Fairy Farce

Hudson had a really bad day yesterday.  One of his worst.  He had to have a baby tooth pulled and it was highly traumatic for both of us.  But to be fair, mostly him.  In a sad attempt to lessen the trauma, I really played up his first visit from the tooth fairy.  It was going to be awesome, magical and full of whimsy!  To be honest, considering how imaginative my boys are, they rarely buy into Mom-inspired whimsy.  They prefer to come up with their own ridiculousness and normally that is totally fine with me.  But on this day, I really felt like Hudson needed a little tooth fairy in his life.  You see, Connor tolerates the tooth fairy about as much as he tolerates santa claus. He hasn't openly admitted it, but I can tell from the thinly veiled look of disdain in his eyes, that he has known pretty much from birth that none of that crap is real and he plays along strictly to humor me.  But Hudson is my baby and he is about to turn five entire years old.  I really needed this.

All afternoon we talked about this wonderful visit and how magical it would all be.  He peppered me with questions that I obviously did not have adequate answers to because they just kept coming.  How does she get into the house?  Is she big size or tiny size?  What color is her wand?  Does she wear a long beautiful dress or a short beautiful dress?  In the spirit of whimsy, I made up a bunch of stuff and tried to pressure him into going to sleep.  But he just wasn't having it.  He wasn't buying my magical tale of fairy intrigue and point blank told me he didn't think the tooth fairy is real.  WHAT?!?!  After all my elaborate detail and sensory rich description?  Lying in bed with my youngest son, I was left with little choice, so naturally I just straight up lied to him.  And before I even repeat the lie, let me please make this disclaimer: as parents, we really try to use lying to our children very judiciously and only for matters that we consider dire and of immediate detriment to their safety.  For example, classics such as, "Don't forget, the McDonald's playground is closed on Mondays" or "Only kids 12 and over can get into Six Flags," might have made an appearance in our house. *As another disclaimer, Matt would like me to say that he never said nor participated in either of the previous statements.*  Anyway, back to the tooth fairy debacle, I decided in that instant to either put up or shut up, so I just said the first thing that came to mind, "Hudson Hill,  the tooth fairy is real and I can prove it!  When she comes tonight I am going to take her picture!"  It might also be important to note that at this point, Matt rolled over, turned out the light and said, "Good grief, Melissa.  I'm out."  Fine.  I didn't need him to manufacture a magical childhood memory.

After Hudson finally fell asleep, I got busy.  I took his picture, borrowed ten bucks out of Connor's money drawer (don't worry I'll pay him back and yes I know ten bucks is ridiculous but it was very late and I was officially way into go big or go home territory) and made the tooth for money switch.  Then the real work began.  I found the perfect picture of a fairy online (FYI, googling real women dressed as fairies resulted in some highly questionable, yet oddly fascinating material, apparently it is a lifestyle) and one hour of photoshop later:  

TADA!!!!!

Not bad, right?  I went to bed feeling pretty good about my mothering skills.  I couldn't wait for Hudson to wake up to a little bit of childhood innocence and it really did start out well.  He found his "one million dollars" (that kindergarten teacher is really going to love our math skills come August) and  then immediately asked to see the evidence.  Proudly I opened my computer and presented the documentation for his review.  After scrutinizing it for about fifteen long seconds, he looked at me and said, "I don't think so, her doesn't even have shoes on. Where's the video?"  Seriously.  

I guess at Christmas we will wait in line for hours just so Hudson can punch Santa in the face.  

Connor Wages War on Childhood Obesity

A while back Connor spent three weeks immersed in a healthy living unit at school.  In typical Connor fashion, he approached this unit of study with intense, laser-like focus.  He came home talking all about the  importance of healthy eating and regular exercise.  He also came home with a heart full of concerns for overweight people.  Apparently his teacher let them know how dangerous it is to be overweight and Connor couldn't get this off his mind.  He became slightly obsessed with the few students in his class that had "big tummies."  He was genuinely worried that they would get sick and/or die.  This started to become an issue because the more he talked about it at home, the more I became worried that he would accidentally say something to these kids at school and hurt their feelings.  No matter how well intentioned, I did not want him bringing up their six year old big tummies.  So I sat him down for a little chat.  I told him that while I was very supportive of his concern and compassion for his classmates, he needed to cool his jets because he wouldn't want to say anything to offend them.   Of course this immediately offended him!  "Mommy, I would never say anything about their big tummies!  I am just so worried that they aren't living healthy and could get sick!"  Connor is a really sweet, compassionate boy and I know this was truly his intent but again, I reminded him that it was their mom and dad's concern and not his.  He promised to never talk about it at school and I thought that was the end of it.  

