Oh, is that so?

I think it goes without saying that Gavin has quite the imagination.  As he get older, and has more experiences, his imagination is growing (if it can actually do that?).  I watch him play with his toys, and I hear him incorporate different things from books we've read, movies we've watched, and things we've seen.  However, his imagination is slowly starting to creep into our everyday lives, and our conversations are becoming more and more interesting.

For instance:
Gavin: Mommy.  There something I don't want to tell you.
Me:  You can tell me anything Gavin.
Gavin: No, it's terrible.  I can't tell you this terrible thing.
Me:  It's okay, Gavin, you can tell me.
Gavin:  Big sigh.  One time . . .(dramatic pause) I got lost in the jungle.

Oh, yeah?  Glad you shared that with me.

Or:
Gavin: Mommy, bend down so I can whisper in your ear.  I have a secret to tell you.
Me:  It's okay, Gavin, you can just tell me without whispering in my ear.
Gavin: No, I have to tell you in your ear.
Me:  Okay, fine.  What is it?
Gavin:  I killed Mufasa.

Really, all this time I thought it was Scar . . .

Last night, he wanted to have a sleep over with his cousins.  He was excited about it, until bedtime rolled around.  I think the fact that I was still there and hadn't left yet was the deciding factor in his not actually staying the night.  Shortly after all the kids were in the bed, he comes downstairs crying.

Me:  What's wrong, Gavin?
Gavin:  I'm scared.
Me:  What are you scared of?
Gavin:  Bears.
Me:  Well, I'm pretty sure they got rid of all their bears a long time ago, so you can just go back upstairs and go to sleep.
Gavin:  No, Mommy, I'm scared of bears.

After repeated attempts to get him to lie down on the bed (knowing he'd pass out as soon as he did), I ended up taking him with me when I left.  When we were talking about why he didn't end up having a sleepover with his cousins, he again mentioned that he was scared.

Me:  There was nothing to be scared of, Gavin.
Gavin:  Yes, there was.  I was very scared.
Me:  There aren't any bears in Aunt Amy's house, Gavin.  That's just silly.
Gavin:  Not bears, Momma.  I was afraid there was going to be a space storm.
Me:  A space storm?
Gavin:  Yes, I'm afraid of space storms.
Me:  Well, we're not in outer space so I don't think you have to be too afraid of space storms, Gavin.
Gavin:  But, Mommy, Earth is in space.

Touche.

As he has more and more experiences, I cannot wait to see what else he comes up with.  Or, maybe I should be afraid . . .

That is such a great idea that I think I'll pass on it.

I've created a monster.  In an effort to find fun and different things to do with Gavin, I've spent a lot of time searching for great ideas.  When I would come across one, I would say to him, "Hey, Gavin.  I have a great idea . . ." and then tell him what exciting thing we were going to try that day.  Well, it didn't take long for him to catch on.  Now, he has "great ideas" every day that he shares with me.  I think, to this point, I've passed on 97.6% of them.

His most recent "great ideas" include:

- getting a pet snake

- building a pirate ship and taking it down to Florida

- baking chicken cupcakes and putting ketchup and maple syrup on top of them

- buying a real rocket ship and flying it into outer space

- have a luau

Now, I'd like to expand on the last one because it falls in the 2.4% of ideas that I haven't passed on (I just freaked you out with the math right there, huh?).  So, somewhere, Gavin got the idea that he wanted to have a luau.  And, me?  I was like, "Yes!  That's a great idea!  Let's have a luau!"

So, we had a luau.  It was a complete and utter failure.

First, the beach ball that we bought at Family Dollar had a hole in it.  (Shocking, I know.)

Second, we couldn't find any leis.  And, honestly, what is a luau without leis?

Third, we made fruit kabobs that looked amazing.  And 0.12 seconds later, Gavin dropped them all on the floor.

And then I had this idea that we would get a coconut. . .

So, first let's discuss false advertising.  This coconut had a giant label that said it was an "EZ OPEN" coconut.  That should have been my first clue.

Upon arriving home with said coconut, I actually read the instructions.

With an ice pick, poke a hole through the eye into the center of the coconut and drain the liquid.

Oh yes, let me go grab my ice pick.  It's right next to the duct tape and rope I keep in my serial killer kit in the trunk of my car.

Coconuts have eyes?  Where the hell are they?

