This is a post that is pretty much about nothing in particular.

I have a sore throat.  And I’m tired.  And I’m sitting here, hoping that it rains.  Rains hard.  Because then soccer practice will be cancelled tonight. 

Is that so wrong?

I know.  It makes me a wicked, wretched, fun-ruining kind of mom.  (One of the littles asked me the other day why I always had to ruin all the fun around here.  Which totally makes me laugh.  I think I asked him to wash his hands or something.  I am SO mean.  I also make them wear sweatshirts to the bus stop when it’s less than 60 degrees outside.  I know, I know.  Horrid.) 

I still hope it rains. 

Now I’m going to go snuggle up with a cup of tea and read me some Beverly Cleary.  (Still doing to pre-reading.  There is no end to that in the near future, I’m afraid.  My daughter came home with a book from the book fair that I began to pre-read and let me tell you I got no further than page 2 before I closed it for the forseeable future.)

Go back to your lives, people.

What Part of “It’s time to sleep” Don’t You Understand?

Just in case I ever forget what bedtime is like with a two-year-old, I compiled this lovely list of things Ella likes to do (in lieu of sleeping) at bedtime.   

Talk to Yow, the cat formerly known as Jellycat.

Rifle through her drawers for her Hokie shirt.

Get naked.

Try to get the Hokie shirt on.  Which she cannot do without getting an arm stuck in some wierd position.  Which leads to panic and shrieking. 

Poop.  (Could she not take care of this personal stuff 10 minutes before I leave the room?)

Take the cushions off the rocker and ottoman.

Lay on the floor and peek underneath the door.

Bang on the door.

Open the shutters.

Close the shutters.

Open the shutters.

Slam the shutters closed three times real fast.

Dismember her Madame Alexander dolls.  This is mildly disturbing.

Pull 50 baby wipes out of the brand new package. 

Tear each and every book she owns to shreds.  She is stealthy.  You can’t hear a thing until it’s too late.

Anything other than sleep.

Actually, it rather amuses me, these things she does.  Except for the book ripping.  Totally not amused by that.  At all. 

Oh Ella.  I’m going to miss you when you’re big.  Truly.

Tickled

Kate, after her first day of school.  Just tickled to be back. 

And yes, I realize I’m 15 days late here.  Whatever.

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Spicy Apple Juice–Not a Recipe

One day your daughter will tell you that the apple juice hurts her tongue.  And you will think she is nuts.  And then the next day your son will tell you that the apple juice is “spicy.”  You sniff it, cautiously, hoping not to vomit.  And then you will say “Henry, you’re crazy.  You asked for that juice, now you drink it.” 

Never mind that the apple juice container has puffed up and is weebly.  And never mind the pfffffffffft sound you get when you open it.  Yeah, don’t worry about that.at.all.  It smells normal, so that’s clearly all that matters.  Clearly.

On the third day your daughter will tell you — again — that the juice hurts her tongue.

That, plus the pfffffft, and the weeblyishness are all holding hands in your brain now.  Interesting.  Now you will taste the juice.  Vomiting is a good possibility here.   

And then you realize the reason for the children’s early morning buzzes for the past two days.  (Totally kidding.  Don’t get all freaked out.  No one was buzzy.)

Please, if your juice bottle is puffy, and you hear the pffffffft, discard.  

P.S.  I ate three baggies of chips while writing this.  Which has nothing to do with the apple juice fermentation but I thought the chip-eating should be documented.

Bedtime

We set up the toddler bed this weekend.  I’m not sure how I feel about that.  The Man kind of took the ball and ran with the idea, and I pretty much stood there, like in one of those dreams where you’re trying to run, but your legs won’t move.  Knowing it is the right thing, but knowing what it means…the baby is gone.  The last baby is gone. 

(Of course the last time I thought that, I gave all the baby stuff away and promptly became pregnant.) 

But really this time, the last baby is gone.  Really.

So we have a toddler bed now.  And bedtime with Ella?  It’s always interesting. 

We read books together.

We snuggle.

We sing.

We kiss.  And kiss.  And kiss.

