p*nis, blurb

“Mommy! I cannot find the balloon penis!”

“What? You can’t find the balloon what?”

“The balloon penis.”

*crickets*

“I’m not sure I understand, Dude. Did you say balloon penis?”

“Never mind, mom. I found it.”

This, apparently, is what he was looking for:

See the little green nubby thing, the place where the balloon is tied? That, in the mind of a four year old boy, is the balloon’s penis.

Because.

All things must have the penile appendage, or else.

Hence, I offer you, the internet, the newest in penile terminology:

THE BALLOON PENIS.

apparently I suck

I don’t know where I’ve been that I haven’t posted here in months, but whatevs. 

I guess I’ve just been off line more, and blogging less, which leads to less posts.  Either that or I know my writing sucks, and so even if I write an intriguing post it won’t matter because no one will read it anyway.  Or, possibly, I died.  And forgot to let everyone know.

Seriously.  Sorry.  For the fam who likes to hear about the kids, sorry.  I will be better. 

So tonight we went to an event at the Renaissance Hotel, with the inlaws (Hi Inlaws!), because of the Race for the Cure this weekend in DC.  They had a family fun thingy set up with balloon guys, and face painters, and crayons and paint and cookies.  Oh, and juice. 

We don’t drink juice.

So Gabe wanted a balloon from the balloon guy.  And the balloon guy made him a gun.  A balloon machine gun, complete with a handle (or whatever its called….I know nothing of guns). 

Ten minutes later, my son also had acquired a balloon pistol.  A grey balloon pistol.

And then, I see him standing in line again for the balloon guy.  My son, who doesn’t like lines and can’t stand still for anything, was waiting patiently in line.  In a ten-person long line.  He was the shortest kid in the line, as most of the other kids were school aged, tall, and loud.  Gabe stood his little self there in line for about 20 minutes, until he got to the balloon guy.  Who apparently proceeded to make my son a light saber. 

A green and black balloon light saber, which ended up being longer than the boy. 

The predominance of long floppy balloons made me feel a little violated.

A few minutes later I find myself the proud recipient of all three balloon weapons, and in looking around for my child to hand him his stuff back, notice him standing in balloon line again.  

Again. 

This time he walked away with a balloon bow and arrow.

Four weapons.  Made from balloons.

I should have been worried, until I realized what made all the weapons so attractive to him.  If he can point and shoot it, he’s going to love it. 

All of them do.  After all, they’re born with a built in weapons, equipped with the ability to point and shoot. 

Boys.

reality check

“You’ll never be content, Jess.”

“What?!?”

“I mean, its not that you’re not happy, its just that you’re one of those people.”

“One of what people?”

“One of the people who are never content.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t mean it insulting.  I just mean that you’ve always got to look to the next thing.  The next goal, or plan, or whatever.”

“Um, okay.”

“I just don’t think you have it in you to sit still.  You’ve never sat still.  You’re always onto the next thing, and if you don’t know what the next thing is, you drive until you find it.”

Five minute personality evaluation, courtesy of man I’ve been with for 12 years.  Ahh.  Nothing like someone who knows you so well, he can tell you things you’d rather not know about yourself.

the garbage man

About a year ago, Cassidy decided she wants to be a nurse when she grows up.  Not a doctor, or a princess, or a ballerina.  Nope.  She decided on nurse. 

I have no idea where the idea came from, but I figured the idea would change at some point because that’s what children do.   Last week, almost 12 months later, she drew a picture in school of what she wants to be when she grows up. 

Still wants to be a nurse. 

Pretty cool, the desire to help others.  She’s told me repeatedly that she won’t mind the blood, because blood is okay.  It helps people stay alive, so it doesn’t bother her. 

Eh?

No idea where she gets it from.  Chris faints at the sight of blood (seriously), and I get that acid regurgitation thing at the thought of any bodily fluids.  If (when) the child changes her mind, its her prerogative, but until then, I’m thrilled with her desire to help others. 

Gabe, on the other hand, wants to be a garbage man. 

Because garbage men?  They get to hang off the side of the truck.  While it’s moving.  So ambitious, it makes a mother proud. 

