Hoarder Schmoarder PEZuhroarder

My dad is a hoarder collector.  A self-proclaimed one, I might add. 
Kirk's parents are hoarders collectors.  Self-proclaimed, as well.

So it's really no wonder that we all come by it honestly. 

My sister is a hoarder collector, though she argues it's "not the same" as Jim-Dad's.  I'm a hoarder collector.  I don't really mind getting rid of stuff, but I despise the process it requires.  Organizing closets and going through this and that equals Texas-size headache to me, so I'd just rather not do it...thus hoards of stuff collections occur.  Kirk's a hoarder collector.  His reasoning is that you never know when you might need something or other.  And then there are the children.  All hoarders collectors.

But, perhaps the biggest hoarder collector we have in the family is Keaton.  The kid has a collection of collections.  He keeps papers and paperclips and bottle caps and the teensy syrup bottles from Cracker Barrel that come with his pancakes.  He has shells and rocks and leaves and pen caps and spiral notebooks and empty bullet casings and parts and pieces of anything and everything that he deems interesting enough to keep. 

As a result, when Keaton decides he's going to start a new collection, my reaction is usually, "Uh-huh, that's cool..." because the kid usually doesn't stick with something long before he's off to the next most interesting thing in the world. 

So it was when he decided he was going to start a Pez Dispenser collection. 

I smiled and nodded and said, "Uh-huh, that's cool..." and went on about my business.  I had no idea what would transpire over the next year.

It all started last February-ish.  The Pez Dispenser collection.  It started with a couple of Pez Dispensers he picked up at WalMart just because he thought they looked cool, and he had a couple of dollars burning a hole in his pocket.

Then he decided to gOOgle Pez Dispensers.

Which led to his eBay addiction discovery.

Long story short, since last February, Keaton's collection has grown to 195 dispensers (I know, because we count them often *wink*).  Some have been bought with piggy bank quarters, some have been worked for, some have been eBay finds, and a lot of them have been gifts. 

And so far, he's still loving the collection.  And as far as his dad and I are concerned, he's going to KEEP ON loving that collection.  Because we know how much has been invested in those crazy plastic candy machines.

Today, Keaton decided to get out his big bin of dispensers and ORGANIZE them, one of his most favorite activities.  And since I didn't have anything going, I decided to spend the day with him.  I let him tell me all about his favorite ones.  About the worth of this one and that one.  I watched him dust all of them and carefully place them away in their special boxes and bins with an organizational strategy that only a ten year old could come up with.  I even helped him make a spreadsheet that wasn't written in Childese, so that we could start keeping track of what he has and what he doesn't. 

It was fun.
But my favorite part was seeing him so excited about these things that he cherishes so dearly.





See the box of candy?  Yep..he doesn't eat it.  He hoards collects it, too....

Oh, how that boy makes me smile....

All for the love of Pez.... 

Smarts, Tresses, and a Big Case of the Upchucks

It's Trick or Treat day for us.

The day that I always dread, and then when it comes down to it, I get all kinds of excited because the kids are just so darn cute.

And in the days leading up to, I have especially been dreading this particular Halloween. 

And then the boys got their costumes.

And now I'm excited.

Because Keaton is going as this guy.....

He thought of it all on his own, and when he found the wig, he said, "Mom!  I can be one of my idols!"
Thrill this mama's heart.

Sawyer is channeling this dude.....

Well, not this guy in particular....he's just the feller on the package of the mullet wig.  He's actually more-so channeling our lovely neighbors.... *wink*

Awesome. 

Only thing that worries me is that since we bought him his package of wife beaters last night, he has announced that they are his new favorite shirts.

I'm all about getting into character...but really?

And then there's Tate....

Who right at this minute is doing this....

Bless his baby heart, he started throwing up in the middle of the night, and he can't seem to quit. 

And he switches between periods of looking absolutely pitiful to periods of looking even more pitiful because he's crying about not getting to trick or treat tonight and wear all of this stuff.....

My sweet Marshal of Dodge City is out of commission.  And I'm so so very sad for him.

So...I've come up with a plan....and I'm only telling you all my plan so that you stay clear tonight if you see us....

