I don’t really have much to say. Well, that’s not true. I actually have a lot to say, but I’m really busy. I, stupidly I might add, decided to throw both boys their birthday party this weekend. Together. At the same time. Oy. So, yeah: Busy. Because I love lists, here is what’s been going on. In list form.

• The boys and I headed to the park to meet up with a friend and her young son yesterday. As we were playing around, climbing all over, and just generally having fun, the Older One stopped and pointed to two lizards (alright, so Google told me in Florida they are called anoles). He says, “Awwwww, look! It’s a mommy lizard and her baby!” My friend and I look over to find two lizards having hot and heavy lizard sex. Awesome. Kids are so cute. That made my day. Also? My first thought was This is perfect blog fodder! Which were also my first words because, day-um, I’m not teaching my son a lesson about The Birds and The Bees at the park.
• Seeing as how tonight is the first night of Mommy Hiding in the Closet for Two Months Summer Break, my husband decided he wanted to let the Older One stay up late. I think his exact words were, “This kids never wants to go to sleep and never acts tired. Let’s see how late he can go.” To which I just shook my head and told him he was to assume full responsibility for this Terrible Idea Science Experiment. By the time 10pm rolled around, the Older One was heard saying, “Why do you have to hug me? This isn’t fair! You ALWAYS do this!” WHILST CRYING/WHINING. I decided to step in and march his butt straight to bed. Sure, he may not act sleepy, but it comes out in melt-downs, temper tantrums, and tears. To be upset OVER A HUG? Well that means he’s tired. So! The Older One does indeed have a Use By time stamp and it is around 10pm. No need to repeat this experience anytime soon!
• While in the driveway earlier this evening, Older One grabs my iPhone to start messing with some app or another. I have the iFart app and he’s obsessed. Sadly, the neighbors walked by right as he loaded up the app and hit Go. And then proceeded to proclaim loudly, “Eww! MOM! Say excuse me!” The neighbors took a good, long look. Again: Kids are awesome!
• Ugh. There was totally something else, but I can’t remember what it was. Dammit. My brain is so messed up. This is clearly a message to the younger generation: Don’t do drugs. Because that egg in the frying pan? TOTALLY MY BRAIN. Also? I’m totally not editing this. Because I can and because I’m too damn lazy. and also because I like to live dangerously. An errant comma? A rogue hyphen? SO ILLICIT.

Meet Peanut:

Oh my! I’m so sorry, Peanut! This was waaay back, before I had children, and I had the itch. I’m sure you know nothing about the itch, seeing as you’re a dog and all. But, clearly, one should never dress one’s Chihuahua/Yorkie mix in Warm Weather Tourist/Rain Gear.

1. You’re a dog.
2. You’re not a tourist.
3. You rarely spend time in the sun.
4. Also, you rarely spend time in the rain. You HATE the rain and would rather pee on the carpet. By the way I’m so over that, but now I realize you may be getting back at me and I kind of understand.
5. Because, obviously, I need to hear it again: YOU ARE A DOG. (Not to be confused with DAWG, which you are so not.)

Again, I’m sorry and I promise never to dress you in human clothing again. (I now realize human clothing is kind of redundant because HUMANS SHOULD BE THE ONLY ANIMAL TO WEAR CLOTHING.) Also? It only just occurred to me why you might be peeing on the carpet. If I promise never to have such a serious lapse in judgment again, will you please stop? Please? Remember: I can always take you to the shelter! (I kid. Only slightly. Maybe.)

My Beloved First-Born,
It is quite simply ridiculous that you are no longer a baby or a toddler, but a boy. It is both traumatic and absolutely wonderful to have both you and your brother’s birthdays in the same month. Regardless of whether or not I want you to, you are (both) growing up. Let me tell you a little bit about what you have done and who you have become this year.

Yes, it is true! You are now riding a full-on, two-wheeled, no training wheels bike. It took you an hour to learn and a day to master and there were no falls and barely any bruises. Although, there was still whining. And tears. Let’s work on that this year, shall we?

