Let's Play A Game

We are re-doing our yard - exchanging dirt for patio pavers. In order to do this, we have to move a TON of dirt. So yesterday morning, my husband told our kids that we were going to play a game.

"What game?" Girlie asked.

"It's called, Let's Move Dirt," my husband said.

While I smothered my laughter, Boyo piped up with, "How we play, Daddy?"

"Well, there is basically one BIG rule," my husband said, "You have to wear shoes. Other than that, you guys can make up a rule each."

Girlie decided her rule was that she got to use her pink trowel.

Boyo decided his rule was that he didn't have to wear pants.

Wordless Wednesday

I found Girlie picking up her baby sister the other day. I am not sure who was more terrified -- me, Girlie, or Baby Girlie.

This one has my sister written ALL over it....

Because I'm an idiot, I decided to take my kids to the mall yesterday.

The day after Christmas.

Did I mention that I am idiot?

My kids were dolls.

The salesclerks were nice enough.

But it was crowded. And people just STOPPED for no reason.

Right in front of me.

And then they would stand there and not move.

While I had two kids in a double stroller.

So I used it as a battering ram. (And I'm not ashamed of it either.)

Finally, we left. And I was tired. I was tired of pushing a stoller. I was tired of the crowds. I was just tired.

And as we were pulling out of the parking lot, someone cut me off.

I so desperately wanted to scream and curse, kick and punch. But my kids were in the car. And they have picked up enough of my more colorful language to have my friends commenting on it.

So I gritted my teeth, laid on the horn, and shouted, "You IDIOT!"

Girlie piped up from the back seat - "Was that a man or a woman?"

"That," I fumed, "was an idiot."

Girlie sighed and said, "So it was a man."

Twas the Night After Christmas

'Twas the night after Christmas
(Christmas morning that is),
and the children were finally sleeping,
new toys clutched tight in a fist.

Daddy was playing
with his new electronic
while Mommy surveyed the mess;
it made her quite sick.

Buzz Lightyear lay on his side, all but forgotten,
along with the My Little Ponies heaped on the ground.
Ripped wrapping paper littered one room to the next
And ribbons and bows and boxes lay strewn around.

Christmas had come and gone rather fast --
Weeks of shopping and planning forgotten so quickly
And nothing was left to remind Mommy and Daddy
except for the mess and the credit card fee.

When in the kitchen,
there arose such a clatter,
Mommy rushed into the kitchen
to see what was the matter.

When what to her wondering eyes should appear
but an unopened bottle of wine and a new case of beer.
Left there by that wonderful man, so lively and quick,
Mommy knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave her to know she had nothing to dread.
"Drink this, you'll need it," he told her
pouring her a nice glass of red.

"For the next week will bring the noise
of new toys and the tantrums they bring,
but also the joy of watching your children
have fun with their new things.

And do not worry at all,"
he said with a wink.
"The year will fly by,
and Christmastime will be back in a blink.
With new demands for toys,
and new finance charges to be had.
So drink this right now,
and it won't seem so bad!"

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Merry Christmas from Our House to Yours!

A Letter to My Son on His 17th Birthday

My Darling Boy,

First of all, I hope you know: I am so proud to be your mom. I am certain that I am just as proud to the be the mother of 17 year old Boyo as I am of 3 year old Boyo.

My three year old son is my guy - my sweet, funny, smart, I'm-gonna-make-you-want-to-slam-your-head-into-the-wall-at-least-once-a-day-guy. I hope my 17 year old son is the same way.

Right now, you are frustrating and fun. Every day brings at least one temper tantrum. And one "I no want you!" And one fight with your sister. But every day also brings at least one sweet hug, where you run up to me, give me a hug, smile up at me with your angel smile, and then run away. The entire process takes two seconds. But my heart melts into Momma goo every time. And every day brings at least one "I lob you." And at least one kiss on my hand. And at least one "Come snuggle wid me, Mom." And every day brings a lot of giggles.

You marvel me. I want you to know that - you are a marvel. Watching you learn about the world, watching your sense of wonder - you are so inspiring and amazing. You can't sit still for a five minute story, but you will lie on the ground to watch a trail of ants for an hour if I let you. You answer every question with "I don know!" followed by the incessent: "Why?"

I marvel at your curiousity, at your imagination, at your sense of wonder. You make me do things I forgot I knew how to do. You make me see. You make me see the butterflies dancing in the air, the lizard in the bush, and the white clouds overhead. You make me stop rushing through life and enjoy it. You make me wonder and question and love more deeply than I ever thought possible. Thank you for that.

You are 17 now - life is coming at you hard. So be kind to your sisters. They will be with you a lot longer than I will. Protect them. Your father and I are going to make damn sure all of you can take care of yourselves, but there is something to be said for having a sibling who will fight your battles for you when you are tired. Fight their battles on occassion, and they will return the favor. Let them.

What else can I tell 17 year old you? Go out with your friends. Be stupid. Be 17. And know when to walk away. If you are drinking, call me. Don't drive; I'll come get you. And I'll try not to judge (i.e., yell) until you're sober. If you get arrested, call your father.