Nope.  

He got off the bus a couple of days later beaming with pride.  He got in the car and told me he had the best idea at school and had solved the potential big tummy problem without having to say a word about it.  I was almost afraid to ask.  As it turns out, Connor's new plan included stalking those particular children on the playground at recess and enticing them to chase him around therefore getting some exercise and improving their health.  

What the what?

After letting this master plan marinate in my brain for a couple of minutes, I sought further clarification. "So, let me get this straight.  You run around these children on the playground yelling, 'Hey, so and so come chase me!  Come on chase me!'"  He nodded excitedly.  "Because you want them to get exercise and are trying to trick them into it? " More nodding.  "And how exactly is that working out for all the parties involved?"  "Well, actually I'm getting a lot of exercise, but they don't really seem to want to run after me. They think I'm being kind of weird. But I'm going to keep trying."  Hmm.  No kidding.   I put an end to that little bit of madness and told him from now on he should just concern himself with the well being of the people living in his house, because lord knows we have enough weird already working against us, we don't need to add involuntary fitness instructor to the list.  

After a few days of relative peace and quiet, the healthy living project again reared it's ugly head. Every afternoon Hudson and I wait to meet Connor's bus. As it stops, Hudson climbs aboard, hugs the driver, hugs his brother and then runs down the aisle high fiving all the other passengers.  It's kind of his thing. This particular afternoon after they both disembarked, Connor bent down and told his brother, "Guess what Hudson?  I bought you a surprise at school today!"  To which Hudson immediately responded by shutting his eyes, holding out his hands and screaming, "A 'pise?  OMG, a pise for me?  Tell me when I can open my eyes Connor!"  Grinning from ear to ear, Connor ever so gently and lovingly placed a blue pedometer into his brothers waiting hands.  Yes, a pedometer.  This might be the right time to add as a side note that Connor wears a pedometer just about every single day of his life.  Does that really surprise you?  It shouldn't. But back to the story, Hudson was delighted and had absolutely no idea what it was.  Connor told him excitedly that it was a machine that would count his steps and help him get exercise so he could lose his "big tummy so you won't get sick and die." Well that was all Hudson needed to hear.  He was in it to win it.  I should probably also add that Hudson does not, in fact, have a big tummy.  Granted he is almost five years old and still looks like a toddler, so he has retained a little bit of a baby belly, but he is in no way overweight.  In fact, we are hoping that he can make it to the 25th percentile in weight at his next check up, but I won't be holding my breath. But Connor, in his quest for healthy living for all, had officially diagnosed his brother with a weight problem.  Honestly, this really shouldn't have surprised me because I had noticed him giving his little brother's belly the stank eye ever since that stupid healthy living unit started. But you know what, if those two want to spend their evenings power walking the non existent pounds off, fine by me.  

The next day, I sent Hudson's teacher an email about something stupid (which sum up about 96% of all emails I send to my children's teachers) and at the end of her reply she added, "Oh and by the way, Hudson has taken 476 steps on his pedometer today, he wants me to check it every time we come back in the classroom. He's so cute!"   

Shut. The. Front. Door.  

Now, I knew for a fact that stupid blue pedometer was on the dresser when I did a pedometer check (what, you don't have those at your house) that morning because Connor and I specifically discussed that Hudson would not be wearing it to school and I knew that Hudson was incapable of working the clip mechanism required to attach said pedometer to himself.  Not like we don't already have a reputation for oddity at school, now I had to explain to Hudson's teacher that we don't have him on some kind of step count program.  Again with the forced fitness! 

