Giving Thanks

Now that the post-Halloween letdown is over, the murmur of Thanksgiving and Christmas has made its way to Cael's ears.  As I was preparing his breakfast yesterday, he had a few questions for me and as usual, I humored him for much too long.

"Mommy?  Is it Christmas yet?"

"Nope, not yet.  We haven't had Thanksgiving yet."

"Is Thanksgiving Daddy's birthday?"

"Not this year, but you're right that Daddy's birthday falls on Thanksgiving sometimes."

"Will Daddy open presents for Thanksgiving?"

"Thanksgiving isn't an 'opening presents' kind of holiday."

"What do we do, then?"

"Don't you remember last Thanksgiving?  In the morning we watched the parade on TV with all of the big balloons.  At supper time we ate a big turkey, lots of stuffing, corn and potatoes and had pumpkin pie for dessert."

"I like pie."

"Me, too!"

"Does Santa eat the pie, too?"

"Santa doesn't have anything to do with Thanksgiving, honey.  We celebrate Thanksgiving to remember how the pilgrims had a BIG feast with the Indians."

I knew that one was going to go over his head.  But at this point, I'd committed to it, so I thought I'd see it through.

"The pugrums ate the Indians?"

"No, the P-I-L-G-R-I-M-S had a great big dinner with the Indians.  They were the people that lived here way before we come across the ocean and found America."

"They lived here in my house?"

"No, not just here.  Lots and lots of years ago, there were no houses and streets here.  It was just grass and trees, but more and more people liked it here and decided to stay."

That seemed to satisfy him, and he scampered off with his eye on a small wooden train.

"Mommy, did the pugrums like to ride a train?"

"Honey, when they first came here there were no trains.  The Indians rode horses, but that was the only real way to get around.  There were some wagons, but no trains.  They came a little later."

"Did you like riding the horses?"

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"I haven't ridden a horse, Cael.  All of this stuff happened SO long ago.  I wasn't born yet."

"But who watched me and Graham before you were born?"

"Nobody, Cael.  You weren't around yet.  Daddy and I hadn't made you yet."

"Did Papa watch me?"

Cael's first Thanksgiving, 2007

"I just told you, bugger.  You weren't around yet."

"But did Amy watch me?"

"Nope."

"Did the pugrums watch me?!?"

I give up.

"Yep, Cael.  The pugrums took good care of you."

"Yeah.  They were really nice."

Houghton-Mifflin should be coming out with Cael's revised version of History just in time for the holidays.

Daylight Losing Time

Sunday morning marked the start of Daylight Savings Time.  Or the end.  I never know which.  And, as I learned this morning, we use a different saying to remember how to change our clocks.

Spring Forward, Fall-Into-a-Coma-From-an-Ankle-to-the-Side-of-the-Head. 

Honestly, I'd prefer to lose the hour.

"Hey Mommy.  I want to watch 'Polar Express'."

"Ugh, Cael.  I'm still sleeping."

"Can you put on my movie?"

Every morning we go through this routine, and every morning I wonder why I don't just put the kabash on the movies.  Part of the problem is that our old solution for our early bird was to allow him to watch "Thomas the Train" from our streaming Netflix, which would have been fine if not for the fact that he was actually watching things like "Family Guy" and "Snakes on a Plane".

"Mommeeeeeey!  'Polar Express'!"

"Fine, get in."

WHAM... to the side of the head.  After the stars I was seeing dissipated, I went through the motions of turning on Cael's movie.

Find remote.  Find other remote.  Turn TV on.  Turn DVD player on.  Change TV input to "video".  Turn volume waaay down.  Hit "menu" on DVD remote.  Accidentally turn off TV because it's so dark.  Turn TV back on.  Go to "scene selection" and cue up Polar Express to the scene right before the train comes because the beginning is too quiet and boring for Cael's nonstop brain.  Collapse.

"Mommy?"

"What, Cael?  I want to go back to sleep."

"I think I want to watch 'Tangled' instead."

"No, you watch what I put on for you." 

"I don't want to watch 'Polar Express'!  I want to watch 'Tangled'!"  (Insert furious leg kicking.)

Normally I don't give in.  Really, I don't.  But at six in the morning when I'm still somewhat drugged up on cold medicine, my resolve isn't quite so strong.

"If I put on 'Tangled', will you promise to watch it quietly?"

"Yep.  'Tangled'!!"

Find remote.  Find other remote.  Change TV input to "HDMI".  Turn volume back up.  Hit "menu" on TV remote.  Accidentally turn off TV because it's so dark.  Turn TV back on.  Go to "TV on demand" and hit the 30 second button seven times for the title screen of "Tangled".  Collapse.

"Mommy!"

"What?!" 

