I love it when I find an article or factoid that validates what I’m feeling. Like the one that comes out every year, saying that Moms/Housewives don’t get paid [at all] well enough. Although, I think that this year our approximate salary was quite deflated from last. I understand that the economy’s in rough times, blahblahblah, but I’m still doing my job here. I might demand a raise!

Anyway, the article this time basically supports everything that I’ve been feeling the last couple of days. For some reason, our boys chose Father’s Day to use up all of their perfect behavior skills. While, I appreciated the thought and it was a very nice day – we went to the zoo with my fam – I’m a little bummed they used up their perfect-quota all in one fell-swoop. Ever since then, I feel like I’ve been doing nothing but scold, referee, fix wounds, pull my hair, etc. (OK, I’m hearing the little mini-therapist who lives in my head say, “Jenny, remember: you can’t change those around you, you can only change the way you respond to them.” Yeah, yeah. I know.)

The gist of the article (if you don’t want to read the whole thing) is this: boys are harder until the age of 12 at which point, girls totally take the pain-in-the-neck cake. However, to water it down some more: we’ve got 12 years of hard (per boy), whereas parents of female-little-people only have about 6 years of at-home-in-your-face issues. So, we still win. Boys are tricky little machines!

By Paula Spencer – Parenting.com
“I often say that I spend more time and energy on my one boy than on my three girls. Other mothers of boys are quick to say the same. Forget that old poem about snips and snails and puppy dog tails, says Sharon O'Donnell, a mom of three boys and the author of "House of Testosterone." "Somehow it's been changed to boys being made of 'fights, farts, and video games,' and sometimes I'm not sure how much more I can take!" Not so fast, say moms of girls, who point out that they have to contend with fussier fashion sense, more prickly social navigations, and a far greater capacity to hold a grudge. And as a daughter grows, a parent's concerns range from body image to math bias.
Not so fast, say moms of girls, who point out that they have to contend with fussier fashion sense, more prickly social navigations, and a far greater capacity to hold a grudge. And as a daughter grows, a parent's concerns range from body image to math bias.
Stereotyping, or large kernels of truth? "I think parents use 'which is harder?' as an expression of whatever our frustration is at the moment," says family therapist Michael Gurian, author of "Nurture the Nature." "Boys and girls are each harder in different ways."
Every child is an individual, of course. His or her innate personality helps shape how life unfolds. Environment (including us, the nurturers) plays a role, too: "There are differences in how we handle boys and girls right from birth," says David Stein, Ph.D., a professor of psychology at Virginia State University in Petersburg. "We tend to talk more softly to girls and throw boys in the air."
But it's also true that each gender's brain, and growth, unfolds at a different rate, influencing behavior. Leonard Sax, M.D., author of "Boys Adrift," believes parents raise girls and boys differently because girls and boys are so different from birth -- their brains aren't wired the same way. Parenting.com: Pros and cons of learning the sex of your baby
So, can we finally answer the great parenting debate over which sex is more challenging to raise? Much depends on what you're looking at, and when:
DISCIPLINEWho's harder? Boys
Why don't boys seem to listen? Turns out their hearing is not as good as girls' right from birth, and this difference only gets greater as kids get older. Girls' hearing is more sensitive in the frequency range critical to speech discrimination, and the verbal centers in their brains develop more quickly. That means a girl is likely to respond better to discipline strategies such as praise or warnings like "Don't do that" or "Use your words." "Boys tend to be more tactile -- they may need to be picked up and plunked in a time-out chair," Gurian says. They're also less verbal and more impulsive, he adds, which is especially evident in the toddler and preschool years.
These developmental differences contribute to the mislabeling of normal behavior as problematic, a growing number of observers say. Five boys for every one girl are diagnosed with a "disorder" (including conduct disorder, bipolar disorder, hyperactivity, attention deficit disorder, sensory integration disorder, and oppositional defiant disorder), says Stein, also the author of "Unraveling the ADD/ADHD Fiasco." Some kids -- most often boys -- may simply fall on the more robust end of normal. They need more opportunities to expend energy and aggression, as well as firmer limits. Parenting.com: Guns and dolls
PHYSICAL SAFETYWho's harder? Boys
"Much after-dinner wrestling here," reports Michelle Mayr, the Davis, California, mom of four boys, ages 5 to 12. "I'm constantly fighting to keep my house a home rather than an indoor sports center. Their stuffed animals' primary function is to be added to the pile of pillows everyone is launching into from the coffee table."
In general, boys are more rambunctious and aggressive, experts say. Taking risks lights up the pleasure centers of their brains. Many parents find they have to keep a closer eye on what a son is "getting into," or use more bandages.
But letting kids explore -- at the cost of a few scrapes and cuts -- builds character, self-confidence, resilience, and self-reliance, says Wendy Mogel, Ph.D., author of "The Blessing of a Skinned Knee." Boys, being natural risk takers, may need encouragement to slow down a little, but maybe girls need to be encouraged to take more risks. Look for opportunities for your daughter to jump off a wall, swim in the deep end, or try the bigger slide. Parenting.com: Potty training: girls vs. boys
COMMUNICATIONWho's harder? First boys, then girls
From birth, a girl baby tends to be more interested in looking at colors and textures, like those on the human face, while a boy baby is drawn more to movement, like a whirling mobile, says Dr. Sax. (These differences play out in the way kids draw: Girls tend to use a rainbow of hues to draw nouns, while boys lean toward blue, black, and silver for their more verblike pictures of vehicles crashing and wars.) In a nutshell, girls are rigged to be people-oriented, boys to be action-oriented. Because girls study faces so intently, they're better at reading nonverbal signals, such as expression and tone of voice. Boys not only learn to talk later than girls and use more limited vocabularies, they also have more trouble connecting feelings with words.
"While most girls share their feelings and details of events, my three sons honestly don't see that as important. I spend my days asking, 'What happened then?' or 'What did he say after you said that?'" O'Donnell says.
Important note: Because boys hold eye contact for shorter periods than girls, parents may worry about autism, since this can be a red flag. "It's a relief for moms to know that this is normal and comes from the way the brains are set up," Gurian says.
As girls get to be 8 or so, things can get harder: The flip side of being so adept at communicating is that girls exert a lot of energy on it. There can be a great deal of drama around who's mad at whom, who said what and why, and more. Start when your daughter's a toddler to establish an open communication, so she learns she can come to you for advice. Parenting.com: Diapering tips: boys vs girls
SELF-ESTEEMWho's harder? Girls
Developing a healthy self-image is critical to all kids. But as the more compliant and people-oriented gender, girls tend to grow up less confident and more insecure than boys, researchers say. Famed gender researcher and psychologist Carol Gilligan, Ph.D., calls this "the tyranny of nice and kind" -- unwittingly raising girls to be people pleasers.
"This cultural pressure to put others' needs first, ignore one's own gut feelings, and avoid asking for what one wants has traditionally harmed girls," says Jenn Berman, a California family therapist who wrote "The A to Z Guide to Raising Happy, Confident Kids." "Despite the fact that she enjoys the positive attention and accolades that people pleasing brings, the more a girl pushes her own needs and desires underground to please others, the more likely her own self-esteem will suffer."
"I see a natural nurturing instinct in my daughter and her friends," says Tracy Lyn Moland, a parenting consultant in Calgary, Alberta, who has a girl, 11, and a boy, 8. "I find myself saying, 'I can take care of that -- you get yourself ready,' when she's trying to mother her brother."
Make no mistake, helpfulness and nurturing are virtues for everybody. But this tendency in girls makes it smart to help her explore and strengthen her inner nature and encourage her to try new things.
Body image is a big part of self-esteem, and though there's certainly body-image dysfunction in boys and men, it remains mostly a female issue. The natural rounding out of the body that happens in puberty clashes with the unnatural slimness girls see in the culture around them.
Be aware of the messages you convey about your own body, diet, and exercise. "It's painfully obvious that girls' negative body image can come directly from seeing their moms look critically in the mirror and complain," says Berman. "Teach your daughter to listen to her body's signals of hunger and satiety. Girls who listen to their bodies tend to listen to their instincts in other areas." Sports are a great way for girls to build confidence and a healthy appreciation for their bodies.
SCHOOLWho's harder? Mostly boys
Boys and modern education are not an idyllic match. An indoor-based day and an early emphasis on academics and visual-auditory (as opposed to hands-on) learning ask a lot of a group that arrives at school less mature. In their early years, most boys lag behind girls in developing attentiveness, self-control, and language and fine motor skills.
The relatively recent acceleration of the pre-K and kindergarten curricula has occurred without awareness that the brain develops at different sequences in girls and boys, Dr. Sax says. Music, clay work, finger painting, and physical exercise -- early-ed activities that once helped lively kids acclimate to school -- are vanishing. Few teachers are trained in handling the problems that result.
One area where girls do less well in school concerns spatial learning, such as geometry. Girls may use different parts of their brains to process space perceptions. The key is for parents to present both boys and girls with plenty of no-pressure opportunities to try out the areas that are challenging. Parenting.com: Gender vending
The bottom line? On balance, the general consensus seems to be that boys are more of a handful early on, and girls more challenging beginning in the preteen years. Which means that, as the mom of daughters who are 12, 9, and 7, I have the next ten years cut out for me!”

