On the eighth day He created Soccer Camp. And it was good.

If we were to sign Adelaide up for soccer camp, the results would be marked and severe.  We can barely get her out into the backyard for a family game of fútbol without groaning and tears and the ever-present question, "Why?"  (Or, more accurately, "WHHHHHYYYYYY?") The answer to this being a sensible, "You have been reading for nearly four hours.  That is why you have a headache, and don't feel well, and are, ahem, the tiniest bit cranky.  Come outside, breathe the air, and interact with the human race for thirty measly minutes."  So soccer camp would no doubt be seen as akin to trying to kill her clean off.

Our boys are a different story.

When the opportunity arose for them to attend a camp staffed by British college students studying to be soccer coaches (because evidently that is a thing you can major in outside of the United States where we more or less collectively suck at soccer, at least on a world stage), both jumped at it.

I didn't really know what to expect.  I had a couple friends whose children had participated in this camp in the past and had nothing but praise for the organization, but the coaches change every year and, to my mind at least, you'd have no way of knowing whether or not you're going to get stuck with a real stinker of a coach for five straight days, two hours each morning.

Thankfully, no stinkers made their way to Iowa last week.  All the hallelujahs.

Please click to embiggen and see Caedmon (third from the right) joyfully bellowing, "LET'S MAKE IT HAPPEN," their mantra for the week.

The boys were pleased, I was pleased, Adelaide was... maybe not pleased, but certainly helpful, as she escorted the boys between the library and the camp most of the week.  Most tellingly, Derek was pleased, and as a former soccer phenom, he is by far the most difficult to please of us all.  He said their skills and drills were good, the scrimmaging was good, the [insert words he could have made up for all I know] was good.  Good!

I got to attend their final day of camp, and was so impressed with our boys.  I mean, I'm impressed anytime they don't cringe away from a ball flying toward them, or scream unnecessarily when a ball flies toward them, or watch a ball as it pointlessly rolls past them- all things I have been known to do in middle school P.E., in high school P.E., and last night in our backyard.  I am nothing if not consistent.

And they looked so happy to be out there.  The befuddlement was thick in the air around Daughter and me.

I mean, look- here Caedmon finally managed to get it the ball past the goalie, Coach Mark.  He is thrilled.

That's not to say that never had a similar expression on my face before.  Holler "CHEESECAKE!" and watch me fly.

Atticus, too.

Happy to be playing soccer, I mean.  Not the cheesecake thing.

Honestly, it was downright bewildering.

The boys also learned some unexpected things, like what the coaches referred to as "party tricks,"

and that they speak English in England.  (Atticus to me:  "Mom, if Coach Isaac is from England, how can he speak English?"  Oh, sweet boy child.  How terribly and adorably American of you.)  

Every once in a while, though, I'd see a little of myself in the boys.

That extension!  That pointed back toe!  Why isn't this boy in ballet? 

If that gif shows anything, though, it's that there seems to be plenty of drama on the soccer field, or football... pitch?  Field?  Stage?  Anyway, who needs Giselle when you have this

and this

and of course this?

Although I see that last one and think, "Poor guy!  He just found out his childhood best friend finally lost his battle with cancer."  Because all this emotion can't be for a game, right?  (Raise your hand if you're wondering how thirteen years of marriage to Derek the Rabid Minnesota Vikings Fan has taught me nothing.)

 One moment while I pull myself out of the whirling vortex of gifs I just allowed myself to be sucked into.

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.

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Okay.  I'm back. 

So:  Soccer camp was good, nay, fantastic, our boys learned a lot about soccer and where our language comes from, and I thanked the good Lord above that in this case, Derek's genes prevailed. 

All the hallelujahs.

Big, juicy, soccer-y thanks to Derek's parents for gifting the entrance fee to the camp as our boys' birthday presents.  It was obviously a success!

Things I Learned on Our Son's Field Trip

Despite the fact that we have had at least one child in public school for nearly six full years, prior to this spring I had somehow managed to escape chaperoning a field trip.

