I have a very serious question.

How many times must one six year-old fart in the span of 15 minutes before he can be convinced that it might be time to visit the bathroom?

I only ask because if this goes on for another 15 minutes I’m going to have to find an all-night army supply store.

My kids won’t find the embarrassing stories I share with the world if I do it on another blog.

Right?

Just in case they do, let me say this.

Boys,

I want you to know that I do remember what it was like to be a pre-teen and I’m not unsympathetic. It’s just that I’m discovering there are certain traditions that are the rights of every parent. And when you become parents yourselves, I fully expect you to “torture” my grandbabies in the exact same way.

Please know my sweet things that the “fights” I put up to your attempts to fit in are only for show–and I am giggling in my head the whole time. For I know hormones are taking over your body, which is prohibiting you from exhibiting any normal sort of behavior–kinda like demonic possession without the projectile vomiting (there better not be any projectile vomiting).

Sharing some of your stories with my friends?? It’s just that a mamma has to do something to maintain her sanity.

I love you forever,
Mom

Mr. 4 asked me to wipe his bottom today after a trip to the bathroom.

Then he showed me he could count to five.

“Look mom! Five poops. One. Two. Three. Four Five.”

We’re not doing anything here if we aren’t always looking for those teaching moments.

It was a pretty afternoon (every other hour it didn’t rain today) and it started like this:

And as any parent might expect, it ended like this:

Pardon this post for posterity, but I had to capture just a few of the lines that have been handed to me by the boys recently.

Little P (who is still 4)

Getting ready to leave for the pool:

LP: “I want a tan. I don’t want to put any sunblock on so I can get a tan.”

Me: “You have to wear sunblock to protect your skin. You’ll still get a tan.”

LP: “Not as tan as A.”

Jay (his 6 y.o. brother): “Duh! You’re not going to get tan. You can’t be brown like A. It’s how you’re born.”

The next day…

LP: “I still want a tan. I don’t have to wear sunblock today, right.”

Me: “You still need to.”

LP: “No! I won’t get tan.”

Out on the boat watching whales:

Gramma Gramma: “LP, want to come over here and see the whales?”

LP: “No. They are very big and I am very small.”

Jay (age 6)


Being ripped away from his brother’s wrestling game on the PSP (which I DID NOT buy):

Me: “You know I don’t like you to play that game.”

Jay: “Girls just don’t get sweat and blood.”

Laying in bed last night:

Jay: “I love you mom. I’ll love you even when you’re old and dead.”

Big A (who just turned 12)

*eye roll* “sigh” *eye roll* “sigh”

I learned through my sons.

Okay. Not really.

I mean I WAS the first girl in my hometown to play little league–information my boys find difficult to wrap their heads around and not because they don’t play with girls now (they do) but because they don’t seem to think it’s possible that I know how to catch or throw (despite evidence to the contrary).

Baseball is all that is lived and breathed in my house. When my guys aren’t out on the ballfield, they’re playing it in my front yard or on the Playstation or watching it on TV.

They certainly know a lot about the game, its players, major events in baseball history, etc., but I have a sneaking suspicion that some of their facts may be questionable.

Case in point, our conversation over dinner last night:

Eldest Boy: Hey do you know what Jason Varitek* does when he’s in a slump?

Middle Boy: What?? (he has a HUGE boy crush on Jason Varitek)

Eldest Boy: He wears a hot pink thong under his uniform.

And I’m thinking to myself, ouch! he’s a catcher that can’t be comfortable with all that up and down.

Husband: I thought that was Giambi* and it was a gold thong.

Eldest Boy: No, Giambi puts on a fake mustache. Haven’t you ever seen how all of the sudden he has a mustache? It’s not real. He keeps it on his nightstand.

Note to self: Explain shaving to eldest son.

*With my sincere apologies to the Jasons Varitek and Giambi. Trust me when I say my boys are big fans and at this very moment are probably considering sending me out to buy pink and gold thongs–and fake mustaches. Do you know where I can get some?

Who am I to tell him otherwise?

(oh the blackmail opportunities for the teen years!)

The Febreeze was left out after a nap-time accident.

Stupid parents.

Mr. 6 sprays Mr. 4 in the eye with the Febreeze–because what six year-old can resist a spray bottle?

So here’s what I hear first:

Mr. 6: I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

One brother apologizing to the other? The sure sign something is wrong.

Mr. 4: Ow.

Mr. 4: He sprayed me in the eye.

Mr. 6 runs away.

Me: Mr. 4, you okay?

Mr. 4: My eye is wet (I’m guessing that’s better than “it burns like a m-ther f-ckng jalapeno mom.”).

Mr. 6: (from the other room) Well Mr. 4. at least your eye will smell good.

Do you know how hard it is not to laugh while you’re trying to punish your child?

We had been married for nine months when we got the call.

We were going to have a kid–a three and a half year-old kid!

Wha?!

Parental responsibilities were to begin in forty-eight hours!

Holy shit on a cracker! In forty-eight hours?! What do I need? What do they eat? Where will he sleep? What does he do when we go to work? What about when we’re at happy hour?

There had been those three days a month after our honeymoon when I thought I might be pregnant, but it was a false alarm. Even then, I would have had nine months to prepare for the arrival. But this? We weren’t getting much notice.

Then I found out why.

Life with my sister has never been what you’d describe as predictable–life with a drug addict rarely is. I’d lived through screaming matches, visiting hours at rehab, sketchy friends, suicide attempts, rehab, dropping out of school, “your sister has run away,” “well, I’m going to live with Dad,” parents kicking her out, rehab, wrecked cars, the MS diagnosis, arrests for posession, rehab and then finally “I’m pregnant, can’t work, not married, but I’m keeping the baby anyway.”

Seriously, mom’s Christmas cards were always the first ones opened I’m sure.

I was fully prepared to step in if the MS ever got too bad for her to care for my nephew. This had been made clear to the husband when he was still just the boyfriend. Luckily her disease had progressed slowly and my nephew’s birth didn’t cause her any loss of mobility (as we were warned it might). The possibility of taking on his care seemed a long way off.

But of course there I was on the phone getting the “your sister’s in jail and you need to come get him now” call.

I know, hindsight is 20/20. I should have seen it coming, right? As stupid as it sounds though, I just didn’t.

Part II

I’ve always wanted to be an artist. I love the idea of throwing myself into the creative process and producing something that appeals to me.

My mom, she IS an artist. She creates and sells incredible paintings.

I’ve tried. I can’t.

In all honesty, I don’t possess the patience (oh okay, nor the skill) to work for hours or days coaxing an image onto a canvas.

I’m an immediate gratification kind of girl, so digital photography?? My kind of art. And lucky me, the hubs got tired of being hit over the head with hints surprised me with a new SLR for Christmas.

I’ve been experimenting.

But I had originally wanted the camera to capture my boys faces. So you can imagine how psyched I was when Hipmommy (thanks Hipmommy!!) was hosting a contest on her site to win a copy of Photographing Your Family. It’s jam packed with terrific examples, easy to digest information about shooting people and creating interesting photos–and it even includes information about using editing software to make your photos even better.

Now I haven’t gotten to editing these yet, other than cropping them, but I’ve been pretty happy with the lessons I’ve learned so far.