What I learned this week

That Sharkey attends Bug Language School (taught by an Octopus of course) during the day. He takes a "coo" (school) bus there and home, which is impressive considering Sharkey is made up entirely of synthetic fibers, has two glass eyes, no legs, and we have not yet given him a house key.

That the Octopus teacher can crush the sharks because it's the king of the class.

That an Electric Sono Dragon and an Electro Sonic Dragon are two completely different things. Or maybe not.  (Or that maybe we need speech therapy.)

That my son has a medium-sized army of jumping jack ants living under his bed. They sleep with cozy blankets and pillows, are very happy and consider my son their daddy.

That if the Blackhawks versed Dernard Robinson, Dernard Robinson would win, even though he probably can't skate, because he is weally, weally fast.

That birthday cakes have to come with both chocolate and white cake in the middle because people like both and need to eat both at the same time to be happy. People don't want to have to chose. People shouldn't have to choose. People are upset when they have to choose. Specifically the two smallest people living in my house.

That a water spider is faster than a Lambroghini. It can travel 400 miles an hour. Even faster on a hardware floor in socks.

That my four year old visited a science lab at the university this week where a special germ was planted into his hand and will grow. Into what, I am not exactly sure.

That the second-best profession ever in the whole world (right behind being a fire-breathing dragon) is becoming a member of "The Great Eight."

That "The Great Eight" has something to do with hockey.

That every now and then, when I'm having a particularly good day, I am capable of making the almost perfect cup of hot chocolate. But also...

That I forgot to buy tiny marshmallows.

That my youngest son really, really loves watermelon. He promises. Really. The fact that he refuses to eat it and can't control his gag reflex when he does means nothing.

That paper beats rock. Rock beats scissors. Scissors beats paper. Hot lava beats rock. Kriptonite beats hot lava. Magic beats T-Rex (sometimes). Open window beats centipede. Tornado beats hot lava. 

That I have a lot to learn.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Nighttime Vows

Bedtime had come and gone hours before. So at 9:20 PM there was really no excuse for snuggling in bed with my boys and discussing deep topics such as how long I'm going to live, or exactly when I'm going to die. But sometimes that's just what organically happens when you're talking about Star Wars with kids. And before going to sleep both my boys wanted written confirmation that I'd live to be no less that 100 years old.

As gently as possible I tried to tell them know that I couldn't promise them how long I'd live, but that I hoped to live for many, many, many, years so that I could see them both grow up, graduate from their schools, turn into men, get married and have babies of their own.

At which point my four-and-three-quarter year old son asked me if everyone had to get married. I said no, not all all. Some people want to, and some don't. And you can decide what you want to do when you grow up. To which he announced that he was not ever going to get married. I asked why not.

"I just don't want to," he said.
"But don't you have a reason?" I asked.
"I don't like to dance," he said.
"You don't have to dance just because you get married."*** (See footnote)
He paused. "Well, what happens when you get married?"
"What do you mean, what happens?" I asked.
"Do you have to go into a room and do something?" he asked.
I paused, not sure exactly what X-Rated things he had heard on the playground. You know, in nursery school....
I pressed my luck.
"What kind of room? What kinds of things would we do?" I asked.
"With another man?" he asked.
Okay, enough.
"Yes," I said. "Actually there was another man at our wedding. He was a Rabbi and he was the man who married me and daddy. And if you get married then you will have a Rabbi, or someone else, who can marry you and your wife."
"I don't want a wife," he said.
"Who do you want to marry?" I asked.
"You."
"Okay, but say you can't marry me because I'm already married to daddy and I don't want to go to jail. Who's your next choice?"
"Lucy," he said. (Our cat.)
"Okay, fine," I say.
"Can I marry Lucy?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But let's worry about that later. You love her and that's what's most important. So here's what happens. The Rabbi will stand in front of you and your wife..."
"No, in front of me and Lucy!" he said.
"Yeah, right," I said. "You and Lucy. And you will promise each other that you will love each other forever, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, till death do you part. Meaning you'll love each other until you die no matter what happens. Isn't that sweet?"
"Yeah," he said.  "But I don't think I want to do that. Not even with you or Lucy. But maybe just with you. But I'm not sure yet."
"But I didn't get to the best part," I said.
"What's the best part?" he asked.
"After that part is over you get to have a big party with all your friends and family celebrating getting married. There is music and dancing..."
"I said I don't want to dance!" he said.
"Okay no dancing," I said. "You can all just stand around and eat cake."
"I like cake," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Can I have two pieces since it's going to be my party?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We can arrange that."
"But only I get two pieces. He (pointing to his brother's top bunk) only gets one piece."
"I think there will be plenty of cake for everyone," I said.
"No I don't think so," he said. "Anyway, he (again point toward his big brother) might not be invited."
"Oh he'll be there," I said. "Everyone who loves you will be there."
"Can I invite my whole class?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Your whole nursery school class can come."
"Can I invite Oliver?" (Best friend from school)
"Of course. I'm sure Oliver would be very excited to come."
"Okay, then I want to do that."
"Good," I said.  "Then we've got half the plans set. We just need to find you a wife. Just remember, no babies until you have a wife."
"I don't want babies," he said.
"You don't want to be a daddy?"
"Not really," he said. "Unless you're the mommy. Can you still be the mommy? You're a good mommy. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm happy with you. Because tonight I ate my raspberries and you still didn't give me a treat. And that's not fair."
"No I can't be the mommy of your baby," I said. "You need to find another girl to be your wife and the mommy. But not for 20 years."
"What if my wife doesn't have a baby?" he asked. "What if a cat comes out of her tummy instead? Can that happen? How can I get the cat into the mommy's tummy?"

