Clue 2008

"IT WAS THE TODDLER WITH THE FEBREEZE IN THE LIVING ROOM"

This is the gaping hole where our television used to sit peacefully minding its own business.

How you wonder, did such a big gigantoid void come to be in an otherwise nondescript, law abiding, surburban household?

Well, that's where our story begins.......................

Act One Scene One: The Kosub family bathroom. It’s 7:45 a.m. and the family is busy in the morning hustle and bustle. Enter, the culprit, Emerson Claire Kosub, and her insatiable hunger for destruction.

Emme: Mommy, my hair loots ca-zy. Fiz it.
Mommy: You won’t let me put it in a pony tail, so that’s the best I can do.
Emme: Fiiiinnnne. Mommy, I wanna pud on your mate-up.
Mommy: No, baby, mommy is in a big hurry and I have to get ready or I am going to be late. Go get your shoes on.
Emme: (Throwing herself onto the floor for a big, fake, fit.) I don’t wanna go to Ganny’s, I wanna stay here and watch Bootie Beast!!!!
Mommy: Here, look, take this bottle of Febreeze and go spray mommy’s bed and make it smell good.
Emme: Yeahhh!!

Emerson runs off, happily spraying the Target brand knock-off Febreeze. The air is filled with a child's laughter and the pleasant smells of a spring garden.

Act One, Scene Two: The Kosub family garage. It is 5:30 p.m. and Mommy and Emme have just returned from Hastings with the latest potty present, Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Their celebratory mood quickly fades when they see a menacing looking Dobie standing in the garage, hands on hips.

Mommy: What’s wrong?
Dobie: You need to come in the house.
Mommy: Seriously, I’m worried, just tell me what happened? Were we robbed?
Dobie: Emme did something.
Mommy: Oh.
Emme: (From the back seat) Sow-ree mommy, it was an assident.
Mommy: What did you do?
Emme: I dunno, but I dint do it purpus-ly.

Act One, Scene Three: The Kosub family living room. Dobie is kneeling is front of his television, like a soldier holding his fallen comrade, softly stroking it with a damp cloth. The bottle of Fakee-breeze is sitting in front of the television, and Emerson is no where in sight.

Mommy: What happened?
Dobie: Evidently, Emerson got ahold of a bottle of this (holding up the stupid, stupid, bottle of fake Febreeze) and sprayed it all over the TV.
Mommy: (Realizing where Emme got the spray, Mommy swallows hard as the truth washes over her) Can you just wipe it off?
Dobie: She sprayed so much, it got under the plastic screen; I don’t think it can be wiped off.

Mommy: Umm, what’s all that black stuff?
Dobie: It’s where the fiber screen used to be. The spray is mostly alcohol and when combined with the heat of the TV, it disintegrated the fiber screen.

At this, Mommy decides to come clean. Mommy tries to explain how it is she who gave
the spray to Emerson in an attempt to occupy her earlier that morning. She is ridden with guilt and blames herself for the damage to Dobie’s most prized possession. Luckily for her, Dobie gallantly refuses to make her feel like the irresponsible wretch that she most certainly is.

Final Scene: Both Kosub parents are now kneeling in front of the TV, still reeling from
the realization that Emerson’s path of destruction truly knows no bounds.

Dobie: Don’t beat yourself up babe, these things happen.
Mommy: Actually, not to be totally argumentative, but I have never heard of anyone else’s three year old incinerating their high definition television with Febreeze.
Dobie: What, I meant to say sweetheart, and what is much more accurate, is these things happen to us.
Mommy: True enough, my friend, true enough. (long pause) So, are those screens expensive?
Dobie: Well, the repairman says that he can replace it for about $350.
Mommy: $350 Dollars!!!! EMMMERRRSONNNN!!!
Emme: (From somewhere in the back room.) It wuz an assident!!!! I saaiid I wuz sow-ree!!!!! Gah –leeee!!

End scene………………………….

The Princess v. The Potty

Here is a small sampling of Emme's three year old pictures. There are a grand total of 81. I am amazed at how wonderful they turned out considering that Emme was not exactly a willing participant. Lucky for me, my sister is a fantastic photographer and has enough patience and love for my child to endure the grueling experience of trying to take her picture. I swear, if it wasn't for Sandy taking my kids' pictures, there would be no pictures of them at all.

I need to get Carson's pictures made too, but he is more reluctant than Emerson. He does not want to wear anything that I would consider "picture worthy" and really, really does not want to take time out of his busy Nintendo playing schedule to accommodate the wishes of his mother. I told him that someday he is going to complain that we only have pictures of Emme. And when that day comes, I will gladly remind him that it is his own fault. The only evidence I have that he existed last year was the pictures that Sandy took as well as a perfect digital rendering of what Carson looks like when constipated that Lifetouch had the nerve to charge $26.00 for.

