Branson Vacation

This morning I wake to find myself in Branson. I know…Branson. This week was meant to begin with a car trip to Virginia but a winter storm and 12 inches of snow nixed that. At first, I was decidedly certain that fate hated me. I had gotten it into my head that salvation lay in Virginia, somewhere different and away. But, refusing to stay home during my first week off from work in over a year, we began to formulate a plan B. With little time to plot a new course, John and I settled on Branson as there were packages galore and we had never been. Perhaps the strong stereotype of Branson being reserved for the old and the hillbilly was baseless.  You know, like other stereotypes of women being emotional or Star Trek conventions filled with 50 year old men who live in their parent's basement. So, off we set to a hotel boasting indoor water parks and the world’s largest banjo. Relying heavily on technicality to sustain different and away. Hotels with doors on the outside and the distinct feeling one needs to break out the black light don’t really fit the romanticized version of getting away. That said, about three hours into the car ride, it was clear that what I had seen as disaster was a blessing in disguise. It was as though God looked down on us poor souls and knowing we were out of our freaking minds to consider 21 hours in a car with a 3 year old, graciously said let it snow and saved us from ourselves. Lesson learned.  Always fly.  Having made it within 30 miles of Branson, we began to see our first glimpse of the city by way of billboard. The old man holding an infant playing a double necked banjo sealed it. Stereotype true.  Really, I had grown suspect of Missouri itself. An hour out of Branson we began to see routes that were letters instead of digits. Route Z. Route PP. A state unafraid to stand in the face of route numbering convention and say let’s turn this mother on its head. A state that had a higher population of people who could recite the alphabet than count to 100. The first official Branson attraction to come into view was a neon lit buffet named Yakov. I don’t think the humor there needs any help. And then there is the moment you drive over the hill and see the strip in its pearls on pigs glory. Grand Country Inn. Radiators and indoor/outdoor carpet but free unsecured wi-fi. Something only in perspective when you realize what a hotel snob I am. I can literally feel my white trash reputability rising. Is this what the world views as down home American? Yosemite Sam and 4 generations of Presleys? And no, not the King of Rock and Roll variety. Still, as I look out at my day, chiding my son to stop picking up the phone to call "all our friends", I have the hopes of lazy rivers and Silver Dollar city to keep me warm. And the belief that if I somehow get stuck in hillbilly hell, I have friends like you to come save me from the twice daily jamborees.　

Are you awake?

Joshy has talked in his sleep since he was a toddler.  Not babbling, but full conversations.  A moment ago, he asked for a drink of water.  Thinking he was awake, I took him a cup.  When I reached his bed, he sat up, eyes wide open and asked me if I could hold "this".  So, I mimed taking the imaginary object out of his cupped hand and replacing it with the water, which he gulped, handed back to me, and then laid back down, perfectly asleep.  Whatever was going on in his dream, he clearly was thirsty.  John is much like him in that.  I can have full conversations with him, thinking him awake.  The upside?  Sleep John generally agrees with me.  The downside?  Awake John rarely remembers.  Ben is more like me.  Asleep or awake.  And if awake unnaturally, usually grumpy.  Awake unnaturally and without a diet coke, flat out mean. 

Happy Christmas EARLY Morning

4:15 - Sounds erupt as Joshy finds the stocking on the end of his bed and the microphone inside. 
4:30 - Benjamin joins in, repeating announcements of the candy in his stocking while Joshy opens the wrapped things inside. 
4:45 - Half asleep instruction to leave the bath paints IN THE BATHROOM.  Drifting back to sleep to the sound of Benjamin talking about painting something yellow.
5:00 - "We got tooters.  We got tooters in our stocking."  (fart sound)  "Ahhahahahahahahah"
5:05 - "Mama.  Mama.  Thank you for the tooters."
5:10 - (fart sound) "Ahahahahahahahah"
5:30 - The deflation of all hopes of sleeping till 6 and a drowsy trek down the stairs.

Merry Christmas to parent's everywhere on the one morning where children's excitement over whoopie cushions makes sleep deprivation worth it.

