The Snyder 5

Istanbul Not Constantinople

2013-01-20T16:09:00.001-06:00

Ever since we cracked open Just Dance 4, the kids have been singing They Might Be Giants "Istanbul."

Unfortunately, Eli seems to have gotten my skills (or lack thereof) when it comes to understanding lyrics. As, today, he was walking around the house singing:

"Even old New York once had hamster dams."

A new take on pest control, perhaps?

How do you teach this?

2012-12-15T20:52:00.000-06:00

Me to boy: "This was a great day. You are amazing and will be amazing tomorrow."

Him: "Thanks, Mom."

Me: "I love you."

Him: "OK"

Me [laughing and horrified at the same time]: "OK??!! That's not OK. And by the way, if you ever say that to a girl, who is not your mom, who has told you 'I love you,' that will not be OK. That will be then end."

Him: "OK, that sounds good." [smiles]

Me [laughing really, really hard now]:I get it. You get it. But remember this moment.

Him: I love you, Mom.

Spelling Bee

2012-12-11T22:05:00.002-06:00

I have a vivid memory of learning to type. It was summer school in junior high.

I was there, not because I failed my first attempt at learning to type, but because my parents believed it was an important enough skill to have (even if I just accidentally typed the word "eunuch" instead of "enough," but I'm tired, it has nothing to do with my typing skills.)

Anyhew...I remember spending a summer on a manual typewriter. And then leaving and sitting in the car and finding myself, as we drove down the interstate, typing the billboards as I saw them on my legs, or typing the Dairy Queen menu as we passed through.

Eli has started to move into the reading realm. Or, at least I think he has. As we drive around town, he sees signs and asks me what they say.

"Mom, what does OGARA say?

"O'Gara, and that is a bar. So you don't need to worry about it."

"Mom, what does XPY 697 say?"

"Eli, that is a license plate, and they don't say anything."

"Really?!"

"Yes."

"Mom, what does S4I RT say?

"Eli, that doesn't say anything. It's another license plate."

"Nooo, it's not! What does S4I RT mean?"

"Okay, you're right."

This Is Not A Stick Up

2012-12-07T21:45:00.001-06:00

We made a deal with Caleb and Noah. After years of lost shoes, pants, books, gloves, hats, toys, coats, more coats, more shoes and trombones (oh yes, trombones), we struck up a deal.

One we knew we couldn't lose.

If they went half the school year without losing anything, as of January 15, we'd buy them each a Nintendo 3DS.

Really, there was nothing magical about January 15. But we were wise enough at the time to not tie it to Christmas and any expectations that might come along with that.

Along the way two coats were lost. And then found. But nothing else disappeared. So much for the deal we couldn't lose. And so we decided, behind the scenes, to get them each the much-coveted items for Christmas.

They went on sale bigtime this week and I meant to get to Target all week to get them. And suddenly, I found myself on Friday, knowing the sale was ending tomorrow, needing to get it done. However, Brian is out of town with the two big boys camping which meant I was alone with Eli. Like the oh-so-smart online shopper I am, I headed to the website. No go. Sold out there.

So that's when I wrote the hand-written I swear-this-isn't-a-stick up note.

It went like this:

"Hi. I promise I am not creepy. But I need your help.

The four-year-old standing next to me is very smart, awful at keeping secrets and a horrible liar.

I need to get two of the Nintendo 3DS systems for his brothers, but if he knows I am doing this, there is no way they won't hear about it [insert smily face emoticon]. Here is what I am proposing. Can you please get me two of them? Different colors, and I don't care what colors they are, as long as they are not pink.

Can you please bring them over here, ring them up and double bag them? We will go hide. I will distract this smart little guy with the big TVs on the back wall. Once I see you are ready, I will come back and casually pay you. And we will all act like this never happened [insert another smiley face emoticon]. Thank you!"

There were two teens behind the electronics counter. I handed it to the young guy who read it quietly to himself while the girl he'd been flirting with watched on with great curiosity. He smiled as he read. Then he nodded and in an ah-so-apropos way said, "I think this is something we can help you with. Carly, do you have some keys?"

Off they went on their mission. And somehow I could tell that it was a fun, albeit random, moment in their night.

Eli and I watched the big TVs for a few minutes. Carly caught my eye and gave me the nod. We sauntered back. She quietly told me she'd found a black one and a red one and noted proudly that she had triple bagged it. She quietly accepted my credit card.

I knotted the bag, winked at both of them and felt equal parts Mission Impossible and Santa Claus.

