The Perfect Race

So, it was a really long winter and we got a bit loopy at the MacFuddle house. 

WARNING! If this post begins to seem strange/obsessive or plain boring, feel free to skip. As background, you should know that I belong to the best running group, possibly in the world, but definitely in this city, called "I Beg Your Garmin".  There are six of us with what I mentally call "Gold Status" as we have been running together consistently for almost two years, now. I use the term running loosely because as much as we run together we also gab together, travel together, do girly stuff together, etc.  I haven't cleared the "Gold Status" concept with the group so it is subject to heated debate, and change, if we don't get distracted by something else shinier.  We have other, newer members of "I Beg Your Garmin" who are terrific, too, and I promise to make something special for them when they reach "Gold Status". (Some of these ladies successfully completed another either 5K or half-marathon last Saturday and deserve some recognition so here you go: woot woot!)  For now, to the special "Gold Status" members of "I Beg Your Garmin", this post will eventually, unbelievably, circle back to you. There is a possibility you will be glad you suffered through. Everyone else has my permission to pretend to not see this post and I will never mention it again. 

So, the day PHD and I launched into a diorama discussion (Yes that is a TV in my hallway) and I had to Google dioramas to show him, I started obsessing over dioramas and minatures.   Not old-guy-creating-trainsets type minatures, these are cute ones! I have seen them called them "Art Boxes".  I think that is a better description and it doesn't seem so silly if I call them Art.  I created a display of Art Boxes in my hallway:

I had to crop the photo tightly so you couldn't see all the fingerprints all over my walls...

The Art Box in the centre is called "Magnets" to represent this post: I wouldn't lick that if i were you .  It may be hard to tell from this picture but the little guy is leaning against the monkey bars, with his tongue.

I call the bottom Art Box "Terry Fox" to represent the post QCM Race Report:

Meanwhile, Boy 2 was entertaining himself by building a square turtle on a pile of rocks,



 trying to determine how many shirts he can wear at once.



The answer is 5

 and catching a few rays.

Yes, that is snow in the background

PHD and Boy 1 went a different way...

Can you tell what they are trying to do?  Can you tell me?

While they were doing whatever that was, I made the Art Box on the top of the collection.  Here is the part where it may (or may not) get interesting for my running friends. The art box on the top of my collection (in the bad picture at the beginning of this post) is called "The Perfect Race". 

The picture doesn't do it justice but each one of the little people looks like one of the ladies in our group, Michelle, me, Maryann, Cindy, Margaret and Leanne.  I imagine the little members of "I Beg Your Garmin" running their perfect little race saying things like, "Training Works!",  "Surely she sees that pylon", "I'm not cold, do you think I have too many layers on?", "What a beautiful day!", "Can we go farther?" and "I didn't cry once!!". Then after at least one of them gets a medal, doesn't matter who, they all stop to talk and laugh.  See? The Perfect Race. 

So, we have learned two things today - spring needs to stay or I am in danger of losing my mind and I need a new camera along with some photography lessons, quickly!

This Monday is sponsored by adrenaline

In January, I tried to set up a nice little routine for Monday evenings.  I go to a community association boot camp at the school then PHD brings the kids an hour later and the kids attend a Fit Kids class while we do yoga. I think it worked out that way twice since January.  Usually PHD has some type of injury, somebody's sick or some type of disaster has taken place which prevents this little routine from working out. 

Today's disaster began when I left for bootcamp understanding that PHD would bring the boys for Fit Kids at 7.  Just before 7, I see Boy 1 stroll in with his ripstick.  I see PHD casually stroll in, wave, look around then leave.  By the time he was far enough away that he thought I couldn't see him, he started walking quicker.  Here's a tip - if you are trying to be sneaky don't wear a yellow sweatshirt.  I say to my neighbor, "Hmm, I bet PHD has lost Boy 2."  It's like I have ESP or something. I go to the Fit Kids class and ask Boy 1 where his brother is.  "I dunno, Dad can't find him."  Dad can't find him.  Seems like something you should tell your wife.  I get a few more details from Boy 1.  I think he is with his little buddy, let's call him Norm.  I am not sure where Norm lives or his last name. Off to a great start.  I hop in the car and drive home.  PHD's truck is parked in the middle of the street and PHD is pacing up and down the street cursing.  We are classy like that.  He yelled the story at me, it made no sense.  But, it seems Boy 2 was home since the last time PHD left because he left his blue bike on the step as a clue and his old red bike is missing. This is like a cartoon.  Probably the Simpsons. Everytime the truck leaves and turns the corner, the kid on the bike returns. Kid leaves, truck returns. Maybe this will be hilarious some other day.  Not today.

