Photo time

None of my ramblings today. Just a few photos. Here they are:


After yesterday's trip to the zoo with some friends and their little ones, Wilder was chasing me back to the car. I kept dropping the camera and pointing it in his general direction, hoping to get a good shot. This one pretty much sums up the joy he gets from a good game of chase. Look at those eye-teeth ... my boy looks like a vampire!

Hunter and Papa. Hunter's a little obsessed with his tongue these days, and he sticks it out a lot. Probably good for stretching that frenulum.

Can I help it if I brag about how handsome he is? Look at him. This is the look he will no doubt use to slay the ladies circa 2030.

Playing at home early in the first week of having Mama at home full time. We've discovered the front room, with its four floor-to-almost-ceiling windows and a few toys thrown in, is a great place to kill a little time.

Wilder with his new "M" hat, which just showed up at our house one day. If this belong to any of you, let me know. In the meantime, it's become his new favorite hat, and the "M" stands for different things, depending on my mood. But most often it stands for "manic," because, well, refer to No. 2 in previous post.

SAHM Week 1 update

So here are some random thoughts and impressions on my first week of being a SAHM:

1. My back and other assorted body parts are killing me. I have the same kind of body aches you get with the flu, without the other assorted nastiness. I guess hauling 70-plus lbs. of boy + boy + car seat around will do that to you. It's going to take me a couple more weeks, I think, to build up the necessary muscle power to get over it. I guess that's what I get for marring a man who's 6-foot-6.

2. Wilder needs outlets. Good God, this kid has energy. Like, ENERGY. Times 10. Times a trillion. Yoga yesterday was great, but before that we danced like maniacs to the Run Lola Run soundtrack (Hunter too), and afterward we had a bike-riding lesson followed by soccer and wrestling in the front yard, and he was still out of his mind with energy afterward. It would take me probably 12 Red Bulls to work up to half that level. On a side note, Wilder was apparently put in time out during yoga. Just once, and he told me about it -- not the teacher -- so I'm still not sure exactly what he did. But on some level I believe only my son could be put in time-out during exercises that are actually supposed to make him more serene.

3. Hunter is an undescribabely sweet baby. I mean, I knew this, on some level. I certainly knew before this new phase in our lives that he's an easy baby, that's for sure. But between the amount I was working and the amount of attention that Wilder requires (see No. 2), I just didn't really KNOW Hunter as well as I should. Oh man, this child is so full of smiles and kisses and general mellow sweetness. Of course, there is another side, and that side mostly comes out after 5 p.m., when I am trying to cook dinner. That is when he and his brother apparently sneak into another room, smoke crack and then spend the next hour taking turns (or, more often, double-teaming me) with attempts to have my undivided attention, which inadvertently results in one of them pantsing me (I'm going to have to start wearing suspenders or overalls here soon). Anyway, that side of Hunter's personality has earned him the nickname Captain Short-Tempered Long Crack (previously he was just Cpt. Long Crack, so named for the size of his bum, which he has acquired from his mama's side of the family, poor thing).

4. I need more patience. Maybe my fellow SAHM readers can tell me ... is this something that comes with more time at home? I hope so, because I'm finding that I'm engaging in non-effective parenting techniques too frequently. After the 16th time of telling Wilder to stop squishing his brother, or stop trying to shove a plastic bowling pin down his throat, or stop carrying him around the room like that Peanuts character carries her cat, etc etc (you get the idea), I tend to snap a little bit. Don't worry, you don't need to call CPS, but I'm assuming (and hoping that I'm right on this) that patience and more effective parenting techniques will naturally form as I spend more time at home.

5. I am still not, and will likely never be, a joiner. All the parents at yoga yesterday already knew each other. I felt lucky to have Hunter with me, and gladly chased him around and played with him on the floor so I wouldn't have to engage in too much conversation, especially where it involved public vs. private school, developmental milestones, etc. I mean, honestly, I put my kid in yoga so I wouldn't have to be his human bounce house for an hour. I'd rather not discuss whether he can ride a bike without training wheels yet (lord, he can't even ride a bike yet!) or what preschool I'll be putting him in (when I get asked this, I want to cheerily answer: "I dunno ... I'll probably figure it out when he stops shitting his pants." You seriously cannot have a conversation with another parent in Dallas that doesn't at some point discuss what school you'll be putting him in. I mean, he's 3 ... am I really supposed to be plotting his course toward Harvard already?)

OK, so that last one was more of a rant than a thought. Whoops! Got off course there. Anyway, I have lots more thoughts, but I'll save those for another post. Boys up ... time to roll. xo, k.

Note to self: Never, ever let the boys fall asleep in the car again

Oh, Divinity of Naptimes and Afternoon Snoozefests, what is the secret to getting Grumpy McFightsSleep and Willful McInsistsHe'sNotSleepy to catching a little post-noon shut eye?

