Seem's Like Just Yesterday...

Happy 5th Birthday, Max. Thanks for the laughs, the smiles and all the hugs. You make me very getsited to be your mama.

Dude, Where's My Spring?

The Ides of March brought a little winter tease. The barely bursting buds of Spring are not happy. The monkey boys, however, were quite delighted...







I call this photo "restraint". My arm still hurts from to holding myself from shoving snow down his pants.

Mancakes

Kitchen Krakatoa

Max burst into the house upon arrival from preschool asking if we had the "gredients" in our kitchen necessary to make a "balcano", like, um "NOW!". The urgent young vulcanologist barked out "baking soda, food color and binegar" faster than you could yell Vesuvius, so out to the yard we went with all the makings of sodium bicarbonate lava.

Pompei Before the Flow:








It was pretty exciting, in a bubbling pink kind of way, and I'm sorry that I don't have any action shots to show for it. But photographing an erupting volcano requires skills that I apparently don't possess. Getsited little boys...those are not nearly as rare around these parts.

Fountain of Youth

I've found the secret to feeling like a 5th grader = get a new little bike and a cavity filled on the same day.

Who says you can't go back?

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

Prepared For Emergency Landing

Much to our collective delight, we're enjoying a spontaneous visit from one our favorite people this weekend. The boys and I loaded up for a late night airport pick-up last night; dragging blankets, dollies, sippy cups, books, bathrobes, etc. As we sleepily stumbled into the car well after 9 pm, Max scurried back to the house to get his shoes.

"Oh, sweetie, you don't need to bring shoes..we won't be getting out of the car," I explained.

"I'm bringing them just in case..." he offered, sounding just like his emergency-contingency plan father, who would be so proud. And then he completed his sentence,

"...we want to stop for an ice cream cone."

My sweet-tooth DNA overpowers the always-be-prepared chromosomes. Yes!

Time Marches On

Oh, thank goodness it's March already! I had been fearing that February would last forever. It's not even the end of the first week of the month and we've already jumped some big hurdles that were hampering us last month.

On Monday, Max got to spend some time at the hospital getting tubes in his ears to help ward off the transient synovitus that rendered him unable to walk twice during February. He's happy, healthy and selectively tuning out my requests for him to wash his hands while simultaneously jumping off the furniture. Never again will I take his bionic hearing/jumping achievements for granted! Additionally, both of our cars were returned (finally!) from the collision repair shop where they each had multiple visits due to our "his and hers" car accidents of February. I will forever fear the little red corvette (baby, you were much too fast) and won't ever again curse a safety restraint after both boys escaped unscathed from their first vehicular bang up. No one has fallen down the steps yet in March, and the sun is shining in all her Springtime glory. So far, March is singing a pretty pleasant tune.

And today, I registered my baby for kindergarten. I'm not sure how it is that I was able to unstrap him from his infant carrier and watch him bound into the gymnasium of an elementary school, because I swear he just spit up all over my nursing bra. Gaaahhhh! Where is the damn pause button on these kids????

Our tour of the elementary school went exceptionally well and I was delighted to see how eager and curious Max was about all the new places to discover at school. His favorite was the library where he found books on diggers, dinos and whales faster than you can say dewey decimal. I think he'll do just fine.

To celebrate his foray into academia, we went out for a warm cocoa in the sunshine. We talked about all the neat things we'd seen at the school, what he was getsited about, and then gulped down the whipped cream while contemplating the sweetness of life.

While sipping my coffee and smiling at my big kid smeared with cocoa and cream, I looked out the window of the cafe at a group of moms who were gathering with strollers and tiny tots with fists full of cheerios and sippy cups and blankies tucked warmly around their pudgy red cheeks. Some of the babies were nodding off, others were fighting the restraint, and the moms all had a familiar look. Distracted, eager and exhausted. Ready for some exercise after being up for seven hours already and desperate for the fellowship of a kindred soul who was sleep deprived but still making a go of it.

I watched them gather, hug, and coo; recognizing myself in each of them. And I suddenly ached. I ached for the stroller that I no longer push. Lumps formed in my throat as I tried desperately to swallow my coffee; struggling with balancing the passage of time and a hot caffeinated beverage. The next thing I knew, all the patrons of the coffee shop joined in singing the chorus of "Sunrise, Sunset" while I watched my former self out the window and saw the reflection of my current self tearing up.

