Hands

My children's hands never cease to amaze me.
I have been fascinated by them since they were in utero.
(I also have a thing for their feet, but since the boys have begun to grow more smelly, my love affair is waning fast.)
I have held their hands when they are grasping, unsure newborn looking for comfort.
I have felt their fingers clutch my own as they took their first steps.
I have watched as baby thumbs slipped out of pursed baby mouths searching for comfort.
I have seen them grasp bike handles, thrown balls, and beloved bears.
And I am amazed.
And the best is yet to come.
If I brainwash my children right, I will see those hands hold diplomas and medical degrees.
I will watch as they place rings on their wives hands, or as they are given a ring by their husband.
I will watch as my sons mop their wives brows as she labors to bring their children into the world. I will watch as their hands tremble with a mixture of terror and excitement that I remember so clearly in their father.
I will see my daughter grip the sheets, straining to bring forth her child.
I will see them hold their own babies hands through all of the firsts that a child brings.
And, hopefully, when I am ready to depart, their hands will be the last thing I feel, holding my own, strong and sure in the knowlegde that I always was there, arms outstretched, hands ready to catch them if they fell.
It is no wonder I have a lvoe affair with my children's hands.

Things we forgot from our childhood

I don't remember learning to write.
I remember doing it, per se, but not really.
To me, it seemed as though the teacher showed me and I was off and running.
Logically, I know it took more time than that. But that is how the fog of age recalls it.
My oldest boy is having a tough time writing. His name is illegible. I discovered this when we were addressing Valentine's for his classmates.
I mean, I knew it wasn't pretty before, but I couldn't read one blessed letter.
So I sat for an hour tonight and worked with Bug to improve his handwriting.
Only to realize I couldn't figure out how to teach a child to hold a pencil.
I stared at my hand, amazed. How hard could it be? I write every day. I know how to hold a pen. Why wouldn't that information magically jump for me into my child?
I became frustrated, with myself and a bit with him. I'm human. I admit it.
And so, after an hour with minimal success, I went looking online.
And came across a strange goldmine.
A wadded up tissue.
Hopefully unused.
I had Bug hold the wadded tissue with his pinky and ring finger, then the pen with the other three and it made a huge difference.
I don't know why. I don't know how.
But a snot rag in the hand is worth two confused parents any day.

What did I do to deserve this?

My middle child, my sweet, happy boy punched a girl in the nose at school today.
The reason?
She told him he wasn't the boss of her.
He punched her and then yelled, "Yes I am! My mommy told me I'm the boss!"
Ahem.
I think it's time for a reality check on child number two.
It will not be pretty.
He is not the boss. He has never been the boss. He never will be the boss. My son's will undoubtedly marry a woman just like me, and, like their father, will not even be the boss in their dreams.
Unlike Tony and Angela's topsy turvy chaos in "Who's the Boss", I will brook no question.
I am the supreme, all powerful, all knowing, kicking ass mama san boss in our home.
And my son will be learning that lesson tonight.
All hail me!

D-day (or the day the diapers died)

Bye, bye, Miss Poopy Diaper!
Wiped my last hiney for my little toddler!
And sweet baby is full of juice and water!
And singing today's the day the diapers die!
Today's the day the diapers die!

Or I do, which might very well be the end result of my latest experiment.
Three day potty training booty camp.
From first thing Saturday morning until last thing Monday night, Punk and I are Siamese twins with one goal in mind.
Ditch the diapers.
A lofty goal, but one I have been deluded into believing in thanks to a guru who pro-ports three day potty training.
It worked for a friend, and a friend of a friend, so it has to work for us, right?
I have bought the supplies--panties, salty snacks, juice, rewards.
I have enlisted help with the boys.
And I have told The Man we are doing this and he'd better hop on the potty training throne with us.
I oh so sweetly told him the plan, his job, the boys job, my job, and then reminded him what would happen if he let me down.
If he fails me, I'll flush him like the floater he is.
Starting first thing Saturday, before Punk wakes, I will be up and showered and watching her little butt like a hawk for signs of stirring.
We have to kick off this adventure together.
And then for the next three days, I will stalk her better than any obsessed fan. I will ask her with every other breath to tell me if she has to go. I will celebrate successes and deal with failures.
I will spend more time contemplating her pees and poops than any sane person should ever have to.
Because, after five plus years and over $5000 worth of money, I want to be free.
I want my life to be free from demon diapers.
DEMON! BE GONE!
And may the gods have mercy on my soul.
I'm gonna need it.

