Cinderella

If you're one of the friends mentioned below, please don't think that this post is in any way written out of any offense whatsoever. IT IS NOT. It just got me thinking about what I want my boys to know about life and fairy tales.

**************************************************

Awhile back, a few of my friends were taking their daughters to see Cinderella. They invited me to go along with them. I couldn't because our afternoon was busy but I remember noticing that they didn't mention my boys. I thought one of two things.

1. It was an outing just for girls. No boys allowed.
2. For whatever reason, they thought my boys wouldn't want to go.

It hardly mattered because I couldn't go anyway and, if I could have gone, I'm sure I could have brought my boys. It's a free theater, after all. Well, I mean, it isn't free. But certain freedoms afforded to me by this country would, in fact, allow me to take them there. Not that I think my friends would have minded in the least.

Last week, I took my boys to see it at the dollar theater which, on Wednesdays, is the fifty cent theater (and you cannot beat that). They both loved the movie.

Today, I was talking about the fact that I'd taken my boys to see it and my friend, who only has girls, seemed genuinely surprised that my boys would want to see such a film.

I suppose I understand where the question comes from. Fairy tales and Disney movies almost always focus on--and title their works after--the heroine. The attention is given to the ballgown, the tiara, the glass slipper. The men are the supporting characters, underdeveloped and secondary to the feminine stars. He often doesn't even have a name. Prince Charming is the moniker given to Snow White's prince, Cinderella's guy and Sleeping Beauty's beau. Either that dude was a polygamist or some of these authors need to get more creative with their names. Where will my boys find themselves in these story lines? What will they learn?

Obviously, I think the stories could be a little more inclusive of men, develop the male characters better, give them names. But aside from these perceived failings, why do we live in a culture in which Cinderella is only for girls? Cinderella has been told and retold countless times by Basile, Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, folklorists, and playwrights (most of them men). It is represented in opera, ballet and theatre.

My boys loved Cinderella because they're children. The idea of a fairy godmother and magic and pumpkins turning into carriages fascinated them. A world in which they can transform their rags to riches is a world their imaginative little minds fully support. Matthew leaned over to me and excitedly asked, just before the clock began to chime, "Does the spell have to break?" As though his every happiness hinged on its lasting forever.

I want my boys to like movies that focus on strong female heroines just like I'd want my daughters (if I had them) to like films about football and dinosaurs. (Or dinosaurs playing football. I'm looking at you, Spielberg. There could be a real market there.) But more than that, I think that, in this film, my boys can find qualities to emulate.

This new version sticks with the general story line we're familiar with in the United States but adds a few different plot elements. ("Prince Charming's" name is Kit!) At it's core, Cinderella is the story of a girl who is kind and courageous though she suffers through dark abuses. It's the story of royalty falling in love with her for who she is and not what she can do for him. It's the story of a kindhearted monarch who will stop at nothing to find his one, true love. It's about the girl being found in a miserable situation by a stand up guy. He wants her...just the way she is. He wants to care for her and protect her but not because she needs him to, because he loves her the right way.

I want both of my boys to meet their Cinderella. (Although I hope, for her sake, that she isn't being horribly mistreated.) I want them to stop at nothing to find her. I want them to love her for her wit, her kindness, her tenderness, her tenacity, and her rags. I want them to love her when the carriage turns back into a pumpkin. I want them to earn her love, her respect, her hand.

We live in a world that says that boys shouldn't like fairy tales, that they should "age out" of Disney movies by the time they're four or five, that they should like movies about war and death and burping. My kids plenty like those types of movies too, don't get me wrong. But I'm going to ride the Cinderella train for as long as I can. Because in well developed heroines, my boys are often exposed to quality women. The kind I hope they find.

We need to stop thinking about Cinderella as a story for girls. The Brothers Grimm certainly didn't. There are enough knives, blood and pecked out eyes in that version to pacify even the manliest of men--and the strong, non-conformist women they've managed to woo.

Pizza. Gone.

So on Friday, after five hours of subbing for a kindergarten class that was so naughty they made it feel like a twelve hour day, I stopped at Papa Murphy's. It was only 2:00 pm but I already knew there was no way I making dinner. I was, maybe, going to have myself a lie down. With a cold compress, a box of chocolates and some soothing music to make up for the day. (Except, yeah right because my very own kindergartner was waiting for me at home. As was my eight-year-old.) I had a coupon that allowed me to get a pizza free and then I somehow let them talk me into upgrading both pies to the family size--since one was free and all. AND THEN, when they asked me if I wanted any cookie dough or cheese bread, I made the BIG, FAT MISTAKE of taking a long look at my options and would you believe that there was a S'mores dessert pizza howling my name?

There was. And it was howling really loudly AND I needed to drown the horrible kindergarten experience with marshmallows and chocolate on top of pizza dough. So, I came home bearing a lot of pizza, is what I'm saying. When my husband saw the load, he asked me why, on earth, there was so much. I explained the FREE and told him we could freeze a whole pizza and pull it out for lunches or whatever.

Except that is SO not what happened.

I do not have a clue in all the world how I will keep my brood (my brood of only TWO) fed when they are teenagers. Because Troy and I are not really big eaters.

