Snuggle Nest

Whew

I'm happy to report that our little patient is recovering well from his medical ordeal. He has really powered through the discomfort and pain with great fortitude, and shown enormous restraint in hoarding the consumption of frozen sweet goodness over his brother. Sleeping is a real challenge, but during the day he's pretty happy and chipper. That may have to do with his steady diet of television, board games, snuggles, pain medication and copious amounts of high fructose corn syrup at every meal.

Additionally, Max is doing a great job on inventory management. Each day he monitors any potential inequity of Sam's diet (liquid and sweet) over his (solid and full of vitamins and minerals). When Max leaves the house he's prompt upon return to inquire as to how many servings of ice cream his brother has had, how many t.v. shows he's watched, and diligently counts the empty juice boxes in the recycling bin. I'm honestly not sure which is more trying - keeping up on Sam's pain meds or making sure that Max feels that he hasn't been jipped of the greatest opportunity available to small children. We've tried to explain to Max that he's the one receiving the good deal here as he's riding the popsicle/Penguins of Madagascar wave right along with his brother, yet without the loss of glandular tissue. But each time we offer up a Danimals yogurt smoothie to Sam, Max's shoulders shrink down to his dairy-allergic belly and his lower lip quivers from the injustice of it all.

Sam handled all aspects of his brief stay at the children's hospital with his usual subtle humor and low key one-liners. Without argument, but with clear disdain, he put on the hospital gown that was covered in ridiculously animated dogs, shaking his head at the nurse "But my don't like dogs. And..there's a hole in the back", as if she hadn't noticed about that tying action. When she offered him a green stuffed bear with a soccer ball on it that he'd be able to take home after the surgery, Sam just shook his head and said "No sanks. Max he will just take it from me" (a valid point). Instead, he chose the bland beige bear with "1999" lamely embroidered on it, proving that he's the only child in 11 years who was able to overcome impulse and was willing to take the plain and boring bear rather than deal with the painful fallout of his older brother's anticipated drama.

With the gift of childhood innocence, Sam seemed pretty un-phased by the somber nature of our time at the hospital. During the pre-op exam in which they asked me about his medical history, Sam looked at the nurse with a completely straight face and told her "My only allergic to monkeys". After requesting a "Little Mermaid Night Night Story" from the anesthesiologist, Sam took the masked-man's hand and walked right with him into the operating room, Scooby Doo doll in hand, bypassing the nurse/gurney that was ready to rip him from his nervous mother's arms.

Modern technology allowed us to view the progress of surgery much like the status of an order of fries and a cheeseburger: each child is given a random number and it's posted on an electronic screen in the waiting room. It's color coded to let you know when your child is in pre-op, surgery, incision closure, etc., and then onto the recovery, which can be an additional hour before the child can be seen by anxious parents. Sam knew that time line just wasn't going to work for me, so he made it pretty clear that any recovery that he was going to have needed to be in his parents arms. Which, of course, was just what I needed and he knew that.

This little episode has proven to us we are enormously blessed to have a thoughtful, tough, and hilarious little son. And that hopefully, however enlightening they are, our trips to the hospital will be few and far between.

Ice Cream You Scream

Tomorrow morning Sam will be undergoing the Ear, Nose & Throat Triple Play - ear tubes in, adenoids and tonsils out. I took him to the grocery store today and we loaded up on popsicles, ice cream, juice, otter pops and other cold, liquid treats.

I let him stand in the freezer aisle, door wide open, and told him to pick out popsicles and ice cream. He warily asked if he could have the red, white and blue rocket ships and was shocked and awed to watch me put them in the cart. "What else, Buddy?, I asked as I lifted frozen fruit bars from his icy fingers. "Anything else in there look good to you, Sam?"

He looked up, grabbed his arms around me, snuggled his little face into my belly and kissed my hand over and over again, proclaiming his undying love for me and frozen dairy products.

I'd be lying if we both didn't consider it one of our best days ever at the grocery store. Tomorrow. Yeah, that probably won't be so fun for either of us. But at least we'll have ice cream.

Rainbow Connections

I've missed posting some really important moments of the past six months on this blog. I've finally resolved a highly irritating issue that I was having with photo organization on my computer, and going back and re-dating/sorting everything is just way too boring and overwhelming for someone who has no Virgo compulsion for order, nor uninterrupted time for such detail-oriented tasks.

