BOYS

Boys are a funny breed.

For instance, they answer

Why??

to every question asked.

But if YOU ask THEM

Why??

they will stare at you, blankly, with absolutely no reply.


Let us revisit some of my only son's best antics, shall we?

And then, let us pour Mama a margarita, shall we?

Yes. Yes, we shall.

escaping nekked through windows

what happens when get high centered

first stitches

first merlot

eating packing peanuts (well, he's allergic to real ones!)

getting himself a drink of water at the age of 1

"want some butter, mom?"

he always left binkies at the scene of the crime

fish murderer

Barbie murderer

he had Alpo breath for at least two years (I'm not talking about the dog)

For an entire yr, he wore backwards pjs because he wouldn't stop with the gratuitous nudity

His friend, Q, poses nicely while G makes a mad escape

making long distance phone calls

I blame his rudeness on his father

going through my wallet for loose change

nekked jam session

sugar high face

And the latest: DIY haircutting

Five

Happy 5th birthday, little man. You're my favorite sidekick, my best cuddler, my personal food critic, my defender, my stunt man.

I say this as though he reads my blog. I'd explain my reasonings, but I have to go put Happy Birthday, Gianni, on my Facebook wall, as though he has Facebook. 

I will leave you with funny pictures. Cuz he's a funny boy. And we have had no weird doctor visits this whole year! I mean, we've had normal ones, but no embedded Q-tips in body parts, no allergic reactions, no flesh eating bacterias, no stitches! I'd say 2012 was a good year for the G-Man. 

Aw! He's so much cuter than a bowling ball! That 24 hr labor was worth it!

I'm sorry, what? My parents are who?

Totally found it like this.

Only room for one cute kid. Take her back to Walmart, mom.

Again! Get lost, sister!

Bringing sexy back. Look at those abs!

I said, milk! Bring me milk! And maybe some pretzels!

Do these glasses make me look fat?

Time to escape this fully clothed society...

How YOU doin?

Uh. Yeah. I have no witty caption for this one.

He's handsome from every angle!

Again with the nudity. I apologize.

I miss his curls.

Rudddddde.

Happy birthday.

The Great Pumpkin

Holy grownin' kids, Batman, I just realized that those photos on my sidebar of those three adorable gremlins ARE A YEAR OLD!

Here lies my children's childhood.
R.I.P.

Why don't you just grow up and run away and leave me to become the crazy cat lady, who pushes baby dolls around in a stroller, why don't you, children of mine?

Holy cow.
They're getting older.

Somebody make it stop!

Also, somebody make Genesis return from Ireland - the land of death and pestilence and horror and lack of Melyssas - so she can carve punkins and take photos, like last year and every last year for the past 12 years.

In the Great Pumpkin's Name,
Amen.

A Dapper Boy Have I

So the man cub has morphed from Dirty Goat Boy into a dapper, jaunty little gentleman lately. This is because his daddy squirted him with cologne a couple weeks ago, before church, and told him,

"All the girls will find you irresistible now. They won't be able to stop kissing and hugging you."

You'd think, wouldn't you, that he would have found this gross, since he is 4, not 14, but nope. A sparkle came into his brown eyes the likes of which I'd never seen. 

He sidled up to me, right under my nose. When I stared blankly at him, he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

And Daddy was right! I couldn't stop kissing and hugging him. 

The problem now is two fold:

1. He won't stop applying it. It's a little much for a wee boy. You can smell him coming a mile away. I keep hiding it. He keeps finding it. And the eyebrow waggling begins anew and with endless passion.

2. I used to be attracted to it. Because my man wore it. On special occasions. You know? For kissing and hugging? And now it smells like my son. I'm confused.

And lest you worry about him becoming a dandy, a pansy, a well coiffed boy with a European shoulder bag... Don't fret. He still won't bathe.

Which makes the cologne even harder to swallow.
Because now it's Mountain Breeze mixed with chickens mixed with dirt mixed with graham cracker mixed with Ranch dressing.

A dandy he is not. Dapper, he is. A dapper rake.
Women, hold back your daughters. 

Gianni Be Good (Part Two)

Don't let the charming Ferris Bueller impression throw you.


