3 Men and a Lady

Run-on Punch Line

2012-02-19T14:13:00.002-07:00

"Mom, what did one pencil say to the other?"

"Hmmmmm... Write on! Dude!"

"Noooooo. Let's shove ourselves up and then write. Get it? Cuz theys have to be just sharpened or something."

We're still working on homographs, and comedic timing.

Valentine's Day Wrap Up: Here's Where All the Romance has Gone

2012-02-16T17:19:00.003-07:00

7:55 a.m.
Wake up my youngest son after finding my oldest son hiding under the covers playing his Nintendo DS.

8:05
Serve perfect heart-shaped pancakes. After the first round goes down pretty quickly I decide to start making oval-shaped pancakes, cutting them in half on the diagonal and flipping one side over to create a not-so-perfect heart shape.

8:55
Pack Coop's backpack with so many plates, napkins, cups, and utensils (all in cherry, cheery Valentine red) that it barely closes and is an obvious burden for him to carry. Then pile onto his outstretched arms his valentine box, bag of valenetines, and a valentine for his teacher. Push him, his little brother, and huge backpack into car for the 1-block drive to school.

9:05
Cooper falls out of the car under the weight of his backpack filled with plates, napkins, utensils, and cups.

9:10
I begin the thumb twiddling wait for a fellow swim league board member who is to arrive at my house at about 9:30. You know what this means. You've decided to skip the gym and you don't have enough time to run any errands so you're forced to do chores. I clean a toilet. Then empty garbages. Start some laundry. Load the dishwasher.

9:30
No sign of swim league board member. Continue with the chores and start to get a wild hair about a special Valentine's Day dinner for my family. Surf Pinterest for ideas, of course.

9:45
Record-short amount of time on Pinterest. Start really cleaning and wondering if I could have fit in a trip to the gym.

11
My swim league board member calls me to tell me she's running late. You think? And offers to bring lunch. Forgiven. She got me out of my gym trip, after all.

Noon
Receive a panicked call from fellow classroom mother wondering where I am and where are the plates, napkins, utensils, and cups that I committed to bring. Do I need to even talk about how the rest of this conversation went?

12:30-2:30
My swim league board member and I work on the lamest, most boring, aggravating document for the 400th time this year.

3-3:34
Scurry around making dinner plans, setting table, wrapping LEGOs and sending husband to the liquor store.

3:45
Leave the house to pick up Cooper and run to the grocery store to buy fondue supplies.

4:05
Begin awkward conversation with Cooper's teacher who is gorgeous, kind, and a Husker's fan. Assuming that because of her awesomeness and singleness that surely she has a romantic evening on tap. World: you should never ask a single woman if she has plans on Valentine's Day. Just like you should never ask a woman if she is pregnant. Poor girl looked at me and admitted that she and her other single girlfriends would be raising a glass and toasting another year of singleness. In an equally flummoxed attempt to fix situation and help her see that her plans sounded really appealing to me I say, "At least you don't have to put on highly uncomfortable, too small, sassy underwear for the annual you-know-what." All the while thinking, surely she knows that married couples never get to actually have romance on Valentine's and also wondering if it's too late to shoot myself in the eye. I don't really want to talk about what followed. The end.

4:15
As I walk with Cooper through the parking lot I think to myself, I wonder if I can convince Steve to take the kids to school tomorrow as my Valentine's Day present?

5:30
Cooper's ride to basketball arrives. I have to delicately explain that he is indisposed and would they please wait just a minute. (He was on the crapper.) And wouldn't you like to be this couple on Valentine's Day? They got stuck with evening practice carpool.

Steve starts mixing martinis.

7:11
Cooper gets back from basketball and the family festivities begin.

7:30
Burgers up and we all tuck in to a delicious, if casual, dinner.

8:30
I burn my finger on the double boiler I'm using to melt the chocolate for our chocolate fondue dessert. First ruin 3 bars of chocolate before figuring out what I'm doing. Good thing I have 5! Serve chocolate with pink marshmallows, pound cake bites, strawberries, banana slices, and green apple wedges. Yummmm-meeeee. Ouch. Did I mention I burned my finger?

9
One bite of that chocolate covered, pink marshmallow has quite the effect on Mason and he starts running laps around the kitchen island, then the ottoman in the living room. He does this about 28 times before coming in all pink cheeked and exclaiming he loves Valentine's Day.

9:42
Kids are finally in bed, an hour later than usual. And if you're married, you know what that means. At least one of us is already snoring.

If It Smells Like a Flower

2012-02-14T08:43:00.002-07:00

In honor of Valentine's Day, I'm sharing with you a love note I found scrunched up in the bottom of Coop's backpack. It seems he has a not so secret admirer. Of course, in which way my 7-year-old resembles a flower is a mystery to me, unless she means the infamous "stinking corpse lily".

PS -- to see what Cooper made to use as his Valentine's mailbox, jump over to my sewing site.

New Category

2012-02-12T11:10:00.002-07:00

Listen.

I know costumes.

Totally get camouflage.

I’ve even come to appreciate mixing all shades of green on the same day.

But this, this is a new category.

My skills as a parent are still quite puerile but already I’ve become completely calloused to the calling of parent with no pride who can take a child dressed in nearly anything, nearly anywhere.

I didn’t flinch when Mason picked for his big debut at the National Western Stock Show skinny jeans and an argyle sweater. Nor did I protest when he insisted on wearing Mario knit gloves for an entire day at school. And it is with great calm but decided confusion that I go out in public with him wearing a hat of his choice, mismatched long underwear pajamas, and cowboy boots.

Though I find it doesn’t ruffle my feathers, it does put me in a bit of a fashionista dilemma.

First , I consider: Which category is this? Is it sportswear? Costume? Underwear?

Next, I consider: Is it seasonable? Should it be worn from Labor Day on? Or only after Memorial Day?

Then, I consider: Is it hygienic? Does he smell? Are there stains, holes, or excretions from said ensemble?

Lastly, I consider: In all seriousness, should I bring my camera?

It is this last factor than I must pay particular attention to. The tremendous responsibility of supporting your child’s creativity or laziness or desire for comfort or whatever the hell it is that would encourage him to dress like this is facing it’s opposition – the responsibility of protecting your child from overt and malicious jeering, heckling, and perhaps photographic evidence posted on other’s facebook pages with the caption, “Someone please call protective services!”
Also, I suspect that when he is 35 he will be interested in the expression he found at 5. Even if he dresses like this crazy man (follow link) at 35.

Volunteer

2012-02-02T23:06:00.001-07:00

I have no words to express how proud I was of Cooper when he volunteered to read to the kids at Mason's school. So, I'll just show you the pictures.

(Mason was proud, too.)

On the Rebound

2012-02-01T22:37:00.001-07:00

We're trying something new this season. Cooper decided after getting his yellow belt, that he wanted to take a short hiatus from karate. Much like breaking up with someone only to quickly jump into another relationship -- referred to as the rebound -- Cooper has fled one commitment and jumped right into the arms of another.

Ironically enough, his strength is rebounds.

Over-commitment is something I worry about. I have two ends of the spectrum to work with. One child I force to partake in activities. The other I have to limit activities. Coop's the one I have to limit. On any given day he will go to school, an extra-curricular activity, ask for a play date, and still end the night saying he's bored.

That being said, at one point right before Christmas he dejectedly pondered, "I'm just so busy." This is a phrase that should be reserved for grown ups.

In fact, I am busy. It's the reason I don't get to sew the things I really want to sew. The reason I don't make cookies every weekend. The reason I rarely see my adult friends. The reason I have to "schedule" time with my husband. I even have a calendar event for cleaning out the microwave.

But my 7-year-old should not.

My 7-year-old should have time to watch Tom & Jerry, ride scooters with the kids on the street, and decorate cookies with his mom. And so to steal a phrase he loves -- This mama is determined To Protect This House. My renewed mission is to distill his interests through the lens of priorities around here. Priority no. 1? Be a kid. What are your priorities?

Dear Homeowner

2012-01-30T21:41:00.001-07:00

I thought I'd write to let you know how your house is doing. Actually, I do mean to say my house. But you built it and used to live here, so an update is in order. We've made a few changes since you left. In fact, I think we're making changes to the changes that the previous owners (less previous than you) made.

Can't tell you how thrilled we were to find 20 cans of paint (all 18 years young) in the crawl space. And jeez, how thoughtful of you to preserve some of the original rolls of wall paper. I had NO idea they made wall paper in silver, blue and purple. We're also shocked to discover the marble tile you stole from Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Do you think I should ship it back to them?

Was wondering, what's with all the rolls of blue carpet? Was that somewhere in the house? Don't tell me, did you put it in the bathroom before the not-as-previous owners pulled it out and put MORE carpet in the bathroom. You clever bathroom carpeters.

We sure do hope you are well and happy and most importantly retired from building houses. Honestly, you are done building houses, right? The last thing the world needs is a little more iridescent wallpaper, no offense.

Sincerely,
The Head Crawl Space Cleaner-Outer

Courage Is

2012-01-29T20:37:00.005-07:00

There's been a bit of heartache and turmoil at our house as we try to encourage our youngest son to believe in himself. Listening for his small voice is a challenge. Sometimes a particular challenge that causes him great pain. So it is with tremendous reluctance that I accepted an invitation for him to ride in the National Western Stock Show. He professed that he wanted to do it, but his intentions are always bold. It is his actions that can sometimes reflect the battle between his head and his heart.

My head knew his history and that the arena has more than 7000 seats. That's a lot of noisy people. My heart knew I must accommodate his opportunities. Then I read a quote from Mary Anne Radmacher, “Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow.”

Many of the people who happen upon this blog already know that Mason pulled through. On the day he showed up for the rodeo his courage did also. But his own measure of his success is something that very few people know, so I thought I'd share. With the biggest grin I've ever seen him don he hurriedly spelled it out, "This was the best day ever!" Then he poked me right in the cheek and in escalating tones squealed, "I love you, and I love daddy, and I love Coopy, AND I LOVE MYSELF!"

I. Love. Myself.

For me, that made it the best day ever.

And here are the photos:

Our little munchkin at the front of the line!

Here his is, a good head shorter than the rest.

In every group of sheep there is one that moves really slow, Mason by luck of the draw got that sheep.

OK. Mason is the little one standing next to the clown in red and white stripes.

I'm the mother standing to the left of the ww rodeo post with the black shirt and my hands covering my eyes.

I was a little nervous.

Notice how small he is compared to the others.

The superstar with his trophy.

Sure Sign

2012-01-19T12:00:00.004-07:00

You thought MLK had a dream? Turns out, he had green sunglasses. Thanks Coop!

It Was All Very Non-Traditional

2012-01-13T21:59:00.007-07:00

I'm not sure -- even at this juncture -- if it grew from laziness or a desire to embrace some heritage, but our family left the tree up until Knut Day this year. We did it. Which is to say, we didn't do anything at all. It just sat there taking up all the space in the sitting room (te he he, I just said sitting room). We refused to touch it in the name of Knut. But today is Knut Day and I'm predicting the tree will stay right where it is until Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. But damn it, it better be gone by Abraham Lincoln's birthday.

"Why," you might ask did we leave the tree in its spot for so long. First and foremost, we are procrastinators. In this house, some more so than others, and all equally in denial.

Next, the basement is finally under construction. If I wanted to put the tree away, there is no away for it to rest. This situation is only going to get worse before it gets better.

Lastly, I really have wanted to have a Knut Day celebration of my own for a few years, now.

I'm quite sick of talking about my procrastination. So let's just skip to the basement nonsense, shall we? I cannot even describe to you the disaster this phase of construction has written on the wall. It's all there, time constraints, space constraints, patience constraints. People, this will be a true test of going-through-hell-to-get-what-you-really-want.

Did I mention the unfinished basement is the former home of aforementioned Christmas tree? Oh yes. It's current home is temporary -- though my neighbors will question my grasp of the meaning of "temporary" by the time all this is finished. It's future and mostly permanent home is yet to be determined. This is the main reason I hesitate to disassemble it. Is it better to let an assembled -- though not decorated -- tree stand in your living room; opposed to an undecorated, disassembled heap of tree parts stand in your living room? Yeah, I'm not sure about that. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm feeling terribly lost in my current predicament because I had such a strong plan up until 6:30 p.m. today. Until today I was resting easy in the luxury of knowing I was -- on some level -- a little bit Swedish and could tell people I was observing Knut Day this year. (This is also a total misnomer. You don't observe it so much as mark it as the day the season of festivity is over with one last festivity.)

We invited a few friends over for a crafternoon and smorgasbord. It was a delightful plan. Now it has unfurled and I have to have a new plan to get that tree out of the house.

But let's look past my panic and talk about what a hit the photobooth at the Knut Day celebration was. Magic. In the grand scheme of my Pinterest fueled thoughts I thought the crafts would be the big hit. But the photobooth was clearly the one thing that every kid wanted to try out. Well, every kid except Mason and another guest who is a) Mason's age and b) a lot like Mason.

The photobooth was assembled half-heartedly and consisted of a cast-off piece of banana yellow broadcloth thrown in front of the T.V. to create a fearfully unironed backdrop. Then I plucked a few props from our prodigious costume closet and provided the kids with a few guidelines. Pick a prop, pose, and take a picture. Hysterical. I will have a photobooth at my next party. I will have a photobooth at the next classroom party. I will have a photobooth at the next fundraiser. Hell, I'd have a photobooth at a funeral. It is a scream. Enjoy the pictures.

We munched on Swedish meatballs from IKEA, veggies, fruits, lemon cakes, and golden raisins in boxes wrapped to look like Swedish flags. I also filled my Christmas card tree with goldfish bags and notes that proclaimed the holiday season to be o-fish-ally over. I served glogg to the adults. I decorated with undecorated smaller Christmas trees, candles shaped like Christmas trees, and even a miniature battery operated Christmas tree meant to adorn one of those creepy miniature towns (it's amazing what you can find on clearance).