If he can stop puking by 1:00, I'm taking him tonight to trick or treat.  We'll keep our bandanna up over our face and he'll wear his way cool chaps and marshal badge.  And then we'll come home.  

Because I CANNOT say no to this face...

....when he says, "All I wanted to do was dwess up and be a cowboy fo twick or tweeting."

You got it kid.  Stomach virus or no.

***NOTE:  I really am one of those moms that is considerate of the health of others around me.  I promise if you see us out tonight, we will not breathe on you, touch you, or even look in your direction.  Scout's honor.

Randomness....

Ancient China has been our topic of study this week in school, and my lesson plan suggested that we make our own Chinese food at home.  I gave myself quite a bruise when I fell out of my chair laughing at even the mere thought of that ever.happening.  So, I did what any other resourceful teacher would do.  I loaded the children up and took them to a Chinese Buffet.  And we dove into the culture headfirst....  Well, actually, the boys only ate fried shrimp, jello, and ice cream...but still.  It was the fact that I didn't have to cook a meal at home the educational experience that matters.  I did, however, come out with a fortune that filled me with a bit of anticipation....

All I found when I came home though were 14 loads of laundry that need to be washed.

Some fortune.

~~~~~~~~~~

We journeyed into the wide world of tackle football this fall.  Sawyer was so excited to play, and though I had my reservations at first about sending my 8 year old out to be pummeled, I soon realized that at this age, tackle football is more of an exercise in bear-hugging.  Not so much with the hard tackles.

Our little team wasn't the best, but they had an amazing set of coaches, and the boys learned a lot about the fundamentals of the game.

Plus...they're just cute.

