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It's That Time Year...Glue Gun On Constant Warm Standby and Coffee and Scotch in Arm's Reach at All Times OR Why Silent Night Won't Be Our Theme Song This Year

Date Created: Dec 06, 2007, 04:01 PM

Christmas is coming on strong over here and the boys are all too willing to help. Baby Jesus keeps being kidnapped from my nativity set and it's a miracle he hasn't been stepped on yet and shattered into a thousand pieces. Not unlike one of the few Christmas ornaments I have that I actually like, three santas that remind me of my three boys sitting on each others shoulders made out of that very thin very fragile metallic-type glass. George spent literally two hours looking through the box of ornaments. At first I told him he could only touch the ones not wrapped up in tissue paper. But he was so meticulous and so careful I didn't say anything when he began to peek into the wrapped ones in order to "just see which ones in there," or when he moved on to completely unwrapping them and holding them up to the light and turning them this way and that studying every detail. I was so impressed by his interest and his apparently sincere attempts to be careful. But the next morning I noticed the three santas ornament was broken. I was pretty mad because I had told him not to touch the ones in tissue paper even though I had technically gone soft on enforcement. I told him in a stern voice at breakfast that I was very sad because that ornament belonged to me and now it was broken and had to be thrown in the trash. When I asked him what happened to it, he first said with his palms upwards in exaggerated dumfoundedness, "It's a mystery!" Then he said John did it, but when I asked John if he'd done it, John didn't cry, scream, run from the room, or curl up in a ball on the floor, so I knew it wasn't him. James had had little interest in the ornaments from the start and George didn't even bother accusing him. I asked George again if he'd done it and he said, and these are his exact words, "I rolled it out of the paper and I saw it and I says I'm gonna take care of this for Momoe." So I asked him how then it got broken. John suggested during the night it rolled off the sofa and broke all by itself. George still hasn't confessed. It's SO hard to be mad at that rascal.

Stripesey continues his campaign for sainthood. Apparently he's taken a seasonal job at the North Pole helping Santa wrap presents. "He's a busy little zebra," George told me. Today my mom and sister took the guys to lunch and apparently George tried to run out the door before everyone else was ready to leave. I think it scared my mom and sister how quickly he darted away and when he saw/heard the dismay from my sister and mother he started to cry. My sister told me she said, "That's okay, we know you know better and you won't do that next time," or something like that. And George said back through his tears, "I only know animals."

This morning I was the one having a temper tantrum. Lately my frustration has been building from the fact that every day from sun up to sun down, I have three little people yelling in my face. They must say my name 6,000 times a day. Momoe, John hit me! Momoe, my hands are sticky! Momoe, can I have a snack? Momoe, where do mooses live? Momoe, there's a little poop in my pants! Constant! And I am unfortunately the type of person who craves calm, quiet, and solitude, and the boys literally in-your-face demands are an extremely effective torture device. The other day my mom helped me and the boys put up outdoor ornaments in the trees in our front yard. They really do look cute! But putting them up was a touch hairy. The ornaments come in several colors and then some are long twisted iridescent ones that turn in the breeze and catch the light. So there I was, on the very very very top of a ladder with human bumper cars doing their thing around the base of the ladder and yelling, let's use this yellow one, I like the red one, this one needs a string, this one needs a hook, does this one need a hook, not there, Momoe, not that one, this one, more red ones, where'd the hook go, I'm stuck and the whole time I'm seriously considering which branch I should grab and swing from should the ladder be knocked out from underneath me. By the end we had to cut everyone out of the Guinness Book of World Records length of fishing line and will probably be finding ornament hooks in the yard for the next ten years. Anyway, my original point was that all the yelling even when it's happy yelling is starting to fray my nerves and this morning I told Will so. He didn't have all that much to say about it since what can you really do to make it better? But I felt completely unheard, like no one was listening to me and I kicked a pile of neatly stacked coat hangers (you know it wasn't me who'd stacked them since I've never neatly stacked anything that can just as easily be sloppily strewed). I laughed at myself right afterwards (inwardly at least) because I knew my acting out was so childish, but for that one second I felt exactly what the boys must feel when they kick or throw a toy at the wall. I know what I want and no one is letting me have it! Give me what I want!

