I so awesome mom!

Last week we finished up our two week sentence of swim lessons. It felt like two years. My boys absolutely love to swim, I am shocked that they don't have gills. The problem is that Connor is an excellent five year old swimmer, Hudson is a two year old non-swimmer who doesn't realize it. In his mind he is the most fantastic swimmer of all time and who cares if he doesn't have any actual swimming skills. This is stressful for me. I tried to give the swim teacher a heads up before we started. She has been Connor's teacher for three years, but I wanted to make sure she was clear that I was not bringing Connor Jr. to lessons this summer. I tried to be very open and honest about Hudson's attention span, energy level and complete and total absence of fear. She thought I was exagerrating.

The first day went okay. The policy in these lessons is the you have an assigned spot in the shallow end and when it is not your turn with the teacher, you must stay hanging on to the wall in your assigned spot. Problem number one. The four other students were all tall enough to touch in the shallow end and therefore had no trouble staying in their spot. Enter Hudson, the world's tiniest 35 month old. He, with the tiny t-rex arms, was not able to muscle up enough strength to hang on to the side for two consecutive minutes. The teacher's solution was to have him sit on the side until it was his turn again. This led to all kinds of confusion. Although the wait for his turn was literally two minutes, as soon as his rear plopped onto the side, he thought he was finished for the day and started calling for his towel wench to bring him his batman towel. "Mommy, I done. I need towel please." "No, you aren't done yet, it is almost your turn again." "Mommy, I need towel. Dry off. I DONE!" and on and on. All in all not a bad first day. We spent that first evening going over the procedures so tomorrow he might understand it better.

The next few days were a blur, he caught on to the waiting your turn process but then became obsessed with catching up with the big kids. She would set him on the side and he would immediately decide he could wait in the pool, hanging onto the side like everyone else......and he could do it by himself. Thus began the revolving door of sliding into the pool and climbing out of the pool during swim lessons. He would cling to the side for as long as he had the strength and then oh so painfully drag himself back out to sit. He almost lost a nipple on several occasions from all the concrete on skin friction.

So on to the actual swimming. He is a natural. He had a great kick, and could move his arms like a tiny Michael Phelps. What he could not do, however, is shut his dang mouth. He would jump into the teacher's arms, start kicking like crazy and then talk her head off. It was like his own personal floating party line. She would say, "Put your face in Hudson" and he would go under, mouth wide open, then break the surface spitting out a stream of water that would put the fountains at Caesars Palace to shame. He rarely swallowed the water, he just held it until he could spout it out like a whale. It was frustrating to say the least. The next problem was the constant chatter. She would be pulling him around the pool, practicing his kicks and instead of putting his face in, he would be peppering her with questions. "What's that?" That's my swim suit. "Oh. What's that?" That is still my swimsuit. "You see bird?" Yes I saw that bird. Can you put your face in? "Ok, I do it." Then my personal favorite part of lessons. When his turn was over he would climb out of the pool, raise his fists in the air and yell,"I did it Mom! I so awesome! I svim awesome!" By the way, Hudson pronounces all variations of the word swim like he is fresh from the mother land. Oh and to add one more element to Hudson's turn, Connor always felt like it was his brotherly duty to scream out encouragement from the wall. Hudson ate it up with a spoon. So now we had Connor on the sidelines, "Hudson! You're doing it! You are so awesome! You're swimming! Yes!" Then Hudson screaming back, "I do it! I svim so awesome!" At one point, the kid stationed next to Connor put his hands over his ears to drown out the annoying brother love. They looked like lunatics.

Last but not least in the daily swim lesson was free time. Free time lasts exactly 180 seconds. This was torture for Hudson on the first day because all the other kids could jump, dive and play with a myriad of pool toys while he could not do anything without his personal toddler carrier. Hanging out with the teacher wasn't nearly as much fun as going for dive sticks unassisted. So he came up with plan B after a few days of observing all the fun he couldn't have. As soon as the teacher started reaching for her watch, the signal that free time was approaching, he hoisted himself out of the pool (with no regard to personal nipple safety) and raced over to the toys and snatched up all the dive sticks. Now he was in the position of power. He towered over all the other kids on the side of the pool and taunted them by waving the sticks around while they begged for him to throw them in. Every once in a while he would toss one in and they would dogpile it while he laughed like a mad man. I think he has a bad case of the little man syndrome, with the way he swaggered around that pool in his size 18 month bathing suit, holding 9 sticks behind his back. Did he eventually toss them all in, yes. But only when he was good and ready and that was usually about the time that she had herded all the kids out of the pool because time was up. Yeah, I know.