That was when it hit me. Max is totally ready for kindergarten, and I am so confident in his ability to thrive and shine and learn and discover and wonder. He will be fine.

He will be fine without me pushing him along, handing him Cheerios and cheering for the garbage trucks, airplanes and doggies. He's no longer a tot in a stroller with floppy hat tied underneath his three chins. He's a running, jumping, getsited big guy who is ready to learn and discover and begin a new voyage.

All aboard? I guess so...


3 days old, which was really just last week. I swear it was.

February: So Short, Yet Soooo Loooong

Dark, gloomy and cold February has never been one of my favorite months. She's bleak and boring and seems to drag on forever, despite her fewer than normal days on the calendar.

I'm guessing even the Romans were a bit tired of February's drearyness and figured that by shortening it up to a tiny little 28 days (with the bonus "leap!" every four years), we'd be able to move on with Spring so much faster. Oh, if only we could just hit the "fast foreman" button, as our kids like to call it, on the entire month of February and start the revival of Spring and her beauty of new growth and rebirth that comes in March.

Poor Max is really not digging this particular February. We just returned from urgent care where they confirmed his second ear infection of the month and he is now on his third round of antibiotics with a prescription date beginning in month 2/2009. He's a fevery, whiny and cranky little guy who needs lots of cuddles and loves and assurances. Right now he is snuggled up on our bed napping. Yes, you read that correctly. Max is NAPPING! Napping! For the second day in a row, the child who never ever would nap as a baby without a Barnum and Bailey type production involving the entire four-book volume set of Curious George stories, a giant burrito wrap to house his flailing arms and legs, and 6 disc concert medley of lullabies and yoga music, has gently fallen asleep on his own.

Maybe those hibernating bears are onto something. Next year I might recommend just sleeping through the 28 days.

Mine?

The boys worked very hard this week to show the Valentine love to their friends at preschool.


Max carefully cut out nearly 35 hearts for both his class and his brother's class.


What Sam lacks in fine motor skills, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm for his brother's mad skizzor skillz.



"Give me a 'V'!"



It would not surprise me in the least if I were to discover 34 new gray hairs this week. The fact that 34 happens to be exactly the same number of Valentine's cards that needed to leave the house this week may or may not be coincidental.

Pet Shop Boy

Max has discovered a recession-proof business and I'm encouraging him to hash out the details in a business plan. Right now, he's really in more of the pre-planning stages where we act out what's going to happen when his retail shop goes live. I'm sure Sam Walton's mother or Donald Trump's did the same thing with their kids.

We've been playing "International Pet Store", because domestic retail is just too limiting for his clientele. The young proprietor artfully displays his stuffed animals throughout the living room, sorting them by category, and then invites me into his shop.

Yesterday, I scored a great deal on an Orca whale for a buck and he even threw in the fish that I'd need to feed it for free. I couldn't get out of there without a Mama horse and her baby colt, and he suggested that I go next door to the feed store to get her some oats. Then, because he understands service, he offered to get the feed for me and even loaded it into my truck.

But here's where I think his business will really succeed: As he walked me to my truck he gave me a 100% guarantee that none of my pets will ever die.

I'm looking forward to investing in this kid and expect phenomenal returns, with or without an economic stimulus package.

You're Kidding, Right?

Please smack me around at tell me this isn't really happening today.


Please tell me these aren't really MY children in MY yard.


Please tell me that isn't MY driveway that will soon need to be shoveled in order for me to leave the house today.


Tell me that THIS kid isn't totally getsited.


This one, too!

Please tell me that you'll be stopping by with a snow shovel and a margarita or three. Brownies wouldn't be a bad idea, either. We'll be here...

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.

Garbage Day :: Pele style

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.

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.

Encore!

Being four years old, Max's experience with symphony concerts is pretty much limited to the end credits of "Little Einsteins". So before taking him to the local youth symphony this weekend to hear "Peter And The Wolf", I had a chat with him about how it was a "sit down and listen" kind of place. His response was "Will there be CURTAINS?" and much getsitement over the drapery potential. Then he added that he might need to wear a button down shirt.

