Top Boyolgists Publish New Findings

Below is a post originally dated 11/9/08 that I was working on when Dylan got sick a year ago, that I never finished, and forgot all about until today, when I was looking back through my posts on Dylan's illness. It is pretty funny, and especially appropriate since Derek just had 6 stitches removed from his head yesterday. Enjoy!

Leading boyologists Dr. Rachelle VanBuskirk and her colleague Dr. Dennis VanBuskirk from the VanBuskirk Institute of Boy Studies and Rearing, in a thirteen-year study, have uncovered some interesting facts about boys and their inevitable head wounds.

Here is what this team of researchers discovered:

Fact 1: Head wounds bleed A LOT, but stop bleeding very quickly.

Fact 2: Boys' skulls are very hard.

Fact 3: Head staples are a status symbol among males ages 3 - 13.

Fact 4: Head staples should only be removed by a professional. Normal stapler removers will not work.

Fact 5: Trips to the Urgent Care and head staples can be avoided entirely by super-gluing the hairs around the head wound together to hold it closed.

*Please note. These finding apply to boys only. Not much is known about the effects of head wounds on girls, at least not to these scientists.

Drs. VanBuskirk and VanBuskirk have been studying six male subjects, ranging in age from 2 to 12, in their research faculty. "We try to study our subjects in their natural environment rather than in a lab setting," reports Dr. V. "We have provided our subjects with a trampoline, toy weapons, and ugly action figures in an effort to make them comfortable in their surroundings."

These boyologists have studied various aspects of boyology in their subjects. "This didn't start out as a study in boys and head wounds..." Dr. V explains, "we just happened to hit upon this research, or at least the boys did - but we have learned so much, and wanted to share what we have learned with the world." Among other things the Institute has studied the direct correlation of messy rooms to tardiness at school, studied the effects of 3 dozen sweaty socks in a hot car, taken readings on record decibel levels of 'indoor voices', recorded hundreds of case studies of what happens when you throw a ball in the house, clocked record speeds that a house can go from clean to a hurricane-level disaster, proven time and time again, that boys' bodies really do have weight, and that things break when boys step/climb on them, and cataloged and indexed gross bodily sounds that most boys are so adept at producing, all in an attempt to understand them better.

Drs. VanBuskirk and VanBuskirk believe that much of their research concurs with the research of their fellow boyologists at the Thatcher Institute, the Crowshaw Institute, and the well-established Broadhead Institute for Boyological Studies.

"Boys are mysterious creatures. Surprisingly, not much is really known about how their brains work, or if they work at all," Dr. V. explains.

Recently these boyologists have been trying to prove the hypothesis that, as the old saying goes, 'one boy has one brain, two boys have half a brain, and three boys have no brain at all.'

"Our studies are showing this hypothesis to be correct, and it is exciting to see what happens when we have four, five, or even six boys together. It is amazing to see how they can function without any brain activity whatsoever. This is one of the great mysteries of science, and we are coming closer everyday to solving it."

So far the Institute's boyology research has concentrated on pre-pubescent males, but they plan to expand their research into adolescent males in the next several months. "That just seems to be the right direction for us to take at this time. The mystery surrounding adolescent males is even greater than that of their younger counterparts. We are excited to see where this research takes us, and what we can learn."

Unfortunately, the Institute is badly in need of funding. "It is amazing how expensive it is to maintain these subjects, and keep them properly fed. This will be an even greater problem when we start studying adolescents in the near future. Perhaps we'll do some research on the mass quantities of food teenage boys can consume, and the health effects of an all Ramen noodle diet. The possibilities for research are endless, really."

There have been disappointments along the way. "Even after all these years of training we still haven't been able to get our subjects to aim into the toilet," acknowledges Dr. V., who also admits great difficulty in getting the subjects to brush the fur off of their teeth, or change their clothes on a daily basis. "But we still hold out high hopes that these behaviors will come in time. Our goal is to eventually produce six fully-functional adult males (though the question if there really is such a thing is debatable.) If we can accomplish this, we can count all these years of research with these subjects a major success!"

Morning Person

I get it.  I am a morning person myself, and I love being a morning person.  I get the feeling, the rush when your eyes flip open and you realize a new day has arrived full of possibilities and responsibilities, and the need to get up and get started.  I love the renewed energy in my muscles and the freshly firing synapses in my rested brain.  I love that glorious few hours when the house is quiet and I can go exercise, read, or sneak around and get things done while my family of hooligans snoozes away.  Morning are magical, and I am a morning person.

Unfortunately, so is Luke.  The earlier the sun gets up, the earlier he gets up.  And right now in mid-July, that is pretty darn early.  Dare I say it, too early for me.

My timer is usually set for 5am, though often I wake up earlier and just can't go back to sleep. (my lucky number is 3am.  If I wake up anytime after 3am for any reason, I can't go back to sleep.)  But in the summer since my kids don't have to be off to school in the morning, I indulge and set my alarm to 6am.  Usually I am up at 5 anyway.  But when I need that extra hour in the summertime, it is so nice to get it.

But now I have this sunny-side-up three year old who rises early, and wants to rouse the entire family with him - starting always with me.

This morning he got up and decided to get some bread and honey for himself, and some for me too.  He came into my bedroom with the two dripping slices of bread, and laid one of them on my chest as I was sleeping.

"One for me, one for Mom," he announces.

"One what?" I think as I  roll to my side.  I quickly discover the "what" at the same time as a sticky little kid in a puffy nighttime diaper climbs into bed with me.

"Sun up!  Mom!  Sun up!  See!"  he exclaims as he pulls my eyelids back and turns my head toward the window to show me proof that the sun is indeed up.  "See.  Sun.  Up!"