I let the boys fall asleep on the way home from running errands. They slept for 10 minutes in the car, tops. And now it seems they both think they slept for about two hours. One is currently hollering in his crib, and the other keeps escaping from his room to try to watch TV. I'm one more escape away from telling him I'll throw the TV in the pool if he does it again ...

I need a mantra. Suggestions?

(On the plus side, Wilder starts Yoga For Tots tomorrow. They stretch and roar like lions and stuff like that. We've been practicing our roars. In a few weeks, he starts Sports For Tots. Thank goodness for cheap rec center programs.)

Rattle, rattle ... do I still know how to work this thing?

Well, it's been awhile. Let's see ... do I have an explanation for why I haven't posted here lately? Hmmmm. Oh yes, that's right! Life got so crazy that I ended up quitting my job to become a stay-at-home mom.

Am I kidding? Nope. As most of you already know, this has been my first week at home. I'll get to the details of that a little later. Now, I know I spent about the last three years going on and on about how I wasn't cut out for SAHM-dom, how I wasn't "that mom" (never said with any derision ... it's just that I didn't think I could do it). As it turns out, I had seriously underestimated the two-kid thing. Details aside, it had gotten pretty rotten around our house. None of us were all that thrilled to be around each other, and something had to give. After many months of agonized, tortured "should I ..." conversations in my head, and after Jerry confirmed he was on board with it, I made the plunge.

So anyway, here I am at home. I'm still doing some work for the magazines I've been working for for seven years, and I've promised myself that I will write, because it's what I love to do. I'm going to start just by posting here more often (and I expect to be held accountable ... if you don't see me posting at least a couple times a week, email me here and tell me to get off my ass. I feel kind of rusty, not only with the whole writing thing but with the usual humor that I try to bring to these posts. That in itself was the biggest warning sign that something had to give ... if I can't crack a joke about life, there are big clouds on the horizon. Hell, there's a tsunami on the horizon.

Anyway, I'm only into my fourth day as a full-time mama. Here's my biggest observation so far, and it's kind of one of those "duh" ones, so don't make too much fun of me. While I'm happier and feel more satisfied and content at the end of the day, I'm also exhausted. As in, EXHAUSTED. Because, let's face it, at least at a job, you can pretend to be working even if you're mind is on a beach somewhere. You can sit in your chair and do mindless grunt work. Not so much at home. I knew that would be true, but it's been confirmed ten times over.

It's also kind of hard to figure out what to do each day to keep the kids entertained, challenged and, frankly, tired. Tired kids are good kids (mostly) and so far I'm struggling with that. So if any of you moms and dads out there have suggestions that work for you, I'm all for hearing them. Unfortunately, though I'm trying, I'm not the craftiest of moms or the joiner type. Still, when all else fails, I find clearing a big space in the living room and dancing our butts off works. And I can force my musical tastes on them and hopefully (though I know it's pointless and futile) fend off the Jonas Bros. and Miley's of the future.

"Hey, no no no no no, we do not stick things in people's ears. Or noses. Or mouths."

This is what I just said to Wilder, and these are the kinds of things coming out of my mouth these days.

Really, though, I'm loving it. It's sad to say, but I feel like I'm getting to know my kids better, particularly Hunter, who had the unfortunate luck of being born second. Before, I saw him mostly during his grumpiest part of the day, and on weekends, when we spent a good deal of time together, but when I was also running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to get the things I couldn't get done during the week done.

Anyway, the troops are protesting behind me. They don't seem to like it when I type. Here are a few recent photos, because I know this is what you guys really come here for. These are from the boys' last day at daycare.


Miss Maria, who was so upset with me for withdrawing Hunter that she alternately fought back tears, would not look at me or speak to me, or just declared "I love that baby," plays with him. Whenever I would pick the boys up, Maria almost ALWAYS had Hunter in her arms. We were probably lucky she didn't abscond with him on his last day.


Wilder's teacher, Miss Jeri, and I planned a little party for his last day. I brought cupcakes; she brought popsicles. I found it was a great way to end a week. All the kids broke my heart, though, when they kept asking me why I was taking Wilder away.


Wilder surrounded by girls. Gabby, on the left, and blondie Kate were two of his favorites. Very, very sweet girls.


Miss Marguerita and Miss Maria pose for a goodbye photo with Hunter.


Brothers ...

Take lemons, make lemonade. Suck it, lemons!

So many of you know that our second car is still in Altus, Okla., which is where we left it on our way to Santa Fe a few weeks ago. Jerry was supposed to go pick it up this past weekend with a buddy of his, but it wasn't ready yet. That same buddy can't go this weekend, so we thought we'd pile the kids into the car and drive out on Friday.