I, well we, have a big announcement to make. We’re expecting!!! I know it comes as a big surprise – a HUGE surprise. Trust me; I was just as surprised as you are. I really didn’t think we’d be ready this soon. It’s a big commitment. We’ve been keeping it all hush, hush for a while…until we were ready to share the news with everyone ‘cuz we knew people would have mixed feelings on it. But, we’ve finally wrapped our brains around it. We’re really excited and we hope that everyone can share in our joy. We’ve been busy getting things ready for the arrival – for the big day – doing all sorts of “nesting” to get the room ready. We have a little while yet, but the due date is coming up pretty soon here – June 23rd. She (that’s how we’re referring to it, anyway) is doing well and is great for her size. She’s 47 inches, has 1080p, and is 120 Hz LCD High-Definition. That’s right; we decided that it was time for a new Martin baby, so we’re getting a flat-screen TV. [Did I have you going there at all? Even just a little bit?]

Our current TV, which was a hand-me-down from family friends, has been dying a long and slow death. It actually still works though it does annoying things like occasionally cutting the picture out entirely so that you’re suddenly watching a pretty (and loud) snowstorm. You have to go behind the TV and jiggle a cable in the back to fix it. This is especially trying when I’m attempting to use the TV to entertain my children so that I can have two seconds to myself. I need to be assured that the TV will do its’ job of being the electronic babysitter that I expect it to be. We’re even thinking that we could write-off the purchase of the TV as a “childcare” expense on our taxes.

When our family room flooded back in December, I put the TV on for the boys (the carpet had been saturated just up to the entertainment center) so I could go out and try to unplug the drain. I’m standing out there in a torrential downpour, digging crud out of a drain when Matthew comes over and starts pounding on the slider door. He looks upset and very distraught. I’m so touched by his worry for me. “Oh, honey…it’s OK. I’m fine. I’ll be done in a minute.” He looks at me confused for a second and then yells through the glass, “No! The TV!” Motioning behind him I see that the TV had done its thing and the Curious George cartoon had been replaced by static. Thanks for your concern, Matthew. No, it’s OK, don’t worry. I won’t float away in this flashflood. It’s all good. I know your stinkin’ cartoon is way more important than my personal well-being and safety.

You see why we need a new TV? And we think that this new baby’s arrival will be the best of all deliveries. This baby can be muted or turned off, and it can even serve as childcare for the older Martin Offspring. It’s great!

We really have been preparing for her arrival. (Yes, I’m still going to give this inanimate object a gender). We had to get a new TV stand as our current entertainment center only holds TVs as large as 27 inches and, well, that just won’t do. And the new TV stand, led to the purchase of a new DVD storage wall cabinet, which also, for some reason, led to the purchase of a new desk, which then led to the purchase of a new ottoman cover for the one upstairs that got ripped and won’t even be in the same room as the new TV but is necessary none-the-less, and this led to the purchase of a new silverware set. See how all things are so interconnected? It’s amazing – this universe of ours.

Mom was a little concerned (or maybe curious would be the better word) that all this “nesting” was potentially affecting a desire for an actual, new baby…um, yeah. Seeing as that would require, most likely, five months of bed rest, I better have a rockin’ TV to watch first before I even CONSIDER the possibility of a potential baby/Offspring #3 which at this point just sounds like a bunch of crazy talk. I do like kids. And for the most part, I really like ours. I actually love them, as it turns out. But a baby that doesn’t wake you up at night and that can be muted and turned off? It’s almost too good to be true!

I am nearly done with my book. (I’ve been working on a children’s, middle-grade chapter book for almost exactly one year now). I’m so close to being finished with this first draft I can taste it (it tastes like chicken, as it turns out). I told Mike that it’s killing me to be so close to ‘all done’ and yet not having the time right now to sit down and just hammer out the last couple of chapters. I announced that, like J.K. Rowling, as she completed the seventh and final book, of the Harry Potter series, I have every intention of packing up and spending the next several days – however long it takes – holed up in hotel room somewhere wrapping up my manuscript. And then, upon completion, just like Ms. Rowling, I would autograph the hotel room desk. Mike didn’t go for that idea and for some reason he retorted with something like, “um, yeah, I don’t think you’re quite on that level…yet!”

Zach has a healthy self-confidence. He’s not only ridiculously proud of himself these days (he’s gone pee-pee in the potty two nights in a row at his very own suggestion!), but he’s also quite pleased with his appearance. The other day, I was at the kitchen sink – where I feel I spend a lot of my time – when Zach came into the kitchen and squatted down in front of the dishwasher. I watched as he smiled, grinned, generally admired his reflection and then gave a little wave and said, “Hey! Cute!” With that, he stood up and swaggered away.

I don’t feel a day older than 28. I feel a day and about 45 minutes older, actually. I’ve matured quite a bit in my 28 + years. I’ve spent my whole life being a Birthday Snob – me, me, me; that’s how it should be on May 24th. However, yesterday, I showed signs of great progress. I went to the grocery store and didn’t throw a fit that no one knew it was my birthday (despite being clad in my birthday suit for all to get the point…no one made eye contact for some odd reason…go figure). I didn’t even get to show my ID – I didn’t get carded! Then again, I hadn’t bought any alcohol, and I don’t think you get carded now for milk, bread, eggs, ham and cheese.

Mike followed through on his promise and for my birthday gave me…nothing. I’ve done a fair amount of spending lately; buying myself new clothes to go with my new hot bod. So, I made him promise that he wouldn’t get me a thing. And, in turn, I had to promise that I wouldn’t secretly be hoping that he’d still get me something even though I told him not to, which I did – I promised I wouldn’t hope for something but I kinda secretly sorta did (‘cuz I’m always hoping to get something). It was a good birthday, all in all. It was a beautiful day – sunny and about 70. We drove over to Port Ludlow in the afternoon to spend the 3-day weekend with my fam. The boys were ecstatic to arrive. They have a great time here at Summer Camp for Old People. And I must say, so far, we’ve all had a great time – reading our books, playing at the beach, I’ve had some good writing time and watching movies. Later today we’ll hit up the pool so the boys can demonstrate their newly acquired swimming skills from the whopping two lessons we’ve had so far. (Matthew has learned how to not cry through much of the class, and Zach has learned how to more successfully splash me in the face with water…these are some of the differences between our two boys).