This was 99% because we always had a younger child at home, one young enough they could not tag along on the various school-sponsored excursions.  The other 1% was pure self-preservation on my part.


But now, this year?  All our children are in school.  And I work at a place that gives me a ridiculously flexible schedule- great for dentist appointments, but at the same time siphoning away any excuses I have not to go on these field trips.

A few months ago, then, when Atticus came to me, brandishing papers from school declaiming the details of not one but two upcoming outings, I knew I was sunk.  My draft number had been drawn. It was all over.  And any other overly dramatic hyperbole you can think of.

I saw that one field trip was to the science center and immediately said no.  (Actually, I cackled for quite some time and then said, "No.")  We had a family membership to that place for a year, and while we all loved it, by the end of each visit I felt that I was barely escaping with the four things I had carried in the front doors with me- my sanity and all three children- so to help wrangle a few hundred children through there?  I'm good, thanks.

I did feel a little twinge, like maybe I should chaperone the trip to the science center- deserved to, even- when I remembered that I hadn't gone when Adelaide visited with her first grade class (small children at home, remember), and that this particular trip had just so happened to occur within the time that our daughter was deathly afraid of getting sucked into escalators.

The science center has an escalator.  Two of them, actually, since that's generally how escalators work.  And apparently the mother who chaperoned had a heck of a time with Adelaide and one of those nefarious, child-sucking escalators.  Is it terrible that I'm laughing hysterically recalling that story, but still refuse to chaperone a trip to the science center/escalatorland?  Or does it just make me smart?

Since the science center was out, it meant I was going to see a play with Atticus and the entirety of the second grade.  Hey, a play sounds fun, though, right?  And my goodness, it's Elephant and Piggie's We Are in a Play!  We love Elephant and Piggie, and the entirety of the Mo Willems canon, as a matter of fact!

It's sweet how naive I am sometimes, right?

Let me just say that the play was great.  Charming, entertaining, maybe one or two songs too long, as the vast auditorium full of children, who had previously been entranced with the goings-on on stage all began to squirm in concert when the second-to-last song began.  But cute, and a great celebration of the books and characters we love so much.  

The truly terrible part was the bus ride.

Why did I elect to ride on the School Bus of Horror?  Why didn't I drive myself?  (Oh, yeah- I'd never done this before.)  It's hard to describe what the ride there and back were like, except to say it was difficult to breathe.  It was an unseasonably warm day, and apparently there's still no air conditioning on school buses (?).  On the way there the kids were asking if they could put their windows down to get some air moving, but I was worried about the boys around me (I was surrounded by boys, most likely because I was sitting with our own boy) losing a limb as, being second grade boys, they inevitably waved it out the window.

By the time we'd gotten back on the bus to head home, I no longer cared whether or not I delivered those boys back to their mamas with all their limbs or not.  So down the windows went.

Also, an equation I don't remember learning in any science class ever but that would have served me well that day is HEAT + 8 YEAR OLD BOYS = A THICK MIASMA OF STENCH.

Oh, gosh.  It was so bad.  And the noise.  Another previously-unknown-to-me equation was BUS RIDE + 8 YEAR OLD BOYS = LOUD OBNOXIOUS SOUNDS COMPETITION.  

Atticus tried to warn me when we first settled in our seat at the beginning of our trip:  (whispering) "Mom?  Just so you know, that boy there and those two boys there are kind of wild.  Like, they're the wildest boys in our class."  "Wild" in our house doesn't so much mean Where the Wild Things Are but more "poorly behaved heathens who make you yearn for the days of corporal punishment." And when did second grade boys get so big?  It's hard to stink-eye a kid into submission when they're the same size as you.  Don't you worry, though, having two boys of our own and a brewing migraine, I managed just fine, thank you very much.  I probably don't have the reputation of Nicest Mom in our son's class, though.  This does not break my cold, icy heart.

