I've Moved as of 3/8/10

Change of Address:

http://serialswooper.com

Anything Done at Maximum Speed is Apparently Great Fun. Who Knew?

Late last week, I decided to take my boys to "Open Gym" at our local YMCA.  We've done this a few times before and it always took place in the Y's Main Gymnasium.  The room is loaded with stuff -- trampoline tracks that lead to a big pit of foam blocks, balance beams, giant foam building blocks, a rope swing and the entire floor is covered by mats.  Plenty of easy entertainment for a couple of boys.  I can let them run wild together and know they're safe while I play on my iPhone watch them lovingly.

But, the other day, we excitedly arrived at the gym and found it was full of (gasp!) gymnasts!  Twirling, swirling, leaping little girls in leotards.  Hmmm...did I have the time wrong?   Turns out that Open Gym that day was to be held in another gym.  One room down.  A real, shiny wooden floor, bleachers, basketball hoop and soccer goals type of gym.   The Y had made a small attempt at improving this new version of "Open Gym" by throwing in a few foam building blocks, one balance beam and a few random balls.

I looked at my guys.

"What do you think?  Is this kind of lame?  You wanna just go home?"

Because to me, it looked awful.  No real entertainment. Nothing new or different than what you'd usually find in, well, a gym.

Big Brother looked at Little Brother.  "You want to play Freeze Tag!?"

"Yeah!"

And off they went.  Racing around, chasing and laughing and throwing balls around and just completely, gleefully entertained for nearly forty-five minutes before they collapsed down next to me ready to go home for a snack and a nap.

Apparently anything that can be done at maximum speed suits them just fine.  Lesson learned.

Big Brother in foreground (like I said...fast).
Little Brother in background.

Oh, Look!

Credit to Fellow Blogger

Tiny Hands and Frog Boots

There are certainly times, like last week, when I can do a lot of complaining and feel fully justified in doing so.  And then there are days like today.  Sunny, mid 50s and spring is in the air in this beautiful New England seaside town.  So, I spent the morning at the beach with my little family (even the dog).   Searching for Periwinkles.  Splashing along the shore line.  Hearing them call out in high-pitched voices as they discover something new.  Breathing in the ocean air and thinking...wow.  Thank you...

For curiosity

For carefree splashing

For tiny hands...and frog boots

For this foolish but good-hearted dog

For the way he loves them.   The way he loves us.

For all of it.  Thank you.

Go Online and Order Yourself a Bald Guy. I Did.

These cards kill me.  Dry, slightly bitter, wickedly smart humor.   Enjoy.

Left side is the cover.  Right side the inside message.

        

I can't wait to use my next one.    Here's the Bald Guy Cards website in case you liked them, too.   

Bye, Bye, Birdy.

Predictably, that didn't take long.

I knew I hated Twitter.

And Now The World Can Stop.

Just emerged from seven long days in which the kids and I were violently, repeatedly sick.

But, now Husband has a cold.

Commence Armageddon.

An Actual Article From My Former Local Newspaper

The following is an actual article from The Bee, my former local newspaper...with a little editorializing.  You gotta love the hometown breaking news.

___

Treed Cat Doesn’t Stick Around To Thank Would-Be Rescuers

Enlarge image

Fire/Rescue volunteer firefighter Osmolik was positioned at the end of the ladder extended from fire truck at about 11:30 am February 25, and was just about to reach out to rescue a black long-haired cat that had been stuck for days in a tree. The frightened cat, however, then suddenly jumped out of the tree, dropped to the ground, and ran off into a rocky, wooded area. The cat is shown in the left-center area of the photo, perched on a branch. —Bee Photo, Gorosko

You might call him Blackie, the Mystery Cat, the long-haired feline who eluded rescue.  (If you were someone who names random cats, that is.)

It was not for a lack of effort, but the disheveled black cat, which reportedly had been stuck high up in a tree for almost a week, on February 25 managed to avoid rescue by well-intentioned firefighters. (I imagine if I was in a tree for almost a week I might be a little less than pristine myself.) They had responded to the scene and extended an aerial ladder (a ladder, huh? wow.) toward the animal in seeking to remove it from its dicey perch about 20 feet above ground at the Norling residence on Marlin Road, off Toddy Hill Road.

Norling explained that the unfamiliar cat had been sitting up in the tree near his driveway for nearly a week and seemed for some reason unable to come down.  (You've been watching the cat up there for a week? How humane of you to finally call someone, chump.)  Police were alerted of the situation, as were firefighters, and the animal control officer (Calling all cars! Calling all cars!). They converged at the slush-covered property during a cold rain in seeking to help the stranded cat.