The one gift I did receive yesterday was from my parental units who know me oh-so well. I got a new pair of running shoes (sweet!), some new running socks, and two plaques which essentially sum up the essence of Jenny; the Jenessence. One is a fridge magnet with a picture of a 1940’s-ish, primping woman. It reads: “Both of us can’t look good at the same time…it’s either ME or the House.”

The other is a little wall or door hanging that says, “CHOCOLATE: It’s not just for breakfast anymore.”

Last night I had a glass of merlot with dinner and a piece of Chocolate Decadence cake for dessert. Today, I’ve been promised a margarita with our bbqed brats dinner. And perhaps best of all, I did still manage to successfully play my Birthday Snob card and got out of changing ALL diapers yesterday. It was a wonderful day for me, though it turned out to be quite the crappy one for Mike.

Poor Matthew – suffering his first rejection, his first broken heart at the ripe old age of four.

So, there’s this couple at church who I refer to as “Imitation Scott and Amy” – they look like our friends Scott and Amy, you see, but they are the much less attractive, not nearly as friendly version. We’ll call them ISA for short. ISA have two children – a girl probably four and a boy under two. The ISA offspring are very cute little people – not nearly as attractive as the REAL Scott and Amy offspring, mind you – but like the real ones, they have the blondest, blondest hair I’ve ever seen. (They actually remind me of Mike’s baby/little boy pictures – he was a total tow-head).

One morning, after Mass, we went downstairs for coffee and donuts. I ended up in line behind Imitation Amy who was holding the little boy. I guess because of her resemblance to my friend Amy, I felt like I already knew her and was quite comfortable. I leaned around and said, “you have the most stinkin’ cute kids I’ve ever seen.” (Yes, that was my ‘be my friend’ pick-up line. Smooth, huh?) Unfortunately, because of my feeling so at ease, I started saying this without really thinking it through and as soon as the word “stinkin’” escaped my lips, I got stuck – I was stranded in a mud pit of awkwardness with the realization, oh, right. Snap. She doesn’t actually know me and I just said stinkin’ and I’m about to wrap it up in a phrase referring to her children. So, what I.A. heard was, You have the most stinkin’…………………………….cute kids I’ve ever seen.” She gave me a tight lipped smile, said a quiet thank you and turned back around. Fine! Well, I’d choose Real Amy over you any day, you fraud!!

This past Sunday, we sat in the vestibule area at church – they have a few rows of chairs set up for “kids who make a little too much joyful noise unto the Lord” (or something like that). We ended up sitting behind ISA and offspring. I made the very judgmental and non-Christian observation that Imitation Scott always chews gum in church – which is the opposite of classy, if you ask me (chewing gum in church, not chewing gum in general…I chew gum ALL the time…not that that makes it classy, it’s just not in the same category as chewing gum in church). Anyway, I.S. ended up taking his gum-smacking self to the back where he wandered around with the Little Boy. Little Girl stayed in the row with her mom and was busy coloring. One of her crayons fell on to the floor and rolled back towards us. I gestured to it, indicating to Matthew that he should pick it up and give it to her. He vehemently shook his head and whispered, “No, how ‘bout you do it?” I ignored him, knowing that eventually he would do it. Sure enough, after a moment, he picked up the crayon and shyly past it to Little Girl. She took it from him without a glimmer of appreciation or acknowledgment.

A little while later, we noticed a card on the floor under her chair, I gestured to it to Matthew and he got down on his hands and knees to retrieve it. It looked like a hotel room key card, but on closer inspection, we saw that it was a “Cirque de Soleil” VIP Room card. So, now I’m jealous of these people too! (Cirque is in town and I would LOVE to go, but it just ain’t happenin’).

Now, let me digress for a moment – my children wear ID bracelets. You know, the old school silver rectangular ones. I have been asked by SO many people “what’s up with those bracelets?” “Are they for food allergies?” I’m sorry, but I thought it was totally normal to brand your children. I wore won for the first several years of my life (OK, OK, I’ll admit it…I took it off for the first time a week ago). Anyway, until the boys really know their stuff – name, address, phone number, our cell phone numbers, etc. I think it’s a good thing for them to have.

So, here we are, in church with Matthew holding on to ISA’s Cirque de Soleil card. I was wondering what he was doing just holding on to it when I noticed he was busy with his ID bracelet. He flipped it over so his stats were showing. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, and I’m not even kidding, this is the direct quote, ‘cuz how could I ever forget this, “Now, she can see my phone number!” My son was totally making moves, trying to slip a girl his digits during church! Before I realized what he was doing, instead of handing the card to her over the chairs, he walked around our row and almost into their row. He stood there for a minute just holding out his wrist, slowly rotating the bracelet so she could see all the info. He grinned from ear to ear and pointed to his bracelet in a “hey baby, check this out” kind of a way. Eventually he handed the card over to her. Completely stone-faced Little Girl took the card from Matthew and then turned her back. This was beyond playing hard-to-get, this was just plain cold.

My poor, wounded, broken-hearted sensitive boy returned to me with a defeated shuffle. Trampled. Little Girl had stomped all over his heart. His eyes welling up in tears, he said, “She didn’t even say thank you.”

I no longer think they’re the stinkin’ cutest kids I’ve ever seen. Now, they’re just plain stinkin’.

Summer has arrived in Seattle! It’s like 85 degrees here – though the John Deere thermometer located in direct sun on the deck tells me that it’s about 103 degrees, but that freaks me out, so I’ll stick with 85. It’s hot and beautiful and a very interesting thing happens when the sun appears in Seattle – people disappear/appear. Allow me to explain (as you know I will).

When the weather gets hot, our neighborhood turns into a ghost town. You’d think we’d see lots of people out and about doing yard work, BBQing etc., however, for the most part, it’s like the ‘hood just isn’t the place to be when it gets hot. You HAVE to go to different parks (the neighborhood parks are abandoned), and you MUST go to the beach. Which is precisely what we did yesterday. The boys and I baked ourselves at the beach park. I made an interesting observation: the only people on the beach – and there were quite a few since no one stays in their neighborhood – were moms and children under the age of 4. (The children were under the age of 4, not the moms). Everyone else was in school or at work and I wept inwardly for them. It was the first big beach day in nine months – sand toys were dusted off, sunblock lids were de-crustified and pasty white skin was lathered in sunblocking goo. Beach toys-sharing protocol was put back into place as boys enviously studied each other’s collection of shovels, diggers and dump trucks.

Matthew had an especially good time as it was his first real outing in nearly a week. For Mother’s Day, he got a fever – but was kind enough NOT to share it with me. It was particularly bad timing as my dear friend Katherine arrived in town that day for a four day visit. When asked what she wanted to do while she was in town, she had said, “I just want to hang out and live the life of Jenny Martin.” Unfortunately this meant really experiencing the epitome of my life – caring for sometimes cranky, totally miserable sick children.

Mike was kind enough to take Matthew’s germs on – giving me a break from this nasty bug. So, feeling under the weather, Mike worked from home on Monday and Tuesday. Having Mike home and Matthew fairly mellow because of not feeling well actually worked a bit to my benefit. (Sorry, but it’s true). On Monday afternoon, as soon as the boys were tucked in for nap (and not a moment past), Katherine and I vacated the Sick House and went to the Pike Place Market. I haven’t been to the Market in four years…since Katherine’s last visit! One of the first things that Katherine and I discovered was a quaint little Italian wine shop. A small sign on the window said, “Wine Tasting 1-5pm, $5/3 wines.” We debated for a moment (or pretended to, so as not to appear over-ego for mid-afternoon drinking), and then both agreed it was in our best interest to participate. So, on a Monday afternoon, during naptime, I found myself drinking four (yes! We scored 4!) different wines and learning about Italian vineyards (and pretending I was there) with one of my dear friends. That, my peeps, is an ideal Monday afternoon!