A dear friend of mine and fellow introvert was similarly ensconced further back in the bus.  Toward the end of the trip we sent texts back and forth celebrating mile markers that meant we were that much closer to home and threatening to throw ourselves out the now-open windows into oncoming traffic.  I also sent Derek texts requesting he have water and ibuprofen waiting for me on my return.  You see, once Atticus and I returned, our family was immediately jumping into the car for a trip to Kansas, and I knew that if I allowed the field trip-induced headache to continue to grow, I would make everyone in the car miserable with my piss-poor attitude, plus possibly start puking.  Yay, field trips!

After all that, I am going on a field trip this upcoming Monday with Adelaide's class.  It's Pioneer Day at a park.  We have been instructed to bring bug spray and given specific instructions on what to pack in our tin cans so that even the lunch is period-appropriate.  What sedative would have been available to pioneer moms, I wonder?  The papers from school didn't say.

Actually It Was 6:45

This morning we began our day with a good old-fashioned fight.  It was all caused by the revelation that Caedmon eats his toast wrong.  Oh, you didn't know that there was a wrong way to eat toast?  Neither did Caedmon.  Neither did anybody, for that matter, except 7 a.m. Atticus.  Any-other-time-of-day Atticus probably could not care less how his younger brother eats his toast, but 7 a.m. Atticus cares.  Deeply.

See, what we all learned this morning is that Caedmon flips his toast upside down just before it enters his mouth so that it's jelly-side down as it hits his tongue.  When you think about it, this is insanely sensible.  Clearly the boy is a genius.  I may start eating my pizza this way.  Nevertheless, 7 a.m. Atticus's sensibilities were offended.  "That is not how you're supposed to eat toast," 7 a.m. Atticus insisted.  "You are eating it wrong.  Nobody eats it that way."  Caedmon pointed out that he eats it that way, and gave his jelly-to-the-tongue reasoning.  7 a.m. Atticus did not care.  He would not be swayed.    


The only reason this altercation stayed civilized is that I was present at the table.  They have flailed their limbs at each other's faces for less, I promise you.  It wasn't just me there, though; it was 7 a.m. me, and 7 a.m. me is more interested in getting enough coffee into her gullet to get her morning murder feelings under control than in refereeing such world-changing issues like Toast Up v. Toast Down.

It's... it's so BEAUTIFUL...

After I had shared my feelings on the matter, we all finished our breakfasts in resentful silence, THE WAY GOD INTENDED.

Three Things

• When you go to enjoy frozen yogurt with Caedmon, he eats it so fast this inevitably happens.

On a related note, Caedmon- who is a self-determined expert on superheroes- helped me discover what my superpower is:  I do not get brain freeze, or ice cream headaches, or whatever you call them.  I will pretend I was not disappointed that my superpower couldn't have been something just a tiny bit... well, cooler.  (Pun not intended but nevertheless appreciated for what it is.)

• Hey, remember when we didn't have to wake up and feel sick by what our elected government officials were doing "on our behalf"?

• While all of our children are capable of independent reading (HAL-LAY-LOO-YAH), all three still enjoy being read to, particularly Caedmon.  He has a very subtle way of asking for this to happen.

I understand if you're having trouble focusing on the subject of this photo, which is supposed to be how our youngest spreads a blanket on our couch, assembles a pile of picture books, then pats the seat next to him invitingly, beckoning you to come read to him.  Maybe you're distracted by a photo-bombing Atticus in the foreground, or maybe you can't take your eyes off those pants of Caedmon's.  I do have an excuse:  I am a human being who sometimes gets a little behind on the laundry.  That morning, before school, Caedmon had wailed to me that he had "nooooo mooooore clean paaaants to wear!"  I dug those way-too-short, mess-of-holes jeans out and told him to put some long underwear on underneath.  Problem solved.  And it's better than that day last fall, when Derek got the kids up and around for school one day, allowing me and my bronchitis to sleep in.  Sweet, nice husband.  Sweet, nice husband who I discovered sent Caedmon to school in long underwear instead of real pants and didn't realize it until I sent him a picture of our son right after he got off the school bus in those long underwear.  I laughed, shrugged, and basically chalked it up to "Whatever, he's the third child and used to these kind of shenanigans."

