I would have yelled for them to get down. “It’s not safe!” “You’ll hurt yourselves!” Sometimes it still makes me nervous; not so much the small slide in our yard but life in general. Letting them climb up. Watching them make a decision. “Should I jump? Or not? What would Buzz do?”

Buzz would obviously stick out his arms. Recite, “To infinity… and beyond!”

And fling himself into the great unknown.

And isn’t that what we want for our children?

For them to feel comfortable enough to climb to the top of whatever they are facing. To stand with bravery and make a decision. To tell themselves they can do it. And to go — to fling themselves into the great unknown of life.

And then, whether it’s fun or something not so fun, to climb back up, look to you for approval, and do it all over again.

What Would Buzz Do? is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

A gentle breeze blew the sound of the clock tower on our local courthouse toward us as it chimed that another hour of our lives passed us by. I heard it — but didn’t at the same time. It is a sound I take for granted, that sometimes we hear the bells and sometimes we don’t. Like much of life — sometimes we get it, sometimes we don’t. I continued reading, lost in the moment of happy boys and warm breezes and moments passing.

“What was that?” BigBrother poked my leg to get my attention.

I looked at him, crouched in front of toys that have been dubbed “deck” toys — left outside during the non-stop rain of this odd winter, dirty and old. I thought of Woody and Buzz and wondered if the boys would notice if the old castle made its way to the city dump. “What, Buddy?”

“That noise. What was that noise?” He looked off in the direction of down town, the breeze tousling the front of his too long hair. I made a mental note to nag my husband to cut the boys’ hair.

“Oh, that’s just the courthouse bells.”

He kept looking in the direction of the courthouse and I watched the wheels in his head turn. I saw him visualize the drive to our house; turn left, turn right, turn left, go straight, some stop lights, turn right, up a hill, down a hill, home. That’s quite a ways to a six-year-old, I suppose. It’s less than a mile really.

“But how can we hear them? We don’t live next to the courthouse. It’s all the way over there, on all those streets away.” He looked at me then, with the questions in his eyes that he always has, wanting to know more about the way the world works. He looked to me like I have all the answers, like I am the All Knowing of All Knowings and, for a moment, I wondered how many times I will truly fail him by my lack of knowledge.

“Sound carries, Buddy.”

“Oh. Right.”

He looked back toward the courthouse, through the trees, trying to see it with his eyes and not just his mind. The wheels in his head kept turning. I watched him, wondering what was going on that amazing brain of his, knowing it was something so very him-like. He lifted his face toward the sky a bit, pursed his lips…

and whistled.

Did you hear it?

Did you hear him test out what his mother told him to be true?

Did you hear him make sense of the world in his own way?

Did you hear it when I realized that even though I can tell him things that I know to be true, he’ll always have to find out for himself if what I have said was true? Did you hear my sigh when I realized that I am raising a male version of myself; a sigh filled with pride and hope… and fear?

Did you hear my mother, somewhere miles away, whisper, “I told you so,” as a smile wiped across her face?

I did. I heard it all.

Sound carries. I’ve tested it myself.

Sound Carries is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

What gives? We haven’t had enough snow to play in and it’s nearly February. Right now, it’s currently sleet-ice-raining. In case you didn’t notice, sleet-ice-rain is not snow. It’s crap. Ice is crap, Old Man Winter. Crap. With a capital C.

In November, I made the hair band reference joke, that “nothing lasts forever, even cold November Rain.” But you know what? It has! I understand you’re not in charge of November or even the beginning half of December; that’s the Funky Fall Fairy or whatever. But I thought for sure when we were denied a White Christmas that the snowflakes would soon fly and cover the yard in a spectacular blanket of white.

But no.

We’ve had some snowflakes. Here. And there. But they weren’t even enough to cover the grass (that seems to be growing, what with the 60 degree days in January and all). To top it off, quite literally, you topped off our last snow with a glaze of ice so thick that we couldn’t even park in our own driveway. Not cool. Not cool at all.

All of this would be mostly tolerable, but I kind of made one of those parental slip ups that looms over my head darker than the gray, snowless January clouds. It happened just the other day. LittleBrother was lamenting the fact that we had no snow to play in… yet again. He was getting kind of four-year-old angsty, and I let the words fly before I considered their weight.

“It will snow enough for us to play in this winter, LittleBrother. I promise.”

