Boyscout Badgering, Birthday Brainstorming and Baby Babbling

Yesterday evening, we juiced the boys up on ice cream and took them to the park.  While there, a troupe of boy scouts went thundering past the playground to an open field. Ian dashed after them and stood at the edge of the field.  The boy scout leader saw him and, in my best estimate, figured he was going to cleverly "scare" him off. Mr. Boy Scout launched into some loud monologue in a voice I can only describe as an even more annoying Bobcat Goldthwait. It was something like, "Hey little boy!...[blah blah blah]...Do you want to be a boyscout?!...."  Instead of its intended effect, Ian arched his back, threw back his head and erupted in maniacal laughter. The troupe went chaotic with it's own amusement. Ian - 1, Mr. Boy Scout - 0.

After the park, we enjoyed a spontaneous play date...at Kroger. We ran into a friend and her kids, and the whole gang of kids, ages 20 mos, 3, 4, and 6 (I think) zoomed off to besiege the grocery store.  I guarded the carts while Brian and the other mom dashed off in pursuit.  They forgot their nets and manacles, but eventually reclaimed our progeny.  We adults squeaked in a brief chat before the clan escaped again.  It had to be great marketing for the bakery treats on the tables they were crazily circumnavigating:  Buy these and your kids can be just like this!

We finally parted ways and otherwise left the store fairly victorious.  For his upcoming birthday, Ian requested a cake with a house and snow.  My best idea for tackling that was to find a gingerbread house kit to use for a cake topper.  Fortunately, Kroger had one, so I'll be tackling that this week.  They didn't, however, have any gingerbread man cookie cutters.  They had lots of gingerbread man cookies, but my masochistic self decided it would be a deeper expression of my love to make the little cookie men that will frolic in the sugary snowdrifts.  But, I may reconsider the bagged ginger men since he won't fully appreciate the effort until about his 32nd birthday...maybe.

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Isaac does everything about as cutely as I can imagine it being done. Right now he's fascinated with eyes. When I put on my "ga-giz" [glasses] in the morning, he slips a finger behind them and declares, "Eye!" and then points out all the other eyes present in the room. Then he gently raps on my glasses with his fist, saying "knock knock" and lets me know it's time to "eat!" The way he requests his waffle (wah-wul) sounds like he's prodding me to rock 'n roll.  He waits patiently as I dance, then leads me by the finger to the freezer. Ian walks by with a drink and Isaac makes the "share" sign and requests "chare meeeeeeee", holding out the "me" while his sweet voice slides into an increasingly higher pitch. Depending on what room we're in, "boo bus" either means he wants to ride his school bus or he wants his tooth brush (with "boo pase" on it, of course).  He's a little flirt and a cuddly cuddler, and I just want to squeeze him!

Redefining Normal

Ian is definitely his own boy. Yesterday in his Cradle Roll class at church, they were doing songs and activities related to the story of baby Jesus. The room was decorated with a simply-constructed manger scene in one corner, complete with plastic people and animal figures; a big star hanging from the ceiling overhead, and another manger scene on the opposite wall. While the children put felt angels on the board, he preferred to poke at baby Jesus in the manger. When they cuddled little lambs like shepherds, he danced with a plastic manger sheep. The kids each took a turn on a rocking horse, pretending to be the wise man on a camel. When it was Ian's turn, he dragged his "camel" across the room to face the manger scene on the wall while he rocked. When the kids galloped around the room on one of those "horse-head-on-a-stick" things, he waved his high over his head like a NASCAR flag man.  And, of course, he had to be contrary about the color of every bell and instrument he was handed.

Late that afternoon, we took them to the zoo. We planned to be there just a couple hours, so we braved leaving the stroller in the car. Instead, we put on their little blue backpacks with optional leash attachment.  They did a remarkable job of staying nearby and the visit was further improved by the cool weather and the amount of people that left as we arrived (hey now, our kids aren't that scary...). The parakeets landed on our seed sticks, the lions roared, the gorillas hammed it up, and the boys got souvenir smashed pennies of their favorite animals. We finished up just in time and were heading for the exit before the boys even got cranky of being there. It was the ideal day at the zoo. Then it was their turn to express to us the full extent of the joy they were experiencing at the zoo. They wailed all the way to the car and halfway home.  Finally, when we could get a word in edgewise, we reminded them of the friend's birthday party we were headed to, and they once again found happiness.