Somehow my super-attentive kid never asked why we went to Target and left without buying something. That in itself should have sent off major alarms.

I win.

And yes, I do kind of hope that Carly and the guy she was flirting with had as much fun in the moment as I did.

The Five Rules According to Noah

2012-12-02T17:27:00.001-06:00

Also known as the Ten Commandments. But who needs to mince words? Or rules? Or Commandments?

The other night, while I made dinner, Noah found himself trying to remember the ~~Ten Commandments~~ Five Rules.

As he worked it through, it went like this:

Don't Lie.

Don't Steal.

Don't Cheat.

Don't Kill.

Don't Make Out With Your Neighbor's Wife.

Sounds about right to me.

A Different Lens

2012-09-17T21:02:00.001-05:00

I've been cleaning out drawers and trying to use up those random "why did I buy that" paper and tablets and pens.

Therefore, one such magnetic tablet found its way to the side of the fridge.

As we made dinner tonight, I heard Eli struggling with a kitchen stool, dragging it across the room.

I watched as he crawled up the side of the fridge and grabbed the tablet down.

After wondering (again) why I once thought I needed to buy this, I wondered what he had in mind.

An hour later, as we got ready for bed, he bounded in to proudly show me what he made.

"Look Mom! It's a Volcano Shark with me coming out of the volcano!"

Sure enough. If I ever saw a Volcano Shark sprouting a 4-year-old, that would be one.

And for all of the moments when I just find myself wishing for black or white, when I wish the gray were oh-so-less gray, I appreciated this.

Tomorrow I am going to look for my own Volcano Shark.

Rituals

2012-09-04T19:38:00.000-05:00

Mom, why do we do this again?

I don't know, we just do.

But why?

It's just a part of the ritual.

What do you mean it's a part of the ritual?

It just is.

It's what we do.

It's important document.

What's it important to document?

That we bought new backpacks?

Yeah, something like that.

Busted

2012-06-27T22:05:00.000-05:00

Just when you think there is no hope. Okay, that is too strong, but still.

No chance.

No way.

Okay, that is still overstating it, but still. Just when you see yourself in this moment of mom-of boyness...All that is crazy and loud and intense and sword-filled.

And you wonder how you, in your high-heeled, MAC-wearing, all-girlness landed here.

Just then, with no threats. With no incentives. With no homework. You see this.

Boys in collared shirts, reading, writing, thinking.

Quieting.

And yes, if you are a mom of boys, QUIETING is a word.

Glee.

Hope.

Graduation-open house photo moment.

"See, I knew it!" moment.

And then...you knew you were busted moment. And should have never been taking photos.

But you were glad you did.

To prove it happened.

I am a mom of boys. I get it. I wonder about it. I love it.

And I documented it. Because it might be 3 years before it happens again.

"Specific Instructions"

2012-06-11T21:22:00.001-05:00

That was what the email from Eli's teacher was titled.

"Specific Instructions"

And this is what it said:

David and Eli opted out of going on a walk to stay back and work on their cars.

Eli: " Ms. Mindy can you take a picture and send it to our moms or our dads?"

Mindy gets camera ready but Eli says he's not ready.

Mindy waits patiently.

Eli: " Ms. Mindy do you think that life is a happy song?"

Mindy says she thinks so yes and asks him the same thing.

Eli: "No! Its from The Muppets!"

Eli struggles to get the fifth paint brush in the window of the car so they count it out and realize that with four on each side it is appropriately balanced and he can let that battle go.

Mindy snaps the shot and Eli instructs her to email it to his mom, not his dad, in fact better yet his brother Noah.

Mindy says she doesn't have his email.

Eli:" It's...N... That's all I know, N." He says to just send it to the black iPad.

Simplifying

2012-06-03T21:24:00.000-05:00

I remember reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder books growing up. As a girl in Minnesota, I was struck by a lot of things.

Mostly, let's face it. No heat?!?! Why the hell did you settle here?

But I also remember being struck by the simplicity of their lives. A couple of dolls. And that was really it.

Lately, we have been trying to simplify. Call it having your house on the market. Or having kids that are getting older. Or working a lot and having less time to deal with stuff. Or just being done with stuff. I'm not sure what all it is. But we've been buying less, keeping less, donating more and just trying to simplify.

Occasionally, I have moments where I wonder if it's not fair to the kids.

Don't get me wrong. It's not drastic. Pa Ingalls/Michael Landon and family we are not.

But it is less.

But then I come across this.

A boy. His notebook. His found wood object with nails hammered in it. It's 15 minutes before bed and he has an elaborate series set up.

