I Have My Reasons

OK OK OK. I've been thinking a lot about that little pissed off post. And I'm worried about some of yous. You know who you are. I have my reasons for getting pissed off around here. My boys are cute, but when I'm not looking a lot of crap goes down. For instance:

I wanted to help my kids feel the joy of service and being compassionate during the month of December. So, I wrote out 24 things they could do from now until Christmas day. They were small things -- like decorating the bedroom of their favorite babysitter for her birthday, and opening the door for others, and saying Merry Christmas to at least 5 people in one day. You get the idea.

I was also pretty sure that having a service project advent would be a hard sell, so I was a super nice mom and I actually researched a bunch of LEGO builder sites and printed out the instructions for 24 Christmas-y things you can make with LEGOs. Then I printed them out and folded 'em up with the service ideas and slid one into each slot on our nifty advent counting down thingy.

Lots of work, people.

Woke up on Dec. 3 to find they had already been up for a while and had opened every single day of advent and scattered the papers all over the house. All of them. Grrrrrrr.

On that very same day I slammed the door to the dryer and went running into my room because I could hear some suspicious giggling. Guess what I found? Mason. Covered in white goo. Let's just say it's a good thing one of my sisters-in-law is a stylist and gets us our hair products at a discount. Every last bit of my favorite hair slime was wiped onto Mason's head and face. Grrrrrrr.

Oh, and before I forget... that same day Mason came proudly marching into the kitchen with no pants on. From that vantage point I could see that he had poo smeared all over his rear end and down both legs. What was he so proud of? "Mom! I have dialeah!" Like it's a good thing. Should have seen the bathroom. Grrrrrrr.

I'm just saying. Before you get all pointy fingered on me, wipe a few butts for me.

I'll Take One Mingo

Overheard:

Mason: Hey Tooper! I was flying to the rescue of the mingo!

Cooper: What is a mingo?

Mason: It's like an applescotch.

Cooper: Oh right.

How Do You Feel Today?

Nothing good follows a teacher who pulls you aside and proceeds in hushed tones to tell you what your child has said during class. Especially when those words are your own.

In a proper discussion of feelings and emotions, Cooper's teachers posed a question to the class. "Who knows another word for angry?"

Cooper -- my brilliant boy -- politely raised his hand and waited to be called on. Then said, "Pissed off."

Oh, I'm so proud.

No Clippers

I could write a book on all the things I make Mason do against his will. He's a bit bullheaded and especially chickenhearted -- a strange combination. He's that kid who I just know will grow up and refuse to do things like dress in front of other kids in the locker room and then give excuses like, "I don't want to see others and they shouldn't see me. It's a matter of principle." How do I know this? He's a little bit like me. Just a little.

Currently, he does not like to get in the pool, go to bed in his own room, walk down the stairs without holding onto the rail (even if it's holding up traffic), enter a dark room, watch Monster House in its entirety, eat anything other than scrambled eggs, nor get his hair cut.

Big drama at the salon. In the warmer months I don't really mind being the one to shear them. But in the cooler months, well, let's say it, I just don't like the mess in the house. And yes, that means that when I do cut hair, it's out on the porch in all my white trash glory.

We've tried Sports Clips, a few actual stylists at a few actual fancy salons, and Fantastic Sam's. Fantastic Sam's is the current favorite because they have actually convinced Mason to sit down, only cry a little bit, and sit still. He gets so terrified that he crunches up his fists and does this weird pinching thing with his fingers. And most of the other patrons in the salon sit and laugh at him -- he's that funny about his fear.

The entire 15 minutes he is dictating how things should be done. No clippers! Just scissors! Don't cut my ear! Give me a sucker! Don't look at me!

But when it's done, he does look pretty good. It's getting relaxing enough, I might not go back to cutting it ever again.

Go Stuff Yourself

Have a pleasant meal filled with guilty pleasures and grateful thoughts.

Changing of the Garb

In a few days time we'll be wrestling with the Christmas tree and hanging lights on our front porch. All this craziness is an attempt to show our holiday spirit on the outside of our homes, the inside, and anywhere else we can find a niche, crevice or shelf with room for a garland. We're saying, it's winter. We're ready to lay down Lady Fall and open the door to Old Man Winter.


Which is wild, really, considering my boys are still marching around in Halloween costumes. When I see a fellow mother of the festooned costume-wearer in public I always look over with empathetic eyes and say, "I love you." Which is to say:

I appreciate that you are fostering creativity in your home.
You are so right to let your child express his individuality through his clothes.
It's not as embarrassing after the first 23 times, is it?
How many days in a row?
Have you found a good detergent for those flimsy polyester numbers?
Did you know you can get those at Target the week after Halloween for a quarter of the cost!?!?!?
Has he/she worn a costume to school, yet?
Mine has, should I be worried?
How many "personalities" does your child don?
You are such a good mom.

In other words, sometimes when it is said, "Oh! How I love thee, let me count the ways." It should actually be said, "I understand you, I don't know how to say it other than I love you."


PHOTO NOTE: Notice yesterday's costume on the floor.

Dear Mr. Incredible

Dear Mr. Incredible,
I just wanted to write and let you know I've enjoyed borrowing your super suit. The thing is, it doesn't fit anymore. I was wondering if you're at liberty to share the number of your famed tailor -- Edna Mode. I know she's retired, but surely when she sees how this is fitting me, she'll make a comeback.

Honestly, it's only a little tight around the waist, but the shirt shows a bit more than my bellybutton these days. And I've grown a few inches taller, so, it's not tucking into my super boots like it should. Any suggestions? My mother claims she hasn't washed it in warm water, but that woman is not much of a laundress. And I swear I saw her taking it out of a very hot dryer just the other day. Isn't it supposed to be line-dried, exclusively?!??!

Other than that, my hero work has been on hold. I've been working on my numbers and letters and haven't had much time for cats up trees. You?

Sincerely,
Mr. Mason