Which Came First?

I've spoken at length about how at one minute, my boys shock me with one identical look that reminds me just how alike they are, and promptly respond by acting so very differently that it is hard to believe they are related.

Is this how all brothers are?  Is one always introspective while one is zany?  Is one more affectionate while the other is combative? 

Is one always constructing an effigy mound of every piece of clothing in the bedroom while the other is complimenting my hair?

That's the way things operate in our home, and it amazes me how two boys, born of the same parents and raised in identical environments can come out with such equally different and utterly bizarre personalities.  And I majored in Psychology.

A recent school project of Cael's really brought this to light when he was asked to find something for sharing (show and tell) that would fit inside a plastic Easter-style egg.  Before he'd even arrived home, and despite having a 3-day weekend to make a decision, Cael had all the answers.

"Mom, look at this.  I have to put something in this little green egg for sharing, and I have this brown rock!  It's heavy and it probably came from a volcano or something.  And it's kinda dirty and isn't really very cool, but I'm gonna take it.  It smells weird too, like an animal pooped on it.  Maybe it's actually poop, and that would be really cool.  Like super hard rock-poop.  Volcano rock-poop."

"Um, Cael, you have several days to figure this one out, so let's look around the house and see what you can find that would fit.  I'm not crazy about you bringing volcano rock-poop to school."

I was frantically trying to come up with an alternative, because if you are trying to talk a six year-old out of something, specifically something involving poop, you'd better have a pretty outstanding alternative.

"You could put a key inside.  Or a folded up picture?  Let me think... a little ball, a seed, an acorn, a piece of food (mental note-- wash out plastic egg to avoid contamination with rock-poop), a pinecone or even something about the baby."

"Hmm, no."

My suggestions weren't "kid" enough, but Cael's heart was set on something I didn't agree with.  But who else could I ask?

"Hey Graham, what could Cael put in his green egg?"

"Ooh, Cael!  I know, I know!  Put a hug in it.  Or maybe you could sing the spaghetti song loud into the egg and then play it for your class.  Or color a picture of a rainbow like you did the other day and it will make everybody smile.  Or you could send my Puppy.  I love him but if you like him you could take him for the day.  I know he can fit if I squeeze him in--"

"--or maybe cookies for all of your friends.  Or me!  I could go to school with you!"

"Graham, none of those things will work!  You know you can't fit in my egg... you're way too big.  And none of the kids in my class will think that those things are cool."

My suggestions were lame, and I guess that Graham is just too soft-hearted, too different from his brother to relate. 

"Well then you should just bring some poop, Cael."

Welcome back, Graham.

Photo Journalism

Things have been uncharacteristically drama-free around here lately, and I'm certainly grateful for the break from malfunctioning appliances and persistent snowstorms.  Instead, I've been devoting the majority of my free time to setting up the nursery, weeding through old baby clothes, wondering what I was thinking when buying certain unattractive baby clothes, trying to pawn off said baby clothes on unsuspecting consignment store employees, and spending unnecessary funds on some new baby clothes.

And no, I don't need them, but hello- whales?  I think so.

Photo credit and items available here.

With that and multiple other projects gearing up, I have found myself in need of ways to keep the kids happy for stretches of time when outdoor play isn't an option.  And although I am not an advocate for hypnotizing children with television and video games, I am an advocate for my personal sanity, so there are times when the iPad comes out.

I spent a great deal of time organizing it so that all of the utilities and setting apps were hidden, while only basic games were accessible to them.  And it only took about 20 minutes before Cael had discovered the App Store, dissected the system and assessed any potential purchases he wanted me to make, and waited until someone entered the iTunes password into their phone to go on a buying spree that ended up costing my Dad $10.00.

Graham, on the other hand, was equally sneaky, finding the iPad's Photobooth app and taking what, when I first made the discovery, were incredibly cute, Graham-centric photos before going to on play Sonic for half an hour.  Loudly.

With no harm done and no funds stolen, I figured I could let him snap a few distorted photos on my personal iPad before school last week. 

But if I thought his willpower was greater than Cael's, I was mistaken.  After having not used my iPad at all yesterday but leaving it awake in my alarm clock app, I turned it on today and made a questionable discovery.

Perhaps it was the shock of knowing he'd been using it without permission.  Or maybe even the shock of realizing even the littlest Foreman boy was not immune from Apple's addictive properties.  But no, I really think it was the shock of the shockingly bizarre photos he took.

Looks like it's back to crayons and paper for these two.

Ode to Gestational Diabetes

They say that the key to beating one addiction is to replace that action with something positive and healthy.  So, since I can't eat sugar (and there's sugar in, like, everything) I've decided to start writing poetry as a means of channeling my frustrations. 


Ready to be done...
Chicken, veggie overload
Might kill for a pie.

