BigBrother replied, “About limes.”

I stopped chewing my bite of tomato sandwich and looked at him. “Limes?”

He nodded, but didn’t offer up any other information. I pressed ahead. “What about limes?” I tried to think of some comparison of lime to our faith (or maybe a lack thereof) or being a cheerful Christian or something. If I would have had my phone, which is upstairs in our cottage balanced on a half-wall so it can get 3G service and I can work, I would have Googled limes in the Bible. So, I just waited for him to explain.

He cleared his throat, obviously getting ready for a BigBrother-esque type tale. “Well, Jesus was at a party, you know. Like a big one. Right. And they ran out of lime. Because there were so many people. And so Jesus turned a lot of water into lime. You know, like you do. That’s what we learned.”

I nodded. “Ah, yes, the story of Jesus turning the water into lime. I know that one well.”

And, no, I didn’t correct him — on the lime/wine word play or the me not quite being on the same level as Jesus.

To be fair, every time I get a glass of water, I put a squirt or two of lime into my glass. I have an issue with not consuming enough water, and the lime gives it some extra flavor, thus causing me to drink more. So his whole concept of water and lime being hand-in-hand is of my doing.

“Yeah, you don’t want to get burned by the llama!”

Huh.

“Oh, save me from the llama!”

Interesting.

I mean, camels can bite your hair and I have heard that llamas can be feisty, but I didn’t really know they had blipped onto the radar of my kids in a super hero (or villain) fashion. We have the Llama, Llama books, of course. And I hate Llama, Lama Red Pajama because that little snot teaches my kids bad things about bedtime routines. But again, they didn’t seem all that drawn to the books, barely ranking in their Occasionally Ask for But Ignore You When You Read It book list.

So, I bit. I asked.

“Hey guys, what’s llama?”

BigBrother paused and turned to look up at me. “You know. It’s hot.”

“Uh, no. You’re going to have to explain a bit more.”

“It’s kind of like fire. And if you fall in it, you die.”

Light bulb.

“Oh! You mean lava!”

“Yes! Lava!”

LittleBrother, having just watched this exchange, shook his head. “No, it’s llama. Burning hot llama.”

I didn’t correct him. Though his brother did for the rest of the afternoon, thus causing arguments all day. I wish I had listened for just a little bit longer to realize on my own that llama meant lava. Then I could have let it go for quite some time and played along when we play Super Mario Bros. Wii together.

All the same, I think Anna Dewdney should write a new Llama book. Llama, Llama, Burning Hot Llama. Hopefully she makes this one less whiny and annoying and more crazy llama in your face. I’d like that book much better.

But FireDad got the point on these two conversations, both brought to you by LittleBrother.

– — – — – — – –

LittleBrother was sitting at the table eating a lollipop from our never ending stash of Halloween candy. (By the way? I threw away all hard candy, gum, chocolate we don’t like, weird generic candy, crappy candy and general yuck. And we’ll still be eating this until Easter.) Anyway, so yes, at the table, eating a lollipop. It was one of those mini- Tootsie Pops. I watch him take a bite and inspect it. He knows he’s not supposed to chew the gum in  Blow Pop. So he just sits and looks at it for a minute and then proclaims:

“Hey! Someone put poop in this!”

– — – — – — – –

LittleBrother has been mastering the fine art of putting on his underwear and pants by himself. Without whining. It’s heavenly. I was sitting on his floor, trying to find a shirt in his dresser, when I heard the following:

“Leg hole. Leg hole. Butt hole.”

And that’s how you put on underwear, folks!

– — – — – — – –

Seriously, he’s not going to believe he said such snort-inducing gems when I recount this story in front of his friends on his sixteenth birthday. I can’t possibly carry around the Flip all day and just record everything in case someone says something funny. That’s the only reason I wish we were on a reality show. Reasons stop there. I mean, if I was on a reality show, the world would know that I’m sitting here in my pink fuzzy robe, procrastinating getting ready with a sea of birthday presents at my feet… and a Where’s Waldo book at my side because I spent a large part of my morning making my way through the collection.

We’re kind of boring anyway. Also kind of annoying. LittleBrother is currently setting off an old fashioned alarm clock, repeatedly, saying, “It’s time to clean up!” No one is cleaning, but the bell just keeps on ringing. Makes me want to repeat the last step of how to put on underwear at no one in particular. Alarms make me twitchy!

Me: Do you like Dawson?
LB: Yes.
Me: Do you like Jenna?
LB: NO!
Me: Do you like Isabella?
LB: NO!
Me: What girls do you like?
LB: I don’t like NO girls. *pause* Except you, Mommy.

Melt my heart. Melt it like butter.

I know it won’t always be that way, but I’ll take it while I can get it.

“Okay, but don’t get ElastiGirl hair.”

Uh, noted.

Last year, I came home from a particularly nice salon experience. BigBrother was going through a phase of Nothing-But-The-Incredibles, a strange and brief departure from his first love of Toy Story. I walked in the door from that salon experience and he said, “Mommy! You have ElastiGirl hair!”

