A new family member . . .

Recently my husband sat down at the dinner table and began conversation like this: "I think we always need to have a derelict boat in our possession." Those who know my husband will think this is a perfectly typical thing to come out of his mouth. And it is. Those who don't know him should know that he grew up boating. Sailing. Dinghy boating. Power boating. You name it. I myself grew up on a farm. There was no time or interest in boating on my family's part so my first real experiences were when I met my husband. I love the water, so I'm happy to be a part of our own little boating family. But I do have limits.

Let's get back to derelict boats. I was quick to point out that we were already in possession of a perfectly derelict boat in my parent's barn in Indiana. He retorted that we were planning to "fix her up." So we needed a new derelict boat and bygolly he knew just the one. It was a great deal and it was in New York.

Reluctantly, I agreed to buy the boat. It was a good deal, even I knew that. And as long as we have parents who are willing to loan us barn space for a boat to tinker on, really, I don't care.

So off Ian went to New York to buy the boat. Now, when I say New York I should clarify that we are talking just north of New York City. Ian buys the boat, her name is Phoebe Snow (We will rechristen her when she is up and running. Boat naming in our family is almost as important as child naming so we aren't settled on a name just yet.) To get the boat home Ian has to cross over the George Washington Bridge. If you aren't familiar with this bridge it crosses the Hudson River from Manhattan to New Jersey.

I'm not sure if Ian has ever been in the city before but I know he's never towed an old jalopy boat through. And things are not in your favor when said old boat is on an even older trailer. The trailer fairly disintegrated on the bridge.

Ian managed to locate and get to a trailer dealer somewhere nearby. Puzzled that the trailer even made it across their parking lot let alone across the George Washington Bridge the old boys at the shop told Ian they couldn't repair it. So they helped him find a place that had a new trailer in stock. Of course, that place was an hour and a half back where Ian came from. So he left the trailer there and headed out to buy a new trailer.

As Ian is telling me this story I am wondering how on earth he got the boat from the old trailer to the new trailer. This apparently weighed on his mind and those of the fellows that were currently in possession of the boat. They helped him find a local fishing pond and carefully get the boat launched and onto the new trailer.

And how exactly did he dispose of the old trailer? Lucky for him the trailer place had about fifty old, rusty trailers laying around. Some with large trees growing up through them. These weren't the kind of guys to say no to an old trailer. So they suggested he just "park 'er over there." He did.

Our good deal turned out to not be such a good deal. At least she has a new trailer. And a good story.

Roadtrip with the Clan: Day One (recapped)

Editor's note: I should have started this a few days ago but, I didn't. So you get some recaps. They are worth waiting for, I assure you.

Roadtrip

Driving anywhere more than five minutes with my children is always a test of anyone's patience. So embarking on a multi-leg, multi-state, multi-great-grandmother is bound to be interesting. And just because this is how it always happens with me, this trip started off with a bang.

About thirty minutes into the trip I was taking mental inventory:

Clothes. Check.
Swimsuits. Check.
Movies. Books. Electronic diversions. Check.
Blue doggie. Check.
Blue bear. Check.
Snacks. Drinks. Treats. Check.
Mommy's meds. Check.
Berkeley's meds. Check.
Parker's meds. Check.
Griffin's meds. Crap.

Now, Griffin is asthmatic, has eczema and anaphylactic food allergies. He is just not a kid you can leave the meds behind for. So, we turned around.

We started off on the wrong foot. But we made it my parent's house in Indiana and the boys enjoyed their romp around the farm and obligatory Arni's pizza before hitting the sack and hitting the road the next day to drive to my grandma on my dad's side in Kansas.

It's funny the things they remember.

This weekend my husband was wearing his Tilley hat. In case you are unaware of what exactly a Tilley is you might want to check out this link. In a nutshell, it's a hat. But a special hat. So, Ian is wearing his Tilley and somehow he and Griffin were talking about it. Eventually Griffin asked his daddy if this was the hat that we saved during a sailing race.

This elicited a huge roaring laugh from me. Why? Because the legend of the saved hat is not one I would have expected my five year old to remember. He is a lot like me, he can't remember where his shoes are, or his backpack, or his hard earned pocket money, but he remembers a story that happened well before he was born.

