Rolling & Rocking

I like nice things. Who doesn't? I've been known to spend a lot of money on trivial things such as shoes and purses. But walking in my beautiful shoes wasn't as glamorous as it appeared. Inside that nice purse was very little money and many credit cards with big balances.

These days, the credit cards are paid off thanks to a collective effort of work, parenting, and marriage. All bills that come into this house leave shortly thereafter with a check that will obliterate them until the next month rolls around. And the girl that for a while paid minimum balances on credit cards has left too.

This morning the kids and I packed into the car and went to Wal-Mart. I hadn't planned on going shopping there. My main destination was Costco across the street but I had to return something at WM and went there first.

While walking through the store I walked by a rack of tank tops that I just couldn't pass up. This isn't my first go round with these tanks. The love affair started about 4 years ago when we still lived in Maryland. They were cute, cheap, and came in every color on the spectrum. I bought one and loved the way it fit so I went back and bought another and another until I had racked up about 12 of them. I slipped into a different one every day as soon as I got home from work. I figured if they lasted the season I would have gotten my money's worth. I have most of them to this day. I went and got several more the summer after that. Sure, the lighter colored ones are looking a little yellow under the arms and the darker ones are starting to fade some, but they haven't ripped or stretched out in a funky way even though I'm about twice as big as I was then.

Since we were going down memory lane with our WM attire, after throwing a couple of the tanks into my cart, we made our way to the boys' department. Js favorite shirt right now is the Mario Kart tee pictured above. My mom bought it there while she was out to visit last month, so shortly upon arriving he started scheming for a Toy Story one. We didn't find it. But we did see exactly what I was looking for.

When J was a baby I bought him a few short-sleeved t-shirts there. Nothing fancy, just 100-percent cotton, crew-neck tees in, again, every color known to man. He wore them all the time. So when September arrived I went back to get the same shirts in the long-sleeved version. He wore them alone, under short-sleeved shirts, sometimes even as PJ tops. He outgrew them before they were too dingy to throw away and I went back twice a year until the ones in the baby section got too small and the ones in the boys' section were too big. Now they fit again. We got a couple neutral-colored ones and threw in a pair of shorts for good measure because the ones I got there last summer are still in good condition after numerous washings and lots of rough and tumble.

Not to be left out, M got a cute little top too.

Our grand total for five tops and a pair of shorts: $18.

To say that today's shopping spree was a good lesson for my kids would imply that I somehow feel I went outside of what is normal to prove a point. That is not the case. This is how we live. And I'm proud of that. I have never been above going to Ross, Target or WM to buy something that I thought was cute or trendy and I'm certainly not above doing the same for my kids.

I don't want J to grow up thinking that all shirts need an alligator or a pony on the pocket to be cool or that his shorts need a swoosh or a big cat to be worthy of a spot in his dresser. One day in the not-so-far-off future material possessions will become status symbols on the playground. It's my job to teach my kids that those aren't the things that define them. He needs to know that what's hanging off his body is not nearly as important as what's deep behind that pocket -- whether there's an animal present or not. And, I don't want it to be an occasional reminder, but rather something he's always known. Because, Mario, that's how WE roll in our house.

To say that I'm completely cured of my bad habits of old would be a flat out lie; they die hard. As soon as I can get myself into a respectable size in jeans I will be going out and spending a lot of money on a new pair. But I'm still wearing the ones I bought six years ago, snug and all. And, I still like nice shoes. I just don't buy four pairs at once anymore.

That being said, the occasional North Face jacket may continue to show up in a smaller-than-adult size around here -- and if I taught him well, he'll be proudly rocking his WM t-shirt right inside of it.

Bring It On

Two or three days ago I got an email from a friend to which were attached several pictures of her son's 7th Birthday party. I could hardly look at the pictures themselves because my mind was preoccupied with the fact that this little boy is only 8 months older than my J.

The logical me knows that J was born nine months after we got married; the emotional me locked it away in a seldom-seen dark corner of my mind and then threw away the key.

When he was about to be five I had a similar feeling. I wrote it off as five just being a milestone age. Six rolled around and I was okay. Maybe a little anxiety about climbing up and over the milestone hill. Nothing too dramatic. But seven just seems like such a big-boy age. Seven year olds are rambunctious and sneaky. My J is gentle and sweet and he still waves to me as he's walking towards the waiting school bus outside our door.

How did this happen? When did it happen? Oh, the questions swirling 'round. Did I do enough? Why did I so often whisk him off to sleep a couple of minutes early or not read the book yet another time just so that I could have a few moments to myself? Why did I tune him out when he babbled insistently about things that only live in the heads of little ones? And why am I only asking myself these questions now that the babble has turned into somewhat-intelligent chatter?

When I was a new parent somebody told me that when it came to raising a child, "the days are long, but the years are short." Words of wisdom indeed.

If there's any consolation in all of this it's that I don't remember a whole lot about anything that occurred before the age of six and that even if I had read that book from sun up to sun down, he wouldn't remember and I would still be asking the same questions.