~~~~~~~~~~

The principal and I have decided to move to a year-round schedule for school.  Right now it sounds absolutely fabulous that we have several little 2 week breaks scheduled in to our school year.  Love the idea of that.  I probably will be rethinking my decision come July and we're still doing fractions. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Our town has this fun festival coming up to celebrate a not-so-much friendly rivalry between the two colleges in our town.  The football game between the two is this Saturday, so the festival is including some fun activities for the kids who are supposed to come all dressed up in their Halloween costumes.  Um...our costumes are still MIA.  And it's Wednesday.  And the festival thing is Friday.  Just call me the Queen of Preparation.

~~~~~~~~~~

I've been debating about posting this picture, but I've just decided that I can't not.  It's just too good to keep to myself.  Brace yourself...this might just be the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.....

Yep.

It's totally for real.

My favorite is the slide coming off of the back deck.  Totally resourceful.

And since this picture was taken, the good people who inhabit this funland have added an upholstered couch and chair to their roof.

Yes.  I said roof.

I.Love.My.Neighbors.

There's Manna in Numbers

EIGHT -- the number on the clock that the little hand points to when I'm sitting at the soccer field on a Saturday morning.  On a Saturday morning.  Wait...did you hear me?  On a Saturday morning.  Whoever had that brainchild must be one of those weird morning people, and they probably do other stuff before the roosters like eat dinner...or...laundry.

ONE -- the number of tattoos that my cherub-faced stinker installed on himself while I wasn't looking.  Our family is all about some ink, but choosing to mimic thugists...not so much.  And I'll show you the picture...as long as you promise not to say, "Aw...he's so cute."  Because, y'all...he put the stinkin' thing on his neck.  The thing that holds his head on.  Which he obviously wasn't using when he inked himself.

SEVEN -- the number of nights that I've slept with the windows open.  Keep in mind that 3 of those nights were with the husband 239,382,392,823 miles away....and the beauty of sleeping chilled to the bone in the crisp fall air beat out the fear of the BoogieMan.  That's some amazing fall air, I tell ya.

EIGHT -- the number of months that it took our walls to get all dinged up from one too many hallway soccer games and swashbuckling pirate attacks.  We remodeled in February.  Today, I spent the afternoon repainting what we just painted.  

NEVER  -- the time in which the husband and I will finally be able to have nice things (and walls that don't get dinged up).  Dadgum boys.

SEVENTY-THREE -- the number of minutes that the offspring member of the red headed persuasion stared at his language book the other day.   He had to write four sentences about what he did this summer.  That's it.  Four.  And you would have thought that I asked him to translate the Gilgamesh epic into Latin.  On minute seventy-four, he caved.  Score = Mom: 1, Kid: goose egg.

FORTY-ONE  --  the number of Pez Dispensers in the oldest rascal's collection.  He wants to make sure that I clarify that the forty-one does include one giant talking Yoda Pez Dispenser and a box set of 8 Star Trek members, which leaves 32 individual Pez Dispensers.  You think I'm kidding.  I'm so not kidding.  I'm also not kidding about the Excel spreadsheet that is worked up on these said 41 Pez Dispensers.  Because we're wild and crazy like that....

SIXTEEN -- the number of days that I've eaten nothing but junk.  With the husband in and out of the country and baseball/football/soccer seven nights/afternoon a week, I've been ingesting mad amounts of fast food and frozen-food aisle edibles.  My innards screamed out for vegetables the other day, and I managed to wolf down a can of cold mixed veggies before heading out to the ballfield.  Go ahead...judge.  I'm sixteen steps ahead of you. 

TWENTY-FOUR -- the number of Words With Friends games that I have going on right now.  Because I have an infinitesimal amount of spare time on my hands.  What?  I'm not playing with you?  My user name is RascalRaiserAmb.  C'mon..you know you want to feed my Scrabbalized habit.

ONE -- the number of precious husbands that I have.  It looks strange to me that I just wrote the word "husbands"...plural.  Speaking of plural...have you seen that new TLC show, "Sister Wives"??  Bizarro.  I'll keep my one man all to my self, thank you very kindly. 

ENDLESS -- the amount of blessings that I feel and have felt from the onslaught of prayers, support, and love showered on us by our friends and family.  We've had some issues that have sneaked their way into the crevices of our lives and have pitched tents in some very uncertain deserts and valleys.  We've dealt with confusion, misunderstanding, and the unknown.  And yet, we remain remarkably at peace.  Because prayer is manna in the desert.  Support is manna.  A "just checking on ya" email is manna.  A facebooked "how ya doing?" is manna. 

And manna is FOREVER, friends.

In Which I Call You "Abby".....

Dear Abby,

I write today to implore you for help.  Maybe not so much help, but some possible creative solutions.  I'm reaching my wits' end, and, frankly, the ingenious corners of my mind are closed for business. 

You see, I am struggling.

Because I've just come to the determination that parenting is hard, and I really don't like it much right now.  It's all unicorns and rainbows when the precious sounds of my offspring giggling resonate through the house, but it pretty much just plain sucks when it comes time to deal with all this complicated mess.

Here's a little background:  I'm the mom of 3 fine and delightful male specimens.  All precious in their own right, but so incredibly different.  My oldest is creative and uberly-smart and sensitive and is drawn to all things nerdy and geek-related.  My youngest has the face of a Gerber baby and could melt Mt. Everest with one bat of his eye and one spoken word.  And my middlest is our athlete and holds semi-rockstar status for reasons that I still haven't quite grasped. 

Sounds like a fantastic melting pot of personality and talents, no? 

Oh, for sure.  It has been.

Until now.