"I don't like the part where the mean old lady takes the baby you know the mean old lady the one with the black hair but sometimes it's gray hair but then she takes that plant and then it's black again.  That lady.  You know the lady?  I want you to skip that part because I don't like that mean old lady and I think she's scary when she takes the baby.  You know that lady, Mommy?"

"I know the lady, Cael." 

Find remote.  Find other remote.  Hit the 30 second button five or six times before realizing I've hit the volume button until the sound is so loud that it wakes the cat.  Cat bites my toes.  Turn volume down.  Fast forward to beyond the point when the mean old lady takes the baby.  Collapse. 

"Mommy?

"Oh my gosh, Cael.  You have to be quiet.  It's only 6:00 am and..."

I. forgot. to. change. my. clock. and. it's. FIVE. IN. THE. MORNING. 

Again I say, I'd rather lose the hour.

Say Cheese!

It has been said that a picture is worth a thousand words.  If you're Cael, however, a picture could be worth 7 to 10 in a federal penitentiary. 

It all started back on Cael's birthday when he received, among other things, a kid's indestructible digital camera for him to take pictures of things that interest him, like trains or trains, or even trains.

There were a few snapshots taken that night, mostly by Daddy and shot with the intent of learning the camera's limited features.  After that night, other toys took center stage and got played with more frequently while the camera slipped off of my radar.

Click!

I woke up yesterday to a bright flash.  Was it lightning?  Please don't let the dog pee on the floor.

Click!

The camera's imitation shutter sound coupled with the bright-as-the-surface-of-the-sun flash woke me from a dead sleep.

"Mommy!  Wake up and smile!"

"Mmm."

"You're not smiling.  SMILE."

Not the gentlest wake-up I've ever had.  But with no vomit, urine, feces or flooding to clean up, I couldn't complain too much about being awakened by an early morning photo session.

Later, I unknowingly plugged the camera into the computer to clear out Lord knows how many sleeping photos of me.  I looked forward to the pleasure and release of hearing each messy-haired pic being dragged to the trash can on my-- 

--OhdearGod.

And that's when I saw how my son has been spending his time lately and my mind immediately flashed forward to how he'd be spending his time in a concrete cell.

It started innocently enough.  Cael had wandered around the house, documenting every piece of incriminating evidence he could find.

Ugly shower?  Check.

Cobwebs in the corner?  Check.

Dirty toilet?  Check.

Then he proceeded to snap photographs of us covertly, likely with the plan of studying them later to figure out our weaknesses.  He caught me with my back turned on the computer....

Graham at point-blank range...

Even Daddy while preparing to do a workout.

And here's where it starts to get weird.

Using the cartoon inserts, Cael illustrated his true feelings about our feline friend while positioning him in the epicenter of a full-on army assault with M16s and hand grenades.

My mind flashed to outdated episodes of Dr. Phil that featured kids demonstrating an usually cruel disposition toward animals and their almost unavoidable descent into criminal behavior.  But then it got worse.

I couldn't quite make out the image I was seeing at first.  Is that... could that be...?

And then I realized that I was intently studying a photo of my now violated dog's "manly bits" as seen by my seemingly perverted and voyeuristic four year-old.

But that wasn't the last.  There was another.



 And another.

And another.

My eyes!  My eyes!

And then, just when I was ready to call Dr. Phil himself-- when I thought it couldn't get any worse-- I saw what my son does behind closed doors.

 That's right, friends.  That's my son's poop.

My first born, my pride and joy, and his biggest accomplishment.

When he gets back from inpatient therapy, I'm sure he'll have an explanation for all of us.  But until then, two can play at his game...

For Love of the Game

When I arrived at Cornell College in the summer of 2001, finding a husband was not at the top of my priority list.  I figured I'd discover him there eventually, but two days into orientation and several days before classes were even scheduled to begin, he walked into a room and into my life.

Cornell College campus

It may not have been my priority, but I did have a list going in the back of my head.  That guy in my PA group is kinda cute.... the dark-haired guy in choir seems nice... but during an informational meeting for my work-study job, an unusually goofy and fun-loving man caught my eye.

Actually, it was my ears that he caught first.  As we were going around the room and making our introductions, Joel told the group about his love for baseball and how, as a child, his father (Bampa) returned home after seeing "Field of Dreams" and immediately woke his boys late at night to play catch in the yard.

I remember going back to my dorm room and telling my roommate that I'd met a guy that seemed like a lot of fun to be around.  We started dating shortly thereafter and were engaged in a little over a year.  Although he didn't play college ball throughout our entire tenure at Cornell, baseball continued to be a big part of our lives, and we passed on a love for our national pastime to both of our sons.

Shortly before Graham was born, we took a brief vacation to St. Louis to watch our favorite team, the Cardinals, play a home game.