Or the innocent toothless grin.  

This kid has shenanigans down to a science.

An evil science.

The kind with splattered lab coats and twirly swirly mustaches.

Today? I caught him with his pet chicken, CurlyFurly II. But he wasn't lovin' up on said chickie, no, no. He was spinning her around by her tail feathers like this:

The poor chickens aren't ever going to lay. They're too stressed out.  And who could blame them? 

Not I, said the little red hen.

So, remember, when you see a cute little boy named Gianni coming your way, don't be fooled by his sweet smile and offer to cuddle.

Cuz sometimes I look outside and this is what I see:

My only guess is that he knows just how rotten to the core he can be, and in order to save mankind, he periodically ties himself to the garden hose, wearing nothing but his jammies and rain boots. 

Please.

Whatever you do.

Don't untie him.

And pray for the livestock.

Amen.

Well, he didn't DIE like he threatened...

but he fell asleep from boredom.

That'll show his mean mommy who wouldn't play "shoot the bad guys then resurrect them so we can shoot them again," because she was tired and had laundry to put away!

Especially when it's 9 p.m. and he isn't anywhere near ready for bed because he just took a three hour nap.

Wait a minute here...
Curses!

Gianni: 1
Mommy: 0

Foolish, naive little woman that I am, I fell right into his trap.

He is positively Machiavellian, that four year old man of mine.

Plans for the future

In the wee hours, my son is a squatter in our bed. This morning, he shook me awake.

"What?" I mumbled.

"I'm just letting you know that I'm going to snuggle now," he said.

Hmmm, it's an odd brand of snuggling that comes with a warning.

After we got up he proceeded to tell me how he was going to be a grandpa someday and he wouldn't have any hair, just like Nonno and Papa, but before that, he would get to be Daddy.  And then Daddy would move up the ranks, so to speak, and be the grandpa.
"How many kids are you going to have?" I asked.
"Two."
"Ah. Boys or girls or one of each?"
"Two girls."
"Names?"
"Cora and Anna! Cuz, you know, our Cora is getting too old. She's up to your chin now."
"Yeah, I know."
"But don't worry, Mom, your brain is bigger."
"It is?"
"Well, not really bigger, but it's a lot straighter."

?????idunnoeither????

Six Things That Happened This Week

In case your life was not complete without a rambling list put together by a odd blogger who should be folding laundry right now, have I got a post for you!

This week our dance studio had their big Spring performances which involved a seven hour tech rehearsal, a six hour dress rehearsal, and three shows. I be tired. My feet be hurtin - which is strange because I wasn't the one dancing. I was being a cat herder, a stage manager, and trying to recall at which age it is permissible to say "merde" to dancers. Not the cats, I decided. Also, I was somehow volunteered for the job of climbing up a ladder during Act I in order to strategically place satin cherry blossoms and risk my life. I think I was volunteered because I am 5' 3" so I was the logical choice. Anyway, the shows were great and I didn't cuss out any little sprites in French, which is also great. Also, I didn't fall to my death, which was also great.

My mommy and daddy were here which was also great, because I eat enough for a small continent when 1. someone visits me, or 2. I visit someone, or 3. days that end in "y."  We had rib-eyes and salads with feta and balsamic and salami and cheeses and decadent steelhead and tons of coffee and even went wine tasting at RoxyAnn.

Cora keeps growing or maybe her clothes keep shrinking, but either way, it's gotta stop.

Mike was rear ended by a crazy lunatic who totaled his car and drove off. Now we have to go car shopping, which is not nearly as much fun as it used to be when I was, say, nineteen.

I have to decide what homeschooling curriculum to purchase and then finish 47% of. I keep getting homeschooling catalogues in the mail and I don't appreciate them. I toss them in the trash with a yelp. Like I need more choices. For cryin' in the night, I lose a year in the fabric softener aisle and that stuff isn't even important.

