Pal-e- Oh, My Gosh, No!

I've been trying to eat healthier lately. As any mom knows: it's a challenge to find healthy foods to suit the entire family. Actually, successful meal plans are a challenge on any given day. I'm pretty sure kids conspire to see who can get Mommy's eye twitching when they complain about the food. It could be donuts, but one of them will whine and push the plate away in disgust because that's the agreed-upon rule.

My quest has been somewhat successful. I'm eating healthier and losing weight. My kids are... well, they're losing weight too. Mainly because they pretend to be full when they see the dinner that's in front of them. "Uh, I ate earlier. That banana really filled me up. But, it looks uh... great mom. I'm just not hungry." And then I find them eating their third bowl of cereal an hour later.

I've been focusing on a diet low in carbs and high in protein. For me at least. I'll have my chicken with vegetables and the boys get additional pasta or bread with their meal. Inevitably one boy complains because he "hates chicken" and swears I'm torturing him because he's a vegetarian (even though he devours In-N-Out burgers). The other boy complains because I put something green on his plate. The horror! It's like Kryptonite - it weakens him until he's slumped over in defeat, slowly dissecting each green bean pod to smash the individual beans before gagging them down.

I turned to Pinterest to find new recipes to torture them... I mean, to find amazing new food creations to tantalize my sweet sons' palates. Thankfully, each post has a picture so I can quickly judge the time from presentation to rejection. "Nope, too many weird colors. That one has a brown sauce that will make him cry." Some experiments have met with mild success, meaning that only half of our family hated it. I keep trying, going back to the drawing board - or pinning board as the case may be.

When you start looking for Paleo recipes or anything low-carb you stumble into a world of food substitutions. Vegetables masquerade as grains in any number of ways. I have to say that I enjoyed cauliflower "fried rice" and even cauliflower "pizza dough". Both were a bit different, but not horrible. (That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement, but it's hard to compare cauliflower to a good doughy pizza crust). Instead of traditional flour there are a million other "flours" that qualify as Paleo. Coconut, almond, tapioca. All of which require a special trip to the store. You don't just have this stuff sitting around in your pantry when you decide to start a low-carb diet. It becomes a hunt. Does the regular grocery store carry this stuff, and where is it? I lucked out and found a wall of bins filled with various flours, millets, seeds, and other mystery materials I've never used before. I had to Google whether I could use Coconut oil in place of Palm oil because I don't even know what this stuff is but it's supposedly good for me and I must have it for my no-carb muffins. Don't even try to figure out what "ghee" is.

I'm becoming better acquainted with some of the Paleo ingredients and tricks to cut the carbs. But some substitutions surprise - and scare - me. I found a post for a "meat bagel". Seriously. It's a bagel-shaped ground beef creation. People! That's a burger with a hole in the middle. Just because you sliced it in half and stuck lettuce in the middle it's not magically a "bagel"! No one is fooled by food masquerading as something else. Even turkey-shaped tofu knows it's not real turkey just because it donned a disguise. Broccoli "breadsticks" would never stand a chance with my kids. "Chia" and "chocolate" should not be used in the same sentence. And just because a recipe has the word "cake" in the title does not mean it should be in the same category as an actual sugar-rich, flour-heavy creation. Raw avocado vanilla cheesecake anyone? Um... No.

I believe we've come full circle and are back to the strange food combinations that some people tried to pass off as "creative hostess dishes" last century. Have you seen the Vintage Recipe pictures that feature meats, veggies, and gelatin in ever-stranger configurations?

Why did anyone think this was a good idea? And why do most of the jello salads feature olive-eyes that stare straight into my soul? I guess next time my kids are complaining about a meal I will just pull out a few old-time recipes and see what they think. I bet they'd eat their meat bagel and be happy about it.

Back-to-School Shopping Hell

Here's the dream version of how it would go down:

I take both smiling, happy boys to a few stores. They pick out stylish new clothes and shoes, try them on willingly, and then we go to the register where everything is on sale. We leave the store with bags in hand and cash in wallet and they return home to clean their rooms and get ready for the next school year to begin.