As the years get shorter and shorter, I'd give anything to get one of those long, long days back. I wouldn't complain. I'd keep my ears and my eyes open. I'd hug him and kiss him and play and read to him until the very minute bedtime rolled around. And then I'd get up and do it all over again tomorrow.

In the real world, tomorrow I'll get up and there will be laundry to do, dishes to wash, groceries to be bought, and food to be cooked all sandwiched into small windows of time before getting him off to school, M napped, and running to the bus stop to pick him up again. The truth is, the days are long, but they're busy. I'm looking forward to summer when we'll have 2-plus months all to ourselves with no time constraints or schedules. And if there's any truth to the above saying, then having a toddler around will really stretch them out -- borrowed time in a way -- but time nonetheless. Time before he goes off to school full time and the windows that so controlled the course of my day will be blown wide open.

Time to enjoy the little boy that's before me now so that three, seven, ten or twenty, maybe even thirty or forty years from now I won't be asking myself the same questions. Yet I know I will. With him and with M, the questions will continue, but if it keeps me on my toes to constantly strive to be the best mommy I can be, then bring it on!

Crappy Cupcaker

A good cupcake maker I'm not. I know this. Have for a long time. Yet that didn't stop me from volunteering my services for the cake walk at the school carnival tomorrow. I don't know what led me to believe that my skills were all of a sudden Magnolia Bakery-of-NYC-and Sex and the City-fame worthy.

Why did I think that my confections would rise above the rim of the paper cup and be anything other than the sunken pieces of dough they usually are?

Well, that's because they did:

Come on. An eight year old can make better looking cupcakes than I can. I'm perfectly capable of opening a box, adding oil, water, eggs, and mixing. But it's a measuring thing. I can't seem to get the right amount of liquid into the cup.

And now, not only am I a crappy cupcaker, but I've reached new lows in somehow trying to justify my lameness. Like the fact that I can't visually measure the precise amount is a good enough excuse for the little messes that come out of the oven.

But don't be mistaken, they taste delicious. I should know. I ate two once I decided that I would make a trip to TOP Foods tomorrow morning and buy cupcakes. When J came home from soccer he ran inside the house with his cleats still on and fell on his way to the kitchen. As he was getting up he said, "I can smell the cupcakes." And yummy they smelled.

There were a few good looking ones.

Now that's a pretty cupcake. And the way I see it, I only have seven years before M will show me how to make perfect ones every time.

Now close your eyes and imagine that it has frosting on top.

Come to Momma, Carrie Bradshaw. Come to Momma.

BPW -- The New Triple Threat

Barf, Poop & Water

is not the new Earth, Wind & Fire; it's been our life the last several days.

It started Friday, game day for J and mom's night out for me. When I got home our bathroom was unusually clean. I managed to make enough noise to wake D up from his slumber when he then said that J had barfed all over the floor and toilet. Poor guy. Well, at least he was sleeping peacefully now.

The next morning started with berry smoothies. D went to work

and J lay on the couch. Unusual for a Saturday when on most weeks by 9 am he's asking what he can do in hopes that we'll say that he can play Wii. A few minutes later I heard a scream followed by some crying. When I arrived downstairs I was greeted by a floor splattered with red liquid, as were the walls, and the toilet. It was my turn to clean up what J later said must have been his smoothie, "right, Mommy? Because it was red." Yummy!

That was it for the day. Sunday was great. We weren't so lucky Sunday night. About midnight we hear THE shriek coming from his room. He was hot and sweaty when we brought him into our bed. He seemed comfortable for a couple of minutes. And then,

"I have to go poo-poo."

The sound coming from the bathroom was brutal.

Another scream.

Then what sounded like a waterfall straight into the toilet.

Barf.

Again.

Everywhere.

It's now close to 1 am and we're still scrubbing the floors, walls, and toilet.

And then there was peace.

(J in better days at the helm.)

D left to Eastern Washington a few hours later with very little sleep to speak of. J was doing a good job at keeping his very bland breakfast down. M was taking a nap. Earlier in the morning J had asked me to "Google to see if he had to go to school today." I may or may not have been doing so when I was at the computer desk and noticed water on top of it. It was strange but I wrote it off as a spill of some sort.

Splat. Splat. Splat.

Every few seconds.

Coming from the fire alarm in the ceiling.

This can't be good. I called Mike Nelson. He came over and agreed.

Not good. And probably expensive.

He left to go get the plumber.

And then all hell broke loose. Every single fire alarm in the house started going off.

LOUD!

M was crying hysterically. Jacob was yelling. I was running around w/ the stool and screwdriver trying to get the batteries out. All 100 of them!

To say it was a zoo around here would be an understatement.

When the men arrived, Mike perched himself atop his ladder with knife in hand ready to cut out a piece of the ceiling and find the culprit. The plumber decided to run upstairs to see if it was coming from another source.

Mike waited.

The plumber yelled.

The cut was halted.

The toilet was loose!

Could we have pushed it around so hard last night that we loosened it? I asked.

Could be, he said. He tightened it and the problem was solved.

