Before this crazy-dark gloomy thunder-storm, rainy week, back when it was sunny and beautiful (early last week), Zachary and I went on a preschool field trip to the farm. It was a delightful morning – warm and sunny and full of ridiculously cute animals. The kids had free reign of the place. We could go in any barn stall to pet the animals – horses, donkey (singular), bunnies, miniature pot belly pig (singular), chicks, ducks, cats, baby lambs and peacock (good luck petting that one). In the barn loft there were several huge stacks of hay and a couple of big rope swings. Zach had SO much fun. And I always enjoy a trip to the farm where my city girl mind can run wild, and I try to imagine a different childhood – one where I call Dad, “Pa,” and I walk to school carrying my lunch in a silver pail. I spend long afternoons playing down by the creek but pronounce it “crick.” I wear two long braids and an apron over my plaid-gingham dress. Yes, I do understand that just because one lives on a farm it does not immediately mean they exist in the late 19th century and “Little House on the Prairie” times, but in my head – that’s what happens. Crazy things happen in there. Like spontaneous musical sequences. Anyway, I digress.
Despite it being a beautiful day, I did have the forethought to have Zach wear his rain boots – OK, let’s face it, the kid wears them almost every day rain or shine, so that wasn’t really my doing at all. But it was a good thing as they got fairly well caked in animal poo – primarily of the horse persuasion. I hadn’t had the forethought – unfortunately – to bring a change of shoes for us, and there was no way I was going to allow animal manure shoes in our new minivan. I wrapped his boots and my old shoes in a plastic bag and drove home in just my socked feet. Later in the afternoon, I hosed clean the bottom of our shoes as best I could (over the garden where one spot will now be nicely manure-fertilized). I told Zach that despite my hosing his boots, he couldn’t wear them until it ACTUALLY rained and he could stomp in the puddles just to make sure that all remaining animal poo got washed away.
I guess I shouldn’t have been that surprised when Zach threw a major fit the next morning because he wanted to wear his rain boots. Of course, this fit happens when we’re already late walking out the door for preschool. And of course, the irony is that it’s not at all a rainy day nor does it look like it will become one. It’s a perfectly GOOD day for NOT wearing rain boots. Zach proceeds to throw his I’m-almost-four-and-I-will-attempt-to-exert-what-little-independence-I-have-in-this-case-clearly-establishing-that-I-should-get-to-choose-my-desired-foot-covering fit. It was a doozy. I tried rationalizing with him (why bother?), explaining that it’s a sunny day and therefore rain boots aren’t essential (why bother?), and that we really didn’t have time for this (why bother?), and he should listen to me (why bother?). Finally, I took a different course.
“We talked about this Zach,” I said, “I rinsed your boots off but they’re probably still a little stinky. They smell like horse poo. You don’t really want to be THAT kid – the kid known as Horse Poo Boy, do you? Do you? Horse Poo Boy?” This tactic of humiliation-foreshadowing worked beautifully. Zach wiped his fit-tear-streaked face and said, “FINE.”
Mom: 1. Kid: 0.
Two days later, it WAS actually a rainy morning. As promised, Zach got to wear his boots which he happily jumped into and ran out into the driveway to stomp a bit. We got buckled and drove all the way down the street before I slammed on the brakes.
“It smells like horse poo,” I grumbled. I turned Kia Sassy Wagon around and we came home to change shoes. Sorry, dude, but that horse poo stench lingers and I just don’t want to be known as “The Mom of Horse Poo Boy.” Sorry Laura Ingalls Wilder, I just don’t have what it takes.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Every once in a while I have a moment of Mommy Genius. Two days ago, we experienced one such moment. Still recovering from my cold, I summoned the energy to at least get outside – let the boys play in the yard while I did some much needed weeding. However, I was tired. And kinda lazy. So, I didn’t want to do the whole squat and pick, squat and pick thing. We had an overabundance of cardboard that needed to be broken down for recycling, so I flattened a cereal box and proceeded to scoot on my lazy butt around the flower beds whilst I weeded. This, my friends, is where the genius took place. It gave me an idea.
Next to our tiered flower beds there’s a portion of dirt hill (maybe 10-12 feet long) that slopes sorta-steeply down to the yard. It was here that the magic would happen. I squealed, jumped up and ran into the garage. The boys followed me cautiously wondering if I’d officially lost it.
“Voila!” I exclaimed showing them my idea.
They gave me blank-yet-quizzical stares. Thanks to Uncle Harry (who has Hoover connections) we now have a new Hoover Wind Tunnel vacuum. Said-vacuum came in an enormous Hoover vacuum-sized box. Thus: the Dirt Sled. My stroke of Mommy Genius. I explained to the boys how they could sit on the flattened box and ‘sled’ – if you will – down the dirt hill. They were intrigued and mildly enthused by my idea (not nearly as excited as I was). Matthew was the first to give it a whirl. He dragged the “sled” up to the fence, gritted his teeth and sat down on the squishened box. Holding on to the edges of his Dirt Sled, he placed both feet firmly on the ground and pushed off…and went about three inches. A little anticlimactic. OK, maybe just a rookie mistake. He pushed off the ground again and this time went maybe six inches. Not willing to admit defeat, he decided to push off the ground with his hands. This seemed to work better and Matthew slid down the hill (off the box, on his butt, in the dirt, over the roots, rocks and weeds). A little bit more ow than wow unfortunately. He flashed me a look that was more bemused than amused.
Zach ran up the hill eagerly for his turn. He situated his bum just-so on the box-turned-sled, pulled his feet up just-so, held on to the box edges just-so, and then sat there. Waiting.
“Zach,” I said, “You’re going to need to get it started.”
“Matthew!” Zach yelled, “Gimme a push!” Seeing images of Zach tumbling head-first down the hill, I put a quick stop to that idea.
So, Zach did a butt-scoot move – a jerky motion that would hopefully send his Dirt Sledded self souring down the slope. It worked. Sorta.
Anyway, all in all the boys spent maybe 10 minutes trying to zoom down the dirt hill. It was…mostly disappointing…but they still had a good time! And it kept them happily occupied for 10 minutes. I keep thinking of ways we could improve upon our sled training slope. Maybe just laying down a tarp and having a plastic sheet run to zip down. All I know is that under the cloak of darkness, I’ll have to get out there some night and give it a go. Genius, I tell you. Genius.
Next to our tiered flower beds there’s a portion of dirt hill (maybe 10-12 feet long) that slopes sorta-steeply down to the yard. It was here that the magic would happen. I squealed, jumped up and ran into the garage. The boys followed me cautiously wondering if I’d officially lost it.
“Voila!” I exclaimed showing them my idea.
They gave me blank-yet-quizzical stares. Thanks to Uncle Harry (who has Hoover connections) we now have a new Hoover Wind Tunnel vacuum. Said-vacuum came in an enormous Hoover vacuum-sized box. Thus: the Dirt Sled. My stroke of Mommy Genius. I explained to the boys how they could sit on the flattened box and ‘sled’ – if you will – down the dirt hill. They were intrigued and mildly enthused by my idea (not nearly as excited as I was). Matthew was the first to give it a whirl. He dragged the “sled” up to the fence, gritted his teeth and sat down on the squishened box. Holding on to the edges of his Dirt Sled, he placed both feet firmly on the ground and pushed off…and went about three inches. A little anticlimactic. OK, maybe just a rookie mistake. He pushed off the ground again and this time went maybe six inches. Not willing to admit defeat, he decided to push off the ground with his hands. This seemed to work better and Matthew slid down the hill (off the box, on his butt, in the dirt, over the roots, rocks and weeds). A little bit more ow than wow unfortunately. He flashed me a look that was more bemused than amused.
Zach ran up the hill eagerly for his turn. He situated his bum just-so on the box-turned-sled, pulled his feet up just-so, held on to the box edges just-so, and then sat there. Waiting.
“Zach,” I said, “You’re going to need to get it started.”
“Matthew!” Zach yelled, “Gimme a push!” Seeing images of Zach tumbling head-first down the hill, I put a quick stop to that idea.
So, Zach did a butt-scoot move – a jerky motion that would hopefully send his Dirt Sledded self souring down the slope. It worked. Sorta.
Anyway, all in all the boys spent maybe 10 minutes trying to zoom down the dirt hill. It was…mostly disappointing…but they still had a good time! And it kept them happily occupied for 10 minutes. I keep thinking of ways we could improve upon our sled training slope. Maybe just laying down a tarp and having a plastic sheet run to zip down. All I know is that under the cloak of darkness, I’ll have to get out there some night and give it a go. Genius, I tell you. Genius.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
I have a cold. Of course, I have a cold. I just recently thought, “Gosh! I’ve been SO healthy this year. I haven’t had a cold or anything in a LONG time.” Stupid. And really, it has been miraculous that I’ve been cold-and-sick-free especially since two of my preschool students have literally shown up to music class for the last three Wednesdays oozing all sorts of green slime – for three weeks in a row! And with no end to the slime in sight!
Now, I like to think that I’m not TERRIBLY whiny about having a cold (unlike those who suffer from “Man Cold” – YouTube it). But I certainly do get creative when asked how I’m feeling (especially by Mike whose job as Spousal Unit is to offer unconditional love, support, sympathy and backrubs). I typically answer with: “I feel like I’ve been run over by (or sat upon, or danced a jig on by a…) fill in the blank.” Good ones are: a heard of runaway elephants, a semi-truck, a drunk and very obese pack/herd/grouping of evil Leprechauns (it was St. Patty’s Day yesterday, so you get extra credit for being seasonally accurate). Like at Christmas one could say: “I feel as though all of Santa’s reindeer have decided to run laps on my head.” (In the case of a head cold). Or for a headache at Thanksgiving: “I’m pretty certain that the entire Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade – complete with marching bands – has decided that my brain is the parade route this year.”
But it’s interesting how my tolerance level has changed a bit. Normally, on Thursday mornings, Zachary and I head to the gym where I attend the most kick-your-butt Spin class ever. Now, I’m debating if I have it in me. Five years ago I ran a freakin’ 26.2 mile marathon with a cold!! (Granted, I didn’t have a choice as it WAS race day). Tomorrow I’m supposed to run a measly 6-mile training run, and I’m already seeing how easy it would be to talk myself out of it. I could practically talk myself out of a run for a nasty hangnail these days!
And I’m supposed to go to the dentist today too. I’m way over due, so what difference will another week or so make? I mean, I figure they’d rather have me reschedule than attempt to breathe through my nose when I can’t really breathe through my nose and my mouth is all full of their hands ‘n stuff. I’d want me to reschedule if I were them – those dentist people that do all the teeth-handling work. Yeah, I think it’s in all of our best interest if I reschedule. And just stay in stretchy-at-home-comfy-clothes all day. And if I read. And write. And rest. Yeah, that sounds good. Tell life I’m calling in sick today.
Now, I like to think that I’m not TERRIBLY whiny about having a cold (unlike those who suffer from “Man Cold” – YouTube it). But I certainly do get creative when asked how I’m feeling (especially by Mike whose job as Spousal Unit is to offer unconditional love, support, sympathy and backrubs). I typically answer with: “I feel like I’ve been run over by (or sat upon, or danced a jig on by a…) fill in the blank.” Good ones are: a heard of runaway elephants, a semi-truck, a drunk and very obese pack/herd/grouping of evil Leprechauns (it was St. Patty’s Day yesterday, so you get extra credit for being seasonally accurate). Like at Christmas one could say: “I feel as though all of Santa’s reindeer have decided to run laps on my head.” (In the case of a head cold). Or for a headache at Thanksgiving: “I’m pretty certain that the entire Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade – complete with marching bands – has decided that my brain is the parade route this year.”