Yesterday we were at the park and Papa gave Gianni a penny to throw in the fountain. This fountain/penny/wish making stuff was new to the moose and he took the tutorial seriously. He tossed the penny. It landed with a plop. Or maybe it was a kersplash. No matter. He closed his eyes tightly and clasped his hands, as if in prayer. Actually, he doesn't do that during prayer - he mostly pinches his sister, steals something off my plate, knocks over his water, and burps loudly. But he took the whole penny shenanigans seriously. Afterwards, being the nosy mom I am, I totally had to take back the part of the instruction I had given him only seconds before and I forced him to tell what his wish was. It was to get a penny with a dog on it. At first, I thought he meant a dog named Penny, which would have made more sense and also been easier to get for the little squirt, but no. He wants a penny with a picture of a dog on it. So, anyway, he waited four seconds for his wish to come true, which in Four Year Old Boy Years is like, three lifetimes, plus five. Then since a penny with a picture of a dog on it didn't drop from the sky, he thought he'd better cement his knowledge of what the word "wish" meant. Papa said it was like having a dream and then having your dream come true. So he laid down on the rock wall and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked, taking the opportunity to munch on his chicken since he wasn't looking.

"Falling asleep! So I can dream! I can't sleep! How am I supposed to dream? How will I make it come true if I can't dream?"

The poor guy was really torn up about the whole predicament, so we had to buy him a hot chocolate because I can't afford therapy.

The difference between the sexes

The difference between boys and girls is a lot of difference.
They're just different breeds.
They think differently.
Some may say boys don't think at all.
I think they do, but search me if I know what it is they think about. Not health food, hygiene, or manners, certainly.
I've collected a couple of examples for you, just from my house (and lest we forget, I have been Mom to seven teenage boys as well, so I know whereof I speak):

Cora's first drawing was of a stick horse. Anna's was of two stick people (me and her). Gianni's was a stick person too! I asked what the stick boy was doing. He's peeing on the ground. Ah. But of course. Logical.

Girls eat their food like human beings. Boys eat into the shape of a gun and then blow your head off.


Girls have a buddy system whenever they go to the little girl's room. Well, my boy doesn't give me any privacy either, but once he got bored waiting for me to empty my bladder. Finally, he exclaimed, this would go a lot faster if you had a hot dog!* Sorry to keep you, twerp; don't you have a piece of toast that would make a nice Glock?


When girls fall down and hurt themselves, they cry. Boys get up and punch whatever tripped them and yell, "stupid table!"


Girls play My Little Ponies and Littlest Pet Shops. Boys play kill shots and practice their own death scenes one million times a day. Gianni has his down to an art form. There's twitching, leg spasms, gasping for air, foaming at the mouth, protruding tongues (well, tongue), and final words of wisdom (such as "My cousin Herb drives a bus almost everyday!" If you don't know the pigeon books, this won't make any sense to you. If you do own the pigeon books, this won't make any sense to you).


Girls like to snuggle and hug and kiss and hold hands and pat your head and stroke your hair and scratch your back. This is my night time conversation with Moose a few days ago:


Me: goodnight! sleep tight! don't let the bed bugs bite! i love you to the moon and back! smoochy smoochy my sweet babykins!


Him: stop kissing me, it's gross.


Me: I'll kiss you whenever I want, mister! now give me some more! (attack him with my full body weight and plant a big wet one on him).


Him: STOP IT! I'm wiping this off!


Me: You can't wipe off Mother's kisses. It's impossible. They don't wipe off for 100 years.


Him: WHAT???? That's not funny!


Me:  Sorry, dude. There's nothing I can do.


Him: I'm shooting it off with my laser beam!


Me: Nope.


Him: My sniper battleship is shooting torpedoes at it!


Me: Negative, ghost rider.


At this point, he is choking back tears.


Him, weakly: I put a force field around it.


Me: My kisses can get through your force field, chikadee.


Him: I really hate bedtime.


The end.


* I'm not a anatomically correct kind of parent. I use baby talk. Even in a room full of adults. 

