Friday, June 4, 2010

My boyly boys


Shepherd went for his first sleepover last night. Y'all. This is HUGE. I only let him because his little bestie is moving to New Jersey this weekend. He slept in a tent in Jake's room and he swam in the pool and he survived. And now that can of worms has been unleashed.

Or snakes. Can of snakes.
(Not quite as catchy.)

My baby boy is no more. He is going into first grade, he reads like a champ, he gets in trouble for saying "what the..." and butt. He completed several rites of passage so far: he's been sent to the principal's office, he's lost his two front teeth, and he's lost a library book.

He also got married.
And I wasn't invited to the wedding.

It happened like this. Marissa has been his 'girlfriend' since almost the start of school. Now in pre-k, he had between 4-7 girlfriends at any given time, so I was happy to hear he was giving monogamy a whirl.

One day this past spring he came home and said that Marissa had kissed him at recess. "Shepherd," I answered sternly. "You are not allowed to kiss girls. No way. Not at all. NO. KISSING. GIRLS."

"But she kissed me," he replied, and I am sure it was true, as I vividly remember leaning out of my square on the big blue kindergarten carpet and planting one on Darren Yeager's cheek. And I vividly remember his look of disgust as he wiped it off.

If only my son would be so disgusted.

"Well that's not okay either. Tell her. Tell her your mom said you aren't allowed to kiss girls." Because that will make you cool, Shep, all the way through college.

"So when can I kiss girls?"

"When you're older. Lots older. And married. You are not allowed to kiss a girl until you are married."

A week later, Shep hops in the minivan and announces, "Marissa and I got married today at recess."

So there ya go.

Another kid was the preacher and Marissa carried a lovely bouquet of dead leaves she found by the monkey bars. So I was told. Because I wasn't invited.

This morning, with Shep gone into the vast and scary netherland of sleepovers, the girls and I sat and colored and read girly, not boyly, books and Ike sort of quietly watched Barney and played with his boyly cars and I thought to myself, man, three kids is so easy. The rule is: one less kid than the number that you have is so easy. I am sure when the oldest Duggar boy got married they were like 'Man, 18 kids is so easy.'

Maybe not.

Speaking of Ikey, today little boy learned the hard way that stoves are hot. He has a blister on every single one of his fingertips. It is the saddest thing.

After soaking them in ice water and spraying leftover-from-his-birth Dermoplast on them and the innards of an aloe vera plant (kept in my kitchen for just this reason - it is magic on burns) the only bandaids that would stick were the Tatoos - have y'all seen those? They really do keep on. The ones I had I found on clearance at Target. They have all the characters from Camp Rock on them.


Which was appropriate. And reminds me of


Then Ike put on my sunglasses and started moonwalking, which was just weird.

He didn't cry though, because Ike is tough. Like, ridiculously tough. And ridiculously strong. And ridiculously addicted to tormenting his "big" sister Maggie, who is so petite Walker calls her "unsubstantial."

If Maggie smoked a pipe and had a tattoo, this would be her and Ike:


His latest move is to put his hand over the girls' faces and push back on their heads when he wants a toy that have. It is quite gentlemanly. And yesterday he got written up at the Y childcare for bashing another kid with maracas. To the beat. A Latin beat. Rhythm is gonna get ya.

So today we have been on Bluto Alert. He will come to know the error of his ways.

We have another issue too.

There's something you should know about me: I am a late potty trainer. I deplore potty training with every fiber of my maternal being. It's outright traumatic. I dread it about as much as I dread public restrooms. And since my children seem to be on the Great Public Potty Tour 2010, and I am growing hoarse by screeching DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING! HOLD YOUR HANDS TOGETHER! MAGGGGIE! DON'T LICK THAT!!!! NO! TOUCH! OH SWEET HEAVENS WHY ON EARTH DO YOU HAVE TO PUT EVERYTHING IN YOUR MOUTH???? I would much prefer it that the kid just, you know, go right on there right in their pants and we'll deal with it when we get home.

Truth be told? I often wish the same about my own self.

Ike seems to share the same opinion as me on this one. Here's how our discussions on potty training go:

Mom: Hey Ike, wanna go poopoo in the potty like a big boy?
Ike: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Mom: You get candy!!
Ike: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm just not real sure which way to go from there?

He just turned three, and like I said, I am a-okay with him still being in diapers. Problem is that his preschool class next year is not. I have 62 days to get the kid trained.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

Speaking of growing hoarse.
Ike didn't talk for a long time and now that he finally (sorta) is, his voice sounds like he's been smoking a pack a day since he was one. Very, very raspy. So I took him to an ENT and after using phrases like "that really concerns me" and "could be tumors," you know, the stuff moms loooooove to hear come out of a doctor's mouth, she stuck a camera down his nose (Bluto took it like a champ) and the diagnosis: nodes on his vocal cords.

My three year old has nodes on his vocal cords.
(guarantee you I'm gonna get a google hit for that.)

Did I mention my child was a rock star?


It can be caused by reflux, of which he had a minor painless case - or maybe it was all the brandy we gave him when he was teething. Either way, he looks like Michael Jackson but he sings like Rod Stewart. And he kicks butt like Axel Rose.

My baby, he's on the road to greatness.


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