Adopting George

When we went to the Montgomery County Fair in Texas a couple of months ago, Son #2 wanted to win a giant stuffed banana with dreadlocks. Can you blame him? I let him try a couple of times until it dawned on me that idiot mama (i.e., me) would have to carry that thing through the airport or, worse yet, check it like luggage and pay an extra baggage fee. Nu-uh. Not me. He was crushed.

Fast forward to this past Friday night at our local carnival. The kids and I were casually meandering through the game tents when Son #2 shrieked and took off like a bat out of hell.

Yep, giant bananas (of the hairless variety). He tried to win one, as did Son #1 and I, but none of us won the game. (Hmmm. Odds stacked against us? At a carnival? Shocking.)

Later, we found a game where everyone is a winner. It was simply a giant bucket stationed approximately one foot away. The kids each got a fist-sized ball and threw it in. Unless you’re Michael J. Fox, you cannot lose. Both kids selected plastic, old west, cowboy style pistols with a bag of marble sized bullets. What better to shoot in my car on the drive home?

Needless to say, before leaving, and after many, many games (goodbye college funds), Son #2 looked a bit unhappy. He had to go back and get that banana; it had his name on it. So back we went. And, because everything that kid touches is gold, he won. Even the carnie did a bit of a double-take.

Son #2 immediately grabbed his new giant banana, hugged it and named it George. Then he grabbed his gun, pointed it at the banana’s forehead and said loudly to the watching crowd, “nobody move or I shoot the banana.”

As we walked through the carnival the remainder of the night, Son #2 was flogged by other aspiring banana-owners. “Dude, I spent like $50 trying to win that banana. How did you do it?” Son #2 nonchalantly played it totally cool, “It was easy.” The level of admiration received from other 8-15 year old boys was unreal. I felt like I was hanging with somebody famous.

We have now welcomed a new, highly coveted banana/scratching post into our family.

The ride home. (I hope George is old enough to ride in the front seat. He didn’t come with a birth certificate.)

Reenacting the dramatic hostage crisis in the driveway.

Surprising daddy, Godfather style, upon his arrival home after a late night gig.

And, not to overlook my first and other love, Son #1’s new killer, blowup baseball bat.

The Story

I would so love to go to CMAC tonight to see the Brandi Carlile, Secret Sisters, Ray LaMontagne show. Yet I would feel more strongly about it if it were warmer out and not raining. Instead, I'll hunker down with the kids and watch my favorite Brandi song on YouTube. Love, love, love her.

I'll Stand by You

My mother-in-law was ill yesterday and cancelled our dinner plans so I went to Rocco again with my girlfriends. We ate dinner at the bar and laughed our heads off for hours. Would have loved to have seen the MIL but the change of plans turned out well, too.

Unfortunately, I came home to find Son #2 suffering with yet another stomach ache. He has had this illness for weeks -- at least since feeling sick at my sister's house on Easter. Maybe before. He's fine one minute; sick the next. Full of color and then as pale as a ghost. On Saturday, I took him to the docs because he was having stomach pains and I didn't want to wait and later take him to the emergency room. Thankfully it wasn't appendicitis but what was, or is, it? Worrisome. When he's sick, he needs coddling. He needs someone hugging him as he falls asleep. He needs someone sitting on the bathroom floor with him as he hovers over the toilet waiting to puke. Last night, after sitting on the bathroom floor for over an hour around 1:00 a.m., I dragged my pillow and comforter in to at least be comfortable. He fell asleep on me and together we spent a few hours napping on the bathroom floor. That's love. This morning, we went and had his blood work taken. So NOT cool to stick a needle in the arm of a nine year old boy and draw three vials of blood. To put it politely, he did not handle it well. The nurse, however, did. The poor thing. I just pray that it's some passing illness that just happens to be lingering. Nothing more.

His brother is another story. Somehow, in the course of a conversation with Son #1 as I was hugging him goodnight, we began chatting about his Tourette's disease and he asked what ADHD and OCD were. As I told him, you could see the proverbial light bulb turn on. Brighter than bright. What ensued was a hilarious, if not tragic, mad rush around the house as he showed me how he has to touch the two bumps on the bottom of the bannister, gently glide his fingers along the wall as he walks up the steps, trace the rail at the top of the stairs all the way as it curves back toward the wall, etc. And if he doesn't? Or, worse yet, if the rest of us don't (which, of course, we don't)? "It drives me crazy! I lie in bed for like four hours freaking out but there's nothing I can do about it. It's too late. I can't fall asleep." Sadly, it explains a lot.