I send PHD down the street to start knocking on doors.  I roll my window down and start yelling at people on the street, "If you see a kid in a red helmet, send him home!"  I caught a canvasser, a jogger, another mother I know and a teenager that ran in his house and probably locked the door after talking to the crazy lady burning up and down the street, yelling out her window.  After knocking on a few doors we figure out that Norm lives in the apartment building down the street.  I tell PHD, "If we don't find him there, I am calling the police."  For once he doesn't tell me I am overreacting.  When we get to the apartment building we see a red bike on the step, and one of Boy 2's friends coming out of the building.  I got his friend to lead me back into the building to the apartment where Boy 2 is playing.  I note that Boy 2 has left his boots at the front door of the apartment building.  It occurs to me that he has probably never been to an apartment so he thinks this is the front door.  Very polite of him to take his boots off.  Anyway, of course we find Boy 2 at Norm's house right where he thinks he is supposed to be. He says he told Dad where he was going. 

After we were all back home and over the adrenaline rush, somewhat, my mom called and offered to take the kids for a few days over Easter.  I tried to send PHD too.  She kept changing the subject.  I don't think she's taking him.  I don't think he's safe here, either.  But, then, as I type this I think maybe we just have a communication problem.  I only said, "I'm leaving, see you there."  I didn't ever explicitly say, "You are now responsible to keep track of the children" to PHD.  Or maybe, "I am leaving 2 kids, please have 2 kids here when I return."  I could have phoned during water break at bootcamp and said, "Quick head count, how many kids do you have there?"

So, probably all my fault.  Either way, I am going to have wine now.

Sharing

Yesterday, Boy 2 was resisting sharing his treat with his brother because as he says, "He never shares with me."  So I think, this is a good teachable moment, "Well, this is an opportunity for you to set a good example for him.  Maybe if you you share with him, he will see how nice it was and share with you next time."  Boy 1 says, "That's right, and that's why sharing is selfish."  

Do you think he missed the point?  Or maybe he's right?

Art Day at the House of Insanity

Sunday was Art Day at our house.  Boy 2 got really excited telling me, "Remember the time I got my hair cut and I kept the hair in an envelope?  I'm going to use that to make a pool. Can I use one of your frames?"   I told him he was wonderfully creative then  forgot about it, thinking it was chatter in the same category as, "What if we pooped out party hats then wore them?" or "What if the yard was made of cake?  Would we say, 'Yuck that tastes like cake'?"   

Next thing I know, Boy 2 comes into the kitchen with his bangs missing.  He wanted more hair, for his pool, I guess, I didn't think to ask. (As I type this, it strikes me that this may be a bit weird.  Do other kids cut off their own hair for art projects?)  Anywho, when I realized his bangs were missing, naturally, I said,  "What scissors did you use?"  Not sure why that was important, just making conversation, I guess.  He said he used the nail scissors in the bathroom closet.  So I told him, "Dad uses those to cut his nose hairs, you know." PHD got really offended, "I do not!" So I told PHD, in my best stage whisper, as though the child lost his hearing along with his bangs, "Shh, I am trying to gross him out.  I don't want him doing that anymore."  That's all I got.  I have nothing else in my parenting bag of tricks to try to keep my child from cutting his own hair off.  

I think Boy 2 sensed he had beaten me to the point of utter insanity and felt sorry for me so he made this for me:

I said, "Oh, I love it! It's like the little man is falling in love!"  Boy 1 said, "That's very symbolic."  Yes, it is symbolic.  I don't think I understood the concept of symbolism until my first year of university.  They are both geniuses!! Sometimes brilliance looks a bit crazy...Maybe it is a house of genius, not insanity!

Boy 1 hits double digits

Ten years old.  That means the celebration needs to be 10 days long, it seems.  Presents galore,

sleepover, cake pops to bring to school,

another party Saturday.  Then, to top it all off, his basketball team gets to play at half-time at the Husky basketball game.  Does it get better than that??

In honour of his 10 years on the planet, he gets a bit of a retrospective. Boy 1 was born February 5, 2001.  You may remember 2001 as being the first year that maternity leave was a full year.  I spent December of 2000 worrying that he would be premature.  He wasn't.  He was very obedient, even in the womb.  Cutest baby ever:

His birth also marked the last year I got any sleep.  (I miss you 2001!)

Cheerful nature like Mom

Unless you are being irritating - PHD

he's a terrific big brother, once he stopped denying he had a brother - shortly after this picture

We rewarded him for his agreeable nature by dressing him up and taking embarrassing pictures

Boy 1 is still a lovely boy.  He is curious, kind, thoughtful and funny.  He has always been really good at reading, building and fixing things.  When I can't figure out how to work something electronic, he is my go-to guy.  All he needs to learn is to put his dirty clothes in the hamper to be a perfect husband some day! 

He also helps me with my PHD training.  (ha, did that amuse anyone else?) When I went to San Francisco for a four day girls' trip, and called home on day 2,  Boy 1 informed me that he had a stomach ache, probably from unhealthy food, because they had not yet eaten a meal at home.  (that's six meals out, not that I am counting.)  He then told PHD that 1. he didn't feel safe when Mom was away, and 2. the house is never this messy when Mom is home.  Gotta love that kid!  