As soon as I said the words “I promise,” I knew I had gone wrong. I can’t promise anything about weather. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past you, Old Man Winter, to just give us a dusting of snow between now and spring to prove your point. Plus, both the boys and I got new snow boots for Christmas. It’s almost destined not to snow, isn’t it?

And so, I promised my youngest son that it would snow. I promised. And I’ve tried to teach my sons that we keep promises in our family, that our words hold a lot of weight and that we should keep true to our word. But, in my defense, I had only had a half a cup of coffee and was on question number 412 before 9:00 in the morning. Surely you can cut me a little slack?

I don’t need a lot of snow, but I won’t complain if there’s a boatload either. I just want to hear my sons giggle and laugh in the snow. I want to build an angry snowman with them again. I want to look at the joy on their faces, to see the magic in their eyes.

I just want to keep my promise.

So, could you pretty please see what you can do? I’ve defended you for years, and I maintain that winter is my favorite season. Surely you could give back a little. Pretty please, with snowflakes on top?

If not for me…

…for him.

Sincerely With heartfelt love of winter,
FireMom

A Plea to Old Man Winter is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

BigBrother actually paused his DS and looked at me. “Where are you doing?”

“I’m off to the doctor. Remember, I said it would take awhile.”

“Oh good.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“When you’re gone for long times, that means I get to miss you. I like to miss you.”

Huh.

I’ve made choices and rearranged schedules and altered the course of my career to be here. A lot. Most of the time. I travel here and there. And I do actually have a life outside of the walls of my house. But I am here. A lot.

It’s the moments like these that make me confused as to what I’m doing. Here. All the time.

I grew up with a mom who put herself through college when I was a small child, worked her way up the ladder and was both a great mom and a great career woman. She was there when I was younger, and I remember “helping” her study at our coffee table. I don’t think I realized that I was more of a distraction than a help until I was trying to meet deadlines and learn new things with two children under foot. Or, often, on top of my feet as they frequently drive cars and trains and trucks and fire trucks and ambulances and tractors over my toes while I work.

Working from home isn’t always easy. Learning to separate what I do for work from what I do for my family was a hard process, learned (and re-learned) over the past six years. Like Stacy, I share an office with the playroom, though I mostly hang out upstairs since my two sons have been known to make ear drums burst with their volume. Someday I dream of my own office space, one that I don’t have to share with anyone. With a lock on the door, which would be pointless as it would mostly be open and children would be standing in it asking me for water when they can get the water themselves. But I still dream of it. It’s green, obviously.

It’s funny that I love to travel for my job, and I look forward to taking trips to new places. But as the day arrives, I dread leaving my little guys behind. I enjoy my time with my coworkers, meeting new people and experiencing new things, but I love the look on their face when I return. When I got back from my MRI the other day, they looked just as happy. Mainly because it was time to play Super Mario Bros., so it may have been less about me and more about my accidental timing. But I smiled back at them, ready to play.

I dropped the boys off with my mother-in-law to spend the night tonight. We’re having our last holiday celebration tomorrow with my sister-in-law and her husband. Maybe tomorrow when I show up, they will run and hug me and say, “Mommy! I missed you!”

I know I will tell them that I missed them. I always do. That’s why I’m here.

Why I’m Here is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

How do you say no to that?

BigBrother brought out his journal, his crayon and pencil bag and sat down at the table while I busied myself with post-dinner and general evening clean up chores. LittleBrother saw what was going on and ran to get his notebook and writing utensils. They sat together, writing in their separate spaces and chattering at loud volumes.

I took a load of laundry downstairs. I laid out clothes for tomorrow. I finished the dishes. No one bothered me or pulled on my pant leg or whined or argued or even got out of a chair. I turned around to find them still at the table, crayons and pencils all over the all ready cluttered table. But instead of writing in two separate notebooks, they were writing in one.

“I know, I’ll write BOOM! here, next to the man.” Then he sounded out the word, helping himself as he went along. “Oo. The oo sound comes from two o’s. Boom!”

“Yeah! Now we need to draw a big circle thingy over here!” LittleBrother pointed and BigBrother obliged.

I stood in silence, taking in the moment before reaching for my camera.

“We’re drawing our own comic book, Mommy. Like George and Harold in Captain Underpants!”

“That’s fantastic.”