On Wednesday evening, despite suffering through the newly acquired absence of Katherine, I had a marvelous evening with two of my book club girls. As an early birthday celebration, Molly and Kate, wined me and dined me at a cute little wine bar. And boy, do those girls ever know me – great conversation, a Syrah and a piece of chocolate cake! – my birthday week is off to a great start. And that was actually 10 days pre-bday. I like to stretch out the celebrating (and drinking, apparently) as much as possible. This morning, the birthday festivity was a different kind of drinking – coffee – and then a pedicure with my friend Rebecca. I now have beautiful toes to unveil at the pool! (Unfortunately, swimsuit season is starting early in the Martin household. The boys are starting swim lessons on Monday. And I’ll “get” to be in the pool with Zachary. Good times. At least my beautiful toes will be looking good!)

My eldest has turned into a Liar-Liar-Pants-on-Fire. I won’t go into details because it’s not even worth wasting my precious typing muscles on it, but the other day he repeatedly lied to me (all the while getting severely chastised for it) on the topic of underwear (on whether he was wearing it, if he’d worn them to school, etc.). Come on! Don’t waste perfectly good lies on underwear! Not to mention dropping a lie that can easily be proven wrong with the pulling down of pants! I’ll admit that it’s slightly amusing when the lie has no correlation to reality what-so-ever. Like, “Mom, it’s raining.” “Uh, no, Matthew, it’s not.” “Yeah-huh. It’s raining outside. Actually it’s pouring.” “Matthew, it is NOT…OK, why am I even having this argument right now?”

In addition to the lying, Matthew’s been toying with all sorts of attitude and general behavior-badness. (Yes, I realize that the behavior issues of my children, next to some, are nothing, but still…when you’re living it day-in, day-out it gets a bit draining). Matthew even dropped the W-word on me the other day. I told him to do something and he responded with the slightest of eye rolls and a, “whatever” under his breath. I believe my response was like that of being slapped in the face – a look of shock and disbelief took hold and was accompanied by the slow intake of air and denial. No you di-nt! My son?? My FOUR year-old son? Dropping the W-bomb on me?? Are you kidding? He’s not a teen…he’s not even a pre-teen!

So, you can imagine that this ‘tude from Matthew is met by my parental-version-of-‘tude right back. (As in, there’s been quite a bit of scolding and voice-raising in this household, I’m ashamed to say). The other night – the night of Underwear Lying Incident ’08 – Matthew had requested that I put him to bed. I agreed to this as it’s fairly standard protocol. Well, I was getting Zach ready for bed – diaper changing and slathering in his Eczema-fighting lotionizing regiment – when Matthew walked in and placed his hands on his hips.

“Hello,” I say, looking up at him.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Matthew?”
“You’ve been cancelled.”
Confused pause. (Actually a “pregnant pause,” if you will, but I don’t want to confuse people lest they think I’m with child and pausing for that reason…as I’m not…just to be clear). “I’m sorry, what?”
“You-have-been-cancelled,” Matthew enunciates each word incase I really am slow.
“I’ve been cancelled at…?”
“You have been cancelled; you are not putting me to bed. Daddy is.”
“Um, OK. Did Daddy tell you to tell me that I’ve been ‘cancelled’?”
“Yes.”
“OK, why don’t you go ask Daddy if that means I’m ‘fired’?” (Thinking: is this his new take on the whole Donald Trump-Apprentice-lingo AND hmmm, if I’ve been fired from my motherly duties, does that also mean I get out of doing the dishes tonight too?!)
Matthew grins as he leaves the room – he enjoys delivering messages.
When he returns I say, “So, what did Daddy say?”
“He said, I need to go brush my teeth.”

So game over, Matthew brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed, and Mike does the whole bedtime routine as I’ve been “cancelled.”

Later, I asked Mike “cancelled?! Why cancelled?”
“Huh?” Mike gave me a blank stare.
“Matthew said that you told him to tell me that I was cancelled…from doing bedtime.”
“I never told him that!”
“You never used or taught him the word cancelled?”
“Nope.”

OK, then, so it was all my son’s idea to dismiss me from the bedtime scene. I didn’t know if I should be hurt or happy with the extra time I had on my hands! Either way, Trump could use a new line. The whole “You’re fired” thing is so Apprentice circa ’05-’06; “You’re cancelled,” is really where it’s at.

I know. I’ve been a total Slacker Blogger. Sorry. I’ve been spending my blogging time…sleeping. Yeah, I haven’t done that well the last week or-so with getting up early on my writing mornings. Naughty, Jenny. Very naughty. The sleep’s been good though.

I’ve also spent the last week or-so doing things like falling down our stairs [not that I did that for the whole last week or-so; I did it once and learned my lesson – stairs are a dangerous, dangerous thing especially in slippy socks]. I semi-sprained my ankle, bruised my butt-bone something fierce and looked all around like a total buffoon. What is a buffoon anyway? And actually, the Blogger-spell-check-speller just told me to spell is buffoon; I was totally going for bafoon. What the heck? Anyway, I sat there on the bottom of the stairs whimpering and debating on whether or not I should actually cry. Matthew came down the stairs and rubbed my back saying, “It’s OK, Mom. It’s OK.” Zach came running out of his room with Mike and stood at the top of the stairs asking, “OK, Mama? OK, Mama?” I do have very sensitive boys.

I managed to gimp through my wounds (they weren’t that bad) and had a splendid book club get-away on Saturday. We shopped at the Premium Outlet Mall. Yes, swanky, indeed. And despite vowing that I wouldn’t be able to (or didn’t want to) afford a thing at these upscale places, I actually did some serious damage. And on more than one occasion a few of my booky friends had to wait for me outside of a fitting room. I really did need new clothes though. The great news is that I’m slimming and trimming and slowly but surely turning my outer into my inner hot mama. Anyway, I needed smaller pants, so I did have a good reason for shopping. We spent the afternoon basking in the sun at Kendra’s beautiful house. We even decided to play badminton where I proceeded to stomp the competition to smithereens. (Though we weren’t actually keeping score, so that point could be contested. Our main goal was to keep the birdie going back and forth more than six times which was our record.) I somehow got a wee bit too into the game and tried to semi-dive for the birdie a couple of times. My gimpy ankle did not love my new found competitive nature.

Kendra’s husband, Eric, took it upon himself to be our man-slave for the day. Shoot. If only there’d been a pool. We could’ve called him “Pool Boy.” Eric was in the kitchen preparing our dinner plates when I stopped in for a chat. (I took it upon myself to stoop to speaking to the hired help. Kind of me, huh?) He said he was having a blast being the fly on the wall of our get-together. I can only imagine how difficult it is to (attempt to) keep up with a conversation of eight women…when you’re not even in the same room. When we finally sat down for dinner someone had the audacity to suggest that our book club actually discuss the last book we read – the nerve! Eric flew into the room saying, “Ha! Eight and-a-half hours! You’ve been together for over eight hours, and you’re just now talking about the book!” Molly said that her husband actually thinks the ‘book club’ title is a guise – we’re really a drinking club who occasionally discusses books. I’m not sure what Mike thinks. All I know is book club night is the one night a month when he and the boys routinely get to have McDonald’s for dinner.

On Monday, the 28th, my baby turned two. TWO! That’s so not even a baby anymore it’s upsetting. And he’s so two! He throws a mean tantrum, let me tell you. To celebrate his two-ness, we went to the Rainforest Café for dinner on Sunday night with my parental units and brother, Chris. Zach, of course, loved it. Matthew, of course, sat covering his ears through half of the meal. We came home to have cupcakes and open a few presents. Zach so enjoyed ‘Happy Birthday’ being sung to him, that we sang it through about three times. Then, during breakfast on his actual birthday, I break into a rousing round of ‘Happy Birthday.’ Zach holds up his hand, shakes his head and says, “No singing, Mommy. No…singing.” (Was he a little hung over from the previous night’s excitement or something?)

