Outsmarted

The kids caught us trying to cheat at Design Star. Damn those public schools, actually teaching basic addition...

Jack started totaling up the two lampshades ($9 each), the curtain rod and curtains (more than $9) and we were over budget. He made me put back the new quilt and pillow shams for the bed...

Dean and I then tried to use some decals I bought ages ago on clearance. They are very retro circles and make a cool design. I'd show you a photo, but they all peeled off the wall and left funny marks on the paint...

The kids won by default. They made a "man-cave" out of their playroom with a $19 table and $1 cushions for their kid chairs.

They believe they are living in the lap of luxury -- something soft under their butts and somewhere to put their feet up.

Let the competition begin

We've been enjoying Design Star as a family. I like that it's not football, baseball or collegiate lacrosse. The male members of the family like the competition part. It's a win-win for family viewing.

It gets ugly too. The boys are quite vocal with that heartless criticism that children have. Neil likes the outrageous, glitzy stuff. Jack wants everything unbreakable so scooters and footballs are allowed in the room... He has quite gotten over Mom banning scooters, bikes and all sports equipment from the house when we redid the floors.

Jack will do almost anything if it is a competition. Neil will do anything that Jack is doing.

So in a desperate attempt to get them to clean up their playroom, we challenged the kids to a Design Star competition. They get the playroom. We get our bedroom (which I should admit is worse than their playroom but I won't).

Each team has $25 at Ikea and they can use anything else from around the house (within reason). Dean and I are already planning on cheating. It's our wallet.

Any questions?

Neil had one: "How much is a mini fridge?"

August has been rough on the kids

I shouldn't be allowed to talk to the kids...

Jack noticed that a friend of his was starting to grow facial hair. Just the tiniest bit, but it is there. This friend is a year or so older and you can hear his voice starting to change. Here comes adolescence young man!

"That's what happens as you get older. Your body starts to change," I was jumping all over this "teachable moment."

"Your body changes because you are getting ready to become an adult," I'm smiling to myself thinking how wise I am to casually talk to my son, let him know I can answer his questions, etc.

"As you get older there's lots of changes, but your voice will get deeper, you'll need to wear deodorant because your body produces odor and hair begins to grow on your body."

"You mean I'll get armpit hair?" Jack seemed excited about the idea.

"Yes, and other places too," I answered.

"Where?"

"On your face like your friend, some guys get chest hair, and ..."

That's when Jack's eyes grew wide and he fled from the room.

Teachable moment over.

What subject will I bring up to torture the kids tomorrow?

Dawning of a new month

So it is August 1 and I've had a long enough vacation... though I don't feel very rested. I am in full planning, working, crazy mode for my first year as PTA president. I still hesitate to type that. Am I in denial? I'm glad to work hard for the school my kids attend. I love that PTA raises funds for P.E., music, computer lab, and this next year for an art teacher. I love that we plan fun activities that my kids will remember when they grow up ("My school used to ..."). Hopefully we make them happier, more well-rounded people.

But my old self -- you know the one before marriage and kids and the house in the suburbs -- well, that self would be mortified. PTA president is about as suburb as you get -- as far as stereotypes go.

Bring on the identity crisis.

And I've spread the joy this morning.

I woke up with the realization that today was August 1. New month, new beginnings, loads of work ahead. Gonna threaten the kids with no video games and TV during the school week (Dad gasped). Gonna make everyone read a book before school starts. Gonna make the kids cry.

I pointed out that today was Aug. 1 and school starts on Aug. 13...

Neil responded with "Are you serious?!" He's going into first grade this year and clearly, he can count how many days of freedom he has left.

Jack, who is going into fifth grade, just moaned. He's pre-teen ready. He wants to grow up to be a couch potato.

So now the kids are upset, Mom doesn't know who she is, and Dad is hiding upstairs painting the bathroom.

Hello August!

You're gonna read it and you're gonna like it...

I have always been an enthusiastic reader.

In sixth grade, I remember carrying around a white box with 5 or 6 books in it. I carried it everywhere I went. I wanted to make sure I had something good to read at all times (and I wanted to have options). Clearly I was a social magnet...

