Sentences

I often find myself saying sentences I know I've never said before. Sentences I didn't think I'd ever say. For example, last Sunday at my rehearsal, I said, "Stop hiding toys on the ladder and stop taking baby dolls to the bathroom!" A combination of words I doubt I'll ever (and hope I never) say again.

Just this morning I chastised The Rock Star. "Don't throw bugs at your brother!" It's not that this is a sentence I thought I'd never say--I have boys after all--it's just that I didn't think I'd say it until the boys were considerably older. I have an image of them, seven and just ten maybe, throwing dead spiders at one another. The little one gets mad because he's losing at Battle of the Bugs and he throws a punch. The older one, still slightly bigger--though not for long--flies at his little brother with both fists. The smaller ones runs into the house for safety. When I question what happened the sentence starts with, "We were throwing bugs at each other." And I reply, "Don't throw bugs at your brother!"

But at 40 months (to the day) and nearly nine months, I didn't think it was a sentence I'd say. Of course, the bug in question was a giant plastic lady bug but still.

No, I will certainly not endorse fist fights between my two sons. It's just that I'm also not stupid. Wrestling matches and the occasional punch are inevitable.

More pictures

I've been meaning to show you all this onesie that my friend, Michelle, gave Matthew back in September. Giraffe. It's cute right? What you probably can't see is the writing underneath the giraffe.

Let's take a closer look...Priceless! I absolutely couldn't have possibly put it any better. When I put him in it I am reminded that there isn't a price tag hanging off of Matthew's arm. It doesn't matter. I'm also reminded of Kevin, Michelle & Karsie and I say a prayer. Sometimes they sound like what Garrett prayed this morning.

G: (climbing into the car after preschool) Mommy, is baby Tarsie still in the hospital? (He asks a lot.)
Me: Yes. She is.
G: Is she getting a shot right now?
Me: Probably not right now.
G: Is the doctor making her better?
Me: Yep. Do you want to say a prayer for her?
G: Uh-huh. (pause) Dear Jesus, thank you for this day. Thank you for Tarsie. Thank you that something is going on in her tummy. Please put your hands on her and make her all better. Amen.

Um. I didn't pick up the phone and called Michelle right then to relay the prayer to her. I'm not that proud of my son's prayer and his tender heart. I certainly wouldn't have felt the need to share it with Michelle. Oh, okay, I did.

So, in other The Rock Star news, he's decided that he is completely independent in the bathroom. Regardless of what kind of business he does, he doesn't want any help. Problem is, when he does serious business, he takes his clothes completely off. Often his pants end up on backwards. It's not a big deal. Except when I forget to fix them and we go out in public like this. It might be worse when I don't realize it until we get home.

And then, finally, a poll. Please watch this video and then tell me if he appears to be happy. Sometimes it's hard for me to tell...

Random Wednesday

I'm down on our desktop computer, which is buried in the recesses of the basement, because I can't get our wireless Internet to work upstairs. So I started looking at pictures that we have stored on this computer. We didn't use the laptop at home until we moved to Utah so all pictures prior to that are on the one in the office. I've selected a few random shots, for your viewing pleasure or...whatever.

Three years and three days ago, this is what my firstborn looked like.

Um. I've had several people at our church tell me that they cannot imagine what I looked like pregnant. Well, this is what I looked like just seconds before we walked out the door to deliver our baby. I felt gigantic and, really, I was. For me. I mean nine months of gestating a son was certainly the biggest I'd ever been. But I look at it now and I see why so very many people hated me.

I get it now. I'm issuing my formal apology. Back then, I swore to everyone that I'd be huge with the next one. Well, the day Matthew was born I was quite a lot smaller than this. If there is ever another biological one, I promise to be bigger. I also kind of sort of maybe promise that there won't be another biological one.

This is what I looked like two days after Garrett was born. You know, in case people at the church were wondering what I looked like just after giving birth. I'm smiling because I'd had the good sense to get an epidural.