So after my tantrum I felt a little better. I wouldn't say Will's talk to them about not asking me so many questions and not bothering me has helped, but at least I got to blow off a little steam. And my mom picked the guys up from school today and had them for a couple of hours, and so I did get a little alone-time which goes a short way. I'm in denial about the boys having a Christmas break, but there's no need to face the inevitable until it is inevitably upon me. I hope your holiday preparations are going well and you are able to face whatever in-your-face-screaming demons you may have as your constant companions. I'm sure I'll have more seasonal mishaps to report before long and I'm looking forward to all the boys' help decorating the tree. Right...

PS This is what it looks like when we attempt a Christmas card picture.

One Little Two Little Three Little Native Americans

Date Created: Nov 26, 2007, 05:01 PM

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving but I am still in recovery mode. Tableclothed card tables, cake plates, and gravy boats are hanging around like they own the place. It was 76 degrees outside Monday but I wore my drawstring sweatpants and sipped hot tea like it was a snowy January afternoon. After I got the boys settled for their nap, I curled up in my own bed and slept through two Law and Order reruns. Yesterday was better. I went to weightlifting class at the gym, but that about did it. Today I am one small step ahead. The serving pieces are still looking over my shoulder even as I type and the coolers are still in the kitchen half-full of water and filmy plastic ice bags, but I am dressed and I am writing and the boys did get their teeth brushed. I just put a load of laundry in and the breakfast dishes are in the dishwasher. The small victories of a holdiday hangover. By the time I get back to normal over here it will be Christmas.

The boys' Thanksgiving program at school last week was great. It was only singing and only lasted about 35 minutes. It was a adorable but as my friends know because I have been whining about it for two weeks, it was less than politcally correct. I don't mean to be a stickler. I don't plan on protesting the observation of Columbus Day or demand that the traced-hand turkeys the boys make at school be labeled free-range, but I am a little concerned about the songs they sing. I can even deal with the Native Americans being called "Indians," even though I've taught the boys that real Indians come from the country India to which they always reply for some reason, "What are people from Florida called?" But the song about the Indian chief goes "Hi ya ya ya ya! Hi ya ya ya!" And then they sing about the Indian brave who "goes out hunting with the boys." First of all, I have nothing against people who hunt, but I truly hope my guys don't want to. And second of all, if I did want them to hunt, I'd want the girls to be right out there with them! They didn't sing any songs about the women Indians even though there was one about the chief and the one about the brave. If we're going to stick to traditional roles here, there could have least been one about gathering nuts and berries or tending the little ones! I can think of at least eight people I know who read this blog who are either cussing me or laughing at me, and that's okay. I know I can be a tad sensitive and even contradictory pretty much most of the time, but still, James was born a chauvenist pig and I am working hard to banish the stereotypes he has absorbed so easily and it doesn't help when I tell them to do everything their teachers say and listen to what their teachers say when what they are saying was written in the original Thanksgiving Day Preschool Program of 1850!

Speaking of James' tendencies, I have to say he has tried really hard to keep them at bay, but it doesn't come naturally. Even a year ago he was insisting only men were doctors and firefighters. Since two of our closest friends are female doctors that was easy enough, but he is still wary of the female firefighter myth since the only female ones he has seen are in books and I'm starting to worry that he may start sensing a left-wing conspiracy in children's book publishing and stop reading altogether. The boys are always fascinated by life inside my tummy and when they were in the hospital afterwards. Luckily one of George's primary NICU nurses was a man, and luckily I have pictures. So now whenever we talk about the boys being in the hospital or about nurses in general James pipes up in a very conciliatory tone, "Mans can be nurses too, Momoe." So it's not easy or natural for him, but he is memorizing his way closer to my way of thinking...And no, I'm not taking bets on when he starts coming up with his own worldview. It will be too soon at any rate, so until then I can mold him the best I can into what my college friends and I used to call "New Age Sensitive Guy."

