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.