Thank You

So...when we woke up yesterday morning we had no milk. My boys are cereal lovers, which meant we had a small problem. Nothing that couldn't be fixed by a quick trip to the milk store, however. Typically I make this trip by myself while everyone else in the family is still sleeping. The little men had been wanting to "help" me with this errand for a while, though, so I decided yesterday was the day.

We got dressed, loaded the milk crate with empty bottles into the wagon, and headed off down the street, enjoying the brisk fall morning as we went.

It looked a little bit like this:

It always does.

While we were finishing up our business in the store, an older gentleman walked in, looked at the boys, and asked me if all 3 were mine. I answered him nonchalantly in the affirmative, not really paying much attention, and expecting him to follow up with the usual "you-have-your-hands-full" type of comment that comes off more as a commercial for birth control or a critique of my parenting than anything else.

He surprised me.

"Wonderful. Just wonderful," he said with a smile.

I didn't really know how to respond. "I've got lots of helpers, that's for sure."

"They sure do try, anyway," he continued, still positive in his outlook.

I smiled and nodded, still taken aback at his unusual response to seeing a woman with 3 very young children actually dare to set foot into a store with all of them.

After a beat I said, "Thank you. Thank you for saying that. It's not very often I hear somebody say anything other than that it must be rough."

He just smiled again and replied, "Well, I've got 4 of my own."

Back to the Grind

Today was the first day of pre-K for these big boys...and a busy busy day it was for us.

We started the morning with a bath and a haircut. Nolan requires convincing each time, as he is still waiting for his hair to grow out and has bad memories about our last time at an actual hair salon. Truthfully, so do I.

Today was also the first day of the twins' gymnastics class and Shorty's music class, so off we went to the YMCA. Did you know they have everything for young men to enjoy? It's true.

Things 1 & 2 loved their gymnastics class. Especially jumping and falling backwards into the foam pit. Who doesn't love that? Shorty informed his music teacher several times, "I'm done with this class." Clearly, she was overwhelmed by his politeness.

We made a quick trip home for lunch and a change of clothes for the twins. I couldn't have them headed to their first day of school in sweaty gym clothes. They wouldn't have minded, I'm sure. But I'm a sucker for new outfits. And new shoes. Because shoes can make or break an outfit.

Off we trekked again to the YMCA to drop the big boys off at school while the Little Man and I planned to go shopping just the two of us. He wasn't too sure of the fun factor in that.

 

It was super fun to see a bunch of familiar faces (and pose for a photo opp) just before heading inside.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 didn't even look back to wave "goodbye" to me and Shorty, who said with the most pathetic little voice as we were leaving, "Now I have no friends."

Hopefully he will decide that I can be his friend while his brothers are away for a few hours. Otherwise, it is going to be a long school year..

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Shorty.

He asked me to help him dig through the "cars box" to find two cars that have somehow disappeared. We dug. No cars.

He picked up the box to take it back to his room and put it away -- such a sweet and obedient child, my third one.

He tripped in the doorway of his room, sending cars rolling across the floor in all directions. After a moment of screaming, followed by a moment of silent contemplation of the mess, he clomped his way back to me.

Shorty: I need you to pick up all those cars. Then give me a kiss. Because that's your job.
Me: That's my job?
Shorty: Yes. To clean the cars then give me a kiss.
Me: Okay, buddy, let's go clean up the cars.
Shorty: No. You need to do it by yourself. It's your problem. It's not my problem.

Like I said...sweet, obedient...

Oh, boy.

what a day!

It seems to me that today was fairly typical of much of our summer vacation. It was filled with moments of great fun juxtaposed with moments of complete frustration and near meltdowns.

Perhaps there was even an actual meltdown.

It might have been mine. We will not mention the individual who did, in fact, melt down.

We started off the day slowly, sleeping in and taking our time moving from pajamas to actual clothes. We indulged our laziness by watching Sid the Science Kid and Sesame Street.

 

I love those guys. Really, I do.