In just over a year, you’ve gained a brother. Your world was shaken, turned topsy-turvy, but you’ve handled it with the grace and wisdom of someone ten times your age. You love your brother. You play with him, you teach him, you laugh with him. It’s beautiful to watch you two develop a relationship. This isn’t to say that when your brother wants the toy you are playing with or copies every little thing you do it doesn’t drive you mad, but for the most part you’re cool with it. The other day I left you two alone while I went to change the wash to the dryer. Upon my return, your brother had velcro Nerf Darts stuck all over the back of his diaper. I’m assuming this is how you enact revenge for playing with your space rocket: by shooting him in the butt with your Nerf Darts. Let’s just always keep it to spongey, velcro-tipped, soft projectiles, please. I don’t need the kind of hazing your Dad and his brother used to perform on each other with their beebee guns.

Which leads us to this picture. While we were visiting your Paw-Paw out on the Ranch, you learned how to shoot a beebee gun. Your mama had grand designs never to introduce guns into your life. I’m much more of an anti-gun, peace person, but I’ve come to believe that shooting things are in Little Boy DNA. Anything can be made into a weapon and while I don’t condone pretending to shoot real people, you’re all about blowing up your Lego created towns. Oy. I think I’m getting heartburn.

You’ve tried many different sports and activities this past year.
Roller-Blade Hockey:

Not so much a fan, but you were pretty amazing. You have the balance of a gymnast (you get it from me) and are a quick learner (also: ME). Alas, you did not possess the patience to stick with it (your father). Maybe someday.
Tennis:

You’re good. You’re damn good. And! You like it, which, BONUS. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for this. Your father is the tennis player in this family. I don’t do well when balls are hurtling towards me at a rapid speed.
Soccer:

You weren’t exactly a fan at first. Probably because you come from a fairly lazy stock. Your mama would much rather the object come to her than to run after it. But after a few false starts and some picking the flowers in the goal box, you’ve caught on to the whole Ball In THEIR Goal aspect of the game and your killer instinct (Again, ME) is kicking in. (See also: Your mama is a woman of many contradictions. Get used to this and expect it to show up somewhere in your life.)

Yoga, golf, karate, and the violin are some of the other things you have tried. You and I go to yoga once a week and you’re still trying to figure it out. Like me, you are cripplingly shy and haven’t yet learned the Art of Doing It Anyway. I know you enjoy yoga because I watch your face. It lights up as the other children are talking, laughing, and posing. My hope for you is that you conquer your apprehension (self-consciousness? I’m not really sure where it comes from) and can learn to force yourself to participate anyway. I know how much joy you would find in that.

Your favorite things are all wheel and horse-power related. As in, you love cars. You have no less than 496,265 Hot Wheels cars and a whole bunch of remote control vehicles. Lucky boy that you are, your grandparents also gave you this for Christmas two years ago:

Cue mama’s heart attack. You’ve sat through all of our required lessons on safety and have learned to drive like a pro. You and your father zip around the neighborhood (because, of course, he has one too) and I can barely watch for the panic this induces in me. My baby! Driving! Something about this seems totally wrong, but I know it’s creating memories that will last you a lifetime.

This family has the kind of sense of humor that others may find, well, offensive. We are constantly razing each other and making jokes at each other’s expense. Needless to say, one needs guts to survive here. This year your sense of humor has developed and it would be no lie to say that you fit right in. You still enjoy all of the young boy’s jokes about farts and poop and butts, but you’ve developed a keen comedic timing and perfect sense of irony and dry wit. It is with pride (and some serious embarrassment) that I tell you about the joke you played on me the other morning at the school drop-off. I do not get along, nor even like very much, the principal of your lower school. She is a fake, phony bitch and, sadly, you know about the way I feel about her. (This was accidental. The last thing I want is for you to have opinions on things based on my experiences. I’d rather you learn for yourself and work out your own belief. Regardless, I forgot: Little pitchers have big ears.) This woman happened to be helping you out of the car on this particular morning and, as we were exchanging pleasantries and goodbyes, you looked at me and said, “Now remember, Mama, don’t cancel my birthday party!” This was an empty threat I had given the night before when you wouldn’t go to bed. The old bag principal looked at me, shocked that I would even suggest such a thing and said, “I’m sure your mom would never do that.” To which you replied, “Of course she would! We are talking about the same woman, right?” For about a split second, I was speechless. Does he really think I’m that mean of a mama? That is, until you looked me dead in the eye, winked, and then bust up laughing. Thanks, dude. You really know how to make me feel special.