So, bottom line. Can Hudson swim? No. Does he still think he can swim. Absolutely.

The Rad News Bears

Connor loved seeing Daddy waiting at home plate!

We just wrapped up one awesome season of t-ball. It was our first and it was a doozy. It wasn't what I would call a winning season, at least not in the traditional sense. As in we won exactly zero games. We did however tie two games and that was as sweet a victory as an actual win. Surprisingly, this was hard for me, I myself was never into sports so this mom of two boys gig has me experiencing a lot of firsts.

Matt was the head coach and he was so excited to lead this team of boys and teach them the fundamentals of baseball. It was kind of an uphill climb. First of all, we were a team of five and six year olds. This is an age group that is not known for long attention spans. We were also a team that was almost entirely made up of boys that had never played before. Matt expected this. What we did not expect, was that we would be going up against the Texas Rangers of little league all season long. Seriously, these kids were t-ball machines and we were administered beating after beating. Did we improve every single week, oh my gosh yes. By leaps and bounds. But when you are up against ginormous kids making major league plays, our progress wasn't as showcased as I would have liked. We were the new kids on a very grown up block and we definitely had to pay our dues. Here is the thing, Matt has baseball running through his veins. He was used to being a great player on winning teams throughout his baseball career. I thought this would be hard on him. He is a really competitive guy and I just knew that having a brand new team full of brand new players would eventually start to frustrate him. Nope, he was so darn Zen about the whole thing, it started to drive me crazy! In actuality, it was way harder on me! I wanted to win. Not only did I want to win, I wanted to beat someone bad, not just by one or two runs, but by at least twenty (my competitive self is also very immature). The more competitive I felt, the more calm and rational Matt became. Ughh. He ever so sweetly asked me to please stop coaching from the sidelines (yes, I became that woman). Not only could I not keep my mouth shut, but I had no actual baseball knowledge to back it up! (If you have read this blog in the past, you probably already know that Matt often ranks my number one skill as smack talking with nothing to back it up.) I took personal offense to all kind of calls, all of which were completely and totally justified. After every game, Matt would have to explain all kinds of things to me and after all the explanations, I was never in the right. I hate that. I mean, who knew that baseball had so many complex rules. Not me.

As the season progressed, the boys really seemed to be having a great time and I know for a fact that Connor never knew the score of any of the games. Oh, but I did and it secretly burned me up. Matt also banned me from talking to the player I gave birth to, when he caught me in the dugout before a game advising said player, "to go out there and bust some heads." Thus began my dugout suspension. During our "discussion" of that incident Coach Matt accused me of undoing all his "good work." Fair enough. I then started to relay my advice to Connor telepathically using my eyes.

This might be a good time to mention the fact that I was also team mom. Stop laughing. Let me tell you, I took to that job like a duck to water. I bought myself a sparkly baseball mom hat and stole a clipboard from school and was ready to go. My team mom duties primarily focused on sending out email updates to the team and getting people to sign up for stuff. I had everyone sign up to bring game snacks and then about two games into the season, I lost that list. Naturally. I then had to wing it and try to pull snack assignments from my elephant like memory. By the way though, as I was cleaning out my filing cabinets at the end of the school year I did find that stupid list filed under the letter R in my cabinet. Considering our team name was the Texans, I like to think that was my subconscious filing it under R for Ridiculous. As in, it's ridiculous that people put me in charge of things.

