Just Because It Was Cute...

Allie just ran in here and said to me,

 "Mommy wook!  My wegs are getting weally wong!"

Just too cute.

My Scott

This pregnancy has brought about many things.  A house remodel--hooray!  A rethinking of priorities, and in some ways a downsizing of away-from-home responsibilities.  One of the most meaningful to me, though has been the subtle changes I've seen in my special boy.

God knew what He was doing giving this little man all these sisters.

The fatigue and difficulty of pregnancy with many little ones in the house has made him more gently protective of me.  He's gone the extra step holding doors, making me coffee in the morning, walking by me and holding my hand to keep me company.  It's been such a special thing to this mother.  I cherish the time with him, and although what he does, he does in a quiet way, it speaks volumes about him and his loving heart.

Pwaying Wegos With Allie

After thirty minutes of pain-staking labor, the creator finished her masterpiece.  Forty pillars of yellow, one-piece bricks encompassed the green lego floor below.  She had added a kitchen at the last minute, complete with white cocktail umbrella over the stern gray sink.  It was time for the lego ladies to make their entrance.   The three friends traipsed the span of the trunk below with short hops one at a time.  Then they began their riveting conversation skills.

Friend #1:  "Hi.  How do I wook today?"

Friend #2:  "You wook 'tastic!  How do I wook today?"

Friend #3:  "You wook so boo-ful.  I'm boo-ful, too."

Friend #1:  "I wike your boo-ful bwack hair."

Friend #3: "Thanks!  I wike your boo-ful yewoah hair, too."

Friend #2:  "I have dis pwetty bwack shirt on today.  Do you wike it, too?"

Friend #1: "Oh yes, it is so pwetty.  NOW GET TO WORK!!!!!"  (Apparently Friend #1 is the Mom.)

They all hopped in sync to the cocktail umbrella kitchen where they continued talking about all manner of 'dewicious' things to eat for a full ten minutes thereafter.  However, I regret to say that someone's cooking was not appreciated as it should be.  A few minutes ago the friends had a huge altercation, whereupon someone smashed the boo-ful kitchen to bits.

It just goes to show that beauty is only skin deep; cooking ability, however, is a power that lasts and binds friendships together.

What a Girl Really Wants

It's been a pretty long day here.  We skidaddled fairly early in order to take our ITBS practice tests with a friend, only to return to the school day we had missed.  Before I knew what happened, it was late afternoon and the big kids were off to do more interesting things.  It caught my attention to hear Allie talking rather excitedly from the next room over.

With Scott and Cara playing outside and Meg snoozing in her boudoir, I peered into the living room to investigate what exactly Allie was doing.  She sat perched on top of the couch, curtains pulled around each side of her chubbiness, gesturing and pointing during her chat.  I watched a little, amused by her conversation with her unknown friend.

"Den we can go outside and pway together.  It will be so much fun today!" she said from the drapery.

I interrupted, "I'm glad you want to play, Allie.  We will have a fun day today, won't we?".

She turned to look at me with a grave expression.  Apparently I was not the friend she had in mind for this thrilling afternoon.  She told me kindly that she wasn't talking to me, then settled back into her perch to continue.

A big sigh, "Daddy, you're my best fwiend.  When you get home soon, den we can go pway some more, okay?".  She then told him about all she did today before climbing down to amuse herself.

All a girl really wants on a sunny afternoon is her best friend, her daddy, home to share the day with her.

Baby in the Baseline

(A story for my Scott, to commemorate the many evenings at the ballpark with the little girls in tow!)

It was early in the evening's game, and I was all covered up, from head to toe with my catcher's pads.  I creaked along to home plate, where I bent over, ready to catch the first ball headed my way. I could hear my sisters nearby, giggling and singing to Mom.

Strike one.

I threw the ball back to the pitcher and knelt down again in the dust.

Strike two.

The ball nearly hit me this time.  I adjusted my mask and got ready for the next pitch.