You’re old enough now that holidays are massively fun. This year was the first year that we really went trick-or-treating and you were all about the candy. By the way, your homemade Darth Vader costume? It totally rocked and you were the Most Awesome Darth Vader Ever. We took a hayride through the back part of town and stopped at all the houses along the way. You quickly made friends with all the other young kids in our trailer and raced to each house to grab as much sugar-laden crap as would fit in your small hands. Christmas was also a blast. We left cookies for Santa and you crafted a glorious letter to him, thanking him for his journey and your presents. Such a big heart you have, my smiley, Bug Boy. I always say, “You can’t teach a child to have a kind heart.” You have the kindest heart of any five six year old I have met this far.

Last week I decided that you need to start falling asleep in your own room, without your dad sitting at the foot of your bed. This has been an extremely difficult transition– for both of us. When you were just a baby, I left you to cry in your crib. I thought I was teaching you how to self-soothe and how to learn to fall asleep. I now realize this taught you nothing because I’m starting back at Square One. Only now, instead of crying you yell out to me to tell me how sad you are. I’m sad too, buddy. One night after an hour of you calling out for more water, a trip to the bathroom, a snack, you asked me if you could look at pictures of your family if you couldn’t fall asleep. This made me all teary because I realized that you just wanted to look at the faces of the people who give you comfort. We also modified the transition. I now sit in the hallway, just where you can see me, and wait for you to drift into the Land of Nod. It works better because you know I am there and, sweetheart, I will always be there. I want you to learn your own way in the world, to learn to navigate fear and loneliness, but I will always provide you safe harbor if a storm passes your way.

You started out FIVE needing flotation devices to help you swim and throughout the year, have learned to dive, to swim laps, and to do the breast stroke. What will this year bring? I look forward to finding out with you. So, Giggle Boy, it is with a bittersweet sigh that I bid farewell to Five. I welcome Six and all your new accomplishments with joy, but I will always remember that this was the year you became All Grown Up. You don’t quite need me in the same way that you used to, but in strange and news ways. Forgive me if I stumble, as we already know I’m not perfect. I’m learning, just like you, and I’m trying to be a better mother every day. It is beautiful to watch you grow, learn, become.

I love you,
Mama

It seems crazy to me that a year ago, practically to the moment, I had just pushed you out into the world and was drinking in your sweet face. The roundness of your cheeks, the crystal clear blueness of your eyes, the softness of your skin, the delicate rosebud of your lips, the ten perfect fingers and toes. You were so alert in that first hour after birth. You stared in quiet wonder while we snapped photos and passed you around the room. I was the last one to hold you which was probably a good thing considering I WOULD NEVER LET YOU GO AGAIN. With the birth of your brother, I was given the title Mother. With your birth, I grew into that role and realized what kind of Mother I want to be to you boys. You have forced me, very happily I should add, to grow and stretch in ways I never thought my person could handle. I am so very blessed that you have come into my life.

This past year you’ve gone from a sweet bundle of lump, very easy to entertain and care for, to a mobile, walking, talking (it’s mostly gibberish BUT STILL) baby with opinions! And lots of personality. I’ve been composing this post in my head for weeks, as I’ve watched you grow and change, but I can’t seem to come up with something perfect enough for you. I would love to capture a piece of your almost gone babyness and bottle it up on this web page forever, but despite all of our modern technological advancements, I can’t quite perform that miracle yet. I just can’t believe you’ve been in our lives for a year. It seems as though you’ve been here forever and life didn’t really begin until you arrived. So when words fail me, I’ll just say thank you. Thank you for choosing us, Baby Boy. You’re perfect.

