Addendum

It snowed.

How many weather men does it take...

Please tell me why I am sitting here listening to rain that is to become snow after the high today being 71. How can you have a 70 degree day followed by a day with 3 to 5 inches of snow? It is one thing to have back and forth weather, but this is just ridiculous. Blizzards don't get bookended by 70s. It is against the natural law of things. It is like bookending an ice cream cone with polish sausage and haggis. It just doesn't happen. So, I am calling it as one weather man writing forecasts while on the chronic and the rest falling in line. After walking jacket free today, I can not feasibly imagine being ankle deep in snow this time tomorrow. We shall see.

Day at the Museum

This week has been Spring Break for Joshy and he has been carted to the Omniplex, the zoo and on Wednesday, to the pediatrician for a well check-up and then on to the "dinosaur bone museum". The first picture is him posing by the triceratops but I have to tell you, I am fairly certain that I was far more excited than him. He looked, admired and was ready to move on, while I stood there, shaking him with excitement over seeing the bones of a real dinosaur. REAL DINOSAUR. Still, he was more entertained by me screaming when I was running my hand against a bone sticking out of a wall and the wall moved. It was meant to spin but I was not aware of that intent when I applied oh so gentle pressure.

Finishing with the viewing rather quickly, most of the time was spent in the Discovery Room where digging up bones was a big hit. At first, I went at this one spot with him, thinking that I was showing up all those other 5 year olds by clearing off a white bone I had spotted. Unfortunately, the white bone was just the floor of the pit that I had managed to excavate. That is when I explained to Joshy that it wasn't about what we found but about the technique demonstrated in finding it.

During story time a very loud volunteer from the local library read books and sang songs. I love watching Joshy participate in group songs because he lets loose without hesitation. With Joshy at the helm, Joe was working that button factory and there were no wiggles left to waggle out. But best of all, was the face painting they had set up. Instead of something organized, they just laid out the face paint crayons and let the kids have at it. Joshy loved it. It took no time before his entire face was covered and he had moved on to my cheek. When they then handed me the sheet with removal instructions, I began to rethink this entire venture because if it is permanent enough to need removal helpful hints, my son may just have to spend a few days green. Luckily, that worry was for naught.

It was such a wonderful day, just having one on one time with Joshy. As he sat listening to the story during story time, he just suddenly looked up and said, "Mama, I love you". I love you too, Joshy Reuben. I love you too.

Go dog go

My husband has decided he wants a mastiff puppy. In honor of that, let me tell you a little story about 9 animals and a couple who have no business having pets.

First there came Chip. Named after the chipmunk he resembled as a kitten, scampering along with more of a hop than a gait. He was the perfect cat. He was eaten by my parent's dogs.

Next came Bear. Bear was rescued from the side of the road by newlywed John and Laura. He was being sold by a man who clearly did not care for his animals and our hearts couldn't help but save her...and her worms...and her mange. She tore holes in the carpet and pooped on the floor. We gave her away.

Meet Bo and Nilla. Rescued, not from the road, but the front of the mall. Bo had the dark nose and sandy coat associated with the Siamese and Nilla the cream and white that drove vanilla as her name. They were wonderful cats, gentle and just playful enough. You would find them laying in the sun all day and bounding back and forth through the night. I loved Nilla and the way she would paw at my face. The softness of her coat and the roughness of her tongue on my hand, telling me she wanted to be pet. Then overnight they turned. They began going to the bathroom everywhere. The vet gave them clean health and we couldn't keep fighting them out of the crib and off every baby thing we had. Changing sheets that he been gone on or clothes or blankets left out. John took them away.

Enter Bonnie and Clyde, shortly after we were robbed. The idea was outside pets, sure to work better with our personalities and scare away children with visions of stolen electronics in their head. A win-win. A Great Pyrenees mix, they were loyal and had each other as running companions out back. When still puppies, Bonnie slipped free of my grasp and was hit by a car, fortunately only breaking her leg. Even though it healed, she always retained that limp. A living memory of how much vet's charge to set a leg. Clyde would greet you with a jump. At 100 pounds a piece, not only were they hefty but when standing on their hind legs with their paws on my shoulders, Clyders was as tall as me. One day we came home to our fence having been beaten in. Bonnie was gone but Clyders was running around near. Clyders made it to our new house but soon after, he died.