Crack!  My mask flew off and I shielded my eyes against the sun.  Phew!  It was only a foul ball.  I grinned over to third base where my good friend Austin was ready to defend...and I saw something I never thought I'd see when I came to the field tonight.  There was a baby--my baby sister--crawling quickly to third base!

The pitcher threw the ball too high but I hardly noticed, because I was watching my baby crawl past Austin's waiting glove and crouched legs.

"Ma ma!  Ma ma! Ma maaaa!"  she squealed.

I was so scared that someone would run over her I began to move forward and landed squarely in the path of the batter's bat.  Onto my helmet it clunked, knocking me right off my feet.  I saw the warmly glowing sun seep between the cage of my mask and felt the dust settle on my face and teeth.  The coach was shouting to me, "Are you okay?".

"Yes."  I answered, as I stood up.  Then I remembered what had frightened me enough to walk straight into the batter--my sister!  Where was she?

I could hear her groaning from somewhere on the field, "MMMMmmmmmm.   Ga.  Ga.  Ga.   MMMmmmmm...".  I jumped up and squinted at Austin on third.  No baby.  He looked back at me, shaking his head, wondering why I kept staring at him.  I tried to mouth, baby.  BA-BY!

"I'm not a baby, Scott!"  he grumbled to himself.  He kicked third base before he turned his attention back to the batter.

I felt terrible.  I hadn't meant to call my friend a baby, but where had baby Megan gone?  The groaning of before I couldn't hear any more over the noise of the cheering.  The pitcher threw another high ball.

"Where is she?"  I whispered to myself as I threw the ball back to the pitcher.  Then I spotted her again.  She had crawled over second base,  hit it two times with her chubby hand, then continued crawling toward first.

The pitcher threw a fast ball straight into the strike zone.  Just as the batter hit the ball, baby Megan tagged up on first base, laughing and blowing spit bubbles the whole time.  She sat down on first base and began to clap as the ball rolled toward her.  Bryson, who was guarding first base slammed his cleat down on the base just as Megan crawled off.  She was really crawling now.

I took of my catcher's mask and called to her, "Come here.  Come here, little Meggie."  The first base coach thought I was crazy, talking to him like that!  What he didn't know was that my little sister was crawling at top speed, heading home.

The batter was tagged out at first, thank goodness, and just before the next batter came up to the plate, Meggie planted her dust-stained knees on home plate and grabbed my legs.  She stood up and said, "Da Da Da!".  Then she screamed in happiness.  I picked her up, and the crowd cheered for the mini base runner..  Meggie began to clap for herself again and say all kinds of things I didn't understand, and the umpire yelled, "She's safe!".

Meggie liked to slap her hand on my pads, and she smiled and opened her mouth to give my nose a big, wet smooch,  "aahhh-MWAH!".  Coach came up to me and ruffled my hair.

He said with a smile, "That's the first time I've EVER seen a runner give the catcher a kiss on the nose!".

I had never seen that before either, and I hoped that I never would again!

A Glimpse of the Man

Our lives are currently overrun with batting helmets, baseball schedules and even a catcher's mask on occasion.  It's been a bit busy, but very enjoyable, especially for the little old man, who of course spends most of his off-school hours practicing, practicing the batting and catching skills he so wants.  I know this is a real shift to boyhood, this fascination with sports, but recently I caught a glimpse of the man inside.

It was totally unrelated to his baseball fantasies, in fact.

For the last year and a half, he has been begging to try pushing our very heavy, bagged push mower around our somewhat substantial yard.  I've resisted.  He's 'helped' push in the past, and it usually makes the already difficult task even more cumbersome.  This year I gave in a bit and let go of the mower handle.

I watched as his tanned, resolute arms struggled and exerted.  He broke a sweat and tried with all the muscles in his lean little form, and he pushed the mower.  No matter how mother henly I clucked next to him, wanting to save him from this sharp corner or that little slope, the determined boy finished the front lawn by himself.  I was shocked and promptly rewarded him with a Pepsi from Daddy's forbidden stash.