After this first picture with Ben grumpily pouting, I was excited when the next shot featured two non-scowling kids.  It was only after editing it that I noticed.  Ben!  Why do you keep sticking your hand down your pants??

They had a wonderful Christmas.  More presents than they know what to do with.  And, unfortunately for us, many noise makers in the bunch.  Harmonica, recorder, guitar...  We are going to have to think long and hard when comes along on our car trip. 

Toy of the Year

Not a big shopper, in combination with big promoter of Nick Noggin, commercial-less TV, I was apparently out of the loop regarding the new cool thing.  Sing-a-ma-jigs.  So, when one showed up as a birthday present for Ben, I had no idea what it was or how addictive a freaky looking stuffed animal with a hair band for a mouth could be.  One squeeze of the belly and it starts jibber jabbering.  Squeeze the hand to change modes and now it is singing a song.  Long after the kids lose interest, you sit there, squeezing the stomach in the perfect rhythm to have each syllable of the song timed as it should be.  Every squeeze the next syllable comes.  Singamajig doesn't miss a beat.  Squeeze their hand once more and you have access to a scale of notes that, when paired with another in the same mode, belt out in perfect harmony.  We have two in our house and while the kids were playing whatever version of battle below, mom sat upstairs in the room, taking a break from wrapping presents, making two quazi-bears sing.  You have to wonder who thinks of these things.  They are attractive by no means and the synthesized voices bear no resemblance to reality and yet, one squeeze is all it takes to suck you in.  Perhaps genius and madness are only a thin line apart after all because only crazy or brilliant created this thing.  Either way, I'm sold.  Follow the robotic sound of Clementine and there I will be.  Oh..my...dar...ling...oh...my...dar...ling...  Nite...nite...

Chicago

I realize that I never spoke of the trip I took to Chicago for a conference in September this year.  I had never been before and was lucky to find myself in the windy city during unseasonably warm weather.  Staying downtown, I was quickly finding myself quite in love with the city.  Only there 4 days, I had convinced myself by the time I had left, that I was ready to make a change.  Ready to start over somewhere new, somewhere urban, somewhere a train took me to work.  I am not at a point to leave now, in the midst of school and with a job I love at a company I truly believe in.  In an industry I find consistently fascinating.  But, sitting on the rooftops next to Wrigley Field, Chicago seemed to be under a different sky, one of endless possibilities.  As I sat, wet from the rainstorm rolling through, the field bright green against the grey sky, I was entranced by the taste of a different world.  As I look back now, I don't know that Chicago proper is what endeared me but the idea of different, itself.  The allowance to believe, for a moment, that all our ills can be dispossessed by state lines.  But Chicago itself, well, I despise the cold, more than most anything, and as you recall, unseasonably warm was part of that mental picture I had built.  Reality of winter looks more like this:

What it did show me, however, is that there is a part in me that is ready to find a new world where John and I can step out and find a new footing.  But for the time being, here is where we need to be.  Here is where I want to be.  But who knows what the next 10 years will bring.  I may find my perfect mix of urban and industry, somewhere on the equator, where winter never comes.  In the meantime, here are some pictures from the trip.  Two girls, completely buying into the belief that the reality of a city can be captured in a tourist's eye view.  You know it isn't true, but it feels far more magical that way. 

It was bound to happen sooner or later

Let me begin this post with a recent picture of Benjamin.  It was taken a few months ago, but serves the purpose well.

Now to the story.  Yesterday, while I was at work, the boys were off school and home with John.  As is the usual routine, after lunch, they went upstairs to take their naps.  Having settled down in their beds, John went about his business.  Later, going to check on them, instead of the sounds of mouth breathers, he hears hushed whispers coming from the bathroom.  Turning the corner, he finds two little boys, one with scissors in hand and the other missing considerable amounts of hair.  Joshy had managed to find the shearing scissors in the cabinet above the toilet and Benjamin was getting the full barbershop treatment.  And John didn't catch them after simply a trimmed bang, no Ben was sporting full on monk.  All my baby boy's curls were gone, hair cut to the scalp excepting along the edges.  Hence the monk-esque feel.  John calls me at work, ducking in the bathroom so Joshy doesn't hear him talking in a hushed whisper, and through a voice, strained by resisting laughs, explained how my eldest had cut my youngest's hair and that it looked horrible.  And, in fact, the pictures that I am about to attach, do not do it justice.  When seeing it live, half the back long, half in patches, it was almost painful to look at.  A walking billboard for "my parents don't love me".  Even now, I can't help but laugh because it literally looked like he had stuck his hand in a light socket or perhaps half his head contracted mange.  Joshy, of course, said that he was trying to help Ben, and while I am sure there was some truth buried in the attestment of good intentions, when we offered to give him the same haircut as Ben, he wasn't quite as certain about how good Ben's hair looked after all.  It was more like a drawn out "no" as both hands clutched his hair. 