Once upon a time my husband and I used to race a sailboat together. We spent many a fun Sunday with friends, racing a dinghy. We didn't usually win, but we almost always had lots of fun. Before we were even married I bought us these matching North Face hats. They were perfect for racing: lightweight and floatable. (I would like to point out that as we embark on our second decade of marriage I am no longer likely to be seen wearing anything matching my husband.)

Fast forward to a race one summer day. It was an extra windy day as I remember. In fact, I am pretty sure we dumped the boat. Not to be deterred, we righted her and went on our way without a prayer to win or even come in anything but dead last. As you can imagine, we lost our matching hats in the experience. But in a dinghy race you run around some points several times. In this case, we came back around and right by one of the hats so as we sailed by I hiked out and grabbed the hat. The other one was in view but just out of reach. I figured (and commented) that we could get it the next time around.

Here we are, dead last, coming up on the mark, floating hat in sight. But, oh no. The hat is slightly, and I do mean slightly, off course. Did I mention we were dead last? Since we probably weren't likely to regain any position I casually suggest that we alter the course just a bit and get the other hat. After all, we needed our matching hats! But, OH NO!!! That was not happening. Captain Ian would not alter the course and save my hat. It's probably out there somewhere to this day!

Somewhere along the lines we've told our kids that story. I'm sure my version is different from Ian's. Mine ends with a sarcastic eye rollling about the time that Daddy wouldn't save my hat. His ends with some tall tale about how you never alter your course. He's forgotten about the time he fell off the boat and I altered the course to turn around and pick him up!

The moral of the story is: you never know what your kids are going to remember, so choose your words and stories wisely.

The other moral of the story is: never wear matching hats with your husband. Nothing good ever comes of it.

Annual Physicals Times Three

Yesterday was the day. I never know if it is smarter to go the the doctor three times with each kid privately or just suck it up and take them all at the same time. It sure saves me time to take them all together but I'm not sure if the headache is worth it.

We were greeted at the office with a big "Hi boys!" They actually send two nurses back to weigh and chart and check blood pressure and all that goes along with a physical. I'm not sure if this is to make things run more smoothly or just because they want to get us out of there.

While my kids were jumping and singing and generally making spectacles of themselves, one of the nurses was laughing and saying how much she always enjoys our visits. Really? She must just be nice.

First Berkeley got his temperature taken. He opted for under the arm. Then Parker, again under the arm. When it was Griffin's turn she asked him what whether he wanted the thermometer in his mouth or under his arm. He literally rolled his eyes at her and said, "Arm. OF COURSE!!! Don't you know about germs?"

I was reminded at this point about the time growing up that my parents were gone and my little brother starting not feeling well and wanted me to take his temperature. I have no idea how old we were but I do distinctly remember getting the only thermometer I knew about in the house and sticking it in his mouth. He immediately spit it out and fairly freaked out. I guess I'd used a sheep rectal thermometer. I don't know if my dad washes those things off after each use but I have my theories!

On we go yesterday. There was some discussion of whether or not their vaccinations were up to date. This elicted a look of absolute panic on Berkeley's face. He tried to be brave but, well, he's just not. Griffin on the other hand is. Griffin told Berkeley that if he needed a shot he'd better be good or the doctor would have to use duct tape and gorilla glue to hold him down.

Now I've been with Berkeley when he's had shots and I've heard stories about myself at this age and I know that there is no way that duct tape and gorilla glue would do anything to keep this kid down if there was a needle coming towards him. It takes an army.

As if Berkeley wasn't insulted enough at the possibility of shot, the nurse handed him a cup and told him to go pee in it. That didn't go over very well. Neither did the suggestion that I could help him. (That offer, I will admit, was more for my viewing pleasure. I have no idea how exactly I would help him but I was pretty certain that he would refuse and with spectacle. I was right.)

After that, things calmed down and I was treated to a rousing rendition of the SpongeBob SquarePants song while waiting for the doc. He rushed through the exams and got us out the door just in time to meet Daddy in the hallway. Where was he when I needed him?