I was kind of dreading the trip, but now I'm psyched about it. Why? Well, we've booked a suite at the Holiday Inn there that has an indoor pool, so we'll be staying two nights now, using all of Saturday to explore (after we pick up the car). OK, so it's only Altus, and it's kind of a nowhere town. But nearby is the Quartz Mountain Nature Park, and that place is actually supposed to be kind of pretty. If you click on the link, it shows you a 360-degree view, and well, hell, it's nicer than Dallas, TX in January. So we'll be packing the swimsuits, baby hiker and making a day of it.

Hopefully I'll have some pictures.

Then, Monday, it's off to DC for me. Altus, Oklahoma. Washington, DC. What a globe-trotter I am.

Let's see, do I still know how to work this thing?

Ugh. It feels like I never get time to post here anymore. Future Hunter, when you're reading this honey, know that it's not that I didn't write or post as often because I cared for you any less. You are seriously such a great kid who could inspire so many wonderful posts, if only mama had the time. Whatever year it is you read this, kiddo, look at me ... see those lines and dark circles and that huge display of textbook haggard written all over Mom's face? Yeah? It's even worse now. And remember, hon, Mama was the 3rd child, so she knows all about getting the shaft. There's like 1,847 photos of your Aunt Tara as a child, 348 of your Uncle Jay, and about six of me.

Anyway, a quick post. In the last week, Hunter has learned to say "Mama," learned to give high fives, clap and ... drum roll please ... pull himself up and cruise around the room. He'll be walking in no time. Oh, and he's gained 14 lbs. OK, that last one is an exaggeration, but it feels like it. In fact, I have decided I've GOT to get a 4-door car because Linebacker McEats-Constantly and Wiggles McCant-Sitstill are just too hard to get in and out of my little two-door.

Speaking of Wiggles, err ... Wilder, he is quintessentially 3. I walk around all day going "Wilder, can you pick that up?" Repeat aforementioned phrase somewhere between three and 12 times, and you see what I'm getting at. Are all 3-year-old boys like this? He is literally in his own head about 90 percent of the time, but let me slip an eff-bomb just once I tell you. I kid, I kid. I don't swear in front of my kids (hardly ever).

Well, it's after 9 p.m. My pillow is begging me to come drool on it for a bit. Hugs, k.


Hunter in his crib right after he pulled himself for the first time. So pleased. So proud of himself.


Wilder comes in to congratulate his brother. Have I mentioned how much this kid LOVES his little bro? Man, he cannot get enough of him. It's pretty great, but honestly sometimes Hunter looks at me with an expression that says: "Seriously, what's a baby gotta do to get a little space around here?"


And Betty, just because she's neglected too often. But look how cute she is! And that stuffing on the floor behind her? A toy! She ripped to shreds! Because I don't have enough messes to clean up!!! (NOTE: sarcastic use of exclamation points ... but honestly, I adore this dog. She's the best.)

Wilderism No. 1,597

Said at breakfast the other morning: "Mama, little boys need ketchup."

I've also been meaning to note for some time that I taught him how to play Slug Bug(minus the slug, of course ... that'll come later when I can teach him there's a time for a little punch but mostly a time for never punching). Anyway, it's kind of funny that we don't slug each other, because he says SNUG bug, as in "SNUG BUG BLUE MAMAAAAAAAA!"

And now a few photos from our recent -- and Hunter's first -- trip to the zoo:

Christmas Eve & Christmas 2008

Santa Fe scenes

The epic bad road trip

I guess if a road trip starts off with your car engine crapping out on you in the middle of Nowhere, Texas, and ends with a shot in the ass cheek of your choosing, there's not a lot of need to fill in the details of what went wrong in between. And, truth be told, those were the two big craptacular bookends to a trip that -- had I known now what I didn't know as we excitedly piled into the car last Friday morning -- I would have run kicking and screaming from.

Jerry thinks this whole trip might have been a good thing. It's good to get out of our comfort zone, he says. And indeed, this is one of the things that makes me love him: his incessantly optimistic, Pollyanna-esque attitude toward life. Most of the time these days, I can keep pace with him on this stuff. Even Saturday morning, as we rolled out of our Amarillo hotel in our rental car (courtesy of the nice folks at Putnam Toyota in Altus, OK), with a mere four-hour drive between us and Santa Fe, I thought: "Yes, he's right. This is good. Shakes us up. Gets us back to the basics." But at that point, I'd had a mere three nights of bad sleep. By the time we got home, that had doubled. And, let's face it, when you don't get more than three hours of consecutive sleep for six nights, there's this slight tendency to not only not be very sunshiny in your attitude toward life, but in fact to want to curl up into a small fetal ball and cry and pout and pummel a soft object.

