LegoMania

I hope my boys remember their childhood as Mom-Let-Us-Dump-The-Legos-Out.

This isn't even all the Legos.

The Hidden Language of Parents

Thank the heavens above at least one of my children has learned to translate my coded messages. For example:

"Ignore the 5 year olds" translates to "march back into the living room and spew venom until they scream back and someone cries."

What? You didn't get that? Thank the heavens Andrew does.

Perhaps I can market him as the new Rosetta Stone.

Here's another example (just now, as I'm typing):

"Andrew, you and Jackson are to walk out there and tell the 5 year olds that everyone is sharing the 4 bajillion Legos we have or I will have to come out and put you guys in 4 separate rooms."

Translation per Andrew: "You two better stop pelting us with Skylanders or Mom is going to put you guys somewhere else."

See? Saw right through my carefully crafted linguistic disguise.

The Absolutely Hysterical FDA

So, as the story goes, I took Andrew into the doctor on a Saturday for wheezing.  It is September, after all, and in Oklahoma, that means ragweed and winds.  Add the summer drought and it means that everything is in the air for our delicate little noses to freak out about.

Side note.  I understand the purpose of allergy shots - you basically inflict your body with the things it is allergic to every week and your body finally gives up its sensitivity to said things.  I don't recall having much luck as a child with them, but bygones.  My point of contention here is that in Oklahoma?  It's like being exposed to allergens 365 days out of the year and you'd think that after 38 years of this, I'd have a great set of allergen-free sinuses.  Tis not the case, so perhaps allergy shots should be tried again.  

Additional side note.  Since my health insurance scoffs at my pleas to control my allergies and asthma (see: pre-existing conditions), this will be a true test of the so called Obamacare.  Mr. President, if you can get me allergy shots and inhalers for a decent copay and not just chuckle at me, I will salute you and your universal healthcare system.

BACK TO THE STORY. Ahem.

So I take Andrew in for his September wheezing, and the doc on call does the whole routine examination of the upper respiratory orifices, including a strep test.  Since I'm used to pediatricians checking every little thing in their efforts to reassure me that my child is indeed well or sick.  They know how to deal with moms.

Please note too that Andrew is always sick.  As in, always has a stomachache, always has a headache, sometimes his knee hurts or his elbow or sometimes it's this really weird spot and "mom, what is this right here on my arm?"  It's called a freckle, kid, now knock it off.  Point is, living with an mildly OCD and anxiety-ridden child for 9 years has taught me to pat him on the head and reassure him that he is not dying on a regular basis.  He does get the canker sores all the time, hence one of the tangible reasons he is in counseling (more on that another time).

Doctor insists on a breathing treatment and as soon as it's done, he loudly announces that Andrew has strep throat.  Well, OF COURSE he does.  We got an antibiotic (with a coupon!!!!) and inhalers and were sent on our way.

The pharmacy tried to charge me $420 for the antibiotic, to which I loudly protested "I have a coupon!!!  $25!!!"  They ran the coupon through and then came back to tell me that my insurance doesn't want to pay for the antibiotic, because it's new, and even with the coupon, it's still over $400.  I stared her down for a moment and she started giggling and said something about how she would call my insurance and see what she could do.  

Ten minutes later, I had a $25 dollar antibiotic.

Now, before we get to the photo part of this ramble, let me explain what my doctor told me years ago about strep throat.  Apparently, strep is so common that as it gets passed around and all these little kidlets go to the doctor, the strep virus supposedly mutates around the popular antibiotics.  Like good ol' amoxicillin.  Apparently, it's just not that effective anymore against strep because strep declared war and won.  Hence the use a new antibiotic.

Here's the fan-badbadword-tastic warning label from it.

Weeks to months of this side effect?  MONTHS?
 
Luckily, after 9 years of living with Andrew, I knew better than to read that aloud.  Can you imagine what an anxiety driven child would have done with that?  Might as well have cancelled 4th grade.  

Well played, strep.  Well played.

The One Where Benjamin Leaves Us

It became apparent this summer that Rachel's darling beetle was a problem child.  The air conditioning refused to work, so as temperatures climbed into the 140s (ok, 110s) she began driving my van to work.

Benjamin the Bug was sitting in our driveway.  Growing more decrepit each day.  Finally, I took him into the dealership service department to see how much it would cost to get him running and running well.  

See, we got Benjamin to be a Yukon car and really, that was its purpose.  So while it was a bit disappointing when the service department listed off the multitude of things that needed fixing, we groaned and went "thanks but no thanks."  It wasn't that we needed Benny to run, but he needed to be reliable enough to go from Yukon to Moore 5 days a week for 11 months, as Rachel attended culinary school.  It also would have been a whole other ballgame if there were lots of mechanics who worked on Volkswagons, where we could go with the lowest bidder.

