Birthdays and gunfire...

OK, they aren't actually related. But in the time since my last blog post, Eddie and Chas have turned 5. They say they actually feel different. More, fiveish. They had a great party with their friends at eh Science Center and will be having one with family this Saturday. The night before their actual birthday, we had the same meal for dinner that we had the night before they were born. I remember it so well only because I was throwing it up about an hour before they actually debuted. I think we'll make it a tradition.

And now for gunfire. There was a shooting at the Southcenter Mall last night. A couple of hours later, I got a phone call. My grandniece was not only in the mall, but near the shooting. She was with her Tolo date shopping for an outfit or something. The gunfire started and her date ducked behind a kiosk. She froze. At this point in the story I'm thinking she needs a new date. But it turns out that he quickly jumped back up and pulled her behind the kiosk with him. Now I'm thinking he is a fine choice for a date. Regardless, they were sequestered inside a cell phone store by the police for several hours. I haven't heard anything since then (she called her mom from inside the store) but I know she was pretty upset, naturally. About an hour after we heard, I turned to Steph and said, "You know, if I were still covering crime at a newspaper, this would have been a pretty cool 'get' for me." Then we laughed about how different our reactions were to this now than they would have been back in the day. Now we just got to be concerned aunties, notworrying about anything but Paige's wellbeing. It's kind of nice.

Swimming and Soccer = Exhaustion

So Thursdays are a little tough around here. Swim lessons at 11, followed by lunch, playground break and soccer at 2:15. Shortly after we got home, this is how I found Eddie:





It was a split decision, however, as Chas remains perky and alert:

Duck, Duck, Crash.

I think the worst thing about what happened to me tonight is what could have happened. I mean, not to be all melodramatic but, this is exactly the dumb kind of thing that kills people. And then Steph would have had to explain that I died from a Duck, Duck, Goose injury. What a humiliating way to go.

OK, here's the story. Eddie really wanted to play duck, duck, goose tonight. We've removed our coffee table in anticipation of a new sectional Thursday, so there's just enough open space to kinda sorta do it. All went well for the first few rounds. We called out things like "cow" or "giraffe" instead of duck and it was the height of hilarity. Then I tagged Eddie as the goose and took off running. But I was wearing my beloved winter crocs and somehow I tripped. I slammed face first -- hard -- into the arm of the loveseat that had been pushed aside (also in anticipation of the new sectional). My head snapped back quite sickeningly both for me and for Steph. I crumpled as Chas joyfully jumped on my back, clearly not recognizing that this wa not a funny-ha-ha kind of moment. I was seriously afraid I had broken my back or my neck and thought I'd be leaving the house in an ambulance. After a minute or two on the ground, where Steph gently eased me. My lip is quite swollen, I'm a bit nauseated and my neck and head are killing me, but I think I'll survive.

Actually, the first sign I had that I was alright was when I started to worry about having to tell the emergency room people that it was a Duck,Duck,Goose-related injury. Had I, in fact, injured myself any other way, I may indeed have gone to the hospital just to check things out. But a $75 copay coupled with the humiliation of having to explain it is just enough to keep me home with an ice pack. I will, however, be thinking of a good story to tell people about my fat lip and it will NOT involve D,D,G.

The new black

Loved this. Loved, loved, loved this.

My eyes! My eyes!

OK, another pinkeye post... When he got his first eyedrop, Eddie began to scream. I pried open his left eye and put in the next eyedrop. He then leapt up and began crying, "I can't see! I can't see!" At this point, I used my most calm voice and instructed him to open his eyes. It took a few more seconds of panic about his sudden onset blindness before he reluctantly opened his eyes and said, "Oh."

The new color in eyes this season is pink

If you're a rabbit, that's no big deal. But for human boys, it means a trip to the doctor for you and a $50 prescription bill for your mom. Fortunately, I think we caught it fairly quickly -- their eyes are a very light shade and the crusting is minimal. Honestly, if they were just about 10 years older (or, who am I kidding, less) I'd have suspected they had been smoking the wacky tobaccy -- glassy, bloodshot eyes and all. Fortunately for them (and me) it's just conjunctivitis, so lecturing is limited to the importance of handwashing and not rubbing your eyes.

Unfortunately, every time I think about their condition, my eyes start to itch. I'd be a great patient in hypnotherapy, I think -- I'm quite prone to suggestion...