In college, I would force friends to read Joan Didion. Salvador was the first journalism essay book I read. I loved it. While I don't force people to read her anymore, I still love Joan Didion.

My favorite childhood book was From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. My Dad didn't travel much when I was a kid, but when he did he would always bring me home a book. One trip he brought home this one.

It's about a brother and sister who run away from home and hide in the Metropolitan Museum of Art for weeks. They discover art, life and so many things.

I still force 9 year olds to read it. I've given away dozens of copies of the book over the years. I haven't been able to find the original one my dad gave me years ago (I didn't loan it to you did I?), but I do still have a copy in the house.

Recently, it occurred to me that I have a 9-year-old in this house.

Guess what he is reading next? What are my chances of him actually liking it?

Don't weigh me down

We are getting ready for the Little League carnival and picture day. The boys really want baseball cards this year with their photos.

I actually measured their height and weight this year instead of making it up like I did last year...

Jack jumped on the scale -- 84.4 pounds.

"Yeah!" he said with a double fist pump.

I NEVER have that reaction when I get on the scale.

"Someday I'm going to be 200 pounds," he said. Great. Some kids what to go to college, become doctors, etc. My kid wants to weigh 200 pounds.

"If I want to play professional basketball, Mom, I'm going to have to weigh at least in the hundreds..." he says.

Got to have goals.

Neil weighed in at 56.6 pounds.

Are we there yet?

Last Sunday was kite day for the Cub Scouts. We all piled into a big ol' SUV with another family. It was crowded with 4 kids, 4 parents and all the crap you could find to drag to the beach plus kites.

As with any trip involving children, part of the way there they start asking "Are we there yet?"

I think that question is self-answering... Does it look like we are there yet?

But kids will keep questioning. Why are they not this relentless about homework?

Jack asks, "Are we half way?"

"What about three-quarters of the way?" his friend Graeme asks.

Neil, the younger brother who doesn't want to be left out, pipes in, "Are we 3/dimes there yet?"

Just get dressed

What to wear? What to wear? What to wear?

Jack started this morning by hurling his body onto the bed at 6:20 a.m. The resulting bounce woke me up. Hello.

He couldn't find jeans. Of course he couldn't, they are folded neatly in his dresser. The organization was disorienting to him.

But those jeans wouldn't do. This pair is too baggy. This pair is too tight. This pair is the wrong color blue. The skinny jeans (that cost a fair bit of money) aren't worth wearing because he might have to control his body enough to not get a hole in the knee. Why wear clothes you can't trash on the playground?

It was over 90 degrees yesterday. I suggested shorts. Apparently that was disorienting also. It's the twice-yearly adjustment to shorts or long pants (depending on the season). My kids will be the last to start wearing shorts and the last to stop wearing them.

Meanwhile, Neil is trying to get his jeans to slip down his hips enough to reveal his underwear. Great.

"Mom, that's what skaters do..."

"We don't know any skaters."

"Mooooooommmmmmm....."

I bought Jack a new pair of shorts and both boys new t-shirts for the coming Scout Idol pack meeting (Cub Scouts will be doing Guitar Hero, playing their own instruments and I believe one den is planning a ZZTop Reunion). Target had some Woodstock options. Though Jack is hoping for a shirt with The Who on it...

Neil, who is not an official Cub Scout, has mentally prepared his outfit. He wants black jeans, black shoes, a black shirt with no sleeves ("because that's what rock stars wear, Mom. They don't have sleeves.").

"And I want something we don't have in this house," Neil adds.

"What would that be?"

"I NEED a silver thing. It hangs down."

What is he talking about?

"It's a silver thing and it goes from your pants to your pocket." Neil shows me his belt loop and then traces the route to his pocket.

Does he want a wallet on a chain? I'm seriously grimacing here.

"You'll have to show me."

Neil also wants a mohawk or longer hair because, again, that's what rock stars have.

This sparks an argument over whose hair is more rock star like. Jack wins because he can completely cover his eyes. Neil can only partially cover his eyes.