But it’s interesting how my tolerance level has changed a bit. Normally, on Thursday mornings, Zachary and I head to the gym where I attend the most kick-your-butt Spin class ever. Now, I’m debating if I have it in me. Five years ago I ran a freakin’ 26.2 mile marathon with a cold!! (Granted, I didn’t have a choice as it WAS race day). Tomorrow I’m supposed to run a measly 6-mile training run, and I’m already seeing how easy it would be to talk myself out of it. I could practically talk myself out of a run for a nasty hangnail these days!
And I’m supposed to go to the dentist today too. I’m way over due, so what difference will another week or so make? I mean, I figure they’d rather have me reschedule than attempt to breathe through my nose when I can’t really breathe through my nose and my mouth is all full of their hands ‘n stuff. I’d want me to reschedule if I were them – those dentist people that do all the teeth-handling work. Yeah, I think it’s in all of our best interest if I reschedule. And just stay in stretchy-at-home-comfy-clothes all day. And if I read. And write. And rest. Yeah, that sounds good. Tell life I’m calling in sick today.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Read in loud-abrasive-car-sales-commercial Voice: Are you in need of a new car? Well, if you are: let the Car NegotiaTORS assist you! With skill beyond imagination, these two will wear down even the most skilled of Car Salesmen!
That’d be us. Yep, now allow me to brag about our Car Negotiation Skills (CNS) that were put into play a few weeks ago when purchasing our minivan. First of all, we had to plan the first attack with all the right accoutrements: Token Cute Children (check – didn’t even have to rent ‘em; we supplied our own), Short Window of Time close to Closing Time (check), Seemingly Undecided on Whether or Not We Really Want To Buy (check – we TOTALLY knew we were buying), Token Cute Children that eventually turn into Cranky Children (check – cranky children can unnerve anyone), Perfectly Played Emotions to Tug on Salesman’s Heartstrings (check).
We first went to the dealership after church and lunch on Sunday afternoon. I had spent days compiling lists of newishly-used available Toyota Sienna’s and Kia Sedona’s, so we knew exactly what ‘merchandise’ each dealership had. We bought our ’98 Honda CRV (that we still have and love) at Renton Honda & Kia, so we thought we’d go there again.
After test-driving both cars – an ’08 Toyota Sienna and the ’09 Kia Sedona, we decided on the Kia. (Despite the fact that the Toyota was a beautiful dark blue that Matthew and I both voted for; our Kia is red and still very sassy and beautiful). We told the salesmen that we would need to leave at 3:30 since Matthew had his ‘Faith Formation’ class back at church. Yes, we are a church-going people. This should help in our proof that we are a good people who need a minivan that we can fill with Catholic babies…or something.
As soon as we said, we needed to leave (and the boys began to act perfectly cranky on cue), the salesdudes turned on their defenses. “Well, gosh, we’d love for you to be able to drive away with your new van today, let me just go check with the manager, actually I’ll have him come talk to you; we’ll see what we can do for you.”
Cue the jolly manager who likes to say things like, “I can see that you’re a family with good taste and that you’ve done your research. I also hear that you’ve got a bit of a time-crunch right now, so FOR YOU ONLY, I’m WILLING to make quite the deal. I NEVER do this, but I’d be willing to knock off a couple thousand and sell this BEAUTIFUL family minivan to you for the WHOLESALE price. I NEVER do that, but boy, I sure like you guys and….” Blahblahblah.
We act as thought, for a moment, we’re considering it, and then say, “Gee, thanks, but we’re just not buying today. We’ve got to go. We’ll be back tomorrow.” And we make a sudden exit.
The salesmen egos pop and rapidly deflate before our eyes. When we DO return the next day – as promised – we are greeted with huge grins and hearty handshakes.
“What?” I ask innocently. “You didn’t believe us? You didn’t think we’d come back?”
Both Salesman and Manager inform us that of the people that promise to return, statistically only 2% actually do. That’s right. Now we’ve proven ourselves a bit. We’re a good, kind, honest people. And then. Oh, right when they think, this will be an easy-sell to these nice, honest, Churchly-people; we unleash the madness – our mad Negotiating Skills, that is. For THREE HOURS we go back and forth with these guys. It’s a game of car-sale-negotiating tennis – an evenly matched, well-played, nail-biting battle.
One would think when watching us that Mike and I must be using some sort of baseball base coach cues, the way we so seamlessly trade from bad cop (negotiator) to good cop (negotiator). But our negotiating technique goes without words, without a need to communicate. We are a well-oiled machine; we are a car salesman’s worst nightmare. Mike and I teeter-totter back and forth playing with their emotions. At one point, I act ready to sign while Mike argues a bit more. Then, when Mike seems satisfied, I suddenly have doubts forcing them to drop the price yet again.
We’ve worn them down, the manager has said a few times, “Look, I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do. I’m already not making any money on this sale since we dropped it down to wholesale yesterday.” We argue a few other small points, and then he says, “Well, ya know, we’re just arguing about $100 now. Are we really just arguing about a little bit of money now?”
This is when I whip out the waterworks, with eyes welling up, just enough, I say, “Well, it’s not just a little bit of money to us. We’re adopting a child. That’s an expensive thing. We need every little bit of money we can get.” He quickly back pedals after my saying that he’s basically keeping us from supplying an orphan with a loving home. He throws in two free full tanks of gas and finally, FINALLY we – happily change back into ourselves – and shake on it. Afterwards, as we delve into the paperwork, our salesman, Tony, compliments us on our tough fight. With a grin, he shakes his head as he hands us the keys. Well played. Well played.
That’d be us. Yep, now allow me to brag about our Car Negotiation Skills (CNS) that were put into play a few weeks ago when purchasing our minivan. First of all, we had to plan the first attack with all the right accoutrements: Token Cute Children (check – didn’t even have to rent ‘em; we supplied our own), Short Window of Time close to Closing Time (check), Seemingly Undecided on Whether or Not We Really Want To Buy (check – we TOTALLY knew we were buying), Token Cute Children that eventually turn into Cranky Children (check – cranky children can unnerve anyone), Perfectly Played Emotions to Tug on Salesman’s Heartstrings (check).
We first went to the dealership after church and lunch on Sunday afternoon. I had spent days compiling lists of newishly-used available Toyota Sienna’s and Kia Sedona’s, so we knew exactly what ‘merchandise’ each dealership had. We bought our ’98 Honda CRV (that we still have and love) at Renton Honda & Kia, so we thought we’d go there again.
After test-driving both cars – an ’08 Toyota Sienna and the ’09 Kia Sedona, we decided on the Kia. (Despite the fact that the Toyota was a beautiful dark blue that Matthew and I both voted for; our Kia is red and still very sassy and beautiful). We told the salesmen that we would need to leave at 3:30 since Matthew had his ‘Faith Formation’ class back at church. Yes, we are a church-going people. This should help in our proof that we are a good people who need a minivan that we can fill with Catholic babies…or something.
As soon as we said, we needed to leave (and the boys began to act perfectly cranky on cue), the salesdudes turned on their defenses. “Well, gosh, we’d love for you to be able to drive away with your new van today, let me just go check with the manager, actually I’ll have him come talk to you; we’ll see what we can do for you.”
Cue the jolly manager who likes to say things like, “I can see that you’re a family with good taste and that you’ve done your research. I also hear that you’ve got a bit of a time-crunch right now, so FOR YOU ONLY, I’m WILLING to make quite the deal. I NEVER do this, but I’d be willing to knock off a couple thousand and sell this BEAUTIFUL family minivan to you for the WHOLESALE price. I NEVER do that, but boy, I sure like you guys and….” Blahblahblah.
We act as thought, for a moment, we’re considering it, and then say, “Gee, thanks, but we’re just not buying today. We’ve got to go. We’ll be back tomorrow.” And we make a sudden exit.
The salesmen egos pop and rapidly deflate before our eyes. When we DO return the next day – as promised – we are greeted with huge grins and hearty handshakes.
“What?” I ask innocently. “You didn’t believe us? You didn’t think we’d come back?”
Both Salesman and Manager inform us that of the people that promise to return, statistically only 2% actually do. That’s right. Now we’ve proven ourselves a bit. We’re a good, kind, honest people. And then. Oh, right when they think, this will be an easy-sell to these nice, honest, Churchly-people; we unleash the madness – our mad Negotiating Skills, that is. For THREE HOURS we go back and forth with these guys. It’s a game of car-sale-negotiating tennis – an evenly matched, well-played, nail-biting battle.
One would think when watching us that Mike and I must be using some sort of baseball base coach cues, the way we so seamlessly trade from bad cop (negotiator) to good cop (negotiator). But our negotiating technique goes without words, without a need to communicate. We are a well-oiled machine; we are a car salesman’s worst nightmare. Mike and I teeter-totter back and forth playing with their emotions. At one point, I act ready to sign while Mike argues a bit more. Then, when Mike seems satisfied, I suddenly have doubts forcing them to drop the price yet again.
We’ve worn them down, the manager has said a few times, “Look, I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do. I’m already not making any money on this sale since we dropped it down to wholesale yesterday.” We argue a few other small points, and then he says, “Well, ya know, we’re just arguing about $100 now. Are we really just arguing about a little bit of money now?”
This is when I whip out the waterworks, with eyes welling up, just enough, I say, “Well, it’s not just a little bit of money to us. We’re adopting a child. That’s an expensive thing. We need every little bit of money we can get.” He quickly back pedals after my saying that he’s basically keeping us from supplying an orphan with a loving home. He throws in two free full tanks of gas and finally, FINALLY we – happily change back into ourselves – and shake on it. Afterwards, as we delve into the paperwork, our salesman, Tony, compliments us on our tough fight. With a grin, he shakes his head as he hands us the keys. Well played. Well played.
Friday, March 12, 2010
It’s mind-boggling that a week ago right now, we were packing up to walk in the warm, sunny morning to school (where I would eventually see my sorrowful defeat at a nail-biting footrace – see two blogs ago). But it was about 60 degrees and gorgeous. Today? Not so much.
I had a training run to do this morning – just a five miler; not too bad. It’s raining. It was a run in the rain. I’m actually a huge fan of running in the rain. Most Seattle rainy days are actually just kind of gray, sputtery, mostly-rain-constipated days; they aren’t THAT wet. Um, yeah, this morning? Again, not so much.
The rain today is the kind that you see on Seattle-themed movies and TV shows, like on Grey’s Anatomy. A torrential downpour where at any moment you’ll hear thunder rolling across the Sound (this rarely happens, by the way, the whole thunder and lightning thing). It’s the rain when at any moment Dr. McSteamy or McDreamy will come running in, soaking wet and mcsexy and, let’s face it, also a bit mcslimey. Yeah, that’d be nice. Well, OK, I don’t need a McSteamy or McDreamy, I’ve got a McMikey. (Oh, sorry, did you just gag a little?! My bad.)
This was the rain that I ran in this morning. Things started out fine; I actually even made a couple of phone calls while starting out. Seriously, I did. I’m the crazy lady, running in the rain at 7 in the morning, talking on her cell phone. THAT is multitasking. About two miles in I realized: Dang, it’s wet. This is the wettest run since I trained for the marathon five years ago. With one of my training partners, I ran an 18 mile long run around Green Lake.
