Yo Mama

There is always fighting in my house, whether it's a war of words or fists; IT, is always on. Mealtime is no exception. Lately our dinner conversation has been reduced to my kids finding new ways to abuse one another. Shockingly it's not violent, but a complete verbal one-up-man-ship of how much they can kick the other's ass.

"Gregory, I'm going to take a cup of gasoline, dip Mr. Monkey (Greg's favorite snuggly) in it, shake it up, then watch him explode. BOOM!"

To which Gregory responds,"Charrie, I'm going to take lava and throw it in your cup and you will get burned." For some reason Gregory is obsessed with lava these days. He wants to know what will happen if a cat walks through lava, if lava falls on our car, or in your mouth.

Um, it burns, babe.

Mr. I Must Always Have the Last Word says, "Oh yeah? Well Gregory, I can take you in a helicopter and drop you in a volcano and that would burn you way more than just throwing lava on you. Plus lava would totally burn the cup up as soon as it touched it."

"Charrie, the lava is going to burn your butt, too."

"Gregory, I'm going to take gasoline AND diesel mixed together, put it in your glass like it's water then you'll drink it and die! Hahaha."

Any talk of death or killing and I bring a quick end to the banter. Clearly Gregory isn't as adept at the verbal sparring game as his brother, but at least he's playing along. Not too long ago he would have been in tears at the mere mention of Mr. Monkey being harmed.

After listening to the boys go on like this endlessly for a week, I noticed something. The cadence of the exchange smacked of something familiar. I wracked my brain trying to determine what it could be. Literally 2 nights later the movie White Chicks was on TV and the bells sounded off in my head like sirens. I realized my kids were having their own Yo Mama Off, only it was the Marin County preschool boy version.

In the movie, Marcus and Kevin Copeland, played by the Wayans brothers, are cops cleverly undercover as 2 white sisters, hence the title. The White Girls get into a Yo Mama Off with Megan and Heather Vandergeld, your stereotypical rich bitch Hampton society bimbos. After Megan insults the White Chicks' mother for shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, one of them retorts, "Your mama is so dumb she went to Dr. Dre for a pap smear."

To which Heather Vandergeld scoffs, "Oh yeah, well your mother is so stupid that she exercises when she could just get like, liposuction or something."

As someone whose fanship of the Wayans brothers ended with In Living Color, I must confess that the movie struck me on a couple of levels. First, I found the predictably played out blunders that the brothers experience as they try to pose as women comical. That's right, I laughed when I watched it, a lot. But it also struck a deeper chord. The verbal lashings each side gave to one another in the movie reminded me so much of my kids, each rebuttal getting lamer and more ridiculous, that it made me think - Why couldn't I script a movie using my kids as a foundation? The writing would be significantly better, and the content about equal in quality to White Chicks.

Eureka! I finally found a use for my kids besides as bitter fodder in my undersubscribed blog!

By the way, for those who don't see the humor in the whole 'Yo Mama' genre of jokes, I apologize for the poor representation in this post. They really are hilarious. I hope that the following will restore your faith, peak your interest, or at least make you smile. Or maybe Yo Mama jokes are like the Wayans brothers, you either tolerate them or you hate them. Whatever the case may be, this is one of my favorites.

'Yo mama so fat you have to grease the door frame and hold a twinkie on the other side just to get her through.'

A Beautiful Mind

Charlie has always been a child who loves structure and routine, yet revels in the disorder he can create. While a steadfast observer of all traffic and safety related rules, the ones regarding basic treatment of your fellow man are virtually ignored; like don't hit and tease if you want your friends to play with you; or don't wrap wires, cords or rope around your brother's neck. As he gets older, the set of rules by which he governs his life continues along divergent paths, making him ever difficult to predict and follow.

