Short on Shoes

These are the boys.......

that pile on top of me so I won’t get up when they insist I watch something on t.v. that I don’t want to see.

 

that delight in picking me up and throwing me over their shoulder and running around laughing maniacally.

 

that think a mom sandwich is better than a squidge.

 

that think it’s hilarious to act silly in the grocery store so I will be embarrassed.

 

that refuse to let me carry in any groceries, unless I sneak in with them.  When caught, refer to #2.

 

that play games with their sister and pretend they’re having fun just to make me happy.

 

that try to let me down gently when I make something new for dinner that they don't like.

 

that insist on bringing home breakfast for me, even though they won’t be home for an hour and a half and the breakfast will be cold.

 

that make my little heart overflow with love.

 

Poop Hats, Aisle 11

 

Does your heart start going pitter pat when you see one of these bags?  Does the red and white bull's eye logo send you to a happy place?  Does your adrenalin rush when that popcorn smell comes wafting towards you when you walk in the front door of the store?  Mine does.  I LOVE Target. 

I remember going to Target when I was little and at that point in time, Target was nothing more than another giant store filled with cheaply made stuff.

But times they are a changin'.

Visits to Target have become dangerous excursions.  Dangerous to my wallet.

So imagine my excitement the other day when I came home to find this:

 

Awwwww, I thought.  The Irishman went to Target and got a shiny new treat for me.  Oh, how much I love that man!  Always thinking of me.

I must prolong the experience, I thought.  I set my things down and took the dogs out.  I came back and got a Diet Pepsi.  I looked through the mail, took my jewelry off, and put the dishes in the dishwasher.

Surely I'd waited long enough. 

I reached for the bag and opened it and pulled this out:

  

Hmmmmm.  The Irishman got a hat for me?  A plastic hat? I thought.  I don't think I'm going to be able to use that.

Then I turned it over.

 

Yeah, definitely not a hat.

I called The Irishman at work. 

"What's this thing you got from Target for?"

"I didn't go to Target," he said.

"Well, well, there's a Target bag!!!"

"I had to take Bubba to the doctor today, remember?" he answered.

"Yes, but when did you go to Target?"

"Honey," he said trying really hard not to be irritated.  "The doctor asked for a stool sample from Bubba.  The white thing is what he's supposed to make his 'deposit' in.  They just put it in a Target bag so we wouldn't be carrying around that thing."

"Oh.  So nothing from Target?"

"No, nothing from Target."

My hopes were dashed.  The Irishman and Bubba went to the doctor and all we got was a stupid poop hat.

While You Were Sleeping

It's been a long time, I know.  Things here have been CR-AZY!  Let me try to catch you up, and then I'll really try hard to get back to normal posting status. 

A couple weeks ago, before the Arctic weather took hold of my sleep little town, on a lovely Saturday afternoon, the boys and I were waiting patiently for The Boo to be dropped off after a sleepover.  I was sitting in the front room, and caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of my eye.  I looked out the window and what did I see?  But a pudgy, short Santa, walking towards me (not really towards me, but I liked the rhyme).  I thought it was a fig-newton of my imagination, but when I looked twice, he was still there.  He was just wandering around in the middle of the street, occasionally waving at cars that passed by, with what looked like a mother in tow.  He meandered over to the Bed and Breakfast, sat on the stone wall, and flopped backwards.  He lay there on his back, kicking his little legs in the air.  It was at this point that I decided I couldn't resist this drama.  "Sous Chef!  Sous Chef!" I called.  I handed The Sous Chef the camera, pointed at Santa and said, "Go!  Be your sneaky self!"  He ran out the door, and disappeared before my eyes.  I watched out the window as the Santa's mom coerced him into several poses and took pictures, while the Sous Chef was nowhere in sight.  As Santa was waddling back to his sleigh (which turned out to be a red minivan), I saw The Sous Chef walking casual-as-could-be down the sidewalk, no sign of the camera.  Santa mounted his sleigh and promptly ripped off all his holiday garb, and off they flew.  Later that day, after single-handedly executing a family of vermin I might add, the kids and I were running errands and ended up at the pharmacy.  While waiting in line, I looked to my left, and wonder upon wonders, there was Santa, disguised as a little boy, stuffing his face full of candy while his mother printed out pictures.

 

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving.  We stayed home this year, and my Dad, step-mother, sister, and The Big D came to visit.  Here's The Big D with "Fire Tiger," although I really tried to urge him to change his name to Gustav. 

