It’s funny how I don’t remember things from pregnancy to pregnancy.  I’ve heard countless mothers say the same thing, but I always thought, “How could you forget such an amazing, precious, life-transforming thing?”  And then I tell Hubby:  “This kid has so many more hiccups than the boys!” to which he responds, ‘Uh uh, Abe had a lot of them, too.”

Really?  Honestly, I don’t believe him, but my shrinking pregnant brain is in no shape to argue.  Although I did manage to find some small bit of lucidity to defend my position that “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty is *not* alternative radio material, even though I heard it on our local alternative station.  Don’t question my understanding of the Tom Petty cultural phenomenon or my ability to quote “Grosse Pointe Blank”:  you’ll get a beat-down.

I used to be floored that my mom couldn’t remember what year my brother was born, or would flip our birth dates (24, 26).  And now people, like the children’s pastor at a church we were visiting a few months ago, ask, “How old is JJ?”  To which I respond, “Oh, 5.”  “Um, then he needs to be in the 5’s class.”  “Oh, I’m sorry.  He’s really 4.5, but both my kids like to act at least six months older than their age.”  Yeah, step away from the crazy pregnant lady.

The only thing I can remember about the in utero boys is that JJ wedged his boot in my right rib cage - a LOT - , and Abe stuck his butt out, stretching my stomach to the point that I thought it would rip and reenact one of my mama’s most favoritist scenes from a movie (she was a lot more selective about what movies she would see with my father after that one :D).  And the boys both moved:  a LOT.

So far this little one doesn’t have any trademark moves except for the regular hic.hic.hic.hic and the nightly Zoomba sessions.  That, and seemingly not liking to be touched or talked to:  more than once she’s jumped when people touch my stomach, and Hubby’s gotten a few pops to the nose when asking her what’s going on.

But she does seem to like to listen to Tom Petty.  How do I know?  Because I’ve dreamed about Tom Petty.  Twice.  And he’s on the radio a lot lately.  And I really like it.

And while I could leave you with a link to a Tom Petty song, I’m not going to.  Because while searching for the above youtube clip, I came across this.  And it makes me happy (and will be today’s homage to Mikey J:  gotta be culturally relevant).

This is my summer of craziness:  two tykes under five, one Buddha belly, and this insane determination to explore the local/sustainable/harvesting lifestyle.  Our CSA delivers a bounty of lettuce and other greens that must be worked through in seven days; I’ve hit the strawberry fields twice; our cherry tree gave buckets of fruit that have been cut, pitted, and frozen; I want to go back to the strawberries, but my Mama kindly reminds me, “Sweetie, other types of fruit are ripening.”  “Yes, Mama, but so am I.”

So then I bat my big eyelashes at Hubby as I say, “Boy, I’d really like to get blackberries, blueberries, peaches, and apples this year …”  My hubby who has the same childhood phobias of berry fields as he does of the fabric store (which I have NOT taken him to:  isn’t he glad I get my stash of yarn from Freddies?).

Each “harvesting” experience is interesting in itself, so different.  Raspberries are much kinder to my belly, getting to move up and down rather than squat and wonder if my doctor would just meet me out in the strawberry fields in September because it’s an awfully conducive place for contractions.  But I picked half as many raspberries than strawberries in the same amount of time (which is dictated by small tykes’ abilities to cope and patience for eating granola oat by oat).  But then I just washed the berries, threw them on a tray, froze them, and they’re ready to go:  no pitting, hulling, slicing, etc. (my fingers are still recouping from/protesting being make-shift cherry pitters).

So far the most consistent thing I’ve found:  once I’ve harvested, I’m ready for a break.  I don’t want to eat any strawberries or cherries:  the craving has been quenched (for the moment).  I’m still okay with raspberries, but am so ready to move on to the next thing.  Perhaps that’s what keeps the harvester going back to the fields rather than saying, “Ugh, I’m done!”  That, and true harvesters kinda hafta sorta harvest or starve.  However, I know that my teriyaki tree blooms year round, and that’s a hard one not to want to go back to over and over and over again (oh, my tree of the knowledge of good and House of Teriyaki:  how you tempt me).