Well, okay...Troy is not really a big eater. During the whirlwind eight months that we were dating, I used to take half of my meal home because HE was taking half of his meal home and I couldn't look like the ravenous lion devouring its prey. I'd go home and (NO JOKE) finish the meal. After a few kisses and a few thoughts about how, hey, LOVE OF MY LIFE AND I THINK I'LL JUST GO AHEAD AND MARRY YOU, I decided that if we were living in the same house he would see me finishing my dinner at home so I might as well just start eating my food right there in the restaurant. In front of him.

But. Anyway. We didn't eat that much pizza. It's the five-year-old trash compactor and his brother, the eight-year-old pizza consuming boss. One entire family sized pizza disappeared on Friday night and there was Jello parfait and a tossed salad accompanying it. It's not like I just threw down a pizza without the hope of getting something green into them. By yesterday, BOTH of those huge pizzas were gone.

Gone.

As if they'd never existed in the first place.

The teenage years are going to kill me dead.

A Gaping Lip

I don't think of myself as a freak out kind of parent. They fall. They bleed. They bruise. And, while sometimes kids have terrible, life ending accidents, our track record so far is pretty good. No deaths yet. I use the word "yet" rather lightly because, with these crazies, there's just no telling what kinds of catastrophes lie just around the corner. Armed with the knowledge that it'll be a not-so-small miracle if I get these boys raised and out of my house in one piece, I don't tend to overreact.

Last night might have been an exception.

I felt calm, cool and collected. I didn't panic. But, in retrospect, I was moving way too fast and barking orders at people. What I needed to do was hit the pause button for a minute, assess the situation, and proceed in a slightly less hypermom manner.

Matthew fell roughly five feet from a wooden landing and broke his fall, on the bleachers, with his lip. I heard the thud and had turned to see what all the commotion was before he started crying. I sprinted to him but another mom got there first. She thrust a napkin onto his lip and hollered for her husband to get her a wet one. I reached him and saw, through continuous spurts of blood, that his lip was mangled. A huge chunk hung off. The split, not clean but fracturing off in two or three different directions, was deep.

I yelled down to Troy, "We're going to the ER." The other mom put a wet napkin on his lip.

I scooped him up, Troy gathered our belongings, I shouted for my friend to, "PLEASE BRING GARRETT HOME FROM PRACTICE AND I'LL GET HIM FROM YOU LATER!" I'd like to think that it was more, "Can you keep Garrett for me?" and less, "YOU WILL TAKE HIM TO YOUR HOUSE AND CARE FOR HIM, PROVIDING FOR HIS EVERY NEED, UNTIL MY CHILD'S LIP IS BACK IN ONE PIECE!" But I'm kind of afraid it was more of the second. Good thing she's one of my best friends and I don't typically demand things of her. Or, really, ever.

Once we had buckled Matthew into the car, and Troy had taken a booster seat to my friend, my husband turned and said, "Remember when Garrett bit his tongue?" It was our decade of married life telepathy at work. He said, "Remember when Garrett bit his tongue?" And I thought, They aren't going to do anything about this lip. They'll just look at it and send us home.

But how would I know for sure? I had just taken him in to urgent care on Saturday for humongous bug bites that just kept getting bigger. What kind of mother takes her kid to urgent care for bug bites but skips it when his lip is hanging open? I called my friend who works for our pediatrician. I explained the wound. She assured me that they wouldn't stitch the inside of his lip. So we headed back in to watch the last half of practice.

I apologized to my friend for being so demanding. She forgave me. She's a good one like that. Also, I don't think she really felt slighted in any way. So that helps. I snapped a picture of Matthew's lip with my phone. "Stick out your lip, Buddy."

About 5:00 pm

"Hmmm. No. It looks way worse in person than it looks on my phone. Stick it out some more."

About 5:01 pm

There. That's it. I mean, it looked even worse in reality but this picture is at least close. It shows the chunk of lip that was just kind of hanging there, anyway. I'm aware that it looks like his tongue. he's just really good at flipping his entire lower lip out. He's perfected it with his Hi-I'm-the-baby-and-I-can-get-what-I-want-by-sticking-this-lip-out-and-staring-at-you-with-my-big-sad-chocolate-eyes pout.

I decided to take a picture of it just before he went to bed last night. Some of the swelling had gone down and it was cleaned up a little bit.

About 8:00 pm

At about 11:00, I went in to check on him. His lip at somehow opened again in his sleep and his lips were stuck together with a sort of bloody adhesive. The corners of his mouth had pools of dried blood. We woke him up and cleaned up his lips. It still looked really gross and I was wondering if I'd have to keep him home from preschool.

But then he slept for eight more hours and when he woke up his lip looked like this...

8:35 am

I love watching the body healing in the miraculous way God intended it to. Within fifteen hours of traumatizing his lip, the gaping hole had filled. A white covering was stretched across the wound. It's tender and swollen and frail, but already well on its way to complete recovery with absolutely no medical intervention.

My personal nurse/friend called this morning to see how he's doing. She said that by tomorrow we should see incredible improvement. "I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:14

Memorial Day

On Friday I got the wild idea that WE SHOULD TOTALLY GO CAMPING ON SUNDAY NIGHT! WE CAN TAKE THE LITTLE TENT!! INSTEAD OF THE GIANT TENT!!! IT'LL BE A BLAST!!!! I got the husband on board and we were set. Except I needed to find a campsite. 