I think next year we will divide and conquer. Either that or I will have girlfriends lined up for a margarita immediately after.

Just this morning a friend and I were texting about life, balancing our businesses and raising children. She said in her parting text, "Buckle your seatbelt and hang on for a wild ride." Indeed.

Are you sure you are my child?

My kids are built in alarm clocks. I can count on one hand the times they've slept in until 7:30. Apparently there is so much going on they simple can't sleep in and miss a darn thing. Until this morning. We woke up at 8:38 a.m. This is a problem when the school bus comes at 8:12 a.m. and the bell for school rings at 8:45 a.m.

As soon as I realize what time it is and that we are all still in our PJs I calmly walk into my oldest son's room and say that it's late. We need to get up, get dressed, and grab something we can eat in the car.

"What (sobbing)!!! We missed the bus. My whole day is ruined. I wanted to ride the bus (wailing)."

"I'm sorry, there is nothing we can do about it. Now, get dressed and let's get going."

The house is now filled with the shrieking histrionics of my seven year old. Nonetheless, I move on to my five year old.

"We are late. Please get dressed."

"Ok." (Mercifully, today he is his usual easy going self.)

More histrionics from the first born: "I've missed the bus. I'm probably going to get there during calendar. This is awful." All this is said at massive decibels with interjected wails and cries. Really, I'm trying to remain calm but I want to whoop him upside the head.

30 seconds later. "Mommy!!!!!! It's your fault. I'm going to miss gym now."

"Ummm. The only one who is going to make you miss gym is you! You still aren't dressed and you are sitting here crying. Get a move on and you probably won't even miss calendar."

Finally we get downstairs. Finally everyone is somewhat calm . . . until we discover that there are not enough chocolate granola bars to go around. A new round of hysterics begin, at which point I eat all the chocolate granola bars and tell them to get in the car.

Peace resumes when I drop them off at school and get home to a steaming mug of tea.

It is days like these that I am reminded that part of our job as parents is to teach kids that life doesn't always go according to the plan. That we must always learn to roll with the punches, even when they knock us down.

Mommy! I like your honeychuckle.

Two years ago we inherited a yard that had never been loved. We moved into a newish neighborhood that had been a severe casualty of the Michigan economy. Our house was two years old but had never been lived in. As a result, the yard was, well . . . a mess. Slowly but surely we are making some progess. It's been trial and error. "Newish" neighborhoods generally have been stripped of their topsoil so it takes a lot of TLC to get plants going and each spring I poke around to see what survived the winter. More of those go in and some new things too. Today I got something new. I intended to buy a clematis. I have one growing up the front of the house that is thriving. Why deviate from what works, right? Well, I was sucked in by the fragrance of the honeysuckle and anything that might encourage the hummingbirds to hang around is good in my book. So, I bought one. Maybe it will survive, maybe it won't, but I'm willing to give it a shot.

So, it was sitting in the driveway when the boys got home from school. Immediately, Griffin wanted to know what it was. "A honeysuckle. This weekend we will plant it together." Later I saw him sneaking another peek at it and he told me "Mommy, I really like your new honeychuckle."

Honeychuckle, in deed. The plant may not survive but that quip will live on in my head forever. I love the things kids say!

The first post.

Years ago. In the days when you had to actually pay for a blog (insert gasp here, from those who didn't even know such a day existed), I started a blog. The blog was called "My Life With Boys." At the time I had one husband, two sons and no pets. Said husband and sons were always sending me into hysterics with their antics. I didn't want to forget the antics and I was tired of calling all of our out of state relatives to regale them with the charming stories of my life. So, I bought a blog. Life rolled on. I started a business. I discovered facebook. I slowly stopped adding to my blog. Then, recently, I realized that I was beginning to narrate my life in my head "facebook" style. I could spend hours writing a quippy one liner in my head. I will remain faithful to my facebook addiction with the re-introduction of my blog but the time has come for me to once again embrace a former passion: admitting in a very public way that my life is crazy.

There you have it. Welcome to the new and improved: MY LIFE WITH BOYS. I hope you will come back.