A sign they're returning to life

Look what I found on the kitchen table this morning:

It leads me to wonder just what the poor little thing could have done to make the soldiers so angry? Probably had the audacity to exist, that's what. You know how princesses are always flagrantly committing that crime.

Luckily, I dismantled the firing squad before Hannah was aware of the harm being done to her beloved Princess Polly Pocket.

I am considering showing her the picture and then helping her dress all their toy soldiers up in Barbie clothes.

Think it's too much for a Monday morning?

Little boy heaven

Well, I survived cub scout day camp. Or what I will now refer to as the long-lost-wannabe-branch-of-the-military-camp.

Have you ever met a professional scouter?

This is one hard-core group of men who take their jobs at scout camp very seriously. They run a pretty tight ship. They are in favor of sharp commands and crisp salutes.

They will definitely yell when necessary.


They are very pro-NRA and did not stop short of recruiting me and my absent husband to sign ourselves right up.

They do not like you to refer to a BB gun as a weapon. It is a firearm, thankyouverymuch. [Won't make that mistake again. No, siree.]

And they are unaware that they are not actually generals in the Army. Believe me when I tell you, I so wanted to be the person to tell them.

But I didn't. I behaved and followed the rules.

I asked for permission to enter the range (where we shot beans from sling shots). I wore my large, ugly protective eye wear to prevent any stray beans from causing me blindness. I was absolutely still and silent during the BB gun shooting so as not to distract the cub scout shooters who were engaging their wimpy powerful firearms.

Yes, because when holding a firearm, all an eight-year-old boy really wants to focus on is his mother. Not the fact that he has an actual gun in his hands that he has been given permission to use.

Whatever.

And I even stood a safe distance outside of the live missile zone in the archery area. Unlike Mr. Scouting General, Sir! that you see in the background here:

But the boys? Best week of their lives (their words, not mine). All of the guys in our group had a good time. No one died on my watch. No one shot their eye out. No one was kicked out or had their firearm taken away.

And no one joined the NRA that I am aware of.

I'd say that makes it a roaring success. Hoo-rah!

To my three babies

Here we are, in the second full week of our summer vacation. The first few days were a little rough on me, I'll admit. I have been so used to spending several hours a day all by myself - doing what I wanted, when I wanted. And then suddenly, here are you three little people.

Here. In my clean house.

And you are always hungry. ALWAYS leaving things out. And not the least bit concerned with the trail of crumbs behind you.

But in spite of this, I think we've found our rhythm, you and I. I'm looking at your cheerful faces across the table, listening to your chatter, and I find that my heart is full.

With each various stage of life that we've gone through together, it seemed to me that I would always remember. I'll be honest - sometimes, it felt like your less-desirable phases would never end. I can definitely think of at least one that is irrevocably seared into the recesses of my mind.

But there are so many more that I know I have forgotten.

Long ago, as I held your baby selves, smelling your sweet little necks, I promised myself I would never forget. That these moments, like the thousands of photos I've taken of you, would always be permanently etched in my mind. But now that a little time has passed, I find that I just can't quite recall your baby smells. I have all but forgotten the sounds of your newborn cries. And it hurts my heart to think that I won't ever again hear your bubbly toddler voices.

Only when I creep to your bedside at night do I see traces of the babies you once were. Even you, McKay, still sometimes purse your little lips together, making that all-too familiar puckered face. It's when you're in that angelic, dreamy state that it all comes back to me. And it brings a smile to my face every time.

Right now though, I want to freeze this. I don't want these days, and these people you are today, to be only a memory.

I want to remember how Hannah's voice sounds when she's just woken up and has a head full of morning hair. I want to remember the way Chase lights up when he talks about conservation or a new story he's written. I want to always see McKay's crooked smile, and feel the swell of pride when walking by him curled up, reading a book. Because I just love that he's a reader. Like me.

I am in love with the phase that you're all in. You've suddenly, and without warning, become very interesting people to be around. You're growing more independent every day. Your opinions are all your own, and not reflections of what you hear your dad and I say. You see that your life will not always be dictated by me, and you really like the idea of that.

You are doing what children should. You are doing what I want you to do. You are growing up.

I am just so afraid that I will forget.

And I probably will.

But if I've learned nothing else as a mother, it's this: I will always mourn each phase as it passes me by, leaving me standing on the sidelines. And although it leaves my arms a little more empty each time, it leaves my heart a whole lot more full.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Blaming Grandpa

This morning, at the unholy hour of five-thirty a.m., the phone next to my bed rings. It startles me from a deep and peaceful sleep. My heart jumps, knowing if the phone rings that early, the news can only be bad.

I stumble for the phone to see who is calling.

Without my contacts or glasses, I am essentially blind, and the most I can make out is our last name.

In a panic, I answer the phone, praying that the Husband (who is traveling as usual this week) is not in some dire situation requiring either bail money or an E.R. visit.

The squeaky, giggling voice of my oldest son says, "APRIL FOOL'S, MOM!"

Then I hear him fall down in a fit of hysterical laughter.

He had used my cell phone to call our house.

At five-freaking-thirty in the morning.

I lay my head back on the pillow, exasperated, and try to find a reason not to take him out of this world (after all, I did bring him into it, or so the saying goes). Unable to go back to sleep, and struggling for patience, I head downstairs and begin the breakfast preparations for my early risers.

It turns out that I was not the only victim of McKay's pranks. He had switched everyone's coats and backpacks around in the mudroom lockers. He filled a squirt bottle with water and secretly squirted his sister in the back of the head. He left crazy notes. He slipped contraband items into his brother's school backpack.