So instead of linear/chronological order, here's a reflection of the absent months of 2009-2010 in Rainbow Order (ROYGBIV).

Today I'm seeing life through rose [red] colored glasses:


Like the reddish curls of Sam's hair.
These curls continually melt my heart and bring smiles to my crankiest days. They are as much an expression of Sam's buoyant personality as his light-up-the-sky smile, twinkling eyes, and precocious vocabulary. It's just that we get to admire this feature quietly, from behind his face; making him pretty much 360 degrees of precious, 365 days a year.

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"Look at me! My flying!"
Little red airplane at Train Town in Sonoma, CA
February 2010

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Spokane International Airport, September 2009

If anyone ever asked me to summarize my two children in one photo, I would probably reference this shot. I snapped it while while I was talking on my phone as we were waiting for some friends to pick us up at the airport. Tired of sitting still, Max cleverly set up an obstacle course out of car seats and luggage. Max is giving his body what it needed - movement - without running away or complaining (believe me, he's done both of those things plenty of times, too). But here he jumped, swerved, spun and ran about a mile, all within about a 10 foot radius. Sam, who was also tired of traveling and was well, just tired in general, joined right in on Max's action and appointed himself as supervisor/cheerleader. Like most of us watching, Sam enjoyed and admired Max's unique energy and entertainment style.

My Mom bought that little red suitcase for Max when he was about 10 months old. She thought it would be perfect for him on overnight trips to visit the grandparents. Okay, so she gave it to me, but I think we both knew for whom is was really intended. And she was right, he loves traveling with it all over the country, but especially going to visit Bubbi and Grandpa.

Sunday Night Bath

Who ever knew the poetry of bath time could be so sweet?

But my don't like dogs

In honor of Sam's birth nearly four years ago, my parents purchased and planted a beautiful little tree in our front yard. It's a lovely dogwood that comes into bloom each year right before his birthday, and Sam proudly refers to it as his "Dog Tree".

As if we didn't need enough reminders that this little guy's birthday is coming upon us shortly, the dogwood began blooming this week. It's gorgeous and delicate and abundant with fiery color. Sam loves to come out and look at it and point at the opening blossoms.

In addition to the wonders of a bloom that coincides with one's birth EVERY year, Sam also is quick to recognize the irony. Without any measure of irritation, Sam easily explains to us all that the tree is his, "but...my don't like dogs."

At least he appreciates the tree. We'll work on dogs later.

Happy Earth Day

My blogging has been dormant for the Winter, but with Spring in full swing, I intend to get some more posts of my little seedlings sprouting.

The boys are growing, blossoming, digging in roots and stretching their boundaries. Spring will always remind me of the beautiful season of their births, and how much richer my life is with their presence.

Bursting from the slow, dark days of Winter, we are a flurry of activity around here. Everything seems to get crammed into this time of year - sports, birthdays, school plays, science fairs, bike-a-thons and other endless requests for our limited free time. This morning we enjoyed acknowledging Spring and Earth Day with the simple act of planting seeds together.

Jack Be Little pumpkins, Marigolds, Sunflowers, green gourds, and summer squash made a new perch behind our kitchen sink. I'm also pretty sure that Sam planted a few errant globules of oatmeal left on the table from his breakfast. He's hoping for a bumper crop this summer.

Great Balls of Fire

Once again, our home is buzzing with getsitement in anticipation of a summertime visit from my folks who are estimated to arrive tomorrow. Max and Sam are bouncing off the newly painted walls (thank you, Mr. "Mellow Yellow" Wonderful). The boys are digging out all the toys that they CAN'T WAIT to show Bubbi and speculating on how much fun they'll have watching "Cars" with Grandpa Tom.

The total self-absorption that defines this stage of child development matches perfectly with my parents' cross-generational adoration and delight in playing with their grandchildren; even if it's the same toy/movie/book played/watched/read a thousand times before on previous visits. Fresh and new is not what it's about.

It's not about scheduling an itinerary of activities to keep us busy and connected through similar experience; those days will come when we have teenagers with acne and ipods and attitude. Right now we have two little snuggle bunnies who want nothing more than to jump and run and show new tricks to an adoring audience. They can't wait to find a loving lap to snuggle on and someone who will read to them about sharks, or dinosaurs or Tow Mater without saying "Ok, I gotta get moving here guys, times up..."

This is what it's all about.