There was no denying it.  The sun was definitely up.  But this morning, at least, my body didn't want to be.

I sent my sticky wake up call off to the kitchen with his drippy toast and told him to go wash his hands.  Then I attempted to fall back asleep, trying to ignore the glaring sun and the stickiness all over me.

Soon the bedroom door opens again and Luke is toting a full gallon of milk, a sippy cup, and a lid.  "Mom, sun up.  Sun up NOW!" and tosses the gallon of milk on the bed with a thunk.  Luckily, the lid doesn't pop off.

All right, all right!  I'm up already!  Up to fill a sippy cup with milk.  Up to find honey all over my kitchen, a refrigerator hanging open, and a basketful of clean folded laundry dumped on a sticky floor.  An invigorating morning!  I'd love to go swimming, but don't dare leave my early riser awake alone in a house full of dreamers.

Last week I woke up to "Mom, hode dis!  Hode dis."  My back was turned to him, and I was still half asleep with my eyes closed when I absently-mindedly reached behind me to hold whatever it was Luke needed me to hold so he could climb into my bed.  I discovered real quick what it was I was supposed to hold when ice water poured down my back, not in a sippy cup apparently.  Yikes.  Talk about a wake up call!  I hopped up out of bed as fast as a fireman with a midnight alarm. Luke was standing there watching me with a huge grin on his face.

"Sun up, Mom," like he is sharing some terrific news, "Sun UP!"

Teenager Troubles

Yes, we are having teenager troubles.  Not with my 13 year old, or even my 12 year old.  This story is about Caleb.  He is five.

We went to the park this morning.  Caleb is in afternoon kinder. It was a dreadfully hot day so most of the kids were playing in the water feature.  All of the kids were tiny - shirtless toddlers in diapers.  Caleb was by far the biggest kid there.  So he was at the water feature all of three seconds before he ran off, obviously upset, to the other side of the park, where he just moped.  I could not figure what I or anyone had done to make him so upset.  So I went to go talk to him and ask him what the matter was.  "I can't go play in the water,"  he explained.   I told him that of course he could.  "But I'm not allowed to! " he protested.  I thought he meant I didn't want him getting wet, so I assured him that he could change before school if he got wet. He said, "I'm not allowed to because the water is just for babies."  I told him that that wasn't true, and pointed out that the mommies were playing in the water too, not just babies.  "It's only for mommies and babies," he insisted, "but not teen-age-ers." This was said in an ironic tone, that sounded pretty teenagerish, actually.

"So?" I said, not quite getting his point, "you're not a teenager.  Go play."

"I KNOW I am not a teenager, but everybody THINKS I am a teenager!"

I had to laugh out loud.  "Hon-ey, you might be big for your age, but NOBODY thinks you are a teenager."  

He is five, granted a gigantic five, but looks all of seven, tops.

He just started crying.  "EVERYBODY thinks I am a teenager.  Those moms do, and they don't want me to play with their little kids.  They think I'm a teenager, and nobody likes teenagers!"

Poor little guy.  There was nothing I could say to convince him that he really didn't pass for a teenager, and my amusement really wasn't very amusing to him. He was convinced that everyone thought he looked like a teenager, and nothing I said could convince him otherwise.   

We ended up leaving the park... and his childhood ... behind him.

Have compassion.  We all know adolescence is tough, but it especially rough when you are only five.

Boys are Gross!

I have always known it.  Little girls label little boys as gross.  We laughed and giggled at the gross things boys did.  You know "girls rule, and boys drool."  We just couldn't figure those strange, dirty, stinky creatures out. They liked everything slimy, stinky, and just plain ugly.   It was common girl knowledge - Boys were just gross.

But then as I grew older (and started liking boys) I started thinking maybe it was all an exaggeration.  Boys weren't really that bad.  After all, they were kind of cute, OK really cute, and what used to seem so yucky and stinky suddenly became very attractive.  (What powerful things those hormones can be - deluding us into finding such things appealing!) I thought what silly little girls we had been! Boys were suddenly pretty fantastic.  

Now I have six sons, and my opinion about boys has come full circle.  I realize how wise I was at a young age to perceive that boys are gross.  In fact, my acquired wisdom and experience has only taught me that boys really are much more disgusting than I had previously imagined- so very much worse.

Sometime I feel like I am surrounded, like a bad dream where slimy swamp creatures are all around you, moving in closer and closer, and there is no escape.... ahhh!

Yep, kinda like that.

Case in point.  Last week I took my darling firstborn son to the dentist.  He NEVER brushes his teeth.  We have taught him proper brushing technique, and tell him constantly to brush, but he has chosen an alternate, non-hygienic lifestyle and does not brush.  So guess what the Dr. found?  Not one, not two, not even six or seven cavities.  He found 8 cavities! Eight!  And its not like these cavities have accumulated over years.  We take our kids to the dentist regularly twice a year.  He developed all those cavities in 6 months time!  Holy stinkin' cow!  When the financial advisor came into the exam room, I knew we were in trouble.  His decision not to brush is going to cost us about a thousand bucks!  I was so upset I had to get up and leave.  Good thing Dennis had arrived just then.  Do you know what we could do with that $$$?  It is a good thing his exam wasn't last week, or we would have had to cancel out trip to Disneyland.  Filth is expensive.

He is not the only one.  Sadly, all my sons have chosen a life without hygiene.

There is just nothing like gazing into the beautiful face of your angel child, and then they smile that award winning grin... and you see that indeed moss grows on the north side of teeth as well as trees.    

Or you look in the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of your beautiful family... only to see one kid who has a nasty habit of playing with wads of his own spit and avert you eyes only to spot a finger up a nose, well, half a finger actually, and  you quickly look away before you have to witness that same finger take a quick trip to the mouth.  Ug!

