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.)

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

Cripes! Are those ever ugly?! Anyway…
I have a mammoth shoe collection. And, you would know by now if you’ve been paying attention, that not all of these shoes are gems in my wardrobe. On no. I keep every sad foot covering that has ever graced my pretty, little peepers. Oh wait! I should actually tell you about my Foot Anorexia! It’s really pathetic sad! You see, I have fairly small feet. Not freakishly so, but just small enough that people often say, “Oh my! I can’t borrow your shoes! Your feet are too tiny!” When people make these exclamations, I feel proud. Yup, proud. For years I walked around in fear of growing big, old, boat feet and in an effort to keep nature from taking its course, I wore shoes that were a size and a half too small. I didn’t want my feet to appear too large. I was hardly in danger of this, however, because my actual shoe size is a six. A six! That’s not large at all! But I’d rather hobble around on too small shoes than risk looking like I’m walking around with cinder blocks attached to my feet. See? This is Foot Anorexia. I’ve only very recently (sort-of) outgrown this ridiculous problem.

And these sad dogs are from the Foot Anorexia Era. Can’t you tell? They sort of look like doll shoes. And those way cool dinosaur laces don’t help much. Granted, I was about 19 when I wore these sneakers and, clearly, I was still straddling the fence of Not a Girl But Not Yet a Woman. With child-like dinosaur laces, I was somehow trying to reconcile my immature nature with the ginormous boobs I sprouted at 19 because I was a late bloomer. Wearing these shoes, was akin to wearing a billboard down Main Street with my mental problems painted on it– a therapist’s wet dream.

I’m not sure I even need to address how broken down these puppies are. I mean, we all see the cracks, rips, tears, and missing pieces, right? What would possess me to keep these shoes well past their Use By date, I really have no clue. Indubitably, they aren’t even fashionable and I’m not sure they ever were. They look like a throwback to a bygone era (like the 70’s), that should stay good and by gone, dammit. I easily have 400 other pairs of sneakers in my closet, but when asked if I was (by chance) throwing them out when I took them out of the closet for their premiere video, I said, “Oh hell no!” Was she suggesting they were garbage? OH NO WAY!

Here’s hoping I never dare to put these sneakers on my feet. Ever, ever again. Unless it’s Halloween and I’m going as a Homeless Person. Then it might be okay.

What’s with me and crochet? I don’t have any particular affinity for it, but, man oh geez, do I have a lot of this knitted specialty. Also? Pink? Now, it used to be my favorite color. One might say, I used to be a skosh obsessed with the color, but then I realized it wasn’t at all unique to like pink. Generally, hearts like pink, Valentine’s has laid claim to the color, and most girls are friendly with it as well. So I changed! Now I’m a Big Fan of Turquoise and Red. It’s lovely. I don’t know– it just IS. But, I digress.

Also, notice the slight difference in tone between the top and the bottom. See it? It’s there! I promise it is. It’s just enough to be obvious. And it’s annoying. It’s also fashionless, ugly, holey, and weird, but I’m only addressing the color change between the top and skirt right now.

And what might one wear UNDERNEATH the sweater? Obviously whatever it is had better be pretty to make up for all that pink ugliness. Seriously? This outfit is altogether too busy. It gives me a headache. And really? There aren’t ENOUGH words to talk about how hideous this is. Let’s just forget it, shall we?

Today I am not choosing one outfit, but an entire style that I developed while mired in the depths of my eating disorder. (Wait, you didn’t know about that? Just add that to the list of my character defects! Yay!) As a ninety pound waif, I arrived at the conclusion that 1950’s Housewife Wear would be fashionable. On the one hand, this meant plenty of pencil skirts and killer high heels; however, the downside was itchy, stifling, unnatural fabrics and eye-bleeding prints. Not to mention the fact that I’m not particularly keen on wearing dresses and heels all day long. I’m just not that grown-up.

I now present you with a selection of dresses from this period in my life. I’m sorry that the quality of the photo isn’t better and that I didn’t take individual shots, but I didn’t feel like taking the time to upload each one, so here it is:

Clearly, comfort was not a priority. Also? These dresses are a negative size. There’s just not enough fabric to cover my entire left leg. Not that there’s anything wrong with people who are, but I’m just not that girly. What’s more? I can’t believe I tried so hard, for so long. I now wonder what the people I encountered were thinking. I wonder if they too felt visually assaulted by all the swing and polyester.

