Evan's First Night Without Daddy

Last night, as a van pulled away with my husband in it, I was more concerned with how I was going to handle it than I was my son's reaction. Evan is a very resilient little boy, adn most of the time, if one does not make a fuss over the issue, he may not even notice something is amiss. Yesterday was no exception for my baby boy. I allowed him to play outside until 2100, as those lovely summer nights equate to no nightfall until well after bedtime. He waved goodbye to Daddy and continued to play. No problem. But then bedtime hit. Teeth were brushed, jammies were donned, and the boy was tucked in. But then I heard the little footsteps padding down the stairs. Big, fat tears rolling down his little angel face. "Mommy, my Daddy's not here! You have to read me two stories since he isn't here!" His tiny fists held out two story books, and so we read. The tears continued. "Mommy, I can't give Daddy a hug and kiss goodnight!" I offered him a picture frame with a small snapshot of John in it, but this simply would not do. So I zoomed in on a picture of John's face I had saved on the computer, to where it appeared almost life-sized. Evan kissed his Daddy on the screen, but insisted he take the smaller framed picture to bed with him. But then it was "Mommy, I want to sleep in something that reminds me of Daddy." I dug through a basket of clean laundry to offer up a tee for my baby to sleep in, but no. It had to smell like Daddy. So hand-in-hand, Evan and I traipsed up the stairs to locate John's cologne so Evan could smell Daddy while he drifted off to sleep. Before I knew it, all was silent, and I was alone with my thoughts. I missed him.

Wisdom in A Kid's Flick

"Your life is an occasion. Live up to it!" This is from Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. My son has made us watch it over and over, and I must admit, it is my favorite children's movie. I loved this quote.

Yada Yada Yada

Okay, so why the cupcakes? Because I am hungry, slightly intoxicated, and have food on the brain. I am also very tired, as it is 2 AM and I am sitting here on the computer for the first time in about a week. So.... I felt like I should blog something, even when I have nothing to say. It would seem that my son and husband, through their downloading without abandon, managed to destroy a laptop. I went to bed last Thursday, and woke up the next morning to a fried hard drive. Kaput! But thanks to the help of some good friends, I am back on line.

Who? Me???

OKay, last night, it was a little later than I normally allow Evan to stay up. But he seemed to be having trouble winding down for bed, and since it was not a school night... I decided we were going to play for a while. Well here is the thing. Evan has been collecting those die-cast Cars movie cars. He almost has all of them, except that they came out with more. Let me just say that his collection was not easy to build. Most stores carry the main characters. So anytime we were away from home for whatever reason, I would look at stoes to see if they had different ones. So we have built that collection a car at a time. There are now about 30 characters. And I take it personally when they come up missing. So while in his room, we notice some are gone. I went into his playroom to look... Oh. My. God. I could not even open the door. His playroom is just that: HIS PLAYROOM. It is stuffed to the maximum capacity with any toy a little boy could possibly want. About once a week, we go in there and reorganize, dust and vacuum. The rest of the week, it remains Evan's little area where he can be sloppy and play without betting barked at by adults. That is the point of the room. I was just in there 2 days before. It was spotless. So I pull Evan out of his bedroom and force him to help me clean the room so toys don't get broken by being stepped upon. And the entire time, he is blaming the mess on his little fiend that comes over to play. As in SHE did it all. It would have been possible if I would not have stopped anf thought about his remarks. I cleaned it Friday. Well, John and I did. But he was grounded Friday afternoon because his father was displeased with the way he was treating the belongings that cost so much money. Plus he had gotten mouthy with his father whle outside playing. So there have been no children in the house since the room was cleaned. So when did my baby learn to lie and blame his actions on others? I don't like it one bit!

Nothing to Say

I have absolutely nothing to blog about this morning. Except OHMYGODTHECOFFEEMAKERDIED! The last one I had, my child ruined by filling the water chamber with dark cocoa baking powder. He did this in an effort to make hot chocolate at 3 AM while we were sleeping. So hubby, son and I loaded in the car for an emergency trip to the local department store to buy a new one. (I won't mention said department store's name because I hate them with a passion, but they are oh-so-handy in a pinch.) So this is my second coffeemaker this year.

So what is wrong with it? I have no idea. You fill it to the 12-cup mark, put in the go-juice grounds and let it brew. It has an automatic timer that turns off after 2 hours, but you are lucky to get a teaspoon of coffee in that time frame. And it is making these horrible noises. Big gurgles and splashes and hissing like it is posessed by a thousand demons. I. Need. A. New. One.

So here I am on a Sunday morning, looking like a stark-raving-mad lunatic in pajamas. My hair is crazy, and my eyes are half open. And I have no go juice. I could decide I wanted to be handy by taking the back off of the thing and trying to figure out what is wrong. But that requires energy, and I am afraid I will find a Hot Wheel in there or something.

