Major First World Problem

The following is the definition of first world problem:

My parents gave me a watch for my college graduation.  Not just any watch, a Rolex with a beautiful mother of pearl face.  The slightest movement of your wrist changes the sheen of the face.  I love how it never looks the same twice.  It is, without a doubt, beautiful and fantastic quality.  The best.  I have worn it nearly every day since I received it and it is one of my most prized possessions. 

Or should I say it WAS.  I am a huge klutz and have inadvertently been very hard on this watch for ten years.  About two months ago I dropped it on my bathroom floor and the face cracked.  I know it is just a "thing" and it is silly, but I cried.  The repair was covered by our insurance policy. I took it to a jeweler and they sent it off to Rolex to be repaired.  All was good in the world again...until I got a phone call telling me that my prized mother of pearl face had not been manufactured by Rolex therefore they would be confiscating it. They could replace it with a blue, black, gold or white authorized, legitimate Rolex part.  A long phone argument ensued and in the end I was shit out of luck.  I cried over a "thing" again.

I went to pick the repaired watch up today and began crying again when the jeweler pulled it out of its case. I cried not because the replacement piece was ugly or damaged but because I lost something that was special to me...sentimental...valuable.  Yes it works perfectly and it is still a beautiful, heirloom quality watch but it has lost value to me.  You see, "things"don't make us happy.  But the meaning and memories behind the "things" DO make us happy.  They give "things" value.  And for me, some of that value is gone.

Rest In Peace old gal.

Thanks

I spend a lot of time complaining. I complain about chores and errands and my children's not so perfect behavior. I complain A LOT. But I am thankful for everything that I complain about. 

I am thankful for my children. I am thankful that they are healthy enough to run around screaming and throwing things at the wall and I am thankful that I am healthy enough to chase after them and carry their flailing bodies to time out. I know there are mothers who would give anything to see their child doing anything outside of a hospital bed and mothers who have to watch other people take care of their children because they are too sick to do so themselves. 

I am thankful for a husband who works his butt off to provide a generous life for his wife and sons. He is the reason we have a beautiful home that I am able to complain about trying to keep clean, plenty of clothes that stare back at me begging to be washed, a pantry full of food that I can groan about cooking.  I know that I am beyond fortunate to have this wonderful, sweet, loving man. Most people are not so lucky. 

I am thankful that I have friends that I have to remember to call and keep up with. I am thankful that my mom makes such a big deal out of family activities and I have to rearrange our schedule to accommodate my sisters crazy families and kids and custody agreements and distance constraints. I am thankful that my dad doesn't wear his hearing aids when we are around and we have to scream things at him to get his attention.  I am thankful that my boys have paternal grandparents that I have to endure a horrendous drive and carsickness to see.  How many people can say they regularly get to see their entire family and that their in-laws love their grandchildren so much that they will drop everything and drive nine hours just to see them for a day? I don't know how I would handle anything without my family and my friends. I am thankful that they are here and I cherish them.   All of them. 

I am thankful to have all these things to complain about.  I hope no one was offended by this. It truly is my twisted way of saying how grateful I am.

That Sums is Up

A random assortment of pictures I found on my phone from the past four months.  I don't even have words to go along with some of this ridiculousness.  And yes, I realize there are a large percentage of these that have at least one pantsless child.  It's just how we roll.

Cleaning Again?!

My darling 5-year-old son has been having a more intense attitude problem than usual. The complaining and nagging is infuriating. A typical conversation with him goes something like this:

Me: Connor, please (insert request)

Connor: Noooooooo. Why do you always say for me to do things I don't like?!

Me a little more stern: Connor, please (insert request)

Connor: I TOLD you...I'm NOT doing that because I HATE it and you are being so mean to me!

Me yelling this time: CONNOR, I SAID (Insert request) AND IM NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN. DO IT NOW!!!!

Connor: you are the meanest mom ever!!!!

Repeat several hundred times a day. 

Today, he caught me off guard.  I mentally prepared myself for the usual storm and I asked him to pick up the crayons.  

"Again?!?!  I've already cleaned up something today and I'm NOT cleaning anything else!!"

I think I am going to adopt this same attitude. And let our house fall completely apart. 

Playdate - Who Needs Underoos Anyway?

We had out first play date in the new house today. Four five-year-old boys. Need I say more?  

A huge disaster and ear drum bursting noise is expected and I typically don't even check on them. Unless someone is screaming bloody murder I assume they are having a good time. 

Today one of the boys came downstairs cracking up and said "Andrew doesn't have his underwear!"  Drawing the line at nudity, Andrews mother went upstairs to see what was going on. 

I'm not sure what went down, but I heard her say, "well where did you put them?" followed by little men chuckling in unison.

