Cool moms let their kids wear mohawks, right? Cool moms even cut the mohawks themselves, I’m pretty sure. Making me a cool mom. But only till Saturday afternoon, at which point the mohawks are being shaved off. Because I am not cool enough to let my children wear their hair like that to Small Town Iowa Baptist Church.

Ryan has been begging for this for awhile now. I figured since I was going to shave their hair off for the summer anyway it would be okay to let them look like little maniacs for a few days.

I don’t know why I think mohawk pictures are the funniest when the boys are shirtless. But I think they look pretty hilarious.

This is the boys giving hugs.

After the hug they started giving kisses and grossing each other out. It was hilarious. They have apparently reached the age where kisses are yucky. Although they haven’t started wiping mine off yet (and they’d better not or I’ll make a mad face.

Speaking of mad faces, the boys were very eager to make mad faces for the camera. Isn’t this attractive? I hope that before he gets married Ryan discovers a new way to express his anger.

I have decided that it’s fairly likely my kids don’t have the right attitude to pull off a mohawk. But at least they’re cute, right? And no, this isn’t Sam’s constipated face. I swear.

And there you have it. Yet more proof that I am the coolest mom ever. Or at least, the coolest mom until Saturday afternoon.

For more, visit http://www.wordlesswednesday.com/

This evening as I was driving, alone, uninterrupted, allowed to listen to whatever I wanted on the radio, in the peace and quiet of my redneck van, I realized something. The quiet was getting to me. That’s right. I was missing the constant noise, the questions, the little voices from the backseat that usually fill the van with queries and opinions and long monologues about who knows what. I was lonely. And it was too quiet, in spite of Dr. Laura’s best attempts to fill the silence with her wise and all-knowing voice.

Humph. I have been noticing some of motherhood’s paradoxes lately. This was but one. Generally when I ride in the car with my kids, just as the talk-show host is about to drive home some crucial point one of my kids says “Hey Mommy! what’s five plus five? It’s ten right? I told Sammy it was ten but he said it was eight and blah blah blah blah . . .” Sometimes it really drives me crazy. Sometimes it is all I can do not to turn around and tell my children to BE QUIET because the guy on the radio is explaining the secret of life!

And yet . . . I am so proud of the fact that my kids are talkative, that they speak their minds and share their opinions and generally make sense when they do so. Not always, but usually. And if someone else ever complained about how much my kids talk I think I would be very, very ticked off.

Isn’t it funny how we’re like that? We recognize every fault in our children, they drive us crazy all the time, sometimes we wish they would just go away for awhile and come back when they’re not annoying anymore, and yet at the same time we think they are the most perfect and amazing and wonderful children in the universe.

I was listening to Dr. Laura in the van today and a lady called in and said “I’m so and so and I have two perfectly average-looking children.” It took me a minute and then I realized she was making fun of all the people who call in and say their kids are beautiful. And I got thinking about it, and I realized, I do think my kids are beautiful. In a boy way, I mean. But when I tried to convince my heart of the truth, that Ryan run likes a girl and Sam’s ears stick out a little too far, all I could see was these two perfect little boys that I love so much.

I think it’s amazing how much love can cover up the sins and imperfections of our children. And how much their love for me covers my imperfections. My children love me and smother me with affection all the time, even when I’ve been cranky or distant or impatient or just too busy to be a good mommy. They constantly remind me that they think I’m beautiful. I am not worthy of the way they view me. But they’re not worthy of the way I love them either. It’s just family love at its best.

Sure in my head I know my kids have personality flaws (and sometimes they drive me crazy) but my heart sees them softly, sweetly. It sees the babies they once were and wonders about the men they will become. My eyes see the banged up elbows and knees, the bad haircuts (courtesy of my extreme cheapness), the dirty faces, the ornery behaviors. My heart sees two little people who carry my hopes and dreams and love in their grubby little hands.

The other morning I needed a certain female article of clothing from my basement. I had already put my skirt and half-slip on but had no shirt. In a fit of inspiration, I pulled my slip up to under my shoulders and ran out of the bedroom, through the dining room and kitchen, and down the steps to grab my necessity. As I was running through the dining room where the boys were playing, slip pulled up over my chest and looking like a big idiot, Ryan said “ooh Mommy you are so pretty!”

