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

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 am usually a sweaty, stuttering mess when I enter the dentist’s office. So nervous am I that the doctor is desperate to ply me with drugs, quickly perform the procedure, and shuffle me out of the office as quickly as possible. Being that this dentist was no different, his office kept calling the house last week to prescribe some Ativan to help me get through the extraction. He clearly isn’t aware that my brain can’t tell the difference between that and alcoholheroinetcadnauseum. Therefore, I won’t take it. I’m afraid of The End Result. (And I’d rather suffer. Acting like a martyr isn’t in vogue enough and I’m bringing it back in a Big Way.) Not to mention: NURSING BABY and all that. He also wants me to have that Laughing Gas crap that I won’t take either. Because I make so much sense, I’m afraid of the loss of control that stuff will make me feel. I’ve never had it. Although, I can just remember an old boyfriend taking some at a Grateful Dead concert 15 years ago and he turned blue (he was a real winner).

I’m nervous, in case you weren’t at all able to tell. I’ll keep you updated because I’m just that kind of person. Plus, Get Well cards are always welcome.

Sadly, this was not, in fact, a conversation I had with my husband tonight. It was a conversation I just had with myself. And, yes, clearly I am asking myself my opinion because, erm, I don’t know. Apparently, I don’t already know it. Or something. Perhaps I’ve just done gone crazy.

Hurry. Please send help. I need Adult Conversation. And, apparently, my mommy.

So that explains all the MIA stuff.

My mother in law is arriving in two days and she just informed us that rather than stay in the hotel room THAT SHE RESERVED, she’d rather stay here. With her mother. In the FULL SIZED BED. In the room that is currently housing the 97 bajillion presents and toys and crap. All unwrapped. Obvs, because that is just the icing on the cake. I have no extra towels and the sheets currently on the bed that she and her mother are planning on sleeping in? Are king sized. Awesome.

Maybe I’m all lacking in the Spirit of the Season, as my mom has taken to calling it, but I’m kind of annoyed right this minute. So, bah hum bug and all that jazz.

Meet Sonny and Crockett:

My mom dropped off the Older One, the fish, and a small, plastic, filter-less bowl with the specific instructions to acclimate the fish in their bags to the water in their bowl before ceremoniously dumping them into their new home. I spent 20 damn minutes making sure the water was the right temperature and I wouldn’t shock them before moving them. I took such care organizing the blue marbles and colorful shells the Older One had picked for their tank. What I didn’t realize, however, was that they would most definitely, without a doubt need a filter. I figured that out the next day when the water took on a murky, greenish hue and it was hard to see the fish.

I took my lazy ass on over to the local pet store to find a relatively cheap, nice looking tank with a filter with which to relocate these beasts. I’m really not crazy about fish. All night whenever I glanced in their direction, my stomach felt queasy and my spine tingled and hee-bed-a-jee-bed-a-yuck-yuck-yuck. I don’t know why I just imagine them making some grand escape and sailing through the air to land right in the garbage disposal, while at the same time my hand will involuntarily hit the On switch. EW. I’m grossing myself out just thinking about it.

I bought stones. Wait. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? I actually paid money for something I could find out in my driveway or back yard. Anyway, I BOUGHT STONES, two bags worth actually. I picked out several different kinds of plant life and also a pretty pink flower because I am the only girl in this house and sometimes I JUST NEED PINK and also a BREAK FROM ALL THE POOP JOKES (although ha ha ha). I grabbed a treasure chest with a diver and a net and the fish food. I also thought we should definitely get a ph and nitrate tester for good measure. I think the grand total was around $75. Which is a whole lot when the fish are probably only 99 cents. For the both of them. But when it comes to my child’s happiness, NO EXPENSE IS SPARED. I spent all day setting up this blessed tank and testing the water and just generally making sure these little farkers would live.

By 4 PM, the water in their old tank was really nasty and I was pretty sure that their new tank was a whole lot more healthy of an environment, so I moved them. I didn’t get the chance to get them used to their new water because I did not have BAGS, but it felt like the right temperature. Plus, they looked like they were totally going to die if I left them in their old tank. The Older One had a tennis lesson, so we packed up and left the Him to keep an eye on the fish.

Fifteen minutes later, after I was installed courtside, watching the Older One smack yellow balls INTO the net, my phone rang. Surely, he can’t be calling to tell me the fish died. Right? I laughed to myself as I hit the answer button. “The fish died. I put them in the garbage disposal,” the Him said. Okay. I made that last part up, but they died! They kicked the can not ten minutes after they moved to their new digs and I spent $75 for absolutely nothing. I’m awesome.

Thus ensued a lengthy discussion with the Older One about death and the great, big fishbowl in the sky. He didn’t cry all that much, but he definitely wanted to know when we would be replacing Sonny and Crockett. Me? I’m over the fish and that whole little experiment. Does anyone need a snazzy, new, barely used fish bowl or should we just get him two more fish for Christmas?

The Mom Guilt Level is reaching into the Red Area today. It is bad. It is reallyreallyreally bad. I am about to relay the story of what happened today and in doing so will reveal myself as The World’s Worst Mother. The Older One has a Thanksgiving Play today, in which he had a Speaking Part and I missed it. I also totally wasn’t there for the Party afterward. I am a terrible mother and The Mom Guilt is horrible! Let me explain how this came to pass.

In October a letter came home telling us of the Older One’s Speaking Part in the Thanksgiving Play. It also told us what the line was, so that we could practice it. Every. Single. Day. On the way to school, while eating dinner, in the bath tub, the Older One has been practicing this Oh-So-Important-Line. Come to think of it, we practiced it as he got out of the car to go to school this morning.

