Christmas time

The holiday season has become so much more interesting, now that the boys are older.  They still aren't completely greedy about gifts... yet.  Drake had no idea what to ask Santa to bring him.  Flynn knew, without hesitation.  Taking them shopping was far less painful this year than in years past.  Flynn went with Dad and I on our Black Friday zero-dark-thirty ritual.  He was quite a trooper and knew exactly what he wanted to buy for Daddy and Drake.  (He also fell asleep at 3:30 pm and slept until the next morning.)  Drake is still learning that gift giving is about the other person.  The stuff he wanted to buy Tim and Flynn- let's just say Mommy has veto power.

One of the differences in having a child attend Catholic school is he/she learns about St. Nickolaus and his feast day.  The kids decorate shoes and get treats.  We (as a family) also went to Bruno's to celebrate.  (Mmmm... schnitzel....)  On the way, Drake told me that Santa Claus is St. Nickolaus's helper.  Sure.  OK.  We'll go with that.  Not sure how he pieced that together, but it works for me.

We took the boys to Fantasy Lights.  It's like ZooLights, only you stay in your car and drive around the see the displays.  As we pulled into the park, Flynn says, "Ooooo... it's so beau-ti-ful!"  This was the most they both have been into the displays.  Such a fun time.

We aren't stressing about the season too much.  We have enough to stress about, so we have no intention of having something within our control freak us out.  If we do it, we do it.  If not, oh well.  This is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, if you believe everything you hear in song lyrics.  Might as well keep it that way.  :)

Flynn's Latest Song

Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Everybody get dressed (except for birds)
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Bird
Brid, bird bird, the bird is the word

And, repeat...

The weather

Drake: Mommy, why is it raining?
Me: Why do you think it is raining, honey?
Drake: Because we live in Washington?

That's Interesting

I took the boys for a nice long walk, and insisted they take along their cameras.  I instructed them to take a picture of anything they found interesting.  I wanted a little glimpse of what it's like inside their heads, how they think, how they see the world.

Here is a selection from Drake's camera. I did not realize that he took 100 pictures on our 45 minute walk.
Seriously...100 pictures. Drake took pictures of everything! The entire walk is documented, including which route we took.

Here are some of Flynn's pictures.
Flynn gave up after the first block. He was much more interested in the stray dog we discovered (that ended up following us for a half a mile). I particularly enjoy which items they both found interesting.

OSHA would not approve

We moved the boys' playhouse onto the deck, under the shade of the vines.  Since then, they have been spending lots of time in it, or on it, as the case may be.  For the last couple of days, they have been making improvements to their "business": hammering away, fixing the roof and the pipes, and adding a vacation house to the side.  They have been "selling" water and snacks from their business, and closing for lunch and snack times.

They make me smile.

Writer's Block/ Doubt

I am staring at the flashing cursor.  It mocks me, taunting me and my inability to put words to the page and further the plot on my “novel”.  I am distracted by the fingerprints on the keys and whatever that smudge is (I don’t really want to know).  I will never purchase a black, shiny computer again.  Beads of condensation run down my plastic cup, leaving a ring on the table dangerously close to the power cord. I can almost hear the hum of the fluorescent lights about; the music from my Angry Birds ear buds drowns most of it out.  The clicking, clicking, clicking from the other keyboards in the room remind me how inadequate I feel about my abilities. 

I am surrounded by writers, people who actually identify themselves as writers, people who make a living at writing.  I have never felt more like a fraud than I do right now. They are all serious. They have sent their works into the ether, and people have paid money for said works. How on earth can I compete or compare? This whole exercise is an examination of all my shortcomings and self esteem issues. I have done everything but write today.

Seriously, what is that on my keyboard?

I will eventually push through the feelings and the demons lined up to prevent me from forging ahead in this process. But, right now, I have been beaten back. I must regroup and rearm.

Flynn-isms

Mommy, the butterfly isn't wearing a hat.  It really needs to wear a hat in the sun.

Mommy, did we plant skies?  What happens if everybody plants skies?

Mommy, butterflies are humans because they have lots and lots of brothers and sisters.

Mommy, all the butterflies are white.  I think its mommy and daddy did that.

Mommy, what happens if a fish wears a firefighter's suit and a firefighter's helmet?

[In the car, with the windows down, stopped at an intersection, surrounded by other cars] Cock-a-doodle-do. Cock. Cock. Cock. Cock.Cock.Cock.Cock. Mommy, what letter starts with cock?