For the past 9 months Charlie has been obsessed with the door to his bedroom and making sure it is shut every single time he leaves. Even if he's just going to visit the bathroom, which is literally next to his room, that door gets closed. But be mindful that the door is not closed all the way. The frame and the edge of the door are touching ever so slightly, but the smallest crack of light needs to be left. I learned the hard way the importance of proper crack allotment to my son. "Mommy, Jeez Louise! How many times do I have to tell you? (said with eyes rolling) You have to close my door but not really close it. See, like this. NOT LIKE THIS. Do you see the difference?"

At times it feels as if he's declared Martial law on the little 9 x 10 ft box that is his room. Some of the directives of Charlie's regime are easy to follow, like how much crack is too much or not enough, other rules leave us walking on egg shells, hoping we don't misstep. Most specifically those applying to the highly regulated, and ever growing mass of 'stuff' in his boudoir.

At the end of Charlie's bed, on his dresser, the shelves of his closet, and now under his bed, there is a collection of, well, shit. His closet naturally houses the largest amount of trash - silly putty, old gun holster from his policeman costume, furry bear key chain, remote control car. It's like the closet of forgotten toys that needs to be purged. But try telling that to Charlie, it's all sacred space to him.

On his footboard, he's a little more particular about the arrangement of his treasures. Though most of the items seem to be worthless left over birthday party gift bag trash - 5 used glow sticks (and not an ounce of glow left in them), 1 set of LEGO wheels, 1 pair of childproof scissors, 1 small silver tin pail, 1 pink birthday candle, 1 pumpkin shaped flashlight.

Saving things as memorabilia of fun times past, this I get. But I'm not sure what to think about the rest of the items at the foot of his bed - 1 roll of duct tape, 1 Dixie cup with a single black feather, 1 pair of broken plastic pliers, 1 broken plastic camera, a wad of fake money (mostly $5's and $20's), 1 Edna Valley Chardonnay cork, and 5 clumps of cut hair.

Why are these things on display? It almost appears to be a shrine of evidence honoring some gruesome crime that's been committed (Can you tell I'm a Law & Order junkie?).

But alas, even the most seemingly worthless of trinkets, no matter how bizarre in nature, have rules attached to them.

Rule #1 - Positioning of items - 4 of the 5 glow sticks are to be laid directly next to one another with the fifth placed exactly in the middle of the footboard. Do not try to group all 5 glow sticks together to create some kind of symmetry . Everything has it's place and do not question the divine order of all things Charlie.

Rule #2 - Terms of use - none of the afore mentioned items may be borrowed at any time, whether their owner is using them or even present in the house is immaterial. 'I will know if you use my scissors when I'm at school Gregory, and I will cut you.'

Rule #3 - Appropriate cleaning techniques - do not change position of any items even by 1 cm as their owner will know immediately upon entering his room if something has been moved. No consolidation/neatening allowed; the glow sticks would not look better if they were stored in the silver tin pail.

Rule #4 - Replacement items - do not attempt to switch out items with something of lesser or equal value. The Edna Valley Chardonnay cork is worth WAY more than the Penfolds Shiraz. Do not ask why, it just is. And the children's scissors must be from CVS because they cut better than the ones from the Dollar Store.

Rule #5 - Hair - there are no real rules for the clumps of hair under the foot of his bed. I was actually allowed to clean them up, thank goodness. Charlie decided one day that his hair was too long and bothered him so he cut it. He threw the clippings under his bed to avoid being found out. Incidentally, his favorite place to cut from is on the right side of his head just above his ear. So I guess there are rules even here.

To Charlie there is an order to the chaos of his 'stuff' that reminds me of the Coen brothers' movie, "A Serious Man" (yawn). In the film, the protagonist's unemployed, wacky brother, Arthur, sleeps on his couch and spends his days filling his Mentaculus book with equations and formulas that will, he claim, tie together all natural laws.

