tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17944261267759915302024-03-05T01:41:13.155-08:00Who doesn't love T&A?Send help. Or cookies.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger796125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-81323105446015663512017-03-16T13:22:00.001-07:002017-03-16T13:27:17.862-07:00Barf Bag/Doggy Bag<p>I think I’m getting better at tax season road trips.  I mean, time will tell, I guess – I have a few more coming up before April 15, including a big spring break trip around the state, but so far, so good.  This is not to say that these road trips aren’t still harrowing, just that I am better able to deal with them without a complete mental and emotional breakdown.  Then again, I was not PMS-ing.  Let us pray that PMS and a tax season road trip never coincide.</p> <p> </p> <p>We left on Friday, a non-student day at school, and headed south.  The car doesn’t have to hold nearly so much stuff now that Freddie can sit in a normal dining chair (not that he does, mind you; he stands on the chair all the time, dancing and singing while stuffing food in his face or throwing it at the dog), sleep in a normal bed (he sleeps in my bed, kicking me in the back or smooshing his cheek on my cheek, which is not comfortable AT ALL), and walk places without need of a stroller (also run away in the grocery store, climb mailbox posts, or sumersault through a rest stop).  We had a full tank of gas, plenty of snacks, the weather was fine, and the traffic wasn’t bad.  That is, until we got to JBLM.  If you drive I-5 in Washington, you know that this portion of the interstate is the ABSOLUTE WORST.  Coming up to it, I thought we might escape it’s terrible traffic relatively unscathed, but then Charles had to pee.  Like, desperately, get off the freeway right now, someone look for a cup just in case.  It was lunchtime, I spotted a McDonald’s sign, I took the exit… and then I got stuck.  Traffic in front was not moving, I couldn’t reverse because it was the freeway, the off-ramp was totally blocked.  I moved to the left turn lane, thinking I could go over the overpass, turn around, and maybe hit the light to get to the McDonald’s on the west side of the freeway coming from that direction, but the traffic was blocked there, too.  The only place to go was into the base, and I can’t do that, so… I pulled over, opened the side door (hooray, minivan!), and instructed Charles to pee out the side. </p> <p> </p> <p> <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6eOFMyhFZvA/WMr0GPoz1yI/AAAAAAAAKFw/FwWemnJmePk/s1600-h/IMG_1632%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1632" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1632" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-peImL-0hqiA/WMr0GSU69XI/AAAAAAAAKF4/uxRQN0kJQwM/IMG_1632_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="652" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>After assessing all the options and watching the backed up traffic in all directions just sort of… sit there for awhile, I squeezed my way over the the I-5 North on-ramp.  If you’re keeping track, that’s the <em>opposite</em> direction from which I was heading.  But the on-ramp for I-5 South was blocked and the train crossing arms were down and lights were on to the west (no train, though) and all the traffic lights were red in every direction, so I decided that I would go north one exit and turn around and go back south until we could find a better place for lunch (spoiler: we ended up at a McDonald’s – kid gourmet – anyhow). As I got off on that next exit, I realized that IT WAS BLOCKED, TOO.  What kind of fresh hell was this?  The worst section of freeway seemed to have every exit blocked, traffic lights and railroad crossings going haywire, and all the while my kids were getting hungrier and crankier.  </p> <p> </p> <p>I decided to do something about it.  I pulled out my phone and called WSDOT.  I had been sitting near the last exit where Charles peed for about 10 minutes and at this exit for 5 and so had HUNDREDS of other people in cars, but was I the first one to call the state transportation department?  Yes, yes I was.  They quickly connected me to the right person who then called the state police and asked me to get out of my car and direct traffic until the troopers could get there.  I told her that, being the only adult in the car, I couldn’t possibly, but lucky for us all, someone up ahead had finally had enough and jumped out of their vehicle and started moving people through the intersection.  We eventually got back on the freeway in the correct direction and sought lunch.  Turns out a construction company working near the freeway hit some sort of signal line and munged up everything for the whole day.  The moral here is: call the authorities when something is wrong.  Chances are, no one else will.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1tyvrxJlZGY/WMr0G95WKcI/AAAAAAAAKF8/m4NTB7Dfy6M/s1600-h/IMG_1641%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1641" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1641" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rWXpIB1IWSo/WMr0HYQzVKI/AAAAAAAAKGE/VYdG9Zu4boE/IMG_1641_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="652" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>The drive continued uneventfully, despite my insisting that all ice cream be consumed <em>before</em> we leave McDonald’s, a ruling that almost incited a riot among my children, until we started to climb the hill on Highway 101 just south of Montesano.  If you’re familiar with the area, you know that the road twists and turns as it climbs through the hills.  I was singing along with the stereo (ask me how many times I’ve heard the <em>Cars</em> soundtrack… go ahead, just ask.  A MILLION TIMES is the answer.) when Onyx abruptly sat up and started panting and drooling.  <em>Oh, shit</em>, I thought, <em>she’s gonna barf</em>.  There are not many convenient places to pull over up there, so I grabbed the garbage bag (a grocery sack) we keep in the front and concentrated on keeping us on the road while simultaneously holding the bag under the dog’s snout with one hand.  </p> <p> </p> <p>I probably should have stopped.  Carsick dogs vomit for a long time, evidently.</p> <p> </p> <p>At our rest stop on South Bend, I cleaned out the car while Jamie walked Onyx.  I managed to contain most of the dog vomit and I got the chicken nugget and fry remnants out of the car before she could scavange them and potentially puke again.  That was, thankfully, our last stop before finally making it to the beach.  </p> <p> </p> <p>All told, I think dog vomit was the easiest bodily fluid I’ve had to deal with in the car, thanks to my quick catching skills.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oKaq99zsR2I/WMr0H2RYR3I/AAAAAAAAKGI/VgWD85FzmII/s1600-h/IMG_1652%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1652" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1652" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mZ9s4zZhIr4/WMr0IXWSRrI/AAAAAAAAKGM/gjfS2BxejOk/IMG_1652_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="559" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>It’s always an adventure.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-722444112385319912017-02-01T13:50:00.001-08:002017-02-01T14:12:40.219-08:00Streaker<p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-m4vBio3KANs/WJJYFey4JyI/AAAAAAAAIYw/EYpss7paQzI/s1600-h/IMG_0479%252520%2525281%252529%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0479 (1)" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0479 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8XRDm23gKK4/WJJYFrBPjhI/AAAAAAAAIY0/QQu7MkB9n3s/IMG_0479%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="489" height="668" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>When you are the youngest child of three boys, you get left out of a lot of things that look like a lot of fun.  And when you’re the youngest child of three boys and you are left out of a lot of fun things, you seek to destroy those things in the hopes of participating or at least getting some attention.</p> <p> </p> <p>My family didn’t have three kids and we were a boy-girl sibling pair, so while the destruction surely happened - there is one familiar story my mom can hardly tell without choking with laughter about the time I was playing with Barbies and Leland would pick up the one I had just put down, rip its head off, and huck the head as far as he could across the basement - I can only imagine that its frequency was less than it currently is in my house.  After all, elaborate LEGO creations are hardly doll appendages.  When a LEGO fortress with docked rocket ships is hucked across the room, it makes a big mess and that big mess is guaranteed to send the older brothers to mom in hysterics.</p> <p> </p> <p>I surely pay less attention to Freddie than I did to either Charles or Jamie when they were two.  The majority of the books read aloud in our house are books for the school-agers, meant to fulfill their 20 minutes per night reading requirement (a surprisingly high bar to hit when you work all day and have meetings and fitness classes and sports practices and someone has to cook and clean and make lunches and fold laundry, et cetera, ad infitum), so poor Freddie doesn’t often get to hear about the Little Blue Truck or how Mater saved the day this time.  He only gets a bath when he absolutely needs it, and often I make one if his brothers get in there and monitor him while I catch up on housework.  He doesn’t get his teeth brushed in the morning.  Sometimes I look up from feeding the dog to find that he is using his scissors on the drapes or has turned the bathroom sink into a footbath.  I don’t get down on my hands and knees and play trains very often because, dammit, it hurts.</p> <p> </p> <p>Freddie seeks attention any way he can, and he is good at getting it.  Recently, Jamie played basketball at the Y with other 3-5 year olds.  It was a weekly practice to learn skills and I had to take Charles and Freddie with me and keep them occupied while Jamie learned how to pass and dribble (sort of).  Right before the five-week program started, I was hit by my stupid dog and her stupid dog friend at the stupid dog park and sprained my stupid MCL.  I could barely walk for a few days and definitely couldn’t run or get up from a sitting-on-the-floor position with ease.  Which is what we did at the basketball practice: we sat on the floor for an hour.  I mean, that’s what we were <em>supposed to do</em>, but it’s hard to sit still when you’re two.  One big brother was playing basketball and the other big brother with chilling with a friend playing games on the friend’s mom’s phone, and I was chatting with one of MY friends (I have some!)… kiddo started feeling neglected, I guess.  So he did what any self-respecting toddler would do: he pulled down his pants and ran as fast as he could away from me.  </p> <p> </p> <p>He was pretty fast, and I had a hard time getting up, so he made it a good way across the gym before I caught up with him.  He was wearing a red cloth diaper and shrieking as he ran and if I hadn’t been trying really hard to keep him from disrupting the basketball practice, I would have laughed until I cried.</p> <p> </p> <p>It got a bit less funny the next time he did it.</p> <p> </p> <p>Pretty soon, it was a grand game, and I had to pull him, squirming and squawking, out of the gym.  By then, though, the pattern was set.  Every time we went to Jamie’s basketball practice, Freddie dropped trou and ran away, giggling like a wee piglet.</p> <p> </p> <p>Then it was Christmas and we didn’t play basketball for awhile, but Charles just started his elementary-age league and sure enough, on the sidelines with my sweet punkin, what does he do when he sees all the kids with basketballs?  Immediately tries to pull down his pants and run away.  The world is less forgiving of the cute, pantless boy when it’s an actual game with coaches and whistles and defense and everything.</p> <p> </p> <p>I had a friend in college who got naked, or nearly naked, at every. single. party.  Freddie is going to be the guy who streaks every. single. game.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sTU6leb078A/WJJYGDPFlOI/AAAAAAAAIY4/C2AXV5VHtUY/s1600-h/IMG_0495%252520%2525281%252529%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0495 (1)" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0495 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jounu9l82ik/WJJYGBE-cyI/AAAAAAAAIY8/369PxxA5vn4/IMG_0495%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="659" /></a></p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-39QosJrsAJI/WJJYGa87M3I/AAAAAAAAIZA/d0hB6AK9D3E/s1600-h/IMG_0496%252520%2525281%252529%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0496 (1)" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0496 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-o98px1hvxQk/WJJYGp9YmfI/AAAAAAAAIZE/QTjdH68hYQ4/IMG_0496%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="480" height="660" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Little stinker.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-77398959129133853772016-12-14T13:38:00.001-08:002016-12-14T13:44:30.598-08:00It’s A Wonderful LifeYou know what’s lame? Virtual Christmas cards. And I’m going to do one, from me to you, because I just can’t afford the time and energy it will take to send one out this year.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vw2hP5CMFd8/WFG7uNzdSmI/AAAAAAAAIYE/uuEJPqOe4us/s1600-h/IMG_0281%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0281" border="0" height="653" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8pqD6XlHSAM/WFG7udTEa8I/AAAAAAAAIYI/GXSYb-r9loc/IMG_0281_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0281" width="483" /></a><br />
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Jamie had a rough morning yesterday. And by rough, I mean he threw a fit for 45 minutes. Tired? Probably. Low blood sugar but refusing to eat breakfast? Yes, that. Caught in an ever-deepening cycle of “throw a tantrum over some little thing, reap consequences, throw tantrum over consequences, reap more consequences,” he didn’t fully calm down until I finally got him out of the car at school. It was a beautiful morning and we should have walked to school, but I knew we wouldn’t make it with his mood so sour; there’s not much worse that watching your child freak out on the sidewalk as hundreds of people drive past on their way to school and work. <br />
<br />
The low point: as I was trying to calm him down and brush his teeth, he said, sobbing, “Mom, it just feels like you don’t love me today.” And then my heart broke into a million little pieces. Either I am a terrible person or he is a manipulative little shit. No one wins.<br />
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Later last night, Charles caught the tantrum bug and nearly sobbed himself to sleep because he “hates homework” and “hates school.” I’m probably idealizing the relief we’ll all feel over Christmas break, but at this point, I would happily trade kids whining about having to go to work with me for kids making themselves sick over going to school.<br />
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****<br />
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Tony and I don’t see each other much these days, but we do trade texts (we have a modern relationship). It’s much more difficult to feign ignorance of the honey-do list if I send it to his phone.<br />
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Me: “The good news is that the rats appear to have moved on. The bad news is that at some point, rats got into the shed and into the camping box (which didn’t close all the way due to being overfull), ate three packets of instant oatmeal and a small package of peanut butter, and made a mess. Rat droppings everywhere.”<br />
He didn’t even bother to respond to that one.<br />
<br />
Tony, at 9:15 PM when he was away on business: “You up?”<br />
Me: “I haven't even sat down yet. Only Jamie is asleep. Four loads of laundry. I haven’t done the dishes.”<br />
Tony: “Can you call me when you have a moment?”<br />
It’s like he didn’t even read my text.<br />
<br />
Me: “I put eggs on my nachos this morning so they count as breakfast.”<br />
Tony: “Sounds legit.”<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ogQnc3huyUM/WFG7umF9a4I/AAAAAAAAIYM/OJto2Qy3PY4/s1600-h/IMG_03054.png"><img alt="IMG_0305" border="0" height="357" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-u5Vme8Oyg1Y/WFG7vCXjkoI/AAAAAAAAIYQ/qwW7r_hcYfc/IMG_0305_thumb2.png?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0305" width="478" /></a><br />
I got this one when I picked up my phone in the morning; I was sleeping right next to Onyx. She’s the best dog sometimes. Knows right where to drool.<br />