In all my ranting and raving, I forgot to mention the boys' performance in the program. James smiled, sang loud and clear, and did all the correct hand motions. No surprise, he loved having an audience. John was dead serious. He never smiled, but he followed all directions about where to sit and when to stand up. I think he was scared. George knew every word to every song--I know because he sang them the week before with much gusto. But apparently the spotlight did not move him. He basically sat there pretty much the same as if he'd been sitting at a bus stop or waiting his turn at the doctor's office. He just wasn't into it. But that's George. Mr. Cool. He did. however, sing a spontaneous My Country Tis of Thee after we said the blessing on Thanksgiving after which James snatched up his guitar and gave a foot-stomping rendition of God Bless America.

And from Mr America back to Mr. Cool, the other night we were at my dad's watching football. Will's dad saw a live lizard skitter under my dad's chair and told my dad. The next thing you know George says to my dad ("Boop"), "Don't move, Boop!" And in a flash he has the lizard in his hand, opens the door with his other hand, puts the lizard outside, and shuts the door. In the car on the way home, all the boys were yelling "We're animal rescuers!" And George said in his deadpan, "Yeah, but I'm the only one who saved a real lizard." Later he told us how the lizard was named Lizzie and it was his friend.

Speaking of George's animal friends, I'm a little bit sick of Stripesy the Great. On Veteran's Day George told us Stripesy had been in the army. He was very brave and shot only the bad robbers. After that he worked on telephone lines so he could go in the bucket truck. Every time there's any news of anyone doing something wonderful or brave, it turns out Stripesy has already accomplished that feat. Only Super Peacock has done more good deeds and has travelled more places than Stripesy. Yesterday George asked me to help Stripesy write a letter to Santa. You better believe he's been a good zebra this year.

The boys have been good when I really needed them to be lately, but on a daily basis not really. Why isn't the Santa Claus-is-watching-threat working? I thought this would be the year that had a real effect. They beg me not to call Santa or tell him when they are misbehaving, but they don't really change their behavior. What is it about the four-year-old foot that is so sensitive no sock and shoe combination in the world can offer anything more than extreme pain and torture? What is it about going to the potty and brushing one's teeth that is so degrading? What is it about the sheets these days that induce all manner of bedwetting? And why must every poop begin with these shrill words, "It just started in my pants!"

Okay, no more complaining. This being the Thanksgiving Season, I have SO much to be thankful for. Thankful for Will and the boys and all of our family and friends most of all. Thankful for a place to host Thanksgiving and to have so many people who brought such beautiful and delicious things over for everyone to enjoy. Thankful for my morning cup of coffee. Thankful I haven't caught Will's GI bug. Thankful I have time to write today. Thankful I have people who actually read this. THANK YOU!!!!

Rocket Men

Date Created: Nov 13, 2007, 02:48 PM

Gosh, I've been even worse than usual about writing in the blog! Things have been as crazy as ever and I am so so so excited to say that I have been writing little things here and there for Charleston Magazine. That has been a dream-come-true situation for me so far, but it takes up a lot of my writing time. So I've been even less able than usual to find time for this. Forgive me!

The boys get even funnier as their vocabulary takes one step forward one step back. They are adding more and more words to their repertoire but I can't say the correct meaning or pronunciation of many of these has made it there quite yet. And they are more obsessed with SEC football than ever. Their comments about who has what mascot amused me, but now that they have moved on to knowing who has how many losses and to whom I am downright embarrassed. You'd think we had a house with Florida Gator Orange walls and wear Gator warm-up suits and watch only college football on TV the way they talk about it. Actually besides the wall part, it's not that far from reality. James likes to say, "We don't like Fuktucky except when they're playing the LSU Tigers." I think that would make a great bumper sticker.