Or your sweet child comes to give you that big hug you are aching for...and you are accosted with an overwhelming mix of body odor and smelly feet as greasy hair smears across your cheek.

Ugh.  

Fact is, all five of my poor senses get accosted on a regular basis! 

Fuzzy teeth are a chronic problem around here.  Their teeth wear their little winter coats all year long. I will tell a kid to go get me his tooth brush, and he will declare that he doesn't have one.  When asked how long he has been without a tooth brush he will shrug his shoulders, "I dunno.  A while."  We have about fifty brand new toothbrushes in cupboard and they KNOW THIS but always look at me like this is new information - like I have been hoarding the toothbrushes and they have been suffering because of it.  I can't even imagine going a day without a toothbrush.  

And they are under the impression that showers should be a weekly occurrence, and any more than that are strictly optional.  When they are forced to shower, they will often just step into the shower and wet their hair.  Then they are always dumbfounded that we figure out that they didn't actually wash down with soap and shampoo.  But our noses can't be fooled that easily, and the fact that there is often a patch or two of dry hair in the back is a good indicator too.  Oh the injustice they claim when we insist they step back in the shower to finish the job.

Hand washing, too, is performed with a similar M.O..  I always sneak a  peak when they are "washing" their hands.  Cold water on. Soap dispensed into hand (again, often optional) and rinsed immediately in water without lathering up - the soap slips right off.  Then water is turned off (often not before the kid puts his mouth on the faucet to take a quick drink.)  Then the wet hands are wiped dry on the dirty pants.  Done.  Ya think?

You know it is a bad sign when you ask if their hands are clean and they have to look.  If you have to look, they are not clean.

Derek's glasses are always so dirty, I don't know how he can see through them.  He'd probably see better if he just took them off.  If my windshield was that dirty, I would get into an accident for sure.

My kids are constantly wearing dirty clothes.  OK, yes, kids get dirty.  That happens.  But I mean they are wearing dirty clothes first thing in the morning.  They put on dirty clothes.  I will tell them to change.  "I just did."  "Go change again." "Why?" "Because your clothes are dirty." "But I just put them on."  "Where did you get them?" "On the floor."  "Uh huh.  They are dirty."  Shock.  "I didn't know!"  "Here's a helpful hint.  Look at the sleeves of your shirts.  If there is a crust where you always wipe your mouth it is dirty.  Look at your pants.  If there are smears of crud here were you always wipe your dirty hands, then they are dirty.  Oh, and if you look in your underwear and see this skid mark because you don't wipe your bottom, I would be willing to bet they are dirty too, and you should not wear them."  "Oh."  

Oh yes.  These are not fictional accounts.

They are always sleeping without pillowcases on their pillows and sheets on the bed.  They can't even fathom why silly mom finds this practice so extremely disgusting, or why mom is equally disgusted when they never take their sheets off to be washed.  Whatever, mom.

And their bathroom.

Oh my. 

That bathroom.  It is, well, it is a health hazard.  Really.  You do NOT want to go in there!  I have to force myself to go into the belly of the beast.  It always smells like urine.  Always.  Even after a good scrubbing it smells like urine mixed with bleach.  There is toilet paper everywhere (does that mean they are using it?) and mildewed towels piled on the floor.  Inside the toothpaste drawer is a sticky mass of toothbrushes, half-squeezed tubes of toothpaste, none with caps, and a little bit of hair and legos stuck in for good measure.  No wonder the teeth are fuzzy.  The only thing clean and untouched in that bathroom are the pretty bottles of deodorant all lined up in the medicine cabinet.  They would be completely unused if it wasn't for the someone occasionally using them to scribble on the bathroom mirror.  At least someone is putting them to good use.

It isn't like we, as parents, don't try.  Oh we teach, and guide, and beg, and scream.  Due to a need we have recently re-instituted regular hygiene instruction during our family home evenings.  You know: Song, prayer, the six BEs, a scripture, family business, followed by instruction on the proper care and wiping of bottoms, then a lesson on the plan of salvation, song, and prayer.  Every family has to do what works for them.

And as if it isn't enough just to be disgusting, the also have to talk about disgusting things. 

The other day Caleb announced that earwax doesn't taste good.  His brothers all agreed!  I guess they have all tried it and decided that was one body cavity not worth exploring further.

 And just this very morning, in fact, as we were climbing into the car, Caleb just announces, "Mom, farting is so fun!"  followed but a lengthy family discussion about long versus short, loud verses silent, etc., accompanied by fairly accurate sound effects.  That's when I turn the radio up.  Way, way up.

Such is my life.

Well, at least we don't have to worry about girls knocking down our door, right?

Of course, all this could change when my boys discover girls.  Then we'll have a whole new set of problems to deal with.  But I can handle them if it means shiny teeth and clean hair ... I think.

DEREK by Derek

For Christmas, Derek gave me a laminated copy of his poem - all about him.  It is EXACTLY him.  It cracks me up because Derek is a one-in a billion type of kid.  Glad to see he knows himself as well as I do.  My comments are in italics.  This is Derek:

DEREK

I am adventurous, weird, and smart.

Right on all three accounts.

I wish I was a super hero.

Constantly! He is always coming up with the perfect superpower.

I dream of going to Mars.

Where else?

I want to learn how to spell better.

Me too!

I wonder about top secret stuff.

Yes, and he wonders out-loud about it all the time.

I am afraid of Monsters.

It takes a brave man to admit his fears.

I believe in Heavenly Father.

Yes, yes, yes - bearing his testimony in school even.

I like lettuce.