Ha! Yeah, right. Obviously, that would never happen. No school kid is this excited.

Image courtesy of photostock at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I wasn't prepared for the full rebellion. I would absolutely love it if someone took me shopping every year for a new wardrobe. No complaints here. But I'm not a teen or pre-teen boy, obviously. I had to endure eye-rolls, giant sighs, and whining. (I forgot to mention that my husband came with us.)

My older son didn't mind having new clothes thrust upon him, he just didn't want to actively choose them. He couldn't believe I'd ask him to walk around some racks and pick out things he liked. What a terrible mom I am. And then, when I told him to go try stuff on? You'd think I was putting him in a torture chamber instead of a dressing room!

"Why do I have to try these on? Medium looks like it fits fine."

"I'm not buying this unless you try it on. What if it's too small?"
"Fine, then just get the large. If it doesn't fit me now I'll wait until it does."

Um, how will that give you clothes to wear for school? You'll just wait until November to attend class when your clothes might fit you? Come on! 

He did get excited about some items. He wants all of the tee shirts with rude, sarcastic sayings or questionable images. I'm not paying for that kind of first impression. Teachers don't need a shirt to tell them you're sarcastic and snotty.

My younger son was somewhat easier. He doesn't mind shopping or trying on clothes. It's his fashion sense that concerns me. If I'd let him, he'd wear super-tight skinny jeans with neon compression shirts. I'm glad he's not self-conscious, but nobody wants to see that much physical detail if you know what I mean. And yet, you can't quite look away either.

When we'd found some acceptable shirts and shorts we headed to the shoe department. My older son tells me, "I didn't wear socks." Sure enough, he had his flip-flops on and his toenail talons on display for the world. The disposable stockings the store offers were no help. They barely covered half of his foot, and he wasn't going to be slipping into heels anytime soon. So, he surreptitiously tried on a few pairs in his bare feet - I know, gross! But listen, I was ready to get the hell out of there and I knew I'd never be able to drag him back to a store before next year, so no judging!  

We slumped out, defeated, with large bags of mostly-overpriced clothes that they may or may not even wear. You'll probably see my kids in exercise shorts and tiny shirts all year. Because even though we've had all summer to clean out the closets it hasn't quite happened yet. Heck, we might even find new clothes from last year when we finally get around to hanging stuff up.

It's the ritual of the back-to-school shopping that's important. It'll leave my kids with nightmares for the rest of the year. And I wouldn't know how to start a new school year without a headache and a hangover from all the "therapy" I need to make it through.

World War NERF

With four boys hanging out today, I knew that there were potential fights and battles that could arise.  Cue screaming and running around - while they pulled out every weapon in their arsenals.  My house looked like a toy gun warehouse when they were finished.

I have never met a boy who doesn't like a good shoot-em-up kind of game.  I know that some parents start off thinking, "I will never let my child have a toy gun in this house, ever!" but have you met boys?  They realize early on that their thumb and forefinger make a great pretend gun - even before they know how to use those two fingers to hold a crayon, feed themselves, or pee standing up (you had to think about that for a second, didn't you?)  It's hardwired.  Just like they know how to make some elaborate noise with their lips to signify that they have just destroyed something (usually you or the dog) with their powerful finger-shooter.

I never actively tried to keep gun toys out of the house, nor did I invite them in.  But at a certain age, it seems that friends and relatives began giving my sons NERF guns, and we have never been the same household since. Like the Lego company, NERF has some smart developers.  Remember when they just made foam footballs that your goofy neighbor would pick apart every time you wanted to play?  Well, they hit the jackpot when they started making guns that shoot foam darts.  And then they realized that kids aren't happy having only one version of a toy if they can collect an entire series of money-making plastic junk pieces.  It started off innocently enough for us with one gun per boy, and has spread like exploding shrapnel through our house so that they each own about a dozen guns (or more - honestly, I can't keep track and I'm too scared to go hunting around in their rooms).