Speaking of programs, I think Connor needs one of the twelve step variety.  He is about two sweat bands away from his own infomercial.  I'm expecting a phone call from Michelle Obama any day now. 

Day 20,426

One year ago today we brought Connor home from the hospital for the second time in his life. In other words we are commemorating one year of diabetes or as someone online called it Connor's "Diaversarry" (P.S. I officially hate this term and will never, ever use it again because it's extreme cheesiness offends me).  I also think that we might have been more scared and worried making that trip home last December with a five year old than with a tiny newborn.  A lot has changed for our family over the last 365 days and we are so proud to have a healthy, happy almost 7 year old...who also happens to have diabetes.

I am so relieved to complete this year because we have officially lived through all the seasons with diabetes.  We now know what to expect at all manner of school party, survived not just one, but two baseball seasons plus a myriad of other candy filled holidays.  We swam with diabetes, ran with diabetes, laughed with diabetes and cried with diabetes. We have run a gamut of emotions not usually seen outside of a Lifetime movie.  Matt and I both feel like we have aged about 7 years in 12 months and he finally found his first gray hair.  We are now at a gray hair ratio of Melissa's 1000 to Matt's 1 but oh, how that one made me so very happy.  I know it's petty but I just tuck the memory of that single gray hair (which I also discovered by the way, increasing my glee ten fold) and pull it out (pun intended) whenever I need a little pick me up!

We have tried to spend the last year working as hard as possible to minimize diabetes' intrusion on Connor's life as much as possible and some days it works...for about ten minutes :)  and that is still our greatest challenge, letting Connor be a six year old boy without having to drag around the burden of diabetes (and by the way that burden often takes the shape of a thirty year old woman he calls Mom). We still have our bad days and can rationally accept that those are just going to be par for the course as we navigate through this together. But man, do they sting. Connor came home from school on Breakfast with Santa day a few weeks back and told me that he didn't think he would ever participate in that again, despite being super excited for days leading up to the big event.  Why the sudden change of heart?  Because his blood sugar was low and so he had to spend 45 minutes in the clinic and by the time he made it to the breakfast with the big man, it was over and he ate a donut alone in the cafeteria with the school nurse.  Is that the end of the world?  No. But in that six year old moment, the hurt was so big it took my breath away.  Those are the moments that I can't fix despite the frantic hover of my stellar helicopter parenting and I hate it, but I also know at day 365 we are leaps and bounds farther than we were on day 1.  When I think back to our emotional state last January, our family is almost unrecognizable today.  Connor spends most of his days laughing and smiling, loves every millisecond he spends in school, considers the school nurse to be one of his closest friends and for the most part is unaffected by the inconvenience of diabetes.  It is so awe inspiring to see God's plan for our family.  If we ever wondered before why we ended up with the most intelligent, mature kid on the planet (and trust me we have often wondered this), now we know.  This is the boy designed to handle this life.  He is so unlike his Mom and Dad in so many ways because this is what he was made for. This realization makes me immeasurably proud of him, but also hurts my heart because I know that his days won't always be easy and there are challenges coming that I won't be able to help him with, but I know he will be ready.

This new life is changing and refining his heart for great things and I can't wait for day 20,426.

Fakeabetes

Brace yourselves, Hudson has been afflicted with a disease.  A disease so rare, it only exists in his mind.  I call it Fakeabetes and it is both horrible and ridiculous in equal measure.  Since Connor's diagnosis last December, Hudson has been ever so slowly and subtly familiarizing himself with every aspect of Connor's diabetes care. After all, it's not a secret and it's pretty much a family affair.  In fact, I thought his careful observation was a wonderful thing because somewhere down the road (way way way down the road) there might come a time when I cannot supervise Connor with what Matt lovingly refers to as my iron fist.  When the day arrives that my children might be alone somewhere together (hold on, I feel a panic attack coming on) I need to know that Hudson will know how to help Connor in case of an emergency.  I never thought that Hudson might be incapable of helping Connor in a real diabetes emergency because he could possibly be in the throws of his very own Fakeabetes emergency.