We slogged and squished six times around the three-mile path in the pouring, dumping shower of rain madness, questioning our sanity with each squashy step. Now that I think about it, that run was a dry jog in the park compared to this!
So, yes, I’m on my run this morning, and even I’ll admit that it’s raining – it’s not just sprinkling or drizzling, actually, it is pouring. Then, right when I think it can’t actually rain harder, the angels maniacally, giggling with angelic-yet-devious little chuckles, dump bucket-after-bucket of water upon my head. Soon, I have to start pulling my pants up every few steps as they’re being dragged down by the weight of the water-soaked-fabric hanging limply around my ankles.
A mile or so later, I find myself at the bottom of a steep hill. Yippee (said with no enthusiasm what-so-ever), I now get to run up a massive slip’nslide. Now, running shoes aren’t exactly waterproof – they’re actually created in the exact opposite of waterproof. Let’s make them as porous as possible to allow as much breathability as possible; we wouldn’t want any moisture, now would we? My shoes become a slush puddle. With each step, I feel my toes squish about in a small puddle of rain-sweat-combo. I’m no longer careful that I won’t slip on the street; I actually have to pay more attention to slipping and sliding in the mini-bathtubs that are strapped around my feet.
While slowly ascending the hill, I notice that small rivers of rainwater are now gushing down both sides of the street. I expect at any moment to see Jiminy Cricket (or some other cute Disney bug character) floating down the river in his little leaf boat, a twig oar clutched lazily in his hand (bug paw? Claw?). He’d look up, grin at me, and give me a gentlebuggly tip ‘o his hat.
I shake my head like a dog, sending a spray of water about me. The rain is starting to seep into my brain making me delusional. I start thinking about this exact Blog post – brainstorming (ha! BrainSTORMing) in my mind. Thinking how unfair it is that probably my most magnificent Blog posts happen in my brain when I have no way of recording them so that by the time I get to type it (right now), it’s lost 94.28% of the humor and genius. Oh well. Maybe I should carry a small recording device. Then, I’d be the crazy lady who talks into a tape player on her run. Or maybe I should just call my own cell phone on my cell phone (can you do that?) and leave myself 12 Blog-post-dictated messages. Yes, the rain has gotten into my brain.
At mile 4 – as planned – I call Andrea on my cell phone. Andrea is my wonderful friend-slash-neighbor-slash-running partner who is going through Chemo for Breast Cancer. And Andrea, being the rockstar that she is, still joins me for the last mile of my runs occasionally. So, I call her, knowing what the answer will be.
“But, really, it’s just kind of sprinkling,” I beg, disgusted with myself.
Andrea laughs, “Dude, I’m going back to bed. Have a good shower.” Am I that miserable in this wet-madness that I’m trying to drag the Chemo patient out with me? (She later thinks this thought is hilarious).
Again, the evil angels dump garbage cans full of water on to me. So much rain is unleashed upon my head that I figure it’s about time to shake my fist at the sky and yell, “Why?! Why do you hate me so?!” And then, I realize: Ahh, snap. It’s time to find a boat! This ain’t a joke; this is the real thing. The next massive flood is a-comin’. Forget about my family – my boys – who are still a soggy-drenched two miles away all snuggly in their beds. No, each woman for herself. I’m finding me an ark!
I had a training run to do this morning – just a five miler; not too bad. It’s raining. It was a run in the rain. I’m actually a huge fan of running in the rain. Most Seattle rainy days are actually just kind of gray, sputtery, mostly-rain-constipated days; they aren’t THAT wet. Um, yeah, this morning? Again, not so much.
The rain today is the kind that you see on Seattle-themed movies and TV shows, like on Grey’s Anatomy. A torrential downpour where at any moment you’ll hear thunder rolling across the Sound (this rarely happens, by the way, the whole thunder and lightning thing). It’s the rain when at any moment Dr. McSteamy or McDreamy will come running in, soaking wet and mcsexy and, let’s face it, also a bit mcslimey. Yeah, that’d be nice. Well, OK, I don’t need a McSteamy or McDreamy, I’ve got a McMikey. (Oh, sorry, did you just gag a little?! My bad.)
This was the rain that I ran in this morning. Things started out fine; I actually even made a couple of phone calls while starting out. Seriously, I did. I’m the crazy lady, running in the rain at 7 in the morning, talking on her cell phone. THAT is multitasking. About two miles in I realized: Dang, it’s wet. This is the wettest run since I trained for the marathon five years ago. With one of my training partners, I ran an 18 mile long run around Green Lake.
We slogged and squished six times around the three-mile path in the pouring, dumping shower of rain madness, questioning our sanity with each squashy step. Now that I think about it, that run was a dry jog in the park compared to this!
So, yes, I’m on my run this morning, and even I’ll admit that it’s raining – it’s not just sprinkling or drizzling, actually, it is pouring. Then, right when I think it can’t actually rain harder, the angels maniacally, giggling with angelic-yet-devious little chuckles, dump bucket-after-bucket of water upon my head. Soon, I have to start pulling my pants up every few steps as they’re being dragged down by the weight of the water-soaked-fabric hanging limply around my ankles.
A mile or so later, I find myself at the bottom of a steep hill. Yippee (said with no enthusiasm what-so-ever), I now get to run up a massive slip’nslide. Now, running shoes aren’t exactly waterproof – they’re actually created in the exact opposite of waterproof. Let’s make them as porous as possible to allow as much breathability as possible; we wouldn’t want any moisture, now would we? My shoes become a slush puddle. With each step, I feel my toes squish about in a small puddle of rain-sweat-combo. I’m no longer careful that I won’t slip on the street; I actually have to pay more attention to slipping and sliding in the mini-bathtubs that are strapped around my feet.
While slowly ascending the hill, I notice that small rivers of rainwater are now gushing down both sides of the street. I expect at any moment to see Jiminy Cricket (or some other cute Disney bug character) floating down the river in his little leaf boat, a twig oar clutched lazily in his hand (bug paw? Claw?). He’d look up, grin at me, and give me a gentlebuggly tip ‘o his hat.
I shake my head like a dog, sending a spray of water about me. The rain is starting to seep into my brain making me delusional. I start thinking about this exact Blog post – brainstorming (ha! BrainSTORMing) in my mind. Thinking how unfair it is that probably my most magnificent Blog posts happen in my brain when I have no way of recording them so that by the time I get to type it (right now), it’s lost 94.28% of the humor and genius. Oh well. Maybe I should carry a small recording device. Then, I’d be the crazy lady who talks into a tape player on her run. Or maybe I should just call my own cell phone on my cell phone (can you do that?) and leave myself 12 Blog-post-dictated messages. Yes, the rain has gotten into my brain.
At mile 4 – as planned – I call Andrea on my cell phone. Andrea is my wonderful friend-slash-neighbor-slash-running partner who is going through Chemo for Breast Cancer. And Andrea, being the rockstar that she is, still joins me for the last mile of my runs occasionally. So, I call her, knowing what the answer will be.
“But, really, it’s just kind of sprinkling,” I beg, disgusted with myself.
Andrea laughs, “Dude, I’m going back to bed. Have a good shower.” Am I that miserable in this wet-madness that I’m trying to drag the Chemo patient out with me? (She later thinks this thought is hilarious).
Again, the evil angels dump garbage cans full of water on to me. So much rain is unleashed upon my head that I figure it’s about time to shake my fist at the sky and yell, “Why?! Why do you hate me so?!” And then, I realize: Ahh, snap. It’s time to find a boat! This ain’t a joke; this is the real thing. The next massive flood is a-comin’. Forget about my family – my boys – who are still a soggy-drenched two miles away all snuggly in their beds. No, each woman for herself. I’m finding me an ark!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Here's the Proof. Allow me to introduce you to Kia: The Sassy Wagon. So far, driving a minivan has been a good thing. It's like I'm a new person -- I'm "Jenny who drives a minivan" -- which, contrary to popular belief, actually makes me WAY cooler. There's such a stigma with minivan ownership, but this little beauty ain't nothin’ but sass.
I have found, though, that now that we own a car big enough for easy child expansion, I suddenly feel a lot more ready to expand the number of our children. Which, really? Not such a good thing in this adoption process. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we are just as freakishly busy as usual, and OF COURSE, we’ve been excited about adopting a baby girl from the first green light, but I was REALLY hoping to not get bitten by the Baby Bug quite yet. (Seeing as we could be waiting for Baby Girl for a LONG time, being super excited about it will just make the wait feel that much longer).
I’m looking forward to a few things the most about Baby Girl: 1.) Getting to see Zachary as a big brother (and of course, an older Matthew big brother with a baby sister this time ‘round). 2.) Getting to carry Baby Girl around in the Ergo Baby (the most magical, wonderful baby carrier ever that sadly, we didn’t get until Zach was already 2. I plan to wear Baby Girl in the Ergo Baby 24-7…well, maybe not QUITE that much, but she’ll basically be like my daily accessory). 3.) I’m looking forward to slowing down. Yes, I understand that this seems like an oxymoron – adding a 3rd child to our family shouldn’t technically make us LESS busy, but it WILL force me to schedule LESS. To spend more time at home. To just BE. And, that, my friends, sounds delightful.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
I’m amused yet embarrassed, tickled yet tortured all at the same time. My 6 ½ year old has become obsessed with the Macarena. He wants to listen to it on repeat, dance it, discuss it and hum it. And gladly-yet-sadly I must admit that I do own a CD with said-pop-culture-music-phenomenon. (Jock Jams Volume 2, fyi). And I’m also kind of a Macarena-ing Rock Star. Like, if it’s possible to be GOOD at the Macarena; I am. Yet, doing the Macarena once a day is more than enough for me, so if this thrice-to-twelve-times-per-day Macarena-ing continues, I may have to wear a pillow duct-taped over my head and around my ears for the next several weeks.
Friday, we walked to school with some of our neighbors. It was a beautiful day, and it’s an easy walk – maybe 15 minutes at the very most. You’d think we’d do this more often since it was such a delightful expedition, and we may continue to do it on Friday mornings (our school district has “Late Start” every Friday for teacher meetings. I LOVE Late Start days – the kiddos are so much happier with a bit more sleep, a little playtime and not having to mad-dash out the door). So, walking is great, but I’d hate to take the joy of riding the bus away from my pro-Macarena Matthew.
Experiencing the pre-school playground madness is an experience. But there is kind of some sort of structure and order to the chaos. It’s like the kids know their pecking order in Playground World and they stick to it. The 3-5th boys run races on the field, play basketball or just generally rip around the playground causing havoc. The 3-5th girls mingle and walk arm-in-arm in tightly-knit clique-y circles, giggling and whispering (probably making other girls feel horribly left-out and self-conscious). The K-2nd grade boys tend to stay on the playground running in mad circles around the climbing equipment, speeding down the slides and causing massive traffic-pile-ups at the bottom. They play pretend with the K-2nd grade girls sometimes or they just keep to themselves playing “Special Agents” or “Batman.” A smattering of kids of all ages wait patiently in line for a turn on the bars or a turn playing tether ball.
My friend Andrea, and I stood and watched the glee-filled mayhem around us taking note of all the different activities and the general vibe of oober-happy-kid-energy and joy. I tried (mostly in vain) to keep track of 3 ¾ (yes that’s THREE-AND-THREE-QUARTERS to ya, and don’t you forget it!) Zachary. He ran mostly with the 3-5th graders dividing his time evenly between the boys and girls.