I broached the idea with Hubby who immediately said, “Why?  I always had my own room.  Who would want to share?”  I, too, had my own room and *loved* it.  But our eldest’s need for alone time seems to be done within thirty minutes of falling asleep, and then he’s ready to put on his party shoes again.

Then a little Boo decided to make her presence known, and room reorgs had to happen.  I already have two scruffy roommates (at least one of them shaves on a regular/semi-regular basis depending if it’s No Shave November or not; the other one just sheds on my side of the bed) plus now a short-term renter whose 40-week lease will not be up for renewal.

We got bunks.  Yes, we are suburban IKEA web2.0ers with young boys in bunk beds.  Who woulda thunk it?  The beds were purchased and set up a while ago, and in typical fashion, we’ve been doing things in “stages”:  let JJ get used to them, move Abe to a regular bed in his room, move Abe to the bunk bed while JJ was up at the Grand’rents, and then the final installment which began on Saturday:  the boys share a room.

We had a brief bout of sharing rooms when visiting Hubby’s folks, and they did …. okay.  They fell asleep LATE, but that might have happened anyway.  The immediate benefit I noticed:  entertainment without the presence of adults.  Talking to each other.  Sharing toys.  Bossing each other around.  Trying to get the other one to do something they weren’t supposed to:  you know, all the stuff that siblinghood is about.

So Saturday night we loaded them in the room.  Abe:  delighted, jumped in the bed, pulled the sheets up, “ByEEEE”.  JJ:  “But I want to sleep on the bottom!”  Sigh.  However, they managed to entertain each other.  Until 10:15 pm.  JJ only came out of the room a few time with reports:  “I bonked my knee and it hurts.”  “Abe wanted this toy and I gave it to him.”  “We want the windows open and lights on.”  “I didn’t open the blinds, but *someone* did.”  Tears exploded only a few times.  When Hubby went to tuck the boys in after the final passout, they were continuing to share … the bottom bunk.  My response:  “I don’t care what they do, as long as I don’t have to get involved after they go in that room.”

That’s honestly my feeling.  I. Don’t. Care.  JJ gave us quite the workout training him to stay in his room and fall asleep.  Seriously.  It was training:  for us all (although Hubby did most the heavy lifting, or containing).  Every few moments, the door would creak open, or “tip toes” would be hurting running across the hall.  It was exhausting.  Abe, however, doesn’t seem to know that’s an option, and even when JJ leaves on Reporting Duty, he mostly stays in the room.  Progress!

Until 5:30am the next morning, that is, when I heard “tip toes” running through the hall and blinds being opened.  “Hubby:  Boys.Up.”  He immediately shuttled them back to bed:  Abe conked out, JJ bided his time for an hour until he could stand it no longer.  His morning report:  “Mama, I let Abe share the bottom bed with me.  And then I woke up and said, ‘Rise and shine!’  But Dad made us come back to bed:  why?”

They’re still adjusting.  JJ’s new favorite “mean thing” to say:  “I don’t want ANYONE to share MY room!”  Abe doesn’t like having quiet time in his old room, because then he might actually fall asleep, and might be a bit more pleasant (not necessarily, though).  Hubby’s dealing with the boys being loud, even if contained, for a longer period of the day.

Last night I was putting the boys to bed solo, which honestly I was dreading to a degree:  I was Reported Out.  But they fell asleep.  Both.  In a few minutes.  In their own beds.  It was so … idealistic.  It may not happen again anytime soon, but it *did* happen, and I will savor that for at least a few sleeping times to come.

Dreaded words for a chronic “I’ll do it myself” person.  And yet that’s what my eldest has been asking all morning.