The next mowing I figured he'd remember how hard it was and shy away from any involvement.  I was very mistaken.  As I laced my mowing shoes, he got ready and even beat me outside, pulling out the mower to get started even faster.  I asked my little guy why he was so excited to work, of all things.  His reply brought tears to my eyes.

He wants to mow to get strong enough to mow the whole lawn every time, so I wouldn't have to work so hard; so I could spend some time doing something enjoyable.

And that's what it means to be a real man.  Thoughtfulness.  Self-sacrifice.  Doing something hard to spare the ones you love.

Some day I'll hand him over to a lucky young lady, and I'll remember this day.  I'll remind him of what it means to be a real man.

To Kick Off The Season...

I was in Michigan recently because, contrary to popular belief, mother-in-laws can be cherished friends.  In the early morning, I took a drive past a local high school.  The tick-tacking of a drum cadence caught my attention.  The tenor drums ponged and pinged, and the bass drums thunked as I drove by. (That brought back fall memories to me.  Every fall my high school marching band would terrorize the neighborhoods surrounding the school with their early morning practices.  Nothing like whistles and drums for a great wake-up call.)
     
I waited at a light and turned to see a herd of young men in full game gear stretching and sprinting, readying themselves for practice on the dewy field.  A cool morning breeze floated through my car and I thought of my hubby, and the scores of careers that he had seen start on these Michigan football fields. 

It is practically fall, the season of cool breezes and football and leaves.  Let's hunker down and prep the fire place for the months to come.

Contraband

It's been less than a week since we've been done with school.

We've worked hard to accomplish this goal, and to be free to enjoy summer in all its splendor.

How then can it be possible that my little old man asks me for school work to do every day?  I've explained to him how exciting it is to have no school work, and he seems thrilled every time.  And yet...around the house I consistently find papers he has privately assigned himself.  His stashes are littered with penmanship practice, arithmetic problems and reading books.

A love of learning is a beautiful thing.  It's just kind of humorous that he hides his interest so stealthily, honing his skills in secret.  Perhaps he doesn't want to burst my bubble, but I'm on to him nonetheless.

Draw Your Own Conclusions...

This is a true story.  A few days ago, Scott and I were chatting in the kitchen.  The girls were all asleep, and we had just walked the dog together.  It's kind of a rarity in our household to have one on one time, so I was enjoying hearing all about his dream of the previous night and his super funny, three stooges-esque jokes.  As I filled up Oscar's bowl with dog food, Scott paused, then noted, "I don't know how doggies can like to eat that food, Mom".

"Really?  Why is that?" I asked, not yet alarmed.

Brace yourself...

He answered, "It looks and smells really good, but it tastes terrible."

Say it isn't so!

My shocked expression must have communicated my suspicions.  His reddening face and shifty eyes didn't calm them.

I'm not exactly sure why I was surprised, considering some of his previous dietary adventures, but, there you have it.  It just goes to show, the little old man will eat most anything.

Wrong Song, Right Message

My Allie is starting to be into singing...especially now that she's potty-training.  There's nothing merrier than hearing a toddler belt it out from the 'throne room', little short legs swinging with vigor.  Her new favorite is "Praise Him, Praise Him, All Ye Little Children".

Here's how she sings it..."Praise Him, Praise Him, all ye little children, Daddy loves me, Daddy loves me..." etc.

No, she's not singing it right, but she IS right.  Her Daddy does love her.  Every mischievious cell in her little curly-haired being.  I can't help but smile when I hear her spirited rendition echoing out from the can.  It's cute, but I'm so thankful it's true!

A loving Daddy is one of the most important things a little girl needs.  (And I should know...I have one too!)