But I digress, back to Emme. She is three now and no closer to being potty trained than the last time I posted (which was a million years ago, I know, but I've been really busy). On Sunday, she wore panties all day with only one accident. Just when I started thinking that maybe we were making progress, she came strolling out of my bedroom wearing a Pull-Up. Somewhat befuddled, I asked her why was she not wearing panties. She explained, oh, so matter of factly, that she needed to poop, so she changed. Uh, are you seeing the problem here? My 3 year old daughter has the presence of mind to take off her pretty panties so as not to mess them up, go get a Pull-Up, pull them up, promptly poop, and come on out so that I can change her. But, this same child, cannot expend one ounce of effort to simply go sit on the potty. I am bewildered on what to do next. I think that I may have missed the window of potty training opportunity and now it has just become a battle of wills. A battle which I am woefully losing.

In other Emme news, she is growing like a weed and is in the 75% in height and 10% in weight. She still loves the Disney Princesses and all things girly. She loves to dress up and have tea parties with anyone who will oblige. Her favorite movie is still Spiderman and her favorite cartoon is Spongebob. She likes dancing and music and the color pink. She paints her fingernails about 10 times a week and loves to capture people and stick them in her "booty shop" chair. She has made one friend, "La", and has even enjoyed one real play date.

Potty training aside, I think we may keep her.

Once upon a potty

Emerson has decided she's ready to start potty training. Of course everyone else in the world knew she was ready months ago. Perhaps it was the fact that she would regularly go get her own pull-up, take off the dirty one, wet wipe herself, put on a clean pull-up and take the wet one to the trash. Or perhaps it was the fact that about two seconds after she "dirtied" her pull-up she would have a nervous break down if I did not immediately drop everything, run at break neck speed to get her diaper and do a dive roll back to her in order to get her all cleaned up. My family kept telling me that she was ready and I in turn, kept telling her, but true to form, she wanted to do it her way.

So, here we are. Emme has made up her mind that she has to get potty trained so that she can go to school like Carson. She is a great big social butterfly and loves the busy, hub-bub of the school every morning. When we had to leave Carson at school on Monday with all those cupcakes, she begged me to leave her there too. I had to explain to her that you have to poop in the potty before they will let you go to school. Sobbing in her car seat she explained to me that she "od-a-ready diddddd poop in her potty." Which is true, but she only did it once, by accident, about two weeks ago. I re-explained that you have to do it everyday and you have to wear panties before they will let you come in. "I got panties momma, I wear my panties, I pom-ise", she said. I had to break the news that you have to not pee-pee in the panties while you wear them. "Oh", she said and that was that.

So, on went the panties and deep breath, she's doing pretty good. Oh, there's been plenty of accidents and Dobie and I have taken to traveling with an extra set of clothes, but I think we are making progress. I have taken to offering "potty presents" if she goes for long spells without having an accident. And today, I offered up an eye shadow kit if she pooped in the potty. I meant it to be an incentive when she needed to go later. But she wanted it so badly that she kept trying to make herself poop so that she could get the prize. I swear I thought she was going to give herself a hemorrhoid from pushing so hard all day. At one point, she came running to Dobie and I and announced that she had pooped- so hooray, clap, clap, give me the eye shadow. When I asked if I could see it, she said that she had already flushed it. It was a total lie of course, and she stomped off, eye shadow-less. She did eventually produce the world's tiniest poop-ette and received her prize as promised.

As this is my second time around the potty block, I am pretty relaxed about the whole thing. She's not even three yet; she still has plenty of time. If all else fails I have a pretty good Plan B. See, I have this theory that if you go buy the biggest box of pull-ups that you can get your hands on, your child will magically be potty trained in less than 72 hours. It's one of those Murphy's Law things.

And if I must confess my most deepest, darkest secret, then the truth is, I'm not in any hurry for this to all to end. I know that being potty trained heralds the end of babyhood and that all too soon I will miss the familiar swish-swish sound that only a diapered bottom can make. She is the last baby I will ever have and soon she won't be a baby at all. Of course, potty training aside, she is already well on her way to growing up. Whether I like it or not.

Carson K.- Second Grader

And so begins another school year with fresh new hair cuts and squeaky clean shoes. Carson has begun the second grade (oh, where has the time gone) and seems to be enjoying it thus far. He is placed at a table with the class genius (please let her work habits rub off on him) and his best friend, Samuel. Not a bad start I’d say.

I can also happily report that he actually likes school this year. And if I have to pinpoint what changed from all the years past, I believe that the credit should go to Sylvan. I don't know what they did over the summer, but it has made a tremendous difference. He has lost that choppy cadence in his reading which seemed to stunt his ability to comprehend what the heck he was supposed to be reading in the first place. It has really changed everything. Listening to him get through a 12 page reading assignment literally brought tears to my eyes. I knew that we were no longer going to have to fight that demon that had Carson convinced that he was just not smart enough to do the work.