End of the school year- Pre-K edition

Well, we all survived Drake's first year of school.  There were moments when I wasn't sure that he/we would (four trips to the principal's office and one suspension).  But overall, he had a good year, as evidenced by the comments on his report card.  "Some of Drake's strengths are his academic skills and his introspective nature.  He is capable of seeing a deeper meaning to most things which is such a gift at this age."


Part of his end-of-school packet included a book made of artwork and pictures throughout the year.  I love seeing his progression throughout the entire year, especially since I wasn't in the classroom very much.  He also had a packet telling all about himself.  This was my favorite page:

This is a picture of his family.  Daddy, Mommy, Drake, and Flynn, and something else.  I asked him what it was; I was curious since we don't have any pets to be included in the picture.  It's dragonfly, his wind up toy that he considers a pet.  He cracks me up.

He already misses his friends and has completed several pages in his "summer school" workbook.  Let's hope summer goes by quickly.  :)

The impending blur

The next week marks the end of so much: the end of Drake's first year of school, the end of daycare for the summer, the end of the quarter, the end of my sanity.  But, a new beginning is hot on its heels.  It is the beginning of "The Blur".

This may be the Blur in question

I may be MIA for a while because of the following:

• Tim and I will be franchise owners.
• I am finishing Camp NaNoWriMo for June (and seriously considering doing it again in August).
• Summer quarter will begin (Because of new department requirements, I have to completely revamp and rewrite the course... by the 18th)
• Gymnastics and swimming classes for the boys.

If you don't hear from me, do not worry.  I'm sure if I snap, the local news will inform you.   I should re-emerge (hopefully unscathed) by Labor Day.

The Bee Sting

Flynn was stung by a bee yesterday afternoon.  He was trying to "move it" to another part of the yard.

Of course it was his middle finger.

After the tears had stopped, we had a long discussion about which bugs don't mind being moved, and that bees did not fall into that category.  Caterpillars?  Yes.  Potato bugs? Yes.  Ladybugs? Yes.  Bees?  No.

Drake, being a sweet big brother (when he wants to be), drew him a picture of a Kraken as a get well gift.

This was Drake's first attempt at Kraken drawing.  The other 12 he did the rest of the day and the next we done in marker, which shows up better on film.  (Well, not film, but you get the idea.) I would have taken a picture of those, but he turned them all into puzzles.

By the way, what would one call a herd of Kraken?  A pipe of Kraken?  A whack of Kraken?

Dear Backstage Bar and Grill:

I am not offended by your bikini car wash visible from my driveway.
I am offended that all the girls in bikinis had beer guts.
Ew.

Let me hear your body talk

Drake knows that he came out of my belly via C-section.  He knows that mommies of all kinds feed their babies milk from their bodies.  He was very concerned that milk does not come out of his nipples (or "niffles", as Flynn calls them).  He almost cried while wondering aloud, "But, if milk doesn't come out of my nipples, how will I feed my babies?"  I thought I had covered the basic biological differences between boys and girls.  He's been in attendance when I have been in the shower or going to the bathroom. Maybe he is just being nurturing. Or, he will invent a way for boys to feed babies with their own nipples.

Flynn is quite focused his own body.  He was very concerned the other day while sitting on the couch, naked.  He was stretching his penis up to his belly button.  "Mommy, why can't it go up to my head?"  How does one explain to a small boy that his penis isn't designed to stretch that far?  If it does, he is going to be very popular.

And life keeps going...

The light in the living room is dimming.  I am alone on the couch; Tim has crawled into bed.  My boys are "camping" in a play tent in Drake's room.  I can hear them talking and singing and having a brotherly bonding moment.  I am trying to settle my brain and my spirit after a roller coaster week.  Here's what happened, in no particular order:

• Drake was suspended from school
• Write In
• The greatest Mother's Day ever!
• Drake's five hour allergist appointment
• Tim leaving his job 
• Starting a new business venture
• Getting caught up on all class work
• The most painfully long soccer game
• A dear friend's mother died (F cancer!!!)
• The first fuzzy caterpillar of the season
• Campus parking ticket while attending a department meeting on campus
• New essay to grade
• Attempting to complete the LazyMan Iron Triathlon
• Moved a tree
• Saved $40 at Safeway in one shopping trip
• Nice weather

The room is almost dark.  I should close my laptop and crawl into bed, too.  I need my strength for whatever next week throws my way.