Monday afternoon, my oldest friend Rachel came over to hang out. (Again, oldest not in age but in years of our friendship.) Being the overachieving (and great!) Auntie that she is, she brought gifts for both of the boys. Within five minutes of her arrival my little people were a gift-giver’s nightmare! Matthew threw an awful fit because she hadn’t brought a John Deere Harvester. (There are other things out there in the world, son…beyond the realm of John Deere). And Zach thought Rachel was funny when she put on the pirate eye-patch but then decided, ‘Mmm, actually, no. I’m terrified. That’s like the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.’ I think at some point both boys were wailing. Poor Auntie Rachel. Poor me. Oh, and sorta poor boys, but not really. They did this to themselves.

Blame it on the snow (and therefore Christmas music playing in our house), but Zach started singing “Santa Clause is coming to town” this morning. His version goes like this: “Santa…to town. Santa…to town. Santa…to town.” I said, “Zachary, are you saying ‘Santa Clause is coming to town?’” (I sang it to him). He enthusiastically responded, “Yeah, yeah! Santa come to town. Santa come to town.”

As if totally offended by the inappropriateness of it all, Matthew chastised Zachary, “No! Zachy, it’s not Christmas. Santa Clause is NOT coming to town.” Well, bah hum-bug. Matthew sure didn’t complain when it snowed last week, we listened to Christmas music and drank hot cocoa!

Mike chimed in, “Well, no. Santa’s not coming to town for a while, but Zach’s birthday IS coming to town.” Zach jumped on that right away, “Birthday…to town. Birthday come to town. Presents come to town. Presents to town.”

Matthew has already announced that Zach should get Legos for his birthday and that he will, of course, share them with his older brother. (As if Matthew shares his with ZJ. Yeah right). The one gift I KNOW Matthew would not insist on playing with/using is stickers. Zachary currently LOVES stickers. Meanwhile, Matthew has developed a serious aversion to them. It’s almost a phobia, really. If the checker at the grocery store asks the boys if they want stickers, Matthew practically shouts, “No! I don’t like stickers.” I remind him to be polite so then he says, “No, thank you. I don’t like stickers.”

The other day there was a sticker on the floor of our car – it was an ancient sticker that I’m sure had lost all sticky-power. I asked Matthew to pick something up off of the floor that happened to be in the same vicinity as said-sticker. He recoiled in disgust. “No! I can’t. It’s too close to the sticker. I might touch it!”

I did some Google-research on the topic and discovered that some refer to this as “stickerophobia,” though there was reference to something called “panniophobia” which also means ‘fear of stickers.’ I think there’s a good chance that some one made up this term in response to the question, “is there a name for a phobia of stickers?” And then people saw this panniophobia and since it sounded fancier and more ‘scientific’ than stickerophobia, they ran with it. Anyway, whatever it may be called, I did find that Matthew is not alone in this fear, though it appears there are no established support groups for this that suffer from this debilitating ailment.

Mother Nature has been so confused ‘round these parts lately; I think she’s suffering from some sort of personality disorder. Over the last few weeks, we’ve had a couple of weekends that included every possible weather system – sun, rain, wind, hail and snow. The last weekend when it snowed I heard probably four different people bellyaching about the weather: “I was so depressed when I woke up to snow this morning” or “I almost started to cry when I saw the forecast.” All I can say is carpe diem, peeps! In the Martin household snow is a magical, fantastical event. On Sunday morning, Matthew flew into our room saying, “Mom! Dad! Quick! Come see! It’s snowing! It’s….[intake of happy, ecstatic breath]…it’s a winter wonderland.” He says this last bit in a quiet voice of respect and awe. And, as if it’s Christmas morning, I throw the covers off the bed and go running down the hall to watch the magic unfolding around us.

Yes, I’ll admit that sunshine is nice. When we had that one day of about 75 degrees (remember that one?), I certainly didn’t complain. Quite frankly, it felt lovely. (I’m practicing for my future days of sitting on a porch in a rocker and shooting the sh— discussing nothing but the weather). It is springtime, after all. Matthew and I are waiting patiently to actually start our vegetable garden. So far, we’ve gardened…dirt. And it’s doing quite well, I might add.

Right, so if we had ‘normal’ spring weather, I wouldn’t complain just like I can’t complain about the wonky weather. All I can do is find the sudden hailstorms and snow totally amusing. And, while it doesn’t take much of an excuse here, snow is a perfectly acceptable reason to put on the Christmas music and have hot cocoa.

Can you still be a business owner without a business? Today is the first day of my music class at the Boys and Girls’ Club…or it would have been my first day. I stopped by the club on Monday to drop off copies of my business license (to show I’m all legal and legit and stuff) and to find out how many students were signed up on-line. TWO. 2. TWO were signed up for 30 spots. woohoo. There were a few things that went wrong here: first of all, it’s a hard time of year to be starting up a class/activity. We’re getting towards the end of the school year, so most people are winding down busy activities OR they’re signing up for new stuff – but more likely classes that’ll take the kids outside (swimming, soccer, etc.). Also, the club didn’t allow that much time for the fliers to go out before we were to start the class. AND I don’t have any clientele base up there – no fan club like I do down here. Word-of-mouth is the best way to get students and until I have an actual class things’ll start small. I knew that it would start small; I just didn’t foresee the class not actually happening as a possibility.

I’ve seen the decline in interest in my own class at home. Most of my “regulars” wanted to take this upcoming session off to do other things. So, for the first time ever (since starting the class three years ago!), I’m cancelling class since it would just be too small to make it worth it.

I went from way too much on my plate to nothing on my plate! This is a very strange feeling for me and I’m not sure how to handle it! I was so stressed about having the two days of classes, and I how I would balance that with the boys, etc. And now it’s not an issue at all! I’m OK with that. I’ll just have to use this time to find prospective students up in Bellevue. I’ll stalk the toddler parks and use my own musical prodigy children as bait.


We had our priest friend, Father Steve, over for dinner the other night. When I told him about the whole music class snaffoo, he said, “Jenny, this is God’s way of telling you that you need to relax! Take a break, sit on your butt, eat bon-bons and watch soaps.” Hey, if it’s coming from the mouth of a priest, I have no choice but to obey, right?

You know how you spend much of your life trying to figure out what you want to be when you grow up? What you’re truly meant to do? What your calling in life is? Well, for the last year or so, I feel as though I’ve been heading in the write direction. (Yeah, sorry, that was intentional. Did you catch that?) Well, a couple of weeks ago I was given the opportunity to try out a different occupation – and, no, I don’t mean as Snack and Chip Advocate or Commercial Sound-bite Professional. I was presented with the chance to try out my skills as a Crime Fighter.

So, as you know, I run three mornings a week, at 6am, with my neighbor, and now therapist, Andrea. (Let’s face it: she listens to me talk for three hours every week, she should be making serious money. And yet, she only gets paid with my admiration and undying love). ‘Twas a Monday morning and I set out, as always, at 5:55, to walk up the street towards Andrea’s house. (We meet somewhere in the middle depending on who left their home first). As I rounded the bend in the road, I saw a Dude clad in black hooded sweatshirt trying really, really, REALLY hard to open the driver’s seat of a red sports car parked on the street. The following thoughts rapidly flew through my brain: hmmm, I’m fairly certain that the owner of the car (and resident of that home) is of a different racial persuasion than Hooded Sweatshirt Dude. Hmm, It’s sure taking him a LONG time to get into that car…wait a second, yeah, that’s not his car. Dude is trying to steal that car! Bad Dude! Then I notice that Dude is not alone. Dude has Girlfriend sitting in a running small silver car with the headlights lighting up his work space. Again, lots and lots of quick thoughts run through my head. I tried to remember all of the things those articles in Runner’s World and where-ever-else told me about what to do in this situation. (A situation when you’re by yourself outside and there’s a Bad-seeming Dude).