Which is pretty much how I felt on our descent into Dallas late Tuesday night. We'd been in the car for more than 12 hours due to a HUGE snowfall in Santa Fe the previous night. We barely made it out of the New Mexico driveway, and our neighbor, though he did not know us, shook his head in disbelief that we were even attempting to leave with two small kids in the car. We didn't have much choice. Not only were we not booked into that place another night, but my psyche was bound and determined that we would all sleep -- sleep real sleep -- in our own glorious beds that night, come hell or high water. Or, in our case, jack-knifed trucks, icy roads, idiot drivers in PT Cruisers, and god-foresaken pain-to-beat-all-pain ear aches.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Suffice to say the trip took a little longer than expected, and we were probably lucky to make it at all. We were on I-25 North for a bit when I-25 South was shut down completely. The boys were wonderful on the drive, and a baby-changing station near the New Mexico-Texas state line that didn't make me fear for Hunter's immune system had me thinking that maybe our luck had changed. Yes, it took something so simple as a place to change the baby that didn't look as if it might harbor Black Death germs to make things look a bit better.

Boy, was I wrong.

I had been sick since the previous week (and, truth be told, this probably accounted for more than its fair share of my bad attitude about this voyage). It's one of those cruds that's very hard to shake. Just when the head cold was starting to clear up, a sore throat would set in. Etc. About two hours outside of Dallas, I'd noticed my ears were starting to clog. I thought maybe it was the altitude and weather changes we'd experienced that day. But a little clogging quickly led to pain and, by the time we pulled up to our front lawn, I was white knuckling the dash, rocking in my seat. I had a breakdown outside of Dallas and Jerry just rubbed my head while I silently sobbed, partly from the pain but, honestly, more from the just horrible experience this trip had become, and that one additional bit of nastiness had been heaped upon my head. I was feeling epicly sorry for myself.

So we pulled up, I ran inside, peed, grabbed my keys and jumped in the car to the hospital. There was no way I was going to endure a seventh night of no sleep. I just couldn't. Well, that and the pain wasn't tolerable. I like to think I'm a pretty tough chick, but that pain was more than I could take.

So luckily, I only had about an hour wait in the ER. The doctor quickly saw me, looked in my right ear and summed it up: "Yep, that's pretty bad." He talked about numbing drops, a shot of antibiotics and pain relievers. I nodded, and nodded and nodded, thinking silently: "Yes, oh dear god in heaven YES! Drugs! Now!! Stat!!"

And then he asked if he could talk to me about something non-medical condition related. So, for five minutes -- five minutes of me thinking "What in the hell is going on here?" and physically restraining myself from jumping on this medical professional's head and dragging him to the meds station -- he talked to me about some group of critical thinkers he was forming, to talk about such things as global warming, climate change, etc. etc. I guess he thought I might be interested, although I have ZERO idea what could have given him the impression I could be an intelligent critical thinker. I hadn't slept in a week, my hair was greasy and I was covered in the general crustiness that goes along with being a mother of two small boys. I'm surprised he thought I had a home other than a cardboard box, much less gave some credence to my brain. Anyway, eventually I muttered something about how I'd pass him name and number along to my much-smarter husband, and then some very nice lady came in with a shot of antibiotics and numbing drops. The only thing she wanted to talk to me about was which side of my ass I wanted the shot in.

I chose my right side, and afterward I wondered how I came to that decision.

Now, before I go giving the impression that this trip was without its merits, let me say this: We had a wonderful time with our friends Jeff (who turned 40 while in Santa Fe) and Ginger and their son, Micah. Our friends Julie and Jim rolled in from Denver and it is ALWAYS good to see them. And we got to know Jeff's brother's family, and not only are they awesome, but Glenn and Emily's twin daughters, Cecily and Corrina (and I'm sure I'm spelling those wrong) are my babysitters of choice if we ever move back to Colorado. Those girls are the kind of girls that, if I had daughters, I would want them to be. I also had, courtesy of my amazing husband, a chance to visit the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum, and that is always a soul-healer for me. I adore her. She makes sense to me. And I love her art.

So ... there you have it. Not much else to add. Our car is still in Altus, OK. We have no idea what we're going to do about that. We'll probably have to go down there to pick it up. Another road trip. Oh, joy.

I have some great photos from this trip, despite the details. I will post those separately, so as not to taint the general feeling of fun they represent (you'll note I'm not in any of them). Those and Christmas Eve and Christmas photos to come over the weekend.

Merry Xmas to all. Love, k.

From the "Words You Never Thought You'd Utter" files

"Wilder, get your hand off the dog's butt."
(And yes, I mean THAT part of the butt. Eww.)

And the award for best whine job in front of the mirror goes to ...

I might be too tired to do this post justice, but I really want to write it. So we'll see ...

