not that you asked...

Exfoliation

Last night we had a babysitter, so Dave and I went to the mall to try out Elevation Burger (Elevation Burger was FANTASTIC). Then, because the restaurant was in the mall and because we were finished eating at 7:25 and because our babysitter gets REALLY IRRITABLE if we come home before 9pm and/or with grocery bags (which apparently indicate that we run ERRANDS on date night, and errands are FORBIDDEN on date night according to our babysitter) (our babysitter is Dave's mom and she has STANDARDS), we walked around the mall.

Dave is inside a mall maybe – MAYBE – once a year. This is normal for some people, I guess? It is normal for him, because A) he works all day, B) he hates shopping, and so naturally C) I do the mall-ing for us, when it needs to be done, and I do it while he's at work. So there were some surprises in the mall for Dave! Like that Brookstone is still exactly where it was 20 years ago when he worked there, and that you have to PAY to visit Santa (well, if you want a picture, I guess, but who visits and DOESN'T want a commemorative picture?) and that you must avoid the kiosk workers AT ALL COSTS.

Is this true at your mall? I learned this the hard way once, by being polite to a kiosk person. They're pushy and over-the-top and they will FOLLOW you if they sense that following you may give you even the tiniest moment of hesitation, which is when they will POUNCE and then you are TOAST. You are TOAST, if you hesitate! There's one kiosk at the mall with hair extensions and I SWEAR TO YOU, the women who work there will come AFTER you if you even so much as SLOW DOWN and your hair will be in six inches longer and piled into a bedazzled updo before you can say WEAVE. 

Sure enough, as we walked by the sea scrub/hand lotion kiosk, some overzealous dude was out there luring people in with free samples and Dave FELL FOR IT. I kept walking! Me, the person who cannot extract herself from a conversation for the LIFE of her; I managed it. I said NO, NO NO NO, no thank you, because I have been sucked IN by the sea scrub/hand lotion people before, and it takes about .006 seconds before they are manhandling you and buffing your nails and insisting you purchase a tub of cream the size of your head for $60.

Anyway, Dave hesitated. He hesitated and the dude pounced and I kept walking. I LEFT HIM THERE. Fend for yourself, I thought. I stopped a few yards away and the kiosk guy is beckoning for me to come back and I won't. I WON'T and I keep thinking Dave is going to say no thanks and extricate himself from the whole thing, but he ISN'T saying no thanks, he is standing there and talking to the kiosk guy.

You guys, two seconds later, I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING, this guy is exfoliating Dave's hands with some sort of sea salt rub. BOTH HANDS. See what I mean with the aggressiveness? And Dave is clearly uncomfortable; a MAN is MASSAGING HIS HANDS. He is NOT LIKING IT. He is feeling VERY AWKWARD. (For reference, Dave still describes the pedicure I talked him into on our honeymoon as “torture” and that was a procedure performed by a very lovely WOMAN, which made it about 1000 percent more enjoyable, he says.)

I was laughing so hard that I had to go into a store to wait it out. A few minutes later I can tell the guy is showing Dave how to buff his nails (DAVE – the guy to whom “grooming” means “showering and applying deodorant”) because from all the way in the back of the store I hear him out in the hallway: “Wait, you're only doing one nail? What am I going to do with ONE shiny nail?!” Hearing that encouraged me to make my way to the FRONT of the store, where through the window I watch as my husband is having his hands lovingly rinsed off and dried by the kiosk guy. And he looks SO uncomfortable, because as this guy continues his sales pitch and continues assuring my husband that he NEEDS soft, moisturized hands (“for your WIFE! Think of your WIFE!” he says often) he just... HOLDS DAVE'S HANDS. Just holds them. In his hands. Sweetly. And massages them. This went on for close to 15 minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES my husband stood there and was polite and let this man hold hands with him and buff him and roll up his shirt sleeves for him (HE DID THAT) and lecture him about grooming. I was nearly delirious with delight. And as amusing as it was, it still wasn't enough for us to spend $75 (yes, SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS) on a tub of salt scrub from the Dead Sea. No, thank you. Which, you know, is what I said RIGHT AT THE BEGINNING.

Though to be honest, Dave's hands WERE really nice and soft, but I think he'd rather them crack and bleed before he did that all over again. And I am REALLY regretting not taking a video.

Care to share what you might be getting a man in your life for Christmas? Dave is the hardest person in the world to buy for. If you have some sort of brilliant idea that you don't mind sharing, I WOULD LOVE THAT. At the very least, perhaps it could lead me down some paths I haven't yet started down? I WOULD OWE YOU. I would.

RIP BLANKIE

While I was at the Blathering, Dave was at home, pawning the kids off on parents and in-laws while he worked and having a go at Single Dad Living for three weeknights and the weekend. We all agree that Single Parenting is no joke, but every year when I go away on this trip, someone barfs, and Single Parenting when there is no one else there to take a vomit-covered towel handoff or take a middle-of-the-night sheet change shift is a whole new LEVEL of Single Parenting. So I tip my hat to Dave, who for the SECOND STRAIGHT YEAR handled the stomach flu (ASHER, BOTH TIMES) (and interestingly enough, NO TIMES IN BETWEEN), as well as the unforseeable travesty that we shall now refer to as Blankiegate.

Do we all remember Lucy's blankie? Shall I refresh your memory?

Lucy has whittled her burp cloth collection down to five (we CALL them blankies, but they are nothing but Gerber burp cloths, STAY CLASSY, CASSEE FAMILY) and at the ripe old age of nearly-four, she was still (and this is still gross to say) sucking on one all night while she slept. This was not a DAINTY sucking, lest I mislead you. She crammed half the thing into her mouth and in the mornings it would be completely soaked and stink and I had to wash them every day, and rotate in a new one every night. But you know what? Lucy went to bed at 7pm. Lucy got up at 8 or 8:30. Lucy VOLUNTEERED TO NAP OR REST on many days, simply so she could be in her bed, with her beloved blankie.

