The bane of my existence, the thorn in all my sides, and the straw that will eventually break this Mama's back just became eligible for the Euro league.
Max's new constant sidekick, the soccer ball, decided this week that it needed to be a participant on our weekly garbage retrieval mission. A very active participant.
With his trusty black and white sidekick at his feet, Max was running in lime green boots, jumping through muddy and rocky puddles, kicking his ball into landscaping, down ditches, and into every thorny briar patch while completely oblivious to the world around him. He aimed for the goal which would be his brother's "go cart" which was in constant motion as little Sam propelled it over the lunar-landing sized pot holes of our dirt/mud road.
Someday this won't be fun. Someday it will just be a chore that I do on a lonely morning as I head home from the bus stop with a cup of hot coffee that will still be hot when I get home. I'll miss the busy feet and bopping heads of these precious boys who do not yet grasp the efficiency of a straight line.
Though never fast, getting from Point A to Point B with these two monkey boys is always entertaining. I just need to convince David Beckham [and myself] be that the future of soccer depends on the joy of rainy Monday mornings and a full recycling bin.
Showing posts with label garbage day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label garbage day. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, December 15, 2008
The One Where The Minnesotans Totally Laugh At Us
We got a little dusting of serenity this weekend in the form of the season's first snowfall. People who live in parts where this is a frequent occurrence might find that we are making a big deal out of something fairly mundane, but for the kids around here, the cold white stuff is pretty getsiting.
Max wanted to go out and touch it immediately. As soon as he was done with breakfast he was pulling his boots on and running out the door and licking the lawn and asking if he could half-pipe down the driveway.
This dusting of snow completely shut down our world for no obvious reason and made people drive like frozen lobotomized bumper car operators. The snow also resulted in the cancellation of pre-school. On Max's sharing day.
And it was Garbage Day.
The universe is clearly out to get me.
After dragging the kids, the garbage and the recycling down to the road, we got the sled out and had a little lesson in friction and speed that was highly disappointing and rather like launching a bottle rocket without any fuel.
Leave it to Max to find his own propulsion.
Winter X-Games, anyone?
This is Max attempting to sled backwards down a hill into a semi-frozen creek. And me standing up the hill taking a picture. The DNA is so not working in his favor.
Fortunately, he's got his brother to slow him down.
His dear, sweet, obliging brother who had to wear a size 12 month snowsuit. Sam is, oh, say, 31 months old now? A very large 31 month old, I might add. A very large 31 month old who had to squeeze into that thing two winters ago and yet again today. I'm quite certain he will never forgive the snow (or his mother) for such a painful experience. He also may never be able to father a child or sing baritone after I hung him by his underarms and shoved his long limbs into the powdery blue suit of doom that zipped him right out of potential puberty.
But at least his butt was dry.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Form Follows Function
Nope, it wasn't created out of worry about the economic downturn, although that is certainly on my mind.
Nor was it my concern over saving our precious planet from the enormous Yeti-sized carbon footprint of trade-deficit inducing, pieces of crap, decidedly un-green and unfairly labored Chinese-imported plastic badness.
I wish I were that noble.
Instead, I tossed some pieces of cardboard packing material into the recycling bin, more concerned about calculating my garbage day strategy than being virtuous.
The boys saw opportunity.
For mess.
Er, I mean ART.
One man's box is another man's racetrack.
The racetrack transformed to a beach that sharks could jump out of, or dinosaurs, or whales. "Race car" yelled Sam, so Max suggested that race cars could jump out of the ocean, too, if they are blue like blue whales. Or, white like Belugas. But not red, like McQueen, since whales aren't red. **
A born negotiator.
Ocean meets up with the jungle and a surfin' safari is born. A surfin' safari with big-engined cars. I think The Beach Boys produced a similarly themed album circa 1962.
Fun, fun, fun 'til Mama takes the paintbrush away.
** You're right, Max, whales aren't red, except when they're harpooned, I thought. But I didn't say that out loud. I'll wait until they're in kindergarten before I go all Greenpeace on them.
Nor was it my concern over saving our precious planet from the enormous Yeti-sized carbon footprint of trade-deficit inducing, pieces of crap, decidedly un-green and unfairly labored Chinese-imported plastic badness.
