Two Peas (I Mean Asparagus) In A Pod

I thought I had more time. I thought I could deny that my child is, in fact, a boy, and yes, he too will put things in various orifices in and around his body. My time us up.

Oh sure, it started simply enough. He of course sticks his fingers in his nose every now and again, but really, who doesn't? (Is that too much information?) He has up to now stayed relatively clear of his nether-areas, but his most accessible "toy" has been found, and with an unlikely sleuth, no less: asparagus.

Casey's brother, Cam, his wife, Jen, and their 8-month-old baby, Trent were visiting at our house this weekend. We had a scrumptious feast of roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, and asparagus, and all were content to put them in the proper orifice, which is of course the oral cavity. The course of Gavin's dinner, on the other hand, went more like this: scarf down adult-sized (normal adult-sized; Casey-sized portions don't count) portions of beef and potatoes, ask for seconds and then thirds, drink a little, and chat a lot. Then, when Mommy decides to see what he will do with a whole spear of asparagus, do exactly what she didn't think would happen: look at her mischievously and tentatively stick the crown portion in the nostril.

I just might be overreacting, but isn't this the sign of more to come? Here I am, surrounded by friends with ridiculously intelligent children who name states and capitals at age 2 (seriously, Andrea - that baby of yours is incredibly gifted!) and my child is testing the waters of all things orifice. This isn't to say that he is not smart, because he is a completely normally developing almost 2-year-old. In fact, I might even suggest that his motor skills out-do most kids his age (typical boy, I guess!). I'm just saying that I am falling into trap #1 of new-motherdom: the "My child will never do that!" curse.

This reminds me of a time when I was working in a preschool for special-needs children. Our youngest kids were 2 months shy of turning 3, and a particular towheaded 3-year-old with perpetual bedhead was a rambunctious reminder that parents have very little control over their toddlers. It started out as a lovely Christmas craft project in which the children were to dress up an otherwise ordinary construction paper cutout of a Christmas tree with feathers, sequins, cotton balls, buttons, etc. I was not in charge of this station, but I suddenly looked up from my own group when I heard our teacher shriek and the child begin to flail arms and legs wildly. As it turns out, some of the buttons fit quite nicely in his nose, but he was unable to retrieve them. The more he stuck his fingers in to get them out, the tighter the cannon was packed. A few firefighters and a hospital trip later and our dear student was back to normal, albeit banned from buttons for the rest of the year.

It is pictures like these that run through my head when I think of the whole new world open to Gavin as he embarks on this journey of small, irretrievable objects. I only hope that when we get called to the hospital, we get to ride in the firetruck.

Looks like it's time to shop for a better pair of tweezers.

Let the Romance Reign

Casey: "Man, I've got to stop high-fiving you. And we wonder where the romance went!"

(Later) "Let's have some strawberries! Aren't they hermaphroditic...I mean aphro...what is it called? Aphrodisiacs!

*****

~To quote Three Amigos!, "I like this guy! He is a funny guy!"~

Raspberries

Back off, ladies - these men are ALL MINE.

I Don't Get No Respec

I've been noticing cars a lot lately.

No one would ever remotely consider me a "car" person (I called my neighbor's Corvette a Porsch, for heaven's sake - a sin that was met with an incredible amount of disbelief and near scorn, heard in the form of a thick silence over the phone), but I've been checking out the rides around me more often.

It's not that hard to sit back and look at the traffic as I drive, because most of the cars are passing me. That's right - I'm a granny driver. Okay, I'm not that bad, but I'm certainly a stickler for speed limits and general obedience to traffic laws. This brings me to a shout-out to a certain Honda Pilot who pulled a double whammy on me today by passing me in a no-pass zone, double yellow lines and all, only to speed away at a good 10 mph over the limit. He must have had an emergency at home, right?

Maybe I get passed often because people just assume I am going to be a slow and crazy driver due to my ownership of a certain 1997 Buick Skylark. It's not like they can see that I am not, in fact, a septuagenarian who is three minutes short of a pacemaker, owing to my dwarf-like stature that prevents my head from making a commanding appearance over the steering wheel. This, coupled with a stringent adherence to speed limits (which are apparently old-fashioned now-a-days anyway) and my choice of vehicle cause other drivers to see an immediate need to pass lest they get stuck behind Granny Gertrude and get home a full minute later than they would have had they passed me when they had the chance.

I'll have you know, Honda Pilot, that there are several facts besides the obvious that preclude me from being an old person behind the wheel. In the first place, my car isn't nearly as well-kept as it was when my grandparents gave it to me (wow, that made me sound cool.). Should you look inside you just might (no guarantees, now) find a wooden dowel holding the glove compartment shut because the latch doesn't work (don't worry, potential passengers: just move your legs slightly to the right or take the dowel out and put it in between your knees to ensure ultimate comfort). You might see that the handle on the driver's side sticks when the window isn't slightly rolled down, preventing you from unlocking or opening the door on that side. You might see the dust and dirt that have almost certainly embedded themselves in the paint by now, owing to my lack of proximity to a car wash and my sheer lack of interest in frequent car-washing and upkeep. You also might worry constantly that the battery will suddenly just give up as it did two years ago in the far left lane of I-60 in Phoenix, causing everything to simply shut off and the need for us to literally coast off the freeway up an off-ramp. Obviously, I don't have retirement time and money for cars.

This reminds me of fond memories of cars past. I really don't have a memory of the station wagon my parents drove when we lived in California and I was under 4 years of age, but I just love the mental images it conjures. Apparently, it was a bishop's storehouse gift to my mother: no seats in the back - only springs, but it drove. You can't get much more creative and awesomely awesome than this: Mom put pillows over the springs and literally tied us into the seat with my father's neckties. AWESOME. I love the '80's.