I could live with the guns themselves, if I had to.  But the NERF bullets are another story.  These things must multiply in the night.  Foam cylinders attached to rubberized suction cups can be found under every piece of furniture I own.  They are stuck under couch cushions, inside lamp shades, half-covered in the dirt of a potted plant, sticking on sliding glass doors, inside shoes... you name it.  I have yet to find any swimming around with the fish in the aquarium but I have plucked some off the glass that covers the water.  Of course, after a while all of the darts disappear from the boys' rooms and they beg me to purchase more so that they can keep 'killing' each other in friendly sibling games.

Enter the NERF Blasters.  These don't use the usual darts, they shoot discs instead.  So you have to purchase a bunch of different ammunition packs for each kind of weapon they own.  Well played, NERF, well played.

All of these plastic guns need to be stored somewhere.  They are just long enough and oddly-shaped that they don't fit neatly into any toy storage or closet shelf that exists in any home.  I joked that I was going to build a gun rack for my boys' rooms to store their guns.  It seems I wasn't the only person to come up with this idea!  Just hop on Pinterest and search "Nerf storage" to see the crazy creations people have come up with to categorize and hold all of the weapons.  And I thought we had a lot of guns!  People, when you need to build a giant PVC pipe frame to hang 50+ guns, you might have a problem!  There's no way I'll let my boys see those crafty creations people have come up with.  Part of my excuse for not buying any more guns centers around the fact that we don't have anywhere to keep additional guns, so I'll let my organizational incompetence help me out for once.

Ironically, it is these "wars" that bring them closer together.  My boys actually get along for quite a while when they are shooting and dodging foam darts.  And it's not just for the little guys.  Sure enough, each Christmas my twin brothers (who I will just say are in their 30s) run around with multiple guns and extra ammo clips, trying to ambush each other.  At least they let the younger kids play too.  Usually my boys are recruited to run down the hallway to draw enemy fire so one brother can try to get the upper hand. And so the NERF legacy passes on through the generations.

If our world is ever attacked by a species that has vulnerable flat, glass surfaces, they are in sooooo much trouble!

Motherhood Is Like a Bridesmaid Dress

As parents, we are constantly looking forward: to the next milestone, the next accomplishment, the next level, the next birthday... the next night when all is quiet and we can finally relax.  Sometimes we forget to look back.  Or we forget what it was really like when our own kids went through various stages.

I am fortunate enough to have my nephew with me once a week during the summer.  He is five (going on 23) and he brings to mind all the funny stuff from that age with a figurative smack to the head, like "Oh yeah!  I remember when they did that!"

He has a one-track mind.  Any game that is worth playing is worth doing for hours straight.  He was laughing with my older son and kept saying "Again, do it again Zack!" because thankfully my boys can be sweet and sensitive and loving with him even when it's impossible for them to be kind to each other.  And he remembers when he comes here that Auntie Karen has Hungry Hungry Hippos.  That fun game gets trotted out every time he's here.  The noise of plastic hippo heads slamming down onto marbles skittering around on a plastic surface really wakes you up in the morning. It should be called Miserable Miserable Migraine.

Last week he was obsessed with the idea of going swimming.  Just one problem prevented us from doing this: I don't have a pool or belong to a homeowner's association that has a pool.  He kept pointing out places that might have pools.  I tried to distract him by taking him to a friend's house.  I told him, "My friend has chickens, a bunny, and a duck that you can see.  Won't that be fun?"  And he said, "A duck, huh?  You know what ducks do?  Swim!"  Yeah, kid.  I get it.  So today I had plans to meet a friend at her pool and go swimming - but he didn't want anything to do with that.  Of course, my dog appreciated the thought... she got into his backpack, pulled out his flip flops, and proceeded to chew them into small rubber chunks.  I bet the duck doesn't pull that crap.

I love the kid conversations that go places you never expected.  Today he tells me:

I have a friend named Emma.  But she hurt her hand.  Twice.  I thought I was the baddest friend ever and that I hurt her.  It turns out she ran over her hand with her own bike.  I wasn't the baddest friend ever!  So we went and watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Alrighty then!  The rest of our conversations center around "Why?" or "How come?"  I forgot how much explaining my days contained when my guys were younger.