And that proved to be a bit difficult. What with Sunday being Memorial Day Eve and all. Troy and I simultaneously had the same thought, "BACKYARD CAMP OUT!" Mostly because, after ten and a half years of marriage, we've started thinking each other's thoughts. Or something. The boys, who did not know that we had considered going actual camping, were thrilled.

We BBQ'd hamburgers and hot dogs, ate corn on the cob, fresh fruit and potato chips. Then we washed all of that down with Cookie S'mores. (S'mores, take away chocolate, take away graham crackers, add chocolate chip cookies.) Also, it has been brought to my attention that no backyard camp out is complete without a Power Ranger.

I texted this picture to my mom and, approximately five seconds after doing so, Garrett declared, "Put away your phone! Put down your Internet! THIS IS A CAMPING TRIP AND WE DON'T HAVE THOSE THINGS ON CAMPING TRIPS!" I did as I was told. 

The universe is almost short one neighbor. You see, when a dog barks All. Night. Long. I don't actually get mad at the dog. I get mad at the owner. Because. SERIOUSLY? Can you not hear that? And if you really, truly can't, I recommend having your ears checked. I thought about banging on the door at 4:15 am to say, "BRING YOUR DOG IN NOW OR YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE IT IN THE MORNING!" I considered putting the dog in my own house so that maybe, just maybe, it would shut up so that my family might sleep. I considered murder. I did none of these things. I have no follow through to my grand plans.

At 8:30 this morning we met our friends at their house and headed across the valley to Bell Canyon.

And up, up, straight up, we went for two miles that took forever and a day because the trail is narrow and everyone (EVERYONE AND THEIR MAMA AND THEIR SISTER AND THEIR ELEVEN KIDS--because, Utah.) decided to hike that trail for Memorial Day. There was a lot of, "Sorry!" "Thank you!" "Coming through!" "Good morning!" 

First, we stopped at the reservoir which was less than half a mile up the trail.

My boys were thrilled to be hiking with their best friends in the whole wide world.

Then we hiked along the river. There were so many beautiful spots and I was glad that we had our good camera. I was not glad to see it flashing, "NO MEMORY CARD!" See, last night, during our camp out, the boys and their father made a cops and robbers short film. One of the adults in this relationship (not the one surprised to see that the camera had no memory card) forgot to take the card out of the computer when he--or she (NOT)--was finished loading the video.

One of the adults in this relationship might have said to the other one, "I'm sorry. Are you really going to let it ruin your day?" Because the other adult might have been about to have a hissy fit over it. The near hissy fit thrower might have decided that probably the other person was right. Even if she (or he) hates to admit it. She (or he) was happy to have a phone that takes good pictures.

Our kids were troopers, climbing, climbing, climbing the fairly steep trail until we reached our destination.

Unfortunately, we had to slide down a very muddy hill to get pictures of the waterfall and there just wasn't a great angle. Plus the sun was making it impossible to see my phone so I just clicked away and hoped to get something decent.

My children were covered (from head to sneaker clad toe) in mud. So much mud, they had to ride home in their undies but don't tell anyone because this brings the almost eight-year-old a great deal of humiliated feelings.

Also, I am WAY TOO HARD ON MY OLDEST KID and WAY TOO SOFT ON MY YOUNGEST and HOW DID THIS HAPPEN BECAUSE I AM AN OLDEST CHILD. The oldest fell into the mud first. In large part, I think he wanted this to happen. He is always "accidentally" falling into water. Or mud. Or whatever it is we probably don't want him falling into. The probability of it always being an accident is very low. So today, when he fell and covered himself in sticky muck like a pig in the dead of summer, I yelled, "GARRETT! COME ON! HOW ARE YOU GOING TO RIDE HOME?" (In his undies, actually.)

Not five minutes later, Matthew did the same, exact thing. Having been present for the oldest's lecture, he quickly said, "I'm sorry, Mommy. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay, baby. Hop up."

For real. Those were my reactions to my two children getting covered in mud. Now, in reality, I saw both happen. The first one looked like the acting in a B rated film. Controlled fall, covered in mud, "HOWEVER did that happen?" The second looked like a legitimate slip. But still. It's like I expect Garrett to act like a sixteen-year-old girl in an etiquette class and I expect Matthew to act like a two-year-old cross between a golden retriever and a real, live boy. What is wrong with me?

At least I recognized it, right? Does that get me some points? After careful self examination I have declared myself NOT mother of the year.

I'm going to take parenting classes. I think I'll let my first grader teach them, just as a way of saying, "Apparently, I expect way more out of you. Whoops. Sorry for that. Also sorry for that ulcer you're developing. Here's 200 bucks. That oughta pay for your first therapy session."

On that note, Happy Memorial Day!

FYI: Garrett is Still Alive

My children. They are made of sticks and stumps and dirt and bugs and exploration. They are part mountain goat, part wild man, part nature lover and all boy. Once a year, the Boy Scouts hold a scouting expo. It's designed, I think, to both encourage boys to join scouts as well as serve as a networking/social opportunity for those already involved. We currently fall into the former. But my boys need no incentive. They want to be Boy Scouts. (And, soon enough, that dream will be a reality.)