Welcome to this crazy train called parenting. Sickness aside, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Three Little Birds

Easter Sunday. Egg hunt. Estes model rockets. Glow sticks. Popsicle makers. Chocolate bunnies. Jelly beans. Candy. Cake. Ice cream.

One sick little man.

Sitting on the bathroom floor at my sister's house, crying, he began whispering to me, "Don't worry about a thing. Every little thing is going to be alright."

Yes, it is.

Lessons Learned

What I learned over the weekend:

1. When little boys say they're "okay," they're not
2. You should never take sick boys snowboarding
3. If you do take sick boys snowboarding, you should have sickness bags in your car
4. Said sickness bags should be easily accessible (vs. in the trunk)
5. When you remind little boys that your car is new and ask if you need to pull over, you should pull over regardless of their response
6. When little boys change their minds and state that they're feeling a bit sick, they mean it
7. The timeframe between starting to ask mom to pull over and puking is approximately one-tenth of one second in duration (rendering a complete sentence obsolete)
8. Gatorade-laden vomit isn't nearly as stinky or chunky as other types
9. Gatorade-laden vomit washes out of new car upholstery and snow gear fairly easy
10. Some days, it's good to be back at work

Captain Obvious

I spend a few hours each Saturday watching Son #2 play baseball which I love. He's a fabulous pitcher and, on most days, a darned good hitter. And he's super cute. (Biased, I know.)

What I also enjoy is listening to the helpful comments from the dads watching from the sidelines.

"Swing if it's a good pitch."

"Try to hit the ball with the bat."

"Run if you make contact."

"Cover your base."

Really Dr. Smartypants?

At this age, most of the statements are positive reinforcement regardless of outcome. Good eye. Nice swing. And the parents basically root for any kid with a great hit or impressive catch regardless of team. One for all and all for one.

From what I've been told, this is preferable to the maniacal zeal that apparently comes as the kids and teams become more competitive. A fellow mom recently told me that, while her older son was playing a team across town, the home team parents were encouraging unethical plays and hurling slurs about the visiting kids being rich and snooty. After the game, which "our" team won, an upset woman stormed up to the coach and screamed, "I hope you all die on the ride home."

Wow. Lighten up, Francis. And, uh, nice role modeling.

With that said, I'll take a goofy remark any day.

"Pitch it over the plate son."

On the Rocks

Son #2 has a neighborhood friend who he hangs with a lot. Cute kid. His parents are both prominent professionals in the community. Yet last time Monkey slept at their house, the family didn't have dinner until 11:30 p.m. (Steak! He was very excited to tell us the next day.) Last night, he was supposed to be sleeping over there but at ~8:30 p.m. they changed their minds and came here. No dinner yet.

Is that strange? We're not European.

Monkey called home one Saturday ~10:30 a.m. and asked me to pick him up. Why? Their whole family was still asleep and he was bored. I can't imagine the last time our family slept past 8:00 a.m. (and that's sleeping in). Then again, we usually eat dinner before midnight. Color us crazy.

I discovered this jewel in the basement this morning.

Just now this little neighbor boy was chatting with me about how he can't wait to be a teenager. Why? The parties.

Me: What do you think happens at those parties that you can't do now?
Him: They have fun.
Me: You don't have fun at parties with your friends?
Him: Not that kind of fun.
Me: What does that mean?
Him: Teenagers get to drink.
Me: What do you want to drink?
Him: Beer.
Me: Why?
Him: Because it's fun.

Sh*t. Does it really have to start this early?

Him: My mom drinks wine every night. She says it's fun and it's supposed to be good for you. We call it "Mom fuel."

Ugh. Methinks I should tone down my evening wine so my kids don't start to think it's cool somehow. Or maybe I should just embrace it . . .



UPDATE: We just received a call from his house at 3:10 p.m. asking if he was here. I put him on the phone. This is what I heard.
"Yes, I'm here."
"I did tell you."
"Yesterday."

I guess they just noticed that he was missing for a day.

American Idiot

What idiotic mom takes her eight year old son to a Green Day concert? (You really don't have to answer that.) But thanks to the Citi card pre-sale option, he and I are now proud owners of two seats under the shell at the Darien Lake Performing Arts Center. For Son #2, August couldn't come any sooner.

Our little guy may be one of the world's biggest Green Day fans. He has been into the band for years as initially evidenced by this post from 2007. At one point, the hubby recorded Green Day Live at Irving Plaza for him but subsequently had to delete it after the kid, probably four or five years old at the time, watched it at least 1-2 times per day and drove us absolutely bonkers.* After that, we would find him sitting quietly in the basement listening to the band on his computer -- ear to the speakers.

*Note: That nightly void has now been filled with three seasons of Criss Angel DVDs thanks to Aunt Sue & Uncle Kevin. 

