles.  But that's it.  The chubby is all gone.  His knees are so knobbly I fear they are wider than his actual thighs.  And his bottom?  A mere crack in his back.

He's a boy now.  A big boy.

Usually I am nostalgic, and a little sad on the eve of my children's birthdays, but this year, I find I am relaxed.  I tucked William into his bed with ease this evening.  Feeling only excitement as I anticipate his reaction to his "big gift" (A remote controlled Lego train), which will be waiting for him at the top of the stairs when he wakes in the morning (Giving him all day to build, and therefore stay out of my hair while I prepare things for his party.  Strategy!).

Only sixteen days ago, my baby girl turned three.  Which is big in itself.  I found myself going through her room recently and ridding it of All Things Baby - stray pacifiers found in the cracks of the bed, diapers left over from night-training.  And as I donated or tossed all that remained of her babydom, I felt nothing but peace and joy at what awaits us in our next chapter.

Which surprises me.

I thought I'd be sad at the prospect of the end of the diaper, pacifier era.  I thought I'd feel sadness when William told me he is "too big for Thomas the Train".

Instead I can't wait.  I love being a mother to these children.  Never before have I felt so much that I am exactly where I need to be.  Here.  With these children.  Married this this man.  Living in this house with these neighbors.

I am happy.

And therefore grateful. 

Which is why I will be glad to celebrate my own birthday in just 10 days.  It's hard to feel annoyed at turning 37 (deep wrinkles and cellulite included) when everything feels so right.

FunDaddy

Happy Father's Day to FunDaddy.

.

The kids like you best.  There's no denying it.

Can't say as I blame them.  I like you best too.

Cleanup On Aisle 7

.

Lately I've been turning on the backyard sprinkler after dinner as a way of entertaining the kids during that (seemingly) long stretch of time between dinner and bed.  Tonight, we even included the neighbor kids which not only provided 5 children and 4 adults with plenty of entertainment, but also gave our parched grass a much-needed drink.

While the children squealed and splashed, we adults stood nearby visiting and drinking wine.  At one point, William came running up to us doing the Universal Urine Dance.  You know the one - lots of toe hopping and crotch squeezing.  He asked if he could JUSTTHISONCEPUHLEEEZE pee in the grass.

Why do boys love to pee outside? Just. WHY?  My daddy used to say "to a man, all the world is a urinal".

*Sigh*

I agreed, provided he find a spot AWAY from the view of the street.  And in a corner where no one would accidentally tread.  William, thrilled with this special treat, ran off to Do His Business.

And that's when neighbor Sarah reminded me of the time baby Paige peed in our grass.  Oh my GOSH, I'd forgotten.

When Paige was, oh I don't know - sixteen months old? seventeen? I forget.  She was little bitty, but walking (toddling really), and we decided in late summer to let the kids play in the sprinklers.  It was one of those on-a-whim decisions done right before bath time, so we stripped the kids down nekkid and let them play (no one can see into our backyard).  Within minutes, William (then only 5 years old) asked if he could pee in the grass.  We agreed, and he ran over to pee in the corner.

Baby Paige was MESMERIZED.  She'd clearly never seen a boy pee.  And standing up!  With no diaper!  What a concept! 

But then Will was done and they went back to splashing.  Until.  I glanced up and saw Paige standing stock still in that same corner of the yard.  Since she was soaking wet, it was hard to tell if she was peeing, but I suspected she was copying big brother.  I leaned over and pointed her out to Dave. 

And then it happened: plop plop plop.

She'd taken the whole "peeing in the back yard" to a whole new level.  You know, from *ahem* Level One to the old Level Two.

Thank God we own a pooper scooper.

Sorry Charlie

Neighbor Susan has been exclaiming recently about the state of her baby's hair.  Her baby being Charlie, who happens to be (almost) NINE.

But still.  He's her baybee.

Charlie hasn't had his hair cut in weeks (months?).  He normally sports a sort of buzz cut.  Very short.  Which means that, even after months of neglect, his hair wasn't long by normal standards, but in Susan's mind, he looked "exactly like the fifth Beatle".

And I'll admit, he was a tad shaggy.

This afternoon I received a call from Susan wherein she asked if I could rightthisveryminute cut Charlie's hair.  She'd had enough of the Beatle nonsense.

So along comes Charlie a few minutes later ready for his trim.  He seemed cheerful enough for a kid who was being forced to have his hair cut by a person who was patently UNprofessional.  And if he did have apprehension, he was mollified by my suggestion that he watch Harry Potter while I worked.  (Wizards! They make everything better!)