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Look, some of us are still emotionally hungover from the election last month (I heard someone say that they gained the Trump Ten this fall… YES). Some of us are so busy at work (me) and at home (me, too) and with a dog that just won’t quit (also me) that we can’t manage to send out Christmas cards or make Christmas fudge or move the Godforsaken Elf on the Shelf every night (I told them this morning that Cheese the Elf stayed hadn’t moved because he was disappointed in their behavior yesterday; Jamie said our elf was “boring this year.” Sigh). Some of us are so sickened and saddened by world news, especially that of Aleppo, that we wonder, “what is the point?” I’m sorry for the state of the world, my friends, but I’m trying to make it better, one little boy at a time. I will love my neighbors and I will make that fudge, dammit, even if it’s the last thing I do!Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-58294536864422708882016-12-05T12:54:00.001-08:002016-12-05T12:56:34.351-08:00Miscellaneous Early December Whining<p>Every day, the kids ask me when their fucking Elf-on-the-Shelf is going to come back and I make some sort of excuse like, “Not until after your father’s birthday” to placate them, but TODAY is after their father’s birthday and I forgot that damned elf this morning.  So I guess Cheese the Elf comes this afternoon, along with three board games I bought on super sale: Connect4, Monopoly Jr (to keep them from getting out the <em>real</em> Monopoly and spreading all that fake money and tiny figurines around the house), and Trouble.  The board games are to help keep us all somewhat sane during this season of wet/cold/cabin fever.  They might work better to keep the peace if a feisty two-year-old who is teething his molars didn’t routinely knock the boards off the table because he’s posessed by a wee demon.  There is no peace when a two-year-old is awake.</p> <p> </p> <p>I vacuum almost every day, not because I want to, but because my yard is a mud pit and that dog, that hyperactive lab puppy, has three speeds: on, off, and throw-the-ball-please-throw-the-ball-here-I’ll-bite-your-apron-strings-here-I-brought-you-the-ball-please-throw-the-ball-I’m-gonna-bark-please-throw-it-please-please-please-please-please.  In and out, in and out she goes, dragging half of the dirt in the yard back inside with her.  I haven’t been able to run with her for three weeks because, right before Tony left for the first of two multi-day business trips, Onyx and her best buddy (who outweighs her by 40 lbs) slammed into me at the dog park, spraining the ligaments in my left knee.  It hurts and I’m depressed because I’m laid up and I’ve been without Tony for awhile and parenting three monkeys alone is HARD.  And I haven’t been able to drink my cares away because he’s been gone and I do, honestly, <em>try</em> to be a responsible parent, and I can’t eat my cares away because I’m not exercising and let’s face it: I’m already riding the slow train to middle-aged spread; I don’t need to switch to the fast train where no one exercises and there are lots of holiday cookies for the taking.  I’m going to give blood today so I can justify some pasta and ice cream tonight.</p> <p> </p> <p>Things reached a breaking point Wednesday when I forgot to pack Charles’s lunch.  Yes, yes I know he’s eight years old and he can take responsibility for his lunch, and he does – he grabs it from the refrigerator every morning and makes sure it and his homework and his binder are all in his backpack.  But I pack the lunches the night before because I don’t trust him to put vegetables in his lunch.  On Wednesday, all he got were carrots and an applesauce packet; I had forgotten to heat the chicken nuggets he requested and put them in his thermos in the morning.  I didn’t realize my mistake until I got home from work and errands close to 3 PM.  I sobbed, he forgave me, then he ate a sandwich and an apple and asked for ice cream.  Will I ever forgive myself?  Unlikely.</p> <p> </p> <p>Thank God Tony is back for the foreseeable future.  He won’t help me with Christmas shopping, but he sure makes bedtime go a lot more smoothly.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-51304620083701036372016-11-15T11:05:00.001-08:002016-11-15T11:07:15.576-08:00Eight is Great<p>We hosted a slumber party the weekend before the election and, honestly, I didn’t think that one through AT ALL.  Our previous experience with slumber parties (my own childhood included) indicated that children would stay up so, so late and parents would be so, so tired, but did we heed this experience?  No.  Youth: wasted on the young.  And then on Tuesday, I alternated holding my phone and a glass of wine until Trump’s speech at midnight (I really feel for the people on the east coast!).  I got up the next morning super early, super tired, and just hungover enough to remember why I don’t often drink more than a glass or two at a time.  I don’t think I’ve caught up on sleep yet.</p> <p> </p> <p>The occasion for the slumber party was Charles’s EIGHTH BIRTHDAY OMG.  We had planned to go to the park and play baseball with all of his friends, but it was raining, so I set up some games and crafts instead.  Perhaps predictably, the games and crafts (coloring masks! making mini-marshmallow-and-toothpick sculptures! that weird cookie-on-your-face game! cornhole in the living room!) held the attention of ten second-graders for all of five minutes and then they played freeze tag in the rain.  And then, somehow, the girls convinced the boys to play “house” for a good twenty minutes.  And then they just started running around the house screaming with no particular goal or play scenario that I could see.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7ExL8cmNvyM/WCtcVJTI_9I/AAAAAAAAIW8/Yk5N1CiwPIw/s1600-h/IMG_00646.jpg"><img title="IMG_0064" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0064" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-G-Vl1fm4BBc/WCtcVuW-IHI/AAAAAAAAIXA/qUiQ3vrHCU0/IMG_0064_thumb6.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="427" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>They scarfed pizza, they ate chocolate cake and key lime pie, and we sang.  There were presents.  The kids watched the baseball classic, Rookie of the Year.  The girls went home, the boys eventually passed out around midnight (adjusted for Daylight Saving Time, so it felt like 1 am), and they were up again playing video games and riding bikes outside by 6 am.  It was glorious.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FiiB7X5Q_h4/WCtcV645IAI/AAAAAAAAIXE/YAv7l8xV7pY/s1600-h/IMG_0078-17.jpg"><img title="IMG_0078 (1)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0078 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1vblroOy0rI/WCtcWNERcVI/AAAAAAAAIXI/zoDwS96YBLs/IMG_0078-1_thumb8.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="358" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>It is rewarding to know that Charles has so many friends who care enough about him to make his day special AND that they are good kids.  He’s eight, he can be a brat sometimes, but he’s a loving, kind boy who is positive and happy and he seems to surround himself with others who are like him.  That makes me happy.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_BUxmpHxN9Q/WCtcWeI2YyI/AAAAAAAAIXM/q7lhbphCdFo/s1600-h/IMG_0083-35.jpg"><img title="IMG_0083 (3)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0083 (3)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K4LcDr-Qb7s/WCtcWp9EJ1I/AAAAAAAAIXQ/6MLTx8HS60Y/IMG_0083-3_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="657" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Perhaps you’d like to know what kinds of presents are most coveted and appreciated by an eight-year-old boy?  I find information like that helpful. Legos were, and always are, a big hit.  Baseball is huge for him right now, so baseball cards are currently filling every spare pocket and the occasional card makes it through the wash, especially since Charles does his own laundry and he’s not super diligent about checking pockets. Grandpa and Grandma gave him a really cool light/siren/sounds package for his bicycle, and he has declared it his “most favorite thing ever.”  I gave him books, several of them in Spanish, because I love him the most, but I’m also boring.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Vco5X7tmDeU/WCtcXApawTI/AAAAAAAAIXU/OHrG99BMp8I/s1600-h/vacation--0135.jpg"><img title="vacation 013" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="vacation 013" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Vio52a3WGbg/WCtcXTq9tYI/AAAAAAAAIXY/J6dPrAXThS0/vacation--013_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" width="483" height="376" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>This little goober is eight.  I can hardly believe it.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KzdQGx4HUTk/WCtcXqx5DOI/AAAAAAAAIXc/hlNkhxq9ZVQ/s1600-h/lifetouch_201610271146255.jpg"><img title="lifetouch_20161027114625" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="lifetouch_20161027114625" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RT2nXaaeJBA/WCtcX4ODLXI/AAAAAAAAIXg/rrqsH4GWn4I/lifetouch_20161027114625_thumb3.jpg?imgmax=800" width="486" height="627" /></a></p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-34004424412605137922016-10-12T13:32:00.001-07:002016-10-12T13:39:41.744-07:002 Years Old is My Favorite<p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WRwJWqqbfEU/V_6duE8PwMI/AAAAAAAAIV8/r86dnW0iO0o/s1600-h/IMG_1183%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1183" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1183" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w3tpkDmiSkw/V_6duX7FVyI/AAAAAAAAIWA/kIpklwJ8kVs/IMG_1183_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="487" height="659" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>I served baby bok choy and salmon for dinner the other night.  The bok choy was merely cooked in a little bit of olive oil; no seasoning of any sort.  Jamie, as I knew he would, soundly rejected it.  Eventually, he acquiesced to eating the dark leaves but not the light green crunchy part.  Charles ate his whole serving.  Freddie attacked the bok choy like a T Rex ripping flesh off of a Triceratops.  Huge bites, stuffing his mouth, asking and reaching for more before he’d finished chewing.  It was the damndest thing.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LeSK04-1bpI/V_6du_AysWI/AAAAAAAAIWE/5u6uLxlJ-g4/s1600-h/IMG_1153%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1153" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1153" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-D75QjA2j1dM/V_6dvEzVtxI/AAAAAAAAIWI/3IhMNgKWNTk/IMG_1153_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="487" height="646" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>I was playing floor hockey in the garage with a repurposed croquet mallet for a stick and a Bakugan Battle Brawler for a puck (as one does) a couple weeks ago when I heard shrieks of intense joy coming from the den downstairs.  Shrieks of joy are all well and good, but these went beyond the realm of normal and set my mom-sense tingling.  I opened the door to find Freddie standing on the coffee table, shaking a Costco-sized Pirate’s Booty bag in the air, giggling madly as the snack rained down around him and Onyx leaped to catch them in midair.  There was Pirate’s Booty EVERYWHERE.  My floors would probably still taste like cheese if one had a mind to run a tongue over the carpet.  I don’t recommend that, though.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rKYi7trxTig/V_6dvXQSOaI/AAAAAAAAIWM/rA6yU9Tyyto/s1600-h/IMG_1166%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1166" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1166" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8O7tEDhwzsQ/V_6dvj1at3I/AAAAAAAAIWQ/RRv_rceiD7Q/IMG_1166_thumb%25255B7%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="630" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Evenings are total chaos in my house; between dinner and bedtime, kids go crazy, dinner has to be cleaned up, reading homework has to be finished, lunches have to be made, and kids have to be told to get their pajamas on at least a thousand times.  Freddie is usually in the thick of things, pushing his trucks at top speed through the kitchen, hiding behind the curtains and calling, “Mama!  I see ooo!”, trying to ride the dog like a horse, riding his rocking horse like a motorcycle through the kitchen (with enough rocking, it will move forward, a fact which delights young Fred to no end), dancing on the piano, or systematically dumping out the art box, the car box, the train box, and all the puzzles.  Given the state of our house post-dinner, and the fact that it is usually the first time Tony and I have a chance to talk all day, it’s not entirely surprising that Freddie was able to slip off by himself for awhile a few nights ago.  I looked up from whatever I was doing, said, “Where’s Freddie?” and proceeded to get blank stares from the rest of the family.  I followed the suspicious silence up the stairs to the locked bathroom door, behind which I could hear water running.  I yelled for Freddie and he didn’t respond.  I yelled for Tony, my heart in my throat, and he came running with the bathroom door key (one of those weird picks with the flat end WHY DO THEY MAKE BATHROOM LOCKS THAT WAY I ALWAYS LOSE THAT STUPID PIECE OF METAL).  We found Freddie in the bathroom, sitting on the counter just cool as a cucumber while the water ran full-force into a stoppered sink and flooded onto the floor.  My panicked pulse finally calmed down once he was safe in my arms for a solid twenty seconds (that’s near the world record for a squirmy toddler hug).</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cFF33eeUZ7Y/V_6dvx4rOVI/AAAAAAAAIWU/CgQs1MAa5e4/s1600-h/IMG_1133%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1133" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1133" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-owGaU4hNKSQ/V_6dwGy2BTI/AAAAAAAAIWY/r_AadxpRjXY/IMG_1133_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="666" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Two-year-olds, I tell you.  It’s all jam hands and surprises.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-30921142680489545072016-09-21T12:32:00.001-07:002016-09-21T12:41:29.334-07:00The Brainless Idiot<p>Buster has been gone for five months and I still miss him so much it hurts sometimes.  How can I explain to my children that I’m crying because I miss that mean, old bear and the way he’d wag his tail so hard his hind legs would dance off the ground each afternoon when I got home from work?  How can I convince my heart not to break each time I think of stroking his fur as we put him down?  He was a <em>dog, </em>for God’s sake.  Damn, but I miss him.</p> <p> </p> <p>It doesn’t help that our new dog is SO STUPID.  Onyx is a total moron who runs her thick skull into walls, can’t find a treat that’s right in front of her face, and wants nothing more than for us to throw the ball ALL THE TIME.  </p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lfgmQfte40I/V-LgPbUIFqI/AAAAAAAAIU0/ET0f4CfnCYE/s1600-h/IMG_0918%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0918" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0918" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y3X_-fI-wh0/V-LgP43kIFI/AAAAAAAAIU4/YNcnSogR3m8/IMG_0918_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="477" height="673" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>Who, me?</em></p> <p> </p> <p>Are you taking care of business in the bathroom?  She’ll drop her ball in your lap.  Are you a five-year-old learning to read, all curled up in the recliner at 7:45 PM, pajamas on, teeth brushed?  She will annoy the crap out of you by dropping her ball at your feet and repeatedly nudging it closer to your hands, even though the back door is closed and no prior incidents would indicate that you are at all inclined to pick up that ball and throw it.  Are you standing in the kitchen, hands clean, trying to make dinner?  Then Onyx-Bionix-Master-Idiot will eventually give up on the ball and will lie down right under your feet.  Right under them.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Gk_LGM-YZ3w/V-LgQfrKsCI/AAAAAAAAIU8/TJlhWqNhBjE/s1600-h/IMG_0637%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0637" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0637" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FZFd6Zsy7aE/V-LgQsFLk9I/AAAAAAAAIVA/3bjFYr0nCvk/IMG_0637_thumb%25255B7%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="533" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>Oh, you needed to do the dishes?  I’ll just wait right here until you can throw the ball.</em></p> <p> </p> <p>Every night, she loses her ball under the couch and proceeds to bark at it until one of us retrieves it for her.  The other day, she dropped her ball in the toilet as soon as I had finished wiping my son’s butt… I hadn’t had a chance to flush yet.  She gets so excited when we go on a walk or a run that she jumps up and grabs the leash to walk herself.  We finally had to buy a leash woven with steel cable.  I’m not joking.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ayZf1YCltFg/V-LgQ3SyaVI/AAAAAAAAIVE/YzBGddYTDUU/s1600-h/IMG_0649%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0649" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0649" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-B7MjuFsCvd0/V-LgRI9PXuI/AAAAAAAAIVI/ynmpRpReIg8/IMG_0649_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="480" height="649" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>She’s infuriating.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kP8UuCQ-tfk/V-LgRnumBOI/AAAAAAAAIVM/egb6xsOVJW4/s1600-h/IMG_0671%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0671" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0671" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CQPKWQI3B_A/V-LgR5IqbSI/AAAAAAAAIVQ/0hVHkc9HGAY/IMG_0671_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="483" height="663" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>There are advantages to having a dumb dog, sure, especially one who is universally submissing and has no prey drive whatsoever, but <em>fuck</em>, she is such an empty head.  I should have changed her name to “Dippy.”  </p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-npRu8jKQT0g/V-LgSDiE-nI/AAAAAAAAIVU/ZnZy1VYyHaY/s1600-h/IMG_0693%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0693" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0693" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1WXjlcKYDCE/V-LgSVmrN0I/AAAAAAAAIVY/_u670xGAG34/IMG_0693_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="478" height="569" /></a></p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SCvelV4vnzw/V-LgS1xSYYI/AAAAAAAAIVc/T2-13nv_fPo/s1600-h/IMG_1062%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1062" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1062" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SNLFVVzPBnw/V-LgTTiWR2I/AAAAAAAAIVg/jJR4oDqDtno/IMG_1062_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="524" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>It appears we’ve saddled ourselves with a brainless fart machine of a dog (and oh, can she clear a room).  