Little Jack White

So the "hammer, hammer, saw, saw" jelly candy bribery worked and I managed to get W in costume this morning. He just about jumped off the changing table with glee when I mentioned the sweet tooth opportunity. I had to pre-layer the shirts so in essence I was pulling only one shirt over his head and I had to pre-loop the belt so I could slip on the britches and velcro. He was almost aware of what I was making him do and started to protest but I was saved by the neighborhood street sweeper. The whole way to school he sang "Where is sweet sweeper, where is sweet sweeper, down the sweet, down the sweet..." to the tune of Farajaca.

Here are the little White Stripes. Getting them to stand together was like herding cats. Impossible.






































And this blue eyed fella is Z but the Hubs and I call him Bill Clinton because he's usually standing by the gate smiling up at you and you almost expect him to shake your hand every time he's there.

One White Stripe

The Hubs and I are simultaneously battling allergies in the worst way and having both of us suffer together isn’t the picture of “let’s cuddle in bed, share Kleenex and watch bad daytime TV as we drift in and out of sleep." Nope, it’s more like “I’m sicker than you so you see what W needs while I sip more of this hot toddy and channel surf." I usually never get allergies but something in the air has got me all twisted. It’s all I can do to keep from coughing up a lung on to my desk at work. My co-workers better love me for the personal sacrifices I make for them.

The other night in the middle of the night I awoke to a mysterious crunching sound. I listened harder in the direction of the open bedroom windows and though it was a squirrel enjoying a midnight snack but the chomping was too close. In the pitch I turned my head so both ears could dial up the sound and process from hence it sprung to wake me (some pretty fancy writing, huh?) and was convinced that the squirrel was in our room. We don’t have screens on the windows so it was a viable possibility. I looked in the direction of Hubs whose profile I could barely discern in the moonlight and sure enough, I could see his jaw working away. The “squirrel” was the Hubs chomping on cough drops like stolen Halloween candy. Took a lot of will power to not grab a pillow and gently place it over his munching head.

Tomorrow is Halloween and we are almost prepared for the ghosts and goblins to appear. W is going to be Jack White from the White Stripes while his best bud, CaCa, is going to be Meg. As we all know from the previous blog entry, W doesn't "do" costumes. Took FOREVER to find some red pants in his size with belt loops for his white belt. I did find him some britches but they are for girls…and they have silver sparkles in them. Not only is the white belt going to mentally scar the child but the girlie britches with sparkles may send him in a demonic fit. Thank goodness he’s only two and loves a certain kind of jelly candy that I have a secret stash of for bribery cases such as these. Yes, W gets candy after his oatmeal tomorrow morning.

It Takes A Village

So this is the episode where I have to give mad props to all the mommies and daddies who are the kick arse parents of the kids in W’s class at school. Can I just say that I’m the luckiest momma on the planet to have such an awesome bunch for a) drinking buddies, b) open-minded, laid back, non-judgmental conversationalists, and c) measuring 11 on the 1-10 scale of total foxiness. Seriously, we should all pose for a calendar and I bet we would sell the hell out of it. We could donate some of the money to the school and spend the rest on wine clubs.

Friday, W had his first school program. They had been studying about Africa for 2 weeks and this was the apex of all their research. A small gathering of parentals waited like paparazzi for the tots to burst through the classroom door dressed in kente cloth vests made of paper bags and painted images and anklets made of pipe cleaners and bells. It was no surprise to see W sans kente vest and bells. I can barely convince him to dress in the morning. All of his friends paraded around in costume and banged on various instruments while W promptly put his toosh in my lap and watched. “I ain’t wearin’ no stinkin’ paper bag.” Yep, that’s my boy. He takes very much after his father.

Afterwards, I took W to my workplace to finish my day and pack up while he ate the dusty candy pumpkins perched on my edge of my desk as decor. I then wrangled the sugar-hyped tot and hoofed it over to the motherland, Central Market, where everyone from W’s class noshed and kibitzed as a PG-rated group. The wine bottles lined the tables like centerpieces, the kiddos ran amok and danced to the live music and we all had some good laughs at watching them wrestle, mosh, do yoga poses and hug. Good times, good times.