Neil is not interested in the groovy guitar shirt Mom bought. But Jack does like the black shirt with the white outlines of instruments. One out of two isn't bad and while Jack wouldn't wear the shorts to school, he did try them on.

And all I can think is how this doesn't even compare to the girl stories I have heard...

Under siege

Spring Break was going great until these guys invaded. They have conquered the dining room table, the stairs and the upstairs hallway...

There is no escape.

The greatest day EVER

The boys are curled up on the couch. Dad is slumped in a chair. And here I am.

Exhaustion has silenced us -- though we are all quietly proud of the marathon of youth sporting events that occurred today.

We are in the youth sports no-man's land zone: one sport hasn't ended, but another has begun.

Hello baseball! Scooch over basketball, gotta make room...

Jack woke up at 4 a.m. at the prospect of this day.

Neil and I left the house at 7:15 a.m. to make his 8 a.m. basketball game (gotta be there a half hour early, don'tcha know). It was his last game (several assists, some seriously good defense and a layup that was beautiful).

After basketball, we met Jack and Dean at the baseball field. Jack's game started at 9 a.m. Jack pitched three innings (9 strikeouts, and yes, I am bragging but I gave birth to him). Double A baseball is all about stealing. Lots and lots of stolen bases.

Jack's game ended at 11 a.m., just in time for Neil's end-of-the-basketball-season party. Pizza for everyone!

Neil got a pizza, trophy and some junk from the little vending machines. Life is good.

Then it was off to Neil's 1 p.m. baseball game (gotta be there a half hour early of course!). Rookie league is fun. It's machine-pitched baseball. I forgot how long Rookie games are... everyone bats, everyone goes around the bases, most innings are called because of the maximum number of runs per team... It takes a loooooong time.

But hey, we had time. Just enough time to run home, let the dogs out to run for a bit and get ready for Jack's 5 p.m. basketball game.

A good game of basketball too. You don't have to read this, but just for the Yerem family history books... Jack had three baskets, 4 assists and he was a defensive machine. He also took a shot right in the face, right to the brand new glasses on his face. Those of you who wear glasses can feel his pain. Those of you who have to pay for your kids' glasses can feel my pain. Mom had a minor heart attack. The sports goggles will be in next week.

And so ends the GREATEST SPORTS DAY EVER -- according to my sons...

Call me Steven Spielberg

I made a movie today. That's what happens when you upgrade your Mac and actually take a workshop so you know how to use the software.

I'm crazy like that.

See when I first got my Mac, I played and played and hobbled my way through the programs. Macs are pretty easy and you can sort of figure it out.

But it seemed each time I made a slideshow or a dvd, I did it a slightly different way. I was just guessing each time.

So I signed up for a class -- which was yesterday. Today I made a movie of Neil's t-ball experience last spring. I even made myself cry. He is awfully cute and awfully little. And now he is the star of his own movie.

It's amazing what a little bit of information will do for you. 

I'm just saying...

There are many things I do that make me a sub par parent. One of the latest is that I let the kids watch the SNL skit with Peyton Manning "helping" children. You can see it here.

The boys have been giggling about parts of the skit for days (when he banishes the kid to the port-a-potty may be their top pick, but they also like when he pegs kids with the football).

So this morning as Jack was getting ready for school, I threw out, "I'd kill a snitch. I'm not saying I have, but I'm not saying I haven't. I'm just saying..." (You have to watch the video)

For just a moment, Jack paused. Has she really killed a snitch? What is a snitch?

And then he laughed nervously... Mom wouldn't really kill a snitch, right?

I'm comfortable with that level of fear in my children.

Stop with the video!

So here's Jack and Neil forced to say nice things to relatives.  Actually, they love their relatives, they HATE being forced on video...

And after Jack trips on the skim board, you can make out crying in the background. He hurt his knee, but Mom knew she wouldn't get them to do the video again so she ignored her injured child. He has ice on it now...

Silent Night by Neil

Jack and Neil were going to say something for their relatives in Atlanta, but then Neil broke into a very stylized version of Silent Night. My apologies I didn't have the camera going when he started.