Fire/Rescue Chief Ciaccia, wearing a long fluorescent-green raincoat (flourescent green? now that's news!), supervised firefighters who used Quint ladder truck as a platform from which to try to snatch the isolated cat.

Chief Ciaccia noted that the volunteer fire company does not normally respond to retrieve stranded cats from trees. Normally, cats that become stuck in trees eventually find their way down to the ground, he noted, adding dryly, "You usually don't see many cat skeletons in trees."  (Then again, who's really looking?)

For some reason, however, this cat had not been able to come down.

Mr Norling speculated that perhaps a dog or a coyote had chased the cat up into the tree, where it had become isolated for almost a week.  (Or, he just wanted a peek at that flourescent coat.)

As he had approached the stranded animal, the cat would make "meow" noises, he said.  (No way.  He meowed?  That's crazy.)

As the fire truck's ladder was extended toward the cat, Firefighter Osmolik climbed to the ladder's end and attempted to retrieve the feline.  (The suspense is killing you, isn't it?)

But the frightened cat suddenly jumped away from him in the opposite direction, rapidly dropping 20 feet to the ground (landing on all fours, I bet!), after which the cat quickly ran away from its would-be rescuers who were standing nearby. 

Animal Control Officer Mason returned to the Norling residence with a baited cat trap in seeking to lure back the cat who had run away, but she had no luck (shocker.)  

It is unclear if the cat is owned by someone in the area, she said. If so, it may have run back home after falling from the tree, she said this week.  

Or the animal may be a feral cat which has lived in the wild, she said.  (So, we deduce here it either has a home...or it doesn't.  And all lived happily ever small-town after.  The end.)

To Tweet or Not to Tweet

See that new bird over there to the right?   I don't even really use Twitter (as you'll see if you decide to click on him to follow my page of nothingness over there.)   Well, except to stalk follow some of my favorite mind-numbing celebrities.

I "joined" Twitter over a year ago, never posted a single thing, set my profile so that I had to approve any "followers" and ignored every single weirdo that came my way.  It was just sort of a voyeuristic peephole for me.  I was there.  And, I was watching...but silently.

And then, predictably, I got bored.  Stopped checking daily, then weekly then stopped altogether.  Facebook's more my obsession thing.   Twitter wasn't for me.

Turns out, though, that anyone who's anyone in the blog world thinks "tweeting" your posts is a good idea.   Drives traffic, encourages a following, comments, etc.  So, I'm somewhat skeptically trying it out.

But, if it scares me (a la Craigslist) at any point, you all (my prior readers) will be the first to know.  'Cause I'll cancel my Twitter account and BeeBee gun that little birdy over there right off his post.

Reason #927 Why Craigslist Totally Freaks Me Out

In an attempt to clean out the room, we decided to try to sell a few pieces of furniture on Craigslist instead of wastefully just bringing them to the dump.

____

From: lili loulou
Date: March 3, 2010 1:07:37 PM EST
To:myemail@xxxx.com
RE: interested pick up craigslist chair let me know

we can do it after 5:30 . 6ish, would you give me a ride to my place, i dont have a car and i can pay you for that
please let me know otherwise i can not pick it up today

____

Oh, sure, complete internet stranger!  Come on by after 6 (when it's dark out) and I'll just load up my chair and welcome you into my car so I can drive you home.  Sure.  Maybe you've got some candy to feed my children, too.  


So much for that idea.  To the dump we shall go.

A Perfect End to a Perfect Week

Awesome.

Behind Closed Doors

We've moved a lot in the last few years.  A little more than 4 years ago we lived right here in Marblehead.  Then, we moved to Vermont.   Two years later we moved to Connecticut.  And then, about a year ago, we moved back to Marblehead.   A lot of packing, and unpacking, and packing again and unpacking again.

People say that the best thing about moving is that it forces you to weed through the stuff you don't need so you wind up with just the essentials.   Not us.  We wound up with an entire room in our basement that's full of boxes.  Full.  And, its not a small room.  We moved into this house in June and still that room sits.  I hate it.  And, most of these boxes have moved with us from one state to the next (some even remained sealed) and just continued to move to the next location.

Come on.  Clearly, this is sh*t we don't need.

Nice, isn't it?  Dontcha just want to come visit me?  No.  You don't.  You want to call "Hoarders" and turn me in.  Admit it.

