We've moved

Since this blog was active, we moved overseas and back again. Now you can read about the boogers' latest adventures at www.boogersabroad.com.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

My grocery helper and MJ

To keep Mo entertained at the grocery store, I make him my little helper. He picks out fruit and cereal and feeds Curly snacks. At the check-out counter, he helps load everything on the conveyor belt.

He was being difficult this week and refused to help.

"What happened to my little helper?" I asked.

"He's dead!"

"That's not nice to say," I told him.

"Why not? You said Michael Jackson was dead. That's not nice."'

So yes, apparently the obsession with death and MJ continues.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Mo's birthday list so far

When you're 4, birthday's are a big deal. A really big deal.

So even though Mo's next birthday is a few months away, he's been deciding on - and then switching - his party location constantly. First it's the Y. Then Chuck E. Cheese. Then the bouncy place. Then the back yard. Ad nauseum.

And just last week he started making his birthday gift wish list.

1. More fence.

"Why do you want more fence, Kiddo?"

"So we can make the backyard bigger. So there's room for a swimming pool."

2. A parachute.

"Really, you want a parachute?"

"It's OK, Mom. I also want a strap for it," he motions around his chest. "One that's just my size, to keep me safe."

I can only imagine what's going to get added to the list next.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Curly spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E

At just barely two years old and 26 pounds, it's amazing how much trouble Curly can cause. And boy is he cute when he's doing it!

It doesn't matter that his brother is twice as old and twice as big as him. Curly holds his own.

If Mo rips Curly's blankie out of his hands or knocks him down, the little guy bites the big guy's arm. Or screams in his ear. I'm not proud of this, and we've started doing short time-outs with him, but you gotta admit the kid is scrappy. Curly doesn't cry to Mama, he takes matters into his own hands.

Just yesterday we were having a picnic. Curly got mad and stomped on Mo's peanut butter sandwich! He's also squirted out Mo's juice boxes and stole his brother's food right off his plate. Once I saw him dump a bucket of water over Mo's head in the bathtub.

I can only imagine what's coming next.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Slacking in Boogerland

We're still here.

I'm full of excuses for not posting lately: Daddy threw out his back and needed constant care. Business trips. Beautiful weather.

But in reality, I've been slacking off. I'll get with the program soon...

Monday, May 10, 2010

Mo goes underground

Today we got a brochure for the upcoming season at our local botanical gardens. As members, we get discounted rates on their classes. They even have a few for kids.

I was reading the course listing to see if anything caught Mo's fancy:
  • Wiggling worms
  • From root to flower
  • Eating the alphabet
  • What's underground
  • Butterflies
You get the picture.

Well when I mentioned "What's underground," he jumped up.

"That one!" he said, excitedly.

"Great," I said. " You want to know more about what's underground. I can see why that would be interesting."

"Well, no," he said. "I already know what's underground."

"Oh," I said, thinking he meant soil and roots and rock. But that's not the path he was going down.

Beaming, he told me, "Underground are dead people. Oh, and pipes for your toilets."

Somehow, I don't think those will be covered in the class.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Happy Birthday Curly

It's Mother's Day AND Curly's second birthday. I'm feeling all sentimental.

So here's a little piece I wrote shortly after the little guy was born. It's kind of a love letter to a newborn and a reflection on motherhood. Some of you have seen this before.

"Love" doesn’t begin to describe it. Any mother could tell you that.

Cradling my newborn, warm and fleshy against my skin, his simple presence erases the blinding white pain of childbirth. Completely forgotten are my stitches, stretch marks, sore nipples. And nine months of leg cramps, back aches and rib pain, erased in an instant.

All for the trademark baby-scent of milk breath and Pampers. A smell that makes middle-aged women huff at baby heads like teenage junkies. They know what it's like. To be someone else's hero, his life-support and protector.

Even though we've just met, I already know every inch of this ball-of-baby. The silky peach-fuzz head. Roly-poly thighs. Razor-sharp half-moon fingernails. Folds and creases where wrists belong. I don’t recognize my own misshapen silhouette, but I know every baby toe, the smell, the taste, the texture.

Those drooly nuzzles and gummy grins - that's the stuff I live for. And I, sleep deprived and dumpy, am his light, his strength, his everything.