NOT a poison dart frog

0707 Hoppy the Frog002
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

When we were in New York, Eddie was particularly intrigued by the frog exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. He was deeply moved by the poison dart frogs -- some of which are so poisonous that, as he tells you, "if you touch it you will die."

So the other day I found a frog in the grass and called Eddie to see it. He ran toward it then stopped short. "Is it poison?" I explained that we don't have poison dart frogs around here, but I think he's dubious. And God, I hope I'm right. Anyway, this is a frog we found a few days ago. We kept him for a while, but his mommy was looking for him...

The trouble with blogging about your life...

is that when you're actually doing stuff that's fun, you don't have time to blog. So I've got some catching up to do. Oops.

So we did our big summer vacation thing -- r family vacations cruise with a few days in NYC tacked on. It was tons of fun. But let's face it, we've been back for a while now.

So LAST week, Steph was out of town for 3 days and 2 nights. During that time, I had to get a blood test. Chas helpfully warned me "It's gonna hurt a LOT." Then during the actual puncturing of the skin part, he put his hands over his ears as if he expected me to scream at any moment. Afterwards, he said -- with great awe -- "You were really brave, Mommy." Then he pronounced my blood test "cool." Because, let's face it, there was blood but nothing hurt him personally.

(This kid in yellow shorts was the one who really, really, really wanted to get his hands on the ball. A split second after this frame, he was foiled again by Eddie and Chas.)

Anyway, Steph also missed their first T-ball game -- thanks to Alaska Air's inability to replace a light in the plane she was supposed to take. We very nearly missed it -- thanks to traffic and my inability to leave with any extra cushion of time to account for heavy traffic. But it all turned out OK. Eddie cried after the first "inning" because he didn't get a turn to catch the ball. The second "inning" was more fruitful and he touched the ball several times. A kid near him, who apparently has Hurley for a father, was not so lucky. He sobbed as Eddie had done just moments earlier. Eddie looked at him with a mix of ... no, not sympathy ... bewilderment and disgust. Hey, dude. Buck up. There's no crying in baseball. Besides, Eddie got to touch the ball, so what the heck is YOUR problem?

Turns out there IS crying in baseball....

Then yesterday evening Mama came home and was greeted like the rock star she is. The enthusiasm only grew when she brought out the prizes she'd carried for them. First came a little poster thing with die-cast Cars cars about to be released. Then a postcard. At his point, Chas told her, "I like toys." Fortunately, she had toy cars with her and all ended well. She also took some pictures of samples of Cars that have not been released and Eddie loves looking at them longingly.

Eddie is a little poop.

Eddie's name in playdough002
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

But of course, this is playdough -- I promise. And Eddie made this himself, without prompting. No ego problems for that kid.

Toxic Thomas

0607 Toxic Thomas003
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

This is the surprisingly small cache of lead-infused Thomas toys we mailed back after the recall notice hit the media. Note the chipped and missing paint on the yellow cargo box. I'm relatively certain those flakes will be to blame should either boy not make it to Harvard.

The radishes of our labor

0607 The radishes of our labor008
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

The choice of impatient gardners everywhere, the radish has provided the closest thing to instant gratification that can be found in a vegetable patch. The boys were pleased with the harvest, though they found the taste of their radishes were not as sweet as the round bulbousness seemed to suggest to them. Mommy, however, thought them delicious.

Frenemies? Arch Nemesi?

Playing Outside174
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

Whatever you call them, these two have a troubled relationship. On the left is Daniel, the neighbor kid. On the right, of course, is Eddie. Daniel is about 6 months older than Eddie and Chas. He starts kindergarten this year.

Anyway, they play together. But there's a problem, see. And the problem is that Daniel doesn't always (or, honestly, ever) want to do exactly what Eddie wants him to do. And Eddie doesn't always (again, really, ever) want to do exactly what Daniel wants him to do.

Previously, this manifested itself by Daniel announcing that Chas is his friend and Eddie is, ptew, nothing to him. This caused great sobs of heartbreak from Eddie and a shrug of understanding from Chas.

But alas, things have taken a turn for the violent. Yesterday, they were playing with a bunch of gymnastics mats we've inherited. Eddie was following his cousin's lead in setting up "a ob-stickle course." Daniel was not a fan of this idea. I went off to water Eddie's beloved garden until I thought I heard Eddie crying. When I investigated, Daniel was gone, his older brother was walking into their house and the kid from across the street explained that Daniel had gotten upset with Eddie's harping about the ob-stickle course and responded by tacking and pummelling Eddie with his fists.

Today, much the same dispute more or less -- though I totally see Daniel's point of view as Eddie was tired out and sobbed loudly and quite annoyingly over everything. He was, for example, playing King Kong and was so upset by his cousin's attempts to be Godzilla that he freaked out. I told him if he didn't stop crying he would have to go inside. He sucked it up, turned and gave a King-Kong roar but couldn't maintain the facade. The roar turned into a sob because, frankly, other people weren't following his script.

Foolishly, with this vibe in the air, I walked inside to move along some laundry. (Hey, there were two older kids out there -- I figured they could keep the peace for three lousy minutes. Let's just say these are not the boys you want to send to lessen tensions in Somalia.) In the three minutes that took me, all hell broke loose. I came out to find Eddie sobbing and Daniel beating a hasty retreat. Eddie's cousin, Gavin, was yelling that Eddie was bleeding and indeed he was. It was a scratch to the nose. But Gavin said they were in a "big fight" with both boys trading blows -- slaps, punches and pushes. Eddie was bereft.

Before long, Daniel came back out and Eddie told him he was sorry. Daniel's brother prodded him to reciprocate but he just looked sour. I asked if he didn't want to say he was sorry. "I'm feeling a little scared," he said. I assured him that our household was done hitting and pushing for the day and he muttered "sorry." The rest of the afternoon was spent with each boy reminding the other of the ownership of whatever particular playthings they were using.

Chas, meanwhile, gets along with everyone.

Hacking My Cheryl's Blog

This is not Cheryl. This is Stephanie, aka "the husband," aka tech support. I just added a feed of Cheryl's fab photos on the right. Click and enjoy.

I also added the links to Amazon. Click and buy.

Amazing foreskins! Now retractable!

OK, so I know he's going to want to kill me for this when he gets older, so I won't say which son this is about. But that won't help...

Anyway, when the boys were born we opted not to circumcise. This was not a political decision or anything like that. We aren't marching in the streets for the rights of men to have their foreskins. Honestly, we planned to do it. But they were born early and, well, it never really came up in the hospital. Plus, we didn't like the main circumciser in our county -- perhaps the fact that he enjoys doing it so much that he performs the vast majority of non-Mohel circumcisions should have been a clue that he's a bit "off."

But really, we're just kind of squeamish wimps. Not having penises (peni?) ourselves, it just seemed kinda nerve wracking to have something cut off of them. I know, if you had your son circumcised, it hurts very briefly and not as much as you would imagine. They get over it quickly and it slows transmission of STDs. I totally agree. I know, if you don't believe in circumcision, it's a barbaric act of torture and mutilation that has no reasonable medical purpose. I totally agree.

OK, here'sthe truth. I have no idea how much it hurts but Steph was at a Bris for a friend and said it seemed perfectly humane. On the other hand, I can't help but think it doesn't seem pleasant -- especially in a cold doctor's office, strapped down with your legs spread. I imagine context has a lot to do with it. We didn't have it done to or for our boys but we might have, given a slightly different set of circumstances.

So anyway, here's the deal. When boys are born, their foreskins are all attached and stuff. You can't pull them back. But somewhere between 4 and 5, that changes. It's gradual and starts shortly after birth I guess, but it still struck us as sort of a sudden development. We always tell them to pull back their fiveskins ('cause they're so much bigger than foreskins) but usually not much happens. Until recently. Now, the boy who owns the retractable version seems to think he's got a cool new toy. And I suppose he does. Anyway, it looks extraordinarily um, red and tender as you would expect from something that had been so well sheathed for so long. In fact, it looks downright painful -- like it could start bleeding at any moment. But I tell him not to hurt himself and he gives me a look of such innocent satisfaction and says, "It doesn't hurt, Mommy. It feels goooood."

I know. TMI.