"What are you doing C?"

"I'm working on my catapult, Mom."

The catapult is driftwood from northern Minnesota, the aforementioned nails, some Scotch tape, a rubberband and sugar free bubblegum. Because once Santa was mean enough to bring a bubblegum machine filled with sugar free gum. Which, shockingly, was never chewed. Because it was gross.

My child. The boy who is ever the statistician. Ever the planner and plotter and figure-outer, has figured out a way to make something out of nothing.

He is measuring the distance a nasty, sugar-free piece of bubblegum can fly. That is, can fly when launched from a homemade, coolest-ever-catapult-made-from-driftwood-tape-nails-and-rubberbands.

And as I watched and smiled, I had to speak up.

"Caleb, who is the coolest ever?" I asked.

And without stopping. Without pausing. Without ending the measurements or calculations or plannings. He did this.

And then he smiled and looked up.

No kid. You're wrong. You are the coolest.

Hidden Treasures

2012-05-13T20:57:00.002-05:00

Several years ago, I made a mistake.

And I have paid for it ever since.

We were on a family walk. Past the stage at which it's okay to put a kid in a stroller, but before the stage where your kids can move remotely efficiently by themselves. (By the way, I am now assuming that age is about 23.)

On a walk to breakfast down in the village, our kids were beyond pokey. As in,I was tempted to pick them up and carry the, forget the fact they were nearing 50 pounds. So in a moment of ~~brilliance~~ stupidity, I encouraged our kids to run ahead and look for treasures. I pointed to soda tabs and twist ties and unknown pieces of plastic.

It might have been one of the biggest parenting mistakes I ever made.

Don't. Ever. Do. That.

Think of all of the things people might throw out a car window that you don't ever want your kids to touch. And then some.

Gives new meaning to one person's trash is another person's treasure.

But, no. Really, no. There is a whole lot that should never be another person's treasure.

So this week, when I took Eli to the playground I remembered this story when he found a treasure.

It was a broken plastic ring to something and I was, appropriately, instantly grossed out.

We set it aside and continued playing until it was time to walk home.

Along the way, Eli insisted we run through a field of dandelion puff balls. I fought against my inner "we are only growing more wretched dandelions" and went with it.

And then our walk home took about an hour.

It's a two block walk.

But we filled it with treasures. Whirybirds (maple seeds, for you non-Minnesotans), soda can tabs, broken pieces of plastic, corners, caps and who knows what else.

And I just stopped. Something I am not very good at doing.

And I celebrated the junk. The whirlybirds.

The bottle caps. The moment.

It was good. Not that the whole "treasure"approach is a good one. But still...

When cubicles and working moms collide

2012-04-13T12:43:00.000-05:00

When you work out of cubicle, it can make life interesting.

It means we all know more about one another than, sometimes, perhaps we should. It means that you book a conference room to call your doctor but you turn on your "talking to my husband" voice and stay put.

But when you are a working mom and you see the daycare number pop up on caller ID, you answer it. Afterall, they don't call to tell you your kid's being cute, they call to say his head is spinning around and come now and bring a priest.

So in life in the land of cubicles, when you answer the daycare phone call, that means sometimes your coworkers get to hear half of a conversation that goes like this:

Hi Nils, what's up?

[insert Charlie Brown grown up talk that you can't hear]

Oh good! You have Snyder family drama for us, I was hoping for some of that today.

[pause]

He did what?

[pause]

He stuck a seed up his nose? What kind of seed?

[pause]

Yeah, I guess it really doesn't matter. It's big? And black? Um, so can you get it out?

[pause]

Oh, okay, I get it. Yeah, I could see that. You're not legally allowed to use tweezers to stick them up his nose. Um, well, is he uncomfortable?

[pause]

But breathing fine? I mean like do you think he can make it through lunch (not like he's not going to make it-make it, but like deal with it...)? I suppose asking him to blow his nose adds the whole "he might suck it into his brain" thing...

[pause]

Hmmm, no, I don't think I have anyone in the neighborhood who can come tweezer a seed out of my kid's nose.

[pause]

Ok. I'll be right there.

And with that I hung up and the entire row of people burst out laughing. I changed my shoes with one hand while calling people to cancel meetings noting I had a "daycare issue" with the other. And I dashed off to my car.

After a valiant battle, me in my suit brandishing my tweezers, the seed putting up a fierce fight, I was the victor.

The daycare teachers cheered. I wrapped the offending seed up in a tissue and headed back to cubicle land.

