YMCA Fieldtrip 7th Circle of Hell

It occured to me this morning that I beleive have fully recovered from the PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome for those of you without your DSM IV handy) I suffered from the 6th Grade YMCA overnight trip.  To the right is my possy of tards posing in front the the YMCA statue.  I call them tards, because that's what they acted like for the 48 hours I chaperoned their little butts.

Don't be fooled by the precious picture you see of Drew and I atop the mountain looking down into the Morae Valley.  While beautiful, I am pretty sure it was 20 below (okay not 20 below, but damn close to 20 degrees) and we had just hiked up to said spot with our guide, Helen, the mountain goat. 

Helen is to the right, with our group.  This was pre- hike up the mountain when she still held out a glimmer of hope that the kids would not test her patience at every turn.  Helen is about 800 years old and "knows these woods" like the back of her hand.  With such precious knowledge, she dared impart her wisdom and superior hiking skills to a group of about 20 questionably retarded 6th graders and their overly tired chaperones (this was day 2 of said trip). 

Helen, the mountain goat, lost all patience by the time we reached the summit of the trail, that she just sort of stared at the kids in utter disgust and stopped speaking the whole way back down the trail.  Poor Helen. 

The whole debacle of me even going on this trip started with my husband, Jon, signing up, attending the meeting, then realizing there was no way his employees could handle themselves without him physically being present at the office.  This is another story all together titled "workaholic". Because of Jon's issues, he signed me up at the meeting and announced I would be going on the trip to bond with Drew.

Now, granted, I have been on every single field trip with Drew from pre pre school to present.  But, said field trips never lasted overnight, and there were never raging hormones and snotty teenagers involved.  I digress.  As I write these words my hands are shaking and there is a good possibility I might end up curled into the fetal position sucking my thumb before I end the tale ... YMCA: 7th Circle of Hell

The day of the trip parent chaperones were told they could drive their own vehicles to the YMCA camp.  The drive is beautiful up the canyon into the Rocky Mountain forest entrance.  I was grateful I didn't have to ride on the bus (hate bus rides), and decided to carpool with a fellow mother that had a son on Drew's football team.  A much as I like this mother, I wasn't aware of her love of music.  Her love of said music was only enhanced by the loud roaring "hot shit" system she had installed in her cruising wagon, complete with a bopping "sweet ass" bass (sp? fish or base). All this being said, I rode to the YMCA camp, over an hour's drive, feeling like I was in a night club yelling over the music as my friend told me how "sweet ass" her stereo system was and how she "pumped it up" when the boys were in the car and how much they liked it.  As much as I love this friend, she is a total sweetheart, I didn't love the music (sorry lady!). 

Upon arrival at the YMCA camp I realized it was cold there.  Not cold like New England cold biting through your skin, but Rocky Mountain cold with a gusty wind that rivaled New England cold minus humidity factor.  The buses arrived soon after our arrival, and we were told which dorm was which, boys and girls, opposite dorms, and assigned our chaperone groups.  The kids arrived, mass chaos ensued getting their crap off of the busses, and somehow in all of that we managed to get the boys into their dorm, and the girls into their dorms.  The dorms boasted 2 bunkbeds, and a trailer like bathroom.  I was fortunate enough to bunk with three other mothers, AND got the top bunk.  Lucky me.  I was about 6 inches from the ceiling, and I am pretty sure prisoners in southermost work camp federal prisons get better mattresses.

We went straight from the dorms to the main building.  It was there we bonded with what would be our groups for the next two days.  To the right, my group.  Stop laughing.  I learned their names pretty fast, because I had to say them repeatedly about a million times over the next 48 hours.

The groups were divided into what the USAF would refer to as "flights".  Groups of groups, forming a little larger groups.  Each "flight" was assigned different taskings so that over the next 48 hours each group would experience all that the YMCA, and employees had to offer.  Gratefully, our first flight activity was indoors. 

Ungratefully, our second was outdoors.  So cold, bitter cold.  It was at this time I realized my group was drawn like moths to a flame to pick up everything off the ground (sticks, rocks, whatever they found first) like a bunch of ADHD kids that lacked medication intervention.  When they were not acting ADHD, whipping sticks at each other, or rocks, or trying to get into the water, they were refusing to wear their hats, coats, gloves, etc.  I suppose that the ladies of the group of 6th graders thought coats would not show off their clothes, and the boys were being tough.  Regardless, I spent the next two days repeating the following phrase, "put down the stick ... put down the rocks ... stop hitting each other ... put your coat on ... put your hat on ... get your gloves on ... if you get pneumonia I don't want to hear you whining!"

After our second activity of the day, the kids were allowed to go to their dorms to prepare for "dinner".  They were TOLD that they needed to grab everything they would later need to attend the bonfire.  They were to take all of their crap (coats, hats, flashlights, gloves, etc) with them to dinner.  The kids liked their dorms, so much that I had to smoke them out of their room.  Okay, I didn't have to smoke them out, but I am pretty sure the smell of cheap aftershave wafting from the boys dorm did the trick.  I suppose the boys, hormones racing, thought a little cheap cologne might get them some bonfire action.  Gross.  The girls dorm was no better.  Gross.

We had all of our meals at the "cafeteria".  For woodsy delight meals meant to feed hundreds, it was actual okay.  BUT, it was a buffet and my germaphobic anxieties went into massive over drive as I saw the grimy little monsters with their nasty little dirty hands touching all of the food.  Use the tongs/spoons/shovels provided for God's sake!  The level of sound in the cafeteria was deafening.  Pre-pubescent teens covered in cheap cologne/perfume trying to act "groovy" as my mother would say. 

There was a post dinner activity planned for each "flight" after dinner, and pre bonfire.  As the kids sat their eating, being groovy, and chatting away, a teacher stood up and started speaking quietly in an attempt to get their attention.  It was painfully obvious that she was being ignored and her tone got a little louder ... louder still ... louder ... then a sort of shrieking desperation took over her person as she screamed, "boys and girls, do you all want to go to bed at 8 o'clock tonight?!"  I looked at her, in disbelief, thinking, "oh hell, the inmates have taken over the asylum."  The kids pretty much ignored her threat/question then out of the crowd I hear, "SHUT UP!!!!!".  It was my friend with the "sweet ass" radio system in her car.  She proceeded to chew ass and tell the kids what ungrateful fools they were, and turned the time back to the teacher.  It sort of worked.

Our pre-bonfire activity was the swimming pool.  I was not swimming, as were NOT any of the other chaperones.  The kids in our flight were ALL swimming.  The only thing I can say positive about the experience, is that it was WARM in the indoor pool sitting poolside,  Warmth, I had been craving it all day.  I watched the dance of the pre-pubescents ensue and took note of their behaviors.  The boys were acting like 11-12 year old boys.  They wanted to "roughhouse" in the pool, dunk one another, and try to play some ball with the hoop on the side of the pool.  The girls, however, were sitting about waist high in the pool trying to not wet their hair and "trolling" as it were, for the boys to notice them.  I was amazed that some of their parents had purchased their interesting choices of swim apparel.  I think there is more fabric in a washcloth than some of those bathing suits.

When the swim time was almost over, I volunteered to go BACK to the dorms before the boys got there. Of course, they and everyone else had not taken everything they needed with them to dinner for the bonfire later.  I started out on the trail from the pool to the dorms, (not a huge walk ... as long as you don't get lost).  It was pitch dark, and I had a little flashlight.  Out of the darkness I heard my phone ring.  Holy crap, I could get texts!  I stopped myself immediately and texted my friend, who is a professional counselor.  "Help me, I am trapped in the 7th circle of hell ... and I think I am lost, and it's cold."  She told me to hang in there, via text, followed by a LOL LOL LOL!.  This was SOOO not a LOL! moment!

I was officially lost and a 10 minute walk turned into a 30 minute attempt to find the dorms praying I would not die lost in the woods.  I made it to the dorms ... gathered my group of wet headed, refusing to wear their coats and hats crew, and we were off to the bonfire.  Bonfire.  Imagine about 400 kids, give or take, surrounding an ampitheater style bonfire, and YMCA camp employees (early 20's, granola eating tree loving unshaven (girls too) nature lovers) trying to "entertain" the group.  This group?  Unentertainable.  Is that even a word?  It was the case.  My friend and I sat there thinking, "are you kidding me?"  The teacer who shouted the threat/question of an 8 o'clock bedtime tried to again assert her weapon of an early bedtime, to no avail.  Other teachers tried the same.  I was trapped in cheap cologne/perfume and boys that smelled like wet dogs from their pool wet hair experience. 