I check the clock. 9:45. I give my littlest guy a kiss on the cheek and a big hug and say goodnight.
And I promise to address that topic in another few years.

FOOTNOTE: ***No. My husband and I do not dance regularly, or even irregularly, at home. I have no clue where he got this idea.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

The Rules of the Game

I've never really played soccer so I admit I don't know all the rules of the game. But I know some. I know that you are supposed to kick the ball into the other team's net. And you can't use your hands. But my six-year-old son has taken several soccer classes now and knows a bit more than me. So yesterday when we went to the park I deferred to him.

Me: Okay, we need teams and there are only three of us so I can just watch and referee.

Older son: No. You two (pointing to me and my youngest son) are on different teams. I'm the judge.

Me: It's referee, not judge.

Son: Mommy, listen....

Me: Okay, okay go on.

Son: We can't use a soccer ball. We're using my Bakugan ball because it will explode and a regular soccer ball won't. At level two you both have to play and when one of you gets frozen then the other has to score quickly unless the ball is also frozen, which can happen in this game -- it really can -- and it might happen if you're not fast enough. So you have to be fast. Are you going to be fast.?

Me: (Looking at my flip-flops) Maybe...

Son: So you have to tag the other person, but not if you're frozen or if the ball has exploded because you got the bad guy half.

Me: What bad guy?

Son: Just listen....I'm telling you!

Me: Okay.

Son: Okay, I'm not sure who is the bad guy yet. But you can also punch. But there is a code over there (pointing to trees that back up to Metra tracks) but you have to unlock the code before it explodes...

Me: Before what explodes?

Son: (clearly exhasperated with my ignorance) The ball....

Me: Of course. Go on.

Son: Okay, so mommy, you're it. You're frozen though for 10 minutes and cannot move. He (pointing to little brother) has the ball. And also, I'm going to be frozen too and the only way to unfreeze me is to crawl between my legs. But remember that the ball is fine. Until it explodes. You have to throw the ball at me but you can't hit my head or my legs and if I get back to base first before it explodes or the lock is opened then I'm not it anymore. But you have to let me have a head-start and then only try and get me. But remember I can't be frozen. Okay?

Younger son: What if I get thirsty?

Son: There are no water breaks allowed. (Pause) Mommy? Where is our water?

Me: Right here....

Son: Is it still cold? Can I have some?

Me: Sure....

Son: Okay, so I'm the captain but only until you free me. Or open the lock. Don't forget about the lock.

Me: Okay, fine. What else?

Son: No squeezing.

Me: No squeezing what?

Son: No squeezing necks.

Me: Yes, that's a good idea.

Younger son: I don't wanna play.

Me: No, this is good. Let's play. What else do we need to know?

Son: That's it. That's the game.

Me: Really, that's it?

Son: Yes. Well, that's level two. Levels three and four get much harder.

Me: Wait, what's level one?

Son: Regular soccer.

Game on.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Tucked out

Endings upset me. I'm not picky, it doesn't matter what kind of an ending it is. A book ending, a relationship ending, a favorite TV show...they all make me sad.  Even the endings I've been looking forward to (leaving our old home) tend to upset me because it's change and I struggle with change.

So it is probably a good thing that I wasn't aware that the last night I snuggled with my six-year-old in his bed would be the last night I would really be able to do so.

When we moved into our new home a few weeks ago we set their beds up as bunk beds. My oldest son couldn't wait to sleep up on top. And my little guy couldn't wait for his older brother to sleep up on top. Until he realized that meant he couldn't see his brother when he was talking to him. Then he decided it was a horrible idea. He stopped speaking to me for seven minutes in protest.

