But Kalli, don't you have at least 70 billion things you could be doing right now instead of sitting in your overstuffed and appropriately dirty corduroy chair (5 points for me, I spelled corduroy right on the first try), swatting at a damn fly that keeps buzzing around your head and typing out a stupid blog post?
The answer is OF COURSE I DO IDIOTS!
But it's like 12 thousand degrees outside and the simple act of opening up the door causes me to perspire in such a way as to cause grievous underboob rings and a belly button splotch to top it off. So I'll stay right here, and write a little more, and maybe think not so deeply about folding that pile of towels in the middle of the floor. Hey diddle diddle, I made a riddle!
last day of swim lessons
How is it already the end of August? Where did you fly off to my beloved Utah summer? You've been reduced to imitating the stifling repress of places like Arizona and Nevada. Then again I can't really make that comparison because I've only driven through AZ and NV. I have spent a few hours in the Phoenix airport which, of course, gives me all the street cred I need to pass such judgements. It is hot, even for me. The other day I made the mistake of running errands in a skirt with just my swimsuit underneath and almost had to call the fire department from all of the frictional heat happening up in the thigh department. I should have known better. Stupid. Mind you my magical underwear act sort of like spanx and normally keep such chafing at bay. Can I say magic underwear? I'll have to check with my bishop on that one. Repent ye fortwith, such mockery shall not be tolerated, hence.
I am glad the kids are back in school because it means my Target and Costco runs are considerably less crowded. On the flip-side I am NOT happy that my backyard babysitter decided actually attending her sophomore year of high school and running cross-country, on top of practices for her competitive gymnastics team, was more important than earning $5/hr while watching my kids a few times a week. I am still having problems coming to grips with it. Having a babysitter out your backdoor, who actually plays with your kids (even has a picture of them as the screensaver on her phone), always cleans up, knows how to put them down for naps successfully, and is basically one of the best things to ever happen to you in the history of all babysitterdom, is essentially priceless. I think we can all agree on that. I love Ashlyn. I told her family that they could never move and if we did they had to come with us, or else things were going to get ugly. This is starting to sound a little sad on my end.
Anyway, I'm okay with it being hotter than Satan's nether regions for a bit because quite honestly it's better than the alternative. I start to cry a little inside when I think about the months of February, March, and April so instead I'm going to live in my favorite place (DENIAL) and focus on the fact that I get to keep my tan at least through the end of October because did I tell you? We're going to Hawaii for 10 days. Keep your jealousy to yourself, we've earned this shizz.
Whitney via Nat just gifted me 12 Allred Orchard peaches fresh from the tree, well 11 since I ate one of those juicy gems like 20 seconds after I grabbed them out of Whit's hand. It reminded me of this time last year when I once compared myself to a ripe peach necessitating a good picking. We all know how that worked out and here we are with a plump little peach about to turn 1 himself.
I don't regret having summer babies one bit. That being said, I'm not ready for 2 toddlers. Someone was already in a time-out by 7:30 this morning. I'm not naming names, *coughitwasme.
I will console myself with the fact that there are still plenty more days left to spend at the pool and thusly ignore my garden which has turned into THE place to be if you are a weed. Don't worry, I still have squash, tomatoes, and peppers coming on like gangbusters. You just have to fight through the weeds to get to them, and I'm okay with that.
Oh, and my car stereo/clock just stopped working all together yesterday so now the only way I know what time it is while driving is if I look at the phone which is sort of dangerous and all. Since I am never on time, anywhere, please take this complication into account when extending invitations and making plans involving my attendance. Preesh.
Yesterday I was out picking produce in what is rapidly becoming my garden full of weeds and something must have bit me on the toe because it is all swelled up like a link of breakfast sausage. Why toe? Why? Today it's slightly better, and now I will apologize to certain friends of mine for sticking my sick Shrek toe in their face and making them look at it.
Last night Paul took our 12 year old nephew on an overnight scout campout. It was supposed to be just a light hike in, a campfire, some good old fashioned scout bonding or whatever it is that scouts do on campouts (farting contests?), instead it turned out to be something like a 10 mile hike involving steep inclines, ridges, boulder fields, and all that jazz. They arrived back home around 11 am this morning super stoked about the whole experience. Or not.
Guess what, we're not huge on scouting around here. Paul moved so many times growing up that his records were continually lost and he kept having to re-earn merit badges. The 3rd time they lost his eagle scout stuff he raised the white flag of surrender. Good thing marrying an eagle scout was never on my list of "things I aspire to", and even if it was I would have also had "marry someone tall"and "become a world class barrel racer" on that same list and look how well that eventually worked out.
My own brothers could have cared less about that shizz and I guarantee no one was more proficient at tying knots or building a campfire than those two, or farting around it for that matter. Because, you know, Keisels don't need anyone telling them how to be great outdoorsmen, it just comes with the territory of being a great white hunter. If my own boys want to scout they are gosh darn welcome to go ahead and do it, just don't expect me to get all excited about wearing a wolf pin, or those kerchief thingys, and den mother? Not on your mother freakin' life. Plus it seems like here in Utah especially, kids are always getting lost, or struck by lightening, or eaten by bears on scout campouts. I'd much rather have my kids join girl scouts where there are no bears, no extended hiking requirements, and a significantly increased amount of cookies.