Bad boys

So I'm thinking up chores for the kids. That's what happens when you don't behave at Pa's house.

My Dad uses a walker so he can't really catch them. We have to rely on respect and fear.

They need to respect their Pa, and they need to FEAR what will happen if they don't. We aren't the beating types so we find chores... lots of chores....

Vacuuming the stairs is always a good chore. I hate doing it and so do they... it's a win-win. Folding laundry is nice, especially towels and socks. They can't really mess those up. 

Currently, they are changing the sheets on their beds and vacuuming upstairs. After they struggle trying to get that fitted sheet on and I've had my tea, I might help them out.

The bathrooms could use a wipe down too... or maybe the front walk needs a sweep... darn it, I already did the dishes...

Somewhere in the back of my mind I think they will appreciate the work Mom does every day, but the rest of my brain knows better.

Stop the kissing

Jack: "Mom, what's mistletoe?"

Me: "It's a plant. At Christmas time you hang some and if you are caught under the mistletoe, you get a kiss."

I attempt to kiss him, but he artfully dodges it.

Jack: "I've got to warn Neil."

Anniversary

Really, really it's been 14 years since the husband and I said "I do." Well, we still do. 

It'll be an exciting dinner of take out with the kids. I'm picking a kissing movie to watch. Neil is protesting, but I refuse to watch "Clone Wars" again and it's an absolute NO to "Elf" for the third time this week. It's sad when "The Princess Bride" is your best option. As you wish...

We are setting the table, lighting candles and the boys will be mortified.

Neil has already asked me twice if I "HAVE" to kiss Daddy. "Couldn't you just skip it?"

Neil is 6!

Neil's birthday party was today. It was a spectacular spectacle of children with light sabers chasing and whacking each other -- a great success!

Dear Neil,

You rock! You are 6 years old and so much fun. You sing, dance and air guitar your way through life.  Whatever comes your way, you have to touch it, lick it, roll in it... You have to experience everything as fully as you can. It's going to be a long, rich life for you my son.

The night before you turned 6, you reminded me that 6-year-old boys no longer have ham (think fat baby thighs. that's where the ham hides.). So just before you went to sleep, I had to sneak upstairs for a ham attack. You giggled and giggled and giggled. I hope I remember the sound of your laughter for ever. It's a sound that fills your heart.

You make faces like your Daddy. You stand like him too. When I look at Daddy's childhood photos, it's your face I see. Grandma Jane must catch her breath when she sees photos of you. I'm sure it's like looking at your Dad.

You are a walking cliche machine ("Now, that's the way I like it!" "Oh, yeah, baby!" "Bring it on!"). 

You will play basketball on a real team for the first time in January. You are very excited. I'm not sure if you are excited about basketball or excited about being like Jack. Probably a bit of both.

You are not excited about reading or about tying your shoes. Both things I think you should be excited about. But you are excited about Star Wars: The Clone Wars. And you are excited about using the computer and about playing baseball with Jack. You love to cook. You and Jack watch Iron Chef America and can name all the Iron Chefs. We keep toying with the idea that we will have our own Iron Chef competition. Mom loves it that you and Jack WANT Mom on your team. It may be the only competition where Mom is picked first.

We got your first report card a couple weeks ago. You are a very good student. When your teacher, Mrs. Evans, told you to write very neatly because it was for your report card, your printing was better than Daddy's! You work hard at school and are kind to others. I've seen you and I'm very proud.

You are a great snuggler, Neil. You still want to curl up on the couch under a blanket (the red fleece one). And even if you don't have ham anymore, you do have slightly chubby cheeks and just a touch of the softness of a little guy still.

You don't like it when you get embarrassed. You still hide behind Mom. You don't like it when you don't know something. You might appear easy going, but I suspect there's quite a perfectionist in there.

Your legs are long and scarred with bumps, bruises and marks from all your adventures. The perfect way to be a 6-year-old boy!

love,

OMO 

*That's another thing about you Neil. You are stubborn and social conventions do not concern you. You don't spell MOM that way. You write it OMO and then you say, "That's the way I do it." I like your confidence kid.

