This morning ...

This picture has nothing to do with this post, but I know most everyone who comes here really comes for photos and not my ramblings, so here are two lovely photos of both my handsome boys. And later today I will be posting more photos from the last few months, including some baseball photos from Wilder's season and more. So come back!

This morning, I had just barely cracked my eyes open and decided to roll out of bed when I heard a voice hollering from our family room downstairs.  "MAMAAAAAAA!?"

I could tell it wasn't an urgent matter, so I ignored it. You see, Wilder has this habit of being EXACTLY LIKE ME and yelling through the house to get someone's attention. A habit I picked up from my own mother. A habit that I abhor in my own self and that I'm trying to break for both Wilder and I. (Jerry, reading this now, is marveling at what he thought was a giant dollop of hypocrisy: "Huh. I didn't realize she knew she does this too.")

Anyway, back to this morning. Wilder continued to put a high-decibel voice to my name. Repeatedly. So I finally gave up and yelled back, willing to have this very loud, multi-level conversation.

"WHAT?"

"(unintelligible YELLING!!!")

"WHAT???"

"IS MY BIRTHDAY IN THREE MONTHS????"

"YES. A LITTLE LESS THAN."

"YES!! AWESOME!!!"

End of conversation. I have no idea what that was about or what prompted it.

So I went on my merry way, doing what I believe 99 percent of the population does upon awakening: I had to pee. Hunter shows up at the door.

"Mama. Who is going to make my coffee milk?"

(Aside: Yes, I let my 4-year-old have a tablespoon of coffee laced with sugar and milk each morning. Go ahead — judge. But I started drinking coffee when I was 4 and look how I turned out. Perfectly fine. Although now that I think about it, this post seems to not be making any point other than that I've let my kids develop my very own bad habits. Oh well, there'll be therapists when they grow up, too.)

So back to H's coffee milk.

Me, in a mood to screw with him now that both boys have made the mistake of actually expecting me to answer questions before my first cup of coffee: "I don't know! Who will make your coffee milk for you???"

Hunter, giving me a look that screams *duh woman you're so dumb*: "You."

Me: "I don't know if I can. I'm not in charge."

You see, Hunter has taken to telling me that I cannot possibly be in charge because PAPA is in charge. He's bigger, you see, and also — presumably — male. There is a definite lean toward sexism in this house lately, with Wilder telling me last week after I declared that one half of two police officers seen talking to each other was a woman. No, women can't be police officers, they insisted. To which I invoked that classic parenting tactic known as giving them a choice: They could either choose to believe their mother that women can indeed be police officers or I would march their butts back there to meet said female police officer and let her know they don't believe she has the chops for her job.

They chose to believe. Good boys.

Anyway, back to coffee (this really is rambling, eh?)

Hunter: "You are in charge. Papa went to work, so now you're in charge."

Me: "But Papa didn't give me permission to make your coffee milk for you, so ..."

Silly me. Thinking I might actually either make a point with Hunter or get him to at least admit that I am, on very often occasion, IN CHARGE DAMMIT. But, alas, this is Hunter I'm dealing with, so ...

"Forget it. I'll make it myself." And off he goes.

Now that right there is a habit of mine I'm proud he's picked up: stubborn independence.