The poor camp counselors were trying to get the kids to sing campfire songs, and/or participate in their campfire entertainment venue. The kids sort of took to it, but not really. A few were escorted from the bonfire for irrational and disturbing behavior.  It was pitch black, despite the bonfire, and I just wanted it to end... at this point, my life.  In desperation I discovered a tool that shut some of the little monsters up.  I overheard an "F" bomb (and for my Utah friends/family, it was NOT "freak") and I turned on my flashlight and lit it in the kids direction.  Like a deer caught in the headlights, he was mesmerized and at the same time, paralyzed with fear.  My friend and I burst into hysterics.  For the next hour we spent our time randomly turning on the flashlight directly onto kids to see the paralyzed, mesmerized, deer in the headlights reaction.  Good times.

Upon our return to the dorms, I safely tucked in each of my group into their beds.  I told them to go to bed, and bid them farewell.  They were no longer my duty, I headed to the girls dorm.  Upon my arrival to the girls dorm, I hunkered down for a long winter's nap on my prison bunk.  On the first floor of the dorms there was a coffee/tea station.  The 11-12 year old girls, in an attempt to be "cool" all started to help themselves to a late night cup'o'joe.  The mom's in my room, and myself, rolled our eyes, but then realized to our horror, that cup'o'joe shock to most of their systems would keep them up ... all night.

Without a moment's notice, or a chance for me to get on my prison bunk, we had a knock at the door.  Oh, what luck!  Little did I know that one of the three mom's I was bunking with was no less than the 6th grade "queen bees" mother.  Shit. If you don't know what a "queen bee" is, think "mean girls".  A queen bees duty is to squirrel up the hive.  She utilizes her powers with precision passive aggressive behaviors.  It was this behavior that led queen bee and her prey to our door.  A girl fight ensued, complete with hair pulling, and the queen bees mother lamenting the rest of the evening that her daughter was singled out.  Well, hell lady. She's the queen bee! I was so tired at this point, I fell asleep to the lamenting mother's cries of her little queen bee's innocence.

The next morning the day pretty much wrapped up the same as day one.  I repeated over and over for my group to stop picking up sticks, rocks, whipping one another, etc.  Their first activity of the day with their "flight" was a course where they had to cooperate.  I must say, it was pretty hilarious watching these kids try and make the course challenges cooperating.  I texted my friend a few more times that day, and she responded with LOL LOL LOL ... not LOL!  I held onto the glimmer of hope that this was the LAST day, and I would be home in my cozy bed that evening.  Late in the day, mere moments before we finished our last activity of the day, survival (how fitting), it started to snow ... and it was not a little snow, it was Rocky Mountain high snow, fast, furious, and sticking.  We were somehwere in the middle of the woods with the kids making stick forts for survival.  I questioned whether we should head back down the mountain asap, and was greeted with a survival response, "nah, we're good."  Hell.

We finally made it back down the mountain, the dorms were in few, and I'm pretty sure I was in a hysterical dead sprint.  Alas, the busses, 2 freaking hours late because of snow!  This landed all of us, with our stuff, in the main lodge.  My special, special boys?  Well they took it upon themselves to spend their time on the lodge phone.  The phone mysteriously rang suddenly, and I answered it while the boys look bewildered.  "Um, hello, maa'm.  This is the Rocky Mountain Emergency services.  We've received numerous calls in the last few minutes from this phone and wanted to make sure this wasn't a hoax and/or of we are needed?"  What the freaking hell?  This was the last straw, FOR SURE.  I informed the man that I was a chaperone of four boys that were medicated and had missed their dosage that day, and fervently apologized.  His repsonse, "well, if you could keep them off this line, that would be appreciated."  I just stared at them ... all four of them ... in disgust.  I shook my head, I'm pretty sure cussed under my breath, and prayed the bus would step on the gas. 

My group was one of the last to get on bus #4.  Of course.  I got back into my friend's car, with the "sweet ass" jamming radio system, and we headed home to the jamming bass and my head pounding.  The ride, because of the snow, was twice as long, but I didn't care.  I was going HOME!  Drew and I finally got home, and I told Drew that I loved him dearly, but never, ever, ever again would I go on an overnighter with his grade.  Exhausted, I fell into my nice warm down comforter and went fast asleep.

Mooning on second base ...

Today on facebook I read a post from a friend who noted her first grade son wore his first "cup" to baseball practice last night.  She went on to say said "cup" was tested repeatedly by her son who insisted on hitting it with his bat.  This leads me to another thought on boys, and my thoughts that boys are just dumb compared to girls. I can freely say boys are dumb because I have three of my own.  If I didn't have any boys that might just sound mean as hell.  But, alas, I have experience with stupid boys. 

After I read my friends post, recalled my stupid boys theory, it made me think back to when my 12 year-old was first starting baseball.  We lived on a tiny little island called Terceira, in the Azores (think 12X18 mile island in the middle of the Atlantic off of Portugal) on a military base.  My husband is/was/still thinks he is/ an amazing athlete in his prime. He played just about every sport involving some sort of violence and a ball, big or small, baseball to golf.  All this being said, Drew was our ONLY child at the time, and Jon assumed he would of course have passed on his athletic prowess to his son ... alas, again, Jon married me.  My athletic prowess begins and ends when I became an aerobics instructor ... and let's be honest, that's sort of fast dancing instead of a sport.

I digress.  When we signed Drew up for baseball I had little hope for the kids athletics, but Jon was unstoppable.  Jon outfitted Drew head to toe with the best cleats, a new bat, a baseball bag for carrying said bat, a mitt that rivaled the price of a second mortgage, a uniform (which was quite cute on his little bug of a frame at 4 years of age).  SO, the season begins and Drew isn't exactly standing out as an athlete of any sort.  But, with it being a group of 4 years old and t-ball, noone stood out unless they were leaving the field crying.  Drew didn't cry, but Drew wasn't impressed with the game.  He was bored.  And when Drew gets bored, heaven help us all.

The first thing Drew's coach had to teach the kids was outside of hitting the ball off said tee, they then had to run the bases, in order, 1,2,3.  And believe you me, getting the kids to not head in a dead sprint to third base after hitting the ball was a real problem!  The coach finally was able to teach most of the kids the first,  second, third base drill, hallelujiah chorus ensue.  The first game was pretty exciting.  I thought Jon might wet his pants seeing his little genetic code out on the playing field, hunkered down like a little Red Sox player.  (Jon is from New England, all references to baseball will always and forever be, Red Sox because in Jon's eyes, the Red Sox ARE the only team that exists, the rest are just a means to an end for the Red Sox to beat). 

Drew fielded the ball as well as the rest of the kids.  The ball would roll down the field, either fall into the hands of a kid with his mitt on the ground, or roll up the kids feet and nail him in the chin.  Drew opted for the latter option most of the time.  Before we knew it, it was batting time!  We watched the first few kids bat off the tee, and make the base run (only 2 of the 3 had to be coerced into running to first base instead of third).  Drew was finally up, and we cheered like crazy people.  After all, Drew was our first and only child, so we were rather certifiable.  Drew popped the ball off the tee and ran to first base.  Awesome.

The next kid hit the ball off the tee and we screamed at Drew to run to second base.  He did as he was screamed at to do, and he ran to second.  Man on first, Drew on second.  We were pointing and hollering at Drew to get ready to run to third base.  Well ... hmmm.  The next kid to the tee was a tad slower on the uptake, but since this was 4 year old t-ball, each and every kid WAS given the chance to hit the ball ... no matter HOW long it took.  This kid was taking what seemed like forever.  It was a hot spring day, and we were all holding our breath the kid would hit the damned ball.  Everyone was getting bored ... including Drew.

I glanced over to second base to see if Drew had fallen asleep on the base and almost fell over.  Drew had apparently gotten so bored with this kids lack of dedication to hitting the damned ball that he decided he needed to mix it up a bit. Drew, my dear, dear, child, pulled his pants down and MOONED the whole crowd ... including a little booty shake.  I tried like hell to pretend he wasn't my child.  I looked around to try and cast a glare at other parents so people wouldn't think he belonged to them and not me.  My husband was in hysterical laughter and i was pretty sure he would fall off the bleachers at any moment.  I smacked my husband's arm and did the "this is YOUR child glare" and he hollered, "Drew, dude, pull your pants up!" 

