Congratulations Pop

This post is for my dad, who most of those close to me know I call Pop. This coming Tuesday will mark my dad's last day of work. After many decades, he's retiring. He'll be 67 in November (hope you don't mind my broadcasting that, Pop), but he doesn't look it and he sure doesn't act it. I'm pretty sure my dad probably started working more than 50 years ago, and he hasn't let up since.

In fact, the point of this post is to thank my Pop, on many levels. For starters, he worked his tail off our whole young lives to support my sister, brother and I. I remember days where he would work two jobs, come home and take care of us kids because my mom worked nights at a local department store. He'd get us fed, get us ready for bed, pile us into the car in our PJs, go pick up our mom (we only had one car, of course) and the whole family would drive home and pile sleepily into our beds. I was very, very wee when this was going on, but it's one of my earliest memories. I remember the sleepy dreaminess of driving through the dark streets with my whole family in the car, snuggled into my warm pajamas, probably with my hands clutched around a stuffed animal. I felt so safe and so happy with all of them there. But I know now, especially since I've had kids, how much work that was for my Pop (and my Mom, of course), how long those days were, how much he probably would have loved to come home and sit on the couch and watch TV. Growing up, my dad often worked more than one job to make ends meet. It wasn't something I ever heard him complain about. I don't think he even thought twice about it. He had a wife and kids and bills to pay and food to put on the table, and he just did what had to be done. I'm tremendously proud of and honored by my dad for doing that.

The other thing is that, by those actions, my Pop taught me the meaning of hard work. I'm sure I don't do it with half the grace and stoicism that he did, but I do know how to work hard. That's not the kind of thing you're born with, I don't think. You learn that by a really excellent example being set. And both my parents did that for me. So thank you, Pop ... you can't imagine what that's done for me in my grown-up life. Or maybe you can, but I'm glad as hell that I've got that.

So I really can't imagine what my dad will do now. I know he'll be even more of a dedicated Starbucks customer (the giftcard will be in the mail soon, Pop). I think he'll do some fishing. He'll probably watch more Fox News and maybe we'll have some good political debates. Maybe (hint, hint) he'll get a wild hair and decide to come visit the Scott Brothers of Dallas.

Whatever you do, Pop, I just wanted to write a little something to tell you how much I love you and how proud and thankful I am of and for your lifetime of hard work. Happy Retirement ... I sure hope you enjoy every second of it. You deserve it. Love you, k.

Hunter's Tale of the Tape

Hunter had his 6-month appointment today. I don't think anyone really cares about his stats, but I like to remember what they were, and someday Hunter might like to compare his own height/weight to his own no-doubt freakishly large kid's stats. So here they are Future Hunter. And might I add: You are a back-breaking beast, but Mama's getting some killer arm and back muscles!

Weight: 20 lbs, 11 oz.
Height: 28 and 1/4 inches

Nice growing little dude! I'm going to be posting some pics and maybe even video soon. We just got a new computer (Warhammer-related, don't you know? All the best Warhammer players have TWO graphics cards!!) and I still have to figure out getting photos of the camera on this one.

Hunter = six months old

Here's our guy. He spent his 6-month mark crying and cranky. We thought it was teething until he projectile horked on me three times at midnight. Poor thing. But this picture was taken by Jerry just a few minutes ago, so as you can see he's feeling better. Happy half year, baby boy — you have brought much love and light and laughter into all of our lives. Wow ... look how adorable you are. Love you.

Happy Birthday, Mama

Today is what would have been my mom's 65th birthday. I want to make a little joke about how she'd still be giving my father and lawn-mower repairmen everywhere hell if she were still alive, but the truth is I don't really feel like it today. Humor doesn't really help much on days like these ...

It was a bad day, sprinkled with some goodness. I took Wilder for his haircut and we had lunch at Starbucks and that was my highlight. He told me afterward, unprovoked, "I had fun, Mama." And that was wonderful. 

