Escape the Hips: The Legacy Begins

This week, the boys started their own jiu jitsu journeys.

D is 8 and had started while we were up in Alaska last year sometime. Circumstances made it impossible to really nail it down, so after earning a stripe, we took a very long, long break. He's now in the Juniors class, one strip in tow on his white belt and learning "arm locks." No idea what he wants to do with them, he just knows he doesn't want to "be in them."

Smart boy, eh?

A is 3 and he's in the Little Champs program that his dad teaches. I can't say there's enough money in the world available for me to take on teaching up to 12 wild, frenetic preschoolers, but he does it...and well.

So how's it going?

D has to be coaxed more often than not right now, but that's ok. Computers and video games compete for his attention and he doesn't quite see the value in it every single day. But he will. He loves to think about what tournaments will be like and once he has a few steady friends in class, it'll be hard to get him to come home.

A is a different story completely. He has to deal with being left at home each day his brother goes to school, so when he got the chance to finally do his own "thing," he went bananas. Ba-na-nas! It helps to have dad leading the class, too. He hasn't really been too shy about jumping on the mat and taking his spot in the line.

So the journey begins, right?

Get Your Flying Machines at the Ready

Nothing like a balmy 49 degrees to inspire some kite flying, right? We got ourselves a couple drug store specials and waited until it was nice and gusty this afternoon to take the boys flying. Boy Wonder was just about Boo's age when he first met a kite, so I suppose it was about time.

But it wouldn't be our family without a few broken strings, a kite-eating tree, and an emergency potty break. Go figure.

Read on, friend...read on.

1. Picture it. Anchorage, 2012. Still snow on the ground, but not for the weather's lack of trying. Go, weather, go.

2. The boys and their pre-flight instructions. "Hang on tight. Stay away from each other. Hit me, your mother, or your sister with a kite and I'm knocking you out when you're 16. Got it?"

Notice the tree. In about three minutes, said tree is going to try to EAT Boy Wonder's stealth bomber kite. Thanks to dad, it fails. But it was sure close...

3. This is Boo and his bug kite. Have you ever tried to teach him anything? You can't. You can hint, cajole, and express concern that maybe he might want to hold on tight to his string or his kite will fly away.

Guess what?

His kite flew straight over those buildings in the distance. Guess who jogged down there (six months pregnant and all!) and yanked it free when it finally made its suicidal jump off the roof on the other side? Yep. Me. Super Mom. You'd have done the same thing if you heard the heart-breaking shrieks of agony from said know-it-all when the wind yanked the string from his hands and liberated the kite.

4. This kid's kind of a natural at this game. And oh my goodness, I just love that he still wears puddle boots proudly. I can hardly believe he's 8-years-old. Where did the time go? I wonder what sort of young man he's going to grow into...a scholar? A ladies man? Am I rambling? My bad. I get caught up when I start thinking about how quickly this one's growing. Great kite flyer, isn't he?

5. This is the point in the story where the Boo man noticed a fly near him. This is his scaredy-man freak out dance. He hates flies. And bugs. And especially spiders. I think the fly was traumatized after all the noise he made. Is it ironic that he picked out the bug kite himself? Just when we thought it was safe to return to the skies...

6. The second freakout of the half hour involved an exploding (or about-to-explode) bladder. Daddy had to convince him that boys do, in fact, pee outside from time to time. Boo was uncertain at first but now I wonder if he'll ever use the toilet again...

7. I love kites. Have you picked up on that? Oh, and can we have a moment of silence for the bug kite? A slip of Daddy's wrist while in flight and the thing shattered into three or four plastic, buggy pieces. You'll be missed fearless building-jumping bug kite. Go to glory, friend.

Have a blessed week!

There's This Girl I Want My Husband to Meet

Now, settle down. I'm not talking any Alaskan version of "Wife Swap."

That’s just a cute way of saying that I sometimes I think about the other “versions” of me my husband will never know.