Library adventures

I have been volunteering in the library at Drake's school all year.  Yes, I am required to fulfill thirty hours of work, but I wanted to do something that I enjoyed (as opposed to getting roped into something really boring or having to chaperone a herd of boys).  I can tell it is the end of the school year, because parents are coming out of the woodwork to help.  Help is always welcome, for sure, but... um... apparently, the nuances of the Dewey decimal system are too difficult for some to grasp.  [Yes, I am being a snob.]  What runs through my head every time?  A line from UHF.  "Don't you know the Dewey decimal system?!?- Conan the Librarian."  I usually re-shelve some of the books, but not all.  The kids don't seem to notice much.

I have been working with a class of first graders.  They are so cute, and they have some fascinating interests.  The Guinness Books are a hot commodity.  They sprint to that section.  Dogs books, too.  Those kids are way interested in dogs.  There is one boy who already knows what he wants to be when he grows up: a meteorologist.  He only checks out books on weather phenomena.  [I'm 38, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.]

Student work is on display throughout the year. The seventh graders' work is the current display: medieval castles.  I had to take pictures, because I am amazed at the ingenuity and I couldn't stop laughing at some of the details.

This was the first submitted- Such awesome detail.	...especially the blood dripping off the wounded guy.
That's some extreme recycling!	The rare "All Tile" castle
I liked the all cork castle...	...until I saw what was guarding it.
Boy 1: Is that the sensei from Star Wars? Boy 2: You mean Yoda?	Hello, Indy! (On the same castle as Yoda)
No kidding!	My favorite from the day.

Other notable materials: an empty Costco cake box; pink duct tape with a Hello, Kitty duct tape drawbridge and ice cream cone spires; reclaimed sticks from the backyard (all cut precisely to fit); Popsicle sticks; glitter and a necklace used to raise the drawbridge; and, of course, Legos.  Lots and lots of Legos.

I recall doing a similar project in Mr. Relph's World History class.  I don't remember any of the results being as creative as these.

Identity crisis

My mind wanders frequently, more frequently as of late.  If it were a child, it would have been grounded long ago for not checking in.  My brain is scattered.  This must be what ADHD is like.  When I become overwhelmed, I just shut down.  I didn't used to do that; the pressure used to make be buckle down and work more diligently.  I'm fairly certain I will be receiving negative reviews from my students this quarter.

I'm sitting at a Write-In, using the time to write for the blog.  I haven't had opportunity much during the last few crazy weeks.  When I'm writing, I'm thinking of other things.  When I'm working or doing other miscellaneous tasks, I want to be/thinking of writing.  In my heart, I know I want to write.  When I'm around these creative people, I feel like a fraud.  I am sitting in a room with a dozen books published among these people.  One has been published by an honest to goodness publisher (complete with contract).  I read the blogs from others I know, and I feel like a fraud, too.

I need to stop comparing myself to others.  My self-esteem is stunted and immature.  I need to follow my passion, even if it is still in its formative stage.  I've claimed to be a writer for years, but I never did anything about it.  It's been less than two years since I have truly been pursuing it.  I forget these other people have been actively doing this for years/decades.  You don't make a free throw the first time you try, and you don't publish your first work (not without significant revision).  I will evolve into the writer I want to be.  And when I do, I will get that inkwell tattoo, officially branding myself as one.

Over-documentation

We, as first worlders, are in a uniquely communicative era. We can talk to any one, any time, any where. We document (or can document) every move of every day: what we read, liked, ate, drank, visited, disliked, viewed. This over-sharing has created a feeling of self-importance. Do all of our "friends" need to know what and where we ate for lunch? More importantly- do they care? So many complain about the level of over-sharing on Facebook and Twitter, yet most of those people don't give up the websites. So, why are we so addicted? Why am I so addicted? Is it strictly FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), or is it more profound than that? I happen to think it stems from a much deeper desire and need to be remembered, to have our legacy carry on, and to secure our place in the vastness of existence. Think of all the people who have gone before us. Men, women, peasants, royalty, merchants, shepherds, whores, politicians, nurses, everyone. They all had stories to tell, too, yet we (the current living) know little, if anything, about these people. Unless the person was famous and the subject of a book/poem/play/ballad, their stories have been lost to time.

A couple weeks ago, I was finally told some interesting (and scandalous) stories of my family. Had my father not told me, I never would have known. A series of stories would have died out after three generations. At one point, our family had five generations living. Those stories have lasted a little longer, but if I don't pass them on, they will fade, too.

