May You Have Room to Grow

In a recent moment of high concentration over yet another project, our Mason said, "I love days when I don't have school. Then I can make crafts like this." At the time he was refashioning a styrofoam box into a ship or pontoon or some other nonsense. I had a moment of heart warming affirmation that going to school every other day was a great choice for him and mentally populated a list in my mind of all the awesome things we could do together in his last year at home.

But the best laid plans are often the first to change and the subsequent changes are the hardest to accept. We attended kindergarten open house about a week ago and discovered that our elementary school had plans of their own. They had decided to move the part-time class that Mason had been assigned, in to a "learning lab". That's a fancy word for closet. 

Honestly, the learning lab/closet is adequate for learning. But in my estimation it is too small a space for fully effective, imaginative progress. There are no windows and the shape of the room is similar to that of a bowling lane. Knowing what I know about our district and our school, I know that by the time school starts in August they will have crammed 30 kids into a room designed to accommodate about 10.

That is why our family made the agonizing decision to come up with $4000 and request our Mason be placed in full-time kindergarten. Remember that mental list of all the fun things I would facilitate next year? Vaporized. (I'm also not very happy about the price tag of public school.)

All politics aside, the place where your children spend 60% of their time should make them happy. We're not talking about the difference between Harvard and Yale, here. We're talking about the difference between, "I can't wait to go to school today." and "Don't make me go to school today."

We Wish You a Merry Kazoo

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.

That Damn Elf

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!?!??!?!

That Word Actually Means What You Think It Means

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?!?!?!?

Can I Get a Seagull

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.

Tight

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.

Shadow

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."

Lesson Learned

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.

Not True

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.

That's Hot

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

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?

The Universe Loves This Family

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: Have You Seen Me

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.

Good Luck

How long do you think a 4-year-old can hold out while staring down the foil wrapper of a chocolate bar?

Sadly we'll never know because I snatched this sucker up and ate quite a bit of it myself before stashing it in my chocolate hiding place. That's right, I've got one. It's right by... on second thought... where it is, is none of anyone's business.

There is also a hiding place -- known only to my husband -- that conceals the candy that was in my Christmas stocking. He graciously lets me open my stocking, eat a little bit, and then hides the rest for me. He knows I want him to hide it. In fact, I accidentally found the stash the other day and screamed for him to save me and re-hide the stash before I inhaled it.

Then I also have piles of candy in plain sight. This is for my own torture. Mostly it's Crunch bars and Tootsie Rolls left over from Halloween. No one around here wants them. But they mysteriously disappear in a moment of weakness. Here's the thing with my will power. It is absolute. As in, if there is something I want I eat absolutely all of it.

If you have a resolution to eat or drink less of anything this year -- I wish you good luck. I really do.

PS -- I've actually tested the self-devised theory of eating so much chocolate you make yourself sick and then never touch the stuff again. Theory is built around the same concept of people waking up after a night of drinking WAY TOO MUCH and swearing they will never drink alcohol, again. Or those folks who can't see or smell Jägermeister, Goldschläger, or Midori without turning green. It's a great theory. Turns out, try as I might, I cannot seem to meet required consumption threshold to sicken on chocolate.

Last Day Blues

School resumes in the morning. It's been a wonderful winter break full of sunny days, holiday shopping, sugar eating, and a little pop of snow at the end. But now the dreaded day of return.

I can feel that my heart rate has gone up, my mind is racing, and I have to keep reminding myself to take a deep breath. Surely I'll remember the backpacks, the lunchboxes, the coats, the mittens, the scarves and the hats. Maybe I'll even get folks where they are supposed to go. And with a little luck, they'll even be on time.

Tomorrow is a big day, a new day, a full day. I'm worried.

Boys, Boys, Boys...

Dear C and M,
I was so concerned when Elf didn’t make it back to headquarters here in the North Pole tonight. At first I thought he had gotten lost or tired. But then I really started to worry about him because he promised me he was going to deliver a report to me tonight -- I was dying to hear how your had performed in your last day of school activities. I had to send a search party to find him. When he was spotted under your Christmas tree I was very worried and I almost cried. He is very sick and it was hard on him to take such a long fall.
Thank you for taking care of him and sharing your duck-duck blanket with him. He has just a little magic left. My helpers and I quickly scooped him up and delivered him straight to the infirmary here at the North Pole. I’ve been told he will recover, but he is in the Elf Intensive Care Unit. He is on a constant intravenous drip of sugar plum juice and sparkles.
Please think good thoughts for him, it will help him heal that much faster. Also, please be sure to be extra good while he is gone so that Elf and I can warm our hearts with your goodness all the way up here at the North Pole – it is very cold here, you know. Look for opportunities to serve your mother, your father, and the people in your community.
I hope I can send Elf back to your house before Christmas. But he first needs time to get better. Watch for him every day. Maybe the strength of your good deeds will help his magic return that much faster.
Love,
SC

Dear Santa,

Santa, we have a problem. Remember Elf? He fell. Now, I know your book says that if we touch him he looses his magic, but I suspect we dropped it right out of him anyways. So, please try to understand our sad predicament.

