Boy Mom

Before I became a "boy mom" I used to think there wasn't much difference between boys and girls. BOY, oh BOY was I wrong.

While I was pregnant, I craved KFC with lots of gravy. I knew right then and there (well before any ultrasound could confirm) that I was having a boy. A girl would simply NOT do that to her mother.

Last week, Ben was riding in the van after yoga class (his, not mine):
B: Mommy, which teacher is Miss Lindsay?
H: What?
B: Mommy. At "yoda". Which one is Miss Lindsay?
H: She had on the yellow shirt.
B: (dreamy look in his eyes) Oh. Miss Lindsay with the boobs.
H: What?
B: Jeez, Mom. Not BIG ones. Just boobs like this... (he put his hand under his shirt and pushed it out just a small amount... you know... to make "not big ones".) What's the other teacher?
H: Trina?
B: Yes. Trina has the BIIIIIGGGG boobs.

Saturday at lunch, after he ate a huge bag of Dorito's:
B: Hey, Mommy.. smell my tongue.

On the edge of a psychotic break

Have you been wondering where all the blog posts have been? Perhaps you thought since I was 30, I'd become too old and frail to continue my blog. Not quite the case. Now that I've purchased a new pair of reading glasses from the dollar bin at Target, I'm ready to update you on my first few weeks as an old woman.

Since my birthday 2 weeks ago, I think I might be exhibiting some of the signs of a psychotic break. I remember from Psychology 101 that people in their early 30's are at a higher risk for some sort of psychotic episode. Here's the evidence:

* The day before my birthday, I joined a running club and am training to run a half-marathon in October. I've been averaging about 8-10 miles (total) during the week and then 6-8 miles (all at once) on Saturday mornings beginning at 6:00. To answer your questions: 1) No, I'm not being chased, nor is there a big Nordstrom shoe sale at the finish line. 2) Nope. I'm still NOT a morning person, but it's WAY too hot to run at an hour I would deem reasonable.

* On a whim, I decided that all the white molding in the house needed to be repainted IMMEDIATELY. Oh, and the doors. Oh, and we should probably touch up the walls in the places they need it.

* Last Friday, the 3-door medicine cabinet and "Hollywood" lights that have lived in our bathroom for all of eternity became unacceptable. As did the "Hook 'em Horns" wall color. So, a trip to Lowe's provided a new cabinet (oops! It was a few inches smaller than the big hole in the wall), a new light fixture (which required a different hole in the wall and some wiring), drywall, primer, paint, more paint, rollers, brushes, etc. When I put the first coat of drywall putty on, I thought it was strange, but kept going. After it dried, I realized it was ceramic tile adhesive, not drywall compound. Oops. Back to Lowe's for a power sander and heavy sandpaper.

* Yesterday, as I began to inspect the front room to tape the walls (for the molding painting, you know), I saw that the faux paint finish I did in there several years ago has chipped and can not be repaired. So, there are several paint swatches now hanging in our front room. I might wait to start that until Kindermusik is completely finished next week.

I'm sure there are more crazy things that have happened in the last week, but I've forgotten them. Call it early Alzheimer's.

Don't Mess with the Mayfield

This week, Ben says:

After chasing the cat for a "snuggle:
B: Gertie, I love you very much, but-- you know what? Sometimes I just wish you'd be still. (So young, so MUCH irony.)

Sunday night, dinner at my parents' house:
H: What friends do you want to have at your birthday party?
B: Ummmm.... lots. Like Riley, and Will, and Jack, and...
H: Which Riley?
B: Good Riley AND Bad Riley.
H: Ben. Remember, we're not going to call them that. Can you remember their last names?
B: Yep. Riley Wineinger and Riley Phelan.
H: Right.
?: Isn't Riley's dad a doctor? (I can't remember who asked.)
B: (emphatically) Nope. He just dresses up as one.
(Sorry, Ryan. I guess those years of college and that office you go to everyday is all an elaborate sham.)