You've Reached Gianni

I feel the need to apologize if you get a phone call from me.  To be more precise, from my son, (whomigavebirthtowithouttheuseofdrugscanigetanAmen?) who is completely obsessed with making phone calls. I've tried telling him he should attempt to leave the house more than once per week but he looks at me all funny, hikes up his pajama bottoms and last week's boxers, and dials yet another number.  His nearest and dearest have learned to not answer the calls.  Even Gramma, who CLAIMS she was painting ceilings.  All day.  And all day tomorrow.  Possibly into next week.  Of course, all he wants to talk about is video games, Milo's whereabouts, the odor of his own poo, his owies, movies, and Star Wars, so I do understand the phone screening.  I'd screen his calls too, but he doesn't need a phone to talk my ear off.  He just needs to follow me into the little mom's room where I'm peacefully lathering my hair in silence only to be brought down to earth by a small, nekked man doing #2 a mere 18 inches from my shower stall.

"Why can't you do that in the other bathroom?"  I demand, peeking out, shampoo blinding me for life (if the smell from last night's chili doesn't do me in first).

"Cuz I need to talk to you," he says, cheerily, elbows on his bare knees.  He has to strip down for #2.  Don't ask why.

"Talk to me about what?"

"Well, thanks for dinner tonight," he says.

"Umm.  You're welcome."

"Next time could you make something that tastes yummy?"

"OUT!"

"I'm not done yet.  So...do you wanna talk about Darth Maul or Darth Sidious first?"

After seventy-eleventh descriptions of clone troopers vs. storm troopers, he manages to waddle off (waddle because his legs will have fallen asleep, leaving behind a bright scarlet, toilet bowl shaped ring on his backside), leaving me in a green, vaporous mushroom cloud of death.  My hair immediately loses it's promised bounce and vitality as I struggle to regain consciousness.

So you understand why I'm trying to limit the guy's phone skills.  Anyhoo, he was unintentionally cracking me up today because he has heard this message far too many times now:

To leave a voice message, press 1 after the beep.


But he thinks it says,

To leave a boy's message, press 1 after the beep.


So, he grumpily presses 1 (because he's a boy) and promptly hangs up.

This makes me laugh.

He gets confused sometimes if he's leaving a message for a girl.  He doesn't know what number to press.  Is it 2?  Is it 9?  Is Gramma a girl?  So many unanswered questions!  Life is hard when you're four years old and no one will take your calls.  Should he always press 1 because he's always a boy, even if he's calling a girl?  The operator has not made this clear.  It's a conundrum and it furrows his little brow.

Pickled dog

I gave birth to a hermit.  Once upon a time, he looked like this:

Now he looks like this:

I have problems with my itty bitty baby becoming this.  Here they are in no particular order:

1.  All his laundry consists of is pajama bottoms and the occasional pair of underpants.

2.   He is eating all my groceries at an alarming rate.

3.  He may be the first homeschooler to live up to his unsocialized reputation.  I'd hate for my kid to be the one to set us homeschoolers back twenty years.



Now that his sisters are old enough to babysit, the child refuses to accompany me anywhere.  People are beginning to think I made him up.  When we force him to set his pudgy barefeet out of his abode, you'd think we'd suggested that he chew off his own eyebrows or something.

Anyway, the point of this post is not my agoraphobic son but #2 on the list above.  I just got back from grocery shopping AGAIN.  I spent $140 and I didn't even buy coffee or milks (I say milk in the plural form because of G's allergies which he's mostly beaten but he still drinks almond milk).  I didn't splurge on anything except for the Chedder and Sour Cream potato chips which actually begged me to take them home and when I refused, jumped into my cart.  It was odd, but sometimes these things happen.  I didn't want to make a scene so I bought them.  Anyhoo...I feel completely grumpy about this cost of living thing right now.

Pickles were expensive!!  Pickles!!  Rejected cucumbers!

Nasty looking questionable meat products were expensive!  I kind of think I bought dog.

I only bought one type of cheese!  Who lives like that??

I passed by the Hagan Daaz with a self control that would utterly impress you and also made me weak kneed and breathless.  But pass by I did!

I didn't buy bread.  I didn't buy wine.  I didn't buy cereal.  I didn't buy hair products or make up or yoga pants or toilet paper or jewelry or real estate.  The only non-edibles I bought were deodorant for my hubby's pits (and why Old Spice makes Original so dang impossible to find is beyond me.  Can I start a petition or something?  Who's with me?) and small paper plates and a children's cold medicine.