Comfort for a Bluesy Day

My Modern Day Perry Mason

It's been one of those days.  What with the election last night, all the doomsdaying on the news, and some terribly cranky children, I admit to feeling a mite tired and overwhelmed.  Now my normal approach to this would be the chocolate stash, but I happen to be a little depleted.  Option number two is on right now.  I'm watching Judge Judy.  Now that would be a career I could really endorse.  Having the legal authority to penalize and make fun of stupid people with an audience there to cheer you on is really living the dream.  When life seems like there's no justice or security, it's time to watch Judge Judy let the one-liners fly.  Imagine the fun of seeing a moron, rolling your eyes at the moron, then publicly declaring said moron to be moronic in a crowd of like-minded silently cheering grinners.  Also a grumpy policeman accomplice to grunt in agreement and do my fetching for me...I couldn't dream of a better day job.  Vive Judge Judy!  We responsible, tax-paying law abiders are living vicariously through you!

"Is This Your First?"

Any similarity with a real, living blog writer is purely coincidental...really.          The question was launched at "Anna" (the name was changed to protect the innocent) while she was entering the building for her six week postpartum visit.  A twitch of a smile--almost a snicker--played about her lips.  Obviously the asker is either ignorant or overly kind, ignoring the disheveled clothes, gray-speckled mass of untamed hair and the hunted, frantic look about "Anna's" eyes.  She thought about her far from maidenly figure and the nonchalance with which she approached the upcoming violating office visit, to say nothing of the ease with which she juggled an ungodly amount of baby gear while running through the parking lot.      She paused, smiled, then answered, "No.  This is number four actually".        The unidentified questioner said what everyone says, "Oh wow!  You must be busy!".      I--er---I mean "Anna" just smiled and rushed away.  Busy, yes indeed, and also late...another hallmark of a vanfull of kiddos.  

A Trip to Nana's...

Scott will be leaving tomorrow on his vacation to Nana's house.  He's been packed for hours.  The packing list includes 147 cars (yes, he counted them all twice to be sure), 10 army men, then after I suggested he pack some clothes he added  three pairs of underwear.  What else could a young man need for five days?  So different from the girls!

No Mom, It's Really Not That Complicated

Well now, I had a humorous/humbling moment with the little old man last night.  Scott spent a large part of the afternoon unsmiling, squinty-eyed and almost growling at the girls and me.  This is completely abnormal for him.  In fact, it is a rare thing for him to not be smiling and mellow.  I immediately perked up and took notice.

The symptoms seemed to escalate after a minor punishment for arguing with his sister.  Being of the character-building sort, I followed the little old man to his room for a heart to heart.  What a great opportunity to teach and discuss the vices of anger and holding a grudge!  I chatted.  I talked about what makes me feel that way.  I asked him questions.  I saw no change.  Hmmm...

He was perfectly polite, but unchanged.  Still unsmiling, squinty-eyed and almost growling.  Since there was no overtly rude or wrong behavior, I decided in my motherly wisdom to let him stay in his room and think about our in-depth conversation.

Not long thereafter, I saw an amazing transformation.  He was smiling, giggling and making super funny jokes.  Had my heart to heart changed his demeanor?  Did our loving prayer time make the difference?

No.  Actually what did the trick was the three bowls of heaping taco salad that he manfully snarfed down.  Once the calories hit his bloodstream, he perked up in no time and was completely back to normal...running and playing cars with furious energy.

I had forgotten a fundamental consideration of raising a boy.

Sometimes there are no emotions attached to his behavior...he's probably just hungry again.  Most problems with him are just that simple...feed the kid, put the kid to bed, see the kid get happy again.  Poor little guy.  Maybe the character lecture will prevent problems some other time when it actually applies!

My Little Pumpkin

I got my weekly email yesterday.  You know, the one from Babycenter.com that marks your pregnancy week by week.  In fact, even for those of you who are slightly detached from the pregnancy process, you probably are friends with someone on Facebook who posts hers with regularity for the world to see.  I'm now officially two months from my due date.

My baby is the weight of four large navel oranges.  That's real progress.

In the last month, we've moved up in the world from a head of cauliflower, to some type of squash or other, to the multiple oranges.