Wilder has something of a dramatic side in him. He's been known to sit in front of the mirror when crying, looking at his face from all sides to, I guess, see which looks the most authentically crushed. Presumably he does this because he's both impressed by his own theatrics, and because he's plotting which of the teary-eyed expressions in his general grab-bag of sadness he'll use to manipulate me the next time I deny him a piece of candy or say no when he suggests we mainline sugar into his veins for breakfast. 

This morning, he involved me in this little game. I'd called him into our bathroom vanity area to brush his teeth, which he half-heartedly didn't want to do. I say half-heartedly because, as soon as he saw that big 'ol mirror with that sort of torqued off little tow-headed boy looking back at him, he decided to really turn on the waterworks. He buried his head against my stomach and began the usual routine of having his little come-apart. 

"Are we trying out a new crying jag?" I asked.

"YES," he pouted.

"How's slumping against my belly working out for you? Do you think it lends authenticity to your plight?"

He narrowed his eyes and gave me a crusty eyeballed look. 

"No, seriously, why don't I cup your head with my hand? It might help even more ... oh wait, that's blocking your face, and we can't do that, can we? It totally takes away from your performance, doesn't it?"

Pause. Further narrowing of eyes ..."Yes." Very small, distrusting voice. Small whimper.

"Kid, that was an Oscar-worthy performance. Congratulations ... Shall we brush your teeth now?" 

Wilder hearts Hunter

Rarely do I get a chance to post here these days, much less twice in one morning, but I'm off work today, sick, and I can't lay face down in a puddle of my own drool ALL day. So a brief respite from rest for this:

It happened over Thanksgiving weekend, but Wilder and Hunter have embarked on a new phase of their brotherhood. I think I'll coin it the "Hey, I had no idea you were so FUN" phase. Sometime on Thursday or Friday night of last week, Jerry and I blended into the background while the two boys played an interminable game of peek-a-boo that had them both laughing and wrestling and generally forgetting they had parents for quite some time.

And I have to say, it was pretty damn cool.

When we found out Hunter was going to be another son for us, I suddenly had all these visions of the things my boys would do together: play catch, hunt for rocks and lizards, wrestle, climb trees, swim in lakes and dunk each other, have races. And, probably occasionally, yes, beat the hell out of each other. In other words, I envisioned them as brothers, yes, but also friends, playmates. Co-conspirators. Adventurers-in-arms.

And this past weekend I got a little glimpse into our future. The thing I saw is this: They ADORE each other. It was like a light suddenly went on, particularly for Wilder, and he saw the potential that this ever-growing little flesh monkey poses for him. Someone who, given a few months, will always play cars with him.

I can't really adequately express how happy this makes me. I'm not sure they'll have a ton in common; it's still too early to tell that, of course. But, for now, they make each other giggle and, more often than not, just when I'm about to tell Wilder to leave his brother alone, stop jostling him or squashing him or rubbing his head so vehemently, I'll notice the look on Hunter's face.

"Finally," that look says, "he's noticed me." And that look is accompanied by a HUGE grin.

Dissed by a 3-year-old

Last night, I was reading a Curious George book to Wilder before bedtime. In it, George makes a mess, as George often does, and a nurse scolds him. "A monkey!" she yells (or at least she does in my version; storytime is for bringing out your rarely used inner actress, after all). "And he's making a BIG MESS!"

Wilder stops me, mid-book. He points to George.

"That's me."

He points to the scowly-faced, stick-up-her-butt, no-fun-having nurse.

"That's you, Mama."

Sunday Scenes: Nov. 16

Here are few photos from our day.

Though he was emotionally allergic to all things hat-related for the first three years of his life, Wilder has recently discovered the fun of donning different hats. He finds one around the house, he puts it on his head. He's taken to wearing a winter hat advertising Jameson's whiskey to school on cold days.

Hunter fast asleep. This kid can -- finally and do I hear the angels singing? -- sleep. One night this week he slept 12 hours straight. Pretty much every night now he's in bed by 6 p.m., if not sooner. Of course, this means he's wide awake at 5:15 a.m. This takes a little getting use to, but sleeping (mostly) through the night is sleeping through the night. I'll take 5:15 a.m. There's coffee in this world and I'm not afraid to mainline it directly into my veins. I mean, drink it.

Sometimes, apparently, a boy's just GOTTA do what the baby does. In this case, fold his rather extensive limbs into a small sink for bath time. I have a feeling they'll both be bathing like this for awhile. Oh well, it's easier on the back.

Hunter in all his glory, post bath.

Just a cute photo of my little Hunter and his beautiful eyes.

Scenes from a week

Since I rarely have time to post here anymore, I thought I'd do more of these kinds of posts: taking photos with my iPhone and then getting them up every so often. I know it's the photos of the kids that most of you come here for anyway, rather than my idiotic ramblings. So enjoy, here's Round One in Scenes From a Week:

Wilder this morning before school. I thought he look so handsome. It took me probably 15 frames to get this and the one below. The others were a blur, because he NEVER sits still these days. He defines kinetic energy. He also embodies the dedication it takes to exhaust a mama.