Here is how it started.  As we all got used to Connor's new way of life, Hudson started picking up some new lingo and just randomly throwing it into conversation. For example, he would wander downstairs in the morning and yell, "Mom!  I needs my bag."  What bag, Hudson?  "My bag with all thems needles."  Oh....hmm.  But it was just the odd, occasional reference and so I thought he might be hurting for attention since his brother was kind of stealing the show with that pesky chronic medical condition, so Matt and I decided to lavish the Puddin' Pop with lots of extra love and special feelings.  He ate it up with a spoon.  We might have created a monster (and yes, I do acknowledge the irony in this very delayed realization).    

Hudson now has more diabetes related situations than Connor and I put together.  He is always sneaking around while Connor is in the shower, putting on the running belt Connor wears to hold his pump.  He then tries forever to incorrectly connect that pump to his navel, which is absolutely not how it works.  At mealtimes, he will randomly shout out such things as, "Mom!  Where's my food, I already bolused!"    Sometimes from the backseat Connor will request his diabetes bag which I then lovingly toss over my shoulder.  Immediately I hear Hudson parrot the request, "Mom, I needs my bag too."  Glancing in the rear view mirror I see him staring at the back of my head, hand outstretched.  He won't give up until I hand him an imaginary bag over my shoulder, which he then takes and thanks me for.  Anytime we eat, he lifts his shirt, dials up his imaginary pump while we all just sit there staring at him.  He then has the audacity to look up at us and say "What?"
Really.

Hudson modeling his ill-gotten and medically unnecessary insulin pump. You can clearly tell it
makes him feel real sassy. 

The best/worst are his faux crisis. Often times when Hudson is required to do something that seems remotely strenuous such as picking his dirty socks up off the floor or brushing his teeth, he immediately collapses to the floor or couch (whichever is closest) and weakly says, "I can'ts do it Mommy, my blood sugar's low.  It's 49.  I needs some sugars."  I swear I feel like Sally Field in the middle of Dolly Parton's salon shoving hard candies down Julia Roberts' gullet.  And here's the kicker, his "blood sugar" is always 49.  Always. So at least he's consistent?  Fakeabetes is like Hudson's imaginary get out of chores free card that never ever works!  But I have to give him props for trying.  As soon as I say, "You are not low Hudson, you don't have diabetes." he hops up, grins slyly and says, "Oh...I dos."

I have to admit as weird as this is (and it is pretty high up on the very long list of strange stuff Hudson does) it entertains the holy heck out of Connor.  It is like a walking, talking, dancing version of what not to do as a Type 1 diabetic and it never ceases to make us laugh.  Should we be encouraging this behavior?  Undoubtedly not.  But to quote the immortal Hudson Hill....

 "Oh...I dos."

The Family that Plays Together...

So, we've been trying to institute family game night around our house and so far it has debuted to mixed reviews.  You might be wondering what kind of parents have intentionally denied their children family board game time, but as with most weird stuff around here, there's a story there.

You see, Matt and I have several unwritten rules in our marriage; things that weren't officially part of our marriage vows but should have been.  The top two are as follows: 1) I promise to limit my own personal access to any and all microphones and 2) we will not play board games together.  Why no board games?  Well because one of us is grossly overcompetetive and the other is (in my opinion) flippantly accusatory.  True story: the last time Matt and I played a board game together was with my future in-laws in 2003.  Or as I like to call it, The Great Trivial Pursuit Witch Hunt of 2003, in which my integrity was called into question over a single card.  It started off so innocently: What is the state snack of Utah?  To which I instantly replied: Jell-o (followed by what might have been considered a celebratory in your face dance).  All hell then broke loose because apparently there is no possible way I could have known the state snack of Utah despite iron clad anecdotal evidence that included Bill Cosby, the 2002 Winter Olympics and a Today show segment (hosted by Katie Couric for crying out loud). Needless to say my multi-faceted, higher level explanation did not go over well.  I can't say I directly blame Mitt Romney, but if it comes down to him or Dr. Heathcliff Huxtuble, well...you know.
Anyway, I was accused of cheating, as if I spend all my free time reading Trivial Pursuit cards for fun.  I really and truly think the people in my life completely underestimate the sheer volume of absolutely useless knowledge I carry around in my brain. Sometimes I'm surprised I don't stagger under it's weight.