Let us all have a moment of silence for Lucy's blankie, and also for the sleep I got for 23 months straight, which is now dearly departed and sorely missed.

The night after I left for New Orleans, Lucy announced that it was her last night sleeping with her blankie, and that was it. She got to pick a prize – Dave took her to Target on Saturday morning and paid an extravagant amount of money for a big ugly piece of plastic and that was the end. There was one night where she woke up and asked for blankie, and one morning where she told us she missed it, but other than that, there has been no vocalization about blankie; no searching or seeking or hunting for one. We're DONE with blankie. But she hasn't learned to self-soothe without it yet, so she's restless and sad at bedtime and she's up in the middle of the night for hours and she's getting up before the sun or her brother or ANYONE ELSE does and it's HARD.

Honestly, sometimes it's hard enough that I think, is it really THAT BAD to let your child sleep with a smelly, saliva-soaked, musty old RAG sticking out of her mouth? I mean, HOW BAD COULD IT REALLY BE. HOW BAD.

(Oh STOP IT. I know it's bad. I know we can't go back. I know it will get better.)

In other mouth-related Lucy news, I cannot get her to stop kissing people on the lips. Specifically, her preschool teachers. On one hand, how happy am I that she adores her class and her teachers and the EXPERIENCE of preschool? SO HAPPY. And I do find it adorable that she won't leave for the day without going back inside her classroom to hug and kiss her teachers. HOWEVER, despite our talks and suggestions and gentle reminders and sometimes me shouting ANYWHERE BUT THE LIPS, LUCY, it's not a kiss if it isn't on the mouth. And poor Lucy's teachers, they're so sweet and they try to get her to aim for the cheek and SHE AIN'T HAVING IT. They're dodging and she's re-aiming and they're turning the other way and she's just patiently waiting for her moment to strike. It's hilarious, and entertaining and also MORTIFYING, just a little bit, except for the fact that they always give in, and pretend like we're family, and let her have her way. (LIP TO LIP CONTACT. EVERY DAY. Spreading disease like it's our JOB.)

Thankfully, even though Asher is in kindergarten (and SUCCEEDING, more on that later), and mingling with 12-year-olds on a regular basis, he still has zero concept of what's cool and what's not, and every morning at the bus stop I wonder if this will be the last day he hugs and kisses his sister and tells her he loves her and that he will see her when he gets home. I am doing everything I can to encourage that kind of kissing. Everything I can.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

Dave called ten minutes ago. “Do you want a black or a white iPhone?” THIS IS IT, YOU GUYS. I am moving into the twenty-first century. I AM GETTING A SMARTPHONE.

I have held out on getting a smartphone for many reasons. Perhaps the biggest (no, wait, not perhaps – I mean DEFINITELY) is that I am the kind of mom who is best when she is out of the house with her children. I love taking my kids out places, I love going for walks and being outside, I love taking them for ice cream or to toy stores just to browse or to the zoo or a farm. (I hate playgrounds, though, I leave those for Dave.) I know I'm a slacker when we're indoors – when we're here, I'm always checking my email or messing around on Twitter or Facebook. So I wanted to not be tempted by the allure of all of those things when I was OUT with the kids – the only time when I felt like I was really and truly giving them my undivided attention. I am not a get-down-on-the-floor-and-play kind of mom (I have a TERRIBLE imagination, which is why I blog about true things instead), so being out and about is my favorite way to connect with my kids. 

There was also the cost, and the thought that a smartphone wasn't really a NECESSITY for a stay-at-home mom. I do this thing? Where I somehow convince myself that I'm not as worthy of technological advances as a person who works, simply because I don't have an office or demands outside the home. I am realizing that this is not true, but it's a hard mindset to overcome when you live in an area of the country where EVERYONE works, and they work long hard hours and commute for up to four hours a day. I just feel... LAZY by comparison, even though I KNOW I'm not lazy.

 

But now I have two kids who are out of the house for a considerable amount of time during the day (Asher is gone for close to eight hours; Lucy for 3.5) and if I'm out of the house, too, I don't have any access to my email. I mentioned this to Dave and he made fun of me, as if my current phone prevents me from getting an EMERGENCY EMAIL from kindergarten when OBVIOUSLY THEY WOULD CALL, but the truth is that sometimes teachers DO email parents to remind them of things that aren't URGENT but might be IMPORTANT and I won't get that if I'm away from the house. I imagined a situation where Asher's teacher might email and say “Remember, tomorrow [something you need to buy] needs to be brought in to school!” and I don't get that email until 4:30pm, when I've been out and about all day and could have bought it, and now I have to go out AGAIN, after the kids are in bed, because I don't want to drag them out during rush hour and I also don't want to miss spending dinner time with them since they've been gone all day. SEE?

 

This is the kind of situation I have to dream up in order to convince myself that I am important/busy enough to warrant the purchasing of a smartphone. I KNOW, right? I'm TRYING here.

The other problem is that I've had my current cell phone for three? four? years? AND I STILL CAN'T ANSWER IT CORRECTLY. Yesterday I was in a fitting room when it rang and I fished it out of my purse and tried to silence it (because what is more annoying than a LOUDLY RINGING cellphone in a small contained area) but I ended up CANCELING THE CALL instead. Four years with this phone and I am still not able to tell it to just be quiet. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW. And it was (of course!) Asher's teacher, and she left a message, and there was a situation at school and I needed to drop off some new pants (you can now imagine what the situation at school WAS) and I felt so foolish for not being able to answer my own PHONE and then SAD that I missed the chance to talk to Asher and reassure him (he was with her when she called). (Of course, three minutes later she called back to tell me she'd found the extra shorts and undies I keep in his backpack for this very reason.) (I had to concentrate REALLY HARD, but I managed to answer the phone that time.) (CORRECTLY.)