After having lost my own grandmother this Spring, I am especially nostalgic for that remarkable, unconditional grandparental love. I know how lucky our kids are to have this unique and rewarding relationship; and also how lucky I am to have the support of two sets of parents who think their grandkids are pretty special. This kind of love will build us up and stand long after the seeds we sow have been harvested, long after the lego towers have been knocked down or the sand castles washed away.

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So, here's our itinerary for the next week: Lots of snuggles and books and playing trains and racecars. Lots of walks in the woods, along the beach, and down the dirt road. And, of course, a bit of dirt digging and planting seeds with Grandpa.


Dirt under the fingernails and hugs around the knees. THAT's what summertime is all about. Ooooh, and some of these great seedballs, too...

Bed shmed

Big boy beds are highly over-rated; the floor works just fine and is actually Sammy's preferred locale for catching some zzzzzzs.

Piston (the) Cup

Sam has been a diligent and dedicated potty learner (Oh Lord, yes, I am really posting about this) who tolerates our eager Getsitement over his voiding accomplishments with mild disdain. Giving what is clearly the toddler equivalent of an adolescent eye roll, he waves me away from the bathroom after I place him on his thrown with a request for "Primacy, please". We are admonished to "No clapping" and there is a great deal of modesty about the accomplishments and newly acquired undergarments. He doesn't quite have the hang of anticipating how the plumbing all works - which I'm sure will come later - but he's doing a great job of making regular pit stops.

Right now we're staying focused on the fundamentals..keeping the race car dry and being reassured that life does indeed go on when we have to stop the fun and run to the bathroom. In order to keep things dry and happy we've been setting the timer for every 30 minutes to remind him (and me) to take a trip into the bathroom.

Consequently, we are a house full of interruption and crazy energy as I madly try to wrap things up in tidy 30 minute windows before the kitchen timer forces us to huddle in the powder room. This has resulted in dry underpants (yay!), constant interruption (boo!) and keeping our eyes on the prize...total independence of diapers (yay yay!). It has also resulted in some veeeerrrryyyy loooooonnnnggg days as we hang out around the house rinsing out odorous, wet underwear while waiting for the timer to ding! This rhythmic shift of constantly having our self-imposed exile and total boredom interrupted by the kitchen timer calling us to the bathroom is aggravating for all members of the household. Much to Max's disappointment, there are never freshly baked cookies when that dinger goes off...just a fast dash to the home of the poopy prize.

Fortunately, Sam's a lot like his dad and is pretty easy to reward with small amounts of chocolate. We're big fans of the miniature M&M's, which he has affectionately termed "Chocowit baby gum" as a reward for making a show at the porcelain racetrack. Today I even looked up to see if I could order some Cars M&Ms and was delighted to find that yes, you can get everything ever imagined off of these here internets.


When placing the photo on here to share with all of you, I noticed the photo's title: DISNEY_CAR_lentils.jpg

With those colors, I can see why the good people in Bangalore who are working diligently on the website for Mars North America might be confused and assume that us crazy Americans are buying lentils with pictures of a rusty tow-truck on them.

Ka-Chow!

Independence Day

Operation Queen Car Underwear is officially underway at the Monkey Ranch.

While at the park with a friend yesterday, Sam decided that he was done with this messy diaper business and snuck into the woods, removed his diaper from beneath his pants, and handed me his diaper while proclaiming that he wants to wear underwear. Always.

Fire up the washing machine, load up on poopy prizes, and here we go! Here's to independence!

"Fun" Run

The boys and I "ran" in a local 3K tonight. Max was off like a rocket at the start and Sam burned all his fuel in the first 100 yards trying to keep up with him. But he made a strong finish to the cheers of admiring fans and the motivational coaching that I gave him "to finish fast like Lightening McQueen!" It was all grins and bouncing curls from Sam until Max yelled out from the crowd at the finish line, "MOM! They're out of Otter Pops AND Popsicles!"

It sounded like reverb to me. Echoing over the cheers - in Chariots of Fire style slow motion - I watched the descent into total meltdown as Sam realized he would be denied. Surrounded by over 300 children slurping down frozen corn syrupy goodness; their elbows sticky with orange happiness and Fudgsicle wonder. Right in front of him. And. there. was. none. for. him. My ears will forever echo with the wails.

