Southerner

Sam is currently obsessed with how to spell.  He is constantly telling me what words start with and he is correct on the first letter nearly every time.  He has spelled a few words correctly by sounding them out slowly and writing them as he sounds them out.  He has spelled and written tap, pat and top correctly.  He struggles with other words.  Words that he tries to spell according to the rules of pronunciation he learned in preschool.  Or according to his pronunciation.  His southern pronunciation.  Case in point, today...

"Mama, you know what this spells?  T-E-F."

"T-E-F, honey?  Hmm, I don't know.  What does that spell?"

"Tef, Mama."

"Tef?"

"Yeah, Mama.  You know,  tef."

And he proudly pointed to his pearly whites.

His pearly white tef.

Alike

I had him dressed appropriately for the hot, humid weather we're experiencing around here.

Shorts, short-sleeve shirt, sandals.

And then they insisted that I change him.

Sam and Popeye wanted their little brother dressed just like them.

Jeans, button up "cowboy" shirt and boots.

I obliged.

And he fit in with his brothers perfectly.

My three cowboys.

Worrier

My oldest.  The deep thinker.  The sensitive one.  The worrier.

I try to ease his fears.  His worries.  It's a full time job.  Reassuring him.  Talking him through all the "what ifs" he creates in his overactive mind.  

 I try.  I really do.

His latest worry...having gas when he goes to heaven.  

Yes, he is overcome with fear that he will "have to poot when he's in heaven" and he is horrified that God will hear him.

And since I've taught him that heaven is full of only good things, my child is ridiculously afraid that he's "going to get in trouble with God if he has gas, 'cause pooting is bad."

And when the idea of both God and Jesus hearing him pass gas in heaven crossed his mind?

I thought I'd have to make him breathe into a brown paper bag.

Adventures at Target

Lord knows every shopping experience with three boys is an adventure.  And it's hard. And slightly nerve wracking.  But buying groceries and picking up necessities is a part of life and I accept the difficulty that comes along with it.  And while most shopping trips are relatively uneventful, there are some that are terrible.  Nightmares.  Sweat-inducing, blood pressure-rising nightmares.


Like our latest trip to Target.


A summary of my hour...


We had two reasons to go to Target.
1.  Buy teacher's gifts for the preschool staff.
2.  Exchange a pair of shoes.


Only two reasons.  And yet I experienced so much more than gift shopping and shoe exchanging...


The boys insisted on buying their teachers jewelry.   Every adult should experience jewelry shopping with three young boys.  Boys with little to no taste in accessories. Really, how many times must one say, "Yes, Jack, that is pretty.  But I really don't think Mrs. Janet wants that lovely, very cubic zirconium  butterfly necklace."  Or "No, Sam, that is not a real seashell.  Let's look for something else."  Or "Jack, if I see you wrap one more necklace around your head, you're getting a spanking."


The girl's clothing section is a great place to play hide and seek.  And the boy's section is perfect for an intense game of tag.


The displays for t-shirts and shorts are on wheels.  And they will roll into the main aisle if you scale it to avoid being tagged.


A five year old boy can locate every greeting card that has bikini-clad blonde's,  animals with gas issues and hairy, overweight men wearing a wife beater and cut off jean shorts. Find them, remove them from the proper slot and announce loudly why he really needs you to buy each of them.


Did you know that you can climb on top of a flat screen television that is mounted to the wall? Jack does.


Try to explain why a blue ray movie doesn't work in your plain, old DVD player.  Try and try.  And try some more.  And then contemplate buying a blue ray player just to eliminate the "But why?" conversation you have every single time you pass the movie section.


See how many times you can say, "No. We don't need anything on that aisle.  Because we don't need any beard (beer), honey."


It's amazing to see how many boxes of diapers will tumble to the ground when your kid tries to hide from his older brother behind the stack of pull ups


Accept it.  They're not falling for the, "Oh, no!  Here comes the Target policemen" trick anymore.


There really are no words for the embarrassment you experience when, as you struggle to remove your three year old who is way too big too sit in the front of the cart but insisted that he was too tired to walk from the cart, he YELLS, "Maaaa-Maaaa!  You just really smushed my ding dong!


As you wait to make a return at the customer service desk, panic when you turn around to find you oldest typing his little heart out at the  job application computer.