They continued on for much longer than I expected, even after we had an explosion of pencil shavings right after I finished cleaning up the floor. They were entranced with their story, with their drawings, with helping each other.

As we got ready for bed, they continued to talk about their masterpiece, the book that they were going to write.

“I can be the illustrator. And the writer. I can be both, right Mommy?”

I told him that he could; that he could be anything he wanted to be.

“I’ll let LittleBrother be both too, of course.”

Of course.

We finished our evening activities reading another chapter of Captain Underpants together. It’s the second book with the talking toilets. Yum yum, eat ‘em up and all that jazz. Toilet, poop and fart jokes are apparently going to be a part of my life for a long time to come, and quite possibly I’m raising my own little George and Harold. Which, if you think about it, is better than raising Harold and Kumar, right?

So thank you, George, Harold, Mr. Krupp, Captain Underpants, the Turbo Toilet 2000 and the Robo-Plunger for the hour that my boys spent creating and laughing and BOOM!-ing and dreaming of writing their own book. Don’t tell me that nothing good ever came out of toilet humor.

Because this? This is good.

BOOM! is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Not that my not-so-little children don’t make me doubt what I’m doing on a regular basis. Just in different ways.

I had forgotten, until today, that when BigBrother was baptized in the same church that we now attend again, the Children’s Choir sang a beautiful song after the baptism. They did so again today, and my eyes filled with tears that I fought to blink back. Swept back six years, I remembered standing in front of the church holding my one month and one day old on my first wedding anniversary and feeling both overwhelmed and overjoyed. I wonder if, in six years, today’s parents will remember the joy of being together, the beauty of children singing for another child, instead of the cries of their little boy.

December 18, 2005 — Apparently scared out of my mind.

February 3, 2008 — Very tired.

I look back at the pictures taken on each of the boys’ baptism days, two years apart, and I know that they must have been harried mornings. Baptized at one month and two-and-a-half months, neither boy was yet sleeping through the night. If I look closely, I see the exhaustion in my eyes brought about by days and weeks on end with interrupted (or no) sleep. I’m sure it took all of the energy and dedication we could muster to get out of bed that morning, make ourselves look presentable in the same sweater as it was the only one that fit and make our way to church. But the truth is that I don’t remember that rushed feeling, the exhaustion, the worry that there would be a diaper blowout accident, thus ruining the baptism outfit. I just remember standing up with my son and husband and feeling a peace.

It’s funny the way the mind works, erasing the bad and leaving you with the good, the encouraging, the stuff that lets you keep going forward. I’m hoping that the mind continues to do so and I’ll someday forget about the not-eating and the eye-rolling and the not-so-awesome stuff of where we are in parenting right now. Someday I expect to look back and think, “Oh yes, that was the point in time when BigBrother learned to read and LittleBrother wanted to help us do everything from make dinner to paint vehicles. Wasn’t that a lovely time?”

Because it is. Even if they cry in church — during their own baptism. Even when they refuse to eat. Even when you call them upstairs — three times — to get ready for church when you’re already pushing the envelope to get out the door on time in the first place. Even when they sing Scooby Doo for the umpteenth billion time. Even when they tour every bathroom ever made. Even when they roll their eyes.

This is a lovely time.

What We Remember is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Non-stop, all day, incessant questions that, for the most part, I can answer quite easily. For everything else, there’s Google. My sons know that if they stump me, I can turn to the nearest electronic device and just “Google it up, Mommy!”

Tonight, zooming around the living room in his pretend space ship instead of cleaning the playroom, he threw a doozy into the great wide open.

“Mommy, how many people are in space right now?”

I get a lot of space questions. Mostly about Earth, Mars, stars, astronauts and Saturn. You know, the one with the rings. It’s always everyone’s favorite. This was a new one. In fact, it’s just something I’ve never even considered.

“Well, Buddy. I don’t know. But that’s a fantastic question. Let me look it up.”

I smiled at him as my computer booted. He was still zooming around in circles, talking a mile a minute about how many people he thought were in space.

“It’s gotta be more than one, Mommy. You have to at least have someone else with you. Being in space alone would be boring. Unless you could call home. But then it would still be boring. I mean, minus walking in space and stuff. That would be cool.”

And on and on and on and on.

His mind amazes me. We’re alike in so many ways. I do remember having a space fascination and loving Saturn. But to wonder about how many people are in space right now? He just amazes me at times.