We made it to the party, where once again Ian engaged in numerous acts of "normal toddler behavior".  He couldn't wait to give his friend the present he had so carefully chosen. He kept trying to drag it out of the gift pile -- until he noticed the cake. The party had a fire truck theme and the cake was topped with an irresistible assortment of Hotwheels fire trucks. We got the cake scooted out of his reach and he grabbed one of the fire helmet party favors and stomped around with a stern look on his face grumbling, "I'm a fireman. Where's the fire hydrant?" Everyone sat down to eat pizza and crunchy veggies. He faked us out by taking a bite of a carrot and chewing it indefinitely while he made a piece of food art out of pizza, an olive, and some ranch dressing sucked up a straw.

Clearly, he was scheming on dessert, because soon enough, the other kids had scarfed their meals and were ready for cake.  Onto his plate, he spat a wad of chewed carrot, and proceeded to eat a piece of cake the size of his head.  About that time, they handed out popsicles too.  You should have heard the maniacal laugh that burst forth from that child, as he grasped a popsicle in one hand and leaned forward to bury his teeth in the cake before him.  In the picture below, you can't see the popsicle, but you might notice the complete absence of silverware and social grace.

Finally, with his sugar high intact, he was able to turn his attention back to gift time for the birthday boy -- after a good face wipe, that is.

By the time we got home, the boys looked like they'd spent a rough night at a Kiss concert.  Black icing stains  enveloped their faces like smeared mascara.  I think last night they weren't so much sleeping as comatose.

For some reason, this morning I decided to make a New Orleans breakfast of beignets and cafe au lait.  Maybe it was like one of those "hair of the dog" treatments I've heard of.  Within minutes, I had three guys stomping around the upstairs balcony, each with a hand over an eye and Ian growling "Bar be hearties!! [insert maniacal laugher]  We're pirates!"  Brian yells "We're in the crow's nest!"  Ian corrects him saying, "Crows eat corn."  Then a barrage of bouncy balls come tumbling down the stairs.  I think I'll go take a shower.

In Our Sleighday

I have approximately 8 weeks of pregnancy left. Yikes. I'm so anxious to meet our new little guy, but I keep reminding myself not to wish time away, because life is much simpler with him in my belly. Plus I'm trying to cram as much playtime in with the boys as I can before I face the excitement and guilt of caring for a newborn while feeling like a complete traitor to the other two.

I think it's a sick joke that during these last couple months, when I want to boost my reserves, I'm destined to flop around in bed all night like a spooked moose, trying to find comfort.  Listen here, my little womb-mate. I know what I'm up against. You, on the other hand, will like me much better when rested.

This morning, I gave up trying to sleep about an hour early, lit a fire and tackled some of the Thanksgiving aftermath in the kitchen.  Within 30 or 40 minutes, everyone else was up and we lazied our way through breakfast, showers and more tidying up.  I had the idea that we'd go to a mall and window shop for Christmas gift ideas, and maybe snag a few bonus sales. We piled into what Ian calls the "new van" -- a Ford Flex we picked up in August -- and headed to a mall I remembered seeing about 40 minutes away. Thirty-five minutes and two sleeping boys later, my mommy brain reset and I realized that the place I was thinking of was actually 45 minutes in the other direction. We circled the nearby shopping plaza, only to find that they were the exact same stores we had - maybe slightly bigger. Since the boys were still sleeping, we decided to head back to stores near town.

We ate some ultimo-delicious Five Guys burgers and fries and squeaked in some totally fruitless shopping that looked more like two frazzled adults dancing around a hot toddler hive, clumsily trying to untangle kid leashes from one end of the mall to the other. At one point, Ian and I broke free of Dillard's, and while waiting outside for Brian and Isaac to emerge, Santa walked by and stopped at a cluster of kids. Ian asked me where his sleigh was. I told him I wasn't sure, but he could go ask Santa. He seemed to think that was a good idea so we walked over to Santa, very, very cautiously, of course. Santa said hi and handed Ian a small toy. I prompted Ian to ask his question. He murmured "Where's the sleigh?" and Santa said it was at the North Pole getting ready for Christmas. Always the skeptic, my brain launched into self-dialogue, demanding to know how he got here without his sleigh, but my prefrontal cortex managed to keep my lips closed. Ian asked Santa if he'd found Marty's truck [One of Ian's favorite books is Santa's Peppermint Rescue. Marty is the delivery mouse for Santa's candy]. Silly Santa thought Ian was asking for a truck. Is that how Santa deals with his primary candy supplier -- feigning ignorance? Or...do we have an impostor on our hands?

