The Boy Who Cried Throwup

A few weeks ago Jack got sick in the middle of the night. He came into my room to tell me that he was feeling funny, and I stood with him next to the toilet for awhile. Since nothing was happening, and he was yawning, I put him back to bed with a "barf bucket" and passed out. A few minutes later I hear him crying, so I go into his room to find him standing in a small lake of vomit. GROSS.

(I'll skip the cleaning up part of the story--it was unfathomably disgusting.)

He was fascinated by the event, and proceeded to talk about it for the next few days with avid interest (my interest, on the other hand, had beyond waned). He was even announcing to people that he "threwed up several days ago." Not cool at the grocery store, Jack.

Since The Event, he has taken to announcing non-chalantly, "I think I need to throw up" and then standing in the bathroom over the toilet for several minutes. Usually this happens after I have issued an order like, "Jack, get your shoes on, we're going to school" or "Jack, put those Legos away." So any inherent drama in the throwup threat is now dead for me, and I think at this point I have seen, smelled, heard, and witnessed so much barfing that someone could puke right on me and I would not flinch. (Universe: that is not an invitation.)

BALLS

Sydney is in love. With balls. She spots them everywhere, and will point them out with a chubby finger and for some bizarre reason (as the rest of her utterances are pretty high-pitched and screamy) a low, gravelly, "Ball." Then she looks at you seriously to see if you understand the implications of her statement. It's like she was put on this earth to be a fat little ball detective.

Now, the word "balls" to me is hysterical. My Gran used to use it as an expletive when she was frustrated or had made a mistake. I always laughed, and now I have this tiny person channeling her left and right, and it makes me smile so wide my face hurts.

Needless to say we already had quite a collection of balls around here because of Jack and Dan (no joke intended, but HAHAHAHAHA). Sydney has commandeered them all, her favorite being a tiny beach ball that we got at some YMCA event. She loves to throw it crazily around and then chase it, squealing. This game is improved when someone else challenges her for possesion of the ball (which is usually Jack) and then she gets so excited that she is almost sidetracked by her spasms of delight, and invariably does not get to the ball first.

Luckily Jack is a good sharer and 85% gentle in his brotherly ministrations; Sydney is a greedy pig who loves to pound on him. They are like the stereo-typically backwards yin and yang of siblings.

The Peace of Wild Things

It is rare when I find something that expresses an exact emotion of mine, so I was delighted to find this. It desribes the exact feeling I have when I run outside, on the path, through the woods, past the heron and the cows, and feel the sun on my shoulders.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

...and I quote...

These are all from Dan:

"What you have to do is always take the BIGGEST BITES POSSIBLE."

"Did you hear me screaming at them?"

"Gatorade 'Ice-T' was the best flavor...I miss it."

"So I drank your bottle of wine...wait, where did you get that wine!?"

"I am the worst parent ever."

"I hate our neighbors, and our neighbors hate me. I am comfortable with this."