Where I am now the coworker who had to run out of work to dig a seed out of her kid's nose.

Ten reasons to never get a pet crayfish

2012-04-08T21:26:00.000-05:00

I couldn't resist. He came home from school and told me there would be a lottery to take home the remaining classroom crayfish. And could he? Could he please-please-please put his name on it?

He'd be happy. I had to imagine it wouldn't live long. And I'd be a hero, for a bit, at least. And so I let him put his name in the crayfish drawing.

And so there we were a week later, on a cold Minnesota fall night, lugging our new friend home.

And here I sit now, six months later, to tell you why you should just say no. Never get a "pet" crayfish.

Here's ten reasons why:

1. You will be a hero for a week. Or maybe just really a day. Or perhaps just until bedtime. And after that, it's over. The kids lose interest and you're in it for the long haul. The crayfish is yours. Strangely, you will develop a love-hate relationship with the thing. Oh yes, I have been caught talking to her. Sometimes bitterly, but talking all the same.

2. Crayfish hate people. We walk into the dining room where she sits (yes, I know, perhaps she's scared it being the dining room and all, but we're in Minnesota, not Louisiana, and wouldn't know how to cook her if we tried) and she stands on her back legs and hisses at us. Well, I imagine it's the sound of hissing, but she's under water. Regardless, it's mean and aggressive and all crayfish-crazy.

3. They stink. As in dying-depths-of-the-worst-lake-you-have-ever-been-in stink.

4. They're bottom feeders who, yet, strangely, love clean water. But see point three. Cleaning the tank three times a week is not fun. Get your gag reflex ready.

5. Have you noticed how I have been calling her a "she?" Yes, we didn't know she was a she. In fact Noah had named her Darth Maul until she randomly sprouted some eggs. That's when you and your friend, who was also the "best mom ever!" for five minutes when she brought home a crayfish, are texting and googling about crayfish ownership and eggs, and you find out they can store sperm for up to 18 months!

6. Did I mention that while your kid may take no ownership of her (or him) he will still claim them as his only family member when writing a book at school?

7. You actually start to hope that she might have babies until you get a text from your friend that hers did. There might be profanity in her text. Because they look like hundreds of baby mosquitoes. But even more so when the mom begins to eat them all. (Photo courtesy a horrified text message from my friend...) I should clarify, the crayfish mom ate them, not my friend. [Shudders.]

8. Etouffe is dead to you from here on. Literally. See point seven.

9. Shrimp might be close to being out of the picture, too.

10. You might leave town for Easter and come back on Easter Sunday night. You gasp slightly when you realize that the crayfish died over the weekend.

As you walk closer, you realize that not only is it not dead, it just molted over the weekend. Alternately horrified and bummed that you missed it, you might find yourself pondering that fact that you are standing there on Easter Sunday having watched an animal shed its skin, walk away and surprise its visitors who rejoiced. You wonder if you should point out the similarities between Jesus and your crayfish to your kids.

Then you slap yourself hard across the cheek. Admit you have lost it. Clean the tank and remind yourself that when Eli asks if he can bring a crayfish home in four years?

Just go get a puppy.

Poor Noah, All Alone

2012-04-04T19:11:00.000-05:00

Tonight, while typing up Noah's "About the Author" page for his animal project, I got to the last line and immediately know that caring for our inherited crayfish for the past six months had been worth it.

She has snipped at me. Hissed at me (I swear, even in the water). Tried to pinch me. Run away from me. And yet I have continued, the nurturing woman that I am. Diligently cleaning the tank. Trying not to gag. Talking to her, reminding her that her tank is nasty and that this is really for the good of all of us. Trying not to get pinched.

And above all, resisting the urge to forget to feed her for a week.

But tonight it was all worth it.

After all, without her, Noah would be an orphan.

On airplanes, bathrooms and getting social media right

2012-04-03T21:26:00.000-05:00

I spent last weekend working out of town. And after a long, but good, weekend, I was ready to get home.

We took off and five minutes into the flight our flight attendant announced that they went to make coffee, only to realize there was no water on the plane. None. As in you can't wash your hands in the bathroom and, yes, you also can't flush the toilet.

Like the brilliant woman I am, I immediately knew where I needed to be. The back of the bus. Because no one wants to be number 207 out of 220 in line for the bathroom where the toilets don't flush.

[Shudders.]

And yes, I checked on the water situation. And no. Not a drop. But part of me did wonder for a moment if I was being secretly taped checking it and would be duly sprayed with massive amounts of water. But, no, and I digress...