Jake. We saw him downtown and adopted him because our hearts are apparently not connected to our minds. He was a jumper. We took him back in a week.

Salty. After Bonnie was gone, we thought that Clyde needed a friend. We found another Pyrenees mix at the pound; a puppy. They didn't get along as famously as we had hoped, both fighting for attention, no matter how much love they got. Clyde died and then Salty started to run away. After fixing every hole and space, we didn't know how he got out. He went to live on farm. A real farm. Not the one that is code for "he died".

And then there was Aria. Never was there an animal I wanted to love more as she was the dearest of gifts. But unfortunately, she was also annoying as crap. She was around my head all the time. In your face. Making noise. Not happy in small spaces. Not happy in big spaces. She went to live with a cousin.

My sweet John. We love the idea of pets. I know you think you want one. The dog running by you in the back yard playing fetch. Sleeping at the end of your bed. But think about the dog going to the bathroom in the kitchen. Scratching the hard wood floor. Eating his weight in dog food. That weight being 160lbs. We are bad pet owners, John. Bad. I didn't even include the fish that we killed and all the plants that have died. We are lucky our children instinctively gravitate towards food or they may never be fed. If you love the mastiff, don't bring him home, let him be free. Free from 40 hours alone at home each week. Free from owners who have gone through as many pets as years they've been married. Owners whose only successful pet is one who needs nothing, eats nothing and warrants none of their attention. Remember the past John. Remember it and let the dream go.

Mastiff puppies. Run.

Super Mom

Today I bartered with Jess: new maternity clothes for manual labor. We swung by Wal-mart on the way back from the mall to pick up some cleaning supplies and decided to try this new Kaboom cleaner that sprays on blue and turns to white when the dirt has been absorbed. Will it work? Probably not. But at the time, the thought of not scrubbing outweighed that probability. Later that evening, Joshy had come in from playing outside and was poking his nose into what was going on in the house. Seeing the Kaboom spray on the counter, he told Jessi that it was what you spray blue and when it is white you rinse it off. She said, "Where did you learn that?". His response? "I saw it on tv."

Between that and his utter shock and awe when walking into a room that is clean, that little boy is advertising the traits no parent wants highlighted. Do I let them watch tv in the evenings? Yes. Do I have a less than clean house? Perhaps. Do I want the world to know that? No. I want them to picture me with my red checkered apron, fresh pie in the oven, birds chirping in the window, sun shining through my sparkling clean panes onto my table set with napkin origami. Are my children watching television? Of course not. They are memorizing the names of the presidents and jumping rope in knee socks. It is easy to hide reality when the boys were a few months and 3 but now the jig is up. I can no longer hide the laundry that occasionally gets calf deep. The need to sometimes say "just go watch tv". Joshy has molded to the world we have formed for him and is marked with cleaner commercials and unmade beds. My illusions of Martha Stewart are officially dead. They were frankenstien-ish before, but now the coroner has called it. All that's left is the truth of parents who are too tired to think when they get home and make spaghetti on auto-pilot. That leave their towels on the floor and mail in piles. Allow playing with the kids to be their excuse to not clean dishes. Think about chocolate cake, all the time. Well, the last one might just be me. I am exhausted and average and fairly certain I ran over Suzie Homemaker with my car. I love my children, diet coke and WebMD and would rather rip off my toenails than clean...anything. But my unclean, tv watching self has turned average into an art. And my boys are happy with average, so that feels like perfection to me.

To Frizz or Not To Frizz

When did picking out hair products become so complicated? I needed some new shampoo and decided to try and find something that would help with my dry ends. Have you looked down that aisle lately? There used to be two types of each brand. Oily to Normal and Dry/Damaged. Now there are not only moisturizing shampoos, but a degree of moisture to choose. One has nutrients, one is supposed to stop breakage; one has some blurb about your hair drinking and each list some plant or food product that is going to revolutionize my hair. Worst of all, select a shampoo and it only gets more complicated from there. Do I want a balm or a serum? Shine or de-frizz. One protects from heat, one is activated by it. No flyaways. No humidity. No chance.