I knew that my kids would grow up quicker than I'd ever expect.  Now I wonder, how did we go from this cute, wondering stage to the sullen mood swings that encompass the tween years?  People always tell you "Enjoy it.  They'll grow up in the blink of an eye!"  And I've been very cognizant of that.

I was a bridesmaid in a friend's wedding when Zack was only 4 months old.  During one of the slow songs I suddenly started balling.  My concerned husband looked around, embarrassed for me (because of me), and then asked, "What is wrong???"  I answered, "Zack will be married soon!" to which he laughed and shook his head because I was acting like the crazy, hormonal woman all mothers can instantly become.  And then, as if fate wanted to magically remind me that my child was still a tiny, nursing infant... the spaghetti strap on my dress finally gave in to the overwhelming strain from my engorged breasts - and SNAP!  As the strap whipped backwards, nearly blinding the bride, it was like a metaphor for motherhood.  You are consumed with unbelievable maternal love (or alcohol-rich milk that will need to be pumped and dumped) until the stress becomes too unbearable and you snap unexpectedly and spectacularly.  And it's all in the blink of an eye - unless you're standing too close behind.

Sarcasm Genes

I remember the first time that I realized my mom had a sense of humor.  Sure, we'd had times where we all laughed and joked, but I'm talking about a good, raunchy, somewhat inappropriate appreciation for the funny stuff.  She came home from work with an accordion-folded printout of a conversation from her company's interoffice email (although it was definitely not called email at the time).  She and her friend were discussing the merits and the drawbacks of their "Wang" computer system.

Don't you hate it when your Wang is inoperable?
My Wang is never up for long before it stops servicing me.
Will your Wang work better if you slap it around some?

The rest of the conversation went back and forth along these lines but it contained sarcasm and puns galore and I loved it.  I saw her in a new light.  Wait a minute, my mom can make funny penis references?  How is that even possible?

Since having kids, my main method of communication consists of sarcasm and humor.  How can you take anything seriously again when you have vomit on your front (or back) and you are absolutely positive that your sweet infant is busy creating diabolical plots designed to wake you up the exact second that REM sleep is achieved?  Sarcasm had been passed down to me and childbirth had switched that gene to the "on" position.  In fact, some people will tell me that they enjoy my blog and find it hilarious (thank you to those 3 people) and they usually ask me, "Have you always been this funny?"  And I reply, "No!  Absolutely not.  I was shy and quiet and barely talked to anyone who wasn't a close friend --- until I had kids.  And then, blamm-o, you're like an instant stand-up-comedian because your life is a freakishly funny mess of bodily functions, crazy kid sayings, and constant criticism from everyone, including your own tiny children.  What else are you gonna do?  You have to use wit to get by."

I'm not so sure how this sarcasm gene passes on to boys.  My preteen son is becoming proficient in this special language and uses it all the time!  He's so snarky that I cringe at times.  Especially when he speaks to adults as if he's grown and buddy-buddy with them.  For example: my friend offered to give Zack her ticket during our school's annual Ice Cream Social.  He could not figure out why anyone would willingly give up their frozen treat until she explained, "I don't' like ice cream".  To this, my 10-year-old said, "Why, were you dropped on your head as an infant?"  Gah!  You can't say that to an adult!!!  And I wasn't even there!  Luckily my friend also has boys, and thus appreciates the humorous side of things, and she was laughing when she told me this.

Now, my younger son is the one who gets these venomous attacks courtesy of his older brother.  Thankfully, he is relatively immune to the daily berating and criticism.  Yesterday, while out on a walk Zack was constantly griping about his brother (all because of a video game they were playing earlier when Logan's character had left the screen where Zack was playing, so you know it's all out war now).  What was supposed to be a relaxing walk turned into a migraine-in-the-making.  The damn dog would not stop whining and yipping because she wanted to catch up with Logan on his bike.  Logan was not looking as he slowly pedaled across the road - in front of a car.  Zack was busy commenting on the near-crash and calling his brother an idiot.  I finally lost it and said, "You are not allowed to call your brother mean names!  So stop!"  Zack said, "Well, I can't help it if he's a moron.  I'm just saying it out loud.  You know we were all thinking it."