As Santa walked off, up trots a horse pulling a fancy Cinderella-looking carriage. Ian tries to hop on. I try to rein him in as I crane my neck to see if the guys have made it out yet. Just in time, Brian and Isaac walk up and we all climb on the carriage and under a blanket for our complimentary ride around the parking lot. The boys love it.

Back home, Ian dashes to the refrigerator for a snack. A couple weeks ago, he ripped the child lock off, and has since enjoyed his unfettered access to Snackland. He pulled out the egg carton and begged for an egg. Brian hands him an egg. Ian holds the egg at arm length and announces, "Now a chicken's going to pop out. Bawk bawk. [Sniffs] It smells like an egg." Then he gets a look in his eye and starts to dash after Isaac. Brian swoops in to rescue the egg and cooks up a snack for the boys. Ian repeatedly asked for ketchup, honey and peanut butter on his eggs. I resist on moral grounds. He begs some more. Sigh, who am I to tell the boy what he likes.

A Tour of Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving!  I wish you all a day of good health, happiness and fellowship. I feel so blessed for the people in my life.  My husband is the most loving, dedicated man I could ever dream of.  He is my best friend, team mate and life partner.  My children bring me unsurpassable joy.  It's hard not to wonder what I lived for before them. My parents just celebrated their 33rd anniversary.  They are so in love and have made love and life together look so easy.  Through example, dedication and sacrifice, they provide (even still) all I need to succeed in God's family. My brother, sister, and I are the best of friends. They are a continual joy and inspiration to me. My husband's parents are the most amazing people, too. Whether it's advising on a recipe or hopping in the car to drive 600 miles to help with the kids, they frequently drop everything to come to our rescue. They love me as one of their own. Sadly, for almost 6 years now, we've had hundreds of miles between us and the nearest family. It has been so hard. We have been blessed, though, to have friends and a church that have embraced us with both arms and have loved us through the lonely times.

I thank my God every time I remember you. Philippians 1:3 NIV

Being our own little 'island' family has been a challenge.  We are both very family oriented, and it's very important to us to that our kids know their family.  We've all worked hard to arrange visits in one state or the other, and occasional video chats.  Somehow, we've kept up a frequency of contact that our little guys are able to remember their grandparents, great-grandfather, aunts & uncles.  Some facet of the distance has been good for us, too.  It has helped us establish our identity as a family and has forced us to develop our own traditions and problem-solving skills.

The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped. My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song. Psalm 28:7 NIV

We've had to get creative sometimes with our meals, and Brian has an uncanny ability to withdraw toothpaste from an 'empty' tube.  It seems like just when we don't know how the next bill will be covered, God provides. A gift. An unexpected refund. A raise. It never adds up with human math.

Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to his disciples to set before the people. He also divided the two fish among them all. Mark 6:41 NIV

I woke up this morning, full of joy.  &;A rich aroma filled the air.  I knew my dear husband had slipped out of bed early to start the turkey.  I tried to sneak out of bed, but by the time I had my sweats on, I heard a little voice inquire, "Mommy...?" I saw little Isaac's eyes peeping out of the sheet.  I crawled back under the covers and he whips a calculator out from somewhere and declares, "Button!" We share some giggles and he flashes me smiles that make my heart melt. I look over at Ian, my little sleeping prince, and it hits me that somewhere between two and three, my first baby became a little boy. He looks so grown. What beautiful, amazing little baby men.

Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever. 1 Chronicles 16:34 NIV

Isaac and I make our way to the kitchen. Brian not only has the turkey cooking, but our favorite loaf of yogurt bread is baking and he has breakfast ready. What a man, what a man! He never ceases to impress me. I can't imagine feeling more loved and appreciated. He seems to never tire of service to his family and God. I feel like I have more to be thankful for than I can express or ever deserve.