I felt a tug on my sleeve. An adorable boy (the cute, athletic-type; the type that’s definitely got a future with “the ladies”) looked up at me, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You wanna race?”
I sized him up. Hmmm, maybe third grade – fourth at the most – yeah, I could take him. I handed Andrea my travel mug half-full coffee. “OK,” random-kid-who-asks-strangers-to-race, “You’re on.”
We picked a spot to start. “Where’s the finish?” I asked.
“Over there,” he gestured towards the field in a flailing, half-hearted, noncommittal way.
“Over where?” I asked. I mean, is this kid trying to dupe me? What if I think he means the trash can but then he keeps running down the field to the fence? Not fair.
“The trash can,” he says.
“OK,” I agree. We take our stance and both say, “On your mark, get set, go!”
As if in slow motion, I see my life as a chubby, not-at-all-athletic, band nerd, schoolgirl flash before me. I could, I think. I could take one for the girls – for the chubby, not popular, not always Gap-shopping girls. I could take this Cute Boy down. Pop his rapidly growing Cool Cute Boy ego – just a little bit. And once and for all, prove that chubby girls don’t always finish last.
And just when I was in the heat of my internal debate, some kid steps in front of me. I dodge around the kid – practically knocking down two bowling-pin-children in the process. And Cute Boy speeds on to victory. I burst into defeated tears. OK, just kidding about that. I give him a high-five, tell him good job, and without a word he runs off – probably to find another unsuspecting random adult to race.
This race thing could be good though. Maybe instead of training long runs for my half marathon (did an 8 miler yesterday!), I should focus more on my track workouts. Who knows?! Maybe I could start with kindergartners and work my way up to fifth graders. Or maybe I’ll just get back to watching and sipping my lukewarm coffee (all the while, silently cheering on all those little chubby girls).
Friday, we walked to school with some of our neighbors. It was a beautiful day, and it’s an easy walk – maybe 15 minutes at the very most. You’d think we’d do this more often since it was such a delightful expedition, and we may continue to do it on Friday mornings (our school district has “Late Start” every Friday for teacher meetings. I LOVE Late Start days – the kiddos are so much happier with a bit more sleep, a little playtime and not having to mad-dash out the door). So, walking is great, but I’d hate to take the joy of riding the bus away from my pro-Macarena Matthew.
Experiencing the pre-school playground madness is an experience. But there is kind of some sort of structure and order to the chaos. It’s like the kids know their pecking order in Playground World and they stick to it. The 3-5th boys run races on the field, play basketball or just generally rip around the playground causing havoc. The 3-5th girls mingle and walk arm-in-arm in tightly-knit clique-y circles, giggling and whispering (probably making other girls feel horribly left-out and self-conscious). The K-2nd grade boys tend to stay on the playground running in mad circles around the climbing equipment, speeding down the slides and causing massive traffic-pile-ups at the bottom. They play pretend with the K-2nd grade girls sometimes or they just keep to themselves playing “Special Agents” or “Batman.” A smattering of kids of all ages wait patiently in line for a turn on the bars or a turn playing tether ball.
My friend Andrea, and I stood and watched the glee-filled mayhem around us taking note of all the different activities and the general vibe of oober-happy-kid-energy and joy. I tried (mostly in vain) to keep track of 3 ¾ (yes that’s THREE-AND-THREE-QUARTERS to ya, and don’t you forget it!) Zachary. He ran mostly with the 3-5th graders dividing his time evenly between the boys and girls.
I felt a tug on my sleeve. An adorable boy (the cute, athletic-type; the type that’s definitely got a future with “the ladies”) looked up at me, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You wanna race?”
I sized him up. Hmmm, maybe third grade – fourth at the most – yeah, I could take him. I handed Andrea my travel mug half-full coffee. “OK,” random-kid-who-asks-strangers-to-race, “You’re on.”
We picked a spot to start. “Where’s the finish?” I asked.
“Over there,” he gestured towards the field in a flailing, half-hearted, noncommittal way.
“Over where?” I asked. I mean, is this kid trying to dupe me? What if I think he means the trash can but then he keeps running down the field to the fence? Not fair.
“The trash can,” he says.
“OK,” I agree. We take our stance and both say, “On your mark, get set, go!”
As if in slow motion, I see my life as a chubby, not-at-all-athletic, band nerd, schoolgirl flash before me. I could, I think. I could take one for the girls – for the chubby, not popular, not always Gap-shopping girls. I could take this Cute Boy down. Pop his rapidly growing Cool Cute Boy ego – just a little bit. And once and for all, prove that chubby girls don’t always finish last.
And just when I was in the heat of my internal debate, some kid steps in front of me. I dodge around the kid – practically knocking down two bowling-pin-children in the process. And Cute Boy speeds on to victory. I burst into defeated tears. OK, just kidding about that. I give him a high-five, tell him good job, and without a word he runs off – probably to find another unsuspecting random adult to race.
This race thing could be good though. Maybe instead of training long runs for my half marathon (did an 8 miler yesterday!), I should focus more on my track workouts. Who knows?! Maybe I could start with kindergartners and work my way up to fifth graders. Or maybe I’ll just get back to watching and sipping my lukewarm coffee (all the while, silently cheering on all those little chubby girls).
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
I got nothin’. For serious. I don’t have a whole lot to report. I don’t have a ready, go-to funny kid-anecdote to share with you. I’m lacking a witty commentary on some obscurity of life that no one really cares about but that makes me chuckle. I got nothin’. And quite frankly, my yoga session ran a little late, so I don't have the time to come up with something for now. So, I’m TOTALLY going to cheat. I’m going to be the laziest of all lazy-bloggers. I feel that since I’m now writing two blogs (when I even find or make the time to blog, which is a rarity on its own), I’m allowed to be a lazy-cheating-blogging-daughter-of-a-non-blogger. So, from the website blog for the National Engaged Encounter Convention (for which the theme is: Reboot Your Relationship) voila:
Convention Magic
Something magical took place at our District Convention in Park City, Utah this past summer. Something “magical” always takes place at Engaged Encounter Conventions, but this was a new kind of magic. This was a rip-roarin’, knee-slappin’, arm-wavin’, sweat-drippin’, booty-shakin’ kind of magic that can only REALLY happen at an Engaged Encounter Convention. A dance contest. It was the dance contest to end all dance contests. Sue Stockinger (Co-Chair for the 2010 Nat’l Convention) says it was like watching a scene from a movie – a musical or dancing movie – like Dirty Dancing but with much less dirty and way more classy dancing.
The music started with something a little slow – like a smooth Rhumba perhaps. The dance floor was full, packed with body-to-body couples swaying to the beat. After a while – a few songs to warm up the crowd – our District Coordinators (Gilbert and Nicole Pinon) gradually began the difficult, heart-wrenching process of eliminating couples from the floor. After what felt like forEVER, when I was fairly certain that I would pass out from dance-induced fatigue, when many of us had Salsa-ed, and Swing-danced (would that be Swang?), Chicken-danced, splitted (splat!?) and even wormed across the dance floor, we watched the grand finale of the dance-off to end all dance-offs. One of the younger couples at the Convention (who, yes, happen to be from Seattle and who, yes, happen to star in our Promo Video) danced head-to-head against one of the more experienced couples at the Convention (a deacon and his wife who have been married for…I don’t remember how long, but a while). There was Merengue-ing and even Irish-jigging and in the end, BOTH couples were crowned – rightly so – as District Dance Champions.
It was a night many of us will never forget. A fun, magical night. The kind of night that can only happen at an Engaged Encounter Convention. Because, only with our Engaged Encounter family, do we know we’re surrounded by people who share the same values of faith, marriage and family. We are with people who know that “Love is a decision;” and, quite frankly, people who CHOOSE love tend to be all around awesome and kind of loads of fun. They also seem to be great dancers and seriously know how to have a good time.
So, dust off those ruffled tuxes and those big-bow-bedazzled prom dresses (or maybe choose a fun more updated, dance-friendly outfit) for the Convention dance on Saturday, October 2nd. And be ready to shake your reBOOTY!
Convention Magic
Something magical took place at our District Convention in Park City, Utah this past summer. Something “magical” always takes place at Engaged Encounter Conventions, but this was a new kind of magic. This was a rip-roarin’, knee-slappin’, arm-wavin’, sweat-drippin’, booty-shakin’ kind of magic that can only REALLY happen at an Engaged Encounter Convention. A dance contest. It was the dance contest to end all dance contests. Sue Stockinger (Co-Chair for the 2010 Nat’l Convention) says it was like watching a scene from a movie – a musical or dancing movie – like Dirty Dancing but with much less dirty and way more classy dancing.
The music started with something a little slow – like a smooth Rhumba perhaps. The dance floor was full, packed with body-to-body couples swaying to the beat. After a while – a few songs to warm up the crowd – our District Coordinators (Gilbert and Nicole Pinon) gradually began the difficult, heart-wrenching process of eliminating couples from the floor. After what felt like forEVER, when I was fairly certain that I would pass out from dance-induced fatigue, when many of us had Salsa-ed, and Swing-danced (would that be Swang?), Chicken-danced, splitted (splat!?) and even wormed across the dance floor, we watched the grand finale of the dance-off to end all dance-offs. One of the younger couples at the Convention (who, yes, happen to be from Seattle and who, yes, happen to star in our Promo Video) danced head-to-head against one of the more experienced couples at the Convention (a deacon and his wife who have been married for…I don’t remember how long, but a while). There was Merengue-ing and even Irish-jigging and in the end, BOTH couples were crowned – rightly so – as District Dance Champions.
It was a night many of us will never forget. A fun, magical night. The kind of night that can only happen at an Engaged Encounter Convention. Because, only with our Engaged Encounter family, do we know we’re surrounded by people who share the same values of faith, marriage and family. We are with people who know that “Love is a decision;” and, quite frankly, people who CHOOSE love tend to be all around awesome and kind of loads of fun. They also seem to be great dancers and seriously know how to have a good time.
So, dust off those ruffled tuxes and those big-bow-bedazzled prom dresses (or maybe choose a fun more updated, dance-friendly outfit) for the Convention dance on Saturday, October 2nd. And be ready to shake your reBOOTY!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
TIDS and BITS
•Yep, I’m a Blogging-slacker. So, to make a potentially lengthy post manageable right now, I’m breaking my updates down into brief Tids and Bits.
•Tid One: I took last week off since the boys and I were home for Mid-Winter Break. We had a really nice break too – mostly low-key, not TOO much going on – and somehow, miracle of all miracles, the boys played amazingly well together ALL WEEK LONG.
•Bit Two: I get to keep a small Blog on the National Engaged Encounter Convention website (it helps that I, ya know, have a very close relationship with the webmaster…since he’s my hubby ‘n all). It’s fun and challenging because I feel like I have a “column” – a certain topic on which all writings should somewhat pertain, but I still do it in my own way/voice. The blogs (and Convention) are geared for other presenting married couples like us (and the occasional priest, deacon, nun who helps on the marriage prep weekends as well). SHOULD you feel so inclined you CAN check out my first few postings at www.ceeseattle.org/convention.
•Tid Three: Matthew and I were discussing the art of vomiting. I was explaining how it’s NO FUN but sometimes, when you’re sick, you just gotta do it ‘cuz your tummy needs to get yucky stuff out, and then you will feel better afterwards. He said, “I know! That’s why I’ve been telling Zach not to give up on throwing up!” Hmmm, I’d love to be a fly on the wall to hear the conversations that happen between 3 and 6 yr. old brothers.