The theme was really less about Swedes (because I don't know or remember much about Swedish traditions) and more about blue and yellow. I had the kids create a goat mask, a foam smores snowman, and a goody bag for the tree plundering. Once all the crafts had been crafted or had an upturned nose presented to them, and the photobooth exhausted, pandemonium broke loose. I actually had to use a whistle to get things back to order. A whistle.

Once I got over the shame of using a whistle in the house I got the kids engaged in a good 'ol fashioned game of who can do the most push ups. Then we had a pretty good face off for the most sit ups. Then, and only then, did I encourage them to plunder the tree of its gingerbread cookie ornaments and bags of popcorn.

Here's a short list of the things I was determined to do, but did not:
1. Take a picture of all the Swedish flag adorned raisin boxes.
2. Take a picture of the smorgasbord.
3. Take a picture of the Christmas tree with its edible ornaments.
4. Take a group picture of all the kids.
5. Dress like a scary goat and perform mischievous acts.

Alas...

Christmas has come to an end,
And the tree must go.
But next year once again
We shall see our dear old friend,
For he has promised us so.

Book Buddy Venn Diagram

2012-01-11T13:31:00.004-07:00

You know what I wish I had? I wish I had a Venn diagram from 1st grade. I'm sure you remember these from school (somewhere between kindergarten and college). Basically two parties pick a topic and then examine their differences and most importantly where their respective data intersects.

Where "favorites" is the category a Venn diagram between myself and say my best friend in kindergarten may have shown we both loved purple, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and books (30 years later we are still competing to see who can read the most books in a year). But on my side of the graph, favorite song would be something like Lady by Kenny Rogers and her side would have said something like Rock With You by Michael Jackson. She was way cooler.

My first grader recently completed his first Venn diagram. He compared his "favorites" to his book buddy "Kyle". Looking at the diagram I am pretty sure they had to make up similarities to intersect in the middle. Kyle is in 3rd grade and apparently can see rated R movies and listen to Kanye West. In common they have ice cream (mint chocolate chip), insects (praying mantis), and days (Friday).

I wish wish wish I could compare my first grade self to my first grade son. We would not have ice cream in common.

For the record here's the diagram:

And for those of us with poor enough eyesight to not be able to read Cooper's favorites:
Color: Red
Animal: Penguin
Song: Dynamite by Taio Cruze
Football Team: Saints
Ice Cream: Mint Chocolate Chip
Insect: Praying Mantis
Day: Friday
1 Grade Teacher: Toline
Show: SpongBob
Movie: Harry Potter, part 2 (he actually means the second half of the last movie)
Friend: Leighton
Dessert: Donuts

Best Teacher Ever

2012-01-07T22:32:00.002-07:00

When parents send their children to school we hope they will find themselves in the stewardship of able and caring teachers and coaches. Men and women who share their knowledge beyond the walls of a classroom, beyond the deadlines in a lesson plan, professionals like Coach Jones.

The Coach Jones to which I refer is still offering sage but subtle advice nearly 20 years since I last sat in his classroom. He doesn’t even teach at my old alma mater anymore, however, he continues to teach.

I had my reasons; most of them melancholy and full of anxiety, when I posted what I thought would be an innocuous status to Facebook last night. I asked, “I have about 620 weekends left with my kids before they move out. What should we do?” I received a handful of replies, all valuable in their own perspectives. And then Coach Jones weighed in.

“I would watch cartoons until noon, walk the river and teach them to skip rocks, chocolate malt at Arctic Circle, hot dogs at a ball game and then read to them before prayers. Never waste a Saturday.”

I cried.

Granted I was smiling and laughing and feeling so amazing to see and read those words. But mostly I cried.

Coach Jones spoke more to me from 1989 through 1993 than probably any other person, including my parents. He was the consistent voice of instruction, gentle guidance, and general life coaching. (Ironically enough, he probably doesn’t even know that.)

I was a teen typical in my angst, confusion, and swimming in foolish but unimpressive choices. I had no idea who I was, what I was capable of, nor what I wanted out of life. But I did make the track team. Through some incident involving fragile ankles I ended up perched opposite of Coach Jones while he taped my feet. Every day.

In fact, I suspect that at some point during the season, or seasons my ankles were healed. But he taped them anyway. While he taped he questioned me.

“Did you get your homework done?”
“Are you really dating Fillmore?”
“Where you going to go to college?
“How’s things at home?”

I had to answer because he held the business end of a roll of athletic tape dangerously close to my not-often shaved legs and could conveniently tape above where there was pre-wrap. It was precarious. More over, I wanted to answer because he was often the only person who asked me anything that really mattered all day.

I survived high school. I survived the year that followed it, even though some of my closest friends did not. And here I am a happy and healthy suburbanite who rarely sees or thinks about the people she went to school with. For a long time now I recognized I hadn’t learned all I needed to by the time graduation rolled around. Turns out, Jones knew it too. Today’s lesson was fully extraordinary.

I will not waste a Saturday.

Sewer Boots

2012-01-07T07:31:00.000-07:00

In these parts everyone has Wellies. Now, let me just say, I don't call them Wellies, or Wellingtons, Hunters, or Rubbers. I've never met a Duke, from Wellington or otherwise. So I call them sewer boots sometimes rain boots when I'm trying to keep my origins on the down low.

At first I thought they were a fashion craze. I didn't buy into it. Mainly because we live in an arid, land-locked state and I couldn't see the point. Then I began regularly walking my children to school. The winter months in Colorado are notorious for major snow fall, followed by major sunshine. It's the runoff for which you need sewer boots. The dirt path to school becomes a mud slick after the first snowfall and stays that way until the last day of school. Now, I get it.

The boys don't get it. They wear them when they feel like it, and rarely when they are needed. You may catch Cooper in them on the way to swim practice on a cloudless, 90-degree day. But on the way home from school in mud up to his ankles? No boots. It makes for a long walk home.

There Are No Words

2012-01-06T11:04:00.001-07:00

Watching the boys play while they wore these mustaches was only slightly more amusing than watching them try to peel them off without pain. Ha ha ha ha. (I'm sick.)

Yehaw

2012-01-04T22:47:00.001-07:00

You are never going to believe this. Mason was invited to be a contestant in the Mutton Bustin' competition at the 106th National Western Stock Show. He. Said. Yes.

First of all, way big honor that our family would secure a spot in this event -- the absolute Super Bowl of livestock shows -- not once but twice.

Then miracle of miracles, Mason said YES! Actually the miracle will be if he gets on that stinky sheep. Keep your fingers crossed for him that he can be loud, and proud, and brave as can be.

Lastly, let me just say, it was the trophy that enticed him. I believe his exact words were, "Can I get a trophy like Cooper's?" Followed by a decided, "Sure, I'll do it."

Now he's all talk about the rodeo, he even listed it as one of his New Year's Resolutions. He'll be in the arena Sunday, Jan. 22. You can buy your tickets in King Soopers from Cheyenne to Pueblo.

Oh my gosh, I'm not kidding, send him good, brave thoughts.

Circle of Friends

2012-01-02T10:15:00.001-07:00

Before the season progresses to the point that a post containing the infant baby Jesus would be ungracious, let me insert a story about the ever-changing nativity sets in my house. We're actually not church going people. I don't mean to offend anyone or make anyone mad. I especially don't intend for anyone to think less of me as a person, a mother, a wife. But it's true. So I suspect it comes as a great shock to most of my friends to see a crèche in my house, let alone two.

The two crèche I have are really works of art, Latin American folk art to be specific. One I purchased in San Miguel de Allende at a pewter shop and the other was a gift from my husband's sister who lived abroad at the time. Every year I am never quite sure where to put them. This year, I placed them side by side under the small tree that I permit my children to decorate.

In much the same way that we found Elf in a new spot each morning, I would walk past the crèches and wonder, "Where are the Jesuses?" Really. Once I found them both precariously swinging together in the garland that is strung between two balustrades at the top of my stairs. But most often I would find the Jesuses switched at birth and joined by their adoptive families in a tight little, watchful circle.

I don't know who the culprit is exactly. But I have my suspicions. His name might rhyme with Jason. Frankly I suspect him because as reflected in his interpretation of the nativity scene, when I try to arrange his life he promptly circles the wagons and gets comfortable. He, himself, is a protector who feels safest in the circling arms of his family and friends.

That Extra 10%

2012-01-01T07:56:00.001-07:00

I read 47 books toward my goal to finish 52 books in 52 weeks. That means I only met 90% of my goal. Not shabby, but still a little disappointing. In my defense I read longer, more challenging books. But I don't set my goal on page count, I set it on volumes. Complete stories told from beginning to end in as many pages as it takes. I read some really great stories this year.

Here I recommend a few:

The Year of the Flood (MaddAddam Trilogy #2) by Margaret Atwood
Every Last One by Anna Quindlen
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey
Inés of My Soul, by Isabel Allende
Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy #1) by Ken Follett
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
I, Claudius by Robert Graves
The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay
Reading Lolita in Tehran Azar Nafisi

If I could recommend just one from the list above it would be Reading Lolita in Tehran. That is a book for readers. It's beautiful, relevant, and generally awesome. Notably it was the first book I finished in 2011 and it still stands in my mind as the best.

Here I discourage you from the following:

The Shack by William P. Young
Anarcho Grow by T.A. Sedlak
4 Months to a 4-Hour Marathon by Dave Kuehls

These are all books that I started, sometimes more than once, and couldn't finish. I did finish the marathon one, however, only to discover later that some of its claims were a bit misleading.

I predict I will read these books in 2012:

Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand
Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner by Dean Karnazes
Winterdance: The Fine Madness of Running the Iditarod by Gary Paulsen

In 2012 I again hope to finish 52 books. If you are an avid reader and would like to follow what I read please sign-up at goodreads.com. My I.D. is Denver Brunette, I think. If you are an occasional reader and just want a recommendation from time to time, send me an e-mail and ask! No other question brings me greater gladness. For reals.

PHOTO NOTE: Pictured with our New Year's Resolutions. More on this later!

Toodle-oo 2011

2011-12-31T12:53:00.005-07:00

2011 has been an awards-winning adventure. Today, on its last day, we could take 1st place in a race of laziness. Fifty-percent of us are still wearing our pajamas and it's after 1 p.m. The other half are wearing something that could pass for pajamas. In our slow movements of the day we are showing our exhaustion from the fun of the past 365 days. But I assure you we will all wake tomorrow to a bright future of energy and excitement for what is to come. And now, a look back...

National Western Stock Show

Valentine's Day

The year of brotherly love.

Worms, worms, worms, and roley poleys.

LEGO creations imitating current events.

Good 'ol fashioned bird pestering.

Vacationing in Idaho.

Independence.

Gutting the ugly.

Favorite spot: daddy's arms.

It's not official until you blow out candles on the cake.

Two wheels rule!

A good run.

Costumes...

and a few more costumes.

Cooper, the Ant Narrator in Goin' Buggy, a Musical.

7 Rocks!

See you next year!

Your Favorite Gift

2011-12-20T11:03:00.006-07:00

This time of year a lot of folks belly up to the pulpit, or step on a box or just write in their annual Christmas letter about the true meaning of the season. So I’m here to keep it real.

Our oldest has a December birthday. And so it seems that we open presents all. Month. Long. It’s a virtual parade of LEGOs, puzzles, books, games, you name it, and we’ve seen it. And those gifts really do mean something to that little boy born in a month wrapped in tradition and dedicated to something much more magnanimous than him.

His little brother, too young to understand the weirdness of a December birthday, too sweet to care about the clout of the newest video games, and too kind to give anything but his whole heart gave Cooper his favorite gift.

Back in November when all the stores had Halloween costumes and candy corn on clearance Mason happened upon a small plush monkey that was dressed in a skeleton costume. The monkey looked like Cooper’s Mo – the original lovie – but in costume. Mason found this hysterical and immediately said, “We should give this to Cooper for his birthday.”

Because it was only a dollar I agreed and tossed it in the cart. In the coming month Mason would occasionally tell me he was looking forward to Cooper’s birthday then he would lean into me, put a hand to his mouth as if to tell a secret, and whisper, “Because of that surprise, mama.” I enjoyed the conspiracy from the point of view of Mason, but I also fretted that his brother wouldn’t find it as awesome as Mason found it. After all Cooper is actually getting old enough to constrain his requests to very mature gifts – scooters, NFL jerseys, a new chess board.

Then with just a few days before the big day Mason busied himself at the kitchen counter drawing and writing cards to Cooper. Without any help at all he drew a stick figure of Cooper wearing a party hat emblazoned with a 7, and spelled out Happy Cooper. He also wrote another note that simply stated, “I love you, Cooper.” Then he folded them into small little squares about ½” by ½” and asked me for an envelope. Instead I found an old box from Valentine’s day.

The box sent Mason over the edge. It was pink (which I thought would make him reject it) but it had a monkey with a heart on it. He squealed with delight proclaiming it was perfect and put all the notes he had drawn inside. Then he patiently waited for Cooper’s birthday.

On the morning of Cooper’s birthday, we started with an early breakfast and present opening. Cooper tore through new video games, a CU shirt (I know, vomit), and some other things he had wished for including $35 cash. And then he came to Mason’s gift. Mason’s little heart was so filled with love his chest was visibly bursting. And I braced myself hoping against hope that at the very least Cooper would be gracious.

Cooper opened the box of notes and read them carefully. He smiled. He said thank you. He gave that monkey in the skeleton costume a hug. All the while Mason grinned from ear to ear. I felt it was a success, but I brushed my feelings under the rug along with all the other commotion of the day.

You know the routine: classroom treats, 27 kids belting out birthday wishes, special stickers from teachers and the principal, all a very big deal in the realm of 7. In the quiet at the close of a long day, however, when I opened Cooper’s backpack and unpacked the remains of his lunch and homework I found a booklet.

It was a book stapled together by his teacher. Apparently something she does for all the kids on their birthday. It was a journal of sorts. He was meant to illustrate and write about his day. On the page dedicated to “Your Favorite Gift” Cooper had drawn a picture of the monkey, the monkey box, and the teeny tiny notes with a huge message.

