JJ enters room, wearing a green long-sleeved shirt from the morning and shorts just a few shades bluer than the green shirt, close enough that the eyes naturally squint.  He’s holding a kleenex to his chin.

Mama:  “JJ, you’re wearing shorts.”

JJ:  “Yep.”

Mama:  “Why?”

JJ:  “Cause it was quiet time.”

Abe comes trundling in the room, wearing his swimming trunks and lacking a shirt, carrying a kleenex.

Mama:  “Abe, you’re wearing your swimming trunks.”

Abe:  “Mama, owie!  I gotta scratchie!”

Mama:  “You have a little scratch?”

Abe, trying to stand on one foot while holding the other up to show it off:  “SCRATCHIE!”

JJ:  “No, Mama, it’s a BIG scratch!”

Abe, smiling:  “I BLEEDING!!!”

JJ:  “He’s bleeding a lot!”

Abe:  “Yep!”  Puts both feet firmly on the floor and trundles off.

JJ’s kleenex was never explained.

How

Are these kids

Related?

Seriously.

“Mama, we played upstairs today!  Teacher L did ‘eeny meeny miny mo …. and …. you get to go!’  So M, she was my puzzle partner, I picked her to go because my row got to go, and M and K and I went upstairs!  And we played mommy and daddy and I was the daddy and M was the mommy and K was the doggy and A was the cat.  And I was driving really fast in a truck and I went ‘wrhhhrhr CRASH!’ and banged myself and had to go in the ambulance to the doctor!  And the doctor gave me a bangaid and I felt better, and M drew me a picture and so did K, and A brought me a blanket and M brought me stickers and A turned on a movie and they took care of me and made me feel better because I was the daddy.”

I swear it’s genetic.

(Enjoying an ice cream sandwich, or guarding it lest others might think they needed a taste.  Believe me, we didn’t).

I wore full-body long johns last week!  But the week before I wore summery clothes.  And put away the boys’ winter clothes.  Which I had to resurrect so that sweats weren’t worn to church.  We’re laid back, but oh, my sweet Southern deceased grandmothers might just have to beat Christ at his own game and have a little resurrection time of their own:  “You sent my grandbaby to Sunday meeting wearing what?!!”

A number of my friends were voicing concern due to the change in the season:

• “School’s almost out.”
• “It’s going to get hot.”
• “What am I going to do with these kids all day?”

I remember that panic from last year, that dread of “I’m in charge of scheduling all this time?”  To which this year I shouted a “Glory, hallelujah!  I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything!  I’m in charge!  And We’re Staying Home!”  Hmm:  who doesn’t want to waddle after two active boys in public as onlookers gawk and stare at the Crazed Hormonal Woman?  It’s been a very religious experience so far, as you can tell.

JJ “graduated.”

It was during the “heat wave”:  it was warm:  it was a nighttime thing during a busy week:  I really didn’t want to go.  He’ll be going back to the same Pre-K program next year, so it felt so anticlimactic.  However, each child had a role.  That they led the class in.  Up front.  In alphabetical order (which would explain why JJ comes home from school chanting his classmates names in alphabetical order, letting me know who was and was not present.  It does warm a former librarian’s heart a bit).

JJ led the class in reciting numbers.

During “prairie quest” time, he asked for healing for Abe’s scratch on his knee (which stays present due to someone’s picking fixation).  Can’t imagine why he has a scrape on his knee.

And then the “aw” moment of the evening”:  led by his friend Jacob – “Class, it’s time for thanksgivings.  JJ, what are you thankful for?”  “You.”  Seriously.  That earned him a few “get out of parental frustration free” points, which were quickly used up at the after-party – cookies and juice and primary colored napkins (we were instructed on what to bring.  Teacher L runs a tight ship).

So now we’re in the throws of summer.  The first request:  “Can we eat breakfast at the park?”  SURE!  Which has been requested since then, but sitting on a wet picnic bench just isn’t so appealing.  That’s just how summer rolls:  no rhyme or reason, Little Man.

Now JJ lets everyone know, “I’m not going to school anymore.  I’m on Summer ‘Cation.  I’ll go back to school on September 12th”.  His birthday.  Which is not the date that he starts school, but it’s the best way to help give him a concept of time, and to get him to stop asking me, “Am I going to school today?”  Oh, and his sister is arriving on that day as well according to him:  I’m glad he’s got it all scheduled out.  Maybe she can even be his show-and-tell, that or mama’s freaky-floppy-stretchy-stomach:  that could really wow the crowd.

I know it’s been a good year when JJ’s pouting because he’s gotten too riled up and we had to get him away from his friends, and he says, “I don’t love my friends anymore.  Just you and Dad and Abel and God and Teacher L.”  Just like I said to my mama about my first grade teacher (except it was more in the context of , “Well, you may not love me anymore, but Mrs. Iverson always will.”  Oh, the sting).

