(Un)Happy Meals

We're home and Roman's back to his happy shenanigans after his weekend in the hospital. (Here, he makes quiet time a little less quiet.)

And while we never quite learned what caused Roman's...ahem...bowels to block, we did collect a few lessons during his stay:

1. "Poop" has endless synonyms and I'm tired of them all.
It was a TMI sort of weekend; Roman's intestines were the top topic, but I was privy to the digestive habits of every nurse, doctor, passer-by and all of their kids. If there's a euphemism for poop, both the noun and the verb, I've now heard it, and probably used it.

2. Spinning a kid in a wheelchair is short-term fun, followed by long-term barfing.

(I'll bet he really appreciated my 'round the clock picture taking. I was bored too, man!)

3. Hospitals should offer wine. Like I need an explanation. What, I'm supposed to watch MadMen empty handed?

4. We moms need to pack our own over-night wear. Yesterday, I asked Anthony to grab me something to wear to bed, just in case Roman and I ended up spending another night. Thank goodness for an early dismissal; otherwise I'd be impressing the residents in this turtle costume, a (sheer!) green cami and brown velour pants. My nightwear won't win any beauty contests, but I assure you, Anthony's never seen me in this combo.

5. Kids should either eat McDonald's every day or never-ever. 
My boys have it maybe once every six months. That's rarely enough, I've decided, that their bodies aren't used to it. It's Scognamillo poison. And in Roman's case, it's colonic concrete. I'm not blaming Roman's troubles entirely on his Friday in-a-pinch dinner, but I'm sure it didn't aid in his digestion. Look at this face...did I think it would end well?

For the record, I'll go with never-ever. That was one expensive, painful effing happy meal.

Here's to Moms

My mom managed a lot in her life: work, school, travel, family, in-laws, health issues and (the biggest adventure) two teenaged girls and all the fun that must have come with being our single parent. It didn't dawn on me then, but she was balancing a lot on her little body. Why didn't I realize it?! Because she never complained.

And now, as my guardian angel for nearly 20 years, she's balanced my nonsensical twists and turns. She's kept me safe and landed me in a great life.

Well done, Mom. I miss you.

So if I can give my kids one great lesson - something I've been thinking a bit about on this Mother's Day - it'll be about balance.

Not this kind of balance, which Roman demonstrated at Ben's soccer game today:

(Jogger balls? Juggle balls? I still don't know if this is an actual move.)

I mean the kind of balance that makes us happy, humble people. You know...
We get, so we give.
We play, so we work.
We spend, so we save.
We eat well, so we exercise.
We make a mess, so we clean.
We have great days, and some not great.

And this one falls into the great category. I'm sharing Mother's Day with my beautiful mother-in-law Eileen and with Anthony, who turns 36 today.

(Behold: Eileen and me not saving as we arrived at the Kansas Star Casino last night.)

So, today, as I celebrate my mom and all the other lovely moms in my lucky life, I propose a toast to good life balance.

See? We drink cheap champagne, so we buy good o.j. Ah, balance.

Happy Mother's Day, friends.

Grand Theft Marbles

Roman came home from pre-school with a pocket full of marbles today. Super cool, glittery marbles, unlike anything we own.

Uh oh.

"Are those ours?" I asked. After all, I have an A-plus grasp of our home's contents; Just ask Anthony, who receives an unwanted refrigerator inventory every time he opens its door.

So, Roman tried to pull one over on me ("Yeah, I got them in the upstairs closet," he said. Uh, is there a gift shop up there I'm not aware of?), but thankfully he's inherited my inability to pull off a whopper.

Oh, and I watch a lot of Law & Order so I'm a pretty skilled interrogator.

Fast forward through my "so very disappointed" speech, his crying and my secret crying, and we returned to pre-school where the wonderful Mrs. Wilson - trying to eat her own lunch - accepted them graciously, told Roman she still loves him, assured me privately that he's not the first marble thief (they are super cool), then sent us away on Spring Break.

So, a D-minus day for parenting, but I do think his punishment - returning to the scene of the crime - worked for now. I mean...does this look like the face of a felon?!

(Yes.)

Sh*t My Kids Say

Can I cuss in this thing? Oh, maybe just this once...

See, we were practicing Ben's speech therapy exercises this morning, working on the ending "T" sound...you know, hat, fruit, boot, etc. He looks at the drawings and tells me the word, really emphasizing the final "Tuh..."

Easy, right?

Until this picture:

I could see Ben's little wheels turning. "Umm...shi...SHIT!" he announced.

And I can see his logic: clearly it's a picture of a ship, but since it's a T-ending exercise...well, shit it is! (Turns out boat was the correct answer.)

Anywho, it was another in a recent string of funny, shouldn't-laugh-but-I-can't-resist comments from the boys. A sampling:

• Roman: "My penises are bothering me."
• Roman: "Why is that girl in a truck? Girls don't drive trucks!"
• Ben: "You and Dad are twins."
• Roman: "My armpit hurts. Probably because it has a pit in it."
• Roman: "This car smells like popsicle sticks."

And, finally, the most abstract one: When I told Ben that salt is bad for his heart, he asked, "But then what happens to Jesus?" After a few rounds of "Huh?! Are we having the same conversation?" he explained, "But Mrs. Wiebe says Jesus is in our heart."

Aha!

Thank you, Catholic school, for teaching the things I cannot. And thank you in advance for your forgiveness when my kindergartner drops an inevitable shit bomb. He did, after all, get quite the laugh from me this morning, despite my best efforts to hold back.

A-plus, A-cup parenting

Couldn't help but share a few weird things I heard at Victoria's Secret today, all in the few short minutes it took me to exchange some sexy pajamas for practical beige bras. (You're welcome, Anthony.):

From a fellow shopper:
"Do you know if we can try things on? I've never been to this store before."