The decision was made to sell the bug.  But how much?  Would anyone buy it?  Should we just give it to salvage?  Donate it to a tech school?  After 2 weeks of listening to a couple people (ahem, Kevin) say that they would make phone calls, I finally decided to put an ad on Craigslist.  

Read below.  

I have a 2001 VW Beetle in my driveway that needs to get gone. We bought the car 2+ years ago so that my daughter could run my errands for me, including hauling her brothers around, thus leaving me time to watch more reality tv and eat chocolate covered cream puffs. Unfortunately now, she needs a real car that can drive distances, like to college and stuff wherein the goal is to improve her future immensely. And this VW does not share her future plans. By the way, it's name is Benjamin and he is a boy beetle. At one time though, he had pastel polka dot vinyls all over him so Benjamin can pass as a Bernadette if you feel so inclined.

It was cyber green, but 11+ years on this planet have faded it to, well, a faded green. Not to mention the built up grime that probably a good scrubbing could eliminate, but since I'm not driving the car, I'm not scrubbing it.

It has over 120K miles on it, and I would tell you the exact number but the engine has to at least pretend to start so the dashboard will tell me the mileage. And apparently that's not happening.

Benjamin's medical records are at Cable Volkswagon, a place filled with very nice people but very expensive labor and parts. Thus, the reason for selling the car - I took it in to see what it would cost to make Benjamin run long college distances. I think it was something around $1500 or so (dealership prices) and I politely said no. I left Cable in the beetle and it promptly died a block away from the dealership service department.

I'm sure Benjamin's not DEAD dead. Just in a coma.

Things I Am Disclosing About The Beetle:
* front fender is off, due to an unfortunate roll into a ditch. But the fender is in my garage!
* Driver's light lens is off
* O2 sensor "needs to be replaced" (so says Cable, but everyone else says no)
* a hole in the AC compressor
* the bar that holds up the radiator is bent and should probably be replaced
* it burns oil up, not leaks it, but we pour oil into it on a regular basis
* Tires are bald and no spare anymore (because the spare is on the driver's rear....it was a full size spare!)
* Hubcap missing, but may be in my garage
* Rotors and brake pads need replacing
* Passenger handle on inside is ripped off (apparently a fairly common thing for new beetles)
* various interior fabric stains and tears
* Driver's seat cannot be adjusted (well it can, but you have to wedge the stick in so it won't move)
* Sunroof works (yay!)
* doesn't like to go over 45mph (perhaps another sensor thing Cable told me was wrong with it)
* Doesn't run (remember the coma)

I don't want to give the thing away for free but perhaps there's a dashing young man would would like to practice his skills of New Beetle Mechanics. Or a woman. I'm all over equal opportunity here for selling this darling piece of steel. So take 5 minutes to mull this over and then shoot me an email saying that yes, you'd be delighted to pay me to take this darling piece of steel from my driveway.

Thanks for reading my ad here.

Just for the record, there may or may not have been a glass or three of wine involved when I wrote the ad.  Nice, huh?

Within 2 hours, I had 4 emails requesting to know more about Benjamin.  One response was "Great ad.  If I give you $700 in cash today and haul it off tomorrow, would you take it?"  

I agreed.  I mean, come on.  I had written a pretty darn good ad and it was nice that he recognized that.

Turns out they are just a couple of guys who like to tinker with European cars and get them back to running.  They are car flippers, if you will.  

And now Rachel's bawling her eyes out because her presshhuss Benjamin is moving on without her tomorrow.  I thought she'd be happy that Benjamin's not going to the salvage yard (Toy Story 3, anyone?).  I think she is but she's in mourning right now.

I tried to cheer her up by saying "You know, I was so sad when I had to get rid of my little blue Nissan Pulsar NX.  I loved that car.  Would have kept it forever except your darn carseat wouldn't fit in the back of it.  So really, your situation is much better than mine was."

I am not only a literary genius in car salesmanship, I am also the pinnacle of comfort and understanding. 

My Baby Gets His First Girlfriend

Here is the conversation from this afternoon:

Paul:  "Mawm, there's a girl named Sophia in my class and I am her girlfriend."

Me:  "You mean, she is YOUR girlfriend?"

Paul:  "Yeah.  She is my girlfriend."

Me:  "Does she know this?"  Because we girls are fairly clueless sometimes.  Not.

Paul:  "Yes."

Me:  "How does she know this?  How do you know she is your girlfriend?  Did you walk up to her and ask her to be your girlfriend?"

Paul:  "Yes. I mean, no.  No."

Me:  "Then how do you know she's your girlfriend?"

Paul:  "Because Cooper and I raced to see who got her as a girlfriend.  And I won."

Me: (laughing my hiney off) "So did Sophia watch this race?"

Paul: "Yes."

Me:  "And was she happy that you won?"

Paul:  "I don't know.  But I was happy that I won!"