Well, since I didn't have an ice pick, I used a nail.  But it wasn't long enough so only three drops of liquid came out.  So, I thought, "Hey!  I'll use this wooden skewer!"  This was a fabulous idea . . . until I realized that getting the skewer out was a lot more difficult than getting it in.  So, there I was with a coconut that had a wooden skewer sticking out of it - even after employing three pairs of pliers. 

At that point, I thought, "How much liquid can there really be?  I'll just open the damn coconut without draining it first."

So, following the instructions, I gently tapped on the score marks with a hammer - anxiously waiting for the coconut to magically open.  Twenty minutes later, I'm bashing the coconut with the hammer and breaking out in a small sweat.

Finally, the coconut bursts open, and I realized there is a remarkable amount of liquid inside of a coconut, and consequently on my floor and my counter, and my cupboards.

Sadly, the coconut itself didn't actually taste any good.

We did, however, make a surfboard out of cardboard and have a great Hawaiian-themed dance party.

So, damn you Mickey Mouse Clubhouse for giving Gavin the amazing idea to have a luau.  Damn you.

New Blog

In an effort to actually remember the infancy of my second child, Kaleb, I've started a new blog.  While I will still post funny and memorable things on this blog, my other blog is more of my way to remember all of the things we tend to forget when our children grow up so quickly.  If you're interested, check it out:

I Will Sleep Again One Day

I'm starting to wonder if I'm a tad bit overprotective . . .

Last night, I took Gavin and Kaleb on our first adventure together.  By adventure, I mean that I drove them to the ice cream stand, went for a short walk, and let Gavin play at the park for about 45 minutes while Kaleb snoozed in the stroller.  The ice cream part was uneventful - other than the fact that Gavin ordered what he wanted (Superman ice cream on a waffle cone) and then promptly ate more than half of my ice cream (chocolate and vanilla soft serve).

After we finished our treats, we strolled over to the park.  When we got there, we encountered a younger couple with their two kids - one boy who was around Gavin's age and another boy who was about 8 months old.  I can only think of two words to adequately describe the older boy, whose name was Sage: Spider. Monkey.

This kid was everywhere.  He was barefoot and dirty (as little boys should be), legs covered in scraps and bruises, skinny and sun-tanned, and climbing all over everything.  He was jumping off of the swing mid-air while his dad was pushing him, he was recklessly climbing all kinds of things that he should be, and I almost had half-a-dozen heart attacks just watching him.  I was certain that an ambulance would have to be called at some point, but luckily that didn't happen. 

In contrast, Gavin (who does have his fair share of scrapes and bruises) was overly concerned about getting sand in his shoes (until I threatened to chop off his feet).  When Spider Monkey Boy came racing over and pushed Gavin out of the way so he could get to the top of the slide first, Gavin simply walked away.  The two, however, did become fast friends and chased each other around for quite some time. 

Gavin and Spider Monkey Boy

In the meantime, the 8-month-old (Nolan) was crawling around in the sand while his parents, who were snuggled up on the grass, watched from afar.  Now, by sand, I mean dirt.  Mixed with a little gravel.  Every time he picked some up, I cringed, waiting for him to put the dirt in his mouth.  He crawled wherever he pleased, and on multiple occasions parked his diapered butt at the bottom of the slide while other kids came flying down unaware that he was there.

As I watched all of this go on, I probably said, "Gavin, be careful," more than a dozen times.  Be careful running in your sandals, you might trip.  Be careful because there's a baby at the bottom of the slide.  Be careful hanging upside down on that piece of playground equipment that I'm certain has a name I just don't know what it is.  Be careful standing on top of that very tall slide.  And on, and on, and on.

So, maybe I need to chill out a little.  But, I'll be damned if I would let my baby crawl around in dirt. 

I spy with my little eye something that's getting really old really fast.

Like most four-year-old kids, my kids talks.  And he talks, and talks, and talks.  From the moment he gets up, until the time he goes to sleep at night.  He talks when he's eating.  He talks when he's in the bath.  He talks when we're in the car.  He even talks when he's playing and watching television.  I wouldn't be surprised if he talks in his sleep.  He doesn't talk to himself or his toys - he talks to me.  Honestly, I can't complain too much because I would rather he talked to me all the time than not at all. 