Chinese Water Torture, Mommy Style

Let me make one thing clear from the start.
I hate sports.
I hate some more than others. Soccer, meh. Baseball, blech. Football, hurling on the floor.
The Superbowl sends me into a full on fit, complete with foaming and seizures because people act like absolute morons about a game.
My brother, nephew, and husband will talk about nothing else. Get them together and the football talk starts within five minutes. And it continues long past the point of logic, sense, or their continued survival.
One day I will go Michael Myers on their asses. (Minus the clown costume which would make my butt look big.)
Having boys, I realized I would eventually have to slither into the world of sports.
I prayed for band nerds, or drama dorks, or even nonconformists kids.
I got my boys, who at four and five are entering the world of wee sports.
Boo is playing Wee Ball and Bug will be playing soccer.
All starting in LESS THAN ONE MONTH.
I find my stomach turning at the knowledge that I will be on the sidelines cheering for my kids and pretending to like the game because it's important to them.
I am having moments where it's like being pregnant again. I think I'll be riding the porcelain throne if I have to hear another word about any of it.
For me, this is parental torture.
And I haven't even seriously contemplated how bad they will smell afterward. Riding in my car. In an enclosed vehicle. With me.
But I will swallow my bile, plaster a clenched teeth smile on my face, and try my best to be encouraging, while, slowly, on the inside, I am dying a painful, agonizing death.
Because, I know, from here, it is a small step into them joining into those damned conversations about sports and plays and stats and all the other things that almost make me wish I had three girls.
*gag*

Battle of the boys

My boys are only eighteen months apart.
What does that mean to anyone not cursed blessed with boys so close in age?
This means they fight.
All the time.
Over everything.
From the color of the sky, to which one of the identical booster seats is theirs, to who is one fraction of a second away from touching whom.
They fight.
Epically.
I used to get involved when they fought. I used to try and find a just, fair compromise that would have made King Solomon proud.
That was before child number three made an appearance and I gave up.
Now, unless there is bloodshed or breaking of my housewares, I just don't' care.
As long as I don't have to hear any noise, such as indignant cries or screams for mercy, I turn a blind eye.
And when hear those things? I make the Man handle it.
Being the boss is very good.
Anyway, I used to interfere back in the day.
But that was back when there was a huge size difference between the two.
Now, I just let them have at it.
Bug fights like the tall boys he is, all arms and legs. He reminds me of Olive Oyl, truth be told, all swinging fists that rarely connect with anything.
Boo fights dirty. He'll tackle you when you aren't looking just because you may have glanced at him wrong when you passed him by.
Today, they fought because Bug looked like he was thinking about spitting on Boo. Boo's words. Not mine. I can't even follow the logic of this one. What does a child look like who is thinking about spitting? And what prior experience made my youngest son recognize that expression today?
Yesterday, they fought because Boo had the letter of the alphabet Bug wanted. Bug couldn't tell me which one out of the 25 others it was, but Boo had it.
Day before, they fought over who belched better. At least that one made some sense.
And I ended the fight by outdoing them both.
I don't know where it will end. Or even if it will end.
But I'm sure that last big knock down drag out fight will be at my bedside while i am gasping my last, and someone will breathe wrong.
I will spend my last moments on earth trying to separate my battling offspring while gasping, "Boys! Stop this right now! Are you trying to kill me?"

This week

The Man and I will say goodbye to another furry companion.
Our beagle, Kahlua, will join Peepaw, Tequila, Saki, and our zoo's polar bear in the stars. (That's according to my children.)
We have been blessed by Kahlua's sweet nature and easy love for almost fourteen years. But she is in pain and tired, and I have always vowed I will let them go before I will let them suffer unnecessarily.
I will thank her for her love and companionship, for her devotion. I will thank her and apologize for all that my children have put her through. And I will hold her as her soul leaves her body.
I will cry, sorry for myself at the loss of a friend, and in happiness for her as she finds peace.
She is a joy and a love and will be sorely missed.
Blessed be, Kahlua. And thank you.