Mothering Mayhem: Life with the Wild Boys

A month. Seriously, a month has gone by without me writing anything, and I feel horribly guilty.  I really do, see, I was raised in an Irish Catholic family.  The guilt I feel over my mother raising an eyebrow is almost crippling.  It drives me to drink (that's more the Irish part than the Catholic, I suppose), which is tragic because I'm also very Cherokee.  You thought the Irish were piss poor drinkers? Combine that with my native heritage, it's no good at all. But I can explain in one word. Holidays.  You all know exactly what I'm talking about.  There is no rest for the weary on any given day of the year, and yet for some reason when the holidays come we take it upon ourselves to cram a bajillion festivities in that we haven't the time, money, or really desire to do because it's what is expected.  But not this family.  Not this year.  Right before Thanksgiving the cop and I agreed not to accept any extra invitations this year.  Sur...

For everyone who thought the title implied pregnancy, you are sick individuals who are officially off the Christmas card list. Seriously, have you read ANY of the previous blogs? I employ about six different kinds of birth control just to prevent that kind of thing from happening, and your bad juju just thinking it and giggling is not appreciated. Rather, the familia was recently expanded with the addition of pets.  For about six months now Gabe has been telling random strangers everywhere we go that "we don't have any pets, just our friend dog Ruby."  And this is true.  Our lovely neighbor, Shirley, has a boxer named Ruby.  Shirley is a retired grandma of about a million grandkids, none of whom live within a several hour radius, and enjoys time with my boys.  This may be a sign of the onset of dementia.  Whenever she says they can come over I check to see if she's wearing her underwear on the outside, or has been styling her hair with glue or someth...

That's right, outbreak. Remember that movie? The movie where a monkey bites someone, and that someone sneezes in a movie thater or somewhere equally crowded and accessible to all of us watching (and suddenly very nervous), and just like that a plague of epic proportions threatens to destroy all mankind? Welcome to fall and winter, ladies and gentlemen.  Most of you have kids, or have been around mine, and realize that with the end of summer comes the return of perpetual illness in the casa. And this year has proven no exception, and it's only the beginning of November.  This is my way of an apology, for the huge lapse in blogging type fun (oh you loyal four readers, how I have surely disappointed you).  And as a means of explanation, a glimpse into the casa when the first bug strikes. Imagine yourself off on a Tuesday as a fluke of nature and holiday weirdness, deciding to accompany your children to the pumpkin patch on a daycare field trip.  When you arrive you ...

When I was in college mornings presented little challenge whatsoever.  I could wake up, wash my face, brush teeth and hair, and run out the door with as little as 5 minutes prep time.  I was young, and responsible for only one person. And that person still didn't need makeup.  It was a beautifl thing. As a mother, all things simple are gone, and mornings are a time of utter and total chaos in la casa.  We will start with a brief introduction to personalities as expressed in the morning.  Gavin and I, we wake up incredibly well.  The alarm goes off at four and I'm out of bed and in the excercise room.  After an hour I come back up, make coffee, and venture in to wake the cop.  The cop and Gabe, they do mornings poorly.  The cop has improved dramatically within the last year.  Gabe has not.  So, after I tell the cop coffee is brewing I clear out and allow him space.  While I get ready for the day he makes our two, very...

I have long been fascinated with science and medicine. Hence the sports medicine major and biology minor.  And up until the cop banned me from Web MD during my first pregnancy I would obsess over potential illnesses but also over baby development.  And somehow I still remember that babies are born with reflexes which they outgrow during the course of childhood, like the rooting reflex for nursing, and the walking/stepping reflex, and the Moro reflex. The Moro reflex, as I recall, was a startle reflex believed to be left over from our time as monkeys, when we needed to grab on if we started falling, and was named for the discovering physician.  I'm thinking I may be on my way to recognition in a similar fashion. It appears that babies, or at least MY babies, were also born with a heightened sense of pheremone detection.  It doesn't seem to be limited, however, to simply sexual situations (although believe me, they can sense those from about a mile aw...

Ah, parenthood.  I sit here typing, I am slowly recovering from a raw throat and sore body as a result of a full Saturday of family fun.  But I feel compelled to type, if only for standing firm in my resolve to seek my own nerdy revenge.  That's right, a woman who slighted me has become (dramatic drum roll)....blog fodder. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? (Mainly to provide me with a little bragging rights, admittedly). I am the ultimate example of living vicariously through my children.  I was a super unathletic child.  Nothing about this has really changed, come to think of it, since I can still sustain serious injury opening a drawer. Take soccer, for example.  I played for three years and never made it past fullback.  In three years I could count on one hand how many times I touched a ball during a game.  But I made countless dandelion necklaces, and could make the majority of weeds into projectile weapons, so that has to count f...

As has been previously outlined, the cop and I are not youngsters.  Don't get me wrong, we aren't ancient.  We just opted to do the whole "responsible" thing where you get married, have steady employment, get a house, and then procreate.  It worked for us.  I'm not saying it's necessary, but knowing that half of my kids genetics would come from a man who honestly believes that it's perfectly reasonable for one piece of kitchen cutlery to cost the same as a month of daycare for a preschooler it just seemed risky to bring them into the world before we could afford them. Being older parents has afforded us lots of opportunities, and we have a blast.  But it can also be humbling.  Such as my encounter with the Walmart fabric clerk.  While buying patterns and fabric (for my mother to sew for me, because Lord knows I don't have those skills) and attempting to maintain some semblance of control over my two wild children in the cart, I was asked by the clerk...