Also: I want to be able to text people a lot. That's kind of a selfish reason, but I feel like it's valid. I don't have TIME or enough quiet to CONCENTRATE on a long conversation with someone, but being able to send a text to a friend to say “I'm thinking of you!” or to share quick joke or photo would mean a lot to me. My current phone has a camera and texting abilities, yes, but they are DIFFICULT TO USE and lately texts from other people just show up as blank pictures. SO HELPFUL, you know?

Also ALSO it seems like this entire post is just a lengthy way to convince myself that this is OKAY, and FINE and a good idea! There's nothing WRONG with having a smartphone! I AM WORTH IT! (Maybe a touch dramatic, but whatever.)

Kindergarten Progress Report

The first week was rough, but we were all running on pure adrenaline. Asher came home and literally BOUNCED OFF THE WALLS for the first four days, which fooled Dave and I both into thinking he was doing great and adjusting way faster than we expected him to, until he hit the Wall of Exhaustion on Saturday morning and we realized that OHHHHHHH, he's just really TIRED when he comes home, and letting him stay up until after 8pm ISN'T THE RIGHT THING TO DO. Like, at ALL.

This is, for me, the hardest part about school. That first day when we shipped him off, I cried thinking about how much I'd miss him during the day. But then I saw how happy he was at school, how much he was LOVING it, and so it turned out that I didn't miss him much during the day, because I knew he was getting so much more out of it than I could ever give him at home, no matter how many trips to the zoo and the park and the playground I crammed into our days. The hardest part is that he doesn't get off the bus until 4:35 in the afternoon. That gives us about three hours to do everything we need to do before bedtime – catch up, play with the toys he's missed all day, eat dinner, bathe, read a few books. And it sounds like PLENTY of time, really, except that we spend about 50 percent of those precious three hours just trying to prevent everyone from FRICKING FALLING APART over something like, oh, I don't know, THIS DIRT IS TOO HARD TO DIG! (True story. THE DIRT. IS TOO HARD TO DIG.)

THAT is the hardest part. I'm told that it gets better; that after a month or two, he won't have to work so hard to hold it together at school and will be less exhausted when he gets home. And I am so, so thankful that he is loving school – honestly, if you gave me a choice between him hating school but acting like a wonderful person at home and loving school but giving us some grief, I'll take the latter.

Of course, there are OTHER hard parts, too. (Sorry, you thought this would be an UPLIFTING blog post?) Lucy and Asher have never spent this much time apart consistently and it's obvious when he comes home – I don't know if she feels like this is HER HOUSE now that he's gone for eight straight hours? Regardless, all they do is fight and bicker. They played together WONDERFULLY over the summer, but now they're BOTH tired from being at school and they can't do anything without it ending in tears. They're ripping toys out of each others' hands and throwing down over two identical plastic dalmations and it is RIDICULOUS. It is SO tempting to just turn on the TV and let them zone out for the hour or two we have before dinner but I'm trying to resist for now while the weather is at least in our favor. I might not feel too bad about it when Asher's getting off the bus at freaking TWILIGHT. If you almost need a flashlight to make it home from the bus stop, you deserve a few episodes of Pound Puppies, in my opinion.

The other thing that's hard (this is the last one! I promise!) is just figuring out new routines. It's hard to remember how early is too early and how late is too late to leave for the bus stop. It's hard to get Lucy to ride in the stroller to the bus stop if we're running late, or agree to walk if we've got time to spare. It's hard to figure out how early I need to get up if I want to exercise AND wash and dry my hair; it's hard to know how early I need to get Lucy in the car to drive her to preschool. It's hard to remember to pack lunches at night rather than possibly (ok, LIKELY) forget to do it in the morning. I know all this will come with time but right now I'm still very flustered trying to figure out how to get a bunch of stuff done done done DONE in the morning and then how to FILL time in the afternoons when Lucy and I are home by ourselves without a five-year-old to entertain us. I mean, yes, I can do TWO afternoons a week at Target but I think three is pushing it.

Funny though, that once we get used to this new routine, this will be The Routine for the next SEVEN YEARS. Seven years! Kindergarten through sixth grade! That's longer than any kid-centric routine we've had thus far. I mean, yes, sure, lots of things will change in seven years. I could get a job or we might move and switch school districts and I assume eventually the kids will add in more activities and sports... but once we've got this elementary school thing down, THAT'S PRETTY MUCH IT. It only gets EASIER from here, when Lucy eventually starts kindergarten and the kids are on the SAME schedule, riding the bus TOGETHER. That kind of blows my mind. It's so DIFFERENT from how we lived with babies, you know? Going from three naps to two naps to one nap; adjusting to something new and different practically every week at first. And now we're somewhere where the new normal is going to be how life is lived for... well, for the foreseeable future. It's so WEIRD.

And did I mention that Asher loves kindergarten? He loves kindergarten. Lucy is loving preschool. I can't believe it's happening and we're at this point already, but here we are. So far, so good.

On the other side

I spent all summer worrying about kindergarten. Worrying so much and so often that there was literally – LITERALLY – no space left in my brain for anything else. I managed to do laundry and make grocery lists and spend quality time with my children, but the moment I had a spate of peace and quiet and nothing to do with my hands I was either panicking about the impendingness of kindergarten or burying myself in a book (I read 30 this summer alone) to try to dull the realization that every day that went by was one day closer to the boarding of the (real and proverbial) bus.

I am not, AT ALL, an anxious person by nature. Not the least little bit, even. And I cannot ever remember feeling this helpless or scared. Not even after I'd had BABIES. And I couldn't blog about it – for one thing, I didn't want a written record of my summer to reflect nothing but abject terror; for another, it is too hard to communicate exactly what it IS that frightened me about kindergarten without opening myself up to comments and suggestions and pity when I don't want pity, or stories about how there will always be some kids who hate school, when I didn't want to hear stories about kids who hated school. I am the kind of person who assumes the best of people, so trust me when I say that I know – I KNOW – if I had written about this and gotten comments and advice and emails filled with support and encouragement, I would have had no doubt that they would have been written with kindness and love at the root. 