Every day my children remind me that while I created them, and endured the discomfort of carrying them around in my belly as close to my heart as a womb can be for the better part of a year; they have their own thoughts, their own hearts, and their own amazing lives. This is the gift I open ever year on Christmas morning, and the day after, and the day after that, and every day forever more.

PS -- In case you are wondering, Cooper is NOT in Boy Scouts. That shirt is a hand-me-down that he loves.

We Wish You a Merry Kazoo

2011-12-17T09:12:00.001-07:00

Who’s idea was it to put an anxiety afflicted little boy in front of hundreds of parents in a huge auditorium? Yep. We’re those parents.

Considering Mason’s fears and sensitivities we considered this a triumph.

The following morning at drop-off I can’t tell you how many parents approached me and said, “My husband and I just laughed hysterically watching your son.” Or, “We took more video of Mason than our own daughter.” I was actually late taking my other son to his school because there were so many parents who wanted to talk to me about Mason’s performance from the previous evening.

He was doing pretty well, until the kazoos started. Then he was in tight ear-plugging mode*. While I was laughing myself, my heart was going to him. The noise, the people, the commotion, the break from routine – all a little more than he could handle.

At one point I mouthed, “Are you OK?” And he sternly shook his head in a resounding, “NO!” that was clear from the last pew where I was perched.

On the evening of the program as we walked to our car reflecting with him on the awesomeness of his not singing, but not fainting achievement we asked him how he liked standing between his nemesis and a new boy we didn’t recognize. And he started with great enthusiasm and explained:

“Oh that boy is Lache**; but let me tell you: Do NOT ever call him Mache because he will freak out on you!”

*If you are connected to me on facebook you saw an excellent picture example of this earlier this week.
**Names changed for obvious reasons.

A Little Help

2011-12-16T08:29:00.005-07:00

We write on our Christmas cards. I'm not saying people should. But for me and my house we can't stand to waste a stamp without a little correspondence thrown in. Besides, I really like the people I send cards to and I can't help saying hello. This year, the boys declared they were old enough to help. Also, it was penance for opening all the advent doors in one night.

So if you receive a card and the return address is a little askew, or the message on the back of the card looks something like this: HAP HALIDAS, know it is sent with extra love and phonetic concentration. The 7 yol and 5yol variety, which is the very best, I say. And if you don't get a card, it's because I'm not organized enough to keep track of the addressees of all my friends and family. Hell, I even had to call my brother before shipping his gifts because I wasn't a hundred precent sure of where he lived. My brother, people.

Also, let me just say it here. I believe I adamantly professed that this year I was going to send Thanksgiving cards, not Christmas cards. What is my problem?!!?! Can't meet a deadline to save my life.

That Damn Elf

2011-12-12T11:02:00.004-07:00

My sweet little grandmother thought I had a little too much time on my hands so she sent my children The Elf on the Shelf. And oh how it has changed our lives.

Shall we review the two tenants of mythical thinking that most parents toss about before The Elf is actually in play at their house?

1) Under the watchful eye of The Elf my children will be absolute angels.
2) It will be so fun to find The Elf every morning.

That Elf, he is a mischievous fellow. Last year my children shook him out of the Christmas tree or something. He ended up in the Elf Infirmary for a better part of December. That was heavenly.

This year my boys have been surprisingly controlled in their interaction with Elf. They have not touched him, not even once -- or so I am told. But under the close observation of Elf they have managed to cut a hole in the sofa with a pocket knife, search for and find Christmas presents, urinate all over their bathroom, forget their backpacks, skip homework, be woefully late for school, stay up hours past their bedtimes, and open all the doors on their LEGO advent calendar in one night (in fact, the first night). See myth no. 1.

You know the mystery of Elf? The mystery of him being in a new place every morning? If for some reason someone in your house falls asleep before the magic happens, you will have really freaked out kids at breakfast. Really.

Enter the joy of Pinterest. I have found so many Elf ideas on that site. Thank goodness. This morning, I cooly asked Mason to get the syrup for pancakes. Guess what he found!?!??!?!

Candy Night

2011-12-11T12:37:00.005-07:00

It could be argued that candy night is every night in our household. But when we say it is candy night, we mean we're going to make our own candy and share it with our friends. This is a tradition that we recently re-examined with an academic eye because of Coop's homework assignment to present to his class a family tradition that is carried out at this time of year. We have a lot of traditions that he could have selected but he quickly settled on candy night. (Secretly I am SO glad because it meant more candy.)

As with many families the origin of the tradition was a little unclear. And on the night Cooper decided to interview his grandpa about this tradition we called and called and couldn't reach him. Living in another state as a majority of our family, it's not uncommon for us to be unaware of goings on, so we started calling the family tree. First the oldest sister of my husband, then the second oldest sister of my husband, then the oldest daughter of the second oldest sister of my husband. You see where this is going. No. one. answered.

When someone finally got back to us -- of course a teenage cousin -- we learned that the family was together and they were making candy! What luck.

Cooper's research unearthed some interesting facts and he assembled enough information to give a great oral presentation. But first -- for research's sake -- we held our own candy night. The boys were expert ingredient measurers, nut crushers and chocolate breakers. They were careful to avoid burns by 300-degree sugar and the night was a splendid success.

Then the final question of the assignment came, "Why do you do this tradition?" Ahhhhhh.... why. Why indeed. Well here's the answer: If you receive something we have handmade and hand-delivered you can rest assured we love you. While we may stumble over words of appreciation, announcements of admiration, and communicating our feelings -- we can cook and craft and whip up love in our kitchen. If one day you step out onto your front stoop to find a baby bag with peanut brittle or English toffee tucked inside, don't flinch at its seeming smallness. It's a big gesture of our affection. For reals.

I Think It's Time

2011-12-04T21:10:00.003-07:00

Ahem, phase 1 of construction is complete. Do you want to see some pictures? I thought so. Let's take a few moments and first review the hideousness that was my Miami Vice bathroom. From the purple and blue brush stroke motif of the laminate countertops to the oatmeal carpet to the three shades of grout it was about as ugly as a bathroom can be. Poorly designed, tragically decorated, and excessively abused it was the primary scourge that almost convinced me to move out of my lovely little house on the corner.
OH oh oh, it had fake grass weave wallpaper in a soft but decidedly off blue. Brass and glass was the consistent theme replete with half globe brass light sconces above the garden tub. Have you ever seen a reflection of your naked self floating in a bathtub stretched across a half globe brass light fixture? It really is enough to cause permanent and ruinous behavioral issues. So we tore that shit out.
Then my husband and I spent a great deal of time and money deciphering the mysteries of our house's original design and working with our contractor to come up with a lovely, relaxing plan B. I believe we achieved as much as we could. But I can't gloss over the trial of that period of time. Sporadic stretches of no water, constant changes, surprises, extra money, extra time, unforeseen injuries, and typical woes of reno. But what no one tells you and I am about to so listen up is that your house becomes a gas station bathroom. I am not exaggerating when I say every sub-contractor and in fact our very own general contractor all used our other bathroom every day. I do mean to say they USED it. Before driving a nail, painting a stroke, sweeping up sawdust, wiring lights, or laying out tiles those guys first dropped off the kids at the pool. Gross, gross, and gross.
Please don't think I'm bragging about the bathroom. I just want to show you my newest baby. I worked really hard and I put up with a lot of crap -- literally. Our bathroom and new laundry room are not the finest rooms in the world. Not the biggest. Not the most luxuriant. But I think they are fine examples of what a little planning and forethought can do to a smallish space. We basically added a room to our house without pushing through any exterior walls. And the new bathroom feels bigger than the old bathroom. There is just as much storage. We enjoy just as many amenities. There is more natural light and more privacy. The bathroom and the laundry room do more!

Design, good design is important.

PS -- I'll take pictures of the new laundry room tomorrow.

You Were a Beautiful Baby

2011-12-01T00:19:00.005-07:00

All chubby cheeks, big wet eyes, long lashes, and Chiclet teeth fit for a monster. Cooper has been a beautiful baby. For about a week the portents of metamorphosis have been lurking with every bite of an apple, flick of a tongue, or scrape of a toothbrush he made. His baby smile was evolving, and the adult grin was about to break through.

So each morning when I’d push him into line at school I’d say, “Let me see those baby teeth,” or “Can I see your baby smile one more time?” He’d always grant my wish. Every afternoon I’d pick him up fully expecting him to be toothless and carrying a nurse’s office issued treasure box containing one lower left central. But no.

Then tonight, it happened. I left the house to drop off the babysitter and returned to discover the transformation was complete. Boo! I missed it.

His note to the toothfairy read:

Dear Tooth Ferre. My name is Coop. I lost my tooth today.

Oh this boy was slow to grow those teeth. I still remember the copious amounts of sloppy wet drool that would simply drip off his big bee-stung lips. So so so so so so cute. He was a beautiful baby. And now, well now, he’s a strapping young first grader with an awkward smile and a big dark gash where a tusk used to be. I shudder to think what will grow in its place.

PHOTO NOTE: Couldn't find great baby picture with his little teeth in it (just lazy and didn't spend that much time). But look at how cute he is!?!?!?!?

That Word Actually Means What You Think It Means

2011-11-10T22:09:00.003-07:00

Good is broad. I believe that there are lots of good. Lots of good restaurants. Lots of good schools. Lots of good parents. And none are alike. Agree?

So to you good mothers and fathers who if they heard their child curse would sharply gasp/freak out/smack their child’s face/wash their child’s mouth with soap/talk sternly to and add time out… you may not want to read any further.

I’m a good mom, too. And mainly because I was a curious child who asked a lot of questions that resulted in some, if not all of the aforementioned responses from my good parents I’m another kind of good.

Which is why I didn’t even flinch when my 5-year-old said, “I know ass is a bad word.”

Instead I thought to myself, I wonder if I can peg this on my husband.

“Oh that’s a new word. Where did you hear that word?”

“Nowheres. I just knowed it. What does ass mean anyways?”

“Just to be clear, it all depends on who says it. If you’re reading a bible story at school and they say ass, it means a donkey. But usually moms, dads, and teachers don’t like to hear little kids say that word.”

“Oh right. But what about the Ass Jack?”

“You mean Jackass?”

“Yeah, Jackass. (Let me just say it is uncanny how easily jackass rolled off his tongue. It was like he was talking directly about Rick Perry.)

“Oh that’s a terrible thing to say. It means jerk. Like a really dumb jerk who is mean.”

“Anyways, Mom, what about that ass of the kicking?”

“You mean like, I’m going to kick your ass?”

“Yes. Like when Cooper said that at the zoo!”

“Oh that is a naughty way of saying, I’m going to kick your butt (and here I nicely kicked him in the behind.)”

“Oh-ho-ho, now that would hurt worser!”

And that was basically it. No immediate intrigue and mischievous smile that told me he understood he was in trouble; but couldn’t wait to be in that kind of trouble again. Just, a stoic and placated peace from the backseat. See, I’m not that bad.

PS -- Remember when Cooper kissed my butt?!?!?!?

What Happened In Vegas

2011-11-01T10:07:00.002-06:00

This is Van #1: Sadie, Me, Devin, Rachel, Marc, Lindsey.

I did something really incredible. Really. Like the kind of thing that buoys you up and makes you feel both loved and worth being loved.

Now I’m talking crazy and putting too romantic a point on a very plain event. I ran a race. Nope. That’s not it.

I boarded a plane, carrying two small bags filled with running clothes, tennis shoes, an iPod, a Garmin, 3 headlamps, and 4 reflective vests.

When I sat down in my excellently spacious exit row seat the joker next to me asked if I was traveling to Vegas for business, or pleasure. I hesitated and said, “I’m going to run a race.”

Here's my youngest brother and I, he's deciding if he can finish with heat stroke. He finished. He's a stud.

I’m going to run a race has been the sentence to sum up everything I’ve done since June. It was a good excuse. No one argues with this excuse. I’ll pass on a glass of wine because; I’m going to run a race. Why yes, I’ll have another slice of pie. I need the calories; I’m going to run a race. I’m waking up before the sun for training; I’m going to run a race. No questions, no badgering, no bullying, no pushing, no stink eye.

And it was nice.

But when I told this nice gentleman with a voice like Penn and Teller (whichever one of them talks) he raised an eyebrow and said, “What kind of race.”

A short description of Ragnar Relay, Las Vegas and I got an earful of how foolish I was. Not just from him, but from the whole row!

And it was nice.

I'm that little reflective T you see on the left of the picture.

There is a courage that comes from doing what others think is senseless, particularly if you’re prepared -- and for once in my life -- I was prepared. So, I was confident – though a little afraid of the dark – and ready to take on this adventure known as the Ragnar.

When I think about why I agreed to train and travel and participate in this particular relay there is really only one answer. My brother asked me. He said it would be fun. He said it would bond our family together. He said I could finish. And I believed him.

Obviously, that's me in the pink diaper shorts. Why do running shorts look like diapers!?!?!

Now that it’s all over and we did indeed finish I’ve been shuffling through the photos and I’ve come to this conclusion. I didn’t go to Vegas to run a race. I went to Vegas to discover who is my family.

And it was nice.

It turns out; family is more than your brothers and sister. It’s not just your parents. It is your running partner who logged countless miles and hours at your side and converted you to early morning runs. It is your husband who stayed behind to watch the kids. It is a neighbor who sent you a text in the middle of the night to wish you luck. It is one of the other 1st grade mothers who wrote you an e-mail just to tell you how amazing you are just days before the race. It is the woman you’ve known since you were 5 who saved you from chaos and provided you a safe and quiet place to land after the race. It’s anyone and everyone who touches your life and knows that those who have felt the greatest need for help give the most relevant help. Oh my gosh, I love my family!

The whole family, but not the whole team. From left to right: Trent, Andrew, Me, Dad, Mom, Adam, Devin.