Flash forward to 2012, the board game moratorium has continued, an unholy and fragile alliance formed between my husband and I in order to protect our children from emotional trauma.  Don't get me wrong, our kids can play games with each other or they can play games with Matt or they can play games with me, we aren't cruel after all.  But as children are apt to do, Connor started questioning why we all just can't play together.  Enter a little game called Headbandz.  Connor loves this freaking game.  It's like 20 questions, but with the addition of individual headbands each player wears holding a picture card.  Then you have to ask someone questions, trying to determine what picture you are wearing based on their answers.  Fine.  There is no game board to overturn in anger, no currency exchanging hands and no random trivia.  We thought we were safe.  Enter Hudson.

Now, Connor has owned this game a while and Hudson has expressed zero interest in playing, but now that he is 4 entire years old, he has to participate in Headbandz.  Since he has observed us playing in the past, we thought he had a pretty firm grasp on the question/answer format and we all quickly chose a card, loaded it into our headbands and gathered around to play.  It was like an episode of Leave it to Beaver....for about 7 seconds.  We started with Hudson.  I gave him some sample questions just as a reminder (Am I an animal?  Am I something you can eat?  Do I make noise?) and he nodded with a serious look on his face and whispered, "I ready."  After staring at our headbands for what seemed like hours he asked, "Am I aaaaaaaaaaa..........light bulb? "  No, you are not a lightbulb.  To which he replied, "Cause you are!"   Okay, time to revisit the concept.  No announcing what anyone else has on their headband. One new picture card for Mom and we're back to it.  Hudson's turn came around again and he seemingly went into a trance.  After forever he asked, "Am I aaaaaaaaaa....how you say it???? You know... it so beautiful?  I am aaaaaaaaa....flower?"  Nope, you are not a flower.  Cue immediate, uncontrollable laughter. I turn to look at Matt, wearing that ridiculous headband and he said in a defeated voice, "I'm a flower right?"  Yep.
As Hudson is up doing his victory dance in celebration of being able to identify what the rest of us have on our cards (because who gives a crap what he is actually supposed to be guessing) he announces, "I so awesome at this game!  I winned it!" Cut to Connor losing it.  Mr. Perfectionist had reached his limit and proceeded to flip out on his brother's blatant disregard of both rules and good sportsmanship.

Now it was really starting to feel like a Hill family game night.  Because we are grown ups, Matt and I each took a boy and tried to impart some quality parental wisdom.  You know, the good stuff like patience, winning with class, cheating with class, restraining oneself when one gets the urge to slap the headband off of one's little brother.   I felt like Matt and I were totally channeling Claire and Cliff minus the shoulder pads and funky sweaters.  After the group therapy session it was decided that our family is taking a little sabbatical from family game night at least until we find "our" game.  That elusive game that challenges our intellect, inspires healthy competition, yet doesn't lead to tears or blood shed.

It's out there.

I Gots a Hole in my Face Mom.

Last Thursday I got the news that Hudson had been injured at school.  Apparently while walking out to the playground, he wasn't paying attention (big shock) and a gate swung back and hit him.  If my little puddin' pop was an average sized child it would have undoubtedly bounced off his chest, but since he is nugget sized the gate latch hit him square in the forehead.  Ouch.  He was of course, quite upset but got over it remarkably fast.  He was back to eating gold fish in a matter of minutes.  The school nurse (or lady doctor as Hudson refers to her) recommended an urgent care visit and some stitches.
So off we went.  On the way out I asked Hudson how he was feeling. He sweetly replied, "I gots a hole in my face, Mom."  And that is exactly what it looked like, a hole right below his double cowlick, the area of his head I like to refer to as the dead man's zone because no hair dares to grow there.  I know in my heart there will be no hair coverage for this scar.