That’s the way he sees me. And it’s the way I see him, even when he’s jumping around his bedroom wearing nothing but his underwear.

Yes, we get on each other’s nerves, and yes, there are days when I seriously consider muzzles for my children. (Case in point: Here’s what I know about current political issues: “Today Hillary Clinton said that MOMMY SAMMY TOOK THOMAS AND I NEED THOMAS BECAUSE SIR TOPHAM HATT SAID THOMAS HAS TO GO SHUNT FREIGHT TRAINS IN THE YARD!!! In response, Barak Obama’s campaign said “MOMMY! LOOK AT WHAT MY DREW! MY DREW THIS BIG BOAT AND THERE IS A FIRE ON THE BOAT AND MY MADE A MAN THAT IS PUTTING THE FIRE OUT WITH SPITTING!!!“)

In the end, though, the paradox of motherhood is that even though I know every one of my kids’ faults, I love them and think they’re perfect anyway.

At least until they’re teenagers.

At that point, all bets are off.

This post has taken me a few days to write, which is why my blog has been silent since Wednesday evening.

The truth is, it started out as a rant and has been evolving over the last few days as I try to think of what I want to say.

This is not a typical “Notes from the Princess” blog. But even though I usually blog about my family and my daily life, and even though I usually make myself laugh out loud in the process, that doesn’t mean that all I ever do is laugh. I’ve discovered that the day-to-day bummers of life can be dealt with a little more easily through laughter. In fact, even the hard stuff of life is eased a little by a giggle.

But sometimes we need more, and that is what this post is about.

For the past two months I have been preparing to captain a team in the Des Moines Arthritis Walk. I have been raising money, recruiting walkers, signing up sponsors, ordering t-shirts, nagging my team members. I have been trying to think of creative ways to raise money for my team. I’ve sold my kids’ artwork. I’ve sold baseball tickets. I’ve held contests and a bake sale.

And still my team, which has twice as many people as I had originally expected, has raised not even half its goal. And this frustrates me.

To be honest, I feel sometimes like people don’t get it and they don’t care. I had a friend several years ago (we’ve lost touch) who had breast cancer at a fairly young age– while she still had very young kids at home. She was awesome. She was funny, she had a great sense of humor. She held fund raisers all the time to raise money for the Komen Foundation. And people would practically throw money at her. If she was holding an event, half the churches in the Des Moines area would be fighting over where she would hold it. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but not a lot. People care about breast cancer.

When we walked in the Des Moines Walk to Cure Juvenile Diabetes, I was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people who walked. The team I was on made a lot of money. Like in the tens of thousands. It was incredible. And I imagine that for those kids with diabetes, seeing so many people who had come out to support them and encourage them and stand with them had to be such a great experience. People care about sick kids.

And don’t get me wrong, because the last thing I want to do is seem like a jerk who doesn’t care about people with cancer or childhood diseases. I have known people affected by horrible illnesses and I have been touched by their story and I have done what little I could to help them.

But lately I have been feeling very alone in my journey with arthritis. I have felt, perhaps unfairly, that maybe if I had cancer or a sick child people would care more about my pain. To be honest I have felt a bit sorry for myself. And that is when I realized that maybe people don’t care because they don’t get it. The kid I met at the Omaha Arthritis Walk last weekend was the epitome of “not getting it.” Isn’t arthritis just, you know, aches and pains?

If that is the assumption people have about arthritis, maybe that is why their sympathy doesn’t reach to their wallets. Maybe that’s why they seem like they don’t care. Because everyone has aches and pains, right?

And I also think that people think of arthritis as an “old person’s disease.” Most people who know someone with arthritis know a grandma or great-uncle whose hands are a little twisted or whose knees hurt when it rains. Isn’t arthritis just a fact of aging, like gray hair and wrinkles? Well, maybe it is. But that’s not all it is. And even if it were, what does it say about our society if we’re not willing to care about and support our elderly? I’ve been in the nursing homes where the patients sit for hours waiting for someone to visit– someone who loves them and is willing to endure the odors of bedpans and institutional food– and I’ve seen so many of those people return lonely to their rooms at night. It scares me to grow old.