At not even two years old, Cael was one of their tiniest fans but one of the most enthusiastic.  The stadium was hot, my extremely pregnant belly even hotter, but we enjoyed the opportunity to watch our team beat the Cincinnati Reds before our eyes.

So last week when the Cardinals ascended to the playoffs and then to the World Series game, we were very excited and Cael asked nightly about his team's progress.  Even Graham, who was not yet born during our pilgrimage to St. Louis, hugged his Cardinal bear tightly and prayed about baseball as I laid him down to sleep.

On the night of game seven, Joel and my nephews Ethan and Keaton watched closely to see if the Cardinals could pull off a victory against the Texas Rangers despite their status as the underdogs from the very start.  With the final out, the boys celebrated and Joel commented that he should have summoned Cael from his sleep to cheer alongside his Daddy.

After reflecting on that thought for a few moments, we all realized that our DVR was invented for moments like these and to create opportunities for daddies and sons to relive important memories with one another.  Joel quietly sneaked into Cael's room while Ethan rewound the tv and cued it up to the final inning.



Maybe some day, Cael will see a girl that catches his eye and tell her about the night his Daddy woke him up to see his favorite team win the World Series. 

I just hope he doesn't fart.  It sounds like something he'd do.

Trick or Treat!

With our pumpkins carved, Halloween was upon us and it was time for trick-or-treating.  Joel had to work late all evening and couldn't accompany us.  But because of his self-admitted fun-hater stance on Halloween, the boys and I were excited to venture out with Amy, Ethan and Keaton.


As I dressed our kids, I couldn't help but onder why Joel couldn't get on board with a holiday involving erratic behavior and the gluttonous consumption of candy.  Even as a baby, Joel seemed less then enthused to be dressed as a pumpkin.

At five years old, he bared his inner "ninja" for the camera, not knowing that across the country, a little pink bunny was putting on her tail and preparing to beg for candy.

Through some cosmic miracle involving a weird story about baseball and some red curly hair, the two of us came together and now years later, it is our kids' turn to walk the streets dressed as their heroes.

There was no denying Cael's excitement this year because, for a train enthusiast, there is no hero greater than that of a train engineer.  I conveniently had many of the necessary components for his costume and only needed to purchase a red bandana that I scored for only one dollar.

I helped Cael to suit up and snapped a few photos before helping Graham into his costume.

Originally I'd planned to reuse the costume Cael had worn at Graham's age, but pieces were missing from his garden gnome ensemble.

Oh, and it was just plain weird.

So after digging through bins of old clothes, a pair of red pants prompted me to piece together a Mickey Mouse costume for my littlest Mouseketeer.

With his nose painted, the costumes were complete and it was time to hit the streets.

We walked a block up the road to Stonebrook, a neighborhood of mostly new homes and families with young children.  The streets are usually alive with kids and families, but on Halloween the area practically transforms into a street festival, yet instead of music and food vendors, the streets are littered with jittery screaming children on a sugar binge and smooshed fun-sized butterfingers on the sidewalk.

Or if you're me, your Halloween was dampered by two very cold boys that almost immediately spiked fevers when they knocked on the first door.

This being Graham’s first chance to walk to the doors and ask for candy on his own, he was cute but disoriented and would frequently walk to a door, get his candy, walk down the sidewalk and do an about-face to return to the same door for more loot.  Cael volunteered to hold Graham’s hand and lead him to the next destination.

This, my friends, is called “the crazy leading the crazy”.

After 7 or 8 houses, their fever and the cold got the best of them and we returned to the house where Cael and Graham collapsed inside the door and checked out each other’s goodies.  

This is the point at which Halloween goes from a silly thing to do in October to a ration of government proportions—eliciting daily freakouts from boys that want to eat 14 Milky Ways each morning and 27 Hershey bars before naptime.

We toasted some pumpkin seeds and handed out candy to the kids that came to our door, many commenting on our pumpkins and my amazingly adorable kids- kids that give Halloween a good name.

So even though Halloween may not be Daddy’s favorite, seeing my kids’ smiling faces as they enjoy this silliest of days makes me feel like that pink bunny again.

Or maybe Cleopatra. 

Foreman-O-Lantern

I got a late start on Halloween this year.  Between the birthdays and the floods and the preschools and the back pain, carving pumpkins got placed on the back burner.  But no Halloween would ever be complete without crazy pumpkins carved with love by a family huddled together over the table on a cool autumn afternoon.

Who are those people?

Here's how it went down at my house.  Between Walmart, the pumpkin patch, our local grocery store and my uncle's farm, I'd managed to accumulate four giant orange pumpkins, three pretty Casper pumpkins, countless gourds, 5 to 8 squashes, a pumpkin pie pumpkin and a partridge in a pear tree.  I had many jack-o-lantern ideas and since the partridge seemed pretty resistant to being carved, I dove into the pumpkins on Sunday afternoon.

