Mom of Boys
You know how boys seem to be born with a death wish? Yes. I've noticed that too.
Yesterday afternoon the boys and I entertained ourselves by climbing up a five foot high concrete ledge and jumping off. They were doing the climbing and jumping; I was doing the catching. May I clarify that when I say "boys" I am including the fourteen month old commonly referred to in these parts as Not-So-Tiny (and occasionally Tantrum Tiny). He now has two tiny little holes in the tiny little knees of his tiny little pants from the times he decided to crawl instead of teeter precariously on his own two feet. Both boys were endlessly enamored.
And I just kept singing to myself: Be brave, little one... Make a wish for each sad little tear...
Just kidding. I really didn't morph into Penny from The Rescuers, but I did keep reminding myself of this article by Jen Hatmaker and telling myself that if I wanted brave kids, I'd better man up and be a brave mom. Still, don't you ever wish that they would wait until they've mastered basic skills like not falling before they start being brave?
Death wish, I tell you.
On that note, I want to share this horribly embarrassing story so that when Littles grows up and graduates college and becomes a stand up adult we all have plenty of dirt on him. Last night, he was exuberantly singing the clean up song as he picked up his bath toys. He put the last toy in the bucket, trilled out an expressive "Everybody do your share!!!" as he lifted both fists to the sky in a victory V, grinned proudly, and let out a beautiful string of farts. The timing could not have been more perfect. I died. I died. I really, really did.
And that is why I am a mom of boys. Because I have never moved past my middle school appreciation for potty humour.
On a more serious note, Easter is just around the corner, and in case you (like me) wonder why we go crazy and decorate for Christmas but let Easter pass with only a few cheap plastic eggs, I thought I'd share this with you:
Yesterday afternoon the boys and I entertained ourselves by climbing up a five foot high concrete ledge and jumping off. They were doing the climbing and jumping; I was doing the catching. May I clarify that when I say "boys" I am including the fourteen month old commonly referred to in these parts as Not-So-Tiny (and occasionally Tantrum Tiny). He now has two tiny little holes in the tiny little knees of his tiny little pants from the times he decided to crawl instead of teeter precariously on his own two feet. Both boys were endlessly enamored.
And I just kept singing to myself: Be brave, little one... Make a wish for each sad little tear...
Just kidding. I really didn't morph into Penny from The Rescuers, but I did keep reminding myself of this article by Jen Hatmaker and telling myself that if I wanted brave kids, I'd better man up and be a brave mom. Still, don't you ever wish that they would wait until they've mastered basic skills like not falling before they start being brave?
Death wish, I tell you.
On that note, I want to share this horribly embarrassing story so that when Littles grows up and graduates college and becomes a stand up adult we all have plenty of dirt on him. Last night, he was exuberantly singing the clean up song as he picked up his bath toys. He put the last toy in the bucket, trilled out an expressive "Everybody do your share!!!" as he lifted both fists to the sky in a victory V, grinned proudly, and let out a beautiful string of farts. The timing could not have been more perfect. I died. I died. I really, really did.
And that is why I am a mom of boys. Because I have never moved past my middle school appreciation for potty humour.
On a more serious note, Easter is just around the corner, and in case you (like me) wonder why we go crazy and decorate for Christmas but let Easter pass with only a few cheap plastic eggs, I thought I'd share this with you:
Don't mock my pitiful little house plant. The fact that it's still alive is a miracle. I don't ask for much more. But if you're interested in the print, I found it here, and I love it. I used a frame that usually holds a Christmas picture, but, obviously, I'm not decorating for Christmas, so why waste the frame, right? If you're interested in the cat, he is free to a semi-decent home. Just kidding. But if Oswald wakes me up at four in the morning one more time (he's going on four weeks straight), we might be serving cat sate for Easter instead of the rabbit sate I had once (we ate the Easter bunny!).
