All in the Eye of the Beholder

So, today I was shopping with Sam Sam. A display of fake eyelashes for Halloween caught his eye and he asked if we could get some. I said no. Besides the fact that he's a 2 year old boy, Sammy is the last person who needs fake eyelashes. Any mascara model would kill for his forever-long beautiful lashes that were clearly wasted on a boy. But then I started thinking about my eyelashes. I've never had big, full lashes. I just don't. I blame genetics. But, I didn't think they were that bad until my little sister wanted to give me a makeover and commented on them with a subtle, “Wow, your eyelashes are really short.” It had never really occurred to my consciousness what short, stubby eyelashes I have. It makes sense now, why I always get excited about new mascara commercials. I spent some time in the mirror that afternoon, staring at them. I tried batting them. It just looked like I had something in my eye. I tried opening my eyes really wide. Then I just looked surprised. And I got wrinkles on my forehead. So, I thought, what if I did get some fake eyelashes. Obviously I couldn't just start wearing long, luscious lashes right away. People would do a double take, and then probably start laughing. No, maybe I could sort of graft them in over time. I'd start out with some short stubby fakes, and then gradually replace them. Every week I'd do another sixteenth of an inch or so. Then, after about a month and a half, I'd have these long, beautiful, innocent-yet-so-seductive eyelashes. People on the street would stop and stare, this time in the good way. But then there's the issue of maintenance. If they were to fall off, there could be problems. Especially if they fell off while I was talking to someone. “And then I walked into Ann Taylor Loft and I saw—what? Is something wrong? What are you looking at? Why do you look afraid?” I'd smack into walls as I covered my eyes and ran blushing out of the building. Or worse, what if only one of them fell off and I didn't notice? The person I'd be talking to would look from eye to eye, trying to figure out what in the world was wrong with my eyes, and what that hairy caterpillar-like thing was doing on the collar of my shirt. They'd start unconsciously toying with their own eyelashes. Then when they figured it out, they'd be too nice to laugh. Instead, they'd kind of cough and say (fluttering their hand around their eye) things like, “Um, you've...got...um..kind of...right...there...sort of..” They'd never be able to get it out, so they'd quickly excuse themselves from the situation. And I wouldn't understand, until, that night, after a day of running errands in public, when I looked in the bathroom mirror. And then I'd move to Canada.

I think I'd better stick with my own “fun size” eyelashes and keep hoping for some new miracle mascara.

What a trip...

We decided to go to my family's home in Kansas for Labor Day weekend. Road trips. That, my friend, is some good quality family time. Seven hours is a substantial time in the car together. In Europe, I'm not even sure it's legal. But, it doesn't start when you close the door to your not-hip minivan. No, it starts way before, when you're packing for every conceivable emergency. You pack the usual: snacks (fun enough to excite the kids but healthy enough to ease your guilt), drinks (that won't stain the new seats of your not-hip minivan), toys and entertaining-yet-educational books. Then there's the one's that only moms think of. There's the butter knife (the ugly college one that Josh contributed to the marriage) that you'll use to spread peanut butter for sandwiches and then later use as a tool to fix the jet ski that left you stranded in the middle of Winfield City Lake. There's the entire tub of wipes that are used for diapers, wiping hands and faces and will later be used for hats and then thrown at the windows when your kids get really bored. There's the little paper cups that you'll use to control drink portions and then later tear the bottoms out and hand them out in pairs as binoculars for a rousing game of I Spy.

You know that about a half hour into your trip your child will need to use the bathroom. So you'll look and look for a rest stop or a gas station. When you find the gas station, you'll go inside and you child will ask in a very loud voice who the other people are, and why are they going potty. They'll continue in that volume as they ask about why you are putting toilet paper on the seat and then not sitting all the way down on the toilet. They'll ask about the little box on the wall and then they'll ask you why you're talking in such a quiet voice. They can't hear you very well, so they'll talk even louder to encourage you to do the same. When you get them on the potty, they'll sit for longer than necessary before informing you that they just don't have to go anymore, the potty is all gone. You'll wash you hands, and their hands thoroughly with soap. You'll go to great pains to use paper towels to turn off the faucet and open the restroom door. You'll keep a tight grip on their little hand and lead them back to your not-hip van before you realize they've been dragging their free hand all along other people's cars and the gas pump. You'll spend a good amount of time maneuvering your way around the van picking up dropped colored pencils and retrieving books and your broken cell phones that now belong to the kids (because, they are, after all, the reason that they were run through the dishwasher). You'll twist your back in unnatural positions to turn on a movie and distribute Cracker Jacks, which you know are not healthy but you bought them anyway because they remind you of car trips when you were little. While you're stumbling around the van the kids will chastise you for taking your seat belt off. You'll smile sweetly, tell them they're absolutely right and hope that they don't report you to the pediatrician. About every ten minutes or so, they'll ask if you're to Grandma's house yet. You'll tell them no, and then spend the next ten minutes explaining 'why not?' About12 granola bars later, you'll get to your destination. You'll have a fabulous weekend, just long enough to forget about those seven hours that ended up being so worth it. Just in time to do it again.

