Click click

"Um...I don't think this thing takes pictures," Ben said. Well, right, honey...it's a calculator. 

 

See, in Mrs. Smith's 1st grade class, a week of (mostly) good behavior earns a trip to the class store; this week, Ben picked out and proudly brought home what he calls a key pad.

And, while he's now a little disappointed in its capabilities, someday he'll discover what 58,008 reads when you turn it upside down. And that silly calculator will be worth its weight in...well, BOOBS.

(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.

Seven

We suspected he'd be smart, we knew he'd be silly, but we really never considered that someday (today!) Ben would be seven.
 

But he woke up this morning and asked, "Do I look seven?"

Clearly I'm the wrong one to ask, for two reasons. First, Ben will always look like a baby to me. But also, I remember seven. I was naughty. I gossiped. I had crushes on the boys. (Hello, Jeff Knepp and Michael Jimenez. Damn, you were cute.)

But perhaps not all sevens look alike. At least, I'm hopeful. Case in point:

Yesterday, Ben was doing some sort of strut (a separate issue) to my car after school. As he runway-walked, his classmate Eugenie shouted, "Ben, you're sexy!"

He stopped cold. I gasped.

She said it again: "Ben, you're SEXY!" 

Then he said: "No Eugenie, I'm seven!"

Phew. I have more time.

Eat, Play, Run

It's St. Patrick's Day, so we're eating our greens...kind of.

By coincidence, our green celebration started a week ago when Roman's pre-school class marked Dr. Seuss' birthday by making (brace yourself, vegan friends/family) green eggs. (Although no ham, since it was a Friday during Lent.)  He came home with the recipe - eggs, a few drops of blue and a few drops of green - and whipped up a green breakfast for lunch. 

 

Today we attempted green waffles, but the results were, incredibly, even less appealing:

And while we're on the topic of green food, behold this recent selection at lunch lady duty:

 

On the menu, this was called "seasoned green beans." See that seasoning? It's ham. HAM. Yep, here in Wichita, pork is a seasoning. (Although presumably not on Lenten Fridays.)
 
But back to St. Patrick's day, where we're also playing with our greens. As in money. Ben smoked us in Monopoly last night, finishing a financial and real estate whiz. Pretty incredible, considering that this is how he and Roman play:

 

And, finally, we're running the green...er, Anthony is, anyway.

 

He raced this freezing morning and placed 6th overall with a 24:42 4-mile time. Pretty impressive from our spot at the festive finish line.

Crackers

"I spy with my little eye," Roman said at dinner, "something that starts with the letter M. And it's white."

Ben, without hesitation: "Is it MOM?"

Wow. Time to get some sunshine? Or change make-up shades?

Thankfully, today we accomplished #1. All the other white stuff has melted, and in the course of a week, we went from this:

...to this:

The melt did mean saying farewell to Crackers, the boys' first snowman (with an unintentionally cheeky name). I can't help but show him off one more time.

And, for those of you playing, the answer to Roman's "I Spy" was milk. Not pasty pale Mom, although that was a pretty inspired guess. 

Sugar

Epic bad scheduling on this Valentine's Day: I had an early date today with my obgyn.

But, with that behind me - yet surprisingly no flowers from Dr. S. for our annual rendezvous - time for us to to celebrate around here.

Ben, who must have been plowed with sweets at school, is currently sprinting through the house. With his shirt off. He's a drunk man in the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl...and, likewise, he should pass out at any moment.

(Look at that face - he's a sugar lunatic!)

Roman, after accompanying me to the doc (but staying above-wing and out of sight, naturally), is soaking off the stress in a cozy bubble bath. Cliche' if it was me; cute, because it's him.

Reno, meanwhile, is consumed with this peanut butter-filled frozen Kong, pretty much the diamond earrings of the dog world.

And I don't require much. I hope Anthony's on his way home and not among the men at Walgreens frantically picking through Valentine's Day card rejects, which I'll totally sniff out if it's (1) in Spanish, (2) religious or (3) nine dollars.

All I want? A replay of this scene, a little porn for my mom friends. Husband in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, unprompted. 

Happy Valentine's Day, Sugars.

Five-Year Plan

"When can I walk to school by myself?" Ben asked today.

But first, he buttered me up with this snazzy artwork, made for Catholic (Cathlec, he writes) School Week's "Parent Appreciation Day."

Art aside, I couldn't even respond to the poor kid's question because (1) I was already choking up and (2) "over my cold, dead body" might scare a six-year-old. Or give him ideas.

And it's not because we're too far, or that it's a bad neighborhood.  We're a half-mile away through middle-class, tree-lined blocks. The problem is, I'd be exhausted from bolting from tree to tree, hiding and spying all the way, every day. 

Eventually I did answer him, pulling the response from my usual resource: thin air. "When you're in sixth grade and Brother's in fourth, you can walk to school together." Gulp.

That gives us five years to move in with the family next door to Blessed Sacrament. I hope they're nice Cathlec people.