We moved straight from pj's to swimming trunks and sunscreen, ready to go celebrate a classmate's birthday at Splash City. There were some unexpected tears regarding goggles, of all things. They had to be worn. There was no debating that with the Twinkies. However, Thing 2 was adamant that his be worn loosely, so that the strap drooped in the back and the goggles themselves barely stayed in front of his eyes.

I tried to argue. I threatened to call the whole adventure off. I was an exemplary parent and chose to pick my battles. He wore his goggles loose, droopy, and pointless.

After wiping away some tears and rubbing some puffy eyes, we made our way to the party. It was super fun. The kids had a blast, and looked adorable doing it.

They swam, they slid, they jumped, they floated. They got tired. They got hungry. They got cranky. They did NOT want to leave.

 

There were a few more tears, but we shuffled our way to the locker room and got changed. Thing 1 then noticed that his goggles were missing. Where are they? I asked. And what are we going to do if they are lost? He was pretty sure I would just buy him another pair with my money.

Ha.

After some more pouty faces, we finally got out to the parking lot and loaded ourselves into the unbearably hot car. That is when things started to get interesting.

I stuck the key into the ignition, and the car wouldn't start. No. Wait. That's not quite right. They key wouldn't even turn. I jiggled. I wiggled. I messed with the gear shifter. For. Nearly. Twenty. Minutes.

Then I called the hubby. Only to find out that he was in the middle of working on a dish machine, had just sliced his forehead open on a door, cut most of the tip of his thumb off, and was generally frustrated with both the first aid station available to him (his thumb was bandaged up with a paper towel and electrical tape) and the situation with the appliance he was attempting to fix.

Needless to say, he was not of much use to me at that time.

So. I called my dad.

Have I mentioned how nice it is to be close to family? Well, it is.

He immediately hopped in his van to come and rescue us from the heat, hunger, and exhaustion that was quickly wreaking havoc on our already tenuous moods. After we got the kiddos buckled into the rescue vehicle, he asked if he could try to start my car.

Sure, Dad. Good luck.

I handed him my keys. Two point three seconds later, my car's engine roared to life.

Yeah.

It's been one of those days Summers.

snip, snip

I like shaggy hair on my little men.

I figure they've got their whole grown-up existence to wear a fade. Not everyone agrees with me on this point, though. Apparently, the woman who "trimmed" their hair yesterday doesn't like long hair on boys.

They have school pictures today, so I thought it was a good excuse for a little trim & reshaping of the boys' locks. I should have turned around & run for the hills when the stylist loudly exclaimed about the length of their hair & how desperately they needed a haircut as soon as we walked in the shop.

I didn't.

I put my sweet, shaggy-haired Thing 1 into her chair and told her I was looking for a trim, maybe an inch and to make it lie properly again. She started at the back. Things were looking pretty good. Then she grabbed the front of his hair and told him to hold still while she "got all of that hair out of his face."

And gave my son eyebrow-length bangs.

After she finished chopping off his golden tresses, she dusted him off and informed him that he now had "a long, boy's haircut."

Since I hadn't managed to save his brother, I decided to sacrifice Thing 2's hair as well. I helped him into the chair, took a deep breath, and told her to give him "the same." His ended up even shorter somehow.

She was quite friendly, chatting with me about the twins as she hacked at their hair. She asked if they were identical & commented that Thing 2 seemed smaller. I replied that he was about an inch shorter, plus the shoes he had picked to wear that day were flatter (Thing 1 had on regular tennis shoes, Thing 2 was wearing loafers).

Her response: Well, you don't want them in high heels when they've got long hair.

Um. Pretty sure Lightning McQueen sneakers are nowhere near ladies shoes.

I have become convinced that this woman thought it was her personal duty to make sure my little men had haircuts that conformed to her standards of acceptable for boys. Can a hairstylist be a political activist?

Here they are, still handsome as ever, but not looking at all like themselves...just in time for school pictures.

P.S. In case you are wondering, W has been pretty vocal about preferring his hair long, like it was before. N thought his was okay at first and then realized that he couldn't chew on it anymore, so he changed his mind.