As I have been pondering these things during middle-of-the-night can’t-fall-asleep sessions with my pillow and my stiff joints, I have decided that I need to try to do something aside from desperate fund raising attempts. I can’t make you care. I can’t make you give money or time to the Arthritis Foundation. But I can share my experiences, which are thankfully at this point very limited. I can help raise your awareness, help you understand a little more about what life with arthritis is. It’s not just aches and pains.

Here’s what life with arthritis means to me.

• Life with arthritis is knowing that for the rest of my life I will be dependent on medication that will slowly cause other parts of my health to deteriorate.
• Life with arthritis is limiting the ways I can play with my kids because I don’t want to get hurt.
• Life with arthritis is waking up during the night with my shoulder hurting so badly it makes me cry.
• Life with arthritis is being unable to open the childproof lid on a bottle of Dimetap for my child, and finally stabbing at it with a steak knife so I can get the medicine out.
• Life with arthritis is knowing that I am likely to wake up in pain every day for the rest of my life.
• Life with arthritis is crying as I try to change a diaper on my son, because I can’t get my fingers to cooperate.
• Life with arthritis is telling my boss that I can’t do my job because I can hardly move my wrist.
• Life with arthritis is lying on the exam table in my doctor’s office feeling sick because she just put a needle full of cortisone in a sore joint in my shoulder.
• Life with arthritis is fearing that I’m going to really make someone mad because they think I’m flipping them off, when in truth it’s just that I can’t bend my middle finger.
• Life with arthritis is days when I just feel so yucky all I can do is lay on the couch and watch my children play.
• Life with arthritis is not always being able to sign my name the right way.
• Life with arthritis is the fear that someday I will have to give up scrapbooking because I can’t manipulate the paper anymore.
• Life with arthritis is asking my husband to help me get dressed because I just can’t today.
• Life with arthritis is watching as my index finger gets a little more twisted each day.
• Life with arthritis is hoping that they perfect voice recognition software before I lose my ability to type.
• Life with arthritis is hoping no one shakes my hand too hard.
• Life with arthritis is reading that someone died of complications of arthritis, and wondering what that means and if that will happen to me.
• Life with arthritis is walking a constant tightrope of trying to find the medication that will best treat me that we can also afford.
• Life with arthritis is not knowing how to respond when people ask how I’m doing today.
• Life with arthritis is constantly praying that if my children inherit what my dad so lovingly passed on to me (thanks so much Dad!), it will be after they have found a cure.
• Life with arthritis is wanting people to realize that it’s not in my head, that it doesn’t come and go, that it’s not just aches and pains, and that even if I’m not talking about it today I’m still in pain.

I don’t write these things to make you feel sorry for me.

I write them so that you can understand a little of what it’s like for those of us who have been diagnosed with arthritis.

I write this so that you can click here and learn more about this and understand that you probably know someone personally who has arthritis, even if you don’t realize it.

I write them so that when I tell you I have a fairly mild case you can realize just how bad it is for a lot of people out there.

I write them so that you can imagine what it must be like for the kids who have been diagnosed with JA, who experience all of this when they should be running around on the playground, climbing monkey bars.

I wrote this so that when you meet someone else who you find out has arthritis, you can be able to say “That is so hard, how can I help?” Instead of “isn’t that just aches and pains?”

I wrote this because those of us who suffer from arthritis want you to know, and we want you to care.

I want to know that you care.

So I really don’t actually have a topic for today’s blog so much as a bunch of little things. I thought about calling it “tidbits” or something but decided my title was mildly more entertaining. Basically, today’s post has NO POINT. So I’ll just get right to it.

Tonight was awards night for our church’s AWANA program. This is a bittersweet time because Ryan finished Cubbies (AWANA’s preschool program) tonight. Next year, in Kindergarten, he will join the big kids in Sparks. He loves AWANA and learning verses and hanging with his little friends and is already counting down the hours until Sparks starts in September. Well, he would be counting down the hours if he knew how to count down from higher than ten. Or if he understood the concept of hours, which he really doesn’t. I think in Ryan’s mind an hour is any period of time longer than “just a minute” but shorter than “not till tomorrow.”