Faker

For several weeks now parents have been reading about the misuse of infant cough medicine ending in some overdose cases but I have yet to read about the addiction they may cause. For example, I’m getting ready for work this morning. W is doing his usual rooting around in various drawers and reveals two bottles of adult cough medicine. He brings the larger of the two over to me and says, “W cough, need cough medicine.” He starts fake coughing and continues begging for the meds. I tell him this one is for adults and he doesn’t have a cough and stop sticking your finger down your throat and let’s watch Curious George instead. The dramatics are cued and he starts with the whining and begging and more fake coughing/choking and I’m just looking at my toddler junkie and wondering who I should call for backup…911? NA? His doc? Pest control? My imaginary therapist? I admit to using cough meds when I felt he needed it but I’m not a believer in the band aid method of curing what ails you. I believe your body should work to banish the illness on it’s own. With constant observation and care of the situation, the natural method usually works for us but I’m disheartened by my 2-year-old’s junkie-like reaction to the sight of a cough medicine bottle. Anyone ever heard of toddler intervention?

Old Cowhand

I’m pooped. Pooped from sitting at my desk all day pecking at the alphabet with my fingertips. It’s the wrong kind of pooped, too. It’s a crime, in fact. I should be pooped from jogging or housecleaning or building a yurt but I’m depressed to report that this fatigue is from non-activity, the slothfulness that is a desk job. How did this happen? It’s so wrong. If anyone with a ranch wants to hire me to run it, I’m your girl. Seriously. I’m a cowgirl at heart and THAT’S where I’m supposed to be. In the meantime, I’ll continue taking the baby steps necessary to get me there. Where there? Outdoors…with livestock…and friends, old and new…and divine food from my garden…and campfires…and starry skies…and feeling rightfully pooped.

Evolution

A few weeks ago I learned I was getting a new molar. My tongue rubbed the gummy surface in confusion and discovered the widening divot. Hello? I'm a little too old for this. I was happy with only three wisdom teeth. What I thought was a sign of evolution (I mean, we’re not wooly mammoth eating cave people anymore. Who needs all these teeth?) is instead a latent arrival that is surely going to wreak havoc about the time an 8-course Thanksgiving meal is set before me. I’m sure this is going to go poorly. I never had the other three removed and now I think number 4 is going to destroy the dental harmony. My top teeth are going to start looking like a pile up on IH-35. Sweet.

So I’m sure that anyone who lives in this part of the country and blogs will be writing about the weather here today because it’s totally writeable fodder. Yesterday, the sun shone and the air was in the mid 85’s. Bliss. Today Mother Nature smacked us with much needed rain and temps in the low 50’s. The projected high for the afternoon? Something like 58 degrees. Where in the hell am I? I opened the screenless windows of the upstairs bedroom to enjoy the coziness of the down blanket but the enjoyment turned to complete annoyance as the howling wind shook pecans loose from the trees. The machine gun popping sounds of the plump nuts hitting the balcony and roof just about drove me mental. Feeling a little sleepy today as a result.

For a complete change of scenery, check out the schonze on this here fish. Snapped it at an aquarium while on vaca.

Mr. Creepers

I can hear W clapping to the Curious George soundtrack in his room. His little palms smack loudly. It’s both sporadic and meaningful. Lately he’s been spending a lot of time playing in his room, exploring, creating, and destroying. I adore hearing his sweet voice as he talks to his cars and trucks, pretends to be a cat, makes up words to Farajaca and reads to himself. These moments in the day are precious gifts.

The other night the Hubs had a gig so W and I were tandem for the evening. As bedtime drew near, I abandoned the greatly insisted upon idea of reading the same five out of 50 books he owns and turned on the TV instead. I’m the best mom ever, I know, I know. I unfolded his Spongebob Squarepants couch and we squeezed in together. This actually means that my arse end is hanging off the edge and my weight is deforming the box-shaped frame. Spiderman 2 was on. W knows who Spiderman is but not what he’s about. Since it was a relatively calm moment in the film, we tuned in for a few minutes. It was the scene where Kirsten Dunst is at a café with Tobey Maguire and she asks him if he still loves her. During this time, W moved from being wedged in the couch to sitting on my belly. Tobey says he doesn’t love her and her character is obviously pained by this. W is engrossed by the intensity of her expression although he doesn’t understand what is going on, or so I thought. She whispered, “Kiss me. Kiss me. I have to know something. Kiss me…” or something like that. W suddenly turned to me and whispered, “Kiss me.” I burst out laughing. He did it again and started to slowly lean in all slobbery lipped. The humor of it quickly reached a super creepy level and I gently pushed him back. He gave it another go and seemed to enjoy my second grader’s reaction. In an instant his attention turned to a car flying into the plate glass window of the café and I was saved by some kick ass special effects.