Another photo of Wilder looking "sharp." That's what Jerry tells him when he's dressed, combed, brushed, etc. "You look sharp, sunshine." So Wilder has taken to looking in the mirror or at photos of himself and saying, "Oooh, I look shaaaarp."

Hunter just before he and I took a long walk on Monday. He was out sick from school, and although it was just barely misting and we probably shouldn't have been outside, we went anyway. Sometimes, fresh air is the antidote. I didn't want to jinx it before now, but H is sleeping a lot more at night now. He's also trying like mad to crawl, has 7 teeth and will mimic many words, including Mama, Papa, Brother (brudda), up (as in, get out of bed now), and Jerry and I both have heard something akin to "I love you," which sounds more like "I-wuh-woo." Of course we don't think he knows what he's saying, but he seems to be a pretty good mimic of things he hears us say around the house a lot. And I expect he'll be talking a lot earlier than Wilder did. Of course, he listens to Wilder talk non-stop during the day, so I assume that helps develop that little language center in his brain.

Wilder and his new kitty friend, "Blue," so named by us because of her piercing blue eyes. She's either a neighbor's cat or just the alley cat taken care of by everybody. Whatever her status, she's taken to Wilder. We've never seen her out of the alley, but the other morning we were playing in the front yard, and she must have heard his voice, because she came running. And she stayed as close by his side as she could until we decided to come back inside. As far as Jerry is concerned, she's the best kind of cat. Friendly, a way for Wilder to fulfill his need for kitty love, but OUTSIDE.

The many faces of a jumping Hunter

Wilder Wilder quite contrary

Wilder is going through a bit of a phase the last few days. He's all "I don't wanna" and "I don't want to" and "No" and "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" and "No no no no no."

So this morning, after talking to his father about Obama's presidency and what it means and how friggin' cool I think it is that not only did my candidate get elected, but that America voted in its first black president and how that makes me feel just the tiniest bit better about this world my kids have been born into (Hell to the YEAH America!), I looked at Wilder and said, "Come over here and give me a hug!"

"Nuh-uh," he says.

"You're contrary," I replied matter-of-factly.

"I not."

"Yes, you're contrary son."

"I NOT. NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!" (Yes, seven "nos" ... I counted.)

I love it when he proves my point for me.

One more thing ...

Three women walked by our house tonight, walking their dogs. As usual, Wilder acted as the neighborhood greeter, asking them to please join us. So they did for a few minutes, so that we could pet their dogs and so Wilder could socialize with his favorite demographic next to 3- and 4-year-olds: women who exceed his age by decades. One of them, Rosemary, has lived in this neighborhood forever. She's one cool customer, an observer, and you can tell pretty quickly that she has a wry sense of humor. She sat there looking at Wilder for a few minutes, not saying much. Then this: "I've seen you in the neighborhood, Wilder. You never walk. You're ALWAYS running."

So true, Rosemary. So. True.

Our costumed selves

Just a few pics from our weekend. We trick or treated on Friday. Wilder had the basic concept down, but he didn't seem to understand why he wasn't being invited IN to everyone's house. He got his candy at the first door, walked right past the woman and started walking around her house. The next he didn't barge in, but he did ask if he could come in. We had one more talk on the basic of trick-or-treating etiquette ("say trick or treat and thank you" ... "do not go through the fridge or pick up the remote control of the person handing out candy." etc...), and after that he did better.

He embraced the concept whole heartedly. After each door closed, he'd yell: "LET'S GO GET MORE CAANDYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" So I taught him that old activist's chant: "What do we want? CANDY! When do we want it? NOW!!"

Afterward we came home, had a little party with our friends Jeff, Ginger and Micah (who came over for the whole evening), and handed out candy until a group of trick or treaters taller than us inspired us to shut the doors. We let the boys stay up late. We found out that night that Hunter is a headbanger. I have some video that I'm going to try to edit down to a more manageable size. But suffice to say that kid had a noodle for a neckbone and loves to bop his head around to the music.

Last night was the annual costume party. It was fun and our friends wowed up with their costumes, as usual. There's a pic below of Jerry and I.

Off to a cup of tea. Oh yeah, it's party central here tonight. ;-) Love to all, k.


The cutest wee Superman that ever trick or treated.

The 'lil Booster (no costume this year, just a cool ghosty glow-in-the-dark shirt)

The Russian Assassin and her Jack Skellington.

Conservatives for Change

Find out more here.

Wilder turns 3!