Dirty Old Woman

So today I went to my grandnephew Dylan's high school dive meet. He made state, which I'm told is kind of a big deal. Anyway, he did great (Personally, I would have given him all 10s, but the judges minds were clearly muddled my colds. Or was that mine?), made it to the next round which we won't be able to attend because of the boys' basketball game but that's not really why I'm posting. Stay with me here.

So I'm watching these teenage divers as they get on the board, stretch and flex and, oh my. They are exquisitely proportioned. Now, I wasn't getting all hot and bothered -- that would just be too, too icky. (Besides I have a terrible head cold so with blood flow being what it is, it woulda been difficult.) But I couldn't help notice just how beautiful these boys' bodies were. And how utterly stupid it was that there weren't a ton of teenage girls there watching. Seriously. These were gorgeous, muscular in just the right proportion guys wearing speedos. And though I've never been a fan of Speedos, if anyone is going to wear them it should be these boys. Alas, it all appeared to be wasted on their moms, grandmas and aunts. Teenage girls who miss this opportunity should have to deduct 150 points from their SATs or their WASLs.

My boy the Super Girl

Last night Chas and I were both feeling pretty miserable with this cold and as we lay in bed snuggling away the chills that hit us both, we talked about school. Specifically, about the "mean kids" at school. He named names and I must say, I wasn't surprised. Later, as he slept, I asked Eddie about this. He also named names, but his list was much longer and included virtually every boy in his class save him and his brother.

The gist of Eddie's story is that the other boys play Mutant Ninja Turtles and play fight and -- with the exception of Chas, of course -- take toys from Eddie and the three girls in the class. "We are playing Super Girls and fixing the house and they just take our toys when we aren't even through playing with them," he said. I asked him to repeat, to confirm that I'd heard correctly that he plays "Super Girls." He was quite nonchalant in his affirmation.

At that moment I was so happy he does not have a father. Because I think that's a hard thing for a dad to hear without worrying. Men are so tied up in their sons' masculine identities that even the most progressive of them would surely feel a twinge and somehow start sending a message that it's not cool to be a Super Girl. I find it charming that he's still so secure in his own essential "maleness" to not be disturbed by labels. And I'm thrilled that he finds fighting -- even "play fighting" distasteful. (Though I wish he'd feel the same about fighting with his brother.)

And speaking of distasteful fighting .... Today to break up a battle I told them that if you fight with someone you love on Valentine's Day, your Valentine's candy will turn bitter and yucky. Eddie told me he doesn't believe it, but I insisted and since then, they've been getting along beautifully.....

Ho hum, I know. But another Hillary post...

Actually, more of a link to what I find to be a post by Erica Jong (who knew?) who just so perfectly sums up how this whole thing feels to me...



Here's a link to the whole brilliant post:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/erica-jong/patriarchy1000-hillary_b_86408.html

Have enough people voted yet?

Well, anyone who knows me well knows this was bound to happen. The boys have now gone to their first political rally. OK, not their first. They also went to a religious gay marriage thing. But this was their first rally for a candidate for office. It was cold, then hot, and long and crowded. But they can always say they were there, cheering on the first serious female contender for the presidency. They wanted to know who Hillary was and we told them we hoped she would be our president -- if enough people vote for her. As we left, Eddie looked up expectantly and asked, "Did enough people vote?" We told him the voting would still be a while off, so today he asked again. "Have enough people voted yet?" We're still waiting, buddy. But let's hope the president for the second five years of your life is a whole lot better than the one you had for the first five. Though realistically, that seems to be setting the bar pathetically low...

Why I Heart Hillary

OK, I admit it. I would love Hillary to be our next president. Yes, I know she was wrong about the war. Yes, I know she's a manipulative, political insider. But at least she's a manipulative, political insider working mostly for the right things.

Will I support Barack if he's the nominee? With some heaviness in my heart, but yes. But I'll always be wistful for what could have been. I've searched my soul looking for a reason I'm not excited about him -- is it racism? No. But identity politics do have something to do with it, I'm sure. I look at him and see a powerful man who has certainly overcome a lot. But I don't understand and feel the things he's overcome the way I connect with Hillary's trials and challenges. (And I think gender issues are just naturally closer to gender identity and sexual orientation issues -- I think she "gets" those in a way he doesn't.) It just feels all too familiar seeing people jump to support the younger, charismatic guy while dismissing the woman "of a certain age" for someone who's just plain sexier. Yeah, she knows her stuff. Yeah, she can do the job great. But geez, look at those crow's feet. And aren't we kind of bored with her?