Loves it.  He did say he was weird... and smart.

I love ligers.

Yep, he and Napoleon.  We hear a lot about Ligers around here. (They ARE real you know.)

I love my family.

Ding, ding, ding - This kid is winning points all over the place!

In high school I want to learn languages.

To get ready for his mission, no doubt.

When I grow up I want to be an insurance man and an archaeologist.

A cross between his dad and Indiana Jones - a recipe for success.

DEREK

I am absolutely crazy about that funny kid!  He has brought so much joy and life into our home since the day he was born.  

Thanks for the poem Derek!  I'll treasure it.

P.S. You ARE my superhero.  You have the power to make me laugh!

AB Pattern

There is nothing as great as having a kindergartener in the house!

They begin to read and do math and the whole world around them seems to open up for them.  How fun it is to watch them incorporate what they are learning into their world.

Look what I discovered.  Someone was practicing their lettering on my antique molasses crock.  He did a nice job.  I should be furious. Writing on stuff is a serious "no-no."  But I can't bring myself to erase it.  It adds to the charm, don't you think?

This was my Christmas present from Caleb.  This is my 5th gilded macaroni frame with a picture with Santa.  I have one from each of my boys from their kindergarten days.  He was so excited for me to open it, and as soon as I tore the tissue paper off (with his help,of course) he exclaimed, "See!  It's an A B pattern!"  He was so proud - not of his darling picture with Santa, or of the beautiful gold frame, but of the A B pattern.  It took me a second to get it because it has been a few years since my kindergarten math.  He proudly pointed out how he had carefully arranged the holiday-themed macaroni in an A,B,A,B pattern. Santa, snowflake, Santa, snowflake, Santa - across the top, and sled, present, sled, present, sled - across the bottom.  Oh, of course - A B pattern!  He couldn't wait to show off his mathematical genius. 

Then the other day, Luke and Caleb wanted to help me make muffins.  It was a little chaotic with a 2 year old and a five year old in the kitchen.  But Caleb, and his aforementioned mathematical genius, announced a plan.  "I know.  AB pattern!" He arranged it so that he was A, Lukie was B.  He would break and egg, Luke would break an egg.  He would measure a half cup water, Luke would measure a half cup water.  Caleb would stir, Luke would stir.  It was very efficient.  Then he labled the rows of the muffin pan - A row, B row, A row B row.  Caleb put all the paper liners in the A rows, and Luke the B rows.  Luke, never having been to kindergarten, didn't quite grasp this higher-order math skill, which bugged Caleb to no end.  But the A B pattern muffins did get made in a somewhat orderly fashion, and they were delicious!

Now if I could get my kids to use an "A B C D E F G pattern" in such things as sharing the Nintendo DS, or choosing who sits in the best seat in the car.  I could put Caleb in charge of that. 

Milk Heist

I opened my eyes when I woke up this morning and jumped when I saw this:

I was staring down the barrel of a shiny pistol being wielded by a 2 year old.

He asked for milk.  I gave it to him.  What choice did I have?

Now there is a kid who knows how to get what he wants.  Should I be worried?

Christmas Morning and the Sad, Sad Tale of the Gift that Wasn't

It is a classic tale of love and loss.

There once was a fair, not-so-young maiden who loved a camera, and the camera loved her.  They traveled the world, Venice, London, Hawaii, Yellowstone, taking beautiful pictures together.  But the maiden became increasingly selfish, used and abused her camera, carelessly dragging him everywhere, even places he did not wish to go, using him whenever she needed him, carelessly banging him into stuff, then tossing him to the side and paying him no mind when she didn't need him.  

The poor camera - cold, neglected, alone.  He dreamt of the days when she would pamper him and take care of him, lovingly caressing his lens with a soft cloth and carefully placing him in his nice warm padded case.  He had not seen the inside of his case for so long.  He, as any camera would, could only take such abuse for so long.  Then one day in early October, he clicked his last click... and he was gone.  

The maiden rushed the poor camera to the camera store, but the diagnosis was grim.  An operation could be performed, but at great cost, and he probably would never be the same again, and would die anyway.  She, tragically, discovered too late what her neglect and abuse had done and had to let him go.  In her sorrow, she made a solemn vow to never treat another camera that way again. 

The kind camera doctor, seeing her distress, offered to introduce her to another fine young camera friend of his, that he thought she might want to get to know.  The doctor pointed him out to her.  He was sitting in a glass case across a crowed room.  Her eyes, and his lens, met, and it was love at first sight.  She knew they were meant to be together, and she bought him on the spot and brought him home to occupy her now empty camera bag.  

But all was not well, for this fair maiden had a husband.  He had known about his wife's love affair with the first camera, but he was not the jealous type.  In fact he was the one who had introduced them in the first place.  He figured her little stint with the camera made her happy, and that made him happy.  However, he had watched with concern how she had used the camera, and had feared for the life of his digital friend.  When the husband discovered what had happened to the camera, and that his wife already had a new camera in her bag he was distressed.  He feared she had bought that new camera on the rebound, without carefully checking into him.  So the husband took it upon himself to do a little digging into the new camera's past.  

What he found was that his wife had indeed chosen well.  He was an upstanding fine young camera from a remarkable family with an excellent history.  But while the price she had paid for him was good, her husband discovered the same camera at an online store for much, much cheaper.  So he took it upon himself to return the camera she had brought home, and order one from the online store, only to find that the camera he had discovered for such a great price was back ordered.  He reassured his hysterical grieving wife, who had lost not one camera that she loved, but two, in one day, that all would be well, and that a few hundred dollars would be saved if she could just hold on, alone and camera-less, for a few days.  So the woman, who loved her good husband even more than she had loved her camera (and that is a whole lot) agreed to wait.  But those days turned to weeks, and the weeks months, and alas, no camera.  