Penis if you will, please send a little girl for me to thrill....

In preschool they have some small plastic planets hanging from the ceiling. I told a couple of the boys not to grab one of them for fear of it coming down. They asked me which planet it was and I professed my ignorance. Chas, however, was quite certain he knew. "It's Penis!" Fast forward to the next night in bed. The boys were with us because some knocking sound had scared them and really because they'd taken a two hour nap in the afternoon and weren't terribly sleepy. I recalled the Penis Planet story and told it to Steph. This caused a great paroxysm of laughter from Eddie, who kept saying "PENIS!" and howling. Since he has a cold that is giving him a raspy, nearly laryngitis-type vocal quality, it was especially funny sounding. This morning, his first words upon waking were this. "Let's talk about something. Let's talk about.... PENIS!" Gales of husky, raspy laughter followed. If only I could be amused so easily.... Oh wait. I just blogged about it so clearly I AM.

I'm the invelocational mother

So the other night the boys started yelling "Happy Mother's Day" at us. This is because they "celebrated" Mother's Day at preschool that day. In truth, they made handprints for a top secret Mother's Day gift of which we know absolutely nothing about.

But back to the story. We talked to them a bit about having two moms and I asked them whose tummy they grew in. The both correctly pointed to me. Then Eddie got all smarty pants and announced that I am the "invelocational" mother. I can only assume that he remembered hearing the term "biological mother" at some point and it became twisted up in his head. At any rate, I am quite definitely the invelocational mother now. We asked both boys what that meant and Chas piped ups. "You squeezed us out." Now that's more in keeping with the way we normally address the issue of which of us carried them prenatally.

However, they remain somewhat unclear on the concept as Chas proceeded to suggest that in the future, Mama squeeze Eddie out and I squeeze him out. I'm sure when they come across this posting many years from now it will lead to the need for intense psychotherapy. You're welcome, boys.

I know kids these days are more sophisticated but this is ridiculous

As I quickly walked through a Toys R Us (without children in tow!) to pick up some fresh play sand, I noticed the DVD offered on an end cap. "The Queen." Yes, the one with Helen Mirren. I just want to know which 10 year old's birthday wish list that's on.

There's nothing you can do about it

So shamelessly stealing a line from the show "Scrubs," I've taken to telling Eddie and Chas, "I love you and there's nothing you can do about it." Cute little way of expressing unconditional love, right? Unless you are 4, apparently. Then, it's a challenge, a riddle, a conundrum. But they've solved it.

Eddie was the first to hit on the solution as he lay in his bed. I told him and he said, "Yes there is." And then he reached up and hugged me. Heart melting. Puddles, really, of heart all over the bed and floor.

Now everytime I say "I love you and there's nothing you can do about it," they both respond thusly: "Yes there is! I can hug you and kiss you and play with you." And then they demonstrate all three.

I confess, the "play with you" part really gets me. Because it is, without prompting, evidence that they "get" it. That they know that doing things like playing with them are other ways of expressing love.

In other news, they got their bunk beds, albeit with the ladder up against the wall until they are much, much older. Like 23. Right nwo they're sharing the bottom twin bed. Not sure how long that will last. Also not sure what the solution will be. Yikes.

Clue #42 That You Won't be Needing to Write an Acceptance Speech for (or even pick out a new outfit to attend) The Annual Parent of the Year Banquet.

In this section, we discuss parenting the food allergic child. Badly. When your child, hypothetically named Chas, has an allergy to peanuts and EGG WHITES, and you still opt to have him handle hard boiled eggs to dye them in celebration of the resurrection of Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ, it is possible that he will come in contact with cracked eggs. (Since he is, hypothetically 4 as is his hypothetical brother, Eddie, the necessity to treat eggs with some degree of finesse is completely lost on him.) When the result is a hive on his temple, it's a good sign that you can pretty much kiss off Parent of the Year. Again.

Please note, however, that while you may not need to find something appropriate to wear to an awards banquet, you may still need to buy something to impress the judge at your CPS hearing. I'm just saying.

Autism is generic.

Went to see the Easter Bunny today with the boys, meeting my mom and brother at the mall. It was an ordeal. In fact, talking Eddie into wearing a shirt with buttons was actually the easy part of the day, which is saying something.


Apparently my brother has developed a habit of indiscriminately flipping people off. Or that's the way I like to think about it. The "main guy" at the home where he lives told my Mom that Dale flipped off this old guy named Milton, who for the record, also flips the bird as I have seen with my own eyes. I thought it was just another freaky little feud between Milton and my brother, but then my sister Cathy said he was just randomly flipping people the bird while she pushed him to a store at the mall. Confronted about this, he insisted he had seen some "gang bangers" and needed to let them know he wasn't afraid. But that's probably just a lot of hoo-hah. My guess is that he has no idea who or why he flips the bird. This, along with the fact that he doesn't listen to her, makes my mom stressed and weepy. And with two 4-year-olds in the house, I can relate. I just hope that I'm not dealing with them at this level in 50 years.

So anyway, my mom was telling me about something she saw on TV about autism, which, she informed me, appears to be "generic." She then proceeded to muse about why my grandnephew has Aspergers -- a mild form of autism. "All I can think of is drugs," she said. When I told my niece about this strange conversation, she said perhaps it's generic drugs to blame. It just all struck me as absurd, particularly given that there are cousins and other relatives who clearly had/have some form of autism, that she would come up with drugs as an explanation when she clearly knows it's generic.

Room to grow.

So a couple of months ago, someone suggested that I turn the boys' bedroom into my office and "oasis" because they didn't need a dedicated playroom. "It's not their house, it's your house. They're just living there temporarily," she said. I was, of course horrified at the attitude.

But we've started looking at bunk beds etc. And moving new toys into their playroom. And Steph raised an interesting thought... Maybe we move their beds into the playroom, move the couch into what is now their room, turning it into an office/study/craft room for all of us (their computer will stay there, too.) We move the rocking chair into the space where my computer sits now, turning that into a story time corner. And, well, it's tempting. Very tempting. I don't want to take space from them -- I mean, it IS their house. And I'm living out my childhood fantasies by having a dedicated playroom. But geez, it does seem like a better use of space. And they do have the playroom, a bedroom, a good-sized chunk of the living room all dedicated to them and their stuff. Plus, they spend a goodly portion of their time in the parts of the house that are ostensibly Steph's and mine. So I think we'll give it a try.

But the office is still gonna have a Cars/Thomas theme. 'Cause that's how I roll.

Check up from Hell.

OK, the guys, they are 4. F-O-U-R. That's astonishing to me, and apparently to their pediatrician, who, upon enteirng the exam room for their annual check-up, looked at them, then at me and said "They're 4 already?!" And she seemed to be genuinely amazed in an "I just blinked my eyes and these guys transformed from scrawny infants into big boys" kind of a way. To which I said, "Tell me about it."

Anyway, things started well enough. They noted the mural of a monkey hanging by his tail and I began teasing them about also being monkeys while the nurse took some information. Then I made the mistake of asking why they never hang from their tails. "I don't have a tail. I have a penis," Chas said. "But you don't have a tail or a penis. What do you have?" The nurse is now snickering and I'm changing the subject.

Anyway, Eddie was extraordinarily nervous, so when it came his turn to get examined, I went with him to the table and he sat on my lap. Big mistake. The doctor had no more than looked in his ears and his mouth when Chas slipped and fell head first onto the hard ground. A goose egg and sobs ensued. So the doctor moved over to the bench area to finish Eddie's exam while I comforted Chas. Then of course, she breaks the news that they need immunizations. Four of 'em. Now I'm ready to weep because up until this check-up, I've always brought back up to assist me in this circumstance. But I'm overly optimistic still -- the last few shots Eddie has looked sort of pissed off, but he hasn't even cried.

So while waiting for the nurse to return with the instruments of torture, we talked about how vaccinations would protect them from sickness etc. Chas quickly volunteered to go first.