My question is this...why all the produce references?  Is it suppose to inspire me to eat more healthfully despite the constant cravings for potato chips and fudge?  Are the publishers condescending enough to assume that a food reference will always magically click?  Are they possibly struggling with covert cannibalism?

My beef is this (ha, ha)...if you're going to constantly weigh your baby with food references, why not hit on things pregnant women want to think about and can really relate to?

"Congratulations!  You are 12 weeks along.  Your baby is the size of a Hershey's kiss..."


"Your baby has now achieved the weight of a single serving bag of M and M's..."


"This week baby is the length of a King size Reese's..."


"Hooray for you!  Baby is growing rapidly and will soon be as large as a Family size bag of Late Night Tacos at Midnight Doritos..."


Now THAT would make for some interesting Facebook reading.  Besides, it would be a more realistic representation of what pregnant women are really feeling.  If we have to force ourselves to eat spinach when we really want Extreme Moosetracks, do you have to constantly rub it in?

And just so you know, according to my personal measuring methods, my baby is now roughly the size of one Russell Stover Assorted sampler box plus two small Whitman's sampler tins.  <<sigh>>  Leave me alone to dream now, just for a moment.

Remember This?

Cara told me something really funny this morning.  Apparently one of the neighbor girls taught her the following...

"Girls go to college to get more knowledge; boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider..." (giggle, giggle, snort).


Ah, yes, the classics.  I'd forgotten about that.  I promptly taught her the "Girls go to Mars to get more candy bars..." bit.  (This could be construed as a part of my ongoing plan to indoctrinate my children into chocolate obsession--maybe that's where this all started!).

I have to say it brought back some cute little girl school memories for me.  Amazing how these playground rhymes stand the test of time.

...just a little scared for the day when the kids learn the diarrhea song!

Warning Signs You Might Be An Extreme Couponer...

By now most people have heard about some of the wild shopping/saving techniques of the self-proclaimed 'extreme couponers'.  You may have watched the show...you may have even been on the show.  Although I do consider myself an extreme cheapie when it comes to grocery shopping, I don't think I've quite stepped over into the abyss.  Here's my method of determining one's level of couponing extremity.  If more than three of these warning signs describes you...call TLC immediately to set up a shoot for their show!

1. You call your pantry a stockpile.

2. You insure your stockpile.

3. You call your grocery shopping trip a 'haul'.

4. You've had to install more than one shelving unit to store your stockpile.

5.  Your bedroom (under the bed, in the closet...anywhere) has either toilet paper, paper towels, shampoo or cereal stored in it.

6. You consider leaving the store with Ramen noodles, flavored water, toothpaste and toothbrushes a great shopping trip.

7. You require assistance to your car and you DON'T have your kids along  or move about via wheelchair.

8.  You know what a line limit is, and you know your store's.

9. You plan on more than two transactions during your checkout--and they're all for you.

10. It takes you more than 10 minutes to check out, even with a competent employee scanning.

11. Your kids are excited when the Sunday paper comes and they keep ads in their rooms.  (Guilty on this one!  Like I said...more than three!)

12. Your kids know what stores in the area double coupons.

13.  You've invested in a paper cutter for reasons other than scrapbooking.

14. You bring either a binder or file box to the grocery store.

15.  You've  been in a dumpster or recycling bin looking for coupons.

16. You measure your toilet paper, not by rolls, but by height.

I'm sure there are many other signs, but these are the few I've picked up from the show.  Now, fess up!  Have any of you readers made it to extremity?

Early Thoughts On Tee-Ball

We are officially a few weeks into the tee-ball season, and I'm finding that we're enjoying the whole experience...especially Scott and Andy, of course.  Despite the back surgery pain and fatigue, Andy is faithfully attending games and, being braver than wimpy Mom, is still able to pitch real tee-balls to help Scott practice.  (There's just something about  the image of a  strongly hit tee-ball screaming to the face or pregnant belly that scares me.  Or maybe it's just that I'm a wimp.  Not quite sure.)