Because now we're entering the phases of childhood where the blinders come off, and jealousy and sensitivity rear their nasty heads.  And to be honest with you, I have no earthly idea what I'm doing trying to manage it.

The oldest of our male species is especially having a hard time right now.  He's 10 and super-intuitive, and it isn't rocket science for him to figure out that his little brothers are rockin' the casbah right now.  Sports are a big deal in our home, and all the boys are actively involved in several organized teams, but the oldest one just can't seem to find his own way away from his rockstar brother and his way-too-cute-for-his-own-good brother.  People can be so cruel without meaning to be, by continuously doting on one brother all while hanging the other brother out to dry.  And it's hard as a parent to not be able to assure one of your children that is being hurt by it that it will get better.

Here's the deal, Abby.  I know what the right thing to do is.  It's to let him find his own way.  Find his own niche.  Eliminate as much competition as possible between the brothers, even though we're not purposefully breeding it at home.  I know that the right thing to do is to dote on his accomplishments and achievements and to treat each of our children as individuals, never comparing them or asking them to compete against eachother for any reason.

But, realistically, we live in a small town.  The opportunities aren't endless.  We live in a town where everyone knows eachother, and reputations are what seem to carry a person, however wrong that might seem to be.  Finding one's way is hard to do anyway here, let alone trying to claw one's way out of another's shadow.

So, my question is this:  Any advice or creative ideas in helping a youngster find his own way away, but respectfully so, from his little brother? 

I'm not looking for a sermon, because I preach to myself enough daily, but something tangible that really could help jumpstart some self-esteem in an already hormonal prepubescent.

Much thanks.

Signed,
About To Flush My Parenting Card Down the Toilet  

Turning Ten....

One of my most favorite people turned 10 yesterday.

10.  Oy.  That just makes my mama's heart ache all over.  Sounds so cliche but it really does seem just like yesterday when the husband and I were stumbling through the waters of new parenthood together.  Crazy how time flies.

Enough of the Hallmark sentiment....

Let's get on with the agenda for the day:

1)  Revenue Office.  It is possible that I have been driving around for a month with expired car tags, but if you ask me about it I will deny it.  I will tell you that the only reason that I stopped in the Revenue Office yesterday morning was to visit with the ever-so-friendly ladies that work in there.

2)  Collected a gaggle of peeps to come with us.  Praise Florida, I had reinforcements.  I am forever indebted to Jen for taking on that crazy crew with me.  Oy.

3)  Chic-Fil-A.  Where I was "My pleasure"-ed twice.  Love it.

4)  Tour of Various Parking Lots and Parking Garages in the Downtown Little Rock Area.  Where we realized that the real entertainment for the children was in a parking garage.  Why did I even plan anything else for the day?

5)  Museum of Discovery.  For the love of our now 10 year old science nerd. 

Inside Alice and Wonderland's hall of doors. 

I'm sure they're learning something smarty here.  Just looked like a fancy version of air hockey to me.

Again...I'm sure it's smarty and that they learned some great piece of physics.  Just looked like a carnival game to me. 

Keaton did trap Ms. Jennifer in the dentist chair though.  That's always good clean fun.

After exhausting every exhibit of its funness, we raided the gift shop.  And we walked away with the most expensive crap some fabulous souvenirs.

6)  4Square.  Where I consumed the most delicious fragment of milkshake heaven I've ever indulged in.  Where I also forgot to take pictures, because I was experiencing Mint Chocolate Chip nirvana.

7)  Back to the Parking Garage.  Squeal.

8)  Shopping.  For the maintenance of sanity for the adults trapped in the moving vehicle with the little people.  At least that was the plan.  Turns out that the shopping with the little people was the source of my still-hanging-on-Alaskan-sized headache. 

9)  The depositing of the gaggle of gigglers back to their respective homeplaces. 

10)  Home.  Phew.

11)  Birthday Dinner.  Keaton had requested rabbit, deer meat, and mashed potatoes for his special supper, and his father gladly obliged.  Me?  I just ate the taters.  I don't do Bugs Bunny or Bambi.  At least we had homemade ice cream for dessert.  Now that I can handle.

Um...yum? 

12)  Keaton's big present is coming on a slow-boat from China.  Literally.  We ordered his new iPod Touch a couple of days ago, and it is taking it's precious time to make it's way over the Pacific Ocean.  We felt bad that he didn't have anything to open on his birthday, so the husband hooked him up with this...

Keaton was so excited that it was being released on his birthday, so he was beyond ecstatic when he opened up last night.  I love little surprises like that!

13)  A family viewing of Diary of a Wimpy Kid.  It was a cute movie.  What was cuter was listening to Keaton giggle throughout the whole thing. 

14)  Bed.  Falling into -- to be more specific. 

Despite my headache and the keeping up with the masses, it was a really fun day.  It was great to celebrate a really great kid and give him the things that make him smile.  

Last night as I was tucking Keaton into bed, he hugged me and said, "Mom, this was my best birthday ever.  Thanks a bunch."

Swoon.

Makes every second worth it.

Happy Birthday, Keaton!!! 

Keaton and I on BIRTHday.  August 3, 2000.

6 weeks old

2010

My, how time flies.

Why We Do What We Do.....

I totally get that some people don't get us.

I really really do.

People don't understand the need for a batting cage.  And the hundreds of dollars spent on equipment.  And the endless hours that are sacrificed at a ballpark.  They don't understand how we can call concession stand nachos "dinner."  And the inconveniences in schedules.  And the sacrifices made on almost every level.

I think to get IT, you have to get BASEBALL.

Or maybe you just have to have one of these:

And then you, too, will turn your life upside-down.  Because the joy in those eyes....it's just worth it.