No Charge.

WOW.

Yup, Barf, Poop & Water....The New Triple Threat.

Lucky 7

Today is our seven-year anniversary.

And while I don't know much about numerology, I do know that the number 8 is considered to be good luck in the Chinese culture; hence the start of the Summer Olympics in Beijing on 08/08/08 at 8:08 pm. I also know that 13 is not a good number, especially when coupled with a Friday. Many hotels and office buildings skip the floor all together. Twenty-one rates high both in bars and the blackjack table. I turned 44 on Monday. It seems like it should be a good number; the two 4s side by side give me that impression, but I have no rhyme or reason for my madness. My friend Christy informed me in my birthday card that this was the last year of my early-forties. Thank you, Christy. Maybe that's a good thing, but it remains to be seen.

Seven too is somewhat of a lucky charm. Three 7s in a row on a slot machine usually means a jackpot. On the flip side, there's seven years of bad luck if you break a mirror. And more importantly, on the marriage front, it invokes the seven-year itch. A period in your marriage where you start to evaluate your relationship that in many cases doesn't deem good results. It used to be the average marriage lasted only seven years back in the day when the term derived. I think now that number is on the lower end.

With no feeling of itchiness, the day began with an exchange of cards. D says this is the first time in seven years I have given him an anniversary card, and he may be right. I know I bought one for our first year, but we were in DC on the actual day and I forgot to pack it in my suitcase before boarding the plane from AZ. I quit after that failed attempt. This year, however, he got a card and a present: A new wedding band to replace the one he lost over six months ago. I thought it was the perfect gift for the occasion.

The morning continued and I tagged along with him and the kids on their weekly Sunday ritual of going to TOP Foods for donuts and coffee. The plan for the day was to go to Emerald Downs to the horse races with a pit stop at Ikea to pick up a new hamper but that fell by the wayside after Ms nap. D then decided to cook up some ahi tuna for dinner and went to Trader Joe's to pick up everything we'd need. When he got home he announced that we were leaving. We had no idea where we were headed when we piled into the truck. I suggested Boston Harbor and Burford Park. I'd heard it was nice and not a very long drive from our house. I had my flip flops on and no camera in my purse, which was insurance enough that there would be hiking and great views with no picture-taking capabilities. I didn't even have my phone.

I was right. We hiked from the park to the beach where we could see the capitol dome at the tip of the sound. The kids walked on the gravel, collected shells, and had a great time. Then came the playground where more fun was just waiting to be had.

Every calendar says that Sunday is the first day of the week. I get the whole thing about heading to church to start the week off right. I, however, see Sunday as the last day of the weekend and Monday as the first of the next seven that will make up the week. So when I say that the events of today were a wonderful way to end the week, it really did feel like the exclamation point at the end of a sentence!

April 25, 2003 was also full of wonderful events. The ceremony was beautiful. The food was delicious. The mariachi was great. The family was present. The friends were abundant. The cake was delectable. The dress was fabulous. The groom was handsome. The dance floor was packed. The love was surrounding.

Jim Valvano said in his now-famous espy speech that there are three things we should try and do each day of our lives. One is laugh. Two is think. And three is your emotions should be moved to tears, could be by happiness or joy. And if you do, you've lived a full day. "Do this seven days a week, and you're going to have something special."

April 25, 2003 was a full day for obvious reasons.

April 25, 2010 was too. I cried at TOP Foods after M said hi to what seemed to be a homeless man sitting in the cafe. He looked genuinely happy to reciprocate her enthusiasm with a wave and a smile. I can imagine that many people avoid his presence and he, in turn, avoids eye contact so as to not let others witness the sadness or the shame staring out from within, and that's why when he looked at M and the piercing blue eyes behind the scruffy demeanor smiled too, it moved me to tears. A couple of hours later I was reading an article in my Parenting Magazine about the pressures of a kindergarten mom to keep up with the classroom Jones' when it came to showing the class pet a good time on her weekend visit at their home. I laughed so hard that for the second time today I was brought to tears. And I thought. I thought about how lucky I am to have my life; thought about the little angels God has entrusted to me to care for and to love and how I don't want to fail them or Him; and thought about my husband who puts up with my many shortcomings and on most days does it without so much as a peep.

Unlike seven years ago, today's dinner can't be described as delicious. Like many marriages, the ahi from TJs didn't live up to the hype. We're lucky, my hubby and I, we've learned to improvise and try to make the best of what we have at our disposal. Today's task was easy: Cut up some of the kids' leftover chicken to pair with the sides, which were delicious; pour a couple of glasses of wine; and Wha-La, dinner was served.

I told D in that rare anniversary card that I didn't believe there was anything we couldn't accomplish together. God never said it would be easy, he just said it would be worth it.

For all the talk about how marriage, and especially children, age you, I think we've done pretty well. Here is a picture of us on our wedding day:


And since the aforementioned reasons prevented me from having one of us today, one taken on Monday, April 19, the first day of the seven that made up the week:

Not bad for two moves, two children, and seven years.