First we wrapped him in duck-duck, then we tucked him under the Christmas tree. We're now submitting a plea for forgiveness. Try to understand that a 4-yol and a 6-yol really can't keep their hands off a dandy Elf. We can't. We tried, but it didn't work out.

We're really sorry. We're not bad boys, not that bad anyway. Could you find it in your heart to fix Elf before Christmas?

Thanks,

C and M

Didn't See That Coming

In every family there is a child who talks. Will talk about anything. In our family his name is Mason. If you're really patient, you hear the damnedest things. Damnedest. Now, that would be the topic of the conversation tonight.

Mommy, I really wanted to tell you that I love you and something else. But I can't tell you.

Did you forget?

Yes, I forgot, and it's a bad word. (Holds up hand showing all five fingers and motions to count down on them.) Let's talk about bad words.

What do you mean? I don't like bad words. (Actually I love bad words.)

Like Stupid.

Oh yes, that is very bad.

And Shut Up.

Oh right, that is not a very nice thing to say.

Well, what about if a ninja says, "Oh my God!"? (We've been trying to explain that while God is good, saying Oh my God is disrespectful. Really a stretch of a concept for the under 5 set.)

That would be kinda rude to say.

Can a pirate say, "Oh my Gosh!"?

I think that would be OK.

What about if General Grievous said, "Oh my crap!"?

Laughing. (Can't help myself.) I think that would be OK but it is kinda gross and teachers and moms don't like gross words.

Oh right. I think if something is weird you're supposed to say, "Oh my heavens!".

Yes, that's a good alternative.

I'm saving this one (Points to last finger) for hamster. I like to say that.

Oh. (Scratch my head.)

Now mom, I think we should keep talking about the other bad words. Can you tell me some? (Holds up opposite hand and makes to continue counting down.)

I don't like to say bad words.

But mom, I want to know them.

How about I tell you what you can say?

OK, yeah, that's good.

Oh darn! Have you said that before?

No. (Counts down on his fingers.)

Oh my heck!

Laughing. Mom! That's crazy. (Counts down on his fingers.)

Freaking. Freaking is kinda dangerous to say because it sounds like a bad word. (I have known Mason to say, "Are you freaking kidding me?".

(Counts down on his fingers.)

Mason, really, I have to go to bed. Forget about the bad words.

OK. But I want a hamster. When can I get a hamster.

(I close the door and whisper, "Aw shiite, he wants a hamster.")

Surely There IS Something Else

I had the recent delight of attending the first parent-teacher conference of the year. All in all the teacher is pleased with Coop's progress but at one point she made a comment I found amusing. In her sweet -- almost sounds like a song in springtime -- voice she said, "Every time I ask Cooper to write about something he writes about LEGOland. Can you encourage him to come up with some other ideas?"

Writers' Block. He has writers' block. Well, me too. Surely there IS something else to write about, right? It's not just the milestones, big trips, and hysterical turns of phrase that come from the mouths of babes... life is more. Isn't it?

Well, I just don't know. Perhaps I'm a one-note wonder. Nothing to see here but kids and the funny things THEY say. And has really very little to do with what I think. Harumpf! And so I leave you with something funny from our summer vacation -- because I too write about little else than California.


Mason brought us this shell and asked, "Is this a fingernail?"

Blech.

That's Just Mean

Mason loved the gritty beaches of Carlsbad. He's a digger. And a searcher. And fancies himself a scientist. At home we are used to his never-ending pursuit of rolley-polleys. (Can I tell you he found one in every single theme park we visited in California?!?!?) But at the beach he looked for "she shells". And he was dogged in his pursuit.


So a note to the clever Sea World employee who decided to use a seashell aggregate for the concrete sidewalks of Sea World. That's just mean. I can't tell you how many times Mason stopped to pick up embedded shells only to be frustrated by their permanence. I appreciate that you and your coworkers are sitting in some office overlooking the park and laughing your butts off, but come on.