Also making the transition to school a bit easier was the fact that Carson turned 7 on Monday. I brought cupcakes for the class and regaled them with tales of Carson’s crazy antics as a baby. I have told these same stories to the same kids for years now, but I guess some stories never get old. They never get tired of hearing how when he was two, he found the scrap of umbilical cord I had saved in his baby book and immediately popped it in his mouth to eat it. I suppose that umbilical cord humor is just gross enough to hold their interest over time. Another favorite tale that they always beg to hear about is when he went up in the play tubes at McDonald’s completely dressed and came down stark raving naked eating somebody else’s chicken nugget. That is always sure to gets them going. And I can always finish big with the time that we were getting ready to go out and I looked up to see Carson riding the garage door all the way up to the top. He was, and still is actually, such a hoot to be around.

When I asked him if he felt any different now that he was seven, he said, "I think I 've changed alot. I used to like grilled cheese and hate reading and now I love reading and hate grilled cheese." Well, there's that.

Carson's 7th

What started off as a really stressful day turned out beautifully. Friday morning I woke up to dark cloudy skies and a forecast of thunderstorms in the afternoon. I worried all morning that Carson's birthday party was going to be ruined on account of the weather. But, just like that, the skies parted and the sun came out. At 1700 hours (it was an Army party after all) the guests arrived and the party began. The kids swam and played and and enjoyed a great game of "capture the flag" with water balloons. This was definately a highlight for all involved. Here are the boys learning the rules.



After several rounds of this game, we had to get a quick birthday song in before the sun went down. Everyone liked Carson's army cake. It was chocolate with chocolate icing, my favorite. I figured that if I was the one choosing the cake then I got to choose what I liked.


No sooner had the kids eaten their weight in hotdogs and cake, then they were back in the pool for more swimming. As Emme is just one of the boys, she stayed in the pool until it was too dark for me to count heads anymore. I ordered everyone out and they spent the next couple of hours playing in the yard with flashlights. Although I had set up a big tent for the overnight campout, the kids ended up sleeping (and I use this term loosely) in my mom's TV room. I checked in on them a couple of times, broke up a fight or two and evidently kicked my nephew Jake out of the room at some point. I am a little sketchy on the details of why he got the boot as I become somewhat incoherent when I am deprived of sleep. I do remember begging for the boys to go to sleep about 1:30 a.m. and explaining to them that I had actually become dizzy with exhaustion. At some point, they must have given out because the next thing I know it was morning.

And by morning, I mean the crack of dawn morning. Someone should really study the metabolism of little boys because they evidently do not require any discernable amounts of restorative sleep to get going at full blast again. Dobie brought in doughnuts and juice and the boys (and girl cousins) dined outside.



And then it was back in the pool until the parents came in about 11:00 a.m. All in all it was a great party and Carson reached his goal of $100 birthday dollars. I don't exactly know why this was his goal, but he has equated $100 with true kid wealth. I am glad that he had a good birthday and I am super duper glad that it is over.

One is the loneliest number

Hi, my name is Stacy and it’s been 6 days since I’ve last seen my children. They left for San Antonio to visit their grandparents last Friday and I am officially miserable without them. As Dobie was the one to cook up the idea of an extended visit, I naturally blame him. Of course, he is completely bewildered why he is at fault and I believe that I am coming dangerously close to being labeled a nut. If he asks me if I’m about to start my “woman time”, I may go completely bonkers and start throwing stuff.

I find that I am not one of those people who enjoy being by myself. Sure, I like a little “me time”, but seven consecutive days is too much. By day three, I had re-read two Harry Potter books, cleaned my entire house and taken a couple of naps. Wish list complete. I was then faced with four more days of “now what?”

To make matters worse, I spoke to the kids last night and they were both weepy and crying to come home. At some point, Emme got so hysterical that someone just took the phone away and hung up. So for the rest of the night, I was all weepy and depressed. Dobie, of course, has no idea what to do with me. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what to do with me. I seem to be operating in a sort of fog, just wishing time would go by faster.

Luckily, there is an end in sight. Tomorrow, my babies will be home and we will celebrate Carson’s 7th birthday with an “Army campout” in my mom’s backyard. And since I have had nothing but time on my hands to plan this shin-dig, I may have, okay, scratch that, I probably have gone overboard a teensy weensy bit. I have found that excessive amounts of free time combined with the crushing pain of missing your children results in the ever so slight-est over indulgence of one’s impulses. So, Carson will get a party to remember and I will get my sweet angels back again. Everyone’s a winner, I’d say.

Musings

My husband and my sweet babies are in San Antonio and I am left alone with my dog and my thoughts. Here is what I know.

I love Cezar Milan, aka, The Dog Whisperer. I faithfully tune in every week to watch him overhaul another psycho dog and show the dumbo owner how its all their fault their dog is totally screwed up. He just strolls in with his spanish accent and super creased pants and tsk-tsks the dog a couple of times and like 25 minutes later, the unruly beast is doing laps on the treadmill. Amazing.