And so I turned to Google, Googled up “how many people are in Space right now,” and found — unsurprisingly — HowManyPeopleAreInSpaceRightNow.com.

“Come on, Buddy! I found something.”

And he read the top of the page, and then, his face lighting up, he yelled, “SIX!”

We then clicked through and found out that NASA puts out a video every (week)day about what’s going on at the International Space Station. Both boys hung on to the side of the couch and watched the — uh, shall we say — dry video as if it was the most interesting thing they have ever, ever watched. I stood behind them, watching them as they watched the video, wondering how my genes and FireDad’s genes came together to create these two little amazing wonders — who think so differently. I mean, we’re geeky in our own ways. It’s just fantastically interesting to wonder how it all came together.

BigBrother turned and whispered at me, so LittleBrother could still watch. “Mommy, can we watch this every day? I like to learn about what the astronauts are doing.”

How can you say no to that?

There may be six people in space right now, but I have two of the coolest imaginary astronauts in my living room.

“Mommy, How Many People Are in Space Right Now?” is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Yesterday evening, I made chili for dinner.

LittleBrother has always loved chili. When he was not quite two-years-old, he used to pick the beans out of the chili with his fingers, call them eggs, and eat them up. He loved chili that much.

Last night? Not so much.

And so, by dinner time yesterday, just hours after my big ole resolution of not taking it personally, I broke my “pick my battles better” resolution. I went off to our bedroom after I finished my bowl of chili and pouted in bed. Not only am I a January 2nd Resolution Breaker but I am also Not Mature. Fantastic.

It’s not that I need him to clean his plate. It’s not that I need him to tell me that it was the best chili known to mankind and that he is honored to be in its presence and, thus, mine as well. I’m not even overly worried about his health as he eats other meals well (most days) and, despite being built different than his older brother, is a healthy weight. He also loves healthy foods (cucumbers are his favorite) and eats things a lot of kids his age won’t touch. He is a great eater… until lately. And then, only not at dinner.

Despite my desire not to have a battle over this because I don’t want him to associate meal time with negativity, it hurts my feelings when he doesn’t eat my food. That’s right. Back to the Not Mature. I work really hard to find and make healthy and delicious meals for my family. I have not only taught myself how to cook, but I do enjoy it. I enjoy the process of cooking as well as that knowledge that I am doing right by the family budget and their digestive tracts and developing bodies/minds by feeding them good food. Not all of our meals are masterpieces; chili is hardly anything to write home about, even though last night’s recipe was quite delicious. But they all take time, effort and… well, love.

Last night, as he cried, “But I’m hungry,” as he refused to eat the food sitting in front of him, I didn’t feel very loved. I’m sure he didn’t feel the love either when I left him sitting at the table with a disgruntled FireDad and a very slow eating BigBrother. He eventually ate the chili; apparently my husband has more patience than I do. After finishing, he came into the bedroom and apologized for crying at the dinner table. I hugged him. We made up.

But I dread dinner tonight.

I have the chicken sitting out. And despite the recipe being for picky eaters, it’s not any of the ingredients he will have a problem with; it’s the witching hour of the evening meal. But instead of a colicky baby, I have a four-year-old who can argue with the best of them, leaving me, near the end of my day anyway, out of energy and patience and feeling generally put down. I’m eight kinds of tempted to order a pizza — which he’ll eat without complaint, no matter the time of day — and call it a day. For the rest of my life. Also, pancakes are acceptable.

I can’t possibly feed my family pizza or pancakes every night until he grows out of this phase. I also can’t figure out how to grow the heck up and act like a Mature Adult while he figures out that eating dinner is a good thing. Pouting in my bedroom every night hardly seems like a good idea. Neither does yelling. Or bribing. Or ignoring, as he is not a child who responds to “ignore it and it will go away” when it comes to the way a child is acting/reacting to a situation. If we ignore his dinner time antics, he’ll just get up and walk away from the table, happy to have beat us at our game. The advice of “have him help make dinner so he knows what’s in it and then he’ll eat it” falls short as he loves the ingredients; he just. hates. dinner.

He just asked me what we’re having for dinner. I almost replied, “Nothing.” Because that’s what I feel like making. Or a big ole fat plate of Wish Sandwiches because I wish this phase was already over.

Any tips? Advice? Coupons for pizza and pancakes?

