Roses are Red....

 I spent my first Mothers Day, exhausted and snuggling a boy only hours old. I've shared Mothers Days with all three of my boys' birthdays. I adore being the mom to these smart, loving, challenging, inspirational little men

This year, I played board games on the floor while the 10 y.o. "brought the party music"(his quote) toting his mp3 and portable speaker pumping DLR era Van Halen. In a show of true love, I let him start the crossword, which could easily be a hanging offense in my world. Among many other moments this year, for doing my favorite job, I was rewarded with the 8 y.o.'s delivering these to me.  What a reward!

Mommy
I love you the goldest
I love you the color of the golden weapons of Ninjago that bring peace.
I love you the color of the interesting chatter of the lizard's feet
I love you the color of the smell of hot yummy spaghetti
I love you the color o f the lion's golden coat
I love you the color of the awesome taste of ravioli
The call of a perigan (sp) falcon
The eyesight of a jaguar
The face of a dog named Violet
I love you the goldest

love, Aidan



Mommy
I love you the bluest
I love you the color of happy bark (he quickly told me that that was meant to be "Violet's happy bark")
I love you the color of a dolphin jumping high
I love you the color of the dark quiet
I love you the color of the pretty quiet morning
I love you the color of yummy mac and cheese
The sound of a waterfall falling
The peace of our home
The sound of a trickling stream
I love you the bluest.

love, Noah

while we are on the subject of competition

My grandmother is 83 and would be irate if she knew that was out there for all the web to read. She is capable, able minded, active and sharp. She picked up Phase 10 and played competitively with three other generations this weekend. She was crushed at the loss of my grandfather at 59 after 39 years of marriage. She will openly say that she thought her life was over. Since both of her parents lived past 80, she knew she likely had years left. She ultimately got her first job, a boyfriend and hobbies. She remarried and forged her next stage of life because she chose to live. She makes baskets, plays the organ in church, has a garden that would feed a small village and is just generally wonderful.  She does it all.

It truly felt like a confession when I told her this weekend that in my world, it just does not all get done and I thus I have a housekeeper. She perked up and dug down to the bottom of her "pile" and produced http://www.ocregister.com/articles/women-345023-cleaning-housework.html.

I should never underestimated this woman.

a cupcake is a cupcake

There is chick lit novel for Mama’s called “I Don’t Know How She Does It”. It opens with a scene where our heroine a working mother of young children can be found damaging her perfectly-formed store bought tarts for her child’s holiday celebration. She didn't want any of the other moms to know that her treats weren't homemade.

True confessions: I find that scene quaint. Sure it is funny and meant to evoke some camaraderie with other working moms. And sure, it does that.

Except not really. It makes my latent competitiveness rear its ugly head. I’ll go ahead and further admit that on the subject of homemade food, I succumb to all of the stereotypical one-up-womanship that the media portrays between the stay-at-homes and professionals.

I make treats. I make lunches. I make dinners. I make birthday cakes, cookies, muffins, cake pops. So when the note came home asking for cupcakes for the 4^th grade to decorate and take to a food pantry, I was ON IT!

Right up until the morning that Sam was walking out the door and called, almost absentmindedly over his shoulder, ‘oh, yea, Mom [because I’m MOM now], I need those cupcakes’. I was so busy that week with work, home, life, whatever. Do the details matter? I forgot. Flat out, forgot. Even when Sam said it, there was only a flicker of recognition.

The kids were walking out the door so that my mom could drive them to school and I could get to work early so that I could…..again…..detail don’t matter. I forgot the cupcakes.

Kids to school. Off to Wegmans. Please please please Danny, don’t fail me now.  I’m mentally making a back up plan, that does not include letting down the kids or shafting the shelter or denying anyone an overly frosted cupcake. One package of Duncan Hines and an hour, I could get that done. Whether Betty Crocker or Danny Wegmans, there’s no difference, I’m already bruising tarts.

I darted to the bakery. Pinned the young baker and tried not to holler my request for unfrosted cupcakes. “yes”, she said. HOOORRRRRAAY! Fresh from the cooler, out she came with my choice of vanilla or chocolate.

$11 later, and no, we are not going to do that per unit math, I secured the cupcakes. I made it to school before the boys were even in the door so I got my moment of glory by delivering the goods to Sam’s hands in front of his brothers, thereby further securing my position of heroine. They were perfect, store-made, price tag on, unfrosted cupcakes and my little man wasn't bruised from disappointment.