Whose Child Is This?

Lately I've noticed my kids doing some weird things.

Since I know that my personality contains NO weirdness whatsoever, I can only assume they get these things from their father.

What? I'm not weird.

Shut up.

Case in point: Child number one

This boy leaves for school at the unholy hour of 6:40 a.m. every day. He likes to wake up at 5:40 a.m., shower, eat breakfast, and sit for an hour -- waiting until it's time to go. I have tried sneaking in and setting his alarm back a bit, but he always catches me and resets it. I cannot convince him that the extra sleep in the morning is better than staring off into space for an hour. Because I feel guilty sleeping while he is all alone downstairs, I drag my bleary-eyed self down every morning and stare off into space with him.

He has also figured out that he can ask me for things and get a yes because I'm too tired to really process the information. Like this morning when he asked to have cookies for breakfast and I nodded? Totally thought he was asking for something else.

While I love and adore this child to no end, I really could use some extra sleep in the morning.

Child Number Two:

This child has recently become obsessed with J.R.R Tolkien's, The Hobbit, and has spent every waking minute reading it. When he's not devouring the book, he's following me around the house giving me a play-by-play of the latest chapter. He took great delight in sharing an excruciatingly detailed account of the giant spider that wraps people up in cocoons.

I love him, but really could do with a little less giant spider/cocoon detail in my life.

Child Number Three:

This girl has recently decided she is in charge of styling her own hair in the morning. I reluctantly gave up that creative control on the weekdays, and have tried to look the other way when she walks out the door sporting very creative buns or funky barrette placement (and usually a combination of the two). Today was Crazy Hair Day at school, and, honestly, I could not tell a difference from her regular hair days.

I love her and want her to be able to express her individuality while learning to master her own hair, but would it be wrong to send a note to the teacher explaining that I'm not in charge of her hair anymore?

Yes, I think we can safely blame the husband for all of these quirks.

Keep quiet, Mom. You know my hair always looked good. Especially those giant waterfall bangs.

The Funeral

I huddled under the large umbrella, wishing for a lull in the endless, gray rain. Goosebumps covered my bare arms, and I found my thoughts drifting to the jacket that I knew I should have brought along. Hannah's tiny hand clasps mine, and the Husband shifts his weight from one leg to another restlessly. I watch as dirt is shoveled solemnly onto the tiny coffin. Nearby, the forlorn sound of Taps signals that the time has come for us to do what we came here to do. I reach my arms out and hold him as he cries. With each wracking sob, my heart aches for my little boy and this loss. I hate for any of my children to face mortality.

Yes. Even the mortality of pet hermit crabs.

As I stood barefoot in the rain yesterday at the funeral of Chase's hermit crab, I grumbled at the absurdity of it all. I winced as McKay played Taps on the trumpet, hitting a particularly painful high note, one that pierced my eardrums to the core. I fought the urge to snap hatefully as Hannah hung on me and whined for dinner. I glanced around shamefully, hoping none of the neighbors were watching.

And then it occurred to me: Is this really my life?

I flashed back to my 15-year-old self and remembered wistfully some of the dreams I had for myself. I wanted to travel ALL. THE. TIME. I was going to be thin and rich. I would never have bad hair and would certainly not be scrubbing my own toilets. I may or may not have thought I was going to marry Johnny Depp.

No one ever told me about these kinds of days.

The days where you feel pulled like a rubber band - stretched in so many directions that you fear the sheer pressure of it all will cause something in you to snap. Wondering just how many more seconds you can take before you lose it and scream at them all.

But then, almost all at once, it changes.

It softens somehow, my heart.

I look at the tear-stained face of my sweet son, see that his heart is breaking, and I know that I would move heaven and earth to ease his pain for just a moment. I look over and smile at the thoughtfulness of my oldest child, paying respects in the only way he knows how. Not because he loved or cared for the stupid little crab himself, but because he knows it was important to his brother.

My eyes suddenly fill with tears at the realization of just how strong the bond between them is. That for all my failings as a mother, I know that these boys love each other fiercely, and maybe, just maybe, a small part of that is because of me.

I bend down and scoop up that hungry, scrawny, seven-year-old girl, getting an eyeful of her jack o-lantern teeth on the way, and remember what it was like to be her age. I briefly wonder if I drove my own mother crazy with my nonstop chatter, and feel pretty sure that I whined and complained while having to wait for dinner myself.