•Bit Four: Yesterday, my parentals watched the boys so that Mike and I could go do something thoroughly pricey yet exciting (the next Tid for ya). They walked down to a park which also includes walking by a small, old cemetery (it’s fenced off most of the time as it’s a historical landmark). The Grandparentals were asking the boys if they knew what it was. Matthew piped up with something about it being where skeletons lived. Zach immediately offered a couple of thought-provoking questions: “After you die do you still get to burp?” And “Do skeletons go pee?”
•Tid Five – the most exciting Tid and Bit of all: Yesterday, we officially became “one of those.” We are officially a Mini-Van Family!!! Though, I prefer to call ours my Sassy-Wagon. We are making a little more space for our eventually expanding family (still no adoption news, fyi). And the ’95 Ford Taurus that Mike’s been driving for the last eight years is kind of just suffering and limping through life. So, he’ll now drive our (dark red)’98 Honda CRV, and I get to strut my cool mommy stuff in a (also dark red – coincidence, by the way) 2009 22000miles Kia Sedona!! Pictures to come soon. But just picture the coolest hottest ‘lil mini-van that you ever done see and that’s our beautiful doll, Kia! [Why change her name when she comes with such a good one? And it goes so nicely with my laptop’s name – Kara! (A name that Matthew provided never having known a Kara ever in his life.)] I look forward to workin’ the Sassy-Wagon today on the way to preschool, the gym, the library and the grocery store. Yes, very mini-van-owner type things to do, and I’m pumped!
•Yep, I’m a Blogging-slacker. So, to make a potentially lengthy post manageable right now, I’m breaking my updates down into brief Tids and Bits.
•Tid One: I took last week off since the boys and I were home for Mid-Winter Break. We had a really nice break too – mostly low-key, not TOO much going on – and somehow, miracle of all miracles, the boys played amazingly well together ALL WEEK LONG.
•Bit Two: I get to keep a small Blog on the National Engaged Encounter Convention website (it helps that I, ya know, have a very close relationship with the webmaster…since he’s my hubby ‘n all). It’s fun and challenging because I feel like I have a “column” – a certain topic on which all writings should somewhat pertain, but I still do it in my own way/voice. The blogs (and Convention) are geared for other presenting married couples like us (and the occasional priest, deacon, nun who helps on the marriage prep weekends as well). SHOULD you feel so inclined you CAN check out my first few postings at www.ceeseattle.org/convention.
•Tid Three: Matthew and I were discussing the art of vomiting. I was explaining how it’s NO FUN but sometimes, when you’re sick, you just gotta do it ‘cuz your tummy needs to get yucky stuff out, and then you will feel better afterwards. He said, “I know! That’s why I’ve been telling Zach not to give up on throwing up!” Hmmm, I’d love to be a fly on the wall to hear the conversations that happen between 3 and 6 yr. old brothers.
•Bit Four: Yesterday, my parentals watched the boys so that Mike and I could go do something thoroughly pricey yet exciting (the next Tid for ya). They walked down to a park which also includes walking by a small, old cemetery (it’s fenced off most of the time as it’s a historical landmark). The Grandparentals were asking the boys if they knew what it was. Matthew piped up with something about it being where skeletons lived. Zach immediately offered a couple of thought-provoking questions: “After you die do you still get to burp?” And “Do skeletons go pee?”
•Tid Five – the most exciting Tid and Bit of all: Yesterday, we officially became “one of those.” We are officially a Mini-Van Family!!! Though, I prefer to call ours my Sassy-Wagon. We are making a little more space for our eventually expanding family (still no adoption news, fyi). And the ’95 Ford Taurus that Mike’s been driving for the last eight years is kind of just suffering and limping through life. So, he’ll now drive our (dark red)’98 Honda CRV, and I get to strut my cool mommy stuff in a (also dark red – coincidence, by the way) 2009 22000miles Kia Sedona!! Pictures to come soon. But just picture the coolest hottest ‘lil mini-van that you ever done see and that’s our beautiful doll, Kia! [Why change her name when she comes with such a good one? And it goes so nicely with my laptop’s name – Kara! (A name that Matthew provided never having known a Kara ever in his life.)] I look forward to workin’ the Sassy-Wagon today on the way to preschool, the gym, the library and the grocery store. Yes, very mini-van-owner type things to do, and I’m pumped!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
For those of you lacking the fun of facebook and being my facebook friend (and therefore occasionally reading my random “status updates”): Zach was in the bathroom yesterday taking care of business. I was sitting at the table finishing my cup ‘o coffee and dark chocolate fix. Zach suddenly yelled, “MOM! I’m POOPING VALENTINES!!” I’m not really sure what this means but I chose to NOT go inspect the results of his hard work. I know, right? Call me crazy.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Too fast! These boys are just plain growing up too fast. And there are two specific instances that have recently screamed their speeding maturity to me. First: Valentines. My boys no longer care for cute Valentines. Last year I was still able to convince Zach to go with “Winnie-the-Pooh and Friends” cards. And Matthew made his own John Deere Valentines. Not this year. Matthew’s eyes zero-ed in on a box at the store that screamed manly-coolness: “G.I. Joe – the Rise of Cobra.” OK, obviously he has not SEEN the movie – Rise of the Cobra as that’s rated PG-13. He doesn’t even know much about G.I. Joes – other than the fact that they are cool “army guys” – which IS cool, I will admit. But boy, do these companies ever know how to market their stuff or what?!! It’s like little boys looking at a row of Valentine’s cards at the store are already being judged on their boy-manliness. You MUST choose the coolest, edgiest looking box. And of course, following big brother’s lead: Zachary refused any box other than the G.I. Joe cards too.
And the messages on these cards! They crack me up! “You’re a true ninja!” “You’re skilled, Valentine!” “Your Primary Objective: Have a great day!” “Stick to the Plan and have a Happy Valentine’s Day!” “Prepare for Operation Valentine’s Day!”
Now, it will be interesting to see if Matthew gives love-interest Emma gets the same ‘ol G.I. Joe Valentine as everybody else. This is the other thing that tells me he’s growing up too fast: this little Kindergarten crush is still going strong and…oh man…they’re into “cuddling” at school! I asked Matthew the other day, when walking home from the bus, what fun things he’d gotten to do at school. He sighed.
“Cuddled. Emma and I got to cuddle at school.”
In my head, I did a sitcom-move: not taking my eyes off Matthew, I walked into a parked car or something. In real life, I kept my cool and said, “Where did you cuddle?”
“Oh,” Matthew says nonchalantly, “We cuddle on the playground, in the hallway, in the lunchroom, in class…wherever cuddling can happen, we cuddled!”
(Sitcom-take: I was drinking something. I spat-spewed it out.)
“So, what do you mean by ‘cuddled’?” I ask feigning the nonchalance in his tone.
“Emma puts her head on my shoulder and calls me Pillow.” He laughs. The little smooth-movin’ smooth-talkin’ 6 year old ‘playuh’ laughs – voice smooth as velvet with Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On” suddenly playing throughout the neighborhood on some secret sound system. The birds start flying in heart-shaped formation and bunnies – multiplying by the moment – frolic on grassy knolls-of-front-yards. He sighs again – an expulsion of kindergarten-love that still just seems a little too dedicated and serious for my taste. “I love it when she calls me Pillow.”
This is how I know my boys are growing up too fast.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
This is what love looks like…I don’t know what made me think of this picture this morning, but I did. And then I immediately felt a twinge of my picture-printing (or lack thereof) guilt. I have yet to really start photo albums for the boys, I have yet to get some more recent pictures of the boys framed and hung on walls. The guilt. But anyway, this picture is kind of magical (in my humble opinion), and never ever could have turned out had we tried to pose for it. Mike was ready with the camera and I’m so thankful to have captured this moment on film. It was the first time Matthew got to hold Zachary and the first time he saw his baby brother without any weird looking NICU stuff all around him. And my gosh! Zach was so tiny with his little flesh wrinkles and lack of baby chubs.
My mom came to the house to stay with Matthew while we went back to the hospital to finally get to bring Zach home from the NICU. While we were gone, Matthew asked my mom if he’d get to play trucks with Zachary. Well, now there are certainly days (multiple times a day!) when Matthew wishes that Zach wouldn’t want to play trucks with him! But the look on Matthew’s face – of innocent brotherly love and affection kind of makes me catch my breath. And for whatever reason, I just felt like sharing this picture with you today. Hope it makes you smile!
My mom came to the house to stay with Matthew while we went back to the hospital to finally get to bring Zach home from the NICU. While we were gone, Matthew asked my mom if he’d get to play trucks with Zachary. Well, now there are certainly days (multiple times a day!) when Matthew wishes that Zach wouldn’t want to play trucks with him! But the look on Matthew’s face – of innocent brotherly love and affection kind of makes me catch my breath. And for whatever reason, I just felt like sharing this picture with you today. Hope it makes you smile!
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Ahh, the Zachisms – never ending; always funny.
Yesterday morning, Zachary and I headed downstairs so that he could watch a 20 minute show on PBS while I hopped in the shower. It was about 7:30 – so not super bright out, but not dark either. I was about to turn on the light when Zach yelled, “No! Mom, no. I don’t need the light on. I’ve been eating lots of carrots lately, and I can now see in the dark like a bat.” Really? Hmm, fascinating.
What’s really ironic about this is that the stinker actually has had carrot-related issues. He’s been a bit anti-them recently. And a few weeks ago, we discovered a withered little, flaccidly-floppy (or floppily-flaccid) baby carrot tucked discretely in the dark abyss between an arm chair and the wall in the living room. This was no accidentally lost baby carrot. This was a I’m-so-outsmarting-these-suckers-by-making-them-think-I’ve-eaten-all-my-baby-carrots-meanwhile-I-will-sneakily-create-a-baby-carrot-cemetary-behind-the-chair. Mooo-ah-ahh-ahhhh (evil child laugh)! They’ve so been duped.
And when did our little, sneaky carrot-planter get up from the table and chuck his carrot behind the living room chair?? It remains a mystery. But now, I know: maybe thanks to his ability to” see in the dark like a bat” he’s been able to alter his methods of carrot-hiding. He plays the role of a good, carrot-eating boy at the table; all the while he’s hiding carrots in his clothing. Then, later, under the cloak of darkness (which he can see in ever-so-easily), he creeps into the living room to give that poor unsuspecting baby carrot a dark, clandestine resting place.
Once I’d showered (woohoo!) and dressed (also very important and admirable), we headed out the door to preschool. Whilst in the car, I began singing the ABC’s. I told Zach that when I was a little girl (WAY back in the days of yore and yesteryear), Grandma and I would sing the ABC’s in the car ALL the way to my preschool…we’d see how many ABC’s it took us until we got there. (I hope that we didn’t live that far away. I have a vague memory of announcing that it took five times all the way through, but I may just be making that up.)
Zach was silent for a moment, and then said, “You sang the ABC’s when you were little?”
“Yep,” I said.
“But were they the SAME ABC’s??”
What? Like I’m SO old the ABC’s weren’t invented yet? Or we grunted them like cave people? What exactly are you implying, MR. Carrot Hider?!
Yesterday morning, Zachary and I headed downstairs so that he could watch a 20 minute show on PBS while I hopped in the shower. It was about 7:30 – so not super bright out, but not dark either. I was about to turn on the light when Zach yelled, “No! Mom, no. I don’t need the light on. I’ve been eating lots of carrots lately, and I can now see in the dark like a bat.” Really? Hmm, fascinating.