Fortunately, a quick stop at the mini mart saved the day. And a phone call to Daddy to tell him what great little racers he's got:

"My won the race, Daddy!"

"I picked it up right at the 2K mark like we talked about and still had a kick at the finish, Daddy. I think the key was running through 4 lawn sprinklers to stay hydrated"

Excellent post-race recovery, Sam.

My Free!

Ask Sam how old he is, and he'll happily reply, "MY FREE!" and hold up the appropriate number of fingers. Or not.

Today was his birthday, and well, it kind of got consumed with other events. As per usual with Sam, he just rolled with it and was happy to have a "hot dog day" in which his mother offered him nitrates at every meal and shouted out "Freebird" like the true Lynyrd Skynyrd fan that I'm not. I guess I should probably put that lighter away, too.

I love you, little Sammy bird. Hot dogs and 'queen cars the whole year through for you, my darling boy.

Leather Racetracks

I knew I was doomed.

There's nothing quite like a dinner party audience peering from the window of a delicate sans children home in a torrential rainstorm to make the unloading of a minivan with two small boys look like "Hi, we're your hillbilly cuzins from the south comin' to move in fer a spell, don't mind if we chain our dog to yer fence, do ya?" We were an assembly of raincoats, backpacks, books, Legos and matchbox cars; the Easter Lily in floral wrap that had crashed madly on I-5 and dumped soil on my seat yet narrowly missed the freshly baked hot-cross buns; the stomping in puddles and inspecting of worms on the walkway into the house.

We can hardly spell subtle, let alone demonstrate it.

Our gracious hosts were lovely, inviting and warm. As coats were hung and a tour given, I noted that there was crystal on the table. And china. And chocolate Easter bunnies in pretty gold ribbon so confidently placed in the white cloth seats where the children would sit.

I was doomed.

This lovely Easter dinner was at the home of friends who are newly married and in that blissful cocoon of "kids are something cute and sweet to LOOK FORWARD TO" portion of their lives. Max hadn't even taken his shoes off before asking where the toys were, and I ssshhhhd him immediately with THE EVIL EYE as our happy hostess escorted him to a coffee table with ink pens and construction paper. And olives. With pits. Which he ate and then nearly choked on and spit/dribbled over the other guests.

"At least he likes vegetables" they offered weakly.

I was doomed.

There was a lovely little girl there, close to the same age as Max, who quietly put on headphones and plugged in her personal "My Little Pony" DVD and was never heard from again. Until she blasted the boys on Wii bowling and the entire dinner party apologized without sincerity or irony that she was a "wringer".

I was doomed.

There were salad plates each adorned with a chocolate brown, jewel-sized box of truffles decorated jauntily with yellow marshmellow Peeps placed on top. Which my boys demolished before ever a green leaf could come between their lips OR the Easter blessing could be given by our generous host.

In that quiet moment of grace, when not even a single serving of tossed greens had been tasted by any dinner guest, Sam was screaming "MEAT!!!" at the succulent Easter ham sliced at the center of the table.

I was doomed.

I begged forgiveness and quickly added some ham to my salad so that I could slice it for the meat-eater on my left. At which point the meat-eater on my right whined about wanting his "BIG" and *not* cut into non-chokeable portions. I sliced, I diced, and wait - there was more - passed the green baby peas and asparagus with sliced radish, yes I know you don't want yours cut but you'll choke on this grizzle, hold on, I'm cutting it as fast as I can, no you may not eat that Peep, no you may not leave the table, use your manners, please, try some of these potatoes, they have cheese - your favorite!, no more bread until you finish what's on your plate, yes, I see that you have a knife, please don't put it in your mouth, NO MORE PEEPS!, say "no thank you", yes, I'm getting you some more meat.

I was doomed.

Our host madly searched the inventory of Nickelodeon, Sprout, Disney, etc. to provide the necessary kid crack for us to finish our delightful meal. I suggested we consult our savior, Roary The Racing Car. "But, it's only 11 minutes", he replied with regret and apology.

Dude. That's MY 11 minutes of peace and quiet for the day and it's 11 minutes more than we're getting right now. I say it's worth it, don't you? He smiled in silent agreement.

I was doomed.

We wrapped up a lovely meal, delightful conversation, and the kids were quiet for 11 minutes. A wineglass was broken AND IT DIDN'T INVOLVE ONE OF MY CHILDREN! I started to not feel so doomed.