I quickly crossed to the other side of the road and continued walking up the street staring at him like a lunatic. (I think there was something about looking crazy…maybe). He startled when he saw me and immediately stopped fiddling with the lock. He looked so guilty; it would have been comical (had I not been so busy trying to keep me heart from jumping out of my chest and, of course, maintaining bladder control).

“GOOD MORNING!” I yelled in a very loud and extremely cheery way, all the while staring him down with eyes that said, ‘yeah, I see you Dude. I knows what you doin.’ (It helps to talk like a thug in your head).

“Uh, uh, hi,” Dude stutters. “How…how’s it going?” Trying to act so cool, huh, Dude? I’m on to you. I’m so on to you, and your little Girlfriend who’s too scared to even look at me. Or maybe she’s just too busy glaring at you: See, Dude, I TOLD you we shouldn’t have waited until 6am to try to steal a car!

I strutted by with an air of complete machoness. I totally took in his appearance, her appearance, the car she was in and the house’s address. I was so on top of things. I kept walking feigning nonchalance. Once I got past them a little bit, I saw Andrea a few houses up the street, walking towards me. I continued my nonchalance in a subtle yet Olympic Athlete speed, speed-walk. As I neared Andrea, I reached for my cell phone (that I keep in the pocket of my nerdy-and-yet-oh-so-Safety-First! Reflective vest). It wasn’t there. Of course! The day that I commence my career as a suburban neighborhood Crime Fighting Mommy Machine, I don’t have the most important safety device of all – a phone. [I do, however, carry a very loud whistle that came with some of my instruments for music class. I’m not sure how or when I’ll put the whistle to use. I told Andrea about in the context of, “Never fear – should you be attacked by a vicious canine, I will save the day by blowing my whistle.” Andrea’s response was something like, “Um, yeah. Then ALL the dogs in the neighborhood will come running. GREAT idea.”].

When I got close enough for Andrea to hear me, I said, “Turn around. Turn around. Walk back towards your house. Turn around. We need to call the police.” Andrea shot a nervous look at me. “No, no. It’s OK. Let’s just get to your driveway. I think someone’s trying to steal a car.” At this point, I hear Dude and Girlfriend take off in their car – as in NOT the stolen one because I totally BUSTED them.

So, Andrea dials 9-1-1 and is relaying all of my details to the operator when she realizes things would be a heck of a lot easier if she just handed the phone to me. She’d gotten all of the basics out of the way, so the first thing that the operator asks me is, “And what was the license plate of their car?” Um. Oops. Damn. There goes my crime fighting career down the crapper. I was SO proud of myself for getting all the other details – I could still tell you what they looked like…and the house number. (As if they’re just going to sit there in front of the house waiting for the police to show up).

Better luck next time.

Happy Fool’s Day/Happy Birthday, Dad! (They go hand-in-hand, not that they are at all related).

So, Friday, I did it. I managed to talk for four hours straight about food. And I was quite surprised, that by the end of the afternoon – I had a sore throat and was hoarse! I’m apparently a little rusty and should have worked up gradually to that kind of stamina-driven performance.

I thought the whole experience was fascinating and fun. The interviewer was very impressive. He would ask me a question (everything from “could you please describe the lifestyle of your family” to “what do you look for in a snack”), I’d give a brilliant-I’m-sure answer and then he’d immediately ask another question perfectly pertaining to my previous answer. For FOUR STRAIGHT HOURS. We had a couple of breaks in the monotony. I gave them a tour of the pantry and the fridge. (He had me explain how I compare ingredients and health facts on the boxes/bags of food in addition to why I bought certain brands/products). And then we took a field trip down to the grocery store. (And yes, the camera didn’t accompany us for that part). By that point in the afternoon, I still wasn’t totally sure what the whole thing was about or what they were looking for, so I just went ahead and supplied him with a nonstop commentary while we walked up and down the aisles of Safeway. It was kind of like when I was in therapy – I made his job pretty easy. Although, thinking back, I realize all the ridiculously pointless facts that I supplied for him. (“I prefer this string cheese to this one because of…” “See, I only buy that when it’s on sale…”). When I was done with my store tour, he took me back to the snack aisle and asked several questions about packaging.

A couple of times during the interview, when he asked about different chips, I said, “if this is for Flat Earth – you guys scored ‘cuz I LOVE those chips. They’re the only ones that I buy on a fairly regular basis.” Which is completely true and it turned out, yep, the study was for Flat Earth.

When we got back to the house, they took CHEESY still shots of me putting away my groceries and holding up my 1st grade art collage. He loved the added creativity of the Diet Pepsi can hanging off the bottom. And it turns out, Frito-Lay (makers of Flat Earth) also own Diet Pepsi. I was their dream girl.

We went back to the living room where the best – yet most painful – part of the interview took place. He brought out four different bags (and flavors) of the chips and basically had me perform a taste-test. It was painfully awkward as I heard myself say things like, “mmm…mmmhmmm…this chip is, well, it’s very approachable and not at all standoffish.” Did I seriously just say that? On camera?? And about a chip??? He asked questions like “what kind of emotions do you feel when you first open the bag?” “How do you like the bag design of this one versus that one?” (They all have a different background scene).

The whole time that I interviewed, Mike had done an exceptional job of keeping the boys quiet and out-of-the-picture (literally). But when the boys saw mommy sitting on the couch with four bags of open chips around her they were like “enough already! Let me at her!” Zach came and ate a chip. (I quietly reminded him: “Look at the camera and smile. Work it. Here’s your big break.”).

In the end, I received my fat payment for my time AND four bags of Flat Earth “veggie crisps”…which I highly recommend. (No, they’re not paying me to support their product….well, they did pay me but I’m not on commission). Apparently, they’re very approachable and not at all standoffish.

I have found my dream job. Finally! People willing to pay for the immense skill I have to offer! Granted this dream job will only take place once (tomorrow afternoon for four hours), but still…Listen to this one: I will get paid (a good sum of money, I might add) to talk (yes, ME! Talk! For four hours!!) about…wait for it…food! All I need to do is talk and share my opinion about food – specifically “snacks” for four hours. Not only can I do that, but I’d LOVE to do that.

Let me explain. A couple of years, I received a call from Consumer Opinion Services. They were having a group discussion/survey on hospitals in the area. It was maybe a two hour commitment, one evening, and paid $50 cash. I loved it, and of course, I had a lot of opinions on the hospitals in the area (though this was even before I lived at one for nearly two months). The group discussion was kind of like my first ever Caucusing experience this year – I really like the opportunity to sit down with a slice of humanity and see what peeps out there are like.

So, I received a phone call a couple of days ago asking if I’d take a brief survey on snacks as there was going to be a study in our area. The boys were napping and, well, let’s face it – I enjoy talking and I enjoy food. The first question was “Please answer yes if you eat any of these foods for snack: cheese, fruit, nuts, dried fruit, yogurt, crackers, chips, cookies, candy…” Unfortunately my answer was yes to everything. (We apparently eat a lot). I did try to defend my last couple answers: Cookies? Um, occasionally. Candy? Every once in a while. [Except pretty much all day long today because I’m sacrificing myself for my family and polishing off the last of the Easter candy, so that they don’t have to consume that unhealthy garbage.] Then the question was, “Do you do most of the grocery shopping for your family?” “In the last twelve months have you bought any of these…Doritos? Sun Chips? Pringles? Etc. Then “what flavors of those did you buy?” “How many times did you purchase those?” “Do you remember what the package looked like…?” And my personal favorite, “Just for fun: if you could be any person, place or thing what would you be and why?” Huh? And you’re going to pay me to answer fun questions? Seriously?