I want my story to be remembered, too.  (And my stories... let's not forget those...)  Those stories are our ticket to immortality.  How do we live on?  Through the memories of others.  I hope this is why I am addicted to Facebook, and not that I have poor self-esteem and want people to pay attention to me.  If I just wanted that, I should become a street mime.  No one can ignore a mime, not matter how hard one tries.

If you give a 5 year old a microphone

Drake came into my room while I was grading essays using the Dragon software.  He thought it was the greatest thing, hearing me talk then seeing the words on the screen.  I let him try it.  This was the result.

Had come out and I'll and then I'll argue that robot went to my gameplay Dragon Dr. launcher it comes down to the elephants. Had to knock cleanup I can't barely had in its ability to Malcolm Flagg LIH methane Lamar eight San Pledge of Allegiance to the flat and states in America and to the pilot for which its patents one nation under God indivisible solidity and justice for all

Dragon has difficulty interpreting the speech of a small child.  At least most of the Pledge is correct.  :)

Maybe we play too many video games...

The boys and I were in the car, and I was slowly backing out of the parking space.  A white Dodge Charger driven by a younger man comes tearing through the parking lot, almost hitting us.  I stop abruptly and mutter something about the crazy driver.

"What happened, Mommy?"  Drakes asks from the backseat.

"That white car is driving too crazy.  This is a parking lot, and someone could get hurt."

Flynn pipes up.  "I know what we need to do.  We need to go to the store and buy some guns and put them on the front of the car and shoot it."

How do I break it to him that we don't live in the Road Warrior movie?

Soccer Season

Yes, indeed, I am now officially a soccer mom.  I have to say... parents of soccer players are nuts!  Maybe it's because we are outside and the kids are running constantly that they (we) feel the need to yell so loudly.  Not sure.  It has rained heavily for every practice thus far, and he hasn't been fazed by it.  [For the record, my practices in AZ were cancelled because of rain.  Here, not so much.] Drake has embraced the "Soccer Diva" role: the tiniest touch, and he falls to the ground.  He's on the ground more than he was in basketball, which is saying something.  Here he is, in his first game.  (He's wearing brown pants and a long sleeved shirt.)  He has two diva-on-the-ground moments.  The better of the two is at :43.

I had to ply him with a snack during halftime.  I wish he would just eat like we asked him to.  Tim and I knew he was going to be hungry.  [Seriously, why does anyone schedule a kids' sporting event during lunchtime?]  He sat out for a couple minutes during the start of second half.  And then, he was put in as goalie.  All the whining stopped.  He was interested in the game. He didn't have to run. He didn't fall on the ground.  I think he has found his niche.

Oh, and the team's name?  The Blue Alligators.  I was rooting for the Ninjas, but I didn't get to vote.

The great Lego takeover

Lego building has provided all four of us with hours and hours of entertainment.  The little bricks are mostly contained every night, thanks to the Lego storage organizer, in the shape of a minifigure head.  Naturally.  Drake will sit with the instructions for a kit and build it solo.  He rarely needs our assistance.  He builds lots form his own imagination: food replicators, machines, the Death Star, Mos Eisley Cantina.  I have yet to step on one (knock on wood).

Photo credits: Flynn

Photo credits: Drake

Photo credits: Me

Turns out, Duplos and Legos can mix

Over the shoulder

I am a notorious eavesdropper.  I can't help it.  I also have a nasty habit of reading over the shoulders of other people.  I glance at the words on the pages of people sitting next to me.  Again, I can't help it.  I don't know why I have this compulsion.

I was sitting at the high counter at Starbucks the other day.  I was reading and minding my own business, when a young man sat at the table outside (directly in front of me).  Because I was sitting much higher than he, I could see what he was doing.  Because the glass was tinted, he couldn't see that I was watching him write a letter.

"Dear Mom,
First, I want to tell you that I love you, and I have been trying for weeks to find the right words to tell you..."

Water dripped onto the paper; I don't know if it was the rain dripping from his hair or tears from his eyes.  He had scratched out a few words.  His penmanship was shaky.

I'll never know what the rest of the letter entailed.  I stopped reading, packed up my things, and left.  He deserved his privacy.

Artsy-Fartsy

Instagram finally created an app for the Andriod.  Yippie!  Now, I can pretend to be artistic, visually.  Mostly, I am taking pretty pictures of the flowers in my yard.

Flynn, letting me know
which finger is still bleeding

My muse