This was a small base, very small.  Everyone knew everyone, and everyone talked about the 4 year-old booty shaker for months after.  It was a stellar parenting moment to which I have never publicly written until now.  Drew has not sinced mooned or booty shaken since.  I think the lecture he got after the game cured him of his need to create public indecency.  Drew is 12 now ... and I am hoping this story recreates itself one day if he ever has a boy.

12 ... the googly years

This is Drew.  I think he was almost 11 years old in this picture.  I caught this "moment" shot of him when he wasn't looking ... most pictorials I have of Drew are either taken through threats, "Drew, you will smile in this damned picture, or I WILL take away your cell phone."  Or, the pieta' de resistance', "Drew, if you don't smile while sitting on the large ostrich on the carousel at the Zoo, I am SO posting this photo on your facebook page!" 

Admittedly, I am treading uncharted waters here with three boys ... and Drew is the "oops, our bad, we really screwed that one up" new parenting skills child.  I had a sister that was closest to my age.  Girls, I can handle.  That is predictable nonsense.  Girls fight over petty crap, hold grudges, and whine. Of course my sister and I also lapsed into physical violence if the occasion/grudge was so heinous we flew into rages of hair pulling fury. Okay, second thought, grateful for boys.  Boys fight over petty crap too, but it is physical mind numbing screams, lashes, punches, and sometimes, "I hate your gutts!" is thrown into the mix.  But, it only lasts a few minutes, and Jon and I pretty much stay out of it unless someone draws blood.  And even then, it has to be alot of blood, like maybe a trip to the ER alot of blood.  Any less, and we shrug our shoulders and say, "well, you probably deserved it."

Back to Drew.  I love Drew.  As he gets older, our relationship is getting more casual.  His timing is a little "off" on some of his sarcasm, and Jon and I have to pull the reins in if he gets out of control.  It's a, "Drew, you're 12, that would be super funny if you were 18, it's just obnoxious when you're 12."  Drew is not unlike any other googly 12 year-old boy trying to find his place in the world.  His love of all things Abercrombie has changed to Pac Sun (he thinks he is a skater now).  His alliances change in friendships, and he functions in the mean and nasty world we call middle school to the best of his ability.

In order for Drew to tread these heinous waters, I spend alot of time on the phone with "Uncle Josh".  Josh is my only brother, but so many years behind me in age that I was married and out of the house before he was really entering into his teen years.  Uncle Josh provides saavy wisdom like, "Cort, if you
ground him for stupid shit, he's going to keep doing it.  I promise."  "Oh yeah, you should give him a pass on that one!"  Or my personal favorite, "he's a 12 year-old boy Cort, he's going to like girls, even if he doesn't really clue on on what to do with that whole situation." 

Fortunately the situation, which I can only assume means the kissing of the lady friends has happened one time.  Sorry Mom, yes, Drew has kissed a girl.  Of course, this was in New Hampshire, when he was 10 (God help us all) with a little "tart" that was overly aggressive accompanied by a mother who couldn't comprehend WHY I wouldn't let Drew take her daughter on a date.  After all, they were 9 years-old at the time.  That has to be dating age, right?  The kiss was in said "tarts" tree house, and I am sure very romantic.  Gross.

Ahhhh, Drew.  In closing about my 12 year old son, which I hope one day he will read this when his 12 year old DAUGHTER (yes, I jsut cursed him with a mouthy, whiney, hair pulling daighter) is driving him batty, a few one liners/experiences where Drew and I "bond". 

1.  About once a week I drop Drew off at school because Jon ahs an early morning meeting.  On day one of this adventure, as we pulled into the car pool lane, Drew looks at me, scowls, and says, "you better get your I love you's out of the way now before I get out of this truck."  I wasn't hurt, as much as laughing on the inside that he was so concerned my amore' for my son might reach the overly sensitive ears of his possey.  So, as any good mother would do, I sang, repeatedly, before he exited the car, "I love Drew, yes I do!  I love you I love you I love you, yes I do!" repeatedly.  He can't deny I saw a little grin.  As he opened the car door (sure that my singing was over) I squeeled in delight, "Hey, Drew Eldridge, I love you, remember who you are!"  That received a scowl of death.  But, he didn't stab me in my sleep.

2.  Drew went through the drive pharmacy with me a few months ago.  It was a Walgreen's, and the drive up is sort of like a bank drive through.  As the lady asked over the microphone, "can I help you?"  Drew screams back from the passenger seat, "yeah, do you sell weed here, is this a dispensary!?!"  (We live in Colorado, home to legalized marijuana and Boulder (home to over 100 dispensaries at last report) is the town next door.  John Denver wrote rocky mountain high, not becasue of the beautiful rocky mountains, it was in reference to the contact high we all recieve when we open our front doors.)  I told the lady to ignore Drew, as he had missed his medication that day, had tourrette's syndrome, and couldn't be trusted.  THEN, if that wasn't enough, Drew starts squeeling curling into "armadillo position" and rocking back and forth saying, "make the bad people go away, make the bad people go away mommy."  Hells bells.  I was trying not to laugh, simultaneously wanting to beat the hell out of him.  The pharmacist was NOT amused.

3.  While my verbal cues of affection as I drop Drew off at school are not appreciated, I decided this morning I would show him my love through Dance.  As we entered the drive through of the middle school carpool lane, I opened the sun roof, and began to boogie to lady ga ga.  First, the lasso.  Second, the sprinkler.  Third, the "do I hear a fax coming in?!" fax move.  Drew was staring at me in abject horror as I danced my butt off as much as I could strapped down in my seat belt.  I asked Bradyn to join me, but he said his moves required he be out of his seat belt because they were sweet moves.  Drew glared, told me his life was over, (but I swear I saw a grin), and said, "noone, nobody, not one person should see you dancing!"  So, I said, "oh honey, should mommy get out of the car and drop, pop, and lock it?"  He screamed, "what the hell is wrong with you? (we let hell and damn slip from his tongue if the moment requires)  Yeah go ahead, then I will get suspended, and not graduate from 6th grade!"  It was all I could do to NOT exit the vehicle and show my sweet, sweet moves.  He loves me, he knows it.

4.  One day I threatened to back hand Drew.  He was in the passenger seat, being his mouthy self, and I threw my hand sideways in a threatening, "I will do it" sort of way and he flew into a curled up ball and screamed, "ARMADILLO!"  What the heck.  I burst into laughter and said, "that's a new one, is that what you do at school when the 8th graders come around?"  I can't recall the exact words he used, but I think he said something about this being a tactic for survival.

5.  Drew babysits his brothers sometimes.  I must admit, he is a great big brother when he isn't slamming Bradyn's head into the couch, wall, or whatever is closest to the battle.  He really is good with Caden, and it makes me a proud Mom.  One day I had an appointment and Drew was in charge.  It was one of his first in charge moments ... I returned home to find Caden a little "wired".  Then I noticed this strange red sticky substance all over the kitchen floor.  What?  Yes, it was red volt mountain dew.  Drew informed me he gave Caden some out of his cup, and Caden liked it so much he put it in his sippie cup ... twice, since he downed the first sippie so fast.

6.  If you are racially offended, stop reading.  Remind yourself this is the rantings of a 12 year-old with little tact and even less knowledge of being politically correct.  Drew wants a new skateboard.  I told him he had to earn the money for one.  I suggested he mow the lawn every week, and his Dad and I would give him $10/week.  He started squeeling (yes, he squeels, just like a girl), in abject disgust, "yeah right, what do you think I am?  I am NOT a $1 burrito!  I will not mow the lawn for $10/week!"  The $1 burrito comment was a new one I hadn't heard from him.  I'm not sure, sort of, what it meant, I can only assume it is a reference to migrant workers.  Oh Drew.  I informed him he was mowing the lawn anyway, pay or no pay, and the taco stand up the street sold burritos (delicious burritos I might add) for way more than a dollar so he needed new material.

Drew, I love you son and I hope you see 13.  Please remember to keep your grades up because your Dad and I are saving any college money for future therapeutic treatments you will assuredly need in your college years when the world stops making sense and you blame everything on your parents.  A scholarship would be best.

Benglish?