This will only get us through a week.  Am I spending too much?  Am I unrealistic in my wishes to spend less?  There were some organics in there, but I bought them at Grocery Outlet for a fraction of the price...

We are a family of five in case you didn't know.  The three chitlins are homeschooled, thus they spend all their time on my couch, eating.  This could be part of the dilemma.  I hate to smack food out of their mouths more than twice a day.

What do you spend?

What is your favorite cheap meal?

Either make me feel better or school me in how to save money!  That was not a request.  Seriously.  Comment.  Or I will find you.  Right at dinner time.

I like steak.

Why getting my four year old - going on twenty - dressed is the worst part of my day:

worse than exploding poop

worse than colic

worse than nothing to read.


Note:  I haven't had any exploding poopy diapers in a couple years and none of my kids had colic so my perception may be skewed.  




I love toddlers.  Love their squishy, cookie scented faces.  Love their Cheerio breath.  Love their dirty paws and tear stained, drippy eyeballs.  Love their attention spans of gnats and their tear-free shampoo locks of love.  And when they're little - leave em where you put em kinda little - they're dang fun to dress.  But once they develop motor skills and a sense of independence, my short career as Clinton Kelly in an apron comes to an abrupt halt.

You have two choices:

Let toddler dress himself.  This works only if you never plan on leaving your house and emerging anywhere in public.  "Public" tends to stare when someone comes at them with a Batman halloween mask, football pajama bottoms, rain boots, an inside out and backwards shirt, and a feminine scarf (which oddly enough, kinda does pull the whole emsemb together).  Add a winter hat in summer, or flip flops in winter and you have a small child's wardrobe.

So if you have to go into Public and if you're determined that the fruit of your looms look appropriate, here's what you do:

Pick out adorable outfit.  Try convincing kid to wear it.  Good luck.  The tags are scratchy.  The pants are the wrong color.  They're too long.  Too short.  There's no Elmo on the front.  The shoes aren't good.  The socks aren't soft.  Etc.

Wrestling a little child into clothing when all he wants to do is finish his half completed project of taking over the free world is a little like trying to put an octopus into fishnet tights.  The arms are akimbo, the legs are flailing, and your head will be smacked more times than you can count.  I tend to arrange my hair style according to what my four year old will be wearing that day.  If he has a button down shirt or the shoes that are hard to put on, I go with the messy bun look.  Because my head will be used at any given time as a hand rest, foot rest, arm rest, flotation device, landing pad, and a place to put his crackers.

Putting his Flintstone feet into proper shoes always poses a pickle as well.  Mostly because whether or not he needs to go potty he will be doing the Pee Pee Dance and it's really difficult to get square shaped feet into oblong shaped shoes.  My fingers will be smashed, my hair will be yanked out, my tongue will be bitten from holding back questionable exclamations, and I haven't even gotten to the tying part yet.  This is why I don't fight the flip flops in February thing.

Ironically, as I am writing this pointless post, my son is on the back deck in his pj bottoms, shoes on the wrong feet, his John Deere tractor apron backwards (so it's a cape), sliding in the snow.  Shirtless.  Shirtless is the new shirt.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I am Jami Gertz

So my little Gianni-Be-Good, my Moose, my Pooky Head, my four year old whoIbirthedwithouttheuseofdrugsthankyouverymuchcanIgetanamen? had his teeth pulled yesterday.   Those teeth.  Those FREAKING teeth that have been plaguing us for two years finally had to go.

There were sobs and tears and yelling and hitting.
From me.
At home.
Cuz I didn't go.
I left that to the Daddy because I figured I gestated him and birthed him (withouttheuseofdrugsthankyouverymuchcanIgetanamen?) so Daddy could do the dentist thing and we'd pretty much be even.  More or less.

When he came home he was puffy eyed and sniffly and seemed out of it due to the drugs and wanted ice cream.
Daddy I mean.

Gianni looked like a rugby playing hockey pro.

And he had a blood mustache.

A BLOOD MUSTACHE.

He looked like a four year old vampire.
Not pretty.  Not right.  Very, very wrong on every level.