Aside from learning that I like my family, I determined I want to test myself. Running through the desert in the middle of the night wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. I think a marathon is next, my friends. (Or I could be convinced to do another 200-mile relay with a 6-man team.) So, if you’re wondering…

I’m going to run a race.

A picture just to prove I never take myself TOO seriously.

Tights and Tinfoil

2011-10-31T20:51:00.001-06:00

First Field Trip, II

2011-10-17T21:43:00.004-06:00

Interesting fact about me: when I volunteer to chaperone field trips I always get paired up with the slightly more difficult children. You know those ones. They run around, never stop talking, wander off, spill their lunch, eat their own boogers, try to ride the polar bear, require stitches.... or whatever. If it's a problem in the classroom, I will be required to follow it around a museum, a zoo, or the botanical gardens. Mark. My. Words.

During Mason's first learning adventure afield I acquired another badge of chaperoning glory. Amongst the children in my car and then chaperone group was a child who's name is difficult to pronounce and makes me uncomfortable to shout across crowds. In fact, the name starts with a D and rhymes with whoosh. And she was a runner. I wanted to stab myself in the eye.

That's when the teacher also realized that somewhere between the parking lot, the restrooms, and the pumpkin field she dropped the bag that had all the snacks, the first-aid kit, and all the emergency response permission slips. Here's what I know, the band-aids and latex gloves were not missed.

It's moments like these that I take a step back, look through the lens of my camera, and think, "I volunteered." I SO volunteered. I was like the first mom on the list. I always am. Why? It's not because I like stumbling over a name like, well, you know, the one that rhymes with cartouche. It's because I love watching my sons fit into their classes. I want to know what they think about the bees (a little nervous you'll see in the above photo). And all romance aside, I like to see teachers think on their feet.

This is Mason interacting with the little girl who has the hard to pronounce name. He calls her the bully. Can you tell by his face how he feels about her?

There is a fascinating field trip trend that I do not understand. The school (and this wasn't the only one) requires the children on the field trip to wear the same shirt and a bandana. But here's what I don't understand, when you are looking for a lost child, you look for unique attributes. If I'm helping you look and I don't know the child and you say, he's wearing a white shirt with an eagle on the front and all I see is a sea of white shirts I'm not a very effective searcher. Besides, Mason HATED the bandana.

I Run My Life

2011-10-14T22:20:00.000-06:00

I can't remember if it was a phone call or an e-mail from my brother Devin. But at some point last year I agreed to be in a Ragnar Relay with him. And there have been times during my training that I've wondered what I was doing. But I've had a great partner in crime encouraging me and here I am just a week out and I am ready. For real.

Here's what I have learned while running.

Running suits me. I can run for a long time. I can run by myself. I don't mind running every day.

I run my life. If I'm not on a trail running as fast as I can, I'm trying to fit as much into my day as I can. My husband says this is my life running me. That is fine. But it's just how I do things. So if I weren't running 45 miles a week I'd be doing something that rushes me around.

I have a high tolerance for pain. And a low tolerance for nausea.

I don't like running in the dark. Or the rain. Or snow. Loathe snow.

I think about a lot of weird stuff when I'm running. For instance when I'm getting really tired I almost always think about Kenyans who just wake up one day and think, "I'm going to invite my brother and his wife to dinner. I better go ask him." Then the little Kenyan runs 30 miles to the next village and invites said brother to dinner and turns around to run home. Yes, I'm that weird.

I believe in possibility, not reality. I know our team can't win the Ragnar. But I'm going to win. What I will win is yet to be determined, but I'm ready to accept it.

I cannot run faster than my 5-year-old after running 16 miles. He loved winning -- so maybe that means he'll follow in my track shoes.

PS -- If you live in or near Las Vegas and you would like to cheer us on... that would be incredible.

If You're Scared, Don't Show It

2011-10-10T21:57:00.003-06:00

Do you remember who taught you how to ride a bike?

I do. I remember just about everything from that moment. Of course that first tingle in your belly when you realize you have lift off and you're doing it. Doing it all by yourself. But I also remember silly things like the street I was on, and that I basically wobbled straight down the very center of it. Most importantly I remember it was my Grandma Helen who chased after me, hootin' and hollerin' and saying, "She's doing it. She's doing it." She is a peach, that Grandma of mine.

I even remember telling her that I was scared and I didn't want to try riding a two-wheeler. She told me to climb up on that bike (my father's childhood banana-seated bike) and said, "Well, that's OK. Just don't tell anyone."

Our Coop has learned to ride his bike. It was a rocky road to success. This past summer he swam lots and lots of laps, but he didn't pull that bike out of the garage much. So when he started first grade his badge of pride was a couple of medals, a few ribbons, and a trophy tucked away in his bedroom. Most of his friends rode up on their pride -- two-wheelers sans training wheels. It was a blow to the ego.

On one particular afternoon he had decided he'd had enough and he begged for a lesson from mom and dad. We planned it carefully. We mapped a gravel path that is mostly down hill where he could coast along and get the feel for balancing. And then we let him fall pretty hard. With a, "It doesn't get any worse than that." we brushed off his knees and put him back on the bike.

As with all things, once you get it you can't believe you took so long to figure it out. Now he's a real pro -- riding up hill, out of the saddle, over speed bumps, sideways inclines onto the sidewalk, even a small single track trail through the weeds to his school.

Congrats Coop! As always, we're proud of you.

PS -- I've even taken him with me on runs. He on the bike, me running like crazy to catch up.

PHOTO NOTE: Black gloves?????? He's cautious. What can I say.

On This Day, You Are 5

2011-09-27T21:28:00.006-06:00

Our desire was that Mason would wake up to a surprise worthy of his adorableness. And at 7:30 a.m. we discovered that a life-sized bear can be just the surprise to render a 5-year-old speechless.

9:05
Drop off brother at school and begin a long walk and discussion that went something like this.

Mason:
Mom, I know what they do when people are about to die.

Me:
Really? What?

Mason:
Well, they bury 'em deep in the ground and put one of those gravemind things which are oval on top of 'em.

Me:
Do you mean gravestone?

Mason:
Then they squish their faces with dirt and they can't breathe so they turn green. And then they walk like this. (Pantomimes frankenstein walk with arms and legs outstretched and face stone still.)

Me:
Are you thinking of a Halloween decoration? Or actual dead people?

Mason:
Anyways, are we going to the museum?

9:50- 11 a.m.
Mandatory gym time.

11:20-12:40
One salami and cheese sandwich, and TV with bear.

1:30 p.m.
Museum of Nature and Science. Our first exhibit was the mummy room -- surprise surprise. Followed by the T-REX named Sue, which was scary. And finished with Space and then minerals.

3 p.m.
In the middle of the minerals exhibit Mason proclaims he's tired and would like to go get Cooper. As he's loading into the car I say, "So, how does it feel to be 5." He says, "I'm not actually 5. You have to blow out candles and sing Happy Birthday before you turn 5." Ummmmmm... was I supposed to get a cake?

5:40 p.m.
Start dinner. Mason has requested Macaroni and Cheese. It may be his birthday, but he is overruled and we settle for spaghetti and meatballs. Steve starts spaghetti while I start baking a cake and hunting for candles that say something other than CONGRATS!

8 p.m.
It's official.

PS -- A big thank you to our accomplices who have hidden this bear in their house since July!

The Front v. The Back

2011-09-26T23:44:00.005-06:00

Tonight is Mason's last night as a 4-year-old. Since he will awake as a strong and mighty 5-year-old, I thought I'd share his current professional aspiration.

But to really share the story I need to disclose that it involves bad smells. So, if that may offend you, well then you've never lived in a house overrun by boys. Of course I have. Always have and apparently always will. So, I'm comfortable with poop, vomit, and all manner of toilet talk.

At the close of the night I was reading stories to Mason when he passed gas. My goodness! That boy smells bad when he wants to. Anyway, I think I might have said something like, "Mason! How can you stand to smell yourself." To which he shrugged his shoulders and explained he doesn't mind the smell of farts.

Astounded, I suggested he pursue a career in proctology. When he asked what a proctologist was I ineloquently replied, "A doctor of butts. Specifically buttholes, and everything inside your body that you get to through that opening." Go ahead, be horrified at the way I speak to my children.

After the giggling subsided he pensively said, "I wouldn't like that. But I wouldn't mind being a pee doctor." So there you go, after generations of plumbers it seems the family business will soon be urology.

PS -- I promise to pay tribute to his awesomeness tomorrow in a reflection befitting his birthday.

From His Sick Bed

2011-09-21T22:29:00.005-06:00

Collecting my thoughts is impossible. Organizing them is far worse. So, I could approach this from a chronological standpoint, or I could relate to you one little moment on one afternoon that will shed some light on some of the shi-izzle that is going down here.

Due to construction, everyone in our house has been reassigned a sleeping space. Little Mason's sleeping space is currently a mattress on the floor of his brother's bedroom. This is not an ideal situation for anyone, however, Mason seems to enjoy having sleepovers with Cooper and he has commented many times that he likes his space (though he did tell me I should turn it into a couch -- not actually have him sleep on a couch but find another mattress to lean against the wall next to the mattress that is on the floor and make a couch out of the bed). I have made every effort to make this nook very comfortable. I have moved in his favorite puppies and penguins. I let him buy new crib sheets from IKEA in what he refers to as "batman blue" for his little mattress. Cooper has donated two extra pillows to Mason's cause, just in case he rolls off the mattress. They stay up late reading stories to each other and singing silly songs. They have been tired every morning when I wake them up for school, but it is like an extended camping trip that they enjoy. Let me also add that while Cooper has a full size bed that he could share with Mason, Mason prefers the floor to sleeping with Cooper. I can appreciate this. Cooper is a furnace that never stops moving. Sleeping next to him is like sharing a sleeping bag with a feverish pot-bellied pig.

AN-Y-WAY... besides becoming Mason's sleeping space it has become his sick bed.
This past week Mason was with Cooper and me at the rec center watching Coop's karate lesson. He was sitting on a bench and I was running on a treadmill. He decided to get up and walk behind the row of exercise machines. He tripped and fell and when he put his hands out to catch himself his right hand hit the moving belt of the treadmill.
Now, I know treadmills are dangerous. I unplug the treadmill at my in-laws house when we are there. I don't let my children play on them. Mason wasn't roughing around, he wasn't trying to touch it. He just tripped and fell. He thought that getting hurt by a treadmill would get him in trouble. So when he got hurt he lied to me and told me he fell on the brick wall next to the treadmill.

Obviously there was like this big rush of first-aid and fretting (Note to gym managers, when a patron tells you they need first aid don't page the 16-year-old lifeguard. Call 9-1-1). Though I could see it was bad, I just kept thinking all he did was fall on bricks. He doesn't need to go to the emergency room. A lot of people saw it and the conclusion from everyone was to just wait until morning and see. Mason's opinion was that it "hurts worser than when my private parts got slammed." By morning it was swollen, encrusted, and oozing -- an appetizing combination -- and I decided to take him to the pediatrician. That is when Mason decided to confess. He had actually fallen on the treadmill and did I want to send him to timeout?

The first doctor appointment was intense. The lack of attention the night before had created some scenarios that disguised the signals of his actual condition. The skin trauma was in fact severe enough that the pediatrician elected to table further testing to determine if Mason's fingers were fractured. This left us all focusing on two little fingers that looked as if they would require skin grafts to restore tissue loss.

We've since learned that the fingers are not broken. Phew! And we are fairly certain that plastic surgery to restore skin thickness is not necessary. Major phew! We're still changing the dressing twice a day and following doctor's orders to the letter because we want to avoid joint contracture. This just means that as the skin heals it gets a little tight and if we're not careful it will make it so that Mason can't open his hand all the way (I think that's what it means. Doctors talk this way to confuse mothers. Even smart mothers.). So far his range of motion is not affected.
All that mess has meant that Mason has spent some quiet time reading books and playing with sticker books because he can't draw as well as he would like. Oh, and he can't go to swimming lessons until the lesions are closed. His current plight is mild. And it would feel mild rather than frenetic if he were sleeping in his own bed, not sharing a bathroom with everyone in the family, and if his mother knew where she temporarily stashed the first aid kit.

Through this small medical mishap I learned that my job as a parent is to recognize the vulnerability that comes when a child realizes he made a mistake. I can't make the consequences of accidents and poor choices so scary that my children make more poor choices rather than trusting me.

And let me tell you, there are certain jobs I could never do. Being a pediatric nurse, physician's assistant, or doctor who has to debris burned skin on a small child or infant is one of them.

Lastly everyone in the family has been witness to the basic truth that sometimes more pain reveals new growth and if we can just endure it, everything will be restored with time. One other thing, brush up on your first aid.

Can I Get a Seagull

2011-09-18T21:58:00.005-06:00

There is a remark I have never fully recovered from, spoken by a profusely sweating man in a short-sleeve dress shirt (I loathe those things), in a classroom now made famous by the movie High School Musical.

Yup, that’s right, I took some community college classes when I lived in good ‘ol Salt Lake City on the campus of East High School, which was extraordinarily convenient because I lived across the street in the smelliest apartment known to man. It was a certification course for substitute teachers so I have NO idea why this man was talking about journals. But he said that on the famed day of “The seagulls eating all the crickets” there are no journal entries.

I found this to be a big deal because the story of the seagulls and the crickets is so deeply ingrained in the culture of Salt Lake City. I mean like it’s their state bird and they have statues and stuff. If you’re not familiar with the legend, it goes something like this…

Back in 1847 the Utah pioneers’ crops were being decimated by copious droves of crickets. To the rescue were a large flock of seagulls – like so many they couldn’t see the sun – who came and ate the crickets and then flew away, then threw up the crickets, and returned to the scene of the feast to eat more crickets. They repeated this bulimic behavior until the pestilence subsided. Big deal, right?