It would help if she were a cuddler (except when she’s farting), but she’s not.  Here’s hoping I eventually grow to love the dumbass.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BVr08eVxutA/V-LgTgPZrGI/AAAAAAAAIVk/xgIOA8vh-tE/s1600-h/IMG_1086%25255B11%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1086" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1086" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HSK8C1fjy-o/V-LgUAkBWyI/AAAAAAAAIVo/lEA9pmLfnYU/IMG_1086_thumb%25255B9%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="483" height="656" /></a></p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-53298387411850143202016-09-08T12:08:00.001-07:002016-09-08T13:25:28.797-07:00On Nudity and a Long Summer<p>As you might be aware, Tony, I mean <em>WE</em>, bought a boat this summer.  If I had romantic notions of spending my summer on the water, day-tripping out to the San Juans to hike and watch orcas, I was quickly disabused of them.  What really happened is Tony spent a boatload of time away from the family.  A boatload.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1pYNxXjaB6I/V9G27IVdXfI/AAAAAAAAIR8/gqGgM_Mz7pQ/s1600-h/IMG_0897%252520%2525281%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0897 (1)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0897 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qTfPxE3FBcc/V9G27gq160I/AAAAAAAAISA/zPZAFKXevzo/IMG_0897%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="473" height="640" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>My only boat trip.</em></p> <p> </p> <p>The boat is older than he is, so regardless of its purported “great shape for its age,” it had problems (with the engine, with the bilge, with the battery, with the lights, with the boat things that all boats have, apparently) that needed to be remedied right quick.  This resulted in Tony working on the boat through most of the Independence Day weekend.  And then he took Jamie and Charles and went “fishing” (working on the boat at the dock) for an entire week in July.  Then he missed a family camping trip to attend a bachelor party (thank the dear Lord my parents went camping, too).  Then he went fishing again, three weekends in a row, in August, once leaving me with all three children for a weekend.  It’s a wonder we’re all still alive.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cERerzRArmU/V9G27znyrtI/AAAAAAAAISE/T9jcuHq31WA/s1600-h/IMG_0999%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0999" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0999" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wHpSTg_F8jU/V9G28CHkhoI/AAAAAAAAISI/-ubABWEXTEU/IMG_0999_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="648" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KroMHSx8YEQ/V9G28vdvl_I/AAAAAAAAISM/ghBBmJWcRJw/s1600-h/IMG_0910%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0910" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0910" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-E2tCe5xaevs/V9G28wWpP9I/AAAAAAAAISQ/7ktZu8AXrYw/IMG_0910_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="655" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>This kid is one cute camper.</em></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UR53fQWcO9Q/V9G29H6rjeI/AAAAAAAAISU/9MpoTM4PaqE/s1600-h/IMG_0888%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0888" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0888" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vN0QQCNNf2c/V9G29jMzuEI/AAAAAAAAISY/QA0_eu99TsI/IMG_0888_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="659" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-J9Ls5M4XeTo/V9G290nNYBI/AAAAAAAAISc/rT3tRLkBXzI/s1600-h/IMG_0791%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0791" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0791" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-n9b73d8DmQ4/V9G2-TjUR2I/AAAAAAAAISg/js--DvOUdeI/IMG_0791_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="485" height="661" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>This one turned FIVE.</em></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uMu7k-RN-qA/V9G2-lmz2cI/AAAAAAAAISk/q3dgUG3tZQw/s1600-h/IMG_0920%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0920" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0920" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9ixKR9C8Egk/V9G2-6x8CfI/AAAAAAAAISo/IzRz3Merunw/IMG_0920_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="652" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oaQiu_QID3o/V9G2_HKPeWI/AAAAAAAAISs/8NrYoP3o1f8/s1600-h/IMG_0906%252520%2525281%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0906 (1)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0906 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-B9QyYYD45e8/V9G2_nLtO7I/AAAAAAAAISw/20YgwXnwV4I/IMG_0906%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="489" height="661" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>This one turned TWO (you can’t tell, but he totally has his hand in his diaper) (poop and chocolate cake batter look the same) (this caused problems for me)</em></p> <p> </p> <p>Do I begrudge him the time spent away from us with his new <strike>lover</strike> toy?  Of course I do.  But the cascading problems with the boat engine were neither anticipated nor Tony’s fault, and they’re unlikely to happen again.  That is, I’m sure there will be other problems that require him to spend a few hours working on the engine in the future, but the hope, nay, the <em>expectation,</em> is that they will be few and far between.  In other words, next summer will be so much better.  I might even get more than a 15-minute ride on the boat myself.  So, I was angry about him being gone so much, for forcing me to shoulder the burden of a family of young boys and a puppy (what the fuck were we thinking?  That dog is basically on cocaine ALL THE TIME) during a busy summer while trying to manage my business and have a little fun and relaxation myself (I didn’t get to that this summer – maybe next year).  However, I have forgiven him because I love him and I know he wished it could have been any other way.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mppoookHbNw/V9G2_5cJuSI/AAAAAAAAIS0/yyEupaKSE-M/s1600-h/IMG_1134%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1134" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1134" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Iqn9wx4Ngi8/V9G3AiidIhI/AAAAAAAAIS4/8BvHuqYQiQA/IMG_1134_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="481" height="651" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>Except he’s probably happy to miss this 2-year-old bullshit.</em></p> <p> </p> <p>I’d like to think I’m capable of running this circus on my own, but I swear, every time I turn around, someone has taken off his pants, the dog is eating God-knows-what, and more sticks and rocks than I could have imagined have been turned into swords and projectiles.  And bedtime?  Forget it.  I am ready to admit that I am not an empowered, amazing mother who can keep the home ship afloat while dad is keeping a literal ship afloat (I’m not sure which of us got the worse deal: me, touched all over with jam-hands or cleaning up toddler vomit at 2 am, or Tony, covered in diesel and troubleshooting engine trouble for hours on end).  Instead, I am the woman who buys ice cream, takes kids hiking and to the park, makes dinner, fills the wading pool, and then loses her shit when the toddler refuses to sleep and instead cries for 90 minutes straight and the big kids don’t listen to directions THE SAME DIRECTIONS EVERY NIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN TEETH.  Mama needs a consistent bedtime, too, people.  The wine and chocolate aren’t going to consume themselves.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YZ_1rT3EKCo/V9G3A8yiBcI/AAAAAAAAIS8/QVKkNjKsuAQ/s1600-h/IMG_1048%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1048" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1048" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1YNB2s4xRXM/V9G3BJdxlHI/AAAAAAAAITA/74jbl027G3w/IMG_1048_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="486" height="374" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>The price of ice cream on a hot day: massive tantrums post-sugar crash.</em></p> <p align="center"><em></em></p> <p align="center"><em></em></p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-esZQy1pMJXg/V9G3BZa8V9I/AAAAAAAAITE/A1pH6ySEOPo/s1600-h/IMG_1071%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1071" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1071" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KOZRjTrmO6k/V9G3BotocUI/AAAAAAAAITI/zHFS73lTjJg/IMG_1071_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="217" height="293" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vntH8lpdvZM/V9G3B8o8ZKI/AAAAAAAAITM/sWEClScxHDs/s1600-h/IMG_1070%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1070" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1070" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vKjIJIUz0g0/V9G3CBV5xrI/AAAAAAAAITQ/sppvLSY4E18/IMG_1070_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="216" height="291" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Regardless, it’s been a good summer.  Charles went to several weeks of day camp and only had a few meltdowns and days he refused to go (his middle name is Stubborn).  He read probably 200 books this summer – it’s a constant trial to get him to look up and pay attention to ANYTHING besides whatever he’s reading at that moment, though a good movie will often do the trick (the kids enjoyed Spy Kids, The Mighty Ducks, The Three Musketeers, and The Goonies this summer, though their current favorite movie, THE BEST OF ALL TIME, is Shark Boy and Lava Girl).  If he wasn’t reading, he was riding his bike or his roller blades.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-W3AkBiSReO0/V9G3CtateuI/AAAAAAAAITU/iuzUVm82OiY/s1600-h/IMG_1099%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1099" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1099" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CDHsa-3FFNA/V9G3C9Jc-vI/AAAAAAAAITY/egY2iTvCKC0/IMG_1099_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="664" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0IG8lwnIQZ8/V9G3DPRQAiI/AAAAAAAAITc/UN4WjLZjuU0/s1600-h/IMG_0694%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0694" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0694" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8jySdv-Oxkc/V9G3Ddw--MI/AAAAAAAAITg/agUuI7Dju1g/IMG_0694_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="476" height="648" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>The damn dog has to be pinned down to stay still.</em></p> <p align="center"><em></em></p> <p align="center"><em></em></p> <p>Jamie played in the dirt at preschool every single day and I almost never gave him a bath.  Sometimes he jumped into the shower with me and sometimes he stripped down and played in the wading pool with Freddie.  He was clean enough.  My priority was happiness, not cleanliness, and God knows there’s no fun dirt pile in kindergarten.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kZ-FH1oKaHQ/V9G3D-a064I/AAAAAAAAITk/SkP3Q1Pf_xQ/s1600-h/IMG_1121%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1121" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1121" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nJABWT-PFuw/V9G3EFmIcpI/AAAAAAAAITo/hJZwIw5_gsA/IMG_1121_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="653" /></a></p> <p align="center"><em>It’s a fake tattoo.</em></p> <p align="center"><em></em></p> <p align="center"><em></em></p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wsH0WKHQ_UI/V9G3EcgSpWI/AAAAAAAAITs/cyAmqywig-I/s1600-h/IMG_0700%252520%2525281%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0700 (1)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0700 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nV_EvInvt38/V9G3E09M0oI/AAAAAAAAITw/hQWvhZwg6iE/IMG_0700%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="483" height="653" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Freddie stripped down to nothing every hot afternoon and played in the wading pool.  The dog’s poop bags have been used to pick up Freddie’s poop from the backyard more times than I’d like to admit.  Freddie always throws a fit about having to put clothes back on.  He’s learned to push his diaper down and pee out the top, thus soaking everything in sight, because he thinks it’s funny.  He’s fascinated by his brothers peeing in the yard but doesn’t have the control to do it on demand just yet.  The other day he managed it and was so proud and excited: “Mama!  Pee-pee!  Mama!  Pee-pee!”  He’s cute, he loves to dance, and he doesn’t just say “no” like a regular two-year-old; he says, “Nononono!” while shaking his head.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xmshyb97QCs/V9G3FEUGLtI/AAAAAAAAIT0/7y9niMGE2b0/s1600-h/IMG_1130%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1130" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1130" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-37NHfdGx6Nc/V9G3FsbK6xI/AAAAAAAAIT4/EUC6LGbWWGY/IMG_1130_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="658" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8xUEtWjAaXY/V9G3F0Yn6QI/AAAAAAAAIT8/9Qao6Hg0qjY/s1600-h/IMG_1011%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1011" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1011" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xaBUgtHJLYU/V9G3GXa8eJI/AAAAAAAAIUA/1-kbiSsFs5c/IMG_1011_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="486" height="665" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wZS81kVdqFo/V9G3Gjvr3HI/AAAAAAAAIUE/JEquK_6fQBk/s1600-h/IMG_0923%252520%2525281%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0923 (1)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0923 (1)" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3qePZWzs-tE/V9G3HNU2BvI/AAAAAAAAIUI/TkWCifuxcjs/IMG_0923%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="484" height="655" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-osdH0vWEguw/V9G379Mh69I/AAAAAAAAIUc/Y96uoUlbjZU/s1600-h/IMG_0976%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0976" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0976" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wymxoOvK3N8/V9G38Ks9ovI/AAAAAAAAIUg/XzHeD_8m0Lg/IMG_0976_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="658" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>And now, school.  It’s been a long summer.  I can’t adequately describe how tired and beaten I feel.  When does the coping stop and the living begin?  Maybe now that Jamie is in Kindergarten and Charles is in second grade,  Tony’s home for the weekends and the boat’s out of the water, we can all work on trying to kill each other within the confines of a regular schedule.  </p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eqNiIaBlaFY/V9G3HYHf5PI/AAAAAAAAIUM/a-R-iNdtZQU/s1600-h/IMG_1137%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_1137" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_1137" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CK45l1V90iE/V9G3HnlnVxI/AAAAAAAAIUQ/XASs3LjpNyM/IMG_1137_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="483" height="658" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>The best part of the end-of-summer?  The school switched from a school-supply list to a flat fee per student so the teachers can buy supplies for their classes.  I’m planning to use the extra brain space that would have been occupied by comparing binder prices and parsing out ten-packs of pink erasers to restock the bar with carefully curated alcohols and mixers.  The dark days of fall are upon us and I plan to mix cocktails frequently.  Say, every time Freddie takes off his clothes.</p> <p> </p> <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jhIiidPqIt0/V9G3INtSX2I/AAAAAAAAIUU/8qnAXvdbaXg/s1600-h/IMG_0982%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0982" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0982" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-an20v1Ozno4/V9G3ISWQiwI/AAAAAAAAIUY/UAK-IfqDvHs/IMG_0982_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="660" /></a>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-53794503178388024352016-06-11T15:21:00.001-07:002016-06-11T15:21:50.364-07:00Dadventures<p>When the kids go on trips with Tony, it's either an idyllic field trip into a world filled with motorized vehicles and cheeseburgers or a steep descent into a comedy of errors resulting in the use of a t-shirt for a diaper and marshmallows for lunch.  There is no middle ground.</p> <p> </p> <p>A few weeks ago, Tony and Jamie had the first kind of trip. Tony decided on a Saturday evening to go check out a boat the very next day in some faraway Canadian town (note the utter lack of advanced planning, just like every trip he’s taken to look at a fucking boat). I went to bed at mom o'clock (after a cup of tea and falling asleep on the couch while reading) but was awakened near midnight to sign a hastily-written affidavit to the effect that I didn't mind if my husband took our child across the border. When I finally rolled out of bed the next morning at the late hour of 7:30 am, Tony and Jamie were long gone, probably on their second ferry ride of the day (they would do four total). By all accounts, it was a perfect trip. They ate ferry food and saw float planes land on the water and didn't buy a boat (I'm always a bit relieved when that is the outcome).  </p> <p> </p> <p>It wasn’t a trip I’d ever take with a four-year-old, or any of the kids, really.  The day was long, there was lots of time spent in the truck – basically, my idea of a terrible time right there.  But Tony loves that sort of journey.  He eats it up.  Sports radio and looking at boats – that’s like heaven to him, and he’s stoked to share it with the boys.</p> <p> </p> <p>Yesterday, Tony and Charles started out on a trip that, so far, is the second kind of adventure with dad. Before 12 hours had passed, they had missed a flight, stayed up way later than any seven-year-old should, and slept in their rental car in an in identified California city.</p> <p> </p> <p>My husband and my seven-year-old slept in a car.</p> <p> </p> <p>I just... Wow. Life is different on trips with Tony. With me, there are snacks in any bag I happen to have (and I have them all: purse, diaper bag, hiking backpack), plenty of water, changes of clothes, extra diapers, the gps coordinates to all suitable rest stops, children's museums, and restaurants, and kids’ music preloaded in the cd player.  With Tony, it’s fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, don’t-bother-packing-underwear-but-be-sure-we-have-the-life-vests madness.  </p> <p> </p> <p>I suppose this will be an experience Charles will never forget.  The stuff of family legends.  The stuff that keeps my blood pressure nice and high.</p> <p> </p> <p>I haven’t heard from them in a few hours.  Things can’t have gotten much worse, right?  Right??</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-33939177620773435272016-04-25T13:50:00.001-07:002016-04-25T13:52:01.171-07:00Searching for HappyLast week, I honestly wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown. But then I thought, if I’m <em>aware</em> of the nervous breakdown, is it actually a nervous breakdown? Or am I just throwing a tantrum?<br />