So I'll be caucusing for Hillary. Nothing against Barack -- I'm sure he's a swell guy who would make a great president.

Oh yeah, and here's what prompted this post. It's a letter to the LGBT community that Hillary posted to a gay website. http://www.ourchart.com/node/299303.

GO HILLARY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The best Mommy in the whole, wide world.

This morning Chas awoke, hugged me and very sleepily said, "You are the best Mommy in the whole, wide world." It's the kind of affirmation I needed after last night's kindergarten readiness panel. At this panel we were essentially told that if we didn't put our kids in full-day kindergarten -- and probably hold them back a year as well --they would remain academically behind their peers, social followers prone to illegal behavior in their teen years and generally ill-suited to leading happy, productive lives. On the other hand, we were also cautioned that these are precious days when they are able to learn so much that if we hold them back too long, they will be dumb as bricks.

I have no intention of holding them back -- they're ready, according to their preschool teacher. Nor do I intend to spend $500 a month so they can attend full-day kindergarten. I mean, it's not like they'll be in daycare or sitting in front of the boob tube on their off days. (OK, not ALL of the time...)

I know much of what we were told was a load of crap. But it was a wake-up call to the realities of public school in 2008. The WASL looms large, even in kindergarten. The pressure is on and there's no time for 5-year-olds to waste looking for worms, building forts or checking out the animals at the zoo. I suppose all of this hit me -- and my friends -- hard because it was the first time we weren't the over-achievers in the parenting department. We're used to being the ones who did it all "right." We're involved parents who give our kids a healthy mix of structured and self-directed play, of group and solo activities. And suddenly we were being told that what our guts tell us is right for our kids is all wrong.

But the truth is, though it made me uncomfortable to hear my decisions challenged and derided, it didn't change my mind. Whether it's a decision about going to the ER because someone's breathing is funny or sending them to kindergarten half-time, I'm going with my gut. It's worked so far. And who are they to challenge me, the best mommy in the whole, wide world?

Watch Out Spielberg...

The boys have decided they want to make a movie. So last night, Steph started telling them what they would need to do to begin, like write a story, come up with storyboards etc. So Chas asked me to go buy them storyboards. We clarified and today, after playing in the snow, Eddie got some paper and drew out the storyboards for their first feature. The working title is "Sea Flux." It is heavily influenced by "Finding Nemo." I am now going to have to find a way to film this. Which is going to be a neat trick, since I had to get Eddie to confirm for me which side is up. Anyway, at the risk of having a studio steal their movie, here is the storyboard for the epic "Sea Flux!"

SNOW DAY!!!!!

So the downside to being president of the boys' preschool is getting a call at 7 a.m. about the snow. Followed by roughly 300 additional calls in and out to make sure everyone knew we were closed. The upside is that I was up, so when the boys stirred about an hour later I could whisper "Go look outside." I've never seen them strip off their pajamas so fast.

After grudgingly eating bowls of oatmeal, they put on their snow pants, hats and coats and headed out. We made a snowman, pictured here. They tried for snow angels, but it was kinda iffy. (Eddie initially wanted me to cover his eyes because he doesn't like to look at the sky when he's lying on his back -- because it's so far away it's kind of scary. I guess the opposite of a fear of heights?) They threw snowballs at each other and at the older neighbor boys who were genuinely impressed with their packing skills. Then they took their jeep out for a spin to watch it make tracks. When they got stuck with too much snow on the tires, the older girls converged on them (see below), clucking over them and generally battling to be the most helpful. Too bad the feminine attention is wasted on 4-year-olds.

The only tragedy of the day is that Eddie bogarted the whipped cream for the hot chocolate, leaving Chas bereft and highly suspicious of the mothering skills of anyone who would have a single, nearly empty can of whipped cream and a pantry devoid of any marshmallows. I gotta say, he's onto something.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day from a 4-year-old perspective

According to Eddie, we celebrate MLK Jr. because before him, dark-haired people had to sit at the back of the bus and there were different schools for dark-haired people and light-haired people and he said you should be able to go to school and ride the bus together because it doesn't matter what color your hair is.

As I tried to figure this out, I realized they had read a book about King in preschool. And skin color means absolutely nothing to my boys. But, with one of them a blondie and the other with "black" hair, (brown, but don't tell Chas) hair color differences they get. In fact, it defines them in some ways, as Chas more than once has called himself "the black boy" because he has black (again, not really) hair.