I need a translator for Benglish.  What is "Benglish" you may ask? Benglish is the term we use at our house for toddler speak.  It's that awkward time when your toddler is jsut starting to put words into sentences and major frustration follows when you can't understand what they are saying ... although they repeat the same unitelligible phrase about 14 times.  Caden is a Benglish expert, and you would think with him being my third, I also would have mastered Benglish ... to no avail.  My eldest two would attempt Benglish, and finally give up on me after about three repeats of the sentence KNOWING I had no clue and would get not clue in the near future so they just walked away.  Caden ... oh no.  Caden is obstinate and determined.  His Benglish is perfect, in his world, and my interpretation skills flawed, again, in his world.  Caden will say a sentence ... calmly the first two times.  The third time his tone will be come one of "you're an idiot if you can't understand what I'm telling you."  By about the tenth attempt of saying the EXACT same unintelligble sentence to me he is screaming, saying it slowly (like a bad American tourist in a foreign nation that assumes speaking slow, LOUD, english will somehow start to make sense to the poor natives of the country) and his little face is red and his fists clenched.  Sometimes, when he is very determined, he will drop to the ground, crawl in circles, and have to regroup, then speak to me a little slower, and with complete intensity, staring me in the eyes, speaking his best Benglish, and both of us hoping we understand.  To this day I have mastered the following, "Peds" means "I want to watch/play with my Wonder Pets", "fini, tubb" means, "I'm done with dinner, let's have my tub now, "Wubz" means he watch to watch "Wow, Wow, Wubzzy", brudder is "brother" and "daddy wok" means Dad's at work.  I think I should write a Benglish dicitionary for other nom Benglish speakers?

How to stop the Boys Fighting Constantly?

Today I was surfing in desperation for ways to stop my oldest two boys from killing one another … found this article and have to comment … are you kidding me Mr. Brandenburg? Did you raise children or apes? - Cortney

Sibling Rivalry: Ten Ways to Prevent Kids from Fighting
by Mark Brandenburg, MA, CPCC

Fighting among siblings is as natural as the changing of the seasons. And contrary to what many parents believe, sibling rivalry is a sign of mental health in a family. While there may be times when it's difficult to deal with, there are some simple things you can do to limit fighting and make it tolerable: (IF fighting is a sign of mental health than we are no longer a self proclaimed dysfunctional family, but rather the picture of mental stability.)

1. Ignore Their FightingFighting is often a way for kids to get you to notice them. If you ignore their fighting (unless weapons are involved), there will be less incentive for them to do it. (Are you freaking kidding me? How do you ignore screams of, “he kicked me in the BAAAAAAALS!” While grocery shopping as shoppers stare on waiting for your response. Trust me, I’ve tried to leave them in the aisle and pray someone else takes them home.)

2. Treat Your Kids the Same When it Comes to FightingIf you get into who started things, you may be training your kids to be victims and bullies. Put them in the same boat and don't take sides. (Treat them the same … uh, huh. So when Drew initiates, Bradyn cries at the drop of a hat, and Caden just sort of watches the whole thing go down I lock all three of them in the bathroom and make them sing primary songs?)

3. Give Your Kids Positive Reinforcement when they're Cooperating.Let them know they're doing a wonderful job when they get along. This one's easy to forget, but vitally important. Give them attention when they're behaving the way you want. Continually telling them to stop may actually be creating more fighting! (When does this happen, do they behave when they are 18? Because I am still waiting for a day when my kids behave so I CAN positively reinforce them!)

4. Limit Your Own Fighting and Arguing.Having your kids see occasional arguing and "making up" from you is fine, but your kids will learn how to be peaceful from you. Don't expect them to do it well if you don't show them how. (Uh, no comment.)

5. Create an Environment of Cooperation.Do projects together as a family that involve cooperation. Talk about how important it is for the family to cooperate. Avoid games or activities that promote fighting or excessive competition in your kids. (There is not a game or activity on the ever living planet that will NOT incite my eldest two boys into full on physical altercations usually involving someone getting kicked in the “nads”.)

6. Train Your Kids in Peacemaking when They're Away from Conflict.Talk to your kids about fighting at a time when they're relaxed and open. Ask them about what other options they might have taken rather than to hit their sister. Help them to brainstorm better solutions. (Never relaxed, always blocking their crotch from the next physical altercation.)

7. Try to Avoid Punishing your KidsPunishing kids usually just creates angry kids who are more likely to fight. While some punishment may be inevitable, do your best to give consequences instead. Punishment may bring short term solutions, but will also bring long term problems. (Again, did you raise monkeys or children Mr. Mark? Cetainly it wasn’t children because if it was you would know that sending kids to their room is not for the kids, it is for the parent, so you can count to ten, regroup, and avoid committing homicide or losing it to the point you drool all over yourself making incoherent sentences about stopping hitting your brother.)

8. Control How You React to their Fighting.When you must intervene, make sure you stay calm. If you're angry and shaming, you actually make it more likely that fighting will occur again. (See #7. Go to your room.)

9. Limit the Number of Fighting Opportunities You Give your Kids.Think about what has the potential to start fights. Don't buy a red ball and a blue ball, this may easily result in a fight by your kids. Buy two red balls--no fight. Be familiar with the times in which fighting occurs the most-when they're hungry or tired. Take precautions, like having dinner ready before the "bewitching hour" occurs. (Balls, they kick each other in them, no matter the color. Potential exists EVERYWHERE for fighting. I look wrong at one, they fight. I give one a pen and one a pencil, they fight. I tell one to bring the laundry upstairs and the other to bring it downstairs, suddenly I have mixtures of clean and dirty laundry lining the floor from the upstairs to the downstairs and both of them are crying and screaming. Do you know how hard it is to schedule their daily chores strategically so they will never be in the same room at the same time doing the same chore, because they WILL fight.)

10. Love Your Kids for All They're WorthEvery day tell them you love them, and more importantly--show them. Kids who feel emotionally connected to their parents are the least likely to fight. This won't eliminate it, but the alternative isn't pretty at all. (I do love them all, more than life. I just think right now I LIKE Caden a little better. He’s 18 months, doesn’t talk back, and only fights with the dog.)

Girls versus Boys ...

As the mother of THREE, count them yes, THREE boys, people are always offering "comments". Most of their comments are things like, "wow, three boys ... my three sons, huh? (okay, stop it with that one, it was funny the first time, it's old by the 13,oooth time), boy you have your hands full ... don't worry I did it ... and finally, "consider yourself lucky, girls are worse, much worse." Up until this point I figured the latter comment was given to me out of pity. How could girls POSSIBLE be worse than three boys. After all, I have made it clear that although I love my boys, boys are indeed stupid. They don't think things through, they do then think (sometimes think, most of the time giggle at their utter stupidity) that whatever they did was funny, even if destruction lies in their wake. ie: refer to the large hole that is in my wall in the upstairs hallway from Jon and his friend trying to Pergo the floor ... where did the large hole come from ... not sure, but it was something like this, "bam! woops" giggle, giggle, giggle from both Jon and his friend. So, I rest my case on the boys are stupid part.

Back to girls. I assumed people telling me they were worse was pity. But. as my boys get older and I get to see some of their female counterparts in action I have made the following judgements. First, my mother should be entered into sainthood. She raised three girls. Second, boys ARE easier. Even though boys are dumb, they are predictable. Something doesn't go their way and the list is pretty short as to what their reaction will be. Msot of the time it will be something physical, either against themselves or their unsuspecting sibling or wall or door that stands in the way. If it isn't physical, it will ne emotional, but that usually is sulking and they go into their cave to do that and emerge angry at the world ... but that soon passes when they are offered to participate in something else dumb with other boys that will get them all in trouble again. The cycle is vicious, but it is what it is.

Girls ... mmmm. Well, this weekend I witnessed by niece (she's 8) have a meltdown. Now, girl meltdowns are different. Boys just sort of fall apart and let you have it in a 10 second tirade. Girls start slow. Okay, she didn't want to go home from her grandpas house ... and I'm not picking on her in particular, just was watching this particular girl moment from the sidelines and disecting it in my head. Anyhow, my niece starts off slow ... a few hours prior she places the "bait" to stay longer at her grandpas house. The plans have been set and there is no way she can stay any longer. They have been there for a couple days, her parents are exhausted, etc. so they are leaving for the long drive home. But, nevertheless, the bait ... "hey, could Uncle Jon and Aunt Cortney just take me home with them?" We were leaving the next day.