The maiden watched time pass and her children grow without being able to capture those precious memories.  Sure, she was a modern woman, and had another portable camera in her purse, but it took terrible pictures and was ornery and stubborn. As time passed she began to miss her beloved camera more and more, and hate her stupid purse camera more and more as well.  Her iphoto suffered, her blog suffered, and she became more and more despondent each day.  When her husband asked her what was wrong, all she could utter was "my camera, my  camera." He vowed to get her the camera of her dreams... someday.

Then disaster struck again.  This time a sick child and the accompanying medical bills.  All thoughts of a new camera were swept aside.  When a decent camera was needed, the maiden's father lent her his, and she survived this way for some time.  

Time passed, and Christmas was drawing near.  The camera widow mentioned to her good husband that Christmas was coming, and that if ever she needed a new camera, it was during this season of giving and love.  She believed that he was planning to get her the camera for Christmas, but in her greed she begged him to give her the camera before Christmas, so she could take pictures of all the holiday happenings.  Opening the camera on Christmas morning would simply be too late.  She just couldn't get though the holidays with that stupid pocket camera she had been using.    Her husband assured her that money was tight, and there would be no new camera.  But she held out hope, as any blogger would.  

Meanwhile, the crappy pocket camera apparently had heard all the nasty things she had said about him and disappeared - walked out the door and never returned.  There was no love lost there, after all, a new camera was coming soon, she thought.

Then suddenly, it was Christmas Eve.  She saw her children all dressed up snugly in their festive caroling attire and once again begged her husband to give her her camera early so she could capture the moment.  He assured her there was no camera coming for Christmas.  Frustrated that her husband, who usually gets too excited and can't wait until Christmas or birthdays to give gifts,  had suddenly decided this year to hold out until Christmas morning, the maiden ran to her father, told him her woes, and he let her borrow his camera for the evening.

That night she dreamt of her her old camera that she had loved so much, and hoped that her new camera would love her has much as she would love him.

Then it was Christmas morning.  The children were stirring, anxious to run into the living room to discover the plethora of gifts that Santa had left them.  In her heart she knew, that one of those gleaming packages also held the camera for which she had waited for so long.  It was going to be a very happy Christmas, indeed!

  She went to grab her father's camera to capture those first few moments of discovery when the children see the tree for the first time.  But the camera was not there.  Her father, believing she was getting a new camera for Christmas, had taken the camera home with him the night before.  She ran to her purse, and started to dig around, before remembering that her purse camera was long gone.  Desperately she went for her video camera, at least it would be something, but it was out of memory.  She ran to her husband, and pleaded and begged him to tell her which package her camera was in so she could capture the magic that was Christmas morning before it was too late.  

Again he told her that there was no camera at all, and a look into his eyes told her it was true.  There really was no camera!  He really couldn't afford it.  He was so sorry.

She crumpled to the floor, hopeless and camera-less.  How had it come to this, on Christmas morning of all morning?  Her despair overwhelmed her.

The children, who could no longer be held back, came bouncing into the room, their eyes gleaming, and shouts of wonder and joy escaping their lips.  There was tissue flying and paper tearing, stockings un-stuffed and shrieks of delight.  But the maiden could do nothing but watch those moments as they quickly passed, becoming mere memories fading into the distance of Christmas past. 

 Oh the depths that her own selfishness and greed had gotten her!  She had had a camera she had loved, and it had died due to her abuse.  Then she had another camera in her hands, but because of her greed had lost that too.  And her little camera, the only camera she had left in the world, she had hated and called names, until he, too, was gone.  

And so the end of the tragic tale of the Christmas gift that wasn't.  (Not a classic Christmas tale, to be sure).  That is why there are no pictures of Christmas morning this year.

 Let this serve as warning to all.  Love your camera while you still have it.  Treat it well, pamper it and let it know you love it.  Lives of cameras are short, and you just never know when they are going to stop clicking. 

 (By the way, that goes for people too.)

A Good Sign?

Yesterday as I was folding the laundry, Luke was helping me until he became intrigued by a pair of underwear.  He put it on right over his diaper.  He was so thrilled by the new big boy look that he dug through the laundry basket and found all the underwear (clean, thankfully!) and put on every pair he could find.  When he got on about 8 or 9 pair, he couldn't even walk anymore.   So what do you think?  Is this a good sign that Lukie is ready for the big time - toilet training?  Or is he just a fashion trendsetter?  Only time will tell.

Caleb on Rain and Santa

Oh the wisdom of a 5 year old.

Yesterday, on the drive to kindergarten in the rain.  Completely serious, Caleb reports, "Rain... is pee... from God."  He has the world all figured out.

Then after school, he explained the nature of Santa Claus to me.  "Mom, not all Santas are real.  There are only four real ones, all the others are NOT real."  How do you know which ones are real?  "Mom... you'll know."  How come there are four real ones?  "Mom, this world is too big.  So there is one Santa for this part of the world (Caleb uses his arms to section off the world around him, north, south,east, and west,  like giant slices of pie.) and one for this part, and one for this part, and one for this part."  OK, that makes sense. "Yes."  Is there a Santa here?  "Yes, but our Santa is far.  They are all far because everything close is warm, and everything far away is cold."  You got that right kid!  How about your cousins in Texas, do the have the same Santa as us?  "Which way is Texas?"  I point East.  "Yes, they have the same Santa we have."  How about your cousins in Oregon?  "Which way?"  I point North.  "No.  Different."  What about Lisa's kids.  They live in Rancho Mirage.  "What way?"  I point West.  "Different."  But they live here in the desert right near us.  "No.  Different."  So apparently we were sitting right in the vortex of Santa zoning.  The whole world was divided in quarters, and we happened to   be right at the four corners of it all.  Amazing.  So Caleb, do all four Santas look alike?  "Mom, you know what Santa looks like."  Are they twins?  That one got no reply, just a look like I was really stupid.  