Every time we get in the car, to this day, he asks if I can play a Green Day CD. Just the other night, he asked me to come downstairs while he sampled Green Day tunes for me. He's discovered their version of  I Fought the Law and has been listening it along with other versions including The Clash and the Dead Kennedys (who sing "and I won" as he pointed out to me). I contend The Clash version is the best; he clearly disagrees.

In a semi-related note: Joe Strummer was a hottie. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. London Calling? A gift from Kevin when I was in HS. The man knows his audience . . .

Fish Sticks

I'm wondering what's the best way to respond when one's oldest son says, "I heard an inappropriate joke from Tommy today; you don't want to hear it."

My first inclination is to agree. Please don't share it at the dinner table. Instead, I went with my second, stronger (more quizzical) tendency. Specifically, what on earth is deemed "inappropriate" to a nine year old boy? In other words, what the heck are these kids up to?

No puhleaze, tell us . . .

Son #1: "Do you like fish sticks?"
Son #2: "Yes."
Son #1: "Do you put them in your mouth?"
Son #2: "Yes."
Son #1: "So you're gay for fish?"

Me: "Do you even know what's supposedly so funny about that joke?"
Son #1: "Yea, it sounds like he's putting the fish's balls in his mouth."

Close enough for (dis)comfort. Well, now I know.

Son #1: "Want to hear a better joke that's not inappropriate?"
Me: "Sure."
Son #1: "What do you do with an elephant with three balls?"
Dad: "Walk him and pitch to the rhino."

Redeemed. Somewhat.

I Wish a Falling Star Could Fall Forever

I know a falling star can’t fall forever
But let’s never stop falling in love

Mini-weekend: Day 12

Celebrated Son #1's ninth birthday yesterday which he entitled "BBE" for best birthday ever! Legos (exactly what he wanted), gift cards, cash, yellow balloons, a Dragon Fable Dragon Amulet and an EyeClops BioniCam make for a BBE, for sure.

I also went to Son #2's classroom where the kids sang songs and read stories to all of the moms for Mother's Day. I hung out with the only other two moms that I know from that class. One is a virologist and graduate school professor who had to reschedule her 2:00 p.m. class. The other is an OB/GYN who had to reschedule all of her patients that afternoon. It was so stinkin' cute that it's worth it. Some other mom blew into the classroom over 15 minutes late and timed perfectly to interrupt her son's story. Instead of quietly taking a seat, she stopped him midsentence and loudly proclaimed "Hi honey, I'm here" to which he quietly responded, "You're really late." She then began to laugh and tell him to carry on as if she had blessed him (and all of us) with her almighty presence. I can understand the tardiness; God only knows what happened. The shameless manner in which she descended upon us, however, was somewhat loathsome.

My favorite part was the faux People magazine cover where my picture was drawn, colored (yes, I have a large beak) and labeled as "Most Beautiful Mom of 2009" and Son #2's story inside talks about how I love to garden. Garden! If I didn't see the abysmal state of our "garden," I might think that the kids had another mom on the side. A more farm fresh version of myself. Maybe one who wears an apron and prepares organic meals. Now that would be beautiful!

Battle for My Sanity in 3D

The parenting manual should have come with directions on how to plan a birthday party for a nine year old boy.

Simple wish: to see Battle for Terra in 3D with a handful of friends

Challenge #1: theaters cannot tell you if a movie will even be in their theater until the Tuesday before that same weekend
Challenge #2: manager who plans parties begins work at 9:00 p.m. (seriously)
Challenge #3: every kid in town is on a different sports schedule so the window of opportunity is limited to Saturday after 4:00 p.m.

Solution #1: put all parents on hold (yes, we're having a party but we don't know what/when)

Challenge #4: movie got horrific reviews and was already sent to DVD
Challenge #5: nothing else is coming out that is rated G or PG
Challenge #6: every other establishment like bounce-it-out is booked solid on Saturday
Challenge #7: Sunday is Mother's Day

Solution #2: leave parents hanging while son cries inconsolably AND never, ever, ever, ever plan a birthday party around a craptacular movie, ever

Pool party at the Holiday Inn anyone?

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

Much of Saturday was spent in an ongoing cycle of "he said that I have the worst memory," "he called me stupid," "he stepped on my foot," "he's annoying me" and on and on and on. The only respite from the constant stream of fights and telling on each other was when I sat between the two kids during Monsters vs. Aliens 3D. Instead, I had to fight my anxiety over Son #1's constant flow of verbal beeping throughout the movie which I'm convinced is Tourette's given that he also has a million other ticks that go along with it. We'll leave that diagnosis to the professionals. I'm hoping I'm wrong.

