Lord help me, I love them something fierce

Today there was a shift in the universe. Did you feel it?

It happened about 6:30 tonight. I was driving home after taking one child to tae kwan do, and had carpool duty for the little ballerina and her friends at the same time. Both boys were in the car, begging to be let out as soon as we were within running distance of our neighborhood.

Apparently the soundtrack from Glee, combined with the high-pitched chatter of three little girls, was causing their heads to explode off their bodies.

I gave in today, as I was just too tired to fight them on it.

After dropping off the noisy ballerinas, I headed home, fervently wracking my brain for a dinner plan that did not include the words "Subway" or "Mc" anything. Unfortunately, the brain wracking was not netting me any brilliant ideas.

Tired, with feet hurting, I opened the door to the house and was met by a light, sweet scent. I set my purse and keys by the door and walked through the mudroom towards the kitchen. And then I stopped, a lump caught in my throat.

There were my boys. Cooking dinner. All by themselves.

This was a real first. And my mind could not help but flash back to a time when I'd walk in the door and frequently find my boys doing this instead:

They were an energetic pair, these two, that is for sure. Sometimes so bent on their loud and wild play that a wake of broken things was often left behind them. They destroyed a historic landmark and nearly caused me death by embarrassment in the process. Not to mention became walking birth control advertisements for more than a few younger siblings.

But here today, these once-terrors grew up just little a bit, right before my eyes. As I watched McKay confidently flipping the pancakes, and Chase at the stove scrambling some eggs, I got a little teary eyed. I thought back to those hard nights where it was all I could do to not fall down in a puddle of tears before bedtime rolled around. Days spent wrestling them in store checkout lines and then fearfully chasing after them in crowded parking lots. Wondering if they'd be this way forever.

Wondering how I would survive if they were.

But tonight they looked older to me than they ever have before. Chatting pleasantly with each other, they worked together doing such a grown up task. Taking it upon themselves to do something they knew would make my life just a little bit easier. It was a brief window into the men they are becoming. Men who have good hearts. Hearts at home in their sweet, pure souls. I stood there in the shadows, soaking it all in. A tear spilled out, and I caught it before it trickled down my cheek and betrayed my sudden rush of emotions.

Then all at once, Hannah brushed by me, threw off her coat and scrambled up to the bar.

"Yay! Pancakes!"

Yay pancakes, indeed.

A decade

Dear Chase,

Well, big boy, you are a decade. I would say I can hardly stand how fast the time has gone, but I say that every year, and I am sure you are sick to death of hearing it. (Even though it's TRUE!)

It has been a good year for you. You are now in fourth grade and have settled into your own kind of routine. Homework is not a challenge for you (most days) and you still have to be forced to read just about anything that is a work of fiction. You would cheerfully spend your quiet reading time pouring over college-level textbooks on topics like reptiles or World War II.

Funny, now that I think about it, you also did that at age two. You couldn't read then (obviously) but would sit on my lap in the library for hours as I read to you the names of obscure dinosaurs. You never got bored as I described in thorough detail the inner workings of dinosaur digestive systems or hunting tactics. You soaked information up like a sponge, and still do so today. Daddy and I joke that you are a walking encyclopedia of random, useless information.

But it's what you love, kid. And there's no changing the essence that is you. You are absolutely an original. A quirky, handsome, hilarious original. They broke the mold after they made you, that's for sure.

You have been busy the last few weeks, working on a frog comic book that you are hoping to sell in mass quantity. I am afraid to break it to you that your target audience is probably solely your grandparents, and even they might be hard-pressed to pay thirty dollars for, as you put it, "an original, signed by the author!"

But that's the thing I love most about you, Mr. C. You dream big. You shoot for the moon and somehow seem to catch it every time. I am in awe of your fearlessness, your confidence. I don't think the word impossible is at all a part of your vocabulary.

Thanks for making the last ten years so darn entertaining. You are a special spirit, Chase, and I am humbled that someone trusted me enough to send me you.

I love you more than you'll ever know.

Love,

Mama

Stealing Opa's most excellent idea

My middle son, Chase, has a slight obsession with all things military. And when I say slight, I mean he would literally sign up and head off to war today, armed with his vast knowledge of weaponry and battle, if the armed forces would let him.

When we see soldiers anywhere in uniform, he immediately runs up to shake their hand, and almost tearfully thanks them for their service to our country. I've written before about how he wanted to donate all our money to the marine corp veterans outside the grocery store. And he gets giddy with excitement when he sees recruiting centers and it's all I can do to keep him from just asking if he can sign up.

Because, "You never know, Mom. They might have changed the age limit!"

Heaven help me.

So you can imagine what Pearl Harbor was for him, then.

When he saw this vintage poster in the gift shop, he knew he had to have it.

My problem was how to hang it once we got it home. I did not want the four-thumbtacks-in-the-corners-approach, as I knew within weeks it would be shredded and warped.

Also knowing how my boys play in their room at night, the last thing I would allow was a giant-sized piece of glass hanging over their beds, just waiting to be shattered with a football. A traditional frame would never work.

So, what to do?