Here is the truth, we had a good little team. Those boys made unbelievable progress in three months and they had enough heart to outplay any team we came across. I absolutely loved watching these games, even if the mental score I was keeping was not exactly how I would have liked it to play out. I loved watching my husband coach those boys, especially our own son. He was infinitely more patient and fair than I ever would have been as he is clearly the more mature person in our relationship. He works tons of hours at his "real job" and then spent as many more as necessary to plan for, practice and coach our team. He did awesome. He really worked hard teaching the boys the right way to play the game and focused on teaching them the fundamentals in a way that I know will made them better players. Every day Connor waits, glove in hand to go outside with his dad as soon as he gets home from work and every day his dad takes him. I love that Matt is teaching our son about hard work and dedication and sharing a love for the game that he has loved his whole life. I'm not sure what I am teaching him through my team mom example, but I am sure it is something equally profound and important.

In case you think we are down and out, don't worry. The Texans will be back for fall ball and we will no longer be the new kids on the block. That's right, we will be rolling with some experience and frankly I am hoping to enlist a bunch of kindergartners that have been pumping iron in the off season. I have learned from our first season though and I will be on the lookout for that brand new team next time around. I am going to seek out that woman in the sparkly baseball hat holding the clipboard and I am going to hug her and let her know that they too can survive the first season of little league. Then I am going to walk away and hope with all my might that our team beats the pants off their team in order to satisfy my blood lust for winning. That seems normal, right?

The Closet of Doom, or how my family handles an emergency

This week we had some severe weather. Actually we have had a month of severe weather, but Tuesday night was a doozie. Just as the family was settling in for the night, we saw on the news reports of tornadoes everywhere. The lightning storm was unbelievable. Matt and I kept vigil in front of the tv, he for the weather and me hoping that the season finale of Glee would miraculously appear (it didn't) though at one point Matt did refer to me as "really hardcore" because he thought I was DVR-ing the weather. Suddenly we heard our city's tornado sirens. Crap. That meant it was time to hop into the rarely used (at least for this purpose) tornado closet. This is a closet located under our stair case, and it seems very safe. There is a slight problem with this emergency shelter. It also moonlights as my craft, random storage and hide things from Matt closet. I was not prepared for it to be exposed. Matt ran around looking for some candles while I burrowed out a space for the four of us to take cover.

Matt couldn't find a candle anywhere. This didn't surprise me since I have completely phased out candles in favor of the fantastic wickless Scentsy warmers. I am obsessed. Matt was so kind to point out that wax warmers that also produce a gentle soothing glow and depend on electricity for said glow aren't going to do jack crap when the electricity goes out (I felt like that was a little harsh on the scentsy) but he was lucky enough to find a weird triple wick candle we got as a wedding present that has not been lit once in almost 7 years of marriage. Matt acted like he had hit the lotto and headed to the closet, fully prepared to lose electricity. I, for one, was against lighting this candle and voiced this opinion against a backdrop of tornado sirens. I felt like it would somehow jinx our marital happiness to break the tradition of not-lighting this candle. Obviously it has been working for us so far, why mess with a good thing. But I was outvoted and in it went with us. Once we all got in there, we ran into a little more trouble. While Matt and I had our little wedding candle discussion in the living room, Hudson felt the need to completely disrobe in the emergency shelter. Connor was calmly assembling a puzzle that he found in my stash of junk while his brother was trying to use the winter coats to scale the walls completely nude. Yuck. Once we had wedged ourselves in amongst the craft paraphernalia, Matt set the candle and lighters on the floor so they would be at the ready, the moment the power went out. Hudson caught sight of the candle and lighter and gasping with delight, squealed, "It my birthday!" Then he proceeded to sing himself the birthday song, oh so sweetly. Come on, how sad. Like would ever force our youngest to celebrate his birthday trapped in a tiny closet with all the members of his immediate family, while in his literal birthday suit. We aren't that trashy.

Before Hud had even reached the end of his first verse of Happy Birthday, the closet light went out. Matt, the boy scout, declared a really mature, "I told you so" and reached down to light the sacred candle. Since I was at the bottom of the pile of bodies, and therefore closest to the floor (and by close, I literally mean my face was on the floor) I noticed through the crack under the door that the lights in the living room were still on. So how did we just lose power in the closet? Oh friends, I'll tell you how. It was Matt's stupid, but energy efficient light sensors! He is driving me nuts with those things. He has the darn timers set so low that you can't so much as take a slightly prolonged blink and you are plunged into darkness, forced to wave your arms over your head like an idiot to get the lights back on. How much money could we possibly be saving and is it worth my sanity? I think not. So black out crisis averted and candle still unlit. Whew. With our single bulb back to burning overhead, Matt felt like it would be an appropriate time to dissect the contents of my secret closet/emergency shelter. I felt that this was highly inappropriate, especially in front of the children. No woman wants to be called out on her stockpile of ribbon, yarn and beads (what in the world was I going to bead). But since we had nothing but hot, closely packed time on our hands, we got to have the pleasure of talking about my craft problem. And my scentsy problem. Matt was in the midst of a lecture on how unhelpful a truckload of poster paint and 10,000 A7 envelopes would be in a real emergency, when the sirens stopped.