I was up most of the night crying last night. I wonder if there is some You Tube support group I could join? A 12-step program to kick the addiction of watching crap I should not be watching? I equate the You Tube fixation with driving past an accident. You almost HAVE to look. So I watch the stuff and cry, and sob, and sniffle. Then I can't sleep because there are a million thoughts going through my head. None of them positive, I might add. And I have come up with a grievance for the military wives who post this stuff: why do you all look like you haven't shed a tear in a decade? Seriously, their makeup is not smudged, not a puffy eye in the place, and they are sending their husbands off to WAR! Everyone is smiling and posing for pictures. WTF?!? So I posed the question on a message board. And I got replies like "They were just holding it in until they got home." or "They are just being strong." Huh? Strong? I am one tough broad. But I am sitting here watching the videos and bawling like a baby. There is no "be strong" or "hold it all in" for me. I am going to embarrass the living crap out of my husband when that day comes. It won't be by choice. There will be no choice to it. It will be a completely involuntary response to Uncle Sam taking my husband away from me for over a year. Sorry, but it cannot be helped. And Evan? Might as well leave Evan home, because I will already be a basket case, but then if you add to the mix my son pleading for his Daddy, it will all be over. We won't even be able to get home after that.

So just being tough? I don't think so. There has to be more to it than that. Maybe Jody is coming over as soon as she gets home, and she is excited. Hell, I don't know. I'm most likely wrong, and I will toughen up by then too, but I doubt it. You never know until you are in that situation, I guess.

Proud of My Kid

My husband and I, along with our neighbors, went to our local community park with the kids the other day. It was just a little outing...no big deal. The kids played on the playground while we adults watched on. We noticed that there seemed to be quite a few special needs children present. No big deal either. We figured they were on an outing. Evan has never been around children with disabilities. And let's face it--children can be cruel whether by intention or just by asking impolite questions with brutal honesty toward someone different from them. Well, I look over and Evan was sitting with this boy who appeared to be not much taller than him. I had noticed the boy walking around aimlessly by himself earlier. I immediately went over to them, afraid my son would be rude and hurt the boy's feelings. I could not have been more wrong about my son. He spent a good portion of his time there playing with the boy, leading him by the hand through the playground, having fun. A friend of mine, upon hearing this story, said he reflected on us as parents, that we have raised Evan well. I was so proud to have a child who will reach out to someone very different from him, to focus on what they have in common instead of the differences.

We are Learning!

Evan brought home a new school library book the other day because he thought his father would approve. It was called "Alpha Bravo Charlie" and it went through the letters of the military alphabet, using examples from each branch of the service as examples. For example, Lima is for "Leathernecks", which got a hearty "Oorah" from my husband. But the moral of the story is that Evan and I now know the military alphabet!

Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebec,Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, Zulu......Hahahahahaha

What Is That Smell??????

Awwww my son! My baby boy. Look at his picture there on the side. So sweet. So angelic!

WRONG! That child is far from angelic. Tonight, before his bedtime, he goes upstairs to take a shower. I hear nothing eventful to alarm me. No crashes or splashes or other ominous sound.

He comes down the stairs after the shower, and looks all cute with his wet hair and gorgeous smile. Then the smell hits!

"Evan, what did wash with?"

"Just soap Mommy!"

"What soap Evan?"

He runs away, leaving behind him a cloud of noxiousness. It would seem that my angel decided to clean himself with about five different perfumed gels of mine. They smell lovely by themselves, but not mixed all together. In fact, he smells like a French.....working girl. He runs up to hug me and it literally brings tears to my eyes, not because of the touching and tender moment, but because of the fumes that are wafting off of my child. I have not checked yet. I am afraid. I think his shower just cost me about $100.

You'll Shoot Yer Eye Out, Kid!