What?! Okay, I must admit the sheer genius in her manuvering skills was there. After all, we do have to drive past her parent's house on the way home, we do drive an SUV that has room for 85 people, and her cousins and she seem to get along okay. Hmmm. I even entertained the idea, but didn't want to step on her parents toes. They responded with a "no, that won't work", etc. It was pretty simple ... until ... until about an hour before they were supposed to leave. Then began the show. It started with my niece burrowing her head into the recliner in the front room as her family got packed up. She burrowed and wallowed and made large directed dramatic movements towards anyone that would watch indicating her complete and total sadness that her time at Grandpas was about to come to a close. By the 1/2 hour point we had full on tears that started to well in her eyes. Then there was this quiet little , "uhh,huh,uuuh, huhh" sort of pititful whiny cry like a cat that is jsut starting to go into heat. Then, without notice, a wail. A wail of pitiful in which would melt the coldest of hearts. The wail sort of downplayed itself back into the pitiful cat sound. It was genius ... I watched, actually a little but in awe, at how well she played this situation. She had to practice this for hours, no way this was off the cuff!

Everyone starts to say good bye and I am still sort of enamoured with the wailing little bundle in the recliner. By this point she had her cousin (my boy) trying to talk her off the ledge to no avail. He promised she could always come back to Grandpas, he would still live there, she needed to go get in the car or her, "pawents were gonna get WEALLY mad at her!", he tried everything. FInally, her exhausted and exasperated parents half heartedly cried up the stairs, "Erin, we're leaving, with or without you, let's go." People, I swear this on all that is holy, the kid smiled and nestled further into the recliner. I think she actually thought them leaving her was an okay plan and she had won the mexican stand off. The next thing you know the calvary was sent (Grandpa and her Dad). Grandpa managed to get her out of the chair and on her feet walking down the stairs in the general direction of the car ... her Dad managed to get her in the car ... the whole time wailing, then sobbing, then bringing it all down to a pitiful cry wiht words like, "never get to stay, but I LOOOOOOOOVE bepaw" thrown in for effect. Really, I was impressed. This was also when I decided my mother (and her mother) deserved sainthood for putting up with daughters and their drama.

We left the next day .... it went something like this, "Drew, Bradyn, get your crap, we're leaving." Drew responded with, "WHAAAAT?! But you said ... you SAID ... HEY WHAT?!?!?!?!" (see, full on tantrum right from the get go so one knows what to expect, no gentle wind up like a girl luring you into feeling bad for her). Bradyn tried to follow suit with, "HEYYYYY! I WANT TO STAY HEEEEEERE!" Nope, we're leaving. Get your crap. Drew said, "fine, but I'M PICKING THE MOVIE WE WATCH IN THE TRUCK!" Bradyn responded, "fine, BUT DREW PICKED LAAAAAAAST TIME!" Boys, get your asses in the truck now. We're leaving. They both got in, both still fighting about who got to choose the movie, and neither of them were barely able to look up from their battle stations long enough to give out their goodbye hugs to their grandparents. By the time we hit mile one of the journey, the DVD was in, the headphones were on, and they watched in silence for four hours. We only stopped onced to feed and water them. AND, did I mention boys are extra special because they can pee anywhere, no bathroom required, no squatting, and on command? Okay, not regretting all boys.

Football ... week two.

All I have to say … he’s STILL alive and I stayed in my chair. Alright, Drew successfully made it through day one WITH PADS. We are taking his new football playing in milestones. As in, he GOT THROUGH week 1 conditioning, he is still alive after day one with pads, he still wants to play after day two with pads… at least he doesn’t mind taking Motrin like a “big boy” … and “well, the bruising HAS to go away eventually, right?”. Drew still claims he “loves it”. I am stunned, amazed, and at the same time very happy. It’s good to see my “no contact” little boy suddenly in the throng of crushing helmets and pads and even better watching him get up, dust himself off, and go in for more. The only mistake I have made thus far is the “marble” analogy. I was trying to explain to Drew that tackling (hitting as they call it) was like marbles. If you take a marble and shoot it at a standing marble, the standing marble will shoot across the room. BUT, if both marbles are shooting at each other at the same time, they will either stop one another when they meet, or equally bang off of each other. SO, with this logic, I tried to tell Drew football is the same when he comes off the line. He needs to come off of the line FAST and with the same speed as the other kid so when they hit the other kid doesn’t have more power and can bash Drew. SO, I was thinking I was a GENIUS. Until yesterday … when Drew was participating in “West Points” (the kids bash each other two at a time), I was on the sidelines and watched Drew’s first “hit”. He didn’t seem aggressive enough to me and he sort of got his butt kicked. SO, I hollered, “Drew, lower, lower, wrap his legs!” A few more hits and Drew was doing a little better getting lower, but he still seemed a little less aggressive so I hollered, “Drew, MARBLES, MARBLES!” After practice Drew told me I needed to not yell about marbles anymore because when I did a kid standing by Drew said, “dude, is your mom talking about your balls?” Ugh. So yes, as my friend Amy indicated, Drew will probab;y need a lot of therapy for the “Pee Wee Football and Mom years”. But, for now, we’re both surviving. And yes, I have become the crazy parent that sits in the chair on the sidelines with my drink and hollers at my child telling him to hit harder and lower and cheering him on when he bashes another kid. The transformation process was pretty fast from non sports mom to sports mom the first time I heard the helmets and pads crushing. I think the mommy in me took over as well as a little adrenaline and it’s been all down hill from there. Gooooooooo Drew!

Drew is Playing Football

Yep, the rumors are true. Drew is playing "football" this season for the Franklin Tilton Falcons. I suppose the "who" he is playing for is not nearly as important as the fact that he is not only playing ... but liking playing. He "endured" the first week of conditioning (2 hours night practices for 5 days week), and tonight he actually puts on the full gear to start "hitting", "tackling", etc. He tells me he isn't nervous, and he's, "excited". Me ... I'm not so excited. I think it will take every ounce of personal self-restraint I have to sit in my chair on the sidelines and NOT get up and rush the field the first time I see him get "hit". Let's be honest ... he isn't the "biggest" kid on the team, and he certainly isn't the "fastest" (I'm praying the chubby kid on his team doesn't quit because he is the only reason Drew is never last in the running drills.). Being small and not so fast he can't even run out of the way ... he has to just take every bone crunching smack down the bigger and more experienced kids deem necessary to offer to the smaller, less experienced new kids. I know, I know, if I rush the field and beat the hell out of the kid that knocks Drew over the first time there could be ramifications. Drew's friends could make fun of him until the end of time ... the police could possibly be called to arrest the crazy lady, (and the Franklin police only know me as the crazy plant lady right now, no need to add crazy overprotective mother to the list), and/or Drew could be banned from all future organized sports ... or at least his mom would be asked to find a new hobby other than spectator when he DOES play. Honestly, I'm weighing them all out and none of them really sound THAT bad?! I'll be the parent on the side of the field tonight trying to look tough, secure, and supportive as I smile at my oldest boy, my poor skinny frail oldest boy, and holler, "don't worry honey, you have pads on, it won't hurt!" Lies, all lies. Then I will hear the crunch of pads hitting, boys grunting and hollering, and hopefully from somewhere on the bottom of the proverbial dogpile Drew will emerge still liking football and not flipping off his coach and anyone else within eye shot as he exits the field. Pray for him. Pray for me. Updates later.

Where Do Babies Come From?

This exchange I wrote about happened during my pregnancy, but I was going through some old e-mails and thought I would share on our blog page ... Bradyn WILL need thereapy in his later years for the stories his mother posts on the family blog page for the world to see. Let's hope his "baby" theory sticks around for as many years as possible. Kids grow up WAY to fast these days!

BRADYN J. ELDRIDGE ...

WHERE DO BABIES COME FROM?