Sweet relief we were free! We fell out of the closet like a bunch of drunks out of the back of a wino wagon and all went our separate ways for a little breathing room. Connor raced to find paper to draw what he thought a tornado would look like, Matt went to call his parents to check on them (he is like a saint) and Hudson split for the most important thing in his life....the fridge. By the time I caught up to him, he had bitten his way through the foil lids on three containers of yogurt and was downing them like shots. He acted like we had been in the closet for 10 months, not 10 minutes (did I mention that it had only been ten minutes). He is like two power bars and a five hour energy drink away from being dropped into the middle of a wilderness survival reality show. Before he finished his last yogurt, the giant hail came and brought with it more sirens. So back into the closet of doom we went. Now it felt even more crowded because no one wanted to sit next to Hudson because he was covered in yogurt and still naked. So the three of us huddled together in the corner while he had the run of the place. Not that it bothered him. He took a lick off his arm and started pulling down scarves to try on. Matt decided that he, being the man of the house, should probably wait for the dangerous weather in the living room where he could see it coming and then warn us. Oh, I don't think so buddy, I wasn't born yesterday. If anyone was going to leave that closet it was going to be me! I'll be darned if I am left to raise those two hooligans alone! Luckily in the midst of that "discussion" the sirens stopped and the weatherman seemed to sound the all clear for our area. Exhausted, sticky and extremely disgruntled we trudged off to hose off the children and put them in bed. I told Matt to wake me if there was any more impending danger, but to please remember that I have upgraded my own personal warning system from tornado siren to I better have a confirmed visual of a tornado on the ground (preferably on my actual street) before I jam myself back in that closet with any of the human beings I currently live with. He agreed but let me know that he had decided to leave that candle in the closet just in case so it would be ready at a moments notice. I kissed him goodnight and let him know that if we ever have a tornado closet experience like that one again, he could have custody of the stupid candle.....and the kids ;)

Baby Hudson Finds Freedom

This morning our family got ready for church and was moments away from heading out the door, when a crisis struck. That crisis came in the from of my oldest child deciding to help me contain his brother by locking him in our downstairs bathroom. Connor didn't really think his plan through and underestimated his little brother's finger dexterity. Hudson was trapped.

For some inexplicable reason our downstairs half bath has a keyed lock. Apparently we are really worried about privacy violations in our powder room. In six years of home ownership it has never occurred to us that we might need the key to this super sturdy lock, so after about 7 seconds of confinement, the Mush got hysterical and we started tearing the house apart trying random keys. We own a ridiculous amount of keys. None of these keys unlocked this bathroom. To add to the drama, I think it needs to be noted that my energy efficient electrician husband also installed power saving motion sensor light switches in our house, so someone (me) would stop leaving lights on and "throwing our money out the window." This means that whenever you leave a room or sit really really still the lights go out. The lights also go out if you are unnaturally short, like a certain Mushy, and are not tall enough to activate the motion sensor. Cue the hysteria. So, with the background of a screaming two year old, we decided to abandon the key plan and switch to the breaking and entering plan. It looks so easy on TV. Surely two semi-smart adults with fully developed brains can break into a bathroom. Nope. Matt is a pretty handy guy, but after a solid hour of trying a myriad of ideas from coat hangers to power drills, we were still talking to a nutso Hudson through a bathroom door. So close, yet so far. He was pretty much inconsolable. I tried to amuse him by sliding an Elmo book under the door. It was immediately and angrily slid back. Matt was kind enough to point out that even in the best of circumstances Hud is rarely amused by books, so seeing his point, I switched to cookies. While Matt worked on the lock, I kept the cookies flowing under the door and he was somewhat soothed. The only breaks in his cries came whenever it was time to stuff another cookie down his gullet or whenever it struck his fancy to flush the toilet for the millionth time.