My in-laws are country people. There has been a sort of constant ribbing since they met me, about how I am a city girl. To get a rise out of me, my sister-in-law's husband (does this make him my brother in law, or is that only if he were married to my sister or my was husband's brother?) has always told me he is going to buy the Kid a gun as soon as he was big enough to hold one in his own little hands. You must understand something here. I do not hunt. I do not know anyone who has hunted anything in my life, unless it is a rare designer garment or something of the sort. That is not us. Subsequently, I will not touch meat from any wild animal. I prefer to purchase such items from a grocery store where I know they have cleanliness standards. I know, I know...I'm strange! Yeah, I get it! But that is just me. Anyhow, here I am married into a family where even the female members of the family hunt. The very first Christmas I spent with them, my sister-and-law recieved a pair of camo waders. I kid you not! I guess I always assumed that the gun issue was a joke. It was not. Here we all are on Christmas Day. The Kid has a heap of presents in front of him that renders him unable to see over them. He is feverishly tearing the wrapping paper from the packages. Then he gets to this long, slender box. He just barely tears a teensy corner of the paper before we hear "Wait! Wait! Stop!" It would have seemed that this gift required a soothing introduction. Oh No! "Now Andrea, Evan is getting older." Uh-Huh. "It is time for him to have some big-boy toys." Ummmm, okay, sure. "Anything , really, can be dangerous if not used properly." Oh crap. "The trick is to be careful about how you handle it, and to train him to be safe." As in looking both ways before crossing the street??? The sound of wrapping paper tearing follows, then the sound of little Evan doing the quick intake of breath in excitement. Oh. Oh Shit. It is a BB GUN. I ask them if this is a toy, to which they reply that it is not. I give John the Look, but it is obvious that he is more eager to get outside with it than The Kid is. I am outnumbered. I reluctantly agree. I could not help but think of A Christmas Story, where Ralphie wants a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas, and everyone tells him the same line. Only I do not picture Evan's glasses flying off and getting stepped on (is this because Evan does not wear glasses?), but instead picture, oh I don't know...maybe his spleen full of BB's as we rush him to the hospital. I am not thrilled with the present. No, I just plain do not like it at all. I am worried about my baby. But I am worried that I am more worried about the fact that my baby really is old enough for this, and that somehow I missed it. The men in the house were talking about it. They looked at John's dad and asked him what kind he got. It was like a milestone or Rite of Passage they had all gone through at one point. I just wanted to scream, as I do now, that they are mistaken. Just a few months ago, he was colicky and I was pacing the floor with him in my arms throughout the night. He got his first tooth and said his first word. I cried along with him when he got his immunizations. Just yesterday he took his first step. This is not possible. All of his toys are supposed to come complete with a Fisher Price logo. The little boy that walks up to me with outstretched arms saying "Mommy, dance with me" in the middle of the kitchen after school is simply not old enough to play with BB guns. But I bet when John's mom looks at him, she doesn't think her baby is old enough to play with M-16's. I guess they never truly grow up in our eyes.

Hey, It's the Kid!

Sure, he looks innocent. I can assure you he is not!

Too close, but look at those brown eyes! He uses them to his advantage like some sort of tool when he is introuble!

No, No he was not singing the National Anthem. He was playing in the backyard, and I tried to quickly snap a picture. When I wanted a little boy, this is what I wanted. Rough and Tumble. Little jerseys and Nikes. Football. This is my baby.

This had to be the easiest costume I have ever made! I think it took about twenty minutes. He ended up winning concert tickets for this one.

Kindergarten, 2008. I burned my hand trying to iron this tiny shirt, and he ended up doing God-knows-what in it, and so it ended up wrinked again! Kids!

Domestic Hell

Picture this...You have a very stressful career where very ill people rely on you. You have a child who you swear is a male version of Veruca Salt of "Willy Wonka" fame. You have a husband you have to keep motivated on a daily basis, and just about every responsibility in the home rests on your shoulders. Do you have the mental image? Good!

Now picture this...Keeping in mind the above-mentioned lifestyle, you find yourself home alone. The male Veruca is safely in the hands of a competent child care service. The man has been successfully motivated for the day and has left for the gym. The largest of the day's tasks have been completed and checked off of the to-do list. So here is my question: What would you do???

I have candles lit, and thus the house smells like a freaking apple orchard. Other than the hum of laundry equipment, the house is silent. I have just started reading a great novel which I would love to pick up right now. I need to blog. So where is the problem?

The problem is that house is so messy that a stranger could possibly mistake it for an abandoned crackhouse! There are dishes piled on the counter, and a dishwasher full of clean dishes that are begging to be put in their place. My kid's playroom resembles a city dump. I have been off since Monday morning, so why is it like this? Better yet, my husband's only responsibility in life is to PT twice a day, period. Why hasn't he done this? The first question, I can answer by explaining that laundry has consumed my days and nights for three days. Yes, there was that much of it! about 15 loads! Now I have about 24 hours before my work week starts again (less if you figure that I must sleep at some point) and I am going to have to scramble and slave if I want to have a reasonably habitable home by the weekend. You see, I have taken a much-needed and well-deserved DAY OFF this Saturday for the big game. I refuse to be thinking about dirty dishes or laundry while I watch said game, or my neurotic self will be thinking about those things instead of how badly OSU is beating Michigan.

All of this has caused the gears in my brain to rotate clockwise or counterclockwise. I don't know which, as one should never have to figure how the cogs in my brain operate! And part of me, albeit teensy-tiny, makes me believe that I can lick the role of Military Spouse quite well. The only responsibilty the Man fulfills is of the seasonal variety, for which I can pay a neighborhood kid twenty bucks to perform---lawnwork for the chick who is allergic to grass and trees and anything that is green. As it is right now, I thrive on the moments when the Man and Kid are out of the house and I don't have to vacuum circles around them. It is hard to get the dust and lint off of sofa cushions and fluff said cushions when there is a 180-pound man laying on them. It is very difficult to get laundry finished when said Man returns from the gym, leaving a small heap of sweaty gym clothes and a wet towel on the floor next to an empty hamper. ( If you are a Man or know a Man, I do not have to explain this---it is beyond the capabilities of a Man to actually aim for the hamper!)