I wish I were that noble.
Instead, I tossed some pieces of cardboard packing material into the recycling bin, more concerned about calculating my garbage day strategy than being virtuous.
The boys saw opportunity.
For mess.
Er, I mean ART.
One man's box is another man's racetrack.
The racetrack transformed to a beach that sharks could jump out of, or dinosaurs, or whales. "Race car" yelled Sam, so Max suggested that race cars could jump out of the ocean, too, if they are blue like blue whales. Or, white like Belugas. But not red, like McQueen, since whales aren't red. **
A born negotiator.
Ocean meets up with the jungle and a surfin' safari is born. A surfin' safari with big-engined cars. I think The Beach Boys produced a similarly themed album circa 1962.
Fun, fun, fun 'til Mama takes the paintbrush away.
** You're right, Max, whales aren't red, except when they're harpooned, I thought. But I didn't say that out loud. I'll wait until they're in kindergarten before I go all Greenpeace on them.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Exalted Ruler Meets Bon Jovi (and it was All Good)
Samuel P. Taylor State Park - August 2008
With blue sky and delightfully ripe and juicy blackberries welcoming the little fingers and lips of my baby bears, this garbage day is far removed from the cold and wet walks of Winter. But it occurred to me today that the pleasant garbage walks of 2008 can probably be counted on one, or maybe two, hands. With that thought I couldn't help but feel a little of Summer's joy fading. Also present are the stirrings of anticipation as we head back into the routine of preschool, activities, and the ever-important friends of toddlers and their parents: structure and consistency.
The past two weeks have been filled with travel, family, reunions, and reconnections. We have been blessed with the fulfillment that comes from warm and full days shared in joyous exaltation at the ballpark, the sandbox, the playground and the backyards of those we love. The boys are growing physically, transforming dramatically under the shade of hot afternoons. Sammy speaks new words and is able to communicate his needs so that others can finally clue into his sweet and sensitive world. Max is able to control his engine and keep it running "just right" most of the time, allowing us to relax and enjoy his magnificent personality minus the goofy and wild side of four year old boy rambunctiousness.
Last week I got to reconnect with people who are near and dear to me, even if not in close proximity. I treasure their friendships and am so grateful for the ties that bind.
Big boys on big wheels. The littlest cousins show that they have what it takes to ride on the wild side.
Pictured above are two key components to pleasant air travel for one adult traveling with two small children. New tractors opened at the Starbucks near the departing gate. Diggers and cranes are shown here with a heavily bribed set of oatmeal raisin cookies. Not pictured: a Grande Americano in the photographer's hand, ensuring the optimum levels of caffeine (high) and whining (low) necessary to await the rigors of a two hour flight.
Cracker Jacks snuck in a diaper bag: $2.99
Anchor Steam Beers served in a ballpark plastic bottle: $8
Garlic Fries (aka Heaven in a grease bucket): $4.
Being with my father as he turned my son into a SF Giants fan: priceless
Peanuts and tractor jacks...I don't care if I never get back...
Hey Trojans! My best buddies from High School all dolled before heading out for our 20th year reunion
Friends from kindergarten and preschool. Hard to believe that I was Max's age when we first hugged and now we show up unintentionally coordinated in green together. Is this some latent Crayola fascination or are we on the forefront of a new fashion trend?
That would be the Exalted Ruler of the Elk's Lodge where the '88 Trojans reunited to "Never Say Goodbye" (shown here with my dear friend, Amy, who traveled from Hong Kong and was fabulous).
Doing the best Rick Astley impersonation EVER! (I got moves don't I?)
Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you
A perfect summer day with good friend Alli B., great food, hair-of-the-dog blood orange mimosas, and the closing ceremonies of the 'Lympics.
Bubbi, bikes and redwood trees. Summer just doesn't get much better than this (matching shirts are really just icing on an already damn tasty cake).
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Table for Four, please
The only thing better than garbage day with two boys?
Recycling day with four.
Four. I did have four, right?
Oh, whew. Four. And a purple elephant.
Recycling day with four.
Four. I did have four, right?
Oh, whew. Four. And a purple elephant.