Disappointingly, Arthur's character is never really developed past this point, when you do get to see his Mentaculus book, it looks like the writings of a madman, but if you look just a little deeper, you might just catch a glimpse of genius. Like on Law & Order (damn it, I can't stop) when they finally get that search warrant for the apartment of the serial killer who's evaded detectives for decades. They enter and every square inch of wall is covered with numbers, letters, shapes, pictures, drawn in human blood but in these cool nonsensical, circular patterns that just scream out CRA-ZAY-ZEE and guilty (BTW, Arthur is later arrested for solicitation and sodomy).

Do I think my son is a paranoid schizophrenic or a serial killer in the making? No, of course not. Even the famous Carl Jung believed, In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.

I'm just hoping some day to see the genius in the madness and not vice versa.

The Last Frontier

Every aspect of my life has been invaded by my kids - my thoughts, dreams, bank account, potty time. Even my phone conversations are no longer private. Charlie asked me the other day why I wanted Yia Yia (my mom) to get special love from a Chinese person on her trip. It took me a minute to figure what he was talking about when I realized he had been eaves dropping on my conversation with her.

I was concerned as my mother, who has been suffering from sciatica, was embarking upon a 13 hour plane flight to China. My advice to her, should the sciatica flare up while abroad, embrace the practice of eastern medicines. I think my exact words were, 'Don't be afraid to ask a nice Chinese man to give that sciatic nerve some love by sticking needles in your butt.'

My last frontier of privacy seems to be the shower. I've never been a big fan of the bath; sitting in dirty bath water, ick. Even before kids, I got in, soaped and rinsed the necessary bits and pieces, and got out. But lately I have really begun to embrace the long shower. Not only do I appreciate that when the water is running I can't hear anything going on outside, but I can actually hear myself think inside because I'm alone (my kids hate the shower). It's like a little oasis of quiet.

It's just so peaceful and quiet in there - did I already mention that? It really has become the perfect refuge from my motherly duties. When one of the kids comes in to complain that his brother breathed on him 'so hard', that they need some water with no ice in a red cup with no top and no straw, or that they require me to fast forward through the commercials to get to the next episode of Tom & Jerry, there's no yelling or negotiating necessary. A) I can't do anything about it because I'm in the shower and B) I can't hear them! There's also C) That I really don't care, but that doesn't get me out of anything because my kids will just nag me to death until I comply with their demands.

My average shower time has increased from about 4 minutes up to 10 just in the last few months, and I may keep going. The Guinness Book of Records states that the longest shower was recorded at 101 hours, that's more than 4 days. Sounds like heaven to me. But here's the rub, or should I say scrub, that record was set by a group of 10 people, though 3 dropped out from exahustion. They each took turns, many of them sleeping standing up, and with no more than a 10 minute break per hour. Breaks? Sounds like cheating to me. A 17 year old boy was among the participants. What was his motivation? What does he have to hide from, the SAT's and teenage acne? Maybe he has bad parents who complain about him in a public forum.

I bet I could get a group of 10 mothers together - and none would drop out from exhaustion - tell them that there is only one rule, stay in the shower and no kids will bother you. Each mom would stay in for 1 day at a time, no breaks necessary, because obviously you can just pee in the shower, and of course, breaks are for sissies. And would you really want to take the chance that during that 10 minutes outside of the shower/safe haven, one of your kids would find you and whine for you to get them a snacksandwichdrinkcookiecheesestick, retrieve a piece of gum from their brother's hair, or wipe their butt. I guarantee those 10 women could keep that going for a month, easy. 101 hours, pah-lease.

Gregory the Girl

Well over a year ago I wrote about Charlie's propensity for calling his brother girl names. While Gregory is still a beautiful child, his girlish qualities are limited mostly to his long, lush eyelashes and his squealing. But that has not stopped Charlie from still referring to him as Mrs. Bentney. Stephanie is still around, too, along with a few new ones like Mary Garcia, Gloria, and one of the most inventive, Jessica Hairdryer.