That said, I would have had a hard time not seeing it all as criticism, especially in the state I was in. I didn't want to be in a place where people were pouring out love to me the best way they knew how while all the while I was filtering it through this mesh strainer of suspicion, wondering if they were just secretly judging me. I also have a hard time getting a comment that's meant to be helpful but (to me, the person who is in the muck of it all) seems to misunderstand the situation at hand – I automatically want to write back and CORRECT the person who wrote it, but 99 percent of the time, that's just impossible. There is simply no way to explain the intricacies of raising this particular five-year-old on a blog that amounts to a handful of paragraphs every week or in an email. Nothing I say is going to adequately express the true nature of this child, and trying to do it would just frustrate me. It's the part of me that wants to please everyone; that wants to make sure everyone understands my side of the story because I don't like anyone thinking anything but positive things about me. I want people to know I'm trying; I'm trying HARD, I'm trying the BEST WAY I KNOW HOW. Why do I need people to know this? I don't know. I don't honestly know. But this wasn't the place to work it all out. I knew that much.

A couple of weeks ago I got a random email from an old friend I haven't seen or heard of since high school. We were close in elementary school but simply grew apart as the years went by. She contacted me to say she was moving back to the area and could I recommend a preschool for her three-year-old? A few days later her son was signed up for the same class Lucy would be in, and I emailed her again to ask if I would be seeing her at orientation. No, she replied, I start work on Tuesday and my mom will be taking him. We emailed a little more, talked about getting together and catching up. It was about that time that I finally got Asher's elementary school information in the mail. I learned his teacher's name, his bus route, and tucked in to the envelope was a form letter explaining that the school had been approved – at the very last minute – for THREE kindergarten classes instead of two. There was a search for a new teacher going on and they would let us know as soon as possible that the position was filled.

A few more emails were sent between my friend and myself, and I eventually asked where she was starting work. You can see where this is going, can't you? Not only is she teaching at Asher's school, she is also the brand new kindergarten teacher.

I had spent the last three weeks in a pretty much constant state of prayer for Asher's kindergarten experience. I prayed for his teacher and his classmates; for his courage and for him to give and receive kindness to those he came into contact with. But more than anything, I simply prayed that I would be able to trust God to take care of him. Because this whole thing, his shyness, his timidity, his reluctance – is not something I can control. But I believe that my God loves this boy as his own, more even than I do, and I trust that whatever happens, that He will use it for good. It wasn't a question of whether I WANTED to believe that (it's a hard, HARD thing to believe) – it was just something I HAD TO DO. It was my only hope; the last shred I had to cling to. 

When I heard the news about my friend, it's almost like I felt the hand of God patting me on the shoulder and saying, “See? I can do this.” It's not that I expect her to take Asher under her wing or protect him or even look out for him. It really has nothing to do with her except that I believe it was God's way of saying, hey! Emily! Look what I can do. Look at what the world considers a coincidence, but we both know it was my way of letting you know that nothing is too small for me. Asher is not too small for me. Trust me in this.

I got goosebumps when I read that final email. I felt an immediate and discernible change in my attitude and my expectations. Even more amazing, I saw a change in ASHER as well. Nothing about the fact that I suddenly knew someone in his school would have made an iota of difference to him – but I saw it anyway. I saw him relax, I saw him gain confidence, I saw him get a little bit excited. I saw an answer to my prayers. 

I didn't do any of this on my own. When I was at my weakest, my lowest, my most frightened, I called out and I asked for help and I asked that my eyes be opened to whatever that “help” might look like. And I got to see it.

Asher had his first day today. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't easy. Everyone cried at some point. But I felt a quiet strength in it, too. We are being watched over and protected. We are being loved. I am so lucky – so blessed – to have this experience, as bizarre and unexplainable as it might sound. I would go through this whole summer again just for those moments of feeling the God of the universe care exquisitely just for me. I am yearning to feel it again.

Bunk bed update: You need a Dave.

Well the update on the bunk bed situation is that we scored some on Craigslist over the weekend, so HERE WE GO. I'd been scouring Craigslist since before I posted that last entry, but I wasn't finding anything under $300 that wasn't metal (we wanted wood) and in some cases, people were asking over a THOUSAND DOLLARS for furniture that was outdated and not in the greatest shape, not to mention that those ads also usually included lots of CAPS LOCK typing about WE WILL NOT DELIVER and DO NOT EMAIL TO ASK IF THE ITEM IS AVAILABLE and even some YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO HAUL DOWN THREE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS, BRING AT LEAST FOUR PEOPLE WITH YOU. It was all very harsh and angry-sounding; it made me feel conflicted about the fact that someone was so emotionally attached to their furniture that they felt they had to charge exorbitant amounts of money for a 25-year-old set of bunk beds and then they had to go and be BELLIGERANT and VERY BOSSY about exactly how the deal was handled.

Anyway, on Sunday afternoon Dave and I were at my parents' house, cleaning out our cars (his is going up for sale this week) when I saw someone posting what looked like a beautiful set of bunk beds for $25, and only about 20 minutes from my parents' house. I emailed them and waited an INTERMINABLE amount of time for someone to email me back, and was then told that a few other people had inquired, and the bunk beds were on the porch and were first-come, first-served. They were missing the hardware to put them together, but Dave and I decided that for $25, they were worth the risk. The only thing was, would we be the first people to get there? I seriously SERIOUSLY considered backing out of the opportunity at that point – I could just imagine us getting there and having to duke it out with some other family who pulled up at the same time and we'd be digging in our pockets for coins to flip and then it would be best out of three and then five and then probably fistfights in front of our children and OMG I DO NOT LIKE CONFRONTATION, so obviously the smart thing to do was to just send Dave. By himself. While I sat at home and wrung my hands and fretted over losing the greatest find in the history of Craigslist.