This is our cat when he was just a little kitty and we were all, What the doo da day? How the heck do we have a cat? What do you even do with a cat? We hate cats. Don't we? I think this was still when we were calling him a her. Because, yes, we were just that stupid when it came to cats. I mean, it was pretty obvious when we got our dog that he had...ahem...some business. With Oliver it was just so hard to tell. We felt pretty dumb when the vet said, slowly, as though that was what we needed, "This is actually a male."

And to wrap up this completely random slathering of photos, I urge you to tell me how any home is complete without one of these. No really. Go ahead and try. I'm fairly confident I won't believe you.

I think it might be as futile as if someone attempted to convince me that the Obama Administration's decision to try Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and other Al Qaeda terrorists in the civilian justice system in Manhattan is a good idea.

New Names

The Rock Star has preschool on Tuesday and Thursday mornings from 9:00-11:00. He pretty much loves it and he's learning sooooo much. Today, when he climbed into the car and I dug through his bag to see what kind of papers he'd brought to me, I found a little piece with a drawing of an animal on it. Above it read: My Indian Name.

Not very politically correct but I still laughed.

Me: Garrett, did you pick your name or did your teachers give it to you?
G: I picked it.
Me: Did they give you a few choices or did you just come up with it off the top of your head?
G: I dust come up wit it off the top of my head.
Me: (laughing) Okay Happy Monkey.

I called Troy to tell him that our son's Native American name was Happy Monkey. He asked me to have Garrett give Little Buddy his own name.

Me: What is Matthew's Indian name?
G: Um. Quiet Spider!
Me: (into the phone) Matthew's name is Quiet Spider.
Troy: Quiet Spider?
Me: Yeah. I think it should be Noisy Spider but whatever.
Troy: Or Barking Spider.

Mouse In The House

The other day our cat left us a gift. When Troy went to let the dog out in the morning, he saw a dead mouse waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. Neat.

Fast forward a couple of days. Troy was up at men's retreat when I saw a mouse skitter across the floor and underneath my refrigerator. Double neat.

I shoveled the boys into the car and went straight to WalMart to get traps. I have a serious fear of setting those cheap wooden ones. It's not that I'm a total girl, it's just that I like all of my fingers and I don't really feel like losing one in the process of setting a trap. Oh, okay, I'm a total girl. So I splurged and got two slightly more expensive traps that advertised in big red letters that they were easy to set. The traps had teeth that resembled ferocious jaws. These will be effective, I thought.

I filled the food wells with peanut butter and I put one trap behind the refrigerator and the other on the floor of the pantry behind my big, heavy, wonderful KitchenAid mixer. You try finding two spots in your kitchen where it's safe to have a mouse trap. Two spots where your curiously stupid but lovable golden retriever won't wander for a tasty lick of peanut butter thus amputating a chunk of his tongue. Two spots where your cat won't reach his tiny little paw and retract it with a trap hanging off. Two spots where your eight month old won't grab at the interesting new toy thus losing a few digits in the process. And two spots where your three-year-old won't step for the sole purpose of getting a cool new shoe--and losing his big toe.

I checked the traps constantly. Nothing. Late that night, as I sat watching the end of a movie, I heard the snap of a trap. I waited several minutes and then checked the trap behind the refrigerator. It was still set. I opened the door to the pantry. The trap was sprung and lying on its side. Shining a flashlight into the small darkened area I saw a little mouse jerk its head.

It's not dead! I said, audibly. Loudly. Apparently, easy to set does not necessarily mean easy to kill.

Using tongs I pulled the trap out. The mouse was frantically thrusting its upper body around in an attempt to free itself. It was pinched in half but I couldn't detect any blood. It stared at me. "Help me!" It seemed to cry. And all I could think about--all I could think about--was Remy from Ratatouille. This wasn't a rat (thank heaven!) it was just a little mouse but still. When it looked at me with those little eyes and wriggled its nose it very well may have opened its mouth and whispered, "Why? Why have you done this to me?"