So now we’re cruising through summer.  Posts will follow regarding events – wouldn’t want to flood you with too much Drenness.  Plus, I need to go finish reading about The Blue Zone lifestyle and Husband Coached Childbirth because I have the most random Books On Hold list at the library ever.

“Mama, mama, look!  It’s a pirate, just like Bob and Larry!”  Yeah, not so much.

I was feeling under the weather, and JJ told me:

“You go down and lay on couch and eat food and drink water, and I feel you lemon and take care of you, cause that’s nice!”

And because it is that time of year, JJ is getting to open a window a day from his Advent calendar (you know, the Advent calendar my mother-in-law sent last year but I forgot to give to him:  apparently the chocolate is okay, or JJ just doesn’t care).

“Mama, it’s time to open my number today on my Activity calendar!”  That would be a combination of Advent and Nativity. 

I really don’t know what to do with that boy, in so many respects.

It seems the last few times I’ve hung out with my dad, the question has popped up:  “So . . . (insert grandparently “I have all the answers, and even if I don’t, you still have to find the right one” look), what are you going to do for school for that boy?”

Dun dun dun DUNNNNNNNN.

To which I promptly melt, perfectionist that I am, and wail, “I DON”T KNOW!!  There is no good answer!!”  Because I’m melodramatic that way, too.  [Insert my no-bones flop, which I had perfected by the age of one.  That, and the tantrum fall-smack-dabb-on-the-floor-and-become-dead-weight-when-you-tell-me-no-but-only-sometimes-and-you'll-never-know-if-this-is-one-of-those-times-until-you-try-it-so-are-you-feeling-lucky?  What can I say?  I've got mooooves].

Sometimes I think about homeschooling JJ.  Yes, you did read that correctly.  Yes, I can hear the collective world wide web whipping their head about and saying, “Are you crazy?”  And after spending a morning and afternoon in which JJ did not.stop.talking., I asked my dad if he thought that was still a good idea, which originally he seemed to be inclined towards.  Now, methinks the inclination is leaning in another direction.

But see, if I did homeschool, I think there could be so many fun opportunities.  And I remember being So Bored at school:  finish a paper, and then wait.wait.wait.wait until everyone else caught up.  And, lately, I’m really enjoying the days I don’t have to leave my house (i.e. driving JJ to school, even though it’s just a 30 minute round trip, annoys me.  A lot.).

Sometimes I think about how dreamy it will be when he steps onto that school bus to be carted away to a wonderful, supportive environment with pleasant children and a nurturing teacher that helps each child reach their true potential.  And then I realize that I’m remembering a Star Trek episode that ended badly with that scenario, and the reality is that public school is, well, public, and I’m not in control, but boy howdy, you certainly learn the language of your culture quickly (I knew all the swear words by first grade, thank you, Ryan and Alex).

There’s always private Christian school.  But oh, the money.  And but oh, I remember friends who went a little “wonky” post-private Christian school, either diving off the deep end into scary places, or walling themselves up in the Evangelical Fortress of Solitude.

So the perfectionist in me melts down because there.is.no.right.answer.  And I’m not certain what to do with my funny little boy.  And I realize this whole parenting thing is some multiple choice but more fill in the blank or essay question.  [Obviously JJ's rocking the lit section, the Pirate Lit section ].

“Pardon?”

“You know, a prairie quest.  It’s for things like owies, and sickness . . . ” (numbering off on his fingers)

“You mean a prayer request?”

“No, a prairie quest.  Like at school!  It’s for things like owies, and sickness . . .” (again, with the numbering).

“Oh, have you given a prairie quest?”

“Yes, for my cough.”

“And what happened?”

“It didn’t work.  I still cough.  But I can still give it again some other time!”

“Mama, there’s a noise in my room, and it’s clapping clapping like ‘splat clap’ all the time and all over and everywhere and it’s loud clapping!” – The window was dripping water onto the frame.

Yesterday in the car:

“Mama, is O (friend from school) 5 yet?”  “Nope, her birthday isn’t until Monday.”  “Oh, well, she turn 5 and eat a cupcake.  And I turn 5 and eat a cupcake.  Is that a good idea?”  “Sure.”  “Okay, maybe tomorrow.”

This afternoon in the car:

“So, did you have a good time at Bible Study?”  “Yeah.”  “Did you play with Miss Lisa?”  “No.”  “Why not?”  “She in jail.”

Anytime JJ sees a male of African American descent:

“Wook, Mama, it’s Brock Bama!”

Anytime Abe coughs:

[Rushing over to put his hand on his chest]:  “It’s okay, Abe, it’s okay!  You awright.  You my big boy.”

Here’s why he needed to comfort the Little Man.  Thank heavens the Darth Vader infestation has left the bronchial tubes.