And this marks the end of the first conversation with my youngest kid about his first girlfriend.  And his first competition to see who could win the girl.  It seems a bit early to start on the "girls are NOT property or trophies that you win, son."  Or, "do you even care what SHE thinks?"  Because chances are, Sophia does not care right now.  

So let's do a summary of my children's first "significant others."  Rachel was paid two dollars by Michael Schwarz in first grade to be his girlfriend - they got married on the playground later that year.  Andrew declared his love for Melissa in PreK and held steadfast through the end of Kindergarten....remember, he was the one who said when he married Melissa that they would sleep on our floor until we died and then they could have our bed.  

So there you have it. 

Boy Peer Pressure

Boy peer pressure is not like girl peer pressure. Girls submit to peer pressure to conform while boys (so far in my 9 year experience with raising a boy) turn that same peer pressure into showing off or being cool.

Boys adore bigger boys. If they can accomplish something a bigger boy can do, they are on top of the world. And if said bigger boy acknowledges them, well...it is out of this world.

Boy peer pressure. Not intentional. But still very much there.

Which explains why yesterday my son jumped off the high dive for the first time. No one asked him too. No one dared him. It was an impulsive thing that I credit to the fact he was with another boy and more boys were due to arrive (Cub Scouts).

And lo and behold, not 10 minutes later, the other boy did it, much to the gaping of his mom.

Maybe it is conformity but it's definitely different from girl pressure.

Summer of the Pool

We inherited an above ground pool at the end of last summer when Uncle Dan and Aunt Ashley decided to flee the state (or relocate for a job...same difference).

And so we are first time "pool owners," which translates roughly to You Don't Know Sh!t About Pools So Plan On Flooding The Yard Several Times As You Drain And Refill The Pool In Your Crappy Attempt To Maintain Crystal Clear Water.

Ahem.

The pool however has served a unseen purpose of The Universe, which was to unite these two brothers in a summer o' fun. Specifically, Andrew has unintentionally learned how to PLAY with his brother and accepted that his brother can, in fact, be a terrifically fun playmate.

It's not sunshine and rainbows all the time, but a half hour here, half hour there...I will take it!

Summer Snippit

This is summer. Just laying on the grass playing with your McDonalds toy from days gone by while Mom stops reading long enough to snap a pic.

Where is the other one? Across the street with the newest neighbor kids, examining their stash of toys.

The Barber Shop Incident

I don't remember if I've written this story down but it's worth retelling. It's one of Kevin and I's finer moments as adults.

Andrew, like most boys, has an obnoxious cowlick. He was also fairly obnoxious at the hair cutting place so Kevin and I finally started doing it ourselves when he was 2. It wasn't worth the pain of having someone else do it. We did pretty good when you consider it was a burr cut.

Anyway, Andy and I had begun spending the carpool waiting period at Rachel's school playing with another mom and her 2 year old - Andrew was 2 as well. She and I were conversing one day about hair cuts and the torture and she said she had a great barber named Kenny who was so great with her boy. I asked where Kenny worked. She told me; I recognized the shopping center and figured we'd give it a try.

So Saturday morning, Kevin and I hauled Andy over to the shopping center. We yanked open the door and bustled in.

To a total upscale black salon. It never occurred to me that Carpool Friend was black.

People stared at us. Seriously, the shop almost came to a stop and looked at the caucasians infiltrating.

Kevin recovered first and asked if Kenny was working. With straight faces, they directed us to the back.

Of course Kenny was in the back. We made our way to the back, and I made the introductions and dropped the carpool name so he didn't think we were weird or anything.

Because THAT would have been the odd part - not having a connection to Kenny the Barber.

Kenny had a customer and thought he'd be done in about an hour. We said we'd go hang out in the shopping center and we made our way out. Through the entire salon. Of straight faces. And near silence.

Out of sight of the salon, I turned to Kevin and we both started laughing. I asked what we should do and Kevin said "well, we've already gone in there. Might as well come back or we're going to look like bad people"

Because our concern was that these nice upscale salon people might recognize us somewhere and call us on prejudice or something. And we didn't want to look stupid.

So an hour later we made our way back in to Kenny. He plopped Andy up in the seat and started messing with Andy's hair. And then out of nowhere, totally ruining our suave appearance, I blurt out "so I bet you don't get much blond hair on the floor much, huh?"

Kenny laughed and shook his head. "Nope, this is a first." The ice was broken and we all made polite conversation for the rest of the rest of the haircut.

It was a good haircut. And we never went back. And I'm certain we are still fodder for good entertainment in the salon.

"Let me tell you about the time these white people just stumbled in here..."

Ninjas are Deadly and Silent

"Ninjas are deadly and silent. They are also unspeakably violent..." From a group called Bare Naked Ladies who made a kid record.

Anyway, Paul NEEDED a ninja mask this morning. Right now. I guess we are under attack.


Darling boy doesn't believe that ninjas are silent killers. So I have a boy in a ninja mask creeping around the house letting out a blood curdling "Ah ha!!!"