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Jamie is four years old, almost five, and thank you, God, he is starting to show signs of moving out of the Fucking Fours. I understand the Fucking Fours, though: his emotions outpaced his ability to cope with them. Well, I think that’s what happened to me during the two weeks that followed spring break; my emotions outpaced my ability to cope. So maybe Jamie’s not growing out of the Fucking Fours but my ability to empathize is increasing.<br />
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Do you know what’s not a good coping mechanism when you’re overtired, overstressed, and overwhelmed? Texting your overworked, overtired, overstressed husband, “I quit.” He couldn’t do anything about it. I probably should have just given in and let everyone eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinnner for a couple of weeks. <br />
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And then, at the culmination of tax season, we said our sobbing goodbyes to Buster. He was physically healthy but mentally very unhealthy. He perceived everyone outside of the family as a threat. He was unsafe.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cQqLXlATc2Q/Vx6DDLq2GGI/AAAAAAAAIRg/V9DeOfU_7Go/s1600-h/IMG_0511%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0511" border="0" height="456" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AdVTW6h86DI/Vx6DDW-e-AI/AAAAAAAAIRk/UN4MkVq4AL8/IMG_0511_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0511" width="483" /></a><br />
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I miss him. God, how I miss that stupid dog. He wasn’t a very good dog – he never learned to fetch, he stopped being able to run with me a couple of years ago, his belches could clear a room, and he was aggressive – but I loved him. The house is rather lonely without him, despite the tribe of rambunctious boys. It hurts when I think of how he used to be many years ago, when I think of the dog he became over time, and when I remember our last moments with him as he slipped away.<br />
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Posting might be light here for a few weeks. I need to find my happy place, the one inside my head, again. I laughed with Tony a couple of times this past week, I mean <em>really</em> laughed, and it felt new. I realized that I hadn’t laughed in a long time.<br />
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The thing is, it doesn’t matter how funny the joke is; it matters how light your heart. <br />
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I’ll be back when I can be back, friends.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-77979747102801897582016-04-14T13:43:00.001-07:002016-04-15T10:58:54.567-07:00Legoland Adventure<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Yy4qpHxQgGo/VxAAqEC08_I/AAAAAAAAIOM/9QGdB_bA5Eo/s1600-h/IMG_0354%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0354" border="0" height="661" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j_KXSk38Qgc/VxAAqZ6BQ1I/AAAAAAAAIOQ/FIUYNjIzK6M/IMG_0354_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0354" width="489" /></a><br />
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I planned our trip to Legoland for spring break ages ago. I coerced my mom into taking care of Freddie (and Tony) for a few days and I booked the flights, hotel, and park passes.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SBkMaCs09RY/VxAAqtZfPDI/AAAAAAAAIOU/XY3nzf0IQ-Q/s1600-h/IMG_0351%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0351" border="0" height="656" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pCOV0yWjCfY/VxAArH1EeyI/AAAAAAAAIOY/GnE58BTR15I/IMG_0351_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0351" width="485" /></a><br />
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And then I sobbed when I dropped Freddie off the day we left. It was my first time away from him and though I craved the sleep and the opportunity to sever our breastfeeding relationship (the chubby leech has been sucking until he exhausted the milk and started drawing blood every night for the last month), I was loathe to go without him for three nights. Codependent much, Amelia?<br />
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Luckily for me, I had this bedmate while in California (even though he had his own perfectly good Lego pirate bunk):<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Sl9Lwb-6w28/VxAAra57RLI/AAAAAAAAIOc/aiKaXv2XaDU/s1600-h/IMG_0388%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0388" border="0" height="652" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CwnONVWP5Gc/VxAArpagFnI/AAAAAAAAIOg/eZdMyQs3bOM/IMG_0388_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0388" width="482" /></a><br />
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Also, this guy watched over me while I slept, so I guess I was well-protected:<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Qh1XOJntkcA/VxAAsLJ_kjI/AAAAAAAAIOk/ZpSgwQPnu4E/s1600-h/IMG_0387%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0387" border="0" height="652" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PVzo3zDcNis/VxAAsY0-mgI/AAAAAAAAIOo/dSAjOi7NnJw/IMG_0387_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0387" width="482" /></a><br />
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When we arrived, it was almost 8 PM, but the kids were wired. We stayed up to watch the poolside movie with some hot chocolate (<em>Lego Star Wars</em>, of course).<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JEzU7qs7wOI/VxAAs77oBWI/AAAAAAAAIOs/S7gDmNCrd6M/s1600-h/IMG_0353%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0353" border="0" height="653" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CaXK_HHvi-E/VxAAtATrwcI/AAAAAAAAIOw/c0tnMstPArI/IMG_0353_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0353" width="479" /></a><br />
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The boys were up SO STINKING EARLY the next morning.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rv2EDtCehR8/VxAAtdfaujI/AAAAAAAAIO0/a0olOmV1IRk/s1600-h/IMG_0356%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0356" border="0" height="659" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mzr9FnuPyLU/VxAAtmtK4rI/AAAAAAAAIO4/lPfkZ9Mfnsg/IMG_0356_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0356" width="487" /></a><br />
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Too early, in fact, for the early-entrance to the park granted to those staying at the Legoland Hotel. So they did a treasure hunt and built Legos to pass the time.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PFlNd-CxgAI/VxAAuuvIkyI/AAAAAAAAIPE/w3ihHKirDRg/s1600-h/IMG_0363%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0363" border="0" height="664" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5UOf2Q1a73CiDe6am_fwAtSM8jxGzPpTAhlv7Lek_NDMUjac40PcjG13b3t56WQl8MHUm_AA1tQGM7uCXWRosYaZXddFoNWmtS2PIv6FB83DdlvOWV1G-SOTDtemjT3A0CZCrSz1uIJRa/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0363" width="491" /></a><br />
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The weather was great, as you would imagine.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iuzZJhY2eBY/VxAAvFojcNI/AAAAAAAAIPM/2uwI4udueX4/s1600-h/IMG_0364%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0364" border="0" height="378" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5txT446-FGM/VxAAvbOsmrI/AAAAAAAAIPQ/E8Q0pQRY2bo/IMG_0364_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0364" width="487" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WKlDb98LM00/VxAAv1I_PNI/AAAAAAAAIPU/DpXxdU1em0I/s1600-h/IMG_0367%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0367" border="0" height="376" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qL4wjII7i5c/VxAAv6NO-9I/AAAAAAAAIPY/D9DjS-CJLDc/IMG_0367_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0367" width="485" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--ZtGs0_GhyY/VxAAwdM4i1I/AAAAAAAAIPc/fyBpPhu_AKQ/s1600-h/IMG_0368%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0368" border="0" height="623" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dNuDKEjkK_I/VxAAwsvKh_I/AAAAAAAAIPg/9tyA3Ijzz90/IMG_0368_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0368" width="489" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uJkODpGgYac/VxAAw7ukKyI/AAAAAAAAIPk/fspBGWrFP5k/s1600-h/IMG_0375%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0375" border="0" height="659" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WqkOqyIGmTc/VxAAxHO0ajI/AAAAAAAAIPo/j5ov6gGFhsg/IMG_0375_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0375" width="487" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-e1f5PXY-Kls/VxAAxmkzLtI/AAAAAAAAIPs/Sz6MaU4f-fI/s1600-h/IMG_0379%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0379" border="0" height="663" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZDbOB1b17DA/VxAAxwB5wII/AAAAAAAAIPw/Offa-jqjGSY/IMG_0379_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0379" width="487" /></a><br />
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We spent the middle of both days at the water park, which meant that we missed the crowds for the rides. It worked out pretty well. Isn’t it great when you accidentally do something awesome?<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-aJYE_bB84ns/VxAAyHYlEiI/AAAAAAAAIP0/H2nL6LxKbRI/s1600-h/IMG_0384%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0384" border="0" height="662" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3hj4SW-vXuo/VxAAyk8RQxI/AAAAAAAAIP4/XApFHN1QtlE/IMG_0384_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0384" width="486" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8_5c9nD6_HU/VxAAyytIMTI/AAAAAAAAIP8/vpfcayJVjzg/s1600-h/IMG_0385%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0385" border="0" height="656" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhz_9aMl_DH6_Z8gzIO_e6IEgQCzGOjpVlsi2Em4o2-YDkx9m-3hsc9zwfCKpa_2309jE3INHL0MaRglRXnHddqfzGmDyb85EbEFdqW00Z8rHhX07QzhrvcMi8K5aL1CQq9ykQ2cjqTI8/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0385" width="485" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YNtmUVj6V2s/VxAAzqZ_h8I/AAAAAAAAIQE/hk22UmeBEe4/s1600-h/IMG_0386%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0386" border="0" height="656" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sm6Jn32f-v4/VxAAz8zVFEI/AAAAAAAAIQI/Zg1abK7bcMI/IMG_0386_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0386" width="485" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HvbpJ4AkOv4/VxAA0GHqVqI/AAAAAAAAIQM/i71o3EG_DEY/s1600-h/IMG_0389%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0389" border="0" height="663" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KhNVthbPFQE/VxAA0YdaQrI/AAAAAAAAIQQ/7Og4Q9WtVEc/IMG_0389_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0389" width="490" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T3lo5veeF-c/VxAA0xaIHgI/AAAAAAAAIQU/9S0Npw97T84/s1600-h/IMG_0399%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0399" border="0" height="660" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9XLuJF4vRzg/VxAA1ExvkAI/AAAAAAAAIQY/HYUQu1a_ogw/IMG_0399_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0399" width="488" /></a><br />
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I cannot say enough good things about Legoland. The hotel staff was awesome. The restaurants were perfect for kids. The buffet was great. There was an opportunity to embarrass my children every time we rode the elevator: when the elevator doors closed, the disco dance party started and they were <em>mortified</em>, even if no one else was in the elevator with us. The park itself was perfectly sized and had a wide variety of activities besides just rides. The water park was fun. Two days spent there was just the right amount.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5JV5nqtRCMo/VxAA1Vgc_dI/AAAAAAAAIQc/m68Snf4NqjE/s1600-h/IMG_0390%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0390" border="0" height="656" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jLHqj3rutaU/VxAA1o6NOTI/AAAAAAAAIQg/Fg_gb1z5V7I/IMG_0390_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0390" width="485" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZlH5DwdF36w/VxAA2GcqAqI/AAAAAAAAIQk/1xK4dBQdYEo/s1600-h/IMG_0398%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0398" border="0" height="661" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NPNFE7p0vDE/VxAA2ekOnvI/AAAAAAAAIQo/E5f4eXUQpNU/IMG_0398_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0398" width="489" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nWR-mvZ_Fso/VxAA2rweWKI/AAAAAAAAIQs/w_HB_02x18A/s1600-h/IMG_0391%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0391" border="0" height="663" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bViFoC32CEU/VxAA25OFBhI/AAAAAAAAIQw/-S6s8qQbnbY/IMG_0391_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0391" width="487" /></a><br />
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I had no personal agenda during this trip, other than to have fun with my boys. We did the rides they wanted to do, we played what they wanted to play, we ate what they wanted to eat. I (sort of) enforced bedtimes and teeth-brushing and that’s it. I let them have control and <em>there were no fights or tantrums</em>. It was wonderful.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nT0Coj44H7o/VxAA3RwRfPI/AAAAAAAAIQ0/eh731mDCwuo/s1600-h/IMG_0434%25255B10%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0434" border="0" height="438" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-P1A2xh8RpP4/VxAA3qM4EvI/AAAAAAAAIQ4/HiwI08R-Tps/IMG_0434_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0434" width="486" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RN22stLvCqY/VxAA4PoAj_I/AAAAAAAAIQ8/ckHhbKI9cgc/s1600-h/IMG_0439%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0439" border="0" height="441" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O-xOKmNX_oU/VxAA4a6196I/AAAAAAAAIRA/ZohIEkmxVmQ/IMG_0439_thumb%25255B7%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0439" width="487" /></a><br />
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The only shaky part was the trip home, and it was entirely my fault. In a spectacular showing of idiocy, I did not so much look at the map from Legoland to the San Diego Airport (they’re about 40 miles apart) as glance at it. We left a bit later than I intended, during rush hour (which moved surprisingly well on the freeway – certainly MUCH better than Seattle), and I took an incorrect exit when the freeway split into two freeways. We went from a little behind schedule to a lot behind schedule.<br />
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We made it through customs and to our gate just before boarding, so I herded the boys over to the bathrooms and we took turns sitting with the luggage (all carry-on) while the others peed one last time before the airplane. We left a bag at the bathroom, but I didn’t realize it until we were in that little tunnel, about to board the plane.<br />
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“Where’s the blue-and-white striped bag? Oh, shoot! We left it! Boys, GET ON THE PLANE, I’m going back.” <br />
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And then I left them to get on the plane. Which was probably a stupid idea, but it all worked out, you’ll see.<br />
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I made my way, frantically, to the bathrooms and then back to security. Luckily, we were in the small terminal at the airport – at the big terminal, I might have just said “to hell with the bag.” The bag was at security and after a bit of panicked explanation that I was not trying to leave it behind, I was just absent-minded, I retrieved it. I ran back to the plane and boarded just in time for takeoff. The boys had their Legos and were playing, totally unconcerned. The other parents on the plane assured me they had taken good care of them and that everything was okay, God bless them.<br />
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What a gift it was to have been able to do this for and with my big boys. Next year, we’ll stick close to home, but I promised them we’d go back and do Legoland again when Freddie’s four.<br />