I am always on the lookout for tips on how to fix my own hound-from-hell, Duncan. Books about Beagles- read em'. Obedience classes- took em'. Progress? Almost none. In fact, I believe he ate one of the books about Beagles and I had to throw it away. He is kill-ing me with the never ending list of valuables he has chewed up. Eyeglasses, gone. Three pairs of Emerson's sandals, shredded. My one good black bra, ribbons. The underside of my bed resembles a large fuzzy nest, filled with disentrailed Webkins, sippy cup lids and all the missing pieces from Emerson's tea sets. I estimate that he is blowing through about $50.00 bucks of my stuff a month and that is a conservative estimate. His only saving grace right now is that he has not chewed one thing of Dobie's. (Which I find ironic considering that Dobie leaves his stuff absolutely everywhere.) I have this idea that if I just watch enough Dog Whisperer episodes, I will magically absorb the necessary knowledge to tsk-tsk my stupid dog in to perfect subservience.

It's kind of the same philosophy that drives me to buy fitness magazines. LOSE 10 POUNDS in 10 DAYS! WALK YOUR WAY TO A SIZE 6! I see the titles and I gravitate towards the promise of a new me. However, what I consistently find is that you must actually do the "secret weight loss plan" if you want to lose the weight. Evidently, you cannot glean any aerobic benefits at all by reading alone. And, surprise, surprise, all of these super secret weight loss plans involve ridiculous amounts of exercise and absolutely no pancakes. Was that really a secret? Did people just find out that eating less and exercising more helps you lose weight? But I digress.........back to Cezar.

What it all comes down to is this, Cezar Milan is a genius and my only hope of rehabilitating my deranged dog is to watch more of his show. They had one good beagle episode, but once again, all the dog's problems were solved by a nice long walk. So the moral of the story is this: no matter what your problems are,whether it be a house devouring dog or a great big bubble butt, all you got to do is go on a really long walk.

Fun in the Sun -or else

It has come to my attention that there is less than one month left before school starts. When this discovery dawned on me this week, all I could think was, how could this have happened? How did two months of summer time fun slip past me without me noticing? I was supposed to have accrued all kinds of wonderful dreamy childhood memories for my kids by now. What are they supposed to tell my future grandchildren? Well kids, in the summer of 2008, we took two whole walks with the dog and got rained out at the zoo. Super.

You know that game on the Price is Right where the contestant gets 5 or 6 placards with prices on them and has like two minutes to match the prices with the right prizes? And the contestant always gets 2 or 3 right off the bat and then frantically tries to unscramble the other 3 prices before the time runs out? Well, that's me right now. I just looked up and saw I've got almost no time left to unscramble my schedule and enjoy the summer with my kids before its over.

So, yesterday I took a half-day off of work to take the kids to the waterpark and make some ding-darn memories of a lifetime. Well, you would have thought I asked my children (and nephew Jake) to join me at an all day insurance seminar. They immediately met my unbridled enthusiasm with moaning and groaning about it being tooooo hottttt and the water tooooo colddd and suggested that I check back with them another time. Emerson had an excuse, she had missed her nap, but the boys, well they were excuseless.

I quickly honed in to the fact that this entire conversation was taking place while they were glued to their Nintendo DS's. And having lived with these evil little devices for some time now, I have learned that when the boys are on the verge of breaking through to some new level or acquiring some sort of new evolved creature, the world as we know it stops. However, knowing this fact and caring about it are two different things. So, I ordered them to put the DS's away and pack it up because we were going have some serious, memory making fun whether they liked it or not. Of course, once we got there, they had a great time and I left satisfied that I could claim at least one really great day out with the kids this summer.

Undies Anyone?

My friend Anne requested contributions of embarrassing kid stories. As far as pure embarrasing goes, here's a nice Carson story:

Carson goes to a private Christian school. His 3-K teacher, Mrs. Lavell is pretty, sweet and conservative. The epitome of what every pre-school school teacher should be. One day, I was talking to her before class and Carson was still hanging onto me, trying to get my attention. I continued on in my conversation with Mrs. Lavell, not at all distracted by the fact that Carson had taken to running his hand up and down my leg. At one point, his hand goes from my ankle all the way up my skirted leg and then he stops. And right there in the middle of my conversation, he declares at the top of his lungs, "Momma, you aren't wearing any underwear!"

I tried to smile my most genteel , demure smile and replied, "Carson, honey, I am wearing underwear and you need to use your inside voice."

"No, Momma, I felt your bootie!" (Helllloo, did I not say inside voice.)

At this point, Mrs. Lavell is more than just a little bit interested to see how this plays out and other parents have begun to turn around to see what kind of tramp drops her pre-schooler off without donning undies.

I am now wishing that I knew some kind of magic sleeper ninja-hold that I could use on Carson to get him to stop talking. Short of that, I try to convince his teacher.

"Mrs. Lavell, I can assure you that I am wearing underwear. They are not a conventional type (ewww, I know, TMI, but what was I supposed to say?), but I would never leave the house without underwear. Promise." Big smile, and pray that she doesn't think I am a degenerate.