What’s really ironic about this is that the stinker actually has had carrot-related issues. He’s been a bit anti-them recently. And a few weeks ago, we discovered a withered little, flaccidly-floppy (or floppily-flaccid) baby carrot tucked discretely in the dark abyss between an arm chair and the wall in the living room. This was no accidentally lost baby carrot. This was a I’m-so-outsmarting-these-suckers-by-making-them-think-I’ve-eaten-all-my-baby-carrots-meanwhile-I-will-sneakily-create-a-baby-carrot-cemetary-behind-the-chair. Mooo-ah-ahh-ahhhh (evil child laugh)! They’ve so been duped.
And when did our little, sneaky carrot-planter get up from the table and chuck his carrot behind the living room chair?? It remains a mystery. But now, I know: maybe thanks to his ability to” see in the dark like a bat” he’s been able to alter his methods of carrot-hiding. He plays the role of a good, carrot-eating boy at the table; all the while he’s hiding carrots in his clothing. Then, later, under the cloak of darkness (which he can see in ever-so-easily), he creeps into the living room to give that poor unsuspecting baby carrot a dark, clandestine resting place.
Once I’d showered (woohoo!) and dressed (also very important and admirable), we headed out the door to preschool. Whilst in the car, I began singing the ABC’s. I told Zach that when I was a little girl (WAY back in the days of yore and yesteryear), Grandma and I would sing the ABC’s in the car ALL the way to my preschool…we’d see how many ABC’s it took us until we got there. (I hope that we didn’t live that far away. I have a vague memory of announcing that it took five times all the way through, but I may just be making that up.)
Zach was silent for a moment, and then said, “You sang the ABC’s when you were little?”
“Yep,” I said.
“But were they the SAME ABC’s??”
What? Like I’m SO old the ABC’s weren’t invented yet? Or we grunted them like cave people? What exactly are you implying, MR. Carrot Hider?!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Anecdote # 1: As I tucked Zach in the other night for bed, I curled up next to him and asked what he wants to be when he grows up. I enjoy asking him this every few days; he has a different answer everytime. “A French teacher!” He exclaimed. Seeing as I graduated with a Bachelors in French, this excited me – I always thought I would be a music AND French teacher, but I had to choose one…and actually I got to choose the one that I love most. So, I told Zach that it would be difficult to be a French teacher without speaking the language. I began speaking French to him – telling him, that he’d be such a great teacher, and he can be anything he wants when he grows up, and we could start speaking a little bit of French everyday, not just ‘cuz for one moment – one minute in his 3 year old life he claims to want to be a French teacher – but because speaking French to the children was something that I swore I’d do for them at this crucial sponge-for-languages young age. The more I spoke French, the funnier the look on Zach’s face became. He wrinkled his brow, pursed his lips (like a true Frenchman, I might add) and said, “Ahhh, mommy. Enough with the silly French talk, already.” Good luck getting a French teaching position, dude.
Anecdote #2: Matthew was student of the week in his kindergarten class – this role provided special responsibilities such as line-leader and white board eraser. He also “got” to bring in a snack for all 24 students. He got to bring show and tell on Wednesday and on Thursday his family was welcome to come in for family show and tell. Fun, fun!
After school on Thursday, I asked Matthew a question. Who was the lady there to help one of the kids? I knew she was there to assist with one child who needs extra special help, I just wondered if Matthew knew her name. Matthew responded, “Oh, she’s from the office.”
“Do you know her name?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “She’s just one of the principal’s sergeants.”
“Sergeants?! Is that what she’s called?”
“Nope, that’s just what I call them. She’s one of the sergeants from the principal.”
Anecdote #3: Trying to be a good mom who occasionally recognizes the good in children (as opposed to constantly scolding the bad), I complimented Zach the other day after he nicely asked for a drink.
“Zachary!” I exclaimed. “You have such nice manners!!”
Zach looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Today!”
Anecdote #2: Matthew was student of the week in his kindergarten class – this role provided special responsibilities such as line-leader and white board eraser. He also “got” to bring in a snack for all 24 students. He got to bring show and tell on Wednesday and on Thursday his family was welcome to come in for family show and tell. Fun, fun!
After school on Thursday, I asked Matthew a question. Who was the lady there to help one of the kids? I knew she was there to assist with one child who needs extra special help, I just wondered if Matthew knew her name. Matthew responded, “Oh, she’s from the office.”
“Do you know her name?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “She’s just one of the principal’s sergeants.”
“Sergeants?! Is that what she’s called?”
“Nope, that’s just what I call them. She’s one of the sergeants from the principal.”
Anecdote #3: Trying to be a good mom who occasionally recognizes the good in children (as opposed to constantly scolding the bad), I complimented Zach the other day after he nicely asked for a drink.
“Zachary!” I exclaimed. “You have such nice manners!!”
Zach looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Today!”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I feel overwhelmed. I’m stressed. I’m tired. I have the reputation with many friends as “The Busiest Person” they know. I don’t like this reputation; I think I’ve always had it though. But part of me wonders, if I did ‘less,’ would I feel useless? If I actually spent more time at home doing the things that need to get done – the things that pile up and stress me out ‘cuz I’m not at home getting them done – the dishes, the laundry, cleaning up the kitchen clutter, oh! And I dunno! How about spending some more quality time with the two kiddos we have before adding a third one to the mix?! There’s a thought!
I worked THREE jobs in college, WHILE taking full credits every quarter so that I could graduate in three years and get married. Then as soon as I was married, I just wanted to be done working and have kids to stay home with. Then shortly after kids, I felt like I should start working a little bit again. Now, I feel like I’m so torn between home and work. When I’m teaching, I’m missing out on stuff at home; when I’m home I spend time doing everything that needs to be done because soon I’ll be teaching again. Am I workaholic?! But I’m stressed. I LOVE teaching music, and I’m good at it, so does that mean I kind of owe it to everyone? (My family? The world? Future musicians? To share my talent to their benefit?? But is my own family suffering because of it?) What to do?!
And really, there’s the whole staying at home mom vs. working mom thing which I’m not even getting into. I don’t care about that argument right now, because I AM home most of the time, I just need to figure out what I need in order to feel more at peace. How do I personally get fulfilled in home-work life and outside-of-home-work life? Right now, I’ve got: a National Convention to plan, a half marathon to train for, Engaged Encounter retreats to lead/attend, books to read, healthy meals to plan and cook, writing to write, and then music classes to teach – two days a week, plus two extra days a month (for Zach’s preschool).
I’ve been saying for some time now that “something’s got to give;” I just can’t keep doing it all of it, all of the time. I may fall apart. And the time has come to figure out what exactly it is that’s got to give…because I’m starting to fall apart. I can’t give up the National Engaged Encounter Convention – cuz we’ve been asked to do it, and WILL do it; I can’t give up our EE retreats because that’s quality marriage time for Mike and I which is crucial to a healthy, happy marriage and therefore family. I can’t give up running a half marathon because that’s for ME – completely, selfishly, totally for me. I can’t give up reading and writing because that gives me Sanctuary. I can’t give up planning and cooking healthy food because that’s for the wellness of the whole family. I CAN control how much I teach, so….what to do? What to do?
I worked THREE jobs in college, WHILE taking full credits every quarter so that I could graduate in three years and get married. Then as soon as I was married, I just wanted to be done working and have kids to stay home with. Then shortly after kids, I felt like I should start working a little bit again. Now, I feel like I’m so torn between home and work. When I’m teaching, I’m missing out on stuff at home; when I’m home I spend time doing everything that needs to be done because soon I’ll be teaching again. Am I workaholic?! But I’m stressed. I LOVE teaching music, and I’m good at it, so does that mean I kind of owe it to everyone? (My family? The world? Future musicians? To share my talent to their benefit?? But is my own family suffering because of it?) What to do?!
And really, there’s the whole staying at home mom vs. working mom thing which I’m not even getting into. I don’t care about that argument right now, because I AM home most of the time, I just need to figure out what I need in order to feel more at peace. How do I personally get fulfilled in home-work life and outside-of-home-work life? Right now, I’ve got: a National Convention to plan, a half marathon to train for, Engaged Encounter retreats to lead/attend, books to read, healthy meals to plan and cook, writing to write, and then music classes to teach – two days a week, plus two extra days a month (for Zach’s preschool).
I’ve been saying for some time now that “something’s got to give;” I just can’t keep doing it all of it, all of the time. I may fall apart. And the time has come to figure out what exactly it is that’s got to give…because I’m starting to fall apart. I can’t give up the National Engaged Encounter Convention – cuz we’ve been asked to do it, and WILL do it; I can’t give up our EE retreats because that’s quality marriage time for Mike and I which is crucial to a healthy, happy marriage and therefore family. I can’t give up running a half marathon because that’s for ME – completely, selfishly, totally for me. I can’t give up reading and writing because that gives me Sanctuary. I can’t give up planning and cooking healthy food because that’s for the wellness of the whole family. I CAN control how much I teach, so….what to do? What to do?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
We received our first foster child profile over email the other day (probably the first of many). It was exciting and petrifying and thrilling and ca-razy all at the same time. It's the longest wait ever for that email attachment to open up complete with picture of Possibly-The One and details about Possibly-The-One. I can’t tell you any specifics of this case, but let’s just say it was an ideal situation…in Oregon. Which means that this ideal situation (child bulletin) was sent out nationwide (that’s how Oregon DHS works). Which means that hundreds – if not thousand(s) – of families will submit their home study for this little girl. (Well, you do know that we’re looking for a girl under two, so that kind of detail goes without saying). Which means that it’s kind of like lottery-playing-chances to get picked. Which means thank GOODNESS I don’t have my hopes up [well, of course I do, a little bit] because we’re so stinkin’ busy [which is true, but I know everything would work out if she was The One for us…but still not ready, not ready, must keep telling myself, we’re not ready. No hopes up. Too busy. We’re not ready.].
The Oregon social worker for this baby has up to a month to narrow down the field to a few families, at which point, the chosen families can get a little more detailed information about the child. And then from that small pool the family is picked. I CANNOT FATHOM being in the social worker’s position. I mean, I know they have training and Social Worker Skills (probably like nun-chuck-skills), but do they feel a little bit like God? They are deciding this little person’s future! Picking their mom and dad and possible brothers or sisters! And the future of the family, for that matter. They are looking at you on paper and deciphering (in this case among lots and lots of great choices, I’m sure) who the best fit is for this child. The pressure!
I know that this process will be an emotional roller coaster, and it takes a serious amount of faith to trust that – if we got really excited/attached to the idea of a certain child being ours and then not getting picked, that that’s how it’s meant to be; that child just wasn’t The One and not to get discouraged, but holy majoly! Sheesh! This could be a wild ride folks. Strap in.
The Oregon social worker for this baby has up to a month to narrow down the field to a few families, at which point, the chosen families can get a little more detailed information about the child. And then from that small pool the family is picked. I CANNOT FATHOM being in the social worker’s position. I mean, I know they have training and Social Worker Skills (probably like nun-chuck-skills), but do they feel a little bit like God? They are deciding this little person’s future! Picking their mom and dad and possible brothers or sisters! And the future of the family, for that matter. They are looking at you on paper and deciphering (in this case among lots and lots of great choices, I’m sure) who the best fit is for this child. The pressure!
I know that this process will be an emotional roller coaster, and it takes a serious amount of faith to trust that – if we got really excited/attached to the idea of a certain child being ours and then not getting picked, that that’s how it’s meant to be; that child just wasn’t The One and not to get discouraged, but holy majoly! Sheesh! This could be a wild ride folks. Strap in.