A number of weeks ago Jon and I were discussing in vague details the birds and the bees with Drew. He has come home with some interesting thoughts on the subject, so we have started to open a dialogue about the whole thing (good heavens, he is only 8, I am NOT ready for this!). At any rate, we didn’t want to scare the kid, but wanted to make sure he knew SOMETHING. So, somewhere in the conversation he understood that babies somehow come from the mommy and the daddy and in his mind, “daddies put the babies in the mommies tummy when they hump like Caesar (our Shitzu)”. Okay, that was more information than I wanted to hear from my 8 year-old and we put that topic to rest. Well, somewhere in there his 3 year-old brother was all ears and heard a portion of the conversation. Today I found out where babies come from … according to Bradyn.
Bradyn and I have “car chats” wherein I turn the rear view mirror to the back seat so he can see me and I him. He has been requesting this for over a year now and I oblige. These are the times that Bradyn will be absolutely ridiculous, cute and charming, or even philosophical. Well, as philosophical as a 3 year-old can be. Today was one of those days. Bradyn exclaimed to me in a very serious tone, “When I grow up and get big, I am going to be a daddy just like my daddy.” Okay, so that was cute and I was thinking what a great influence Jon must have on this kid for him to want to be just like his daddy. SO, we went further down the road and I said, “A daddy, huh? So are you going to have babies?” Bradyn again turned very serious and there was a long pause … “well,” he said, “fiwst I have to find a giwl … so she can be the mommy and I can be the daddy.” I responded, “Oh, okay.” I then looked into the rearview mirror to see Bradyn making a stirring motion with his hands like he was stirring a big bowl of something. “Yep,” Bradyn said, “I’m gonna stir up some babies and put ‘em right up in the mommy so she can have some babies!” I almost drove off the road laughing. So, if you ever wondered exactly WHERE babies come from it is apparently a mix that you can get at the store. I will ask Bradyn later exactly where the baby mix is if you really need to know.

TURF TOWN

4th July SPIKED Blue Hairs"

As for this Summer, Mark Magoon has been here a lot playing with Drew. It would seem as an only child Mark has discovered the rigors of brothers to be "entertaining". He also is quite intrigued with the fact that we have a thousand boys per square mile in our neighborhood. He lives in Northfield, rather rural area, with no neighbors. As you know, we have MANY neighbors, some might say to many. = ) Anyhow, he has been hanging out here, pretending he has brothers, doing "chores" with my boys (he was even added to the chore chart, poor kid, but it was his request!), and acting like a city kid playing with all of the other boys in the neighborhood.

The "city children" of pasture drive have been quite busy this Summer... all at the Eldridge household. Now, when I was a new mom I used to think how cool it would be one day to have the house that all of the kids wanted to be at. Yep, I could be the cool mom that passed out cupcakes and Popsicles while the kids played board games and action figures. Uh-huh.
IT'S NOT POSICLES OR CUPCAKES, BUT IT'S THE COOL MOM DUGOUT PLAYOFF TREATS! INSANE!!


MY MOM ROCKS!
I don't know if I'm the cool mom, but I do know the kids DON'T play board games or action figures, (action figures are kind of a joke in our house because Drew had a "man Barbie" when he was about 4 years old AND I used to casually ask him where his man Barbie was just to hear him say, "mooooooommmmm! It's an action figaw!!!!!!!!" Yes, he was surly even at 4 years old) and I DO keep stocked in Fluffernutter supplies (fluffernutter - you know this is a purely Yankee invention ... we would never DREAM of such a disgusting combination out west! Gross - but the kids love them - grosser) and occasionally hand out juice boxes and Popsicles and sometimes Valium cookies, but that's only when the WHOLE neighborhood of boys is playing INSIDE my house on a 90 degree 100% humidity day ... kidding, just kidding.

Back to the busy children of Pasture Drive. Have you heard of Turf Town? Allow me to introduce you if I have not already. Turf Town is the result of a couple of things. The planets in complete alignment, a very 8 months pregnant and miserable Cortney who didn't have the capacity to say "no", and a husband with a "dream" and the inability to finish the basement he started in the fall. So, Turf Town came into existence. Turn Town is the brain child of Jon. I have NOTHING to do with Turf Town. Turf Town is in the basement ... our absolutely enormous basement that Jon decided to frame in and sheet rock 3/4 of last Fall. This was supposed to be his "winter project" ... finishing the basement. When the final sheet of sheet rock was nailed down and it was time to tape and mud Jon lost his wind. So, there was the basement, framed, sheet rocked, open ceiling with exposed pipes, etc. from the first floor, and a cement floor. Months passed. The winter project was soon forgotten as out basement turns into somewhat of a frozen tundra in the New England winter. Nobody goes down to the basement for fear a search and rescue team and sled dogs might have to recover your frozen remains in the Spring. AND, our Shitzu is a lousy rescue dog. He's lazy.

Come spring thaw (end of February or so), Jon got re motivated to finish his basement. Now, some would argue Jon was "nesting" as I was about to "pop" with his third child. Some would argue he was taking advantage of me to finish the basement "his way". I argue the latter. One evening as I laid in bed praying that the monster that inhabited my body and found himself quite comfortable laying sideways on my sciatic nerve would just GET OUR ALREADY, Jon came into the room to make a "suggestion". "So," he began, "how about a new idea for the basement?" Alright, past that I have to say that all I remember is turf, just like a real baseball field, and home depot rolls of turf. The monster had kicked my sciatic nerve just right after the word basement and all I could see or hear was glaring pain. I think, or Jon claims, I agreed with him.

Jon soon left the house after this conversation ... only to return with the biggest roll of artificial turf I have EVER seen. He was grinning ear to ear telling me how cheap it was and how "cool" his basement would be. Of course it was cheap! It was turf for hell's sake. The kind of turf people put on their front porches in trailer parks across America! I just shook my head and he and the boys disappeared to the basement. The next day I was escorted by my two children to their Dad's newest invention ... "Turf Town". Yes, he had laid all of that damned artificial turf in the basement, with the rolls even going the opposite direction like a "real field" (or so Jon claims). The seams of the turf were carefully taped with double stick to the basement floor as to elude the onlooker that this was not real grass. Uh-huh. "The beauty of this," grinned Jon," is that the boys can beat the hell out of the basement and I don't care. I never finished the walls, so I don't care!" Holy crap. He should have just covered the walls in rubber, because he had just unknowingly created an open bay psych ward for every boy in the neighborhood between the ages of 5 and 12 to be admitted to.

Turf Town, as it is now called, is the pride of pasture drive and my private shame. My house is fairly pristine and I am a bit picky (okay, Jon says bitchy, I say picky) about how things look and where things are placed etc. But, Turf Town is off limits to me. Turf Town served as “spring training” for our boys, Jon, Mike St Onge, and his boys. No one cared about the walls, so it didn’t matter that they had a ball pitcher and real balls being hit and slung around with “pop flys” and “grounders to first”. I was busy with a NEW baby, so I didn’t really care.

Now that the weather is warm and school is out, Turf Town has become "fight club" for the boys on Pasture Drive. The boys (imagine Fleming boys, my boys, Chaz, sometimes Mark Magoon, etc.) all go to Turf Town (aka Fight Club) and I hear clambering, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, bangs, thuds, and karate, "kee-ahs!" I don't question. They stay down there for HOURS. The only reason I knew it was becoming a fight club is because one day Donna asked me if I had a car seat in the basement. Uh-yeah, I had one down there for Caden to "grow into". Unbeknown st to Mark and Drew, as they sat in the back of Donna's van one day talking about Turf Town, she was listening. The conversation went something like this, "yeah, Turf Town is AWESOME ... yeah, sometimes it gets rough ... yeah, like when someone takes that stool and wacks you in the head with it ... or the car seat, yeah, the car seat really hurts when someone uses that as a weapon!" I stand by my original mantra, boys are dumber than the family dog ... and we have a really dumb family dog.

When I heard that Turf Town was fight club, I decided to try and steer the boys creative energies another direction. SOOOO, since Jon didn’t care about the walls, (and I had given up, let’s be candid here) I told the boys that they should take their crayons and markers and write on the walls. I suggested perhaps making a Red Sox or Patriots logo, etc. Uh-huh. Remember that part about boys being dumb? The whole “fight club” gang immediately latched to the idea of writing all over the walls and they were down in Turf Town for a few hours. I was so pleased with myself that I didn’t hear any battles, crying, or mystery bangs. After a few hours I quietly went downstairs to see the masterpiece the little darlings had created … boys are dumb. On the wall was not a logo or anything else productive … oh no, there were sentences, phrases, misspelled and grammatically incorrect at that?! I looked around and they sort of stared wide eyed at me to catch my reaction. I took a silent breath of relief and noted that there were no “naughty words” on the walls. Thank the Maker for small favors there. I walked around Turf Town … silently. Then I read aloud one of the statements on the wall, “Bradyn spoons with his stuffed Pandna … hmmm, I don’t think Bradyn spoons with his stuffed Panda when he stuffed shark is so much easier to spoon with AND if you are going to write on the walls AT LEAST spell the words correct! Who spells Panda, “p-a-n-d-n-a”? Geez!” The boys started grinning and I went to the next statement on the wall … “Mark likes to kiss modles.” What the hell is a modle? Then I realized the spelling error and said, “again, boys, who wrote this? HOW do we spell MODEL? We do not spell it “m-o-d-l-e”!” There were a few, “Yankees suck!” here and there (remember, I had the Fleming boys at my house), and a few more mentions of Bradyn and his spooning activities with his stuffed animals, but other than that, ridiculous.