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Freddie, who only screamed at me for a whole day upon my return. He wouldn’t let me put him down, but he screamed at me while I held him. Pour chunk was so angry. He’s over it now, and he hasn’t breastfed since.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HFip072nNGM/VxAA4pbfB9I/AAAAAAAAIRE/VXg9SdaOdtE/s1600-h/IMG_0450%25255B10%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0450" border="0" height="556" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZPYSkEhfTrk/VxAA442OywI/AAAAAAAAIRI/rS8j4IJ1yK0/IMG_0450_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0450" width="482" /></a>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-33181517231332892002016-03-24T12:41:00.001-07:002016-03-24T12:41:12.830-07:00Jaws of Steel<p>The universe is fucking with me. </p> <p> </p> <p>I broke my night guard last week (because no plastic can withstand my stress-induced teeth clenching) and last night Freddie slept through the night for the FIRST TIME EVER.  And I hope to God it’s a trend, but it probably isn’t because I am not that lucky.  <em>I</em> did not sleep through the night because <em>I</em> kept waking to a severe pain in my jaw and teeth because of the clenching and grinding that is no longer prevented by a night guard.</p> <p> </p> <p>That baby is still winning the sleep wars.  He’ll probably stop sleeping through the night as soon as I can sleep comfortably again.</p> <p> </p> <p>I went to the dentist to get a new night guard and was summarily informed that I was now on “The List.”  That is, my dentist has a list of “maybe eight” patients who have broken two or more night guards.  Coincidentally (not), the last time I broke a night guard ($300!) was also during tax season.  The list exists because I have a new source of potential doom to worry about: sleep disorders.  Sleep apnea doesn’t just affect obese middle-age men who snore like freight trains; the stealth sleep apneaics are young, fit women in their thirties who don’t snore and who repeatedly break night guards.  </p> <p> </p> <p>Huh.  That’s me.</p> <p> </p> <p>So I might regularly stop breathing at night.  Or I might just be unreasonably stressed.  Hard to tell at this point, especially since I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years.  It will probably take <em>months</em> of Freddie and the others sleeping through the night before I finally do – my body is trained to wake fully at the softest of sounds.  Plus, my super barf hearing is ALWAYS on high alert.</p> <p> </p> <p>I’ll get my new night guard in a few weeks because this time the dentist wants to go for the full-jaw big guns instead of the two-front-teeth coughdrop-sized NTI I had (and broke twice) before.  In the meantime, I’ll be wearing a sports mouth guard for maximum fear factor when I get up with Freddie in the middle of the night (come on, we all know he won’t sleep through the night again until he’s four).  I imagine him screaming even louder when I pick him up with an overstuffed mouth full of molded plastic in some garish color.</p> <p> </p> <p>The best part will be leaning over to Tony and kissing him goodnight with whatever mouth contraption I have to sport to keep from grinding my teeth to powder each night.  It’s almost allergy season, though, so soon he’ll have weepy, red eyes and a BreatheRight strip on his nose.  I tell you, as we move toward middle age, we just get sexier and sexier.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-18047820258927424312016-03-16T10:56:00.001-07:002016-03-16T11:01:39.455-07:00Thirsty<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-m7tGLHB7Ylc/VumeO2PYxHI/AAAAAAAAINo/z0THVEdiEbA/s1600-h/IMG_02235.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0223" border="0" height="661" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sKwt2wTnLMc/VumePlpmDCI/AAAAAAAAINs/o7Ra6Xl4X8c/IMG_0223_thumb5.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0223" width="486" /></a><br />
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Freddie is 20 months old. He has many words: car (“dar!”), da-da, doggy, Charles (“Darl!”), truck, cat, roar, frog, fish, night-night, ribbit, woof, choo-choo, mine (“maaaah!”), and outside, to name a few. Also “agua.” He knows how to ask for water, he knows where the clean cups are stored, and he knows that water comes from the tap or the fridge. We have sippy cups full of water scattered throughout the house. I couldn’t find any clean OR dirty ones a week or two ago, so I bought several new ones. Right about the time they made it through the dishwasher, I cleaned underneath the boys’ bunkbed. Apparently, that space is a cozy nest for the kids; it was filled with sippy cups (all only water, thank God), candy wrappers, flashlights, and books.<br />
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Anyhow, Freddie knows how to ask for water, but apparently we weren’t listening very well the other night. We’re busy, we’re tired, normal brain function is inhibited, especially the “interpreting baby’s insistent cries, whines, and yelps” part, and we missed it. So Freddie did what he does: he found a toilet, lifted the lid, grabbed a handful of toilet paper, dipped it in the toilet, and then sucked the water out of the paper.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QLVgWUrUTXY/VumeQKlBnVI/AAAAAAAAINw/hczI6uTX-cQ/s1600-h/IMG_02165.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0216" border="0" height="656" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HZmsjXeKmqc/VumeQkKa86I/AAAAAAAAIN0/wrLQ4pTvycM/IMG_0216_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0216" width="481" /></a><br />
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Tony found him in the laundry room doing this, God only knows for how long. He hauled him up the stairs with the most disgusted look on his face, pulling bits of paper out of Freddie’s mouth. We are experienced parents who cloth diaper and who have a dog. We’ve seen our share of disgusting, gross things in the past eight years. Once, Buster ate some plastic wrap (it probably had some chicken on it) and when he pooped it out, half of it was stuck in his butt. I had to quash my gag reflex and pull plastic wrap out of my dog’s butt. Tony has dealt with every monster spider, dead bird, squirrel, or mouse we’ve ever had the pleasure to watch our dog masticate. The kids have barfed and pooped all over us and the house and the cars. We’ve done gross in this family, but I honestly can’t remember ever seeing Tony look so horrified as he did when he carried Freddie up the stairs and tried to wash the toilet water out of his mouth.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2kdS2XHDIIo/VumeRDA1tfI/AAAAAAAAIN4/dFaNdw9wTJA/s1600-h/IMG_02656.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0265" border="0" height="670" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EpeL3XtoGes/VumeRstEgNI/AAAAAAAAIN8/cc9RGMeBz_E/IMG_0265_thumb5.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0265" width="488" /></a><br />
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Now, if I pick up a stray sippy cup of water in the house, I make sure to place a clean, full one back in that room. I’d rather have full water cups in each room than a child who drinks from the toilet.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-29399659435759568402016-03-15T10:34:00.001-07:002016-03-15T10:35:10.422-07:00Shoe LeatherI am unbelievably absent-minded when I am tired. My house, desk, phone, and purse are littered with lists and appointments and Post-Its and notes to remind me to do things and sometimes they STILL don’t get done. I’ve often wondered how Tony manages on so little sleep. I also wonder why people insist on dropping off their tax information way into March when it’s pretty much guaranteed that their tax professional is living on coffee and a prayer. Now, this is just speculation here, and I’m sure that Tony and his colleagues do a great job on tax returns no matter the day, but I think quality must be better the earlier you turn your stuff in. You know, when the preparer is well-rested and less stressed. They’re bound to appreciate you more, at the very least.<br />
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Last Tuesday, a day of school, work, the housekeeper coming (so I have to scramble to pick up ahead of time so she can get to the floors to clean them), gymnastics class, and my Y workout class, I forgot to plug the crockpot in. Well, first I forgot to put the corned beef in the crockpot, but I put it in at noon. Jamie came to work with me because he was still getting over having a bad case of the barfs on Sunday night (why must these things always happen in the middle of the night?), so we went home for lunch and a nap at noon. I put the corned beef in the crockpot then, turned it on high, and forgot to plug it in. Turns out it doesn’t work so well when it’s not plugged in (when, oh when, will appliances run on my desires alone?) Three hours later, I realized my mistake. Then I forgot that I had such an appliance as a pressure cooker even though my mom was <em>just</em> talking about cooking corned beef in a pressure cooker the day before. Instead, I tried to cook it on the stovetop, which is a legitimate way to cook a corned beef if you can cook it all day. However, I refuse to leave the stove on when I’m not at home, so I cooked it for an hour, turned it off, went to gymnastics, cooked it for another half hour, and left for my Y class.<br />
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Needless to say, it was as tough as shoe leather when Tony served it for dinner. That’s kind of the point of corned beef, you know? It’s a cheap, tough cut of beef that turns edible after hours and hours of slow cooking. Except now it’s a novelty food served for Saint Patrick’s Day, a holiday that means next to nothing in our family, so it’s not so cheap. Tony tried to make the kids eat it, regardless of how tough it was, and he’s too nice to say anything like “mom surely screwed this one up, you don’t have to eat it, I’ll make nachos.” Or maybe he was just too tired to remember how to make nachos. I wasn’t there to admit to everyone that I made a horrible mistake and we should just have nachos instead, so everybody cried, and Tony sent a paniced text around 7 stating simply, “everyone’s crying and they hate me.” Been there, my love.<br />
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I won’t say all’s well that ends well because it really didn’t that night. Dinner is not currently an area of success in our house.<br />
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At any rate, even without a note to remind me, I’ll probably remember these lessons: turn on the crockpot; remember your pressure cooker; nachos have the power to fix things only if you recognize them as a viable alternative.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-6533727781007038172016-03-09T13:20:00.001-08:002016-03-09T13:35:24.051-08:00Beating Our Heads Against the WallTony and Charles are the same person and it’s driving everyone nuts. “Like father, like son” is cute and all, but right now this phenomenon has me careening wildly between exasperation and rage.<br />
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And Tony, bless his heart, doesn’t see it. At all.<br />
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“He’s just like you,” I say. “He gets absorbed in what he’s doing and he tunes everything else out.”<br />
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“He’s stubborn, and just like you, the more you push, the more he will entrench his position.”<br />
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“Tony, you have to cut him some slack, even if you would never cut yourself slack in this situation. <em>He’s seven years old.</em>”<br />
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“Kind words, please, boys, KIND WORDS.”<br />
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Charles, for his part, has taken to saying, “Daddy’s just grumpy because he has to work all the time.”<br />
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Now <em>there’s</em> the understatement of the century.<br />
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Is clash of wills a short-term phenomenon or will we have to endure the two of them butting heads forever? I don’t know, but I can tell you that I do not relish my role as mediator. I sometimes feel like yelling, “Everybody CALM THE FUCK DOWN!” Not sure how helpful that would be.<br />
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I get it, though. I understand Tony’s extreme irritation. I understand why he just wants to throw up his hands and walk away. That child, <em>our child</em>, pushes us to the brink of insanity every damn day and I’ll tell you what: there’s no quicker way to feel like a failure as a parent than to go a round with Charles.<br />
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On Monday, Charles, my little nihilist, decided not to go to school (again). Why should he, after all, when school is “boring and stupid” and he doesn’t like it? No reason I give is good enough, that’s for damn sure. I LOVED school, at least until I realized that I was “different” for loving learning and wanting to be the best. I was naive and had poor social perception, much like Charles does, so I anticipate him not understanding why some kids don’t like him in a few years. Then again, maybe it’s cool to be a nerd now.<br />
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Refusing to go to school is Charles’s new thing. It was so bad a couple months ago that four administrators and I couldn’t coerce or even physically pull him from the car. This time, instead of getting into the car when it was time to go, he hid. He hid so well that I couldn’t find him for fifteen minutes and I started to panic. Did he get on the bus (that goes to a different school)? Did he start walking to school? Did someone kidnap him from the front yard? Did he fall off the roof and break his neck? <br />
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He was curled up in a cupboard, as silent as a mouse. I very nearly cried with relief.<br />
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Every day that kid insists that school has no purpose and every day I chirp in my best Pollyanna voice, “Guess what YOU get to do TODAY?!” And then I extend the carrot that either convinces Charles that it’s worth bothering with school or distracts him from the fact that he must spend the best part of the day in school instead of playing LEGOs or reading or climbing trees. I don’t give him a reward, but I do highlight the positives in a way that is unbearably cheerful (“Reptile Man is coming today for an assembly!” “Remember! We’re going to ninja gymnastics tonight!”). And if things really go south, I break out the chocolate because a jolt of sugar can sometimes bring his mood back to even when nothing else can.<br />
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He’s only seven and he’s bored. From the time he was a baby, he has needed to be constantly engaged, constantly stimulated in order to be happy. He’s not old enough to talk himself into doing the drudge work to get to the good stuff, so it falls to us to keep him occupied with frequent trips to the library, multiple activities, begging his teachers for more challenging math homework, and the occasional kick in the ass to “go outside and play already!”<br />
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There is no easy answer, but grace. I try to keep my cool. I’ve resolved to yell less and I’m slowly making strides in that direction. I can usually identify the look on Charles’s face that tells me he’s about to freak out about school or homework and I try to head it off with chocolate and love and silliness and absurdly happy retellings of the good things to come. I remind him that his daddy loves him, even though he gets frustrated. I remind Tony that Charles loves him and looks up to him, even when he pushes back and stubbornly refuses to eat his dinner.<br />
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And when they all go to bed, I sip my tea and worry. How did we make it through another day with such a strong-willed child? How can I help him to deal with his emotions without crushing his spirit? Am I neglecting his more easygoing brothers? When will it get easier?Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-79450637067239388792016-02-29T14:08:00.001-08:002016-03-01T11:24:08.124-08:00Get Right Outta Town!There is a serious issue we have to discuss right now: WHY do children have to pee at the LEAST opportune times during a roadtrip? I mean, come <em>on</em> kids. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: LISTEN TO YOUR BODY. Don’t just ignore it until we’ve reached a traffic jam in the Tacoma S-curves and you have to go URGENTLY RIGHT NOW IMMEDIATELY MOM PLEASE I HAVE TO GO.<br />
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My kids have peed out the door of the van in rush hour, on the off-ramp at the Ft. Lewis – McChord Army/Air Force Base (forcing me to go through the checkpoint and then be officially turned back around as a soldier stopped oncoming traffic for me and waved me through), in vast numbers of McDonald’ses and gas stations and in bushes by the side of the road. I don’t <em>think</em> they enjoy such improvised bathrooms, but damned if they’ll change their ways. This latest trip had us squealing into the parking lot at Krispy Kreme for Charles to run inside while I gathered the others – there are worse places, I’ll admit. While I didn’t indulge in a donut, I did enjoy smelling the donuts. Odors don’t have calories, right? I’m down to one run per week due to schedule constraints, so donuts are off-limits. Sad face.<br />
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I can’t recall being this antsy this early in tax season before. Tony has been up and gone to the office before 4 am for weeks now and though he doesn’t like to beg, I can tell he wants to ask me for more time to work. I pulled the kids out of school at noon on Thursday and we hit the road. We listened to our favorite songs from the <em>Cars</em> soundtrack at least fifty times, had an earnest discussion about <em>Ninjago</em>, and generally made the most of 5 hours in the car together. It helped that no one farted the whole drive, not even the dog.<br />