Mrs. Lavell seemed satisfied with that and quickly shooed Carson into class. With that I hustled my way on out of there and vowed to never wear a skirt again.

Emme Claire Domestic Terrorist

For those who do not have the privilege of knowing Emerson Claire Kosub, you are missing out. This kid is priceless. My friends at work routinely ask me to tell them the latest "Emme story". Here are the latest two:

1. A couple of weeks ago, I put my kids to bed and then went on to bed myself. Two and half hours later, I woke up to a bright light shining in my eyes. When my eyes finally adjusted, I saw Emme standing by my bedside wearing full Cinderella regalia, right down to the high heel shoes. She apparently had found a flashlight and decided to blind me/scare me half to death with it. When I asked her what in the world she was doing, she whispered, "I loot-en for cues." Translation, she was looking for clues. At midnight. In heels. Go figure.

2. Last weekend, I was painting the living room and mostly ignoring Emme. There being no furniture in the main rooms or accessible toys (remodeling the house), she was understandably bored. I was up on a ladder when I heard her saying, "It's okay, just lie down and be still, that's a good boy, just lie still and be good..." Out of an abundance of curiosity and caution, I got down to check it out. There she was, petting a sleepy Duncan, sweet talking him into a totally relaxed state of mind and ever-so-slowly easing his soft floppy ear into the stapler.

I cried out, "Emerson Claire what are you doing!?"

"Oh, I jus po-tin a ho in Duncan's ear."

"Well, that's going to hurt him, so stop it."

"Mommm, it jus one ittle ho."

That's right, according to her you can staple an innocent dog's ears so long as you keep it down to "one little hole".

Priceless.

1st Date

It's 6:40 in the afternoon and both of my kids are blessedly asleep. Sure, I'll pay for it later when they are still going strong at 11:00 p.m., but I have just enough time for a quick adorable Carson-story.

Carson had his first date, sorta. On Wednesday, Brookie-Cookie (the love of his life) needed a ride to tennis class. Enter Carson all googley-eyed and nervous. We turn on her street and he turns to me and I-kid-you-not, says,"I wonder just how beautiful Brooke is going to look when she walks through that door?" Couldn't you just die? Well, she looked just as cute as a button and smelled great too. According to her father, Brooke was in a similar tizzy and had doused her self in about a half gallon of strawberries and cream perfume. She had also wrote "Hello Carson" on her Magna-Doodle and put it next to the front door for him to see. They took a quick peek at her room (it was evidently a giant pink paradise) and off we went.

Carson practically killed himself trying to beat her to the car so that he could open her door for her. His over eagerness was such that I felt it necessary to caution him to wait until the car stopped moving before he went to open her door for her again once we got there. All went smoothly during the lesson and 45 minutes later their first big date was over.

Carson later said, "Mom, what do you wish for me?" And I answered my stock answer, "I just wish your wishes come true." He smiled and said, "Oh good, then you wish that I become an Army man and marry Brooke too." How cute is that???

Bad Hair Day

It happens once, maybe twice in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. You find that certain someone who knows you better than you know yourself. The one person in a million who truly listens and hears you completely. That one special individual who is everything that you ever wanted and more. And just like that, it can all be swept away.

Kim, my hairdresser has moved away. Evidently, her stupid husband got some dream job in Washington D.C. and she decided to go with him. I know, I know, I had three perfect years of great haircuts and fabulous highlights and not everyone can say that. But, I am now left adrift, hairdresser-less. And during what is probably the windiest summer on record for Wichita Falls.

Do you know that you have a greater chance of being killed by a terrorist that finding a competent hairdresser? Okay, I lifted that line from Sleepless in Seattle and I think it applies to finding true love, but whatever, same difference. The sentiment remains true and I can back it up.

I went to my hair salon today for a simple trim of my bangs. A simple enough job- or so you would think. They gave me some squeaky voiced child who had bedazzled every single piece of equipment she owned including her beautician’s license. She proceeded to butcher my bangs until they were unrecognizable as a natural extension of my head. When she was done and I had an opportunity to survey the wreckage, I realized that I had seen myself with this haircut once before. When I was four- and had to cut chunks of hair off after I had fallen asleep with gum in my mouth. I look like a cross of Ramona Quimby and a mange infested dog.

Blessedly, most of the office was gone by early afternoon and I did not have to face anybody with my stumpy, weird, so-not-blended (I specifically said blend them into the rest of my hair) bangs. I think I can manage the weekend with a pair of strategically placed sunglasses on top of my head, but after that, I just don’t know.

I guess it’s better to have had a great hairdresser and lost her ………

Love hurts

Carson is in love. Her name is Brooke and she sits next to him in class. A few months ago we were listening to his favorite song, “Hey there Delilah” and he let out this big dramatic sigh. And just as serious as he could be he said, “when I first heard this song, that when I knew- I was in love.”