Anyway, after analyzing Scott's amazing team in action quite a lot, I've come up to a conclusion about tee-ball. It is not a regular sport.  It is actually a strange hybrid of three sports...baseball, tackle football, and bowling.

The ball is struck first by a grinning boy who is wearing a helmet far too large for his head/body proportion.  This is usually done after a lot of coachly adjusting, many swing attempts, and lots of pro baseball player pre-swing imitations.  The ball flies taps out into the infield full of players, at which point the sport turns into tackle football.  Nearly all of the fielders (seems to be about everyone except Scott who thinks he's an umpire) runs toward the ball.  Instead of catching or stopping the ball, the natural reaction is to manfully tackle it to get it to stop.  Imagine all twelve, er, eleven boys doing this at once, and you can see where the bowling starts.  Despite their self-sacrificing moves of agility, somehow the ball escapes unscathed while the boys drop like bowling pins.  It brings a whole new meaning to the word 'strike'.  Sometimes the game takes on the feeling of dominoes as well, but only with base runners.  They hardly ever ALL remember to run.  They end up being piled up somewhere around third base where they each in turn hit and knock each other over in a pretty orderly and predictable manner.  Curious.

After all these antics, the game reverts back to being like baseball.  The boys just have to slide home and after scoring, they humbly saunter back to the bench, or out to the stands to jump and see how proud Mom and Dad are of them.  I suppose Joey Votto doesn't really do that, but he probably did once upon a time.

All in all it's been a lot of fun so far.  You almost hate to see them improve in their skills, because it's just so much fun to watch them like this!

The Little Laundry Maid

I thought it was about time to give an update on Hurricane Allison.  Last I posted about her, I was in a state of severe trauma while I adjusted to her new-found mischief-making prowess.  Don't get me wrong, there is something special about her amazing ability to find trouble, discreetly involve herself in trouble, carry out the trouble in silence, then try not to laugh in your face when you discover the trouble.  This age is always a heavy training time for children in our household.  We tend to have a terrible one's more than a terrible two's around here, but finally the training and the growing is starting to pay off.

What is it about this picture that my Dad loves so much?!?

While she is still an exceptional mischief-maker, there is a real sweetness beginning to develop in her.  She tries her best to help and is so proud of herself!  She's my right-hand girl.  She's not useful in the true sense of the word, but she's always there, always trying to please, always helping as much as she can.  It's such a fun age of discovery.  She's discovered dishes...she can put away pots and pans, as well as cutting boards.  She's discovered the laundry.  Any washing or folding is way too neatly done without her presence, not to mention the fun of watching her parade around with various unmentionables draped around her neck.  (Clean, I hasten to add, lest I lose my readership in disgust.)

It's so exciting to see your baby grow and learn and be a help.  Of course there will be messes and shocks (like her alarming habit of stripping down during naptime and climbing on top of Cara's dresser), but the sweet fellowship has begun to form a new joy of knowing my curly-haired trouble maker.

Now I Know...

I think it's fair to say that I'm officially not just like Cinderella.  I've been wondering about it for some time...the continual mopping and cooking seem strangely familiar, but now I know better.  Every morning when Andy leaves for work, I collapse back into bed and plan on dosing gently back to sleep.  It's so peaceful when the children are sleeping in their rooms!  But alas, the temperate weather has brought the back reality of the morning hours. From our open window, the neighborhood full of birds begin their wake-up routine.  We have no roosters around here; apparently we don't need them.  Sometime between 5:45 and 6:00 am the gentle tweets progress to the unearthly chorus to which we have now become accustomed.  What seems like hundreds of birds litter our ear intake with their barbaric yawping.  Cinderella would never have reacted this way.  No, she sings and laughingly scolds her feathered friends while she brushes her golden hair and dreams of her Handsome Prince.  My Handsome Prince has already left for work, so I either impatiently endure, then finally get up complaining about living next to the nature preserve or I briskly slam the window shut and fade back off into my slumbering bliss.  Sleep is a wish MY heart makes.