Now, our God, we give you thanks, and praise your glorious name. 1 Chronicles 29:13 NIV

Most of all, I feel thankful for the unending mercy and grace I receive. I mess up every. single. day. I want to be eternally patient and calm with my boys, but I blow it. A lot. I want to be a shining Christian example to them of love and respect, but I blow it. I want to be a cheerful, pulled-together, always-have-dinner-ready wife, but I blow it. I want to spend time every day reading my Bible, praying for my family and living what I believe, but I blow that too. On all accounts I am forgiven. Graciously, perpetually forgiven.

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, "Take it; this is my body." Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, and they all drank from it. Mark 14:22-23 NIV

What a day to celebrate! It seems amid all the struggles and disappointments, there is always an abundance of blessings for which I express my deepest gratitude.

Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift! 2 Corinthians 9:15 NIV

Happy Thanksgiving!

Here we go a waffling

Today has been a fairly typical day.  I wake up to Isaac's sweet voice on my right, going "broom broom BROOM!" I crack an eyelid, wondering as I do every morning in our blacked-out room, to what time they let me sleep.  Isaac is propped up on a pillow driving a monster truck.

A few moments later, Ian animates and sits up with an enthusiastic "Good morning, mom!", followed by "Is baby making more milk?"  He stopped breast-feeding at about two and a half, rather reluctantly, due to my first trimester discomfort and rapidly diminishing milk supply.  I explained that my body stopped making milk for a little while and was busy building a baby brother, but when baby comes out, my body will make lots more milk. Since then, he's been my milk sentry, making sure baby doesn't leave his post at the milk churn.  

Ian next inquired, "Where's my flashlight?"  I ease open a second eyelid and grunt into a sitting position.  I look down to the floor and see the flashlight among some other toys.  "It's on the floor, being guarded by the Christmas dog."  Ian peers down, giggling, "Well, that's kinda really funny", retrieves his torch and sets off to scare some monsters.

I turn the fans off and the lights on and start gathering the day's clothes.  Isaac swings open a dresser door, says "bye bye" and closes himself up as best as he can.  The glazed-over red-faced expression heralds my next duty.

Ian drags his potty to its position in front of the TV.  I put on GPB, set the sleep timer and head off to make breakfast.  I make a somewhat Mickey Mouse configuration of waffles and sausage and in the midst of peanut butter-ing, I hear Isaac cry.  I mentally triage the situation and determine it's not a pain cry, but more one of annoyance.  Ian's usually pretty well locked-in when the TV goes on, so chances are it was self-inflicted.  I keep spreading.  He keeps crying.  I set down the knife and head toward the bawling.  Ian shuffles out of the bedroom, bound at the ankles by his pants, to tell me "Igick is crying."  That's because "Igick"  is trapped in the bathroom, not yet able to operate a door handle.  Unlike his older brother who was sitting two feet away and able to muster the effort to waddle all the way to the living room, but not....oh, nevermind.  I free Isaac and offer my sympathy.

Ian announces his potty accomplishments, and I take them to be flushed.  As I swirl the pot with soapy water, I ponder with disgusted amusement the irony and frequency with which I find myself performing tasks like this with PEANUT BUTTER ON MY FINGERS.  Isaac decides my sympathy job was lame and starts his 'stage cry'.  While scrutinizing the soapy pot, I verbalize more sympathy.  Not good enough.  Isaac whirls me around by my pants leg so I can also see on his face the utter agony and affliction he has suffered.  I properly comfort him and shoo them to the breakfast table.  Ian sees the glorious waffles and celebrates, "Oh fank you, mom!"  I get two sippy cups of milk poured while Ian is asking for his waffle to be cut into smaller pieces.  I deliver the milk and start to cutting, when I notice Isaac's food has dematerialized.  How does he do that?!

Later at lunch time, the boys plop down at their table.  As I'm pouring drinks, I hear Ian launch into his speed prayer.  It goes something like "Dear God, fank you for God, please bless evy-one. [Arms fling out to perform a giant clap]. AA-MEN!"  I feel a surge of pride that my little guy, who'd often rather bypass the ritual, remembered the blessing all on his own.  Mid-meal, Ian stands up, walks around the table and dutifully slurps applesauce off of his brother's shirt, then returns to his seat.