So, we've committed to this:  On every Saturday going forward that we are home for the weekend, our plan is to remove two boxes from that room and take them to the dump.  Whatever is in those ridiculous boxes hasn't seen the light of day in years.  And, sure, we could go through them meticulously, post things on craigslist and eBay and host a profitable tag sale.  We could donate things to worthy charities.   But, we won't.  The boxes will sit there.   Probably making their way to our next house in our next move.  Enough.  Judge me as wasteful, as lazy, whatever.  It's probably true.  But, damnit, those boxes are outta here.

The other night out to dinner, Husband and I had a conversation that led to this question:

What percentage of clothes in your closet do you think you actually wear?

Husband thinks his is somewhere around 7%.   Because, he mostly wears suits and I'm a laundry maniac.  He never has a chance to get down more than one or two levels of boxers before I've washed them and put them right back on top in their drawer.

I'm closer to 15% but you wouldn't know it to look at me because I have a number of the same style (it's generous using the word "style" in any sentence pertaining to myself) of clothing that I just wear over and over.  My daily uniform is a pair of jeans (I have three in rotation at the moment), a turtleneck sweater (three again) and a fleece overshirt (two black, one red).

But, don't those percentage numbers seem really low?  As though we have a giant closet full of items we should never have purchased?  But, we are not fashionable people.  We don't have a whole bunch of nice things that we just buy because we think they're stylish at the time but then we never actually wear.  Nope.  Like the boxes, there are piles of clothes in the bottom of our drawers and the back of our closets that get packed up, and moved, and packed up, and moved.  That we haven't worn in years.  Still, in the back of the closet they remain.  (With my mirror, I might add.)  I think they like it in there.

So, how about you?  


What's your percentage?

My Name is Swooper and I am an Addict.

It's become clear to me that I have contracted a version of my children's hideous virus.  Yup.  Sweet.   And, you know what would be the worst possible thing for me to have right now.  Coffee.

But, I'm going to.  Because, well, it's my coffee.

"Hello.  My name is Swooper and I'm clearly addicted to coffee."

Wow.  That was somehow liberating.

Now, pour me a damn mug and pass the Caramel Apple Coffee Mate.

Every Now and Then I Stumble Across a Greeting Card That Just Speaks To Me...

That's this week, though.  The Hell Week.   Next week, I'm sure I go all Hallmark again but, for now, this works.

Jason Mraz Stole My Toothbrush

My two year old is obsessed with Jason Mraz.  I know.  Weird.  But, he totally is.  We Tivo'd "Farm Air Presents Jason Mraz" and I'm not kidding when I tell you that Little Brother wants to watch it every hour of every day.   And, while we were in Hell this week, I swear we must have watched Jason Mraz sing "I'm Yours" three hundred and ninety-seven times.  Roughly.

And, Jason Mraz is now ever present in our conversations, too.  For example:

In the car from the backseat:

"Where are we going, Mommy?"
"Just a few errands."
"Jason Mraz' house?"

Or, the other night when Big Brother was miserably sick and Little Brother was still blissfully healthy and we found Little Brother using Big Brother's toothbrush:

"No, no, no!  J., where's your toothbrush?"
"Umm.  Jason Mraz."
"Jason Mraz has your toothbrush?!"

It could certainly be worse, I suppose.  If it were Big Brother (a victim of my Magic 106.7 tendencies), Taylor Swift might stop in for visit and then I'd get all self-conscious and have to brush my hair or something to hold Husband's attention.

"I Fell Into a Burning Ring of Fire..."

...I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher.

Did you miss me?   Well, I've been away.  I went on a six day walkabout through Hell.  Hades.  The Underworld.   Old Dante had nothin' on me.

And Hell hath no fury like a stomach bug passed along from a five year old to a two year old within a very loooooong six day span.

Ah, where to begin?  How about this?  If I asked you to name the locations at which you would least like your children to throw up you'd probably say...?

#1.  Their beds?   Course.

#2.  Your bed?  Oh, yes.   A few times, in fact.

#3.  Inside a friend's car?  Charming.  How to make friends and influence people...

#4.  On your computer?!  Awesome.  (As you all can imagine, this was the worst for me.  It happened on day one of my six-days in Hell and oohh, it hurt.  Funeral rites were performed.  And the replacement was not cheap.)

I won't go into any more detail.  Suffice to say that it was all hideous and stinky and awful and I felt very sorry for my kids and even more sorry for myself.

I hear it rained?  We had a little wind?  What happened to Boner?  There was a hockey game?

But, the boys appear to have come out of the dark, dark place and into the light and onward we go.  School for Big Brother today, grocery store for Little Brother and me, life returns.

My washing machine desperately needs a day off.   So, do I.

Happy Birthday to You, Whateveryournameis.

Question: I need to buy a birthday gift for a five year old girl today.   And, I don't want to spend a lot of money.