I wonder when skin color will be a part of the equation for them. Not for a long, long, long time, I hope. And I can only hope that segregation based on race will always seem as foreign and absurd to them as segregation by hair color.

The thing about Moms ...

According to Chas, the thing about Moms is that they have boobs and jay jays. Oy.

My son the potty-mouth

Today when I picked the boys up from preschool, their teacher pulled me aside to explain an "incident" during circle time. (It was all I could do not to say "Oh, shit," when she said she wanted to talk to me.) It seems one of their little friends was absent, and after sending her good thoughts, Chas raised his hand to elaborate. "I thought poop," he told the teacher, or something to that effect. Wisely recognizing that this was going to set off a veritable poop-storm of such utterances from the whole class (as "poop" is just about the funniest word in the English language when you are in preschool), she told him it was bathroom talk and inappropriate. He apparently got quite red-faced, teary-eyed and she said she was pretty sure he cried.

I tried to be sensitive and reassuring, prompting him to tell me all about school, hoping he would volunteer and thus give me an opening to talk about it. The closest he came to 'fessing up was to blurt out "I didn't cry" when I asked if anything upsetting happened during circle time. So I just told him I knew the story, which probably wasn't the coolest thing in the world, reminding him of what must have been a mortifying moment and worse, letting him know that someone told his mom about it. Anyway, I told him about how we all make mistakes and that he wasn't the only kid in his class who has done this. I also told him the truth: that I was as much to blame for it as he was because it's my job to teach him when words aren't appropriate and that I've just laughed along at the poop jokes for too long. We then agreed we would try to help each other clean up our vocabularies.

I figure this is just practice for dealing with the inevitable F-bombs that are in his future.

Is this a symptom...

of having to stretch a story about a nondescript building to 2,000 words as I recently had to??? That last post was a long one. Sheesh.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

As of now (well, yesterday actually) it has been five years since I left my home in the morning and trudged off to work. Five years ago the sainted Dr. Dashow put me on bedrest for the duration of my pregnancy and I never went back.

Do I miss "working outside the home?" Not really. I thought I would and, truth be told, once in a while I get nostalgic for the newsroom atmosphere. Outside of home, that's probably the environment I'm most comfortable in. I do still get to stretch my writing muscles with freelance work. And, honestly, one of my favorite things about working in a newsroom (aside from the bad jokes and worse wardrobes of almost everyone in the room) was always reading the wires. Imagine, just sitting at your desk and being able to click and read hundreds and hundreds of AP news stories at will! Why, it's almost like having an internet connection! Since that little thrill is now available at home, why leave?

Ahhh. Friends and colleagues. Yes, I miss seeing some of them more regularly. But many of them have moved on -- waaaay on -- and I wouldn't see them anyway. The ones I really care about, I'm still in touch with -- albeit irratically. And now that the boys are in preschool, I have a whole new set of friends who are mostly younger than I am but still in the same "stage" of life as me. They aren't newsies -- most don't even follow the news. But, I like them and we have a lot of fun on our "girls night out."

I hear people say that being a stay at home parent is the hardest job in the world. I disagree. Parenting the most important job in the world, but it's not harder just because you stay home to do it. It's easier -- at least for me. I can't imagine the chaos of trying to get boys, Steph and me out the door on time every morning. Heck, they're late for preschool more than half the time, an it doesn't start until after noon. Speaking of which ....)

So, I'm happy staying home. I think it makes me a better mother. I don't think it makes anyone else a better or worse mother to make a different choice or even the same one. I'm not a martyr for doing it. (Good God when I hear mothers talking about how much they are sacrificing on the altar of their children by staying home, I want to scream: "GET A JOB!" Because I think if you are unhappy, unfulfilled and full of resentment, you probably aren't doing your kids any favors.) To the contrary, I do it because it's much, much easier for me. I know I am going to pay for it in things like career growth, future savings etc. (Note to some "feminist" scholars who like to opine about women fooling themselves into thinking they can take time off from the workforce without paying a price: "Stay-at-Home" is not a synonym for "brain dead.") But it's a trade-off I'm happy to make.

In other words, even after the boys are in kindergarten next year (gasp, sob) don't be expecting to see my resume popping up in your inbox...

Cherish is the word ...