There is something about Dave, though. Somehow he is always at the right place at the right time – that kind of thing. I don't believe in karma, but I guess if you were going to use karma to describe whatever it is that he manages to do, it would be that. He is the kind of guy who pulls over in rainstorms to help strangers change flat tires and the kind of person who gladly pays straggly looking guys hanging around Home Depot to drive our purchases home in their straggly looking vans because they need the money more than we need to save it. And he is not going to TELL YOU that he does this – he would never boast or brag; in fact, you'd never know he'd done ANYTHING in the rain except for the fact that he came home soaking wet, and even then, you have to ASK – he's not going to advertise his do-gooding.

He was gone for more than 35 minutes when I finally called him; I couldn't stand waiting any longer – the house he was headed to was only TWENTY minutes away. And when he answered, he asked if he could call me back and I could hear some old woman talking to him in the background and I immediately thought, WELL CRAP, we missed it and he is helping SOMEONE ELSE load it into their car. Because that is exactly what he would do, because he is EXACTLY that kind of person. But then he calls back and says that not only do we get the bunk beds? BUT THEY WILL NOT TAKE OUR MONEY. The bunk beds are free! FREE! This ONLY happens to Dave. ONLY TO DAVE. If I had been there, there would have been confrontation and a bidding war and probably punches thrown, meanwhile Dave gets a freaking DISCOUNT.

 

Apparently the people selling the bunk beds moved and left a bunch of stuff on their lawn and porch that their neighbors were monitoring for them. Dave said there were honest-to-goodness HOARDERS roaming the lawn, picking through boxes of junk and trash and then just stuffing entire boxes of it all into their hoarder cars and that it was disturbing and bizarre and that's another reason why I am glad I chose to stay with the kids. IN HINDSIGHT.

So now we have perfect-condition, all-wood bunk beds, but no hardware and guess who doesn't even care about that? DAVE. Because he gets to go to Home Depot and putter around and look for bolts and screws and dowels and all kinds of other little pieces to make the puzzle fit together and he is happy as a pig in mud to do that kind of thing. This is like the IDEAL PROJECT for the two of us to do together: I got to “shop” for three weeks straight to find the perfect item. Then I got the awesome adrenaline rush of GETTING said item, for a very impressive discount, as well as the thrill of posting a CRAIGSLIST WIN to Twitter (sorry for the gloating, I couldn't help it). Then he gets to putter around Home Depot feeling up gadgets and inventing reasons he needs new tools and it costs us nothing, at least, not yet. (I imagine the hardware will set us back twenty or thirty bucks? Maybe?)

Anyway – Dave. You should get yourself one like him.

So. Bunk beds. Is our summer OFF THE HOOK or what?

It's been a while since we did a Big Project around the house, and when that happens, I tend to get a little antsy, which is why I've suddenly decided the kids need bunk beds.

Oh, sure, there are actual CONCRETE reasons why introducing bunk beds to our home would be a good and perfectly safe and satisfying idea. For starters, Lucy is growing (as children seem to do) and since her 30-odd stuffed animals take up an entire foot of real estate at the head of her bed, she's running out of leg room in her toddler bed. This kind of thing happens and it really shouldn't surprise me given that her next birthday – although still five months away – will raise her age to a seemingly impossible FOUR ENTIRE YEARS OLD. We'd also love the extra floor space it would open up in our small house. And the kids sleep in a bunk bed at my parents' house, so I feel completely fine about bunk beds when it comes to safety; of course, there's also the very important thing about how my children are three and five and still (STILL!) do not get out of their beds EVER EVER EVER unless it is very obviously morning and the clock says that it is past 7am, and even then it's just Asher. Lucy just lays in her bed awake until we go in after her. I KNOW HOW LUCKY WE ARE.

The kids think it's awesome to sleep in the same room; they think it's THE MOST AWESOMEST THING EVER to go to Dave's parents' house and sleep in the same BED together – they would love sharing a room. And apparently I conditioned them during their infancy/toddlerhood to ONLY SLEEP IN BEDS, so even if they're exhausted and cranky and miserable, they will NOT drop off to sleep in a car or on a couch or in front of a movie. And even though that's PRETTY ANNOYING at times, it does mean that once they're in their beds, they're pretty much ready to go to sleep and they don't mess around. So I think they'd transition without issue.

But even though Lucy will need a bigger bed at some point and even though opening up more floor space would be nice and even though the transition to two kids sleeping in one room would be a pretty simple affair, I kind of wonder if I'm just bored and want to get bunk beds so I have some kind of project to keep me busy. I'M SO BORED LATELY, YOU GUYS. I'm the kind of bored where you'd THINK I'd be blogging all the time and Twittering away and instead I'm the kind of bored where I'm doing nothing so I have nothing to really inspire me to blog. We're having a great summer, and the kids and I are really enjoying each other most days and I'm reading a lot of books (A LOT OF BOOKS), but... I don't know. I'm in this place where I'm not stimulated intellectually (in other words, ain't no freelance work in this joint, like, AT ALL), and not that we're destitute or anything, but I realize that if I was able to generate SOME income, it would be incredibly helpful.

It's this weird place to be – I will have some free time on my hands in the fall, but I can't find a job that fits into that tiny mold. I could probably find something I like to do OUTSIDE the home, but I'm not sure finding childcare would make it worth it. I feel compelled to contribute SOMETHING to our household, and yet I also know that we are technically fine WITHOUT me contributing, as has been the case for the last seven-ish months, though at times it gets a little tight. I also know that sometimes the fact that I feel compelled to contribute makes Dave feel a little icky (he is the kind of man who identifies strongly as a Provider, and I am fine with that) and sometimes I wonder if I feel compelled because I want to see that money go into our savings account (as much of it could) or if I just want the freedom to shop more. I don't NEED to shop more, let's be clear.