Since that time he has continued to share the trials and tribulations of love with me. When he brought home a “23” on a homework page, he explained that he was trying to do his work, but Brooke was staring at him and he just couldn’t concentrate. He asked me sometime later, “Mom, have you ever felt this way, you know, in love?” I explained that yes, I have in fact, known love as evidenced by my um, marriage to his father. He kinda thought about that for a minute and I could see that he had decided that no; I had no idea what he was talking about.

Luckily, Brooke loves him too, Rosalie said. Rosalie also said that Brooke plans on kissing him on the playground. Once I heard that I decided that Carson and I needed to talk about appropriate behavior for 6 year olds. And I believe that I made it abundantly clear, that at no point, will anyone be kissing anybody anywhere. After much discussion, Carson decided that he’s fine with not kissing, but he thinks he still will take her to the prom. Since I've got about 10 years before that becomes a pressing concern, I decided to save any discussions regarding dating until later.

Can you imagine the self discipline that it takes to have these conversations with a straight face? I have always told him that he can tell me anything because I am his mom. And so I am immensely honored that he chooses to share these little secrets with me. And because he is so darn serious about it all, I am equally serious in my answers to his questions. But, inside, well inside, I am giggling my head off. It’s so stinking cute I want to just scoop him up and smother him with hugs and kisses. But instead, I solemnly nod my head and agree that love is indeed, complicated.

Dobie thinks it is all ridiculous and that I should just tell him he is too young to be in love. What he fails to see is that Carson’s tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve comes directly from Dobie himself. Carson is Dobie in miniature. And I am not about to stomp out in the son what I so love about the father. So for now, we will continue to help Carson navigate his way through the rough water of young love.

You know, it was not so long ago when all Carson wanted to do was marry me. And as wierd as that was, it was alot easier to deal with than all of this other stuff.

Happy Mother's Day!!

• Here's to my best Mother's Day ever! This year my sweet son had his grandma take him to the Dollar Tree to pick me out something "really special". Today, I am the proud owner of a ceramic grizzly bear cub wearing a red bow tie.
• 
  Even though Grandma had cautioned him that a bear cub might not exactly go with my home's decor, he insisted that I would absolutely love it. He was right; I love it. I love it because I will never forget the look on his face when he presented it to me. He simply bubbled over with joy, anticipation, and love. He wiggled and bounced the entire time I unwrapped it, just dying for the "big reveal".
  
  Of course, once the bear was unwrapped and sufficiently admired, Carson had to find the perfect place to display this amazing piece of artistry. So for now, my new bear friend sits atop of my kitchen window ledge, for all to see.
  
  As for Dobie, he got the ever so subtle hint that I wanted a certain necklace when I downloaded the page from catalog, circled the one that I wanted, wrote down the store that sold it and left it for him to find. To my great surprise, I got exactly what I wanted. Sure beats the alternative of him feigning a reason to go off alone, wandering the mall for hours with no idea of what to get, calling my sister for ideas and coming home with something totally random.
  
  So, Happy Mother's Day to all. I hope that someday you know the joy of receiving your own ceramic grizzly bear cub or a bottle of perfume that was last popular in the 80's or really tacky piece of costume jewelry. It reminds us that sometimes the most imperfect gifts can show us the total perfection that is a child's love.
  
  
  

Zoo Trip Schmoo Trip

Eager to log in some much needed mommy points, I volunteered to go on the 1st grade's annual zoo trip. And what a trip it was. Four first graders, two video screens, two Nintendo DS's, one IPod and me. Thank you Jesus for technology. The boys snuggled in with all their techno-gear and nary a word did I hear for miles at a time. We arrived in record time, thanks to the handy-dandy navigation program on my phone and we met up with our group before the zoo even opened.

Once the boys were unplugged from their respective electronical devices, they began to show signs of life. They were pumped, they were ready, they wanted to get the party going. But not to the zoo. The only place those boys wanted to go was the gift shop. I couldn't convince them that seeing an actual tiger was way better than buying a tiny stuffed one.

When we finally did get on our zoo-way, I found out that corralling little boys is the functional equivalent of wrestling Jello. I never could quite keep them all together. One was a zoom aheader and another was a hanger backer. The other two were put on recon duty to gather whatever stray had wandered away. We did finally make it, intact, to 2:30. The boys then led the attack on their beloved gift shop. After 40 minutes of mulling over what forgettable crapola they were going to blow their money on, we got back on the road.

The trip back did not go smoothly. The boys were cranky and tired. They had skimped on buying food at lunchtime so that they would have enough money left for toys and so, they were also extremely hungry. I was stressed because we were the last to leave the zoo and I was afraid that the boys' parents were going to be mad if we got home late. So I really needed to get out of Ft. Worth as easily as I got in. No such luck.

My navigation system died, I got lost in the ghetto, I had to make three separate pee/snack stops, we hit 5:00 traffic and we got home three hours later than everyone else. By the time we got home I was a nervous wreck. I trudged home, collapsed into bed and vowed to get my mommy points at home from now on.