Finally, after almost an hour and a half, Matt just decided to break the stupid thing down. Who knew what kind of trauma was being inflicted on our two year old, locked in a small dark room with only cookies and toilet paper to keep him company. We then started the enormous task of trying to talk him into backing away from the door. With our outstanding luck, Matt would bust the door down and knock our kid unconscious in the process. This is not a big bathroom, so I very clearly instructed Hudson to stand back against the wall and away from the door. I got a very sad and tiny, "Okay Mommy." But just as Matt reared back to start busting, two tiny hands would poke out from under the door. So we tried again. This time we were more specific, "Hudson go stand behind the potty and stay there so Daddy can get you out. Do. You. Understand?" " Yes, Mommy. I get out now." Okay, ready to start the demo. No, wait, there are his hands again and now one foot. Good grief, this kid cannot follow directions! Matt decided to give the door a warning hit, hoping that the sound would scare him into the corner. No, the warning hit just prompted him to wiggle the locked door handle and remind us, "I get out now Daddy?" Like, maybe after all this fun, we had forgotten that the goal was to get him out. Eventually, with my constant supervision and opinion, Matt managed, through a series of tiny yet powerful hits, to create a large enough hole and stick his hand through to unlock the door.

Oh sweet freedom! When we opened the door and the lights came on (thanks to those handy dandy sensors) we weren't sure what to expect. It was like pulling baby Jessica out of the well. He might as well have spent 90 days instead of minutes in that stupid bathroom. In all his anxiety, he felt it necessary to completely disrobe. At least attempt to disrobe. (Who am I kidding here, there isn't an emotion in the spectrum where Hudson doesn't feel it appropriate to disrobe) He got everything off except his shirt which got stuck on his giant head. So when the light of day was shed on our poor captive son, he was nude except for what looked like a veil holding his hair back His face was tear stained and there was chocolate and toilet paper everywhere. What did he say? "Thank you Daddy. I stuck." Oh crap. We felt like the worst parents ever. Who knows what kind of psychological damage he'll be working out in therapy down the road.

But I can't worry about that now. We have the slightly more pressing issue of a missing bathroom door in a house that is currently (yes still) for sale. With the way our luck is running we will have a ton of people show up to see it and think that we are some kind of weird pervy family that won't allow guests to use the bathroom in privacy. Yep, we are so like that.

Power Play! And other terms I don't understand.....

Last night, Matt and I got to have a date night. Yipee! His company gave him tickets to the Stars game, his mom offered to keep the boys and he said we could splurge and go out to dinner at my favorite restaurant, Pappadeaux. It was like a trifecta of awesomeness. What? You didn't know we are hockey fans? Oh, that's because we're not. But the awesomeness came in the form of the beautiful words, "free tickets." So off we went!

I don't get hockey. I know I have said that about other (or all) professional sports, but I really just don't get it. Matt and I have been to one other hockey game in our relationship and it was in the year 2000. I was clearly still a girlfriend that was trying to impress him by showing how "into" sports I was. Ha! That didn't last long. Last night, I came to the realization that all of my hockey knowledge was acquired from about 72 viewings of the movie, "The Mighty Ducks" starring the illustrious Emilio Estevez. What can I say, friends, 1992 was a good year for me. So armed with all the Walt Disney knowledge, I was totally prepared for the game. As usual, when we got to game, I quickly realized that we were seated next to "super fans." That is always our luck. Matt had the audacity to suggest that it might not so much be an issue of "super fans" as much as it is an issue of simply regular fans and me. Since I never appreciate a scenario where I am the odd person out, I immediately dismissed this idea. Here is what really chaps me about the super fan problem, it's that Matt is like a sports chameleon. I know for a fact that he doesn't know jack about hockey, yet he has this ability to morph into a fan no matter what the team or sport. Under pressure, he can spout off random facts, players' names and regulation grade trivia. This is supremely annoying. Speaking of annoying, coming in second to the single superfans are the totally adorable super fan couples who have their own really cute little dances and hand shakes when the team does well. Yuck. So to counter act this super saccharine display of team spirit I suggested that Matt and I devise a ridiculously elaborate routine whenever Team Hill does something awesome at a game. For example, two hip bumps and a low five whenever Matt brings me a gourmet pretzel from concessions. Or a two handed high five, fake chest bump followed by exploding "knucks" whenever Melissa goes an entire period without mistakenly cheering for the wrong team! Yes! Talk about team spirit!