Make it to the hair dryers, as yours has started to smell suspiciously like fire, and still no hope in sight. Tourmaline. Far-infrared. Ions. Ceramic. They promise shine, fast drying. The veritable chance to redefine genetics. Brush with boar bristles or more Tourmaline. Avocado oils on the straight iron. Magic floating plates. Straighten and curl. Dry or wet. The bigger the promise, the bigger the cost. Pay enough and the straightener turns your hair to gold. Worse of all, I believe them. They tell me the negative ions are going to save my hair from the inside out and I say, “Okay”. My want of having shiny, soft hair, tossed about by the wind, outweighs my resistance to paying the extra four dollars because it says very in front of soft. The cheaper one doesn’t. It says 1875 watts. Watts won’t spin my hair into silk, increase its growth speed by 50% or create world peace. So off I walk, ionic ceramic, long hair moisture, split end therapy in hand. Shine serum at home and tousle me softly mousse. All to have my hair in a pony tail each morning by 9:00. I don’t want the effort, but I want the promise. The promise that if I stopped and played by the rules of the tourmaline, my hair would look perfect and soft. The promise that if I ever get myself out of bed before 7:15, shiny, manageable hair is mine to be had. And that promise is worth its weight in gold. Or at least $39.95.

Ben

You will notice that the song Ben usually belts out is just a mumbling of distracted words as he is far to concerned with his sticker book. Mostly, I just wanted you to see him smile.

Happy Birthday Joshy

Joshy is 5. Not quite sure how it happened. He was my sweet baby boy such a short time ago and now is a preschooler with a big heart and gentle spirit. He brings so much love and laughter to this house.

Friday he came home from school early after getting sick in the classroom and then in the hallway and again and again through the night. He seemed better the next day so I packed him in the car, as we do on birthdays, and drove off towards Toy's R Us. It is the one day out of the year where the boys get to just run free in a store full of toys and pick out whatever two or three things they want. Half way there, I hear the all too familiar crying from the back seat and tear off the road, pulling him out of his car seat just in time for him to throw up all over the pavement. At the end of it all, instead of tears or any complaints, he looks up at me and thanks me for rubbing his back. When we did finally make it to the store later in the day, he was quite selective or, in other words, took an eternity deciding what he wanted. When we finally checked out, they asked if he wanted to be in the birthday club. It was free, so I thought, sure, why not. I rethought this when they then come walking towards Joshy with balloon in hand. You know, some people have balloon fears and it should be cleared with said people before giving their child balloons to take in cars. I am just thankful that he had been sick and therefore was tired and easily persuaded that balloons had to travel in trunks. This morning he was up and sunshiny, so given to redo, it would not be an argument so easily won. I hate balloons. It is like the haunted house where you know the man earning minimum wage in the mummy suit is about to halfheartedly jump out but not knowing when, still leaves that edge of fear. You don't know when the pop is coming, but in the hands of a five year old, you just know it is. The sound of fingers on the latex makes my skin crawl. I would rather sit in a vat of spiders than have to blow one up. Well, as long as they aren't the kind that crawl up your nose and eat your brain.

To make things more palatable to Ben, I got him a Wonder Pets sticker book with over 700 stickers, all of which I believe ended up on him, papa, the floor or any other surface he could get them on to. He slept with the book and woke up covered in stickers of Lenny, Tuck and Ming Ming, too. He is in full swing two year old grumpy when he doesn't get his way but his idea of a fit, crossing his arms with a pout, just makes me smile for its adorableness. Much easier to not acknowledge than the screaming fits Joshy performed at the same age. Memories of walking through the mall with a screaming child in a stroller are all coming back.

Joshy ended up with two helmets. One of Iron Man and one of a Storm Trooper. Of course, as with all of Joshy's toys, soon after opened, they were being shared by B and Ross. They were shooting the darts at the storm door, wearing the helmets and displaying their skills with the light up light saber and ninja sword.

It was a fun night and my cake I baked, which normally turns out iffy, stuck to the pan or dense, actually turned out good. I can say this because I helped myself to two pieces. I just wish that Joshy had felt better and could better enjoy every one's company. Although, from the sound downstairs, he is making up for it this morning.