Open house 2008

Open house night at school is one of my favorite nights of the year. Sure I love to see just how creative Carson can get with a paper plate and some dried macaroni, but that's not the real reason. The real reason is that once a year, a teacher sits me down and tells me just how great a kid Carson is. And any mother can tell you, when some one compliments your child, they are really complimenting you. When a teacher says, "Carson is so well-behaved", what she really means is, "Mrs. Kosub your disciplinary techniques are revolutionary". When a teacher says, "Carson is one of the smartest kids in his class" what she really means is, "He is actually the smartest kid in the class, but I could never say that out loud with all these other parents around."

Thursday night was open house at our school and for the first time in four years, I decided to skip it. I will explain. On Monday, Carson brought home a less than stellar report card for the 5th six weeks. I wrote the teacher a note asking if I should be concerned and if so, what could I do to help him. I completely expected her to say that his grades were a bizarre anomaly and I should not be the least bit worried. I didn't hear back from her, so I caught her Thursday morning as she was walking around looking at open house projects. Bracing myself for my yearly praise-fest, I was stunned when she said that Carson is struggling with reading and that his grades reflect that. She said Carson is on "on level" in reading, but that he definitely needs some sort of tutoring this summer or he won't be ready for the rigors of 2nd grade reading. Needless to say, I was taken aback.

Summer school???? My mind conjured up images of juvenile delinquents slumped at their desks, throwing spit balls at my baby's head. Summer school is for kids on behavioral meds, not Carson. He made one tiny little 81 in phonics. I realize that this particular grade has been in steady decline since the first of the year, but come on, summer school?

As I stood there and listened, I wanted to slap, I mean, remind her that he is the youngest one in the class and that maybe, that is at the root of the problem. Of course, the only solution to him being the youngest in the class would be to hold him back and I simply can't do that to him. His teacher also cautioned against that because he is a math genius and he would be totally bored if he had to do 1st grade again. That won her back some goodwill points and I remembered why I love her so much. She is a good teacher and she is only trying to help him succeed. Once I digested the bad news, I decided to find him a tutor.

So, Carson is scheduled for an assessment at Sylvan next Saturday. And believe me when I say, making that call was not easy. Even as I made the appointment, I found myself incoherently babbling (to a perfect stranger no less) about how Carson really doesn't need alot of help, just a booster of sorts, because he is not failing for heaven's sake, just struggling with the basics you know, and we are in no way required to take summer school, we are simply looking at a way to supplement his education blah, blah, blah. I mean I went on and on like a complete idiot.

Later, as I thought about my conversation with that poor receptionist, I realized what I was doing. I wasn't making excuses for Carson; I was really making excuses for myself. Because in the end, when a mom hears that her child is failing, what she really hears is that she is failing her child. I hate that Carson gets the last of what I have to give each day. I hate that everything we do, has to get done between 6:00 and 9:00 because that is all the time we have. And I really hate feeling guilty for working. Because I love my job and I love that Dobie is there too and I love that I am good at what I do.

So what's a mom to do? Well, number one, she gets herself a housekeeper. Ours started yesterday. That way the weekends do not consist of me cleaning all day and barking at anyone who dares to walk through the fresh vacuum lines. And family time re-emerges as a weekend pastime. Number two, she accepts the fact that her child may be slightly imperfect and that this is not the end of the world (slightly harder to accomplish than Number one). And number three, she realizes that "working mom" is not the equivalent of "crappy mom". This, I am sure will be an on-going battle, especially when Emerson starts school too. But, I'm working on it.

Boot Camp Blues

Boot Camp Day 8. Things have taken a turn for the worse.

I showed up a couple of minutes late for my Thursday night class, thereby missing the stretching segment of the class. Big mistake. While doing hamstring curls with “power bands” wrapped around my ankles, I felt something go terribly wrong. My hamstring did not necessarily snap or pop, but it tightened up and started to get hot. Not willing to admit that I was hurt, I went on to run some laps and then run the stairs with my group. Bigger mistake. By the time I was willing to stop, I was in some doubt about whether I was going to be able to walk out on my own two feet. I got the kids rounded up and hobbled home.

Things did not get better for me at this point. I took a hot bath and tried to stretch out my legs. By this time, both of my hamstrings hurt and my left knee was throbbing. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found some Icy Hot. Although I have smelled the stuff on Dobie before, I had never actually used it myself. I skipped reading the directions and went straight to application. Biggest mistake of all. I got too big of a blob in my hand so I just started rubbing it in all over my legs. In a few seconds it started to do what it is supposed to do and it got hot. Like 9000 degrees hot. That’s when I realized that I inadvertently got a little too close to my “hoo-haw” and that it was on fire. Preoccupied by my incenerating nethers, I didn't think it through and got back in the tub to scrub some of the hot lava off before my hoo-haw completely melted off. However, the hot water in the tub only exacerbated the thermal effects of the Icy Hot and the heat level to my tra-la-la reached Nuclear. Too embarrassed to ask Dobie to help me, (I mean seriously what was he going to do) I crawled into bed and prayed that I would soon pass out.