Now that Gregory is 3 he actually understands that Charlie is teasing him. Much to Charlie's chagrin, his brother usually tries to ignore his initial attempts to get a rise out of him. In those cases Charlie goes for the jugular and flat out calls him Gregory the Girl. That elicits one of the following responses, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. WAAAAAAAAHHHHH." or "Mommy, Charrie called me a girr (we're having some trouble with our 'L's)."

Sigh. Greg, are you a girl?

Sniff, sniff, "No."

Then go tell Charlie that!

"Charrie! I am NOT A GIRR."

And it never just stops there, does it?

Even a solid argument based on the indisputable fact that Gregory is not a girl can deter him. Charlie the brilliant manipulator moves onto his next tactical advance. "Gregory, you can be Gregory, but you will not get any dessert tonight. Or you can be Gregory the Girl and you can have cake, ice cream, chocolate chips, anything you want really. Do you want dessert?"

Like leading a lamb to slaughter, Gregory falls for it. "Yes, I want dessert."

"Okay, then if you want dessert you have to be Gregory the Girl, because if you are just Gregory, then no dessert. So which one is it?"

"I am Gregory the girr."

"Ha ha ha, you are a girl. Gregory is a girl."

"Nooooo, Mommy, Charrie called me a girr."

Dana is another new persona that has been added to Charlie's repertoire of names. This morning the boys were playing Legos before school. Gregory was trying to build a dump truck but was frustrated because he couldn't find any wheels. He asked Charlie to help him search for some. Charlie said, "Well, is your name Dana?"

Gregory of course says, "No, it's Gregory Goldstein."

"If your name is Dana then I can help you find some wheels for your dump truck, but if your name is Gregory, I can't help you, sorry. So are you Dana or are you Gregory."

And with no argument, Gregory concedes, "I am Dana. Now will you get me the wheels?"

Like a lot of Charlie's verbal attacks on his brother, they are as random as they are senseless or non sensical to be exact. Just the other day in the car Charlie says, "Gregory is Jessica Hairdryer."

I kind of chuckled at that one, but Gregory didn't even bat an eye.

Again it comes, "Gregory, you are Jessica Hairdryer."

Every once in a while we get a glimpse that Gregory could be a contender in these mind mastery games of his brother's.

Gregory says, "No, I AM Hairdryer. YOU are Jessica, Charrie."

Quite satisfied with himself, he sits back and smiles.

Never to be outdone, Charlie retorts, "No Gregory, Jessica is the one who gets to play with the train table. Hairdryer is me, because Hairdryer is 5 and I'm 5, so you have to be Jessica. You want to play with the train table, right?"

The logic is mind numbing.

Gregory is like, OK, you had me at train table, I am Jessica.

It's not always easy pickings for Charlie. After numerous failed attempts to get under his skin and at least a half dozen female monikers slung his way, sometimes Greg won't take the bait and stomps off to his room to play by himself. But never fear, when preliminary attacks fail to illicit a response from his brother, Charlie brings out the big guns. Not only is my eldest an extremely smart, evil genius, but the kid can carry a tune to boot.

He'll follow Gregory into his room singing his insults to the tune of Air Supply's 'Lost in Love', with a few changes to the lyrics (the Greatest Hits of Air Supply has been Charlie's favorite CD for 3 months running now).

"Gregory is a girl and he don't know much/ He was thinking aloud when he fell out of touch/ Now he's back on his feet and eager to show he's a giiiiirrrrrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrrrrr-herrrrr-herrr-erl."

I think that CD might be finding a new home very soon.

OxiCrisis

When I find a product that I love I'll tell anyone within ear shot about it, whether they want to know or not. Good products that serve me well become my obsession, and like all extreme behaviors, mine borders on the obnoxious. Yummi Yogurt, Natori Bras, Kinerase C8-Peptide Treatment, the Athleta All That Pant; I love these products and I want others to love them, too. I'm sure some shrink could have a psychological heyday with my need for external validation, but enough about my mother's short comings, back to the products.