At the end of the phone survey I was informed by my new biggest-fan that I was PERFECT for the study. She really was so pro-me it was a little odd. I even heard her say to the phone interviewers around her, “Yeah. I got her! She’s great!” Now am I great because I like food?? I think I hooked her with my ability to clearly describe the one bag of chips that I do buy frequently – Flat Earth’s “baked harvest cheddar veggie chips…with ½ serving of real vegetables in every ounce!” (Feeding your kids chips that are advertised as something remotely healthy, takes some of the mom guilt off your shoulders).

My new BFF informed me of the requirements for this little brief employment: it’s an in-home study, they come to me! I will need to block off 12:30-4:30pm tomorrow afternoon (and therefore, the boys must be supervised by someone else. Mike is so pumped about the money that he’s going to come home from work to chill with the boys). The interview will include a question and answer session, a tour of my pantry (which just sounds, well, a little dirty!), and then a trip down to the grocery store. There will be two interviewers and a VIDEOGRAPHER to record the whole thing!!! My question was: is this really a shot at my own reality TV show? I can just see the camera guy following me around at Safeway while I peruse the shelves, telling them what catches my eye. It’ll be like having the paparazzi following me around! I feel like Britney but sane! (In the end, I found out that, sadly no, the camera won’t record the field trip to Safeway. Oh well, no extra stares from the neighbors, I guess. Though it might be enough to be followed at the grocery store with three people with clipboards recording my every word).

The other fun part of this process is that I’m getting paid to make a first grade art project. I’m to make a small poster board display of “food and how it makes me feel…what is your dream snack? What would your dream snack do for you? How would it make you feel?” I’ve been promised that everyone gets an “A” – there’s no way to fail this project (unless it’s not completed). And that the “more creative, the more you tell us about yourself, the better.” Is this a joke? I can hang a Diet Pepsi can off of it, include a dark chocolate wrapper, and maybe include some healthier stuff too. Is this Hidden Camera or something?

I completed the art project last night, and I’m pleased to say that it’s quite high quality. Maybe even more of a fifth grade level than first!

Happy Easter! Let’s celebrate with some recent anecdotes from the Tribe Martin.

Matthew and I have been spending a lot of time “farming” here on the homestead. The definition of “farming” on the Martin land is this: we move piles of rocky, hard weedy dirt around; we use paver stones to form two beds next to the garage; we hope to eventually stick some stuff in the ground that will later grow into something remotely related to fruit or vegetable that we can eat.

Our afternoons farming are always interrupted once or twice by the shrill girly-scream of my four-year-old son. This means he has either unearthed a worm or spider. Yesterday, the insect interloper caused such an uproar that shovels had to be put down and we (Matthew and I, not me and the bug) had to have a heart-to-heart.

“Matthew,” I said, “I don’t like spiders either.”

“Really?” Matthew asked incredulously.

“Yep. When I was little, I always made Uncle Chris kill them for me, and eventually I slept with a baseball bat in my room to protect myself…not that they could do anything ‘cuz we’re a lot bigger than they are, huh? But it just made me feel better. Now, if Daddy’s home and I find a spider in the house, I have him kill it. But if he’s not home, I have to be brave and kill it.” [or pretend that I didn’t see it and vacate the house with the children as quickly as possible for a spontaneous – but necessary – errand].

“I’ll have daddy kill spiders too,” Matthew informs me.

“OK, but what about when you’re a grown-up, and if you’re the daddy? Then will you kill it?” I inquire.

“No. I’ll have the mommy do it. My wife will like spiders and always kill them for me.”

Good luck with that, future daughter-in-law of mine.

After post-farming clean-up yesterday, we went out do dinner. Zachary had earned all of his “coins” (poker chips that are placed in an empty deli meat container in order to bribe our children to be good little people). I didn’t have any cheap, crappy toys to give him as a prize, so we decided to head to one of those family-friendly places as a treat. The choice? Billy McHale’s. Let me tell you, a train driving around a track suspended from the ceiling is almost as cool as Disneyland.

But perhaps even better than the train was the Jack. By some act of God, we were seated on the other side of the wall-partition from a family with a five-year-old named Jack. Matthew and Jack had a perfect little window in which they could swap facts. The conversation – to the best of my memory’s ability, went something like this:

Jack: “Hey, watch for the train. I’m five. Where do you live?”
Matthew: “In the white and black house.”
J: (laughing) “No WHERE do you live?”
M: “Washington.” [Mommy: “Newcastle, Matthew. We live in Newcastle”]. “Newcastle, we live in Newcastle.”
J: “We live in Covington.”
M: “Mom! They live in the same town as us!”
ME: “Matthew, Covington is no where near Newcastle.”
J: “My name is Jack.” [Matthew grins from ear-to-ear. One of his best buddies is named Jack! And he has a cousin named Jack – who Matthew adores even though they only met once, last summer. Oh, what luck! We know how great Jacks are].
M: “My name is Matthew [pronounced “Maffew”], and John Deeres and fire trucks are my favorite.”
J: “I like tractors.”
M: “My favorites are John Deeres.”
J: “I like hay balers.”
M: (hardly able to contain his excitement) “John Deeres have hay balers!”
J: “How old are you?”
M: “Four. Green is my favorite color.”
J: “My favorite is red.”
M: “MY favorite is red…and green. I like red AND green.”
J: “So, Matt, [Mommy cringes -- I'm so not ready for my Matthew to turn into a Matt] do you want to be my best friend?”
M: “Oh, sure!”
J: “Draw me a map to your house.”
M: [Drawing lines on the back of the Kids’ Menu] “OK, you go this way, then this way, then go here, then this way to our house!” [drawing a square-ish shape at the end of the squiggly lines].
J: “My grandma and grandpa live in Ellensburg…on a farm.”
M: “Can I have a map?”

In purple crayon, Jack’s dad (who we haven’t actually seen due to the various Billy McHale’s props hanging in our way, but we assume he has parents over there), draws us a map that includes a few road names off of the Interstate with an X marking “Spark’s Farm.” I think, if we were really dedicated stalkers, we could actually show up at the farm. It’s a much more detailed map than Matthew’s, that’s for sure. And how great that Matthew’s new best friend has grandparents with a farm! You know how much we love John Deeres in this house.

Eventually food arrives and Matthew and Jack’s conversation becomes more sporadic as they focus on eating mac ‘n cheese or chicken tenders or some other fried food substance. At some point during dinner, two peanut M & M’s are passed from Jack to Matthew. They happen to be red and green, perfectly corresponding with Matthew’s recently declared favorite colors. Jack’s mom says something (still can’t see her either) and Jack says, “You can have that one when you finish your dinner.” Matthew – always Mr. Polite – thanks his new best bud. Finally, Jack’s peoples have concluded their meal (they were there before us, after all). Jack bids his new best friend farewell. When his parental units surface above the restaurant paraphernalia I wave to his dad and say, “OK, we’ll see you in Ellensburg!” Smiling, he responds, “Everyone is always welcome at the Spark’s Farm.” Sweet! We’ll consider that our standing invitation.

How funny would that be if we showed up – with our purple crayon-drawn map?! “Yes, hello. You don’t know us but we met your grandson Jack at Billy McHale’s and well, he’s our son’s best friend, we were given this map, so…which room is ours?!” There’s a part of me that REALLY wants to do it.

Zach is all about the pronunciation. For an almost-two-year-old, the boy’s got serious vocab-skills. I feel like he kind of skipped over that baby talk thing. (I suppose I could read back through my Blog and find actual documentation of this…or discover that I’ve already written on this topic…or find that I often quoted his ‘baby talking’ proving that I’m a big fat liar, but we’ll just move forward). He’s also pretty big into repeating EVERYTHING we say…and everything that Matthew says. Unfortunately, Matthew occasionally gets into that four-year-old boy potty/body talk thing that drives everyone within hearing up the wall. You’ll say something like, “OK, time for bed.” And you’ll get the response of, “OK, time for my bum.” (Which, it turns out, if you’re four, and a boy, is the most clever and funniest thing imaginable!).