I brought home a bunch of my childhood books from my mom's house and the boys have found some real treasures. James' favorite is "You Will Go To The Moon." It has my barely legible 1st-grade signature in it, but it must have been my mom's when she was a little girl because it takes place BEFORE anyone went to the moon. Reading this book to the boys requires lots of work and quick thinking. First of all, space travel is hard to explain in the first place. Now try doing it while every single picture in the book is so so so wrong. The people in the rocket wear no space suits and sit in seats just like in an airplane. As you read the words, you have to interject and say, "But it's not REALLY like that." Luckily the guys can't read yet, so they won't notice every time I say "rocket men and women" instead of the printed "rocket men." Honestly, space travel doesn't excite me. I think it's dangerous and I don't really ever want to go up there. But this book has the boys hooked. Maybe it's because the Space Station looks like an oversized man cave. There are checkerboards, a TV with baseball on it, books for the rocket man wearing glasses, a movie projector showing a Western, even a soda jerk behind a counter with stools. And then once on the moon there are "moon cars" that are basically dune buggies that the rocket men bounce all over the moon in, jumping craters and doing do-nuts. Space: the ultimate male getaway.

In some wonderful twist of fate, there is even a book about a zebra in my childhood collection and one about Noah's Ark that George has claimed. George has gotten so smart lately that Will and I have got to make sure we don't always ask only him the hard questions. The other day at the grocery store, George was in the big part of the cart with the groceries and with the reusable bags I am trying to use. He put most of the groceries in the bags and told me he was doing that to save time when we paid at the check-out. He understood when I told him good thinking but they have to scan each item before we can pay, but I could still see his wheels start to turn as if thinking, there must be a better way. Last night John was being a real pill at the supper table and George told me and Will, "Someone needs to tell John N-O."

If you've seen the pictures, I think you can tell we had a great Halloween. George was everything you'd think Super Peacock would be. At the neighborhood party, George relished every instance an adult asked him what he was. "I'm Super Peacock," he said. Then he turned around and stuck his rear-end out so people could see the feathers on his cape. Then he ran so the cape would fly out behind him. Then he would look back and wait for words of grandiose adoration and admiration. He was so independent at the party, flitting all around without us. James was the only kid who got the beanbag through the pumpkin eye and won four pieces of candy! He was so proud. Super Peacock was busy at the time and Superman was simply too strong. He threw the beanbag over the pumpkin. They did a great job trick-or-treating, but James did say his legs were too tired to walk toward the end even though we only went to a few houses. Then there was the Milk Dud horror and that about put an end to his night. John had to inspect every single piece of candy and ask me all about it. I guess I'm a terrible mother because they'd never seen "Sour Fries" or Skittles or gummies in the shape of a severed finger before. And how to explain a "jawbreaker"?

Our other big outing recently was to the fair! We had a great time! We went with our brave friends Todd and Jessica again who brought their very brave 3-month-old twin girls. We had so much fun and the guys were able to ride a lot more rides this year. Their favorite was the NASCAR cars on a track. I think these little cars were made from vintage scrap metal and full-lead paint they were so rickety, but the guys may aswell been driving in the Daytona 500. The funniest part was that John kept looking back at the car behind theirs, actually thinking it was going to pass them. Then on every curve, he would be relieved because it looked like they had fallen back a little. Todd and Will took the boys to play games while Jessica and I fed the baby girls. The boys were apparently whizzes at picking up rubber duckies. James chose as his prize two tiny toy four-wheelers which promptly broke. George picked out the latest addition to our family, "Snakey", a stuffed cobra. "Snakey was waiting for me to pick him and take him home," George likes to say of the resoundingly successful adoption. John picked a white "Ninja Sword." But don't worry about the violence factor too much. He told me the next day in his "goo goo voice" that he was a "Ninja Baby." I guess the sword does make less noise than a rattle.

We are hosting Thanksgiving here this year and I simply cannot wait!!! The only problem is that my housekeeping, lousy by nature, has been especially spotty lately. The downstairs bathroom smells like a gas station bathroom, the type that's on the outside of the building and that used to have a key. IT REEKS! I'm so embarrassed. I think the wallpaper coming down is the only thing that will make it better, because I think during the potty training efforts and with the boys' roving attention spans that have no time for focusing on aiming for the potty, the wallpaper is saturated with T-T! YUK! Someone the other day suggested maybe I could use some of that spray people use for pet accidents. Sadly I think it makes perfect sense!

Thank you so much if you're still checking to see if we're all still alive. I will try to write again sooner than later!

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