Lately, however, we can't just talk.  No, instead, we have to play games.  Two games in particular - "I Spy" and a rhyming game.  At least five times a day, he asks to play "I Spy."  The problem is that he's not very good at it.  For instance, he looks right at the object you're supposed to be guessing.

"I spy with my little eye something . . . RED!"  Um, how about the stop sign that you're staring at?

Or, the other weekend, he wanted to play in the car during a thunderstorm.

"I spy with my little eye . . ."  You see something?  Because I can't see shit right now.  And I should probably really focus on driving, dude.

He also asks to play when we go for a walk in the woods.

"I spy with my little eye . . . something . . . GREEN!"  Um, we're in the woods.  Everything is either brown or green.  Trees?  Green.  Bushes?  Green.  Grass?  Green.  River?  Brown.  Rocks?  Brown.  Benches?  Brown.  There seriously are no other colors to choose from.

It would be so bad if he didn't want to play it all the time.  And, I mean all the freaking time.

The only thing that can detour him from wanting to play "I Spy" is  playing this rhyming "game" he made up.  Basically, he says two words and I say yes if they rhyme and no if they don't.  It's not hard, but it's . . . interesting.

"How about boat and goat?"  Yes, those rhyme.

"How about house and house?"  Well, they're the same word.

"How about moose and groose?"  Well, if they were both real words then they would rhyme.

"How about sucka and fucka?"  Um . . . yes, those rhyme, but let's not say them anymore.

"How about soap and rope?"  Yep.  "How about rope and soap?"  Those are exactly the same words you said two seconds ago; you just reversed the order.

Then  . . . the other day, as we were waiting for the ultrasound tech to come get us out of the waiting room FULL of people:

"What rhymes with dick?  How about Rick and dick?  How about sick and dick?"  Ok, let's move on.
"What about pick and dick?"  Okay, seriously, stop saying that.  Pick a new word.

No idea where he heard it, or if he just coincidentally said it thinking he was making up the word, but everyone was staring at me. 

And, lucky for me, he stood next to me the entire time I was having my ultrasound, talking right in my ear, asking me if pairs of words rhymed.  The.  Entire.  Time.

So, it was a nice little surprise when he took a nap once we got home.  Because for an hour, it was absolutely quiet . . . except for the sounds of him kicking the wall as he slept.

Maybe calcium supplements are in order, but I think I'm doing fine.

After being ill over the weekend, I for some reason started thinking about strength.  Ironically, a friend posted something on Facebook last night about not feeling strong enough.  But, what does it mean to be strong?  In our society, we often thinking of someone who is fit.  We also equate strength with stoicism or apathy.  We look up to people who seem to never show emotion or fall apart. 

But, I don't want my sons growing up thinking that way.  Once you become a parent, strength takes on a whole new meaning, and it's demonstrated in various ways.  And, as you get older and experience more of the life's ups and downs, that definition also changes.

I want my sons to have a more realistic view of strength.

Strength is not stoicism.  Strength is not apathy.  It doesn't take strength to hate someone.  It doesn't take strength to be mean, unkind, or rude. 

Strength is being able to pick yourself up off of the bathroom floor after you've been sick for an hour in order to get a heating pad for your child who is having growing pains in his leg.

Strength is being at the end of your rope but somehow finding a way to take a deep breath and speak calmly to your child after they've just spilled an entire glass of milk on the floor (after you reminded them six million times to be careful).

Strength is allowing yourself to cry and then wiping away those tears and putting on a great, big smile.

Strength is not allowing other people to ruin your day, but instead, acknowledging that they've done or said something unkind and then moving on.

Strength is finding a way to be courteous to everyone, regardless of their attitudes and behaviors.

Strength is allowing yourself to see people for who they really are and not trying to change them - to just let them be themselves.

Strength is knowing when to say enough is enough - at work, in relationships, and when eating a disgustingly delicious brownie sundae (although that last one might be the most difficult).

Strength is not letting the actions of others be a reflection of you but understanding that it's merely a reflection of the kind of person they are.

Strength is stepping on a toy in the middle of the night and resisting the urge to smash it against the wall even though your foot hurts like hell.

Strength is having the courage to establish healthy boundaries with people who have hurt you and maintaining those boundaries when they're challenged.

Strength is finding your limits, recognizing your flaws, and working within those restraints to continuously improve as a person.

