You Really Love Me?

Is it possible?  A national magazine, Parents, is running a "Best Blog" contest, and I have been nominated in the "Funniest Mom Blog" category.  So although this represents a milestone I thought would come four or five years down the road, I am here begging asking for you to vote for me and propel me into a level of "blogdom" I thought I wouldn't reach for many, many years.

Oscar is frantic.

Cael equates this achievement to riding a steam engine.  Plus, he thinks you're SO daft.

Graham would eat 14 green beans and 1/2 a baked potato just to provide his ol' mama with a good pat on the back.

So here's where you come in.  Click the Parents Funniest Mom Blog Nominee button in the upper right corner above my picture and vote for me, please.  If you love pictures of Cael's bare cheeks while you're sorting through emails and Graham's quivering bottom lip makes you weak in the knees, you need to vote for me to keep this blog running.  Plus, I'll love you forever.

Will you vote for me?  Click the button for YES.

PS- Come back later this afternoon for your regular daily dose of our antics.

Caelism of the Day

Cael loves trains.  

Not enough stimulation for a Saturday morning?  Well, try this on for size.  While trying to make a "train" out of a kabillion cars lined up precisely on our window ledge, Cael asked for some assistance.

"Mommy, can you hook this red firetruck to the blue cart?"

"Cael, you've done that so many times.  You show me how it works, okay?"

"I can't, Mommy.  You're better at hooking them up than I am."

"No one is better at hooking trains than you, Cael."

"But Mommy, you're such a good hooker!"


And that's how my son crossed the line from cute to uncomfortably inappropriate.

I have a feeling it won't be the last time.

H-2-Oh no!

My house is evil.

Not the whole house, just the hall bathroom.  Upon entering that room, one is likely to encounter hissing snakes and heads on pikes... a true entrance to hell.  How do I know this?  Because every couple of days I bathe my children-- my sweet, young, innocent children-- in that bathroom and they are instantly transformed into snarling beasts. 

Okay, so they aren't exactly "snarling", either.  But they yell a lot and have been known to "toot" excessively.  Perhaps it's the sulfur... who knows.  There is no denying that something happens to my boys when they enter that room.  Rules that would have applied in the kitchen or the bedroom or the basement are null in void.  It's like Sodom and Gomorrah for toddlers.


And who is the overlord of the bathtub?  This evil little frog-- cackling from his pedestal at his ability to warp young minds.  While Cael has been known to step out of line every now and then, the bathroom causes drastic personality swings that take him from laughing and playing to crying and thrashing about.  Sure, it could be the soap in his eyes, but I really think it's the frog.  That's much more plausible.

Graham, on the other hand, who is usually so willing to follow directions and "honor thy mother" immediately turns to the dark side.  He stoically disobeys when I ask him to come to the tub-- likely fearing for his own safety from this beady-eyed amphibian.

And in the background, there is Cael, laughing hysterically as if possessed by some toilet-paper stealing gremlin.



I gave the boys a bath yesterday.  Donning a braid of garlic and the holy book Raising Your Spirited Child (I would have taken the Bible but I was afraid it would burst into flames) I entered the bathroom.  I managed to get the boys undressed and into the tub before everything went haywire.  Cael immediately started thrashing about in the water and speaking in tongues.

"Mommy!  I ate a bug and now when I toot I can fly!

"Graham is a GOOBER!  And he smells like chicken shoes!

I have no idea what that means either.  Meanwhile, Graham put on his best artificial smile.  The water was green from Crayola bath drops, but could have also been from the bubbling cauldron of evil-induced naughtiness.  Or not. 

Regardless of the fact that too much monkey-business will result in removal from the tub, they continue to do their part to keep the bathroom clean by splashing unimaginable amounts of water on the wall and floors.  My experience in this area has led to the discovery of a Water-Air Continuum, a new principle that explains why a child can plunge their tiny hand into the water and force three to four gallons of water to careen at the bath-giver at maximum velocity.  It's science, people.

The most frightening part of bathing a child is the knowledge that the entire process must be repeated... well, repeatedly.  I have, on occasion, tried to put off a bath and the boys have always managed to soil themselves to a point that could warrant a phone call to CPS.  Oatmeal crusted in the creases of Graham's neck, partially dissected insects under Cael's fingernails; all sickening evidence of two rambunctious boys with too much energy. 

"Come on boys, it's time for a bath..." 

I still blame the frog.