Post mortem

So we're in recovery mode from Thanksgiving. The dinner itself turned out well considering that my mother and father managed to squash two major childhood beliefs in the first 15 minutes we were there.

Sweet Neil was showing Marna and Pa the space in his mouth where his tooth used to be. His first tooth and first experience with the tooth fairy -- he was quite excited.

That's when my mom launched into a story about my youngest brother (he's almost 14 years younger than I am)...

"Remember when you kids didn't think I would remember to put money under Brian's pillow when he lost his first tooth?"

I stared at her in stunned silence. My boys looked at me confused. I had to take action.

"You mean when you FORGOT that the tooth fairy would be coming and you thought you should do it?!" I said as I tried to casually kick her back into the present.

"What? No. Remember when you guys put money under Brian's pillow...."

"Mom. You MEAN when you were ADDING to what the tooth fairy brings," I said kicking her harder.

She stared at me. "OH. OH."

There's a moment of silence. I briefly think we are in the clear.

And then she says, "You kids never believed in the tooth fairy or Santa. Why should you?"

That's when my dad starts in on Santa. "There was no Santa when I was a kid. You got a flannel shirt and they told you to like it!"

Sweet Mercy. Are you kidding me?! 

One of the dogs ran outside and I sent the kids after him. "Stay out there."

Now, I didn't believe in the tooth fairy or in Santa. That was my parents' choice. It was not a tradition they were interested in or had time for, I suppose. In fact, my mother is quite proud of how I would tell all the neighbor kids how stupid they were for believing and how I would "set them straight." I'm sure I was very popular with kids and parents.

But my husband believed, and it was important to him that our children believe or at least have the chance to believe in magic and mystery and childhood things.

I have to say that one of my lifetime favorite moments was when Jack was 2 and came down the stairs on Christmas morning. He didn't see the tree or the mounds of gifts for him around it. All he saw was an empty plate and glass where the night before he had left cookies and milk for Santa. Jack couldn't contain himself. The joy was contagious. Santa had been there! It didn't matter what he had brought. It mattered that by magic he had come.

I tried gently to remind my mother and father that our children believe in Santa and the tooth fairy and that we expect them not to dispel these myths. Though it was a bit like closing the barn door after the horse was already loose.

"Why should they believe in Santa?!" my mother starts in again. "You kids never believed. Why should they?"

I can see my husband about to lose it. "Why shouldn't they?!" he asks my mother.

I think I'm thankful that my dad interrupts and starts in on "kids these days." He covers spoiled kids, loser kids, too many self-esteem movements and the drugs kids are on these days...

Forty-five minutes later my dad is still going, but we are coming full circle. The kids are outside playing. My parents have stopped talking about Santa and the tooth fairy. And I feel like I've been run over by a bus.

The kids haven't asked about the tooth fairy or Santa. We haven't brought it up. But I'm sure it's coming.

I don't have any idea what to do when it does...

Fun with kids

Neil is having trouble blending sounds as he tries to read. He's been stuck here for quite some time. I can't tell if he won't slow down and make time to sound out a word, or if it truly is a stumbling block.

The kid can memorize words like you wouldn't believe. He can find The Backyardigans on the TiVo list. He can read the grocery list (but only the items he likes to eat). He can pick words out of something I'm reading.

But phonics? Not quite clicking.

So we've been playing word games. Tonight we were taking a letter combo and changing the first letter to make a new word (you know, add a c to "up" and it becomes cup).

We started with "an": can, fan, pan, man, tan, etc.

Then we moved on to "at": sat, bat, rat, cat, etc.

Jack suggested "am." So we started with: Sam, Pam, ram ...

"Dam!" Neil yelled out and then he quickly covered his mouth.

"Neil said a bad word!" yells his big brother. It's anarchy.

"It's not a bad word," explains Dad. "Think of a dam that beavers build."

"Yeah," acknowledges Jack. "Not like 'Damn kids.' "