But still, we did it.

A guy came to set them up. When he was finished he asked how we liked it. We all agreed that it was great. He grabbed his tools and left. I didn't realize at that moment that he was also taking a piece of my oldest son's childhood with him when shut the door behind him.

Within minutes both boys were scrambling up the ladder to see how cool the top bunk really was. One thing lead to another and within seconds I was screaming at them to stop shoving and pushing on the ladder, that there was to be no wresting -- EVER -- on that top bunk, or leaning over the side, or jumping up and down, or even breathing too heavily for fear of it collapsing or I would take it apart with my own two hands and they would have to sleep side by side again and then they wouldn't have room for the Lego table in their room anymore.

My younger son pouted as he crawled down. My older son ignored me. Or maybe he just couldn't hear me all the way up there.

So I climbed the ladder to make sure he knew the rules about sleeping in the top bunk. He was already giving it a test run, nestled under his Spider Man blanket surrounded by his favorite animals. I called out his name once. Twice.

Nothing.

I shook his leg.

He told me to leave him alone, he was practicing sleeping.

I took another step up to climb in bed with him and stopped. I realized that the top bunk probably was not meant to hold a 40+-pound boy, his mommy and all of his dolls. Or maybe it was, but with my younger son pouting in his bed directly beneath me I didn't want to take the chance. So I climbed down. And with every step on the ladder I felt my older son drifting farther and farther away.

I'm being melodramatic of course. I excel at that. But I was sad because I realized in that moment that my days of snuggling with my first baby were essentially over. Sure I'd have that chance on vacations or any place were they weren't in bunk beds. But at home those moments were gone. And by the time they were tired of bunk beds, or too big for them, they'd certainly be too big for mommy to lay in bed with them, scratching their backs and asking about their day.

Instead, from now on I'd be kissing him goodnight before sending him up the ladder into his bed. Any snuggles that he'd get would be in his small chair on the floor. Any nighttime stories would have to be told, not cuddled in bed, but sitting on the floor or in his brother's bottom bunk with his brother complaining that he didn't have enough room with all three of us in there and that "Baby Ankylosaurus" was getting squished, which in this house is akin to crimes against humanity.

I know not everyone believes it's good to get in bed with your kids. Independent sleep is important. No one knows that better than this mom who's first child began boycotting sleep just as all of his peers were realizing 10+ hours was a good thing. So we never let the kids sleep in our bed with us. We wanted them comfortable in their own room, in their own beds. Happily independent. But still, no matter how spent we were at day's end, we crawled into theirs every night for a few minutes. And the snuggles were as much for us as for them. Faced with the horribly unfair realization that their day was over, they suddenly remembered all the information they had "forgotten" right after school or camp or a play date that they wanted to share with us. Nothing like the threat of sleep to spur a six-year-old's memory.

It was often the best part of my day. Partially because it meant I would finally have some of that elusive "me" time, and partially because in their cozy dinosaur pajamas, under their Spider Man comforters, they were sweeter, happier, more loving and less likely to launch a Matchbox Car at my head.

We'd check on them periodically throughout the night and make sure their bodies weren't hanging sideways off the bed, their covers were up around their chins, and their dollies were easily reachable when they woke up. I'd marvel at how these same faces, peaceful, innocent and angelic, were the same ones that were trying to mutilate each other just hours earlier.

Now, I can no longer even see my son sleeping all the way up in his bunk, beneath his covers. I can't put my finger under his nose or on his chest to confirm breath. Instead I now comfort myself by feeling around under the blankets to find a warm ankle or toe. A little tickle to the foot followed by a small kick tells me everything's okay. I'm adapting.

The week before we moved into our new home we stayed at my aunt and uncle's house.  The last night there I crawled into their twin, non-bunk bed beds and snuggled with them. We talked about our old house and the new one we were moving into the next morning. We discussed where we'd put things (no the litter box wasn't going next to mommy's side of the bed.) After half-an-hour I kissed them goodnight and got up. My older son asked me to stay longer but I said no. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. They needed to get to sleep. And I left.

Had I realized that that was one of the last nights to snuggle with him in bed I would have stayed there longer.

Not much longer.  Just another 12 years or so.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Hangman with a four-year-old

It's a Life Sentence on facebook.

20 Questions

We commute. Therefore we play twenty questions in the car. A lot. In the beginning it was just silly. Our six-year-old always chose T-Rex. Our four-year-old, Spiderman. And I mean Every. Single. Time. It would have been horrendously boring if it wasn't such a riot.

