The Alfreds get their geek on

Jon took us to the museum at Hill Air Force Base today.  I'd like to say he was thinking about Gabriel and his obsession with all things airborne (he makes raspberry/engine sounds whenever he sees somethings flying), but I think I was more excited than Gabriel.  Witness:

Disclaimer:  the uber-cool fanny pack is functional.  Don't mock it!  I'm loving my brief respite from having a diaper bag.

Ahem.

So, under the guise of enriching the children, we went and looked at big ol' awesome aircraft.

IT.  WAS.  AWESOME.  The girl fetus doesn't stand a chance at being girly. She won't have any normal female role models around to copy.

Ethan TRIED to be nonchalant...because heaven forbid we find out he's actually enjoying himself...but I knew better.  Why else would he try to lick the weaponry?

Yeah...we're still wearing coats around here.  &!@#$&@&

Elijah figured out that if he doesn't run away when I take pictures, he's more likely to be featured on the blog.  So, today he kept telling me to take pictures of him. 

You know what's more effective than water torture?  Question torture.  It's what I call it when a nine-year-old asks the same question, verbatim, over and over again, without seeming to hear the answer, and then gets mad at you for losing your patience.

Gabriel ran around enjoying the planes, rocks, and sticks whilst making airplane noises.  It was boy toddler paradise.

All in all, I think we've found a situation wherein I might actually be compelled to squeal in a girly-type fashion.  I miss flying...

Warning....cranky pregnant woman posting

Who's red and likes to stick his tongue out?  This guy:

And for the last few days, this guy fits that description as well:

Suddenly,  his favorite color is red, he carries his prized Lightning McQueen and Mater toys around everywhere, and asking him, "What does Lightening McQueen do?" gets you a good view of his tongue.  And, for the win, I can get a few minutes to fold laundry by putting Cars on for him to watch...mother of the year award, here I come.

Today is/was the last day of school.  Traditionally, I take the boys out for an ice cream cone or SnoCone...but as the weather hasn't hit 60 since last week (&%$!&$&!, Logan!), that wasn't so appealing.  Instead, the boys argued endlessly about where they wanted to go until I finally had enough and made a command decision to go somewhere we didn't even end up going (have I mentioned that I've been a JOY to be around the last few days?) and then the boys ended up getting Aggie Ice Cream ANYWAYS, but it took them--especially Ethan, the indecisive--literally a half hour to decide.  To get Aggie ice cream in Logan's version of Honeyduke's Sweetshop.  For the love. 

In other news, I'm coming perilously close to geeking out our daughter.  Perilously close, because while her first name is pretty much set (and relatively normal), I'm having a hard time with the names we've discussed for her middle name, and the only one I even remotely like is SERIOUSLY THE SIGN OF HAVING DORKY PARENTS, neither of whom are very girly (including the female one), both of whom are TERRIFIED of having a daughter who wants to be a cheerleader and whose brain leaks out of her ears on command because she thinks boys think that's cute (no comment on the boys who actually think it is.  Idiots!).  In an attempt to distract her from that path, I'm trying to talk Jon into giving her the name of a princess who has the following conversation (hint: her name is NOT Aurora, or even Belle):


(The name I like): Women of this country learned long ago: those without swords can still die upon them. I fear neither death nor pain.

(very manly man): What do you fear, my lady?

(the name I like): A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.

(very manly man): You're a daughter of kings. A shieldmaiden of [country name would give it away]. I do not think that will be your fate.

See?  She's a pretty cool girl, as I measure things (but like I said, I'm not a very good girl).  She's the kind of princess I can deal with...and by giving the fetus her name, we would ensure that the fetus's preferred princess will be Ariel or some other fluff-brained wonder along the lines of  "How long have you known him?/One day...and tomorrow, it will be TWO!"  (although I have to admit that Eric was the cutest of the Disney princes.)


Note:  a woman who is under the influence of hormones to this degree SHOULD NOT be allowed to make major, life-affecting decisions (such as naming a human being).

To wrap things up, because this is already taking much longer than it should, I would like to pass on my current Brain Worm, which I picked up from Elise (thanks a lot, by the way)...and then it mutated into...THIS, also known as The Song Everyone Wants to Have Stuck in Their Heads:

Yo! Pump up the jam
pump it up
pump it up
Yo! Pump it!
pump up the jam
pump it up
pump it up
Yo! Pump it
pump up the jam
pump it up
pump it up
Yo! Pump it
pump up the jam
pump it (echo)

You're welcome.

Mother's Day for control freaks (that's me)

I find that the hardest part of being a mom is letting go of control.

Control over how clean the dishes actually are...because when the nine-year-old  is hand-washing them, you just have to be grateful they come through the process in one piece.  Leftover mystery spots can be dealt with on an individual basis.  Dear friends and family, I promise to personally wash the dishes before you are invited to eat at our house, though.