So, should I go to :

a) the boutique toy shop in the high-rent district of downtown Marblehead where no single toy is less than $25

or

b) Target?

And the answer is.....(drum roll)....A!

Because I need one toy.  And maybe a card.

I do not need a cart full of diapers, a six-window picture frame, juice boxes, spicy snack mix,  a few pairs of 5T blue jeans, Winnie the Pooh bath toys, scented candles, a cute new top and a six-pack of Right Guard.   And that's exactly what I would get if I went to Target.

You hear me, girls.  I know you do.

I Think My Husband Has a (H)eating Disorder.

A few months ago I posted a blog about how there are certain things that should be discussed before a loving couple decides to tie the knot. There are obvious things (children, finances, family issues) and then there are the not-so-obvious things that, while maybe not a big deal at the time may, over the years, drive you certifiably insane night after night after night.

I swear, my husband is half-Eskimo.  And, the man has been freezing my a** off for seven years now.  He truly believes that any temperature above 60 degrees is downright tropical and certainly much too warm for bedtime.  I, on the other hand, apparently have lousy extremity circulation so my nose, my fingers and my toes are in constant danger of turning blue and falling off.  Nightly.

When we go to a hotel, he can't wait to get into the room and turn the air conditioning to "full arctic blast".  And then we get back from whatever evening activity and it's Siberia in there.  And, I'm miserable and want to turn the heat on for Christ's sake but he's happy as clam.  Or a polar bear.  You pick.

(He almost always fall asleep first, though.  And then, as you can imagine, I take matters into my own hands and quietly sneak over to the thermostat to crank that heat right up to where I'm comfortable again.  This practice, by the way?  He just loooooves it.)

Oh sure, he thinks the issue lies with me.  That I'm the freakish one.  That I'm James Arthur Ray and he's my lodge prisoner.

Either way, we'll likely be fighting this battle for many years to come.   The up side is that at least I'm saving lots of money on skimpy lingerie.   So, there.

__________

Just a little p.s.  -- In my search for a harmless and/or humorous illustration for this post, I Googled "animals in lingerie".  Umm, yeah.  Don't do that, let me tell you.  Excuse me while I go wash my burning eyes.  Goodness gracious.

"I'm Warning You, Little Suckers! Come Out of that Bed and DIE!"

Who'd you think I was talking to?

A Typical Saturday

Grocery shopping

Rock throwing

Life's alright...

He's Five Going On Smart A**

Big Brother had his five-year old physical yesterday (broke my heart not to call it a "well-baby check-up" anymore).  45 lbs, 45 inches tall.  Peed in a cup for the very first time.  Eye check, hearing check.   Four shots plus a lance to the finger in a hemoglobin check.   Poor baby.   Took it like a champ.   Tried to be tough because his little brother was watching and he'd been promised a lollipop from the dry cleaner when we finished up.

Doctor asked him all the important safety questions.   Do you wear a bike helmut?  Always?   What do you do if a stranger offers to take you home?  Gives you candy?  What's your address?  Phone number?

Then, these nuggets. Nuggets worth saving for my own memory.

_______

Doctor:  Do you brush your teeth?
W:  Yes.
Doctor:  How many times a day?
W:  Well.....(looks around a little nervously).  Two.
Doctor:  Ok...
W:  (Nervously)  But, sometimes, I sneak and trick my Mom and...well....
Doctor:  It's ok.
W:  Sometimes I do it three times.

_______

Doctor:  Do you go to pre-school?
W:  Yes.
Doctor:  How many days a week do you go to pre-school?
W:  Well, I go every day except for the last day before the weekend.
Me: (Interjecting.  Couldn't help myself)  So, if there are five days in the week, and you go-"
W:  No, Mom!  There are seven days in the week!"

_______

Yip.  That's my boy.

Thank you.

I follow a number of blogs lately.  I'm sort of immersing myself in this weird, new culture and unless you are in it you probably have no godly idea how ridiculously huge the blog world really is.  Huge.  I'm something like two years behind the trend, too.  Women like me (and women not at all like me) have been blogging away, sharing thoughts and deep feelings and humor and intensely private things to total strangers across the world for a long time now.   (Men, too, but whatever)  There are blogs I read in which the writer has well over 500 readers, whose comments sections alone are much longer than most of  my entries.  I can't decide if I'm jealous of those writers or if having that many people paying attention would totally freak me out.  I know it would freak my husband out.

Writing has always been something I love to do.  It's in my blood.  My mother, who dabbled in some journalism, is a very talented writer.  Her own sisters' resumes include Editor, The Boston Globe and Emmy-Winning Writer, All My Children.