 

The Irishman was asleep before 1:30.  That monitor sure is a cozy headrest!

 

I brined the turkey this year, something I've not done before.  It's a little unwieldy, a little messy, but brining is the way to go for me from here on out.  The turkey was fabulous, and really, I don't like turkey.  The Irishman and The Sous Chef made an incredible gravy, we made the traditional cranberry sauce, which no one likes but eats because of tradition, and had chocolate butter pie and pumpkin caramel cheesecake.  It was so good to spend time with our family, and the time for them to go came way too soon.  Later that night, The Irishman and Bubba, because they are crazy, left to begin Christmas shopping.  The stores here opened at 12:00 a.m.  They got home in time to wake me up for work, and then crashed.  The Irishman went to work around 10:30, and Bubba didn't get up until noon, although that's been known to happen even when he's not pulled an all-nighter.

 

In other news, The Irishman and I actually had a date.  We banned the kids from making any plans on this particular Friday, which had special significance.  That Friday was the opening of Twilight.  I had pre-ordered the tickets to make sure they weren't swooped up by the teenage masses and told The Irishman the rest of the night was up to him.  We ate dinner at The Hereford House (not the one that burned down, clearly) at what would be considered Happy Hour for most.  I didn't want to be late and was worried there would be lines.  We arrived 45 minutes prior to the movie, and the line was ridiculous.  I couldn't imagine that so many people would be able to fit in on theater.  The movie was fair, following the general theme of the book, and really, who wouldn't fall for a vampire that looked like Robert Pattinson?  Just be sure to wrap yourself in a few extra blankets and you'll never know that his body is the temperature of most sub-zero refrigerators.  I was very proud of myself for making it through the movie without giving the evil eye to the young girl behind us that squealed every time a cute boy showed up on screen.  Yes, I'm growing up.

 

Nana arrived the day after Thanksgiving, and on Saturday we braved the snow and nastiness to head out to Bob Jones Shoes, because a visit from Nana would not be complete without making that trip.  We walked away saddened and empty-handed, which is unexplainable.  We even had a great parking spot, which is always a sign that we will hit shoe-gold!  We motored on to Target Boutique, in search of a fan to ease The Sous Chef's sleep in the sauna that is his room.  Yet again, our search was fruitless.  Apparently no one needs fans in the winter.  Silly me.  We decided to cut our losses and go home.  We did walk down the street later to The Christmas store, where Nana bought us each an ornament of our choosing.  Please to notice the shoes on my little elf below.  The shoes clinched the deal.

 

The weeknights have been filled with studying and basketball practices and snuggling up when the furnace can't figure out what it wants to do (although for some reason, my kids insist on wearing summer attire at home, no matter if it's 20 below outside).  There's our new few-ton (that's the way we say it here) that is broken.  Nebraska Furniture Mart will be replacing it on Wednesday.

 

And here's The Boo, in what looks like the most uncomfortable position ever, finishing up her homework.  Let's just pretend those socks look as white as the pure driven snow, k?  I'll feel better that way.

 

Tuesday night at 10:00 p.m., Bubba informed me that he was supposed to attend the football award ceremony thing at school on Wednesday.  The Irishman took my car to be fixed Wednesday morning (the seat warmer was ba-roke!), so he picked me up from work.  I dropped him back off at work, arrived home late with kids, and waited for Bubba.  He got home and we left precisely two minutes later to make it to The Boo's basketball practice.  We left basketball practice early, and drove forty minutes to Bubba's school, with not a minute to spare.  The organizers of the ceremony foolishly gave the freshmen their numbers first (all 117 of them).  See the man to the far left of the picture?  When Bubba got to the stage, he said "Nice shoes" to him.  He was supposed to be wearing his school shoes.  I wanted to tell him "Listen, Buster!  It's been so crazy in our world that we're lucky to be here with our underwear on in the inside of our clothes!"  Although his enormous feet really do nothing to help him out, do they?  After the freshmen received their numbers, Bubba headed up the stairs and out the door.  This after "Buster" had practically begged everyone to stay for the whole thing.  I felt so guilty, but I squeezed past the other people in my row, and off we ran.  It was late!  These kids had homework and we hadn't eaten yet.  We buzzed through McD's and gobbled our food down in the car, while I drove in silent bliss with a warm bum.