The Tale of Graham Thumb

When Cael was born, I tried to do everything right. I nursed him exclusively and waited the recommended amount of time before even attempting to introduce a pacifier. I swaddled him with textbook precision despite the fact that he kept us awake most of the night, every night. (Foreshadowing, anyone?) I counted down the days until he was exactly six months old before I fed him his first bite of solid food.

To make a long story short, I was a first time mom.

Then came Graham, the most easy-going baby one could hope to have.  He slept in our room with the lights on as we spoke to one another in full voices.  He played quietly and was happy to tag along wherever we chose to go.   And I got lax.  He didn't always get to sleep at his predetermined bedtime and sometimes a few days would pass between baths.  But the biggest mistake I was making was one I hadn't considered.

Earlier this week I took Graham in for his first dentist appointment. I know that three is the most common age to began dental checkups, but my history of being a complete and total wuss has led me to expose them early and therefore attempt to fend off the fear that paralyzed me in the dentist's chairs for years.

See, I'm not all that bad.

When Graham and I sat in the chair to have his teeth examined, he was afraid. For some reason he won't open his mouth very wide, a problem which has made brushing his teeth and these subsequent dental visits much more difficult for him. The crying, although frustrating, at least forced him to open his mouth and allowed our dentist to see my huge mistake.

"Does he suck his thumb?"

"Yeah.  He always has."

"Not anymore, he doesn't."

And our dentist, a very good personal friend, proceeded to tell me that Graham's thumb-sucking has already begun to warp his palate and that, if he continues, he will have serious bite issues and require thousands of dollars of orthodontia.

Oh, happy day.

I explained to him that Graham does most of his thumb-sucking during the night and I am not there to intercept this behavior.  We discussed the possibility of transitioning him from his thumb to an orthodontic pacifier, but I would really rather not introduce a pacifier at age two.  The other option is a contraption available on the internet that velcroes the child's arms to a firm board that keeps them straight as if attached to a splint.  Birthday present, maybe?

After receiving a cavity-free report, we left the dentist's office, and I was left to choose which option would be the lesser of the evils.  Careful consideration has led me to the following conclusion: I'm pretty much screwed.  There are three possible outcomes of this scenario, and none of them sound good.

1) Do nothing and plan to sink a great deal of money in expensive and painful orthodontic devices for my son.

2) Attempt to transition him to a pacifier and know that he'll likely still be sucking on it when he leaves for college.  Better than beer, I guess.

3) Purchase the Velcro contraption and set aside money now for Graham's future therapy.

I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do, but I feel like I can't win. Why does parenting involve so many lose-lose situations? I guess this is what I get for becoming a second-time mom. 

How much do dentures cost, anyway?

The Craigslist Killer

Monday we said goodbye to a good friend.

No, no one died.  But we did sell our Airstream.  And in case you can't sense the tone, I'm pretty bummed.  In a really bizarre role reversal, Joel was very cavalier about selling it and my sentimental attachment made it a bit of a downer.  The good news is that we sold it to a really nice family from Houston, TX that drove all the way to Iowa to pick it up.

Why did my husband sell his beloved trailer?  Because of Craigslist, that homewrecker of a website.  My husband, who just one short year ago excitedly drove home our newest toy, discovered the wonder and financial potential of turning a profit on items we currently own.  And I can't argue with the fact that we sold it for almost 3 times our purchase price, a deal that just might have bumped our bathroom renovation from "some day down the road" to "in the near future".

I picked out some tile, just in case.

But his glee in selling the camper that we lovingly fixed up has led to an "everything must go" mentality that inexplicably resulted in his Lincoln being for sale, along with about 15 other household items.  And in him purchasing a different truck.  So what is it about Craigslist that draws men in like a moth to a flame?  And the million dollar question-- why can't he sell things we don't care about?

Maybe he needs my help in this endeavor.  Because after all, as women we know that if we want something done right, we must do it ourselves.  Right, ladies?  So here are a couple of things I think my dear husband should share with the masses.  There must be some profit to be made in junk, right?

What kind of message does this sign send to my children?  As they run and toddle through the basement and on into the room housing a great deal of their toys, how are they to rationalize this large beer sign?

"Mommy, when I grow up, I'm going to drink Budweiser because it is the KING of beers!"

"Good for you, son!"

I've done my best to disguise the sign by stacking piano books in front of it, or strategically placing the light so as to block the view, but the fact remains that we are advertising alcohol in our home.  But if I really want it gone, I think I may need to take another approach.  Maybe it looks out of place because it is the only item of its style in the room.  This weekend I'll see if I can hunt down an old Trojan advertisement or perhaps a Camel cigarette poster.  Kids love animals, right?