Damages Incurred

If you don't count the weekend, today is the final day of spring break!  Adelaide has been singing something called "The Shark Song" on repeat for the past 35 consecutive minutes, Atticus keeps bringing Caedmon to the brink of violence by pausing outside open doorways, gesturing for his younger brother to precede him and then smirking before smarmily saying, "Ladies first!" and I am wondering what it feels like to be alone.  I can't really remember.  How did I keep my sanity for a solid decade while I was staying at home with these heathens full-time?  OH, RIGHT.  I didn't.

Other spring break casualties, other than my patience:  Atticus's noggin, which is currently sporting a nasty, bruised lump behind his left ear where he attempted to vault a bench but miscalculated and instead of smoothly landing beneath the dining table instead bounced his head off the edge; Caedmon's knee, which got caught on a nail, leaving a mighty impressive wound; Caedmon's nose, which was somehow the only casualty when he fell down several stairs, bouncing his head off each step,

and I don't even know what else.  Thankfully, as the above photo shows, our children have Wolverine-like healing powers, and usually 24 hours or so are enough to take the edge off of whatever damage they've currently done to their bodies.  Also seen above is five or so months worth of sunlight withdrawal, aka we are all pale, pasty creatures right about now.  Send help.  Send spring.  Send something.

Two Things and a Book Review

Well.  It would appear that our laptop has a virus.  This has made it impossible to access the internet from that device, which I need to get onto Blogger, where I do all my bloggy things.  Which as resulted in the lack of recent posts.  Derek suggested I type my posts out on the word processor on the (EVIL INFECTED) laptop, save it to a thumb drive, then publish it at the library.  The man is clearly a technical genius.  (Why did this not occur to me, you ask?  Because I am excellent at wailing in anguish when things like this go wrong, but problem solving, well... it's not exactly my forte.  If you need me to point something out in the fridge that NO ONE ELSE CAN SEE WITH THEIR FUNCTIONING EYEBALLS, HOWEVER, I'm your girl.)  Oh, except there is nary a thumb drive to be found in our house, so I typed this out on laptop, took a picture of it with my phone, and am now transcribing it into Blogger at the library.  Now that is dedication to blogging (happy, Mark?).

Because I can't use my beloved gifs on these pecked-out-on-the-word-processor posts, I guess I'll have to fall back on my old stand-by:  The List.

• We drove down for a whirlwind visit to Kansas last weekend.  Included in this visit were:  The holding of babies, the baptism of babies, golfing, and visiting the church I grew up in.  Highlights included all those babies and being so lovingly embraced by the church that helped raise me, to the extent that I had old ladies talking to me through bathroom stalls even after I had closed and locked the door and was taking care of my business.  I think it's safe to say that Evelyn and I are now very close.  (But don't tell her I called her Evelyn.  She is the type that will tell you her life story as you pee but be offended if you address her by her first name.  I know this because, again, very close.)

•  Our children are all still alive.  (Pumping my fist victoriously in the air, as these days they often seem to live their lives as if they're engaged in some sort of familial version of the Hunger Games.)  Why do boys seem to so enjoy throwing each other to the ground when they see one another?  This morning my normal "Separate!" edict wasn't enough; I had to instruct them not to so much as make eye contact with the other, lest it be construed as an act of aggression.  Then Caedmon stumbled down a couple stairs and Atticus rushed to his side to help him up.  SOMEONE HELP ME UNDERSTAND THIS.  Not to worry, though, we have Adelaide who is always happy to lend advice to those in need, which means I find myself frequently replying, "Daughter.  I appreciate your concern, but I do not need your help parenting.  So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye."  Then she points out that she has read more parenting books than I have.  Which is true.

•  This book?