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This is what weekends at the beach are for:<br />
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Eating cake with your hands.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-d9VWb9RPJ8E/VtTBJH1JHjI/AAAAAAAAIL4/eatWdlyRPis/s1600-h/IMG_0180%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0180" border="0" height="655" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_YtS_1HIDgw/VtTBJpwlJ5I/AAAAAAAAIL8/E1fuO10aYdk/IMG_0180_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0180" width="484" /></a><br />
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Hanging out with Grandpa.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-InHzjOjKenQ/VtTBKJZ81sI/AAAAAAAAIMA/RzogUfNDP-U/s1600-h/IMG_0186%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0186" border="0" height="651" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lDEPqVo6PbE/VtTBKwF7tZI/AAAAAAAAIME/YK5QLWGrNIs/IMG_0186_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0186" width="481" /></a><br />
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Walking on the beach.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-msOb5Ul5JiM/VtTBLb_L1iI/AAAAAAAAIMI/WJii8RS1mlo/s1600-h/IMG_0200%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0200" border="0" height="649" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0fIFDvWTL2k/VtTBLwiWidI/AAAAAAAAIMM/gcPcbzpexrA/IMG_0200_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0200" width="480" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iB6RRLrhb1o/VtTBMaHbL1I/AAAAAAAAIMQ/eqITaosnlB4/s1600-h/IMG_0188%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0188" border="0" height="648" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DGUc5bLryaY/VtTBMj9LQWI/AAAAAAAAIMU/EEChInQZOck/IMG_0188_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0188" width="479" /></a><br />
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Playing in the sand.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HgbSf0tZIRY/VtTBM9CptPI/AAAAAAAAIMY/IWlHLavkiqk/s1600-h/IMG_0197%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0197" border="0" height="662" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-78qaY2rbIiA/VtTBNYw72SI/AAAAAAAAIMc/0jfDqJnjXxI/IMG_0197_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0197" width="486" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mTgieSCypJA/VtTBNw2oS3I/AAAAAAAAIMg/H165DrofVdA/s1600-h/IMG_0192%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0192" border="0" height="655" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kRvEAYsECd8/VtTBOCy_4cI/AAAAAAAAIMk/MgG7KKO-bbU/IMG_0192_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0192" width="484" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O-K2H7FeBus/VtTBOeQY9pI/AAAAAAAAIMo/2K_P4rwrG9M/s1600-h/IMG_0203%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0203" border="0" height="655" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VhMULt_a25Q/VtTBO43hCfI/AAAAAAAAIMs/-G9i-li4G0E/IMG_0203_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0203" width="484" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-f45I9dck_5g/VtTBPDM-iCI/AAAAAAAAIMw/KfnDAEjI7dU/s1600-h/IMG_0193%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0193" border="0" height="663" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-W60zmadBB4M/VtTBPyVSXYI/AAAAAAAAIM0/h1qifEWqvrs/IMG_0193_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0193" width="487" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-buA8SnuwukE/VtTBQQbqKpI/AAAAAAAAIM4/9vlUMwl9MZk/s1600-h/IMG_0210%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0210" border="0" height="652" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AlMY3_kP7VI/VtTBQvw_eQI/AAAAAAAAIM8/XpWQSuMrWos/IMG_0210_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0210" width="482" /></a><br />
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Exploring.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PlTBNTrHQn4/VtTBRLlFH8I/AAAAAAAAINA/ac6Z0Vw9-iU/s1600-h/IMG_0204%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0204" border="0" height="657" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AteQnkeDf_I/VtTBRbjMe6I/AAAAAAAAINE/Y62sD1-ygZo/IMG_0204_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0204" width="486" /></a><br />
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Good friends.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O3ulrIIh-uI/VtTBRy47weI/AAAAAAAAINI/gEHS28ctLzI/s1600-h/IMG_0208%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0208" border="0" height="660" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8h6Nzu43DV8/VtTBSQdmTHI/AAAAAAAAINM/eoGXZiYbxBs/IMG_0208_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0208" width="488" /></a><br />
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Watching Victor Borge on the big screen.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZrHm0UpdZvc/VtTBS0sZbLI/AAAAAAAAINQ/1lY8iBfRN0c/s1600-h/IMG_0212%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0212" border="0" height="665" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fs70xyoZjFg/VtTBTb-ywzI/AAAAAAAAINU/zC9hBQCmx6c/IMG_0212_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0212" width="484" /></a> <br />
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Not pictured: My mommy making me dinner, Jamie handily beating me and Liz at Sequence Jr., that one glorious nap I took with Jamie, that one run I went on (did I mention I’m down to one run a week, even on a weekend away, and it’s KILLING ME), staying up too late drinking wine and watching TV with my dad, and general lazy relaxing during the day because nobody went to bed at a decent time or slept through the night while we were gone.<br />
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Does Tony appreciate our absence? I think so. Kinda hard to tell because less family time means more working time for him. In his shoes, I’m not sure I’d relish the trade. I mentioned to our doctor this morning that he didn’t even shower while we were away and the doc said, “Geez, he’s not in <em>college</em>.” So now I know that my doctor thought showering was unnecessary in college. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-11776719623605683562016-02-24T14:06:00.001-08:002016-02-24T14:06:02.838-08:00The Druid Made Me Do It<p>Freddie, this darling child of mine, the baby, the mama’s boy who doesn’t ever want to sleep without me by his side, will not say “Mama.”  Or “Mommy.”  Or “Mom.”</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-twpt4OYVNAY/Vs4pMkcXYMI/AAAAAAAAILU/a2ZGLrb962A/s1600-h/IMG_0164%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0164" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0164" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8mGk-EFcq4k/Vs4pNhjnCCI/AAAAAAAAILY/bV1SR6XMB5Q/IMG_0164_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="490" height="663" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>He says “Mah!” to indicate when he wants “more” or that something is “mine.”  When he wants me to pick him up, he puts his arms out and whines.  When he points at me, he says, “Sthat?” which is his version of “what’s that?”  He also says “Sthat?” when he wants you to name the animal on the fridge magnet and make the corresponding animal noise (usually monkey).</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rs2FyPHSOGc/Vs4pOtHBsYI/AAAAAAAAILc/2DQEc4r0QRQ/s1600-h/IMG_0103%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0103" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0103" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-L1tiKRgoTLM/Vs4pQAvhwVI/AAAAAAAAILg/vFQlR62P5cc/IMG_0103_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="480" height="649" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>I’ll admit, this feels like a betrayal.  He can say “doggie” and “daddy” and “banana” and “frog” and “moo” and “woof woof” and a whole host of other things.  But never “mama.”</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cEoFK0cQcCQ/Vs4pROC-MlI/AAAAAAAAILk/uXYQauFSIjA/s1600-h/IMG_0063%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0063" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0063" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O0sf9YZcxb0/Vs4pSA5CjUI/AAAAAAAAILo/9tcXuAdT-5g/IMG_0063_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="480" height="653" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>It’s been a rough couple of days.  I dropped my phone while I was getting it and my keys out of my purse after my workout class last night, a class that takes me away from my family at dinner time two nights per week but without which I feel terrible.  I am addicted to the endorphins, I guess, enough so that I willingly give up family time and make Tony manage dinner on his own every Tuesday and Thursday night (I still <em>prepare</em> dinner, mind you, I just don’t eat with them).  I haven’t given in to the guilt for that because I’ve viewed it, for the past year that I’ve been taking this class, as totally necessary for my sanity.  But then I dropped my phone, my new phone that Tony bought me with his bonus, and broke the screen.  I took time off of work this morning to see about getting it fixed – it will cost an arm and a leg and not be ready until Monday.</p> <p> </p> <p>And then it all came rushing in.  And I tell you what, I am <em>good</em> at guilt.  I am <em>good</em> at self-flaggelation.  This is what I get for not spending the precious dinner hour with my family.  <em>I’m</em> the reason I don’t have nice things.  A daycare is raising my children.  I’m a stressed-out bitch most of the time.  I haven’t ironed Tony’s shirts in ages and he’s running low; what kind of a shitty wife am I?  How can I punish myself for this boneheaded mistake?  Maybe if it hurts enough this time, I won’t do it again.</p> <p> </p> <p>It never works.  34 years old and still doing dumb, klutzy shit.  Makes me feel like I’m not worth the space I take up.</p> <p> </p> <p>Here’s something to help me feel better:  Amazon’s 99 Romance Novels for 99-cents sale.  I don’t want to read any of them, I’m just super amused by the titles.  Here are my favorite:</p> <p> </p> <p>1. The Druid Made Me Do It</p> <p>2. Passion Fish</p> <p>3. Riding the Thunder</p> <p>4. A Wolf In Wolf’s Clothing</p> <p>5. Texas Hold Him</p> <p>6. A Stroke of Magic (oh, really?)</p> <p>7. The Half Breed</p> <p>8. Daddy With A Deadline</p> <p> </p> <p>Thank God there are still people out there more absurd than I am.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-12617363559429128312016-02-23T12:56:00.001-08:002016-02-23T13:30:34.416-08:00Things My Kids Don’t LikeMy big kids don’t like these things, just go ahead and ask them:<br />
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1. Tomatoes, unless it’s in soup form or ketchup form or pasta-sauce form or pizza-sauce form or enchilada-sauce form or mixed into their favorite soups and main dishes, like lentil soup or taco soup or minestrone soup, all of which have a tomato base.<br />
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2. Corn, but frozen corn is okay for Jamie while Charles will eat corn-on-the-cob, but please don’t try to serve it off the cob and warm, and don’t put it in soup except taco soup, and they really would rather not eat cornbread with actual kernels of corn in it unless you drench it in butter and honey, then it’s okay, and oh, yeah, they like popcorn, too.<br />
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3. School, all school, any school, except when it’s gym day, or when the preschooler gets to go outside, and plus they like their friends and school is where their friends are, and when there are holiday parties it’s pretty cool, too, and nacho day in the cafeteria is always a plus, and maybe today we’ll do some hard math so that will be fun, and I like library day, and Friday is the after-school program and that’s awesome.<br />
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4. Piano lessons, except when Charles gets to play Star Wars songs or Charlie Brown songs, which is EVERY time, and also piano lessons are fun because he gets to jump on a trampoline before and after his lesson.<br />
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5. Swim lessons, except as soon as they get in the water, then they’re amazing.<br />
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6. Walking to school, except every morning after we start walking, when it quickly becomes the “best time of the day because we get to talk together.”<br />
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7. Playing outside, except as soon as they actually get outside and start chasing each other and fighting with light sabers and drawing ninjas in chalk on the sidewalk and then they don’t want to come in, ever, will you please bring our snack outside, mommy?<br />
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8. Bedtime, because they’re not tired. And they need a drink of water. And please can I have another kiss? Mommy, you forgot to kiss me! And their brothers breathe too loudly so they can’t sleep, and they don’t need this much sleep, why do they have to go to bed so early, and it’s too dark and the nightlight is too light, and did I tell you I’m just not tired? I need more time to read zzzzzzzzzzz…<br />
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9. Grocery shopping, which they think is stupid even though they like to eat, but also great because they get the chance to complain about meals in their raw, unassembled form and since they clearly love complaining more than anything in the whole world, you’d think this was the highlight of their day. Also, free doughnuts for kids because the grocery store knows that hell hath no crazy like a toddler in a grocery store.<br />
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10. Cleaning their rooms, unless I get sneaky and ask them to take out the compost, which stinks. Then they’ll gladly bargain for a “lesser sentence” and clean their rooms with gusto.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-88288946040304709872016-02-16T13:27:00.001-08:002016-02-16T13:27:07.120-08:00Start Over. Start Over. Start Over.<p>I come before you today a broken woman.  Temporarily broken, that is.  I know that I will pick up the pieces before this afternoon, put myself back together, and try to parent the best way I can for the rest of the night.  It could be that I’ll shatter into a million little pieces again before tonight, maybe even several times, but I’ll scrape myself off that floor and soldier on.</p> <p> </p> <p>These boys are more than I can handle right now.  They whine, they throw fits, they disrespect me, they flaunt the rules, they ignore me and any request or question or order I might give, they talk back, and they’re teaching the baby to do the same, in his own little 19-month-old way.  My patience runs out before 8 am every. single. day.  I find myself screaming at them in anger and frustration.  They have taken to screaming back at me.  I, in turn, have taken to crying in the bathroom or in my car after I drop them at school.  I am ashamed of my behavior.  I am ashamed of theirs.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CBUIrUrpY44/VsOUDXnG9MI/AAAAAAAAIKg/nEvrXjMciA0/s1600-h/IMG_0124%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0124" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0124" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-e-1WqzT0xPk/VsOUF4TgIQI/AAAAAAAAIKk/67H3HpPdQmA/IMG_0124_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="487" height="663" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>And still, I go on.  I will take them to ninja gymnastics tonight, I will feed them dinner, read them their stories, brush their teeth, and somehow put them to bed.  I will prep their diaper bags and backpacks and lunches for tomorrow.  I will find some words of kindness to give them even though I have nothing left.</p> <p> </p> <div id="scid:0ABB7CC8-30EB-4F34-8080-22DA77ED20C3:0392eb91-4c6d-411e-8d8e-5e17708bb3d3" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent" style="float: none; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px"><div><object width="475" height="267"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/O3KTWP10X6s&hl=en"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/O3KTWP10X6s&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="475" height="267"></embed></object></div><div style="width:475px;clear:both;font-size:.8em">After I took this video, I showed it to him. He stopped crying and asked me to play it again and again.</div></div> <p> </p> <p>My children are beautiful.  They are smart and funny.  They are interesting.  I love them more than I love life itself.  But I am a poor excuse for a parent sometimes.  I get frustrated and I lose my cool, shouting at them, revoking every privelege they have, and stalking away when I can’t deal.  I feel alone and helpless in the face of the terrible mess I’m making of three humans.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XTAHLNGEEk8/VsOUGleL1RI/AAAAAAAAIKo/ayG55GoKGkw/s1600-h/IMG_0126%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0126" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0126" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qrdO13Cr7Tk/VsOUHC0dZHI/AAAAAAAAIKs/ZJ8qzAaFYPg/IMG_0126_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="479" height="648" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Pick up the pieces.  Pray for guidance and forgiveness.  Hug and kiss them when I can’t find the words.  Remind them that I love them, even when I’m disappointed.  Wash, rinse, repeat.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EQqldyFTS1k/VsOUHgzb8MI/AAAAAAAAIKw/UMoOjegoyPo/s1600-h/IMG_0136%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0136" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0136" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z2nOBMxPfmQ/VsOUIGPFquI/AAAAAAAAIK0/G4pkW4YQ1Ro/IMG_0136_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="482" height="652" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>“Do you see that line on the sidewalk, guys?” I said as we were on our way to school this morning.  “When we cross that line, we’re going to start over.  We’re going to start fresh for the day.  I’m sorry I got so frustrated with you, but I’m letting go.  And I forgive you for the way you behaved.  Let’s start again.  Let’s have an awesome day.”  And when we had to turn around because of a problem that wouldn’t let us continue our walk to school, I breathed deeply to stop the tears leaking from my eyes and said, “We’re starting fresh from this minute forward.  We’re starting new.  And I will have patience and I will be positive.”</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EIJitWFy_gY/VsOUI6D55VI/AAAAAAAAIK4/i3dUT0StI7A/s1600-h/IMG_0147%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0147" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0147" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sO_HPB9GpR0/VsOUJVRsD6I/AAAAAAAAIK8/vJHm1kT2zJc/IMG_0147_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="481" height="651" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>Every minute.  Every second.  Start fresh.  Start over.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iH9E6lNW4dg/VsOUJ5oFKqI/AAAAAAAAILA/ehKmcLFhutM/s1600-h/IMG_0156%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0156" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0156" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T1-81luciAk/VsOUKUXudWI/AAAAAAAAILE/FUOFbTMCuZM/IMG_0156_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="478" height="651" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>If the constant nagging, the lessons, the talks, the experiences, and all the other parenting work I do doesn’t penetrate into their thick skulls over the years, maybe they’ll at least learn that we can always make the choice to try again.  We can choose to pick up the pieces and start over, even if we have to keep picking them up and keep starting over every damn minute.</p>Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-64371203692404099952016-02-04T13:36:00.001-08:002016-02-04T13:38:11.801-08:00Swim MonstersSwim lessons are one of my non-negotiables: my kids will take lessons until they learn to swim, end of story. They complain, but mostly because they complain about everything. I’m the one who has created an hour-and-a-half of chaos and madness for myself as I wrangle them through the bowels of the YMCA twice a week for a 30-minute class. But I don’t complain; I just have a glass of wine when they’re all in bed and congratulate myself on surviving.<br />