About twenty minutes later, everything returned to normal and I just went to sleep. Today, I am still in a substantial amount of pain but mostly I am just ticked. I am trying so hard to lose weight and I really don’t need to be hobbled right now. It takes a lot for me to get in an exercise frame of mind and I was there. Now, I am afraid that I will have to quit. Boo.

Vasectomy vacillations

April 12, 2008

Valentines Day was supposed to be the big day. For Dobie's vasectomy that is. Unfortunately, his mother learned that she had breast cancer and would be undergoing surgery herself. So we cancelled the appointment and re-scheduled it for April 15.

So, April 15 is right around the corner and I'm within sniffing distance of a contraception free future, right? Wrong. I panicked. I began to obsess over the fact that if I ever did change my mind about having more kids, there would be no going back. I say this on good authority despite what many a I-45 billboard has to say on the subject. The doctor made it clear, the "area" would be cut, cauterized, tied into knots and then stuffed up somewhere, never to be seen again. Forever,ever,ever........

To make matters worse, I got the kids a teeter totter this week and the first night they had it they stayed on it all night. Laughing, squealing in delight, playing together in perfect sibling harmony. It was a picture of domestic bliss. How much harder could one more be???

Needing to be talked off my reproductive cliff, I called my sister. Let me see if I can remember this correctly. I believe what she said was, and I quote, "What??!!?? - You and Dobie can barely handle the two you have, don't cancel the appointment, you do not need anymore kids". She was, and is absolutely right. I have no business even considering having another child. But, I am just not comfortable making any permanent decisions right now. Emerson is smack in the middle of the terrible two's. She's not even potty trained yet. So she's still alot of work. There is still the outside possibility that she will learn to treat animals humanely and could actually become welcome at people's houses. I am convinced that the only way to make an informed decision about this subject is to wait until she more manageable. More time would give my a little more perspective.

Further exacerbating the situation, is that right now, I am surrounded by pregnant people. My sister in law is due in two months, three of my friends at work are expecting this summer, and the daycare has always got some preggo coming in to check out the place. And because I was one of those freaks who loved being pregnant, I am terribly jealous. I am immersed in all the glowy wonderful pre-baby bliss. What I really need is a big dose of our-baby-has-his-days-and-nights-mixed-up and I-haven't-slept-in-three-days. Maybe a good I-was-walking-out-the-door-and Jr.-projectile-vomitted-on-me. That would help.

In any event, Dobie and I have decided to wait until our next anniversary. We will be 35, Emme will be well into the 3's, and our house projects should be coming to a close. A much more perfect time to make a better decision.

I must be completely nuts.

Look Ma, I'm blogging!!

This being my very first blog entry, I would like to dedicate it to my dear friend, Ann Haag. Although I left Lubbock (and our daily contact) behind eight years ago, I still get to share in the whole Haag saga every week. I faithfully tune in to find out what that crazy Caroline is going to say next or to see if John is staying healthy this week. I love that despite the miles and miles that divide us, I can still feel connected to my friend and her family.

That being said, here are the baseline facts for the Kosub clan.

1. Carson is 6 1/2. I have told him many times to stop growing, but he refuses.
2. Emerson is 2 1/2. I have told her many times to get to age three as quickly as possible, but like all two year olds, she wants to do it her way.
3. Dobie and I have been married 8 years. I had him on a five-year-till-perfection plan. At the five year mark, I had to amend the plan and make it 7. At eight, I consider my plan a success.
4. I have recently decided to join a "boot camp" at the YMCA. I am in a lot of pain right now. To make matters worse, one of the teachers is in her early 100's and is still in much better shape than I am.
5. We have one dog, Duncan. He is named for Tim Duncan of the World Championship San Antonio Spurs. He is a beagle/chewing machine/destructor of all things valuable and precious.
6. Having recently re-taken our bed by force, we have decided that we are quite happy with our two children and there will be no more.
7. Dobie is still in love with his job, but for the first time, is considering leaving for greener (green like money) pastures. I just want him to be happy, so I will leave this decision to him.
8. My job changes so much on a yearly basis, I think I'll stay just to see what happens next.
9. So far this year we have only had one hospital stay, thanks to Emerson. However, just in case, I have begun to formulate a plan to rotate ER's so that CPS doesn't get wise to us.
10. I am determined to teach Carson to ride a bike, learn to swim and tie his shoes by the end of the summer. There just comes a point when training wheels, floaties and velcro are no longer appropriate for a 7 year old.

That is it for now. Dobie is out of town and I have to begin negotiations with the children regarding the sleeping arrangements for tonight. I have the feeling that I will be sleeping with two children, at least four "babies", a couple of Webkins and a dog.

- s