And supposedly, according to this very questionable authority, on the very day of this entire happening no one thought to write in their journal about it. There are historians who have researched the story based on pioneer journal entries from that time. And the general documented consensus is that the pioneers did have some troubles with drought and pestilence – namely crickets – but that no one consistent, conclusive account was written on that day.

Here’s what I think about that. Who cares!

I myself have had some very big stuff happening around here, and I tell you what, there are no journal entries from any of it. Oral history is as good – if not exaggerated and misappropriated – as written history, I think. And in most cases of really crazy circumstances is all that remains.

If you stick around and are patient you may hear about some of the following stuff on this blog:

 The first born learning to ride his bike without training wheels
 Thou Shalt Not Sell Your Brother
 Family expansion news, including weddings, houseguests, and expected babies (none from this uterus, I assure you)
 Major medical mishaps
 More major medical mishaps
 Oh, and a few more major medical mishaps
 My Book Buddy’s Ven Diagram
 Adventures From The Peanut-Free Gang
 Sour School Portraits: To Retake or Not To Retake, That is the Question
 Ragnar Running Update – because I am literally too effin lazy to keep that other blog going
 My husband is older-ish and we went to a concert
 Tales from the Coin-Op Laundromat and other disease-fearing dilemmas
 Farewell to Tortuga
 Proctology v. Urology
 25% of my house is a shambles, and approximately the same amount of my life is, too.

Then again, you may not. Because quite literally a significant portion of my life is misplaced and it’s making my brain hurt.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a historian. I am not even an Utahn. So, if any of my memory of this legend or any account of my strange teacher happens to be unabashedly untrue, I don’t really care. But I haven’t put it forward for any other reason than to illustrate a personal point, so live with it. And also, if it really bugs you, invest in Utah public education. AND Idaho Public Education for that matter. Hell, invest in public education because it’s the right thing to do.

PHOTO NOTE: Unrelated picture of my son wearing face paint, because who doesn’t like green eyebrows.

Purge

2011-08-31T21:14:00.001-06:00

I've before professed the dangerous likelihood that I my qualify for an episode of Hoarders: Buried Alive. Plainly put, I have a penchant for hanging on. And sometimes some things find themselves in storage just because I don't know what else to do.

Perhaps this is how the bunch of flowers I carried down the aisle on the day I wed my husband found a home on the top shelf of my closet. I found it, more than a dozen years later in a rush to move out everything we had packed into our bathroom, closet, and laundry room. We had to find a new place for all that crap -- sentimental items and otherwise -- before the demolition crew showed up and the hurry afforded little time for contemplation. But when I pulled the small and dusty box that weighed next to nothing from its perch I was confused.

I didn't know why I'd kept it in the first place. I didn't know if I wanted to keep it anymore. I didn't know if you were meant to keep something like that. I didn't know if I could stomach stuffing the bouquet that witnessed my vows into a trash bin. My husband wasn't confused.

"Toss it."

Now, let's get something straight. First he gently said all the right things. And then I finally just asked him what I should do. And he gave a frank and honest answer.

So, all you sentimental types are gasping right now. Right? But I didn't even keep the top layer of my wedding cake. Well actually someone did -- who knows who -- and snuck it into my fridge while I was on my honeymoon. And when I returned I think I shrieked, "Ewwwwww!" Just before dumping it down the sink.

I'm glad he said it. He said what I was thinking. And sometimes I have trouble making myself do what I'm thinking I should do. (Ironically enough I never have trouble saying what I'm thinking, which is usually a problem.)

In conclusion: the dusty little box that weighed next to nothing was picked up with the rest of the remnants of our construction zone this past Thursday. And I didn't notice. But the man who was standing at the end of the aisle as I grappled with my nerves and clung onto that clutch of flowers is still here. And that, my friends, I notice.

PS -- I kept the straight pins that held the ribbons around the stems of the bouquet. Just for hoarders' sake.

Tour of Dreams

2011-08-28T12:25:00.004-06:00

Not to put too romantic of a point on it, but I’ve noticed most people who live in the suburbs have a habit, good, bad, or otherwise, of believing they are living the dream. Or at the very least they project that they are living the dream.

Go to anyone’s house for the first time – this is especially true of new families in the neighborhood – and you are taken on a tour. The new homeowners walk from room to room and tell you what their plans are for the house. Look, it’s pretty transparent. They are pleading with you to judge them by their grand ideas and aspirations, not reality.

“And this is the upstairs loft, but we’re really going to put French doors on this opening, hang a crystal chandelier, paint it pink and make it a nursery.”

“And this little unfinished storage room is going to be a knockout sound studio for my husband’s band mates from high school.”

Sometimes you go to someone’s house who has just finished a remodel and the tour is something more like this.

“This is the man cave (insert eye rolling) my Tom just had to have a poker room. And I finally granted his wish to have his own space.”

“This is the game room. I just send all the teenagers down here. I’m telling you… we may have the smallest house on the block, but it’s the house everyone wants to hang out at.”

I myself have been giving a tour of dreams for about 12 years. No joke.

When we first moved in, I in my early 20s, would flit about and say things like, “I envision something very William Morris in here. Maybe a built in reading nook with a fine leather chair, maybe an antique table.”

Seven days ago, however, a small construction crew arrived at 8 a.m. and unceremoniously started knocking down walls. Without a second thought they threw out the porcelain prince that I worshipped through both of my pregnancies. They ripped up the carpet where I spilled a huge glass of red wine while bathing my babies. They smashed in the wall that was still stained with blood from the first time I tried to cut Cooper’s hair. And tossed with abandon the tub that cracked this same boy’s chin open. They even cut out the corner of the closet where I hid and cried on the night I came home from the hospital but had to leave my Mason behind in the NICU.

The dream tour has come to an end and with it a few discarded monuments to memories in our lives. A melancholy mix of relief, gratitude and excitement. And I find, as I schlep tile samples from plumbing showrooms to stone yards in 100-degree heat, that William Morris and I don’t see eye to eye.

In fact, I’ve learned that truly great design is figuring out what to do once you’ve opened a wall and found an absolutely unmovable post is hidden in there. Learning to love plan B, I guess you could say, is the real dream.

I love my little house on the corner. I'll love it even more when I can use the upstairs bathroom without the fear that contractors are looking up through the vents at my bare bottom.

Season's Not Over, Yet

2011-08-15T16:31:00.000-06:00

We're still swimming... and we always will.

Cooper started with a new instructor, known for his toughness.

Mason is making lots of progress and his confidence is moving ever onward.

For Juniors

2011-08-14T16:06:00.000-06:00

Rather than get on a soapbox about how I think the nation should probably revisit how short summer is (7 weeks?!?!?!) let me show you how cute our youngest student is.

Mason started junior kindergarten this past week. You may be asking yourself what junior kindergarten is. Let me tell you. Junior kindergarten is basically for all 4-year-old boys who are actually old enough in the district's eyes to go to kindergarten, but their mothers know better. So they enroll in a private kindergarten with a bunch of other little brilliant but immature boys who have yet to sit still for 23 consecutive minutes.

It's the perfect option, in my opinion, for families who hope their boys will be academically challenged while preserving the spotless nature of their permanent record. It's still scary, though. No junior nerves as it turns out. Mason was so serious that morning I feared he'd toss his cheerios before we got there.

Unlike Cooper's fist day of first grade and first day of kindergarten, I was prepared and calm. Mason mechanically readied himself, got his picture taken, and walked into class. One moment of melancholy especially melted my heart. When the teacher asked him to print his name on a handwriting strip I believe Mason sent us all a message. These are generally 2-inches high and about 8 inches long. Most juniors and kindergartners take up all 2 inches as they scrawl their sprawling names as big as John Hancock. But Mason's name, both first and last, could have fit inside the width of a penny. A precise measure of how he felt that day, I think. And that makes me sad and worried for a boy with a big big heart, but a very little voice.

Dear world, listen to Mason. He is smart. He is kind. He is good. But he's not loud.

Daily Harvest

2011-08-13T15:53:00.002-06:00

Sign of a Good Trail

2011-08-11T17:24:00.001-06:00

Thanks in part to the inspiration of my occasional running partner I have been running on and around a regional park called simply, The Bluffs. It's a little loop with some serious altitude so it's easy to work it into a longer run for some incline training. Plus it's comprised of soft gravel trails that are wide enough for runners, walkers, cyclists, and even horses -- so it's easy on the knees.

Since then my boys have been begging to join me for a day hike. Mainly it was Coop, but Mason thought it was a brilliant idea. A week before school started I sat them down and said, "Here's your last chance. There's only a few days left tell me what you want to do before school starts." The answer was emphatic if not misguided. They both wanted to hike The Bluffs. Only problem was, it was meant to be 100 degrees that day.

Far be it from me to force my agenda on them in this, their last week of summer. So, we went.It was hot. Lava hot. But those brave boys wouldn't dream of complaining because they knew they had suggested it, begged for it, demanded it. The loop is less than 3-miles if you take all the short cuts. I thought they might make it with such a strong start. But then at about the .5-mile mark we started to notice something. Besides the copiuous amount of sweat, and the fact that our water supply was already in short supply, the steady zzzzzzz of hundreds of rattles all around us. Heat + Traffic = Mad Rattlers. So, I suggested we take a picture and head down with promises to return in more temperate climes.

A few days later and in much cooler temperatures I suggested we try again. Coop was all over it. Bounced himself into his shoes, and the car before I could blink. Mason on the other hand declined, "Anyways, I have different skin. I get way too sweaty."

Games Boys Play, V

2011-08-10T17:15:00.003-06:00

It's not enough to play chess, he adorns each piece with a

LEGO helmet/hat/hairpiece.

Also, new rules.

Tight

2011-08-03T23:32:00.003-06:00

I planned a peaceful send off for my oldest on his first day of first grade. Followed by an equally peaceful kid-free brunch with other elementary moms, followed by a much needed coffee date with one of my besties, followed by some sewing and shipping of backlogged etsy orders. And then maybe run 7-10 miles depending on the heat. Instead, this...

7:30 a.m.
Coop wakes up and sleepily walks downstairs to my room. I shout, "Oh my gosh, first graaaaaaaade!" He rubbed his eyes and turned around and walked away from me without so much as lifting an eyebrow.

8
I realize that due to yesterday's adventure he has no shoes to wear to school. Attempts to dry in dryer left them hot, stinky, and still wet. Begin frantic search through every closet. Call all neighbors with boys ages 7 to 17 looking for cast off tennis shoes. Find a pair of 11s in little brother's closet, Coop wears a 13 1/2 (but I don't actually know this because I've been making him wear 12s all summer).

8:30
Load car to drive little brother to summer camp -- which begins at 8:40. Cooper is barefoot because we're hoping his shoes will dry by the time we get back and before we leave for the first day of first grade.

8:40
Arrive at summer camp to discover that Mason left his lunch on the step. Grrrrrrr.

8:50
Shoes still wet. I suggest he wear flip flops. He says -- and I'm not kidding -- "Mom we need tennis shoes for P.E. It's for our own safety." Stuff huge feet into little brother's shoes and take proverbial first day of first grade photo in front of house. Coop's feet look like horses hooves. He is hobbling. And I'm really worried about state of affairs. But I grab Mason's lunch and decide to drive Coop to school since I'm not 100 percent sure he can walk with bound feet.

8:58
I guess all parents have decided to drive their children to school because it is an absolute cluster surrounding the school. Cooper starts freaking out because he REALLY appreciates punctuality. Really.

9:02
Coop prances (his feet are clearly killing him) past principal who says, "Don't worry I haven't heard the last bell, yet." Does he not realize this is exactly the kind of thing that will instill panic in Coop's heart. The Coop likes to be first in line. Not last. Not sliding in just before the tardy bell. First.

9:03
Coop says, "Oh great, something is leaking." Sure enough, water bottle has leaked all over his pants and he looks like he's had an accident. Not a great look for your entrance onto the first day of first grade scene. He's now almost hyperventilating.

9:05
Last bell. Sees best friend -- who is crying -- and just about looses it, too. Lets me kiss the top of his head, then looks up with pleading eyes and says, "My feet really hurt." Limps with class into the first day of first grade.

9:15
Meet a clutch of elementary moms under the flagpole -- some are teary -- to craft "ladies of leisure" plan. Every single one of us has some kind of something that must be taken care of before we eat. All disperse like crazy ants to fix dilemmas before planned pig out session.

9:25
Deliver Mason's lunch to summer camp.

9:35
Breathe. Eat brunch and enjoy the company of some really amazing women.

11:30
Bolt to Nordstrom Rack to find shoes for Cooper. That is when I realize I don't know his size. And am now facing the real reason I like to wait until about a month after school starts to buy school shoes -- picked over. Like there are NO shoes. I take that back. There are hundreds of pink, sparkly choices. There are no boys shoes. Actually there is a pair of camouflage crocs in size J1, a pair of navy chuck taylors in 13 1/2, some black running shoes in a 2W, and a pair of plaid vans in a size 1. I buy all of them.

NOON
Arrive at school, check in, and hustle out to the playground to find Coop and begin the hurried and sweaty task of helping him try on shoes. Thankfully the chucks fit (I would have shot myself in the eye if those crocs had fit) and Coop releases an overtly grateful sigh of relief. Then I have to find something to cut the danged cable tie holding the two shoes together. Why doesn't my generation carry pocket knives?!?!?!

12:30
Breathe. Settle in to a nice chat with a dear friend at Starbucks. She gets me. I love her.

2:45
Pick up Mason from summer camp. He acts very happy to see me, so he also clearly gets me. I love him.

3
Return the three pairs of shoes that didn't work. Cashier at Nordstrom Rack does not get me. I do not love him or his distractingly nasty acne.

3:36
Leave Mason with daddy while I try to fit in at least three miles before 4:05 pick up. It's like 90 degrees and 75 percent humidity. I am sweating like a hurricane and arrive at pick up as slick and slimy as a wild beast, but just in time to make a really good end of first day of first grade first impression.

PS -- Maybe I'll tell you how school pictures went. Maybe not. Check back to find out.