So there we were, getting all pumped up for this game when my seatmate arrived to my left. It was really a rather large family all pimped out in their Stars gear and I was fortunate enough to get little sister #4 seated directly next to me. Actually to be more accurate, I was seated next to her hair. Once she got all settled in, she went through an elaborate routine of positioning her luxurious mane of hair. Where did her hair feel the most comfortable? Draped down the right side of my body of course. Hmmm. I don't much care for that. But after a little repositioning, I discovered that there was no escaping the hair sleeve I was being forced to wear. It was like a waist length waterfall that cradled my arm and side oh so lovingly. I felt like vomiting. Despite what I do for a living, it might come as a surprise that I am extremely uncomfortable with random child hair being draped across me. Since Matt had become instant best friends with Stan the super fan on his left, my only option was to lean as far across the armrest as I could and get as much of my upper body in Matt's seat as possible. It was a pose that smacked of desperation and it definitely looked like we don't get out much.

Whatever, I decided to amuse myself by people watching. There are some interesting people at hockey games and lots of yellers. The yellers are my favorite. There was one man who had worked himself into such a frenzy that he was practically frothing at the mouth. I found this super entertaining until I noticed what he was wearing. I then became consumed with worry that this man was about to scream himself into a heart attack while wearing acid washed jeans and a cream colored linen blazer. It could very well have been called ecru though, Matt said he thought maybe swiss coffee, but in retrospect, I think he was just being sarcastic. I told myself that if that man dropped dead, I would be forced to leap over the seats and rip that jacket off his lifeless body, because no one, even a man in acid washed jeans, deserves to yell himself to death in a Miami Vice cast off. I am super compassionate like that :)

So bottom line, here is what I think of hockey. It looks really hard. After all my loops around Texas Skatium, I still to this day cannot skate backwards, so I was really impressed. In fact, I think I am going to rank hockey players above even roller skating Sonic carhops on my list of jobs that I really respect. That's kind of a big deal.

I go by Ma. Ma Hill

Connor came home from school last week practically bubbling over with excitement about a science project they had done in class. They made butter. He had memorized every thrilling detail and shared it with us with an overwhelming amount of joy. He was desperate to recreate this dairy magic at home. I checked it out online and it did look really easy so I promised him that we would make it a spring break project.

The wait for homemade butter has been almost interminable. I have heard the steps of butter making so many times that I could picture it in my sleep. When we went to the grocery store he flung open the refrigerated cases, giddily demanding the "milk with the most amounts of fat." He regaled his brother on an almost nightly basis with the most dramatic telling of the birth of butter that one could ever imagine. Obviously I had a lot to live up to. Since we were in this homespun type of mood I decided on a whim that not only would we make our own butter, we would go ahead and whip up some homemade bread and strawberry jam. Why not? I had been wanting to try Ina Garten's Easy Strawberry Jam recipe so this was the perfect time. You could probably already guess if you have ever met me, that I was in way over my head before we even started.

So. Today was the day that we were going to go all pioneer. Connor's enormously high expectations had me completely immersed in his world of delusion. I even started out the morning googling antique butter molds a la the strawberry mold Ma Ingalls had in the Little House in the Big Woods. You know, in case I want to get a booth at an artisan craft fair or something. Stop laughing.