 

Last night was Christmas on the River here in our little town.  We attend every year, and it's so convenient because we just walk down the street to the entertainment.  It was so cold last night that we decided not to spend the whole three hours outside, but make our way downtown 15 minutes before the fireworks started.  The Christmas on the River fireworks show is the most spectacular display that I've ever seen.  It's choreographed to music and is traditionally fifteen to twenty minutes worth of non-stop fireworks.  Forty-five minutes before the festival ended, we heard the first shot go off.  Crap!!!!!  I'm not sure we've ever moved so fast.  We threw on coats, pulled up hoods, and flew out the door, looking like criminals running down the street.  We made it with plenty of time left of course, we can cover the measly 5 blocks pretty quickly. 

 

After the show was over, we were thankful we hadn't gone down any sooner.  The cold, even for the ten minutes we were there, was enough to make us all cranky. 

 

We ran back home, almost as quickly as we ran downtown, to be greeted by our newly decorated house.  Thank you Irishman!  It's lovely!

 

This morning, soccer at 7:30.  A.M. that is.  It was gross.

 

But we made it, and The Boo played hard, and her team won. 

 

Two basketball games to go today, and then we get to relax. 

On a quick side-note, I didn't see Short on Shoes here, so that's a nice little happy moment for me.  Hopefully, normal blog activity should be returning to normal around here.  Unless I have more of the "Listen, Buster" days.  All bets are off if I come across another one of those. 

Oxygen Not Required - At Least Not yet

Last weekend was a big weekend for Bubba.  It seems like every week now something pops up that's new.  Something I feel totally unequipped to deal with, not prepared for.

   

Ah, yes, the homecoming dance.

I have a child that's old enough to go to a homecoming dance.  I shudder at the thought. 

This dance was not at Bubba's school, as Freshmen are not allowed to attend the homecoming dance at his school.  He was invited by a very nice girl to her homecoming dance, "just as friends."

Bubba was very good about trying to get the facts about his big night out, as I'm all about the details.  He was given very specific instructions about what to wear, shirt, pants, etc.  I can respect that.  It was this young lady's first big dance, too.  Everything should be perfect.

The Friday afternoon prior to the dance, I received an e-mail at work.  Two hairy shins, white ankle-height socks, and two different black shoes.  The Irishman had taken Bubba to get new shoes for the dance, which shoes should he get?  I picked the shoes and reminded them that the white shirt had to come next.  He'd gotten some kind of red sauce on the one white dress shirt he had the first time he wore it.

Saturday was busy.  I had to pick Bubba up from school after work study, somewhere around noon.  The Boo had a soccer game at 1:00.  After the soccer game, The Boo and I headed to the store to exchange the blue shirt The Irishman and Bubba had purchased the day before for the required white shirt.  We dashed to the flower shop to pick up the corsage, and made it home in time to push Bubba upstairs to take a shower.

At this point, I had been in such a rush that I hadn't had time to really think about the next hour.  As I ironed Bubba's new duds, my heart started beating harder as the full realization of the events that were about to unfold became clear.  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!

I tried to get Bubba dressed as quickly as I could, straightening the tie that The Irishman had knotted for him the day before, because I'm useless when it comes to a Windsor.  Windsor what?  England?  Royal Family?

I grabbed the Mapquest directions, shoved the corsage in Bubba's hands, stifled a Hell No!  and managed a weak Not today when Bubba asked if he could drive, and off we flew. 

We pulled up to the house and were greeted by Bubba's date's father.  The date was still upstairs getting ready.  My palms were clammy and I'm sure I had a fine line of perspiration on my upper lip.  The father was very nice, cool as could be, and ran down the schedule with me after I meekly inquired what the "plan" was.

"Is this your first time?" he asked me?  Um, yes.  I was a homecoming parent virgin.

"I have an older daughter, so I've been through it.  It will be ok, I promise.  We'll take good care of him."  Oh geez, was it showing that much?

I tried really hard to steady my hand as I took picture after picture, not sure what the right amount of acceptable picture taking would be.  I didn't want to seem overly zealous, but I also didn't want to appear uninvolved.

 

 

After I'd been at the house for a good forty-five minutes, I decided it was time to leave.  With my heart in my throat, I told Bubba I was going to leave, said the requisite goodbyes to the crowd that had gathered at the homecoming house, and left. 

I sped away, and in my hasty retreat, failed to pay attention to the street signs.  I was lost.  But it didn't matter.  I was high-fiving myself the whole time, proud that I'd cut the cord.

My only concern was that while driving around in the maze of a neighborhood I'd encounter the homecoming house again, and then they'd really think I was psychotic.

