DadaMama

Save Yourselves!

Yesterday at the beach I was attacked by a GIANT MAN-EATING BABY. He cries a lot and thinks sleeping is for weenies. My advice? If you see him: RUN.

 

 

Status Report

It's been another successful day of vacation. Later.

Black Friday

Just checking in to get my NaBloPoMo credit. Seriously, this is not a day that I would normally blog. I was up early this morning to shop, and I did well. The crowds weren't terrible and the baby was well behaved.

Le snore. Now get off yer computer and go eat some leftovers. That's where I'm headed!

I Don't See What Anyone Can See, In Anyone Else

Today I am thankful for all the usual things: a wonderful family, a strong and loving husband, healthy, intelligent, thriving children. I have a roof over my head and plenty of food to eat. It seems to me that even on a bad day that's way more than enough.

You could say I'm blessed, though I've never liked that turn of phrase. In my mind, to say that I'm blessed sounds pretentious and overinflated. It sounds as if I think I deserve my good fortune, when in truth I am rather humbled by it. When I take stock of my life, I feel a little like Maria in The Sound of Music when she realizes the captain is in love with her.

"For here you are, standing there, loving me
Whether or not you should
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good"

My boys, my three gorgeous boys--how did I get so lucky? Think about it: three times I have been pregnant, and three times it has ended in the birth of a perfect, healthy little boy I get to call my own. The sheer number of things that could go wrong in that process is mind-boggling. To say I have been blessed doesn't even begin to cover it.

And my husband. He works two jobs so that I can stay home with my boys. He is a wonderful father to my children, a kick-ass grill master, a witty conversationalist, and most importantly he loves us all. The man loves to come home at night and be with all of us. He loves family dinners and taking his boys camping. When I think of other people I might have married, I'm happy that things worked out the way they did.  I am lucky. You might say I am blessed. I am definitely humbled.

Those are the usual things, the husband, the kids, the house. But then, there are the other things to be thankful for: like the way Gus spells "broccoli" and "blueberries" phonetically: "brocclee", "bloobrees." There's the way Will and I have a little script at bedtime, when he hugs me really hard says, "Hug! Squish! What did I forget? Oh yeah! CRUSH!" There's the way the baby touches my nose while he's nursing, and his hands are always so warm. There's the way  all the boys pile in our bed every morning, too early, all looking for the warmest place. 

There's Dashing Husband wrestling with the Gus and Will, and Superbaby crawling over to be picked up. There's the pancakes and bacon for breakfast, the herd of boys running in and out and making the screen door slam, the sunlight on the baby's curls, the way the older two tell nonsensical knock-knock jokes to each other and laugh anyway. There is the comfortable sameness of these days, the knowing that the boys need me but won't forever.

I must have done something good.

Happy Thanksgiving Eve

I'm at the in-laws, preparing to increase the size of my ass. Hello, apple pie! Hello, stuffing and gravy! Hello,  saturated and trans-fats!

Let's get this party started, yo.

Bow To Him ... Or Not

Will: I am the boss!

Me: Um, no you're not. You're the kid.

Will: Well, I'm the Boss of the Bunnies!

Me: Do the bunnies do what you say?

Will: Actually, no.

Phoning It In

Guess who finally got around to steam cleaning the carpets?

Guess who vomited and crapped on them less than a week later?

The FUCKING DOG strikes again.

Seacrest, out.

Stick With Me, Kids

Once I bought my grandfather a pair of corduroy slippers. My mom suggested this would be a good gift, as I had no idea what he could possibly want. When he opened the present on Christmas Day, he was obviously miffed.

"I can wear these in the nursing home!" he said. I think he was trying to make a joke. My sister said that he returned them and bought some "filters."  "Filters" was what my grandfather called his underwear, incidentally.

The point is, it would have been better (and less embarassing) to give the man a package of whitey-tighties. I am an awkward gift buyer, apparently. Not only that, but now whenever I see a pair of corduroy slippers, I think "old folks' home!" The women's equivalent, I think, are those stupid slipper socks they have at Target that are supposed to look like Mary Janes.

You Keep Using That Word. I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means.

One of my favorite things about kids is their willingness to believe in the impossible. Example: Santa Claus. (You say a fat guy in a red suit lands his reindeer on our roof and comes down the chimney every year to leave me presents even though we don't have a chimney? And he can make it to everyone's house in the whole world in one night? I'm going to make that man some cookies, Mom!)

Yesterday Gus took his Egypt book down the street to show his friends Connor and Logan. He had been playing down the street for about thirty minutes when Connor came bursting through my door and said:

 "Miss Dada, tell Gus that he can't go to ancient Egypt in a time machine! It's IMPOSSIBLE."

Connor is nine years old and slightly more literal than my five-year-old son.

"Connor," I said, "Let him think that he can get to Egypt in a time machine if he wants. He's not hurting you."

"But! It's IMPOSSIBLE!" he replied.

"So?"

"But! What if he does do it and the time machine breaks down and he can't get back here!"

I had him now. You see, it's important to me that my children reach adulthood with their sense of possibility intact. Being practical is good, but not in matters of imagination.  It might not be possible to build a time machine and visit Ancient Egypt--but who knows? Maybe Gus will be the first.

"Well, Connor, I suppose Gus will have to figure that out when it happens. Besides, I think the chances are pretty slim." After that, Connor left and ran back down the street to play with the other boys.

This morning, Gus got up bright and early and started working on his time machine. He and Will made it out of two empty boxes, lovingly packed with four plastic cups, the Egypt book (a guide, of sorts), a pair of gardening gloves, a pair of mittens, pencils, paper clips, and four Go-gurts. Gus tucked his tiny plastic replica of heiroglyphics into his pocket, and then made each boy a paperclip chain to hook on his collar.

When this was finished, Gus asked his father and me what we'd like him to bring back for us. He offered to get me an Ancient Egyptian knife, but I explained I'd much rather have some fancy Egyptian jewelry.

This afternoon, when it was time to stop playing and go see a movie with Nana and Cheez, Gus wanted to skip it and keep working on his time machine.

"I didn't make it to Egypt yet, Mom!" he explained. I assured him that there would be time to try again tomorrow, after all, Rome wasn't built in a day, yada yada yada. The kid didn't want to hear it. Transitions have never been his thing, not really, and he was SO INTO IT.

In fact, Gus's enthusiasm was so catching that Will picked up on it. I thought I'd seen adorable, but it turns out I hadn't until today. Because surely adorable is your three-year-old telling his Nana, "We already packed for Ancient Egypt, anyway."

Maybe they'll get there tomorrow.

FRIDAY

I'm wearing my fuzzy slippers and waiting for Joel McHale. Cheers! (I can't bring it tonight. Can you tell?)