Dear Wilder,

Wow, kiddo. You're 3 now. No longer any baby left there (you'll always be my baby ... I just HAD to say that); fully a boy. And what a boy you are. You go through your phases no doubt, where you try my patience hourly (I want to say minutely, but that word is such a misnomer in this instance) ... but lately, you are just a barrel of energy and fun and enthusiasm and belly laughs and one amazing discovery after another. We are gliding through one of those times right now where we just get each other. We are soul mama and her soul boy. It's pretty cool, kid.

This weekend was pretty fun. You'll likely not remember it. Maybe a snippit here or there, so let me remind you.

Friday, we went to the neighborhood family movie night (the first) up at the park, three blocks away. For the first time, you let me dress you for cold weather. A hat and gloves, no less. You loved the gloves so much you didn't take them off for like four hours. You were so very good at the movie. You actually watched most of it before you realized that most of the other kids your age were running running running behind us in the tennis courts. Then we had to get up and join them. And it was fun, but before that, just for a bit, I had you all to myself. Sitting on my lap, snuggling, sipping hot chocolate and eating a cookie. It was a mama's dream.

Saturday was your party. We threw a bunch of balls and stuff into the front yard and just had a low-key party. For days you talked about your party and your presents and your cake and something you assumed you'd be getting -- "super super cars" -- which I'm pretty sure is just any car that is cool and new. Thankfully, you got some. It was a ball. Owen, Lea, Brenden, Luke and Hank came. A bunch of your adult friends came, too, because I think they love you and because they know your mama and papa always have beer at parties. When you are an adult reading this, make sure to give them hell about that.

Last night you were so very tired, so wound up. You made me sing you to sleep. We both fell asleep in your bed just after the final lullaby.

Today we just played and played with all your new toys. Papa and I tried to help you learn how to ride your bike. It's still a bit of a challenge for you, but that has not dampened your enthusiasm for it one bit. You kept yelling "LOOK! I'm DOING IT!!" at the top of your lungs any time you made it move 3 inches. I love that about you. Afterward you let me whisper things in your ear to yell as you tackled Papa over and over again. We yelled: "Donkey butts!" "Pork bellies!" "Colorado!" "Cowabunga!" "Geronimo!" "Cowronimo!" "Gerabunga!" and, of course, "I LOVE YOU PAPA!!" until we wore him out. Oh, and ourselves, too.

This afternoon we broke out the finger paints that Aunt Tara got you and took them and our giant roll of butcher paper into the front yard. As much paint got onto our clothes and faces and arms and legs as the paper. (Thanks, Aunt Tara, for verifying the washability before buying.) We painted ourselves up like warriors and chased each other in circles around the front yard.

Somewhere in between we played a bunch of rowdy games of Hungry Hungry Hippos on the kitchen floor. You're very good at that game. You play with your usual all-or-nothing attitude toward life.

Did I mention how cool I think you are? I tell you that sometimes, and you just say, "Thanks, Mama," kind of like you know already.

So anyway, kid, it was a fantastic weekend, for both of us I think. I've never seen so many ear-to-ear grins on you. Three is gonna be a good year. I love you, and watching you grow has been the highlight of my life so far. It makes everything glow a little brighter and ring a little truer and sound a little sweeter. xo, Mama

Texas in October

It's that time of year in Dallas when we all tumble out of our houses, grateful that the heat is behind us. It really is a beautiful time of year here, and we've been enjoying it by galavanting around the city, most recently to the State Fair of Texas (yesterday) and the Arboretum's pumpkin festival (today). Jer's pop, Jerry Ray, is here visiting us for a long weekend, and he's so good with the boys. Wilder has always loved having his grand-daddy around, and Hunter has taken to him just as much.

Anyway, not a lot of time to write, though I wish there was. Here are some photos from the last couple days.

A post for a friend

A lot of you know I'm not deeply religious. But I do believe in something, and I believe that we have the power within us to shift how things happen in the world. I don't pray much, unless I feel like there's something that just can't be solved in another way. Today, I feel that way, so I'm going to be saying a lot of prayers. Let me tell you why.

Two months ago, my good friend found out her husband, who was 28, died in a car accident on his way back to his offshore oil rig job. She was at work when she got the call, and I hope to never see anything again so heartbreaking in my life. They had two young boys together: ages 4 and 1 and 1/2. They didn't have a perfect marriage, but there was never any doubt that they truly loved each other.

This friend of mine is having a tough, tough time. You'd think losing your spouse like this would be enough. But for her, hurt just seems to keep piling on top of hurt. She's in a new house and her neighbors are horrible. She has a new job because of this, and her boss is awful. She is having a REALLY tough time making ends meet -- until she receives her husband's death certificate, she can't get Social Security death benefits, and the paperwork takes a long time.

Yesterday I was driving home from work, looked down at my phone and her name and number were on my screen. I take such things as signs, so I called her. And I'm glad I did; she was in tears, in a dark place. She can't catch a break and it's getting to her pretty bad. She's tough ... one of the toughest women I know. But she's reaching her breaking point. By the way, she's also one of the nicest, most generous people I know, and she's a kick-butt mom to those boys.