Seriously y’all, that intimate kissy moment gave me the hebegeebees something fierce. What’s up with this kid?

Better Late Than Never

Can’t seem to get my blogging act together.

Many of my girlfriends are busy nurturing buns in their lucky ovens and don’t cha’ know it makes my baby makin’ machine start to churn with the urge. Granted, at the more than ripe age of 38, it’s not so much a churn as it is a chug. The Hubs and I have talked about procreating again but as we’ve learned throughout this tour of “dooty” it’s a pretty big (huge) deal. We’re not quite ready to welcome another round of sleepless nights into our world and with W sleeping 10 to 11 straight hours a night, life is pretty grand but it’s nice to think about the possibility of family member number four, talk about it, consider it a little. All of W’s baby things are stuffed in the attic like piles of promise rings so maybe, just maybe, we’ll expand our little rock n roll nest to include another band member.

W and I went to see Thomas the Tank Engine this past Saturday. We found the bright blue cartoon train anchored to a series of passenger cars and grinning eerily up at the sky, looking at nothing in particular. W was as cool as a cucumber as other children around us exploded into billions of pieces upon seeing their beloved train. The swirl of activity kept W welded to my torso. He seemed happy to be there and loved the actual train ride but, thankfully, he wasn’t buying the commercial seduction and neither was I. W’s love affair for the afternoon was in the form of my college roommate’s 6 or 7 year-old daughter, Zoe. W was captivated by her and held her hand for 3 city blocks before we had to go our own way. The boy has great taste.




















Eating ice cream, if that's what you want to call it...














My friend's husband who gets all the credit for these photos said, and I quote, "The subject line is actually what one of my friends said it looked like W was doing in this photo. That is actually you, waving a napkin in front of his face while I was taking the photo. The photo has been the source for much head-scratching amongst my familiars." The subject line:
Burping the ghost of Christmas past

Dumbo

I found out this morning that I can make an authentic elephant sound. W was trumpting in the back seat on the way to school (speaking of back seat, I encountered no drama while strapping him in his carseat this morning thanks to a squirrel who was burying pecans in our front yard, perfect fodder for distraction) and he wanted me to try. I tightened my lips, sucked in some air and blew and out came an elephant sound so real I almost high-fived myelf. I thought W was going to pass out from laughing so hard. Over and over I honked like Dumbo and W gasped for air between laughs. I guess I looked pretty stupid to my stoplight neighbors. Several had confused expressions on their faces and were probably trying to figure out if I needed medical attention. It's hard to see the kiddo in the back because of the tinted windows so I seem to be totally alone.

Most days with W in the car I'm pretty much a solo freak show.

Monster In Our Midst

We found out over the weekend that W’s favorite band is the Pixies. We put on Surfer Rosa and for 20 non-stop minutes, he ran in circles swinging the two t-shirts he swiped from the laundry pile on the couch and bobbed his head. He was intense as he bounced around in his imaginary mosh pit. He seemed possessed by the music, determined to elbow anyone in his way. I was grateful when he ran out of gas and plopped down for a drink of water. The dancing/thrashing/smashing was funny at first but then started to creep me out. Too reminiscent of teen angst already. Lordy, what we have in store for us.

W latest milestone is to defy being buckled in his car seat. He goes rigid with resistance as if I’m strapping him in the electric chair. It’s really frustrating to have to climb in the truck to secure his rigamortis frame. Today he was anti-blue or black Crocs so I chose the black ones for him. They were airborne as I was leaving the driveway. Thank goodness they’re not clogs. At the moment I can appreciate their foamy softness. What to do with the little devil…

My work hours recently changed from 9 to 5 and that’s kinda thrown things off a bit. I’m still trying to figure out how to divide the day so I get things done and take care of my mind/body/spirit somewhere therein and heckling the Hubs does not count as health care. I’m considering taking some yoga classes but the fact that I will probably die of muscular shock a third of the way through the class is discouraging. And if I don’t die in the class, I will definitely die of muscular soreness the next morning. I cancelled my gym membership Sunday after they called to tell me I owed them some money. I got so frustrated I just told them to stick their membership. What happened was that the Hubs changed the credit card number for billing but forgot to include my joint membership on the switch so suddenly I owed them $80. Fine, whatever. I can’t get over to your stinky, germy facility to work out anyway. The guilt of not going has now evaporated. Poof.