But now, a year or two later, their minds have expanded they have a whole new wealth of ideas. Now that they're no longer limited to web slinging superheroes and carnivores it's actually gotten tricky.

Today's game with my four-year-old was one for the records.

Son: Okaaaay. I got it!
Me: Is it alive?
Son: Uh, no. I mean yes. Okay, no. No it's definitely not alive. I don't think.
Me: Did it used to be alive?
Son: No.
Me: Is it a toy?
Son:( LONG PAUSE) No.
Me: Is it a place?
Son: No. Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a thing?
Son: Yes. But it's not alive. It is NOT a bird.
Me: Okay. Thanks. Have you seen one before?
Son: Yes.
Me: Here in Chicago.
Son: No. It's not in Chicago.
Me: Is it in another state?
Son: Yes. Do you want a hint?
Me: Sure.
Son: It's red.
Me: Red. Hm, okay. Did we see it in Utah?
Son: Yes. Actually, no. Actually, I'm not so sure about that.
Me: Did we see it in Florida?
Son: Yes.
Me: On Spring Break?
Son: (EXCITED) Yesssss....do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a swimming pool?
Son. Nooo. Pools aren't red mommy. Do you want another hint?
Me: No. Not yet.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IT WOULD BE RED IF A SHARK SWAM INTO THE POOL AND ATE EVERYONE IN IT. IT WOULD BE RED BECAUSE THERE WOULD BE BLOOD.
Me: Okay, stop. He already said it's not a pool.
Son. Okay. Do you want a hint?
Me: Yes.
Son: It's a crescent shape.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IS IT THE MOON?
Son: Stop talking to me you can't play cheater! Only mommy can play!!!!
Me: Is it the moon?
Son: No.
Me: Okay, so it's red and it's a crescent.
Son: NOOOOO. I said it's kinda red and it is also kinda a crescent shape.
Me: And it's not a toy?
Son: No.
Me:  Was it in Key West?
Son: Let me think.
(REALLY LONG PAUSE)
Son: I'm not sure. Ask me something else.
Me: Is it stone crabs?
Son. No. How many questions do you have left?
Me: Nineteen.
Son. Okay. Ask more. But I can't tell you what other color it is because then you'll weally, weally know what it is!
Me: Oh, it's not just red?
Son: No, but I can't tell you that. You have to guess!
Me: Okay, is it another color than red?
Son: (PAUSE) Yes.
Me: Is it purple?
Son: No.
Me: And it's not in Chicago?
Son: It IS in Chicago. It's in every city. Every state in the whole wide world.
Me. Oh...you said it was not in Chicago.
Son. Yes it IS. It's everywhere.
Son: Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No. Not ye...
Son. It's a WATERMELON!!!!!
Me: Ohhhh. Watermelon. That's a good one.
OLDER SON SCREAMING: WATERMELONS AREN'T CRESCENTS UNLESS YOU TAKE A BITE! YOU SHOULD HAVE PICKED THE MOON! THAT IS CRAZY! MY TURN!

Older Son: Okay, I got it!
Me: Is it alive?

And I thought Hangman was fun.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.

Toy Story

I can't count how much money we've spent at Toy's R Us, Legoland, Target and Amazon in the past six years. Let's just say we could have fed, housed and put a small country through the Ivy Leagues for the same amount.

We are happy to do it. The way our boys' faces light up when they open up a gift they have been "wanting for years and years and years" (despite the fact they are only six and four-and-a-half) makes it worth it.

Or it did until last week.

This summer, like last, we are spending four weeks at my mom's house in central Illinois so the kids can go to the same swim camp that I went to at their age. It's small town living and a nice, necessary, break from the city. The boys absolutely love it. Nothing is far here and we get around much "quicklier" than we do in the city. They can run around in a backyard for eight hours straight (in tennis shoes, not sandals because they are city kids and they don't like the feel of grass on their skin.) Spend lazy afternoons hunting and analyzing all kinds of bugs we just don't have in the city (thank god!) And ultimately make me realize that my husband and I, and all our relations, may have wasted a small fortune on toys for them.

The other day when they came home from camp they walked in the front door of the house, straight through the house and right back outside the back door. They spent the next hour punishing each other with Super Soaker Water Guns. I mentally patted myself on the back for thinking of this gift and actually remembering to tell my husband before he went toy shopping last week. (It was a birthday week, we don't have weekly toy-shopping trips.) However, the smugness was fleeting.