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While I continue to get the pitying looks from the other parents (“Wow,” they seem to say, “three boys! I’m glad I’m not her.”), I’m trying to be sage about the whole swim lesson process. Charles and Jamie get into their suits at home to minimize pre-lesson time in the locker room because being in the locker room is akin to giving them a direct injection of high fructose corn syrup: they immediately turn hyperactive and stop listening to anything I say or shout in that echo-y space. All they have to do when we get to the Y is try not to die in the parking lot as they race into the building, then take their shoes off, put the bags in the lockers, go potty, and take a shower.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-A3GYNcHi8JU/VrPEW-NNvmI/AAAAAAAAIJE/_ZPkpG2kgiQ/s1600-h/IMG_0089%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0089 (1)_thumb[1]" height="646" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8PvDl8h_Wts/VrPEXeQpcgI/AAAAAAAAIJI/j9E8NfeaRYY/IMG_0089%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="IMG_0089 (1)_thumb[1]" width="479" /></a><br />
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We’ve only gone two days so far, and Jamie only got locked in a locker once, so I’ll call that a win.<br />
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<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4orOKmTBIqA/VrPEX2lw5wI/AAAAAAAAIJM/eQikamFD8zI/s1600-h/IMG_0083_thumb%25255B1%25255D%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0083_thumb[1]" height="648" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2JhikZAaVgE/VrPEYiH0BbI/AAAAAAAAIJQ/imHAuHD_RxQ/IMG_0083_thumb%25255B1%25255D_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="IMG_0083_thumb[1]" width="483" /></a><br />
<br />
Freddie wishes he could swim, too. He wishes it so much that several times a lesson he makes a beeline for the water, shrieking with joy that he escaped my clutches. The lifeguards must have mild heart attack every time they see us walk in. I bring books, snacks, and toys to keep him busy, but we still spend a goodly portion of the class walking around the pool and looking at the kids, his tiny hand in my iron fist to keep him from jumping in.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PKQtQStjSL4/VrPEY_tkM-I/AAAAAAAAIJU/V0fSpMywu7I/s1600-h/IMG_0085_thumb%25255B1%25255D%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0085_thumb[1]" height="647" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RzuB042jgWY/VrPEZSaeFqI/AAAAAAAAIJY/FIk1UCWZq-s/IMG_0085_thumb%25255B1%25255D_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="IMG_0085_thumb[1]" width="480" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Selfies only distract for a few seconds.</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<em></em><br />
Charles swims like a fish. No, a shark. He’s fast and he wants to be faster. He has always been a rule follower, and in the pool is no exception. He does what his teacher asks, he listens, he overshares completely irrelevant factoids about how well the characters in Ninjago swim before diving in and racing underwater or practicing his strokes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he graduated out of the swimming lessons by next year.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lmU6VrcZnqo/VrPEaDwKW9I/AAAAAAAAIJc/3bb9kLxCfS0/s1600-h/IMG_0090_thumb%25255B1%25255D%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0090_thumb[1]" height="649" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vZrsvbgxELQ/VrPEag9vKfI/AAAAAAAAIJg/WTh-Sk-w30U/IMG_0090_thumb%25255B1%25255D_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="IMG_0090_thumb[1]" width="481" /></a><br />
<br />
Jamie, on the other hand, is a total spaz in the water. Last year, he was apprehensive about the whole deal, eventually ending our three months of lessons by graduating to the second of the lowest pre-K classes. This year, he cannonballs into the water, dog paddles away when his teacher asks the class to kick while holding onto the wall, and turns endless circles in the water when he’s supposed to be practicing his strokes. He could not give a flying fuck about what his teacher wants him to do in swim class. I’m certain the other parents are looking at this disrespectful kid who just goofs off the whole time (“Oh, it’s <em>her</em> child, the one with the <em>three boys</em>.”) and are grateful he’s not theirs, but honestly, he’s just so damn happy that it’s tough to get angry. And what would getting angry help, anyhow? Jamie marches to the beat of his own drummer, he’s not rude, he’s four, and he’s having fun. Maybe he’ll even learn to swim in the bargain.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JodumVLptMI/VrPEbM4G3jI/AAAAAAAAIJk/dMpNDq9PSTQ/s1600-h/IMG_0088_thumb%25255B6%25255D%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0088_thumb[6]" height="541" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wQIymrCcq90/VrPEbjuWptI/AAAAAAAAIJo/ayRJIIVpLWA/IMG_0088_thumb%25255B6%25255D_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="IMG_0088_thumb[6]" width="484" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Blue lips – this kid has not an ounce of insulating fat on his body</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<em></em><br />
Remind me to give his teacher a tip at the end of class, though. She’s working hard to keep his flailing to a minimum.<br />
<br />
So, should you endeavor to take three kids to swim lessons, here are a few tips:<br />
<br />
Let them shower (with soap) for a nice, long time after the pool. Free bath for the day! One you don’t have to fight about or clean up after! And bonus, if the kids shower long enough, the locker room clears out so you have plenty of room for the toddler to repeatedly slip and fall on his ass.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K0BuEAIzWgg/VrPEcMZgmsI/AAAAAAAAIJs/eHX_06byMB8/s1600-h/IMG_0094_thumb%25255B2%25255D%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0094_thumb[2]" height="649" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wVpJ1fJqrK4/VrPEcv7TYsI/AAAAAAAAIJw/g0It7j9hTXo/IMG_0094_thumb%25255B2%25255D_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="IMG_0094_thumb[2]" width="487" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Eventually, he just sat down.</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<em></em><br />
Take double the towels. The first towel is used to quickly dry the hair and down the body and then goes on the floor to stand on. The second towel dries the body after the suit is off.<br />
<br />
Pack snacks. My kids are ravenous after swimming and I reserve the purchase of the Y’s Red Vines for when they’ve been especially good.<br />
<br />
Make them carry their own shit. I carry enough. Even Freddie has to get up the stairs by himself.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-55CXcKqDaIA/VrPEdBhIDII/AAAAAAAAIJ0/hMzQ9_QFNOI/s1600-h/IMG_0095%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0095" border="0" height="667" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8rRLmEysaoo/VrPEd-fNTXI/AAAAAAAAIJ4/YXrEfj4E2pA/IMG_0095_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0095" width="485" /></a><br />
<br />
Swimming: the tax-season activity that may or may not kill me this year.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-83096603195437916802016-01-29T13:19:00.001-08:002016-01-29T13:21:12.183-08:00January JoyI’ll admit, I’m having a bit of a rough month. January and February are like that for me; the days are short, tax season is looming, and the gleeful anticipation of the holidays are behind us. What do we have to look forward to? Spring break. In APRIL. Lord, help me.<br />
<br />
These are the months in which I most struggle with self image. I startle myself every time I catch a glimpse in the mirror. Who is this wrinkled, wrung-out, pudgy woman? Why is she so <em>pale</em>? What is wrong with her hair? As my pots of makeup and jars of potions on the bathroom counter increase in number and their effects on my visage decrease, as it gets more and more difficult to gain strength and maintain fitness (not to mention lose my spare tire), as my breasts sag and my hips stubbornly refuse to slim, I am realizing that Sisyphus is my spirit animal (spirit Greek myth? Is that a thing? I’m making it a thing.) Push that boulder of self-hatred, self-doubt, and negative self-image up the hill. Let it roll back down, feel free for a minute or two, pick it back up and roll it again.<br />
It’s not healthy, so I’m focusing on counting my blessings, as one does. I’ve also come up with a new strategy: instead of photos like this, where it’s obvious that I didn’t get enough sleep the night before and I had a hideously large mimosa with brunch…<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dPN1dJu8LuY/VqvXRMlAwHI/AAAAAAAAIHo/BfNQPjmO2Is/s1600-h/IMG_0057%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0057" border="0" height="499" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fuPwCxCPU08/VqvXRiuHgCI/AAAAAAAAIHw/wNdiVqV1oSc/IMG_0057_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0057" width="486" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>At the Seattle Opera last Sunday</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<em></em><br />
…I’m going to surround myself with photos like this, in which I look fabulous:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PDXlfGXfimA/VqvXSTrMI0I/AAAAAAAAIH4/UPBE5vMPjII/s1600-h/12637178_10153887842128688_1843202740_o%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="12637178_10153887842128688_1843202740_o" border="0" height="338" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ssEalhwZOUU/VqvXTFiUfDI/AAAAAAAAIH8/SGjTOXU77Fg/12637178_10153887842128688_1843202740_o_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="12637178_10153887842128688_1843202740_o" width="493" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Taken at an auction in November</em></div>
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<em><br /></em></div>
<div align="center">
<em></em></div>
We’re not sleeping because Prince Frederick is a fucking tyrant. Tony and I took the side off of Freddie’s crib a couple of weeks ago in the hopes that he would sleep in it. Not like, sleep <em>more</em> in his crib, but sleep <em>at all</em> in his crib. After two weeks of feeling so tired that I probably shouldn’t have been driving, we have relented. My philosophy with regards to my children has always been “I get to win,” but not this time. This time, Freddie wins. Freddie sleeps with us and will likely do so until he has all his teeth. His mouth is in no hurry to develop, so that could be until he’s six years old or so. My guess is that, at this rate, he’ll get his last baby tooth when he loses his first baby tooth.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--9KgYpvqFNw/VqvXTvNL2HI/AAAAAAAAIIE/DX5WucQcHHY/s1600-h/IMG_0008%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0008" border="0" height="657" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1P3HgXOu7jI/VqvXUVVIfVI/AAAAAAAAIIQ/UVOVvzkQpHc/IMG_0008_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0008" width="486" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Yep, that’s my bed.</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<em></em><br />
Okay, so maybe it’s not helping my mood that one of my “strengths” is hyperbole. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0pCc76EDbm4/VqvXVKmmHkI/AAAAAAAAIIY/O9LhPG9ufqs/s1600-h/IMG_0043%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_0043" border="0" height="493" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IupyNyWCh2Q/VqvXV7UodzI/AAAAAAAAIIg/hzTFBII6vQc/IMG_0043_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_0043" width="485" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Right before the popcorn fight that resulted in popcorn EVERYWHERE, including the goddamn light fixture</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<em></em><br />
The bigger kids are getting busier all the time. We are invited to a minimum of two birthday parties a month, they take ninja gymnastics classes each Saturday, they have swim lessons twice a week for the next two months, and they still expect to be fed three meals every. damn. day. In addition to my normal workload at the office, I went ahead and built myself another (unpaid) job by organizing a much-needed after-school program at Charles’s elementary school. And when I get free time, I like to… ha ha ha ha ha! I have no free time.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kzolfIaUtY4/VqvXWhmlcfI/AAAAAAAAIIk/6GyXNeBTq8M/s1600-h/FullSizeRender%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="FullSizeRender" border="0" height="915" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-F5GMTIjF2kY/VqvXXPEZJuI/AAAAAAAAIIo/yzHHlcMR0Hk/FullSizeRender_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="FullSizeRender" width="484" /></a><br />
<div align="center">
<em>Ninjas climb ropes at lightning speed.</em></div>
<div align="center">
<em><br /></em></div>
<div align="center">
<em></em></div>
Trite as it is, these kids are worth the stress. Some days, they’re like three small Tyrannosaurus Rexes, eating their way through the cupboards, fridge, and freezer, leaving a swath of destruction in their path. Other days, they are sweet as sugar, playing nicely together, building elaborate train tracks or fighting imaginary foes as a team.<br />
<br />
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<br />
All in all, January was filled with joy.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-59678702527783935822016-01-22T11:58:00.000-08:002016-01-22T11:58:17.973-08:00Big Kid FilesThe other morning Charles said, “Mom, I’m the only one in our family who is
thin.” And I said, “What about <em>me</em>?” in mock horror. He just looked at
me like I was crazy. The kid is, it turns out, old enough to know when to keep
his mouth shut.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
For Christmas, my in-laws gave me a lovely box of handmade chocolates. They
were so good and even though they were in a one-pound candy box, they were
really stuffed in there. There had to have been nearly two pounds of chocolates
that tasted remarkably similar to See’s Milk Bordeaux. I might have cried a
little bit at their sheer beauty.<br />
<br />
I limited myself to one or two chocolates a day for approximately two days.
No, eighteen hours. Okay, maybe one or two throughout the day on the Saturday
after Christmas (when I received the chocolates) and then another one or two in
the evening after the kids were in bed, and then another one or two on Sunday.
There were still so many! It was the never-ending box of chocolates!
Heaven!<br />
<br />
On the Sunday after Christmas, Tony and Jamie went to a friend’s house to
watch football while Freddie napped and Charles and I read stories and played
with the new Christmas toys. Then Freddie woke up, so I went upstairs to
snuggle him for a bit. After Freddie was good and awake (this was during about
a month of crankiness due to the appearance of two molars, so it was a bit
touch-and-go with waking up for awhile), I called to Charles to come upstairs
and snuggle with us. He arrived and gave Freddie a big, chocolaty kiss.<br />
<br />
I think you know where this is headed.<br />
<br />
I asked him if he’d had one of mommy’s chocolates and he nodded his head.
<br />
<br />
“How many did you have, Charles?”<br />
<br />
“One. No, two. I’m sorry.”<br />
<br />
“Okay. Those are mommy’s chocolates and you need to ask before you eat one.