Doesn't he look thrilled?

But then things seemed to take a turn.  Charlie was edgy about my scissors.  He seemed afraid that I might actually cut him (and, well, I *could* have cut him... I've cut my own kids a time or two.).  There was flinching.  Much flinching.  And also a few moments of actual dodging.

I did an alright job on the back, but I know I didn't do my best around his wee little ears.  I think he was afraid I might snip them right off.  And by the time we got to his bangs, well, he just jumped up and said "it's fine, FINE!".  And then he raced off to check himself in the mirror.

"Oh SHIT!", I thought, "my kids have NEVER checked themselves in the mirror!".

And that's when I realized I've cut the hair of a person WHO ACTUALLY CARES what they look like.  My children have never ONCE even GLANCED at themselves after a haircut.  They're still little, and they just don't care about their reflection in the mirror.

I can imagine Charlie, one day years from now, telling his own children about how his mother forced him to have his hair cut by THE NEIGHBOR LADY who ALMOST CUT HIS EARS OFF and made him look STOOPID.

That is, if he HAS children.  What if this ONE bad haircut alters the course of his life so much that he will be muttering about it while shuffling down the alley toward the cardboard box he calls home.

OH GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Sugar Overload

1. It was 101 degrees in Oklahoma today.  In case you're wondering, that's... hot.

2.  Instead of our usual Monday walk on the golf course, we opted to stay inside near the air conditioning vent.

3.  Since we were stuck inside, my (almost) seven-year-old boy asked to watch our wedding video tonight.

4.  This seems odd to me. 

5.  But we obliged.

6.  Dave and I noticed several things about the wedding.
                  a.  We were stupid, giddy, sappy, in loooooove. 
                  b.  Which sort of embarrasses me in retrospect.  We were cheesy.
                  c.   At least half of the people who attended the wedding are now dead.
                 d.   I'm now worried our sappy love might have killed them.

7.  At the end of the video, Paige stood up on the couch and exclaimed "BUT WHERE'S THE CAKE?".

8.  Which is *exactly* what I say at the end of every wedding.

9.  Because why *else* would anyone attend a wedding? 

That Has a Nice Ring To It

Well hello there!

Waaaaay back (nearly 14 years ago... back IN THE NINETIES, people!) I married my husband.  And right before the wedding, Dave presented me with a simple white gold band to wear on my ring finger on days when I didn't want to wear my diamond engagement ring.  The ring was exactly like *his* wedding ring, only in miniature. 

I loved that ring.  I loved that our hands looked the same when we wore them.  I loved the inscription he carefully chose for the inside of the ring.  I loved everything about it.

And then I lost it.

I know I had it during the move into our current home.  I remember wearing it when we were unloading boxes from the moving van.  And that's where my memory ends.  It's like it just disappeared.

I searched for that ring for months - years even - but it never turned up.  I was forced to finally admit defeat, and I assumed the ring was either stolen by one of the many movers and sub-contractors in the house, or that I'd managed to accidentally toss it out with the many (many) boxes and packing materials after the move.

Either way, the ring has been gone for over six years. 

Until tonight.

William has been searching all day for a missing toy (Mrs. Robinson is lost! Tragedy!), and right before I tucked him in, I decided to run my hand deep inside his rocking chair in a last (futile) attempt to find his missing bird.  I found the usual things: four ponytail holders, two hotwheel cars, several legos.

And my ring.

I gasped.  Then I cried a little.   And then I put it on my finger.

I cannot believe I never thought to check the chair before.  At the time I lost the ring, I was still nursing William in that rocking chair every night.  I had a habit of fiddling with my ring while I sat there rocking the baby.  Why didn't I look there six years ago?

And why did I feel around in that teeny tiny space for a giant stuffed robin tonight?

I have no answer.  But I'm glad I did.

On Fire

Sarah recently linked to a hair tutorial on her blog.  One click and I was hooked.

Now I read Hairdresser on Fire religiously and I can't wait until she posts another how-to.

She inspires me to break out of the every-day-hair-in-a-ponytail rut.  A rut I've occupied since the late nineties. 

For instance, today I'm sporting a "mermaid braid".

Tomorrow?  Maybe "maude braids".  If I'm feeling particularly hip.

If you have long-ish hair (collarbone length or longer), I highly recommend her site.

Have a great weekend everyone!

What a Waste of Sunscreen.