Empty Bucket

2011-08-02T21:56:00.006-06:00

The last day of summer.

An empty bucket.

Four boys under the age of 9.

Today we set out to fill the bucket, an adventure a little more meaningful than usual. These are our cousins, and they are moving Friday. This is not only our last day of summer, but our last summer day with them. (At least until they get settled in Albuquerque and we meander down there for a playdate.)

Besides the four stinky boys, I permitted no less than seven crawdads, a snake, a few grasshoppers, and a couple of minnows get in my car today.

But Mason really just wanted that duck.

A little mud, a lot of water, and wet shoes.

Tomorrow the bucket will be filled with

sharp pencils, new crayons, notebooks, and 2GB jump drives.

Shadow

2011-07-27T16:52:00.005-06:00

In a series of fast and unfortunate events I was the first to arrive on a scene in which I knew I would be the last to extend a little kindness to a life known as Shadow. Shadow -- a small black dog -- lay in the road with a halo of blood around his head, a heaving chest filling with fluid, and two miserably mangled legs. Bloody, muddy, and growling in pain his scared eyes told me the end was near.
As my horror-stricken children watched, I frantically called the number on his tag and delivered terrible news to the shocked and shaky voice on the other end. "Come quick your dog's been hit and he doesn't have long."
Then in my heels and skirt I kneeled in the road and sobbed as I stroked his dirty little back. I didn't pray he'd survive; I knew he was too far gone. Every breath he took was racked with the rattle of sure fate. But I hummed and I cried to him and I held his head. In minutes his momma came with fear in her eyes and the confused look of predictable circumstances -- knowing her dog would never come home, again. She took one look at her Shadow and sighed, "Oh Shadow, what have you done."
My heart couldn't hold the sadness of the moment. So I did what all good mothers do. I pitched in my strength with hers. She had come -- just as I'd instructed -- quickly, but unprepared. So she had no blanket to wrap him in. My mind went straight to the brand new picnic tarp I knew was in the back of my car. After all, I'd just enthusiastically selected it for it's lively red color. Though I knew I'd never get to use it if I offered it, I gladly handed it over and helped her move little Shadow onto what would be his last bed.
I had never met Shadow or his owner before this day, but the scene of his last afternoon plays over and over again in my mind. It even makes me gasp with emotion and begin crying in remarkably off-putting ways. I suppose it's the thought of the end that upsets me so. That and the raw need for unconditional love. Any of us who approached Shadow in his last minutes could have chided him; told him it was his foolish choice to run in the road that got him killed. In fact, I suppose I could have grimaced at the sight of all the blood and foaming saliva, even the grubbiness of his coat. But that is not what Shadow needed. All he needed was love.
While I am not a dog, I think I might be a simple creature. Despite the choices that make me, me -- when my last breaths are counted I hope someone rubs my back and says, "It's OK, little one. Close your eyes and relax. I'll stay until your people come."

Kissable

2011-07-24T20:27:00.006-06:00

In the shine of the setting sun, on the afternoon of the 4th of July, my boys ran through the sprinklers while the rest of the family watched. Mason found the anticipation of fireworks mingled with the riot of playing in a yard bigger than he's ever seen almost more than he could stand. And I found that I just wanted to squeeze his little cheecks and kiss his nose. It's a mystery, then that this little clutch of photos were forgotten. Glad I found them.

It's Nothing, Really

2011-07-19T15:34:00.004-06:00

This morning, on the heels of an extraordinary night, Cooper woke up late and delighted in doing something of no importance – he watched cartoons. He even clapped his hands in a small applause meant only for himself and excitedly breathed the words, “I have nothing today.”

The enthusiasm has waned; the season is over, every body out of the pool.

I still maintain that the high of the season was found in knowing he was dedicated. But just to show me up, the coaches saw fit to select him as their choice for a special trophy. In each age group they singled out one boy and one girl who had demonstrated Determination, Desire, and Drive.

So, that’s it… enough gushing.

Committed

2011-07-16T19:54:00.006-06:00

I could tell you, The Coop is a champion. I could tell you he earned several top finish ribbons. I could tell you he improved his times in every race week-to-week. I could tell you he swam more meters than any of us ever expected. I could tell you he's faster than I could have imagined. I could tell you his best event is an event a former coach told him he'd never excel in. I could tell you... but I won't.

(Ummmm.... look at his face! Do you think he wants to win?!??!)

What I will tell you is that he is dedicated. For that, I am the most proud of him I have ever been. Nearly every day his father and I sit back and say, "I am so proud of that little guy. Who knew he could do this?!?!"

When we naively registered for swim team we were gobstopped at the duty they expected. The coaches suggested swimmers practice every day, every week. We balked when they told us what time practice started. We groaned when we discovered how many volunteer hours it takes to be a swim team family. But Cooper, he did not.

He woke up every early morning. He attended every meet. He competed in every race he qualified for. He never left a relay team standing waiting for him. He met his commitment. What's more, I never had to coax, convince, or bribe him to do it. He did it with a smile.

Sometimes that meant outdoor practices when the temperatures where barely 60 degrees. On Saturdays that meant waking up at 6 a.m. and warm-up in frigid waters at 7 a.m. (This for a boy accustomed to a kindergarten 9:05 start time.) Other days it was waiting for hours just to swim for 30 seconds. And at times it meant that mother and dad were timing other swimmers when they wanted to be cheering for Cooper swimming in another lane.

It also meant I spent hours and hours with my son. We traveled together, chatted, and bonded, and played games. I learned to follow his lead. He had specific ideas of where he wanted us to stand, how he wanted us to cheer, and which towel we were to have at the finish. I always suspected that this one had no fear. But now I know. He loves to win. He loves to do well. And he loves a big bag of Skittles.

And I love the big family of supportive friends called swim team. Swim team families are devoted and enthusiastic. And though swimming is an individual sport on the surface, it takes the whole team for each swimmer to swim in a well-run meet. We met some incredible people. And I found that I love cheering for other children as much as my own. Our coaches defended our children, protected their interests, and taught them something about themselves.

Now for the bragging. Cooper proved he is a force in the pool. With experience, he could be great. He qualified for championships. And when he competed in championships today, he surpassed ALL of our expectations.

He's already asking about next year!

PHOTO NOTE: to see more pictures, click here.

Swim Team Photo Montage

2011-07-16T08:03:00.000-06:00

Waiting for relay. (After this race started and seconds before this picture was taken the coach actually picked him up and ran with him -- potato sack style -- to the other end of the pool because they decided to have him swim a different leg at the last minute.)

Swimmers take your mark.

Crazy tent city.

Necessary skill of eating sugar tube in .43 seconds.

Oh the pressure!

Actually, I think he was thinking something like,

"Wow, there's a lot of fog in my goggles."

Very little fat on those bones!

Towel pants, a must for every swimmer.

Looks like a champ.

Pre-race meditation.

This was actually a pre-race meditation.

I thought it was very adroit of him and did not ask questions.

Photobooth Friday: Roughing It Edition

2011-07-15T20:14:00.000-06:00

Aluminum Canoe Time Machine

2011-07-12T19:23:00.000-06:00

A few days ago I found myself in the cockpit of a canoe, paddling up the Snake River with my father behind me giving commands like, "Other side! Nope, other side. Paddle faster!"

And the strangest thing happened. For one minute, or maybe two, I couldn't see him and his sweet, bald head. And I couldn't see my age-speckled arms. And I thought I was 11, again. The air smelled the same -- a charming mix of river and trees. The sun felt the same -- gratefully warm against a little bit of nip in the wind. He sounded exactly the same -- only the necessary words to get the job done. And I felt exactly the same though so much has changed -- eager to please, willing to try his idea, and enjoying his brand of fun in spite of myself.

Is this why we go on family vacations? To remember how I felt the first time I floated down The Snake on what seemed the only craft in the world with the only man who mattered in my world? An interesting return after decades of navigating freeways next to hundreds of thousands of folks I don't know during a morning commute a thousand miles away from that man?

Anyways, just to make sure, I sent my boys down the river with their dad, and then mine. And they had fun.

Carried Away

2011-07-11T16:59:00.009-06:00

Not far from the shores of the North Fork of the Snake River my grandparents have a small, rustic (emphasis on rustic) cabin. This is a "family" cabin and as I've grown up I've been permitted to visit there from time to time and enjoy the beauty of the mountains, the smell of pine trees, and an awful lot of mosquitos.
We've taken our own children to this retreat before. Frankly, they didn't grow an instant love for the little cottage in the trees. But they are a generation raised on spacious bathrooms, microwave dinners, and Wii playsystems. The idle pastimes available at Mack's Inn in the early nineteen hundreds -- and still the main attractions -- have a hard time getting their attention. This is why it is an ideal spot for family outings and family reunions. There is really nothing better to do than turning off your smart phone, staring at your family, and saying, "Now what?"

Don't get me wrong, this Nature-land is about 20 minutes south of West Yellowstone and the west entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Gorgeous. You should go. And if you want to rent a teeny, tiny crash pad, and you are neurotically clean, my family might offer you a great rate. (But don't hold your breath.) And if you get all excited and decide to visit, remember your mosquito repellent, citronella candles, and long pants or you might just get carried away.

PS -- There's a remarkably sturdy swing set. Built because you can't tell grandkids you are going to Island Park and then not have swings.

PHOTO NOTE: These pictures are a mix of my kids, my husband, one of my brothers, and his wife and daughter.

Lesson Learned

2011-07-10T00:16:00.001-06:00

There are two truths in photography that I have become aware of in the past year.

1. Never let anyone take a picture of you jumping on a trampoline. (Believe me, even children look old whilst jumping on a tramp.)

2. Never, and I do mean never let anyone who is holding a camera talk you into sitting on a swing. They will take your picture, and that is a big FAT no-no.

Seriously people, seeing your butt in a swing is a little like seeing your butt in a backless bar stool. Do yourself a favor, sit at a table in a bar and look at everyone else's butts at the bar. You will NEVER sit at the bar again. I'm just saying.
Strategically cropped, and still woefully unflattering.

Kickin' It Off

2011-07-08T23:56:00.007-06:00

Our family vacation began with a 10+ hour drive through some of the most uninteresting part of God's green earth. Seriously, next to the Akmola Province of Kazakhstan, Wyoming is up there.
So it was nice of my parents to arrange for us to meet a herd of miniature horses and a donkey. This is screaming for me to make jack ass jokes. But, I can't.
Anyway, the mini horses were a hit. More so with one of our adorable nieces -- Claire -- but my boys mustered up the "that's cute" gene just long enough to feed the little things some hay. Which leads me to a kid-ism from the drive.Somewhere along the way we passed a pastoral scene replete with cows and hay bales. When we pointed out what was in the field outside his window Mason started to scream, in escalating tones, "Hey, Hay!" I believe this is called, making a connection. Very amusing to observe.

519

2011-07-06T18:57:00.000-06:00

I took and kept 519 photos over the past six days. Check back tomorrow (or late tonight) for a travelogue and a couple of those pictures.

Run With It

2011-07-03T21:51:00.000-06:00

May you find your patriotism, and run with it!

Photobooth Friday: Game Day

2011-06-24T07:25:00.001-06:00

What The...

2011-06-19T18:16:00.000-06:00

On my daily walk through my garden I spotted something amiss. The iris that had stood bright and tall the day before was looking a little droopy and I was sure the rabbits had attacked it. Upon closer inspection I found it was merely the new home for two visitors from outer space.

Look closely and you'll see that the astronaut in white has a woman's face. Sweet, adventerous couple.

Welcome to Earth. Enjoy your stay.

Photobooth Friday: Awkward Family Photo Edition

2011-06-17T22:52:00.000-06:00

We're Busy

2011-06-14T21:37:00.005-06:00

Sometimes it takes the outside opinion of an innocent bystander to put a label on your life. And the word on the street is we're busy. In the lineup we've got:

golf

tennis

karate

swim team

swim lessons

And friends, that is not all. But I'm not going to get into it. The point is this, we're busy. But for the most part, I think we're happy with the bustle. Summer basically rocks!

As an aside, I need some laundry recommendations. My boys are pretty even in sizes, now (not twins). So, I've taken to just keeping their shirts and pants in a neat lump as they come out of the dryer and then just splitting them in half and hanging one set in one closet and the other half in the other closet. But... that's causing the whole, "That's my shirt!" fight. Any ways around this?

It Will Do

2011-06-12T23:48:00.000-06:00

Taken from a just-before-i-fall-asleep conversation with the 4-year-old.

"Mason, I love you. I'm so glad you decided to come to our house."

"Well, Mason is a pretty good name. I actually like it."

Photobooth Friday: Playdough Edition

2011-06-10T09:31:00.000-06:00

The Coop

2011-06-08T22:57:00.000-06:00

Mason

2011-06-07T22:54:00.002-06:00

I invite you to follow Mason at the park... much the same way we did this past week. Enjoy.

PS -- Cooper is tomorrow. Come back.

Dear Uncle Andrew,

2011-06-05T22:03:00.000-06:00

You're not the only one in training! The boys are so excited at the prospect of having an uncle who could save lives, deliver babies in an ambulance, and put out fires. Now they are getting into the act -- an aspiration they have never had.

Carry on, sir! We love and admire you, no matter what you choose to do.

Thank You Kindergarten

2011-06-03T15:28:00.003-06:00

Well, it's here, the end of Kindergarten.

I could not have imagined how melancholy this ebb of emotions would be. Obviously we're proud of our 6-year-old for finishing, for learning how to read, for learning what hot is. But mostly we're relieved he found friendship.

This is a picture of Cooper and his best friend. I've been wanting to talk about how amazing their little friendship is, but haven't known the best way.

Can you even tell the two apart?

This friend had a serious health issue about 1 year ago. In fact, this year he has spent time in the hospital, as well. So the start of their friendship actually came later on in the school year. All in all he and Coop are two peas in a pod. They love all the same things. All. They are both little brainiacs who love LEGOs. And they both unabashedly share feelings, easily cry in class, and accept just about anyone into their circle of friends. I love watching them play.