It is good.  The kind of good where I lost time to it.  The author is a reporter who began having mild but rather random symptoms one week, which rapidly progressed to the point that she had descended into full-blown madness (her words).  They- and by "they" I mean a whole team of doctors and specialists- couldn't figure out what was wrong with her.  Nervous breakdown?  Schizophrenia?  Alcoholism?  (Yeah, you're not going to like the doctor who gave that last diagnosis.)  If you're a self-aware hypochondriac, maybe give this one a pass, but if you like medical mysteries that move quickly, induce empathy, and have (spoiler alert) a happy ending, check this one out.  I included the link below, something I would usually embed up there in the paragraph, but library computers don't allow the copying and pasting of hyperlinks.  *groans-wails-gnashes teeth-admits how spoiled I am*

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/brain-on-fire-susannah-cahalan/1110918640?ean=9781451621389

Baryshnikov II and III

Here's a little tidbit I bet you weren't aware of:

Our boys are gifted modern dancers.

No, really!

I know, right?  Amazing, you're thinking.  I wish I could move so expressively and with such abandon, such vulnerability.

Sometimes Caedmon obeys the whims of his nonexistent Irish lineage and breaks out in a jig.

Or, OR, I've reached such a subterranean level of despair that none of my children will ever be dancers that I'm concocting choreographed fantasies where only basketball exists.

Oh, well.  That last photo still got me like

Laddies

Monday morning, I woke up, slid out of bed, and was immediately cold.

We have our thermostat set so that, from 8 PM to 6 AM, the heat doesn't kick on until it gets down to sixty degrees in our house.  By the time I get up, the heat has been on for thirty minutes, and it's usually several degrees warmer than sixty.  Monday morning it seemed significantly colder than usual, but it wasn't until I went downstairs and inspected the Nest only to find that it was dead that I used my amazing powers of deductive reasoning to puzzle out that something was wrong with our heating system.

Derek and I tinkered with the thermostat and the furnace in the basement for quite some time Monday night- well, Derek tinkered and I held a flashlight like a boss, and by "like a boss" I mean my right shoulder was sore the next day from holding a small, lightweight object up for so long.  That is how sad my upper body strength is.  I also flipped a number of switches back and forth in the circuit breaker- fuse box- thingy.  I feel like I need to make a t-shirt that has "Big Helper" written on it in childlike crayon.

Derek and his Big Helper determined that it wasn't the thermostat, so it must be a problem with the furnace.

I called a furnace... guy... (heating service technician?  I have no idea what the proper terminology is for this kind of thing.  Indoor temperature journeyman?  I bet that's it.) and he came out and did stuff to the furnace (or renegotiated the basement elves' contract, for all I know), had it working again in thirty minutes.  Hallelujah!  Two cold mornings were more than enough for me.

Ah, but do you know what we think caused the whole problem with the furnace?  Our boys.  Naturally.

Sunday afternoon the boys were desperate to play basketball, but it was too cold for my bones outside, and I was tired, and [insert whatever excuse sounds good to you here], so I was not about to walk them to park for some sportsing.  I just wasn't.  Then they began begging to play with the small hoop we currently have stored in our basement.  I said no.  They begged.  I said no.  They begged some more.  I finally caved, and sat on the basement stairs watching them toss a small, soft ball through a hoop over and over.  

At one point, when I went upstairs for mere minutes to check on the welfare of our other child, our two dear sons managed to knock something over into the furnace.  I heard the crash, asked what had happened, and told them to get upstairs, basement playtime was done.  Forever.

Two chilly days and a service fee later, I have learned my lesson.  I'm just thankful it's March, not January, when a hiccupping heater could have been dangerous, and that the furnace is the only thing the boys managed to break, not, say, our entire house.  

Now, when they were babies, I did not expect a future replete with the wanton destruction these boys seem hell-bent on, but I likewise couldn't have predicted the crazy, excessive, lovely, lovely affection they shower on us.  They are the first to give hugs and dart forward to help out and rub my back if I seem even the least bit tired.  Monday Caedmon asked if he could use my phone to send his Daddy a text message.  It took him a good twenty minutes to very seriously peck out and send the following.

And he was thrilled to get a response.  Yesterday's was

No one has ever been as happy to get a text message as Caedmon is when there's a message for him from Derek on my phone.  He stares at the screen raptly for far longer than it takes to actually read it.  I don't know if he's memorizing the emojis, or meditating, or what.  