I'm also an only child which means that while I crave attention I also crave my secrets.  I need something I can call my own (mine! mine! mine!).   And, as Husband has strongly suggested to me, there are just certain things that shouldn't be shared to the larger audiences.   To me, these include intimate details of:  sex, someone else's (read: Husband's) career, true and scary marital issues...oh, and when you're going on vacation.  Because you might get robbed.  Right?

Yesterday I read a blog titled "...and the horse you rode in on" in which the author talked about how much she couldn't stand her husband.  And, I judged her for that.    Then, today I read a blog in which a woman stated that she and her husband "never fight".  And, I judged her for that, too.

So, I guess my point is that blogging is a weird, weird thing.  I think that those who do it (including myself) are desperately seeking ...something.  Listeners?  Validation?  "Followers"?  Feedback?   A voiceless Sounding Board?  It's an intensely vain yet altogether vulnerable practice.

Do they like me?  Do they think I'm funny?  Annoying?  Full of myself?


Do I care?   Probably.

Either way, thank you.  All five to ten of you.  For being there.  For reading.    Thanks.

Dear So and So...

    

Dear Market Basket Store Manager,

I want to keep coming back, really I do.  Your prices are far better than my local stores and even somewhat better than your chain competitors.  It's worth it financially for me.  But, man oh man.  It's a rough trip.  And, I'm all for exposing my children to the filth diversity of your plentiful clientele, but not willing to expose them to scurvy.   Where are the Handi-Wipes?  And the mouth masks?   It frightens me.  Really.  

In Cleanliness,

Swooper

Dear Dog,

You know we love you, right?  Hate your hair.  Hate it.  Hate it on my wood floors, hate it on my black clothes, really hate it on my bed.  I know we let you sleep there for six years but it was a lot cuter when you were 10 lbs than it is now that you're 80 lbs and shedding.  Get off.  You have your own bed.  Use it.   There's a pound around the corner and, I promise you, their cold, dank floors are not as comfy as your Orvis bed.

Sincerely,

The One Who Feeds You

Dear Husbands,

Big, heavy bags left at the bottom of staircases mean "pick me up and deliver me to where I belong."   

Sincerely,

The One Who Feeds The Dog Who Is Quickly Running Out of His Kibbles & Bits

Dear DJ Lance Rock,

Your show is weird.  Just plain weird.  You're the Telletubbies of my kids generation.  I don't get it.  Kids love you.  Grown-ups?  Not so much.  And, don't let the Brad Pitt thing go to your head.  He dresses like a homeless person most of the time so your orange jumpsuit was an upgrade.   As soon as I can get my hands on the DVR remote, your days are numbered.  

"Yooooooo!  It's Almost Time To Go!",

Swooper

Dear Libido,

OK.  Kids sleeping through the night.  Lost some weight.  Settled into my new home.  Come on back, old friend.  Welcome.

I'll Leave the Door Unlocked,

Swooper

Dear Oil of Olay,

I've been using you every day since I was 14.  So, if you're not helping me look younger too and I'm a wrinkled old raisin at 60, I'm coming after you.   And, $4.59 once every two months for 46 years ain't gonna be cheap.   Just sayin'.

With the Better Business Bureau On My Speed Dial,

Swooper

Dear Evan Lysacek,
Saw an interview with you yesterday in which you explained how you aren't like all the other male skaters.  That you are, in fact, quite masculine (gasp).   Here's a tidbit from your interview:


"I think I'm bringing an element of style and showing that this is my idea of what a modern man should dress like and look like," Lysacek explains. "It can still be stylish, but [also] be masculine at the same time."


Here's what you wore last night for the Short Program.

Are those curly q's on your shoulder blades?  Feathers on your fists?  


Uh huh.

Thanks for the laugh,

Swooper

The Perfect Storm

35 degrees.   School vacation week.  About an hour before naps.

Perfect.

        

Go nuts, my little men.  Go nuts.

Making The Grade

Last week my boys each got a progress report from their Nursery School.  Each report was good.  Certainly nothing to worry about.  Both are performing all tasks relative to their ages.  Big Brother speaks softly but often.  Little Brother still has a little issue with Mommy-separation at drop off but then has a wonderful time about 5 seconds after I'm out the door.

A typical Mom, I, of course, felt that they should have received Above Average scores across the board but I'm their Mom so maybe I'm just a teeny tiny bit biased.  

And then we went away to CT for the long weekend.  Bernie, our six year old yellow lab, stayed at a nearby kennel.  Where he's a bit of a regular.  It's pretty posh as far as kennels go, though, and we're pretty sure they like him there.   Yesterday at pick-up they handed me the usual details on his stay with them -- a doggie report card, if you will.  