An hour later, when there were easily 40 people in line for the toilet, I was feeling like a genius. How often, really, can you say you feel like a genius for going to the bathroom? But I did.

And also very glad I had the requisite mom hand wipes in my purse.

When I landed, I was still annoyed and immediately went to find the the Honorary Larry Craig bathroom (Google it, or maybe don't, but yes, it exists, and no, I didn't really use it, I used the one on the women's side) to really wash my hands and reminded myself that I'd call later to voice my frustration. But in the meantime, I tweeted. I held off on naming the company. Because, personally, I try to avoid calling out a company out on something publicly before I try to deal with it myself.

Because we are all human. Companies are made up of humans that make mistakes. And sometimes talking to a human can get you where you need to be...before thousands of your closest ~~distant~~ friends ~~acquaintances~~ need to know the details.

So I said...

Molly Snyder ‏ @MollyinMinn
Clearly there are far worse mechanical problems. But sending 220 people in the air for 3.5 hours without water in the bathrooms isn't cool.

Within a few minutes, one of my friends guessed/assumed which airline I may have been flying and added their Twitter handle to the mix.

Not five minutes went by before the company, who I will now call out as Delta Airlines, responded. The apologized. They asked for details. They acknowledged they couldn't change what happened. But they wanted to do something to make it a little bit better. And before they even got to that last step, I was impressed.

You see behind all of these big companies? There are people. And we are all human. Should the people behind the companies be held accountable? Absolutely.

But sometimes I miss what we had before social media. The time where you had an issue and called someone and tried to figure it out. That might have been a person or a group of people or a giant company. And yes, you might have had a great experience with that person or a horrible one, but it was between you and them. At least to start.

I get what social media gives us. And appreciate it.

But sometimes I wish we could all just stop it with the knee jerks. With the accusations. With the assumptions.

I know. I am being an idealist.

But for one little moment? This one small person really appreciated that one person behind that one big company. A big company who makes mistakes sometimes. And has things happen that may be out of their control.

So, thank you, Delta.

Now please, next time? Check the toilets before we take off.

Letting out the Leash

2012-03-23T12:53:00.000-05:00

I am a helicopter parent.

I admit it. I own it. It's what I can control. Especially as a parent that works outside the home. So when I am with them, I hover. I stay close. We wear seatbelts. And bubble wrap. Okay not really.

But sort of.

Even when swinging.

And helmets. Even when on a pogo stick. Or playing tag. Not really. But I have thought about it.

I don't let my kids bike around the block. Not yet.

But I am realizing I can't do that forever. Sometimes. Sometime soon. Sometime now. I need to let go.

Bit by bit.

Let them make more choices. Have their own wins. And make their own mistakes.

Because they will learn, right? They will fall, and get back up and learn?

And hopefully I will have picked the right moments to helicopter and the right moments to let them direct their own flight.

Which sometimes means saying, "Yes, you totally can ride your bike to the park."

"But follow me. And use your arm signals. Okay?"

Boys Will Be Boys

2012-03-05T08:39:00.001-06:00

Each of the boys has this laugh. This distinct, unique-to-them laugh. And it always signals that either they, or one of their brothers, is up to no good.

We heard Eli's coming from the basement yesterday and called them up.

This was why.

Afterwards we challenged Noah to do a Mad Libs that didn't involved bodily functions, undergarments or the words "stupid" of "psycho/psychotic."

Shockingly, he could not.

Happiness is a New Friend

2012-03-04T16:12:00.000-06:00

Sometimes all it takes to shake off the winter doldrums is to get outside and make a new friend.

As in actually making one.

Well, counting down a trip to Mexico helps, too.

He's Not Heavy, He's My Brother

2012-03-02T07:00:00.000-06:00

A friend at work said to me yesterday, "Sometimes I think if you put a camera on your kids and your family and just taped it, it would make for hilarious YouTube stuff."

And right then I flashed back to earlier this week. There I was, getting ready for work. Rocking a good hair day. It's rare, so you note the moments that they happen. And good hair meant I had followed it with a cute outfit. I was in a dry clean only dress and was halfway through pulling up my tights. As in one-leg-in, one-leg-not. Eli, who had shockingly (italics=sarcasm) snuck into our bed, started to roll around complaining of a sore back. And before I knew it, he was throwing up in our bed.