We arrived at the urgent care and went right back to see the doctor.  Hudson was having an absolute ball.  He had never seen such a wondrous, magical place.  Everything was amazing from the paper on the exam table to the books in the waiting room.  I really started to wonder if that gate had damaged his brain, because in all of his four years Hudson has never willingly or openly adored a piece of printed literature.  Scary stuff.  Hud was a champ while the doctor irrigated his newly acquired hole, keeping up a steady monologue of odd statements that kept the doctor laughing.  When the doctor backed up to examine the wound, Hudson looked down at the table where the saline had dripped off his head and down to the paper and said, "Oh my gosh......someones tee teed on this table."  The doctor laughed and said, "Oh that's just water."  To which Hudson replied in the most solemn voice, "No, it's not.  I can't know who did it, but someone peed here.  That disgusting."  Things kind of went down hill from there.

The doctor decided that it need one or two stitches to pull it all back together and went to get ready.  Hudson decided to check out the room and became obsessed with this poster on the wall.  He begged me to take his picture reenacting the scene. Yes, he wanted to take his shirt off, but no, I didn't allow it.  I have some standards. They're low, but they're there. But just wait, it gets weirder.

Hudson Hill, Electrode Placement Model

When the doctor and nurse came back in to do the actual procedure, he gave me the rundown on my role.  He said they would need all the help they could get to hold him completely still, especially while they were injecting the anesthetic.  His exact words?  "Get wherever you need to be to hold him, straddle the table if you have to."  Pause here for my hysterical laughter.  Yes, I have the sense of humor of a 15 year old boy, and second, I don't care if they were performing open heart surgery on my child, there was no way I was straddling that table.  After we cleared up that little issue and I finally stopped laughing, I perched myself on the edge of the exam table and held both of Hudson's hands.  I have to say, he didn't move a muscle when they did his first shot, but he was plenty ticked.  He yelled out, "HEEEEEEYYYY!" in his angriest voice.  But he didn't move.  After they were done numbing him up, he got ready to start stitching.  All of a sudden, Hudson yelled out, "Mom!  Kiss me!"  I quickly replied that I could give him a kiss when the doctor was finished, but that just wasn't good enough, "MOM!!!  Kiss my wips!"  Um, I love you Hudson, but I can't right now. "GIVE ME YOUR WIPS!" By now both the doctor and nurse are laughing out loud and when combined with the fact that I laughed like a mad woman at the word straddle, I am sure they had us pegged as a family full of stone cold perverts.

After what seemed like the longest 90 seconds of Hudson's life and one, count it, one stitch later we were done.  I am pretty sure that he might have needed two based on an earlier assessment, but I think that doctor wanted us out of there.  Hudson sat up, looked at the doctor and said, "I is so mad at you right now."  Then hopped down and walked out.  

So what does it look like now?  Well take into consideration we are still growing out Hudson's last self hair mutilation, it doesn't look good.

I like to think that it looks like he's been in a bar fight and after someone knocked him unconscious, they cut his hair with a dull butter knife. In other words, just another day in the life of the puddin' pop!

Happy Birthday Hudson!

Well our baby is turning 4 and while that in some ways seems shocking to me, I also know that he has lived a whole lot of life in 4 short years and every minute of it has been an adventure.  To celebrate our little Mr.Fat Cheeks, I decided to compile a list of Hudson-isms that really capture his spirit while sometimes simultaneously striking fear into the hearts of his parents.

1. Hold on, I gotta call somebody.
Seeing Hudson talk on his imaginary phone to someone is both adorable and slightly worrisome because nine times out of ten he is talking to Jayden the Red Power Ranger and his calls usually end with him giving Hudson some kind of mission that entails a battle to the imaginary death.  During these battles any one of us could be collateral damage so we find it best to steer clear whenever he is taking a meeting on the phone.

2. They's got tigers in there?
Ah tigers, Hudson's kryptonite.  Whenever we want him to rethink a decision to venture into an unknown place we just casually mention that we heard there might be tigers.  It puts an immediate stop to whatever plan he was concocting.  It might not terminate it indefinitely but it at least slows his roll.  There is visible brainstorming in which he weighs the pros and cons of what seemed like a fun idea versus the chance of running into a tiger, his apparent nemesis.  For example, he and his brother wanted to ride the kiddy haunted house at the state fair.  I did not.  I told Hudson he would probably be scared. He replied, "Why?  They's got tigers in there?"  Yes, yes they do.

