Sand box

The day we got to San Diego, we went to the beach.  It was too cold to swim, sure, but since the kids have never really been to the beach, we figured they might enjoy walking along the shoreline.

The next morning we went to Sea World.  That next evening we started our Disneyland shenanigans, yet I think that the best time the kids had was on the beach.  They picked up shells.  Nolan started digging a hole and soon after, they all joined in, even though the hole kept refilling with water and they were a muddy sandy mess as a result.

It was just like when they were toddlers, when the most exciting thing about the shiny new present was....the box it came in.

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Is it really stealing if I plan on returning it?

We are officially on Spring Break.  I have to work Saturday, and then I am free.

We're going to Sea World.  And Disneyland.  And California Adventure, too. 

All of them, not free.

I will be back at work in no time flat.

Here's the deal, though....

Wednesday after I picked up Ben, Ryan, and Audrey, we drove to one of my friends/coworker's houses. 

And I told Ben to get out of the car and steal her lawn gnome.  He gigglingly obliged, and even stuffed it under his shirt for effect.  As if stealing a lawn gnome in broad daylight isn't effect enough, my friend lives right by the Pleasantville police station where my husband works.

Whew, who knew one speeding ticket was the gateway to a life of crime?

Ve haf plans for ze gnome.

I'm taking it on our trip with us, and we will take pictures to record his follies.  I haven't decided yet whether I will email her pictures (from a fictitious email address) while we are there or just return him to his stump by her door with a fat wad of photos upon our return.

I'm hoping he doesn't decide on a side trip to Tijuana while we are in San Diego, and that he keeps his hands to himself while we are dining with the Princesses.

Speaking of keeping one's hands to oneself....

Mr W and I accompanied Audrey's kindergarten class to the zoo today.  It was great fun, especially when Audrey informed me that the brightly colored macaws were "rainbow birds."  I was hanging out with her and another group when I noticed Mr W had broken away from us to buy contraband (Diet Coke).   I was momentarily distracted from him by a little girl, a classmate of Audrey's, who came up and hugged me, out of the blue.  I'm not unaccustomed to that happening, I spend a lot of time at the school and a lot of the kids know me, but I was a little surprised.

A few minutes later, Mr W came up to me  with a weird look on his face.  I chalked it up to carbonation, but he said:  "You know that little girl in K's group?"  "Yeah, she hugged me as they went past."  "She just pinched my butt..."

I am sure that the entire zoo heard me crack up.

"...and it wasn't a little pinch, either, she got quite a handful."

I could only howl louder.

He was traumatized.  Goosed.  By a five year old.

(Before anyone gets all crazed, she meant nothing by it, it was really innocent.  The teacher was informed and after she spoke with Mr W, she said even though no harm was done, she'd have a word with the little girl about it, and let her know that it was inappropriate.)

I guess this means I'm going to have to stop teasing him about replacing me with a younger model.  :p

Don't you know who I AM?

Last Thursday, as I went about my business, ticking things off in my head in the usual fashion:

Kids up?  Check.  Lunches?  Check.  Ryandon'tforgetyourglasses?  Check. 1st group on time? Check.  Cut the clay for class taught later that day?  Check.  Deliver clay?  Check.  Nolan won't be late?  Check.  Speeding ticket?  Check.

What's that last one?

Yes.  Speeding ticket.

I was driving Nolan and a friend of his to school, and as I turned down one of my shortcut streets, I saw that a large truck-trailer was pulled over, off to the side.  As I could see down the road that there was another officer, on a motorcycle, facing our direction, I thought, I should slow down, what's the limit here, anyway?  I didn't see a sign but decided 40 should be a good guess--5 over if it's 35,  5 under if it's 45, not a bad bet, don't you think?

It's not a bad bet.

If it's a 45 zone.

As I drove past the officer, I got a little paranoid, so I looked in my rear view mirror.

And I saw lights.

Initially, I thought, 'Surely, they aren't after me??' but something about the steadfastness of his jaw made me pull over.

I didn't even do that right, as he asked me to pull forward a little more when he approached me the first time.

Great.  Now Nolan will be late.  "If this takes long, and you're late to school, I'll go in and let them know it's my fault."

I quickly considered my options.  The "It's a new car, I didn't notice I was speeding, it's so much smoother than my other car was" argument.  "I didn't see a posted speed limit sign.  How to work the "you're doing a great job, just like my husband does everyday" angle.  Lip gloss and cleavage --would only serve as window dressing for my mug shot. I found myself remembering every excuse Mr W has told me he's heard, and I couldn't bring myself to be that lame.    

"Do you know what the posted speed limit is in this area?" he asked.

Sigh. "No." 

"It's 25 and the laser got you at 45."   Damn! Construction zone!!  I inwardly groan as Nolan stifles a giggle.  I knew what was coming next, so I handed over my license, and pulled the insurance out of the glove box...but couldn't find the registration.  "I'll be right back,"  he said, giving me time to look for it.   I was mentally cursing Mr W because I remembered seeing the registration on the counter, but couldn't remember where it went after that, and of course, it's absence in the car at that point was his fault.

Nolan spotted it, wedged upright, in the back of the glove box.  It was in a black sleeve, and the sleeve's back was facing out--so to me, at my vantage point, it just looked like the back of the box.

My minor panic had nothing to do with my missing it.

When the officer returned, I handed him the registration.  He went through his spiel, and I had to smile at how familiar that part was; I could almost hear it in Mr W's voice.

It sounds so much better when you're not the one being handed the ticket.

To his credit, the officer was not a butt, he was quite courteous, and the whole thing took less than ten minutes.

To my credit, I wasn't coy, I didn't flirt with him, I didn't cry, or name drop...I signed where I was supposed to sign and was on my way, a little embarassed but none worse for the wear.  I wasn't thrilled (two words:  driving school), but I figured at the very least, I set a good example for Nolan and his friend.   

A ticket in the Mom-mobile.

I think it's safe to say the van has been christened.

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.