My sweet boy is a little sour right now

Yowza! Let's talk about sassy kids over-sassing their mothers. By over-sassing I mean disrespecting. And by kids I mean Gil. The mother? Me.

The consequence I came up with for Gil's recent behavior is a 7 o'clock bedtime. Did I mention he does not like that? At all? At first I wasn't going to let him read in bed, but it's pretty hard to declare LIGHTS OUT! when, well, it's still light out.

My son does not like the idea of going to bed at 7:00, when it's still light out, before his younger brother, and when he knows the rest of us are snuggled on the couch watching American Idol or playing Sorry or some neverending card game.

Dude's gotta be punished, though. And I figure the consequence that angers him the most should probably be the one he receives, right?

I am not dismissing the fact that Gil may very likely be reacting to the unrest between his dad and me. What's tough is trying to decipher between that, a manipulative kid, and age-appropriate boundary testing. At this point my guess is it's a little bit of everything.

Sigh

When I hear the next I HATE YOU!, I will continue to reply as I always do: "That's fine. You can hate me all you want. I will always love you, Gil. I'm not going anywhere."

Life lessons

Last night was an evening of Holiday Music a la my kids and their fellow Suzuki school of music students. Egan had been preparing for this event practicing Jingle Bells daily, several times a day. He was highly anticipating this opportunity to play with the orchestra. At the cue of "Jingle Bells is up next!" he strutted his confident cowboy boot wearing self, viola tucked under his arm, to the front row.

Sweet Baby Jesus, he was adorable. And Allie was amazing. Unfortunately Gil wasn't able to participate with his classical guitar playing because his teacher fell ill just before the show.

So after these events, there's always a buffet of finger foods and plentiful holiday cookies. Brownies. Chocolates. Santa walking around with candy canes. Cocktail weenies. Meatballs.

You see, I am very aware of all of these foodstuffs because of my sweet Gil saving his regurgitated buffet extravaganza for me to clean up in the hallway outside of his room later in the night.

I'm awoken to Allie standing at my bedside, dutifully alerting me to her brother's incident. Poor Gil had literally tossed his cookies all over the hallway floor outside of his room. A mere 5 paces from the toilet.

The Funny Part, which can also be read as FORESHADOWING, is flashing back to our car ride home, when Gil was complaining of a slight tummy ache and not feeling well. I told him that was probably diabetes setting in. I also reminded him that this is not the first time he has gorged on sweets and cookies that leads to the inevitable chocolate infused vomit fest. Although one of those other times, because I'm pretty sure this has happened at least 3 maybe 4 times, Coca Cola was the base. And that time the chocolate came from way too many S'mores. There had to have been a chemical reaction occuring.

The other day my friend gave me a bag of circus peanuts. It was a joke of course, because I'm pretty sure no adult voluntarily injests circus peanuts. Although she did after I opened the package because she swears she's never had one. She's from California, though. That's the only reasonable explanation.

This entire discussion of sugar induced vomiting immediately puts me back to when I had to have been about 5 years old and made myself sick on circus peanuts.

The sweet syrup the pharmacist puts into amoxicillin? To sucker your kid into taking it? Smells exactly like circus peanuts. This is me shuddering in disgust over here.

My midnight activity last night was figuring out how the hell to sop up this sea of chocolate and OH LOOK! A BARELY CHEWED COCKTAIL WEENIE! Rest assured, dear readers, I completed the task with what must be a disposable bath towel because I chucked it off the back porch where it still is today. With no intention of figuring out how to clean it. To the trash it goes.

This morning Egan says to Gil sternly, "You knew this was going to happen, Gil. Why do you do that to yourself?"

A memory from the Magic Kingdom

Spring break was spent in Anaheim, California californicating with various Disney characters and riding the dozens of memorable rides between California Adventure and Disneyland, all while melting in 90 degree heat. My kids were beSIDE themselves. Especially Egan as he observed Mary Poppins and Burt, Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Buzz Lightyear, Woody...THEN, the creme de la creme was when PINNOCHIO! ASKED! ME! TO! DANCE!! You know, at the end-of-the-day CELEBRATE YOU! parade.

Earlier that day we had been treated to the front of the line at the Matterhorn, a coupon for a front of the line pass on ANY RIDE! in ALL OF THE MAGIC KINGDOM!, and a receipt for the sword Egan carelessly lost while on Mr Toad's Wild Ride. Wild indeed, all sword losing and stuff. Apparently the employees at Disneyland are there to not only make our day magical but also spoil us rotten. As Egan and I climbed out of our car from the ride, Egan began sobbing when realizing he had lost his sword.

Appearing swiftly at my side was Jen, the superfriendly, superconcerned employee. I explained that Egan had lost his sword while on the ride. Jen insisted on having the ride STOPPED! so she could go through and recover Egan's damned $5-shoulda-been-$.50 sword. She explained various scenarios for getting the sword, saying stuff about it only taking 7 minutes despite all those people still waiting in the 20 minute line. After Jen assured me they stop rides all the time, I thanked her for her efforts while declining the need to force all these people waiting in line FOR A FUCKING SWORD.

Just then, Allie walks toward Egan arm outstretched, "Egan, you can have my sword."

I think that's what sold Jen on how remarkably awesome we all were. Flash forward to our celebrity treatment AND Honorary Citizens of Disneyland buttons. The way my kids reacted, you would have thought we were handed a key to the city.

Appreciation

The greatest part of my existence right now, and I can hardly believe I'm going to say this out loud, is helping Egan practice his viola. This morning he came bumping down the stairs toting his pint size viola in hand, rubbing his bleary eyes with the other. In his Spider Man boxers. At 7:30 am.

"I brought down my viola because it's time to practice."