Soaking wet and tired of pulling the trigger, my oldest (now six) tossed the gun aside and pulled out the garden hose and a small plastic bucket that looked like it had been made at the turn of the century – and not this most recent century. He filled the bucket with water and a little dirt and then "sat" down next to it in that crouched squat that only very young kids and hard-core Yogis can do for extended periods of time. He stared into the murky waters, one arm protectively curled around the edge of the bucket, the other gripping a bug-catcher we picked up from Walgreens last summer.

I didn't pay much attention to what he was doing....for the first 15 minutes, that is. But after 45 minutes, when he was still squatting and staring into the bucket I became curious and asked what he was up to. He was too absorbed with whatever was happening inside that bucket to answer and waved me away. He didn't even look up.

Another 30 minutes passed. He barely moved a muscle. He got up once to check out an ant his brother was inspecting and then he went right back to squat central. Another hour passed.

Any and all attempts I made to ask what he was doing were waved away. I took some pictures, which annoyed him, but didn't distract him enough to move. He spent the rest of the afternoon squatting down in front of that old bucket filled with muddy, grassy water. Just staring into its depths and occasionally poking at it with his bug catcher.

I looked from him into my mom's living room, where it looked like Toys' R Us had projectile vomited all over the floor. It was littered with Legos, Matchbox cars, 1,000 Kapla Blocks (I had my mom get as a 6th birthday present), tiny plastic animals, crayons and coloring pads. Hundreds of dollars of entertainment. And my son was spending hours squatting over an old bucket filled with water.

I took another picture of him and sent it to my husband letting him know that we were no longer going to buy more toys. All we needed was a hose, bucket and some dirt.

The next day was a repeat. Toys were glanced at but largely ignored en route from the front door to the back door which my oldest son slammed open and shut before refilling another bucket with some mud and water. He added a few ants, grabbed his bug catcher and crouched down again to sit and watch. This time his little brother joined in the fun, making "Icky Chocolate Poop Soup" with basically the same ingredients: an old bucket, water, dirt, grass and bugs. Sand shovels were used as whisks as my little prep cook stirred and stared. Another afternoon passed.

I cleaned up the toys inside, taking apart the elaborate block structure I had been told to leave alone five days earlier. But I was tired of stepping over it. Half-finished Legos were set aside. Cars extracted from under the couch. I expected full blown rage over the dismantled block structure. I shouldn't have worried. They didn't notice.

I'll admit that at first I was a little annoyed that they weren't playing with all the toys I had brought down for them.  I had driven myself somewhat crazy trying to make sure that I had filled my car with anything and everything they might want to do while we were downstate.

Turns out it wasn't necessary. The only thing I really needed to do was call my mom and make sure there was no drought prohibiting people from turning on the water.

Seeing my boys so mesmerized with something so simple actually made me happy. It took me back to my own childhood. Not that I was content with just a stick and a ball, please I'm not that old. We had toys and dolls and Star Wars action figures and Legos and, well, you name it, we had it. We just didn't have as much stuff as my boys have today.

But the thing is, I don't really remember the toys. Aside from the stuff my mom kept and pulls out for my own boys today, I just don't remember playing with toys that much, although I know I did. What I remember is the time I spent outside at home and at my own grandpa's house in Alabama. Kicking open huge ant houses and watching the millions of little critters scurry around dizzingly trying to regroup. Discovering the bunny rabbits who had babies by the garden. Watching the fish swim in their pond. Worms covering the sidewalks after it rained. The simple things. That is what left an indelible mark on my memory. It has nothing to do with toys or stuff.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that my husband and I can give our kids so much. But the reality is that none of it really matters. None of these things will be what they carry with them in their minds when they grow up. It's the memories they make with the odd shovel and pail of water that really count. And money can't buy that.

We live in the city and so I sometimes worry that my boys won't have the chance to make those same memories. Sure, we are surrounded by parks and playgrounds and big grassy areas for our boys to run and play in. But they all require an "Outing." Bags are packed up, water bottles are filled and nerves are tested being out of bathroom range. Being able to spend hours squatting over a muddy bucket just doesn't happen at home because Mommy has to get home to make dinner.

And so it's rare that the boys can experience the simple pleasure of just running around in a backyard, chasing "flierflies"until they can't even see each other anymore through the dark. And so down here, this summer, their joy is evident. And contagious.

I realize that by bringing my boys down to a small town for the summer I'm actually able to give them the biggest gifts of all. Nature. Freedom. And space.

And, of course, bugs.

So perhaps for the next three months our investment in all the toys we've bought will not payoff.  But I don't care. Come January we will see huge returns as temperatures once again plunge into the "Wait, Why Don't We Live in Southern California?" zone.

Until then, it's a loss I'm happy to take.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.