Now, the weather has turned in Oregon.  The coats and galoshes are out, folks are recognizing they need to replace their windshield wipers, and I’m back in my hiking socks and full-body long johns (which momentarily I thought about how late in the season it was that I hadn’t needed them, and maybe I was turning into a warm-blooded human after all these years:  I was wrong).  So what sounds good for dinner?   What sounds electoral?  Soup?  Enchiladas?  Sausage and bean casserole?

Nope:  how about Barack Obama Chili!  Now, I’ve tried the “candidate recipes” in the past, which generally consists of cookie recipes, and they haven’t really been all that spectacular.  Plus, some of them are rumored to have been “borrowed“.  But President Elect Barack Obama should know what he’s talking about, right?

Right.  It wasn’t like My Mama’s Chili (oh, My Mama’s Chili, which neither my brother nor I can replicate:  it’s a delicate balance between Oh So Good and Pot of Spicy Bleck), but the noises heard at the dinner table were pretty yummy in nature.  The cheese and green onions really did it for me, and I added salt.  But overall, it was a very enjoyable, and affirming experience, ensuring that the creation and consumption of Good Chili should be had for the next four years at the White House and potentially other important places in the Free World.

Last night, as JJ was bouncing around his room, *not* getting ready for bed, and I was picking up his room, the outcome of his *not* taking a nap, I apparently got cranky.  I remember a friend once voicing about the Mama Monster that comes out after a certain time of night, that everything is fine and fun and games, but then say 8:00pm rolls around, the limit is hit, and then it’s “WHY ARE THESE KIDS STILL UP WHY IS THE HOUSE SUCH A MESS EVERYONE NEEDS TO CLEAN UP AND GO TO BED RIGHT NOW AND BY RIGHT NOW I MEAN FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO!’  Well, she didn’t say it like that, but that’s what this Mama Monster says.

So, apparently my Monster had come out to lead in the nightly bedtime ritual, and my Monster must be cold-blooded like me (despite the warmth of the chili), because JJ bounded into bed, pulling up his covers, muttering, “Mama’s lost her temper-a-ture.”

Yes, son, yes:  in so many more ways than one.  Maybe that’s why you’re so interested in thermometers. 

“Today we play on the playground.”

“Oh, how nice!”

“Yeah, we play Mama’n'Daddy’n'Brudder’n'Sister”

“Ah.  And what do you do?”

“We run around.  And Daddy fell down, and he died.”

“. . . Really?”

“Yep, dead.”

“Oh. . . .   Were you Daddy?”

“Nope, that’s C.  We just laugh.”

“As do I.  When your father falls down.  And dies.”

“Yeah.  I have applesauce bread now?”

Hooded Squash Wrangler and a Plastic Bag:  I sense squash abductions are afoot.  Run, pumpkins!  Er, *roll*, pumpkins, while there’s still time!

When touring a pumpkin patch, a place to celebrate God’s bounty, what does one come across?  Hay, mud, tractors, the remains of the farm’s two largest pumpkins after having been dropped on a car in order to smash them all to smithereens, pumpkins, corn mazes:  you know, God’s bounty.

Professional Squash Wrangler at Work.  Can you hear the cries?  “No, not me, take that other pumpkin!  He’s much rounder!  I have so much more life to live:  why?  Why take such a young one?  WHYYYYY??????!!!??????”  Which is why Professional Squash Wranglers wear hoodies:  to muffle the cries of the innocent.

Where does one go after a heartless bout of Squash Wrangling?  A fake teepee, of course.

Hmm:  look at the log cabin and learn a bit of history?  OR wander off to the fence by the Giant Ravine and throw sticks into it.  You make the call.

Aw, look:  they’re enjoying God’s Bounty.

OR they’re on a recon mission to figure out how to Karate Chop! God’s Bounty.

They’re on to us!  Abort mission!  I repeat, Mountaineer, abort!

RUN AWAY!!!   RUN AWAY!!!!

After surviving the glory of God’s Bounty, it’s best to eat of it:  Spiderman-shaped artifically-flavored high fructose corn syrup gummi snacks:  God is the *BEST*!!

Heavens above!  The flowers and pumpkins have faces!!  What kind of freaky farm are we on?!!  I know we’re close to the Willamette with its five legged frogs, but seriously!  And, uh, Mr. Turkey, did you note that shiny object close to your noggin?  We are not afraid to talk about the realities of being God’s Bounty on this trip:  no, sirree!

Kinda like that goo I talked about before:  touch a Professional Squash Wrangler, and he collapses.

Only the Professional Wrangler of the Professional Squash Wranglers could, well, wrangle all the wranglers into a group non-wrangling shot.  And with a smile on her face.  Because she enjoys God’s Bounty.  And because she gets to send all the other enjoyers of God’s Bounty to their respective bountiful abodes and not have to deal with an afternoon of non-napping wranglers.  Or something like that.