Then there's Atticus, who completes a "Would You Rather..." worksheet at school every week, most of which I have kept because his responses are priceless.  ("I would rather be a rock star than president.  Because I would sing to everyone.  I would not take naps.")  This one was quintessentially Atticus.

"I would Rather Be big.  Because you would win lots of Badlls [battles].  Because your King would be God.  That is why I would Rather Be big."  Somehow the kid who, yes, loves battles and God is also the most tender-hearted of our children, sensitive but emotionally in tune to those around him.  He's also the one who is so single-minded when playing backyard soccer with the family that he pays no attention to the jerk tree he's run into/ is clearly out to get him. 

Also Sunday night.

That thing extends down onto to his neck.  To answer your questions, 1) Yes, he's already much better, as he is seven years old, and when you are seven you enjoy almost magical healing powers; 2) Yes, Derek and I have been calling him Scarface, but privately, as remember?  He's kind of a sensitive kid; and 3) Yes, I did say a superduper fervent prayer of thanksgiving that it wasn't a couple inches to the right, although that would have made Halloween costume decisions relatively easy for the rest of his life.  "Hmm, which pirate do I want to be this year?"

Snips and Snails and Endless Supplies of Destructive Energy

Right this second, Caedmon and I are both completely spent.  We have thirty minutes until we have to leave to pick the bigguns up from the bus stop.  I am typing.  He is curled up in the fetal position next to me.  This is what helping out at school parties does to us.

When I got an email from Atticus's teacher begging for more parent helpers for the Valentine's Day party, I was like, "Sure, yeah!  I can do that!  No problem!  Oh, what's that?  It's an hour and a half of Valentine fun with 25 of my favorite first graders?  Brilliant!"

That is how Cade and I found ourselves hauling a snack into a classroom, then obediently accepting a handful of chopsticks, marshmallows, and paper plates for our superfuntime Valentine game station.  There were stations all around the room, each manned by parents who were wearing their best forced smiles (except for that dad who had the grimmest, sourest expression that has possibly ever graced that classroom.  I admired his facial honesty and wondered what kind of bet he had lost with his wife.), and the teacher grouped the children into packs of five, rotating them through the stations.

Our first two groups both consisted entirely of boys who took the "pick the marshmallows on the center plate up with chopsticks and deposit them on your own plate, most mallows at the end wins" game to a place I didn't really know it could go.  There was stabbing of food and hands.  Marshmallows flew.  Chairs toppled.  I have two boys of my own so I knew what to do:  Disqualify every last boy and eat the prize strawberry Starburst in front of them.

Round two went more smoothly.

Honestly, though, at one point I found myself thinking, You know, IT'S FUNNY, I checked the school lunch menu last night and I'm quite sure I didn't see amphetamines on there, yet there is no other possible explanation for this.  It was madness.  I couldn't understand why there wasn't thick plexiglass between me and the animals and why I hadn't been charged admission to watch this display.

Then came one group of girls after another.  Beautiful, beautiful girls.

They were so calm.  So civilized.  Yes, many of them were competitive, but I didn't have to snatch Caedmon back from the table repeatedly due to fear of chopstick puncture wounds like I did with The Others.  They followed directions.  One of them told me I was pretty, another said, "You are SO NICE."  It all I could do not to pet them and maybe cry a little over the fact that they had to share a classroom with such beasts.  The shy "You're pretty" one had curly red hair and freckles and all that remains to be done is get her parents' contact information so I can arrange a marriage between her and our son.  Ginger grandbabies suit me just fine.


Atticus was one of three boys whose necks I did not find myself mentally measuring for estimated circumference- for shock collars, understand- and while I like to think our son would have been a good role model for the Testosterone Gang, more likely it was because he was the only boy in my final group that was otherwise populated by girls, and because hello, Mom's right there.