I know I should be grateful that he wants to help because it will only last for so long (if any of my DNA runs through his veins, which, by the by, are blue and carry blood away from the heart as he will tell you and other small tykes on the playground:  thank you, The Busy Body Book).  But I just want to do it *myself*.  Because I can do it faster.  And “right”.

Hubby and I were discussing the grace-growing experiences we’re having with JJ as of late.  Grace-growing as in “stretching us in ways we don’t wanna and don’t think we should hafta and yet we gotta or it’s gonna be ugly”.  Even the way we form sentences are being restructured, working the Dr. Phil out of us (”YOU need to do this; YOU have to change; YOU must do it this way; YOU YOU YOU”), engaging some more creative grammatical structure:

Rather than “Shut the screen door already!”, “It’s TIME to close the door!”

Rather than “I’m going to throw your shoes in the street if I trip over them again!”, “Shoes go in the closet!”

Rather than “For the love of all that is holy and good, stop sitting on your brother!”, “When Abe is sat on and starts screeching, I get frustrated because my ears hurt.  What can we do about this?”

Hubby commented on how the books we’re reading have such nicely laid out situations for solving tension:  “The kids reason and offer solutions.  I did what the author said:  JJ just fell on the floor and rolled his eyes.”  I told him he needed to read further, because the author says, “Of course, sometimes none of these things work out, and everyone screams and goes to their rooms.  And then you can apologize and start fresh again.”  That’s the only reason the book didn’t end up in the street with size 11T shoes.

I read about Montessouri methods and home schooling and think, “Oh, that sounds so wonderful and experiential and cool”.  That would be my idealistic side.  Taking time to have the kids clean alongside me, not minding that they go slowly or don’t get all the crumbs.  Letting them get covered in paint from head to toe and not feeling that I needed to scrub everything to get it clean.  Setting up a station for them to sit at and play not needing or wanting supervision ….

It’s TIME to stop laughing now (note how I didn’t command you to stop laughing:  look at me growing).

Somehow this Montessouri education is happening, and yet it’s mostly to me.  This is not what I had planned.  I already went to school, skated through, in fact.  Lesson learned, kids:  when one thinks they know it all, all the things they don’t know or didn’t think they needed to know move into the house and become covered in pudding pop goo, as I now have the opportunity to discuss the finer points of getting food *in* one’s tummy, not *on* one’s tummy.

My first born, as a small tyke, was not so … containable, and my concept of trips and him combined to me is like herding kittens:  crazy, driven, really really fast kittens.  I forget that as he ages, he changes and can do things like respond to commands and stay in one general area and not throw himself off of high places and not break out of the nursery … each nursery …. at least twice.  And the second born doesn’t even know that there are other options beyond responding to the Mama Barks.

Our local church camp was trying a new program called “Family Getaways“:  basically a laid-back weekend of getting to hang out at the beach, eat yummy camp food, enjoy their grounds and equipment, and the best part for our family - kids aged 5 and under were free.  SWEET.  And if it bombed, I figured we were only two hours away from home (with a quick stop for squeaky cheese - a necessity).

Packing did not go well.  It was turning into:  Family, Get Away!  I told Hubby that I will no longer pack for myself and two small children by my lonesome again.  And then realized that I won’t:  it will be *three* small tykes.  Lovely.

But we made it to camp and got to stay in a *gorgeous* cabin that I want to permanently move into.  Or at least steal their bathrooms.  Of which we had access to two.  For four people.  Bliss!  We bundled up the kids and they slept in their twin beds while Hubby and I enjoyed a very new, firm queen-sized mattress (pregnancy gives me a bit of a Princess-and-the-Pea syndrome.  If only memory foam mattress toppers were a little more transportable).

We played lots of games in the shelter, some with people who wanted to play with small children, and some with people who didn’tsomuch.  Smores were eaten, songs were sung, children (of which there were really only four for the whole group, and two were girls:  well.behaved.girls.) ran amuck if that was their natural inclination.

