Join the club

Earlier this evening, Nolan was using my computer and surfing around the 'net.

His siblings took turns clamoring around him, in the "whatcha doin'?" fashion.  Jostling.  Asking questions. 

I had my back to him, so I thought everything was fine and he was sharing things with them or something along those lines.  Then I heard this:

"Guys.  GUYS!  Can't you leave me alone so I can do this?  Why do you all need to come up here just because I am on the computer?  I can't believe you can't leave me alone for FIVE minutes so I can look this up!!!"  and so on.

I couldn't resist.  I turned around and started to say, "That happens to me all the time!  You know how I feel now, so you'll leave me alone!"  but instead, I said this:

"Welcome to motherhood, son."

He was not nearly as amused as I was.

Wheelies

As Remo mentioned in his comment, we have a new van.

My other van, a silver Dodge Caravan, was seven years old, and had just under 135,000 miles on it.   Aside from the wear and tear associated with hauling all of us around, it's had some serious (read: expensive) mechanical difficulties over the last year or so.  That, coupled with a drivers' side window that was broken, rear windshield wipers that didn't work, a temperamental heater that heated once you got to your destination, and a speedometer that was possessed by the devil...we decided it was time.

(The van was sighing, for pete's sake, every time I turned the engine off.  As I started it up one icy morning recently, I swear heard it mutter "Bitch, are you kidding me ??")

We started hunting around last weekend, narrowing down the field, then we snuck onto some lots with all the kids and put our eggs in the carton, so to speak.  We toyed with SUV's, to get me out of the van rut, but I didn't want one.  There really isn't much room in those things, and the boys, well, they are only growing about a foot a week these days, so I had that to consider. 

We tried another Caravan, but Nolan had to fold himself up into an origami swan to get into the back, so that was out.  We were going to try the Honda Odyssey, but I had yet another one of my "This is the right one" moments that drive Mr W crazy (they occur often on the first item I see) when I saw the Nissan Quest.

I knew it was the best choice once I saw the kids in it, and the stars were in alignment, I guess, because we bought it yesterday.   I say "bought it" but what I should say is "signed my life away for the next few years, in triplicate."

It's Lakeshore Slate, which is the fancy way of saying "blue-gray" with a gray interior.  There's not much in the way of bells and whistles on it, I wanted it that way, except...except...there IS a DVD player in it, and it came with wireless headphones, and I am so very happy to have that in the arsenal for those days when they can't get along and my sanity is on the line, I just can't tell you.

Audrey has turned into mini-Vanna White, she shows anyone who will listen all the features, gliding her little hand over whatever it is she is pointing out.  The boys love it, too.

So, in response to the comment Remo left me, let me repeat:  There will be no van christening.  Even though we have the capability of watching porn and making out in the backseat, it's not gonna happen. 

I did all my backseat gymnastics in high school, and now I'm working on getting a medal inside my own four walls.

If only I could get past that Romanian judge, I'd be a shoe-in for the gold.

He's got it going on

Earlier this week, Mr W and I were running errands.  He stopped at the neighborhood QT because I wanted to get something to drink (love the ice there) and as we pulled up, I noticed two large piles of wood right outside the door.

I always get a chuckle that anyone in our city would use firewood, but to each his own.  (Fireplaces in the Valley of the Sun just seem a bit much.)

As we were getting out of our seatbelts, Mr W gestured towards the piles, asking "Should we get some wood?"

At which point I leaned over a little, raised an eyebrow, leered a bit  at his package, and said, using my best low voice, "I got all the wood I need, baby."

It was good for a laugh.

Besides, once in a while it doesn't hurt to remind him he's still got it.

Instantly a kid again

My best friend had to go back to our hometown this weekend to attend a funeral.  She's staying at home, with her parents. 

I wanted to check on her and her family, once I knew the funeral was over.  I'd called her a couple of times, on her cell, but she always sets it on vibrate.  Which would be fine if it was in her pocket, but not so good when it's in her purse. 

It was natural for me to dial her parent's phone number.  I did it from memory, and as I punched it in, I smiled to myself.  I found it reassuring that some things in life are constant...as their number hasn't changed since the day Jenny first gave it to me 31 years ago.  It was even better when her Dad answered, and after he finally heard me talking (he must've said "Hello?" about five times--before I got up the gumption to speak loudly and we got on the same page).

Here I am, 39 years old, and I still couldn't call him by his first name.  He was my high school biology teacher to boot, so old habits die hard, I guess.  "Hi, Mr. H,"  I said, smiling.  "You want to talk to Jennifer?"  he asked.  "Yes, please."

As he bellowed, "Jennifer!  Phone's for you!"  the surreal aspect of the whole thing hit me kind of hard.  I mean, it was like I was 11 years old again, calling her to talk about our latest crush.  (It reminded me of that scene, in "Peggy Sue Got Married" when Kathleen Turner picks up the phone in her house and her grandma is on the other side.)  I thought Jen picked up the other phone, and I felt my eyes well up as I realized it was her Mom.  It was so good to hear her parents' voices, and I shouldn't have been surprised that I was feeling a little emotional because of it. 

Jen said everyone was fine, that the funeral was well attended, and she saw a lot of relatives she had not seen in a long time.

And then we started talking about our latest crushes.

All dry and 35

It was raining lightly on Friday when I went to pick up the kids from school.  I managed to swing by the house with time enough to spare to run in and get everyone's umbrellas.

The rain wasn't all that bad, but I know as soon as I am at the farthest point from the van, sans umbrellas, the heavens will open and we'd become a family of drowned rats.  Besides, the kids love their umbrellas.

Audrey was thrilled when she saw that I had hers, and promptly opened it, brandishing it with gusto, endangering the eyesight of everyone around her.

We went for Ryan next, and his class was just letting out.  I walked in and he came up to me, ready to go.   "Where's my umbrella?"  he asked.   I held up the handle.  "Right here,"  I said.

"Moo-om,"  he said, as he looked at it as though it was a bucket of snakes, "that's not mine."  "Yes, it is,"  I said, holding it out to him.  He wouldn't take it.  I held the dinosaur handle up and showed him:  "See?"  He sighed a little, exasperated.  "Mom.  I thought you were getting me a new one."   "There's nothing wrong with this one, it's just a little small,"  I insisted, again thrusting it towards him.  "That's not mine.  I can't carry that..."  he said, a wrinkle across his nose, disgust on his face as he announced disdainfully, almost haughtily, "...it's childish."

What are you, 35?  Childish??  I stifled a giggle.  "I will look for one like Ben's over the weekend,"  I promised.

(Ben's is plain black, and quite grown up.  Audrey has a pink Littlest Pet Shop one.  Mine?  It's an enormous rainbow paneled mombrella, and if I opened it strategically, I could use it as a weapon.)

Sigh.  I remember when I bought two dinosaur umbrellas and a Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle one too, and it seems like yesterday.  Now when the older boys hold them, I resist the urge to hand them a drink to stick them in, they look that small in their hands.

I handed it to him anyway.  "Just use if for now,"  I pleaded.  "Fine," he agreed, "But only for today."

As he walked out of the room, I looked at his teacher, who had caught most of the exchange and stifled a giggle of her own at "childish."

"Have a nice weekend," I said.

I couldn't help myself, I added: 

"He'll be reporting to school on Monday in a smoking jacket and ascot."

There are times when I wonder if he's ever going to stop acting like "the baby".

And then there are times when he's the oldest nine year old I know.