Oh my head.  Hey, who wants to talk about their Wang computers?

Say What???

We just returned from a visit with my brother-in-law's family, and the cousins all had a great time catching up (even though it's been over a year and a half since our last visit).  My niece mostly ignored these big, stinky boys who were suddenly invading her space; she already has two brothers to contend with.  My nephew (the middle child) found he had much in common with his older cousins now thanks to gaming apps.  They bonded over handheld devices and talk which revolved around how to successfully beat certain levels.  For him, this was a giant step forward from the last two visits where he alienated himself by biting Logan.  No one else... ever... just Logan.  So we skipped the bacon baths prior to our drive down.

My youngest nephew will be two years old next month.  When we arrived he ran around and squealed excitedly, exclaiming "ba ba ba!".  Uh, same to you little man!  Translation please?  That's "ball" or "basketball" (hence the three syllables) and really the small orange basketball in his hands should have been my tip-off.  Not to be confused with the two-syllable "ba ba" which is of course "bottle" or his sippy cup.  But pay attention, because "na na" is his blanket and he has the best scowly face if you upset him. I also find it highly amusing that he uses similar words for both the dog and his brother ("dodgy"), but I'm the aunt and my job is to laugh at the kids and give them candy, so I make sure I don't disappoint.

I'm not judging though.  Lots of boys learn to talk later than girls.  I mean, really, it seems that every toddler girl I've ever met sounds like she's straight out of a Jane Austen novel.  For example:

Me:  "What a pretty dress you're wearing!"
18-month-old girl:  "It is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy.  May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are they the result of previous study?"                      

My own boys were late-talkers.  Zack didn't really start experimenting with words until he was 21 months old.  And Logan had his own language that constantly needed translation.  The lady who did speech evaluations for our district was quite confident that her many years of work with children and speech pathologies would enable her to easily understand our special guy.  She became a bit more flustered each time she had to turn to us for explanations.  Here are some of my favorites:

Doo = shoe
Doo-ah = sock (of course, it is based on doo)
Da-doo-ah = dinosaur (now we are getting more complex)
Ba to ba to ba! = counting
Boppy Bo = Zack

I'm not sure where he came up with "Boppy Bo" but he used it consistently every time he was referring to his brother.  It seems much more difficult than just saying "Zack" but what do I know?  The other moms at the park had the most quizzical expressions when he would look around yelling "Boppy Bo!?!?"  Zack constantly used to ask us, "When is he going to learn to say my name?" and I had no good answer.  It took lots of speech therapy and practice and encouragement to eek out words that eventually became identifiable as the English language.  And honestly, I miss the cute mispronunciations and special Logan-speak that only we could understand.  I wish I remembered more examples from that time.

As much as things change, so do they remain the same.  Case in point: my boys were occupying themselves during our drive home by making up words or repeating existing words until they became nonsensical.  I'm glad I didn't have to explain to a police officer why I was swerving with screams of  "Buffalunkey" and "tofurkey,tofurkey,tofurkey" emanating from my car.  Gimme a good old Boppy-Bo any day.

It's Like I'm Sherlock Holmes

I work the night shift as a nurse in a busy Pediatric ICU.  The work is emotionally stressful, physically taxing, and mentally challenging - especially at 4 in the morning when you are the charge nurse and have to scramble to rearrange the puzzle pieces to accommodate busy admissions with a short staff and patients who are spiraling down.  Thankfully though, the night shift tends to have more down time than the other shifts (why do you think I've stayed there for the past 14 years?  Certainly not for the coffee).  But it's not always doom and gloom.  Case in point: last night my colleagues had me laughing so hard I was wheezing and wiping away tears of mirth.  I'm sure a parent complaint is on the way.