I try to answer his questions in order to deepen his understanding of time measurement, but whenever I do we end up having conversations that make me want to cry. Just tonight in fact, he asked me how long a year is. I told him twelve months, the amount of time it takes to use up a new calendar. Then I told him it was 365 days, and that it is exactly one year from his birthday to his next birthday. Sigh. Apparently I threw too much information at him because I’m pretty sure he thinks his birthday (which is in December) is 365 days from today and that a year is a new calendar. Oh well. This is why we are sending him to kindergarten, right? To fix all the stupid things we’ve told him?

I can’t wait till his poor teacher finds out that he thinks the answer to “how fast is too fast” is fifty-six.

Anyway, I was unable to get any fabulous pictures of this thing tonight because Ryan kept putting his loot in front of his face and Sam kept his finger firmly lodged in his nasal cavity for most of the proceedings. Sam is technically not a Cubbie, because they have to be three at the beginning of the year to qualify for Cubbie-hood, but our church is wonderful and let him go to Cubbies after his birthday in October. Next year he will begin his first book and get a vest and all that jazz. This year he just got to play, and then hang out on stage picking his nose during the awards ceremony.

Anyway, this is Ryan with his blue ribbon, which he won for finishing his second Cubbies book, and the t-shirt that all the little Cubbies put their handprints on. Coming soon– pictures of both the urchins in their shirts. Tonight we decided we had had enough excitement and wrestled the children into their beds before they could give us a fashion show. I mean, really, you can only have so many thrills in one evening.

This is Sam holding his shirt and just generally looking cute. It was a nice thing that they gave him one, especially since it kept his finger out of his nose. I’m still adjusting to his “little man in glasses” look.

In other family news, Art got his new glasses today. In case you haven’t noticed, we have been glasses-buying fools lately. Ryan is the only one who hasn’t had new glasses in the last six weeks. He got his back in September.

Anyway, poor Art was apparently not prepared for this change in his life. The little clues that have been sneaking up on him– my gray hair and crow’s feet, the fact that our son is going off to school this year– these should have warned him that his time was coming. Art has a young face, but in one way he has finally shown that he is, indeed, older than I am.

Art is now wearing bifocals. Poor guy. But his adjustment to them is proving highly entertaining to me.

And, because on this blog I am an Equal Opportunity New Glasses Showcaser, here is a picture of Art’s new specs. Aren’t they nice looking? I think he’s a hottie.

I’m sure he’ll look even cuter after he shaves. Slob.

Finally, my sister sent me a link to this today and it is so perfect for Ryan that I have to post it here. $20 is a lot for a t-shirt for your five-year-old who likes to roll in dirt (I swear he must, it’s the only explanation), so I don’t anticipate he will be wearing it anytime soon. Still, it’s awesome. (You can click on the picture to see the page where they’re selling them).

That’s right, folks, it’s Thomas as a Transformer. It is like Ryan’s little dream come true. I wish they had it in a poster or something because I would totally buy it. If it were less than $20. I’m cheap.

And last, but not least, because I haven’t yet posted a picture of my recent dye job from Salon Mom, here’s a random picture of me and Sam. The color is a little off but you get the idea. I am loving not having those horrible roots!

So, after all that, I close with a farewell haiku.

Thank you for reading
Today’s fascinating post–
Have an awesome day.

I think the poetry really brings some real class to my blog.

So a couple weeks ago I went on a cleaning frenzy that extended to the living room, the computer desk, and most of the kitchen before it died a sad and lonely death somewhere in a pile of laundry.

It wasn’t my fault, really. The truth is, that cleaning my house caused a whole bunch of Major Life Crises for the people in my family. So out of love for them and a true servant’s heart, I was forced to change my plans to overhaul the entire place.

It started with the fridge. Cleaning out the fridge is always dangerous because you never know what sorts of fascinating Historical Food Items you might find in the recesses of its cold shelves. I found egg nog this time around. That’s right, folks. Egg nog. As in, favorite Christmas beverage of people everywhere. And, just so we’re clear, I was cleaning out the fridge in April.