Today was the day of the expo. And this was one of the highlights.

Matthew, only five, climbed like a champ. He didn't make it all the way to the top but he got pretty close. When he was about halfway up, Troy and I switched places. Garrett was on the other side of the rock. So Troy came to watch Matthew and I went to snap a picture or two of Garrett.

Garrett scurried up this rock like it was nobody's business. Come to find out, by that point in the day, only five people had made it to the top via this side of the rock. Garrett turned out to be one of them. I told him if he made it up I'd snap his picture. 

So once he reached the upper limit, I positioned my camera. "Okay, let go..." the teenager holding his rope called up. And so he did.

And it is just no wonder that this child has a skull fracture. He probably has several. I don't really know what happened, exactly. When Garrett let go, he swung wildly to the right, dropped at least five feet (maybe more) before being "caught", swung like a pendulum back to the left, crashed into the rock wall, bounced away from the wall, crashed into it again, and then hung upside down as they slowly lowered him to the ground.

That's him, there. In the white helmet. Upside down. The ONLY reason I got this shot is because I'd already pressed the button to take a picture of him securely at the top. By the time my phone finally snapped the picture, he was at least five feet lower and upside down. I've NEVER seen the look he wore on his face while he free fell. It was a look that screamed, "I am going to die RIGHT now and the guy TOLD me to let go and now death is imminent." Except I don't think my seven-year-old knows the definition of imminent. So maybe his look conveyed more of, "DEATH! NOW!"

I didn't know what was happening, exactly. I wasn't sure what had malfunctioned or been operated incorrectly or what was going on but I started to lunge forward. I have no idea what I thought I'd do. There's no way I would have reached him in time if he'd continued to plummet. He was about 20 to 25 feet in the air. He probably would have bounced. But, well, he might have actually had a broken neck this time. And broken arms, ribs, cheek bones, clavicle. You name it, he may have busted it. The sky's the limit, really. Or, in this case, the ground's the limit.

My motto with these guys is that it's a fine line between keeping them alive and letting them live. I want them to live. I want them to suck the marrow out of life, to explore, to dare, to experience the rush of conquering fear. I don't want them to have regrets. If, in order for them to truly live, they must have an extreme existence, they may have it with my blessing. But my goodness, it's going to be a miracle if I manage to keep them alive.

Manure

When the Little Buddy was a bit smaller, he ate dirt. He ate kind of a lot of dirt. I mentioned it to the pediatrician. He didn't seem overly concerned. Later, it reached unfortunate levels and we began rationing the amount of time he could play outside. Because, see, every time he went out he ran straight to a muddy part of the yard and shoveled in as many fistfuls as he could before I scooped him up. He was tiny. His language was at a minimum. Still, when I asked if he could play outside without eating dirt he said yes even though the answer was a clear no. Then, when I asked him why he was doing it, the answer was a slightly less clear, "Ah dunno!"

He grew out of it.

A few days ago, we discovered an unattractive shade of dirt lipstick smeared around his mouth. His daddy talked to him about not eating dirt. I'm not sure why, but we didn't think much about it.

This afternoon he was playing in the yard. He came in with dirt in the corners of his mouth. Concerned about what is going on in his little life to make him turn to a lifestyle that will, one day, land him on an episode of My Strange Addiction, I decided to get to the bottom of it.

"Show me where you got the dirt," I told him, so calmly that I was actually pretty proud of my parenting skills.

He marched me right over to his old stomping grounds, the part of our yard that we've attempted to grow a garden in but mostly to no avail. We didn't even try this year. "Right there." He pointed to the dark dirt. The dirt that we bought last year when we were hardcore about getting our garden to grow. The dirt that isn't really dirt at all but is, in fact, steer manure. BECAUSE OF COURSE IT IS.

It's alarming how often I use my theatre degree in my every day life. I mean, really. Everyone should have to take extensive acting training before becoming a mother. Because listen! I didn't freak out AT ALL when I realized that my kid had been eating bovine excrement. I mean, I wanted to. I wanted to scream and stick my finger down his throat right then and there but I refrained. And people say dramatic training is worthless. Ha.

"Okay. How much did you eat?"

"That much," he said. "Right there." He pointed to a tiny mound of dark dirt. "That's where I spit it out."

"Wait," I said. HOLD THE PHONE. "Did you swallow any?"

"No," he shook his head.

"You didn't put any in your tummy?"

"No. Only my mouth."

"Why?" I asked. "Why did you put it in your mouth?"

He sighed as though our conversation was boring him to tears. "I was making a castle for the ants."

WHY DON'T THESE LITTLE HUMANS COME WITH A MANUAL? I mean, really. If I could just open up his guidebook and turn to the chapter that explains the correlation between putting feces in the mouth and making castles, I'd be golden.

Instead I just stammered, "What?"

"Mommy! See that! That's a castle FOR THE ANTS. I made them a castle to play in. Like at the beach."

The utter confusion was slowly being replaced by a dawning of enlightenment. "Okay and you put it in your mouth because..." I trailed off. He blinked his big chocolate eyes at me.

"I had to make it wet and sticky to build it right," he explained with a tone that said, Lady, everyone knows that dry sand does not a castle make. The wet stuff is where it's at. Come on! You're from California. YOU SHOULD KNOW.