Another thing I'd be happy to sell off is our old shower unit.  You know, the one that makes me physically cringe when I walk in the room?  Not only is this atrocity so painfully out of style that it brings down the quality of the entire house, but it's so physically dirty that I probably inhale more mold spores than oxygen with each attempt to clean it. 

I doubt there's a market for "used grungy shower", but I have certainly seen stranger things on Craigslist.  I have previously mentioned its pharmaceutical potential, but perhaps you didn't get the full effect from the exterior shot.  The built-up nastiness cannot be removed with CLR, vinegar or pure determination.  Not even inpatient rehab could fix this beast.

Maybe I'll get lucky and word of this blog will travel across the great expanse of the internet to one person with truly questionable taste that would offer us great sums of money for these things.  Until then, I'm doing my best not to become to attached to anything still in my home because I know that, if offered the right price, everything is fair game.

Except this.

 

And that.

Compromising Positions

Cael and Graham are very attached to their plush pals, Bloose and Barker.  What began as a bedtime snuggle-partnership has evolved into a seriously co-dependant relationship for each of my boys.  The stuffed animals follow us everywhere while we are in the house, and both seem to graciously accept and actually desire their fate as glorified footballs and couch cushions.

But there was something happening between those two fuzzy sand sacks.

Every day, as we gathered 'round the table for any of our meals, Bloose and Barker were lovingly placed on the SE corner of the table to "watch" the boys eat.  Both Cael and Graham know to put them there for safekeeping, as snuggling a spaghetti-crusted dog or moose is not as comforting as one that is gunk-free.  When this routine was first in place, we carefully positioned each animal so they were watching their respective owner as he ate his meal.  But one fateful day, a simple accident gave Cael an idea.  When the cat jumped up on the table, it whacked the animals out of alignment.  Rather than demanding they they be returned to their original and proper locations, Cael found humor in the situation and talked at length about how goofy it was that Bloose and Barker were looking at one another instead of at my sons.

The next day at lunch, after Graham had placed Barker in his spot, Cael did some rearranging.

"Look, Mommy!"  Bloose and Barker are kissing!"

"Wow, they sure are.  That's goofy.  But won't they want to watch you eat?" 

"No, they like to kiss."

"Okay, whatever you say, Cael."

This is innocent, right?  Two fuzzy friends kissing?  It's certainly platonic.  But maybe not.

At his first opportunity, Cael used his creativity to find a new position for these two friends.  And maybe it was just me, but it seemed as if Bloose's smile was bigger and Barker's ears perked up at the sight of his "friend".  I chalked it up to "puppy" love.

But then it got weird. 

My son, who is young enough and innocent enough not to understand "the birds and the bees", simply thought it was cute to watch these two beanies interact.  But I had a very hard time keeping my uncomfortable laughter at bay.  I didn't want to stop him, because I knew that it would require a conversation to explain why this game was inappropriate.  At the same time, I weighed the likelihood that my son would repeat this scenario with two (possibly more anatomically correct) dolls or Barbies at preschool in a couple of months.  He's only three.  I'd like to believe I have a couple more years before the principal starts calling.

So, I took the blogger approach and decided to document the entire tryst.  I blew it off with a "oh, that's funny!" comment and snapped some photos while the boys continued to eat.  That is, until Barker began to get more aggressive and Bloose looked at me with droopy antlers as if he was feeling used.

He must not have been too offended, however, because their escapade got weirder and weirder, and my ability to stifle my laughter withered away as well.  How did we get to this point?  Don't we all know that it's a bad idea to have a relationship with someone in the workplace?  And isn't it inappropriate for them to be canoodling before marriage?

I guess Bloose and Barker also understood it wasn't meant to be.  Or maybe they just weren't ready for a commitment.  I hope they used protection.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I'm not pregnant.

I thought I should start this post with that disclaimer, since what I'm about to write sounds eerily like nesting to me, and maybe to you as well.  But if I had been pregnant during this past week's activities, sometime in early May I'd be giving birth to a squid or a nine-headed monkey.

Wall frames with new photos

You see, when Joel is out of town, I get restless and bored.  Each and every time he heads off for a festival or music trip, I make a list of things I want to do and movies I want to Redbox.  (Yes, I just "verb-ed" Redbox.)  My go-to projects during his absences are things like switching out wall photos, reorganizing closets and cleaning out the boys' dressers to remove items that no longer fit.  It's like "Mommy Gone Wild" when Daddy is away.