Starting Off the New Year with a Bunch of Fail is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

“Boys, come stand near Mommy.”

They made their way over to me, chattering and talking and generally making their typical level of noise. Despite the non-stop sound, they stood right next to me, occasionally peeking around the corner of the table to make faces at me in an attempt to win a Mommy-smile; it is their one goal in life. But I was tired and in pain, so I gave BigBrother that look that said, “These faces are okay, but watch it, mister.” He just smiled at me.

A voice came from behind me.

“You have your hands full, don’t you?”

I turned to look at this bank employee. I didn’t know this lady; she was neither young nor old — the ages that I usually forgive this type of comment.

I looked at her for a second before responding. “No, not really.”

My initial reaction was anger. I freaking hate that comment. It’s just heavy with condescension. The underlying things that aren’t said in that statement — the things that I hear anyway — are as follows: “Your kids are loud.” “Your kids are misbehaving and it is a reflection of your poor parenting skills.” “Your hair is a mess, your jacket is buttoned wrong, your pants don’t fit properly and your youngest isn’t wearing gloves; you are failing at this game of parenting.”

And yes, my jacket is usually buttoned wrong; I don’t know why, it just is. Yesterday, I was rocking the messy pony tail, no make up and a huge zit. My children, at least, had on properly zipped jackets, hats and one of them was even wearing gloves. My kids are loud, they always have been loud and they always will be loud; have you met me? And despite my best efforts at parenting, sometimes my kids misbehave. I’ve accepted it; so should you.

I took a deep breath and let it go.

I shrugged it off. Logically I knew she likely didn’t mean anything negative. Just another person making a comment that simply rubs me the wrong way. I finished writing my deposit slip and reached into my purse to grab the checks I was depositing. And then I dug a little deeper.

And then, right there in the bank, I started pulling things out of my purse. Receipts. A half-eaten bag of Doritos. Another bag with a half-eaten Starbucks chocolate chip cookie. One glove; at least my youngest could have one warm hand. A coloring book. A car. A mustache. A super hero mask.

No checks. None. Not one.

Before I left the house, repeating over and over, “Put on your jackets, hats and shoes. No, don’t argue. No, don’t whine. Just do it,” and I thought to myself, “Don’t forget the checks sitting on the counter.” I probably said it in my head as many times as I said, “Don’t dawdle. Let’s keep moving.”

I forgot the checks on the counter.

By this time, my sons are fast-walking (“Not running, Mom!”) around the table in a game of slow, not-quite-chase that will end with one or both squealing. “It’s time to go, boys.” They both stopped immediately and looked at me with big, sad eyes. “But Mommy! We didn’t get lollipops!” I shuffled them both outside as they whined and complained and questioned what was going on.

“I forgot the checks at home.” I snapped LittleBrother into his seat without pinching his inner thigh, wondering to myself if he’ll ever be big enough for a booster or if I’ll be snapping him into a seat when he’s 18.

“Why did you do that?”

I paused, took that breath I sometimes have to force myself to take and put on a smile.

“Because I have my hands full, don’t I?”

A pause. I wait; I know.

“No you don’t, Mommy. There’s nothing in your hands.”

Perhaps, looking back on the way things went down yesterday, the truth is this: My hands are full. And maybe that’s okay.

“You Have Your Hands Full, Don’t You?” is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

On Tuesday morning, we went on a playdate at a friend’s house, and LittleBrother decided to smack his face off the decorative stair woodwork. It bruised immediately. It had a great big goose egg on it for awhile as he sat on my lap while I held a dish towel with ice in it to his poor little face. Eventually, he calmed down and wanted to go play with the kids again.

As he walked away, one of my friends said, “Is his other eye kind of black too?”

No, his other eye is not black. I giggled and explained his pale skin and his eye shape. I laughed. He finally has a black eye. Right before Christmas. Awesome.

The best part is that it should get worse before it gets better, so he may have some leftover black eyed-ness for Christmas.

I promise there’s only one black eye in this photo.

He thinks it’s kind of funny, especially when FireDad taught him the word “shiner.” Over snack this afternoon, he asked BigBrother if he has ever had a black eye. “I don’t think so.” He took a bite of his snack. “That means I’m better than you at something.”

Awesome, boys. Awesome.

All I Want for Christmas Is… A Shiner? is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.