"Alright," I sighed. I took his little hand and we walked back toward the house. Once inside, I bent down to his level, wiped his lips and told him not to do that anymore. "Matthew, that wasn't dirt you put in your mouth. It was manure."

"What's manure?" he questioned.

"Poop," I said bluntly. He seemed moderately disturbed.

I wish I could make this stuff up. In fact, in this case, I wish I HAD MADE THIS STUFF UP. Unfortunately, it's just another day. Because these boys--they really are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. And, if it's true that we are what we eat (or, at least, put into our mouths), apparently also steer manure.

Bumps & Nails

The boys were outside playing. Matthew came to get me stating that Garrett was hurt and crying. I went out to investigate. Sure enough, there the oldest was, crying and holding his head, carrying two soft(ish) swords. He'd been in a dual with a much bigger boy from across the street. The bigger boy had hit him square across the head. A large bump was protruding from the side of his forehead. I brought him in, got him ice, and put him on my bed.

Not ten minutes later, Matthew was in the playroom cleaning up. Suddenly I heard a loud bump and then an instant and ear piercing scream. I ran to him. He'd somehow managed to run straight into the doorknob. A bump to rival his brother's was already sticking out from his head. "Garrett," I said, "Quick, give me that bag of ice."

"But it's on my head," the older brother protested.

"I know, but it's been there for awhile, let me put it on Matthew's."

There I sat with both of the Bump Brothers. Two goose eggs separated by minutes.

As wounds often do, Matthew's sent him into a downward spiral stopped only by the sweet bliss of sleep. His first day of school is tomorrow so I cut his nails after I'd finished brushing his teeth. For some reason that I'll never quite understand, he became attached to one of his big toe nails. He insisted he was going to keep it. I know that as a mom I'm not supposed to be sweating the small stuff but I have to draw the line somewhere. Storing old, dirty toe nails is just not going to happen. I threw it away.

He erupted into wails and sobs that sounded like he'd hit his head on the doorknob again. Except, no. This was over a toe nail. I told him to go get in bed. Wracking grief consumed him. "Hey, calm down, you're gonna waste all the tears in your little head," Garrett scolded him. I would have told him to leave the parenting to me but I was too busy laughing.

"BUT IT WAS MY BEST FRIEND. I LOVE THAT TOE NAIL SO MUCH. I'LL NEVER LOVE ANOTHER TOE NAIL AS MUCH AS I LOVE THAT ONE! I HAVE TO HAVE IT BACK!"

All I could do was smile. Because sometimes being a mom is all fun and games and sweetness and light. And sometimes it's a pair of matching head lumps and a dirty toe nail that is, apparently, a four-year-old's best friend.

The One With the Bloody Fingertip

We took a trip to the urgent care yesterday, Matthew and I. It started out innocently enough. I asked him to throw away a can. I'd left a tiny part of the lid attached and, somehow, he managed to slice his finger on it. Blood poured out. It dripped on the floor. It filled paper towel after paper towel. It would not stop.

We were waiting for an A/C repair man who was supposed to have been to the house two hours before but hadn't showed up yet. I continued to apply pressure, called Troy, told him I thought I needed him to come home, made sandwiches with one hand, and got Matthew ready to go. Troy got home just a few minutes before the repair guy appeared. He wrapped Matthew's finger up tightly and I put my son in the car, instructing him to keep his hand over a bowl so that he didn't bleed all over the new (to us) van. One day, not too many years from now, he'll be on a couch somewhere, citing this moment.

"That's when I knew I was doomed, doctor. That's when I knew my mother had real issues that she was going to pass on to me. She cared more about the interior of a seven-year-old vehicle than she cared about me."

I'd seen enough of the cut to know it needed stitches.

Except when I got there, the doctor told me that the fingertip is the most painful place to stitch. He said that, though it did need stitches, the fingertips are also quick to heal and he'd prefer not to traumatize my son. He said it would alter his fingerprint but that it didn't matter because he's only four and doesn't have a record.

I interjected, "Oh, little do you know." And realistically, well, the kid has plenty of motive he just lacks opportunity. If one could be arrested on sheer dramatic emotion alone, he'd have a record more robust than the day is long.

The doctor also mentioned that he couldn't go in the water for at least eight days but that, with stitches, it would be ten. Our trip to Tahoe commences in one week. He bandaged it up and gave me instructions to change the dressing once a day for at least a week and then to keep a band-aid on it while it continues to heal.

He's four years old and mad as a hornet that he has to wear a bulky bandage on his finger. I can't even imagine what would have happened if we'd had to hold him down and stitch the sucker. Someone would have ended up with a black eye, of this I'm sure. And it wouldn't have been Matthew.

Last night, at our church softball game, he got the dressing filthy--despite my many instructions about STAYING AWAY FROM THE DIRT--and we had to change it prematurely. As soon as we took the bandage off, it started to bleed again. It wasn't bleeding as badly as it had earlier in the day so I got a better look. That cut is deep.

I'm certainly glad that we didn't have to traumatize him with stitches to the fingertip but I'm beginning to wonder just how long it's going to take this thing to heal. And just how mad my son is going to be every time we put yet another bulky bandage on it.

"I want this thing off now, okay?" he says as though it's not up for debate.

"No. You need to keep it on. Your finger has to get all better."