Again with the audible part, I said, You have to kill it. You have to end its suffering. And I began to sweat uncontrollably. I considered leaving it for my husband to deal with but then it wiggled its nose at me again. I used the tongs to carry the trap out to the garage and I got a gardening tool. Okay. You just have to hit it. Hard. And fast. You can do this. But then the logistics of the trap confused me. There was a big plastic piece in the way of my clean shot to the mouse's skull. I was afraid I'd hit the plastic piece and the trap would go flying with a live mouse still inside. I decided to take the trap outside, open it (with the gardening tool) and see what happened. If the mouse ran away I would just cross my fingers that it didn't end up back in my house. If it was paralyzed, I would have easy access to the entire mouse and I would hit it, quickly, with a hoe.

I released the trap. That mouse ran faster than a speeding bullet and I'm not even kidding you. It was as though those stupid jaws had somehow managed to miss its spinal column entirely and all it did was merely pinch the dumb mouse for awhile. Into the snow it ran and then disappeared into the dark. Au revoir, little mouse. Please don't come back into my house.

It's been two days and we haven't caught another one. But I think I'll let the cat take care of them in the future. He does a much better job than the traps.

Simple Sunday

Hi. These are my two teeth...

Hi again. It's me, mommy's little truffle.

Camping Out

My husband went up to men's retreat this weekend. Even though they are staying in the same posh lodge that the women stay in, Troy kept referring to it as "men's camp". The Rock Star was devastated that he couldn't go. To try to keep him from bawling his eyes out, I promised him a camp out of our own. He ran outside to show me where we would pitch the tent. But, uh, it was 28 degrees last night the baby monitor needs to be plugged in.

I pushed our love seat across the hardwood floor and draped a blanket over the top. In no time at all we had ourselves a tent or, as my brother and I used to call the ones we made, a fort.

I asked him what he wanted to do on our camp out. He wanted hot dogs and he wanted to roast marshmallows. This involved a trip to the store. When we returned we had hot dogs, pickles and potato chips. I certainly realize that this isn't a well balanced meal but it's not often that The Rock Star and I have camp outs while daddy is gone.

He requested marshmallows. But I decided to take it a step further.

We have a gas fireplace. We don't have a fire pit or any other good way to roast marshmallows. A candle had to suffice.

They didn't work quite as well as I'd hoped. Either they didn't brown or they caught on fire. I quickly learned that the best way to "roast" them was to let them burn for a very short amount of time. They were going inside of s'mores anyway so I wasn't terribly concerned. The only time I actually allowed him to hold the stick by himself was for the two seconds it took me to take this picture. I was slightly worried that the sugary puff would catch on fire and he'd shake it like mad and send it flying.

Nothing much better than when your brother goes to bed and you get to eat s'mores with mommy.

Yum. What's not to like? Graham crackers. Good. Chocolate. Good. Marshmallows. Good!

When the s'mores were gone and our tummies were full of sugar, we brushed our teeth and The Rock Star headed into the tent. I turned out the lights and read him books by flashlight. He was out cold by 8:45--over an hour after his bedtime. But sometimes--sometimes--bedtimes are meant to be broken.

Then I snuck out and watched TV with the volume turned way down low. I don't think he knew. ;-)

My Prayer

I remember lying in our bed. My fists tightly clenched the pillow my face was buried in. I sobbed, baptizing it in anguish and despair and expectation. I remember begging God for my baby. Father, hear thy child's call! I cried out in grief filled distress. Humbly at thy feet I fall. My body ached and I acknowledged my sin. I recognized anything and everything that might have been standing in the way of blessing. Prodigal confessing all. Eventually, sleep washed over my afflicted soul. I beseech thee, hear me!

I remember because it was a night of wrestling, confession, and confusion. My tears, it seemed, could have flooded the earth. I cannot adequately describe the emotion that exploded that night--but I remember. How could I forget being on the losing end (always) of a wrestling match with the Lord?