Strength is the ability to play I Spy 500 times in one day and not completely lose your sanity.

Strength is kindly ignoring people when they try to tell you how you should feel or what you should be doing - even though they have absolutely no understanding of your situation.

Strength is being able to stifle a laugh when your child loudly asks, "What rhymes with dick?" in the middle of a crowded waiting room.

Strength is being able to bite your tongue when you know the words you are suppressing would only be unkind and damaging.

Strength is allowing yourself a few moments to mourn what "should be" but isn't, and then moving on and making the best of what is.

Strength is not allowing your disappointment in others to affect your outlook on people in general.

Strength is trying when you know you're probably going to fail and not feeling like a complete failure because you gave it everything you had.

Strength is finding just one more way to keep your child occupied while you continue to wait and wait and wait at the doctor's office (and not strangle the receptionist if she tells you one more time that it will only be "a few more minutes").

Strength is being able to carry a child, a purse, a diaper bag, a backpack, two bags of groceries, a pizza, a sippy cup, and a latte and not spilling one single thing.  It's also a skill that is finely tuned once you have small children.  So, if you're not there yet, don't worry.  you will be.

Motherhood IS my gift

There are few people out there who would argue against a day that celebrates every woman who is a mother.  Even fewer would say that being a mom is an easy job.  It is an incredibly hard job, but that's not news to anyone.  So, even though this is a day meant to thank all the moms out there for their selflessness, their unconditional love, and just the sheer amount of bodily fluids that they have cleaned up over the course of their children's lives, for me, it's also a day about celebrating being a mom.  Not everyone gets this life-changing opportunity.  And while flowers and jewelry and pedicures and lunches at fancy restaurants are appreciated, getting to be a mom is the best gift I could ever ask for. 

There are so many things that come along with being a mom that are priceless, that many other people don't get to experience, and some that only a mom gets to experience.  And I'm not talking about changing diapers, making doctor's appointments, going on field trips, remembering the snack for soccer, doing the laundry, cooking meals, packing lunches, surviving on a minimal amount of sleep, or any of those sorts of tasks. 

No, I'm talking about things like getting to carry another human being inside of you.  Sure pregnancy is uncomfortable and, frankly, pretty gross at times, but it is the most amazing experience that only you and your child share.  No one else gets to feel your child moving and hiccuping and growing like you do.  No one else gets to know your child like you do during those nine months - what makes your child wake up and move around, where his or her little feet are at any moment.  Of course, no one else gets the heartburn or stretch marks either, but I'd happily make that trade any day.

There's the magic that comes along with being a mother.  You know, the ability to take away the pain of any cut, scrape, or bump with a small kiss, the way you instinctively know exactly what your child needs from the minute they are born, how your body just molds to your child, whether you're rocking them or carrying them on your hip.  There are many, many times when your child is sad or hurt or happy, and at those moments, no one else but their mom will do. 

I cherish things like getting to tuck my child into bed.  Not because I'll finally have a little peace and quiet (that's just an added bonus) but because of the closeness we share in those few minutes.  We sing songs, we talk about our day, we come up with silly sayings and rituals that we repeat nightly, and we read books.  I honestly think that those ten minutes I spend with him are one of the main reasons he's comfortable talking to me about anything - even things as difficult as feelings.

I also relish in the few moments in the morning when my son climbs into my bed, even though we're both awake and ready to get up.  Again, these are some of the best times I have with him.  We talk about the things we did the day before, the things we'll do that day, or we make up silly stories.  And those moments are all mine. 

The pride and the joy I often feel when I see my son acting in a certain way or saying a certain thing is beyond words.  Despite all the doubts and uncertainties that come along with parenting, those are the moments that really make me feel like I'm doing something right - when people tell me he's kind and he's polite, I know I had a hand in that.

There are also those tiny, fleeting moments that happen all the time: holding his sweet little hand in mine, knowing it will never be this small again, looking at his face and thinking he's the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on, the way my heart melts when he randomly tells me that he loves me. 

I could go on and on.  There are so many amazing little things about being mom that easily outweigh all the hard parts.  No matter what life throws at me, no matter how hard things gets, I look at my son every day and think I'm the luckiest woman on this planet.  Except maybe when I'm cleaning up puke.  I don't seem to be able to make myself feel lucky about that.