You did WHAT in your cup????

If Route 66 is the Mother Road, then yesterday we hit the Mother Load.

A very thoughtful friend, (who shall remain nameless in case her children learn how to read and discover the blogosphere tonight) showed up with a large bag o' Bob the Builder toys and Pixar crack that she was offloading from her kids' room. It was imminently thoughtful of her and her generous boys (although they know not of their noble deed, -- yet) and the joy in our house has been plentiful. Cheers of glee abound with Scoop, Muck and Lofty (and Rolly, too), as well as a surplus of Flo, Ramone, Luigi and all the good citizens of Radiator Springs.

Like most kids their age, my boys are very clear about "possession" and get great satisfaction from the assurance that something belongs to them. Sharing is so hard for little ones, and I wanted to make it easier for them to feel comfortable with this newfound abundance.

I thoughtfully divided the toys and offered up the goods based upon the boys' likes, interest, and existing household inventory.

But, as would occur with lads of this age, there soon erupted a bit of a territorial war. I thought I had divided the goods fairly, but, much like President Wilson's Fourteen Points in the Treaty of Versaille, I was actually setting the stage for a great battle. My strategy for dividing the bounty proved to be fateful.

I offered up Big Mater to Sam, since Max already has a very prized Lil' Mater. Thinking that this would give each boy a distinguishable tow truck, I was not worried. Except for the crucial fact that Lil' Mater was missing. We can NOT find the one-toothed wonder ANYWHERE. I spent a very long time hunting down that redneck with a tow cable, hoping to ward off the battles raging in my living room. Arguments and tears ensued, time-outs were administered, and we were really working hard at sharing.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Later that night, while Mr. Wonderful was upstairs and I was doing the dishes, Max seized his brother's Big Mater and made a 90 yard dash that, had it been caught it on video, would probably earn us a nice NCAA scholarship or at least an out-take on ESPN's SportCenter. Full speed into the couch, jumping over the cushions that he had so mercilessly removed earlier in the evening, Max made a dive bomb into the end zone with his plastic tow truck cradled under his arm. Nice moves...except that he missed.

Plastic tow-truck met tender forehead and there was blood.

Lots of bodily fluid, lots of screaming. Eventually, after much bribing, consulting, and hugging, the wound was cleaned and we opted for the ever-therapeutic Curious George band aid vs. emergency room visit.


The stoic patient


Nurse mommy even offered to let the obliging patient practice his future medical degree on my forehead. And hold my camera. And take a picture:


Given all the trauma and drama of yesterday's events, imagine how pleased I was to catch my kids snuggling on the couch tonight.



WHILE I WAS ON THE TELEPHONE! Having a conversation with a very dear friend. Unbelievable. I had to take a picture. They were so cute and snuggly and melted my heart and almost made me forget about Mater.

Almost.



"Sam, do that one where you look exactly like your dad. Great, that's it. Thanks."