Last night Garrett woke up before I ever crawled into bed. It was 10:30 and I was watching TV. Troy was in the office working on something for church. Suddenly I heard Garrett crying in his room. I flew up the stairs and opened his door. He stood, disoriented, blanket sleeper clad, in the middle of the bedroom. I scooped him into my arms and quickly closed the door so as not to wake the sleeping baby. He put his head on my shoulder and I carried him down with me so that I could finish the show. I flicked off the light and, as I collapsed onto the couch, he cuddled into my body. When the show was over I shut off the television. Moonlight poured in through the open blinds on the back door. Tree branches, raped of their leaves by the autumn, swayed in the wind and cast their shadows across the carpet. My son breathed heavy, his chest bumping into mine as he slept. So much bigger than yesterday. So much bigger than the day before. So much bigger than the tiny baby they put into my arms after a 25 hour labor. So much bigger, wiser, better than the baby I beseeched the Lord for.

It was peaceful, quiet, and late. The fire, and my child, warmed me and kept the chilly fall air at bay. Leaves swirled outside the door and Garrett sighed with content--safe in his mother's arms. I sighed with content--safe in my Father's arms, soaking in the joy of answered prayer.

Psalm 6:9 The LORD has heard my cry for mercy; the LORD accepts my prayer.

Hope's Fulfillment

Let us sing alleluia here on earth, while we still live in anxiety, so that we may sing it one day in heaven in full security...We shall have no enemies in heaven, we shall never lose a friend. God's praises are sung both there and here, but here they are sung by those destined to die, there, by those destined to live forever; here they are sung in hope, there in hope's fulfillment; here, they are sung by wayfarers, there, by those living in their own country. So then...let us sing now, not in order to enjoy a life of leisure, but in order to lighten our labors. You should sing as wayfarers do--sing, but continue your journey...Sing then, but keep going. -Augustine of Hippo

I came across this quote this morning while I was reading part of Kathleen Norris's Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith. I was first introduced to Norris in college and, while I hardly agree with all her theology, I can't read her without being riveted to her words and moved by her poetry--and I've only ever read her prose. And I agree with enough of her theology to wholeheartedly recommend her books--at least The Cloister Walk and Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith. Especially (especially!) The Cloister Walk. I think the former is a much easier read than the latter although, my life is certainly richer for having read them both.

But the quote. I keep trying to pick out my most favorite part but I'm having a tough time. All of it is pregnant with words of peace. I think that this is the line that captivates me the most: here they are sung in hope, there in hope's fulfillment...

As I watch friends (both real life friends and those I call friends because they share their life with me through this thing called blogging) go through horrible trials and as we wait in hope for a positive end to our own situation, I sing Hallelujah and I long for eternity in hope's fulfillment. I long for an everlasting life spent in the presence of my redeemer.

Hebrews 12:2-3 Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

Mama's Boy

If you looked up mama's boy in the dictionary the definition would be Matthew. It's not that he doesn't adore his daddy. He does. It's not that he won't go to other people. He will. It's not that he screams all the time if I'm not around. He doesn't. But good grief and give me a break is that kid ever a mama's boy.

He wants to be with me constantly. He'll go to someone else but the moment I walk up it's all tears and "oh how I've been tortured" and reaching out to me and did I mention the tears? Giant ones, produced so immediately that I'm getting this kid acting lessons for his second birthday and just waiting for the day he wins an Oscar and says he owes it all to his strange obsession with his mommy.

At home it isn't enough to spend his entire existence standing between my legs, following me wherever I go, demanding to be held. Oh no. When I hold him, he often tries to climb into my body. He just isn't close enough to me if he's merely in my arms. Apparently, he needs to open my chest cavity and cling to my rib cage.