First things first, I made my bread dough and set it out to rise. Easy. I am frankly feeling super good about myself at this point. Enter Connor dressed in what he considered to be appropriate butter making attire: jeans, flip flops, no shirt and a flannel robe loosely tied. Whatever, I couldn't let that distract me because we had some butter to create. Here is the basic plan for butter making according to my child and the internet: Put some really fatty milk in a shaker jar and shake it until butter forms. Then drain the buttermilk off, rinse the butter and then BAM! You're done. We hit our first hurdle about 1 and a half minutes into our endeavor. Combined, Connor and I have the arm strength of a 6 year old. Broken down, that means he has the strength of a five year old and I have the strength of a one year old and that is me being generous with myself. I then felt like I should have asked him more details about the butter making at school. How long did he estimate it took his class to churn out that delicious butter? About 40 hours. Wait, what? It turns out that his super smart teacher had each of the sixteen kids take turns shaking the jar. Well, isn't that convenient to have 32 arms at your disposal? Our four arms just weren't cutting it. After I thought we had put enough pioneer effort into it, we busted out the food processor and in seconds had butter. Thank goodness. Connor quickly spread it on his prearranged cracker platter and went to town. I headed back to my jam making. After all a pioneer mother doesn't get much time to rest. Since the jam recipe was titled "easy" that usually means intermediate to advanced to this home cook. It went okay. It all did what she said it would but we thought there was way too much sugar in the recipe so none of us really cared for it. So now we have about ten gallons of overly sweet strawberry jam, ten loaves of bread and a minuscule amount of butter.

I might hold off on the artisan craft fair.

Little Stuart

Since I have been absent from my blog lately due to a myriad of excuses, I was really torn about what story to share for my first post back. Should I cover our snow and ice days? Maybe the epidemic level sicknesses that we have survived this month? No, the answer was very clear to me. There could only be one story important enough to supersede all that other crazy stuff and that particular story is the arrival of Little Stuart.

Some of you might be familiar with Little Stuart's predecessor, Stuart the Dog. If you don't know Stuart the Dog, well, how nice for you. Stuart is Connor's dog personality and he has been around as long as Kenny. The distinction is that while Kenny is a separate, imaginary person, Connor IS Stuart the Dog. Slowly but surely though, over the last year, Stuart has slowly been separating himself from Connor and we talk more about him in the third person as opposed to the first. I started to have a tiny ray of hope blossoming in my soul, that finally, we might be getting rid of one of our weirdo characters. Alas, this was not meant to be. As usual, once I decided to allow myself that tiny shred of hope that we might soon stop talking to ourselves and hugging air, I found out that Connor has been laying the groundwork for his little brother to take over the throne of family dog. Enter Little Stuart.

Since I have had a kid walking around this house barking and wagging his imaginary tail for years now, it really shouldn't have come as such a shock when our two year old started panting and licking the windows. But it did. I thought that maybe, just maybe, at least 1/2 of my children that would resist the urge to be completely sucked into the world of odd. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love that Connor is so super creative and smart, but a lot of times I just don't get him and I was kind of hoping that I could at least say I 'got' one of my kids. Connor, the devious puppet master, was thrilled. He and Little Stuart immediately dropped to all fours and started barking and wrestling with each other. FYI, Kenny was also overjoyed at the new addition to the family.

The following are some highlights of Little Stuart's personality. First of all he is absolutely so adorable you can hardly stay mad at him (Hudson also possesses this particular quality). He is particularly good at fetching things and if you ever instruct him to pick something up off the floor, he is happy to comply and will carry it wherever you desire, clutched tightly in his mouth. If I had to nail down a breed for Stuart the Dog, I would always have said some kind of sheep dog, a la the shaggy dog. I don't know why, but that is just how I picture him. Little Stuart is without a doubt a small breed, like a Chihuahua. I base this purely on energy level and the timbre of his bark. He can hear a siren ten miles away and will race to the nearest window, throw back the blinds, and let a yip, yip, howl combo that would put any purebred to shame. His favorite activity is to be walked on a leash, much like the original Stuart. It really gets his tail a waggin' to be hooked to that stupid leash. Never in all my life did I ever think I would be the kind of mother walking her kid/imaginary dog on a leash around the backyard. Yet, here I am.

Little Stuart also likes to wear his dog hat from Halloween two years ago. It is way too small and tends to rest on top of his head like a beanie, which contributes to the very distinct, possibly mentally unstable look.

I have included several pictures of both Stuart the Dog and Little Stuart taken several years apart so you can see how disturbingly similar these two animals are at their respective ages of two and half. That's two and a half in human years, by the way, not dog years.