The next day was more of the same.  Excellent food (that I didn’t have to prepare, but did have to clean up after thanks to a toddler who enjoyed giving depth to his wardrobe by sporting his meals).  Times to play.  Times to chill.  Times to talk with friends who work at the camp.

Flying a wicked shark kite.

Enjoy the Rocks of Twins.

Can you believe they let me have this?!!  Legally?!!

Golf ball go down the hooooooooole.

The Professional at work.

Be Free!

Golfing, frisbee-style.

Same table, different player (with one of my bestest bud’s kids).

DOH!

And no trip to that part of the coast is complete without a trip to The Cheese Factory.  Because we *love* cheese.  And ice cream.  And fudge.  And dried meat products.  We love health. 

Monitoring The Cheese Making Process in a very safe fashion.

Say Vegan Soy Products!

The trip had its good moments and its hard moments.  I’m trying to take it for what it was worth:  a weekend away, with my family, two of whom are small people who don’t respond to changing environments all that well.  Each one fell out of bed once.  Each one had meltdowns due to food issues or over-exertion or being told “no” (gasp) - adults included.  But times of changing scenery, enjoying God’s beauty, being with friends, watching the little guys make new friends - that makes it all worth it.  That, and the three packages of squeaky cheese that were consumed in the next week:  mmmm.

(Enjoying an ice cream sandwich, or guarding it lest others might think they needed a taste.  Believe me, we didn’t).

I wore full-body long johns last week!  But the week before I wore summery clothes.  And put away the boys’ winter clothes.  Which I had to resurrect so that sweats weren’t worn to church.  We’re laid back, but oh, my sweet Southern deceased grandmothers might just have to beat Christ at his own game and have a little resurrection time of their own:  “You sent my grandbaby to Sunday meeting wearing what?!!”

A number of my friends were voicing concern due to the change in the season:

• “School’s almost out.”
• “It’s going to get hot.”
• “What am I going to do with these kids all day?”

I remember that panic from last year, that dread of “I’m in charge of scheduling all this time?”  To which this year I shouted a “Glory, hallelujah!  I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything!  I’m in charge!  And We’re Staying Home!”  Hmm:  who doesn’t want to waddle after two active boys in public as onlookers gawk and stare at the Crazed Hormonal Woman?  It’s been a very religious experience so far, as you can tell.

JJ “graduated.”

It was during the “heat wave”:  it was warm:  it was a nighttime thing during a busy week:  I really didn’t want to go.  He’ll be going back to the same Pre-K program next year, so it felt so anticlimactic.  However, each child had a role.  That they led the class in.  Up front.  In alphabetical order (which would explain why JJ comes home from school chanting his classmates names in alphabetical order, letting me know who was and was not present.  It does warm a former librarian’s heart a bit).

JJ led the class in reciting numbers.

During “prairie quest” time, he asked for healing for Abe’s scratch on his knee (which stays present due to someone’s picking fixation).  Can’t imagine why he has a scrape on his knee.

And then the “aw” moment of the evening”:  led by his friend Jacob - “Class, it’s time for thanksgivings.  JJ, what are you thankful for?”  “You.”  Seriously.  That earned him a few “get out of parental frustration free” points, which were quickly used up at the after-party - cookies and juice and primary colored napkins (we were instructed on what to bring.  Teacher L runs a tight ship).

So now we’re in the throws of summer.  The first request:  “Can we eat breakfast at the park?”  SURE!  Which has been requested since then, but sitting on a wet picnic bench just isn’t so appealing.  That’s just how summer rolls:  no rhyme or reason, Little Man.

Now JJ lets everyone know, “I’m not going to school anymore.  I’m on Summer ‘Cation.  I’ll go back to school on September 12th”.  His birthday.  Which is not the date that he starts school, but it’s the best way to help give him a concept of time, and to get him to stop asking me, “Am I going to school today?”  Oh, and his sister is arriving on that day as well according to him:  I’m glad he’s got it all scheduled out.  Maybe she can even be his show-and-tell, that or mama’s freaky-floppy-stretchy-stomach:  that could really wow the crowd.