All in a Spray's Work

So, my in-laws decided to wear their Easter hats to Paige's tea party on Sunday.  Which, honestly, makes sense.  I mean, I think it makes sense.  I hear women in England wear hats to high tea.  I wouldn't know.  I live in Oklahoma. 

And since my in-laws were wearing *their* hats, I felt I should wear one of *my* hats.

Except, I realized THE DAY OF THE PARTY that my hat did not match  my dress.  The hat was a cream color, and my dress was more of an oatmeal.  So close, yet so far.

Now, *normal* people would have 1) opted not to wear the hat 2) worn the hat with a different dress, or 3) opted to wear the hat anyway since it *was* a party for a 3 year old after all, and no one really cares.

But I am decidedly *not* normal.

Which means that, with the clock ticking down to party time, I made the decision to change the color of my cream-colored hat to a nice brown shade. 

USING SPRAY PAINT.

I wonder if anyone noticed that my hat not only perfectly matched my belt, but also my dining room shelves (which was the original purpose of my spray paint, and the reason I had a can in the perfect shade of brown on-hand).

I am nothing if not resourceful, people.

And also a bit insane.


p.s. I would like to apologize to my guests on Sunday if I was acting a bit nutty.  I think I was high from smelling the paint fumes coming FROM MY HEAD.

ParTEA

Paige loves to have pretend tea parties.  She is most excellent at the pretend pouring and the pretend drinking.  She also pretends to add sugar and cream.  And then she pretends to stir with a pretend spoon.

So we decided, as a special treat, we'd have a Real Live Tea Party for her birthday.  With real live tea pots and real live tea cups and real live tea.

Except we used lemonade.  Because what 3 year old likes tea?

Paige wore her best dress and was an excellent hostess, right up until the moment I caught her drinking STRAIGHT FROM THE TEAPOT SPOUT.

So much for acting like a lady.

The First Twelve

We had a big 'ol Birthday party for Paige Elizabeth yesterday. 

But I'm too tired to write about it.  Or download the photos from my camera.  Or wash all the dishes.

I'm really tired.  Did I already say that?

So here, check out these photos I took of mah  baybee back when she was actually a baby.

I'll be back tomorrow with a real post.  With words.  And stuff.

"Smart" is a Relative Term

The Universe is a funny thing.

Take today, for instance.  I'm just minding my own business, cleaning, nursing a head cold, preparing for the baby's birthday party on Sunday.  The usual. 

And then I checked the mail.

Today we received William's Iowa Test scores (the ITBS is a standardized test used for measuring school performance).  William was tested a few weeks ago after we decided to try to get him into a private school (more on the school, our reasons for changing schools, etc. later).  For now, let's just focus on the ITBS scores.

Because apparently my kid is smart.  Like, pretty frickin' smart.  Like he's at the 98th percentile nationally for both math and reading.  He has the math skills of a SECOND GRADER. Let's all remember, he just finished Kindergarten a few days ago.

Which is... good.  Yes?

I suppose I should not be surprised.  I mean, we knew he was a sharp little fella when it came to them there book learnin's.  But, you all, this is my child who FORGETS HIS SHOES on a regular basis.  I'm serious, he just gets in the car to go somewhere BAREFOOT.  And then?  He seems genuinely surprised when I ask him to go and, you know, PUT ON SOME SHOES you doofus!

And then there are things like this:



Bless his heart.


The child played FOR HOURS last weekend in the sprinklers while wearing his swimsuit BACKWARDS.  He never noticed.  And I never told him. 

I have to pick my battles.

So when his ITBS results came today, I was stunned, and happy, and also really *really* relieved that the Iowa test does not contain a section on DRESSING YOURSELF.  Or on MAKING PEE LAND IN THE TOILET.

Because, that? He would have failed.

Two is *Really Old* for a Blog!

.

1. Today is June 1st.

2. Which means today is my 2 year blogaversary.

3. Also? This is my 631st blog post.

4.  Go back and read that again.  Six. Hundred. Thirty. One.

5.  Dude.

6.  My mother is the only one who has read all 631. 

7.  But, she *had* to.  She's my mother.

8.  If you read my blog, I would like to take this moment to say "I love you, man!".

9.  No, really.  I love you.

10.  If you leave comments on my blog, I love you even more.

11.  But if you don't, that's ok too. 

12.  If you are just joining this blog already in progress, you should know that my writing has improved significantly in the last two years. 

13. Feel free to just ignore my ENtire first year of writing.

14.  Unless you are my mother (see #7)