So it remains to be seen whether The Great Bunk Bed Project of 2012 has been born out of necessity or boredom, though it appears to be a bit of both. I just need to find SOMETHING to keep me busy before I start thinking that I might as well have a third child or something. You know, just delay the inevitable Going Back to Work Full-Time thing as long as possible. NOT THAT I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT. (HA HA HA YES I HAVE.)

Anyway, if you have bunk bed recommendations or tips or tricks, send them my way. I know about changing the top sheet of doom (and that I will probably rarely do it), but do you have any other ideas about bedding or where you got yours or what I should look for when it comes time to buy some? Hopefully Craigslist will pull through for us, but you'll kindly remember that I had to RETURN SOMETHING I bought on Craigslist, so if I could find something new for the approximate price I might pay for something on Craigslist and avoid the horror that is making another poor decision, that would be preferable. Also note that these don't have to be SUPER NICE beds – we plan on moving in another couple of years, and I don't want to buy really nice stuff that might not go in our next home. I'll be happy if they last, yes, but chances are that when we move, we'll split the kids up into their own rooms again and we already have a full-sized bed in storage for Asher and hope to give Lucy our queen-sized one so that Dave and I can get one of those fancy king-sized beds where you can roll over for days and make snow angels and almost never touch anyone. SHUT UP, WE ARE STILL IN LOVE. We are just kind of tired of each other's hot breath on our necks.

And now here's a picture of Lucy. If Survivor is still on in 2030, she'll be an excellent candidate to win the whole thing.

You like barf stories, yes?

(Well, you liked THIS ONE, remember?)

In case you were holding your breath wondering if anyone's put their head underwater since my last post, YOU CAN EXHALE NOW. Asher HAS graduated to walking underneath sprinklers and fountains (which is actually Very! Exciting! and has resulted in him possessing WET HAIR AT A POOL, IMAGINE THAT), and while I do not anticipate him doing it any time soon, his little sister is making up for it by practically drowning herself every six minutes, so we'll call it even. Lucy is not afraid of water. PERIOD. By our second visit to the pool this summer – two WEEKS ago – she was putting her entire head under and was enjoying herself so much that the bottom of the pool rubbed each of her toes raw. LUCY DOES NOT CARE ABOUT HER TOES. Lucy would like to get back in the pool, please, who CARES if she is leaving a trail of blood in the water! (Turns out LOTS OF PEOPLE CARE. I am one of them, and perhaps coincidentally, I also care a great deal about those random floating band-aids that are always in the pool. ICK.) 

So far our summer hasn't been too painful. Some afternoons seem to drag on and on and on and ON, but for the most part, it's been okay. Asher finished his t-ball season last week and now our summer schedule has REALLY opened up, like, uh, we ain't got no plans, basically EVER (dude, we are super lame, seeing as how t-ball took up TWO WHOLE HOURS A WEEK), so I anticipate some angsty blog posts about how the children are killing me, why won't anyone ever shut up, can't I get some peace and quiet around here, can't a girl just relax and watch some Nate Berkus, etcetera etcetera. In order to combat the upcoming Season of Boredom, I am also pretty much working the Pinterest servers into a frenzy by attempting to compile the World's Longest List of Rainy Day Activities for Kids.

Not that these will ever come in handy, as my children are hardcore into coloring lately, and I am not kidding you, we are going through one of these books every two weeks or so. That's like THREE PICTURES A DAY that they are coloring. And they are coloring them THOROUGHLY, and with CARE and by doing RESEARCH (“Mom, what color are owls' bellies?”) and then – THEN! - they are giving them to me as a gift, and as guilty as it makes me feel, I am pretty much just waiting for them to go to bed that very night before I do away with them in a receptacle of sorts, if you will. I tried keeping more of them, I TRIED, but I just can't. I can't. The stack of artwork is growing exponentially by the minute. Asher will sometimes wander off without finishing a coloring page (he prefers drawing, I think) but MERCY, if you hand Lucy a coloring book or a package of stickers and a piece of blank paper, you can count on her keeping herself occupied for a good 45 to 60 minutes. On one epic afternoon last week, she spent almost FOUR HOURS on one gigantic sticker masterpiece. (It was one piece of paper, and when she was finished layering stickers all over it, it weighed, like, eight pounds, I SWEAR TO YOU.)

We had perhaps our most exciting moment of Summer 2012 (well, Asher would like to remind you that it is – TECHNICALLY – still spring) at Target this morning. Asher seemed... a little bit off in the toy aisle and asked to go home (RED FLAG! RED FLAG!) so we made our way to the front to check out and just as I got everything loaded onto the conveyor belt, he turned as white as a ghost and then barfed EVERYWHERE. Oh, man. One of those moments you never hope to have as a parent, right?

And I really don't blame the dude who was our cashier, because I know people have their things and I am pretty sure the guy's Target training program did NOT include instructions on how to react to bodily function geysers, but he was clearly VERY AVERSE to vomit (who isn't, really, but I am extending him a measure of grace here), swore loudly and then pretty much forgot how to function. I did feel bad for him, I DID, but my poor kid is drenched in vomit, and clammy and sad and embarrassed and the cashier is all, “I can't deal with this, I CAN'T” and GEEZ, DUDE, get a HOLD OF YOURSELF. I realize that puke is not something we want to see or smell or EXPERIENCE, but my kid is also a PERSON, who can HEAR YOU, and PLEASE can we not embarrass or humiliate him any more than he's already been embarrassed and humiliated? THANK YOU. P.S. YOU ARE NOT READY TO BE A PARENT, PLEASE TO BE USING PROTECTION IF YOU ARE HAVING RELATIONS WITH SOMEONE.