For Cryin' Out Loud

So, most of you who know me well, know that I cry. At almost anything. I don't know, I think I just came that way, wiring all crossed and whatnot. There's the normal stuff--anything patriotic, Church commercials, anytime I see parents and kids loving each other, Extreme Home Makeover, whenever I hear Pomp and Circumstance at graduations, etc. But then there's the other stuff, the Emotional Upgrade, let's call it. I cry when kid's teams perform, whenever someone is being brave, at beautiful music, whenever I read the Friend magazine to my kids (one time Girlie asked me why reading it always makes me so sad), when sports teams take the field (although I have to be there in person for it to make me cry). Parades are like an hour of crying for me. If you ever see me at a parade, I'll be smiling really, really big. That's to keep the tears from running down my face. I don't know what it is about parades--all the horses, American flags, little tiny gymnastics teams, marching bands, I guess. I've seen phone or soup commercials that do me in. But, a couple nights ago I was at the gym. I didn't even have my headphones, so I couldn't hear the TV that was on my elliptical machine, but I was watching the Olympics. Did any of you see that little Chinese girl and her amazing dive? It was like she jumped off the platform into a crumply, complicated blur, and then entered the water without a splash. It was truly amazing. Okay, right there, in the middle of a gym, with no obvious reason to anyone watching me, I burst into tears. Smiling, crying, there I was burning calories and sobbing about it. Then the TV showed her looking at the score (which included a bunch of 10s). Tears. Then she bowed. Lots more tears, great big smile. Then it showed her hugging her coach and bawling. That's when the noisy intake of my gulping air really disturbed the concentration of the gym. I called my sister (who had been watching it) on the way home and we cried again about it. I got home and told J about it. I cried some more. I'm even tearing up as I think about it now.

And now, my three month old seems to have inherited the crying gene, so goodbye.

Cheerful Disobedience

Lately, Sam Sam has taken up the practice of “cheerful disobedience.” I know, I had no idea what that was, either, until my little guy would give me his biggest grin as he'd say, “But, I just don't want to.”

Sammy, please help pick up your toys.
But, I just don't want to.

Sam, can you please stop yelling "Great balls of fire" and flinging water out of the tub?
Well, I just don't want to.

Hey, buddy, let's not glue your fingers together.
You guessed it--he just didn't want to.

He's been carrying on this way for a few days now. My wild Sam, WHY did you rip this page in your new book? He'd look down and shake his head, as if commiserating, and give me his sincerest, “I just don't know.” Son, WHY did you smash the wings of your wooden airplane into tiny shreds? That was met by a long shrug, a big sigh, and a, “I just...got carried away. I don't know.” Did my 2 year old really just...sadly think that he got “carried away?” He will gaze up at me with his huge eyes and then close them and shake his head as if to say, “Oh, I am right there with you, Mom. I so cannot believe that I did this. And, it's cheerful, too. There's no true remorse, there's no penitence. Just a matter-of-fact, cheery little statement of the obvious.

Well, I suppose I'll take this over "IT'S NO FAIR!!!" that I got in response to my dangerously slow "You had better get down on this floor and help clean up this entire bag of lentils that you have just spent the last five minutes standing on the table and flinging around my entire house."

P.S.: Under no circumstances buy into the "Help your child's motor skills by teaching them to pour. Use beans or rice if you don't want a wet mess!"

Daddy's Cup Cake

Well, I did it. I sent my first off to kindergarten. The day I've been dreading, and the one she couldn't wait for. All morning was spent asking "Is the bus here yet?" I brushed her hair for an extra long time, probably because of the funny, twisty thing my heart was doing today. She declined my well-planned outfit for her first day in favor of her "Daddy's cup cake" t-shirt, and insisted on picking non-matching hair elastics. "That's okay," I told myself. "That's what I raised her for--to make her own decisions."

We took plenty of pictures, pinned her name tag/bus number to her shirt, loaded the school supplies into her backpack, made sure she knew where the hand sanitizer pocket was, and walked up to the bus stop early. Well, it was supposed to be early, anyway. We were a good house away when the bus pulled up, so we had to hurry. The lump in my throat got huge and we hurriedly loaded her onto the bus. I waved and called out, "Have fun!" It came out too loud, and ended with a strangled sound and a sob. The other moms patted my back and said "Your first?" Then they assured me that by the second, third, fourth I'd be booting them onto the bus and cheering. The only thing that kept me going was her excitement and anticipation. And, only two hours 7 minutes until I see her again.