We were driving back from Chuck E. Cheese this evening with my nephew Gavin and his friend Gibson in the back seat. They are 9. Eddie and Chas are 4. Gibson quite seriously offered Eddie and Chas this nugget of wisdom: "Eddie, Chas, cherish this time in preschool. And next year, cherish the time you are in kindergarten. Because in first, second, third grade, you'll have homework. And that's baaaad."

Meet Harry, The New Year's Eve Chicken...

This afternoon, while the boys decorated yet another Christmas ornament (don't ask) I looked up to see a chicken looking through the window on our back door. I called the boys to look and took a couple of snapshots. Chas named "him" Harry. After a while, they got bored watching him and I only got occasional reports of how he was near their swingset etc. Then, Harry was gone.

Early this evening, however, Chas started laughing and pointing out the window to the front porch and saying something about silly Harry. Lo and behold, the damn chicken was settling in to a hanging basket full of dead flowers that should have been removed months ago. (By this point, it's almost a challenge to see how long I'll let it stay.) He's been up and down a few times now. I was going to ignore him until Eddie said, very sweetly, "But Mommy. He's far from his home. We have to take care of him while he's here." So Harry got some corn and some cornmeal. My sister came by and reports there are neighborhood cats skulking not too far away. Steph called to question about whether chickens will freeze to death in current conditions. Now despite allowing him to be named, I truly do not care about Harry. Circle of life and all that crap, you know? But my boys would be traumatized to find Harry either mutilated or frozen to death. So I just hope the dang thing has the sense to find her way home soon -- wherever that may be.

UPDATE -- 5:47 p.m. Eddie just walked in, looking very somber. He's been looking for Harry. "I think a cat might have got him," he reports. I assure him we would have heard the clucking, then go investigate for myself with a flashlight. No Harry. Fortunately, no Harry parts, either... Eddie has now, completely independently, come up with an explanation for Harry's absence. "Maybe he made a new friend!"

You may call it Wretched Excess...

But around here, we just call it "Christmas." Yes, the Jolly Fat Man has come and gone and left behind a veritable toy store. But we had two boys jumping up and down in glee and excitement, gasps of pure joy and overall giddiness Christmas morning, so I don't regret a single overly endulgant purchase. Not even the ones I forgot about until late Christmas Eve when we finally got the boys to sleep and managed to drag out the hidden loot.

Of course, today, poor Eddie paid in what can best be described as the preschool version of a hangover. He was sick and vomiting most of the day. He may have contracted a bug -- his cousin was sick last night. But it's just as likely that 48 hours of a diet that consisted of 80 percent sugar coupled with extreme self-imposed sleep deprivation was simply too much. Either way, I spent the day either snuggling a sick boy (the best part of the day), holding his head over the toilet (the worst part of the day) or playing with the healthy boy who desperately missed his much more fun playmate. I have too much work to do to have a day like this -- two deadlines loom at the end of the week, the kitchen is a disaster area and I have a turkey to cook Friday -- but that's what late nights are for I suppose.

At any rate, Eddie's much better -- he requested a trip to Red Robin for dinner and promptly stole his auntie's most garlicy french fries -- and the bedding is in the dryer, so all's well that ends well.

Best. Christmas. Present. Ever.

And it's not even Christmas Eve. Eddie has been working on this card for his Mama and Mommy this morning, pestering me to help him spell some stuff. This is what I got after I agreed to spell out "Love, Kids" to him, and write "Santa Claus comes tonight" as a sample for him to copy. Note the word "love" is mysteriously topped by a heart. What can I say? The kid knows how to suck up before Christmas.

Squawkers McCaw is a Squawkin', Talkin', Pain in My A**!

The boys reallly want a Squawkers McCaw talking parrot for Christmas, so we got 'em one this weekend at Costco. It was in the back of Steph's car so, while the boys and I were supposed to be sleeping this morning, she brought him in to hide. But there's a problem in that the little F'er seems to be motion activated. So I heard a screetchy "HELLO" as she came in. No biggie. Except that Chas apparently heard it to and it yanked him into full consciousness.

"I heared a talking parrot!"

"It must have been a commercial."

"But the TV isn't on."

"A commercial on the computer."

"But that's not what it says on the commercial."

"It must have been a dream."

"It wasn't a dream. It was a talkin' parrot!"

Things went like this until Steph came in to kiss us goodbye and confessed that she'd been "talking in silly voices." I'm not sure he was entirely convinced and I'm wondering how the hell Santa's going to put him under the tree without waking up at least one boy.