Everyone else at Target was super nice about it – the lady who cleaned it up, the manager who assured me that “this kind of thing just happens”, the lady who was in line behind me waiting who said, “Oh! Poor thing! I'm so sorry!” when I told her she should probably find another line so she wouldn't have to wade ankle-deep through biohazardous waste.

The cashier did apologize to me, later, after I put everything back into my cart and shuffled over to another checkout stand (my mom was there with me and had taken Asher to the bathroom) and he'd gotten a chance to collect himself. And really, I do get it. But I also could remember, with CLARITY, the moment in first grade when I, at six years old, threw up dramatically in the back of the classroom while cutting out paper snowflakes. And how someone else saw me and it started a CHAIN REACTION of barfing and OMG, the HUMILITY. Asher is a year younger than I was then and I know he will remember this until adulthood, I KNOW IT. I hope he only remembers the parts of the experience that make it into a good party story. (He's feeling much better this evening.)

Now, Cheez-Its vs. Cheese Nips is another story altogether

This last weekend was one of those ones I was looking forward to just getting though. We didn't have anything AWFUL to do or anything – it was just busy and packed with activities, two of which had the capacity to be Very Awkward, and as much as I enjoy being social with people I do not really know very well, I do not particularly look forward to potentially awkward social situations. The fact that events like these exist tends to cloud the entire weekend – it's not that I sit around DREADING them; more like I sit around thinking of a bunch of other things for which I could drum up buckets more enthusiasm.

The potentially awkward social situation didn't turn out awkward at all, except for the part where we showed up 15 minutes late and everyone had already eaten. The weird thing is that the whole thing was TO EAT TOGETHER, and we had RSVP'd that we were coming, and... I don't know, I figured even with our 15 minutes of lateness, SOMEONE would still be polishing off a plate of potato salad or something, but NO, everyone was COMPLETELY DONE and had moved on to other activities and it was just... well, it was interesting. I guess that particular group of people must be the most punctual people on the planet, because I have NEVER been to a casual function that starts exactly at the appointed time – when someone says “starts at five!” I assume that everyone is arriving at five, and climbing out of their cars or whatever, and ASSIMILATING, and then there is some basic small talk and then the eating and merriment begins shortly thereafter. That was MY impression, of course, and it turns out that my impression was very wrong. But it was fine! Kind of weird, but fine.

Also in the awkward category was something I TOTALLY lucked out of because I slept really poorly on Saturday night (two hours of sleep, I think). Dave volunteered to be the one to take Asher door-to-door fundraising for t-ball. Is there anything worse than going door to door and asking people for money on a Sunday afternoon? It turns out it was good that he went, anyway, because the other kids also showed up with THEIR dads, and I would have hated to be the chick who got in the way of all kinds of potential Man Talk. This is probably my favorite thing about t-ball so far – as adorable as it is watching the games and as fun as it is bleaching white pants week after week (HA HA NO, JUST KIDDING, THAT PART BLOWS), I love that this is an activity where Dave really is the default parent. I mean, I know moms are just as capable as being Default T-Ball Parents, but Asher's team is filled with Default DADS and so it just makes sense that Dave is the one who sticks it out at every practice and stands behind second base at every game while I let Lucy dig through poison ivy and risk getting bit by ticks behind the bleachers. (Yeah, like my job is better.)

Mostly I've just been thinking about the fact that there are approximately 2.5 days of preschool left and then the entire summer stretches out before me. And I would be all, YAY, THE POOL, except I'm pretty sure this is going to be another long summer during which the elder of my two children refuses to put his head/face anywhere near the surface of the water, and I don't know if you know this, but not wanting to actually SWIM in a pool really limits general pool enjoyability. I mean, there is only so much you can do while sitting on the side and dangling your feet in and/or wading in carefully up to your mid-thigh.

The thing about Asher is that no one except Asher himself can change his mind on any issue or experience he is the least bit scared or nervous or slightly edgy about. For example, this child will not attempt – WILL NOT ATTEMPT – to eat a Cheez-It. I know, you are thinking this is a stupid thing to take issue with ANYWAY, and MAYBE IT IS, but you guys know as well as I do that a Cheez-It is just a cheese-flavored cracker. Right? And he is happy to eat cheese, and also crackers, and also GOLDFISH CRACKERS, which are pretty much the same exact thing as Cheez-Its, please let's not argue if you think Cheez-Its are seven hundred culinary steps above Goldfish or anything, I am just trying to make my point that we are talking about DIFFERENTLY SHAPED CHEESE-FLAVORED CRACKERS here. I also realize I am expending a lot of energy on neon orange, highly processed food, but I HAVE A POINT TO MAKE, and SOMEONE IS GOING TO GET THAT POINT EVENTUALLY.

This particularly frustrated me one afternoon when Asher reported that his snack at school was Cars-themed Cheez-Its. Whoa whoa whoa wait wait wait, you mean this child will not even attempt to eat a Cheez-It when it has a mutated-looking LIGHTNING MCQUEEN STAMPED ON IT? Unbelievable! And so I very patiently tried to explain how Cheez-Its and Goldfish are made at the same factory (stay with me here), and they roll out the dough – remember how we made dough to make those big pretzels last week, Asher? Remember? - and then they cut the dough with differently shaped cookie cutters, just like we do at Christmas when we make Christmas cookies! Remember how even though we make reindeer and bells and angels out of the dough, THEY ALL END UP TASTING EXACTLY THE SAME?

Here is where Asher agrees with me – yes, all the cookies taste the same even though they are different shapes! So I continue with my gentle rant-slash-lesson, and cover the fact that a peanut butter sandwich cut into rectangles tastes exactly the same as a peanut butter sandwich cut into TRIANGLES, YES? And Asher is all, yes, I agree, Mom! And I am all, Asher, this is exactly what happens at the Cheez-It/Goldfish factory! They are just cutting out SQUARES for the Cheez-It box, and GOLDFISH SHAPES for the Goldfish box! And Asher is all, YES! I SEE IT, MOM! And then, as I am practically jumping out of my seat in near-victory and offering to STOP AT THE GROCERY STORE ON THE WAY HOME TO BUY CHEEZ-ITS, I make the mistake of asking, “So? Are you ready to try a Cheez-It now?”