He told Chris last night that he wants to be a garbage man.  But he’d miss mommy and daddy too much, so he’s not really going to be anything.  He’s just going to stay with us.  Cass, though, will miss us a lot.  Because she’ll be at the hospital all the time. 

Little man.  Makes my heart smile.  And he knows his sister oh, so well.

God told me.

“I knew daddy liked that.”

“You knew daddy liked what, Gabe?”

“I knew daddy liked-ed that dinner cuz God told me in my heart.”

“He did?”

“Uh-huh.  God tells me all the time in my heart.  Things, He tells me.  An he told me daddy likes that dinner you made him.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.  God said…your daddy likes the dinner.”

 

Could scoop him up with a spoon, drizzle him with chocolate sauce, and eat him.

cramping my style

It’s possible that my feet will, in the near future, detach themselves from my body, and run away screaming. 

Or possibly take a vacation to someplace warm and soft.

Of recent days, I have again subjected my poor feet to the degradation of waiting tables.  Which means that I ache in places I didn’t know had muscles, shin splints make my eyes water, and my toes cramp.  Constantly. 

Reasons aside, I like waiting tables.  Always have.  Once my poor body gets used to it again, of course.  And there’s always the benefit of dropping pounds because of the ridiculous amount of running around required when one is in a restaurant. 

The economy sucks, the huz’ job cut overtime completely (overtime being the reason I was able to stay home in the first place), and in order for our children to eat regularly, it was determined that I’d need to go back to work.  I’ve tried the full time real job and day care route, and I hated it.  So, instead of doing that, I’m working odd schedule to give me time with the kids, with Chris taking care of them when I’m at work.  Mostly.  It’s a work in progress.

Which is why I haven’t been posting much.  I haven’t been on the computer at all in recent days.  Though hopefully soon, I’ll be able to get into a basic swing with the job, and get back to normal activities.  Because working is totally cramping my mommy style.

Bleh.  My toes hurt.

in the bathroom, publicly

Yesterday, had to run to the toilet in Harris Teeter.  Happens occasionally to the best of us, right?

Except that my kids were with me, and though they’re not yet at an age where I can leave them outside the stall by themselves, they are at an age where it’s just really not very comfortable to use the restroom with two sets of eyes starting at me.

It’s a little like an episode of Animal Planet.  Morbid fascination.

And of course I wasn’t feeling the best, so it was a few moments longer than usual.  Which would have been fine a year ago, but not these days.  Nope, these days more than thirty seconds in the public bathroom go something like this:

“MOMMY!  What is takin you so long?!?”

“Yeah, mom.  I thought we had groceries to get.”

“Um, give me a sec guys.”

In and of itself, these comments are innocuous.  Relatively funny little kid things that every parent must deal with at some point.  Until someone comes into the bathroom.  For some reason, it’s the same phenomenon that occurs when one is on the phone.  The kids suddenly increase in volume, comment frequency, and inappropriateness. 

So, yesterday.  Lady comes in the bathroom.  And then someone else.  Until the four stall restroom is completely full.  Yea.

Gabe: “MOM! CAN YOU PLEASE STOP USIN THE TOILET SO WE CAN GET A COOKIE.”

(Because anyone who has met my son knows that he speaks every word at full volume, hence the capital letters)

Cass: “Mom.  Seriously.  You need to eat more fiber or somethin.  Maybe some blueberries.”

Die of sheer mortification in restroom stall.  And, wait for it….there’s more.

Gabe: “WASN’T YOU IN THE BATHROOM ALL DAY TODAY? CAN’T YOU STOP POOPIN’, MOM?”

I, who after living with my father who spent my formative years crafting ways to embarrass his children, don’t get embarrassed easily.  Rarely, as a matter of fact.

But when I hear other bathroom goers snickering at my child’s innocently asked poop question, I wanted to be sucked into the toilet.

Raising children is not for the faint of heart.

little man four

Gabe turned four today.

I’m officially no longer the mom of toddlers. 