"Um. But it's all better now so I'm going to take it off," he replies.

And I worry (somewhat desperately) what the teenage years with this boy will be like.

Little (Dirty) Loves

These are my kids on Mother's Day.

Oh man. I love them something terrible. Like, rip my own heart out of my chest and let them walk around squeezing it and using it like a kick ball. That's how much. Sometimes, when I see them, they take my breath away. 

And then, sometimes, when I see them, they're standing in the middle of an incredible mess, they've broken 43 rules, and attempted to maim one another. Then I wonder what went through my tiny, pea brain when I concocted this idea of being a mom.

But mostly they take my breath away.

The oldest one just moved up to a level G today in his reading. That's getting pretty close to a second grade reading level. He also swims now. He can do a 25 freestyle and a 25 backstroke. I joked with his dad the other day that his backstroke looks better than mine. While not entirely true, it isn't far from it. In my defense, I'm a terrible backstroker. (I'm not actually sure that's a defense but I'll take what I can get.) He's a pretty great kid.

But, of course, he thinks passing gas is gut busting hilarious, he finds dirt and mud every which place and insists on wearing it, and, yesterday, at Matthew's field trip, declared to all the other moms in a very loud voice, "MY MOTHER IS SO WEIRD." So, I mean, in case you were starting to think it was all great all the time, well, it isn't. Apparently they only make it to six before you start to humiliate them by your mere existence.

Speaking of finding mud every which place and insisting on wearing it...

Just...

This...

One day, the boys were playing together in the backyard. We were inside. This is what we found. I don't know little girls who would do this. I'm sure they exist but generally aren't they all about painted nails and tea parties? Not, like, rolling around in a mud puddle like a little piggy? 

In other news, this kid read several two letter words yesterday. I had no idea he had it in him. I was pretty floored. He also appeared to be the social glue that was holding his preschool class together on their field trip. You might have been able to knock me clean over with a feather. As he saw all of the other kids in their matching shirts he went running up, waving frantically, "Hi Ehwa! Hi! Hi Emawee! Hi Beckett! Hi Ehwee! Hi you! Hehwo!"

What an incredible difference nine months makes.

Little Men

This morning, my four-year-old referred to his breakfast as oatmeal and I almost cried. One of his last remaining baby words was the much loved "oh-pino" and now I am sad.

Thankfully, his older brother still says "vitafin" and "ah-post" instead of vitamin and supposed.

They're not little for long enough, is the thing. One second they're small and not sleeping through the night and the next minute they're eating their oatmeal for breakfast.

Last night, when I climbed into the bunk bed to read to the boys, my oldest said, "Ew! Do you smell that?" Then there was a dramatic pause before he announced, "I cut the cheese."

They start off so small and cuddly and then they turn into dirty, smelly little men who say things like, "Cut the cheese."

Even the youngest yesterday was found sitting calmly outside with a stick. "What are you doing?" I asked him.

"I'm squishing bugs until they have blood."

Thankfully, I grew up with a brother. Still, these things, these boys, are somewhat foreign to me.

Tongues Aren't Supposed to Look Like That!

Having kids, boys especially, is not for the faint of heart. Because, you see, sometimes they decide to nearly bite their tongues clean off.

Give a boy a tree and he'll find a way to get himself a pretty disgusting injury and knock four teeth loose.

I am thankful that we have people in our church who work in the medical profession. Because, you see, with the amount of bright red blood pouring out of my son's mouth last night, I would have rushed him to the nearest ER as soon as I'd taken a good look at his filleted tongue. Thankfully, my friend applied enough pressure to slow the bleeding. She got a good look at it (several millimeters deep and sliced in a different direction inside than it is on the top). She texted the doctor she works for. Her husband texted the doctor he works for. And we were sent home with instructions to feed him a soft, smooth diet until it has healed.

The mouth is a wondrous thing. The bloody, bruised slice you see in the picture already has a white film over it. It looks ten times better, just twelve hours later. The swelling, however, is still substantial.

"Calm down, Mama," a friend told me last night as fifteen or so people gathered around my son to watch his wound bleed profusely. "Deep breath. He'll be fine."

"Oh, I'm not freaking out," I told her. "It's just disgusting and it makes me want to throw up."

And I wasn't freaking out. Because I have two boys and I figure this isn't even close to the worst thing I'm going to see.

My Daughter

It started innocently enough.

See. This is Garrett.

He wants to have "surfer" hair and it's taking f.o.r.e.v.e.r. 

We buzzed his head last June before we went to Hawaii. We cut it again in August just before school started. And he's been growing it out ever since. Every morning we have a routine of dousing his head with water, parting it on the side, and spraying a sea salt hair product into it so that it has that "I just got out of the ocean" quality. Except that as soon as it dries, the part we combed to the side flops into his face, as is evidenced by the above picture. Yes. Meet Garrett. My little ragamuffin whose hair appears to be growing in reverse.

So the other night, after his hair was washed, I decided to clip the "bangs" portion over to the side in the hopes that it would dry that way and remain. I snapped a hair clip into it and wah-la there before me stood the daughter I've never had. This led to comments from my husband about how very much indeed my son looks like me. I don't argue with the people who say things like, "Did you even contribute to the DNA because he looks just like Troy." I don't disagree because I've got the proof in a photo album that's 25 years old. 