For the first and biggest pumpkin, I wanted to do a twist on the traditional pumpkin face and I was also looking forward to letting the boys dig in and get their hands dirty.  Cael was already requesting a train pumpkin, but knowing that was a little beyond my skill level, I took control of the design and simply let the boys sort the slippery seeds form the gooey insides.

After the pumpkin was finished, I was left with two thoughts.
1.  Some jobs are better left to adults.
2.  I hope my sons never become surgeons.

With chunks of pumpkin pulp in my hair, on my clothes, in Cael's ear and, to be discovered later, in Graham's butt crack, I surrendered to the fact that my children were possibly too young to fully appreciate this activity.  My one completed pumpkin sat, shunned, on the deck and I promised to sculpt him a friend or two later that evening.

We ate dinner at my sister Amy's house while my boys attempted to bring Halloween to life by scaring the bejeezus out of me as they launched themselves over the couch and chairs.  Their behavior on the whole was like a low-budget horror flick... gory, inappropriate, shocking and yet so awful that I couldn't help but laugh until their naughtiness had escalated to the point that I had to leave, which literally brought me to tears.  With Daddy out hunting, I was on my own to corral them but promised to come back when Joel returned home so that I could carve some pumpkins with my nephews.

Joel was home shortly thereafter and I eagerly handed over the children after a quick behind-the-ear search.  Aside from some pumpkin goo and a little melted chocolate, there was no sign of "666", so I jumped in the car and headed back to my sister's for some pumpkin carving.

As it turns out, I didn't get to my pumpkins, but instead helped to design a jack-o-lantern with the Gibson logo and the outline of a Les Paul guitar for Ethan, and a Yankees logo with "Jeter" in caps above for Keaton.  We also put some final touches on Keaton's Boba Fett costume before I started getting some strange texts from Joel.

He was strangely concerned about some funny noises he was hearing in the house; sounds that I have grown used to but cannot explain myself.  Given that I live in a house that is younger than I am and I know all of the previous owners, I am confident that the house isn't haunted by anything other than the ever-present horror of my kids' behavior.

And yet, Joel continued to hear sounds.  I packed up my pumpkins, hugged my kind family that loves me even when we are unlovable, and returned home to find my husband in the basement-- in the dark-- watching Paranormal Activity.

Am I the only sane one in this house?

I got drawn into the movie for a good 25 minutes before I was able to drag myself upstairs to revisit my pumpkin project.  I saw a neat "cannibal" pumpkin idea on the internet a few days prior and, with all of the decorative gourds in my kitchen, thought it would be a fun and easy alternative to the tired triangular-eyed pumpkins I carved every year as a child.

Two hours and one really severe case of perfectionism later, I put the cannibal pumpkin to rest and turned to the white Casper pumpkins. 

Creak.  What was that?  Must have been the dog. 

Crack.  What was THAT?  Could that have been the cat?

Even though I hadn't watched the whole thing, the scary movie had me jumpy and paranoid.  I quickly cleaned out the white pumpkins and resolved to let the boys help me design them the next morning.

After breakfast, I asked the boys what they wanted on their pumpkins.

After refusing to tackle a train pumpkin for weeks because it would require tools and detail work that I wasn't capable of mastering, I finally gave in.  With an "it is what it is" attitude, I sketched a basic train outline and initially planned on simply cutting it out and handing it over.

But as I started in on it, I realized that I could shade part of it and cut out the rest to make it look a little more lifelike.

It took me all of Toy Story 3 to complete his pumpkin, and when I presented it to him he promptly announced that I "ruined it".  I told him that if he disliked it that much I could just throw it away, but he decided that it could sit on the front step after all.

You know, since it wasn't good for much else.  

Throughout the day, I caught him peeking at it from the front door and telling his toy trains about it as they crashed repeatedly into chair legs and baseboards.  I guess he was really traumatized by how bad it was.  Next year I'll just have to take Graham's advice when it comes to pumpkin carving.  When I asked him what to put on his jack-o-lantern, he was adamant that it should have "mouse toots".  When I first sat down to tackle his pumpkin, I smelled it and made a goofy face and told him that mice had definitely tooted on the pumpkin, but not wanting to further perpetuate my reputation as the "weird mom" on the block, we opted for a more socially acceptable jack-o-lantern, and Mickey was born.

Many of the kids that came to my door for candy were very impressed with our pumpkins and I even had a few tell me that the train jack-o-lantern was the best in the neighborhood.  Could I have missed my calling as a procrastinating, paranoid pumpkin carver? 

Maybe I'll carve that "mouse toot" pumpkin and see where the future takes me.