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.

Ladybug, Ladybug

Steph was out doing her manly -- womanly blackberry clearing this evening. When she came it, she looked to see what was on her glasses that was blurring her vision. 'Twas a ladybug. She took it off and showed the boys who were quite eager. Eddie wanted to hold it, which he did. Chas merely danced around the edges, occassionally opining, "She's great!" At one point he said he wanted to hold her but when we got within a foot, he backed out.

After a sufficient period of ladybug torture, we decided to let her out to return to her mommy. Then she flew onto Eddie's lip, then over his nose and onto his eyelid, which produced squeals of delighted laughter. When they did release her out the back door, both boys said "Goodbye and thank you," at Steph' s urging. Then Eddie elaborated on his own. "Thank you for letting me hold you!" (It's almost enough to make me rethink my homicidal urges during the 45 minutes or so that he screamed, cried and whined for a lollypop from the toy store this afternoon.)

Now to sour this sweet moment, it should be noted that the entire episode occurred while both boys were pantless. OK, Chas had some around his ankles, but still. We're not perverts, really we're not. But our boys are.

(Chas did not remain still long enough or near enough the ladybug to be photographed.

I want breakfast and a doggy.

So yesterday morning, Eddie awoke screaming as if having a nightmare. What was he screaming? "I want a doggy!" Assuming this was just a dream he needed to get past, I told him he could have a doggy and calmed him into falling back asleep. Crisis averted, right? Until he woke up for real and announced his two desires. "I want breakfast and a doggy." Not a stuffed doggy either. A "real" doggy.

I called Steph. "I don't want a dog," she said, the panic just starting to sound in the edge of her voice. "I know," I said. "Neither do I. We are NOT getting a dog." And yet. The fear and panic made it clear that we're no longer in charge. I mean, if we were in charge, a request or even demand for a dog would not scare us because we could just say no. But I think we both feared that even our fervent desire to not be tied down with a dog would be meaningless in the face of 3-year-old insistence.

When the topic came up with Eddie again -- oh, about 3 minutes later, I told him all kinds of terrible things. Things like, "Talk to Santa about it." (Now, there is no way in hell Santa will bring him a dog. That's just not the way to do this kind of thing even if we were going to cave. But I'm much more comfortable with Santa being the bad guy. Sue me, fat man.) "Santa probably thinks you need to wait until you're older. Until you can feed your doggy and pick up his poop."

Here's where the story brightens. Because this is, after all, my child we're talking about. "I don't want a poopy doggy," he said. "I want a dog that doesn't poop."

"That's what we all want," I said. "But all dogs poop."

He pondered for a moment then made a rather significant concession. "I want a doggy that doesn't poop. I want a toy dog." Crisis averted. Or at least postponed. Because we, the grown ups in the house, really, really, really don't want a dog.