And then I say good night, and close the door.

After a couple minutes, the door handle rattles…she tries to open her door.  It’s late.  I’m exhausted.

So now, admittedly a teensy bit annoyed at her blatant disregard for the stay-in-your-bed rule, I open her door intent on plopping her right back in bed. 

I see her dolls–all of them nude and lined up on the chair. 

Her socks lay in a crumpled mess on the floor.  As does her diaper.  And her jammies. 

And then I see her, behind the door.  Completely naked. 

“Ello” she says, and then she bursts through the door and streaks down the hall, laughing and screeching and smacking her buns. 

Our laughter does nothing to discourage her, I’m sure.

I pick her up, and scold her gently for getting out of her bed.  I put on her ladybug jammies and the Hokie jersey that she simply insists on wearing to bed tonight (I can’t say I blame her–did you see that come-from-behind win against Nebraska?).  And some striped socks.  She’s two.  She has some very definite opinions on fashion.  And they’re questionable, imho.  But whatever, it looks cute on two. 

She settles into my shoulder, and we stand there, rocking back and forth.  Moments like these are fleeting, I know.

“It’s time to sleep now, Ella”  I tell her.

“Oh” she says. 

“No more getting out of bed.”

“Oh.”

“Ella, you’re my baby.” 

“Oh.”

“You’ll always be my baby.”

“Oh.”

“I love you, Ella.”

“Oh.”

 Good night baby girl.

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Recess

So when the kids got home from school on Tuesday I asked them about their first day of school.  I was particularly interested in what Henry had to say about his first day of kindergarten.  (Especially considering I forgot to put the FM receivers on his hearing aids so that he would actually be able to follow and like, you know, hear, during class.  Have I ever mentioned my brilliance?)

Me:  Henry, did you go outside at school today?

***side note:  often in our kindergarten classes they play outside in an enclosed blactop area…no playground equipment…so they can play kickball or other games like that)***

Henry:  Yes.

Me:  Who did you play with? 

Henry:  No one.  I just stood there.  (Okay, right about there I just needed to hoist my heart back up from my stomach into it’s normal cavity real quick before I continued on with my questioning). 

Sad Me:  Well, what were the other kids doing? 

Henry:  They were playing with all the balls so I didn’t have anything to do.

Sad Me:  Did you ask if you could play with them? 

Henry:  Yes and they didn’t want to.  (Okay, are you trying to kill me Henry?  I now feel totally and completely horrible…)  Henry continued on:  There weren’t enough balls and they didn’t want to share.  (Hooligans, they were.)

Sad Sad Sad Me:  What were all the kids without balls doing?

Henry:  They were just standing there, too.  (So I now have this sad picture in my head of a bunch of 5 year olds, nervous and sad and lonely, moping around for 15 minutes with nothing to do, while the three street-toughs with big red playground balls run around joyfully not sharing.  Yes, I have been known to mingle with drama now and then.) 

The next day he came home with two scraped up knees and a bloody elbow.

Because they played tag at recess today.

He fell down.

He got some booboos.

He cried.

He got bandaids.

He was all better.

In summation, scraped up extremeties + band-aids = a good day in kindergarten.  At least for little boys. 

And also, little boys with band-aids on their knees are really stinkin’ cute.

I Wonder If He Knows.

A little shy of 13 years ago I married my best friend, my high school sweetheart, The Man.  And that is a very, very good thing.

I stood at the altar with my small, trembling hands in his.  And eight years of hoping for this day with this man collapsed upon me and I broke down.  I sobbed through my vows.  Have you ever been so happy you could hardly stand it?  So happy that the enormity of the emotion swept you away?  It was beautiful.  At least I hope it was.  Because I pretty much don’t remember anything except that I cried.  And I think it was one of those ugly cries…where your face is all awful looking.  If the photographer captured that moment, he mercifully chose not to reveal it to me.

But in the midst of all that beautiful ugliness, there was another man.  While I stood up there with The Man, he walked into the church unnoticed.  While I cried the ugly cry, he stole the purses and wallets of all my bridesmaids.  And mine.