He’ll never meet the high school version of me and maybe that’s a good thing. While I might have been a lot of fun, I wasn’t always the nicest human being when it came to the opposite sex, so there’s always that.

The girl I wish I could introduce my husband to would be cowgirl I once was.

Now, I’m not saying I was a barrel-racing diva with real ranch cred or anything and the truth is that even in my Texas A&M hey day, getting on a horse was always a bit nerve wracking.

But something about the me from back then would have charmed the pants off him. (Not that I have problems charming my husband’s pants off or anything…have you seen the size of our family? HA!!!)

Cowgirl Megan wasn’t overly confident all the time, but she wore ropers and Levis on a Friday night out. She refused to wear those godawful pocket-less freakshows called “Rockies.” (The 90’s hick version of “mom jeans,” methinks!)

She drank beer. Probably too much beer, but any college girl who knows the difference between Shiner Bock and Milwaukee’s Best has some moxie. Cowgirl Megan two-stepped every weekend and loved country music. She knew the words to every Robert Earl Keen song and even got emotional, sloppy drunk when that sappy Gary Stewart song “An Empty Glass” came on. (That was actually pretty funny.)

She sat through sunsets and swam in creeks. She sat on tailgates and swung her legs back and forth for hours on end, just because. She left front doors open because there was this thing called a screen door. And they rocked...

She loved Steve Earl’s “Guitar Town” and drank her way through an entire pitcher of beer to retrieve her Aggie class ring once. (She lost that ring sometime in 2002 and hasn’t been the same since. So sad.)

(At the that point in time, my husband was enlisted in the Marine Corp. *drool* I think Cowgirl Megan and her counterpart, Marine Corps Patrick, would have been quite a team back in the day. Wild, reckless, constantly hungover. Fun, right?!)

Ok, so maybe once in a while Cowgirl Megan was a moron and did things like drink too much before the party started so she was unconscious and passed out in the back seat of her friend’s car for entire festivities, but still.

We’ll even overlook her penchant for fighting with sorority girls outside the Dixie Chicken that one especially hot summer and chalk it up to the madness that 87 straight days of 100+ degree weather will incite.

But there are days that I miss that girl. What’s more, I wish my husband got to know her before she turned into the bill payer, the floor scrubber, the uber mom. Not that I’m complaining…my life is a beautiful, beautiful thing…but Cowgirl Megan was a freer Megan and sometimes the chains of responsibility weigh heavy and the phsyical distance Alaska imposes between you and everything you grew up knowing is great. Sometimes you miss the Salt Lick and JJ's Pit BBQ just won't cut it.

Maybe more than him knowing that girl, maybe I want him to know the place and the experiences that shaped that girl. They were magical. They are magical.

I miss the things Texas represents from time to time… “ya’ll,” barbecue, bluebonnets, high school football, lazy rivers you can actually jump in without stopping your heart (though the occasional water moccasin might do that for you…just sayin’.) I miss them in a way that I wish my husband (and my kids) could experience it too.

I think about my roots on days like this…sub-zero, lacking sunshine, no fresh fruit to speak of, kids cramped inside a small living room because nobody’s interested in outdoor activities when your boogers freeze immediately on contact with the air.

And I wonder just how rewarding and different it might be to raise our family in a place like that.

Picture it: Cowboy Boy Wonder, Cowpoke Boo, Cowprincess Kenna, Cattle Baron Patrick…and Cowgirl Megan. Pick up trucks, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Barbeque pits, sunny evenings on a porch swing, and country music.

Sometimes I think I’ll never live that life again…but you know what they say about saying “never,” don’t you?

To Boy Wonder: On the Occasion of His Sixth Birthday

Dear Boy Wonder,

Tomorrow you will turn 6 years old. Can it be true? Has time really flown so quickly?

These days, you are in kindergarten. You have good friends whose names all rhyme for some reason (Braydon, Kaedon, and Jaydon) and I thank my lucky stars that I somehow missed the “-adon” naming phenomenon.