Here’s another one in which the pattern causes you to blink rapidly to focus your eyes. It’s that kind of migraine inducing. Blech.

The skirt might actually be alright, if paired with the right top. And by the right top, surely I mean something without polka dots. Oh, the polka dots. Good Heavens, wearing this dotted nightmare might cause some innocent, unsuspecting toddler to go crazy with a marker, mistaking me for a Connect-the-Dots. Although, a bit of marker might be an improvement.

I just can’t for the life of me fathom what I was thinking. Sure the style might not have been all that bad if I wanted to look like I stepped off the pages of Women’s Wear Daily in the 1950’s, which I didn’t. But the effort required to look this way! Oh it must have been tireless! As if I didn’t have enough to do! In between all the dress making, cookie baking, and child tending, I needed to apply lipstick and smooth out the wrinkles on my dress too? (Wait! I know I do those things now, but I do it in sticky blue jeans and stained nursing tops. Sweet.) In fact, that’s probably why this style of dress went out the window: I just didn’t have the energy to keep up with myself. Frankly, I just don’t care that much how I look. And, I hope, neither do you. Care how I look, I mean.

Next week, My Crocheted Nightmare! Awesome.

Except these:

There are 1759 reasons to get rid of these uglies. I mean, “Woof!” They have everything: lace, beads, frill, leather, ribbon. Everything shoes shouldn’t have. Sadly, I did not buy these to wear with any costume or gag outfit. I saw them in a shop window and thought they would make the perfect accessory to a skirt I used to own. And then I wore the outfit in public. I was in a shabby-chic/cowgirl phase (two styles which should never meet). I only wish I had a better excuse story for them.

I don’t even know what to say. I think they pretty much speak for themselves.

Hole In The Pants For Him
What hole? Whose pants? His pants? His pants have no fracking hole!

Things I Am Thinking About
Um, I think I’d rather not know. Also? I think we all know how that turned out.

Baby Moo: Month 6
I know! I’m a little bit late. Whoops!

Something Fishy
I’m guessing that would be our dearly departed fish friends, Sonny and Crockett. But! Who knows!?! I might have been referring to the time Baby Moo pooped and it missed the diaper and slid out the side and landed on the floor! How do these things happen? I also might have been wondering who was the genius going around stealing tires off of cars in our development. I opened the front door to take Bugsy to school and was met by our Acura up on cinder blocks. Awesome!

Slippers
Oh, wait! That is a good one. I’m saving that for later.

No Title
But I did write something! It starts off, “Growing up in my house. . .” Growing up in my house, WHAT? It was crazy? We had fun? I have two sisters that no longer speak to me? WHAT?? Was I about to regale you with the time I sent my father to the E.R. when he was about to spank me? Oh! A real knee slapper! Or was I going to tell you about the time the police brought me home, drunk (me, not the police), on Thanksgiving break? WHEN I WAS IN EIGHTH GRADE! Good times! Who knows, but I bet it was a really juicy tale.

Three Purple Socks
Huh? I have NO CLUE. Clearly, my ever helpful titles aren’t ever really helping me to remember whatever it is that I wanted to write about. I once knit a sock. One sock. And it was kind of purple in color. But I definitely didn’t knit more than one, so obviously I didn’t knit three.

Ba-Dum-Shee
Apparently I was about to tell a joke. Although I now can’t remember what joke that was because I KNOW NO JOKES. So whatever. On second thought, perhaps I was going to relate something that recently happened. I might just be the clumsiest person alive, so a lot of mishaps go on throughout the day. I tripped and fell down the stairs yesterday, I rolled off the bed the other morning, I was trying on a pair of my Jimmy Choo stilettos when the heel got caught up on the rug and I took a tumble, and I nearly broke my ankle trying to maneuver a nursing baby and myself up ONTO the bed and OVER the guard rail last night. I have no excuse, other than standing vertical is clearly a challenge and throws me all out of sorts.

And that concludes our walk through my brain Drafts Folder. I now know I need to write a short blurb before I hit save to give myself a few more clues as to what I was thinking. Because if these titles are anything to go by, clearly I’m cross-eyed crazy clueless.