Basically speaking, I threw away enough rotting food to feed half the starving children in Africa, if you know, it hadn’t been rotting. Every time clean the fridge (usually it is more often than every four months, I swear), I make a Solemn Vow to myself to keep the fridge clean, to keep track of what delights are hiding therein, and to use up the food that’s already on its bountiful shelves before I purchase more.

This is where the Major Life Crises come in. Because, oddly enough, my kids get sick of eating peaches out of the Jumbo Sized Economy can long before we have reached the end of its peachy contents. Also they dislike leftovers, even when I cleverly disguise yesterday’s One-Skillet Mexican Rice and Beans as today’s taco filling. The only leftovers they truly approve are 1) pizza and 2) dessert. Unfortunately, in my home, we seldom have leftovers of either.

The other thing that I did during my cleaning frenzy that has caused great problems among the shorter members of my household is dust. I dusted everything in the living room, including the Wooden Blinds from the Pit of Despair, which took about seventeen hours apiece.

Why, Erin, why would you clean the blinds when there are piles of laundry laying on the floor in your dining room? What exactly is wrong with your priorities here? Let’s just say that the dusting spree happened while I was still caught up in the rush of my spring cleaning. My intentions were good. They really were.

Anyway, I have learned something new since I lavishly sprayed the furniture polish onto every shelf, picture frame, and blind in my living room.

Furniture polish makes hardwood floors really, really slippery. Especially if you are three years old and like to run around in socks.

I personally love to slide around in my socks and have thought about spraying the entire surface of our living room floor with lemon-scented Pledge, popping on some good thick cotton socks, and playing floor hockey. But my children do not share my joy. Perhaps this is because the floor is not uniformly slick. They’ll just be bopping along, picking their noses and talking about Thomas the Tank Engine, when BAM! Down they go on their little bums.

I think it’s hilarious but they really don’t. I don’t know why. Ryan has taken to blaming everything on the furniture polish. He’ll be in his carpeted bedroom, trip over his own feet, and start to cry. “That dusting spray is just killing me!” he’ll wail.

Yesterday he fell out of his chair like five times while he was playing trains on the dining room table. Somehow this was my fault. “Why did you have to spray my chair and make it so slippery?” he wept, after the fifth time of randomly crashing out of his chair. Yes, Ryan, I used Pledge on your chair. That would really help the buildup of nasty food and smashed crayon wax. Unfortunately the cleaning frenzy that was never made it all the way to the dining room table and its mismatched chairs.

The worst effect of my short-lived spring cleaning, however, was that in the process I found something horrible. Something so bad, it must have been spawned in the pit of despair eons ago, coming forth at this time for the sole purpose of torturing my poor, abused, ill-treated older son. What, you ask, could I have possibly found that would be so awful? Oh, you ask. You ask because you are ignorant of the ways in which the world conspires against my five-year-old. And I shall answer, and you will gasp in terror at the sheer monstrosity of the thing. Here is what I found.

A Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt. In Sammy’s size. And what’s worse, is that I, out of the cruelty of my heart, allow Sam to wear the accursed thing, while Ryan was forced to content himself with a t-shirt sporting only a picture of a Jeep.

This is clearly the most unfair, unreasonable, unjust, un-everything decision a mother could ever possibly make. And it has brought an end to my spring cleaning.

Because who knows what might be lurking in the next pile of laundry.

An Island of Sodor baseball hat in just Sam’s size? A pair of Optimus Prime underpants? A full-out Thomas costume in a 4T? It’s just not worth the risk.

The sacrifices we parents make for our children.

Well, today was the epic day. My younger son, Sam, at the wise and venerable old age of three and a half, has joined the rest of the family in the four-eyed club. He’s pretty stinking cute. He was being ornery when I was trying to take his picture (big shock there), but I got a few good ones.

So here, for you happy viewing pleasure, is Four-Eyed Sam!

Good morning and welcome to Small Voices, my weekly contribution to the general betterment of society. That’s right, straight from the Princess’s very own keyboard, your weekly dose of funnies from my own little monsters. And, because I know most everyone could use a good laugh on Monday, click on the graphic to go to Make Me Laugh Monday over at Absolutely Bananas for more giggles. Just doing my part to promote your happiness. I am the Princess of Promoting Happiness. Enjoy!