Robo Ed

Last night, after the boys were in bed, we heard complaining from Eddie. Not unusual. So Steph drew the short straw (also not unusual) and went to investigate. When she came back a few minutes later, she looked at me stone-faced and said, "You're gonna laugh."

Seems that Eddie was tired and trying to sleep but Chas kept pestering him. Chas explained that he had a question that he really, really needed Eddie to answer. So Mama asked what it was because maybe she could help. "Eddie, if you were a robot, would you tell me?" Eddie was trying to sleep and wouldn't answer, so Mama assured Chas that he would confess. Part of her wanted to say, "It depends on what kind of robot he was. If he were an evil robot, he wouldn't tell you." But for the sake of everyone's night, she didn't elaborate. Thank God.

Just when I thought my children were geniuses, a couple of dough balls knocked on the door...

OK, for the record, I've never thought Eddie and Chas were actual, bona fide geniuses. But sometimes I allow myself to think that they are very, very smart. And then something like tonight happens, and I have to reevaluate.

It began, innocently enough, with dinner out at Chevy's. Chevy's is one of those places that gives more than crayons to keep the kids from getting bored and screaming loudly enough to disturb other patrons. It also gives pre-flattened, pre-cooked tortillas to amuse them. Yes, dough balls. Last time we were there, the boys were utterly bereft to have left the dough balls behind. So I said they could bring 'em home. Which would be fine, except that on the way home, the dough balls fell to the floor of the car several times, gathering enough dirt and God-knows-what to turn gritty and a bit gray. The dough balls were endlessly amusing to the boys who stuck them on the windows and giggled. Then someone got the idea to let the dough balls drive. Steph put them on the steering wheel and we had a laugh riot when they were unable to make a proper right turn to get us home. This put us on a dead end street next to a field. I said the dough balls wanted to go home to find their families and Steph "threw" them out the window.

Now, we played this little charade to see if we could get rid of the dough balls without having to listen to excessive crying. We could not. So shortly after we got home, the boys heard a knock at the door, opened it and found their dough balls sitting on the porch, waiting to be let in. (I would have said they were shivering in the cold, but that woulda been ridiculous.)

I don't know if Eddie and Chas think they've witnesses a Christmas Miracle or what, but they seem to truly believe that the dough balls knocked on the door. They had to call their Auntie and two cousins to relate this amazing story -- which they could barely tell because they were laughing so hard.

Perhaps the worst of it is that, after being told that Mommy could make them more dough in the morning, they were perfectly willing to let us throw their miraculous door-knocking dough balls away because they were, by this point, truly disgusting.

That thing in Paris

After watching a particularly enthralling episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, in which Mr. Rogers plays with some blocks, Eddie ran back to pull out his own blocks. This was his second creation. "What do they call that thing in Paris?" Eddie asked when showing his creation to me. "The Eiffel Tower," I replied. "Yes. That's it. This is the Eiffel Tower."

Playing Favorites

This morning, after a looong night of coughing, Xopenexing (Yes, I have decided to make Xopenex a verb.) and restless sleeping from Eddie, we all woke in surprisingly good moods. Chas announced that he loves Mommy, Mama and Eddie. But the person he loves the most is ... Eddie. He's sticking to this decision. It's very sweet. Maybe it's because last night we took them to see "Fred Claus," which is all about brotherly love Santa-style. (Near the end of the film, Chas announced, "This is a great movie!") But whatever the cause, with his bad cold and nasty asthma symptoms, Eddie can use the love today.

He knows when you've been sleeping, but he's got no clue about your family...

Took the boys for their annual photo shoot with the jolly old elf today. Once I realized malls are starting to do this before Thanksgiving, I became enamored of early pictures because it means I can get them printed up for Christmas cards AND miss much of the long lines that form once the turkeys are nothing but carcasses.

Shortly after pulling them onto his lap, Santa began asking questions. Personal questions, really. First thing out of his mouth was "Do you mind your mom and dad?" I sort of sucked in my breath, wondering what the boys would do or say. Eddie, concentrating as he was, refused to risk disrupting his perfectly fake photo smile to answer. Chas, however, put Santa straight. So to speak. "We just have two moms," he said, pointing to us on either side of him, shooting video and stills. give the old guy credit, he didn't get confused. Flustered, but not confused. "Well, some people have two parents and some children only have one and ... I'm just going to stop now." Then he went into a whole spiel about keeping their rooms clean. Chas was not nearly so honest when that came up -- he is trying to make himself look worthy of the "Nice List" after all.

