bottom and balls

I know, it sounds like something someone nasty might use to search for porn.

I assure you, this post has nothing to do with porn.

My boys are just 25 months apart.

They share a bedroom and I have the highest of high hopes that they'll grow up to be best friends.

Yes, they are complete opposites.

Carl is fastidious, a rule follower (most of the time) and a good listener (again, most of the time).

Charlie is carefree and lives life with reckless abandon.

Tonight at dinner we were talking about how many kids each of our kids were going to have.

Elsa proclaimed 6 or 7, Sarina said 4, Carl said 4, Charlie said, "none."

He's going to have dogs instead.

18 to be exact. 

And he'd let them have puppies.

Since Thanksgiving the boys have been in a little sleepover mode.

When their cousins were here they shared the blow up mattress where the air came out enough to make them roll to the middle and snuggle.

Charlie laughs when he asks Carl if he remembers waking up snuggling him.

Since the stomach bug hit Carl's upper bunk mattress has been on the floor next to Charlie's bottom bunk.

Anyway, last night the boys were goofing off when Carl asked Mark to put his bed back on the top bunk and change the sheets.

Mark asked why and Carl informed him that Charlie had been messing around au-natural and bounced on Carl's bed without undies.

His balls and bottom right on Carl's bed.

Mark tried to make him feel better and said they had just taken a shower.

Carl's response was that Charlie doesn't wash there.

Huh.

Nothing like brothers that know ever intimate detail.

Trying Days

Some days I wonder if maybe I've been dealt a fuller hand to deal with than most.

Granted, we have a full family which naturally leads to more opportunities for excitement.

I know I haven't been dealt more than my fair share. 

But sometimes it feels like I have.

This month has been full.

The beginning of the month I had a chance to jet off to Arizona with Mark while he did a countertop job for a friend's second home.  I basked in the sun and shopped a bit for a blessed 48 hours while he worked his tail off. 

My little sister kept the kids for me.  (I don't know why I keep calling her my little sister.  Not that it makes much of a difference now, but maybe to distinguish her from my big sister?  Maybe habit?)

It was her turn to parade 6 kids born within 6 1/2 years about town and hear the whisperings in passing.  "Are they ALL yours?"  "You must have your hands full."  All with a, "you're nuts" undertone.

She was a superstar.  Took them to see Santa, out to lunch, to Jumping Jacks.  They made sweet salt dough handprint ornaments.  They called me to wish me a happy birthday.  Truly she set the bar high.  I know I'm not a fun auntie.  I guess I just have to let her be that, and I'll do my best to try and keep up.

So, I returned home and kept the homefires burning while Mark wrapped up Arizona.

Just the typical- one kid with a fever that didn't go down for over 24 hours, a band concert, basketball game.

On the way up to the airport to pick up daddy

we had a barfer. 

In the car. 

All over the car.

Elsa was sitting in the back back and kept asking, rather persistently,

"what's that smell?!" 

"what's that smell?!" 

"WHAT'S that SMELL?!"

Charlie covered his mouth and nose.

Sarina "ewwed" it up in the front seat

and I just panicked.

Didn't know if I should pull over to the side of the highway on a dark rainy night in seatac or keep driving.  I tried to pull over but realized there was really nothing I could do, so I hightailed it to the airport where a sweet curbside check man loaded me up with a big plastic bag, box of kleenex and fresh bottle of hand sanitizer (which really saved me- with the strong clean scent).

I then traveled to the cell phone parking lot where I cleaned up as best as I could with the far too few diaper wipes left in the car.

Welcome home daddy!!

We survived the night.

The next day poor daddy had to head to work.

That night as I left Elsa's room after putting her in bed I smelled hot electrical something, so I sniffed all over the house to find the source.

Wouldn't you know it? 

The dishwasher.

(Don't ever buy an LG dishwasher)

I opened the door to it, closed it and a big black poof of smoke came out.

Awesome. 

I sat and watched it a few minutes to make sure it wasn't going to explode and refrained from calling 911.

And yes, Mark walked me through turning the power off a the circuit breaker. 

At least it was at the end of the rinse cycle so I called the dishes clean enough and put them away.

Next day, Mark's first full day home and he pulled the dishwasher out to check the connections for replacement and the waterline broke.

All over the kitchen.

And for once I was the one off, blissfully unaware, on a (rather painful) run with some girlfriends.

Poor guy, water everywhere, all on his own.

When it rains it pours, right?

All over the kitchen floor.

Which is actually kind of good, I can't think of the last time I cleaned the floor. 

It could very well be a year ago.

Don't judge.

I don't have any crawling babies anymore...

Yesterday was a horrible, horrible day in Connecticut. 

Thankfully, I took my kids and played hooky to visit Santa Claus on our annual trip to Seattle to see Santa.

It's the only photo I take of all 4 kids on an annual basis.

We all love to look over the photos and marvel at how much everyone has grown.

And I'm so glad that I escaped the media blitz about the nightmare-come-true in Connecticut.

I vacillate between wanting to stay in the bubble and know every detail of what happened.

I like that quote about looking for the helpers whenever there's a tragedy.  I like that reminder to find the good in people who rise to help in time of trauma and tragedy.

There's such a pull to wallow in the sadness and despair of it all.

Maybe I like the idea of looking for the helpers because my husband is a first responder and I pray to God that he never, ever has to witness anything as horrific or a teeny tiny sliver as horrific as what happened to those babies and their educators.

I look into the face of my beautiful babies and it breaks my heart to think of those innocent children excited about Santa Claus and snow and the wonder of wintertime, who faced an unimaginable end.

I pray that they didn't know what happened. 

That somehow they escaped the knowledge of their nightmare.

I have a 6 year old. 

Most of my friends have 6 year old babies.

Here's mine.

Look at the joy on his face as he runs the bases.

Six year olds know nothing but joy in everything and the wonder in life.

Nothing can take away the pain those parents feel at never getting to hold their precious ones again.  At having to answer the siblings questions about when their sister or brother is coming home.  Or the lost look on their faces knowing that something so important is missing, and will be forever.

I don't want to think about such monumental loss.

I don't want to think about what kind of monster can inflict such harm.

Needless violence.

I am humbled by the courageous teachers and educators who sacrificed themselves for those babies.  At those who hid, protected, and expressed love of such magnitude for the ones who survived, as they huddled together not knowing what was happening beyond their sight.

What they've been through is beyond comprehension.

Yes, some days I have a full hand to manage.

And for that I'm eternally grateful.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Give me vomit, burning dishwashers, and flooded kitchens until the cows come home.

Throw it all at me, I will take it all gladly, knowing that my babies are safe.