Remember the wee vampire in Lost Boys, Laddie, the one that comes crashing up through the bed and Star shouts, "He's just a little boy!" even though he looks like he's going to feast on everyone's throat, or maybe he just looks like any typical small child who doesn't want to go to bed?  Yeah, that one.  My baby looked like him.  Except his parents don't look like Star or Michael and we don't turn spaghetti into maggots and we don't fly and we don't hang out with Keifer at least not outside our minds and I really REALLY miss Corey Haim now.  Curses.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yes.  The guilt we feel as parents for the loss of my baby's baby teeth.  If you were hoping to get Parent of the Year Awards this year, you're welcome for narrowing down the competition.  Mike and I have officially dropped out of the running.

So we did what every self respecting parent does when they realize they've totally messed up their kid and want to redeem themselves:  they leave $10 from the tooth fairy instead of the usual fifty cents.
Parenting by Bribes - it's how we roll.  If you give Mommy a kiss, I'll give you cake.  If you snuggle Daddy, he'll buy you some Legos.  If you don't ever leave me and go to college, I'll buy you a pony.  Things like that.

So now poor Pooky Head has no front teeth (no corn on the cob!  no honeycrisp apples!  no ribs!  no fruitcake!  no taffy!  no defending himself against rabid wolverines!) and he will be wasting the afternoon at the dollar store spending like a drunken sailor, lighting cigars for fellow toddlers with his greenbacks, and buying toys that will break the second we get them in the car.

And hopefully we will get used to the gummy-I-look-like-a-hundred-year-old-man-without-his-dentures-in look.  Also the dried-shrunken-apple-head look.
After all we have a good two years to get used to it.

And maybe the last Twilight movie will be casting small vampires.

sleepy

Glad you're comfy, Buckaroo.

Go ahead and spread out.

Really.

You and The Other Woman (hubby's body pillow.  She's a redhead.  Sometimes I call her Ariel) just take all the space you need.

Catch up on all that sleep that eluded you half the night due to hurt fingers, scary noises, tooting, crying, the blanket not being tucked in correctly, a threat to spank which made you exclaim "after my spanking, will you tuck in my corners the right way?", a million glasses of water, the looming certainty of death by starvation since your parents wouldn't let you snack at ten p.m., and many other reasons.

You go on and take the bed, sparky.  You had a rough night.

Family Bonding is Distressing

They're so cute...

...like baby piranhas...

They're so dang lovable.

How can I possibly want to hide from them in the bathroom and eat pasta until I melt into a puddle of Melyssa and Gorgonzola?

That one at the top?  He is a puppy in striped pajamas.  He is wearing a leash.  He is eating cereal out of a bowl on the floor.  He just told me he's "Mindy from the network."  (Bolt).  He has all fifty states memorized.  This is not due to my spectacular parenting as I had to stop and think if there were indeed, fifty states.

The one in the middle photo keeps getting disqualified from her heats at swim meets.  She is rebellious and won't follow the rules.  I blame her dad.  She wouldn't sit still and listen to our family reading of The Hobbit.  She made dinner so we forgive her lack of family spirit.

The last one up there gives me anxiety attacks for the teenage years to come.  Her future husband must enjoy  being the steak to her mushrooms, for he will be smothered until he surrenders.  She insisted on unbuttered popcorn...yet will not learn to pop it...so she sits, dejected...like a wounded small elf...on the corner of the couch while we read The Hobbit...until she melts down the side of the couch like so much unwanted butter...and she pouts some more on the floor.

Excerpts of The Hobbit were peppered with the neurotic dog pacing...back and forth...back and forth...doggy toenails on a hardwood floor under vaulted ceilings...Mommy interrupting to say things like

Move that glass, it's going to get spilled.


Don't sit on the couch like that, it's not good for it.


Get your face out of the popcorn bowl.  Yes, I know you're a puppy but you can't put your face in the popcorn bowl.


I know he put his face in, I'm sitting right here!


Be careful of Daddy's stomach, he just had surgery.


Let go.


Be nice.


Shh.


Starving kids in China would LOVE to have Daddy read to them!!


The dishes are piling up...the laundry is too...we lost the car keys for Mike's car...I will have to drive him to work at zero-dark-thirty...bedtime can't come soon enough...

I am blessed.