I excused myself from the clean-up because the last thing an embarrassed guest needs is an audience (spoken from the voice of experience). I casually walked into the t.v. room to see what was going on with the Sproutlets, only to discover to my horror that the nubby soft leather sofa had a distinctive "Sammy Swirl" etched into it. In BALLPOINT PEN.

Choking back tears and rage, I sputtered out the "WHO DID THIS", only to get the cheerful reply of my primary suspect, Sam "My did it. My made a racetrack!" So proud.

So doomed.

Holy &*\ *($% @&)*@. Seriously. Could this get any more painful? I guess it just did.


With a perky criminal on my hip, I went back into the dining room to face the music.

"I'll see your broken crystal and slightly torn tablecloth and raise you a ruined Corinthian leather sofa."

Our host scoffed graciously, waving his hand as in "no big deal". Then he grabbed the sofa seat and a leather-cleaner-kit still in its box, scurried off to the kitchen and went to town. Serious work and life-saving attempts were made on the sofa.

I was doomed.

And then there was dessert. And an Easter Egg hunt.

I offered up Mr. Wonderful's mad skills at tanning animal hide and suggested a particular cow at the family farm that I had in mind, but people thought I was joking.

I was doomed.

Doomed and blessed. Blessed with a minivan of monkeyboys who are nothing less than exuberant, eager, and excited. Easter and otherwise.

Upon returning home and after getting the boys to bed, I called my friend and apologized profusely. She laughed it off in that way that proved that she has perspective and elegance and a keen sense of humor.

I told her that when she has kids, they'll be welcome to come to my house and write on my sofa, key my car and vomit profusely on my carpet.

I'm doomed.

I hope she takes me up on it.

Mancakes

WonderBowl

Check out Sam in his bowling shoes. This week, he LOVED wearing someone else's shoes. Which was good, since Elton John didn't seem to mind that he was borrowing his cape, either.

Win-Win.

Queen Car Smile

Some Like It Hot

Admittedly, my game was not on yesterday.

Thinking that Sam's shoes and socks were in the car, I took him to preschool in bare feet (it's the way we roll around here; it being the Season of Mud and little kicking feet). Alas, no brown sneakers, or any other pair of shoes for the boy were to be found in the nether region that is my rolling wardrobe, also known as the minivan. Another mom at preschool had my back with a spare pair of shoes in Sammy's size in the trunk of her car.

Great!

Except that they were pink Chuck Taylor's like this:



Adorable. Crazy Cute!

Sammy, not such a fan.

I really didn't think he'd notice or care about them being pink, but he knew they weren't his and he kept crying, untying them, and wailing "Take OFF! Take OFF!, NOOOOOOO. Not me shoe. Not me shoe".

I can't wait to take this kid bowling someday.

Sam managed to pull it together and suffer through the indignity of 1.5 hours in pink high tops and didn't ask for a Cher CD or request Birdcage in the Netflix queue.

Not that I would have a problem with either of those things, nor do I have a problem with boys loving the rose and purple hues and wanting to wear them. As for us, I think there is enough John Deere green and Caterpillar yellow around here to overwhelm any eclectic celebration of pink.

F-Bomb Right on Target

Sammy dropped his first F-bomb yesterday.

Getting out of the car, he looked down at his feet, realized that his shoes were off, and said, "Fwuk".

Like he owned the word.

"What did you just say?" I asked with a cross of astonishment and incredulousness.

And again, "FWUK!", he repeated, this time louder.

Before I could say another word, he told me straight up,
"Me say like Daddy."

Of course you do, my son, of course you do. Because apples don't fall far from targets or trees.

Just a little off the top, please

It was time. The curls were fraying out and my little man was beginning to impersonate a small troll spinning upon the top of a pencil. The little devil wings above his ears were sprouting into horns and we made the family decision for a FIRST HAIRCUT.

Mr. Wonderful and Max have built a beautiful relationship around their trips to the barber together; replete with lollipops, trucks and a stop at the Daddy Store (aka hardware store). Although it was very hard for me to undo the apron strings and let Daddy take him for his first haircut, I decided that this was a gift that needed to be shared with Sam, too.

I only cry about the lost curls three or four times a day and keep wondering who this big boy is who showed up at our house and keeps calling me "Mommy." He's cute, though, and he seems to really like it here, so we're going to keep him. And the little bag of curls that I've taped to the refrigerator.