I make him entertain himself quite often because I don't want a baby who can't ever be put down. But, I'd be lying if I said I didn't find it endearing--albeit incredibly annoying. There is a part of me-- the part that threw The Rock Star at the nearest passerby any time he acted like this because I just didn't want to have myself a ridiculously shy, finicky, picky baby--that wants to tell him to toughen up and stop being such a baby. There is, however, another part of me--most of me--that thinks this bond is amazing. This part of me wants to hand Matthew to the judge, watch him dissolve into a mess of snot and tears and Oscar winning performance, and then raise my eyebrows and say, "Really? Really?" Then, perhaps Matthew could let out one of his piercing screams. It sounds like a lot of loud yelling but it is translated to I want my mommy and I want her right now and I want her never, ever, to put me down. EVER! They are somewhat famous around here because, well, they could wake the dead and I'm only mostly kidding. Anyway, perhaps he could let out one of his banshee shrieks. Then, I could look at the judge, smile, and say, "I rest my case."

Santa Brings One Thing...

When The Rock Star sat on Santa's lap last year, he asked for a green hat. My mom was with me. We had no idea why he had suddenly gotten the notion that he needed a green hat. I thought, for sure, that he would be sorely disappointed on Christmas morning when he opened an anti climatic hat. I'll just tell you that it wasn't the first time I was wrong.

Santa, being the jolly guy that he is, also brought Garrett a kiddie drum set. He opened the hat after he got his drums and he was still incredibly happy.

This year I asked Garrett early what he wanted from Santa. I just thought that, in the event he asked for Barbados or a big screen television, I might need time to talk him into something else. He replied that he wanted a nummy. I knew what he meant. Last year, mall Santa gave him a candy cane.

Me: You want a candy cane?
TRS: Yeah.
Me: Anything else? You can ask Santa for one other thing.
TRS: A pirate boat.
Me: But you have a pirate boat.
TRS: I want another one.
Me: Oh boy.

I set to looking on the Internet to see what kind of inexpensive pirate boat Santa might be able to concoct in his, uh, toy shop. Today, I walked through WalMart while Garrett was at preschool. I wasn't finding much, let me tell you. Thankfully, it's not my problem. Thankfully, Santa could deal with it.

I had to go to a different WalMart once I picked Garrett up because I heard that there were turkeys for .40 cents a pound (thanks Heather!) but they were out of them at the WalMart that I went to first. So, Garrett, Matthew and I stopped by the one closer to our house. As I walked through the store, The Rock Star got sidetracked.

And he fell in love with a toy. Crocodile tears rolled down his face when I told him no. So I told him to put it on his Christmas list. His sobbing stopped. "Can I ask Santa for it?" I told him that he could only ask Santa for one thing and so he would have to choose between the beloved toy that had worked its way into his heart or another pirate boat. For him, the choice was easy.

This is going to seem like a total non sequitur but Garrett loves the trash man. He asks, almost every day, if the trash man will be coming. He sits in the front window and watches and waits and waits and watches. It's peculiar. Anyway. He's obsessed. The kid will drop everything and run to the window if he hears a trash truck. So is it any wonder that this is the toy that suddenly stole my three-year-old's heart?

Last year, I wondered if Santa thought it was weird that my two-year-old asked for a green hat. If mall Santa's everywhere had lists of bizarre things children ask for, this one might take the cake.

Santa: What would you like for Christmas, little boy?
TRS: A trash truck.
*********************************************************

Speaking of The Rock Star, someone who started reading this blog after Garrett had been renamed asked how he came by his nickname. I used to call him The Dictator because, well, he acted like one. However, last May, he wandered into my bedroom and emphatically yelled, "I'm a rock star!" I blogged about it and a reader suggested that maybe he got it from Sid the Science Kid on KPBS. Though I hadn't realized it at the time, that is exactly where it came from. He continued telling us for quite awhile that he was a rock star. He loves music and anything having to do with drums or guitars so it just seemed to fit.

What Are You Thankful For?

Last night was our church Thanksgiving potluck. We had an amazing turnout. The "official" count was 162 which was more than we had in church yesterday morning. It was delicious and not only did I fill my belly with turkey, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and more, my three-year-old gobbled (ha ha--I crack myself up) it all down also--which was a real testament to its tastiness. Except the mashed potatoes. He gagged three bites down because I made him. My incredibly strange son still hates mashed potatoes.

