I Feel Pretty

I've mentioned before how Jake likes to hold little things in his hands - golf balls, spice jars, a single Lego or graham stick. Well, in my car I keep two little pots of Born Lippy raspberry lip gloss from the Body Shop. They are about the size of a quarter and perfect for him to hold onto when he's dropped everything else I can hand to him over the seat.

We were a few minutes from home last night when he started futzing as only he can. The shrieking, back-arching, throat-clearing futz he's famous for. Bryon (we're carpooling again) handed him one little pot of the lip gloss. (I think the other one was already on the floor). Peace and quiet.

But soon, a strong raspberry scent emerged from the back seat. Somehow Jake had twisted the top off and scooped all the lip gloss out. It was smeared around his mouth like a manic clown and he was squeezing fistfulls of it in each hand. In mere seconds it was all over his face, the car seat, his pants, and in his hair and ears. I joked that maybe we should just set him and the car seat in the yard and hose them both down.

Several wet ones and two loads of laundry later the lip gloss is gone. Jake and the car still smell like raspberries.

Now, About That Spill

As I said below, Sam fell on his new Batman bike the day after Christmas. In a scene much like the infamous work-day chase, Sam started out just a few feet ahead of me pedaling down the sidewalk. I went from a fast walk to a jog, then to a sprint, trying to catch up with him. He wasn't pedaling anymore, just sticking his feet straight out to the side while the bike careened and bumped down the sidewalk. All the while I was shouting "BRAKE, BRAKE" and trying not to laugh. Just like the other incident, I soon realized he was heading straight into the intersection.

Then he turned his head to look at me over his shoulder and the bike hit a rock and crashed. It wasn't funny but the elements were so familiar - him on the jerky bike, out of control, me running after - that I had to laugh. It didn't help that when Sam finally untangled himself from the wreckage, he stood up, kicked the bike and yelled "DAMN IT!"

Sign Me Up

Today I signed Sam up for skating lessons. On January 16, he'll have his first lesson. My nephews skate, my brother-in-law skates. Bryon and I don't do much of anything so this is my attempt to get Sam started somewhere.

I completely understand (I didn't say condone) parents signing their kids up for every activity under the sun. Although I would like to think my motivation is a little different than some - I'm just hoping that in all the skating, guitar, swimming, soccer, basketball, etc. Sam will find something he enjoys and maybe even has a knack for, and it will be something he can enjoy all his life. He doesn't have to go to college on it or win some medal playing it. Just something he'd like to do on a Sunday afternoon. I don't have many things I like to do or am good at (I don't believe spending money, sulking or sleeping qualify here) so I would like it to be different for Sam.

That said, I think he may be a 'quitter' like I was as a kid. I don't have much evidence for this theory, other than a recent spill on his new Batman bike. And the roller skates he got for Christmas last year. As a kid I didn't like the flute, although I seem to remember my teacher telling my mom I played well, so I quit. Gymnastics (or acrobats as we called it then) gave me a headache, so I quit. I can't remember why I quit dance lessons (I would give just about anything to be able to dance now.)

So, Sam, this is me living vicariously through you.

Them Bones

Sam likes skeletons. In an effort to get him to eat healthy food, we often talk about what food skeletons would like. Skeletons love milk and cheese. They don't like candy and chips. To drive home the point during last night's dinner, I staged an impromptu play between my index fingers - one as a skeleton who ate good food, had lots of energy, slept well and didn't hurt his bones when he fell. The other skeleton ate bad food, was often tired and cranky and hurt himself a lot. Just as Sam was getting into my dramatic play, I excused myself to get another helping of pizza and liquor.

Where's the Flood?

Grandpa Randall sent some money to the boys for Christmas and before I could sock it away for the ice-skating, swimming, guitar lessons I plan to sign Sam up after the first of the year (living vicariously through my children perhaps?), I'd spent it on clothes for the boys. Sam needed pants because his 3T waist hasn't caught up with his 4T legs. But when you shop at Old Navy like I do and can get 100 items for $100 it's tempting to go overboard.

Short story long, Sam wanted to wear his new jeans and shirt today. When I came downstairs ready for work, he said "Mama, you're beautiful." (He says 'bootyful,' which I love more than the compliment itself.) "You buy me big, giant clothes."