~~~~~~~~

Sawyer's All-Star team is in the throws of District Tournament.  We're fighting our way to the Championship game, so that we can head to the State Tournament as champions. 

So far.....Undefeated!!! 

But at the end of the day, it really doesn't matter if we win or lose.  It's the love of the game.

And for that...we'll do it all over again.  A million times over.

Tate On Baseball.....

Hey, Tate, what's your favorite thing to do?

Play baseball. 

How do you play baseball?

To bat or glove?

We'll say bat.  How do you bat?

Well, when you swing, you gotta step, um, into it, like your foot, over 4 inches of homeplate, because you are 8 of homeplate. And when you swing, you got to step into it.  And when your hands are right here, you just stay there and you can hit it if you step into it.

Wow.  That sounds intense.  What about using your glove?

If you really want to catch it good, you put your hand on the back of your glove so you can really squeeze it. To throw it, um, if you catch it when they, um, hit a line drive, then put your hand there and you can squeeze it.  To catch a grounder, then do the same thing just put your glove on the ground.  Even you can do that, Mom.

Sounds like you know a lot about baseball.

Yep, I do.  Well, there's still some more if you want to know some more.

Well, tell me...

If you're catcher, you stand on your feet like this and stand 12 feet away from the bag.  And you put your glove right by your face and your other hand back away.  And you catch it if the batter strikes out.  Then you need to throw it back to pitcher.

Wow. 12 feet?

Well, maybe 13.
I don't really know a lot about shortstop, so I can't teach you that.  But, I, um, I think you just squish your knees down to catch it.

Can you tell me why batters use batting gloves?

You don't really need 'em. You only need them for a wooden bat so you won't get splinters.  I just wear 'em to look cool.

You are pretty cool, Tate.  So who's your favorite team?

I have two.  The Yankees and the Cardinals.

Tate, do you love baseball? 

Oh, yes.

So who is going to win your game tonight?

Us, of course. 

What do you think the score will be?

18 to 2.

I hope you play well tonight.

Oh, don't worry.  I will.

Humble much? 

A Story. About Scissors.

Once upon a time there lived a family.  There was a father, a mother, and three sons.  Though everyone in the family loved each other very much, they had an uncontrollable desire to irritate the ever-lovin' fire out of one another.

On one particular rainy day, the mother of the family was working on a very last minute project.  For the project, she needed her good sewing scissors.  The scissors being the ones that are placed in the mother's equivalent to Ft. Knox to keep them safe.  For the mother knows that if she were to leave her good sewing scissors within reach of her family, then they would inevitably be used for everything from opening packets of beef jerky to giving the family cat a haircut.  And this would make the mother want to scream at the top of her lungs and make unrecognizable noises.

So as the mother walked to Ft. Knox to retrieve her safely kept sewing shears, a funny feeling began to gurgle in her stomach.

What's this?  Surely the scissors are safe and sound.

The mother proceeds with extreme caution.  Surely her feelings are wrong.  Her beloved scissors with their pristine blades and sharp tips are most certainly going to be waiting for her. 

But, alas, as the mother opens up the cabinet and takes out the drawer which holds the majestic pair of cutivity, her heart sinks.  Then begins to pound wildly.  Where, oh, where, are the scissors?  No one knew of the sacred hiding spot but her.  Who could have done this?  Surely the scissors of such valued snippery were involved in some kind of cutlery rapture.  Anything but what she knew was horrifyingly a more likely possibility.

The mother turned slowly from the cabinet and drew in a deep breath.  With the breath, horns sprouted and fangs grew.  The healthy hue of her skin turned to a putrid shade of green, and steam became to vomit from both her ears.

The three sons who were presumably involved so innocently in a round of video games must have heard the stampede of terror that was heading straight for them.  Their faces turned to see their gargoyle of a mother figure forming words with her mouth, but because of her level of angst, no sound was made.  All three sons instantly threw up their hands in an "I surrender" position and then immediately ducked and covered. 