And then he told me about the portfolio he's putting together for next week's episode of Martha Stewart Living. Draperies and collars, sheesh.

While he was hardly able to sit still for like, um, a note, he really enjoyed seeing the instruments and watching the musicians, all the more intriguing because they were teens. Almost kids! With trumpets! Dreams really do come true!

There were two exceptional moments of the afternoon. The first occurred when the African American conductor came out to great applause in his tuxedo and acknowledged the crowd with a slight tip of his baton. As he turned to face his orchestra, and the concert hall hushed in anticipation, Max asked in a stage whisper, "Is THAT RockoBAHma?". Hi..it's us...from the sticks..don't get out to the CITY much over here. But truly, it made me smile, and not just from awkward embarrassment. When a small child sees a person of a different race whom he mistakes for the President of the United States, that tells me that trumpets and curtains aren't the only dreams that really do come true.

My favorite memory of the afternoon was watching Max and his buddy, Charlie, silently "conduct" Eine Klein Nachtmusik from their seats. The boys were too small to hold down the seat bottoms and their little legs kept folding up on them like manila envelopes. There they were, sunken down with knees at their chest, tennis shoes banging at the edge of their rising seats, grinning wildly to Mozart and sharing the joy of the violins. When the piece was over, Max told me he couldn't WAIT to tell to Sammy about it.

The violins weren't the only thing pulling on the [heart] strings.

We The People

Under the Influence

Influenza. Nothing fun about it. My cells are hosting some sort of viral "Burning Man" festival in which there is much dividing and raging and kinesis going on. I'm the last person in our household to host such and event, and based upon my heightened state of whinyness, I'm thinking that I host quite the flu rager.

Note to self: Next time, try not to be so hospitable.


Photo courtesy of yahoo.com

Coffee Talk

Looking up from the Wall Street Journal, Mr. Wonderful comments with coffee cup in hand...

"He really does look like Hugh Hefner right now," directing his glance to the couch across the room.

Max, a mess of fever and bed head, has his flannel pajama top unbuttoned; all the better with which to prominently display his prized shark tooth necklace. The shark bathrobe adds a finishing touch to preschool's patriarch of the grotto.

If it weren't for the 45 decibels of Go, Diego Go! blaring from the t.v., I might be mistaken, too.

Happy Birthday To You...

Virtual hugs, virtual kisses and virtual birthday wishes. May the year ahead bring great happiness, health and humor. Thanks for all that you are.

I love you, Mom.

Stawberry Sharkcake

Our kids really love hearing stories about me and Mr. Wonderful as children. I imagine it's because they can't believe that their Mommy in child-form ever existed. Apparently the thought of me in pig tails on a Big Wheel is not unlike imagining a dinosaur...alluring, intangible and well, extinct.

This Christmas, Max really wanted to hear about what Santa brought me as a child. I know that I obsessed over presents like any kid, and I remember the utter delight and thrill of Christmas mornings on Oak Street. I also remember my parents drinking lots of coffee and looking really bed-heady while my brother and I jumped around and shrieked and had all kinds of discovery fun. But upon reflection, I couldn't easily remember what I got when I was four. And naturally, that's what Max was curious about... what I got when I was precisely four, five and six, etc. I'll admit, I faked my way through most of his questions, but I did remember one year with distinct clarity.

My mother made me a beautiful dark blue dress with tiny red strawberries and a white collar that I affectionately and cleverly termed my "strawberry dress." I loved it. I loved it because it was adorable and pretty, but also because it was made especially for me. Even at the age of five I knew that no one else would have one like it. Later, in my teen years when I just wanted to blend in with the crowd and be EXACTLY like everyone else, that would be a huge detraction. But as a little one with straight bangs and red mary janes, I really dug my unique strawberry dress.

This year I decided to borrow a tip from my mother's playbook and make adorable, matching fruit-themed dresses with Peter Pan collars for the boys for Christmas.

JUST KIDDING!

Instead, I made these bathrobes. I chose something that wouldn't have to be worn in public because my handywork is less than handy. However, I prefer to view a crooked seam as a sign that it's handmade by someone who cares about you and doesn't happen to work in a Chinese prison camp. Max loves his robe and calls it his "snuggly" and wants it on as soon as he gets out of the bath and first thing in the morning. I love how he is a 75 year old lady who is ready for a re-run of Murder, She Wrote and a side of Metamucil while being trapped in an active shark-obsessed preschooler's body. Sam, on the other hand, screams and cries whenever the plush straight jacket comes near him. Even hanging on the towel hook, the vintage race car fleece makes him upset and elicits long wails of "Nooooooo! Me no wear it!"