Being friends with a child who has had the medical concerns that this friend has, required us to explain some very serious topics to Cooper. Cooper has digested all the information with a lot of class and courage. Cooper has never once been bothered by any differences in this friend, nor has he asked too much about it. Whenever we're faced with explaining more about his friend's condition, Cooper just shrugs his shoulders and moves on. But each time, I see a maturity dawn in his eyes and he grows up a little bit more. You can imagine the effect this has on my own heart.

Cooper has never made a joke or talked lightly about the health of his friend to us or to his buddy. He has been open to all explanations and never said it was weird, or gross, or funny. And yet, he is able to play and play and play with his friend with a lightness of heart and soul that permits the two of them to enjoy each other without burden.

This morning our friend and his family left on an exciting adventure made possible by the Make A Wish foundation. You cannot imagine the joy this brings their family. Should you find opportunity to support or donate to this foundation, or any foundation that seeks to provide a little laughter, a little break, and a little lightheartedness -- take it!

And you know, phew! He'll enter first grade walking tall and smile with an eye toward spotting his friend, knowing he has what it takes to make friends and keep them. All thanks to the confidence born from meeting his very first friend.

Ahem...

2011-05-31T14:45:00.000-06:00

Sad to say, sometimes my children have to fight for my attention. I've found myself incredibly busy lately. So through the eye of the camera, this little munchkin brought life back into focus for me.

He just inserted himself and popped up while I was trying to finish projects and post pictures to the shop. Sweet man.

So, here I'd like to announce Summer 2011's Resolution: Stay Focused!

If you'd like to see the yoga tote bag that is out of focus in this picture... visit my sewing blog.

Not True

2011-05-29T13:14:00.007-06:00

My husband let slip a little discontent yesterday, as he busied himself by loading our golf clubs in the car. He plainly complained, "I hate facebook. I think you put all our kid updates there instead of the blog." As my husband is one of the only people I know who is not on facebook (a wise man) he is unaware of the kinds of updates I post on facebook.

For his benefit, and to make a case, the past five updates are listed here:

~had a great time at Blackstone today... might need to make that our golf home.

~cried when the kindergarten teacher read Miss Bindergarten Celebrates the Last Day of Kindergarten.

~Lionel Messi, on the list.

~I bet you wish you were going with 100 kindergartners to the zoo. Did I mention torrential rain?

~grateful for the health of my family, humbled by the struggle in the path of friends.

Clearly drivel and holding not much more substance than the 100 or so characters each post amounted to. So the next question might be, where have the regular blog updates gone? I'll tell ya.

I have increased my volunteer hours at the elementary school by at least an hour a week, and in fact was there from 9 a.m. until 3 p.m. on Thursday.

(Cooper's first oral report, ever! Notice his sweet teacher trying to keep a straight face.)

It's golf season, and while my post-surgical return has been slow and disappointing I am golfing. In fact, I can attribute at least 10 hours to golf this past week. Naturally I'm planning on about that many next week, and the week after, and the week after...

(The boys at Hudson Gardens.)

The kids have gymnastics, tennis, swim lessons, and karate. They have fun, I drive. Enough said.

(Cooper at his first swim meet, wearing jammers in the smallest possible size.)

Swim team. What was I thinking?!?!?!!? Swim practice is suggested every day. This means I'm sitting at a practice, driving to a practice, or driving home from a practice about 10 hours a week. This says nothing of the hours I'm putting into washing swimsuits and towels, and packing swim bags and lunches.

I've also tried to open my eyes to the friends and family around me in need this month. I have had multiple friends undergo major surgical procedures. Two friends have happy, healthy babies. And I know and love three families who are facing major medical burdens. I haven't been a big help to them all... but I have cooked a lot of extra meals, covered for them when they needed it, driven their kids around, and spent a lovely afternoon photographing one special family and their son.

Finally, I have agreed to run in a Ragnar with my brothers. Because I want to be a force for that team, I'm adding some running time to my current workout schedule. (By being a force I mean I just don't want those buggers to make fun of me.)

(caught updating my facebook when i'm supposed to be playing with the kids,oooops)

I might be maxed out. It might be the reason I momentarily lost my oldest a few weekends ago. It might also be why there is a mysterious smell in my closet. And it most assuredly is why we have eaten pizza more than once a week for about a month.

So, sweet husband, we're not leaving you out. I'm just not getting to sit still in front of a computer more than an hour a week. Also, school is almost out. Which does mean it will get worse before it gets better, but it will get better.

Surely You're Joking

2011-05-23T21:32:00.006-06:00

If you were a fly trapped in my car, you might hear something like this...

Mason: What did the green house say to the yellow house?

Me: What?

Mason: No. Say, I don't know if you don't know.

Me: I don't know.

Mason: They didn't say anything, they were not the same house. Anyways, how did the red light talk to the yellow light?

Me: How?

Mason: Mom, say, I don't know, because this is a joke.

Me: Oh right. Did the lights say, let's make orange?

Mason: Yes! You got it right, actually. Why didn't the green light say hello to the stop sign?

Me: Because they are not the same.

Mason: No! Because they are on different streets. But listen: What did the pink flower say to the yellow flower?

Me: I just don't know.

Mason: They don't talk, they are flowers. But also what did the stop sign say to the other stop sign?

Me: Are you a circle?

Mason: Yes! But he was a triangle, and that's just crazy. Why didn't the red light say hello to the green light.

Me: I don't know.

Mason: Because they weren't the same color.

Me: Didn't you just do that one?

Mason: Of course not. Why didn't the green light say help to the house? I mean why couldn't the green light say hello to the red light?

Me: I don't know.

Mason: Because the green light was just a little too high.

Me: That's a good one.

Mason: How about three more, mommy.

Me: Just three? OK

Mason: Why didn't the sun say hello to the light?

Me: Because the sun is light?

Mason: It is?

Me: Why not?

Mason: I don't know. Mommy, I really want to play angry birds, please. What's taking so long? Did you know drops can also make a big waste? Mom, did you know that grrrrrrrrrr is like 3 miles away?

Me: What do you mean?

Mason: When Cooper like counts to like 5, then it is 5 miles away.

Me: Like in a thunderstorm? Who told you that?

Mason: Dad, I think. Why did the guitar climb the steps?

Me: To hit the high notes?

Mason: No! Of course to get to heaven.

* Humor note: you may have found this terribly boring and not funny. Just imagine being 4 and listening to grown-ups.

That's Hot

2011-05-14T15:55:00.000-06:00

We've had both snow this week as well as temps in the 70s. On our way to the golf course we passed a family walking on the side of the road and the two young girls were dressed head to toe in fleece. It's been cold enough that I can understand why a parent would make this clothing choice. But it was hot enough at that very moment that I instantly got sweaty on behalf of those little gals and said, "Whew they've got to be hot!"

Coop piped up from the backseat, "Wait, what kind of hot?"

And I, in shock, demanded, "Wait, what kinds of hot do you know about?"

Mason said, "Steaming hot."

I tried to lead the conversation to safe topics with, "And spicy hot."

Then I glanced in the rearview mirror in time to catch Cooper's mischievous grin and he slyly said, "And kissy hot."

O. M. G.

Bunny Vision

2011-05-12T16:38:00.000-06:00

I have concluded that I am ready to take bunny abatement to the next level this year. I'm spitting mad over the havoc they have wreaked in the garden. The only thing that has kept me from doing something more permanent in the past has been these two little critters.

I feel really bad about crossing over to the bunny-killer side of the fence. I didn't want my kids to see dead bunnies. But the rabbit colony is producing so many little ones they get trapped in our window wells and die of starvation or heart attacks, or injuries from the fall every year.

Now, where is the local IFA?

Current Events

2011-05-10T16:22:00.000-06:00

In his never-ending pursuit of bragging rights in the LEGO club magazine, Cooper is taking to reconstructing the latest headlines and current events in LEGOs. This week's installment is the meltdown at Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant. More specifically, the guy in yellow is spraying containment resin on the ground around the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant.

I will be his editor and will draw the line at (or rather well before) the destruction of Osama bin Laden's compound. I'm thinking Kentucky Derby news sounds about right for the next one. Or maybe a recreation of The Greenest Colleges in America. What's your vote?

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T06:05:00.000-06:00

May your day be filled with dandelions collected by 4-year-olds.

Photobooth Friday: Lost and Found

2011-05-06T15:45:00.001-06:00

1 Stick + 1 Rock = 1 happy happy happy BOY, III

2011-05-01T20:22:00.000-06:00

Apparently there are families that are all organized and stuff. And they do cool things like take pictures of their children at regular intervals in front of the same landmark so as to see how much the child has changed and grown.

I am not organized.

I don't do cool stuff. Except sometimes by accident.

My in-laws have a clutch of perfectly gnarled scrub oak in their front yard. And my boys are drawn to that scrub oak like moths to flame. (I haven't actually ever seen a moth fly toward a flame, but whatev.)

Anyway, what I'm telling you is that I have pictures of my boys in relatively the same place at regularly spaced intervals and I've noticed they are growing and changing. Man, it works! Those organized people are onto something.

Scrub Oaks in review:

The first time (Cooper, 2 years and 7 months)
The second time (Mason, 2 years and 8 months)

The third time (6 going on 16)

Stay tuned!

Wherever You Go

2011-04-30T19:49:00.003-06:00

The safety of an older brother is one that I will never know. I've got brothers to spare, but I'm the oldest. And so, I walked into most birthday parties of my childhood on my own.

My Mason, however, has his Cooper. The Coop. Never a fear has flitted across his determined brow when bravely he strides into a birthday party. Regardless of who else is invited, The Coop just shows up and has a good time. Mason does not. He is anxious far ahead of the moment we cross the threshold to said funhouse. He tries to hide and mutter and shuffle into a corner -- hoping no one is the wiser for him having arrived at all.

But wherever Cooper goes, Mason will follow. Or rather, sometimes he is too uncertain to follow and it is then that I rely on Cooper to draw little Mas-a-roni out. Taking his hand and leading the way the two plunge into the fun that is meant to be had, but that Mason cannot find on his own.

It will be so hard for me to protect Cooper from the obligation of always assisting Mason. But I must remember that eventually, and some of the time, Cooper will want to go his own way without a tag-along. And Mason soon enough will bravely speak up for himself, I hope. Be loud and proud little brother, loud and proud!

What I Learned

2011-04-21T22:12:00.000-06:00

So, here's the straight facts about what I learned when I "went back to school". First of all, you should know I didn't actually go back to school. I signed up for one measly seminar at the local community college. The class was titled, Get Published.

On the first night of class the instructor -- I use this term loosely -- asked each of us why we were taking the class. I lied. I said that people sometimes tell me I should write a book and so I thought I would come and see what all the hubbub was about. The truth is that my mother had an idea for a children's book. She told me the idea. I thought it was a good idea. I have from time to time wondered what it would take to get it into print.

Here is where the truth about the class came out. It was a class about Self Publishing. I am so glad I took this class.

I learned that I likely do not ever want to publish a children's book. And no matter how good my mother's idea is, she will likely never have a book published in the traditional sense. Why? Because she is not already a celebrity and because something like 1000 books are published every day. Every. Day.

Truthfully, the very best book ideas probably never even see the light of day. I am in no way suggesting that I have one of the best ideas. Nor that my mother does. I'm just saying, there are some very talented writers in the world that will never -- not ever -- be published (in the traditional sense of the word). This is sad.

But I know it now and I can put that dream to rest without any regret. Honestly. I feel a huge wave a relief.

Self publishing, on the other hand, is a very real possibility for a lot of talented writers. But those talented writers must be talented marketers of themselves. Tricky.

What I learned is that I just MIGHT like to be a part of the process of publishing some one else's book. Like I might want to help someone edit their manuscript. Or better yet, I'd really just like to receive advance copies of other people's books and write reviews. That's all... free books and criticism. That's more my speed.

The Return of the Halloween Costume

2011-04-20T14:28:00.000-06:00

Ummm, excuse me, what day is it? Yeah, how hot is it outside? Hot? That's what I thought. But guess what my kids are doing? Lounging in their Halloween costumes, and eating cheese.

Through the years I've gone up and down about my feelings about costumes. And now I really -- I do mean honestly -- have no shame or embarassment to take a child to the grocery story though he be in full regalia. I am, however, exhausted. It's been a full three years of dress-up, people.

Dress-up play is great. But it makes a colossal mess. First you must decide how to store the costumes. Then you must decide how to clean them. Then there's the whole debacle of a play date when every child in the neighborhood is fighting over the pirate's hat and the turtle's slippers. Not to mention the mess a gaggle of toddlers can make in a dress-up chest.

And really, I should have thought about these things WAY before I introduced costumes into the house. You accidentally set precedents on how many costume changes a child is permitted in one day, how many costumes they can wear at once, and how many days in a row they are allowed to wear them. In a word: exhausting.

Do you suppose there is a parent's handbook on dress-up clothes? That is a manual I could write.

Aside from the complaints, there is certain amusement to be had along the way. I have genuinely relished shopping with Batman and standing in line with Darth. After all it is the closest I'll come to celebrity.

Let The Good Times Roll

2011-04-19T14:06:00.000-06:00

Hints of perfect weather are peeking through in our state. And we're so grateful.

It is time for playing in the street (please drive slow in my neighborhood), yelling over the fence for BBQ tips, and picking through the garden.

Dear LEGO Engineers

2011-04-18T14:02:00.003-06:00

Someone at my house is desperate to be featured in the LEGO club magazine. This is like entry no. 7. It's not that his creations are any better or worse than those featured, it's just that well, I suspect thousands and thousands of kids send in pictures each week.

In his desperation he's taken to art directing the photos I take. This is a really good example of what he thinks looks really "cool". (My pictures are "lame".) So anyways, don't hold your breath little man.