The mother began to regain composure as she questioned her offspring about the missing jewels of the clipper crown.  And though she hoped for a straight answer as to who had done what with the one thing that had, up until this time, remained sacred in her overrun-with-testosterone home, all she was met with were shoulders shoved up into earlobes and dazed over gazes.

The mother walked away to count to 3253 when she stumbled across something.  Something that made sheer panic squirm through every inch of vein. 

For there, on the table, were the scissors.  Those blessed slicers of wonder.  Covered.  In a hearty coat of tacky glue.

And 3 innocent faces claiming absolutely no idea of how such a blasphemous ordeal could have happened.

Oy.

Once upon a time there lived a family.

The living happily ever after part has yet to be determined.

Things I Don't Understand

1.  Splinters.  I do not understand splinters.  Well, I guess I understand splinters, but I do not understand why my offspring would rather walk around with a 2x4 in their foot than just letting me dig around and pry the sucker out with my ultra dull tweezers get it out.  I also do not understand why the Feds didn't show up at my house 20 minutes ago when they heard the deafening screams of my child as I sat on him and performed minor surgery.  If I was a Fed, I would've showed up.  For sure.

2.  People Who Spend More On Outfitting Their Child For Baseball Than On Their Mortgage.   All of our boys play baseball.  It's in their blood.  I'm pretty sure if you look hard enough you can see their body parts seamed together with tough red stitching.  And that's all well and fine.  Because I'm the first to admit that I'm all about some baseball and some fence-climbing cheering calmly from the sidelines.  But I'm super proud to admit that we are not some of those baseball parents.  Sawyer played in a tournament yesterday with his little traveling team, and we looked like the Bad News Bears out there.  While our little hand-me-down uniforms stayed half-untucked and our cleats stayed untied, the other teams there sported their F.A.I.N.C.Y. spun-with-gold-by-the-Dalai-Lama-himself uniforms, matching team bat bags, and matchy glittery personalized batting helmets.  Oy.Vey.  I'll take scrappy and grass-stained, thank you very much.

3.  Personal Trainers.  I guess I shouldn't hold Jennie-From-Hades-the-Trainer responsible.  I, after all, am paying her the husband's hard-earned cash to practice medieval torture methods on me, but I don't understand why she has to be so serious.  Like when she said, "No eating out for 3 weeks.  Just order water."  Whahuh?  Water?  Holy Roman Hydrogen, Batman, this is going to be a long month.

4.  The Husband.  He has an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon tomorrow.  For a surgery consultation on his knee.  SURGERY.  Did you hear me?  Let me repeat, because evidently the concept is hard to understand...at least for the husband....SURGERY.  But yet, he felt compelled to sign up for the church softball team when they called a couple of nights ago.  Makes perfect sense to me.  Go out with a bang, I guess.  Literally.

5.  Boys Who Want Mohawks.  Yep. I'm still skirting around that one.  As of right now, Sawyer still has a head full of hair.  And for those of you who asked:  No, Puck from GLEE's hair is not okay. 

That's All.

Boys Are Going To Be the Death of Me

Sawyer wants a mohawk.

No. Really.  I'm serious.  A for real mohawk.  Not a faux-hawk.  Or a spiky something-or-other that we can pretend is a mohawk.  Um...no....he's thinking Mr. T worthy.

And his dingity dangity daddy thought it would be hysterical to tell him he could have one just to torture me.

A mohawk?  Really?

And when begged to change his mind and asked why in the world would he want to make his mother so crazy? 

"Because Dusty gots one."

Well, Dusty's mama is way cooler than me.  Obviously.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My precious soon-to-be-sporting-a-hawk son also has become the catcher for his traveling/tournament baseball team. 

He loves it.  Even though it gives me a heart attack every time I see the ball whizzing at his precious face.  But I'm coping.

He has discovered a new piece of "equipment" that he is especially proud of.  And is very quick to discuss with anyone who will listen.

New glove?  Nope.
Helmet?  Nuh-uh.
Pads?  Oh no.  Too easy.

Sawyer has a new found fascination with this:

Awesome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So if you're out and about and need to find Sawyer, just look for the red-headed kid sporting a mohawk and waving his jock strap. 