I take the opportunity to talk about tomorrow being Thanksgiving.  I talk about the time with family and friends, the delicious meal and how we will think about all the things we are thankful for.  I tell them how thankful I am for my sweet boys, their fantastic daddy and the health and happiness God has blessed us with. I tell them I am thankful that Grammy is feeling better from her appendix surgery,  I express my gratitude for the beautiful weather, good friends and that all our needs are met.  I turn to Ian and ask what he is thankful for.  "Straws!"  Well, he does make a good point.

Yes, sir. Right away, sir.

I snagged a couple windows of opportunity to dress the boys before breakfast this morning (obviously taking the huge risk that they will soil them beyond recognition by meal's end).  I jumped into some sweats and slippers before Ian's turkey sandwich requests turned riotous.  After the three of us finished a lunchy breakfast, I thought aloud, "I guess I should get dressed now.  My two boys are dressed.  I should be dressed too."  Ian replied, "Your boys are dressed, but their feet are cold.  How about some socks?"

I want sleep NOW! But, first...

I finally admit I'm a sleep fighter.  That's the first step, right?  An hour past bed time last night, my eyelids were so droopy tired, I was using them for slippers, yet I found myself in the closet, suddenly very concerned about the whereabouts of Isaac's hand-me-down winter coats.  Brian, festively adorned with an assortment of toddlers, diapers and tooth brushes, caught me mid-rifle to gently offer his support:  "You know, maybe this is a good time to tear the house apart for those coats.  We might need those tonight."  Aww, what a sweet ma-- now hang on a second -- I think I just got patronized!

I reluctantly gave up my search and found a small set of teeth to brush.  My sweet Brian already had Isaac in some cute little fire truck pajamas.  Ian, still prancing around in his squeaky-clean skin, insisted on having fire trucks too.  I opened the pajama drawer and was immediately transfixed by its disarray.  Brian was solidly into his narration of Tiger Can't Sleep, with Isaac tucked in the crook of his arm and naked Ian balanced precariously on the edge of the bed.  My hunt for more fire trucks segued into a full-blown drawer organization project.  My eyes were crossing, but this was "important."  About the time Tiger was one-man-band-ing, Brian realized I was into "it" again.  "Amy, what are you...?"  "Here they are!  Ian, let's put on your fire trucks"  "O.K., now come to bed....plllease."  "Hang on, I have to put all this back."

Finally, we're all tucked into bed. The last story is read.  Ian and Brian are discussing who will turn off the light.  An idea assaults my groggy brain:  Hey, I should go microwave that squishy little foot warmer thingy...

Mini Mama

What an amusing sight this was:  My 19-month-old, Isaac, chasing my almost-three-year-old, bare-bottomed Ian around and around the house, with little red toddler undies, gripped by the waistband in his chubby hands, insisting, "Wuh-wear! Wuh-wear! [translated: "underwear"]"

I need to figure out how to make a photo album of "I wish I got a picture of that" snapshots.

Man At Work

Brian is not an overly excitable guy, but he called me from work today with a glee in his voice, probably two notches higher than when he announced this would be a three-day work week.  "I found a dealer!  Right down town!  I'm headed there now!"  Don't turn him in just yet.  He's just trippin' on -- get this -- Vegemite.

"Vege-what?"  That's what all the Kroger people blankly replied when I attempted to get poor hubby his fix.  [C'mon, folks, do I have to start singing here?  Men At Work?  Land Down Under?  "He just smiled and gave me a vegemite sandwich..."?  O.K., nevermind.  "Do you have a request form?"]

It's pretty good.  When I spread it on toast, it's reminiscent of a french dip sandwich.  But, my lands, this man eats it like I'd eat peanut butter.  Or chocolate.  Or peanut butter wrapped in chocolate.  He seems almost hurt that I'm "barely touching the stuff."  There's been nary a meal prepared lately during which he hasn't been struck giddy with the idea that "this might taste good with some Vegemite!"  After 8 years of marriage, he has me convinced that my cooking warms his heart and belly, so I know I can shake off notions that he's discovered a miracle cure for the mundane meal.  My Knight just loves his Ve-ge-mite.