While driving home from dinner last night:
B: Awww. That lady just dusted our car. GROSS!
H: What?
D: (laughing) That woman in the car next to us just blew cigarette smoke out her window toward our car.
B: That's horrible. Now our van is dirty. She's a BAD lady.

Preschool Pick up:
H: Hey, Bud! Did you have a good day?
B: Sure.
H: What did you do?
B: Ummm, why don't you ask Miss Lori. She knows.

What to Buy (according to Ben)

It's been far too long since my last installment of "What to Buy". Today's suggestion comes directly from Benjamin Charles Mayfield who wants to assist you in taming that jungle of clothes and extra bedding in your closet.

I'm not sure if Ben and Don have come up with the perfect birthday gift for me or if Ben is just watching too much Cartoon Network. (Before watching the video, you can view the real commercial here: Space Bag Commercial.)

Secretly, I'm delighted by his desire and interest in organization and efficient storage solutions and his fascination with info-mercial programming. Proof that my genes win again! I am the person who spent months obsessed with any info-mercial with Ron Popeil. You know, the man who brought us the "Set it and Forget it" Rotisserie with the "Flavor Injector." (He also brought us the inside the egg scrambler, spay on hair in a can, the RonCo pasta maker, and the pocket fisherman). I bet you can get any of those items right now(!) for the low, low price of $19.95. And, I bet they'll even throw in a free set of knives.

Holy Gert-amole

One of my favorite blogs, Dooce , has a daily feature called the "Daily Chuck" in which she takes pictures of her very tolerant dog balancing crazy things on his head. Sometimes it's a whole box of dog treats, sometimes it's a tea cup and saucer. Whatever it is, they are always funny. While cramming Gertie into a small box (just to see if I could), it occurred to me that Getrie was at the perfect age not to know better and thus "The Weekly Gert" has been created.

Just a bird away from a three-ring-circus

A week ago, I got an email advertising a darling kitten in need of a good home. I forwarded the email to Don suggesting that she would make a perfect anniversary/30th birthday gift. Now, a kitten is not a new suggestion in our house... it usually goes like this:
H: At Petsmart today they had the cutest kitten.

D: In the yellow pages, I found the cutest divorce attorney.
-or-

H: Ben, wouldn't it be fun if we had a kitty at our house?
B: Yeah. It would be so sweet.
H: Tell Daddy.
B: Daddy? We need a kitty at our house.
D: Sorry, buddy. It's a kitty or me, but we can't have both.

Imagine my surprise on Friday when Don emailed me back to agree. Let's set up a play date with the dogs, he said. If it all goes well, we can keep her. The play date went well. (Well: an adjective meaning "neither dog ate the kitten and the kitten didn't draw blood from any living things or poop/barf anywhere".)

The next important step was deciding on a name. Ben suggested Shawna. (I know, what 80's movie has he been watching... Shawna? Seriously?) The name list got narrowed down to "Penny Lane" (for Kate Hudson's character in Almost Famous, not the Beatles song) or "Gertrude". We've settled on Gertrude, but we call her "Gertie" or "Gert".

Gertie is 8-weeks old and weighs in at a whopping 2.2 pounds. Harper is terrified of her and gives her lots of space. Yesterday, Harper actually stayed in the same room with Gertie for a few minutes... definite progress. Abby is obsessed. We can't decide if it's a playful obsessed or a carnivorous obsessed, but the two have come to an agreement... Abby can follow Gertie everywhere and drool on her head. If she gets too close, Gertie swipes her nose and Abby backs off. Ben is in love. He hugs her, chases her, hugs her, SQUEEZES her, and chases her when she runs away. Then he repeats that sequence until we tell him to LEAVE THE POOR CAT ALONE.

ESP

Yesterday, while returning from the swimming pool, we had to stop at a train crossing. As I slowed down, I mumbled under my breath something about waiting for a train with $4 a gallon gas in the tank. From the backseat, I hear:

B: Awww, crap. A train.