I held his arms and tried to distract him, but it was no use. He began screaming, tears literally flying from his face. "I don't want to go first! I want Eddie to go first!" Naturally, sensing that he's next, Eddie is also in hysterics. Four shots to Chas' arms later and I give him a quick hug and put him down to sob alone while I grab Eddie, who is fighting as if his life is at stake. I don't blame him. He knows we're bringing the pain. It ends and I'm left to put shirts back on two sobbing little boys. "When will it be over?" Eddie asks through his tears. I tell him it IS over, but he means the lingering pain in his arms. Shots are of varying degrees of painfulness, but as I recall, at least one of these -- the dpt or dip-tet -- is indeed quite painful. And when you are as tense and struggling as hard as they were, anything would hurt like a mother. Of which I felt like a not very capable one having come unprepared with a back-up comforter.

The irony is that Steph ended up staying home to work and could easily have accompanied us, AND my sister Cathy actually got up and started to get ready then decided to take me at my word when I said I could handle it on my own. Sigh.

They're over it. I, however, keep seeing those little arms, pinched up with needles jabbing violently into them while my sons struggled against me, not understanding why I would allow this torture, let alone participate in it. Or maybe I'm being melodramatic. Again. Hmm.

This Moment Four Years Ago...

I was laying in bed, talking to Steph. I can't remember what we were talking about. But I felt something and briefly thought, "Gee, did my water break?" But that was impossible, I thought. So I continued talking for a few more minutes. Then I shifted positions slightly and, well, the impossible suddenly became the almost certain. I jumped up and the night that would forever change our lives began. Just about 12 hours later, the boys were here. It seems like forever ago and just yesterday at the same time.

I try so hard to get that sensory memory of holding their tiny little bodies in my arms. But it's gone, lost to sleep deprivation, the terror of something happening to them and the shock of how utterly and completely my life had changed. But it's not just that -- I have a hard time really remembering them as anything but what they are at this moment. And then I see a picture from less than a year ago and I realize how much they've changed, and how much they continue to change, and how impossible it is to really hold them. Just as all the drugs and terror-stricken efforts of a resident on his first night of OB service couldn't stop them from leaving my body four years ago, I can't stop them from growing up and away. Maybe that's why I take so damn many pictures -- it's a futile attempt to stop time, to keep the boys I know at this moment. Because tomorrow these boys will be gone, replaced by the 24 hour older models. And while I love them now more than I know how to express, I still sometimes miss the boys I knew yesterday, or a year ago. But those are just hazy memories, now. No matter how much I think about this and tell myself to burn the memories of today onto my hard drive, it doesn't work that way. I live in the moment, but the moment is fleeting. Such is life.

Regardless, I have the most awesome children ever. They are beautiful, smart, kind, funny and sweet. And that, at least, hasn't changed. Yet. I'll get back to you when they're teenagers.

Now, where was I....?

OK, so it's been roughly forever since I last posted. Oh, so, so many things I should have posted. But first Chas got sick. Then Steph and Eddie. Then me. And it wasn't one of those namby-pamby colds. It was a chest squeezing, energy sucking colony of pure evil that took up residence in our bodies.

So here I post, with nothing interesting to say. But ya know, if I didn't post something, it would be like a horrible, awful ordeal to actually make that first post. So here it is.

The boys' birthday is next weekend. I'm alternately freaked out by the thought of them being 4 and by the prospect of having their birthday go off perfectly. I know the first is inevitable and the second is impossible. But being rational has never been all that much fun in my opinion.

I suppose kudos for a job well done are in order...

Today I made the mistake of turning on the TV in an attempt to wake the boys gently into a good mood. It worked, to a point. It woke them. It intrigued them. So much so that they had no intention whatsoever of moving until the show that was on (Zaboomafoo) was over. So I dressed them in my bed and got them pretty much ready to go. When the show ended, they willingly went to use the potty. Here's where things went horribly, horribly awry.

First, Eddie came out crying. He'd gotten his jeans down, but not, apparently, his underpants. So I took off shoes, pants and undies and replaced them. Then Chas emerged. Same. Exact. Problem. Everything was compounded by their complete unwillingness to, oh, I don't know, move with any sort of deliberate speed toward the front door. As a result we were, once again, rushing into the door of preschool 30 seconds after it was supposed to start. I was frustrated. So I tried talking to them about it. I explained, acknowledging the rage that was bubbling just below the surface: "When you guys don't listen to me in the morning and don't get ready like you're supposed to, it makes us late. And that makes Mommy very upset."
"That's what we do," Eddie said in the same tone a firefighter might use to simultaneously downplay the heroics of a rescue but drive home that the job of a firefighter is more important than your paper-pushing 9 to 5 gig. I swear to you, the little &$#(@ was proud of driving me to the brink of insanity. Or maybe he's smarter than I give him credit for. Because his well-placed comment instantly made me smile and get over my damn self. I mean we were late. Again. For preschool. It really isn't worth elevating my or their blood pressure over, is it?

Big AND Nice

After Sunday School yesterday -- a time and location that will soon become humorously ironic -- the boys were playing with their friend, Eli. Eli is a year older but possibly a bit smaller than the boys. They were playing with a ball and apparently Eli took it from Eddie. So Chas did what any boy who has just finished Sunday School would do. He tackled him and held him down while trying to get the ball back for his brother.

"You're a mean little boy," Eli complained. Chas, never letting loose, begged to differ.

"I'm a BIG boy!" Chas insisted. "And, I'm NICE."

Which reminds me. I've gotta talk to that boy about context.

Caution: This post contains adult language.

We went to pick up Steph's car from the repair shop where we paid a few hundred bucks for a timing belt this afternoon. Of course, the guys had to use the bathroom, so the whole family traipsed in. The shop owner, a nice guy named Scott, gave the boys pens with racing helmets.

So on the way home, the boys are playing with their pens and chattering. I pay no attention to the content of their chatter until I hear Eddie say, quite sternly, "Stop saying that, Chas! Only grown-ups say that!" So as calmly as possible, I asked Chas what he said. "No-sing." Hmm. This must be really bad. Did he use the F word? Or one of its cousins, the S or D words? So I asked Eddie, figuring him to be a willing little snitch. "What did Chas say, Eddie?" Now comes the adult language part. Cover your ears (or, actually, your eyes) if you're sensitive to such things. "He said, 'Be careful,'" Eddie reported -- quite seriously.

And, I guess he's right. It is kind of a grown-up thing to say.

A,E,I,O, U and ALWAYS WHY

We have now entered the why portion of our development, the boys have made clear. Why. Why. Why. WHY!!! I know it's a sign of growing intellect but it's also freakin' annoying. I've decided that all - -ALL -- the world's religions were created by the mothers of 3-year-olds, mothers who finally just needed to say "because that's the way God... Allah ... Yaweh... Krishna... L. Ron Hubbard made it." It also reminds me of one of my least favorite (and oh, it's a crowded field) religious bumper stickers. "God said it. I believe it. That settles it." I HATE that. And yet, I find myself longing for children who could be that blindly accepting of any of my explanations if only for an afternoon.

And speaking of my children's oddities... Today Eddie announced that "letters should sound like what they are. So W, DUH-bul-ewe (he said for emphasis) should make the duh sound." Then he began complaining about the word giraffe starting with a G instead of a J. I started to tell him that would actually work under his new rule but decided better of it. So we've now decided that from now on, in our family, the 23rd letter of the alphabet is officially "wubble-ewe." Eddie said it. I believe it. That settles it.

This is what rejection looks like in a 3-year-old.

0107Playing Outside in the Sunshine!138
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl.

So yesterday it was sunny. So we went outside to play and eventually the neighbors came outside, too. One problem. Daniel, who lives next door and is about 6 months older than the boys, pretty much ignored them. They kept excitedly asking him if he wanted to come in and see the new steam engine their auntie bought them. No. No. No. Eventually, when Daniel shrieked and ran away from Chas, Chas decided he thought they were scary. So they tried to reassure him that they were not, in fact, scary.

Then Daniel did it. He told them he didn't like them and didn't want to be their friend anymore. There was a bit more chasing -- Chas was running to keep up with Daniel who was tearing around on a trike -- and then finally it sank in. And Chas' face crumpled. And I felt like someone had reached down my throat, grabbed my heart and squeezed until it burst.