******

Ryan made a pinwheel at preschool that does not actually spin. So he’s standing watching me make his breakfast and notices the pinwheel (which he calls a fan) sitting there on the counter.
Ryan: Mommy, this is a Fail Fan.
Me: What?
Ryan: It’s just a Fail Fan. (I know I deserve this, I really do I’m the one who started the whole “fail” thing in our house. But it still weirds me out when I hear my five-year-old say stuff like this).
Me: Ryan, you’re weird.
Ryan: I know. But it’s still a Fail Fan.

******

I was playing with Sam, hiding his lego from him.
Sam: Mommy! You give me back dat Lego right now!
Me: Or what?
Sam: Or my will lock you up in prison with a SKEEKY MOUSE!!!!

******

Art taught the boys the phrase “clean your clock,” which apparently means I’m going to beat you in a race. I had never heard this phrase before my darling love taught it to the children but it has quickly become my least favorite phrase ever. This is because whenever Ryan yells “I’m going to clean your clock!” to Sam while they are running to the house after getting out of the van, Sam immediately responds my screaming and crying “It’s NOT A RACE!!! STOP!!! MY DON’T WANT TO LOSE!” Sigh. Sam has a shriek that is legendary. In fact, we are currently in negotiations with the city of Small Town, Iowa, to replace the tornado warning siren with a recording of Sam wailing. Anyway, we came home from dinner the other night and as usual Ryan busted out of the van and was halfway up the sidewalk to the house before poor Sam had even gotten himself unbuckled.
Ryan: SAM!!!! I’m going to clean your clock!!!
Sam: My don’t want my clock anymore!!
Me: You don’t want your clock anymore?
Sam: No. My clock is broken. My am going to throw it away.

******

We’re in the van on the way to my parents’ house.
Ryan: Mommy, I think Grandma and Grandpa’s house is a really fun place.
Me: Me too, buddy.
Ryan: But it’s not as fun as heaven.

******

Sam: Mommy, you know what Superman does when he gets dressed?
Me: What?
Sam: He puts on his pants first, and then his underwear.

******

I’m in my bedroom changing my clothes. Ryan comes charging in for some reason.
Ryan: AARRGH!!! I didn’t need to see that!!!

******

Sam has been laying in bed decidedly not sleeping for an hour. I walk near the boys’ room and hear him humming.
Me: Sammy. Be quiet and go to sleep!
Sam: My not talking.
Me: Stop humming.
Sam: But– my am just singing a good night song!

Note to anyone who read this blog within the hour after I originally published it– I apologize for the formatting disaster. WordPress and I were having issues. I am proud to announce that I have won. If you read it again now, it will actually make sense. Have a lovely day.

This morning was the Omaha Arthritis Walk, and since we’re here, and since all of the adults currently at my parents house actually have some form of arthritis, we made an outing of it. Dad had sent Mom on a brilliant fundraising campaign at her work, where she had raised a mind-boggling $25. Good enough. Off we went.

My first observation about the Omaha Arthritis Walk, or any walk created to raise money for people with joint issues, is that there is just no way to have enough disabled parking spots for such an event. Dad and I were joking last night that every space in the parking lot would have to have one of those neato handicapped signs. Maybe they assume that the people likely to come to the arthritis walk will actually be able to, I don’t know, walk. We survived anyway.

My second observation is that if you’re going to have a bunch of volunteers carefully selected from the finest students of the Omaha Public School district who need community service for one reason or another, it might be a good idea to explain to them a little bit about what arthritis actually is.

The kid who was manning the bounce house with a spirit of the joy of service asked us where we got our cool blue hats. I explained to him that in order to be cool like us (you know, like me, my mom, and my dad– trend setters if there ever were trend setters) he had to have arthritis.

“Oh, I have arthritis,” Mr. Smarty-Britches-Sixteen-Year-Old Kid informed me.

“Well then you just ask for one at that tent over there,” I told him in the spirit of believing the best about others.

“Arthritis is, what, just aches and stuff, right?” Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha.

“Sure,” I said. “Aches and stuff that destroy your joints and get worse all through your life until you end up crippled. It’s so much fun. Everybody should have arthritis.”

“You sound bitter” he said. Uh, ya think?