But honestly, today just sucked. I miss my mom. When your mom is gone, you no longer feel like a child, really, I can't explain it, but it's a feeling that just plain sucks. I walk around the house still, nearly eight years later, wondering who it is I want to call so badly and just open up my heart to ... is it this friend? No. That friend? No. And then it hits me. I want to talk to my mama. Some days I want to talk to her so badly it hurts my heart. There is no one for the little piece of me that still very rarely feels like a little girl to call. No one to make it feel OK again. 

Hunter turned 6 months old today and Wilder ... well, I looked at Wilder today and realized there's very little baby left in that boy. I would give my arm for my mom to come back for a day to meet her grandsons and get to know them. I wouldn't even have to see or talk to her, if she could just meet these boys and see how freakin' fantastic and awesome they are. If she could just see that I'm doing my damndest to raise them up to be fine young men. That would be important to her, and I know that. 

Anyway, happy birthday, Mama. I wish I could give you a hug and tell you I love you. I wish I could get your recipe for Frito Pie and that frozen drink you used to make and put in the freezer and pour vodka on top of. I think you called it Good Drink. I wish I could ask you how you handled a willful preschooler. I wish you could see my sons' laughing eyes and feel their hugs and have it melt your heart the way it does mine. It grieves me knowing how much you would love these boys, and knowing they'll never know that love. 

I don't want to be maudlin, but I need to say this. If you are lucky enough to still have your mother in your life and assuming she's a mother worth having in your life, call her. Call her, tell her you love her, you miss her, send her flowers for no reason, ask her a question you won't be able to when she's gone. Tell her the way she raised you means the world to you now. Call the woman who gave you life and let her go to bed tonight thinking, "Now what brought that on ...?" with the biggest flippin' grin on her face.

Don't even think about it. Just do it. 

Much love, k.

What's that noise? Oh yes, it's the angels singing ...

Guess what I got last night? Guess! Guess!

A FULL frickin' night's sleep for the first time in months and months. Probably eight months.

Inspired probably by the gigantic bags under my eyes — each big enough to pack a small child into — Jerry offered to take Hunter's first feeding and give him a bottle. So I toddled off to bed about 10:30 and, when Hunter woke up for his second feeding, I rolled over, hit the button on my phone and ...: WHAAAA? 6:10 a.m.??!?

I did wake up a couple of times in the night. Once briefly when Jer got up to feed Hunter. And once to hear our cat TEARING all over the house like her tail was on fire and she was looking for bucket to put it out in. I listened for about 20 seconds, thought to myself, "Man, that cat is NUTS," and drifted back off to sleep. 

Turns out she'd somehow gotten attached to one of the leftover glue traps from our days of roach infestation (OK it wasn't a literal infestation but my pregnancy hormones sure made it feel like one). Anyway, there were about 50 pieces of soggy glue trap all over the house this morning. Poor cat must've worked all night chewing that thing off of her. 

Tragic if it weren't so funny. 

Anyway, thanks to the best husband in the world for letting me have that sleep. Lord did I need it.

Wilder's heart's aflutter

Forgive me for not blogging more — with this website launching, things aren't looking good for many blog posts over the next few weeks. But I had to put down this little exchange Wilder and I had as we were tucking him in last night:

Me: What was the best part of your day ...?

Wilder: [pause] ... Kate. (Kate is a friend from daycare, all blonde curls and a sassy nature.)

Me: Oh yeah? Is Kate your girlfriend?

Wilder: [sheepish and shy and barely a whisper] Yes. 

Me: Is she pretty? Do you luurrrrrrve her???

Wilder: Yes ... Kate a BAD GIRL. She BAD BAD GIRL ...

Me: Why? Did Kate do something today? 

Wilder: Yes ... [enter rambling non-sensical monologue about Kate and a red ball and lord knows what else in which I'm quite sure Kate was unfairly impugned.]

Me: So Kate took your ball and had to go to timeout ... but she was still the best part of your day?

Wilder: Yes ... sing now, Mama. Sing.

Awwwww. My boy has his first crush!

Happy Day to our Grandparents!