When I was finally done with my return, I gave my boys the toughest stink eye they'd ever seen.  And it stirred up their fear.  Ridiculous amounts of fear.   And then, my terrified oldest son, panicked when he saw me reach in my pocketbook for my keys.
And he said, "What are you getting , Mama?"
"Getting?  Getting where?"
"In your pocketbook?  Are you getting your pocketknife out Mama?"
"My pocketknife?" I should stop here and emphatically say, I DON"T OWN A POCKETKNIFE.
"Yeah, Mama.  Are you getting your pocketknife out to cut us 'cause we've been so bad?"
Did I mention there was a nice line in customer service at the time?  And that my oldest can talk really, really loud.  Especially when discussing guns, cowboys or knives.
There are no words.
My child asked if I was going to cut him with my pocketknife. 
You know, the switchblade I keep next to the sippy cups and wipes in my pocketbook.
Oh, the embarrassment.
I've never felt like a bigger redneck.
And maybe I need to tone down my stink eye. 
Since it is so fierce it evokes fear of deadly weapons and all.
Or on second thought, maybe I won't.

Another First

Certain

If the amount of mud you accumulate on your pants and boots...

is evidence of how good one's afternoon was,

then I'm fairly certain...

that today was a very good day.

It's Time

Okay.

I get it.

It's time.

It's time for a haircut.

On a side note, these pictures were taken first thing in the morning, when my baby was sporting more than a serious case of bed head.  I don't take him out in public with the frizzy fro.  We have a ritual, wet the hair, comb, repeat if needed.  But the fro is getting a little out of hand, and the frizz is overtaking the sweet curls, so I get it.  My baby needs his first haircut.  Sniff, sniff.

The Graduate

This.

This is affecting me more than I ever thought it would.

Bit the Dust

Today is a very sad day at our house.  Jody's beloved Crown Victoria has bitten the dust. Let me clarify.  Jody is sad.  I am ecstatic.  Thrilled.  Over the moon.  Giddy.  He really loves the car, but I really, really hate it.  With a passion.  I hate that car with a passion.

Why I Hate the Crown Vic:

1.  It's ugly.

2.  The driver's seat doesn't slide forward.  So if I ever have to drive it, I have to lean back, stretching my right leg as far as I can to reach the pedal.   Straight up gangsta style.

3.  The windshield is cracked.  And it's not even the cosmetic idea of a cracked windshield that bothers me.  The crack just happens to run across the windshield at exactly my eye level.  The result?  A very distorted view.  Like the road is split in two and the result is a wavy, headache-inducing mess.  And since I'm all stretched out gangsta style in order to reach the pedals, I can't sit up any higher to look over the crack.

4.  It's ugly.

5.  It squeaks.  Like a mattress at a cheap motel.  The hydraulics bit the dust a long time ago.  So now every time you accelerate, hit the breaks or hit the slightest bump, the car begins to sing.  It's only slightly embarrassing.

Why He Loves It:

1.  He swears it keeps him from getting speeding tickets.  Yes, honey, only cops drive Crown Vics.  No senior citizens.  All those Crown Vics parked in the handicapped spots are obviously being driven by injured police officers.

2.  The trunk is bigger than our living room.  It can hold a twelve feed buckets, hunting gear, golf clubs and bags of fencing supplies.  And that just takes up 25% of the trunk space.

3.  It gets great gas mileage.  Yes, this is a great thing.  When your car squeaks so loud others stop pumping gas to cover their ears, the fewer stops at the gas station the better.

4.  He really thinks it looks great.  Really.  

5.  It enables him to keep his employees in line.  He loves speeding into the steel yard and screeching to a stop as the rear end fishtails.  Like a police officer.  A police officer on a huge crime bust.  A police officer driving a Crown Vic with no hydraulics and a Five J's Cattle Company license tag on the front..

And,  yes, I was so happy the Crown Vic died, I picked up an old funeral wreath from the florist to mark it's passing.  

Jody was not amused.

I also asked him if he believes in karma.

"Why?" you ask.

 I explained, "Torment your wife for days with a toy rattlesnake and your beloved car's engine blows up the next time you try to crank it."

Karma defined.

A Note to My Husband

Jody,

When I initially planned to write you a little note, it was to go as follows...

Let me start by saying how much I appreciate all the things you do to help me. Like carrying the boys with you to do cattle work on the weekends so I can clean or do yard work or simply enjoy a moment of silence. Or handling bedtime every single night for our oldest two.  Or for giving baths several nights out of the week.  Your willingness to help me whenever I need it means so much to me.

With that being said, I have a small request about baths, please.  I try not to critique you or to insist that you do things the same way I do.  I understand that you believe that Sam, at the mature age of five, is more than old enough to clean himself.  And I don't mind that you always leave the washcloths in the tub for me to retrieve and add to the dirty clothes.  I don't even care that you refuse to gather up all the toys and put them neatly back into the whale bath toy caddy hanging on the wall.  You know the one...the big, blue whale that's only purpose is to hold bath toys.  And I love it that you allow the boys to bring toy animals and cowboys into the tub so that they can reenact scenes from Davy Crockett.  It doesn't bother me at all to have to then gather all the non-bath toys and return them to the playroom.  That being said, I do have one request.  Feel free to leave cows, horses, elephants and tigers scattered along the bottom of the tub.  But please, please, please don't ever leave anything like this behind.

