Monthly Archives: December 2015

The Dream

My oldest, telling me his dream last night:

“So I’m in this room with Hannah (girl he’s been crushing on forever) and she’s with her friends. I have no pants on (because, of course, it’s my son) and she wants me to come sit with them. I have to tell her no, because I have no pants on. Then Bill Clinton walks in with his son and asks me to come with them. I have to tell them no too, because I have no pants on. Then I woke up.”

I’m not done trying to decipher this, but how does he know to have a dream with Bill Clinton and an issue with no pants???

Our Kitchen

It’s where we began. Our kitchen. It was the hub of our family, where we cooked, ate, laughed, played with pots and pans, looked out the window while doing dishes and imagined, remembered and lost ourselves in thought. It’s where you grew up.

It’s where you both taught me that no toy could compare to the fun and excitement of banging on the pots with the wooden spoon, or using the silicone baking cups with a bowl full of watery bubbles to create bubble art. I remember chubby hands, covered in soapy fun touching my cheek. I remember the smile, baby teeth still perfect, cheeks still holding on to toddler plumpness. I remember the way your hair curled; the way you would twirl your hair with your fingers and suck your thumb, coated in soap and all. I remember you showing your baby brother how to make bubble art, how you both laughed so hard it hurt to take a breath, because there was almost no room for breath with all the joy you were inhaling.

I remember the time the two of you baked banana bread together – standing on chairs, one reading directions and one holding the stir spoon. You were both so proud of yourselves. I remember our breakfasts around the table – no tv, no distractions, just us. Talking about the day, the dreams you’d each had the night before. That table held your Lego creations, the remnants of your play-doh masterpieces. We filled it with our cookies, breads and fudge each holiday. I wiped baby hand prints of mashed sweet potatoes and peas from its top and then later, toddler fingerprints and too soon, young boy handprints.

It’s where you both stood one morning, dish towel draped ceremoniously over your arm, your brother pulling out my chair as you welcomed me to my table. You’d prepared a wonderful breakfast of yogurt with sugar sprinkles, toast with butter on one half and coffee with so much creamer, it was nearly white. You and your brother had worked so hard to prepare breakfast for me as a surprise. The love I felt for you both and from you both, took my breath away.

It’s where we began each birthday, the table set with a plate full of sprinkled doughnuts, a fruit salad and each of your gifts, brightly wrapped and full of fun potential. It’s where we ate each birthday meal of pizza, tacos or hamburgers, laughing and enjoying the passing of another year. We marked each of your inches on the corner wall in red, amazed to see how quickly the marks were rising.

It’s where I have some of my happiest memories, our kitchen.

We’ve moved and our kitchen is not the same. With the move came time and with time came you each growing apart. The fights are more frequent, the harsh words sting more. Our new kitchen is bigger and at times, I’m lost. I miss the four close walls, where we would get lost too, but in the joys of childhood. I miss the laughter from the two of you as you slid around the kitchen floor being worms, or dogs or whatever mythical creature you’d dreamt up that morning.

I miss our kitchen. I miss those days of being young. I’m struggling now to figure out this new role I play, no longer having my cheek caressed with soapy hands or seeing the joy on your face when you make me breakfast. I understand this is how it has to be and I’ll be patient. Until we get through these harder years, while you pull away more and more. I’ll wait. I’ll try not to fight it, but I won’t always be successful. And when the day comes, when you and your brother are once again in the kitchen, grown men, laughing about your own family antics, I’ll feel at ease again. I’ll pull out the pots and pans, wooden spoon and bowl. I’ll fill it with warm, soapy water and the joy will engulf me once again, as I watch your kids experience the joy of childhood. In our kitchen.

 

What MOMMY Wants For Christmas!

I’m not sure what to expect for the holidays this year from my 12, 11 and 7 year old boys. In truth, 12 and 11 year olds are totally too old to still be holding on to the whole “Santa is real” thing, but alas, they are holding so tight, if Santa was real, his fat little belly would explode. I’m keeping up with the charade but let’s be honest, I am finding it really hard not to just blurt out, “Oh seriously dude, Santa is not coming down our chimney and he will NOT bring you a new iPad, because HE’S NOT REAL!”

It’s still cool for my 7 year old to believe, in fact, I’d like him to have a few more years of the holiday magic. But the two older ones, well, once my 12 year old asked when he might start masturbating, I kind of figured Santa was out the window. Joke’s on me! I’m actually looking forward to the day I can get him in on the fun. He can be in charge of the creepy-ass Elf on the Shelf and he can help put out the Santa gifts at 1am, when his brother usually finally conks out from having gotten up every 8 minutes for the past 4 hours, to check and see if Santa has come. Then I’ll plan to wake my 12 year old at 5am and make him come downstairs to open his gifts; and no nap that day. He can have all the fun, while I relax in the bath with some cookies we baked for Santa and a good book. But, I digress.

Since I still have to do the whole Santa thing for the boys again this year, I figured I would add my own gift list to the pile, in hopes that someone might review it and be so kind as to indulge ME this year.