The rub about all of this is that I still have two other kids that are going to go through all of these same "firsts."  Get the tanks ready, I'm already short of breath.

Getting To The Bottom of Things

It's been almost two years since Bubba's had any type of problem.  In past years, symptoms have shown up at the same time every year, almost to the day.  So you can imagine how we were caught off guard in late July when Bubba started having problems.

Over the years, we've had an extremely difficult time communicating with the doctors.  It seems as if Bubba's just another number, another chart to read.  And when Bubba starts having problems, the doctor's don't seem to have a sense of urgency or a plan to get things back on track.  To this day, despite all the charts and notes and files, they still haven't realized that the problem begins at the same time of every year.  I could go on, but it would be wasted effort. 

Needless to say, the problem showed up again, and the doctor ordered testing.  Bubba's had to go through this so many times now that he's a real pro at it. 

Saturday night was the last time he could really eat normal food, hence the "Last Supper." 

Sunday morning, he began the big purge, only drinking clear liquids and eating jello and popsicles that are not red.  Every hour, on the hour, he had to drink an 8 oz drink mixed with Mylaxar, a medicine that cleans out his intestines and bowels.

This morning, the Irishman and I waited until the last possible minute to wake him up.  Less time he had to think about food.  We made it to the hospital, where they quickly strapped him up to monitors, and an IV.  Unfortunately, they were running behind, only a hour or so.  No big deal, unless you're a kid with an IV in your arm.  Luckily, we had the Irishman's phone to keep Bubba occupied playing games in a 3-way Battle Royale.  Oh, are you wondering who won?  The Irishman or Bubba?  Oh, no, it was me.  The girl kicked the boys' butts.

Testing went well, the doctor found evidence of the same thing they've found before.  Our instructions - keep him on the same medicine he's on now.  Not a problem, the kid is only on 5 different medications a day.  So, there you go.  Crohn's has reared it's ugly head once again.

After they threw us out of the hospital (they had the bed cleared, cleaned and ready for the next patient while the poor boy was in the bathroom), we helped a very groggy boy into the car and rushed off to get some food into him. 

Can you see the fog in his eyes???? 

Several hours later, after the fog had cleared, I took Bubba to get his permit.  Who knew that it was such a big production?  You have to get an actual laminated card now, and go to two separte Missouri offices, the State Highway Trooper office and the Department of Revenue.  Didn't work that way when I was his age.  Times they are a-changing.  Man, I'm old.

Bubba is now ecstatic, and I'm sure he's already made tables, graphs, and pie charts to plan his driving education.  Deep breaths, deep breaths.   

Reprieve!!!!!

Yes, this is what I was facing today.  A driver's permit for my 15 year-old.  However, I've had a reprieve.  The Irishman and Bubba had a small mix-up, and there are no permit tests on Saturday. 

I had taken a week to talk myself down, to let the idea marinate, to ease into the situation and self medicate.  A week full of anxiety-riddled panic attacks and poor attempts at meditation and deep cleansing breaths.

Last Friday, the Irishman and Bubba hatched a plan and thought it would be no big deal for me to run Bubba over to the testing site and watch my baby's youth ebb away, question by motor vehicular question.  They should have known better, after the Herculean effort it took for me to uncurl from the fetal position I had been in when he graduated 8th grade.

Needless to say, I made no attempt to hasten the procurement of said permit.  I told them I needed at least a week, and last night I steeled myself for the inevitable.

Bubba and I both got up early this morning, ate a quick breakfast, and made our way to the motor vehicle office.  I truly felt so bad when the office was closed, I thought I needed to offer a consolation prize to Bubba, and I let him practice in the park lot.  He even parallel parked between the testing cones in three perfect maneuvers.

I taught him how to evade the po-po and how to floor it when you're about to be jacked.  It was awesome.  Not.  You'll have to excuse me while I go finish vomiting now.

In the afternoon, Bubba, The Sous Chef, The Boo and I went over to the track and "tossed the pigskin" around for awhile. 

 

And now something just for you Mom.

While shopping this afternoon at Target Boutique, I picked up some berry colored lip gloss.  It's supposed to be the new color of the season. 

While preparing the Last Supper (which will be discussed in a future post), I thought I'd try it out. 

Turns out it wasn't a lip gloss, it was a lip stain on one end and clear gloss on the other end.  The Sous Chef asked when I'd become Emo.  The lip stain is like colored crazy glue.  I am now short two layers of lip skin and an even greater source of entertainment for my children. 