At this point in your life, you are a simple man. You love legos. You are a joy to watch and you impress P and me more and more each day with those dynamo visual-spatial skills you have. You can eyeball a lego set meant for a 10 year old and build it without looking at the “constructions.” (Yes, that’s the adorable word you use for “instructions.” I love it. I also love how you say “linja” instead of “ninja.”) The things you build and the stories you create behind them are amazing, and I know that you will be just like your great-grandfather someday—a tinker. You have so many interests in life and you are never bored—just like Pop. It’s a great way to be and I hope you never lose your fascination with living.

Six years ago, you saved my life. I thought you should know that. I spent an agonizing four months on bed rest when I was pregnant with you , and each week the doctors would say “Any day now, you’re probably going to have a miscarriage.” But every day, there you’d be, hanging on. You fought for your life and in September of 2003, I prayed for the first time in a long time. I found an old St. Jude medal and I prayed the novena over and over…pretty much until you were born. I still rely on St. Jude to this day, and I have you to thank for “saving” me from a life of apathy, an existence with no spirit.

On the days I get the chance to drive you to school, I drive slowly. With the pace of our lives these days, I rarely get anymore one on one time with you. Do you remember when it was just us? You were my main man, my partner in crime. We sing the Star Wars theme song off-key and too loudly. You tell me about the teachers we pass as we pull in. I want to soak it all in. Those mornings I get with you all turn out to be good days and I know my time with you in the early hours is the reason.

When you jump out of the truck and say goodbye, I want to walk inside with you and make sure all the other 6-year-olds are nice to you. I want to beat up their mothers when you tell me that kids aren’t always friendly. But the great thing about you is that you are resilient. Most times, you let it slide off your back and you find other friends to play with—something I was never good at. I took everything personally, and I’m trying to instill in you that you can’t control others—you can only control how you react to them.

You have been such an easygoing kid your whole life, that I’ve taken you everywhere with me. You grew up in a jiu jitsu gym. Your honorary uncles and aunts have been boxers, world-class athletes, MMA fighters, and jiu jitsu prodigies. To this day, you love going to the gym and seeing “your friends.” You are such a friendly guy that everyone there loves you. That’s true wherever you go.

This year, you got a new stepdad. I wanted to thank you for loving P so openly and ferociously from day one. I’m sure you won’t remember it, but you two go way back. When you were two years old and I was relatively new at Gracie Barra, you ran up to P and did the “you can’t see me” John Cena thing to him, trying to pick a play fight. Four years later, it’s still your favorite thing to do—wrestling with him.

With P, you accepted him immediately. You showed him how to be a kid and how to laugh out loud without worrying who might be watching. You paved a way for your little brother Andrew, helping shape P into the incredible dad he is today. You were his first “kid” and you gave him a crash course in unconditional love and acceptance, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being the glue that brought our little family together.

Did you know you are the sparkle in your Nana’s eyes? From the day you were born, you’ve had a bond with her that transcends all manner of grandmother/grandson relationships. You two “get” each other. Sure, you guys bickered and picked on each other during your marathon walks to the park, but it’s because you felt safe enough to have that sort of relationship with her. Nana never lets you down and you know that. You never let her down either. It’s your job to make sure Boo has that same sort of relationship with her—you’re most definitely the guardian of all things Nana.

My favorite memory of you involves your Grandpa Gary. I had to run out and do an errand when you were very, very small and Grandpa volunteered to watch you while I was out. I took you over to the house and when I came back, I found a war zone. Poor Grandpa was on the floor with a naked Boy Wonder, trying to wipe your dirty bum with a handful of Wendy’s napkins. The dirty diaper was stuck upside down on the coffee table, and your grandfather was bright red—either on the verge of laughing hysterically or crying…or both! He’d never been around a baby before you and you taught him the pure joy of a drooly, stinky little human being. You should see all the pictures of you through the years he keeps around the house. You’re his little star.

So here’s to the first 6 years, my little man. If they’ve been any indication, you have a wonderful life ahead of you. Thanks for choosing me. ..I know I’m not your mom by accident.