So Caleb, which Santa lives in the North Pole?  "They all do."  They all live together?  "No, Mom.  Thats silly.  They all live in the North Pole, because there are four North Poleses."  I thought there was only one North Pole.  "No.  Four.  They all have their own Elvises too. "  Elvises?  "Yes, little Elvises.  They are small."  Elves?  "Mom, thats what I said."  Oh.  So Caleb, what is our Santa going to bring you for Christmas?  "I hope diamonds."  Diamonds?  That kid dosen't mess around.  Why diamonds?  "Because they are made of gold!" (duh!)  Oh.  Do you think the Elves can make diamonds?  "Probably not."  No, probably not.  What if Santa can't bring you diamonds?  "Then I want a big motorcycle!  A real one.  What do you want Mom?"  Diamonds, definately.

And then this fantastic line this morning:  "I love the rain.  Rain is good for dancing!"  

Caleb, I completely agree.

Caleb's Got Game

S is for spider.

Tonight we had family home evening.  As we were getting ready to have our closing prayer, Caleb announced that he had a game for us to play.  My initial reaction was to think that it really was getting late and we didn't have time for some silly game he made up on the  fly.  But instead I indulged him and let him do his thing.  I was surprised.  He had a game that he had planned in advance and really put a lot of thought into.  He was so thrilled that he was given the opportunity to have us play it.

Caleb is 4, and just started Kindergarten.  He loves it!  In his class they study a different letter each week.  They practice the letter, eat food that starts with the letter, and the teachers even dress up as something that starts with that letter.  Last week was 'S', which is why Caleb made that lovely googley eyed spider hat above.  He calls it a "pider" - so much for all the 'S' training.  This week it is 'M'.  Yesterday Caleb came to me with a little baggie with dozens of little 'S's and 'M's that he had obviously cut out from somewhere.  He was so excited.  "I found m's and s's!"  I was a little concerned and asked him what books or magazines he had found those letters in, but he couldn't remember.  Yikes! I guess I'll find out soon enough. I quickly located for him a stack of old magazines and he continued merrily cutting out tiny little letters all morning for his little baggie.  I don't know what he is planning on doing with them.  Maybe he can use them for ransom notes one day.

So Caleb stood up at FHE to introduce his game very authoritively.  He handed everyone a new, not-for-cutting magazine, and announced that we were going to have a race.  When he said go, we would each have to find a capital 'S', a lower case 's', a capital 'M', and a lowercase 'm'.  When we found all 4, we would raise our hand, and he would come check our answers.  He had another little baggie that contained little strips of paper that he had carefully written each of our names on.  After showing him our found letters, we had to close our eyes, and stick our hand in the baggie and pull out a slip.  If it was our own name, we won.  He had really planned this and was very clear on the rules of play.  We all had fun playing his game.  Derek cheated and Caleb yanked his magazine away and told him he was out of the game.  Too funny.  Caleb was thrilled at the success of his game, and I was pleased that it didn't last too long.  Caleb is such a cute, one-of-a-kind kid.

Oh, and he is so funny because a school when a kid does something good, they earn a reward called a "Super U" that they can accumulate and buy prizes with at the "Super U" store.  Only Caleb always calls it a "Super Me."  Now thats a kid with confidence!

I also love that he calls a watermelon a "waterlemon".  That cracks me up every time.

Don't Look Down

So we were in sacrament meeting today when I looked down and saw this.

This is Derek.  Both those feet belong on the same kid.  Yep, Derek was wearing two different shoes to church.  The black one had a big gaping hole in it and the brown one (though you can't really see from the picture) was on the wrong foot!  He was wearing 2 right shoes!  The socks also didn't match, and the short one had a big hole in the heel.  Yes, his pants really were that short (I think they were Caleb's).  I mean, if you are going to wear mismatched shoes and socks, at least have long pants on to hide them!  Derek was also wearing a shirt with 2 missing buttons, and the safety pin was sticking up above his tie.  He couldn't find his nice glasses so he was wearing his athletic safety glasses.  I had known about the shirt and glasses prior to church, but the shoes were a complete surprise to me.  He seemed just as surprised that his shoes didn't match.  How do you miss something like that?  I had asked him if he had his shoes, but didn't think to ask if they matched.  That is so typical Derek!  Dylan, his twin, is always so dapper.  He has to always look perfect.  At church Dylan was telling people, "that's not my twin, he is just some hobo."  We love our Derek.  He doesn't have his own style - his style is no style at all.  But what he lacks in style, he makes up for in personality!

One of THOSE Mornings!

Ever feel like this?

I had one of those mornings, a real humdinger! Roxanne and Alysa have already heard it - thanks for the ear my friends, and Roxy said, "You SO have to blog that." I think I will feel better when get it all down and throw it into the blogosphere. It's long, but it involves a lot of poop, so it might be worth reading, if you're into that kind of thing.

My bad morning actually started last night. Dennis and I went to the temple. That part was good. But it was our first time leaving the kids home alone to go all the way to Redlands. My mom was 5 minutes away if there was a problem. It was fine. There were no problems. In fact, when we got home after 10pm, the boys were all asleep. That was a good thing, right? School night. But that was also a problem, because they were too asleep! We realized that neither of us had a key and the house was locked up tight. Another good thing - no strangers were getting into that house. Only neither were we. It was serious lock down. No amount of ringing door bell or calling on the phone was waking anybody. Were we going to be spending the night on the trampoline? (Actually, Dennis might like to rough it out there!) After banging on their bedroom window until I thought the glass was about to crack, a light switched on and the shutters flew open, and when my oldest assessed that I was not the boogie man, he unlocked the front door.