I've been at the bank before and overheard a woman, no less than 5 people in front of me, discuss her absolute desperate search for a decent, cute raincoat that she could wear out with the kids or to work. Those were the only words I needed to hear as I weaseled my way forward, inserting myself into the conversation. I told this woman in excruciating detail about THE perfect rain coat. The North Face Grace Jacket. The one that would cover her butt, had a hood, was belted, and feminine, so as not to make her look like a hobbit from Lord of the Rings. I knew it's exact cost, including tax, it's whereabouts in the greater Bay Area (it's sold out at REI), and color options. I cut an entire bank line, contributed my unsolicited 2 cents, then trotted off on my merry way. I was so pleased with myself, that not only did I forget the banking I needed to do, but I was completely oblivious to the shell shocked stare this woman followed me with as I went to my car.

One could say I'm an evangelist of sorts and almost as delusional as the ones you see on TV; with a strong held belief that bestowing my knowledge upon the less fortunate will make the world a better place. It's my G_d given right. But this next product really will change your life, or at least your laundry; and if you have kids, goodness knows you can feel that laundry is your life.

Enter my 5 year obsession with OxiClean; the one in the blue spray bottle, not the powdered crap that you have to mix yourself. I love it so much. I know, it all sounds a bit dramatic, maybe a touch shallow right? But even more shallow than that is my fondness of material things; clothes, purses, furniture, anything cashmere. And when something happens to ruin those things - like Desitin being smeared on my favorite oriental carpet - I go crazy.

First, I hate wasting money (my husband might argue that point). It's also a huge inconvenience to have to go out and buy things like new white t-shirts every week because my kids have yet to grasp the concept that after finger paints, hand sanitizer does not take the place of soap and water. Second, and most important, it's a major let down when I can no longer wear my favorite jeans that make my butt look like the white girl's version of J-Lo (not really) because they have Sharpee scribbles all over them.

OxiClean, savior of my sanity, and all things material. If I could, I would marry it. Even my kids, when I get them empty spray bottles at the store for water play, they pretend the water is "Ox", short for OxiClean. "Hey Gregory, your face looks like a big poop, let me spray some Ox on it." Yup, he's right, it can get out poop stains, too.

But for every yin, there is a yang; a dark side when a beloved product lets me down, or G_d forbid, disappears. This past month has tested my limits as a human being. There has been an OxiClean shortage in the Bay Area. Target, Safeway, Rite Aid, CVS, and all of my local markets have been cleaned out. The shelves are empty, my laundry basket is full, full of stained clothes waiting to be pre-treated with this magic potion.

The moms and teachers (custodians, deliverymen, secretaries) at the boys' school have heard me bitching and moaning about my plight, my search for OxiClean. Some of the Oxi ignorant question, "What's so great about OxiClean? Just use Shout, it's the same thing." Oh no you di'int go using the s-word on me, girlfriend.

I don't mean to stereo type, but every single one of them was a mom of only girls. They admitted to not having any real stain issues and politely asked, "So what do you use it for?"

You name it, breast milk, grease, permanent marker, blood.

"Blood?"

Yes, blood.

Next came the scrunched up facial expression begging the question, "Is she joking?"

No, Mary Poppins, I'm not.

One of my fellow moms who also recognized the virtues of OxiClean was so horrified to hear of the shortage, she actually went home to see if she could spare a bottle out of her own stash. Sorry to say she could not. I am my own worst enemy here. I talked/obsessed about the crisis so much, I scared her into hoarding mode. Fortunately, my own mother came to the rescue, sending 4 bottles to me straight from CT, and priority mail no less. Sorry for the psychology dig earlier, Mom. Kids these days are so ungrateful.