I know it’s been a good year when JJ’s pouting because he’s gotten too riled up and we had to get him away from his friends, and he says, “I don’t love my friends anymore.  Just you and Dad and Abel and God and Teacher L.”  Just like I said to my mama about my first grade teacher (except it was more in the context of , “Well, you may not love me anymore, but Mrs. Iverson always will.”  Oh, the sting).

So now we’re cruising through summer.  Posts will follow regarding events - wouldn’t want to flood you with too much Drenness.  Plus, I need to go finish reading about The Blue Zone lifestyle and Husband Coached Childbirth because I have the most random Books On Hold list at the library ever.

Okay, so I’m going to get a lot of flack for writing you a post right now because you don’t have a birthday, or as your eldest brother (whom I’m sure you will soon be coerced into addressing as JJ the Eldest, as opposed to you who will be JJ the Youngest, because he’s determined that you should share a birthday *and* a name.  That, or your name should be House - not after the TV show, just “House”) would say, “The baby’s zero!”  And I didn’t write to your brothers until they were born, or thereafter, but you know what?  I’m whipping out the ol’ parental card of “They’ll/You’ll Just Have to Deal” and “Not Everything is Fair”.  Because I can.

I figured I should clear up some details, just so I don’t start scarring your poor little psyche at the tender age of minus 18ish weeks.  We love you.  We want to welcome you into the family.  We’re excited about your arrival!  And just because we didn’t tell people about your Booness until we found out your gender does not mean we were in denial or didn’t want you or only wanted a certain gender.  Really, the question of, “So, you’re trying for a girl?” is fairly repulsive to me, and I already had so many other reasons to be sick to my stomach (like eating, or not eating, or driving, or walking, or breathing).

Really, it’s all my fault.  See, you can already start playing the “It’s All My Mother’s Fault” card, because *that* is your right, your heritage.  The fact that I told my mom that I had the title of my first book all worked out (”My Mother’s Southern and Other Reasons I Am the Way I Am”) in high school should’ve been a bit of foreshadowing for me (enter foreboding music).  Your father probably would’ve told everyone in church when I casually showed him the positive pregnancy test I’d been carrying around in my pocket (don’t worry:  it wasn’t the kind where you pee on the stick - it was more hygenically containable):  I didn’t know when or how to tell him, so before open worship seemed as good a time as any.

I felt the same about when to tell everyone else.  Your father would ask, “Now?”  My response, “Enh.”  “We have ultrasound pictures.”  ‘Yeah, but … something could still happen.”  “We’ve had two appointments.”  “Yeah, but I’m not showing *that* much.”  “We now know the gender, and your gut is protruding, and JJ knows, and we have to tell people sometime.”  “Yeah, well, Sami Brady was able to have a baby while she was in protective custody, and nobody knew, so I could just hang out most of the summer at home ….”

See, I just don’t deal with the attention well.  And then we found out you were a girl, which brought down these overwhelming emotions so totally different from each other, like trying to decide what to eat while at Epcot:  am I feeling Japan, or Morrocco?  Canada, or Sweden?  Oooh:  Mickey Mouse Shaped Ice Cream Cones!  I was excited!  I was freaked!  I was going to have pink in my house!  I have to learn how to do hair!  I’m going to deal with bloomers and patent leather shoes! (which my Northern friends will not understand why those elements will have to be in my house.  But they also give quizzical looks when I talk about the War of Northern Aggression).  I’m going to have to throw a wedding someday instead of just Rehersal Dinners!

But you don’t deal well with attention, either, since we had a longer-than-usual ultrasound due to the fact that you were still until you sensed that measurements were taking place.  Then, “Retreat!  Retreat!”  It’s like you thought Dr. Tami’s “got big fangs!”  And when she went to get your profile shot?  Well, after five to seven minutes of poking and prodding, she gave up:   “Well, her face is smashed into your placenta, and she’s wedged her head as far as she can into your pubic bone:  the profile shot is not happening.”  Sigh.  Followed up with, “That’s my girl!”  Which we really know you’re a girl, because we have about five beautiful patootie shots of you since that was your way of expressing your thoughts of the ultrasound experience.