I come home after work, have a quick breakfast, check in with the family, and go to sleep.  Often that sleep is briefly interrupted by noises from the boys who are home and doing their thing.  We went through a good 3-month period a few years ago where they liked to blast "Rock You Like a Hurricane" at top volume... on repeat. I had some crazy dreams then.  Or, one will offend their sibling and a yelling match ensues, followed by doors slamming and general mayhem.  But I've become an old pro at sleeping through most anything, and I generally wake refreshed and ready to rejoin the family and hear what they've been up to.  When I walk down the hallway toward the living room and family room I never know what I'm going to find... but they leave me ample clues that detail the events of the last 5 to 7 hours.  And now I'm like Sherlock Holmes, piecing together the minute details of a crime scene.

Here's how it typically plays out: I creep warily down the hallway and gird myself for the disastrous view that  assaults me upon first entering the living room - site of many a crime.  Toys are usually strewn everywhere, clothes litter every seating surface, and possibly some new food has been ground into the carpet.  Last year when we were rearranging the boys' rooms we had bookshelves laying in the living room and the boys had rediscovered old toys that they hadn't played with in a while.  It was like trying to navigate a minefield just to get to the kitchen and my beloved coffee.  The scene was vividly laid out in front of me.   "Ah yes, a great battle has taken place between the Stuffies and the Transformers and if I'm not mistaken, Megatron has once again defeated his old nemesis Stripey".

Today, the battlefield is clear, but I glean much information from the detritus that leads, like breadcrumbs (sometimes it literally IS breadcrumbs), from one room to the other to spell out all of the day's activities.  A lacrosse ball which my son grabbed from the sidelines at the Cal vs Oregon game.  How do I know where it came from?  He's written on it with a Sharpie - so, ok, that one was cheating.  The puppy is whining in her crate, but yarns from my area rug lay within view - she's been destroying my nice things again and it looks to be from 25 minutes ago by the size of the drying drool outline.  The boys ate sandwiches and Cheddar Bunnies for lunch, along with Gatorade to wash it down.  This one's easy because the wrappers are right next to the lunch dishes still on the table, and the bread loaf is on the counter with the bag open to invite staleness; the peanut butter jar also open next to a dirty knife.  Breakfast obviously consisted of cereal - Honey Nut Cheerios by the color of the milk remaining in the three bowls on TOP of the dishwasher.  (See previous post about Force Fields).  The paper lays open to the entertaining comics page, next to the past three days' worth of newspapers that need to find their way out to the recycling bin.  An iPod with a dead battery has been discarded on the couch cushions, but it seems they were busy enough that there was no time for a DVD today, because no case is laying open near the television.  And unless I'm mistaken and my husband has taken up solitary daytime drinking, he fell asleep watching the news last night.  A beer bottle with a few last swigs sits on the table next to the rumpled blanket on the couch.  But today's coffee helped to revive him, based on the dried brown ring on the mug next to the computer.

They've since gone out to do guy things together and as much as I hate to perpetuate the gender stereotypes I will gladly stay here, alone in the quiet house, with an episode of the Vampire Diaries to watch while I clean up the mess.  Gotta set the stage for a new day's adventures.

How's It Work?

It was late at night, my husband was getting the coffee maker ready for the next morning, my younger son was snoring from his bunk, and I was waiting for everything to quiet down so I could watch The Walking Dead in solitude from under my blanket.  My 6th grader came out of his room whining about his frustration with homework which should have been completed hours earlier.  He wastes so much time arranging the perfect Pandora mix, looking for comfortable headphones, and getting his drink situated in the right place on his desk between piles of crumpled papers, Boy Scout patches, and his hatchet (yes, he really has a hatchet on his desk but that seems like a whole other post).

I offered to help with whatever offending worksheet was causing this night's duress.  He set down his paper and grabbed his pencil to begin and I had to do a double-take.  He had a mechanical pencil which had been deconstructed and reconstructed from various other pencils.  It was a lovely multicolored creation now, but most importantly it was missing the point that holds the lead in place so that you can write.  "What happened to your pencil?" I asked.  "I took it apart to see how it works and lost the top".  He didn't seem at all put out by this even though he was attempting to draw a straight line against a ruler with just the lead guiding him.  Really?