Monday, January 25, 2010
It has been said that I am like Lady Gaga. (A mild exaggeration, to say the least. We definitely differ in our taste in clothes and make-up…I hope). The unlikely comparison comes from the sudden popularity of my toddler/preschool and parent music classes at two local public libraries. We were having an issue at the bigger library because people would register on-line (there were only 15 spots available per class), but then not everyone would come so I’d have a very wee-sized class of wee-sized musicians. Then we wondered: can we let others drop in to at least make it more worth my time? I mean, I do hate playing to an empty house. But then what if we let others in and all of a sudden everyone who actually registered actually shows up? It would be musical mayhem! (Musical Mayhem. I did consider that as a name for my business but decided that the mayhem part went without saying in a toddler music program, so promoting it might not be the best idea).
The proposal was made: This session, it will be a drop-in class but only open to the first 15 kiddos (aged 2-5) and parental assistant. I arrive on the first day of class to an angry toddler-mommy mob scene. They are lined up in the library…around the corner. Apparently one of the librarians didn’t want to let moms just put their names down on a list (‘cuz then what if they didn’t show back up when it was time to start and we had an empty spot), so they HAD to stand in line to hold their spot. Moms were ticked off. Librarians were ticked off. Everybody was really just way ticked off.
And because they couldn’t lose their spot in line, they had to keep angry, line-waiting children with them when the library is practically as cool as a candy store…especially this one complete with play-puppet area. With the number of people waiting in line, the library may have to invest in some Disneyland line-rope thingies. They can maze their way through the book shelves while they wait.
Anyway, this system obviously wasn’t working. So, week 2 the proposal was made: This session, 15 minutes prior to class time, the first 15 kiddos will get a ticket – a laminated piece of bell-shaped paper – which must be turned in upon class entry. Well, what did they do? They lined up 30 minutes prior to class time to get there 15 minutes prior to class time to be one of the first 15 kiddos to get a bell-themed ticket. Apparently kiddo-mom combos #’s 16-23 were hoping that some of the kiddo-mom combos #1-15 would start dropping like flies. Yeah, not so much. Kiddo-mom combos #1-15 were able to flaunt their bell tickets as they smugly entered the storytime room turned musictime room. One of the librarians said she’s concerned that people might start camping out – sleeping in sleeping bags along the sidewalk the night before the library doors even open. (Again, exaggerations, but holy majoly, people are hardcore about their toddler music classes!).
At the first library, where on-line registration has worked surprisingly well, people have started sneaking into class when the librarian’s not watching and guarding the door like a bouncer. This week, it seemed like every time I looked around the room there were a few new toddlers who hadn’t been there before. And at one point, I commented that it was like a clown car – they just kept coming through the door (even 20 minutes in to the 30 minute class)! Comical, indeed. I’m glad I’m not trying to get into one of these classes – it’s cut-throat!
The proposal was made: This session, it will be a drop-in class but only open to the first 15 kiddos (aged 2-5) and parental assistant. I arrive on the first day of class to an angry toddler-mommy mob scene. They are lined up in the library…around the corner. Apparently one of the librarians didn’t want to let moms just put their names down on a list (‘cuz then what if they didn’t show back up when it was time to start and we had an empty spot), so they HAD to stand in line to hold their spot. Moms were ticked off. Librarians were ticked off. Everybody was really just way ticked off.
And because they couldn’t lose their spot in line, they had to keep angry, line-waiting children with them when the library is practically as cool as a candy store…especially this one complete with play-puppet area. With the number of people waiting in line, the library may have to invest in some Disneyland line-rope thingies. They can maze their way through the book shelves while they wait.
Anyway, this system obviously wasn’t working. So, week 2 the proposal was made: This session, 15 minutes prior to class time, the first 15 kiddos will get a ticket – a laminated piece of bell-shaped paper – which must be turned in upon class entry. Well, what did they do? They lined up 30 minutes prior to class time to get there 15 minutes prior to class time to be one of the first 15 kiddos to get a bell-themed ticket. Apparently kiddo-mom combos #’s 16-23 were hoping that some of the kiddo-mom combos #1-15 would start dropping like flies. Yeah, not so much. Kiddo-mom combos #1-15 were able to flaunt their bell tickets as they smugly entered the storytime room turned musictime room. One of the librarians said she’s concerned that people might start camping out – sleeping in sleeping bags along the sidewalk the night before the library doors even open. (Again, exaggerations, but holy majoly, people are hardcore about their toddler music classes!).
At the first library, where on-line registration has worked surprisingly well, people have started sneaking into class when the librarian’s not watching and guarding the door like a bouncer. This week, it seemed like every time I looked around the room there were a few new toddlers who hadn’t been there before. And at one point, I commented that it was like a clown car – they just kept coming through the door (even 20 minutes in to the 30 minute class)! Comical, indeed. I’m glad I’m not trying to get into one of these classes – it’s cut-throat!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Soy milk will NOT, in fact, turn our child GAY. I’m fairly convinced of that. Let me repeat: Zach will not be a homosexual because of drinking a fair amount of soy milk.
I have always attempted to avoid scandalous and highly debatable topics in my Blog, thus, I’m not speaking to the topic of homosexuality in general. All humans deserve love and respect regardless of their socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, racial make-up or sexual orientation. That’s all I’ll say about that. But there are some CARAZIES out there claiming that feeding your young children – most especially boy-children – soy milk is a “slow poison” turning them into homosexuals. That’s kind of the most REDONCULOUS thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Ever.
Let me start from the beginning: I suffer from some lactose sensitivity issues. And that’s all I’ll say about THAT. So, I choose to use soy milk in my cereal and many other lactose-free products. The boys – especially Zach – have become fans of drinking soy milk. Now, 9 times out of 10, Zach requests soy milk over “regular milk.” I have a friend from church who kinda flipped out when she heard that the boys are drinking soy milk daily. She explained that soy milk is full of estrogen and possibly causes infertility and other issues for boys. (For the record, she said nothing about the whole gay factor – that was someone else). She recommended almond milk. She makes her own. She and her mother purchase 50 pounds of almonds and make their own almond milk. Now, more power to them, that’s healthy – I’m sure – and amazing, but I just don’t have time to milk 50 pounds of little almond teats. But this concern about soy and boys did make me wonder. So, I chose to do some research of my own. (Though I honestly don’t know who to believe on-line).
When googling “soy and children,” one of the first articles that turned up was titled “Soy is making kids ‘gay’” by Jim Rutz. Holy Majoly, that’s got to be the funniest argument/slash/article title I’ve ever seen in my life! I told my friend Rachel about this article. Rachel is quite knowledgeable on the topic of whole, healthy, green food and livin’. I knew the article was hooey but just wanted to know what she thought of the estrogen-in-soy-products thing. We both agreed that moderation (as in anything) is key.
My parents babysat that night so that we could go see Avatar for Mike’s birthday. When we got home, my mom – not knowing about the article that I’d read that morning – told us a funny anecdote. She said, when putting the boys to bed, she asked Zach for a goodnight kiss. He immediately said, “No. Ick! I don’t kiss girls! I only kiss boys!”
Hmmm. (I just think this whole thing is very funny…Mike did look a tad bit surprised). Later, I reassured him that the girls-and-the-cooties thing is perfectly normal. His response was, “Yeah, but that doesn’t happen until like elementary school.” Well, Zach, at 3 ½ , is just very mature for his age.
The next morning, I was driving with Zach in the car. He was asking about “work.” Like, does Uncle Chris ‘work’ at the same place where daddy ‘works’ and is all ‘work’ just one big ‘place of work.’ As I explained this all to him, I said, “And mommy works too, you know.” (I was actually just about to head out for teaching my music classes).
Zach scoffed – he actually scoffed from his car booster seat and shaking his head with dismay said, “No, Mommy – silly! Girls don’t work! They CAN’T…’cuz they’re girls!” Ahhh. I understand now. Thank GOD! It’s not that he’s gay necessarily; it’s that he’s a sexist, chauvinistic pig. Phew!
I have always attempted to avoid scandalous and highly debatable topics in my Blog, thus, I’m not speaking to the topic of homosexuality in general. All humans deserve love and respect regardless of their socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, racial make-up or sexual orientation. That’s all I’ll say about that. But there are some CARAZIES out there claiming that feeding your young children – most especially boy-children – soy milk is a “slow poison” turning them into homosexuals. That’s kind of the most REDONCULOUS thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Ever.
Let me start from the beginning: I suffer from some lactose sensitivity issues. And that’s all I’ll say about THAT. So, I choose to use soy milk in my cereal and many other lactose-free products. The boys – especially Zach – have become fans of drinking soy milk. Now, 9 times out of 10, Zach requests soy milk over “regular milk.” I have a friend from church who kinda flipped out when she heard that the boys are drinking soy milk daily. She explained that soy milk is full of estrogen and possibly causes infertility and other issues for boys. (For the record, she said nothing about the whole gay factor – that was someone else). She recommended almond milk. She makes her own. She and her mother purchase 50 pounds of almonds and make their own almond milk. Now, more power to them, that’s healthy – I’m sure – and amazing, but I just don’t have time to milk 50 pounds of little almond teats. But this concern about soy and boys did make me wonder. So, I chose to do some research of my own. (Though I honestly don’t know who to believe on-line).
When googling “soy and children,” one of the first articles that turned up was titled “Soy is making kids ‘gay’” by Jim Rutz. Holy Majoly, that’s got to be the funniest argument/slash/article title I’ve ever seen in my life! I told my friend Rachel about this article. Rachel is quite knowledgeable on the topic of whole, healthy, green food and livin’. I knew the article was hooey but just wanted to know what she thought of the estrogen-in-soy-products thing. We both agreed that moderation (as in anything) is key.
My parents babysat that night so that we could go see Avatar for Mike’s birthday. When we got home, my mom – not knowing about the article that I’d read that morning – told us a funny anecdote. She said, when putting the boys to bed, she asked Zach for a goodnight kiss. He immediately said, “No. Ick! I don’t kiss girls! I only kiss boys!”
Hmmm. (I just think this whole thing is very funny…Mike did look a tad bit surprised). Later, I reassured him that the girls-and-the-cooties thing is perfectly normal. His response was, “Yeah, but that doesn’t happen until like elementary school.” Well, Zach, at 3 ½ , is just very mature for his age.
The next morning, I was driving with Zach in the car. He was asking about “work.” Like, does Uncle Chris ‘work’ at the same place where daddy ‘works’ and is all ‘work’ just one big ‘place of work.’ As I explained this all to him, I said, “And mommy works too, you know.” (I was actually just about to head out for teaching my music classes).
Zach scoffed – he actually scoffed from his car booster seat and shaking his head with dismay said, “No, Mommy – silly! Girls don’t work! They CAN’T…’cuz they’re girls!” Ahhh. I understand now. Thank GOD! It’s not that he’s gay necessarily; it’s that he’s a sexist, chauvinistic pig. Phew!
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A modern man…
The love saga continues. Matthew presented to Emma the card that he lovingly made for her. It depicted a green-and-blue-clad Matthew and pink-and-purple-clad Emma holding hands. Inside, there was a smaller version of the lovebirds complete with a star above Matthew’s head and a heart above her head. The “Come play at my house” suggestion was left open-ended with no specific time or date provided. Could Emma suddenly appear on our doorstep for the promised playdate?
