Oh My...

Go read this.

Blah

Oh, the loveliness of winter. And by lovely, I of course mean banishment to the lonely prison of our living room with just the bickeringly swell company of each other. It should be cozy. It was cozy in November. Now it is the guilt-inducing festival of Noggin. Want to watch Backyardigan's? Dora? Oswald? Sure! In fact, I'll make you a 100% carbohydrate lunch that you can eat right on the couch! You won't even have to be conscious! I'll poke the fish crackers through the gap in your teeth and you just keep breathing. In the music video version I link arms with my boys and sing "So Happy Together" but with Slash playing a menacing guitar rift in the background to symbolize the depravity of our existence.

Today was unseasonably warm so I marched Toby and Charlie outside with a rather unfriendly command to ENJOY THE FRESH AIR. (Fresh air that my germophobic self won't completely trust since the neighborhood is trading gastroenteritis like cups of sugar.) I thought the sunny pardon from our bleak indoor netherworld would motivate self-entertainment so I could veg out under the sun. It was quiet for all of one nanosecond before Toby became Socrates, pondering life's mysteries while flinging lumps of potting soil into the grass with a plastic shovel.

"Why are the Wonder Pets not too tough?" he asked.

"Toby, let's have five minutes of no talking starting right... now."

"Well, how do you grow small like a baby?"

"You don't. Everyone is growing bigger."

"But what about babies. How do you grow into a baby?"

"You don't grow into a baby, babies grow into big people."

His philosophizing was not slowed by Charlie who stomped unhappily around the driveway because his feet wouldn't reach the trike pedals.

There are days when Toby could contemplate the theme songs of the entire Nickelodeon network and I would find it endearing. Charlie could sulk and pout while spewing caveman expletives at over-sized riding toys everywhere! and I would stroke his head gently and smile.

But not today. It is winter and my sanity dangles from a skinny, burning thread. The sun shines unexpectedly in the blue January skies and I want to enjoy it. I need to.

Four

Its your birthday! Though I'm certain you remembered because I woke up to your giggling face two inches from my nose. "Am I four?" you asked. Little, little you with your hands clasped in expectation, and your stuffed Dalmatian, Samson, drooping over the crook of your arm.

Little four-year-old you with a furious brain casting its nets in every direction, catching and sorting the new of it all. "I am having a baby," you explain, "All you do is eat a people and then it pops out your tummy." Little you. Little practical, sensible you.

Practical like this: When you step on the new scale daddy bought for our bathroom. "I think I will measure my feet," you say. Measure your feet. Of course.

Little you, full of anguish, because we are all out of oatmeal cookies. Little you, exploding with glee because the diggers are moving the dirt on the lot down the street.

I am so proud of how you've grown. But when you stand in your big four-year-old bones and words burst from your mouth like bubbling candy, I just can't believe it. I still see the itty-bitty you that cried if I walked in the bathroom to pee.

Four years of you. The best four years of my life. Happy Birthday, little man.

The Olden Days

I wanted to record our boys on Christmas morning. I went shpelunking through the cabinet for an unused tape, but the three I found were from who-knows-when. I popped one in the camera to see if it had enough space left. What I saw made me wonder why I bother doing this to myself .

Toby was about six months old. We were in our big house, the one we custom built back when I was working. I was holding his hands and "walking" him on a clean, shiny floor. I was tan. I had cutely-styled hair. The couch in the background was new and still holding its shape. Greg was working the camera, making baby talk to get Toby to smile at him. It was insanely perfect.

The worst part was seeing my pajamas. The light blue ones I still wear all the time, because they are new. On the video they were not light blue, they were dark blue. Their spaghetti straps rested lightly on the beautiful shoulders of a fresh young mother, still glowing with promise. I barely recognized her.

I did the mental math. Greg bought me those pajamas on my first Mother's Day four years ago?? Has it been that long?? I looked around for something to prove it possible. Our couch, now disfigured from years as an indoor jungle gym slumped in the middle of the floor like a grumpy bag of potatoes. Our down-sized house looked not-so-fabulous, functionally surrounding a living room scattered with toys.

And me. No longer sparkling with fresh dew, but just... tired.

I reflected a moment, realizing that no price is too high for the two bundles of joy Greg and I have the honor of raising.

Not really. I hid the tapes and ran to the phone to make a hair appointment.

Fingers in Ears/ Eyes Squinting Shut

That is my kitchen right now. It is a "landfill". I am trying not to notice because:

a) My last post was one WEEK ago.
b) I am currently reading Twilight and it is literature *crack*.
c) My dear husband went to a movie and I am NOT going to spend my golden alone time vacuuming.

Insert fingers into ears. Squeeze eyes closed. Hum.

Bliss.