That brings us to today, when mama went to Target to get a hair trimming kit to finish what Joshua Reuben started.  Benjamin was actually quite a good customer, wiggling far less than his older sibling is prone to do and shedding no tears through the process.  About half way through trying to make something of the monk do, Joshy was insistent that he, too, needed a haircut and then soon John was in line, as well.  So, mama cut three boys hair today.  One because he couldn't be seen in public, one because he can't have his brother get anything he doesn't get also and one because if I am doling out haircuts, might as well tame the fro.  During Joshy's cut, as I reached the top of his head and turned him about to face me, I asked, "Joshua, Did you cut your own hair also?".  Right smack dab in the middle of his hairline, an entire chunk of hair was missing.  Not shorter, missing to the scalp.  He insists no, and then I touch his scalp and remind him that I can see where the hair is gone.  Out comes the admission.  Thank goodness he didn't keep going because I would have had to completely buzz it and Marcellus boys do not look good bald.  They look like Timothy McVeigh.  A bad experience with John and "a 3 all over" taught me that.  Still, as they say, all's well that ends well, and I would say it ended decently well.  Three trimmed boys, gelling Ben's new big boy haircut as he and Joshy chant over and over, "We will not cut each others hair."

(They had just finished eating their popsicles, hence the red face, and were apparently cold, hence the floating heads.)

Benjamin Keith

Today is Benjamin's birthday observed.  The actual day is Monday and on that 13th of December, he will be three years old.  We are on the cusp of an entirely new phase of life.  No more toddlers.  No more babies.  We are on the horizon of life with kids, who wind up in your bed with their freezing cold feet pressed against your leg.  Benjamin and I sat having a conversation last night about whatever superhero happened to be at the forefront of his mind and it still surprises me how much his speech has exploded over the course of this year.  Today we are taking him to Toys R' Us for the birthday tradition of letting them go to the "special toy store", only gone to once a year, on their birthday, and let them pick out their own presents.  Since we never go there, it is fun to see their faces when they are faced with an entire store of nothing but toys.  Three years old is the first year they get to go, so Ben is excited.  He is already planning on getting a "Woody toy" and a pig and a dinosaur.  Clearly he has Toy Story on the brain.  That is what he was talking about last night.  Not a superhero.  He was explaining how Buzz Lightyear flies through the sky.  -50 good parent points for clearly phasing in and out of paying attention. 

  

Happy Birthday, Benjamin Keith.  You make my heart happy.

Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades...

Today as I was driving to a baby shower, I passed through a few suburbs of Oklahoma City and one of the city signs said:

Welcome to

Warr Acres

Almost the capital

of Oklahoma

It made me laugh.  Whoever came up with that as their town motto is either incredibly funny or incredibly sad.

The bike of John's dreams...

I was attempting to take what turned out to be a horribly blurry picture of some tree lights with my blackberry when it told me the memory was full.  So, hopping into there to delete a picture or two, I saw this picture of John that I had meant to show off long ago.  I believe I mentioned how for Chesapeake's 25th Anniversary, they had the Orange County Choppers build them the first natural gas powered motorcycle to come out of their shop.  The bike moves from building to building throughout the year and it happened to be in the lobby of my building when John ran up to work with me one Saturday.  I could see it in his eyes, as he stopped dead in his tracks, that we were about to detour in that direction.  After examining it closely, with the respect of someone who loves that show, he hopped on and I snapped this shot.  I have to say, he looks ridiculously hot on this thing.