Today, I was giving Matthew a hard time because he was in my facial cheek vicinity – I expected him to give me a nice little sonly kiss but instead he snorted out his nose onto my face. “Matthew!” I cried. “No! You weren’t supposed to snort! You’re supposed to kiss my cheek.” Matthew – under his breath, the cheeky little booger – muttered something that I couldn’t quite catch. Zachary, however did. And he proudly shouted, “kiss my bum!” Yeah, not cool, Matthew. Not cool.

So, as I said, Zach has extraordinary pronunciation...with the exception of one word: yogurt. Really, when you think about it, yogurt is a peculiar sounding word; especially the gurt part. In French, it’s even better: yaourt. (Pronounce: yow-urt). Zach’s yogurt pronunciation is best of all: GA-HONK. It’s quite catchy too. Matthew has even started asking for ga-honk. I don’t think that’s the direction we’d like to go, but it is kinda funny. So, go enjoy some ga-honk today!

Today marks an anniversary for me: two years ago today, I checked into Overlake Hospital, 28 weeks pregnant with Zachary. I didn’t leave until after his birthday – April 28th. It’s weird to think about the dates right now: today is March 12. Doesn’t April 28th, the END of April, seem a LONG ways away??! Let me tell ya: it seems even longer when you’re lying in bed the whole time. Thinking about my bedrest stay at Spa Overlake is a good reminder to be thankful for the little things (and the bigger things). I went for a 5-6 mile run this morning! What a difference compare to my March 12th morning two years ago. I can get up and use my own bathroom! (Hooray for privacy…and toilets). I have Replay TV and call-waiting on the phone. I can sleep through the night (when the boys let me) without having to wake up for a vitals check or shot in the arm and waddle to the potty. I’m self-sufficient (I can get my own graham crackers, thank you very much). I get to sleep in my own bed, and I can wear “regular” clothes with stretchiness as an option not a necessity. I no longer watch the morning news or catch depressing bits of daytime TV. (I do miss watching Ellen Degeneres though). Most importantly, I’m thankful to be home – in my house with my boys. No one else has to take care of them because I am totally and thoroughly capable (although half the time I’m still secretly hoping Super Nanny will swoop in for some guidance and assistance).

This time of year also marks another anniversary. It was almost a year ago (about a month after daylight savings), that Andrea and I started running together at 6am, three mornings a week. And let me tell you: daylight savings stinks. I apparently don’t handle change well. I just can’t let go. I’m still saying things like, “yeah, it’s six o’clock, but it’s REALLY five.” And “I should get to bed, but in old school, REAL time, it’s only 9:30.” You can’t reset your kids, so they really keep you tied to the old time. I miss it. I miss when 6am was 6am. Now 6am is really 5am, and that’s just lame. Who’s idea was this anyway?

Mike and I flew to Boise, Idaho for the weekend. Not just for kicks but for an Engaged Encounter Unit Board Meeting which, really, is nothing but kicks. They are so much fun! We stayed with a wonderful family who wined us and dined us, and we had a marvelous time with all of our Unit Board friends.

I must admit that I’ve been looking forward to the weekend for a while – not because of the ditching kids factor – but because of the airport. While I don’t love flying (I’m OK with it), I’ve really gotten to love the airport experience. I really think that I could spend hours in an airport (and have). I love to study others and in my opinion, next to Costco, the airport is one of the best places to pursue my passion for people-watching. At one point, while we waited to board our plane to come home from Boise, I made Mike move seats two or three times to locate the best possible vantage point. (I’m sure the fellow people-watchers were fascinated by our relocation process; they were trying to figure us out). That’s one of the best parts of people-watching: trying to unriddle their story, who they are, where they’re going or coming from, and (my personal favorite) why they selected that outfit for their traveling attire. You see everything at the airports these days: from heels and suits to pajamas and Uggs (really expensive, comfy cloggy-slipper-type boots, for those of you lacking knowledge in the current fashion trends). I was most fascinated by the head-to-toe white linen suit Man. The only splash of color decorating him was a bright yellow scarf wrapped around his neck. He happened to sit right by us and was reading what looked to be an essay or report on Yoga/Meditation. (Yes, my people-watching skills do occasionally turn into glancing at other peoples’ reading materials).

While Yoga/Meditation Guru Man made me happy, I was also fascinated – and slightly disturbed – by WAY Inappropriately Too Tight EVERYTHING Man. On Friday, we flew with WITTEM and his wife to Boise. On Sunday evening, we had the pleasure (OK, displeasure) of flying back to Seattle with Wittem and Mrs. Wittem. Friday’s ensemble was a skin-tight blue t-shirt, tucked into skin-tight black Levis, cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and puffy white vest (that was too tight to fully snap shut). I was disappointed to see that Wittem’s outfit on Friday was not an accident – I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt – but when the Wittems arrived on Sunday evening, I discovered, no, this is just the look this man goes for. For Sunday’s travel, Wittem selected a long sleeve, skin tight SHEER t-shirt, underneath white puffy vest (too small to snap closed), showing-it-all too-tight Levis, and white cowboy hat and black boots. Mrs. Wittem, however, always appeared perfectly normalized and acceptable in her attire selections. I just don’t get it. I must admit that I was assuming the Wittems were from a more rural locale – such as Idaho – and that on Friday, we were flying them home. However, seeing them return to Seattle like us, really threw me for a loop. Are they from here? I have a hard time seeing Wittem blend in with either the (stereotypes here): Yuppies of Bellevue or Urban Granolites of Seattle.

While we partied in Boise, the boys spent the weekend with the Buckley and had a marvelous time. On Saturday morning, my parents took them to their friends’ son’s farm. You can imagine the excitement. (Grandma’s….the boys were a little hesitant at first). When I spoke to Matthew on the phone later that afternoon, he said, “Mommy! I got to steer the John Deere. And I got to scoop up horse poo!” Wow, highlight of his weekend, I’m sure.

So, the Martins are all reunited again in Newcastle – undergoing the stress of daylight savings (you can’t reset your kids’ clocks) and sickness. Zach had a bit of a fever and cough for my parents this weekend (sorry, Grandparental Units!) and Matthew started the cough and fever last night. Being forced to stay home is actually a good thing. Yesterday, there was so much laundry to do, that I had the boys help me with one of their favorite household chores. We call it LAUNDRY AVALANCHE!!! The boys sit on the stairs, and I proceed to dump hamper loads of laundry on them. They ride down the stairs while butt-surfing on a wave of dirty clothes. Once all the laundry is at the very bottom of the stairs, they use dump trucks and kid-size toy shopping carts to transfer the laundry from the base of Mt. Martin to the Land of Laundry where it slowly (over the course of a couple days) is turned into clean clothes by the Sprite of Cleanliness who – occasionally and ever so benevolently – visits our home.

How in the world has a ca-razy life gotten even ca-razier? Let me tell you: I am now officially the sole proprietor of my own business! Little Ditties (Music Academy) is off the ground and running. In the near future, I will be on contract to teach my toddler music classes at the local Boys and Girls Club. A while back, I had considered taking on the Preschool music teacher position as well, but that was just too many hours right now and not enough moolah to make it worth it. I’m a stay-at-home Mom and a very part-time music teacher/business owner! (And that’s how it’ll stay for a while).

I’ve spent a lot of time doing research for my class. For the actual instructing part, I’m good to go. It’s things like needing to buy more instruments (as it will be a much big class: 15 kids w/15 parental unit/grown-up helpers), but especially researching all the legal/tax broo-ha-ha/official stuff that goes with having a business. What I have learned is pretty exciting! I can write off all of my class-related purchases including: my commuting gas/mileage, all materials, and I don’t know…if I need to stop at Starbucks to get caffeinated before class that would count, right? What about new clothes for the new Sole Proprietor of Little Ditties? Afterall, I am a business woman now. (Just kidding: Random IRS Person who might be reading this).