Anyway, they were very excited and asked for two gifts -- having arranged prior to the visit a plan to write a much, much, much longer list to mail to the North Pole. For now, Eddie has requested a Dinoco 400 race set and Chas has requested Willly's Butte race set, both from the greatest movie of all time, Cars. I have it on excellent authority that they will not be disappointed -- at least not as it pertains to these particular requests.

An epic poem by Eddie

This was composed several weeks ago, but I just came across the paper I scribbled it on.


Bumpy coral in the sea;
Swift, soft coral in the sea;
The whales and sharks are eating
Their salad and
Their fish.

OK, Robert Frost he ain't.

Chicken Nuggets Are ANIMALS!!!

So the boys are still reeling from the laugh riot that was "Chicken Run," our family movie night selection last week. They keep repeating the line, "I don't want to be a pie. I don't like gravy." Which seems a little weird, but whatever.

Anyway, tonight I was reading them one of their all-time favorite books, "Robot Dog." Apparently the picture of the robot dog factory machinery reminded Eddie of the chicken pie machine in "Chicken Run." We talked for a minute about how most pies are sweet but some pies have gravy then he asked, quite innocently, "Is there really such a thing as chicken pie?" I said that was true and his expression quickly became a cross between perplexed and horrified. "Amimal chickens?!" Yes, animal chickens. Now horrified is pushing perplexed off the face. "Do we really eat amimal chickens?!" At this point, Mama has been called in because I recognize this as both A. potentially damaging to my lunch options and B. Sweetly funny. Mama was not helpful.

"Yeah, Buddy," she said. "What do you think is in chicken nuggets?" His little face registered an expression that let us know this little factoid was a little like learning that "Soylent Green is PEOPLE!" We told him it was OK, that's what the chickens are for and that there aren't WHOLE chickens in pies or nuggets. (Though God only knows what parts there are in them, they are only parts.)

And just like that, another piece of childhood innocence is gone.

Growing boys

What a difference a year makes. Amazing, really. I mean I hadn't realized just how much they'd changed until I looked at these pictures. It's not that they're so much taller -- though they are. But they had such little baby faces last year. And now they are darn near manly. Sigh. My little Punkins.

The Brown Family Vacation

Tonight Chas sat on the toilet, doing what boys are normally doing when they choose to sit, rather than stand. This is the conversation I overheard between him and his Mama.

Chas: "A family of poops came out of my bottom."
Mama: "They're taking a trip."
Chas: "And they're never coming back."

What can I say? They're both weird.

First Day of Pre-K: Girl things and Boy things and how to tell the difference

On their way to Pre-K!

Today was the boys' first day of Pre-K. Last night I asked if they wanted me to just drop them off and leave or if I should stay. Unlike The Clash, they had no difficulty with this. I should go. Now. "I promise I won't miss you," Chas reassured me. Why not? "Because I like my teacher." I, being a glutton for punishment, asked if the teacher was more beloved than Mommy. They both quickly answered that they like "The Five" all the same. The Five?? 1. Mommy 2. Mama 3. Auntie 4. Heather 5. Mrs. G (their teacher). I was torn between pride in knowing they had figured out it the number in their heads so seemingly easily and horror at knowing precisely how unspecial I had become. I mean, I gave myself top billing, but it's pretty clearly an ensemble and I ain't a featured player.

So school went well. Their friend Kaylee shared some Cinderella thing which they said was cool but they don't want because "it's a girl thing." We asked for elaboration. Turns out girl things are pink or purple, come in an aisle at the store and are soft. Or hard. I think the boys feel the same way about "girl things" as the Supreme Court Justice felt about obscenity: They can't necessarily define it, but they know it when they see it.

That's what he said.

Went on the now-traditional annual Labor Day campout this weekend. A grand, if smoky, dirty and sort of disgusting, success. We rocked Millersylvania in the wilds about 10 miles south of the State Capital. Anyway, my grand-nephew Berkeley brought a friend -- a 12-year-old boy named Martin. Martin was a very nice kid. Too nice, as it turns out. See, my niece and Berkeley's mom, Delsa, kept getting after us for making dirty jokes in his presence. In our defense, these weren't "The Aristocrats" jokes. More along the lines of things like "get your hands off my wiener" while roasting dogs. (The semi-frozen wieners were a particular laugh-riot.) There was a bit of Michael Scott from The Office humor in the form of "That's what he said." or "That's what she said." The kind of stuff that most self-respecting 12-year-old boys would revel in.