I did my best at reassuring him -- we were in the house making valentines within minutes. But the nagging fear that I was the cause of this rejection simply wouldn't go away. Daniel's family is Eastern European. Dad runs a construction business and is very friendly -- he put our fence up for us a few months ago. Mom doesn't speak much English. I believe they are very religious -- in a Halloween is an evil holiday kind of way. Anyway, not that long ago, Daniel had started coming over and spending hours at our house. Then it just stopped. And my fear is that mom finally figured out that Steph and I aren't sisters or just good friends or something.

I could not possibly care less about it when it comes to me and Steph. Heck, we have another neighbor who has until recently had her kid avoid us presumably for the same reason. But by God the homophobia is hurting my boys and it's not O.K. with me. I mean, I knew they would probably face it at some point. But when they were older and somehow could understand it more. (Is there ever such an age?)

Now I'm probably reading waaaay too much into this. I'll bet Daniel is just doing that fickle four-year-old thing. But it's the fact that I even worry about it being me that really gets to me.

Whoops, there it is....

Ok, granted that this is a little phrase that's just old enough to mark us as dangerously unhip and aged -- not old enough to be funny just old enough to be lame. But ignoring that, just know that yesterday Steph and I were putting the boys in the car and for some reason independent of our age and lack of cool (or whatever you kids these days are calling it) we started saying, "Whoop, there it is..." Eddie repeated it a couple of times, then added his own, quite logical take on it. "Whoop there it is. Whoop where is it now?" We burst out laughing because, well, trust me -- it was really funny live and in person. Eddie was justifiably flummoxed at our laughter.

This was almost as funny as two days ago when the boys wandered into the back yard (yes, I DO watch them, in between checking on my internets pages) and began screaming and yelling. I stepped out to see what was up once the racket became loud enough to disturb me/get my attention. Chas was looking into the trees behind our yard and yelling, "Birds! Get down from there! Get in your birdhouse!!" I asked him what he was doing and he pointed to the trees and told me the birds were up there. And apparently they were supposed to be in the bird houses that the boys made for them in August. Now, the boys, and the birds, have ignored said bird houses since construction day. But apparently it was move-in day and the birds weren't cooperating. Stupid birds. Stupid, bird-brained birds.

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes...

0107 Big Snow!212
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl.

Actually, it was snowflakes on the eyelashes and run-of-the-mill snot leaking from the nose, but Julie Andrews' version just sounds better.

The downside to snowball fights with older kids.

0107 Big Snow!220
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl.

This is Eddie's reaction to a nice soft snowball right to the old kisser. On the up side, he's now willing to grow up so that he can get bigger than our neighbor, Marcus, and hit him with snowballs of his own.

More snow!

0107 Big Snow!043
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl.

OK, so the meteorologists are 0 for 2. We started getting tons of snow last night. Went out and played with our neighbors, knowing that we'd wake up to a lot of snow. We got 2 to 3 inches, conservatively. Probably closer to 5 but I'm giving some allowance for snow having blown down from trees etc.

Anyway, Steph pulled the fellas on their sled and they quite enjoyed it. Until Eddie found out that picking a snowball fight with the neighbors sometimes gets you snow in the face. Then he was done.

Spermcake! Yum!

0107 Spermcakes001
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl.

Today was supposed to be Chas' special day at school so we made cupcakes for him to bring. Of course, we knew it would probably snow and cancel school, but ya gotta plan ahead. Anyway, cousin Heather the Magnificent came to decorate them with, um, ah, balloons. But as Steph pointed out when she looked, the squiggly little strings made them look like, uh, well, sperm. Which is, after all, special. Because I'm fairly certain no other kids will be bringing sperm anything on their special days.

Working from Home: The cubicle sucks, but the coworkers are awesome.

0107 Helping Mama work from home002
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl.

So today, due to a smattering of snow on the ground, Steph got the OK to work from home. This is what working from home looks like. Until I corralled the boys. But personally, I think they probably had as many good suggestions as her normal colleagues. But what do I know?

The boy just puked.

So I'm trying to find pictures for Chas' Special Day book and the boys are playing and I start to hear coughing. Not just coughing, really, more like the beginnings of retching. So I look just in time to see Eddie gagging. Then voluminous quantities of puke began pouring out of his mouth. He whimpered. I yelled for Steph, still largely in disbelief at how quickly this came on. Eddie recovered for a moment, then puked again. As this is happening, somehow and for reasons I can't begin to understand, let alone explain, I pointed him back toward our leather couch. Maybe I was thinking he'd already gotten vomit on it, might as well keep it there. But during the second round, I suddenly realized this was insane and pulled him toward the hard floor, where the ending vomit landed. As this was happening, I watched a giant pile of the stuff slide down the arm of my side of the couch.

That was an hour or more ago. He is now in his undies, playing blissfully as if nothing happened. I hate to tell him this, but he still smells vaguely of vomit. What the hell is it about kids these days that they can vomit without having it ruin their day?

Dog is my co-pilot.

Let the record show that tonight, Eddie was playing with magnetic letters, carrying around an "a" and a "t" and wondering where the "c" was so he could spell "cat." Then he got "d" "o" and "G" and arranged them thusly: "God." And then he read it: "dog."

So he still doesn't have the left to right thing down by by Dog, he's a smart little fella.

Paradise Paved.

So the other day I stumbled across something written by someone I knew in anothe rlife. (Nothing mysterious -- just friends who discovered they don't really like each other.) Anyway, this person is working toward what I gather is a challenging graduate degree and a career change. She has two small children. She was writing on her university's website about the challenges of balancing motherhood and education. A line in it struck me hard. It was something like, "Yes, it' s sometimes hard to have to study during the weekends when I hear my children playing upstairs. But then I remember it's a short-term issue and I'm working on a long-term benefit." Or something like that. And all I can think is that your children are growing up NOW. That's what's happening in the short term. And by the time the long-term payoff is here, your children will be grown. Melodramatic, considering that we're talking about a two-year program. But still. The changes that occur in children in the first few years are astonishing. To miss any of that seems like an incredible loss to me.

Of course, I constantly feel like my children are growing up before my eyes. I swear, sometimes I see them growing with the naked eye. And I try so hard to live in the moment, to enjoy these years of wonderment, change and innocence. The funny thing is, contrary to what I've heard from so many mothers, I didn't really feel an instant bond of unfathomable love for my children. Don't get me wrong. We've since bonded the shit out of one another. But when they were born my emotions were more along the lines of fearful wariness. Probably a result of waaaay too much infertility and pregnancy losses. When I first met the boys my feelings were strong, but far more distant than other mothers describe. They were like my, what? My Faberge eggs, prehaps. Valuable in the extreme and oh-so-fragile. I'd spent months forcing myself to assume they wouldn't actually be born. Worrying and using a home Doppler machine every night. Having Steph reassure me that we were hearing two distinct heartbeats but deep down knowing it may all be a mistake. And then they were born, unexpectedly early, my two little Faberge eggs. And I wanted them. I worried about them. But it took me a while before my defenses melted and I let my heart really open to them. So unlike many parents, I can't really point to a moment when I first felt that overpowering surge of love. All I know is that it's there and it's still growing and when I think about how fragile they are or were or may be it literally makes it difficult for me to breathe.

I hear mothers yearning for time away from their children and I think they are out of their minds. You will have many, many, many years without your children. You have only right now with them at this stage, really. Not that my kids don't drive me nuts sometimes. I'd be some kind of freak if that were true. But I do remember when I'm going insane rocking them while they fight sleep that there will come a time in the too-near future when I am longing to have them willing to crawl into my lap and snuggle up with me. Life is too short. Childhood is even shorter.

They are nearly 4 years old. I'm still getting used to this.

Best. New Year's Eve. Ever

So I've spent new Year's Eve hopping from bar to bar in San Francisco and Seattle. I've spent it at parties with more alcohol served and enjoyed than my head liked to think about come New Year's Day. But nothing could beat this year's festivities. We turned out the lights and the boys donned their new headlamps from Santa. Then we played hide and seek. And camping under the covers of the big bed. And painting with light. And going outside to see if there is still ice in the water of our planters (there is).

I feel sorry for those poor suckers looking for a good time in Times Square or the Space Needle or any of the millions of rockin' bars around the world. Because the real good times are happening at a private party right here in Milton. Go figure.

Things my children teach me...