Being the idiot that I am, I assumed the play and party was on the last day before break. That day would be TOMORROW, NOT TODAY. I also assumed that there would be a reminder note sent home beforehand, so that I could REMEMBER. I do have an iPhone and it does have calendar capabilities, but I never use it. This would be one of those times when it would be helpful to have it. I really need to reconsider my stance of not using calendars. My memory isn’t what it used to be. I had offered to bring the table cloths and napkins for his party, so this morning I headed out to retrieve these ever important party items. Before doing so, I had a surge of energy the likes of which I haven’t seen since I came down with this dreaded pneumonia.

I decided I would craft (oh that makes it sound like such a joke) some cute pilgrim hats and bonnets and turkeys to make as pencil toppers that the Older One could hand out at the party tomorrow morning. Before I left, I realized no note had come home about the timing of the play/party, so I decided to write the Room Mother and the teacher. I remember thinking, “Wouldn’t it suck if I had the date wrong and it was today? No, no that wouldn’t make sense.” Because then what are they going to do on the last day of school? Learn? Pfft.

I went out and bought everything that I was supposed to and I was totally feeling like a Super Mom. C’mon! Pencil topper Thanksgiving gifts! Aces! I rock. At about 2 PM I checked my email and learned the I was being far too generous in my assessment. This is what the email said:

Dear [Sucky Mother],
I am sorry I didn’t get your message sooner! Hopefully you got the answer before this morning’s program. There were a lot of people, so maybe I just didn’t see you. When it gets closer to Christmas, I will definitely keep you posted!!
Happy Thanksgiving, [Mean Teacher. Oops! I mean, Name Withheld.]

*Emphasis and name mine*
Ha. Ha. Excuse me? What? TODAY?!?!? Hopefully you got the answer?!?!? FROM WHO? Not you, that’s who! And, no, it wasn’t her responsibility. HOWEVER, I have taken this very issue up with the teacher before today and, no, it hasn’t changed. I never got the note! And exactly why is a FIVE YEAR OLD in charge of all the IMPORTANT NOTES to and from the teacher? You know what really pisses me off? That bitch lady made damn sure that I got all the notes she sent home every time the Older One breathed the wrong way in class.

I promise I’m not being over dramatic. She sent home a note every time he “spoke during instructional video” and “made flapping hands in line.” And I had to sign these notes and if I didn’t? She emailed me. Now, I’m not saying I don’t need to know when he misbehaves. Obviously, if he is having a disciplinary problem, I need to know. Like if he hurts another child or is bring defiant or if he says a cuss word. But he is in KINDERGARTEN. Surely he won’t listen during every video. Do I need to know about every single time because I’m sure there will be many? So the time when actual NOTES OF IMPORTANCE come home is the time the Older One has to put them in his folder and bring them home. I think that’s relying on the FIVE YEAR OLD to REMEMBER this important information a little too much. But, I digress. . .

I emailed the teacher:

Dear [Name Withheld],
As you probably know by now, I guessed we missed the Thanksgiving
performance. I’m not sure how this happened, but we never got
anything that told us the date/time. We got the Thursday Envelope,
but it had nothing in it. I had assumed it was tomorrow. I feel
heartsick over this. Am I missing any email letter or newsletter? I
just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again!

Also, what time is the party tomorrow? What time should I plan to be
there? I have the tablecloths and napkins and I definitely don’t want
to miss this one!

Thanks again!
[Idiot Mom]

At this point, I thought I’d only missed the play. I figured, at least I’d make it to the party and be able to bring gifts. Surely, that would redeem me, no? I know mistakes happen. I know I will do a truck ton of things wrong. Why can’t we all, as mothers or women, just try to have compassion and understanding for one another? Why do we have to tear each other down when we’re already at a low point. I felt so bad about missing his first, real play. I was hoping that the teacher would write me back and at least tell me he’d done great. But that would be asking to move mountains now wouldn’t it? This is what she wrote back:

Don’t bother bringing in the table cloths and napkins tomorrow. You missed the party too. Next time maybe you could check the kindergarten website.
Sincerely,
[Ms. Bitch. Whoopsie! Name Withheld]

I take exception to the tone. Also, KINDERGARTEN WEBSITE??? There is NOTHING of this website in any of the paperwork I’ve ever gotten. I know. I checked. I realize she probably deals with parents who make excuses all the time, but she’s KNOWS I’m an involved mother. I’ve volunteered at every function they’ve had all year. I bring in stuff for all of there parties all of the time. I’ve already MET WITH HER TWICE. I scheduled it to talk about a FIVE year old being responsible for the paperwork. Start small and make him take home is HOMEWORK every day. I’ve met with the Head of the Lower School and the Principal each twice. Clearly, I care. And that tone up there really irks the shizz out of me.

Whatever. The whole thing just reeks any way I look at it. I just wish I had known about the farking WEBSITE. Humph. Well, no cookies for you this Christmas, Ms. Compassion-Pfft-What’s-Compassion!?-I’m-a-Total-B

I promise promise promise I’ll be back soon with Wardrobe Malfunction Tuesday. This whole borrowing a computer thing? Really sucks.

The baby woke up at 3 ayem last night and decided that sleep was just an annoyance and he’d much rather play! Yay. I’m so tired I could fall asleep standing up in the kitchen. I’ve had that not-enough-sleep-floaty-feeling all day. It’s really annoying and I need to go get in bed.

This lame post brought to you by the number 3.