I grabbed him and ran to the bathroom. Have you seen me run? It's not good. Especially at 6:00 a.m. And as I ran, he continued to get sick. Remember that one leg in the tights? Yeah, not good on a floor that a kid is getting sick on and you are running on and you haven't had coffee on, not on the floor, but on your wherewithal, and by wherewithal I mean your brain, as in your reflexes are not awake yet...not good.

Before I knew it I had slipped and was falling. Hard. Slamming my head into the wall and my hip into the scale. (Which, side note, yes, I did wonder when I hit the scale with great force what weight it registered. But then I really didn't want to know.)

But I digress.

Cue: Unrelated story. Moving on. Yes, sometimes our life just couldn't be more ridiculous. Like last night when the kids were waiting for dinner and turned on a movie and I looked over to see this:

We have larger TVs in our home. We actually have furniture, too. But no matter. Eli thought Caleb was the perfect cushion for his viewing pleasure.

And Caleb didn't mind.

Oh. This is so blackmail material someday.

Cheeseburger that wasn't from paradise

2012-02-22T18:36:00.000-06:00

Well, hi. Knock, knock, knock. This thing still on?

February has been busy. And that's putting it mildly. Many planes. Many trips. Many hours. Many balls to juggle. And when you juggle balls, inevitably, you drop some.

And so in the midst of it, a few days ago, I found myself racing with three minutes to spare, and yet 12 minutes to drive, with three hungry kids in the car.

So I spun it as only a PR girl can do. Hey kids, let's get a treat and get McDonald's for dinner!

And so began the dance of me trying to navigate three boys who all simultaneously order food like Meg Ryan from When Harry Met Sally and the audio ordering system that makes you feel like you must be getting Punk'd (do people still get Punk'd anymore? Don't answer that, I will feel old) and me stressing out about being late.

Cue the foreshadowing.

We get through the drive through and I begin happily handing Happy Meals to the back of the car. We drive away.

Cue the foreshadowing, part 2.

Suddenly Caleb has announced that his chicken nuggets are actually a cheeseburger. And if you know anything about Caleb it's that anything with cheese is like coating something with devil spit. I have no idea what that means, but maybe you do. And if so, you know it's not good.

"Caleb, we are late, it's been a long day, there is a Star Wars toy in the box. Can you please deal with the cheese?"

Dramatic antics increase. And while I am increasingly annoyed, I do remind myself that I might just be glad, given this emotional pre-teen outburst, that I don't have girls.

I grab a napkin, pass it back and ask him to scrape the cheese off. You can guess how well than went over. And if you can't, I can tell you that it ended in me taking the cheeseburger back and trying to drive one handed and scrape cheese off onto the skirt of my suit with my other hand, while rapidly losing my temper.

I handed the ~~cheese~~burger back and, with blocks to go, requested, strongly, that he eat it. Turns out the residual cheese was too much. Not to mention by this point he was complaining that it was now a double cheeseburger. I didn't have the wherewithal or rational thoughts left to share that our passing it back and forth had crushed it to the point it now appeared to be a double cheeseburger.

He lost it and so did I. Not a proud moment. I mean I lost it. The ~~cheese~~burger proceeded to be handed back and forth between he and I two more times. Until I was done. Four months of stress, a month of travel. Ten minutes of intense ridiculous stress. Life just caught up with me.

And then I did it. I cracked. With mustard all over my hand, I hit the power switch on the window on a cold Minnesota night and found myself chucking the smashed ~~cheese~~burger out the window. A formerly ~~perfectly~~ good ~~cheese~~burger flung out onto the freeway.

An angry, stubborn mom. A stubborn, sad boy. A rough moment.

Followed by some deep breaths, a hug, an apology.

Followed by Eli opening up his Happy Meal to announce that he wanted chicken nuggets and had a hamburger.

And I had to laugh. And by laugh, I do mean a wry, sad, amazed, yet incredibly cathartic laugh.

Parenting is hard. Especially when you have one Happy Meal go wrong. And freak out. Only to realize that it was all just a mess up and while there was one wrong meal, it got mixed up and became one wrong meal turned into two. Multiplied by Pi.

Ah well, at least the city rats were fed for one night.

And someday, my kids will laugh at me. I hope.

Yes, that's my kid

2012-01-30T07:00:00.002-06:00

Each day, Noah brings home his daily notebook.

Usually it contains things like "Do Wednesday homework" or "Finish Tuesday worksheet" or "Sign permission slip."

But on Sunday night as I prepared to head out of town for the week, I pulled it out to find this.

Oh. How. I. Am. Dying. To. Know. That. Story.

But, regardless, I am pretty sure he would win.