And, well....compare for yourselves.   Here they are.

KIDS:

DOG:

Hmmm...perhaps we need to refocus our efforts a bit.

Sweets with My Sweets

Channeled my inner Martha Stewart on Valentine's Day and made hand-rolled lollipops and little chocolate stars with Ross and the boys.  Everything came out surprisingly well and we got to spend a little extra time creating a Valentine's Day memory or two.

 

Oh.  And now I get to hear "Can I have a lollipop?" every 4 1/2 seconds.  So, that's a real bonus.

You? Ick.

Hey You.

Yes, You.  You, the woman in the big ole' white Mercedes Benz.

You.  The one that refused to move aside on the street today when I clearly had the right of way on that narrow, old town street meant for horses to pass alongside one another...not my SUV and your Benz.

Yes, You.  You, who saw that big old pick-up truck parked on your side of the street.  You who chose to speed up towards me instead of moving aside behind the truck so I could pass first.

Just so you know.  I know you now.  Because, I saw your vanity plate pass by as I was forced to barrel my Jeep onto a sidewalk, narrowly missing a mailbox.

It's a memorable plate, lady.  You probably meant it that way.

But, I'll tell you what "WKG MOM" in your giant Mercedes Benz.    I know one thing.  Even without your poor driver etiquette.

Yup, I know one thing for sure.  Call me crazy, but it's just a hunch I have.  You and I, Miss WKG MOM?   Nope.

I wouldn't have liked you, anyway.

____________________________

I live in a small town and recognize that this is a somewhat risky post.  I'm irritated enough at the moment not to care.  But, if the post disappears sometime, you know why.

Because Reddish-Browns Have More Fun?

I've been coloring my hair blonde for roughly 17 years.  Started right after college.  Most of the people I see on a regular basis (including my husband and, obviously, my children) have only  known me as a blonde.   I mean, everyone probably knew upon any sort of close examination that I wasn't actually blonde.   But, no one ever saw me with truly dark hair.

I've been thinking about going closer to my natural color for a while.  Grey hair has come creeping in and I'm sick of having to go to the salon every five weeks to spend too much money on too-blonde coloring.  And, as I've mentioned in an earlier post my hair always looks pretty much the same two days later anyway.

Well, yesterday, I bit the bullet.   Sort of.  Instead of going au natural blah-ish brown, I went with a sort of brownish-reddish color that I'm totally into.  I think it works.  But, still, for the last twenty-four or so hours, when I walk by a mirror I can't believe I've actually done it.  It's definitely not anything like it used to be.   Who is that woman?

And, like my tattoo experience, Ross had absolutely no idea I was doing it.  I hadn't even mentioned I was considering it.   He must think I'm going through some bizarre form of almost-turning-forty mid-life crisis.

Hmmm.  Maybe I am.

Whatever.  It was cheaper than a sports car.

My Glass is Half Full

My two-year-old was asked to build a snowman with construction paper and glue in pre-school the other day.  Handed all the appropriate parts (a hat, a nose, black buttons and three white snowballs) here's what came home.

Clearly, we have a budding Jackson Pollock on our hands.  

No?

You Make Me Happy

There's nothing like morning sunshine.  And my new kitchen, thankfully, bathes in it.   So, no matter what side of the bed I roll out on, I can just pad on down the hall, brew a cup, settle in and smile.

Good morning.

Disney Nuggets Part Four - "A Million Little Shoes"

We're done having kids.  Officially.  We made the decision to call it quits after our second and, as I was having a scheduled c-section, the logistics around closing up shop were simple.  My family is complete.

Two boys.  Three years apart.  And, at ages 5 and 2, they are becoming closer friends every day.  They worship Dad but need Mommy.  They snuggle and love and climb up onto my lap and they give me everything I have ever needed and allow me now to sit back with a contented sigh and say, "Yup.  This is it.  All I need."

And, really, I have not for one honest moment, had a second thought about the decision not to expand the clan further.  I mean, sure, I love the feeling of a sleeping baby on my chest, the smell of their hair, the sound of their gentle breath.  But, most of time I remember that I'm terrified that their gel-like necks will break, that they'll wake up and wail or that colic will force me to the local pharmacy for Xanax.  I adore children but babies, more or less, terrify me.  And, frankly, Ross and I are finally getting real sleep again (until 8 am on Saturday!).  We have trusted sitters and can go out to dinner without worry.   I can take a shower when both kids are awake and know that they won't choke on a marble while I'm gone.  We're about six months from never changing a diaper again.  We're in the groove.  Start over?   No, thank you.