Boys have to demolish things to check 'em out and see how they work.  Never mind that the object might not go back together the same way ever again.  I'm thankful that we haven't lost any large electronics (yet) to this phenomenon but I know other families who have.  Cause and effect experiments.  My brother placed one of those reusable plastic frozen cooler packs in the microwave and nuked it when he was younger.  This was back in the 80's so I still cringe at the thought of some blue radioactive gel oozing out of a first-edition microwave that scattered who-knows-what kind of particles everywhere.  Here's the kicker: he forgot that he was conducting this experiment and went off to do some other boy thing and left it there for our mom to discover.

So as parents we try to find a safe way to channel this "build and destroy" drive.  Enter - Legos.  Man, I wish I had bought stock in this company before I even thought of having kids.  We have so many bins of minuscule plastic blocks throughout our house.  And the marketing department is genius!  Back when I was a kid you had one big box of multicolored Legos  and you built one thing and then took it apart to build the next thing.  Now you buy one box, often with hundreds of specific parts to make one object, which either gets displayed on a shelf, or stepped on and never put back together again.  Have you ever stepped on a Lego?  It sends a shooting pain up your leg like nothing else except maybe stepping on a sea urchin, and I pray never to have that personal experience.  My vacuum has picked up so many unseen pieces (that I'm sure were essential to some creation) and the horrendous knocking sound always alerts me to the fact, but you don't think I'm opening up that bag to hunt around for a piece of plastic, do you?

It's even gotten to the point where my boys fight over individual pieces.  "That part came with my Ninjago Garmatron and I need it!" "Nuh uh!  It goes to Vizsla's Mandalorian Fighter!"  Seriously people.  They can keep this stuff straight, but can't remember whether they ate lunch today or not.  Zack is thinking of becoming an architect one day.  Let's just hope he keeps his parts in order.

What's That Smell?

My older son, Zack, had cradle cap when he was a baby.  This, combined with the fact that he sweat profusely while sleeping, caused the strangest, most unpleasant smell.  You always think of tiny infants smelling sweet and clean like baby shampoo or fresh laundry.  I believe that more than one of his uncles handed him back to us after only a brief interaction, with the admonishment, "Uh, here, you take him instead.  He has the funk".

Come to find out, boys always have 'the funk'.  I mean, they can shower and bathe, but it will soon return.  Believe me.  As toddlers and preschoolers it takes on something like a puppy dog smell.  Once they're in school it is more reminiscent of working long and hard in the garden - dirt mixed with fertilizer and perspiration.  But you know they haven't been doing any manual labor, so that rules out an obvious source.  And as they age it becomes simply unidentifiable.  Zack's 5th grade teacher sent out numerous emails during the year pleading with parents to "do a sniff test and take appropriate measures".  I feel for the guy - cooped up with hormonal boys and girls in a stuffy classroom all day.  No wonder they hand out sample deodorants to the boys in the spring!

The worst olfactory assault came this past fall during a Chili Cook-off that we were hosting.  I guess that being a M.O.B. ("mother of boys" in case you're just joining us or you had a few drinks already) I associate mainly with other families that also have boys.  Of all the attendees, most of the kids running around were boys of elementary and middle school age.  Somehow they tended to congregate in one room playing video games.  This was a smallish room (our guest room where my in-laws were staying), and the window was unfortunately closed, allowing the heat from the TV and video components to build up quickly and mingle with their own body heat.  I'm sure you can guess what's coming, right?  One unfortunate parent opened the door to shoo them out.  I was behind her and the blast of foul air that emanated forth was so potent it defies words.  I'm surprised there wasn't a noxious green cloud that poured out - although I may have lost consciousness for a brief time and simply missed it.  We stood blinking as if in a haze (it was that cloud, I'm sure) before finally accessing our language pathways and yelling for them to go outside into the fresh air.  Hoping for a decontamination process to occur perhaps?  Or maybe just a diffusion of funk into the unsuspecting neighborhood?  Either way, my in-laws have yet to come visit with us again.  Coincidence???