Boys,
This weekend we went to the local arts festival. We had to go into the porta-potties a few times. I just want you to know that it is really hard to keep the two of you under control for even a couple of minutes at a time, so trying to make sure that one of you doesn't run away half naked into a crowd of strangers while getting the other one onto the potty is really pushing it. (Disclaimer: your other mommy was running to the car for new diapers. Otherwise, this would have been just a smidge easier.)
Trying to make sure that neither of you touches anything in a porta-potty is a ridiculous ideal, but it's still a one that I not only entertain but also try really hard to accomplish. I'm not very good at it.
After telling you both 900 times not to touch anything, this, that, or the other (especially the urinal), I instead promised to remind you when you are all grown up that you are lucky to have survived that particular weekend due to the amount of gross and disgusting germs that you must have picked up in the 2-minutes we were in the orange castle. It's incredibly barfy for me to even think about this, and I'm NOT a germaphobe (at least not yet).
I'm sure that you're only alive because I put so much of that anti-bacterial stuff on all of our hands. Nothing could live through that (I hope).
Let's make a deal: I promise to avoid places with porta-potties as much as possible until you are potty trained if you promise to keep your grubby little hands off of all the gross things when we do need to enter one of these disgusting places. Oh, and I won't let Mama Bub off the hook again. Next time, we'll wait until she returns with the new underwear.
Love you, you little germ magnets!
Mommy
Monday, June 28, 2010
Potty training - it's working!!!
The Peanut has gone into the bathroom by himself, lowered his pants and pull-ups by himself, climbed on the toilet by himself, and made poopy in the potty by himself, TWICE! It's finally all starting to come together. I can hardly wait until they are both there. Not buying diapers and pull-ups will be like getting a pay raise!
Pokes
When we walk the dogs, the destruction (Sadie) is leashed because she is still too young and untrained to be off-leash. [Did I mention that we have this new family member? Well, we do. More on that later, I suppose.] The angel (Lizzy) runs free because she is the best dog EVER.
At the end of our walk the other night, Lizzy was up the driveway, and we were all still moseying along since 3-year-old legs don't walk really fast and there are lots of ants to look at which slows us down quite a bit. Anyhooooo,
Me: Look at that! Lizzy is already home and wondering why we are such slow pokes!
Meatball: Yeah. She's a fast poke!
I full-on cracked up.
At the end of our walk the other night, Lizzy was up the driveway, and we were all still moseying along since 3-year-old legs don't walk really fast and there are lots of ants to look at which slows us down quite a bit. Anyhooooo,
Me: Look at that! Lizzy is already home and wondering why we are such slow pokes!
Meatball: Yeah. She's a fast poke!
I full-on cracked up.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The time has come.....
In my mind, there has always been an age when the term "ma'am" is acceptable. Therefore, no matter how old and leathery and decrepit I looked, I could still say that I wasn't old enough to be a ma'am.
Until now.
That age was 40, and here I am. Son of a......
So, two days ago when the helpful boy in the store said "Did you find everything you needed, ma'am?" I cringed, exhaled slowly, unclenched my fists, and said to myself "Ah, fuck it. Ma'am."
Until now.
That age was 40, and here I am. Son of a......
So, two days ago when the helpful boy in the store said "Did you find everything you needed, ma'am?" I cringed, exhaled slowly, unclenched my fists, and said to myself "Ah, fuck it. Ma'am."
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
To a Child, LOVE is Spelled T-I-M-E
The following is a forward to a book called TO A CHILD, LOVE IS SPELLED T-I-M-E:
In the faint light of the attic, an old man, tall and stooped, bent his great frame and made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one of the little half-windows. Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs, he tilted the top box toward the light and began to carefully lift out one old photograph album after another. Eyes once bright but now dim searched longingly for the source that had drawn him here.
It began with the fond recollection of the love of his life, long gone, and somewhere in these albums was a photo of her he hoped to rediscover. Silent as a mouse, he patiently opened the long buried treasures and soon was lost in a sea of memories. Although his world had not stopped spinning when his wife left it, the past was more alive in his heart than his present aloneness.
Setting aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled from the box what appeared to be a journal from his grown son's childhood. He could not recall ever having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept a journal. Why did Elizabeth always save the children's old junk? he wondered, shaking his white head.
Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short reading, and his lips curved in an unconscious smile. Even his eyes brightened as he read the words that spoke clear and sweet to his soul. It was the voice of the little boy who had grown up far too fast in this very house, and whose voice had grown fainter and fainter over the years. In the utter silence of the attic, the words of a guileless six-year-old worked their magic and carried the old man back to a time almost totally forgotten.
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in his heart like the longing a gardener feels in the winter for the fragrance of spring flowers. But it was accompanied by the painful memory that his son's simple recollections of those days were far different from his own. But how different?
Reminded that he had kept a daily journal of his business activities over the years, he closed his son's journal and turned to leave, having forgotten the cherished photo that originally triggered his search. Hunched over to keep from bumping his head on the rafters, the old man stepped to the wooden stairway and made his descent, then headed down a carpeted stairway that led to the den.
Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached in and pulled out an old business journal. Turning, he sat down at his desk and placed the two journals beside each other. His was leather-bound and engraved neatly with his name in gold, while his son's was tattered and the name Jimmy had been nearly scuffed from its surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the letters, as though he could restore what had been worn away with time and use.
As he opened his journal, the old man's eyes fell upon an inscription that stood out because it was so brief in comparison to other days. In his own neat handwriting were these words:
Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn't catch a thing.
With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy's journal and found the boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters, pressed deeply into the paper, read:
Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life.
In the faint light of the attic, an old man, tall and stooped, bent his great frame and made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one of the little half-windows. Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs, he tilted the top box toward the light and began to carefully lift out one old photograph album after another. Eyes once bright but now dim searched longingly for the source that had drawn him here.
It began with the fond recollection of the love of his life, long gone, and somewhere in these albums was a photo of her he hoped to rediscover. Silent as a mouse, he patiently opened the long buried treasures and soon was lost in a sea of memories. Although his world had not stopped spinning when his wife left it, the past was more alive in his heart than his present aloneness.
Setting aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled from the box what appeared to be a journal from his grown son's childhood. He could not recall ever having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept a journal. Why did Elizabeth always save the children's old junk? he wondered, shaking his white head.
Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short reading, and his lips curved in an unconscious smile. Even his eyes brightened as he read the words that spoke clear and sweet to his soul. It was the voice of the little boy who had grown up far too fast in this very house, and whose voice had grown fainter and fainter over the years. In the utter silence of the attic, the words of a guileless six-year-old worked their magic and carried the old man back to a time almost totally forgotten.
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in his heart like the longing a gardener feels in the winter for the fragrance of spring flowers. But it was accompanied by the painful memory that his son's simple recollections of those days were far different from his own. But how different?
Reminded that he had kept a daily journal of his business activities over the years, he closed his son's journal and turned to leave, having forgotten the cherished photo that originally triggered his search. Hunched over to keep from bumping his head on the rafters, the old man stepped to the wooden stairway and made his descent, then headed down a carpeted stairway that led to the den.
Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached in and pulled out an old business journal. Turning, he sat down at his desk and placed the two journals beside each other. His was leather-bound and engraved neatly with his name in gold, while his son's was tattered and the name Jimmy had been nearly scuffed from its surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the letters, as though he could restore what had been worn away with time and use.
As he opened his journal, the old man's eyes fell upon an inscription that stood out because it was so brief in comparison to other days. In his own neat handwriting were these words:
Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn't catch a thing.
With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy's journal and found the boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters, pressed deeply into the paper, read:
Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
summer travel plans
This morning, Meatball and I had the following conversation:
Meatball: Hey mom, let's go to the earth!
Me: OK! That sounds like fun. How are you ging to get there?
Meatball: Huh?
Me: Are you going to drive a car to earth? Or are you going to take a boat?
Meatball (looking at me like I'm an idiot): No! A spaceship!
Me: Oh, right!
Meatball (putting a dish towel on his head): I have my helmet. I can go!
Meatball: Hey mom, let's go to the earth!
Me: OK! That sounds like fun. How are you ging to get there?
Meatball: Huh?
Me: Are you going to drive a car to earth? Or are you going to take a boat?
Meatball (looking at me like I'm an idiot): No! A spaceship!
Me: Oh, right!
Meatball (putting a dish towel on his head): I have my helmet. I can go!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Mommies gave the boys new fishing poles, reels, and tackle boxes for their third birthday. Real, honest-to-goodness poles, not those silly Tweety Bird or Sponge Bob poles that are shorter than the child. We went fishing the day after their party. We didn't catch anything (because it's hard to catch something when your bait only stays in the water for 13 seconds), but it's fun to cast and reel, cast and reel, cast and reel, throw rocks, cast and reel.
Meatball waiting for a fish to bite
Peanut checking out the tackle box goods (and in the same clothes as the day before - he slept in them, too)
And isn't this just the cutest thing? Fishing with Mommy Bub.
Meatball waiting for a fish to bite
Peanut checking out the tackle box goods (and in the same clothes as the day before - he slept in them, too)
And isn't this just the cutest thing? Fishing with Mommy Bub.
Wheeler Farm
We went to Wheeler Farm to play for an afternoon. Grandpa went with us. It was really quite fun. We fed animals, we drove tractors, we went for a wagon ride, we climbed in the treehouse, and we were completely UNinterested in the antique stuff that Mommy K wanted to look at. (Duh, hello.....)
Meatball:
Peanut:
Fun wagon ride:
Grandpa and Meatball:
Peanut:
Peanut:
Walking with Grandpa:
Playing in the tree house:
Nobody wants to get off of the tractor (including Grandpa):
Seriously, LOVE the tractor:
Am I having fun, or WHAT?!?!?:
Meatball:
Peanut:
Fun wagon ride:
Grandpa and Meatball:
Peanut:
Peanut:
Walking with Grandpa:
Playing in the tree house:
Nobody wants to get off of the tractor (including Grandpa):
Seriously, LOVE the tractor:
Am I having fun, or WHAT?!?!?:
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