Come to think of it, my mother is the world's most creative and coolest mom. Vehicle story number 2 from my childhood (and teenage years) goes something like this: 1989 Ford Aerostar started falling apart at the 100,000 mile mark - no, make that the second it rolled off the lot. The sliding door had no inside panel on it, exposing the wiring for the automatic door lock that didn't even work. The only way to open the sliding door was to jimmy it open with a screwdriver and slam it shut with our bums. This made for a lengthy wait during the jimmy-portion, so we usually just got in via the passenger side in clown-car fashion and made our way comfortably to the back. The "power" window on the driver's side didn't work, either, so Mom would gently blow hot air on her hands and immediately plaster them to the window starfish-style to pull the window down (and back up). And don't even begin to assume the thing had working air conditioning and heating.

Looking back at the aforementioned vehicular stories, I conclude one thing: older cars are way cooler than new, fast cars. Why? Because they have a story behind them, whereas new cars only have two descriptive words ("new" and "fast"). Bor-ing. I'd choose the Skylark any day, lovely little green machine, over newer and more disobedient vehicles.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the lack of car payment I have on my still-functioning vehicle that gets me to the same red light you have been waiting at longer than I have because you felt a need to pass me and speed, Honda Pilot? Yes indeed. I better get some respec'.

*** Casey just informed me that I spelled "Porsche" wrong. Come on, people! It's not like I spelled "Steinway" wrong or anything.

Man Stuff

Men are amazing creatures.

They know just what they are looking for and just where to find it.

They always make a statement with the way they dress.
When given the opportunity, they almost always will stop to chat with a cute girl.
Ya can't keep a good man down.
They are experts at relaxation.
Driving is not just a necessity to them - it's serious business.
Taking care of their possessions is a priority, and covered parking spaces are a must.
Helping others is their specialty, and they always choose the right tools for the job.
Celebrations are the icing on their cake of life.
And they are always on the alert - especially when taking graduate courses.

It is Time

For those of you who have not seen Disney's The Lion King, there is a scene where Rafiki, the crazy yet wise old baboon, is overjoyed at the prospect of the long-lost lion cub Simba, now a grown lion, returning to the pride lands to take his rightful place as king. Rafiki makes a short yet poignant statement that I now echo: "It is time!"

It is time to blog again.

It is time to be thankful each day to feel well enough to eat and eat well.

It is time to be thankful for family and friends who have been praying for me and for our family, for health and strength.

It is time to feel grateful that I can play with my son, dance and sing, run and crawl and leap.

It is time to be thankful for competent doctors who may actually be on the right track.

It is time to be grateful that I live in Arizona where it is warmer than other places in the winter months, especially during the past several months of ill health and lost body fat and weight.

It is time to feel thankful for modern medicine and for all those who offer ideas and advice.

It is time to feel humbled by the prayers of people I haven't seen or spoken with in a long time, but who somehow remember me.

It is time to be more grateful and contemplative of the atoning sacrifice of our Savior and how it applies in my life each day.

It is time for action: time to actually do the things on my to-do list, to plant a garden, beautify my home, make curtains, bake bread, read books, go to the park, get our food storage together, learn how to permanently destroy the crickets that infest my kitchen wall; start a swear jar for one who has never before had a swearing problem but who has learned that crickets are her figurative Achilles' heel; time to organize, to oil paint, to scrapbook, to karaoke, to yoga, to eat, to sing, to serve, to learn, to step outside once in awhile, to finally turn my attention away from myself and onto others, to...

It is time to be aware of the possibilities and finally start making them realities.

Happy New Year, albeit a little bit late, everybody. I am grateful for you.

Halloween

I apologize...again...for the lack of updates this blog has seen in recent weeks. I have had the most incredible run of sicknesses, whether hormone-induced or naturally acquired from some anonymous source. It became more important to me to keep food and drink down than update our blog. The past month and a half has seen a few golden moments in the blackness of ill health, but how was I supposed to blog about it when it was all I could do to sit up? Anyway. Things are looking up, if today's consumption of about 5 sugar cookies is any indication. I thought I'd take a few minutes to at least blog about Halloween, even though there was a visit from Grandma Cheryl and Aunt Courtnee to relay as well. That will come later, when I am not still trying to make up for over a month's worth of dirty house.

So: Halloween! Yeah, I was pretty sick that night, too. The week before found us at our ward's annual Fall Festival, where the youth have various activities planned for the kids and then the ward participates in a trunk-or-treat. Gavin had (still has) a cold and was not in the best of spirits, but he did love playing with the balloons in the "pumpkin patch" and running around in his costume. He was Blue from "Blue's Clues," and even though I got the costume for $8 off eBay it fit him like a glove! He even kept the mask on for about 20 minutes! A Halloween miracle!

We thought he ran out of a crowded room at one point, and that was the absolute WORST feeling I have ever had. We ran around the church looking for him, but it turns out that he was really in the room the whole time and Casey found him in about 10 seconds. I could have used that information while I was running around the church and outside in the dark. Horrible. I don't even want to re-live it. But he's safe and sound, and he even got a few pieces of candy that we might let him eat.

On Halloween night we carved pumpkins and decorated the house. Gavin didn't like touching the pumpkin guts but he did like trying to eat the seeds raw. Casey's Batman symbol turned out great! It's too bad we old farts didn't dress up this year, but I promise it would have been different if I weren't still throwing up. Gavin ran around in his Blue costume again, and Casey had fun answering the door for Trick-or-Treaters. I wish you all could have been a fly on the wall to hear the old fart things he was saying to these young whippersnappers. It was classic. All that was missing was a walker and orthopedic shoes.

Here's hoping that next year will be healthier, because I LOVE Halloween! What a fun holiday (at least in theory...)!