Get Your Head in the Game

Here's my little "Troy." #23... in the white.



Oh. He's gonna hate me now.
If you are not the parent of a kid or tween or pre-tween... Let me explain.

"Troy" is the main character in the High School Musical movies. The movies that are about some perfectly adorable high school kids who sing and dance and make a musical. The movies that most girls (and some guys) between the ages of 6 and 14 love.

The movies that I love. Yep. I confessed. I am a High School Musical fan. There. I said it.

Troy is the cutie-patootie basketball star who wins the game and gets the girl. Gotta love Disney.

Anyway, the boy has been playing him some b-ball. Upward Basketball. I highly recommend it. It's a great "teaching" program for the sport, the kids and spectators are led in a devotion, every child gets to play, and everyone (for the most part) behaves.

So I call him my little Troy, and he hates it. Or, I should say... He PRETENDS to hate it. He rolls his eyes and snarls at me. He threatens me not to say it loud or scream it from the stands.

At least I know I'm doing my job.

One Year Old Today!

Happy Birthday, Noah!
It's hard to believe you're turning one today.
Don't eat too much cake... Well, ok. Eat lots of cake!
Aunt Autumn loves you! (And so do your uncle Dan and cousin Elijah!)

Confused Trees and My Head Hurts

It is unseasonably warm here.

UnSEASONably. Do not make me remind you, oh weather, that you are a bit "outta line." I love your warm sunshiny days, but could we have eased into it a little slower? Maybe not jumped from 30 to 75 degrees SO quickly.

You see, when you change so fast and so soon (it ain't even Valentine's Day, yet)... you confuse the plants. The little trees and bushes think it's time to start growing again. And that, oh weather, involves POLLEN.

Pollen... the dreaded enemy of this Claritin-poppin', inhaler-suckin' family.

Did I mention that I have a headache? That's lasted for about 64 hours now? I think it's the premature pollen. It could be whiplash from the weather change. It could be the dust in my house. It could be the long break between American Idol episodes.

I am not complaining too loudly, though. The flip-flops made a brief appearance yesterday. They were so happy to be out of their little basket.

Now I need a pedicure.

I Hope I Can be His "Out"

Just this week, I was chatting with a friend about our boys. Hers is a year older than mine. He is quickly approaching that "land of in-between." That strange odd place where so much of what they say and do is still so "little boy." But, every now and then you catch a scary glimpse of the tween/teen years that are QUICKLY approaching. Mine is not far behind.

Please don't misunderstand me. I ain't rushing a thing here. I would keep him little forever if it were up to me. I am just coming to grips with the inevitable.

From the get-go, we have been the strict, un-cool parents. We make the boy drink milk (No!), we enforce an early bedtime (Gasp!), we VERY rarely let him attend events without us (Wow!), we don't let him see movies that we haven't pre-viewed (Boring!), and I still walk him to school... even though I could spit on the teachers' cars from my kitchen window. (Not that I would do that!)

Back to my friend's conversation...
Her son had been invited to a birthday party where the kids were gonna watch movies. Movies that their son may not have been allowed to see. When she explained her reasoning to her son, he was ok with it. He was ok with missing that part of the party. Then she said the thing that brought back a long-forgotten feeling. She said,

"I think he may have been a little relieved that I said he couldn't go."

Do you remember that feeling?
Was I the only child on the planet that ever felt that way?

You really weren't sure about going somewhere or doing something and a parent said "no," and a tiny wave of relief washed over you?

I am not talking about backing out of a commitment or not doing something required for school or church. School, homework, church, and family obligations... those were non-negotiable for us, and they are for the boy.

I am talking about those times when you were a teensy bit glad that mom or dad said "no." "Not this weekend." "We have plans." Or, "I don't feel comfortable with you going."

You had an "out," and your parents got the "blame."

"Sorry, my mom said I can't."

You kept your little secret and everyone else just thought you had impossible parents. And, that was ok with them.