This is why I don't wear lipstick.  Frightening, isn't it?

   

Lasts, Firsts, and Everything In Between

My Dear Bubba,

Another year has past, and what an interesting year it's been.

You began your last year at the same school you've been going to for over 10 years.  The school year seemed to be a non-event, as you aced all your classes, per usual.

   

This year also marked the last time you'd play basketball with the same kids you've gone to school with over the last 10 years.  This, too, became a non-event.  At the end of the last game, no inspirational words from the coach to the team, no congratulatory pats on the back, just a bunch of negative comments and nastiness hurled at the team.  Good riddance, I say.  Onwards and upwards.

You also followed through on a HUGE goal you'd set for yourself.  It was your dream to go to Rockhurst.  That's all you talked about for years.  In order to get in, you had to take an entrance exam and get a specific score.  You voluntarily took a preparatory course that lasted your entire Christmas break, and didn't complain once.  You took the test in January, and when I picked you up after, I thought you were going to throw up.  After waiting for two months, the letter came.  You did it, you were in.  And I couldn't have been more proud.  Not because you were going to attend an incredible school and receive an over-the-top education, not as any kind of bragging right, but because you wanted it so badly and you did it all by yourself.

This year, you went on your first "date."  You went to the movies with Hannah.  By yourself.  No, we weren't sitting in the back watching you, despite how badly I wanted to make sure you were ok.  But I was a nervous wreck for two and half hours.  This first date also led to your first kiss (Nana, you didn't see this).  You didn't have to tell me, you could have avoided the issue.  But you came right out and told me.  I really hope that in the years to come, as new opportunities arise and your world grows bigger that you feel just as comfortable talking to me about things as you have in the past. 

This year, you also had to start shaving.  This is something you hate!  The black fuzz had just grown to be too much.  I nagged begged you to shave the caterpillar off.  Finally, we made a deal.  You would shave the day before Christmas.  This happened only after I'd threatened to hold your Christmas presents hostage.

Your last day of school came in May, and you were so excited to get out before the rest of the school.  I expected you to be somewhat nostalgic about leaving the people you knew behind, as none of them would be going to the same school you would be going to.  Nope, you said you were "done with it all."  Amazing!  It as just as if you were saying "Next!  Moving on!"

   

In July, you and your brother and sister went to Minnesota for 10 days, the first time you've been away from Dad and me for more than 2 days.  You thrived!  I heard from you once the entire time.  You water skied for the first time and fished and tubed and generally had a blast.  I know you wanted to stay longer, but I was so glad to have you back.  Think how many baked goods you would have been stuck with if you'd stayed longer.

In August, you started football, something you haven't done since you were in 5th grade.  You were adamant about it, despite the fact that you were not well, and "out of practice," as it were.  You have made every single practice, except for one, which is a major accomplishment given how pukey you've been feeling.  It didn't matter to you whether you were on the A, B, or C team, you just wanted to play. 

August also marked the beginning of your Freshman year, at a new school, 40 minutes away.  You now have to get up at 5:30 every morning (something previously unheard of in your world) in order to make your 6:40 bus.  Everything about this school year has been a major adjustment, but you seem to be adapting so well.  Every night after you get home from practice and finish dinner, you go straight up to your room (up to your room!  not in front of the t.v.!  I never thought I'd see the day!) and start on your mounds of homework.

   

This past year of your life has had many ups and down, so many changes, so many curve balls thrown at you.  But you've handled it so well, beyond your now 15 years.  You've changed from a boy to a young man.  You've met the goals you've set for yourself and made new ones that I know you'll exceed.  You've become more responsible, and (gasp) help out around home without being asked.

You're still always the last one to be ready, the last out the door, and the one of the biggest procrastinators I know (your father and I don't count!).

   

You're still goofy (see the picture below of your "toilet paper" tricks) and silly and can always make me laugh.

   

But you have grown so much and accomplished an enormous amount in just one short year.  I'm so excited to see what this next year holds for you.  Great things, all great things.

This winter, you were helping your dad and I work on the kitchen.  You were carrying these huge boards out the back door, and figured out some goofy way to open the door using the wood.  You started acting like you had figured out how to solve world hunger.  It was hysterical.  You went to the door, carrying this big piece of wood and said, "Watch Mom, it's my time to shine."  I was caught - I didn't know whether to laugh or start crying.  Because that statement couldn't be more true at this point in your life.  It truly is your time to shine.

Happy Birthday, Bubba!  I love you, Mom