With love,

Me

It's Time to Admit Defeat: New Tactics and the Picky Eater in My House

Folks, it's war.

I've known it for a while...a simmer that's slowly built up to a boil as I've watched Boy Wonder leave more and more food on his plate, immediately asking for snacks after meals, hording food in his bedroom, stealing my cans of diet soda when I'm not looking (he really does...I went back to finish one last night and the damn can was empty...and I'd just opened it!)

Whether Boy Wonder is truly a picky eater (could be, could be) or whether he's just darn lazy (another great possibility), there's a war brewing in our home and the refrigerator stands at ground zero.

P's been on to Boy Wonder for a few months now, but has given the kid space to change his ways. This morning, all heck broke loose when I went to change out his backpack before school and took out yesterday's lunchbox (yes, I forgot to last night.) Inside, I saw his lunch that I packed him--still intact 24 hours later. Oh sure, half the ham sandwich was gone and so was the juice box, but still...EVERYTHING else remained there. Untouched.

I panicked. I did a mental tally of all the things I saw him eat throughout the day (and yes, this is where my own "mea culpa" comes into the picture. The following list is shocking, sickening, and I'm taking full responsibility for it's ick-factor):

* a bowl of Lucky Charms, a half glass of Orange Juice for breakfast

* sent him to school with a lunch he didn't eat besides the juice box and the half sandwich

*once home, he snacked on pretzels while watching TV (this is also where he stole my soda)

*for dinner I made him a plate and all he ate was the corndog and two bites of applesauce

If I am lucky ( and I mean with a capital L-U-C-K-Y), he ingested what? a total of 800 grams of sugar and about 700 calories of crap??? And if you know Boy Wonder (or have eyes in your head and have seen a picture of him recently), you know he's a skinny little man. It's something I assume he'll grow out of (definitely not a trait he gets from me!), but not with the way he's currently eating.

I stood in shock for about two minutes this morning when I came to that conclusion. Thankfully P was sympathetic and kind, but I could tell he was relieved that I finally "got it." (He walks a fine line between being a parental figure and trying not to be an overbearing step-dad...of which he does a MIGHTY fine job, I must say).

We mutally decided on a "no snack" policy for the forseeable future, as Boy Wonder lives, breaths, and dwells on snacks. He'll ask for snacks directly after dinner. (Say whaaaaaaat?) I'm throwing out all pretzels, chips, and "snacky crap" when I get home. (Sorry, P! Hiden those goodies on the top shelf of the cabinet before I get home!!)

I went out and bought that "hide good crap in your kid's food book" (aka "Deceptively Delicous") and while I tried FOREVER to avoid her hype and buying in to it, it's a pretty brilliant idea. I've already put sticky notes on several of the recipes I want to try and I'll post a few and how they turned out.

I also did some research on "picky eaters" and it seems to be a phenomenon.

I, personally, don't remember being given the option of being picky...but that was back in the 80s...when kids didn't wear seatbelts, car seats hadn't been invented, and the only nutritional advice Hulk Hogan offered us was to eat our vitamins and say our prayers. (Check and check.) My mom would have knocked me out of my chair if I'd refused to eat and THEN asked for some pretzels. I'm a softie, I admit it.

I found a PBS entire Web section called The Science of Picky Eaters.

Psychology Today (one of my all time favorite magazines that has a Web site so rad and true to their print version that I rarely buy the hard copy anymore) has this article: "Picky Eaters."

And finally, the Mayo Clinic has "10 Tips for Picky Eaters" in their Children's Nutrition section.

We have a lot of work ahead of us. A long, uphill battle where we have to be bad guys (I HATE being the bad guy), we have to make rules and stick to them (not so great at that, either), and we have to set a good example (BOOO!)

But as small of a consolation as it is...I get to make broccoli puree and find a way to sneak it into his chocolate chip pancakes...suhweeet. A little something I like to call "Mama's Revenge."

The humble beginnings of the holiday tradition

It's that time again.