So for the next hour or two, I spent time filling out paperwork.  Police reports.  On my wedding day.  I particularly enjoy this photograph:

Doesn’t my bosom look fluffyish?  Okay, it’s not that fluffy.  But it’s fluffier here in this photo than it is now, 4 children later.  You’re welcome for that information, I’m sure you were wondering. 

So anyway, not only did he steal my wallet, but he proceeded to drain my bank account while I was on my honeymoon.  All that money.  I had spent a year saving every penny I could for my wedding, money that I would use to pay the florist, and the baker and the bridal salon…  He.Just.Took.It.All.

During the investigation, the police were able to get a photo of the suspect from one of the ATM’s he used.  That fuzzy black and white picture is burned in my memory.  I remember that he wore sunglasses and a hat when he stole my money.  And that his dirty shirt was too small.    

Normally, I don’t feel terribly bitter anymore.  It’s sort of water under the bridge.  But this morning, I broke down.  I cried in the shower.  It’s the only place I can cry anymore…the only place I am ever alone.  And so I cried and I cried.  And I hated that man.  And I felt sorry for him.  And I wondered. 

I wondered if that man thinks about me.  I wondered if he knows that he ruined a day that I had planned in my little girl head for 20 years.  I wondered if he knows that I spent most of my reception filling out police reports.  That I didn’t get to talk to my guests, who had come from hundreds of miles away to see me married.  Does he know that while I should have been walking among the clouds, my feet were leaden? 

Does he know that I spent my wedding day at the DMV, getting a new license so I could get on a plane for my honeymoon?  (The upside to that is my hair and makeup looked fabulous for my license photo.  I.Looked.GOOD.  I really, really hated to give up that photo when it was time to renew my license.)

I wonder if he knows that thirteen years later, I have not forgotten.  And that I can still become overcome with anger and sadness and resentment.  And I can still cry over it.

I wonder if he’s sorry.  I wonder if he cares.  I wonder if he has a daughter who dreams about her wedding day.

I wonder if he knows how he crumpled up my dreams.

And yet, in the midst of all the sad, and in spite of the way my marriage began, I see that my life has turned out a little like a fairy tale. 

And I’d like to tell him to stick that in his pipe and smoke it.

Fly

Off you go.

And here I stand, hoping that the other parents don’t see the traces of my tears. 

I watch you step onto that big bus.  Watch you look so small.  Too small to go.

I want desperately those days when you were silent…when you were round and soft…when you had red curls falling on your face…when you.were.here.  With me.   

But I know that your little wings are ready to learn to soar.  Every little thing about you is ready. 

Don’t forget to wash your hands before snack.  Don’t forget your manners.  Don’t forget to not pick your nose.

Don’t forget that I’ll be here, waiting for you.  I’ll always be here.

Now fly, little boy. 

Soar.

I’m So Very Sorry

I just want to take this moment to apologize to the two young ladies who will eventually marry my boys.  Because hunnies, they are never ever ever ever ever ever ever going to master the fine art of putting the lid down.  Nor will they flush consistently.  Nor will they admit it when they’re the one who didn’t flush. 

Seriously, I will walk into the bathroom and the lid will be up and the water will be, um, not colorless, and no one will admit to being the one that did it.  Either that or they’ll blame each other. 

Did I mention the time I caught them “yellowing the water” together?  This was quite some time ago.  I 86′d that behavior.  But that’s normal behavior, right?  I mean for boys, that’s normal, right?  Anyone?   

Oh, and Ella drew a picture of poo, isn’t that nice?  I don’t know where she came up with that idea.  Truly.  Not one of the other children has ever drawn poo.  At least not that I can remember anyway. 

I swear we are civilized.  I swear it.  I have the pretty smelling soaps and fresh towels and I make them wash their hands.  I even put product in their hair.  And I made snickerdoodles today.  Snickerdoodles are civilized, right?

Cute as a Button

I love you baby girl.  Even though you give me the dark circles.  And you pierce my eardrums with your screeching.  Still, I really, really love you.

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