I don't know how to help her. I listen. I tell her it will get better. I tell her I know those are just words, but that we have to believe them. "Because it sure as hell can't get much worse ..." one of us will say. And then we laugh a little through our tears.

So anyway, here's the thing. Could you say a little prayer for my friend today? I know throwing a prayer request out in the inner-web-tubes seems like a strange thing to do, very un-Kris-like. But indulge me, please. This girl really, really needs a break. Her boys really, really need to have a mom that doesn't have so damn much on her shoulders.

And honestly, at this point I'll try just about anything to help her, to get the good, positive energy in the world shifting back in her direction.

Her name is Kristen.

Thanks, k.

Oh balance where art thou?

There are 593 unread emails in my Gmail account.
There are 5-7 loads of laundry waiting for me to do.
There are a bunch of unpaid bills to my left.
There are dishes in the sink.
The front-yard bushes need to be trimmed.
I need to train for the Muddy Buddy.
I haven't picked up a book in two months.
I haven't bought one Halloween costume or 3rd birthday gift for Wilder.
I haven't sent out invitations for either the birthday party or the Halloween party.
I need a haircut.
I got a taste of what 8 hours of sleep feels like again and I want more, more, more.

Sigh ... self pity isn't really my style. But right now I just feel overwhelmed. And instead of addressing any of the above matters, I'm sitting here blogging and thinking about watching "How I Met Your Mother." Because I'd like just half an hour of mindless lack of responsibility today. No websites, no poopy butts, nobody climbing on my head, nobody crying when he's not cradled in my arms, no spreadsheets, no conference calls.

Yep, that's what I'm gonna do. Because Neil Patrick Harris makes me smile.

Sundays are good days

We just got back from the Cottonwood Art Festival. Lived here seven years, just now making it. We'll definitely go back every year now. We had so much fun. Now Jer's run off to work for a few hours, Wilder is coloring quietly in his bed and will nod off soon, and I'm just waiting for His Lord SirFightsTheSleep to close his eyes and drift to the Land of Nod. Then, it's lights out for me too. How I love the nap hour.

Here are some photos of our day so far:


We spent a good amount of time just sitting on the banks watching ducks, geese, etc. Wilder is relatively obsessed with birds.


My three guys; gosh, they're cute, no?


OK, one more of the three fantastic men in my life. How I love them all.


Wilder inhales some animal crackers.


W's art project. He got to imbed plastic toys and stuff into a sand square (in his case, bugs, shells, dinosaurs)and then they poured plaster in and waited for it to dry. I didn't have high hopes but I think it actually turned out pretty cool. It was fun to do, anyway.

I'm off to my mid-day nap. xo, k.

To sleep, the impossible sleep

OK, I made a post a couple weeks ago alluding to Hunter sleeping through the night. It was kind of a desperation post, made to self-delude and all; because he really only slept from about midnight to 5 a.m. and, well, that's not really through the night, is it?

But, this morning ... this morning the sun is shining brighter. I have a spring in my step. The air feels crisp and cool and the birds are chirping and I have a new lease on life. Why? Because from 8:30 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. -- count 'em, 10 GLORIOUS HOURS -- he slept. Didn't cry, didn't fret, not so much as a peep. I of course woke up at some point and had to fight the urge to sprint to his room to make sure he was OK. Eventually I nodded back off and he, of course, was fine. At 6:30 he even crawled in bed with me, nursed and then went BACK to sleep for almost 2 hours. Wow.

The funny thing is that last night we had some old friends from Denver over. And I was talking to one of them, Ann, about how he still hasn't slept through the night. And she made the comment: "Well, you willed him in the womb to be a good baby, just will him to sleep through the night." So, I swear I did this ... went to bed last night and sat there with my eyes closed and all my concentration and sent vibes to the baby's crib while thinking: "Hunter, you CAN sleep all night. You can. You can do it." I thought it until I believed it. And then I nodded off.

And then I woke up at 6:30 a.m. and smiled. Man, life is GOOD this morning.

And, because no post is as good without photos as it is with photos, here's a totally random one of Wilder and Ann and Rob's son, Kieran, from last night:

Pictures pictures pictures

Playing in the sunroom

We don't call him Captain LongCrack for nothing!

Naked, post-path, in repose

Handsome Hunter

Hunter's first bike ride. Per the usual Scott Brothers behavior, Hunter chilled and didn't make a peep. Wilder implored his Papa to ride faster. FASTER. FASTER!!!!

Papa giving Wilder land-boarding lessons -- 1 of 3

2 of 3

3 of 3 ... and Jerry declares the boy's got natural talent. I'm sure he'll be snowboarding in no time (if we ever see snow again)

Love to all, k.

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.