You also proceeded to let me know how much you enjoyed the experience by kicking me.  For over 24 hours.  Which a few of those were spent on a teeny tiny airplane.  Helpful.

Your dad posted your pictures online, and I made an enigmatic comment on Facebook, because that’s my hangout of choice at the moment.  With your eldest brother, I just left an ultrasound picture out on the front desk of the office I worked at with the comment, “By Hubby & Dren”, which there were other pregnant people in the office, so folks assumed it was their picture.  With Abe, the cat kinda got taken out of the bag by a friend, but for the most part we announced to folks (including your extended family) by making a video of clips of JJ with “Coming Attractions” and pics of your compliantly-ultrasounded brother at the end.  And when we posted stuff, we were in the middle of the U.S.:  not so much close to home.  So I guess I did leave and come back home “pregnant.”  If only closer to the end …

We are excited for you to come meet us, darling daughter:  to see your face, to hold your fingers, to play “This little piggy”.  We’re excited to introduce you to our community who is SO happy to meet you.  And we’re loving that we get to know you.  But know:  your father will have a camera, and wireless access, in the hospital:  things will be documented.  So get ready to put on the cute face, otherwise you *will* have butt shots posted online for all to see, including high school friends (God bless the WayBack Machine). 

I love you, Baby Boo.

~Ma

“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been getting these 800 number calls.  I finally answered:  it was Capital One, and they want to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?”
“No.   They wouldn’t, or they couldn’t.  But they want you to call them back.”

And you get that feeling like your dad or your teacher or some authority-figure in your life has busted you for something, but you have to play the guessing game as to what exactly it could be? ….

…………………

And you know how you call the number, and are instructed to enter your credit card number, but you can’t, cause you don’t have one, and you never did?

And how if you keep saying, “I.Don’t.Have.A.Credit.Card” you finally get a menu option where you can push buttons to finally get to a person?

And how that person has an Indian accent, and you have flashbacks of Slumdog and wonder truly where your call is routed to and if they’re sitting in a spot with “Red Hills” and “Cannon Beach” and “Lumpy’s” signs on the walls so they could “be” in my vicinity?

And how when you say you can’t give a credit card number to them because you’re never had a credit card with them, and your husband has never had a credit card with them, and no, you don’t have a credit card with them, and your husband *still* doesn’t have a credit card with them, and you’ve never had a credit card with them and … ?

And then when they say you need to give your social security number instead, that you can’t continue with nice Librarian Dren but have to drag out the I Learned From A Roommate Who Put Many a Person In Their Place When Asking for Ridiculous Requests Dren, and you say that you’re not comfortable with that and don’t think you should *have* to be?

And you run downstairs to google the number, because now you’ve decided that you’re part of some Dateline “Can you believe they fell for this?” rip-off story?  But google says it’s Capital One.  But you’re still not gonna give up the SS?

So they say they can’t help you and let you know how unreasonable you are in subtle inflections.  But they’ll call back again if need be.  Which you’ll never get the call, because it’s going to your husband.  And they won’t talk to him.  And that menu option of “report credit card loss or fraud press 3″ lingers in your head?

…………

And you bank on talking to another person when you call back.  And you do:  a guy who sounds all-American down to the, ‘Uh, yeah, uh, can I get your name?  Is that Z like zoo?”  Because he asks for your name, not your non-existent credit card number, nor your your social security number?

And it takes him ten minutes to spell your name, and then says, “Oh” and then “Uh” and then “I need to talk to someone else”?

So you sit in silence, with your belly solid as if you ate stone soup for lunch, and wait, and wait, and wait?

Until he comes back on and says, “Oh, the reason we called is we’d *like* to offer you an account with Capital One:  would you be interested?”