Back in September, we were fortunate to take a "trip of a lifetime" to Australia and New Zealand.  It was cold, somewhat wet, and I was fairly pregnant, so we kept our adventures pretty tame.  It was amazing nonetheless.  As you can guess, among our souvenirs was Brian's Vegemite addiction.

Back to the phone call.  He told me about his phone conversation with the shop keeper:

B: Do you have Vegemite?
SK: Yes
B: In the 400g size?!
SK: No, just the 150g.
B: [slightly dejected, but still panting] Which is about seven bucks, right?
SK: [possibly starting to feel a bit leery]...Um, y-yess...$6.99....Would you like me to...set some aside for you? [possibly also wondering if he'd prefer her to don a dark hoodie and sunglasses and stand on a street corner]
B: No, thanks.  I'll be there in a minute.

[swooning] I just adore this man.

I lost my cheese

Ian (3 in December) has recently potty trained.  He likes to sit indefinitely on his toddler potty, sometimes taking his snack with him (eww), while watching a show.  When he sits so long that my bottom starts to hurt just seeing him, I try to pry him off, but his usual response is, "Wait, I'm pooping.", to which I suspiciously inquire, "Is that the truth?"  "No."  "Thank you for your honesty.  Now, if you want to finish your show, feel free to pull up your pants and sit somewhere more comfortable."  Here is our most recent potty-time conversation:

Ian:  Mom!  I lost my cheese!
Mom:  Where did it go?
Ian:  I dropped it in the potty.  Can you get it?
Mom: No! No no no! [I dash over to inspect/avert any HAZMAT crises]
Ian: Can you get my cheese?
Mom:  That's not cheese.  That's....poop.  Ian, that's your poop.
Ian:  That's not poop.  It's my cheese.
Mom: [Dashing off to flush the goods]
Ian:  Wait, Mommmm!  Bring back my cheese!

There's a Ford F-150 in my shoe

I have a few treasured thoughts swimming around in my head this weekend, in addition to my new-found Airwalk accessory, that I'd like to hang on to.

Last night, while Brian was insulating the water heater pipes, Ian headed for one of the kitchen cabinets and pulled out his kid-sized baking kit.  He climbed up to our ridiculously tall table and said, "Mom, we need to make cookies." as he pulled out his apron and wooden spoon.  Starting cookies at 7 p.m. is not what I had in mind for the evening, but I was taken with his cuteness and spontaneity.  I grabbed a couple cookie cook books and we flipped through them.  I adored hearing him ponder to himself, "Hmm, which one shall I make?  Maybe like this one...or this one."  I saw that coconut macaroons were super simple and quick and he agreed without hesitation.  As he stirred the ingredients that I helped measure, he informed me, "I'm making cookies for you, Mom.  I'm making coc'ut mac'roons."  He fit six on his little cookie sheet and the rest on a big one, all the while self-critiquing the portion sizes:  "Oops, too much.  There, just right."  He was so proud of his little macaroons and when they were cooled and on a snowman plate, he was quite the host, offering each family member a cookie, then a second, and attempted a third.  He long ago figured out that his best chance of getting a treat is to bring some for everyone.

Isaac was a big fan, too.  With the last bit in his mouth, he'd run up to his dad requesting, "One!  One!", hoping to get 'one more'.

Isaac is starting to put together small sentences.  This morning in the bath he said, "I want out."  Seeing that written down now feels slightly like I'm celebrating having put my shoes on the right feet.  Anyhow, it's the most complete thing he's said yet and as his mother, I'm excited.  He does very precious toddler things.  I love when he toddles over with a book and hefts it up onto the table saying, "Read, Mom.  Lllap."  I hoist him up onto my carefully-pronounced 'lllap' and read his 'gory' for as long as it keeps his interest, then he claps the book closed, saying, "E end."