I'm totally not taking it personally, but you know, if Santa forgets to fill his stocking next year I won't be demanding a recount. Maybe I'll take him to the mall next year and make him get his picture taken in it on Santa's lap. I'm totally not petty.


I think I will title this photo "Ironic Moment of Christmas Morning 2008".

This was taken during the only three seconds of Sam's entire life in which he will smile and wear a bathrobe simultaneously. Caught on film ... brilliant. I think Max was pouting because I asked him to put down his Orca Whale Rescue Helicopter. In addition to petty, I'm also mean.


It was our nephew who really stole the fashion show later and showed how to wear a robe like you own it. This kid's got style.

Giggle, Giggle, Read

I especially enjoy reading books to the boys that does not involve things that (a) destroy the earth, (b) eat other members of their species, or (c) make me queasy trying to sound out the 45 syllables that only a paleontologist would find pronounceable.

Aside from its obvious developmental and "intellectual" benefits, reading gives me that fleetingly rare opportunity to snuggle and cuddle my very busy boys, while also getting me in close proximity to gently pull their fingers out of their noses without having to actually say the most oft repeated words of motherhood..."fingers out of noses".

Much to our collective delight, Santa brought some great books this year. This one is a huge hit:



We've been huge fans of they whacky antics of Duck since we first laughed together in Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type. Other than by enjoying an ice cream cone or being hungry for change, the boys have learned almost everything that they know about the US electoral process -- other than that Mommy and Daddy disagree about it a lot -- from Duck For President.

Thump, Quack, Moo hit the nail on the head again and had the boys giggling and begging for me to read it again. And again. And again. When we read this book together they lean forward, one on each side of me, and look at each other to share the joy of hysterical laughter. Sammy won't do it until he gets the cue from Max, and then he's a mess of lumpy laughter. Max just giggles until he can't hear a word without laughing.

Of course it's contagious, and since laughter is the one thing I will never complain about catching from my kids, I love this book.

I Can See Clearly Now (although, still got the rain)

While going to pick up my new eye glasses today, Max wanted to know why he and Sammy weren't getting them and Daddy and Mommy were (ever the egalitarian). I explained to him about how our eyes age and we start to see differently etc., and that we have to take good care of our eyes to keep them healthy and strong. We do that by eating our vegetables and not watching too much t.v. and reading lots of books with good lighting. Admittedly, I had a minor agenda to share, but it's a parental right, er, obligation.

Taking it all in, Max asked...

"Does planting things make your eyes healthy?"

"Hmmm", I replied, "I think planting is always a good choice, Max."

"Good. Because that's what I love to do most!"

Healthy choices for 2009.

May we all see things so clearly in the year ahead.

Bloggers note: my prescription sunglasses were not correct and had to be sent back. The optometrist apologized and asked if a week would be okay or if I'd need them sooner? Dude, you know where I live. No, I don't think I'll be seeing the sun until April, so next week should be just fine.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Just this blogger's mouse.

Stop on by, Big Guy. Cookies and reindeer treats await...






Merry Christmas to All
And to All A Good Night!

Snowmageddon 2008

I never thought I would ever write these words...I'm so glad it's finally raining!




The cozy blankets of snow that have been falling for the past 10 days have been a blessing of sorts. We're healthier than any December since bringing the little petri dishes into our lives, since we've been unable to interact with the outside world and therefore unable to collect its germs. Long, hibernating nights during this Solstice week have made for happy little morning bears (and well-rested Mama and Papa bears, too).




The week before Christmas this year has found us gift-making instead of buying, since driving to shops is on the list of dangerous activities that might also include eating radioactive waste and playing hide and seek with tiger sharks. We've enjoyed extraordinary meals prepared from the contents of our freezer/pantry and have managed to get equal amounts of energy-sapping snow shoveling and cozy couch cuddling in each day. Mr. Wonderful's daily trek to the gas station to see if the paper delivery truck made it (Yay! Boo! Yay!) have kept us connected to the outside world and its necessary provisions.