 Anyway.

This led to me calling him all manner of girly names and him thinking it would be hysterically hilarious if I dressed him up like a girl. He will go to his grave saying that I forced it upon him but that is simply not true. When he finds himself on the couch of a psychologist some day, claiming that it all went wrong when his MOTHER MADE HIM DRESS LIKE A GIRL, he will be lying and will only have himself to blame.

I don't have girl clothes. Well, I mean. I have girl clothes but I had nothing to dress my six-year-old boy in to make him look like a girl. So I improvised.

The hair is still a little too short but I think you get the idea.

The idea being that Troy and I would have made an awfully adorable daughter.

He requested the make-up. HE DID. Not me. I only applied it.

Once upon a time, 25 (or so) years ago, my family was in Lake Tahoe. My mom bought me a ring at a craft fair there. It was my first ever ring and I cherished it. My fingers grew and, eventually, I was only able to wear it on my pinkie finger. After Garrett had adequately been turned into a female, but before we snapped any pictures, I yelled, "WAIT!" I flung open the drawer on my jewelry box and pulled the ring out. I slipped it onto his finger...

It was a perfect fit.

He went back and forth between giggling like the very best school girl and yelling, "HURRY UP! WHAT IF SOMEONE PEERS INTO OUR WINDOW AND SEES ME? WHAT IF A PLANE FLIES BY AND SOMEONE LOOKS OUT THEIR WINDOW AND INTO OURS AND SEES ME? I WOULD DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT. HURRY UP! I NEED TO TURN MYSELF BACK INTO A MAN!"

I don't really think we need to be concerned with the fact that Garrett might start identifying as a girl because just a few days before I'd caught him like this.

That's not dirt, friends. That's a pool full of manure. Don't worry--he took an extra long shower not five minutes later.

After he was finished de-girling himself, he asked his father to turn him into a manly man. Here's what they came up with.

 And, because the many faces of Garrett have graced this post with their presence, I thought I'd leave you one of Matthew.

Today was Matthew's last indoor soccer game. After two straight games of scoring zero goals, he went out with a bang and scored four. His total on the year was 13. Not too bad considering they only play eight games.

Why We Wear Helmets

"Come quick! Garrett got really hurt riding his bike in the cul-de-sac!" his friend stood on my porch telling me last Wednesday. I was wearing boots.

I know I was wearing boots because I tore out of my house and sprinted down the street in them. Them boots weren't made for walkin' let alone runnin'. I slowed my sprint to a quick lumber when I saw my son standing--alive--in the green grass of the corner lot. His bike was on the ground, an elderly man was standing next to him, and Garrett was holding his helmet in his hands with a bewildered look.

As I reached him, I saw the blood spluttering out of his elbow. He was violently and successfully fighting to hold his tears back.

"He was going too fast. He was going too fast," the old man, clearly rattled, continued to say. Still, I asked what happened.

"He was going too fast. He hit something in the middle of the road and flew up and over his handlebars. He landed on his head. He was going too fast."

"Thank you," I told the man as I surveyed Garrett's broken helmet. Thankfully, only the visor had broken off. His bike seat was twisted 45 degrees off of straight. The man walked across the street and climbed into his car. Apparently, he'd been driving down the road and witnessed the TOO FAST and the FLYING OVER HANDLEBARS.

I thought about how it could have ended so much worse. He could have ridden his bike straight into the old man's oncoming car. He could have neglected to put his helmet on. He could have cracked his head open or caused brain damage or, I suppose, in a worst case scenario kind of way, he could have died.

But he walked away with a busted visor, a bloody elbow and a very sore neck.

And I am ever so thankful that he's alright and that he got a front row seat at the Why We Wear Helmets Convention totally free of charge. Not that he ever argued about it before but he's not likely to now.

Dessert

Not long ago, The Rock Star asked if we could roast marshmallows. Since there was no camping trip in our near future, we don't have any kind of outdoor fire ring and our fireplace is gas, we were kind of limited. But Daddy had an answer.

"Yes."

Turned out, we only had mini marshmallows.

It worked out okay. Except for every fifth second when The Rock Star lit his marshmallow on fire and then swung it around in his dad's face yelling, "Daddy! Help! Daddy! AH!"

We also happened to have tiny graham cracker cookies. And the minis'more was born.

And there was much rejoicing.

My Theory

Well, I think we've cracked the mystery of what happened to Matthew. We don't know yet if it's broken--and won't until Monday--but we've likely discovered the cause of whatever it is that ails him.

Yesterday, with full splint on, Matthew jumped four stairs. He started one stair short of the kitchen and leaped to the family room. Four stairs. In a splint. With a probable broken leg. He gets this from his brother who will climb up anything and jump off everything.

So here is my theory. I think Matthew jumped down the flight of stairs. He's done it before and I've told him, every time I've seen him do it, "Stop. You're going to break your leg." Sometimes I throw in neck in place of leg. You know, to mix things up. Thankfully, the way it played out, his neck has nothing to do with it. We found him sitting at the top of that flight of stairs so I think he turned and crawled back up. That's when he started complaining about being hurt. I can't imagine that he put any weight on it by walking up the stairs because he screamed bloody murder when he put weight on it at the restaurant. Troy changed his shoes, sitting right there on the steps, picked him up and carried him to the car.