Well, it is ok with me, too. If the boy ever needs an "excuse" to not be somewhere he isn't totally comfortable being... I'll be the "out."

I'll say "no" and smile and be the un-cool mom I was meant to be.

Gotta Get it Together

I have not:
1. ironed anything
2. washed anything
3. finished the taxes
4. made the bed
5. balanced my checkbook (in a VERY long time)
6. finished my Bible study
7. put on any makeup
8. loaded the dishwasher
OR
9. figured out what we are having for dinner (Dan's home... We gotta eat like normal people again...)

But...

I fixed the blog. It's all about priorities, folks.
Oh, yeah. I did feed the cats. So they wouldn't eat US.

I Have a Disease

And there is no cure for it. I am a chronic furniture re-arranger.
The teeny tiny Army house that I live in keeps me from being able to feed my addiction.
So, I re-arrange the bloggy.
It seems to be bothered by all my "messin' around" with it. My friends and family blog lists are doing odd things.
And, my newest list of "blog-world friends who make me laugh..." Well, it's gone too.
I'll just have to get around to fixing those glitches. After I finish our taxes. And take our sorry behinds to church. And iron some clothes. And wash some clothes. And feed the cats.

Get Out the Fire Extinguisher

I think my exact words were,

"Are you trying to make me run down the street with my hair on fire?!?"

'Cause that's what I threaten when things go awry.

We (the boy and I) have been living in a two-person household for the entire month of January. Dan has been away at training. To prepare himself and his fellow soldiers for yet another "fun-filled, all-expense paid trip to the beautiful Middle East."

We USUALLY do fine when we are without him.

This month has gone by beautifully. The boy has been sweet, helpful, and very good in his daddy's absence.
However, he decided to try and make up for the entire month of angelic behavior in a 24 hour period.

First, I asked him about some missed questions on a pre-test...

The boy says, "OH MY GOSH, MOM!" (Raised voice and eye-bulging included.)

Then, I reminded him (get ready) that basketball practice was "picture night."

The boy says, "Great. I WAS having a good day until you told me that!" (Snorting and stomping included.)

There were more and more of these little incidents (mini tantrums) as the day wore on. He even asked me if I wanted to duel him in an "insult contest." (My answer was one of those beautiful and rare parenting gems, but... he was not impressed. There was more groaning and eye rolling.)

And my personal favorite...

I was trying to gather my "stuff" to head out the door to picture-taking ("hell on earth" to the boy) practice. Ending a phone call, looking for my keys, making sure I have the wallet and checkbook, turning off lights, etc., etc., etc. You know how the "fly-out-the-door moments" are, right?

Well, Mr. Funny Pants (who is waiting outside) decided that he'd play a game of "Ring and Run" with me.

He rings the doorbell.

I answer from where I'm standing (knowing it's him), "What do you need, son?"

No reply. He rings again.

I answer (louder), "If you need me, you can come inside and talk to me. I'm busy."

No reply. He rings again. And again. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Faster and faster.

When I stomp to the door to yell at him in my best red-neck momma voice, he runs.

To the front door where he proceeds to ring THAT doorbell. And laugh like a maniac.

I calmly return to my "gathering" and try not to allow the persistent ding-donging of the doorbell to get to me.

That's when the knocking started. Tapping on the windows, rapping on the doors. Tapping. Ringing. Rapping. Ringing.
You would have thought he'd recruited the neighborhood children to help him.
How is it possible for one child to run all around our house and make all that racket?

Then, I lost it.

The mind-numbing ringing and tapping and psycho giggling caused something deep inside me to snap, and I SCREAMED,

"AAGGHH! IF YOU DON'T STOP THAT AND GET IN THE CAR THIS INSTANT, I'M GONNA KILL YOU!"

One of my finer red-neck momma moments. (Aren't you proud, honey?)

As we drive away to practice a few moments later, I make my "hair on fire" comment.

His reply to me?

"Gosh. Girls just don't know how to take a joke."

PS... I realized last night that our side doorbell and our front doorbell have two different rings.