Apparently someone stole Andrews underwear while he was using the bathroom and hid them in this. Somewhere in this...

And I am officially never letting Connor go to a sleepover. Or camp. Or anywhere. Pranksters in training. 

Anxiety

Last night I went to a moms night out dinner.  I was invited by a friend from college and I didn't know anyone else. I have to give myself a pat on the back. 

I walked in, sat down and started chatting. I didn't feel like anyone was staring at me judging my appearance. I didn't sit quietly and wait to see if anyone would speak to me. I didn't look down at the table and avoid making eye contact. I sat tall, engaged, asked questions and added to the conversations...and I was comfortable and had a great time. 

I have had anxiety as long as I can remember. It has been lurking around my entire life.  As a child and teenager I remember feeling panicked about everything.  I felt like I didn't have intelligent or important things to say. I listened to people talk around me but rarely spoke up. I was uncomfortable in the clothes I wore and always felt fat and ugly. I covered myself in a towel and would scurry to the pool as quickly as possible so no one would see me in my swimsuit...at probably 8 years old.  I was afraid to answer questions unless I was absolutely certain I knew the right answer. Speaking out loud and being incorrect made me want to cry. I can even remember as a very young child being very bothered if we pulled up to a red light and someone in the car next to us glanced in my direction. I was certain that person in the other car was looking at me because I looked strange. 

As I grew and aged I got much better at pretending I did not feel these things. If I met a new person they probably thought I was very normal and perhaps even confident. I was an excellent faker. But it was all a facade. While I smiled and asked questions to a new acquaintance I was running through a list in my mind of what they might be thinking of me.  Did I sound smart?  Did I have on enough makeup to cover my bad skin? Did they like me?  How much longer could I act "normal" before I needed to go in the bathroom to take a few deep breaths?

I certainly still have my share of anxious feelings. I think it is a given being a mother. But last night, I was so proud of myself. I was not thinking those things. I ENJOYED talking to new people. I liked them. And I think they liked me. 

Baby steps. 

RIP Lego Balloon

I guess I really shouldn't be surprised at the insane things my children think of. They do contain Chris's DNA after all. 

From the stories I have heard and the leftover wacky ideas that still pop up every once in a while, I'm shocked Chris survived past 13 years old.  The amount of knives, fires and improvised explosive devices this man has dealt with in his life is astonishing. 

Last week he discovered a hornets nest in the fireplace in our kitchen and decided that the best way to eradicate them was to light the fire and sit next to it with a barbecue lighter. He individually torched any brave soul who tried to escape the inferno.

Two weeks ago Connor got a helium balloon at a birthday party and promptly let go of it in our 20 foot ceiling living room. It has been a decorative fixture ever since. This morning, Chris decided he was tired of it. After a few shots at it with a nerf cross bow and an inventive use of the telescoping light bulb changer stink thingie, Lego balloon is resting peacefully in the garbage can. 

I never said the hair-brained ideas weren't effective. 

The nudist colony

Another thing no one ever told me about raising two boys: I live in a nudist colony. But not all the time. Only when a repairman or UPS driver arrives. These small nudists are also exhibitionists. 

I knew we had two packages being delivered this morning and that the AT&T repairman would be here sometime between 8 and 12. Everyone was still in jammies (hey it's Friday) but I had ensured all booties and weenies were properly covered. The doorbell rings.  Quick glance in the living room. Yep, still dressed. I open the door and see it, the shocked eyes. I turn around to see the big one in Star Wars briefs and the little one naked from the waist down, playing with his boy stuff no less. Approximately 10 seconds had passed since I confirmed clothing. Apparently they are also magicians. Nudist, exhibitionist magicians. 

With the door wide open I begin yelling, "put your pants on!  Where is your diaper!?  Stop playing with your weenie!" After a brief chase and football tackle, Charlie is rediapered and Connor has disappeared.  It's that magician in him. 

The polite repairman is still standing on the porch with a little smirk.  Completely embarrassed and a little winded from the chase I say, "I am so, so sorry..." He cuts me off. "I have a three year old son."

So he lives with a nudist too. Ahhhhhh...camaraderie. 

Creative adaptation

It is amazing to see a child grow and mature right in front of you. Over the past few weeks Connor has begun to get really creative and interested in drawing and writing. His pictures are getting more detailed and recognizable. He used to get so upset and fall apart if he messed something up or if it didn't turn out the way he intended. 