Monday, February 18, 2008
I don't heart Mondays
I wanted to post some pics of my boys with their matching black eyes and bulging purple temples, but the thought of Child Protective Services taking away my computer (okay, I'd miss my kids, too) forced me to show some restraint. That, and if my mom saw the bumps, you'd be able to hear the intake shriek from three states away.
The boys look like they've each taken a couple of rounds with Iron Mike. Sam's been doing his usual toddler tumbles while breaking the fall with his forehead. He has a perpetual olive green lump above his left eye that just seems like it's a part of him. Max went about 20 mph into a kitchen stool below his left eye and barely missed making this a very tragic blog entry. His eye looks like he's spent an hour or so at the MAC counter and is ready to head to the disco, it's such a pretty blend of ice blue to purple. He was already recovering from taking a toy Airbus 330 into the forehead, so that side of his face is looking pretty rough.
Last night Max asked if he could do "Naked Baby" as he got out of the tub, and before I could finish saying "Let me dry you off so you don't sli..." I heard the rumble and then the splat as forehead met hardwood floor. A giant lump (to match his brother's) soon appeared above his previously unblemished eye. And if that weren't enough to put me on prozac, or speed dial to 911, Sammy decided to practice his Spidey Skills and fall out of the crib last night. Now he's got a bruise on top of a bruise and a very jumpy mama.
Which is why I ran into his room when he woke up at 4:20 a.m. to soothe him back to sleep, rather than let him figure it out like I usually might do. Later, once my eyeballs were officially open, there was the garbage to contend with, this being Monday and all. Two cans, two kids, a ride-on tractor toy and a go-kart later, we were heading down the road. Max got a wild hair up his rocket booster and decided to take off full speed ahead toward our busy road, despite my loud, louder and loudest shouts of "STOP!" etc. So loud was I that I soon found two neighbors helping me, including the one who works nights and is usually asleep until noon. I think I need to bake someone some brownies. And take away go-kart privileges.
We were back in the rennievan and on the road by 8:40 a.m. to take Max to his new "Music and Motion" class at the YMCA, only to arrive and find that there was no class due to a mid-winter break. Funny, since EVERY piece of information I'd received from them had said that classes started today. Especially HILARIOUS since I had specifically asked about it being mid-winter break. And down right SIDE SPLITTING since I'd hauled two kids all the way there and was NOT WEARING A BRA and therefore could not go for a run myself.
And it just gets funnier and funnier as I ask Max repeatedly if he had to use the potty, only to be told after leaving the YMCA, and the gas station, that yes, in fact, there was a urine emergency. Into Starbucks for a clean potty and a skinny latte. Few things make me happier than the smell of coffee, but my oldest offspring told me that the bathroom at Starbucks "smelled good in here". Ugh, I worry about boys. And as I'm waiting for my desperately-needed coffee and corraling the bucking broncos who are taking down displays left and right, I wished to be anyone but me.
A little trick I've learned while mothering these boys: shut the garage door before opening the car door, lest the little ones spy a speck of sunshine and run madly for the great, muddy outdoors. But during our car ride, Max had told me that he'd pooped in the yard yesterday (lovely) and since I was concerned that he'd also been in the neighbor's yard, I wanted to make sure that I didn't need to make a DOUBLE batch of brownies. So poop was properly inspected, acknowledged, and then consensus was made to replicate the experience INSIDE the house today. Preferably on the potty.
I could write an entire blog about poop. Really and seriously. But I'm not there. Yet. Needless to say, victory was achieved, calls were made to Daddy, and pasta was boiled. Ahhhh.
And just think, I still have garbage can retrieval to look forward to today.
Boomtown rats, you sing my soundtrack.
If it hadn't been such an unbelievably tragic week/month, I'd post their video here. But I still have a small modicum of decency in me, despite it being a Monday.
The boys look like they've each taken a couple of rounds with Iron Mike. Sam's been doing his usual toddler tumbles while breaking the fall with his forehead. He has a perpetual olive green lump above his left eye that just seems like it's a part of him. Max went about 20 mph into a kitchen stool below his left eye and barely missed making this a very tragic blog entry. His eye looks like he's spent an hour or so at the MAC counter and is ready to head to the disco, it's such a pretty blend of ice blue to purple. He was already recovering from taking a toy Airbus 330 into the forehead, so that side of his face is looking pretty rough.