Lately, Isaac has been running around singing "Ma na ma na" (popularized by the Muppets), thanks to a dancing, singing Christmas monster a friend gave us last year.  I keep trying to catch it on video, because it is SOOO PRECIOUS, but each time he stops singing to chase after me, saying, "Cheese!".  Not to hijack my own thought, but, "Christmas monster", you say?  Yes, Christmas is already up & at 'em at our house.  Normally, I'd wait until a more typical time to install Christmas, but we won't be home for Christmas, so starting it early made sense. We had family visiting last week, so I thought, "Hey, I have help!  Let's do Christmas!".  I put on a Christmas CD yesterday, and after Jingle Bells played, Ian remarked, "Now that was a really good song."  He's my Christmas kid.  He loves all things Christmas and has me read him Christmas stories all year long.  Aunt Ashley sent the boys something uber-cool.  It's a Christmas story that holds a recording of her reading it.  It's fantastic to have a pinch-hitter when my voice is worn from the likes of "Santa's Peppermint Rescue".


OK, the natives are getting restless, so I'm off to new adventures!

Of Ramen Descent?

I had another bizarre-o dream last night (One of the many uber-strange dreams I get when pregnant).  My baby was packaged in one of those blocks of Ramen Noodles and needed to be cooked out.  He didn't quite cook long enough, so the noodles were still fairly blockish and stiff, so instead of fishing him out of a soupy bowl, we had to pluck the noodles off  and he was all gummy.  Ever tried to wipe spaghetti up from a table or floor and all it wants to do is roll around?  It was like that.

So is this my subconscious fear that he won't "cook" long enough (I have a rambling, resenting vent about the way my first two deliveries went down, starting with my water breaking/leaking "too soon" before labor would kick in on its own...maybe I'll share some time), or that we'll end up with some clumsy home birth?  Am I envisioning his poor little future of "pasta night" at home with two big brothers?  More likely, the "cooking" I've been doing in my exhaustion has led to an MSG hallucination.

The De-Evolution of a Mother

I began motherhood as a complex organism that required people to decontaminate before holding my firstborn.  Food fallen to the floor may as well already be harboring maggots.  (Eww. did I just say that?)  When I finally consented to let him in the same zip code as another child, I was Mama Bear on a hair-trigger, but it turned out other kids don't actually tend to hit babies.

Then came boy number two.  Ian was remarkably civil with baby Isaac, probably because he hadn't lost property rights to "his" breast.  I did call the doctor the first time they 'bonked' heads, but things were loosening up.  I let my guard down just enough to not stop Ian from placing a raisin in Isaac's mouth, but applauded myself for rescuing my infant from certain demise.  The next day, I discovered I had excised the second raisin.

I began to realize how futile it was to keep my youngest sterile with such a quick and creative older brother.  Then once Isaac was mobile, they'd collaborate on all things messy.  One mind-melting day, I de-evolved to "not seeing" the two of them slurping Jell-O off the kitchen floor and, later,  letting Isaac continue yelling from underneath Ian just to "see where it would go."  For the record, Isaac can throw a mean one-two combo of elbow-to-chin and head-butt.  At the pinnacle of insanity and fluster-ation, I actually barked at Ian, "Give Isaac back the knife!" just moments before I caught up with reality and disarmed them.  These days, I try to provide them wise instruction on the meaning and responsibilities of family, but, really, how much cuter could a toddler spat be, with two boy cubs batting and bopping at each other to no effect?

Number three is on the way, and I don't even want to know to what depths I will sink...

What am I thinking?!

I've never blogged.  Ever.  Why on earth am I starting now?  I haven't even done the dishes yet.  It's probably because I've been sending a lot of text messages of the silly goings-on in our house with 2 toddlers, and often I try to condense these events into Facebook status updates, which people seem to enjoy.  However, blogging sounded kinda fun (and don't confuse my conversational English-butchering for grammatical incompetence - it's simply one of my micro-rebellions), so I've decided to give it a whirl.  See, the dishes will keep piling up and eventually slide off and shatter on the floor, hopefully to be swept up by the next broom that drags through town, but these moments in time really ought to be preserved.

I'm totally in denial that my baby is almost 3, and that he has a brother who will be almost 2 when the THIRD boy arrives in January.  This is happening wayyyyy too quickly.  I had time to write a few things here and there in a journal when it was just Ian and I holding down the fort.  I thought I was bewildered then.  Poor Isaac has little record of his life thus far, as the stereotypical second -child syndrome goes.  I can type much faster than I can write, and typed text looks just as legible when composed in solitary as when I have what feels like 8 boys in my lap.  So, here it goes!