The house was a mess. To be fair, I could see that they had attempted to do their dinner chores, but surprisingly their definition of a successfully completed job is remarkably different from my own. I give them credit for trying. I really didn't want to think about the mess by that time. I just wanted to hit the sack.

I found Caleb asleep in my bed. He had peed all over the bed, the comforter, and it went into the mattress. Nice. Dennis stripped down Caleb, and I stripped down bed and hauled it to the laundry room. The mattress needed airing out, so we finally crashed on the sofas. It was late.

So this morning when the alarm went off, we didn't hear it. When I woke up, it was almost 7. Wednesdays are Dennis' early day - 7am meeting. Of course its Wednesday. He jumped up, showered, and ran out the door. Then I hurried and got my middle schoolers up and ready, noticing again my dirty house and realizing that I had a friend coming over at 9am so I could help her make some invitations. My house was no condition for anyone to see it - six boys, six hours, no supervision, remember? It looked even filthier in the light of day. I rushed to clean as much as I could before I had to take my kids to school. When you have a mess like that, and limited time, where do you even start?

In my mad cleaning spree I happened to look up and see the clock. We had to get out the door right now if I was going to get my boys to the middle school. So I herded everyone into the car, snatched Luke out of his crib, and threw him into his car seat in his bulging night diaper. I remember thinking that I should probably change him first, but decided I didn't have time. Hind sight is 20/20, and now I see so clearly that a two minute diaper change would have changed the whole course of my morning, and saved me hours of trouble.

This morning, this very morning, was the morning that Luke figured out how to wiggle out of his car seat. On the drive to school, in the rear view mirror, I saw him bouncing around in the back. It was chaos! The kids were screaming, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. I was yelling at them to get him back into his seat. It is the first week of school, and I knew cops would be everywhere. It took me too long, and another look in the rear-view mirror to realize what the screaming was all about. Luke, in his escape form the confines of his car seat, had torn off the front of his diaper. He was trying to climb over the back of the seat, and his diaper was hanging in a flap behind him. Poop was everywhere! Not in a neat little pellet form, but the sticky, stinky kind. Bad. Bad. So very bad.

I stopped to let the kids out at the school. They squawked and moaned that they had poop on them. I thought of taking them home to clean up, but there was no time. Bad mom told them to find a bathroom. Use lots of soap. I couldn't listen to their protests, as I was out of the car, leaning into the backseat, trying to grab the naked poopy slippery little monster and wedge him back into his poopy seat. Ugh! I was digging around trying to find the wipes. No wipes. I remembered the my good husband had spend labor day cleaning out and vacuuming out the car. He must have taken out the wipes along with the 27 socks, candy wrappers, unmatched shoes, sandwich crusts, and 18 action figures. So much for a clean car.

I didn't know what else to do, so I just rolled down the window and drove home. That was a long ride. At home, I tossed Luke into the tub, then went to tackle the car, armed with disinfecting wipes and lysol. Man, what a lot of work, and so HOT even this early in the morning. It is amazing what heat does to the smell of ripe feces. I cleaned up the car as best I could, but realized that I didn't have time to take the car seat out, take it apart, clean it, and get it put back together and in the car before I had to get the twins to school. Why do they make car seats so hard to clean? Hasn't anyone thought that a toddler might make a mess in their car seat? Hello? Maybe someone needs to ask a mom about designing a car seat. I just grabbed an old towel and threw it over the mess on the car seat, then ran into the house to get a nice fresh diaper on Luke, and get the kids into the reeking car.

While I was in the garage, Luke had dumped water out of the tub all over the floor, and was now in the kitchen, naked, swinging a full open bag of cheerios around over his head- imitating a helicopter, I think. My other three boys stood frozen two feet away while cheerios rained down all around him. By the time I got to him the bag was empty...and breakfast was over.

After a quick sweep of the floor, a diaper and clothes for Luke, and a short but energetic temper tantrum (me, not the toddler), I drove the boys to school. The windows were still open as the car now had the tangy aroma of baked poop and lysol. Back at home I went to get Luke out of his seat, and found that he had adeptly yanked the poop barrier towel out from under him. Of course he had. Another bath, and another change of clothes for Luke. Suddenly it was 9 o'clock and my friend was on her way. My house was still a mess, but it smelled a lot cleaner than a hot car full of poop, so I figured it was good enough. Besides, I figured that if anyone had an excuse for a dirty house, I did.

I was exhausted. After my guest left, I spent the rest of the day on my stripped down bed, and did nothing (except for six loads of laundry, disassembling, hosing down, washing, reassembling, reinstalling a car seat, and five more trips picking up/dropping off kids.) After all, I deserved a break.

Feeding Frenzy

I can't believe I missed this when I wrote my post about our trip to Utah/Yellowstone, but I didn't want to forget this classic Caleb moment, so here goes.

When we were in Salt Lake we went to visit that time-honored establishment of our pioneer ancestors - the Chuck-a-Rama.  Now, I know that as a good parent I should have assisted my 4 year old in his food selections, guiding him to nutritious, well-balanced choices, but I was a little preoccupied with getting my timing just right so I could get the sticky buns as they came out of the oven.  Happily, Caleb was left to fend for himself.  

So as I was merrily chomping away, trying to decide which dish was most deserving of a second helping to fill that tiniest of remaining empty space in my gullet, Caleb came trotting back from the dessert bar with a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream.  I looked at his place - he already had half-eaten chocolate pudding, jello, banana  pudding, and vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.  That was it.  