Last night as I was obsessively attempting to recreate one of the structures on the paper that came with the boys' new Lincoln Logs set, the boys got sick of my inability to have fun with it and pretty much moved on. Until Eddie grabbed a few pieces of log and opted to do some freestyle construction. Here's what he came up with:





Ladies and Gentlemen, a Lincoln Log Teeter Totter. Works, too. So whilst I joylessly tried to recreate what I was "supposed" to build, he kept it simple and quickly made what he wanted to build. Between that and both boys' joy at mixing up Play-Doh colors, I'm realizing that my rigid desires to do things the "right" way are hampering my enjoyment of life. (Not that I don't enjoy the bloody hell out of it already, but you know, it's not like you can ever enjoy life too much.) So though I don't typically make (OK, "keep" is more accurate) New Years resolutions, I'm going to try to follow their lead in 2007.

Because sometimes, a teeter totter is better than a stinkin' fort anyway.

Merry Freakin' Christmas (a couple of days later..)

Eddie was thrilled with "James's Ruhventures."

Getting Take Along James Goes Buzz Buzz Buzz gave Chas quite a thrill.

Eddie Gives Pink Grandma a thorough checkup.

Chas checks Pink Grandma's heart.

So Christmas went about as well as I have any right to expect. The boys loved their toys, dinner went well (slightly burnt dressing notwithstanding) and best of all, no "Christmas is over" depression. I got a mild twinge Christmas night when Eddie asked if Christmas was over.





Oh, and the boys were extraordinarily charming, running to greet and hug their grandma and grandpa when they arrived. On Christmas Eve, they were stunningly patient as all the other kids opened presents and we sort of forgot to get them something to open. (Chas asked very nicely if they had presents, too.)





The first present opened -- Thomas bikes were just out in the open -- was a doctor kit. Chas opened it and said, "Oh no. I don't like this." We laughed our butts off. Turns out he DOES like it, but immediately thought it was some sort of cruel Santa trick to get him a doctor's visit on Christmas.

Santa's Work is Never Done.

OK, actually Santa's work is done at about 12:20 a.m. December 25. At least in our house. The boys, per usual, are getting an obscene amount of stuff. The biggest and brightest among a sea of big, bright toys are two Thomas the Tank Engine bikes. Shiny, new and with James and Thomas on them, they are gong to be big hits, she said, hopefully.

Actually, given that the boys took a 3-hour nap this afternoon, I am pleasantly surprised that we got them to bed and finished up our elfly duties before 2 a.m., let alone at the insanely reasonable hour of shortly after midnight.

Oh and one other major debacle to report. Remember the nap? Well, while they napped, moms rolled out, baked and decorated a butt-load of sugar cookies for the family party. Task done. But then I went to take a brief 15 minute nap after they got up. My blissful rest was shattered by the heartbroken wail of my Eddie. "Mommy made them without me!" Now I was heartbroken as well. But we're going to make New Year's cookies, I promise. But maybe a half recipe as I'm sick to death of sugar cookies.

And finally, the evening would not be complete without a worry to share. We got home from my sister's house and Chas had hives all over his face -- no surprise as her dog licked him and that always gives the little allergy boy hives. But then Eddie starts complaining that his tongue itches. Eventually he decides that he bit it and it hurts. But I can't stop fretting about whether it's actually just the beginnings of anaphylaxis. I want to check on his breathing oh, every 30 seconds or so. this is not conducive to a restful night. We gave both boys Dimetapp for their colds, which contains and antihistamine. Then we gave Eddie Tylenol because he kept crying about how bad his tongue hurt. Which is probably overkill if he bit it. And drastically undertreating it if it's anaphylaxis. I'll rest much easier once the little bugger comes to crawl in bed with us.

Oh, and Merry Christmas!

A 21st Century Milestone...

Steph told me about this as she was getting Chas off the computer and I got the bath ready for the boys. But it didn't register until I just sat down at the computer and saw the screen.

For the first time in his life, on December 22, 2006, Chas Googled himself. The results weren't spectacular -- The Contractor's Health and Safety Assessment Scheme was the top result. But just a couple of sites down there was the Consortium on High Achievement And Success. So a rather inauspicious first google, but not too bad for a 3 1/2 year old. Sigh. They grow up so fast.

What does s-h-u-t-t-h-e-f-u-p spell, Mommy?

So Eddie's latest obsession is words and spelling them out. He wants to read so badly it's killing me. Every sign, every word every letter. He reads them all and askes, "What does that spell, Mommy?" This was cute the first 48 hours or so. Now it's just annoying. Especially since he has a tendency to run words together and start in the middle if we passed something in the car and he missed the beginning. Like if a sign says "Tacoma Next Exit," he'll ask, "m-a-n-e-x-t-e-x-i-t, what does that spell?"

The way I see it, either he learns to read before Kindergarten or it's going to be a looong year and a half.

A Snowball's Chance

Yes, yes, it's been a while. Not because there's been nothing to report, but because I've been busy with this thing called life.

Anyway, last weekend we took the boys for a train ride with Santa, known as the Snowball Express. It was lots of fun but for me it was mostly an opportunity to take lots and lots and lots of photos of my guys. So here are a few. I particularly like how Steph and Eddie share a 'tude in the first one.

Stinkin' Farts

So let me set the stage. Tonight Canadian wife and I (she's not from Canada, but that's the only place we're currently married. Oh, and I suppose in Massachusetts, sort of, but not in the eyes of the federal government, so I continue to consider her my Canadian wife) got the boys ready for bed, then put them in the van to go look at Christmas lights about 20 minutes away.

Within a few blocks, CW and I were practically high-fiving each other as the boys' eyes drooped and we made plans to do this every freakin' night. Then we hit the light display and they rallied. After a couple of loops through the light up neighborhood, we headed back and they were pretty wakeful. They insisted they wanted to go somewhere else. They were not specific about where somewhere else was, but very specific about where it was not -- home. Since we were still deluding ourselves into thinking that the lights were a temporary setback, we decided to indulge them and drive around a bit more. They wanted to know exactly where we were going, which seemed unfair since they wouldn't tell us where they wanted to go. But we settled on "looking for Christmas" which satisfied them for a while. Eventually Chas fell asleep. But not Eddie, who became convinced that we were lost.

Now, an aside on the whole pointless driving to put boys to sleep thing. Mea culpa. I am fairly certain that by the time they are grown, the cumulative total of miles driven to put them to sleep will result in 1 degree increase in global temperatures. I'm sorry.

OK, back to our story. Eventually, we decide that this is really pointless and head home. Eddie keeps asking where we're going. We tell him he'll see. Then he starts asking if we're there yet. So I tell him yes, that's why we're not stopping. This exchange happens a couple of times, then CW and I get really annoying and start telling him, "Now we're here and in a second we'll be there. Oh look, now we're here." This was, admittedly, obnoxious. But his angry response took me by surprise:

"You stinkin' farts!"

Now I've called the boys little stinkers, little farts, and in my more uncharitable moments, little stink-butts. But the rather, um, charming melding of two of these endearments took me a bit by surprise. Oh well.

Now he's in bed and I am getting him a drink of water. Can't you tell? But he's catching on and yelling for me. I'd better go before he either wakes his brother or bursts out in a streak of curses based on other words he's heard his mommy use.

Chas may have a career writing dialogue for cheesy action flicks. Or not.

This afternoon as I tried to hurry the boys to their despised Kindermusik class (ok, despised is kind of a strong word, but they aren't excited about it) they wanted to instead build a train track. I told them this could wait until we returned but Chas turned to me and said, quite earnestly, "There's no time to use (lose), Mommy!"

So I'm thinking mindless action. Until tonight when he tries to pull a game out of a pile of games and can't get it. "Oh, dear," he repeats several times. Hmm. Maybe not so macho after all.

Actually, my little entomologist, you can bite me.

This morning Chas awoke to tell me he'd been dreaming about bugs. Let me assure you, I knew instantly this was not a good dream as Chas is very, very afraid of bugs.

I actually paused a millisecond to consider just how truthful/detailed I would be in my response. Thinking of things like brown recluse spiders, should I go with "most bugs" won't hurt you or the usually but not always true "bugs" won't hurt you. I determined that the difficulties inherent in making this distinction would render the entire effort useless -- all bugs would instantly be brown recluse spiders in his frightened mind. So I went with a sin of omission.