What I wanted to say: "Are you from Earth?"
What I actually said: "Yes, probably everything but the underwear."

From the customer service gal:
"Would you like a free stuffed dog with your purchase?"

What I wanted to say: "Who the hell is your target market?"
What I actually said: "Roman, look at the cool prize you won!"

(He now loves this odd little dog.)

And, finally, from Roman, looking perplexed while I tried on bras:
"What is that? Is it to cover your nickels?!

That's right, sweet shopping parter...a girl's gotta keep her nickels under wraps.

Cribless in Wichita

We reached a big milestone around here tonight; Roman is out of his crib/toddler bed and into a cozy big-boy bed.

And a big bed, it is: it's our old queen, which was Anthony's post-college bed, which makes me thankful that "memory foam" shares no actual memories.

(To be fair, Ben sleeps on my old queen bed, which I purchased when I was just out of college. And...that's all I have to say about that.)

So, after five-plus years, we're cribless here in Wichita and my children officially have better sleeping quarters than I did for the first 22 years of my life. Is this what they mean by making a better living than your parents?!

Anyway, here's hoping Roman stays put and does his 2 a.m. sideways egg-beater routine in his own bed. Although I have a feeling I'll kinda miss it.

Kid Drills

Today, as we left the doctor's office with stitches in Benny's head (he's fine, but more on that later), I had an idea for a hybrid class - parenting and exercise, rolled into one. It could be called Kid Drills and it would be - you guessed it! - a series of fix-it/respond-to-it/clean-it parenting emergencies.

Because anymore, the typical parenting class topics - bathing, swaddling, feeding - just don't apply to us. Most of our days are a series of kid-related drills that get my heart racing as if I was suffering through a spin class.

So, while I'm grossly underqualified to teach a parenting class, I'd at least like to submit a few topic ideas:

• Sweeping up a broken glass before anyone steps on it
• Sunscreening children before they get wet
• Cleaning up barf at (insert retail establishment here) 
• Finding lost, beloved blankies and bears in time for bed
• Covering your lady business when kids barge in on your shower
• All things that follow the comment "there's poop all over the..."
• Dressing kids and getting them out of the house in under two minutes because you forgot a speech therapy appointment
• Navigating air travel

And the final exam:

• Handling medical emergencies

Because, this morning, we went from this:

 To this:

That's Benny on Dr. Kumar's exam table with a gash on the back of his sweet head. He hit his head when he swung into a nearby cabinet edge. And, yes, he's wearing the most ironic shirt ever.

Now, we've had our fair share of ER visits, but it's still a baffling, frightening guessing game. Am I over-reacting? Under-reacting? Where do I take him? ER? Doctor's office? Funny farm for all of us?

Today we settled on the doctor's office (I'll call that middle-reacting), and got out with two stitches and only slight emotional distress. Ben will surely be back on the climbing wall soon, but I'll be putting in a request for bumpers on the sharp edges (duh?).

Thankfully, every drill-filled day (and every exercise class, for that matter) is made better when followed by Chipotle, Ben and Roman's fave. It's a drill we know well. Now, time for Advil and naps...

Mother of a Day

I'd long been a Mother's Day grinch. I didn't hate it, exactly, but I avoided it the same way my single self avoided Valentine's Day.

But, predictably, when Ben and Roman came along, I started to see it for the worthy holiday it is. And not because I get gifts or free time or whatever (although I'm not complaining that it's currently silent in the house), but because it's a chance to celebrate everyone who contributes to my life as a mother. It's a long list, but here are just a few people who come to mind, in no particular order: 

To my mom, of course, who set the best example.
To Ange, who avoided Mother's Day with me until we both found new ways and reasons to celebrate it.
To Viv, Linda and my grandmothers who picked up where my mom left off.
To Kari and her fam for the unofficial adoption. 
To Eileen, who raised Anthony right.
To Wendy, who puts parenting into perspective for me.
To my girlfriends, who give me advice, empathy, hilarity, pity and occasional escapes from motherhood.
To Anthony, whose fathering makes mothering pretty easy. 

And, finally, to Ben and Roman, who made me a mom. Every day, they make it infinitely better than I expected.  Now, maybe some day they'll cooperate so we can take a decent Mother's Day pic. In the meantime here's one from this morning...

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Thursday chatter

Conversation as we left First Friends, Roman's weekly playgroup/bible school:
Roman: "Mommy, that's the cross where Jesus died. He was naughty."
Ben: "That girl just talked about a penis."

Hours later, I still haven't addressed either one.

Universe, you've done it again!

I've started the week with a top-five difficult parenting decision: how to pronounce Uranus, our esteemed seventh planet.

Over the weekend, the boys moved beyond the states, skipped the world, and went straight to the universe. And now I'm stuck: URINE-us? ur-ANUS? Seriously, folks...who's in charge of these things?

Thankfully, our #1 resource, Dr. Seuss' "There's No Place like Space," graciously mentions Uranus only once, so I only have one uncomfortable mumble to stumble through.

But if the people-in-charge can update the solar system to delete Pluto (and get the Dr. Seuss people to revise their rhyme...impressive!), surely they can rename Planet #7. In the meantime, I might adopt an Australian accent during solar system discussions.  (ur-AU-nis...nope, still terrible.)

Speaking of speaking, today Benny started his pre-K speech therapy today with the wonderful Mrs. Hickerson. In 30 short minutes, she taught him to do what we've overlooked for five years: Ben can now curl his little tongue and pronounce a hell of an L sound. Wions are now lions, wunch is lunch, and Scognamillo...well, that's still tough for all of us.