Then he laughed, so I’m not quite sure it was a compliment.

It’s kind of true though. The somewhere-around-chin-length bob is a flattering cut on me, whether I wear it curly (its natural state) or straight (a completely unnatural state that most curly-headed people try to achieve unless it’s mid-August). I admitted to FireDad after BigBrother’s comment that my hair did resemble that of ElastiGirl. It was a running joke for awhile.

Apparently BigBrother is over The Incredibles, despite occasionally sporting some Mr. Incredible underwear. And apparently I am not supposed to sport the hairstyle any longer. Yes, I realize I’m taking fashion advice from a four-and-a-half year old. But he knows his stuff better than I do. Maybe he reads She’s Still Got It when he’s supposed to be playing Zoodles. I don’t know. I mean, it’s not a secret I have no fashion sense. Even Sassymonkey is on my case about it. Which, by the way, I’m not trying skinny jeans. Can’t make me.

I had a lovely salon experience today. The general ambiance of my salon is one of happy chatter, some of which I participate in and some of which I quietly smile at as it bounces around the room. My stylist laughed at how much my hair had grown in two months and commented again on how thick it is. (It’s ridiculously thick.) She turned my hair from a crazy, frizzy, over-grown, no-shaped mess to a sleek, stylish new version of me without sweaty hair on my neck. She’s my new hero.

I got home from the salon and asked BigBrother what he thought.

“Well, it’s not ElastiGirl hair.”

“No, it’s not. Whose hair is it then?”

“Well, Mommy. It’s your hair, you silly head.”

That it is. Kind of a Reverse ElastiGirl… which sounds… kinky. I think I’ll be sticking with this style for awhile.

The fly buzzed in the other direction as flies do.

With hands flailing, we kept shooing the fly.

Eventually, LittleBrother spoke up. In his little voice he made his gun sound. “Shoot, fly! Shoot!” More gun sounds. Shortly thereafter, BigBrother joined in with his gun sounds and they proceeded to shoot the fly together.

I love it when they work together.

“BUZZ LIGHTYEAR!”

I was about to correct him. I don’t know why. I usually encourage imagination play and adore the cast of Toy Story. Maybe I was still grumpy after being locked indoors for weeks. Maybe I was overtired. Maybe I was tired of every last thing being about Buzz, Woody and the gang. Maybe I was even going to explain something scientific though that’s highly unlikely. Before I opened my mouth and squashed his imagination, I looked up at the sky.

Ah, yes, Buzz Lightyear. I understood in an instant.

The exhaust trail behind an airplane (a contrail for my wordy friends) will never be viewed the same. A few days after that experience, I was driving home from a shopping trip with my mother. I was driving into the sunset; reds and oranges and yellows meeting up with the still blue sky. I eventually counted nine contrails. However, I didn’t call them contrails in my head.

I smiled, glancing in the mirror at the two boys sleeping in their car seats behind me. They’re going to grow, too quickly. Someday they will explain that the contrails are formed by the hot exhaust hitting the cooler atmospheric temperature and making visible condensation. They’ll use big words. It will be all scientific and old. I’ll nod. I’ll add in something interesting. We’ll make a joke. But I’ll always remember that moment where a plane in the sky was a beloved character. I’ll always remember the way my heart soared when I realized what he was talking about; how thankful I was for his point of view.

I’ll always call them Buzz Lightyear trails now. Forever. To infinity and beyond.

_
[Disclosure: That's an Amazon Affiliates link up there. It wasn't necessary but, omg!guys!, Toy Story 1 and 2 are coming out as a special edition, two-disc, Blu-Ray combo pack! On Tuesday! SQUEE!]

BigBrother, on the other hand, is a different story.

At four, he’s understanding much more of what is going on that some people want to give young children credit. When I explained last Tuesday that Daddy, Mommy and Nana were sad because Uncle died, he brought up the fact that Big Papau died. We then launched into a lengthy discussion over our grilled cheese sandwiches about death, Heaven and other concepts that still confuse me. Sometimes it stings, how bluntly he talks about it.

“Uncle died. Like Big Papau is dead. They’re both dead.”

As adults, we tiptoe around the concept. We use words and phrases that are supposed to somehow make it seem less in-your-face, less real. He passed away. He’s no longer with us. He’s gone on to Heaven. He’s no longer suffering. No, for BigBrother, the two men who have left us are simply dead. No sugar coating. No easing into the concept. Just dead. He doesn’t cringe when he says it, like I do. His stomach doesn’t churn like mine does. He accepts it. Oh, to be four years old.

At the funeral on Friday, we waited our turn to pay our last respects while the rest of the non-related mourners made their way to the casket, down the family line and out the door to their waiting cars. Our turn arrived and I walked toward the casket with my mother-in-law, sister-and-brother-in-law, husband and two sons. I stood back. My grief from last month still so raw, I didn’t want to push myself. BigBrother walked right up to the casket, put his hands on the side and peered at Uncle. There was no fear of seeing someone you love looking like someone else in a big box. There was no fear of death at all, like the rest of us have when faced with the death of a loved one. His acceptance is somewhat inspiring. But still very heartbreaking.