"Bugs can't hurt you Chas," I said. "Bugs don't hurt people."

I had barely stopped speaking when Eddie weighed in, quite thoughtfully.

"Umm. Aren't wasps insects?" He asked, helpfully.

Knowing when I'd been beat, I changed the subject.

Now I know how they felt when The Beatles broke up.

Greg Wiggle is retiring due to some crazy-ass illness. I watched his farewell video, including the handing over of the yellow "skivvy" to the new guy, Sam Moran, and found myself inexplicably verklempt. Ironically, The Wiggles are Eddie and Chas' big enterainers, not mine. And yet I suspect they may not even notice that the lead freakin' singer has been replaced. But, but, it's like if the Beatles replaced Paul McCartney with Dave Clark or if Van Halen replaced David Lee Roth with Sammy Hagar. Wait, scratch that last one.

Still, it's the end of an era. I interviewed Greg Wiggle over the phone earlier this year. And now, to quote a Wiggles song, Whoop-De-Doo.

When first heard the news, I thought, 'Surely he's just stopping the live tours but he'll do the TV show." Then I realized he was hanging up his yellow skivvy altogether.

I feel so abandoned -- but it's not all about me and my feelings, is it Greg? No, it's you and your stupid illness. Why did you have to have those hernia surgeries that may have triggered this? Are you really so selfish?

OK, look, how about you just take a break for a few months -- I'm sure you'll feel better and maybe you can just cut down on some of the touring. Get one of the other Wiggles to take the wheel of the Big Red Car. Please?

Oh, God. I can't believe this is happening. I am inexplicably bereft -- hopeless and living as if in a fog rolling in off of Wiggle Bay. Everything seems so dark, like Caveland.

OK, this is it. He's really gone. I don't like it, but it's reality. I can't control Greg or his blood flow to his extremities. Nor can I control my curiousity about how this blood flow impacts him in other performance areas, if you get my drift. Life will go on, different than before, but still worthwhile.

Whew, that's a relief. I'm through with the 5 stages of grief over the loss of our Wiggles lead singer -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance -- and I can go on with life.

Godspeed, Greg Wiggle Page. At least you didn't leave to try to become a rock star like Joe's brother Steve Burns. Or get stabbed to death by a stingray. I'm grateful for that.

Would you believe I've been suffering from temporary amnesia and forgot I had a blog?

Yeah, I'm not buying it either. But really, where did the month of November sneak off to? My last post was Nov.2? Really? I suck at this. Anyway, again beating the crowds, we saw Santa before Halloween. Here, for your viewing pleasure, are the results.

We put up the Christmas Tree Saturday, to the joy and delight of 3/4 of the household. Except when the boys were left alone with the tree at the beginning. Steph and I were in the garage, either looking for something or hiding from the boys, when Chas opened the door and announced, "Eddie is really, really sorry." Uh oh. After another couple of these pronouncements, Eddie himself appeared. His eyes were brimming with tears and his lower lip was quivering quite unironically. He had broken the funnel off of the glass train ornament we got in Skagway.

Now, those who know me well would think that I would be upset by the broken ornament. But the sight of my poor, heartbroken boy made the stupid ornament seem so pointless. I held him and told him it was OK while he sobbed for a few minutes. I think that's one of those horrible growing up moments, realizing that beautiful, fragile things do indeed break. And all the mom's horses and all the mom's men can't put them back together again. Heavy sigh. One more piece of innocence lost.

OK, maybe I see why he put such meaning and import into breaking a freaking ornament.

Upon decorating the tree, the boys were convinced that it was going to be Christmas the very next day and were worried that Santa wouldn't come without snow. We told them they would have to wait many, many days and that it wouldn't snow and by golly, the next day, there was snow on the cars.

Today, there was a bit more and they are convinced that they caused it. Eddie started screaming out the window, "Snow, clouds! More snow!" Alas, it hasn't yet worked.

Sure, he was fine. He got nitrous oxide. What about me???

So today was Eddie's big day at the dentist. Two fillings which I'm absolutely certain are the result of my negligent parenting. I did my best to make him think it was a fun adventure, so much so that he quite happily left me in the waiting room to fret as he marched happily back. He must have been so shocked.

After a little more than an hour, someone came to summon me to look in on him (but not to speak aloud lest he realize I was there). He was flat on his back, tilted head-down with a little nose mask thing on and his mouth propped open seemingly watching a Thomas DVD. In theory, I guess I was supposed to relax at that point seeing as he was not screaming or crying. But I kept wondering if he was being still because he was so scared -- that's kind of his M.O. I could barely sit still in the waiting room, but pacing feverishly seemed a bit melodramatic. But that's what I felt like doing.

He came out about 20 minutes later, looking more than a little shell-shocked and with a cotton roll clutched between his teeth. The woman who brought him out told me he got a cool fish in his bag. It's bath toy sort of thing. But it was all I could do not to tell her, "Pah! I laugh at your puny fish toy!" Because let's face it, the boy was getting more than that for being such a trooper. At home he was treated to a rock mountain quarry takealong Thomas thing. He likes it a lot -- so does Chas, who has been reminded by Eddie that it isn't his prize because he didn't go to the dentist.

He seems to be doing better, perking up nicely. I, however, still need a stiff drink.

In completely unrelated news, Halloween was quite nice. The boys looked smashing and had a ball.

Mommy, I hurted myself!

So I'm in my bedroom, minding my own business, when I hear Eddie cry out, "Mommy! I hurted myself!"
Being a relatively caring mother, I inquired how he hurt himself. I was expecting either a screaching condemnation of his brother so that I could tell Chas not to hit, kick, pinch, punch or look at his brother with furrowed brow, whichever transgression he was accused of. Or I would simply be given a body part to kiss better. No. I got the following description. It's not absolutely verbatim because it took me a while to get in here to write it down. But it is the gist of how Eddie got hurted.

"I went potty so I had to wash my hands but when I went to wash my hands I saw my really good puzzle and I stopped to look at it and there were cars on it so I picked the cars up and when I throwed them off of my puzzle one of the cars bounced off the box and it came back and landed on me there (points tearfully to his toe)."

This never happened to him when he wore diapers.

Pumpkins and Trains. Doesn't get any better than that.

We took the boys on the Pumpkin Express at the Mt. Rainier Scenic Railroad Saturday. They loved it. However, enroute, we were concerned about missing the train. So Eddie had to take the map and study it to make sure we were going the right way. So typical. Anyway, the boys were jumping up and down in excitement. We rode on real steamies and even got to watch as they switched our engines from a tender to a tank engine -- JUST LIKE THOMAS. It's hard to imagine anything more exciting. Oh, and we got dirty steam water spit onto us. It was thrilling beyond measure.

Pumpkin Patch Daredevils

The boys' first school field trip was a huge success. They went to a pumpkin patch yesterday and selected small specimens to take home. But their absolute favorite part was careening down a wood chip pile in various vehicles. It's a wonder no bones were broken, and kind of unfair really -- because a classmate broke his femur over the weekend just playing at home. Six weeks in a pretty major cast. What a nightmare.

Also, the boys have become quite avid storytellers. Today as we drove to pick up Auntie Cathy from the car repair place, they told the story of the cat they first saw in our cul-de-sac. Apparently this cat ran and jumped into trees, clouds, mountains, swimming pools, valleys etc. It was a loooong story. But it's quite fun to hear their growing imaginations at work -- and to know that they are developing a sense of narrative. Chas says he wants to be a writer when he grows up - poor kid. Eddie, on the other hand, says he doesn't want to grow up.

Of course, this post is really just an excuse to post some pics from the pumpkin patch....

This boy is gonna make a great husband someday...

As the family sat down for dinner tonight, Eddie looked at Steph and announced that he had a good day. "But first tell me about your day," he said. "How was your day?"

And as she talked of widgets and matrixes and crap that makes my eyes glaze over, he actually appeared to be genuinely interested, asking questions etc. And it occurred to me that if he can maintain this attitude into his adult years he will make someone very happy. Or be a total pain in the ass. Come to think of it, both of those things are already true. He makes me (and Steph) very happy. And he is a total pain in our asses.