I know. It’s been awhile. Not because I don’t make frightening fashion choices every day of my life, believe me I do, but because my cameras is broken and I have no way of documenting the ugly that is my wardrobe except for the camera in my computer and, hello, the zoom and pixelation (it’s a technical word– I LOOKED IT UP, M’KAY?) aren’t good enough to document that shit. Onward. Case in point (of my daily fashion tragedies):

#1- I (for reasons still unclear to even me) decided to buy 1980’s Electric Pink With a Side Order of Day-Glo nail polish at the store today. I think what drew me to it was the fact that the bottle was labeled Insti-Dri! and not having even five minutes to shower these days, Insti-Dri! appealed to me. Look! Nail polish! Something I can do for myself and be quick about it! What’s not to love, right? Wrong. Not only does Insti-Dri! mean gloppy, sloppy, and gross, it also means my retina(s) are burning from the sheer brightness of the polish color.
#2- I am wearing a robe. Contrary to what this picture is telling you, I am not 97 years old. Although sometimes I am in bed by 7pm.

This should be evidence enough that I make piss poor fashion choices all the time. RIGHT NOW, in fact. It should also be evidence enough to prove that the computer camera wouldn’t be sufficient to document my crappy wardrobe.

But wait! That wasn’t the Wardrobe Malfunction I wanted to show you. What I wanted to show you is how I have made piss poor fashion choices my whole life.

Seeee?

Let’s break it down, shall we? (And because I like lists, let’s do it list style.)

• Those glasses. I have a problem with those. People who may (have the luxury) of knowing me in real life, will know that I indeed am a wearer of the corrective eye wear. However, at the time of this photo I was not. I stole those puppies from my mom. Exactly what for, I am unsure. (Clearly, I do a lot of things and am unsure WHY I do them! Or MAYBE that is just the excuse I use to avoid looking like a piss poor fashion choice maker! Ohhh, psychology! I’m really peeling away the layers now.) Back to the glasses. I remember wearing them and feeling a little bit, erm, off. I don’t know, like, MAYBE I WAS WEARING THE WRONG PRESCRIPTION IN MY EYES??? Regardless, these effers are ugly. Beaten with the ugly stick. Born of an ugly mama, to an ugly papa, birthed by an ugly doctor, and swaddled in an ugly blanket. And they aren’t doing me any favors here. Blech. Also? Does anybody remember Sally Jesse Raphael? Yeeaaah. Now you do. You’re welcome.
• The necklace? Srsly? Is that a jingle bell? Oh for crying out loud! I was (supposedly) a hip 13 year old girl. Not a 57 year old divorcee living in Boca Raton, wearing a Gem Sweater, petting one of my 12 cats. And, yes, fashion does indeed extend to accessories and nail polish. Do we even need to debate this point? I DIDN’T THINK SO.
• My sweater has Christmas trees on it. Frankly, speaking of Gem Sweaters, it would probably be more attractive if I was wearing one of those because OH FOR THE LOVE A CHRISTMAS TREE SWEATER??? I can’t believe my mother let me leave the house looking like this. I look like a virgin (not by choice) 42 year old librarian. Barf.
• Let’s talk about what we can’t see here, but what I know is going on. Attending a private middle school, one that has no uniform but a strict dress code instead, wreaks havoc on personal style. I (but it wasn’t just me okay) would continually find ways to tweak the code so some originality could leak through (and in my case plenty made it). One of those ways was to take the mid-calf length skirt my mom sent me to school in and roll up the waist band; thus, making a mini skirt. The only problem with this was the fact that one’s waist became all lumpy and bumpy and one would end up looking as if she were wearing a potato sack. Attractive, no? Hence, the shapeless sweater.

Oy. Middle School. What a breeding ground for questionable fashion choices! I look like a monster (a fashionless monster) about to jump out the screen and rawr you to death. And I still can’t get over my (mom’s) glasses. Didn’t she even think to ask why I wanted to wear them to school? And WHY DIDN’T SHE STOP ME?