The doctor's guess, a hairline fracture of the tibia. My guess, a wounded toddler--probably a hairline fracture of the tibia--caused by a kid who didn't believe his mother when she said, "Don't do that! You're going to break your leg!"

Snow!

The Rock Star wanted a snowboard from Santa. He saw it in the sporting goods section of Target and, suddenly, he had eyes for nothing else. It's a training snowboard designed for children and, with a price tag that was less than $20, we just needed to decide if we wanted Santa to bring our son a vehicle of injury, destruction and death. But we're into sports, risk taking within reason, and letting our kids explore, learn, and grow in age appropriate ways.

So, pretty much he had us at, "I want a snowboard."

He got a helmet from his cousin and serious instructions from us that he would be using this injury trap only on very small hills with very slight inclines.

But then we went through the entire month of December with no snow. Christmas came and went. Garrett spent the days after Christmas asking me if he could snowboard down the stairs. Or on the dirt outside. Or if I would pretty please take him to Alaska.

When I woke up this morning there was snow on the ground. There was only one sensible thing to do. We all climbed into our winter gear.

Future snow bunny? Future winter Olympian? Future X Game Athlete? Future boy that gives his mom daily heart palpitations? That jacket, by the way, was originally an 80 dollar item.  Let's just say I got a really good deal. At Ross. I love good deals. I handed them a twenty and it was covered. But let's get this rabbit back on it's original trail...

Or, this snowboarder back on his board.

The first time we put him on the little hill, he fell over. Troy stood him up and walked with him until he got balanced. Then Garrett went a few feet alone before the incline leveled out. I caught it on camera but it wasn't nearly as impressive as his second run.

We went to a steeper hill because we also wanted to sled and that wasn't happening at the toddler slope. Garrett spent some time on his keister but impressed us with his ability to balance and stay upright at only five.

We also went sledding. There wasn't much snow so the hill was slow--pretty perfect for the boys, actually. If it hadn't been so cold we might have stayed all afternoon.

In the end Matthew began repeating, "My cheeks cold. My cheeks cold. My face hurts." But not before he laughed and smiled and said, "Again!" over and over.

It's a good thing we got to go out today because it's not supposed to snow again for at least another ten days. This is some kind of bizarre winter. (Has mother nature listened to me at last?)

Moses and Daniel

Toads.

We have two.

The Rock Star named them Moses and Daniel. Moses is appropriate given the whole plague of frogs thing. And Daniel, apparently, is Garrett's favorite character in the Bible. Well, next to Jesus but even Garrett had the good sense not to name a toad after our Savior.

It all started when toads showed up at Troy's softball game, courtesy of a couple from our church who now live in Wyoming. Apparently they have an infestation of toads. They're home for a visit and they brought a bunch of these creatures back with them. At one point during the game, my son came to me with big, bright, eyes. "Tyler says I can take them home!"

Sweet, adorable boy who once occupied my womb, say what?

Oh yeah. I heard him right.

When the game was over I talked to Troy. You know, figuring that he would say no. He told me it was up to me. No. It was up to him. No. It was up to me. You see where this was going. Our major concern was that we're leaving soon for a road trip. Garrett's solution to this, "They can sit next to me in the car!"

"How will we get them home tonight?"

His answer, "I can put them in my pockets!"

I looked at my friend, Abi. "It's become evident to me that I'm raising one of the Little Rascals."

Troy and I went back and forth. I finally broke the news to my precious son, the one I was now imagining in overalls with no shirt, a toad in his pocket and a club house with a He Man Woman Haters sign on the door. "No." I whispered gently.

I expected a fit. He didn't throw a tantrum. Instead, his eyes welled up with tears, his spirit fell and his lower lip began to quiver and I realized that this was one of those "pick your battles" moments. I could crush him and possibly deal a blow that he would remember into adulthood. "Once, when I was four, my mom wouldn't let me have toads." Or I could acquiesce.

I struck a compromise. We'll own pet toads for approximately two weeks. The plan, after that, is to release them into our garden.

Moses and Daniel are currently living in our butterfly habitat (boy has that thing come in handy!) where they've consumed crickets, sat in a dish of water, and played hide and seek in the weeds. Occasionally we get them out and let them hop around--being sure, of course, to keep them away from our cat because I really don't want amphibian carnage strewn about.

It really is another opportunity for my sons to see God's creations up close. It's also another opportunity for me to realize, as I'm grabbing crickets with my bare hands and getting urinated on by toads, that I should have seen my all boy world coming. I should have seen it coming from a mile away.

Mystery Substance

"Oh no!" The Rock Star cried. "Matthew is covered in _________! You'd better come see this!"

It was in his hair, on his face, all over his clothes and...well...caked into the carpet and various crevasses on multiple toys.He'd been upstairs, playing. I heard him squealing and bumping around and assumed--wrongly--that he was simply entertaining himself in the playroom. Well, no, wait. He was entertaining himself in the playroom.
Troy busied himself cleaning the floor and the toys. I busied myself cleaning the child. We thanked Garrett for bringing it to our attention before it got any worse. Although, honestly, I don't know that it could have gotten any worse.

So. Any guesses? What mystery substance do you think my son is coated in?