I've read before about the wisdom of classes divided by gender, and while I won't weigh in much on the topic, given that, you know, I'm not an educator, I do think that if I were ever sent to the fourth circle of hell and had to teach a classroom full of boys, I would demand Satan outfit my classroom with a fleet of treadmills, no desks necessary, thanks.  The treadmills- or stationary bikes, I'm not picky- would be arranged in a semicircle facing in, where I would teach as the boys remained in constant motion.  Kid with the most miles and completed math facts at the end of the day wins, as do their parents, who no longer have a kid bouncing off the walls the second they walk in the door after school.  You're welcome, society.

"Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, for when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love Him," says James 1:12.  It would seem that feral boy-related trials get a mustache rather than a crown, perhaps because it's not from God but rather one of his little angels whose mother I prayed for immediately after he left my station .  Also pictured:  Exhausted Caedmon who is SO DONE immediately following the party.

Boy, Oh Boy

I keep seeing these memes that say things along the lines of, "I was a much better parent before I had children."  They inevitably have a bunch of comments from people who apparently had all kinds of plans for their yet-to-exist children like teaching them exclusively from the Laura Ingalls Wilder canon and feeding them only pre-masticated food.

This is an interesting concept to me.  I never planned on having children, and in a way, I feel I really lucked out.  I had no grand visions as to what kind of mother I would be, no crazy idealistic expectations for myself.  This made finding out I was pregnant with Adelaide somewhat stunning, but also extremely helpful, as I only had about 7 months to form hazy ideas as to just what to do with a tiny human being, and I think I was in denial for about half of those.  The only two pre-determinations I made were:  that I would definitely go back to work after a short maternity leave, and that I would not breastfeed, because hello, WEIRD.

Then Adelaide came out all long and skinny and precious and I realized that I could never trust her with anyone but myself (I have since relaxed on this stance a bit, it's only taken me 8 1/2 years!), and all these doctors and books told me how beneficial breastfeeding was and I was like a kid faced with vegetables saying, "Well, okay, I guess I'll try it BUT I'M NOT GONNA LIKE IT."

Five years later we'd had three children, I never went back to work, and three of those years were spent nursing hungry, hungry babies.  It turns out I know nothing, but then, I always knew that.  (That's right:  I always knew that I know nothing.  Good luck wrapping your brain around that statement.  I can't even make sense of it; all I know is that it's true.)

You would think that, after having one little girl-child, proving that I can be a parent and that thwarted plans can, in fact, be quite wonderful, I would take finding out I'm pregnant with a boy right in stride.  You would be underestimating just how neurotic I am.

What on earth was I supposed to do with a boy?  I envisioned tentatively placing offerings of G.I. Joe's and, I don't know, sticks or something, in front of him, because that's what boys play with, right?

Well.  It turns out boy babies are pretty much like girl babies in that they like to be snuggled and smiled at and fed constantly (that last one may just be our babies).

A few years and two boys later, I wish I could go back and tell 2008 Kristy to just relax, already; a couple cases of Legos, maybe a sword or two, and some heavy duty grocery bags for mountains of food to be consumed each week are your only real necessities.  (Wait.  Also lots of laundry detergent.  And stock up on nice jeans at any and all garage sales because boys wear holes in the knees of pants just by looking at them sideways.  And you'd just as soon burn your dollar bills in a merry bonfire as buy nice furniture; get that padded ottoman at Big Lots because your boys will destroy anything they touch and you'll feel a lot less angst over stuff that was cheap to begin with.  And don't throw that craft stuff away!  Boys like crafts just as much as girls!  So... maybe there are lot of things I'd tell Past Me.)

Other Boy Things I was not expecting:



They will pretend to fly all the time.  All. The. Time.

Did I mention the Legos?  Because it's best if you just make your peace with Legos now.  

The most inexplicable things will make them sad, like their older sister carelessly delivering the crushing news that No, they will never be older than her, even when they're all adults.  This will cause intense devastation for tens of minutes.

Daddy.  Daddy is not just a person, he the culmination of all that is good and holy in this world.  He is the answer to every question.  What do you want to be when you grow up?  "Batman.  And Daddy."  What do you want for Christmas?  "Real tools.  And Daddy."  What was your best thing about today?  "DADDY!"  