3.  I do this myself.
Hudson "do everything" himself, whether he is actually capable or not.  Lack of confidence is not one of Hudson's problems.  Lack of actual skill to back up that confidence is another matter.  Hudson is the best runner, swimmer, dancer and ninja in the whole entire world.  Why in that aforementioned world would he ever need assistance?  There is a certain little swagger that accompanies Hudson Hill.  Emphasis on the little.  He is tiny but that personality enters a room about five minutes before that little body.

4.  I got an idea!
I wish I had a picture of Hudson's face as he says this particular phrase but it is always so fleeting.  There are always raised eyebrows along with a single index finger in the air pointing to what I imagine is a single illuminated light bulb. Hudson gets an idea about 20 times a day and those ideas are most likely dangerous but seem like boatloads of fun.  For example, the day he got an idea to ride the garage door all the way to the top and then dangled like a tiny doll while laughing like a mad man.  Or the day he got an idea to cut his own hair.  Or the day he got that same idea and cut his hair again (see #5 on the list).  Hudson is definitely an idea man and his ideas are generally hilarious.  Well 70% hilarious and 30% heart stopping.

5. Mom!  I need the scissors (pronounce see-zors)!
Enough said.

6. Where's my Connor?
Hudson is a fantastic little brother and adores his big brother.  He wants to do everything like Connor, but with an added twist of his own.  He misses his brother when they are watching TV in separate rooms and over the last six months has shown so much compassion towards Connor.  Connor only has to mention that he doesn't feel good and Hudson will race over to grab his diabetes bag.  He pretends to wear Connor's pump (which he firmly believes connects to his belly button) and always uses a really low voice when emulating his big brother. "Look mom, I'm Connor.  I so big and I gots all my medicines." Hud is our comic relief and we can't imagine not having him around to booty dance for us when Connor has a sad day.

7.  I'll be right back.
This particular Hudsonism could mean that he is simply headed back to the toy box, or it could mean that he is headed to Neverland.  To be honest, it's usually Neverland (Peter Pan's Neverland, not Michael Jackson's).  Hudson spends a large part of his day in another world.  He doesn't think that he's a hero because there is no thinking about it. He IS Peter Pan or Spiderman or Captain America or anyone else who seems ready to save the day.  He is constantly on the look out for bad guys or damsels in distress, preferably both.  He has this fantasy of fighting a bad guy in order to "gets myself a girl," who he will then "kiss with my mustache." Not his lips just his mustache.  That is going to be one lucky lady.

8.  I need my soups!
This particular saying ties in with #7.  Hudson is never fully dressed for the day without a costume or suit  (or as he says it, soup).  These suits can be real or imaginary, he isn't picky.  Currently in my car, I am carrying both a pirate and peter pan hat, tall boots, three swords and an astronaut suit.  We are a couple of clowns and an elephant short of a traveling circus  These suits make Hud feel awesome and out of all the memories I have of my boys being weird, one I desperately hope I can still remember at age 80 will be Hudson putting on his imaginary suits, armpit length gloves included.  Another would have to be when as part of a consequence, I required Hudson to take off his imaginary suit while he was in time out.  Hilarious and effective.

9. That's my favwite!
Here's the thing with Hud, everything is his favorite.  Everything.  This particular saying can apply to anything from the salad bar at Cici's to a t-shirt he has known all of 2 seconds.  I love this enthusiasm.  He feels exuberant joy over the most mundane things and I think that is wonderful.  I don't get it, but I think it's wonderful.  It's hard for me to imagine walking around the world and at every new/old/cool/weird thing I see proclaiming, "That's my favorite!"  If you ask Hudson what his favorite color is he will say, "Red. Blue. Red. Yellow. All of them!" and then laugh hysterically.  

10. Close your eyes, Mom!
My favorite of all Hudson sayings because I know that whatever situation I open my eyes to, it will always include a sweet little boy wearing a giant smile.

Happy Birthday Hudson!