The boys were given a Baskin and Robbins gift card for helping take care of our neighbors’ cat. When Matthew saw it he immediately said, “We can invite Emma to come with us for ice cream!”
I said, “Well…maybe. That IS nice. If you invite someone to do something, it’s nice to pay for them.”
Matthew paused, thinking about that. Then before walking out of the room he said, “Well, maybe she can just pay for her own ice cream with her own money. That’s better.”
He’s a modern man making a lady pay her own way.
The love saga continues. Matthew presented to Emma the card that he lovingly made for her. It depicted a green-and-blue-clad Matthew and pink-and-purple-clad Emma holding hands. Inside, there was a smaller version of the lovebirds complete with a star above Matthew’s head and a heart above her head. The “Come play at my house” suggestion was left open-ended with no specific time or date provided. Could Emma suddenly appear on our doorstep for the promised playdate?
The boys were given a Baskin and Robbins gift card for helping take care of our neighbors’ cat. When Matthew saw it he immediately said, “We can invite Emma to come with us for ice cream!”
I said, “Well…maybe. That IS nice. If you invite someone to do something, it’s nice to pay for them.”
Matthew paused, thinking about that. Then before walking out of the room he said, “Well, maybe she can just pay for her own ice cream with her own money. That’s better.”
He’s a modern man making a lady pay her own way.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
LOVE, SWEET, LOVE
Talk about Jekyll and Hyde! Wowza. In exactly one week, Matthew has turned into a completely different child. Um, and no offense kid, but thank GOD! Last week not getting the drinking straw of his choice brought on a 35 minute freak-out. Any little injury was cause for therapy and major concern. What a change!
On Tuesday, we’re walking home from the bus stop when Matthew casually says, “I got kicked in the face today on the playground and my tooth came out.” I’m pretty sure that I stopped walking and just stared at him. WHAT?! He says it so nonchalantly and we’re already half-way home! I’m not pumped that my child got kicked in the face, but I’m actually REALLY happy the tooth came out! It was one of those stubborn little buggers that just wasn’t getting very wiggly but already had the grown-up tooth pushed up behind it. The dentist had said that if Matthew didn’t get it out soon she’d have to pull it. We’ve been working on Matthew to wiggle it and work on it, but it didn’t seem to be getting too loose. Thank you, kid, that kicked it on outta there!
Matthew showed me the little plastic tooth-shaped container that he got in the office for safe-keeping of his real tooth. He said the tooth had popped completely out on to the ground getting pretty dirty. On close inspection, Mike thinks that they actually picked up a tiny little pebble and not the tooth at all. This means that the tooth fairy totally got duped, AND that a part of my child remains on the school playground. Hmm. Weird. Oh well, at least she provided Matthew with some financial comfort for his tooth-loss woes. Seriously – I’d MUCH rather pay the tooth fairy fee over the dentist’s! What a bargain!
So, that was Different Child Matthew Day One. Yesterday, Day Two, Matthew woke up ridiculously early. Apparently he wanted to see just how generous the tooth fairy is when you loose your tooth in a dramatic way. (Kinda generous, as it turns out. He got a whole dollar bill! She hasn’t given a dollar since his first four. The two middle top, two middle bottom are important ones…and then after that what with economic set-backs, etc. he’s only got 50 cents/tooth). I was concerned that Matthew would be a way tired-cranky-monster after a long day at school especially when he’d woken up so early. I picked Matthew up from the bus stop in the car as it was POURING. Matthew hopped in through the torrential downpour. I looked back at him once he got his seatbelt buckled. He wore a goofy-huge-cheesy grin as he leaned back in his seat and sighed.
I was suspicious. “How was your day, Matthew?”
“Good… Actually super good.”
“ Super good, huh?”
“ Yeah, I got to make a card for Emma. But I didn’t get to finish it so I brought it home.”
“ That’s nice,” I say.
Matthew sighs again, “Yeah, I like Emma a lot.” He leans forward in his seat getting more excited. “She’s the first person that I like, Mom! I’m going to MARRY HER!!!”
(OK, I will admit that a tiny part of my Mom-ego burst here. #1. My child is grown-up enough to know that you can’t marry your own mother and #2. What’s wrong with me?! Why doesn’t he want to marry me anymore??! Who is this little hussy that has stolen my son’s heart?!! I was a little sad, but recovered quickly because, well, how could I not? Maybe I’ll soon meet my daughter-in-law!)
“Oh, really?!” I ask.
“Yep.”
“How do you know that you’re going to marry her?”
“Because I nudged her and she nudged me back!” Matthew demonstrates with a slow motion, gently-executed elbow nudge, complete with raised eyebrow-wiggle. “And I smile at her and she smiles back.” He’s smooth, this kid! Check out the moves!
“I made her with a pink and purple shirt on the card ‘cuz she likes those girly colors…Was school short today? ‘Cuz I’m not even tired and I was up EARLY! And I’m usually tired. But love made me not tired!!”
I drove home quickly (yet ever-so-carefully so as to not damage the groom); I needed to get that conversation recorded before I forgot it. I need to have 100% word-for-word accuracy here for recording in their wedding book.
Later, as Matthew worked on his card (in which he and Emma are holding hands and he invites her to “Come play at my house” and there is a star above his head and a heart above hers), he provided me with further Emma commentary.
“Maybe Emma made a card for me!”
“Maybe,” I say.
“When’s it going to be another morning? Well, I’ll wait all night and day to give her this.”
He keeps coloring explaining how both he and Emma have jeans on in the picture because they both really like jeans. (Phew! If that’s not a deal-breaker I don’t know what is! Thank goodness she likes jeans.)
“In my dreams!!” Matthew suddenly says excitedly. “I’ll dream of giving her this [card] and that she gives me one!...I like Emma a lot. She’s very kind. And cute. Mom, Emma’s very cute.”
“That’s nice, Matthew,” I say. “Maybe you can introduce me to Emma the next time Zach and I come to have lunch with you in the cafeteria.”
“Yeah!” He giggles, “’Cuz I’ll sit by her at lunch.”
Do you know anything about her? Does she have any brothers or sisters?” What kind of family does this girl come from?! I try to remember if I met her mom at the open house. Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.
“I dunno,” Matthew says.
“Well, do you know her favorite color?”
“No.”
“Maybe you could ask her some questions, you know, get to know her better…” [Before you commit to a deeper relationship.]
Matthew smiles dreamily, “I just know that she’s kind…And Mom, she’s cute!”
Yeah, you mentioned that.
Talk about Jekyll and Hyde! Wowza. In exactly one week, Matthew has turned into a completely different child. Um, and no offense kid, but thank GOD! Last week not getting the drinking straw of his choice brought on a 35 minute freak-out. Any little injury was cause for therapy and major concern. What a change!
On Tuesday, we’re walking home from the bus stop when Matthew casually says, “I got kicked in the face today on the playground and my tooth came out.” I’m pretty sure that I stopped walking and just stared at him. WHAT?! He says it so nonchalantly and we’re already half-way home! I’m not pumped that my child got kicked in the face, but I’m actually REALLY happy the tooth came out! It was one of those stubborn little buggers that just wasn’t getting very wiggly but already had the grown-up tooth pushed up behind it. The dentist had said that if Matthew didn’t get it out soon she’d have to pull it. We’ve been working on Matthew to wiggle it and work on it, but it didn’t seem to be getting too loose. Thank you, kid, that kicked it on outta there!
Matthew showed me the little plastic tooth-shaped container that he got in the office for safe-keeping of his real tooth. He said the tooth had popped completely out on to the ground getting pretty dirty. On close inspection, Mike thinks that they actually picked up a tiny little pebble and not the tooth at all. This means that the tooth fairy totally got duped, AND that a part of my child remains on the school playground. Hmm. Weird. Oh well, at least she provided Matthew with some financial comfort for his tooth-loss woes. Seriously – I’d MUCH rather pay the tooth fairy fee over the dentist’s! What a bargain!
So, that was Different Child Matthew Day One. Yesterday, Day Two, Matthew woke up ridiculously early. Apparently he wanted to see just how generous the tooth fairy is when you loose your tooth in a dramatic way. (Kinda generous, as it turns out. He got a whole dollar bill! She hasn’t given a dollar since his first four. The two middle top, two middle bottom are important ones…and then after that what with economic set-backs, etc. he’s only got 50 cents/tooth). I was concerned that Matthew would be a way tired-cranky-monster after a long day at school especially when he’d woken up so early. I picked Matthew up from the bus stop in the car as it was POURING. Matthew hopped in through the torrential downpour. I looked back at him once he got his seatbelt buckled. He wore a goofy-huge-cheesy grin as he leaned back in his seat and sighed.
I was suspicious. “How was your day, Matthew?”
“Good… Actually super good.”
“ Super good, huh?”
“ Yeah, I got to make a card for Emma. But I didn’t get to finish it so I brought it home.”
“ That’s nice,” I say.
Matthew sighs again, “Yeah, I like Emma a lot.” He leans forward in his seat getting more excited. “She’s the first person that I like, Mom! I’m going to MARRY HER!!!”
(OK, I will admit that a tiny part of my Mom-ego burst here. #1. My child is grown-up enough to know that you can’t marry your own mother and #2. What’s wrong with me?! Why doesn’t he want to marry me anymore??! Who is this little hussy that has stolen my son’s heart?!! I was a little sad, but recovered quickly because, well, how could I not? Maybe I’ll soon meet my daughter-in-law!)
“Oh, really?!” I ask.
“Yep.”
“How do you know that you’re going to marry her?”
“Because I nudged her and she nudged me back!” Matthew demonstrates with a slow motion, gently-executed elbow nudge, complete with raised eyebrow-wiggle. “And I smile at her and she smiles back.” He’s smooth, this kid! Check out the moves!
“I made her with a pink and purple shirt on the card ‘cuz she likes those girly colors…Was school short today? ‘Cuz I’m not even tired and I was up EARLY! And I’m usually tired. But love made me not tired!!”
I drove home quickly (yet ever-so-carefully so as to not damage the groom); I needed to get that conversation recorded before I forgot it. I need to have 100% word-for-word accuracy here for recording in their wedding book.
Later, as Matthew worked on his card (in which he and Emma are holding hands and he invites her to “Come play at my house” and there is a star above his head and a heart above hers), he provided me with further Emma commentary.
“Maybe Emma made a card for me!”
“Maybe,” I say.
“When’s it going to be another morning? Well, I’ll wait all night and day to give her this.”
He keeps coloring explaining how both he and Emma have jeans on in the picture because they both really like jeans. (Phew! If that’s not a deal-breaker I don’t know what is! Thank goodness she likes jeans.)
“In my dreams!!” Matthew suddenly says excitedly. “I’ll dream of giving her this [card] and that she gives me one!...I like Emma a lot. She’s very kind. And cute. Mom, Emma’s very cute.”
“That’s nice, Matthew,” I say. “Maybe you can introduce me to Emma the next time Zach and I come to have lunch with you in the cafeteria.”
“Yeah!” He giggles, “’Cuz I’ll sit by her at lunch.”
Do you know anything about her? Does she have any brothers or sisters?” What kind of family does this girl come from?! I try to remember if I met her mom at the open house. Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.
“I dunno,” Matthew says.
“Well, do you know her favorite color?”
“No.”
“Maybe you could ask her some questions, you know, get to know her better…” [Before you commit to a deeper relationship.]
Matthew smiles dreamily, “I just know that she’s kind…And Mom, she’s cute!”
Yeah, you mentioned that.
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