Hello Stranger

Yes, I know, the entries have been few and far between. It's not that I don't have anything to complain about - not enough sleep or personal time, the extra 10 lbs I can't get rid of, my family, etc. But things have been good, calmer for some reason. I think being back into the routine of school has mellowed me and the kids out. That daily nagging question of 'Gosh, what are we going to do today?', is gone. As is the depression that follows when we realize we're heading to the park with the same peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and non toxic BPA free water bottles as the prior 57 days.

Just when I think I can breathe a sigh of relief, the boat gets rocked, and hard. So here I am writing, bitching, sharing, healing.

We are at some friend's house for dinner last night. It's warm enough for the kids to eat outside which means a relatively quiet meal for the adults. Dessert is birthday cake. You know the stays moist for 2 weeks, deliciously over processed sheet cake from Safeway, with it's frosting so sugary it coats your teeth. Mmmm. Charlie naturally devours his piece as do I.

After, the boys decide they need to whip up round 2 of dessert in the play kitchen. They begin to set up their ice cream cone stand. Charlie is doing a lot of mixing and freezing. Gregory is making a mockery of Charlie's prep work by stealing the ice cream and serving it to me on fancy little dessert plates. Charlie is pissed and screams, "It's NOT READY YET!'

Gregory simply ignores him and proceeds to ask me what other flavors I want.

Charlie yells, "Gregory, you stupid, I'm not done getting it ready."

Gregory continues on, "You want banilla or chocrate, Mommy?"

Charlie walks up to him with the plastic ice cream scoop, pokes him in the eye then kicks him in the shin. "That's what you get." Of course Gregory is hysterically crying.

Outside onto the porch we go to 'cool off', where Charlie proceeds to tell me why the violence against his brother is justified. "Mommy, Gregory is bad. He's not listening to me and how I want my ice cream store run so I hit him."

Okay, Charlie. I understand you are frustrated with him. But why don't you let him serve some ice cream early or come up with a way he can play, too.

"I hate him, he's stupid and I'm going to do this my way or else he can't play."

Bud, I think you and I need to stay out here for a minute. You are tired and maybe you need to take a break from playing with your brother.

"No, I was in the kitchen first. I get to play there. He's stupid."

Okay, enough with the stupid. Do you think you can play nicely with your brother?

Grumble, grumble, "Yes, but he's still stupid."

We return to the house. Charlie goes back to his work at the freezer while I sit down. Sure enough, Gregory tries to take my ice cream order again. "Mommy, you rike da chocrate?" Charlie goes ballistic. This time he has the sink from the kitchen set and smashes it into the back of his brother's head, screaming the entire time, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." Back out to the patio we go.

Sit here! You do not hurt your brother. Stay here for 5 minutes and I'll come get you once you've calmed down.

I shut the sliding door and Charlie immediately gets up, sobbing. He presses his face against the glass, screaming, "Let me in. Let me in. LET ME IN, MOMMMMYYYY!"

I cannot believe my kid is this upset over plastic ice cream. The whole thing is ridiculous so I just start laughing. Probably not the smartest choice. Charlie is now kicking the glass and punching it. Screaming that he hates me at the top of his lungs.

And it's time to go.

We start to head out, say our hurried goodbyes. Charlie is still crying, except now that he doesn't want to leave. We are literally walking out the door and the kid hauls off and punches me, tells me he's not going. Oh beautiful boy, why must you go and hurt your mama like that? Now I gotta yell at you in front of our friends, give them a glimpse of the belly of the beast.

Charlie, go to the car NOW!

"No!"

GO. TO. THE. CAR. NOW!!!!!

"You're stupid", and he runs to the car

As he gets in, I tell him to climb up and buckle himself in or else I will drive down the street and leave him on the corner.

Our friends inner horrification is seeping out through their smiles as they wave goodbye, relieved my kid is not their kid. Or maybe they're just happy to see us go. We head home, it's a quiet car ride. At home, Charlie passes out in about 2 seconds and I am reminded of a valuable lesson - highly refined, white sugar is a weapon of evil when consumed by an overtired child and his mama. Damn you, Birthday Cake, damn you.