Because when I pull the shower curtain back to gather the washcloths and toys, I may have a slight heart attack.  And my knees may buckle with such force that I nearly tumble into the tub head first.  I know you didn't intentionally leave the large toy rattlesnake in the tub hoping to scare the &#% out of me. You love me too much to do such a thing. Please  never, ever leave that snake behind again.  My knees and I would really appreciate it.

Love, 

Angela

That's what I was going to say.

Until I realized that leaving the snake behind for me to discover was no accident.  That became crystal clear to me the next day when I opened the refrigerator and was greeted by the snake.  And when you brought me a Bojangles biscuit this morning and stuffed the snake into the bag before you gave it to me. But the straw that broke the camels back was when I pulled the covers back tonight to go to bed and was again greeted by the very real looking rattle snake.

So unless you want a wife that wears knee braces and requires a pacemaker, you'll stop hiding that snake all over the house.

Got it?

Lay off the snake.

Or else payback is mine.

Have You Heard?

Did you hear about the mother who recently took her small children shopping?  What was she thinking? other mothers will say.  Children and shopping don't mix.  But this mother just needed a couple of things.  And she'd given those children of hers a great pep talk on the drive over to the shopping center.  She'd encouraged them to be good, assured them they'd only be gone a few minutes and promised surprises if they would just behave.  Did I mention this mother had three small children?  Ages 5, 3 and 1.  Oh, and that they are all boys.  Boys that only enjoy shopping at western stores and Tractor Supply.  But this sweet, tired mother trusted that her three angels would behave if for no other reason than they love their Mama and they want to see her happy.  The mother and her boys entered the first store and the good behavior lasted exactly three minutes and thirty-eight seconds.  The mother regrouped, gave another pep talk and even cleaned out her change purse for multiple spins on a Winnie the Pooh ride sitting outside the outlet mall.  Surely children who spent $5.50 of their mother's money on $.50 Pooh rides will be precious angels and allow their Mama to step into one more store.  Surely.  The mother walked into The Gap with confidence, certain she was going to have a pleasant experience.   She walked with purpose, knowing her time was limited and that she needed to get what she needed and get out.  She spotted a table of cardigans that were on sale and told her boys to stand still for one second, hoping she could scoop up a few sale items before her offspring became restless.  Seconds later, her two oldest children were doing laps around a table overflowing with tank tops.  The poor mother flashed those children a harsh look, grabbed them by the shoulder and placed them beside each other, with their backs against a tall cabinet displaying jeans.  The mother chose the spot because they would be cornered.  The cabinet behind them, a display table to the right of them, a tall pedestal with a female mannequin on it to their left and their frustrated Mama in front of them. "Don't move!" she said, hoping she'd frightened them, hoping she could just have a moment of peace to pick out a flippin' sweater set.  She turned and began rummaging through the contents of the table.  She heard quiet snickers from her boys, but kept digging through the sweaters, her eye on the prize, her focus on the job at hand.  More laughter.  The mother turned to see her oldest children standing just as she'd placed them, grinning from ear to ear.  Even the baby was sitting still in his stroller, giggling at his older brother's antics.  She turned around, smiling to herself, thankful that her children were doing as they were told.  More laughter.  How sweet, she thought, her oldest must be telling a knock-knock joke that the three of them find hilarious.  She sighed and began to sort through the clothes again.  This time, she looked through the sweater display slowly, taking her time, enjoying herself thanks to her sweet, wonderful children.  She heard someone say, "Whoa! Whoa!" and turned to her left to see the store manager standing behind the counter, waiting on a customer.  Hmm, the mother thought.  Did she say that?  I wonder who she was talking to.  The mother turned around, happy to see her children, still standing at attention, still giggling and grinning.  She continued to sift through the sweaters.  And then she heard the manager yell, "No! No!  No, buddy!  Stop! Stop!  You're going to knock it over!  Stop!  Stop!"  The mother again turned her attention to the manager and saw that she was looking in her direction, clearly irritated and obviously speaking to someone nearby.  The mother turned around to see who on earth the store manager was scolding.  And she was horrified. That poor mother.  She turned to find one of her children, with his arms outstretched, struggling to balance on his tip toes while he pulled the mannequin's pants down and groped it's plastic backside.  He strained and stretched, teetering back and forth on his tiptoes, and laughing uncontrollably. And as he wobbled back and forth, the mannequin wobbled too.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  The child seemed unconcerned as the plastic chick nearly crashed to the ground.  The poor mother rushed over, grabbed the mannequin and safely balanced it on the pedestal.  She threw down the cardigan sweater she was admiring, flashed the manager a horrified smile, offered her a quick apology and drug her children out of the store so fast and forceful their feet never touched the ground.  That poor, poor mother.  They're keeping her identity a secret to avoid any additional embarrassment, but the child's identity has been released...  