Oh yeah, and the fattie mentioned above his wrestling endeavors? Totally separate. I don't get it, but those are random stuffed rats from IKEA. No clue. I just go with it.

Crappy. I mean...Crafty.

2012-01-22T21:39:00.001-06:00

Really, nothing stirs my heart... And by stirs my heart, I mean, makes me want to puke, like projects that come home from school that require me to ~~show off~~ do stuff that really doesn't need to be done for the greater good of the kids' education.

And with kids who are a year apart, I can see them coming. Because, after all, I did them a year before. (See Keeping Up With the Joneses AKA "The Planet.")

This year, just like last, it's the puppet unit. And it's public school, after all, so nude puppets would be a travesty. So we parents must make costumes. Oh yes, we must.

The assignment comes home, complete with the sewing pattern.

For those of you who can sew? No biggie. For those of us who can't? Another story.

Noah asks if I can sew his for him. Because, after all, he shrugs, there is like this helper group who can sew for the people who can't. You know, Mom, so you can check this box on my sheet if you can't do it.

Hell to the no-es. I took seventh grade Home Economics, back when it was called Home Economics, I hand sewed a pillow. I can do this!

Caleb pipes up, "Yeah, there was this mom last year?! She handsewed this costume that looked like it was made by a machine, like it could have come from a store, but it wasn't! Amazing!"

Now how he knows the difference? I don't know. But I sensed a throw down. And then Noah did it for me.

"But Mom, I understand, you know, you have stuff to do. Like you have to go to work..." he said, with a shrug...his voice trailing off.

Oh no. I will sew a wizard costume and it will be the ~~best damn~~ most adequate wizard costume there is.

And so off to Michael's we went. Well whattya know? They don't sell fabric. If I wanted to make a costume out of silk flowers and picture frames and yarn, that would have been my place. Crap.

Nor does Home Depot. Okay, I kind of knew that, but they were across the parking lot.

In desperation, I looked further across the parking lot and saw Goodwill. Something in there has to work, right? I mean, clearly, the kid doesn't have high expectations.

Thankfully, he bagged on the hairy arms, that might have put me over the edge.

He told me he wanted blue fabric with stars. Oh, if only I had kept our shower curtain back when that whole sun, moon, stars theme was a big deal.

Never mind, that's gross.

But I found this. Almost the same right?

Those are stars! Not snowflakes!

Now really, you can't start a major sewing project if you don't have the right tools. And by tools, I mean the bag full of sewing notions (oh, it's good to use that word) that you have lifted from hotel emergency kits for years and are still around from your grandmother gifting them to you in 1985.

And don't forget the importance of the proper scissors.

And finally, this will take awhile. Stay hydrated.

As I began to sew, I thought that perhaps I needed some inspiration. I wondered what the craftiest of crafty women I know would watch. And I assumed this was it.

Then again. Maybe that's my problem. No probably not. But still.

Long story short? Well, probably too late for that. But after far too much time stitching, restitching and poking my fingers, I ended up with this.

Followed by a little boy that cheered and pumped his fist in the air. My kid knew I tried. I figured it out. I jumped outside my comfort zone. I did something for him -- because it was for him -- and I didn't care about the rest.

That is what mattered.

And they are stars, not snowflakes. And if you say otherwise, I'll meet you out back behind the Goodwill.

This Stuff is Awesome

2012-01-16T22:13:00.001-06:00

As you move into to the stage of parenting preteens or teens, everything changes.

Well I haven't parented teens yet, but so far preteens seem to allude the future...

The rules are gone. The expectations changed. It's all just different.

You find yourself fine with a genuine "thank you." Thrilled with a shrug and a reality based "that's cool, Mom."

A hug is amazing.

It's just different. You know they are still there. They might still quietly ask you to tuck them into bed or cuddle a bit before they fall asleep. But it's different. The affection changes. And you tell yourself, all the time, that it should. That this is the right, next step.

And then your kid brings home the idea of Shakespeare.

They are studying Shakespeare in performing arts and, suddenly, well, it's cool. And because there is a commonality, we're cool.

Cool as in, pull out the 3M stickies and mark interesting sections, cool.

As in... races to the basement to finds your oh-so-old-from-college (is-it-really-that-old-when it's-500-years-ago-and-college-was-only-15-years-ago-but-I-digress) consolidated works.

Digging into it like it's a loaf of Hawaiian bread and spinach dip (wait, that was me talking, but still...)

With "Wait, Mom, this is interesting, can dinner wait?" requests...

And "oh, I have to show my teacher this part," breaks.