That's my boy.

The Post In Which I Sound Morbidly Depressed, But Really I'm Perfectly Fine

1.  I hate basketball.  I don't even like to watch my own children play basketball, let alone a bunch of smelly sweaty young twenty-somethings that I don't know and who hog my television time.  I actually think that I might be a basketball bigot of sorts.  Because I have no problem when other sporting events finagle their way into my PrimeTime viewing slots...but basketball?  Well, March Madness takes me to my mad ugly place.

2.  But, because I do enjoy Cinderella stories and because I don't live under a rock, I'll say GO BUTLER!
But I'm still not happy about it.

3.  I haven't done our taxes yet.  I'm thinking I should probably get right on that.  But the only consolation I have to my heavy-duty procrastination is that Kirk and I will just be spending our refund check while the rest of you folks have already kissed yours goodbye. 

4.  Nope.  Nevermind.  Not much of a consolation.  Because I still have to do them and you're already finished.  Blech.

5.  I slipped the gym my sanity as I slipped them a check for the Boot Camp that starts this evening.  Now I'm wondering why exactly I felt like it was a good idea for me to actually pay money for two trainers to stand over me and inform me of what I already know:  "You can't do a push-up."  "You can't do a sit-up."  "You can't run worth a flip." 

6.  I'm terrified of #5.  Like going to puke in the middle of the field terrified.  Good times.

7.  Last night our family watched Discovery's new series Life.  Have you seen it?  Aside from all the typical "the world's been around for 345,675,934,205,175,485 years" and "we all come from plankton" snippets, the show is actually very very good.  Although I am rethinking letting the boys watch it or any other Discovery/Animal Planet show ever ever again.  My whole outlook on those shows changed last night when I was asked what "sperm" was.  Disney Channel anyone?

8.  Rascal Academy declared today an extension of our Spring Break because the head teacher was suffering from a fever.  And the only cure for Spring Fever is a picnic/playdate at the park.  (It's in our school handbook...scout's honor.) 

9.  While out at the park, I as a very forward thinking woman and mother we dabbled in political correctness and tolerance.  The boys were playing around on the play-set and I heard, "Hey, Gay-man, come here."  Say, what?  "Hey, Gay-man!"  My ears doth deceiveth me.  What did he say?  "Hey, Gay-man, come here."  Oh, dear.  Time for an intervention.  So I march over to the play-set and call the culprit down.  "Please don't call your brother that.  It isn't a name that we are going to call people."   "Why?  What's wrong with GaME-man, Mom?" 

10.  Note to self:  Work on enunciation of the letter M.

That's all.

Feeding the Fellas

This morning I made scrambled eggs for the family.  I used an entire carton of 18 eggs.  18 eggs!

I make 3 boxes of Hamburger Helper at a time.  And there aren't leftovers.

Spaghetti takes 3 lbs. of ground beef and one of those Minnesota sized boxes of noodles.

A whole box of cereal...gone in a day.

A bag of chips or tube of Pringles?  Gone with one lunch.

Grilled cheese sandwiches for the family take one loaf of bread and an entire package of 24 slice cheese.

3 gallons of milk sit in my refrigerator at all times.

A box of fruit snacks?  Fuhgetaboudit.  Gone in an hour.

One box of fishsticks...doesn't make it past one meal.  Sometimes have to bust open a second box.  You think I'm kidding.

Entire box of pancake mix for one breakfast.  Add an entire bottle of syrup.

Seriously?

And the oldest one only weighs 70 pounds. 

Heaven help us when we have an 18 year old, a 16 year old, and a 14 year old in the house.  My checkbook is already nervous.

Eight Rascally Years With Sawyer

It's you I like

It's not the things you wear,

It's not the way you do your hair,

But it's you I like.

The way you are right now,

The way down deep inside you,

Not the things that hide you

Not your toys -- they're just beside you.

But it's you I like.

Every part of you --

Your skin, your eyes, your feelings

Whether old or new.

I hope that you'll remember

Even when you're feeling blue

That it's you I like, it's you,

It's you.  It's you I like.

-- Mr. Fred Rogers --

Happy 8th Birthday, SawDog.

Our lives wouldn't be the same without you.