Work hard in everything you do. Question. Learn. Get involved in something. If you play sports, play hard. And know that it's okay if you are not the best. And if you are the best, don't be an ass to those who aren't. Help them be better - it will make you better. And, this is important, if you don't play sports, know that you are not less of a man for it. Pay attention to what is going on around you. The world is bigger than you.

Who you are now is not who you were when you were three and it is not who you are going to be in another 14 years. Believe in yourself - remember that you are the driving force behind the person you will become. The choices you make with your life matter - now is the time to start thinking about what is important to you. I'm not saying you have to figure out your life at 17 (please God, no) but you should start thinking about what you want out of life. And know that if you don't like who you are becoming, you can change your direction. Change is inevitable. Be brave enough to change.

Life is scary, and at times it is alternately going to make you gloriously happy, furiously angry, and depressingly sad. And that is okay. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to be mad. It's okay to be sad. And it's okay to be scared. Just don't let being scared, or mad, or sad stop you from being happy.

Happy Birthday, my son. I hope you know you can talk to me about anything.

I love you,

Mom

Are You Santa?

I can't take credit for this -- I found it on my friend's FB wall, and it moved me. I need to remember this for when I get the same question in a few short years.

"A 3rd grader left her mother a note that said:“Are you Santa? Tell me the truth.”

This was her mother’s reply....

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?” I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.

I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though. Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to have belief in something they can’t see or touch. It’s a big job, and it’s an important one.

Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand.

Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments. Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: he has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible. So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.

I love you and I always will. Mama

--Martha Brockenbrough"

Happy Birthday Boyo!!

Happy Birthday to my sweet and snuggly,

funny and frustrating,

active and awesome,

too-smart-for-your-own-good,

only-happy-when-you-are-messy little man!

I love you, Bug!

Overheard At My House

~
Girlie: Wailing from the living room "Brother drank my juice!"

Boyo: "Sister's not sharing!"

~

Girlie: "You aren't being silly. You are just joking."

~

Boyo: At the top of his lungs: "BE QUIET. WE AWE IN CHUWCH!"

~

Girlie: "The baby is talking to me!"

Me: "Awwwwww, that's so sweet. What is she saying?"

Girlie: "That you should buy me a new Belle doll."

~

Boyo (peering into the fireplace): "Santa going to get diwty. We need to open da gate."

~

Me: "What do you guys want to do today?"
Girlie: "Lots of stuff."
Me: "Like what?"
Girlie: "You know... paint our nails... play hide and seek... eat lunch... watch a show... Girl stuff."
Me: "If we do Girl stuff, what is your brother going to do?"
Girlie: "We'll put him outside."

~
Boyo: (glaring at me after being put in penalty box for being mean to his sister): "Santa no bwing you pwesents! You BERY NAUGHTY!"

Not Again

It's no secret that my son has had a difficult medical history for his three young years. I've mentioned it here.

But he's been off of his medication for 18 months.

Last year, we made it through cold and flu season with only a runny nose and a fever.

So I didn't think much of it when he developed a cough last week.

When his older sister developed a cough I figured that they might be sharing a cold.

But when the baby developed a cough, I rushed all three kids to the doctor.

Why? Why rush three kids to the doctor when I knew they had colds and I knew that the doctor was going to send us home with a "wait-it-out-call-us-if-it-gets-worse" advice?

Mostly because I remember what happened to Boyo and I did not want to take any chances that the baby would get RSV, pneumonia, and be in the hospital.

Although there was a small part of me that hoped that the doctor would take sympathy on me and the fact that I had three sick kids and would prescribe me a nanny. Or tell my husband he had to stay home from work and help. No such luck.

I'm so thankful we went to the doctor though, because I was wrong.

Baby Girlie will be fine, as long as I keep breast feeding her.

Girlie was getting better.

Boyo?

RSV, bronchitis, and possible pneumonia. The doctor couldn't make up her mind. A chest xray would have given us a better idea, but I wasn't putting Boyo through that, not when the treatment for one was antibiotics and the treatment for the other was breathing treatments. I convinced the doctor to write a prescription for both. (Convincing the insurance company, however, took some doing...)

So for the past week, I've been home with two and a half sick kids.

I never realized how small my house was until I couldn't take the kids to the park or school.

Smart and Strong and Power

I've mentioned before - a few times - how I want to raise Girlie to be stong and independent and to think of herself as more than a pretty face or a princess.

And I believe I've mentioned that I am struggling with how to do so.

So I was quite pleased when Girlie told me the other day that she is "smart and strong."

"That's right!" I told her, mentally patting myself on my back.

"And I have power and I have to use it to fight the bad guys. And mean dogs," she continued.

"You are absolutely correct," I told her. "You are smart. And you are strong. And you do have power. But I don't want you to fight bad guys or mean dogs. I want you to tell Mommy or Daddy or the police."

"Okay," she told me with a scary gleam in her eye. "I will use my power to fight the bad guys. And then I'll kill them! And then I'll tell Daddy and the police."

Scrambling, since I was unaware that "kill them" was in her vocabulary, I debated telling her that if she killed anyone, I didn't want to know. However, I decided to be a responsible parent instead, and I inquired as to what "kill them," means.

"It means to hurt them so they can't hurt you. And you have to use your power and your smarts and your strengths."

"Right," I said slowly. "But how do you hurt them?"

"You fight them with a light saber."

No more Star Wars.