And you have two options on how to react, and choose simply to laugh at the utter rediculousness of it all rather than let the Hormonal One be unleashed, because you have enough battles in your life, and this poor guy can’t possibly get many people laughing somewhat hysterically at him over the phone, and maybe that would make his day a bit nicer?

And you say, “No, thank you.” and thank him for his “help” and hang up and think that this could be an excellent means of inducing labor when the time comes, but dang it, it’s not going to help you calm down for quiet time while the boys are down?

……………….

Yeah, me, neither.

Seriously:  belly.hurts.  But my stress level is waaaay down.

And here it is:  in all it’s glory.

Picture one:  Good Posture.  Also, how I walked around in public for many weeks while ignoring the fact that there was a Miss Boo bouncing around in my belly.

Picture Two:  Bad Posture.  Also known as, tired of sucking it in, and it’s nighttime, and seriously:  how do I look like my friends who are 37 weeks pregnant already?

Many women note that the popping out of the belly button is their indicator that “We’re ready to go!”  So, does that mean I get a “get out of the third trimester free?” card? The button’s not totally obvious in this picture, but I really don’t want to repulse folks:  stretched out three times is a bit much, apparently.

And no, (Heidi), I’m not wearing maternity pants yet:  denial can be a blissful place to be, although I do find myself getting into pajama pants at night ealier and earlier.

And yes, that is a pedometer:  we’re back on the 10,000 steps program.  Because we don’t have enough going on in our lives right now ….

The dread comes not from hating to give haircuts:  it’s a choice I make, and it’s fairly theraputic to watch all the locks fall to the floor.  It’s more the unknown element that comes with each buzz:  which boy will squirm the most?  How will I cut their hair for the season?  How long will it take to grow out before it looks semi-acceptable?  Will I forget to put the number shear on the clippers and just dive in at zero? (a mistake I made only once, on the second haircut I had *ever* given, to my Hubby, which I got to stare at for a while).

This time I tackled the folks over four feet, and the Hubby took on those under four feet, i.e. bring on the summer cuts.  For most of my life I’ve loved the short cuts on boys - Tom Cruise in Mission:  Impossible - GREAT hair.  But with my boys?  I’m all about the Abercrombie do:  long curls coating the head.  Except when you have an abundance of sweat genes passed down from the generations, those curls quickly become … not so pliable.  “Mama, that hurts!  Don’t comb my hair like that.”  “Sweetie, I have to:  it’s all tangled.”  “Tangled?  Like a rectangle?”  Mental note:  Hubby’s right - time for a hair cut.

So, I take on winter duty, and Hubby shears away all those sweet locks come summertime while I bury my attention in whatever car-chase movie we’ve put on the TV as a distraction for squirmy boys.  JJ got a close-to-summer shear, and Abe initially had the same.  But he has a “challenging” head to work with (spherical, yet quite pointy in places), and he ended up looking like the Dad from Back to the Future.  I sighed:  “Just lop it all off.”

Now the boys will be ready for any heat waves that come our way.  While I’m not a rec”tangle”, I don’t think a hair cut will help the condition of my shape. 

Food = good.

Sun = good.

It was a good weekend.

Saturday we loaded up to go to Costco to get an order of contacts.  This was attempt #2, with attempt #1 being two previous Fridays when we tried to hit the Joe’s “Liquidation” sale which turned out to be liquidating their parking space availability as well as unclogged walking isles, but we found that out later because our first Joe’s attempt was too early - not open yet.  We went to go to Costco, but it wasn’t open either, so we got Costco gasoline and stopped off at PetSmart first because JJ had been promised a new fish, you know, in December.  In typical American fashion we walked out with six (I believe) new fish and a snail that’s favorite game is “trick the girl owner into thinking I’m dead so that she has a mini-attack most times looking at the tank, but FAKE OUT”.  Then we went to Costco.  Except Costco opens at 11:00 during the week, not 9:30 like the weekends:  FAKE OUT.  So, back to Joe’s for the last FAKE OUT experience of the day (those prices:  20 percent off is liquidation?!!  Dude, that word can *only* be associated with at least 70 percent or better - don’t you read all the frugal sale blogs?!!).