But this time I had a bigger idea in mind.  After our recent bedroom makeover, I had been thinking about what other rooms in the house need help.  We were lucky that previous owners had, for the most part, made wise paint and fixture decisions, but there are a couple of rooms that still need some help.  One such space is our laundry room... my next project was born.

Laundry room with fresh "Hopedale" wall paint

I knew I had a sizeable amount of paint left over from the bedroom/bathroom walls, and I planned to reuse it to transform my laundry area from an overly-bright yet painfully boring space into a spot where I wouldn't mind spending a few moment folding teeny, tiny, Toy Story underpants.  So I pulled out the paint can, opened it up, and immediately knew that it was much too dark, and had a more purple tone than would look good with the neighboring greenish-grey walls. After a brief chat with Papa, I decided to get a gallon of paint in a lighter greenish-grey color that would transition nicely into the rest of the house.  I put the kids to bed, slapped some "Hopedale" on the walls and stood back. 

It looked exactly the same as the creamy yellow paint that had been there.

Another coat?  Why not.  But unfortunately the second coat yielded the same result, and did little more than waste a good hour and a half of my time.  But why does the green paint look so yellow?  I thought about it for awhile and returned to the laundry room to an epiphany-- the walls look yellow because of the atrocious caution-sign yellow laminate countertop that was installed.  I'm guessing-- or hoping rather, that the counter was a remnant piece, since the house was only built in 1997.  If it turns out that the yellow surface was intentional, it opens another can of worms that involves questioning any other home-related decisions the original owners made.  Will I pull up carpet and find avocado colored linoleum?  Who knows what other secrets are hidden in our 14 year old house.

But what was to be done about the counter?  It has been a thorn in my side since we've lived here, but because any money we should save will be going toward repairing our master bathroom, it is extremely unlikely that we will be able to replace it.  There was only one other thing to do-- paint it.

Countertop Paint in "Earth"

For those of you that don't know my family history intimately, I come from a long line of painters of things you're not supposed to paint.  My Dad, while in college and coming right off the failure of a botched perm he tried to give to a friend, decided to paint the carpet of an acquaintance who was unhappy with their existing flooring.  As you might have predicted, the carpet was crusty, smelly and generally unusable.  But real rule-breakers don't let that stop them, do they?  My sister Sarah, an accomplished graphic designer, painted a lot of surfaces while pursuing a degree in art during college.  Not only was she constantly tackling new and more intriguing projects each time I saw her, but she learned to live in a paint/rubber cement/paper making haze that blanketed our home's basement like an insect fogger.  So you see, it was meant to be!

A work in progress.

I picked up a can of laminate countertop paint from Menards, a local hardware/home improvement store, and after having it mixed to the selected color I returned home and promptly put the kids to bed.  I cracked the can open and the fumes nearly blew my hair back (and off) with their overwhelming potency.  Originally, I'd planned to wait for a cooler night when I could open some windows and encourage more ventilation, but then I bumped into Oscar's water dish and spilled a few drops of paint on the already sanded and prepared countertop.  It was now or never.

Day 1, after one complete coat.

The next hour went by like a blur-- with a towel wrapped over my face, I covered every bit of the mustard yellow hideousness.  It was kind of therapeutic, in a mind-numbingly hallucinogenic sort of way.  Once done, I made a bag of microwave popcorn and breathed in some buttery, fresh air.

At least I think I did.  I can't really say for certain what took place because of my altered mental state.  But I got through it, and by the next day I was able to give it a second coat and hope for the best.

After three days had passed, the counter was completely cured according to the instructions given with the paint.  Thankfully this surface is one that gets minimal use from anyone other than the cat, and shouldn't require heavy scrubbing or be subjected to scrapes and scratches.  And while I'm very happy with the results, I'm already itching to switch out those white plastic cabinet handles for some newer brushed nickel options.  When Joel returned home Sunday afternoon, he didn't notice the change at all until I led him on a wild goose chase to locate the "big project" I'd tackled while he was away.

Two coats and completely cured!

"Did you switch out the photos?"

"Yes, but that's not it."

"Did you paint the kitchen?"

"No, but it could use a coat."

"So what it is?"

Once he realized what I'd done, and after the requisite questions "Is it safe for countertops?" and "Can it get wet?" (all of which I'd addressed at the time of purchase), we were both happy with how it turned out.  And for $19.00, I couldn't ask for much more.

Perhaps a bottle of cheap wine and another Redbox movie.  Or some white tuna sushi.

But until our next sushi date, I can rest comfortably knowing that my home has one less eyesore, and there is one more project I can cross off the list.

I just hope the paint can hold up to the gale-force winds of Hurricane Cael-trina...