Reunited!

Hola long lost blog buddies!
So here I sit, having snuck away from bed rest healing from the most recent plague.  I apologize for the delay, but this past week was Gabriel's birthday.  This means several things. First, it means the birthday party coordination. True, it was just a small family gathering.  However I feel obligated to make every birthday party an obscene celebration of me surviving pregnancy of the child in question.  Therefore my house still looks a little like the Avengers may have had an after-party here.  There are helium balloons hidden around every corner.  Iron Man confetti is sprinkled willy-nilly throughout the carpet. And my children are covered with full sleeve Avenger tattoos.  It's wicked, really. 

Another birthday obligation, however, is the yearly scrapbook.  Each year I make a scrapbook for each boy highlighting all the wonderful things we've done through the year.  I give myself a deadline of their birthday party to have it done by so the family can look through it and marvel at what a wonderful mother I am.  It sounds pretty sappy, I realize.  But in truth I actually do it so when they are 15 and really obnoxious I can pull out those books and shove every happy, spoiled child memory down there throats with a healthy dose of Irish Catholic guilt while I bemoan never being truly appreciated.  Yes, I know it's coming and I'm preparing this far in advance. Head case? Maybe.  But you'll wish you'd thought of it the first time your teenager joy rides and dents up your car.  And I'll be sitting in a rocking chair stroking my 57 scrapbooks laughing evilly. 

But I digress.  The point was I spent every spare second of the last two weeks finishing Gabe's scrapbook.  Which is probably why after three weeks I'm still sick.  I'll add that to my list of things to guilt them about later, believe me.

Anyhow, I thought I'd pop in with a few little ditties about the beauty and hilarity of parenthood in the casa as of late.  To begin with, a tribute to Gavin, the five year old parrot who as of late is getting plenty of people in to trouble with him impeccable memory and absolutely no filters to discern what should not be repeated.

It all started a few weeks ago, when the cop and I were being seranaded by Gavin while he was sitting on the toilet.  Apparently before men can really read well they sing while attending that business.  Who knew?  It would have been charming, had it not been "Oooooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh, got you stuck on my body, on my body like a tattoo...."

I prayed silently for the cop to be distracted by anything else. But no.  Of course he picked up instantly on Maroon 5, and the fact that it plays pretty constantly in my car.  Which started the barrage of questions about where are the 8 million kids cd's (in all honesty folks, I don't know...they induce madness and what I may or may not have done to a disc after hearing the wheels on the bus seventeen times in a row is a complete blur at this point).  It only got better when the cop realized that Gavin also knows all the lyrics to Bad Romance by Lady Gaga courtesy of Auntie Jess and Maxwell's Silver Hammer by the Beatles thanks to my folks fielding more than a few carpool mornings for me.  I almost felt bad. Almost.  And then I paused, reflected on the Pit Bull cd in his patrol car which has played for the boys a few times I'm quite sure, and just opted out of picking that battle.

And remember, dear folks, that my parentals were taking the kids to Disneyland when last we spoke? Well remember now that I told you, and pretend you read that blog, dangit.  How was my trip? So sweet of you to ask.  It was magnificent.  I surprised the cop with a trip to the coast.  Hotel room with windows opening out over crashing waves, wood burning fireplace, feather bed.  Enough coziness to get him to indulge me with not only a trip to the aquarium, but also a behind the scenes tour of the jellyfish.  Yes, I am actually that nerdy.  Poor cop, got to see me elbowing up to be the first in line to touch a moon jelly.  It probably reminded him of our childbirth education classes, where all the other parents stood in the back squeamishly while my friend Shannon and I asked about whether or not we could poke the placenta on display and then whether or not snacks would be available after class, because we were very pregnant and hungry.... It amazes me to this day that he has stuck it out.  But I make cute babies.

Again, I'm sidetracked.  So yes, the boys went with the grandparents to Disneyland.  And of course we checked in frequently.  Mainly because they had never been on a trip without us and my dad made a special point of asking that I pack very bright clothing for them, in case he should lose sight of them for "just a minute or two..."  which obviously instilled nothing but faith in his ability to control the wild boys.  Thank God for Grandma.  So on one of our morning phone calls Grandpa thought it would be hilarious to pick on the nervous parents, and as Gavin was talking to the cop my dad had Gavin ask "are you sitting around naked drinking whiskey?"

I heard the cop repeat the question incredulously, and then inform the five year old that no, we were not sitting around naked drinking whiskey at 9 am (be real here, folks, we're upstanding citizens, and only indulge in morning drinks before noon). Having set up his joke nicely, and to panic us further into believing our child was a budding alcoholic, Grandpa then instructed Gavin to tell the cop "well I am!"

I can only imagine Gavin's confusion, as he then told the cop "well Grandpa is!"
It was really funny, though, as Grandpa had to stutter and backpeddle his way out of that bad boy. 

And now, before I leave, because it cannot be ignored, a Gabriel story.

So on February 1 as I put the boys to bed I let Gabriel lead prayer.  My darling almost four year old had a nice little jam session with God about having good dreams, but ended it with "and please keep away the groundhog."

What's this, you ask?  Well this, folks, is what happens when your kids go to daycare, or anywhere where other people can influence them and tell them stories.  Because apparently somewhere along the line Gabriel got a bit of misinformation about groundhog day.  His brothers deny doing it, his grandfather denies doing it, and if I ever find who is responsible we are going to have a long "angry Mama Bear" discussion.

When I probed about what he knew about groundhogs and he started off with that they originated in Transylvania I knew where part of the problem was coming from.  When he further elaborated that they broke up through the street and came into your house, kicked down bedroom doors and broke toys I felt deep sympathy for the boy who will long fear and despise old Punxsutawney Phil.  I don't know where his version of events came from, but as a result my four year old is terrified of groundhogs.  He somehow envisions them as vampire toy breaking bullies, and nothing I can say will convince him otherwise.

Which actually works a little I guess. Because until he's old enough to respond to the scrapbooking guilt I can always threaten him with a groundhog visit.

Until next time!

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