But, we went on vacation last week with some friends.  They also had two kids.  A little boy who was all boy.   Like, banging into walls, rough and tumble, crazy, funny little man.   A boy.  

But.   They also had Alex.  And, Alex is "little girl" without being excessively girly.  She's sweet but not wimpy.   She was chatty but not precocious.  She was 3 1/2 but kept right up with my 5 year old.  She took a liking to Ross, which melted my heart over and over again -- snuggling up to him on the couch, dog-paddling him down in the pool, giggling at his attention.  I don't know how many times I picked up teeny, tiny little princess doll shoes and scooped them into a small pile and I loved it every time.  A little girl.  Cutie pie.  Her parents have done a nice job with her.  And, I was, admittedly, a little jealous.   

I bought her a little pink princess bracelet at Disney and could have gotten her about a million other little things throughout the trip.  Because there are so many cute girl things out there in little person land.  And basically nothing for boys if you aren't desperately seeking some ridiculous sailor suit or a black t-shirt with hideously gaudy designs.

Still, I'm reminded of one of my very favorite lines about having boys versus girls.  It came to me from a male friend in Vermont who has only daughters.  A father of two boys once said to him:

"You know what, man?  I have to worry about two penises.  But, YOU have to worry about the rest of them."

I wouldn't change my mind, of course.  I love my boys madly and they (in the cheezy words of Jerry Maguire) complete me.   They have completed our little family.  But, last week, for just a few moments...

A girl.  

Shoot.

Ummmm....really, dude?

A Disney reprieve here.

Saw this image on a Facebook page dedicated to people who love Vermont.  I mean, I'm all about the Green Mountain State but...

Really with you, man?*   Gross.  

Sweet cammo belt, though.  

*  Definition: Really with you

Disney Nuggets Part Three - "Kids at Heart"

When you go to Disney World without kids, as Ross and I did before we were married, all you notice are the people with strollers.  They're everywhere.   Ev-er-y-where.  Without a stroller, you are the outsider.  And, while we still more or less enjoyed ourselves at the time, we sort of felt (not sadly) that we didn't really belong at Disney World.  In hindsight, we had no idea how lucky we were.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  It's delightful to hear your children squeal and point when they first see Mickey.  It's beautiful to watch their eyes turn teacup as they glide through the magical "It's a Small World."  Blah, blah, blah, blah.

Blah.

See, I'm a roller coaster person.   And, in the land of the world's coolest roller coasters, know how many I went on last week?

Zip.  None.  Nada.      


Grrrr.

When you're there with your two year old and your five year old, there's no Space Mountain, there's no Big Thunder Mountain and there's no Splash Mountain.  At Sea World there will be no Manta and at Animal Kingdom there will be no Everest.   Harumph.   I'm already looking forward to when we go back in four or five years and my boys will be so psyched that their Mom wants to go on these rides.  Over and over, please.

Ross and his buddy, Bill, made it onto one cool ride, though.  Bill's wife, Katie, and I encouraged them to hit a water-ride roller coaster type thing while we watched the kids.  The line looked shortish and there was a good spot where we knew we'd capture their faces with our cameras as they came down the steepest incline towards the water.  Kids at heart, they took us up on the opportunity.

Here's the shot:

The guys are in the back.  Ross is on the left here with his arm in the air.  

They came off the ride wet and laughing like children.  It was great.   

"So," we asked, "was it cool?"

"Oh, yeah!  We were laughing so hard.  Did you see our fellow passengers?" Snorting laughs to each other.

"Yeah, I mean, I guess so.  Kids, right?"

"Yeah..."     More snickering together.

It wasn't until we were home and looking at the days photos that we took a closer look at all the shots from the water ride and really looked at the rest of the people in the boat.  And then, for some reason, we were all snickering.  Then, those deep belly laughs.  Then tears and hold your stomach doubling over laughs.  All four of us.  I don't exactly know why it was so darn funny when we saw the actual kids.  The fellow passengers.  Their faces.  Ross and Billy sitting there behind them.  I don't know.  But, damn, we laughed.

You be the judge.  

Disney Nuggets Part Two - "A Great Grand Trip"

Our kids are lucky enough to have two great-grandparents.  They have a great grandmother who lives in Houston and a great grandfather who lives in Melbourne, Florida.  I care very much about getting the boys to each of them as often as we can swing it financially and logistically, which sadly doesn't make it happen often enough.   Both Grandma Schieffer (86, I think) and Papapa (90) are amazingly healthy and "with it". They both live relatively independent lives in their own apartments within a larger care-taking complex.  I wish they didn't live as far from each other as they do because I know they would really hit it off.