Actually I’m not bitter. But he was an idiot. Teachers, it’s great to encourage community service and volunteerism and all that fun stuff. But it’s also maybe a good idea to explain to your community servants just a little about what they’re volunteering for. I’m just saying.

Anyway, the walk itself was fun even if it was stinking cold outside. We walked a mile (Arthritis Foundation– remember?) and then the kids got their faces painted and bounced in the bounce house and they even got balloon swords from a rather odd clown. It was a good time. And I took pictures. Which you now get to see.

Try to contain your excitement.

This is Dad and the boys chatting it up before the walk started.

And here’s Mom and the kids checking out the water.

Here are some pictures of the fun and slightly weirder than usual clown. He really was pretty weird. But he was nice. In a weird way. Did I mention he was weird?

He shared a big red nose with the boys. Big weirdo.

This is one of the better pictures of Ryan I’ve taken recently. Maybe because you can’t see his stupid cheesy smile face due to the large clown nose obscuring it. Whatever. Good picture– mom’s happy.

Gratuitous Sammy shot.

Face painting fun. I thought it was cool that they used foam stamps for the paintings. First they used the stamp and then the decorated it up with the paintbrushes. Is that a great idea or what? Sam got a red train on each cheek.

And Ryan surprised us by getting a train on one cheek and a car on the other.

And I surprised no one except possibly the girl who painted me by getting a blingy purple tiara. Today, I am the Princess of Arthritis Walks.

And since it was in fact, a walk, and not just a chance to spoil the kids, here is a picture of Dad and the boys actually, you know, walking.

This was, of course, only the dress rehearsal for us. Coming soon to a blog near you– the Des Moines Arthritis Walk in all it’s achy-jointed glory.

Have a great day.

woods cornfields barren wastelands where farmers would be planting their crops if Iowa would get over itself and decide it’s actually spring . . . to Grandma and Grandpa’s house we go.

My darling husband has to work lots of extra hours this weekend, so we determined that this would be a lovely time for me to pack up the rugrats, put $7,000,000 worth of gas in the van, and visit my parents. Now that might seem like my husband was either anxious to get rid of me and the children or that he was eager for an excuse to not have to visit my parents, but neither is the case. My husband loves us. I know this because he puts up with us, asking in return only that we love him, give him coffee, and leave him alone when he’s reading in the bathroom (well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. He also asks that I make him pizza occasionally. And I am, of course, glad to oblige because, well, he says I’m pretty even though when I look in the mirror I know he’s a big crazy liar).

Anyway, amazingly enough, Art also gets along beautifully with my parents. I’m pretty sure that’s because they always take his side in any argument discussion, mostly just to get on my nerves. Also, my mom buys him donuts. What’s not to love?

Seriously, before Art and I started dating, when I would come home from college for the weekend I’d open the fridge and all that would be in there would be a stick of margarine and some soy sauce (stir fried margarine, anyone?). When I started bringing Art home with me, my mom turned into a grocery-buying fool. He mentioned that he liked pineapple juice, so we’d come and there’d be six cans of pineapple juice in the fridge. He told her once that he enjoyed frosted flakes, and the next time we came home there were three boxes in the cupboard. For him to eat. In two days. At the time I was grateful that my mom really seemed to like my boyfriend. Looking back, though, I’m pretty sure she was trying to send him a message. We know she’s needy and a spaz and, oh, by the way, five years from now she’s going to be diagnosed with arthritis and whatever sap marries her is going to spend the rest of his life snapping her bra for her, but HEY!!! Check it OUT!!! Pineapple juice! What a catch!!! You know you want to marry this one!!! Please? Pretty please? What if I throw in some frosted flakes and a box of apple fritters?

That’s right, folks. My dowry was a grocery bag filled with carbohydrates. And he fell for it. BAHAHAHAHA.

Anyway, the main reason I decided to come out to my folks’ house without my darling husband was that I hate being home on the weekends when he’s working. Basically, I’m needy and I require him to be there to help me deal with the snotballs children. So instead of staying home, feeling sorry for myself that I was alone all weekend whilst he worked and slept and worked on his presentation that is due on Tuesday (you are working on your presentation, right darling? hint, hint), I decided to bring the kids to my parents’ house so that they can help me deal with them.