My Heart--in three parts

Little Red in his blessing outfit that J brought back from his trip to China.

Boys will be boys...and sometimes girls

So, I don't know of many little guys more dedicated to being a boy than Sam Sam the Wild Man. He is fully committed to all things boy. Right out of the gate, he was all burps and gas. He loved to eat and now eats almost as much as I do (sometimes more). I worried a little when I found out I was pregnant with a boy. I'm totally girlie, as is my sweet daughter. I mean, pink, dress me up, loves shoes, and still believes in princesses living happily ever after. I kind of thought that our boy didn't stand a chance. I figured when he got old enough I'd hand him a ball or a truck and say, "Um, here. This is for you. I hear you are into these." In retrospect, there was nothing to worry about.

He is loud. He yells. Almost always ("I JUST LOVE MY BABY!!" comes out the same volume as "BIG BOYS DON'T HAVE TO SIT IN TIME OUT!!!"). He runs fast, vaults over my leather couch, jumps on my heirloom quilt, drops my good dishes into the sink with gusto. He tackles his sister, lifts gallons of milk to show his strength, and adds sound effects to any situation. He refuses to eat cereal that has girls on the front (only boys or animals) or use the purple foamy soap in the bath ("ORANGE IS FOR BOYS, PURPLE IS FOR GIRLS"). He gleefully makes "guns" out of anything--blocks, books, flowers, drinking straws. Not sure how he even knows what they are. We don't have guns, talk about them....we are a peace-loving people.

Which is why, it was such a surprise to see him waltzing into the room, swathed in pink satin and organza. "Hey, buddy. You're wearing Girlie's flower girl dress?"
"Yes, I am a princess," he said in a very princess-y voice.
"Wow. I thought you we're a little boy."
"No, I am a princess now." I had to admit he made a really beautiful girl. Meg appeared behind him smiling. "Do you like my sister?" she batted her eyelashes. Ah, the mastermind behind this estrogen packed room. I just had to laugh. Though J would have blown a gasket had he been here, I actually found it hilarious and figured that when he was ready, he would be a boy again. So I didn't make him change. The next time I saw them, they had bright purple lip gloss smeared clown-style around their mouths and eyebrows. I enjoyed the water-and-pretend-cookie tea party with them, addressing them as "Your Highness" and "Lovely Princess."

Apparently, it goes both ways. Later, they both came out of Sam Sam's room--each sporting a pair of his swimming trunks. Both shirtless. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. HEW IS MY BWUZZER (brother)."

...and then there was the time that I got old...

It's been coming on for a while now. Little signs. Hints that "aging" applied to me. Most recently, we bought a minivan. That pretty much sealed the deal. Not that (for a minivan) it's not fine, it's just that my "hip" factor took a serious dive. Even the "new car smell" wasn't comforting. Not like my white Camry was so edgy, it just wasn't made to tote around multiple kids, swimming gear, the stroller, and groceries all at the same time. It's kind of like driving around a big, mobile billboard that screams "Hey, look at me! I'm totally old! SUCH a mom, right here!" All my minivan-driving mommy friends threw around "convenient" and "roomy" and "great to travel in." "You'll love it" they all promised. But, it was like turning 30 all over again.

30. Thirty. Treinta. Trente. I'd never actually thought I'd make it to thirty. Not that I thought something bad would happen to me, I just never actually pictured being 30. It's like you cross some invisible threshold. All of a sudden you start hearing things like "lower metabolism" and "cholesterol testing". I started noticing wrinkles on my face that I swear were not there the day before. Especially when my eyebrows go up in surprise that I have wrinkles---that's really when they show. And the white hairs that are in stark contrast to my almost black hair? They went and got buddies and now there are too many to comfortably pluck out in two minutes.

On the 4th of July this year, our city's Freedom Festival featured several live bands over the two-day celebration, including Candlebox and Gin Blossoms. J and I high-fived over the fact that such hot bands were coming (picture "rock on" hands and some gentle head banging). Then, with a sudden start, we realized these were hot bands, not they are hot bands. Were hot bands...in "our day." We have a "day" now.

But, never mind that the check out lady totally didn't bother to check my ID when the scanner registered that I was buying rubber cement. Never mind that I look at the restaurant hostesses and wonder if they can drive yet. Never mind that I look for my music in the "Easy Listening" section at Best Buy. It's okay that I look forward to bed at about the same time my night used to begin. So what if that "stow and go" seating is really nice and "convenient". I'm 30...for a couple more months, anyway. Old enough to have a little of the wisdom life has to offer, old enough to be taken seriously. And, really, people--being 'old' feels sooo much younger than I ever thought it would.