Bleh.  Maybe soon I’ll be officially divested of all that post pregnancy weight too.  Because four years is long enough for the metabolism to regulate itself.  Or else learn enough self control to eat less chips.  And ice cream.  Hershey’s Kisses.

Must stop.  Getting hungry.

So, with the economy let down and all we kept it simple for birthdays this year.  And the kids didn’t mind…since neither is much for a crowd I think they liked it better that way. 

Happy Birthday kid.  You’re awesome, and yummy, and I can’t believe you’re four. 

The sweetness of knowing you’ve done okay, and they’re healthy, and happy, and a year older.   Sweet melancholy of another year passed, knowing that year will never happen again.  A memory, once made, can never be experienced again.  A memory happens once.  And birthdays?  Those are the best moments, a small breath of time that passes, creating an indelible impression on the heart and mind.

A memory is the only thing whose quality is both indefinite and permanent.

I just wish each one could be a few moments longer.

time fleets

The fact that my oldest child has turned five, and my youngest child is getting ready to turn four, makes the insides of my mouth itch just a bit.

Yesterday I was holding my newborn daughter in my arms, her huge eyeballs staring up at me intensely.  No one can explain what it is to be the absolute and total focus of another human being until one has held their newborn child in their arms.  Those moments, in which you are the sum of all things; they center you.  They make you believe in so much more than you could on your own. 

You don’t usually believe in yourself the way others do.  You never truly believe you can do anything you want to, and you know the limits of your abilities.  Your faults and defects. 

Your child, your newborn, truly has the hope of being anything.  Doing anything.  The world belongs to your child, and your child can have the world. 

My daughter, in whom I see so much of myself, can be anything she wants.  I want her healthy, and happy, and whole.  I want her strong.  And old as the world, because I want her life to be long. 

And my son.  My son is so much light, and I want that light to be in him forever.  I want the same for him: healthy, happy, and whole. 

We worry so much about our daughters.  The world seems to be a scarier place for them.  But our sons have just has much sweetness, just as much light.  And they have so many soft spots in their little man spirits that we can crush inadvertently. 

I want no one to crush my children’s spirits, least of all me. 

It’s so easy as a parent to bruise your child without realizing it.  That hurt look in their little eyes.  The way they avert them just a little, and shrink back into themselves so easily.  We’re so indelicate with our babies sometimes.  Not physically.  I think we just forget that the human spirit, while something of strength and endurance, has to be given room to breathe, and grow, and be blessed. 

My girl goes to school in less than a year.  She becomes someone else’s, for so much of her days.  I wither just a little when I think about it.  When I think about the fact that school begins a new era of her life.  One where I’m not always the first person she asks.  The first person she comes to.  Where someone else gets to answer her questions. 

I wish they were smaller again. 

I wish they grow bigger always. 

I wish raising them were a little less achy. 

But I’m so glad for them.  For the blessing they are, and for the lives I pray they touch.

in which I make excuses.

I’m alive, well and reasonably sane, as are the two spawn I call my own.  They’re actually sitting outside in the rain right now instead of being warm and dry where I can see them.  I mean, they wanted to play in the rain in the dark, so who am I to tell them no? 

As their mother I consider it my grave duty to acquiesce to all reasonable requests.  And what isn’t unreasonable about playing in in the rain in November, at night?

(For those of you who do not possess the gene of snark, my children are not actually in the rain.  I’m making fun of myself.)

Anyway. 

As I was saying before I took a left turn at nothingness.

This blog is supposed to be a chronicle of my children’s lives, and the funny things they do, and those thing do exist.  Daily. 

And once the birthdays and holidays have passed, my blog writing will once again be fruitful.  But right now I’m working on a manuscript, one which has a deadline of Nov 30, and if I don’t finish it and get it sent off I will never forgive myself for being a lazy bum. 

So, manuscript priority, blog an afterthought.  Sorry, internet, but there it is.

Much love, peeps.  Seriously. 

SIDENOTE: Why is it that when I speel-check my blog, the word blog comes up as being spelled incorrectly?  As if the word blog, in a blog, isn’t a real word.  How’s that for irony?  Oh my God, I need sleep.  I’m write-talking to myself.