So we went to Costco this Saturday and boo-yah:  open.  Contacts:  purchased.  Other things we “neeeeeeded”:  purchased.  I mentioned to the Hubby:  it’s going to be nice - go buy something fun to grill.  He wanted salmon, but mentioned how it’s just not the same without the cedar plank treatment that we always do at my folks.  Round the corner:  boo-yah - planks.  With little salmons etched onto them.  Calling Hubby’s name:  use us!  Use us!  Then we grazed for samples (good day for adults - all natural turkey, garlic chicken meal, hawaiian chicken bowl, smoothies, two nut stations, and acai drinks; not so great for kids - dehydrated blueberries and mangoes).  AND we ran into some friends making their necessary purchases of Fair Trade Organic Sugar and non-Fair Trade non-organic Cheerios:  excellent combo.

We left.  We came home.  We unloaded.  We ate lunch.  Hubby moved into yard maintenance, and I moved into, “Hmm:  I wonder if I can lure our friends over for dinner by constantly Facebooking them.”  It worked.  And the food was GOOD, and so easy:  I seriously don’t know why I don’t do meals, with friends, more often.  Minus the incessant reports of all the ways my children were hosting/hazing the other kids.  The one thing I forgot to pick up at Costco:  the Fair Trade Organic nanny.

On Sunday we were chatting with friends during community time while the boys were getting their pack animal mentality on (first exclamation when one saw the other, “JJ, let’s RUN!”  And they did.  Oh, how they ran), and we decided that going to service just wasn’t in the cards once Abe had a permantent indent in his hand from getting a heavy door slammed on it.  So we went for Extended Community Time at a friends house because, really, did we want to have to entertain our children by ourselves, or rather to encourage/lock them outside to play together while we sat and talked?  The answer is obvious.  Again:  most excellent food - an assortment of baked goods from various grocery stores in our area.  They had bakery chocolate chip cookies that made me miss Buttrey’s/Alberton’s bakeries in Boise when I would get a free chocolate chip cookie to munch on while Mama shopped.  Which my boys don’t get, and won’t get, until they’re old and determined enough to read/slog through my blog and get to this blog post.

Sunday I took advantage of naptime to throw on the walking shoes and hit the hills.  There’s a little red on my shoulders, but there’s sunshine blazing on my inside.  Such an odd sensation, plugging in the headphones, having flashbacks of my daily walks in Boise, feeling like I could breathe for the first time in I don’t know how long.  Breathing:  that’s another thing I should add to the good list.  I so often forget.

This week we’re eating from the Moosewood Restaurant Cooks at Home:  Fast and Easy Recipes for Any Day.

Monday:  Mighty Zucchini Muffins w/cream cheese, bananas; Mockamole, nachos, ants on a log; Simple Quesadillas, Caribbean Black Beans

Tuesday:  Fruit-filled French Toast, yogurt; Italian-style Tofu Pizza, apples w/pb, crackers; Broiled Tofu burgers, seasons fries, peaches

Wednesday:  Cottage Cheese Apple Pancakes w/peanut butter, cheese; Greek Pita, hummus, chips, apples, veggies; Golden Cheddar Cheese soup, Pesto Palmiers, Salad, tangerines

Thursday:  Leftovers; PBJ, crackers, raisins; Leftovers

Friday:  Blueberry Multigrain Muffins w/cream cheese, peaches; Greek Spinach Frittata, cinnamon raisin toast; Sweet Potato Quesadillas, North African Cauliflower soup, chips, salsa

Saturday:  Yogurt Cheese Pie, cinnamon toast; Tofu Burritos, pb crackers, fruit leather; Feta Spinach Pizza, breadsticks, marinara, peaches

Sunday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; waffles