I'm not saying Chas is an artistic genius or anything...

But only because his work speaks for itself.

That's not nice.

So today I gave the boys a little dollop of bleu cheese dressing to go with their carrot sticks at lunch. It's egg-free, of course. But they didn't know that. Eddie looks at it and positively screams at me. "Mom! You gave him 'llergic salad dressing. That's not nice!"

I explained. But I'm not convinced they don't still think I'm trying to harm them...

Mmm, the cream is so delicious, sez Chas

Mommy's Little Insomniac

Last night, undoubtedly owing to long naps yesterday, the boys were troublesome trucks at bedtime. Chas wanted in Eddie's bed. Eddie wanted ... well, he wanted Chas out of his bed. They were semi-settled (though we kept hearing conversation) when we went to the bedroom to watch a completely unsatisfying Tivo'ed "Cold Case." I checked on them at 11 p.m. Chas was curled up asleep in the smaller of the two chairs in the room. Eddie was in ... Chas' bed. Apparently, he didn't want in his bed, he just didn't want Chas there. Whatever. He was still awake, so I asked him what he was doing in his brother's bed. "I'm just laying here quietly until I can go to the big bed," he said. I was amused, so I told him to come with me to the big bed. Then I picked up Chas who was completely terrified by being picked up while in a dead sleep.

Anyway, I put both boys in bed with Steph while I retreated to the bathroom to do my nightly rituals (which includes reading trashy mags like Entertainment Weekly). When I came to bed it was after 11:30 p.m. and Eddie was still awake. So I asked him why. "I have no idea," he sighed. Eventually, he left us to go get in his own bed. I stopped asking questions at that point and just went to sleep myself. This morning I awoke to both boys in our bed. To quote Eddie, "I have no idea" how that happened...

I'm brave, Eddie says, letting go.

Evidence that they DO hear me...

This morning Eddie marches into the living room with the bedroom remote. "Chas wants to watch TV and I told him, 'Chas! We watch too much TV.'" Of course, he only remembers that when it's Chas' turn to pick out a program. But still. I'm impressed that my nagging doesn't go in one ear and out the other. And of course reminded that Eddie thinks he really is one of the parents around here.

Chas has been soldiering through a cold. (So actually, I'd let him watch as much TV as he wanted. Don't tell Eddie.) Eddie was very animated and participatory in the library story time this morning -- shocked the heck out of the librarians who commented on how well-behaved they were. I was equally stunned. These are not the same children who pouted and clung to me last spring when I tried to get them to take part in story time.

Oh, and Eddie found the duplicate navy blue Thomas shirt. This is identical to the one he wore on his first day of school. So I let Chas wear the duplicate Jay Jay shirt. So we showed up at library story time looking very much like they hadn't changed clothes and of course one of the moms from the preschool was there. OK, fine. But tonight Eddie had a nut-out over picking out clothes for tomorrow because he wants to wear the same damn shirt. Not only that, but he doesn't want me to wash it or wear the identical one if it's clean. "I want dirty!!!" Steph says she sees my future relationship with Eddie as one long succession of battles of will. I say it ain't the future, baby, it's the here and now. Poor Steph and Chas can't do much but stand back, watch and hope we both come out of it alive. And not deaf.

And the March Away From Me Begins....

OK, so maybe I'm being a wee bit melodramatic. But the boys started preschool today. The morning began with boys boys asleep and me getting in the shower. When I came out of the bathroom, only Chas was still in bed. I went looking for Eddie and found him -- he had stripped naked and crawled onto their changing table with the Thomas shirt we set out for him the night before. I don't know what was more amusing to me -- the idea that he thinks he needs to get dressed on the changing table because that's where I dress him (purely out of convenience) or that he was so eager to get to school.

Chas was a little less excited -- he wanted to make sure Eddie was coming with him on this grand adventure. And neither boy wanted me to leave. So I happily stayed and took pictures even as most of the other parents left. Meanwhile, my phone is ringing every 15 minutes with either Steph checking on the boys or my sister checking on me and laughing at me for staying. Eddie particularly enjoyed playing with the Playdough and Chas liked the toy trains. But their favorite thing was definitely snack time. For some reason, Chas has been ravenous all day -- he kept telling me he was hungry beginning at least 30 minutes before snack time. Oh, and he's coming down with a cold I discovered this afternoon, so he probably infected all of his new friends. Eddie mostly just liked his placemat. He wants a picture of it.

But, aside from the cold, we're all doing well. Tired, but happy. Oh, and our 4-year-old neighbor, Daniel, actually came over to play. His older sister had to pretty much physically put him in the toy car to ride with the boys, but the ice was apparently broken and he followed Eddie and Chas into the house to play with trains for a while. This is good. I worry that he gets lonely. And kindergarten is going to be tough for a child who is so shy. (I know -- worry about my own kids, right?)

Oh, and the worst part? I didn't get any really good pictures of the boys on their first day of school. Oh, sure, I took 68. But none of them are too exciting.

The God Book

Eddie approached me today asking me to throw something away because it "smells pisgusting." It was the remnants of a fish oil capsule that we give them daily to ensure that when they flunk out of school or need glasses we can be assured it wasn't our fault. But I digress from my main point.

I asked him where he got it. "It was on the God book," he said.

The God book? I asked him what that was and he pulled out a "Five Minute Bible Stories For Children" book from our hall closet. Now, I think I've read exactly one story from this to the boys, several months ago. We set it aside not because we're Godless heathens but because, frankly, there are no trains, airplanes or cars. Not even a single talking dog, let alone one with a British accent I can fake badly when reading aloud. (Seriously, how DID this bible book ever become a best seller?) How does he know this stuff? He's an amazement, my boy.

And my other boy, well, he's an amazement, too. They won cheese-tastic stuffed prizes at the fair -- they selected stuff green peace signs over smiley faces. And then Chas proceeded to tell me it was "peace." And then he began describing things that meant peace -- like trees and stuff. I was befuddled until Steph reminded me of Todd Parr's Peace Book which he was apparently remembering.

So there you have it. God and Peace. Whatever my shortcomings as a parent may be -- and they are legion -- I figure boys who can talk about God and peace have gotta mean I'm doing something right.

And suddenly I have a chatterbox...

I had a meeting today with a woman for this ridiculous church thing. Which is all to say, I don't want to bother explaining it because it's not important. However, I thought we were grabbing coffee and doing a quick "Hi, How areya" kind of deal. So my sister was out of town and I thought, heck, I'll just bring the boys and they can get some chocolate milk with whipped cream and she'll be charmed by them and everyone will be happy. Only she wanted to talk to me for an hour and a half in her office. OK. So her receptionist comes and offers the boys crayons in an attempt to lure them into the other room. Of course... they went. Happily. Willingly. It was very distracting. I kept turning around and looking into the office where they were -- I could see through the glass. They seemed fine. It was weird. When I retrieved them, the two young women in the office had been entertaining them with coloring pages downloaded from the 'net etc. Then the women told me how nice the boys are, which is true. They said the boys told them about going to the fair and eating caramel apples and scones. Which means the boys talked to them. This is decidedly odd.

After we left, Eddie told me that he neglected to tell them about his trips (?!?!?) but that he also told them all about the Cars movie. Then he dropped the bombshell.

Eddie: "I frew the ball at Chas and then I frew up."
Me: "WHAT?!?!"
Eddie: "I frew up."
Me: "Where -- in there?"
Eddie: "In the potty."
Me: "In the potty where we just were -- in that potty?"
Eddie: "Yeah. I frowed up in the potty."

Now my mind is reeling. Did he throw up? Did they take him to the potty without me knowing? If he went to the potty to either "frow up" or pee, what state did he leave it in? I almost called to apologize and offer to come back to clean up. But then I realized that I didn't particularly like this organization -- or at least not the woman I met with. So if he's gonna "frow up" it might as well be there. But I can't believe he did -- without crying or fussing or anything. And he seems fine.

Odd.

If it's the mutton that gets busted, why does my head hurt?