Or so I thought.

After just one night of that he called his mom who drove down to pick him up bright and early in the morning. I didn't believe it at first. But it's true. My family sexually harrassed a 12-year-old boy with hard wiener jokes. Now, I know we are a little crude. But this is, I admit, a new low. Still, I have to think that if our kids grow up feeling like it's OK to make wiener jokes in front of us while camping, we've got a good shot that they'll feel like it's OK to talk to us about the stuff that really matters.

Which is really just a pathetic attempt to somehow justify saying "That's what she said" when somone complains that I put the tent pole in the wrong hole.

Things that make me giggle...

So we're still in that stage where pretty much any use of the word "poop" is considered a hilarious punchline. And just now, I realized where they get this sense of humor. It happened when I saw this headline. Now, I know that's not how you pronounce it and all. But it still caused an involuntary giggle. And most of the story kept me giggling, too. Sigh. It's one thing at 4, but at 43, I think this just makes me juvenile.

Rare view shows big changes for Uranus
By DAVID PERLMANSAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
Strange things are happening to the rings of Uranus, that little blue planet way out there in the solar system...

The time for the rare views is now, and astronomers from the University of California-Berkeley and the SETI Institute in Mountain View, Calif., has seen some dramatic changes -- some rings are growing brighter, at least one is fading away and another is either newly formed or unexpectedly moving outward from the planet by thousands of miles. (Sounds painful. But there are OTC treatments...)

At the same time, a broad, diffuse cloud of microscopic dust particles seems to be pervading the entire ring system....(Oh, is THAT what they're calling it now...)

De Pater said in an interview that "the ring system looks completely different" from the way it did 21 years ago when the Voyager 2 spacecraft flew past Uranus and photographed its rings and moons. (Hey, in 21 years, anyone's rings are going to change...)
"The rings are exquisite now," de Pater said, (quite the sweet-talker.)

...
We're starting to realize that studying the rings and moons of Uranus is more like studying the weather than planetary geology," Showalter said. "Things are moving."
Uranus itself, the seventh planet from the sun, was discovered in 1791, but its rings were not detected until 1977.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I enjoyed that. Oh, the shame.

Arrrgh! This be a pirate blarrrgh entry!

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Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

Avast! Or is it Amast! Or Aghast! I've no idea, matey.

For some unknown reason, the boys decided to play pirates tonight. They had the hats and a couple of scarves from our cruise LAST summer -- along with a couple of plastic swords. Except we could only find one plastic sword and deep in the recesses of our minds a vague recollection of one breaking. Arrgh.

This, naturally, made for one happy boy and one unhappy boy. I decided to rectify the situation by pulling out a piece of cardboard and cutting out a sword for Chas. But Eddie, being the crafty little bugger that he is, just had to get in on that action. So he used paper, scissors and tape to make some dangly thing that he called a sword. (Insert your own naughty joke here.) Chas wanted Mama to have a sword, too. And then it was decided that I must have one. And hats! We must have hats! But we only had the two, plus a random pirate scarf. So Steph put on her Rosie Hadit head band thing. Only Eddie thought THAT was just the coolest. So he took that, Steph took his hat and I tried to figure out how to wear a pirate scarf. Steph said I looked more like the cleaning lady on a pirate ship.

Anyway, a few sword battles ensued in the backyard. Fun was had by all. The plastic sword that started it all is discarded on the floor, not nearly as much fun (but much more likely to put an eye out) as the homemade varieties. The boys are now in the drink (bath for you landlubbers) and the seas of our backyard are safe to travel. For now.

Trains, Trains, Trains!

By Eddie Reid-Simons
With help from Chas Reid-Simons
Transcribed by Mama

Tank engines are the best in Africa. A tram engine is the best one in the snow. When trains go by, an American white train is fastest.

Engines are diesels, but some are not.

The Madagascar train that likes to carry bugs works at the quarry for 45 days.

Cars are the most important freight. Passenger cars take people where they need to go.

Lots of engines there are so good. Some trains go past some people's houses.

Poison Dart Frog

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Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

If you touch it, you will die.

NOT a poison dart frog

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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

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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.

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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...

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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.

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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.