Last night Max asked if he could do "Naked Baby" as he got out of the tub, and before I could finish saying "Let me dry you off so you don't sli..." I heard the rumble and then the splat as forehead met hardwood floor. A giant lump (to match his brother's) soon appeared above his previously unblemished eye. And if that weren't enough to put me on prozac, or speed dial to 911, Sammy decided to practice his Spidey Skills and fall out of the crib last night. Now he's got a bruise on top of a bruise and a very jumpy mama.
Which is why I ran into his room when he woke up at 4:20 a.m. to soothe him back to sleep, rather than let him figure it out like I usually might do. Later, once my eyeballs were officially open, there was the garbage to contend with, this being Monday and all. Two cans, two kids, a ride-on tractor toy and a go-kart later, we were heading down the road. Max got a wild hair up his rocket booster and decided to take off full speed ahead toward our busy road, despite my loud, louder and loudest shouts of "STOP!" etc. So loud was I that I soon found two neighbors helping me, including the one who works nights and is usually asleep until noon. I think I need to bake someone some brownies. And take away go-kart privileges.
We were back in the rennievan and on the road by 8:40 a.m. to take Max to his new "Music and Motion" class at the YMCA, only to arrive and find that there was no class due to a mid-winter break. Funny, since EVERY piece of information I'd received from them had said that classes started today. Especially HILARIOUS since I had specifically asked about it being mid-winter break. And down right SIDE SPLITTING since I'd hauled two kids all the way there and was NOT WEARING A BRA and therefore could not go for a run myself.
And it just gets funnier and funnier as I ask Max repeatedly if he had to use the potty, only to be told after leaving the YMCA, and the gas station, that yes, in fact, there was a urine emergency. Into Starbucks for a clean potty and a skinny latte. Few things make me happier than the smell of coffee, but my oldest offspring told me that the bathroom at Starbucks "smelled good in here". Ugh, I worry about boys. And as I'm waiting for my desperately-needed coffee and corraling the bucking broncos who are taking down displays left and right, I wished to be anyone but me.
A little trick I've learned while mothering these boys: shut the garage door before opening the car door, lest the little ones spy a speck of sunshine and run madly for the great, muddy outdoors. But during our car ride, Max had told me that he'd pooped in the yard yesterday (lovely) and since I was concerned that he'd also been in the neighbor's yard, I wanted to make sure that I didn't need to make a DOUBLE batch of brownies. So poop was properly inspected, acknowledged, and then consensus was made to replicate the experience INSIDE the house today. Preferably on the potty.
I could write an entire blog about poop. Really and seriously. But I'm not there. Yet. Needless to say, victory was achieved, calls were made to Daddy, and pasta was boiled. Ahhhh.
And just think, I still have garbage can retrieval to look forward to today.
Boomtown rats, you sing my soundtrack.
If it hadn't been such an unbelievably tragic week/month, I'd post their video here. But I still have a small modicum of decency in me, despite it being a Monday.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Just Another Manic (Garbage) Monday
Monday at our house means GARBAGE DAY! It's a very exciting thing, anticipating the garbage truck. At least it's exciting for the younger set in our house. Max is a very discerning future sanitation engineer. He can tell me, from several hundred feet away, whether a garbage vehicle is a front loader, rear loader or side loader; if it's a recycler vs. straight refuse; and if there's room on the back for a kid to hang on or not. (Suffice it to say, Max's dream ride would be to hitch up with a really stinky front loader). For moi, Mondays mean gathering up all the stinky, putrid future landfill and trying to shove it into one garbage can. This is my ambition; to consolidate the weekly waste of a family of four into one small garbage can.
Halfway to the end of the road. Sam is pointing at one of the endless distractions along the route. It might be a puddle, a bird, an airplane. Or simply an excuse to stop and further prolong the morning's garbage event.
Our garbage can(s) are collected down to the end of our road, which is about a two minute walk. WITHOUT small children.
But when I have to take the kids, this can literally take half the morning. There's the motivating them out the door, away from their best friend, the good little monkey who was sometimes very curious. Then, there's the bundling up. Into many layers. And boots, and rain gear, and hats. All this, knowing that when we return to the house, I will have to strip the above layers in order to get to their muddy clothes which I will remove and replace with some other fresh laundry that, too, will be muddy within a matter of moments.