He was a troll. And all before the sun was even up.

Watching him run around pulling all these stunts, I realized something. He is a miniature version of his Grandpa.
My Dad is the king of April Fool's Day. All through my childhood, he was the master prankster. Every year, you never knew what to expect. He knew just how to catch you by surprise and do something you could not have imagined.

Like the time he nailed all my shoes to the floor.

Yes, to the carpet. In our house.

Or when he woke me up in the middle of the night and told me I had missed the bus and was late for school, but waited until I was showered and getting ready to mention his little joke.

And his pranks were not merely reserved for April Fool's Day. Ice cold water was routinely dumped over the top of the shower curtain. Waking up to colored milk was a disturbingly-common occurrence in my youth. And I will never forget the time my Mom put hair dye in my Dad's hair and shut off all the water in the house so he would be unable to wash it out.

Let's just say that I learned at a very early age to never be surprised at anything.

And so I will humor the little boy in this house. I will smile, and laugh, and tell him that he got me good. But he should know this:

REVENGE WILL BE MINE.

That five-thirty wake-up call will one day return to haunt him, probably about the time he turns 16, and longs to sleep until noon.

And if he gets mad?

Well, I'll just tell him to blame it all on Grandpa.

Scrambling for the finish

What happens when bad weather forces your husband to be stuck out of town for two extra days right before the Pinewood Derby, with unfinished cars sitting at home?

Besides a whiny, complaining wife, this is what happens:

Instead of having those two extra days to make the cars all by himself work with the boys, The Husband was scrambling to get the cars finished in time. In his haste, there was an incident with Chase's car.

The unfortunate incident rendered the car completely unusable (unless he wanted to send it careening down the track with no wheels. I thought it might be funny, but Chase didn't really see that as a viable option).

Through tear-filled eyes, Chase told The Husband it was okay. Though his heart was broken, he resigned himself to using McKay's car from last year. I quickly grabbed the spray paint Chase had picked out for his own car, and we went to work, remaking the hand-me-down car. Before long, even Chase began to get excited again about the race.

His entry was The Golden Frog. Why golden? I'm not really sure. Maybe because of his great love for money.

And why frog? Well, because when he's not voluntarily studying Winston and the War, Chase is dreaming, thinking, talking, and obsessing about frogs.

Here were this year's entries. McKay's is the bright orange one in front with a large firebird on the hood. Me thinks his taste in cars is a little too close to the white trash style that I take so much pleasure in mocking. I won't tell him that unless he someday decides to buy a car just like it.

Don't worry that some poor cub scout had to endure the lifelong shame of bringing in the pink car. It was a dummy car that they'd rigged to come in last on every race.

You know, because it's not about winning or losing, right?

Try telling that to McKay, here on pins and needles:

And what sporting event is complete without a gratuitous shot of the hot and sassy cheerleading squad? Here was ours:

The Husband and I held our breath as both cars went down the track for the first time. Much to our relief, neither one lost a wheel.

But much more important was the fact that we didn't take first place (which would entitle us to spend hours and hours at a district competition), and we didn't take last place (which would entitle us to spend hours and hours with sad boys at home).

A win-win for everyone.

All in all, the Pinewood Derby was a roaring success for the boys.

Now we can rest for another year. Thank goodness. I don't know what we'd do if this blessed event came any more often.

Blink

Dear McKay,

Today you are ten years old. I look back and cannot believe how fast the time has gone.

You were born in Minneapolis on a crisp, sunny February day (although I have still not forgiven you for that, as you were supposed to be born on January 28). Your delivery was a little stressful for your dad and I. You somehow managed to get that cord tangled around your little neck, which is quite a feat considering the cramped quarters you were living in at the time. You came out perfect though, in the end, for which I am eternally grateful.

I can still picture you in your Daddy's arms that first time, just minutes old. You had your eyes wide open, and sat there just staring at Daddy's face while sucking on your little thumb. He rocked you slowly, back and forth, in a white wooden rocker, and I just held my breath. My heart felt like it was going to burst. I knew in that moment what it finally meant to love. You were my boys. Together at last. What started out as me and him became a family that day with you.

I can still picture you as a bald, cheerful newborn baby. You were the easiest of my three babies, and you rarely cried. I can remember even calling Oma and asking her if there was something wrong with you because you never cried. She laughed and told us to enjoy you. Which we did. You grew quickly and happily, and have never given us an ounce of trouble. You've met all your challenges thus far with a smile and a cheerful attitude.


You have broken us in as parents. Yours is the unhappy task of doing everything first and watching us make our mistakes on you. It's not hard to go easy on you though because you try so hard to please. You notice little things, like when I'm cranky, and you gently ask me if I need to eat something. You make sure to stop and play Hannah's games, even though you're dying to get back to your own stuff. You are the best friend Chase could ever have. Your strengths compliment his, and I know you will always be there to support him.

You are getting too big to sit on my lap and hug me anymore (I tried the other day and you thought you were going to die), but I know that you still need your Mama. I'm the one you run to, cheerfully waving a math test in your hand with a bright, red "A" scrawled on the top. I'm the one you hug tight when you go to bed, even though you pretend to think it's gross. You can still pretend, because deep down inside, I know. And that's more than enough for me.

So happy birthday, Mack. I could not be prouder of the boy you are, and I cannot wait to see the man you will become.

Love,

Mama