Five Year Check Up

I Never Imagined

As the mother of three boys, I've grown accustomed to a testosterone-filled house.

And I've learned to embrace the daily overflow of masculinity.

Like toy guns and camouflage.

Cowboy hats and four wheelers.

Muddy boots and plastic knives.

But...

I never imagined I would send my child to school with a John Wayne lunchbox.

Forget spider man.

Or Scooby Doo.

Pack their monogrammed lunchbox away.

Nothing says "I'm a real cowboy" better than having "The Duke" transport your turkey sandwich to school.

The Lost Wheel

Jack received a toy hamster that runs around on a wheel from the Easter Bunny.  He saw it at a store while we were in the mountains and went crazy over it.  Jody snuck back in to the store and bought it and we added it to his Easter basket when we got home.  He was thrilled and loved watching "Hammy" run on the wheel and scurry around on the floor.  A few days after Easter, Hammy and the wheel went missing in the overwhelming mess that is often our playroom.  Jack and I searched for both items, but were unable to find either Hammy or the wheel.


A few days later, I spent an afternoon reorganizing the baskets and bins in the playroom.  Stuck in the bottom of a basket, I found Hammy.  Unfortunately, I did not find the wheel.


Jack came inside a little later and joined Will and me in the playroom.  I smiled as I pulled Hammy out and reunited him with his owner.  Jack was thrilled to see his old friend again.  


"Where was he, Mama?"


"I found him in the bottom of a basket.  But I've looked everywhere, buddy, and I can't find your wheel anywhere."


At that moment I saw a sense of panic wash over my boy's face.  His forehead was wrinkled with worry and confusion as he stared at me.  I now know that my child was afraid that his mother had lost her mind.  Or her eyesight.  He was staring at me in disbelief, wondering what on earth was wrong with me.


I repeated myself, thinking he hadn't heard me.  "I'm sorry, honey.  I couldn't find your wheel.  I've looked everywhere and I just can't find the wheel anywhere."


And my sweet, worried little boy comforted me by saying, "It's okay, Mama.  It's okay.  Yes, you can find it, Mama.  Yes, you can.  He's right there, Mama.  Look."


And he sweetly points to his little brother playing nearby, "The Will is right there.  He's right there, Mama.  See, Mama.  The Will's right there."


"Yes, it is honey.  The Will is right there.  Thank you for helping me find him."

Lucky

What makes me the luckiest Mama in the world?

Him.

Him.

And Him.

Baby Love

Somebody 

really, really

loves

his

baby cousin.

Mother's Day Lunch

Today I enjoyed a Mother's Day Lunch with my two favorite preschoolers.

I watched them sing.

And dance.

And laugh with their friends.

I'll remember Jack wearing his cowboy boots, like always.

And Sam explaining to me the difference between a hard "c' and a soft "c."

And I'll remember how much both boys loved showing Will off to all their friends.

Mostly I'll remember how thankful I am for days like this.

Fourteen Months

My baby is 14 months old today.  And while I could spend hours listing all his accomplishments and gushing over his endless cuteness, I will instead only say this...we have a new walker at our house.  Finally.  After months of anticipation, my sweetie is giving his knees a break and teetering around on his feet instead.  And yes, occasionally he still reverts back to crawling when he is in a really big hurry, but today, he is walking much more than crawling. My sweet, precious boy.  My walking little one.  Fourteen months old.  And loved more and more every single day.

Little Hunters

Jody received a call Friday night that someone had spotted a coyote in a pasture he rents.  He grabbed his rifle and headed to check on his cows.  Sure enough, the coyote was standing there, in broad daylight, in the cow pasture. Jody fired and missed, realizing too late that his scope was loose.  He came home, adjusted his scope and sighted in his rifle, just in case he received another call.  Saturday afternoon, he received that call, that the coyote was back in the pasture.  So he, Poppa and the two big boys headed back over to the pasture to "hunt" the coyote.  It wasn't long before they were back home, with one very scary looking coyote in the back of the truck.  My boys were over the moon and in such awe of their Daddy.  It was a special moment for all of them and I tried to enjoy it, even though I was cringing inside over the nastiness of it all.  My little hunters, in all their glory...