I know that it is inevitible that I will revisit this post months from now, when Man is likely to be deployed. And I will weep because he is nowhere to be found. I will miss the heap of sweaty clothes on the floor by the hamper or the imprint of his rearend on the sofa where he always sits. I will lament over my ability to watch a chick flick without a pop-up reminder flashing on the screen for some random Man entertainment like wrestling or Jerry Springer.

But as for me, right now, I am in my own little domestic Hell. So while Man is gone and Kid is gone, I will blare my chick music (of which I am not permitted to listen while Man or Kid is present) and I will clean their home. Then this weekend I will watch as my football team beats Man's football team to a pulp in a home that smells of Pine Sol and carpet freshener!

Attention, Please!

So my kid is in karate, right? We gave him a choice of activities, and this was his choice. We as parents thought "Sure, why not?" It will teach him discipline. So the process started.

The first week of class, a parent had to be present throughout the class. John wanted to go for his run, so I was elected by default. I watched, and it was so cute! Evan did well enough, I guess.

Fast Forward...One Week Later...John wanted to watch, as well. So we are sitting there, and little Evan has his back to us. They were expected to stand at attention in between exercises. We figured Evan could surely manage this. After all, he is the product of a Marine. Well, he couldn't! He fidgeted and giggled and moved, prompting the intervention of his Master many times. John's face was becoming more and more red, and the vein in his temple began to pulsate. He whispered to me, through gritted teeth, "I am so embarrassed!"

Needless, to say, when Evan got home that evening, John made him stand at attention for 15 minutes. Shouldn't be too bad, right? Wrong! Evan fidgeted and squirmed and whined through it, and the clock started over each time he did so. It was not a pleasant night for us. Who would have thought that a Marine's son could not stand at attention? Hahaha.

Business as Usual

Nothing new going on on the homefront. The man is still in the re-enlistment process, and has learned that he needs four waivers. Long story, y'all. (Ha! I DID retain some Kentuckyisms!) The kid is still rotten. I am still busy as all hell. School, work, exams, keeping the man encouraged. And I have been working on care packages for some of our men over there. Sorry, not much to report.

The United States of ....Apples???

So I am talking to my son, and somehow the subject of the USA came up. He elaborated by saying that the US portion is for United and States. I replied by saying, "Evan what does the A stand for?" Keep in mind that he is in kindergarten and each letter of the alphabet is associated with a very familiar word. His reply? "Uhhhh.....Apples!" I explained to him that the A stands for America, that this is why we are called Americans. He told me "Nuh-Unh, Mommy, everyone knows that A is for Apples!" So there you have it! Our great nation has been renamed by my six year old!

Making the World Safe for my Six-Year-Old

I married a Marine! I should not have this duty. My son should have some genetic disposition for toughness. This is a prime piece of evidence for the "nature vs. nurture" debate scientists have argued about forever!

Little Evan has taken his toy tanks and trucks outside on the front porch. I am in the living room, perched on the sofa doing some advanced physiology (yay, fun). I have the blinds opened and the windows opened so he can pop his little head up and let me know he is okay. I can hear him playing with the little green soldiers that have been around for what seems like centuries.

Then I hear it. Screams. Bloodcurling screams that would give any woman in a B-rate horror flick a pretty good run for her money. The front door flies open, and the little guy comes running in the front door, arms flailing at the same time as I am slipping on shoes to run and get to my baby. I am sure he is hurt. I almost got knocked down by the flying front door as it swings wide open. Instead, my son is intact. I see no blood, no deformed limbs to indicate broken bones.

"Mommy! Mommy! Daddy's not here and I need him! What are we gonna do? There is a big ol' spider and it is a Daddy Long -Legger, I guaruntee it!"

Yes, he calls them Daddy Long-Leggers. I stifle my giggles and go out on the front porch to conquer the daddy long-legger. I find the offending creature and stomp it with my toes. Evan observes like he is amazed that his Mommy is so brave as to take on the harmless arachnid. The world is safe again for his playtime.

This made me think of two things. Number one, what is he going to do when John is not here? I will have to fill that void. Daddy long-leggers are one thing, but what if it were something scarier or hairier? I ain't doing it. We will both run shreiking to the neighbors' house, I guess. Number two: this is the son of a US Marine Scout/Sniper. Did my son not inherit anything from his father, aside from those eyes that remind me of melted chocolate? This just goes to show that Marines are made, they are not born!