I forgive you.”<br />
<br />
Later, I discovered that he had consumed THE ENTIRE BOX. At least a pound of
delicious, delicious handmade truffles.<br />
<br />
He wasn’t even sick to his stomach.<br />
<br />
I have since decided to hide all chocolate from my children.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
You might think that since I have all boys, I have escaped the daily fashion
crises that mothers of girls deal with. I’ll admit, the problems are usually
uncomplicated; Jamie has a hard time deciding which “footies” to wear (he got
several new pairs of footie pajamas for Christmas, and he rotates through his
collection every day of the week) and neither of the boys has more than one pair
of shoes or boots. However, Charles is DEEPLY concerned about which pants match
which shirt and can I just tell you that his opinions on matching are DEAD
WRONG? For a while he would wear all one color (black pants and black shirt or
dark jeans and dark blue shirt) and now he wears only pants that “go” with his
favorite shirts. I’ve tried to apply years of matching colors and styles to his
daily dilemmas about clothing, but logic and experience mean nothing to
Charles. Jeans that look great with a certain shirt “don’t go” and
cause prolonged weeping and gnashing of teeth.<br />
<br />
I came up with a couple of solutions. First, I bought Charles more pants.
Now that the variety is greater, he has less trouble “matching” or
whatever. Second, we made a deal that resulted in more more TV for the kids
(that’s the kind of deal they jump at). I figured out that the fashion problem
was a symptom of a larger issue: too much time in the morning. Time to complain
about clothing choices, time to stall before brushing teeth or donning shoes,
time to bounce off the walls.<br />
<br />
I’m not big on screen time, but in order to restore some sanity to my
mornings right before tax season, I instituted the following program for both
Charles and Jamie:<br />
<br />
1. Get dressed<br />
2. Eat breakfast<br />
3. Brush your teeth<br />
4. Do two pages in your workbook<br />
5. Watch a 22-minute episode of one of your shows on Netflix (Ninjago, Clone
Wars, Rescue Bots)<br />
<br />
The boys have to have the first four items done by 8 am in order to earn the
show and they have to agree on the show. Any arguing and the deal is off.<br />
<br />
In the three weeks since we have adopted this morning routine, fighting,
fashion crises, tantrums, and yelling on my part have diminished considerably.
Plus, they’re <em>learning</em>. Sure, they’re watching TV, but they’re also
working through their workbooks. Compromise: it’s what I do.<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s just possible that I won’t disown them before the end of tax season.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-90095979132705116592016-01-05T13:58:00.002-08:002016-01-05T13:58:12.593-08:00One ThingFreddie, as all 18-month-olds do, has reached Chaos Level: Expert recently,
becoming a master of happy-shrieking, good-natured destruction. Jamie, on the
other hand, has reached the pinnacle of the Fucking Fours: angry defiance,
extreme tantrums, and huffy pouting over such injustices as having to wear shoes
or brush his teeth. Charles is distracted and lethargic; he only wants to do
what he wants to do. Ninja class, reading, LEGOs: yes. Chores, homework,
participating in family anything: no.<br />
<br />
The kids are inside almost all the time this time of year – the outdoor
excursions end quickly and always demand immediate application of hot cocoa and
snacks to offset the calories burned sustaining life in the just-above-freezing
“so cold my toes are falling off!” arctic weather here in Northwest Washington.
Consequently, toys, costumes, crayons, and snack droppings are scattered among
wet boots and discarded gloves ALL OVER THE DAMN HOUSE DO WE LIVE IN A FUCKING
BARN and I can barely keep the three of them and any friend who comes over from
tearing each other’s eyes out in shocking displays of acute cabin fever. I’m
campaigning to buy a trampoline so that when these boys are <em>literally</em>
bouncing off the walls, I can send them out to bounce off each other instead.
Tony does not think a trampoline is necessary. Tony thinks a trampoline will
take up too much room in our yard. Tony is not often home with these
fire-breathing monsters.<br />
<br />
When I’m not home making meals or holding my wee Tasmanian Devil because his
teeth hurt and he simply MUST be held at all times or reading stories or
negotiating truces between dueling brothers, I’m at work or ferrying children to
and from their activities. Also the gym, I go there a lot. I won’t say it’s my
“happy place,” but it is my “without children” place and I always feel better
after I bust out a few quick miles on the treadmill or sweat through a boot camp
class. Despite this, my house stays relatively clean and organized, the laundry
done, the dishes clean. In fact, you might walk in and think to yourself,
“Wow! This place is amazing! How does she keep things so clean and organized?
And her hair is awesome, too. What is her <em>secret?</em>” (As long as I’m
dreaming, let’s make it good, shall we?) (You would not actually think any of
those things. But you might think that things could be SO MUCH WORSE than they
are.) (My hair looks awful.)<br />
<br />
First secret (it’s not a secret): I have a housekeeper, who is fantastic.
She comes every other week. I think we can all agree that two weeks is long
enough for a house with two adults, three boy children, and a dog to go to shit,
but for at least a day after she visits, the floors, bathrooms, counters, and
mirrors are all sparkling clean.<br />
<br />
Second secret: The One Thing Rule.<br />
<br />
The One Thing Rule is where I look around at my house/life in disarray and I
ask myself, “Self, what’s one thing you can do to make it better?” I don’t aim
high, oh no. I aim low, and I usually find that the <em>one thing</em> I can do
<em>right now</em> to make things better is minor, like wiping up the table
after breakfast or clearing the mail and newspaper detritus from the counter or
starting a load of laundry or cutting some vegetables for dinner or organizing
the pile of hats or making myself a cup of coffee and raiding my secret
chocolate stash. Then I do that one thing. Often, when that one thing is done,
I have time to ask myself again, “Self, what’s one thing you can do to make it
better?” and I see yet another spill I can wipe up or I think of the meat I can
take out of the freezer for dinner or any number of things that I immediately
notice as I look around. I continue to ask myself what one thing I can do until
I either run out of time or I look around and feel better about my life and my
house.<br />
<br />
In the aggregate, all of these little things I need to do cause stress.
They’re overwhelming. I look around and I can’t see the end of all the picking
up and the putting away. Feeling messy and disorganized leads me to feel like
I’m sliding into mediocrity, which leads me to think such super helpful and
inspiring stuff as “Why do I even try?” and “You’re never going to have a nice
house” and “YOU ARE FAILING.” I think we can all agree that no one wins when we
pursue that line of thought, so I just ask myself “What’s one thing you can do
to make it better?” and then I do that one thing and then I feel a small sense
of accomplishment.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, my one thing that I could do was to put something away in the
garage closet (yes, we have a closet in the garage. It’s just as stupid as it
sounds). Junk started falling on me because it’s a fucking closet in the garage
and so of course it’s a convenient place to toss anything you’re too lazy to put
away correctly. I got cranky and frustrated with the mess that NO ONE CARES
ABOUT BUT ME (seriously, do we live in a barn?), so I decided that one thing I
could do would be to reorganize the boxes of gift bags and ribbons I had on the
shelves (the source of much falling junk in the closet). It took me ten
minutes, which cut into my gym time a tiny bit (I ran faster to make up for it),
but the closet is organized now. I also threw away a bunch of garbage and moved
some boxes around so I can walk around the entire car when it’s parked in the
garage. I can’t pretend that anyone else even noticed, but it made me feel much
better.<br />
<br />
The One Thing Rule works best in the afternoon or when there is plenty of
time to burn before the next event (dinner, bedtime, etc.). It does not work
well when you’re trying to get out of the house in the morning and you know that
life would be easier later if you just started the dishwasher/put in a load of
laundry/prepped dinner for that evening. There’s never enough time before work
to do these things, so I don’t even bother. I use the One Thing Rule when I
have a few minutes of “spare” time and sometimes I even do just the one thing I
can do with one hand, since Freddie is often in the other hand.<br />
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Go ahead. Try it. Just one thing. It could change your life.Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-10196049856975275682015-12-18T10:16:00.004-08:002015-12-18T11:58:22.125-08:00Life with a Toddler<div class="yiv4160713717" id="yiv4160713717yui_3_16_0_1_1450378697531_26349" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
It is slightly amazing how much I repressed or forgot about Charles’s and Jamie’s toddler stages as they have grown older. There’s always so much going on, and they’re so interesting to me now, that the previous developmental stages have sort of faded into the background until, occasionally, I realize that I don’t have to do *that* anymore (nurse while cooking eggs, puree baby food, stop sixteen times to go potty on the way to the grocery store). Except that Freddie is now a full-blown, speed-demon, illogical toddler with the advantage of two older brothers to distract his parents. I should have realized by now that I need to do *that* again, whatever *that* is (lock up the dog food, for instance, because Freddie is intent upon feeding Buster the ENTIRE CONTENTS of his food drawer every time I turn around and so help me God, I cannot stand another episode of dog flatulence in MY ROOM in the middle of the night).<br />
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<span class="yiv4160713717" id="yiv4160713717yui_3_16_0_1_1450378697531_26355" style="font-weight: 700;">Signs You’re Living With A Toddler:</span><br />
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The toilet paper in your bathroom has had the top twenty yards unrolled and then rerolled recently.<br />
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Toothbrushes are scattered throughout the house and most of them look like they’ve been used to brush the dog’s fur.<br />
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Does is smell like poop in your house? Or at least in one room? You can’t tell anymore, but your guests always wrinkle their noses upon entering your home.<br />
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Mouthfuls of food are seemingly dropped at random, leaving a disgusting Hansel-and-Gretel-like trail to follow, the end of which is NOT a gingerbread house, but rather a small person who somehow gained access to a stash of peanut butter pretzels.<br />
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It requires advanced knowledge of lock-picking to access any of the toddler-proofed cabinets, especially where you store the alcohol.<br />
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Toddler-proofing the alcohol supply seemed legit at the time, but has turned into the worst idea ever. You’re basically brain dead at the end of the bedtime routine, so gaining access to the liquor cabinet is of the utmost importance and also has turned into a bizarre Olympic event with one spouse straining to de-childproof the damn lock and the other spouse alternately whispering encouragement and offering criticism, neither of which is well-received.<br />
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There are smudgy fingerprints all over your glasses… and your walls… and your windows.<br />
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If you lose focus on your child for five seconds to do some important dinner preparation, the child will vanish, only to reappear at the top of the stairs with several pairs of your panties and a bra on his head.<br />
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Your shoulders are like an abstract art installation that is also a visual history of what your child had to eat today.<br />
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Your child prefers to eat all meals sitting in the middle of the dining table, digging his hands directly into the bowl of spaghetti or cauliflower or salad.<br />
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Your daily physical fitness routine consists of bending over to pick up the truck/cup/bowl/paper/ball that was tossed on the floor a second ago with an insufferably cute “uh-oh!” but is now vital for the continued existence of the universe.<br />
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It’s always loud. Until it is quiet, and then you just <em class="yiv4160713717" id="yiv4160713717yui_3_16_0_1_1450378697531_26405">know</em> that someone small has discovered where you hide the Band-Aids and is busy covering himself with them.<br />
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Nothing in the whole damn world is as sweet as that littler person laying his head on your shoulder for a snuggle, wrapping his sticky fists in your hair.<br />
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Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794426126775991530.post-83727135563476301152015-12-09T12:56:00.001-08:002015-12-09T12:56:54.983-08:00Yes, We Will Talk of Poop<p>I do not understand why “potty humor” is humorous, but let me tell you, my kids understand.  I have come to accept it, and I think that’s all we can really expect of this poor, outnumbered soul (ME) whose days are filled with fart noises and peeing contests (their favorite thing is to cross the streams while peeing into the same toilet or onto the same patch of grass – it always makes me think of Ghostbusters).</p> <p> </p> <p>In addition to the funny stuff, we have many serious discussions about poop in our house.  Did you go today?  Does it hurt when you go?  Are you done yet?  (Honestly, WHY does it take the male half of the human race SO LONG?  Do they <em>want</em> to hang out with their own stink for half an hour?)  Since this summer presented my children with some constipation issues (not enough water, among other things), we have been militant about fiber and water consumption and as a parent, I’ve been on a crusade to make it all work out, so to speak.  We’ve seen the chiropractor, the kids take supplements, and then there’s this:</p> <p> </p> <div id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:af0bcb7f-dbfa-4d8c-9248-89a776f2e1dc" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent" style="float: none; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px"><div id="29ff26c2-68f8-465a-a946-f83df0c76ff2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; display: inline;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbYWhdLO43Q" target="_new"><img src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4LesmGncbjA/VmiVk3m2QAI/AAAAAAAAIF0/8MoBBChQoUE/videof47570189b05%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('29ff26c2-68f8-465a-a946-f83df0c76ff2'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"472\" height=\"394\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YbYWhdLO43Q&hl=en\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YbYWhdLO43Q&hl=en\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"472\" height=\"394\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" alt=""></a></div></div></div> <p> </p> <p>Each person in our family now poops with a stool under his or her feet (with the exception of Freddie, for obvious reasons), and I can assure you that the whole process is much faster and better.  The problem, of course, is that one of my children is too short for his feet to touch the ground in a public restroom and is no longer willing to poop <em>without</em> a stool.  </p> <p> </p> <p>So guess what?  I get to be the stool.</p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CxFVkf-rjd8/VmiVlCjPJyI/AAAAAAAAIF4/rs9zAc6BIME/s1600-h/photo486.jpg"><img title="photo (48)" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="photo (48)" src="http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3UJ3mLeI68g/VmiVlQjcoaI/AAAAAAAAIGA/4dCm1l0zwbU/photo48_thumb4.jpg?imgmax=800" width="476" height="360" /></a> </p> <p> </p> <p>I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve had to kneel on the floor in a public bathroom stall just so my kid can poop happily.  If that’s not a mother’s love, I don’t know what is.</p> <p> </p> <p>I did, recently, find one poop experience funny: I had made some beet salad and was enjoying it when Freddie reached for some.  I let him try it, thinking that I would be treated to another of his “what the <em>hell</em>, mom?” faces, but instead he started shoveling in pieces of vinegar-soaked beets hand over fist until my lunch was gone (another example of maternal love: foregoing lunch for one’s tiny monsters).  We all know what beets look like, umm, <em>later</em>, so I warned Tony not to be surprised (spoiler: he was surprised).  After dinner, in a shocking display of good timing (for me), I left the boys to bounce off the walls together (I used to think that was just an expression, but oh no – it’s literal) while I ran an errand.  When I came back, there were purple spots all over the carpet, along with rags and carpet cleaner just waiting for a break in the action to be used (or, more likely, waiting for me to come home and deal with it).  Turns out the beets went right through Freddie and the resulting, fiber-rich movement could not be contained by his diaper.  I know I shouldn’t laugh at my husband’s distress, but I couldn’t help imagining him wandering around the house, wondering why on earth there was purple shit all over the floor.</p> Ameliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05818287674488893761noreply@blogger.com1