"Caleb,"  I said, the good mom was kicking in - finally, "you can't have more ice cream.  You've had enough dessert."

"MOM", Caleb said looking up at me.  It was one word, but the tone translated roughly to "How dumb can you be?" the way that only Caleb can say it.  "Mom," again, for emphasis, "this is my DIN-NER," pointing to the chocolate pudding, jello, banana pudding, and vanilla ice cream with sprinkles, "and THIS," holding up the chocolate ice cream, "is my 'SERT."  He rolled his eyes, wondering why such clarification was necessary. 

I couldn't argue with that - just as long as he ate his dinner first.  I got up to get more sticky buns.

Eat My Wake, Mister!

Sometimes I am so bad, I surprise myself.

I swim most mornings. I usually go around 5:30 and am often the only one in the pool at that hour. But in the summer I take the luxury of sleeping in a bit and this morning I didn't get there until almost 7:00. There were already a couple guys using the good middle lanes, so I had to take a side lane. The guy next to me was about 40 years old, a solid swimmer, good form, nice flip turn. He was busy doing his thing. I jumped in and started my workout. I usually start with 50 laps straight of freestyle. So I was swimming along when the guy noticed that I was almost at his side and he suddenly kicked it in. He was pushing hard - not going to let me pass him. So I pushed it too and soon I was right beside him. He kept pushing hard for a few laps, straining to keep up with me. But then the wall was there, and flip, in a flash I shot out ahead of him. (I love a good flip turn!) Soon I was out of his reach. About a dozen laps later I was at his heels again. Once again I saw him punch up his pace. I kept my pace steady (you have to when your swimming distance) but made my strokes longer and stronger and within 2 laps I had passed him again. When I was on about lap 46 I caught the guy again and he, not to be outdone, pushed it HARD for the next two laps and kept up with me pretty good, but at the wall, I flipped and shot off the wall again, and he stood up. He had had it. I still had two laps to go, and was pretty tired, but even if I was on my last lap, I know I would have keep swimming until I had a good solid lead on him.

I don't know what it is, but I LOVE lapping guys in the pool. I never feel that way with women. I hardly pay any attention to what the gal swimming next to me is doing. But I HAVE TO out-swim the guys. Isn't that bad? I'm not a man-hating feninista or anything, but when a man is swimming next to me I just feel this competitive fire. (Dennis will tell you that he beat me in a race. But that was one length of a backyard pool. Come on. One hard push off the wall and you're on the other side. He's yet to take me up on my challenge for, say, 50 laps, or even 20, in a real lap pool.)

Usually the guys never say anything afterwards. They'll act cool, pretending that they always swim that fast, weren't trying very hard, and that they didn't notice me lapping them time and time again. But today it was different. This guy pulled off his goggles in disgust and watched at me as I moved myself to the now vacant other middle lane. He was not happy! He was breathing heavy, his shoulders were slumped in defeat. "Man, you swim FAST!" ( But I'm NOT a man, that's the point.)

"Thanks," I say, trying not to sound too winded.

He just shook his head, clearly upset with himself. "I just can't believe I got my pants beat off by a woman."

"Your Speedos actually," I said. OK well, I didn't really say that, but I wanted to. I really just smiled.

"How do you do it?" he asked.

"Well, I have to do something to have enough energy up to keep up with my six kids," I replied.

His jaw dropped, and then his shoulders drooped even more when he realized that he had just been blown out of the water by the mom from Brady Bunch. Poor guy.

He climbed out of the water, deflated.

"See ya tomorrow, " I said as I readjusted my goggles.

"Yah, right," he said.

Then, just for good measure, while he was drying off, I did several laps of butterfly, shoulders nice and high out of the water. (That really was next on my workout - I promise.)

Poor guy. I think I ruined his day. .. but he sure made mine!

Caleb on Being a Man

If you have never had a deep philosophical discussion with Caleb, you are really missing out. That kid loves to pontificate and is wise beyond his 4 short years.

The other day I told him to put a shirt on. He replied, "I can't. A man doesn't wear a shirt."

"What?"

He continued by explaining that one is either a human or a man. If you're a man, you're not a human, and vice-versa. (OK, so far I agree.) He went on to tell me that if you're a man you don't wear a shirt, especially when it is very cold, but when it is very hot you wear a heavy shirt. If you are a man you don't wear shoes when you walk on hot pavement and you never wear sunblock (he gets that from his father). A man gets a tall ladder and goes and sits up on his roof.

"Really?" I ask.

"Ya mom, I KNOW," as if I had before me the ultimate authority on manhood.

Then I asked a really stupid question, "Are you a man?"

"Ya-ah" (as in "du-uh.")

I asked if Luke was a man, and he looked at me as if I was completely off my rocker. "Mom, he's a BABY!" So at 2 you're a baby, but at 4, your a man. Got it.

Then I ask an ever stupider question. "Caleb, I am not wearing shoes. Am I a man?"

He just looked at me. "Mom," his eyebrows furrowed as if I had completely lost my mind, "you are NOT a man."

"Good," I said, "because I don't want to be a man."

Apparently I had spoken heresy. "What!? Mom, tell the truth!"

"It's true. I don't want to be a man."

He starts to get steamed, "Mom, no lying!"

"I'm not lying. I like being a human and a woman."

He just rolled his eyes at me as if I was ridiculously hopeless, and deep inside, he knew, I must really want to be a man. How could anyone not want to be a man?

Maybe Caleb is right, and somewhere deep down inside of me I want to be shirtless, shoeless, sitting on a hot roof with no sunblock. Naw.