I also wasn't expecting to really have much in common with this strange species living in my house.  I know next to nothing about sportsing and all that strange running around after balls they're wont to do.  I still can't comprehend how they're seemingly born with the curious ability to make sound effects with they're mouths, from gunfire to explosions to brakes squealing.  They're an entire race of small, dirty beat boxers, whereas my best expression of a car is to go, "putt-putt-putt-putt."

However.

Atticus loves jigsaw puzzles.  This sounds trivial and maybe a little boring, depending on how wrong you are about puzzles (i.e., you either love jigsaw puzzles or you're wrong), but I also love jigsaw puzzles.  When you're talking about a boy who loves golf and cars and building things and a mother who may or may not find most of those things stupefyingly dull, jigsaw puzzles become something that makes me say, "YOU LIKE JIGSAW PUZZLES, I LIKE JIGSAW PUZZLES: WE ARE PRACTICALLY THE SAME PERSON!"  Atticus and I also agree that Mornings Are The Devil, grudges are absolutely allowed even after the game of Sorry! is over and a winner has been declared, and you should always wait to eat the best bite of food on your plate last.  Caedmon and I both really like Caedmon.  WE ARE PRACTICALLY THE SAME PERSON!

As my boys would say:  Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.  (You must say this like they do, in a serious, even nonchalant tone of voice; they sound like they're channeling Samuel L. Jackson when uttering this playground declaration.) 

Do You See What I See?

Today we're going to do that thing they do in movies where they show a shot of one invariably sad/brooding/pensive character staring at some celestial body or other, cut to a shot of the moon/stars/whatever, then cut to a shot of another character staring at the same sky, suggesting they're connected in some way, even when apart.  It'll be like you're right here with me in central Iowa just by forcibly looking at the same things I'm looking at.  Or something.


The view out our front door:

Leaves that I should probably rake up or mow over, but why the heck should I?  They're just too pretty.

The view when I wake Cade up from naptime:

I found these next to our sleeping four-year-old, and when I asked him what exactly happened to his sister's purloined Lip Smackers, he yawned and nonchalantly told me, "Oh, I ate them."  Right.



The view of our kitchen today:

Both the boys are now sick with whatever gunk Adelaide had, and they'll play with their usual vigor and energy until they collapse.  Then they'll play again, hunting for bad guys or fighting dust motes, then collapse.  Then draw and color in treasure maps to roll up and tuck into their belts, then collapse, because evidently even coloring will drain it right out of you when you're sick.  I keep finding them lying in odd places around the house and yard.  It's somewhat disconcerting.  

The view of me most mornings at home:

The morning after the half marathon, I was tidying up around the house, mostly trying to keep moving so my entire body didn't stiffen up and go all Petrificus Totalus on me when Caedmon asked me to kneel down to his level.  With great solemnity, he placed my finisher's medal from the race around my neck, then went back to playing.  I wore it for the next couple hours over my jammies while getting household stuff done- I mean, I already had it on, okay, and I wouldn't dare risk offending our youngest child, and it did lend a certain air of accomplishment to my highly important dusting of the blinds and reading of the picture books.  Cade, for his part, was tickled I'd left it on, and we've gone through a makeshift awards ceremony almost every morning since.  

The view of my garden's last offerings of the season:

Gourds.  Gourds coming out of my ears.  I had already foisted at least half of them upon unsuspecting friends, and this is what I'm left with, plus a few more I just found hiding among the weeds a couple days ago.  I ended up dumping most of them on the front porch, because Lord knows I needed some kind of color on there, what with the demon squirrels constantly uprooting all the ornamental kale I tried growing in my containers.  THERE ARE NO NUTS IN MY FLOWER POTS, SQUIRRELS.  TAKE YOUR DIRTY PAWS ELSEWHERE.  YOU'RE RATS WITH FANCY TAILS.  GOD REGRETS YOUR CREATION.

The view of our piano-top:

More late-season garden produce:  Ornamental eggplant!  Gracious.  Remember when the lovelies in the above two photos were just tiny little egg carton sprouts?

They just grow so fast!  *sob*