I debated not taking them to Uncle’s funeral. They’re kind of noisy, being my children. Sitting still is not their strongest suit. But, after doing some reading and soul searching, I decided that they would come with us, just as they came with us to Big Papau’s funeral. Why? I found this quote.

If the child is old enough to walk, let them walk with you into the funeral home. If not old enough to walk, carry them with you.

Point taken.

In the week or so after Big Papau’s funeral, BigBrother would ask me if I was still sad. One day he told me to try harder. I love being challenged by my children. I also love their innocence, their acceptance of life… and death. I wish I could be more like them in these ways. I’m working on not being sad. It would help if I could have one full month off. Right? Someone work on that one, please.

Because, while the flowers are pretty, they’re killing my monthly budget. And, you know, grief is emotionally taxing when you’re not four. So, really, one month off, at the very least, okay? Okay.

This may also have something to do with my perfectionist personality. Double whammy on the issues! I never do things halfway, do I?

Perfectionism aside, you can insult me about my writing, my photography, my crazy hair, the fact that I always wear green or just about anything under the sun and I’ll merely rant about you to my husband. If you insult my parenting, or, rather, if I even think you are insulting my parenting, all bets are off. When I say all bets are off, I mean that I’m going to go out to my vehicle and cry. So, really, I wouldn’t worry too much about yourself. I have no bite.

It happened today at the checkout while running errands with LittleBrother. It’s cold out right now. It hit 26 degrees just a few minutes ago and that’s a heatwave. LittleBrother and I were bundled in our coats and he still had his very adorable knit hat atop his head. As I swiped my card and entered numbers without my gloves on because I can’t press numbers on a touch screen pad with gloves on, the cashier says to LittleBrother in a sing-songy, judgmental voice, “Where’s your gloves little buddy? It’s too cold for you to be out without gloves on.”

I paused. I looked across the counter. I had my Mama Bear Eyes blazing and my Serious Voice on.

“They’re in his pocket.”

I said nothing more. I said nothing of how he hates gloves, mittens or anything that covers his hands. I said nothing of how it is a fight but we still put them on, screaming and wailing the whole time. (Him, not us. Most of the time.) I said nothing of how I take them off when we get in somewhere warm so he doesn’t have something to whine and fuss about as we make our way through the store because I, unlike some people, don’t like to bug others in stores. Or checkout lines. You know. I did, and I mean I really did want to say, “His gloves must be wherever you left your manners today.” But I didn’t.

Because I felt judged.

I felt that this woman was judging me as an unfit mother for taking my son out in the cold weather without gloves. I wanted to crawl under a rock with my son, with gloves on, and just cry for awhile. I didn’t as there are very rarely large rocks at the end of checkout counters. I finished the transaction, stood too long at the end of the aisle and loudly talked with LittleBrother as I put his gloves on his poor, pitiful, but not even remotely cold little hands. I may have shot a smug look in the direction of the cashier as I walked away.

But I cried when I got out to the vehicle.

There are things in life that I don’t care if I’m good at or, even maybe more importantly, things that I don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t know or think I’m good at. Parenting is not one of those things. While I admit my faults (remember me talking about yelling too much?), I really can’t handle passing judgment. It’s even worse if it is judgment from someone within my family or friend circle but passing judgment still hurts. I’ve worked very hard on trying not to be a helicopter parent at the playground or elsewhere, knowing that my issues with adoption often lead me to overprotectiveness. At the same time, while I’m forcing myself to sit still at the playground and let them try out their wings, hopefully not literally, I fear that other parents are looking at me and wondering why I’m not at their side every second. I try so hard to not only be the best parent I can be but to get past these darn issues.

And I fail. A lot. Too much.

This is all just a long winded way of saying: if you see my children without gloves, look in their pockets before calling Child Protective Services on me. I really don’t want to have to use my Serious Voice on you.

Or LittleBrother to have to smile you to death in his adorable knit hat and very warm jacket. Ahem.

FireMom: So, does it have to be a star?
FireDad: Not a bow. Not an angel. A flippin’ star.
FireMom: Well then.
FireDad: The dad doesn’t say, “No, that bow is crooked.” He doesn’t say, “No, that angel is crooked.” He says, “No, that star is crooked.”
FireMom: Right. A star then.

He was obviously referencing A Christmas Story because that’s what we do around here from now until next Christmas, rinse repeat. Anyway, our tree is decorated, complete with our new star which had to be wrestled onto its perch. We’ll show you the whole tree tomorrow along with the boys’ tree. For now, our new star, minus the audio snippets of FireDad cussing as he tried to get it to fit right.

Side note: the boys tree doesn’t have a star. Perhaps we should have them make one. Opinions?