 ***

Cookies are sweet,
Brownies are too.
I'd love crème brûlée...
Can that be made from tofu?

 ***

I've loved dessert since childhood,
and eaten it more than I should.
Now my diet's just mean,
and I'm so sick of greens!
This baby?  It'd better be good.

 Oh yeah, this is going to be a long ten weeks.

Conscious Unbearding

Now I'm no Gwyneth Paltrow, but I, too, can relate to the controversy of a relationship coming to an end.  Thankfully for me, that relationship is not my marriage, but Joel's longtime attachment to his beard.

Joel last summer, sporting a socially acceptable beard.

I blame "No Shave November".  Joel has had facial hair for nearly a decade-- so long, in fact, that if he shaves it off completely he also shaves off so many years from his appearance that I risk a prison term, and he risks his children not recognizing him.  But when NSN came around this year and a few men at his school decided to have a contest to see who could grow the best beard in one month, I had no idea it would take on a life of its own.

It wasn't until January or so that his face approached Grizzly Adams territory, and by March I was begging asking politely if he'd agree, at the very least, to lose the scruff before the baby makes his appearance in June.  I was given no such promises.

But miraculously, I received an email from my husband last week with the greatest news I'd heard in quite some time, not only for razor companies everywhere, but for my enthusiastically victorious husband who'd apparently made the greatest achievement of his life.

When you see me, please be careful not to look directly into the light of my awesomeness.  As Last Beard Standing Champion, I would like to give thanks to those who have supported me.  

First, my personal Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who gave his life so that we may spend eternity with our Father in Heaven.  

Second, to the guy at Granite City who said "that's a great beard" with a mug in his hand causing me to think he said "that's a great beer".  I replied "It's diet coke for me tonight", making for an awkward conversation on the way to taking my four year old to the potty, but I appreciate the support nonetheless.

Third, to the children at my son's bus stop who saw me for who I am and didn't tell their parents about a strange hairy guy hanging around the neighborhood.

Fourth, to Paul Mitchell for his line of Tea Tree products including a moisturizer that has kept me tangle free and well-groomed for the past 5 months.

Fifth, to the lady at Target who didn't judge me when I purchased a woman's eyebrow comb to keep those tiny mustache hairs that kept curling onto my lips from driving me into an insane asylum.

And lastly, to Jacob Munson for being a worthy opponent and standing firm long after everyone forgot there even was a contest and just thought we were incredible lazy.

I promised the kids if we win championships tomorrow that I will shave and wear a neck beard on Wednesday.  Here's to the hillbilly in us all!

 

Joel

I was so happy that I was willing to overlook not being thanked for putting up with said beard for nearly half a year.  But what I hadn't considered was that the UNbearding, or disbearding, if you will, might be even more painful and embarrassing than the beard itself.  But it is.

My, how it is.

Solon's voal jazz group "Fifth Street Jazz" took top honors at the State Jazz Championships, and
I awoke the next morning next to a man that looked like this...

And again today to one, much improved sans neck beard, but that looked like this.

I'm choosing to believe that this beard is going out in a blaze of glory, but at this point I could go for a bit of unconscious unbearding.

Or maybe it's just about time for me to quit shaving my legs...

Ism of the Week

Yesterday for April Fool's Day, I briefly considered putting out spaghetti with meatballs for breakfast, but considering the boys' loose grasp on the concept (see Cael's "fooling" plans in 2013 and 2012) I dished out cereal and opted instead to warn them of possible pranks.

"Hey guys, do you remember about April Fool's Day?"

"Yeah, Mom.  You trick people."

"Well, yes, but not mean tricks, just silly stuff."

"Like if I told everyone I was a girl?"

"While that wouldn't really hurt anyone, I don't think it would work too well.  It's pretty obvious that you're a boy."

"Well then, what?"

"You don't have to trick anyone today, Cael.  But just watch out, because some of your friends might be silly with you today."

"Okay."

Up until that point, Graham had been uncharacteristically quiet, or perhaps characteristically confused because he hadn't been totally listening.

"Got it, Grammy?"

"Yeah.  Now it's April.  You're a fool."

On to Easter.

Canine Vanity

I always thought of myself as a cat lover.  Growing up, I had a wonderful cat that was as much a member of the family as I was, and it was that memory that led me to push for a cat in my own household, and for Joel to make it happen back in 2006.  But it only took a month or so with Ripley before I came to realize that the things I so loved about Sammy, the cat I grew up with (like how he would snuggle up next to me for a nap, or come when called or whenever the doorbell rang) were not cat traits at all.  They are dog traits.

Ripley, likely looking for a good angle on a major artery.