I filled my coffee cup and follwed Egan and his dragging viola case into the family room. He narrated his every move while uncasing his prized instrument.

Something I am beginning to embrace is the very fortunate hassle of parenting. Not sure if it's observing other parents or finally growing into my role. As you may recall I often struggle with what I'm supposed to do. Being selfish and putting off my kids can be a lot easier than forcing myself to spend time with them. Because honestly? That's how I feel most of the time: that I have to FORCE myself to hang out with them. Perhaps falling into parenting created this monster. At this point it doesn't matter. I am doing the best that I can with what I've got. And that's a whole hellofa lot.

Hi Gene!

I take my job very seriously. Case in point: Hygiene has been the Word of the YEAR in our house. Since, like, 2009. I have two pre-pubescent kids I'm working with here. As Mother and Parent, it is part of my job description to outline personal hygienic expectations. And their father gets more uncomfortable than they do about said topic.

What's HY-GIENE Gil asks at the breakfast table this morning. As if I haven't already explained the definition twenty times since last Wednesday.

Allie shouts, I SHOWERED THIS MORNING!

Egan's voice from the living room, "Who's Gene?"

Eight

The new ages of my children has me wondering whatever happened to the sweet ages when I felt like I actually liked them. Of course I love them, you guys. Unconditionally I do. I'm talking about Gil here. Luckily I'm still standing in the sweet cuddly sunlit glow of Egan's Adorable Window: 4. I can describe Gil at 4 years old as equally if not more sweet. Hence his nickname Sweet Boy. But 8? Really? Why are you doing this to me?

I remember babysitting boys Gil's age and grumbling about how annoying they were the entire 5 hours I had to be "responsible" for them. Responsible for me in my babysitting teen years was watching tv, raiding the fridge for junk food (as I was forbidden soda, chips, and sweets most people had on hand after every trip to the grocery store), and talking to my friends on the phone. What an asshole I was. Wait. I still do that.

Now I have one of those.

Jon and I are still trying to figure out if it's his age or genes that has him whining about EVERYTHING, back-talking to EVERY SINGLE directive. Seriously?

And that's what I say to him: "SERIOUSLY Gilmore?!"

I'm running out of fingers and toes to count how many times I send that kid to his room. Only to hear each stomp on every stair; the huff and puff, sobbing cries, and mucous membranes exploding with snot, until his door slams and he continues to wail, intermittently holding the next bawl to hear if I'm coming to kick his ass.

When describing how loudly Gil's been know to snore and breathe, I have figured out he may need to have his tonsils and adenoids checked. I'm beginning to wonder if this duo of the ENT world and lack of proper solid sleep could be contributing to his dickhead behavior during the day.

Of course Jon and I are assured he does not display these antics at school. Quite the opposite, actually. Apparently each classmate worships the ground he walks on, the books he reads, the pictures he draws, the games he plays at recess.

SERIOUSLY, GILMORE?! Let's hope its your goddamned adenoids.

A big red bow on top

There is nothing more satisfying than walking into my freshly cleaned house, inhaling the unmistakable fresh scent of lemons, pine, and Murphy's soap. What does that smell like? A church pew comes to mind.

You may recall my indecisive pride interfering with the common sense solution of hiring a cleaning lady while I was in school. This probably isn't the first time I'm reveling in the luxury, either. My great fortune of getting someone else to clean my house was like winning the lottery. For real. A friend of mine who also came to her senses said, "If I could win a million dollars or keep my cleaning crew? I'd keep my cleaning crew."

I couldn't agree more. I was even having my cleaning gal come once a week until Jon and I created our budget and, well, realized that was just plain ridiculous. After reevaluating, we opted for every other week. Which was going ok until The Day I Got the Call.

I left for work that day looking forward to returning home to a clean house. Have I ever told you how impatient I become around day 8 between cleanings? Remember, I was the spoiled brat who had someone coming every week for several weeks. An entire TWO WEEKS had gone by. Instead, I got home to a not cleaned house and a message on my answering machine from the woman I verbally praised, to her face, every time I saw her, while thanking her by throwing rose petals on the floor and bowing before her as she entered the house. Like that scene from Coming to America.

Her message did not sound like the woman I had gotten to know a little bit more each week. She very flatly explained into my voice mail that she would not be cleaning my house anymore because she was busy at her other job and her husband got a raise. Good bye.

This being the woman who I compassionately empathized with each time she called to cancel because one of her family members suddenly died. Again. Or her husband or daughter was hopitalized. Again. Or she herself had another debilitating illness keeping her home for days, making certain I can see the virus over the phone. As if Mononucleosis himself has rendered my cleaning pal hostage to his evil ways. Again.

Now I have another gal who came highly recommended by a totally separate pool of reliable cleaning women. I feel the need to gratefully praise her too because truly, anyone coming to clean my house? Even though I pay her? Is giving me the world's greatest gift.

Celebrating mothers everywhere

Mother's Day is the one day that I am able to shove off all of my usual parenting duties onto Jon. Without any discussion. From anyone. At all.

There is nothing sweeter than the handmade crafts my kids make. Except maybe when they bring me breakfast in bed, each one asking me, "Can I have a bite?" "Can I have one?" "Are you going to eat that?"

After graciously receiving my personally predetermined, menu-specific Mother's Day Breakfast in Bed, I requested not to see my family for the rest of the day. Jon and brother Nick took the kids out to a friend's farm while I spent the remainder of the afternoon in my sister-in-law's sunny back yard with other mother friends laughing and talking for 6 straight hours. Drinking beer and eating pizza.

And wouldn't you know? We talked about our families almost the entire time. We also had to remind ourselves to stop offering to help wash each other's hands, cut up each other's food, or put our drinks into sippy cups.