What Mommy Wants:

  1. I’d like for my 12 year old to give me the silent treatment for one day. No really, punish me – PLEASE.
  2. A foot rub. And before anyone complains they JUST gave me one, a foot rub that’s longer than the 2.34 seconds of bliss I recently received.
  3. My panty liners to stay in the box. I know they ended up making the most awesome “butterfly art” for your girlfriend down the street, but let’s keep our crafts sanitary napkin free (and her mom thought it was pretty weird, so now we have that going for us).
  4. Chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
  5. Someone to play a game of Scrabble with me. Just one game and I promise to forget I majored in English.
  6. An afternoon of baking in the kitchen, while holiday music plays and I sip Bailey’s coffee. Then someone to come and clean it all up.
  7. For the Elf on the Shelf to have a heart attack and pass away. I’ll even go so far as to have a proper funeral.
  8. I’d like to take a bath without someone coming in to:
  • Tell on their brother for trying to fill their new whoopee cushion with actual farts.
  • “See if I’m ok,” then laughing because I have bubbles on my boobs and calling me “Bubble Boobs” the rest of the night.
  • Hang out. Seriously, it’s just weird.
  • Ask what time it is. Guys, there are 15 clocks in the house, none of which are in MY BATHROOM!

I could go on but those would be my top wishes. Honestly, I don’t think I am asking for much, given everything I do for everyone else, (HELLO, house full of testosterone – toilets, walls, doors and ceilings don’t clean themselves of the pee!) and the fact that I do (most) of it without complaint. I think anyone would agree a little complaining is fair, when your kid comes out of the bathroom, holding his underwear and says, “I ran out of toilet paper so I used these. I was trying to be nice and let you enjoy your book so I didn’t call for toilet paper. Here.”

So this is the list I have given my boys and husband. I expect I’ll get the chocolate. I’ve already taken care of the Bailey’s coffee.

 

 

 

 

My Gift To Me This Holiday

We’re fast approaching the 2 week holiday break from school. I’m terrified. It’s a very real fear, one that begins the week before Thanksgiving and doesn’t abate until we’ve landed safely (and alive) on the other side of the break. So this year, I’ve decided to forgo asking my husband for any gifts and give myself a gift, in the form of day camp for my boys. My friends and family don’t understand my fear and decision. This is a joyous time, one of enjoying relaxing days with no school, no homework, and fun holiday traditions. Right?

I recently experienced a single school holiday. One. Day. It reminded me of what I am in for. Let me explain…

Recently there was a school holiday. Feeling adventurous (insane), I kept all 3 boys home instead of paying for day camp. I had visions of baking bread, watching a movie and going to the trampoline house in the afternoon. They’d need to burn off some energy from the homemade cookies we made after the bread, because of course, making bread was such fun, cookies seemed the next logical step.

Since we’re all moms and probably reading this during our only free time – while on the toilet – or for the quick 3 seconds between kids’ asking for a snack/juice box/attention/potty/dire emergency that IS having a booger on your finger and no tissue, I’ll keep my story brief.

Why I’m Giving Myself the Gift of Day Camp:

  1.  7 year old invited his (girl) friend over, then proceeded to scream and cry because she didn’t want to, “Hang like a man and play pool.”
    11 and 12 year old wanted to earn money cleaning the bathroom. I heard, “Eww, this has to be your poop stain because mine are always hard. You need to clean this.”
  2. I needed to walk the dog and asked 7 year old to come. He comes downstairs with duct tape on his mouth and I’m able to get out that he wants to keep it on. He then screams bloody murder as we walk the neighborhood, with me swatting my hands at him telling him to stop. We get home and he says, “That was cool; now everyone thinks you torture me!” Yay me?
  3. I hear yelling upstairs. Then I hear 12 year old say, “No, I like you better handcuffed to the chair.”
  4. 11 and 12 year old decide to take their cleaning business pro. My neighbor hires them to clean their porch. That night I see a post in our neighborhood Google forum. She thought it funny to hear them talking while working, “We’re going to have to start charging more after this house.” Then, “Yeah, it’s like the porch of grossness. Like it should win an award for nastiest porch on the planet.” My boys have not learned the art of quiet talk.
  5. 12 year old decides I’ve had a rough day (he could tell??) so he brings me a glass of wine. I’m impressed until I take a drink and have to spit it out. His “cocktail” included my (very nice) red wine, Pepsi, and chocolate sauce.
  6. My husband had to work late (coincidence?), so I made them promise to be good while I relaxed in the bath. I was enjoying the quiet when they barged in. “Mommy, he put my pool balls in his pants and said they’re his “man balls” and won’t give them back!” His older brother sees me in the bath and runs out yelling, “Oh gross, she has bubbles all over her boobs. Haha, she has bubble boobs.”

This is ONE Day. I’m not sure I’m up for 1 week. And after last year, when the boys decided it would be fun to play Santa for the neighbor kids, I don’t know what to expect this year. The fire department has already sent an email asking my boys to remember that chimneys are not a playground and have requested I hide our ladder. Apparently, they don’t like pulling kids from chimneys on Christmas Eve.

Hot buttered rum anyone?

 

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