The following are true cat traits: 

-  stealing and binge-eating dog food
-  refusing to vomit said food on any hard or wipe-able surface
-  deliberately and methodically trying to trip me on the stairs
-  scaling the kitchen cabinetry to walk on the unstable pot rack as if it were a swing bridge
-  chewing up shoelaces
-  chewing up power cords
-  chewing up ponytail holders
-  decisively refusing any sort of affection except for during my first 10 waking moments, when I am expected to rub his ears while he repeatedly bites me

See what I mean?  From now on, I am a dog person.

Oscar, dreaming of ways to make us happy.

I have an animal in my house that can best be described as a doormat dog, so this was not a huge transition for me.  But to ensure my loyalty, my first order of business was to visit a family friend who raises dogs, and help socialize their latest litter of black and brown lab puppies. 

This excursion was booked as a fun opportunity for the boys, but in my heart I knew that my motives were selfish.  I have never been able to ignore any baby animal, and although I once argued that kittens were cuter, I only needed to conjure up the memory of my cat eating raw chicken breasts on the kitchen counter for me to become irrationally excited about visiting the puppies.

When we got there, I immediately had a lot of anxiety about the boys being too rough and stepping or sitting on one of the tiny puppies.  Instead, however, they spent the first 20 minutes nearly catatonic with a sleeping dog in their laps.  I, on the other hand, had to repeatedly calm myself down as my brain jumped at the chance to hold that one! and that one!  I think I kissed all eight of those puppies on the mouth with nary a regret.

About the time that Cael and Graham warmed up to the dogs, I made my second self-discovery.  While my cat has no concerns for anyone but himself and my dog cares only about making me happy, holding puppies makes me vain. 

Or put simply, puppies make me take copious selfies.

If you know me sans canine, you know that I am the kind of person that hides when the camera comes out, and never, ever, likes to see photos of myself.  But if you put a puppy in my hands, I have never looked better.  I will fill my handheld camera and iPhone with blurry, not especially creative photos of me holding, kissing and rubbing noses with sleepy puppies and show them to anyone willing to look, going as far as posting them on the, ahem, internet.

Major thanks go to our friend Craig for making my journey to self-discovery possible, and to the puppies for warming my view on dogs and photography in general.  Perhaps this experience will usher in a new camera-ready time in my life.

Which gives me an idea...

Oh yes, much better.

Fabricating Mysteries

I've had another full-circle moment, and I'm choosing to blame it on pregnancy brain.  Any other explanation is too embarrassing to consider.

When Cael was just a baby, we would attend baby music classes, a chance for both of us to get out of the house and socialize, and for me to show off what was undoubtedly the most beautiful baby to be born in the state of Iowa in 2007.

But I was a busy mom, distracted even, and how often do you really look at your kids, anyway?  Really check them over?  Well that day I hadn't, and when we arrived at music class and removed Cael's coat, I was surprised to see a grapefruit-sized hole torn clean from the back of his off-white polo shirt. 

The infamous polo.

I was horrified.  Not in that "what happened to my child?" way, because I knew he was fine, but in that "this conflicts with the image that I've got it all together!" sort of way, and it had to be made clear that I wasn't aware earlier that my dog had quite clearly gotten tired of Iams and developed a taste for Dreft detergent.

Every time someone new entered the music room, I had to reiterate how I was not aware that my son was giving an unintentional peep show, nor was I making a fashion statement or encouraging the worn-in jeans agenda to apply to toddler sizes.  Bottom line, I was embarrassed.

Fast forward six years.

With Spring Break over, Cael was very anxious to get back to school and see his friends, play on the playground and show off his practiced reading skills.  So like any other morning, the boys woke up at what felt like 3am, yet we still struggled to get ready before the bus arrived.  I sent them to their room to get dressed, sent them back when they emerged wearing something less appropriate for school than Miley Cyrus would choose, and finally gave in and made breakfast when Cael showed up at the table in a green thermal t-shirt and jeans he'd pulled from the clean laundry basket.  Good enough.

But when Cael came home from school and scrambled up to the table to color for hours on end, I finally got a good look at him and was confused by what I saw.

"Cael, what on earth happened to your shirt?"

"I don't know, why?"

The back of his shirt's right arm was shredded, stained as if it had been caught and ripped from some greasy mechanism, and chunks of fabric hung on by threads like he'd been in a 1950's rumble from West Side Story.  And the more we discussed it, the more I came to realize that I must have sent him to school just like that.

This time, I wasn't there to defend myself, and unless Oscar's dental issues are much more severe than previously realized, I don't think I can blame the dog, either.  I guess I'll simply have to hope that everyone who saw Cael on Monday has a handful of kids, chores, and a little less time for clothing inspections and music classes than they once did. 

And maybe I'll double-check tomorrow to make sure he's wearing pants.  Don't know what's next, after all...