And all at once, I realize something wonderful. At age seven, waiting for dinner is pretty much her biggest problem in life. I silently pray in gratitude at the sheer providence in my life because of that.

Then my eyes meet the Husband's on the way inside the house, and we share a smile of understanding, of solidarity for these little creatures that have become our life. And I think, surely, he knows just how desperately I still love him after 15 years together. I vow that I will show and tell him more often, just in case he has forgotten it.

Maybe this wasn't the life I pictured as a love-sick teenager, mooning and dreaming over what would be. But do you know what?

It's so much freaking better.

Some good advice for any age

A few days before school, we sat the kids down - as we do every year - and talked about the upcoming challenges and exciting prospects of a new year. Especially with Mack starting middle school this year, we felt it was important for them to be aware of those around them. We want our children to be friendly and inclusive - to notice that lonely soul off to the side and find a way to broaden their circle. They've been the new kids more times than not, and I don't want them to ever forget what that's like.

At these talks every year, we also stress the importance of doing their best. Sure, second grade isn't exactly the pinnacle of academic achievement, but we feel they need to learn to try their hardest, no matter WHAT level they're on. We constantly remind them that their only job right now is to do well in school.

Which really cuts into Chase's hopes and dreams of playing his ukulele on the street for cash, right next to the crack dealers and homeless shanty towns.

I know, we're just cruel like that.

But when I found this list in Hannah's backpack the other day, it really made me smile.

What can I say? Girlfriend likes herself a good list.

I find them often on her nightstand - lists of what she needs to do the next day, lists of books she wants to read, and even lists of outfits she plans to wear.

Clearly, that nut didn't fall too far from the tree.

But this list particular list takes the cake:


In case her little handwriting is hard to read, here is the translation:

• Try my best on every test
• Introduce myself to a lot of people
• Never say anything roude (rude)
• Never swear
• Don't do anything that is mean just to be funny for your friends
  

Excellent words to live by. Can you imagine what the world would be like if everyone followed that advice? MTV might actually play music again. You could walk the halls of any high school in America without an assault on the auditory senses. And reality television, as we know it, would cease to exist.

I'm pretty sure she just might be on to something.

A question on a summer Monday

Question:

What happens when your boys decide to build a fort in the unfinished part of the basement near the air conditioners, and they shove the condensation hoses away from the drain and point them towards the finished part of the house, where carpet, drywall, and other such things reside?

Answer:

A freakin' flood, that's what.

Be back soon, I promise. Just as soon as I finish dealing with the water, the pulled up carpet, the soaking wet drywall, and general clean-up of the area. Oh, and as soon as I decide to let the boys out of their cage again.

They're only still alive because they didn't know what those hoses were for and I can't legally kill them for their ignorance.

Believe me, I wanted to.

Breakfast in bed

A few days ago, I heard some clattering down in the kitchen. I flopped over and groggily looked at the clock, then immediately rolled over and went back to sleep.

I mean, if those kids of mine want to wake up at the crack of dawn and forage for their own breakfast? Have at it.

About an hour later, all three of them appeared eagerly at the foot of my bed, a tray balancing precariously in the hands of my youngest. I sat up, put my glasses on, and tried to graciously receive their thoughtful gesture.

There was a browning apple, cut and arranged into the shape of a flower, most happily by my oldest son. He practically burst with pride while he told me of the great effort it was to cut it up without slicing off any of his fingers.

I silently thanked their guardian angels for THAT small help.

There was also a (now) cold cup of what appeared to be hot chocolate. A quick stir brought up the many spoonfuls of hot cocoa mix that were residing on the bottom. My middle child noted with great joy how he successfully managed to boil the water and pour it into the cup without burning himself or anyone else.

I then not only thanked their guardian angels, but I began to see the whole morning as nothing short of miraculous.

And, lastly, there was a bowl of my favorite cereal, and I only know this because it was pointed out to me by my youngest child. It was pretty much unrecognizable as anything other than brown mush.

Her hazel eyes shone as she told me how she poured the milk ALL. BY. HERSELF. She then went on to say how she finished her part of my breakfast first and had to wait (somewhat impatiently) for the boys to finish theirs.

Translation: My cold cereal had been sitting in milk for about an hour.

I tell you this - it took everything I had to eat that cereal in front of their happy faces. I tried to disguise my gagging, and with each soggy bite it grew more difficult. I made it about halfway through and then convinced them that we should all go downstairs and eat together.

Somehow, magically, the cereal was gone before I made it downstairs.

I think the toilet really liked it.

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?