Yesterday in church, the two kids were fighting over who got to snuggle with me and pushing each other off my lap. Son #1 cleared his throat approximately 700 times. When church ended and I was in the Fellowship Hall having (rather attempting to have) a latte with Meg, Son #1 tried to keep Son #2 away from me by putting his arms around me and, in the process, spilling piping hot coffee all over my hand. I started to say, "God D -" and stopped myself not nearly in time. It hurt like hell and my hand immediately turned bright red. An older gentleman in a suit came over with a napkin and I quickly recovered. About two minutes later, Son #2 came over, shook my hand to get my attention and said, "mama, mama, mama, mama, he just said . . . " and the remainder of the latte spilled all over my other hand, arm, pants, floor. I was fit to be tied. I threw the empty cup out and stormed out of church. We are NOT, I repeat, NOT going to Maggie Moos today.

I made them ride home in silence. When Son #1 spoke up and said, "well, none of this would have happened if you didn't have coffee with Mrs. J." I freaked and let a blood curdling scream out. "That's enough. Your rude behavior is not MY fault." I continued with a thick, loud stream of "I'm sick of your fighting, I'm sick of fighting with you every week to go to church, I'm sick of . . . " (Note: That should make them want to go to church now, right?)

My heart was pounding. My blood was boiling. The kids were crying. And I thought, "I'm taking my stress out on them." I've been having chest pains for two weeks and now I thought my heart was going to explode right out of my chest cavity.

Instead of going home, I drove to Tinker Park and said, "We're going to go for a walk in the woods and you're going to focus on the things you love about each other. We're not leaving until each of you comes up with 10 things that you genuinely love about your brother." We walked in silence until Son #2 piped up, "I love it when he lets me play with him." Good start. Followed by much continued silence.

They could each only come up with three things. Not one was compelling.

We walked past a half dozen deer along the trail who did not even glance in our direction. We stopped and listened to the bull frogs. And we walked the labyrinth which has meditation stones placed throughout with words such as "obedience," "reverence," and "honesty." When we got to the center stone, I made us hold hands in a circle and I prayed that we could open our hearts and be more loving. I reiterated (as I've been saying for weeks now) that the world is a difficult place where people can be cruel; our family should be a place of respite from all of that (not a place of stress). We need to bolster one another -- not tear each other down. I apologized for my primal scream and I told them a million things that I loved about both of them.

Can we go home now? Yes, and I'm checking myself into the psych ward STAT.

Multi-tasking at its Finest

Son #1 picked up the phone a minute ago.

Son #1: "Oh hi Mama. We're just watching Phineas and Ferb."

Me: "Cool. What's daddy doing?"

Son #1: "He's watching it with us. But now he's pretending to snore so he doesn't have to talk to you."

Is it . . .

better to blow kisses to someone or receive kisses that someone else has blown to you?

There are a lot of kisses flying through the air when I leave the house almost every morning.

When I get home at night, there is often a rush to hug me, as well. But lately, Son #1 is on the computer and cannot be bothered to come up to greet me.

And this morning, he kissed his hands and threw the kisses at me over his shoulder without even looking away from his bowl of cereal. It was still really sweet, a bit of a surprise ambush that I didn't see coming until it hit, but the writing is on the wall.

I need to savor these moments because someday soon they'll be over.

I already got the "Please don't call me Scootchie in public" request recently (although it's still allowed at home) and the "You embarrass me sometimes" statement after I asked a "Who wants ice cream?" question to a group of kids at our house and then snapped my fingers, pointed my thumbs at myself and responded, "This girl."

So, for now, when Son #2 wants me to leave work in the middle of the day to have lunch with him in the cafeteria and play during recess, if I can, I will. In a few years, it will no longer be an option.

Kids Say The Darndest Things: Part 1

I've never kept a scrapbook or baby book for my kids. We just have heaps of pictures on the computer and in drawers or boxes throughout the house. And there are a million things I have wanted to capture but never did. But here's the first from my memory bank with more to come.

When Son #1, our oldest who is now seven, was in preschool, he went upstairs one afternoon and it was suspiciously quiet for a bit too long. When I went to check on him, he was lying in bed looking at one of his toys. "What's the matter Scootchie?" He responded, "My plane is broken. And I don't know what the h*ll is wrong with it." I gasped. He looked shocked. "Is that a bad word?" I assured him it was and he apologized. After a minute of silence, he then asked, "I don't know what the f*ck is wrong with it?" They don't teach this in Parenting 101 but I burst out in laughter. "Dude, that's worse!" I haven't heard him swear since.