A Trip To The Dentist

2011-04-11T12:03:00.001-06:00

We have a seriously creative kindergarten teacher. She and the other classes included an edible car race in their science unit this past month. Cooper loved participating. (In fact he's still making things out of food a month later.)

I learned a lot by volunteering during this event. So, if you're a teacher and you're interested in what parents think of this event, read on! (Otherwise, it's going to be pretty boring.)

1. Increase the brag factor. Remember that these kids spend a lot of time and their parents a lot of stress putting these cars together. Encourage older students, other teachers, the principal, and other parents to stroll around the car tables before the event begins asking children questions about how they put it together, what materials they used, and how they think they will do. If you have a lot of time have each student say this into a microphone before they push their car down the ramp.

2. Timing the cars in not necessary in this age group. Seriously. Just mark the ending point on the track with a Sharpie and write their name next to it. Likewise, having a "leader board" is not necessary. And if you don't have a winner -- but awards for every student -- don't mess with this at all.

3. It doesn't take that long to have each child push their car down the ramp. So, make a big deal about announcing who it is and encourage all the kids to cheer each individual competitor. Maybe have them slap the floor for a drum roll before and during each car rolling down the ramp.

4. Use dark colors for the ramp paper. I used yellow (and this was my bad) and it throws every picture out of whack. It was highly reflective and made for some serious color saturation. It is intrusive to all the pictures. I thought it would be high contrast to the cars and really make them stand out. But it didn't. Use dark or muted colors. Don't use white!

5. Set up the refreshment buffet table to have two sides. This creates two lines and moves children through a lot faster. And if you're group is bigger than 30 set up two buffet tables so that there are 4 lines making it through the food.

6. Don't bother with a medic table. We thought this would be necessary to help children who had broken cars. But if you only run the cars once, it doesn't matter. And we found that overachieving parents showed up with their own supplies and helped their own children. Our medic table was mistaken as a treat table and we had kids picking at other student's car parts all morning.

7. For awards, elevate the ceremony. So, if you can, put the kids on a pedestal or a stage. This is the thing the parent paparazzi goes crazy about and every picture will suck if the kids are down below the gigantic grownups.

OK That's about it. Good luck and start buying up appropriate edible car parts and hoarding them. You won't be able to find a good candy cane in March, believe me.

It should come as no surprise that Cooper's award from the edible car race was, "A Trip To The Dentist".

Farther From the Truth

2011-04-10T11:36:00.002-06:00

So, it's that time of year. The time of strangely festooned characters marching in front of retail tax businesses reminding people that April 15 is just around the corner. One such fixture of strip malls in this area is Liberty Tax. They have paid young men to dress as the colossal neoclassical sculpture given to us by France.

When Mason saw this for the first time he shouted, "Hey mom, It's the Statue of Libya!"

Oh boy. Libya: the war-torn pustule of North Africa. Not a lot of liberty there. I found myself defining liberty to my 4-year-old. And explaining why Libya was not at liberty. And found that I was just as confused as my 4-year-old. If only the ways of the world were as simple as a gawky teenager dressed as a huge woman earning $80 a day to entice drivers to visit the road-side accountant before April 15.

Also, don't forget my birthday.

Merchandising 101

2011-04-02T21:07:00.005-06:00

On the day the housekeepers come I try to make myself scarce. So when I return to the house with the boys, Mason -- my 4-year-old -- races up to his room and flops himself on his bed and coos, "Oh mom, I love it."

Seriously.

He likes a neat bed. He regularly sleeps on top of the covers so he doesn't mess up his bed. Very strange child. Recently he sought me out with a special request. "Will you take a picture of me on my bed for my teacher?"

Ummmm... this is a weird request. Right? Just re-examine those last three words. For. My. Teacher.

Anyway, I followed him back to his room where he had painstakingly arranged his stuffed friends. He then climbed to the middle of them, affixed himself into what he deemed a photogenic posture and asked me to take the picture. I'm not kidding. I wish I were, but I'm not.

I took an additional picture so as to remember the care he had administered to one pet in particular. It is tucked into the covers

Photobooth Friday: Hugs Edition

2011-03-25T17:29:00.001-06:00

Chain Reaction

2011-03-20T20:43:00.000-06:00

I was recently asked -- and the pressure was super high -- what my parenting style was. I was reluctant to confess which two sources I relied on the most -- nanny 9-1-1 and a strange article I read about the joys of lazy parenting.

But here's the answer: I watch the exits.

And so it was on a fine sunny morning when my parenting style was put to the test. Two young boys learning to ride bikes is quite a task, even when both parents are involved. One is shy and timid, the other chomping at the bit.

So we granted Cooper his wish, to go around the block. He was not to cross streets, just follow the sidewalk around the block. But, he had another idea. And pretty soon, we couldn't see him and we panicked.

I stayed with shy and timid and started watching the exits -- as it were. We live on a corner and so I was tasked with watching up and down the streets in three directions while my sweet but slightly nervous husband ran around the block.

Pretty soon, Mr. Coop came walking back, pushing his bike, and full of gloom. The chain on his bike had come undone, or whatever it is chains do. He hadn't made it around the block, and pushing the bike he had made much slower progress home.

But the question remains... would it have been better to follow him around the block? Know his every move? Or was watching the exits enough?

Photobooth Friday: B and W

2011-03-18T17:28:00.000-06:00

You know it's time for a trip to the dermatologist when you opt for a black and white picture.

Green With Glee

2011-03-17T07:50:00.001-06:00

Lots of exciting stuff going on around here. Needless to say, we're green with excitement for all the changes. If you want to stop by, you're always welcome.

The Return of the Sidewalk Chalk

2011-03-16T20:25:00.000-06:00

Once the snow melts, I believe the next thing we unearth from the garage is the sidewalk chalk. My heart thaws when I witness the return of the sidewalk chalk. I regain hope for happy days, carefree play, and lazy moments in the shade. And my children have a flood of creativity, again.

It's a simple, archaic joy. The art of disposable expression -- here today and gone tomorrow. Well, actually because this state has very little rain, the works of genius last a week or so. And really, nothing replaces the powdery pleasure of chalk on your hands and cheeks and knees as you dream up extra big game boards, and pictures to walk into.

Frankly, few things are as pleasurable for a mother than when her boys are getting along and sharing the power of both of their brains as they play out their ideas in pastel colors on pavement. This pleasure ends abruptly when the sun sets and both boys march inside, strip down, and leave a trail of grit in their wake. Laundry knows no season.

Splitsville

2011-03-14T20:23:00.000-06:00

Mason is working on the splits.

The Universe Loves This Family

2011-03-12T19:53:00.002-07:00

I have come to the conclusion that the Universe loves little red coats. Remember this sweet little vest? Favorite vest with the puppy zipper? We lost it. Mom went crazy looking for it. Crazy. You did not want to be a fly on the wall in our house during that month. Yes, a month.

And whenever I loose something I go really berserk thinking of all the things I've lost in my life. (Also, I know I'm switching back and forth between talking for myself and about myself. I do have an education, I just choose to ignore it sometimes.) Anyway, all the things. I was thinking of the super cute flats from Foxmoors that I left at the gymnastics gym in Rigby, Idaho in the 10th grade. And the key fob to the GX that I lost sometime last year, either before or after I lost my blackberry. And the little red, wool pea coat that I loved and then lost about a month after I bought it.

Of course, life goes on, as it does. We went to dinner with some dear friends. And my friend, I tell you, she is so dang cute. Always such a cute little clothes horse. When we checked our coats at the restaurant -- me a long, teal wool coat and she a little red, wool pea coat -- I said, "Gosh I have a coat exactly like that. But I lost it."

That my friends was both the right thing and the wrong thing to say. My sweet friend immediately gave me an account of the mystery of the little red, wool pea coat. Apparently someone, and she had no idea whom, left the little red, wool pea coat at her house about two years ago. And there it has been sitting until just this very night when she decided to wear it. I was that someone who came to her awesome New Year's Eve party, and then left her awesome New Year's Eve party -- after a few cocktails -- and forgot that I had come to her house wearing a little red, wool pea coat, only to leave without it.

Mystery solved. Awkwardness all around.

Fast forward about six days. I go on a hike with my boys. I meet a friend who also has some boys. We actually discuss how downtrodden I feel about loosing the favorite red vest, with the puppy zipper tog. After the hike we decide a picnic lunch is in order and I am elected to go and get lunch. We decide on a restaurant that I have not been to since President's Day. While ordering five kids' meals, a chicken salad sandwich, and something that tasted like fire I realize that this might be the only place I have not dug through a lost and found full of dirty socks, crusty underwear, and hair ribbons (this my friends is the honest to God truth... people loose crusty underwear and other people actually put it in a lost and found bucket).

And then like a chorus of angels, I hear Charlotte Church's operatic renderings in my ears and see beams of light shine down from heaven and settle on none other than the favorite red vest, with the puppy zipper tog. Honestly.

Two red coats, one week, and a million answered whispers. Not exactly prayers, because it's kinda silly to pray about coats when you can afford to buy another one. But you know... I did say, "Where did I put that coat?" about 627 times.

Photobooth Friday: Outdoor Edition

2011-03-11T19:43:00.001-07:00

The first hike of the season.

Eyes Wide Shut

2011-03-05T22:15:00.005-07:00

If ever you think you're having too much fun, follow my son's advice and close your eyes.

You may think this will shut out all you are enjoying, but you would be wrong. As he explained to me, he closes his eyes not because he is afraid but because he wants to feel more afraid. He also said that when his eyes are closed he can feel his "tummy scream."
Wisdom like this only comes from daring 6-year-olds who still remember that a screaming tummy is worth the effort of a little trial and error, and even some ridicule. I'm just trying to decide which of my chores requires throwing my head back, clenching my eyes tightly shut, and laughing while my tummy screams. Think I'll try it during laundry, first.
Speaking of screaming tummies. Mine is mad at me. The rebellion of the belly button started about six years ago when pictured child was safely swinging from the rafters of my womb. And now, abdominal wall is furious and has attempted to replace any of my constraints by a set of its own.

Photobooth Friday: Have You Seen Me

2011-03-04T22:04:00.004-07:00

We are desperately seeking our little red vest. Favorite red vest, with the puppy zipper tog.

Mason and I lost it together, I suspect. Because he was probably wearing it, and then promptly decided I should carry. Anyway, that's what I'm thinking. I am so frustrated that I can't find it. And this is the perfect weather for wearing it. Grrrr...

If it shows up, please bring it over.

Patron Saint of Water Fowl

2011-02-26T11:44:00.001-07:00

My Mas has a tender heart. The colder it gets outside, the warmer his compassion fires. Passing the frozen golf course pond he cooed, "You know, I wish I could save one of those duckies from the golf course."

As a mother adverse to animal poo, I was reticent to ask how.

But he said, "I would just catch 'em and then ... ummm... wrap 'em up in my bed."

Oh lord, may I survive his charity.

Photobooth Friday, The Thaw

2011-02-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

We're ready for spring!

The Gymnast

2011-02-21T14:48:00.002-07:00

The gymnastics experiment is wildly popular. I'm only wondering about what Mason thinks gymnastics is. He seems to be connecting with the skateboarders, snowboarders, freerunners, martial artists, and bmx dare devils on TV instead of the chipper, flippy, sparkling girls aspiring to stick a round off, back handspring into a full twisty thingy at the gym.

The good thing is, there is a local parkour group who practices at his gym. The bad thing is, there is a local parkour group who practices at his gym. If you're familiar with parkour and you are a mother, you understand my dilemma. Mason is obviously only permitted to observe these dynamos. But encouraging this type of sport is a little like encouraging your child to run with the bulls.

Parkour is sport. It's using your body, being fit, and doing what you think is cool -- not what others might value. A philosophy this mother can endorse. Parkour in some applications is jumping around in public spaces, bouncing off handrails, flying leaps across city scapes, dropping 20 feet or more and rascaling away into a handstand on an I-beam -- physically challenging moves which can look very showy, but also be hazardous. Something that arrests this mother's heart.
In reality, he's 4. He might forget about this when summer tennis starts.

Then again, he might not.

And just for fun... check out this photo. Taken directly after his first ride on the flying harness (picture up top). They unbuckled him and he fell back on the mat and said, "That was awesome!"

King of the World

2011-02-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

M: What would you do differently if you were king?
Coop: King of what?

M: What would you want to be king of?
Coop: A castle

M: Where would your castle be?
Coop: I don't know.

M: What would it look like?
Coop: Just grey metal, and then some flags.

M: What color flags?
Coop: Any color with little castle pictures.

M: Would you have a queen?
Coop: I don't know. (Makes gross-out face.)

M: Would you have a bishop?
Coop: Yes, I would.

M: What would you do inside your castle?
Coop: I usually... ummm we just sit. Kings just sit down until the other team, the dark team, comes. Okay, I'm all done. Bye mommy.

Interview over.

Photobooth Friday, On Saturday

2011-02-19T13:33:00.003-07:00

So, a day late, and you shouldn't be surprised. Because that is how I roll. Always late. And for the most part, unapologetic. But, it's photobooth Friday nonetheless...

bonus question: Any idea what is going on here?

Trust Me

2011-02-17T19:53:00.004-07:00

A day or two ago I was upstairs and the boys were somewhere else. Far enough away that I didn't know what they were doing, but I could hear them talking. Then I heard Cooper say, "No Mason, it won't really hurt. Trust me."

It's times like these that I think back to the times when I convinced some of my brothers to do some fairly hideous stuff. Like the time, well actually times, I dressed at least two of them up like WWF entertainers and curled their hair with an itty-bitty curling iron. Then I smeared their eyelids with Mimi Bobeck-esque blue eye shadow, and their lips with a Donatella Versace shade of orange lipstick that you could see from space.

Then they ran around our basement and pretended to be professional wrestlers. It was awesome. It would be even more awesome if I had photographed them. Then I could blackmail them. And I would. Because, as they say, it won't really hurt. Trust me.

PHOTO NOTE: Is Mason's face saying, "Trust you? You're kidding, right?"