I told them to clean up the crayons and markers … they were done for the day. The NEXT day I thought of another GENIUS plan to entertain them in turf town that did NOT involve writing on the walls, or beating each other. Jon and I had some boxes in the basement from our move (2 years ago, remember, Jon moves slow). Jon had broken them down, and they were just sitting there. I told the boys, “hey, how about you BUILD something with all of those boxes down there?” HOW could they screw that up? They were VERY excited and spent HOURS down there in “construction”. I went down a few hours later to see they had not created a single anything, but rather Turf Town had now become shanty town with boxes EVERYWHERE and little created hamster like tunnels for the boys to crawl into. Bradyn had the family size bag of potato chips in his “tunnel”. He said he needed “snaaaaaaacks!” Whatever, it was harmless.

Caden aka "The Godfather", and Drew discuss business!
The next day the boys headed straight to turf town, aka fight club aka shanty town. I was feeding Caden his bottle and rocking him in the front room. Mark Magoon came upstairs from Turf Town and asked, “can we use the monopoly money?” What?! I looked at him. He was carrying some sort of wild west cowboys and Indians cap gun in his hand. “What do you need monopoly money for?” Remember, boys are dumb … “well, see, Garret is the manager of the apartment building and Griffin is the store owner since they built most of it with the boxes and my job is to get them to pay their rent every month or I shoot them.” WHAT?!?! I tried to remain calm, “so,” I said, “you’re like the Mafia?” “Uh, yeah, can we use the monopoly money?” I just shook my head and gave up. “Yep, you can use the monopoly money, just remember to put it back when you are done AND always keep 2 ledgers for your money records … one for the police to find and one real one with all the money you laundered.” “What?” “Never mind … oh, and Caden is the Godfather.” Mark smiled, rubbed Caden’s head, and said, “so, you come to me for this favor?” The rest of the afternoon was spent with the boys intermittently coming upstairs and dropping monopoly bills next to Caden’s head and saying, “here’s your cut.”
"So ... You Ask This Favor of Me, Eh?"

This was yesterday. I think they are still playing Mafia today, not sure. Caden hasn’t had any monopoly money thrown at his head yet, so who knows. ELLIE ... AHHH, SO CUTE!
PLEASE send Ellie so I can have a tea party and make little sandwiches and invite all of Bradyn’s stuffed animals. The dog isn’t cooperating... he spills the tea everywhere.

I LICKED IT ...

Bradyn ... a few months ago we took Bradyn to a party somewhere. Where, I don't recall, but what I do recall is him utilizing one of his MANY tricks to "get what he wants". Now, Bradyn's love affair with food is well documented, but even fat kids across the world would be proud at this latest antic. While going through the "buffet line" of sorts, Bradyn was pointing out what he wanted, etc. At the end of the table were WAY TO MANY assorted desserts and I told Bradyn he could have ONE. This was obviously NOT ENOUGH in his eyes. He did manage to choose one, but as I went to pick it up and put it on his plate I noticed his grubby little hand picking up another dessert, bring it to his mouth, and lick it. Yep, grabbed the cookie, licked it, and put it back on the plate for someone else to enjoy. I immediately informed him he could NOT do that and now he had to have that cookie. Okay, fast forward 2 months later.

A few days ago Bradyn was in the grocery store with me. He and his brother were running around grabbing things for me (it is the only method I have to keep them busy, send them on "missions" for produce). In their travels between oranges and lettuce Bradyn found a shelf of magazines. One caught his eye (Nickelodeon or something)and he brought it to me. He asked if he could have it and I of course said, "no". He then said, "but mom, I already licked it." He was very serious and it was all I could do to not puke at the fact he was licking a magazine 40 thousand other grubby hands had probab;y parused and simultaneously laugh. He didn't get the magazine. Had to prove a point.

Bradyn Logic # 234: If you want something really, really bad and you don't see any other way to get it ... lick it, then it's yours.

Hawaiian Punch Experiments

I have decided that being a mom to boys carries with it a requirement that one possess a sense of humor. If one was not in possession of said sense of humor, they would spend their parenting of boys precious time seeking professional help for either themselves OR their boys ... convinced that either you or the boys are NUTS. Today, was one of those nuts days. There are occasions that the plans my boys come up with are well thought out ... well, not so well thought out as taking days of planning before they sometimes literally blow up. A few days ago such a plan, unbeknownst to me, was being launched. Drew and Bradyn took a GIANT Sam's club size container of Hawaiian punch and stuck it in the outside freezer. I suppose it had been there for a couple of days, not sure. A few days into the "freezing" the boys were plaing outside. I assumed they were riding their bikes, playing in the sandpile, you know, boy things. I was sitting in hte front room talking with a friend that had stopped in for a visit. Out of hte corner of my eye I suddenly noticed Drew and one of his buddies from the neighborhood running upstairs ... somehting was up. I watched as they came running back down the stairs with something in their hands. I ordered, "gentleman, STOP, turn around, WHAT is in your hands?" The two partners in crime were already at the garage door and Drew threw soemthing in the garage, showed me his hands, and said, "nothing!" Uh-huh. I grilled the two of them for about two minutes, then looked outside the garage door to see what Drew had "dropped". There was nothing on the ground so I grilled Drew again saying, "WHAT was it and WHERE is it?!" Drew hollered, "okay, okay, Bradyn took it!" What? Took what? "The tape!" yelled Drew and his friend in tandem. What the heck? Tape? For what? I didn't need to ask anymore as I looked out onto the driveway to see Brdyn trying deperately to "clean up" the mess that was made. Apparerntly after the"freezing" of the Hawaiian punch, the boys decided that it was obviusly time to beat it with a hammer to see what happens. It made a small hole in the side of hte punch, which under the frozen pressure, started to "spew" Hawaiian Punch. The tape? Well, that was to clean it up. There sat Bradyn, getting spewed at from all sides by red Hawaiin punch as he tried desperately to "tape" the container. He was red, sticky, and covered. Needless to say,friends, "went home" and the boys were put on clean up duty and lockdown. When I asked WHAT had happened they very matter of factly told me, "what? we froze it and hit it with a hammer?" like I was an idiot for asking. Uh-huh. Please, please, let this next child be a girl with more than one working brain cell.