Hope every birthday is as happy as the first!

Singing like a canary or screaming like a panic button

When he isn't hiding, Boy 2 is currently either whistling like a little bird or clapping his hands. All the time. I yearn for silence.  At first I ignored him.  Then at about Day 3,  a particularly sharp whistle/clap combo broke through my irritation barrier.  No small feat, I might add.   This was the conversation at our house yesterday:

Boy 1, "Wouldn't it be funny if when you hit (whistle) the panic button on Dad's truck, instead of beeping, a girl (clap, clap, clappety, clap) started screaming?  You know, like she's panicking? (whistle, clap)"

Me: "Stop it, Boy 2, your brother is trying to talk, you are interrupting."

PHD: "Bahahaha, that would be (whistle) hilarious. (clap, whistle)  I should see if I can get one custom made."

At this point Boy 2 looks me in the eye, smirks, and gives one more good clap.  He prefers the clap to the whistle because he can't give me his little, "I know I am driving you crazy"  grin while he whistles.  Am I the only one that can hear this?  I am pretty sure this is happening but no one but me notices. If I can still consider the possibility that I may be losing my mind, I am still sane, right?  RIGHT?  Meanwhile, Boy 1 and PHD are still discussing the custom design of the reality panic button.

I tried a few things to resolve the issue.  I tried feeding him peanut butter and crackers.  He got full. I got him to put on his iPod. He started clapping. I sent him swimming with PHD.  I still think I can hear whistling.  Could he be hiding somewhere in the house? He probably recorded himself somehow. 

As we are just heading into a full week of no school, and my irritation barrier is already defunct, I fear I may soon be the real-life voice  of the panic button, "Aaaaahhhhhhstopitstopitstopit!!!!"

Signs you may need work in a key parenting area

I first suspected I had a problem at Christmas when my mom gave me a beautiful nativity set. Boy 1 pulled out the wise men and said, "Who are this guys? " Oooooh, yeah, now I remember what I meant to teach them about...I need to do better with their spirituality, or maybe transfer them to Catholic school.

Another sign was when the school counselor called and said...well, I guess, the school counselor called. Period. Doesn't really matter what she said, you know it's not good.  They never call and say "Your son is so bright/creative/innovative!" or "Your son is reading too much!"  although I did recently get a call from the principal to say that Boy 2 got hit with a skipping rope and the other child would be dealt with.  I was relieved neither of my kids were in the wrong.  Is that bad? Good parents are probably outraged when their kids come home welted, not relieved they were the wronged party.

I didn't learn my lesson, either.  One day they were fighting so bad over a toque that I sent them outside.  The fight finally ended when Boy 1 shoved Boy 2 into a snowbank and Boy 2 came up with a bloody mouth.  "Help me, help me!"   "Sorry, sorry, sooorrryy!!!!" I was so happy the fighting stopped. I need to go find some empathy, or something.

I carry a book in my purse in the event that one of the children won't get in the car and I will either a) have to wait him out without appearing anxious, or b) have to pretend to be ignoring the hilarious footrace around the car.  When Boy 2 won't get in the car, PHD will chase Boy 2 around the car until either his rage or stamina fails. Usually stamina is the first to go, the rage hangs on for a while.  I don't understand how Boy 2 can belly laugh and sprint at the same time.  The angrier PHD gets, the harder Boy 2 laughs and the faster he runs. I have to pull out my book so he can't see me laughing...maybe we can call my reading "modeling excellent literacy habits" and take this example off the list. Cuz the footrace is hilarious.

Oh, and another huge indicator of poor parenting is if you you have PTSD-type symptoms every time you see a cop car or fire truck. My symptoms started last spring around the time Boy 2 figured out he could leave me voice mail messages by phoning our home number from home.  He left me a variety of messages like singing Waving Flag, telling me he loved me (aww), making chewing noises (even the dog knows that is my biggest pet peeve - are you kissing that bite or what?) and telling me stories about his day.  He was busying himself with this project one day while I folded laundry. Suddenly he comes running into my room, "The cops are here!"  Sure enough, they were at the door.  Seems someone called 911 and hung up.  When 911 called back they could only get voice mail.  Probably because Boy 2 was occupying the line with another chorus of "This is the song that never ends..."  They grilled me and him and only let up on us when I told them my husband and other son were at Boy Scouts.  Whew, close one.  The next day a fire truck pulls up in front of our house.  I look at Boy 2 and he says quickly, "That wasn't me this time - I don't even know their number!"  It turned out they were testing the hydrant across the street; we had nothing to do with it.  See - good parents probably never suspect that their child had something to do with the fire truck or cop car out front.  I get flinchy.

I could keep going but I think you get the idea.  I should stop playing on the computer and go read a parenting book, or something...