My grandfather is a lifetime military man.  He was a four-star Major General in WWII and continued to serve the Army at the Pentagon for many years after he returned.   He will, one sad day, join his wife in Arlington National Cemetery where he will receive full honors.  He was badass then and he's badass now.  Just a very cool, no bullsh*t kind of guy.  He's pretty near to being deaf and nearer to being blind although he doesn't let either fate stop him from accomplishing just about anything.  In fact, he has a driver who brings him to a local community center to teach the blind how to more easily achieve their day to day tasks. (Toothpaste on your finger before the brush, spooning your food towards the center of your plate instead of to the outside, etc).  He teaches an exercise class in his complex and there's a live bird in his act.  No kidding.   He listens to satellite radio, has a machine that scans and reads his newspapers and he is a religious baseball fan.   Ross and I were taking him to dinner one night a few years back and, in search of somewhere near to his home, we suggested The Outback.   His reply?  "Hmmm.  Isn't that the place with 'no rules'?  I don't much like places with no rules."   Like I said, a military man through and through.

So, anyway, we were all set to make the 90-minute drive to Melbourne from Kissimmee with the kids the day after our arrival to Florida.  We had planned it (with my wonderful Aunt Betsy who lives nearby) to the minute (military folks like schedules, you know).   We would depart by 9:30, arrive by 11, go to a nearby diner by 11:30 and beat feet, so as not to make the day too long for him,  by 1.   But kids, of course, can really screw up the best laid plans.

John developed a little cough a few days before we left.  By the time we got to Florida, he had a low grade fever (sorry JetBlue Flight 431 passengers!).   I texted my Aunt Betsy about it and said that unless  he took a turn for the worse we were still up for the trip but maybe bringing a sick kid around a 90-year old wasn't a good idea?  She got in touch with him and got back me.  Silly me.  Did I actually think that a man who led troops and took incoming fire from thousands of enemy soldiers for somewhere between four and six years would be afraid of a two year old with a cough?  Heck no.  He told her he'd had his flu shot.  Bring it on.

Well, then John spent the entire first night in our bed not sleeping.  Just a hot sticky mass of kicking feet, whines, cries and coughs.   Fever was higher.   Definitely not a happy camper.  But, I really, really, really didn't want to cancel.   So, on we pressed.  Got everyone (exhausted) into the car on time.  Stopped at a local Walgreens for some medicine.  Miraculously got miserable little John to take the medicine delivered by Mom from front seat to back.   Drove about 1/4 mile more and...yup...throw up.

On John.  On car seat.  On "Baa" (his precious bunny that goes everywhere with him when he's not feeling right).

Change of clothes?  Um, no.

Handi-Wipes?  Check.   Much-too-hot John-sized sweatshirt in my bag?  Check.

Poor kid.  It was like we were torturing him.  He should have been home in bed or curled up on my lap or at the very least watching Yo Gabba Gabba on the couch.   But, it was Papapa.  Who had been waiting for and looking forward to this visit for months.  And so were we.  So, we clean up as best we can.  A stinky John is better than no John at all, right?

Onward.

(Hoping it isn't true that when you lose one sense the others get stronger.  No sight, no sound...just SMELL!  Lucky you, Papapa.)


Amazingly, John rallied enough at our arrival to Southland Suites to come into my grandfathers room with an audible (even to Papapa) "Hi Papapa!" before crawling up onto my lap.  And, Will, as usual, did us proud with his high-pitched chatter and interest in all things new and touchable.  My brilliant Aunt Betsy made them "treasure boxes" -- shells, sheriff badges, silver dollars in wooden cigar boxes -- which held their attention for a while before we went out to lunch.

Lunch was a bit of a mess.  My kids ordered toast, which only Will ate.   John lost it (his mood, not his lunch) about halfway through so Ross and I took turns with him outside while everyone finished up.   We all put our best faces on but it was certainly not the trip we all hoped for.

I know that the most important part is that Papapa got to touch my kids, hear them talk, show them around a little to the people in his complex, and know that we love him and miss him and think of him often.  We wouldn't miss a chance to be with him.  He's an amazing man and I love him so much.

So it did my heart good when I heard that he recapped the trip to my Mom and told her that he was proud when Will shook his friend Henrietta Wakefield's (Tim's grandmother) hand when he met her.  And that John rushed in and said "Hi Papapa!" despite how how badly the little guy was feeling.  And he was glad we came.

Next time, Papapa.  Next time, it will be better.  Or...maybe not.

But, at least we'll be together.