Boys, Frogs with Anxiety, and Criminal Defense

Brothers in CRIME
I have two boys, ages 5 and 10. One would think that their obvious age gap would leave them to pretty much ignore one another. However, as their ages have increased, so to has their utter disgust with one another from one moment to the next. Their antics don't often involve any other individuals (sometimes the poor dog is left in the crossfire), thank goodness. For the most part, their turf disputes leave them both mortified that I cannot see justification for their criminal acts. Let's take one situation in particular, to describe the 4 justifications for criminal defenses.
Drew (age 10) and Bradyn (age 5) are playing outside. Their latest antics involve the catching of frogs in the woods behind the house. There is never just one frog, there is often more than one, cramped inside their little bucket like POW's waiting for the end that won't come soon enough. The boys "love" the frogs all day, until I force them to release the frogs back to the wild after dinner. The frogs currently suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, and are seeking therapeutic interventions as we speak. On one such day, Bradyn (the 5 year-old) assumed that frogs liked two things ... being held over the bucket by one leg and then being released back into the wild as he screamed and chased them and brought them back to the bucket. Drew (the 10 year-old) is a bit more realistic, and realized holding them by one leg would decrease their jumping ability, and chasing them after releasing them repeatedly just didn't make sense ... what if Bradyn didn't catch them and put them back (run frogs, run). On one such day, Bradyn first grabbed said frog and held it dangling, by one leg, over the bucket. Drew smacked Bradyn in the back of the head and the frog was "released" as Bradyn went to retaliate. As his little 5 year-old fists of fury started to fly, Drew realized the frog was jumping away and he retaliated in kind again expressing physical violence towards his younger brother.
By the time the little delinquents brought their case to the judge, (myself) both were crying and screaming incoherently and their defense now fell under the jurisdiction of the courts (their bedroom and their mom, arms crossed, wondering why I am pregnant with a third and didn't just stop at one child). First, the eldest claimed DURESS. The frog, apparently, through means of ESP only known to my children, informed the eldest that unless he smacked his younger brother for holding him above the bucket by the leg, then he would just hop away into the sunset. Therefore, under amphibian DURESS, the eldest wacked his brother in the head so the frog would not hop away. Second, the youngest claimed SELF-DEFENSE in retaliation to his brother's aforementioned smack to the head. He claimed his use of "non deadly force" was reasonable in that he did not provoke his elder brother's attack. He also mentioned that perhaps he would be using "deadly force" if his brother wacked him in the head again without notice. Third, the eldest then claimed NECESSITY in again wacking his brother in the head a second time because the frog was released in the first head wacking attack. Of course, the harm and evil sought to be avoided (the frog remaining in the bucket) was no longer a possibility as the initial wack to the head released the frog from the startled younger brother who then came after his elder brother threatening with non-deadly force possibly escalating to deadly force! The law of the house states, "don't touch each other!" but in this case, the NECESSITY outweighed the law ... apparently. The judge wasn't hearing any of it, so both criminals put their heads together to claim a final defense, ENTRAPMENT. The eldest claimed that had I stopped with having one child then he could have all of the frogs to himself and he would not feel inclined to resort to violent action to protect the rights of the amphibian creatures of the world. The youngest claimed that had the judge (mom, myself) just let him play with frogs by himself, like he had been doing all day while the other criminal was in school, then he would not have gotten wacked in the head forcing him to exhibit non-deadly and threatening deadly force. DURESS, SELF-DEFENSE, NECESSITY, ENTRAPMENT. No matter how you look at it, the judge threw the book at both of them (augh!) and they spent the evening in a juvenile delinquency facility (their bedroom) waiting for the warden (Dad) to release them from their cells. Both are expected to do "hard time" before their 18th birthday ... at which point the judge will release them into the wilds of society. Good luck to you all. “

Sugar, Doritos, and the Mind of Boys ...

This is our youngest, Bradyn (right). Notice the "message of warning" for all to see? Yes, it does read, "here comes TROUBLE!". Next to him, looking confused and perhaps a little worried is his, "bestest friend always" (according to Bradyn ... AND when he and Tyler are not fighting over who is older, taller, bigger, or smarter), Tyler. He and his brother Griffin are about the same age as Drew and Bradyn and the four of them are inseparable. At our house the boys have a "hut". It is a renovated 2nd floor "storage closet" that is deep and wide. It is the perfect "hut" for kids. We installed carpet, put in a mini couch, Drew installed some Red Sox and Patriots paraphernalia to the walls, and wa-la ... hut. The hut gets vacuumed once a week in an effort to thwart any well meaning rodents or bugs that may have found any food remnants snuck into the "hut". So far, so good, only some minor kid dirt. Until Friday.

I was taught well in the ways of "food storage". I have two LARGE containers for sugar and flour in my pantry. The flour container holds about 12 lbs and the sugar about 7lbs. Yep, they're huge and it IS important to the story that you know of them. Our 4th of July was pretty casual. We had Mike and Candy and Tyler come over to hang for some dinner and sparklers (Griffin was in Maine with Grandparents). As the evening wore on, the adults found themselves on the back patio chatting away. The boys were playing so nice, so quiet ... we were falsely lulled into a sense of security.

Fast forward to Friday (2 days later), hut cleaning day. Drew went inside the hut to clear it out for the vacuum cleaner. Once inside I heard this, "MOM!!!!" Drew emerged from the hut with my 7lb sugar container (that I had recently filled to the brim), with almost half of the sugar "missing". Drew then exclaimed, "Tyler and Bradyn did it!" "Did what?", I asked, knowing it was bad. I peered into the hut to see not one, or two, or even three, but about 6 PILES of sugar on the carpet. As I investigated further, I found that the devastation was not only in the carpet, it was also on the sleeping bags, throw pillows, and seemingly "ground in" to some places on the little sofa. As I was throwing things from the hut out to the open to discover the level of this sugarific disaster I realized EVERYTHING was covered and EVERYTHING had to be cleaned or we would have a REAL bug infestation.

After assessing the damage, I calmly (yes, I actually was calm, I think it is the place you reach as a mom when you are so mad you can't even manage to have ANY emotion, you just lost all affect and go "blank") called Bradyn. The rest of this story is via a 4 and 5 year-olds recollection of events, so bear with me if the details seem sketchy. It would seem that on the evening of the fourth (yes, 2 days prior), Tyler and Bradyn were jonesing for some sugar ... and not the kind that is accompanied by all of the "in the way" stuff as in cookies and candy, they needed a straight shot to the system. Their need for speed left only one option. They managed to sneak the large sugar container up the stairs and into the hut for their "feast". They opened the sugar container and enjoyed handfuls, yes, I said handfuls, of the sweet, delicious white drug. When they had finally settled into a sugar coma of sorts, one of them (or both) "spilled" (um, looked to me like DUMPED) the sugar in the hut. Bradyn broke free from his coma for a moment of, "holy crap, my mom is going to kill me so we better put the sugar BACK into the container". However, he apparently lulled back into the coma when after discussing this clean up option with Tyler, followed Tyler's sage wisdom. "No, we'll get in trouble! Let's HIDE IT!" So, how do you hide 3 lbs of sugar? Well, first you try to grind it into the carpet. When the piles still remain, madness (or the sugar coma) kicks in and you throw anything you can find ONTO the piles. Then you jump on what you threw onto the sugar piles to make sure it is all covered (oh, and also leaves a nice dark place for bugs to discover their private sugar shame and take up residence!) up so Mom can't find it. Of course, after you have THAT much sugar ... you need something salty, right?
After an hour plus of cussing and cleaning the "hut", I took my cleaning efforts to the guest room for a quick vacuuming. Behind the angled headboard of the guest bed (where there is a little "nook" if you will), I spied something orange. Upon further investigation, I realized that salty follows sugary. The boys public shame stood before me ... a large EMPTY bag of family size Doritos (extra cheesy, of course), 1 half filled breakfast bowl of Doritos, and one glass half filled with Doritos. The rest were on the carpet and looked like they had experienced the most painful Dorito death ... smashing by to sugar coma induced preschoolers with bare footed Fred Flintstone shaped feet. Okay, so hour 2 passes by, the Doritos are cleaned up, I still have to steam clean the carpet of the "orange twinge".

For the two hours I was cleaning, I was planning ... planning a punishment so bad, so creative, that NEITHER boy would forget it. I had alot of time to think. After all was cleaned, I called my friend and told her about our boys "adventures". She was mortified, embarrassed, and also mad as hell. I informed her my "plan" was to have the little juvenile delinquents do some weeding in the yard for an hour. Sort of the you took my time today, now I take yours while you do something I needed to get done logic. My friend agreed my plan was evil and perfect. In the interim of she and her husband questioning their juvenile delinquent about his escapades with his fellow juvenile delinquent best friend, I found out that Drew DID know about the Doritos and chose to say NOTHING for 2 days. When Tyler and his Mom arrived, I informed Drew that since he KNEW, said NOTHING, he would now be supervising the weeding adventures and if it wasn't done right, he would be finishing the job!

Yeah, that was like leaving the craziest inmate in charge of the asylum at the prison. The short version is that I spent about 30 minutes out there hollering to get the boys moving and Drew motivated to stop tattling on them. After my 4th trip outside to "regulate", I informed Drew he had to "take care of it". I went inside, and approximately 30 seconds later I hear a blood curdling scream from one of the small boys. I ran outside to see both boys soaked, and Drew holding the garden hose. I looked at him and he matter of factly stated, "I told them if they didn't work, they'd get sprayed, they didn't work, they got sprayed." At this point, the small boys figured this was a great new game (who can tell the mind of a criminal?) and the started running all over the backyard DARING Drew to hose them again. The madness, it never ends.

I called them all inside, set their butts in various corners of the house, told them to stare at the walls, and say NOTHING. They sat for about 10 minutes, then Tyler went home. However, I don't feel to horrible that my masterminded punishment was a bust ... the next day at the neighbors (Tyler's parents) annual pool party, the two small boys were NOT allowed to swim and had to tell people, when asked, WHY they were banned from the pool for the day. Lucky little critters, it rained for most of the party! More later... it is only a question of "when" with these two, never "if". Yes, I am laughing now, but I think it is because insanity has kicked in.