Today he told me he wanted to draw an "epartment." So he drew a tall building with a column of windows. Then hurricane Charlie scribbled on the top. Instead of the nuclear meltdown I was expecting, Connor said, "hmmm, maybe this could be a police station instead."  He drew a flagpole and a large door. "Mom, how do you spell door?"  He drew the D but it looked more like a P. Again, you could see the wheels turning. "Well, I'll just write P IS FOR POLICE instead of DOOR."  He even added a larger P on top of the building. It doesn't sound like a big deal but for the meltdown maniac, it is monumental. 

I closed my eyes for a moment to thank God for this step in my child's development. 

 "I'M GOING TO HEAD BUTT YOU IF YOU DONT GET AWAY FROM MY PIIIIIICCCCCCTUUUUUUURRE!!!!"  

Screech, crash, crying. 

Perhaps I basked a moment too long. 

Well so much for that

I made the tragic mistake and admitting to myself that I was having a peaceful moment. Charlie was napping. I was chopping fresh, healthy ingredients for our dinner while Connor was coloring Thanksgiving turkey pictures for his friends. It was lovely. 

And then Charlie woke up. 

"Mooooooommmmmmmyyyyyy!"  He's downstairs in a flash. "No Charlie!  Don't touch my pictures!!"

Push

"Mommy I want use maaaaakkkkerrrr tooooo. No crayon!"

Snack bowl hits floor. 

"Mom, watch this. I'm going to give myself a little haircut."

This one warrants leaving the stove. But not before I dumped 2 tablespoons of cumin on the pot that I had already put the lid on. 

"I waaaaaannnnnttttt cwacker!!!!!"

"Hey Charlie, draw in your eyeball."

Holy Moses. Haircut, two year old covered in markers, ground spices all over the kitchen, snacks everywhere, screaming people. In less than five minutes. 

What is that burning smell?!

No card for you!!!

Last week I was telling someone about ordering our Christmas cards to send out this year and how I was hoping that 150 cards would be enough. This person gasped and says, "It's such a waste of money.  Why don't you just give the money you would have spent on cards to a charity instead. That will really get that holiday spirit pumping!" I was caught off guard and didn't know what to say. So here is my response:

I love Christmas cards. I love receiving them. I love taking a picture of my family every year and I love sending them out. I know it is a hassle to get pictures made, a hassle to make the cards, a hassle to address them all and yes, it is not cheap to send. But I love Christmas cards. I save them year to year bound together with a little ring and love to flip through and reminisce.  I love to open the mailbox and see that first card smiling back at me. I love to ooh and ahh over everyone's families and their cute designs and photographs. I love Christmas cards. I love sticking that huge stack of envelopes in the mailbox knowing that in a couple of days, everyone I love is going to see my cute babies faces and will get a chuckle out of it. 

This is truthfully one of my favorite parts of Christmas. I tend to get stressed and bitchy about the planning, gifts, activities, baking etc. but I really, truly love Christmas cards. So instead of giving the money I would spend on them to charity I am going to continue just as I have and send out those fun Christmas cards to everyone I love!  Instead of giving that money to charity, I am going to use it for something that I love and what brings me my own personal Christmas Joy and puts me in the spirit to pass that attitude and joyfulness to my family.  

That is where I get my christmas spirit pumping. And of you have a problem with that...no card for you!  

His time of the month

I am a mother of two boys. By definition I deal with weird, gross stains on every textile that enters my home. Suspicious brown smears on clothes (just wash them, don't smell), sticky green goo on my own shirt (small people like to use me as a Kleenex), a combination of blood and snot used to finger paint on a bed sheet...I've seen and usually identified it all. Or so I thought until I was doing laundry this morning.  I first gagged and then stared quizzically at this head scratcher of a stain. I carefully examined it and believe I have figured it out.  It's a period stain. Yep. My two year old son must have started his period. 

Licking

There is a list as long as my arm of things I say on a regular basis that I never thought would be necessary. The ones I'm noticing the most lately involve the use of the tongue and teeth. "Don't lick the wall." "Get your mouth off the counter." "Stop eating your boogers." "You are not allowed to bite off your brothers toenails."  That's right.  On a road trip last week I looked back to see Connor biting off a hangnail on Charlie's toe. I almost vomited. The more I thought about it the more I thought it was actually kind of sweet...if you think really hard. He was trying to do something helpful for his brother. Ill take kind gestures wherever I can get them. My sweet little toenail biting man. 

Pretty Much The Same

I haven't written in our blog in quite a long time. A lot has been happening. We sold our house, moved into a new one, I had surgery, my younger sister got married had another baby, we have gained family members, lost some. But everything is pretty much the same...tonight, Charlie came running out of the bathroom screaming, "I'm nekkid!" While peeing all over the carpet. Then Connor came out swinging around the glow stick he had hanging from his penis. So yeah...it's pretty much the same around here. Beautiful Chaos.