Aren’t they just so lucky?

So after a very long day at work that involved me and several kindergarteners finding various and sundry ways to get on each other’s nerves, we loaded up the van, gave hugs and smooches, got on the interstate, and headed west.

Actually, before we technically started heading west, while we were in fact still heading south to get to the interstate, a crisis occurred. The thingamajiggie that seals the windshield came loose and started flopping around. Today in Iowa the wind was at approximately 3,000 mph, which meant that this long skinny piece of black plastic was blowing all over the place, banging on the windshield, and generally causing a great distraction as I attempted to drive in rush hour traffic. Okay, so it was Des Moines rush hour, but hey, I live in a small town, remember? We don’t have rush hour. We tried once but everyone got stuck behind a combine so we gave it up.

It was quite clear as the black seal whatchamahoozie was thumping around on my windshield that I was not going to make it all the way to Nebraska without doing Something Significant. I thought about stopping at a truck stop to see if they had windshield seal glue, but I’m scared of truck stops ever since I once saw a naughty magazine at one. I decided that I was not going to take my three-year-old and five-year-old sons into a truck stop to ask if they had windshield thingie glue, only to be interrupted by “Mommy, why is that lady doing that?”

No, my windshield crisis would require creativity, resourcefulness, and a severe lack of dignity. Thankfully, I have all three in great abundance. I stopped at a gas station, went inside, and came back out with the secret weapon of rednecks everywhere. Two minutes (and several rather odd looks from the “gentle”men who were smoking outside the Kum N Go) later, I had transformed our Grand Caravan into a Redneck Mobile with a long strip of duct tape along the edge of the windshield.

Whatever. At least the windshield whosamabobber didn’t break the windshield or go flying off and cause an accident. My van might look stupid but, well, it’s very possible that I am the Princess of Looking Stupid so I’m cool with that.

We finally got to I-80 and began our epic journey west. Due to the prevailing west wind and the high price of gas, I’m pretty sure the 120 mile trip cost me $8,000,000. But we made it with only one potty break, which is really a fairly miraculous thing when traveling with two short people.

We passed the windmill. We passed the Propeller That Makes The World Go Round. We got sick of the dumb music on the radio and entertained ourselves with rousing renditions of some of our favorite songs, like “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” and “On Top of Spaghetti.” After many miles we finally came to the Big Green Bridge, which is the last landmark before our arrival at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We sang “Only a Boy Named David,” “Zaccheus,” “Jesus Loves Me,” and “I Had a Little Turtle.” And then . . . finally . . . we were here.

There was joy. There were hugs and kisses and showing off of new tricks (Ryan can hop on one foot! Sam can jump really high!). There was the eating of apples and the drinking of chocolate milk. There were jammies and good night kisses and hugs and excuses and snuggling of stuffed animals and special blankies. Finally there were two little tired boys tucked into beds, dreaming of tomorrow’s fun.

I love being at my parents’ house. There are very few places in the world where I know I am safe and loved and accepted unconditionally, and this is one of them. I love sitting with my dad and solving the world’s problems, or at least griping about them, and I love listening to my mom’s latest Adventures in Public Education. (Seriously y’all. You think I’m funny? I mean, I am funny, at least I think I’m funny, but it is only because I learned from a master. My mom is a riot. And my dad is pretty stinking funny too.)

Someday I hope that my sons will be as glad to come home to me as I am glad to come home to my parents. I hope that their wives will feel comfortable and loved in our home. I hope that grandma and grandpa’s house will be a place of wonderful memories for my grandkids, like I know it is for my children.

To my future daughters-in-law, tell me your favorite foods and I will gladly stock my kitchen. Even after you’re married. Because you know what happened, don’t you? Once that wedding band was on his finger, once he had been roped into this family for better or for worse and all that, my husband stopped being the Favored One on my mom’s list. She had moved on, first trying to catch my sister a man, and then, shortly after that, spoiling grandbabies. Maybe she was afraid if she kept buying Art donuts, he would never leave. Maybe she’s right, I don’t know.

I do know this. This family– this is a good family. It sucks you in and loves you and spoils you and laughs at you and with you and then sends you out into the world better than you were.

There’s no place like home.