Camping is great, scouting is fine. Let's just leave the two separate and everyone wins.
Right, well, I've got 22 minutes worth of battery left and I'm too lazy to plug it in so let's recap my recipe for a successful 3 year old birthday party:
1. send out evite 2. invite YOUR friends, because at this point your kid's friends should be children of your friends and that's how it would always be if I had any say 3. Little Ceaser's pizza-3 year olds do not discriminate when it comes to pizza 4. make a donut cake, see:
5. have party at splash pad/playground/park saving you from having to referee 3 year olds playing party games and thus pretending like that's actually fun for you 6. have party at 11:30 am so everyone can go home and take a 3 hour nap after, which really happened. It was golden.
You see, with this party recipe, everyone wins. Grownups get to socialize, no one has to cook, cleanup involves throwing things in the trash, children get to frolic and do what it is that children find enjoyable. There are donuts.
I suppose first of all you should make sure that your child has a summer birthday in order to capitalize on this little gift that I have just spoon fed you in the party planning department. So, you know, get to the serious baby making in like September/October and ending December at the latest. All of you mothers of winter and early spring babies? I feel pity for your struggles. Having summer birthdays makes sweating through the swelter of summer heat whilst ginormo pregnant totally worth it.
Low-key and simultaneously awesome is sort of like my own personal mantra, and I feel that translated directly into this birthday party. I think my not-so baby boy would agree.
On a related note: Nubby had his 3 year old checkup today where the pediatrician (I love you Dr. Wilcox) pronounced him as fine a specimen as he had ever seen. Verbal skills? Exceptional! Handsome? No doubt! Potty trained already? Savant! And such nice skin to boot.
To such proclamations I add only one: I KNOW!
*mustaches courtesy of my Wendy friend, every party needs mustaches don't you think?
Every time I put the Nub to bed, without fail he pleads "sleep a minnit Mom". More often than not I do, hyper aware of the adage that "these days won't last". I lay my head on the pillow next to him, my arm collects his waist, sometimes we hold hands. We giggle and stare at each other; the very opposite of sleeping in any form. I'd like to think I've memorized his almost 3 year old face down to the very curl of his curtain of lashes, but I know that the bigger he gets, the quicker I forget, and the more familiar I find myself with the same face but as different as it could possibly be.
The hours in my day are measured by tasks at hand. Drag self out of bed, check. Change sodden baby diaper, instruct the other to go potty, check. Breakfast for all involved, check. Clean kitchen, emails, call Daddy, open blinds, nap #1 for biglittle brother, shower, laundry, to the store, home again, lunch? Naps for both, and silence for a bit. Inevitably I plop down on the overstuffed chair and crack open the macbook with the intention of working, only to see this photo taken in early spring of last year and I find myself slapped in the face with nostalgia every time. In the middle of all this every day our lives have begun to unfold.
He is 3 in 4 days. I wish I could say I remember every bit of the past 3 years but my brain is a selective storage locker where I keep everything important without the luxury of an organized filing system. I only hope that the older he gets, they older THEY get, the older I get, and the more full my collection of this life becomes, that I will continue to write it all down and take millions of pictures, even fake polaroids on my phone, because therein lies the assurance that this all really happened. It wasn't just some extremely challenging, yet entirely fantastic whatever I dreamt up.
These boys of mine, this life we have, I love it so.
I get my best ideas at night. And then in the morning when I try and drag myself out of bed because the children want food or they want to not be wallowing in their own feces or whatever, I hate myself for staying up so late. It's a vicious cycle I tell you. Pretty soon you'll be telling me that one day I'll have to wake up even earlier to get the aforementioned children off to school or to football practice or band camp (we embrace all forms of nerd in this house), and I will hate you for speaking such hateful words. They can get themselves there or not go at all. 6 year olds can legally hitch for rides, right?
I am not good at early rising. It is my truth.
My mother will testify to this fact, as will everyone who has ever had the luxury of interacting with me at 7 am. Having kids has been sort of a rude baptism into reality since newborns and babies don't exactly care what my sleeping preferences are. Turns out, I'm not so good at the newborn stage, really I'm terrible at it. Sleep deprivation and I are mortal enemies. Sometimes it seems like Fatty is still getting the hang of a regular sleep pattern, though most nights he does okay. He may be nigh unto 11 months old in the next week or two and yet I often find myself fighting off feelings of resentment when he wakes up before 8 am, which is always. If the Nub wakes up early I've found I can squeeze another 30 min to an hour of quiet if I turn on Curious George or Tom and Jerry and placate him with a bowl of dry cereal and a sippy of apple juice. When that's over he wanders in and orders "MOM GET UP" while unceremoniously throwing a cold glass of water in my face. I'm kidding, mostly.
Of all the things we mothers sacrifice for our children, sleep might just be the one I value most; all of the blood and jeans that button comfortably are in there somewhere too lest you think I'm not keeping track, because I am.
Tell me friends, because I am genuinely curious, how many hours of sleep do you get a night and how is that working out for you? Are you a nighttime genius like myself? Or do your pride yourself in the glory of the rising sun?
Do you want to see a picture of my fat baby's kneecap? OKAY! Now that he can pull up on furniture and crawl and stuff, those fat days may be numbered. Let's all appreciate it while we can.