Dear Grandpa, Grandma, Gramma, Grand-daddy and all our great-grandparents ...

WE LOVE YOU!!!!!
xo, The Brothers Scott ... a.k.a. Wilder and Hunter

ps. Our parents love you too.

Get a room

I just caught the dog French-kissing the baby. And the baby was loving it.

Wilder: charmer, bully, personal trainer

It's nearly 8:30 in the morning and I should be headed off to work already. I normally don't work on Fridays, but the launch of my new work website late this month means I'll not only be working every Friday in September, but long days and weekends as well. Given that, I thought: Why not one quick blog post over coffee and then I'll place my nose to the grindstone and don my professional shackles?

Speaking of working late ... that's just what I did on Wednesday. So when I went to pick up the boys at daycare, Wilder was giving me a funny look as I walked across the lawn toward the playground. I figured he was either giving me the nasty stink-eye for being so late, or he was thinking who the heck is that woman (I was wearing a nice dress and heels, and let's just say that happens rarely enough that my co-workers tend to make snide comments about how I must have a job interview, har har har ...).

So I commented on the look on his face, and his teacher, whom we adore, says: "He probably looks like that because he knows he's in trouble." Only, in my head, is was more like TROUBLE. Because this was the moment I'd been dreading: The day when I pick my child up and find out he's not been acting like the fine little gentleman I've been trying to raise him to be.

Turns out he'd been pushing another little boy around at school. All day. So much so that his teacher finally made them hold hands the rest of the day.

I knew it would come. I know it's normal to test the boundaries of acceptable behavior, and I've made sure his teacher knows that I want to be informed of any shenanigans from the get-go so I can address it immediately.

Which is what we did. We talked about it on the way home. I asked Jerry to talk to him about it when he got home. We talked about it again that night as we had our final chat before closed eyes (this is when I lie down in bed with him for a few minutes and we talk about the important stuff that happened that day -- which is usually just, "Hey, what was the MOST fun thing you did today?").

As an aside, this is where Wilder the Charmer comes in. As we were having that last chat to try keep him from hammering his daycare buddy around, he looks at me in his big, sweet Wilder way and says: "Mama ... your eyes are pretty ... they're green." Now, I knew I was being manipulated, but damn if I wasn't a little proud of my son for manipulating me so well.

Anyway, cut to the next day, yesterday, and me picking him up again. I walked in and the first thing that happens is one of the little girls comes up (God bless the little girls ... they're like the daycare broadcast department) and says: "Guess what, Wilder's mommy?" My heart sank. "What?" I answered. "Wilder was BAAAAAAAAAAD today." My eyes cut over to Wilder's teacher and she just nodded. "Same boy?" I asked. "Different one," she says. Not as bad, she adds, but still, Wilder was the instigator. So I made Wilder go over and give that little boy a hug and say sorry (I'm sure the kid was loving me for that; he was probably thinking, "Get your Genghis Khan off me!") .

So Jerry and I repeated the whole thing last night. But instead of saying anyone's name, as in: "Jackson is your friend, and you shouldn't push him," we opened up the realm of who you should and should not push, hit, kick, perform suplex maneuvers on, etc. to include the whole world of people you know.

I'm really hoping the problem was that we weren't specific enough, but I'll find out here in a few hours. But lord, please, don't let my child become the modern, daycare version of Idi Amin.

So there you have it -- Wilder's newest incarnations. Bully. Mama charmer. And oh yes, personal trainer ...

I have recently been trying not only to drop the remainder of my baby weight, but also trying to get in shape for the first time in years. I'll see how that goes, but to help, I bought an elliptical trainer. It has an iPod docker, so when I work out, I play music. Wilder is absolutely fascinated by the whole thing. "Cool!" he yells when I'm on it. He also yells: "Faster, mama! FASTER!!!" And he dances around the room with the dog, maniacal-mosh-pit style, with a huge ass grin on his face. And I tell you what: It really makes me want to go faster and have as good of a time as he's having. So there you have it, Wilder is my personal trainer, and he doesn't cost a dime.