We took a few weeks off since Halloween and Netflix keeps sending subtle hints my way. ("Hey, Lady! You have kids...you MUST want Christmas cartoons, right? Pick me. Pick ME!") Seriously. Not so subtle, right?

So here we are on the eve of Thanksgiving. For some reason, the yoga DVD I requested doesn't live in the Anchorage warehouse (it lives in the California shipping center. Are you surprised? I'm not. Damn hippy DVD.) So it's unavailable. Then, we chose to rent a movie that was just released this week. Again, not available. So the smart computers pick the next three movies in my queue (lesson to Megan: check your queue past the first three freaking choices next time). In no particular order, they are:

• Frosty the Snowman

• Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and

• Santa Buddies

Damn. Looks like the weekend holiday movie festival has begun again.

P has requested the 80s movie "Santa Clause: The Movie" (never seen it.) I've put in for "Holiday Inn" (if for nothing other than the song) and a couple versions of "A Christmas Carol" including Bill Murray's "Scrooged." I threw in "Miracle on 34th Street" for good measure.

I hold off on "It's a Wonderful Life" until Christmas Eve for some reason...it's become a tradition that I watch that late into the night as I'm wrapping presents. That movie is magic to me and not to be used/consumed lightly. I can't watch it with my family because if they grew bored or turned out to be un-enamored with it, I'd disown them. No, seriously. It would be a chasm in the house that would ruin us all. (I know, I'm exaggerating. But I'd be soooooo damned mad if they knocked Jimmy Stewart.)

We caugh the Boris Karloff verision of the Grinch last night, so we can check that off the list.

So that begs the question:

What are we missing? What are your favorite holiday movies?

Do tell, do tell.

The Library Lion (A very good book)

Call it neo-nostalgic: This book feels like a children's classic of the '40s or '50s. A lion wanders into a library and is chided for his noisy roaring. He finds he loves story time, so he quickly learns the "Be quiet" rule. Soon he is the library's favorite visitor. But when a librarian is hurt in a fall and the lion must roar for help, he—and readers—learn that rules sometimes need to be broken.

Written by Michelle Knudsen, it's a book I randomly grabbed at Boy Wonder's book fair at school. We've read it a bazillion times already and we love it. She's got a neat Web site. You should check it out. And read the book. Do it.

When the World is Trying to Tell You Something

For the first time in years, Boy Wonder and I clashed tonight. Nothing major...just a version of grating each others nerves from the moment I got home from work all the way through dinner (he chose to eat his pizza in his room, thankee verra much) and into our "art" time. Getting said Boy Wonder to complete a bookmark for a library contest was a real treat, please believe.

Add to the bad vibes one baby who learned a new trick: jamming your fingers down your throat makes you gag. And gagging is a really neat noise. So you should do it a lot. Like, constantly. In your high chair, on the floor, in the bath, during your dinner. Gag, gag, gag. And scream bloody murder when your mother yanks your dirty little fingies from your maw. And slap at her face with your free hand. She loves that.

I digress. Two angry boys. One pissy mom. Betcha wish you were in town visiting us right now, eh?

Anyhoo...

I get all parties (minus me) into bed. Boy Wonder made up about eleventy-seven reasons to leave his bed, the last being he couldn't find "Marvin." (His stuffed dog.)

Exhausted, exasperated, tired, frustrated, hungry, stressed, pitiful wreck that I was, I stormed into his room and found the damn dog...under his pillow. Mad as all hell at his refusal to go to bed, I threatened to give all his toys to the neighbor's dog (hey, I was caught off guard) if he didn't stay in bed. He said I was mean. I said I'm allowed to be. He said I should be nice. I said I was going to tell his teacher what a naughty boy he's being. He caved.

Victorious, I stomped back to the kitchen where I found his "reading packet" for the night (which we forgot to do and will have to read at breakfast.). Do you know what book I found staring up at me from the backpack? A g-damned mirror, that's what I found. Here, judge for yourself:



Ok, ok, world. I get it. Grumpy elephant= me. Ha ha...very funny.