Grocery Shopping with Sam Sam

Okay, who wants to go grocery shopping with me??
I know, me neither, but I have an $8 off coupon that expires today.

No, you need to change.
Because we just can't wear swimsuits to the store.
We just can't.
Fine. But your shirt doesn't match.

Now, guys, when we get to the store, we can't use a race car cart--baby Red doesn't fit in one.
Because baby Red doesn't fit in it.
Because baby Red doesn't fit in it.
He just doesn't.

Um, I guess you can hang on the side, but you have to be REALLY careful and hang on tight.
Please don't throw your head back.
Just stand up straight. Seriously, you're going to get schmucked.
I'm not kidding, you're going to--
We'll put ice on it at home.

No, we don't need lettuce. Or that lettuce. Nope, not that one either.
Eggs, I do need eggs. Just one, just one.
Please put those eggs down.

CAREFULLY, son!

Okay, help me pick out some good bananas! Be soft, soft--oh, don't toss them, please!
No twist ties in our noses. Please.
Okay, I need four refrigerated cans of pizza dough. Can you please put them softly in the cart?
Oh, please stop dropping them on the eggs. Not the eggs.

SON. PLEASE. STOP. DROPPING. THEM. ON. THE. EGGS.

Then you'd better hurry up. We're going. Seriously. Okay, bye.

I can't believe that you can run and jump and grab onto a moving cart! That was hilarious. You should be a stunt man.

A stunt man.

It's a guy who--never mind. Forget it. Let's not give you any ideas.

Okay, bread is next.
No, that loaf of bread is $5. Let's get this one instead. Put it right there in the cart.
Please stop kicking the bread.

Hamburger. How does this one look? No, stop poking holes.
I know it's squishy. I know. It doesn't matter.

Almost done. Let's go.
Please stop shouting "It's a disaster!!"
What is that from? Ratatouille? Sheesh...

Can you help me load things onto the counter? No, this counter.
The lady needs them on this side, you don't have to walk around to give it to her.

Please stop yelling "It's a DISASTER!"

I'm not kidding.

Can you get buckled into your seat? Go ahead, get buckled in. No, you're not a big boy yet.
I know, yes, you're a big boy. Not big enough.
When you're fifteen.

Sammy, it's not a disaster.

Oh, shoot, I forgot to get that rain check...
Forget it....so not worth it...

Where'd the Summer Go??

So, clearly we've been busy. Last post, Little Red had just joined our family. Now, he's two months old and weighing in at a whopping 14 lbs and 23 inches long. He's at that adorable chubby baby stage where it looks like he has rubber bands around his wrist and his thighs look like a little stack of tires. I could just eat him up.

He's a fantastic baby. One of those "angel babies" J and I have only ever heard about. He is happy as can be, usually, and has a gummy grin that fills his whole double-chinned face. He loves his sleep (must get that from me), and goes to sleep for the night at about 9:30/10:00 p.m. This morning we had to wake him up to nurse at 7:00 a.m.

A lot has happened this past little while. J took a two week vacation, I mean, business trip to China and Hong Kong. It was a fabulous experience. He had a great time and brought back lots of treats for everyone. The kids and I stayed down in Kansas with Grandma and Grandpa the whole time, where we got to see all of my siblings except Mr. and Mrs. Las Vegas. The kids had a blast playing with everyone, taking summer classes (Tinkerbell, Tumbling, Thomas the Tank Engine, Musical Instruments, and Ballet), swimming, going to the park, and visiting Grandpa's "foot office."

Girlie is set to start KINDERGARTEN next month. Very, very big, traumatic time for me. She's revvin' to go, I'm having bad dreams about the bus. The only things I'm looking forward to are buying school supplies (why is that always so fun for me?) and the outfits. I do love to dress her. I've always thought that if another daughter isn't in the cards for me, at least the one I have is as sweet and girlie as I could ever want. Little diva, she does wardrobe changes at least hourly. Sometimes more. ...Not sure how she's going to handle staying in one outfit for an entire afternoon at school...

Sam Sam is as wild as ever. He's making up for Girlie never doing the whole "terrible twos" thing. He's full of life, energy, enthusiasm. One volume: LOUD. One speed: FAST. One way: HIS. He keeps things fun and interesting. He adores "his baby." He loves him very...vigorously. Several times a day he comes up and says, "Mommy, I just love my baby."

I've just started getting out to playgroups, church, running errands with all three kids. It's actually going okay. We've even done a couple movies, including Wall-E. Sam Sam does Wall-E's "Eve-a!!" imitation perfectly and it's hilarious. Anyway, we've started to get into the groove of life, then I look up and think, "Where'd the summer go??"