Thanks Dick

The Republican-controlled Senate passed legislation to cut federal deficits by $39.7 billion on Wednesday by the narrowest of margins, 51-50, with Vice President Dick Cheney casting the deciding vote. The measure imposes the first restraints in nearly a decade in federal benefit programs such as Medicaid, Medicare and student loans. On a separate, second vote Republicans maneuvered to open the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil drilling.

New Year's Resolutions

I realize it isn't even Christmas but I'm already whittling down my list of New Year's resolutions. If the world falls into two groups - those who make resolutions and those who don't - I'm firmly in the first group. Get organized. Volunteer. Eat better. Drink more water. Spend less. They aren't anything revolutionary. But I do always feel with the beginning of each new year there is new hope I can get my act together, financially, spiritually, personally. I'm not sure it's ever worked. (Maybe 'get a clue' or 'wise up' should be on my list.)

This year I've decided on two.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff.

This means exactly what it says. On an average day I am stressed because my bathroom cabinet is a wreck. There is no clear organization. The kids' medicine shares a plastic bin with ours. The towels are hastily folded and stacked lopsided. Diapers, toilet paper, tampons, old make-up, a broken scale and other discarded items litter the bottom shelf. Yes, the cabinet doors are shut. No, no one but Bryon and I get in there. Next year, the bathroom cabinet will not get the better of me.

Kill 'Em With Kindness.

There are a couple of relationships in my life that I'm not happy with. They aren't bad relationships. They just aren't what I think they should be - and not in the same way I think the bathroom cabinet should be perfectly organized, symmetrical and tidy. In these cases, time has marched on and not all efforts have been made to keep things friendly. Don't get me wrong, I am taking the blame. I expect things out of these relationships that I haven't given in return for probably a couple of years. My motto this year - the love you take is equal to the love you make.

I'm hoping to last until March.

Happy Birthday Sam

Monday, December 19 was Sam's 4th birthday. We were fortunate to be able to have a party outside for him on Sunday. Someone up there likes me because the sun managed to peak out for most of the day and I think the fresh air did a lot of us good. Thank you to all of Sam's friends and classmates who traveled to Sunny South D for his party. Thank you to the grannies - Fran, Becky and Meams - who are so generous with their love, patience, time (and wallets).

The Mind of a 4-Year-Old

This entry may fall under the category of 'too much information' but it is such an insight into the perpetually amused (and amusing) and somewhat scatological mind of a 4-year-old that I had to include it. You've been warned.

Sam has mastered potty training but wiping is still somewhat new to him. He yells from the potty and one of us goes in and 'finishes' things for him. Just yesterday, when I walked in with the wet wipe, he proclaimed he was a big boy and should be able to do it himself. I handed over the wipe and left the bathroom (he'll tell you he needs privacy). A minute or so later he yells "MOM, come and see this." That really isn't something you want to hear from a 4-year-old left alone in the bathroom. When I turned the corner, he was standing in the middle of the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and the wipe stuck between his buttocks (his buh-TOCKS he'll tell you).

"Look," he said proudly. "It could stay here all day!"

This Just In

Because funding for the federal food stamps program may be slashed, 76,000 Texans, mostly low-wage workers with children, may soon be bumped from the program.

The proposal to cut funding is part of the U.S. House’s budget cut plan, which would curb "rapidly growing benefit programs such as Medicaid and student loan subsidies."

We've spent more than $200 billion on the war.

See the cost to your community at http://nationalpriorities.org.

If I Were A Rich Man

I know it's the holidays and I should be spreading tidings of comfort and joy, but I have to comment on one of the headlines in our paper today.

It was reported that a family planning program for low-income women in Dallas County will close three neighborhood clinics (and lay off more than 30 employees) because the program's funding has been cut by almost 25 percent. As many as 11,000 women could lose access to postpartum care and birth control next year. Why? Because the state outlawed giving family planning funds to organizations that provide abortions on demand.

This is one of those times when I wish I was wealthy enough to donate the money. With $1 million of private donations, the clinics could remain open.

Rave Reviews

This morning while the boys were eating breakfast I decided to entertain them with an interpretative dance set to "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch." (Think Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face). In the end my version didn't look much like the quirky, beatnik one I see in my head. When I was done I asked Sam how he liked it.

"You were wonderful," he said. "But would you please cover up your belly."

Critics.