And you just see the future. Not skip it. Not avoid it.

It's good.

The hugs have changed. It's different. But you see the minds. The personalities. The lives developing. And you can't help but smile.

Thanks, Shakespeare. Thanks, life.

You just see it.

And it's good.

Thankful

2012-01-05T06:11:00.001-06:00

Occasionally you have those pangs. Where you wonder what you are missing during the day. What are the moments. The quotes. The things.

But then you get there at 5:45. To a child giddy to show you this.

His super hero goggles.

And you are reminded, yet again, what an amazing place you have landed.

Where he shows you how much he loves his life.

Both at home and away from home.

He is a super hero. And so are you.

Gas Station Restrooms

2012-01-03T06:21:00.000-06:00

You don't use them often. And really, with good reason, right?

They are poorly heated. Even more poorly maintained. And, calling the proverbial spade a spade? They are creepy as all get out.

Ah yes, the joys of gas station restrooms.

And I refuse to call them bathrooms. Because you would only take a bath in them if you were a fugitive.

Yesterday Brian and I ran some errands and, along the way, stopped for sushi. Screech. Stop there. I beg you, separate the idea of us eating sushi from gas station restrooms, because really, they were very, very distinct things.

Okay, now that we are clear there...

Given the diet we've both been on, lunch also included tons and tons of water. Okay, tons is an exaggeration. But it was a lot.

And after a failed attempt at stopping at several antique shops (to shop, not for restrooms...) (and, who knew that Monday was the standard day for antique shops to close? Don't answer that, I am sure a lot of you knew that...) we realized we were almost out of gas (again, not a restroom reference...geez, I should let Noah read this, he'd be convulsing in giggles now. He loves scatological humor.)

We stopped at the Super Day. Because any time you have to fill your gas tank it really is a super day, isn't it? Our local urban rest stop. Local urban rest stop? Did I just type that? Cue James Dean and The Outsiders. And separately, is it really a rest stop if it's just your local gas station? And finally, this is the post full of asides, isn't it? But I digress.)

Regardless, I say urban in the sense that, well, one, we live in an urban area and, two, the "Welcome" blinking lights in the window had a line under it saying "Welcome" in Arabic. At least, that's what I assumed. I neither speak Arabic nor knew if the lights were burnt out and really said something in Arabic or English or any other language.

After graciously offering to put the gas in the car, Brian tapped on the window and mouthed that he was running in to use the restroom.

From that moment on, the pump seemed to tick through the cents and gallons at a painfully slow pace. $3.45 $3.47 $3.49 And with each dollar, I started to wonder where Brian had gone. $6.29. $6.31. $6.33. I locked the doors.

After $47.62 I realized I had to do the same. (Note: This is the first time I have blogged about needing to go to the bathroom...at least I think it is. Either way? Proud moment.)

So I locked up the car. As I walked into the station, I noticed it was eerily silent. Like sanitary, scary silent. And again, how often does someone say that about a gas station? Sanitary, I mean.

I looked for the telltale circle-headed man and woman to guide me away from the temptation of the Pringles, Butterfingers and Gardetto's.

And headed in that direction only to find Brian exiting the bathroom pale and with cell phone in hand ready to text me.

He looked at me and said, "Dude (yes, sometimes he calls me Dude, it's a term of endearment, you kind of have to hear it), there is no one in here."

I looked around and he was right. The entire station was empty. No shoppers. No clerk. No anyone.

The 8-year-old in me thought, "Perhaps we should grab all the Pringles and run!" Cause while the 8-year-old in me may have wanted to lift stuff, I still would have said "perhaps." But I resisted.

Taking nodded and taking Brian's lead, I pulled out my phone. I cautiously pushed open the women's room door, hoping I wouldn't find a massacre scene inside. Because, really? Isn't that what we all hope for when we enter the restroom?

I pushed the door open tentatively. And was pleased. Pleased, I tell you, to find just a mildly not-so-clean urban bathroom. Completely devoid of dead bodies. And now my biggest challenge was just not dropping my iPhone in the toilet.

Now that is not to say that I hasn't already typed a pre-text to Brian saying, "Call 911! Come now, it's bad!"

But thankfully, I didn't send have to send it.

It was just cold and kind of yucky and, I guess, exactly what I expected.

As we drove away, we laughed in a sick, macabre way about what it could have been. And secretly sighed with relief about the day we didn't die in a gas station ~~bath~~restroom.

But from now on? We'll save our ~~bath~~restroom runs for real car trips. And always have an emergency text ready to go.