Capturing the Cuteness

When it comes to my kids, I am not a sentimental person. I never oohed and aahed over them as babies. There is no baby book for either one. I kept an infant outfit for each which I'm sure I shoved in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. I know when they walked, and generally when they talked, but I just assume their first words were 'mama' or 'dada'.

Whenever one of my friends whips out their elegantly scrap booked baby shrine, shows me their kids first hair cut clipping, or proofs from their latest professional photo session, I do not feel guilty. I'm not a baby person, never have been. While others mourned the end of breastfeeding and infant car seats, I cheered the 10 month milestone of my kids being able to hold their own bottle and sit in a regular chair at the table. My goal has always been how can I get them to be as self sufficient as possible - in hopes that they'll leave me alone long enough to update this damn blog (obviously failing on that front as well since my last post was May).

Parents of grown children always lament to me about how childhood is fleeting. "Before you know it, you wake up and they're off to college." My typical response is a hopeful, Really? Promise? Maybe if I close my eyes tight, and click my ruby slippers together, when I wake up I'll be off this carousel of monotony that is my life - breakfast, park, lunch, ride bikes at park, dinner, bed - round and round I've been going for 5 years. My kids are endlessly demanding of my attention, it's a wonder I can even breathe. Sometimes I can't wait for them to grow up and move onto that next phase of maturity, like riding the bus to school or finding their own apartment.

But this summer I may have had a change of heart. The boys and I spent 3 weeks visiting my Mom on the east coast. She lives in the same house where I grew up since I was 7. Our wonderful neighbors are still across the street keeping as close a tab on my kids as they did on me during my teen years. Except now I'm watching their children, who I babysat, get married, graduate from dental school, and have babies themselves. How did that happen? And where does that leave me with my non existent baby books and lack of professional photos? Maybe those empty nesters speak the truth.

Overnight I feel this sense of urgency to commit everything about my kids to memory. How can I capture these moments so I can be reminded exactly of how they were at this time? Kind of like when you get a whiff of new baby smell, it just sends you back (Okay, so I don't hate babies and I'm a little sentimental). Lord knows I cannot rely upon my current brain cells to handle this task. This morning rather than being bothered to throw the Cheerios out of Gregory's car seat and into the garbage, I ate them. They were stale and I didn't care. Don't judge.

Charlie is now 5. I take comfort that no matter what stage he's at - past, present, or future -he'll be smarter than me. Even I can remember that. He casually offers up observations like, "Mommy, I'm no detective, but that cloud formation sure looks like an upper and lower case 7." I just cannot believe he is mine, let alone a kid. I also know he'll always be funnier than I am. On one of our many side of the road emergency pit stops, Charlie was doing his thing and said, "If the fire chief drives by, I bet he'll think there's a firetruck over here because of how big my stream is." Did I mention humble, too.

But it's when I think about Gregory, at 2.5+ years, that I become truly desperate. He is at this stage of unbelievable innocence and pure love; still very much a baby that needs his mama yet on the cusp of growing facial hair. When I am going out or dropping him at school, I always say, "Give me a kiss." To which he responds, "And ew (you) give me a hug." As I walk out the door, there is an urgent plea, "Wait Mommy, I need anudder hug. Oh yeah, and kiss, too." He hugs and kisses me again and says, "I wuv ew. Be carefuw, Mommy." He is sweetness personified.

He is my last baby and about 15 cases of diapers away from becoming a mouthy 5 year old who rolls his eyes at me and tells me how 'annoying' I am. I can't say I can recall the specifics of Charlie at this age. There are vague memories of a sweet boy with blond curly hair and the vocabulary of an English professor. Though in my defense, I had just popped Gregory out. I was so sleep deprived Charlie could have been speaking fluent Russian and I wouldn't have given it a second thought. Sorry, Chuck, if only I had kept a baby book. I guess you'll have to settle for a blog entry.