After our meal, we had a time of worship and sharing the things we're thankful for. The Rock Star was frolicking around near his dad so my husband stooped down and stuck the microphone in his face. Without warning or prompting of any kind, Troy asked Garrett what he was thankful for. I held my breath, fully expecting that he'd say toys or candy or something even more horrendous like his epic toots.

With a sweet little voice, my firstborn replied, "Jesus."

Troy smiled and said, "What else?"

The Rock Star paused for a few moments and finally replied, "My whole church."

Good answers, son. Good answers.

Simple Sunday

Just a couple of pictures for your viewing pleasure.

The Couch

We have a couch and love seat in our formal room*. They are off white and we bought them with money that my grandparents gave us when we got married. We splurged and paid for some kind of stain proofing thing on account of the fact that we knew we wanted kids. We use them but we don't use them often. They look fairly new. Yes, I'm knocking on wood as I write and imagining a post in the not too distant future where I talk about how one of my two boys has just ruined my couch.

Anyway.

Despite the fact that I rarely use the furniture in the living room, it's a wonder that I had wonderful snuggle times with both my sons during the last 30 hours. I just put Matthew down in his crib. He fell asleep while he was drinking his bottle which never happens. I carried him over to the couch and laid down with him on my chest. His arms were pulled in tight underneath his body. His hair tickled my chin and the smell of Shea butter filled my nostrils. A trickle of formula ran from his mouth, which was slightly agape, and down his chubby cheek. He sighed. I sighed. The moment was good.

"MOMMY!" The Rock Star shrieked from the back door. And then there was some kind of catastrophe involving a three-year-old, a dish towel, and a piece of wood outside. Matthew's eyes flew open, his head popped up off my chest, and his signature grin spread across his face as if to say, My, what a good nap. I'm ready to play now. I carried him up to his crib.

Last night, Garrett announced that he'd made a bed for all of us. Troy was supposed to curl up on the love seat while Garrett and I shared the couch. I laid with my head at one end and Garrett had his head at the other end. I tickled his bare foot with the back of my index finger. He giggled. "Come here," I said to him and he curled into my body with his head balanced on my shoulder. As we talked he let out a series of rather loud toots**. I laughed. He laughed. He sat up and looked into my eyes as I chuckled.

"Garrett, do you know who else toots like that?" I asked him, prepared to throw my brother under the bus.

"Yes." He giggled.

"Who?" I asked, pleased that he knew of whom I was speaking.

Garrett paused and, through hysterical giggles replied, "The Prospector."



The part he is referencing happens at about the 4:24-4:44 mark. So you can fast forward to that point if you don't feel like watching all the Toy Story 2 bloopers. In any case, I completely cracked up. He collapsed back onto my shoulder and shook with deep belly laughter. The moment was good.

I'm glad I have that couch--and, of course, the boys who snuggle with me on it.

*When you have two boys under the age of three and a half, nothing is formal.
**Yes, we call them toots. I mean, we didn't until we had kids but now we do.

Little Bill

We've been trying to have more diversity in the things we let The Rock Star watch. Sure, Little Buddy is only eight months old now, but one day he'll identify with the things he sees (or doesn't see) around our house. Little Einsteins is good because there is an Asian and an African-American on it. Another great cartoon that Garrett has fallen in love with is Little Bill. And, really, how could you go wrong with Cosby?
Little Bill loves a particular superhero called Captain Brainstorm. In one episode, Little Bill wants to be Captain Brainstorm for Halloween and has to come up with things around his house that will help him put the costume together. When he gets stumped he says to himself, "There's got to be another way."

Let's just say that this is Garrett's new catch phrase. I hear him saying it really frequently. This morning, as he tried to shove his feet into shoes that are way too small I heard him exclaiming, "There's got to be another way!"

Do any of you have suggestions about other cartoons/movies/music/etc that would be good for us to have around to broaden the cultural identities of both our boys?