Thankfully, I married into a resourceful family. Opa had the idea in years past and we successfully adopted it here. You get a piece of foam board about the size of your poster (or larger, and just cut it down with a t-square and box cutter). Mount your poster ever-so-carefully using spray-on adhesive. You need about six pairs of hands for this step, as you want to ensure it lays smooth and flat without any air bubbles or premature adhesion.

Once that is done, wrap the edges in black tape, and voila! A gorgeous piece of military history that makes my little soldier so very happy.

I think it actually looks pretty cool and am now wishing we had picked up a few more.

Wait! I will volunteer go back and get them. Yeah, that's it. Send me!

Oh, all right. I'll stop.

Maybe.

Why husbands cannot be trusted

I have resigned myself to the inevitable.

There are just certain things in my life that I have no say in, no matter how much I whine, beg, and plead.

I know it's shocking, as I am the queen of quite a lot around here. I run the schedules, bedtimes, shopping, budget, and even most of the home repairs. But sometimes, the Husband just has to step up and take control, leaving this plan-a-holic gasping for breath.

Oh, the nerve of that man.

Take, for instance, the case of my sweet, angelic boy. One could hardly look into these baby blues and find any trace of malice, misdeed, or negativity.


Now take a look at what happens to my sweet angel the MINUTE, I tell you, THE VERY MINUTE, his father gets a hold of him and takes him for a haircut:

Could it be...Satan?

Lucifer, out back practicing his sweet moves

In truth, I have simply accepted my fate. Every year, on the last week of school, my loving, sensitive middle child is going to always turn punk and sport a mohawk. (See here, and here for proof, if you don't believe me).

I tolerate it for maybe a week or two, and then the mohawk is replaced by a summer buzz cut.

Don't tell him, but secretly I love that he doesn't give a lick what people at school think or care at all if he stands out in the crowd.

His older brother, however, could not be more mortified.

So here's to embracing life fully, doing what feels good, and sporting your own kind of style. May we all find a way to do that in our own lives.

Just preferably not in the barber shop.

P.S. Courtesy of random.org, the winner of the Yanni Voices tickets is Maren! Email me if you can go and I will turn your name in at the will-call box. Thanks, local peeps, for playing along. Maybe someday the sponsors will be generous enough to fly you ALL out here for a little show and a lot of Stie.

If only, right?

A weekend McKay will not likely forget

Our Memorial Day weekend was definitely, shall we say, a memorable one.

It started off with a literal bang when McKay crashed his bike on the street Friday afternoon, leaving (in his words) "a three-foot trail of blood and skin behind him."

He was wearing his helmet, which left his head in tip-top shape. We can't say the same thing for his knees and elbows, however.

Saturday was spent at a water park that masquerades as our city pool. It really is fantastic. Sometime I need to take my camera along with me so you can see what I mean. Giant water slides, a lazy river, diving pool, and watery playground. All within two minutes of our front door.

I'm pretty sure if they had beds there, our family would permanently move in every summer.

Sunday, the boys joined scout troops from all over Missouri to place flags on every soldier's grave at Jefferson Barracks. It was a profoundly patriotic experience for them both, despite McKay and a little incident involving vomit.

The poor kid really hasn't felt good all weekend, but we dragged him there anyway. Mostly to appease his brother, who was in tears that anyone would miss an opportunity to pay their respects to the veterans.

Have I mentioned that Chase LOVES the veterans? So much so, that he tried to donate the entire contents of my checking account to the Marine Corp veterans taking donations outside our grocery store on Saturday.

I had to help Chase see that a few dollars was good enough, though I am fairly confident he was not convinced.




Monday was spent at the movie theater seeing Night at the Museum, part two. (Our take: Not as funny as the original, but still made us laugh. Especially the Darth Vader/Oscar the Grouch part).

Poor Mack sat feverish and clammy through the entire show. I was prepared though, and brought a giant Ziploc bag, you know, just in case.

Luckily, we didn't need it.

Monday morning brought more vomiting, fevers, and a sharp pain in McKay's right side. Thus, Monday afternoon and evening was spent most memorably at the E.R. getting a CT scan to rule out appendicitis.

Scans came back negative (thank goodness) and after many hours spent watching Sponge Bob from a scratchy hospital chair, we were sent home with anti-nausea medicine and paperwork on gastroenteritis (which is really just a fancy word for stomach virus).

Stay tuned tomorrow for the concert tickets winner and pictures of a pretty exciting annual event around here involving Chase, the Husband, and a barber.

Heaven help me.

Tolerance, even for our vegetable friends

A few days ago, I had all the kids with me on a trip to Walmart. At the checkout line, I realized that I needed, and had forgotten to get, a tomato. Knowing the snail-like pace that is always the checkout line at Walmart, I sent the boys off to grab me one from the produce department.

They came tearing back, giant tomato in hand. Chase set it on the conveyor belt and announced, in his unmistakably loud voice, "Bad news, Mom. It's a Mexican."

I look up in horror, smile at the African American check-out girl, and try to say loudly, "That's okay, Chase. I'm sure MEXICAN TOMATOES are delicious."

To which he practically shouts, "But, Mom, we don't really like the Mexicans." [I know he was only thinking the tomatoes would taste different. The kid has love for all god's people. Honest.]

My ensuing lecture about how we really do like everyone was lost in the murmurs and shame that was our hurried walk out to the car.

For the record, we DO like the Mexicans.

And their giant tomatoes.