I've really enjoyed this week of having our family together to focus on what matters most to us this season...each other.

Well, that and dry socks.

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.

Happy Golden Days of Yore

I've been searching in my ornament boxes for something to put on our tree that doesn't have wheels, treads, propellers, a sword, or a corn cob pipe. Even my favorite glass icicles, dangling all shimmery and oh-so-breakably, add a rather phallic tone to the Man Tree in our living room. The Man Tree is complete with a star on the top of it that Max made in preschool out of an empty roll of toilet paper covered in aluminum foil. If an empty roll of toilet paper doesn't scream male to me, then I don't know what does.

While plucking through these boxes of Christmases-past in search of something that represents the feminine in our family, I came across a picture.

A family photo taken ten Christmases ago, when my brother and I both had hands without gold bands and not even a glimmer of the little monkey boys who would one day change the holiday season forever for us. We look well-rested, unfrazzled, and well, calm.

It was the Christmas in which Mr. Wonderful asked me to do him the honor of becoming his bride, and my grandparents had come out to visit. Grandma has on a festive vest and I'm sure she told Grandpa to wear The Red Shirt. Or maybe she didn't say a word, but after fifty Christmases together, he knew.

We went to visit my mom's cousin and his family and shared our last Christmas with my Great Aunt Valerie, who had a tradition of sewing matching night gowns and night shirts for me and my brother every year. We joked about sleepwear while drinking martinis and eating cannelloni by candlelight. My little cousin, who now towers over me and knows all the songs being played in the Brass Plum section of Nordstrom, was five and she BELIEVED. Her mom believed, too. We all believed that year.

The next year, for the first time in my life, I didn't come home for Christmas. Mr. Wonderful and I shared our first Christmas tree and started our own family traditions that continue now and will continue for our boys in the Christmases to come. Hopefully some of these traditions and memories will even remain well after I'm no longer in the picture.

The holidays, while certainly merry and bright, also bring out the ghosts of Christmas Past, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. The ache can be overwhelming, especially at a time of year when we're supposed to be happy and bombarded with imagery of family and sentiment and mournful versions of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".

Today I send out hugs to all who are missing dear ones. Whether that footprint is fresh or old, it still leaves a mark. Polaroids don't replace the hugs and laughter shared over a glass of eggnog. But I'll offer a toast to those no longer decorating the tree, and to those who still make it merry and bright while feeling the pull of the past.

*Clink*

It's not just my tree that needs more angels.

All The Way Home

It was a Winter Wonderland at our house with about six hours of snowfall today. The view was beautiful and bright and beckoning to our little boy who just cannot resist Mother Nature and Her gifts; wintry and otherwise.

Shortly after waking, Max was out the door in the falling snow without shoes, hat, coat or mittens. And back in. And out. And in. And out. Cheering with glee and getsitement and proclamation and anticipation while I was making eggs for a sobbing, starving and very impatient Sam.

Out and in. Out and in. The golden jingle bells hanging on our front door announced his indecision each time, until the door slammed and there was a crash and a "MOHHHHM!"

**********************

On the floor next to the door lay a crippled wooden horse that used to hang in my grandparents' farmhouse welcoming their guests. With two freshly broken legs. It's a sentimental item, and, along with the countless other holiday items that are missing feet, arms, wings, hats, etc. due to little hands dropping or squeezing them, kind of broke my patience. I burst into tears and mumbled about how everything gets broken around here and I can't have special things out and Wahahhwaaaahwaaah. Totally ridiculous, but thoroughly shocking and unexpected - for both them and me. The boys became hushed and apologetic, exchanging worried glances and wondering, hopefully, if I was just laughing.

Max even suggested that I might need to go to my room until I could stop crying.

Dude. If only I could.

My frustration was brewing faster than my eagerly anticipated morning coffee until I looked out the window. And what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A reminder...

That in the midst of the chaos and the cold, in the bleak and long gray days when I am stuck in the house with the ricochet of two preschool-aged boys, there is beauty. And stillness. And a tiny imprint of what will one day be much bigger and won't return back to my door in such a rush.



Wooden horses? Those can be replaced. These little piggies?

Irreplaceable.