If it's a good day, meaning that I've composted, recycled, and not made any poor consumer choices for the week, than I'm working on a 1:2 ratio. As in one garbage can to two kids. On a bad day, I'm wrangling two kids and two garbage cans, and that's hard. But on a RECYCLING DAY (every other Monday), the days I really dread, it can be a 3:2 ratio. Three garbage cans, two kids. And let me remind you, dear gentle readers, that this mom only has two arms. Two not so very long arms.
So there I am, loaded up with stinky poop heading down the pot marked, uneven, and did I mention...Muddy?road with my two future sanitation engineers. Who jump in every puddle. Who stop to slay every prickly blackberry bush. And, in the case of Sam, often fall down face first into the wet sticky mud and then need to be hugged, dusted off, reassured, and soothed. And motivated to continue down the road so that I can pawn off this putrid stink to some poor, unsuspecting sanitation engineer who will have to remove the lid and empty our garbage stink into the toddler dream truck.
Did I mention that it rains here? Often?
There are often howls, tears, or bribery involved in order to turn us around after the garbage cans have been delivered. Some people want to stay and wait for the garbage trucks. Other's want to continue to Georgia's house or the park. But turn around we do. And we make the long, uphill trip back home.
And that's when the challenge really settles in. Transitioning the mud babies into the next activity. Either to go back inside or get in the rennievan so we can start the next adventure. Today I just couldn't fight that battle. There were places to go, things that needed to get done (sorry, babe, I'll pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow), etc., but the boys just wanted to play outside. It was a balmy 37 degrees, they were already muddy, and it wasn't raining TOO hard.
So dig away, my boys. Dig and dig and dig. Maybe we can dig a hole big enough for a garbage dump.
Halfway to the end of the road. Sam is pointing at one of the endless distractions along the route. It might be a puddle, a bird, an airplane. Or simply an excuse to stop and further prolong the morning's garbage event.
Our garbage can(s) are collected down to the end of our road, which is about a two minute walk. WITHOUT small children.
But when I have to take the kids, this can literally take half the morning. There's the motivating them out the door, away from their best friend, the good little monkey who was sometimes very curious. Then, there's the bundling up. Into many layers. And boots, and rain gear, and hats. All this, knowing that when we return to the house, I will have to strip the above layers in order to get to their muddy clothes which I will remove and replace with some other fresh laundry that, too, will be muddy within a matter of moments.
If it's a good day, meaning that I've composted, recycled, and not made any poor consumer choices for the week, than I'm working on a 1:2 ratio. As in one garbage can to two kids. On a bad day, I'm wrangling two kids and two garbage cans, and that's hard. But on a RECYCLING DAY (every other Monday), the days I really dread, it can be a 3:2 ratio. Three garbage cans, two kids. And let me remind you, dear gentle readers, that this mom only has two arms. Two not so very long arms.
So there I am, loaded up with stinky poop heading down the pot marked, uneven, and did I mention...Muddy?road with my two future sanitation engineers. Who jump in every puddle. Who stop to slay every prickly blackberry bush. And, in the case of Sam, often fall down face first into the wet sticky mud and then need to be hugged, dusted off, reassured, and soothed. And motivated to continue down the road so that I can pawn off this putrid stink to some poor, unsuspecting sanitation engineer who will have to remove the lid and empty our garbage stink into the toddler dream truck.
Did I mention that it rains here? Often?
There are often howls, tears, or bribery involved in order to turn us around after the garbage cans have been delivered. Some people want to stay and wait for the garbage trucks. Other's want to continue to Georgia's house or the park. But turn around we do. And we make the long, uphill trip back home.
And that's when the challenge really settles in. Transitioning the mud babies into the next activity. Either to go back inside or get in the rennievan so we can start the next adventure. Today I just couldn't fight that battle. There were places to go, things that needed to get done (sorry, babe, I'll pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow), etc., but the boys just wanted to play outside. It was a balmy 37 degrees, they were already muddy, and it wasn't raining TOO hard.
So dig away, my boys. Dig and dig and dig. Maybe we can dig a hole big enough for a garbage dump.
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