Of course he isn't. HE DOES NOT WANT A CHEEZ-IT; HE DOES NOT LIKE CHEEZ-ITs.

So, you know. His head isn't going underwater any time soon, I don't think.

Allow me to word-barf the entire month of April

April was definitely one of the craziest months we've had in a while, and that's even if you don't count the roughly 17,000 hours I spent dyeing, un-dyeing, RE-DYEING, re-UNdyeing and then thinking about/panicking about/hating/accepting/shampooing my hair. April 2012 will be recorded in history as probably my top shampoo-consumption month of ALL TIME. I should tell you that at one point I read that Prell shampoo was great at fading hair color, so I bought some, and not only did it not do anything (seriously, NOT A THING), it also smelled exactly like whatever they use to try to cover up the smell of a port-a-potty. You know that smell? I know you know that smell. It's not a NICE smell, it's just a STRONG, faux-floral smell that isn't even all that much better than feces, and YES, I was lathering up with it a couple times a day.

Anyway, my hair is still a shade or two darker than my natural color probably is, but it isn't HORRIFYING anymore, although I'm not sure whether that's because I actually succeeded in fading it a bit, or if I just finally got used to it. Either way: EH. I'm over it. I have no more brainpower left for thinking about hair. I am OVER THE HAIR.

(Is not so bad anymore?)

In April, Asher started t-ball, which has been pretty great. Oh, it's not like he's actually TALKING to anyone on the team, but he listens to instructions and he gives high-fives to his coaches and grins when he runs the bases and really likes going to practice and to his games, and that's enough for me. Is he grasping the concept of baseball? Well, probably not, as seen by the fact that he ran straight at the pitcher's mound last week after his turn at bat, but he's learning to swing a bat and throw a ball, and the experience of being part of a team has been really really good for him.

In April I also registered him for kindergarten, which was disheartening. When he was two, Asher had a LOT of trouble separating from us just for Sunday school (all one hour of it) – it took probably three months to get him acclimated to his class, and that's probably because his teacher let him sit on her lap for the majority of those three months. But once he got used to going, he never looked back, and he never once cried at preschool dropoff, even on the very first day. But kindergarten orientation required the parents to meet in the library, and the upcoming kindergarteners to stay in their classrooms and I know the school was just so big and there were so many kids (60, at least) and he absolutely fell apart when I left him. I know he was fine after a few minutes, but it was really, really hard, and now I'm completely paranoid about the first day of school. So paranoid that I don't want to really talk about it, not yet, at least. I know that he will acclimate; I know that it takes a lot of getting used to. But I wish we could just push past that first stage and arrive immediately at the part of kindergarten where he loves school and his teacher and recess and riding the bus home at the end of the day and I can stop mainlining antacids.

We have grand plans to bribe him through his first week of school by promising him a trip to Richmond to see a NASCAR race. Which reminds me that I haven't told you yet about the fact that Asher is suddenly a HUGE NASCAR FAN, WEEP. Sometime recently, after a very longstanding obsession with the movie Cars, he figured out that car racing was REAL, and that REAL PEOPLE DO IT, and we turned on a race one weekend afternoon and he sat like a statue in front of the television, completely enthralled. He will watch ANYTHING race – cars, trucks, three-legged dogs – just as long as they all have numbers painted on their sides so that he can keep up with who is winning and losing. It is... weird, actually. NASCAR racing? In MY HOME? I would have NEVER believed it, but it turns out that when your kid thinks something is really super awesome, you kind of find yourself picking it up too, as horrifying as it is for me to admit. It's just that enjoyment I get out of watching him love something. And this is coming from someone who has been in Talladega, Alabama during a race weekend (and you people familiar with NASCAR will know what I am talking about). IT WAS A LOT OF TANK TOPS, is what I'm saying. A LOT OF UNNECESSARY TANK TOPS.

Lucy, despite being three, is not conforming to ANY of the stereotypes I expected her to at this age. She is pleasant and reasonable 98 percent of the time (I thought she would be an AWFUL three-year-old) and she has very little interest in girly things, like dolls or princesses or picking out her own clothes. Actually that's not true, she does like to pick out her own shirt every day, but she only wants to wear shirts with ANIMALS on them, of which we have approximately three. Also, if she wears a shirt with a dog on it, then she wants to take a matching stuffed animal along in the car with us, which poses a problem when she is wearing, say, a shirt with a butterfly on it. WE DO NOT HAVE A STUFFED BUTTERFLY. This is, FUNNILY ENOUGH, the two percent of the time when she acts COMPLETELY UNREASONABLE, but usually we are able to talk through it. The last time she wore her butterfly shirt and we did not have a stuffed butterfly to tote along with us, we simply brainstormed to think of an animal who might be FRIENDS with a butterfly. This led us to Bambi, who has a butterfly on his tail in the movie, which led us to Thumper, WHO WAS SITTING RIGHT THERE ON HER BED, problem solved. Thumper goes with her butterfly shirt, but please don't ask her about it if you run into us, because it takes her about an hour to explain the process of deciding on Thumper and WE HAVE PLACES TO BE, OKAY? I also want the record to show that today she changed her mind and decided that she no longer wants to be a drummer when she grows up; now she would instead like to be a singer.

“Like Erik?” I asked her. Erik, my brother, heads up the worship band at our church.

“Yeah, like Erik,” she said.

“Well,” Asher piped up, “She can be a singer like Erik, but she has to stay a girl.” SO GLAD HE POINTED THAT OUT. Also so glad he's right. I'm keeping this girl.