There are times as a parent when you agonize over whether you are making the right decision, doing the right thing for your child. And then there are times when you rush headlong into a dangerous, stupid and in all ways ridiculous activity with your child without so much as a tiny voice of caution to get in your way. In other words, sometimes you take your 31/2 year old boys "mutton busting."



Mutton busting involves taking small children -- under 6 years and 60 lbs -- putting them in protective vests and helmets, sticking 'em on sheep and releasing said sheep into an arena while an audience screams and yells encouragement. I thought it was 6 and up, but our neighbor assured us it was 6 and under. So of course, that means we had to check it out and see if the boys could be convinced.

The object is to try to stay on for 6 seconds. The grand prize winner for the whole fair gets $500 or something and a fancy belt buckle. Now, I realize this is insane. But I actually found myself thinking, hmm. Maybe one of the boys will turn out to be a mutton busting genius. Wow. I hope one of them doesn't get called back to the finals and the other one not.

In hindsight, the helmets and vests should have raised some concern. Or the notion that staying on for 6 seconds is a supreme achievement. But the first real consideration that we might not be making a wise parenting choice came when a fellow parent asked, seconds before we put our children on these beasts, "What's the difference between doing this and just throwing our kids in there."
"We won't get in trouble for this," another parent helpfully answered.
"Heh heh heh. Wha?" I thought.
The first one out the shoot was a little girl. As soon as they released the sheep, she was pretty much on her butt. I don't know that it was her fall -- it happened so fast I'm not sure he saw it -- or the loudness of the crowd, but Chas quickly decided he would have none of it, despite the fact that just minutes before he had been jumping up and down in anticipation of riding a sheep.

That meant Eddie got scooped up and put on Chas' sheep. Before he could register what was happening, let alone raise a protest, the sheep was released and he was on the ground. I could tell right away he was crying. Hard. He told us his head was hurt. Before long, he fell asleep, leading Steph to wonder aloud if he could be concussed. Great, one more thing to worry about. I worried that we may have knocked some of the smart out of him, but Steph said he's still got enough intelligence to know that he doesn't want to ride a sheep ever again. I'm fairly sure, however, that we knocked at least a couple of points off his eventual SAT scores. If he just misses getting into the college of his choice, I'll be bitterly muttering "Mutton-busting!"





He remains bitter and says the sheep riding was not great. Chas is happy with his last-minute decision not to go. And I figure the $10 we paid is simply akin to a small fine for really crappy parenting.

The case of the missing sandal.

One of Chas' sandals has been missing more than 24 hours now, so I think I should make a police report. The house is cleaner than it's been in weeks, if not months. Admittedly, this isn't saying much, but still. This is not the state of the house that I expected to lose a sandal in.

It's driving. Me. Crazy.

Who the hell is Halloween for, anyway?

OK, I've known from the beginning that I had a limited number of years to pick their Halloween costumes. So year one, they were adorable as giraffes in Noah's ark. When they were 2, oh Lordy they were so cute as Minnesota Twins, even though Eddie was a very sick little ballplayer. And last year? Last year the Wright Brothers soared off the cute scale.

And somehow, I deluded myself into thinking that this year I'd get to pick their costumes again. Maybe Thing 1 and Thing 2. Or Buzz Lightyear and Woody. I was thinking hard and getting kind of excited about the whole process. Then they saw a damned Costumes Express catalog. And inside was a Thomas costume. And now they are both stubborning clinging to the thought that they will be Thomas. I briefly got excited when I saw that All Aboard Toys is getting a James costume. But I quickly realized that forcing one boy to be James would just be cruel. Percy, maybe, but not James.




Don't they know they are sacrificing a chance at originality and self-expression at the altar of Thomas? Worse, it's MY originality and self-expression they're sacrificing. And they aren't even old enough to properly experience any guilt trip I might be inclined to send them on. Motherhood is a mutha sometimes.

Progress. I think.

The boys are so excited about going to the fair today that Eddie got up, took his own PJs off and dressed himself. This is a first. I said I needed to take a shower first, so Chas told me to "go, then." OK, kind of amusing. But while I was in the shower, Eddie mysteriously disappeared. I asked him where they went. "Oh, I took them off because they are wet and I peed on them."

"Eddie, why did you pee in your pants?" "Because I was playing in the sandbox."

Now, forgetting that the response made almost no sense, this is something of a breakthrough. "Why did you pee your pants? Why did you throw water out of the tub? Why did you do that incredibly annoying thing?" The answer to these questions has always been the same, maddening thing. "Because I did."

So though playing in the sandbox makes no sense, it's at least the beginnings of a real answer. And perhaps more. Because when I went to retrieve his discarded pants they were... dry. The shorts were, anyway. The underpants had just the slightest damp spot. I looked at them and then at the bare-butted boy sitting happily in his sandbox playing and it occurred to me that his answer may have been freakishly accurate. Is it possible that the boy likes the feel of sand under his naked tushy so much that he would let loose with a tiny amount of urine to justify removing his pants so he could enjoy the gritty pleasures of half-naked sandbox time? This prospect leaves me with conflicting emotions. But I think I'm mostly amused.

Bidding a reluctant au revoir to summer...

It is becoming something of a tradition, seeing as we've done it two years in a row now, to go camping on Labor day weekend. This year we trekked all the way to Millersylvania, a wildly over-populated state park near Olympia -- all of 45 minute from home. It was our first camping trip in ages that found us in a park without a burn ban, so the boys experienced their first campfire. They were unimpressed. The dirt, however, was endlessly fascinating. By mid-day Sunday, they were quite literally walking through personal dirt clouds much like Pigpen from the old
Peanuts strips. (Eddie was clearly more into the dirt than his brother, but Chas progressed from what you see here.)


Steph, meanwhile, had to keep walking away from the fam to make conference calls and at one point actually worked on her laptop in front of the campfire because the BIR (Big Internet Retailer) she works for is on the verge of launching her product. Thus we were subjected to much talk of "launch blockers" and such. It is the worst-kept secret since John Travolta was outed. (OK, I'm sure he's just a friendly bloke. Whatever.) However, I cannot tell you what it is or I would have to kill you or gouge your eyes out or something and frankly I just don't have the energy for that kind of mayhem. Besides, since you, dear reader, are but a figment of my imagination, I can't be bothered.

But still, a grand time was had by all. Today was a different story. The best part was my dentist's appointment. No, really. I'm not being sarcastic. How's that for scary? It started with my babysitting my grandnephew Marcus, who is 6 or 7 months old now (don't give me crap for not knowing), adorable and utterly demanding of my full attention. I swear, he could sense it if I looked at him and let my mind wander. It made me marvel at the thought that I actually handled two of them at one point. But then I had exersaucers, God's own gift to parents. Regardless, any scintilla of a thought that I might want another kid was crushed by this adorable baby. I damn near called the fertility clinic to demand that they incinerate any remaining totsicles they may still have.

Anyway, Eddie had gotten up out of our bed and crawled into his bed. I thought he was just pretty tired. Then he yelled, "I'm not feeling very well." Hmm. He told me it was his tummy. Then he asked for chocolate milk, so I thought he was full of it. I got him the chocolate milk and just as I was walking in the room with it, he started throwing up. He nearly made it to the bathroom. Nearly. Big old vomit pool in the doorway, with smaller ones on the carpet in the hallway. He had skipped dinner the night before, so there wasn't much there -- but I stepped in definite wet spots with my bare feet.

So sick-o almost immediately starts agitating for ice cream with whipped cream. Or chocolate milk. Not wanting to see these things in their recycled form, I refused and gave him a pediapop. But by the end of the day, I relented. He kept it down. But then refused to have dinner. Personally, I think he was just looking for a way to get me to let him veg out naked in front of the TV all day. It worked. (Though after the dinner he didn't eat, I insisted that both boys go outside to play. And get dressed. Not in that order.)

Oh, and I have a cavity. Or rather, "decay" underneath a filling that is failing. It's probably 20 years old or more, so I can't complain. The dentist asked if I wanted to get the metal out of my mouth, he could replace another one nearby with white while he's at it. Dear God. Why would I care about metal on my molars? I'm 60-70 pounds overweight, rarely bother with makeup anymore and I'm on the dark side of 40. And he wonders if I'm bothered by a metal filling in an upper molar that I'm fairly sure no one sees. Um, no.