Control over how the clothes are folded and where they are put away...because when the eleven-year-old is folding them, you can't expect him to tell the difference between HIS pants and HIS FATHER'S pants, since they're practically the same size.  Facepalm.  And then there's the matter of putting my pile of clothes right where the dog likes to lay down.  Lowell, you have trained Dharma well.  I may never get rid of the dog hair.  But at least the clothes are folded, and heavens knows I haven't been doing it lately....

Control over what you have for breakfast...although Sunday I was actually grateful to have diabetes, because it gave me a plausible reason for the boys NOT to make me breakfast in bed.  That may sound harsh, but Ethan's experimenting nature can be, ummmmm, more than I can handle.  Just because it's in the spice cupboard (NUTMEG!) doesn't mean it should go in eggs.

Control over the preteen's appearance...because, lets get real, he's got this Justin Beiber/mop thing going on and he LOVES it.  Sigh.

At least we've got him convinced that changing your underwear daily isn't optional...which was a longer conversation than you'd think.  Turns out he has more fear of bacterial infections in his nether regions than he does of me.  Gasp.


Back on the ranch.

Control over what your toddler's nose looks like, stupid curb.  And gravity.  And new, clunky shoes.  And his ever-increasing sense of independence.

I'm just glad the bump on the noggin and the swollen lip went away as fast as they did.  He heals like Wolverine.  Or his dad.

But there are some definite perks that come with the job...lately, the big one was that I got to spend a day with some wild animals (best Mother's Day present EVER!).

Oh...wait...those aren't wild animals...that's Ethan and Elijah.  I can understand the confusion;  sometimes they seem like gorillas to me, too...complete with chest thumping, menacing growls, and a never ending struggle for dominance...

There was also A LOT of imperious pointing on Gabriel's part...

It's a good thing he only has two brothers...he still has enough fingers to point at them individually when they're being "naughty."  I wonder what he'll do when his sister comes...

And then there is the unbeatable joy that a toddler of the boy variety feels upon seeing an elephant for the first time.  I wish I had caught that on camera, but I decided to just enjoy the moment.  I did get this one, though:

Coolest.  Okapi.  EVAR.

All in all, I decided that it was my favorite gift so far--time with Jon and my boys, although it did remind me that one of the worst ways moms lose control is that part of their heart is walking around outside their body where just ANYONE can hurt it. 

Next up in the series on motherhood:  why people who think pregnant women are delicate flowers have clearly never been around a pregnant woman.  Unless they're comparing them to weird jungle flowers that emit toxic fumes and/or devour everything within a five foot radius, including their own offspring.

Ahhh...spring?

My sister is busy posting pictures like this:

Yeah, that's right, Elise.  I stole your picture.  I was motivated by jealousy.

I'm busy posting pictures like this:

BRRRRRRRRRR.  It's COLD today.

Yes, the SnoShack opened Saturday.  So the boys and I, along with the other residents of Hoth who are insane and/or in denial (and there are more than I thought), shivered in line at the Shack awaiting summer's first SnoCone.  True story:  it SNOWED on us on the way there, but we did not waver in our determination to enjoy a tiger's blood SnoCone...which DID NOT melt the way it should, by the way.  As it turns out, drinking melted SnoCone is an important part of the SnoCone experience.

If you're living with Elijah, here's the REST of the SnoCone experience:

1.  Take your SnoCone from the excessively happy teenage SnoShack operator.
2.  Immediately dump half of it down your little brother's back (so much for getting Gabriel a clear, non-staining flavor) (coconut).
3.  Poke a hole in the bottom of the cup with your straw "on accident."
4.  Microwave your SnoCone for 10 seconds (EXACTLY 10 seconds) "because it's too cold!"  He does this with ice cream, too.  I know.  He's a weirdo, but he's OUR weirdo and I love him.
5.  Look at the puddle of melted tiger's blood juice in the microwave and all over the floor in utter confusion...think of Drew Barrymore and say, "Somebody ate my ENTIRE PIE!  I don't know how this HAPPENED!" (ok, that last part's me.  But it's equally applicable.)

Ethan's SnoCone experience is much less complicated:

1.  Spend an extra twenty-five cents on the flower cup.
2.  Call it "a collectible."  (FACEPALM!)
3.  Eat Gabriel's left over SnoCone (he's so good about taking the diabetes bullet for me!).

Gabriel whittled the process down even further:

1.  Take a bite of each flavor of SnoCone.
2.  Look at us in a way that manages to convey, "You guys are idiots.  It's 45 degrees out here.  Where's the hot chocolate?" (This could have been motivated by the tiger's blood SnoCone dripping down his back.  Maybe.)

Did I mention I got caught in a freak "spring" freezing rain/snow storm yesterday on my "get my blood sugar under control" walk? Spring, you're on report.  Summer, hurry up.