Just when I thought that Monday's chainsaws and wood chippers couldn't be topped as far as neighborhood noise pollution, I was once again proven wrong. I awoke Tuesday morning to what sounded like a jackhammer drilling through concrete. And wouldn't you know? When I looked out my front door, there was a jackhammer drilling through concrete.
Excuse my "flipped to the side" videography - I wasn't thinking too clearly while filming:
I'm not sure if this is part of a master plan to drive our family off the block or pure coincidence. Perhaps our sprinkler-stealing tendencies have been discovered. Perhaps the neighbors have heard us use the Lord's name in vain one time too many. Or perhaps the large, thorny weeds that we have failed to demolish have irked the neighbors beyond repair. In our defense, we did finally pull those suckers out and I've put enough Preen down on the landscaping to cover us the rest of the summer.
Now if I wake up tomorrow to the sound of a wrecking ball crashing through my garage, I am really going to be suspicious.
I suppose I should strive for some neighborly goodwill given our upcoming contributions to all the morning hullabaloo. At long last, we will be pouring fresh new cement to compensate for the broken plates of concrete we've been passing off as a driveway since we've moved here. Our very own jackhammers and bulldozers will be joining the block's home improvement soiree shortly.
Have I mentioned my next door neighbors lately? You know, the ones I falsely considered to be sprinkler thieves until I was embarrassingly proven a first class nut job? Well, they just put in a deck addition. An addition. To their deck. I now suffer from deck envy every time I send the boys out on our back step all cramped together eating Freeze Pops. Since the advent of the new driveway on one side of our house and the new deck addition on the other, the boys are starting to wonder if they chose their parents wisely.
We couldn't find Joey for a couple minutes the other day while we were outside pulling weeds. After a bit, I could hear him singing as he rode his tricycle up and down the neighbor's beautiful sealed concrete masterpiece. When he saw me, he cried out with delight: This one is better mommy! Can I take it to our house?
Another family sprinkler thief in the making.
Jack has also been clamouring to play basketball outside on our driveway. With the pointy slabs of concrete liable to sever an artery at first stumble, I'd sooner he play with a nail gun.
Ah, summer. When the sites and sounds of seasonal home improvements can only lead to a block party of injured feelings and inconvenienced neighbors. Come to think of it, I haven't yet received any word about our block party this year.
While our little street may not be the quietest, I guarantee that it is the odds-on favorite for best-maintained. There is also no doubt that my family is the odds-on favorite for having the most leaves strewn across their lawn in November.
Yeah, I guess I shouldn't be holding my breath for that block party invite any time soon.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
A Rose by Any Other Name...Would Also Appear on the Frog Car
I'm not always sure how I feel when people come over to my house and laugh at something I hadn't realized was funny. A prime example of this is the collection of knick-knacks my mother has given to me through the years that include my kids' names. I'm not much of knick-knack person, but when your mom gives you something like...I don't know...a trio of engraved gnomes... you tend to keep it.My mom's desire to personalize all objects stems back to her own childhood. Growing up with six children in a tiny two-bedroom home on Washtenaw, everything was communal. Towels, beds, even undergarments knew many owners. To have something with her name on it that belonged only to her....it must have been a wonderous concept. So as a retired nurse on a fixed income, she sets about this earth looking for personalized pieces to give to her grandchildren. If she finds things in threes, she quickly writes each of the boys names on them. I have about 50 pesonalized Christmas ornaments my mom has delivered. When friends come over around the holidays, they laugh at my tree: Wow...you must really like your kids.
I suppose now that it has been pointed out to me, I should find the humor in my Dan/Jack/Joe knick-knacks. But for me, it's always been a little sad as it represents my mom's own unfulfilled dreams as a child to have something exclusively hers. Perhaps I am meant to take a step back and stop insisting that everything is to be shared between my three boys. To date, I have held joint birthday parties and insisted that if people were to bring gifts, they bring one present to be assigned to all. Maybe I ought to start encouraging outright ownership and understand a child's desire to hold dear one special toy. It would go against my nature as a mother, but important lessons sometimes come in the form of three silly green frogs.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Joe vs. Wood Chipper
Joe doesn't always see the humor in things. Like yesterday morning for instance.
My husband limps in after working a 24 hour shift at the firehouse and tells me he doesn't have a call for his second job (a rarity). Great! Now he can get the boys packed up and out the door for their first day of Sports Camp! As he smears peanut butter across frozen bread (which is a great way to save money when there's a sale on bread - it freezes beautifully) and packs swimsuits, his mind arrives at a singular idea: he would like a nap. Today please.
For once, I see the guy's point. He worked Father's Day and just about every other day this month. His allergies have left his entire face a tad swollen and his eyes look bloodshot. He can obviously use a break. So after camp drop-offs, a nap it is!
Just grab me a gallon of milk on your way back, eh, honey?
A half hour later, he is opening all the windows in our bedroom (the air-conditioning is still out). Joe sets the ceiling fan on high and tucks in for a good long slumber.
Right as his head hits the pillow, the earth shakes and this horribly loud screeching and thumping noise freezes everyone in their tracks. I look out the window. A huge truck is in our alley (right under our bedroom window) and a bunch of men with chainsaws are hacking off loose tree limbs and dropping them into a giant wood chipper. I hear Joe shout something that only Joe can say with such unique aggravation and near homicidal rage:
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE F&*CKING KIDDING ME!
The truck remains directly under our window for hours. By the time it moves to the next house, I am starting to see the blog-potential of this turn of events and grab the camera:
As each new tree limb is cast into the giant chipper, Joey starts to cry. I also hear some dogs howling in the alley. It is like a symphony of cacophonies. Joe's bedroom rantings begin to outplay the deafening chipper. To save Joey from learning too many questionable words at age 3, I opt for an emergency visit to Atheist-Friend's house. Plus, she has coconut cake.
After a few hours, I pick up the boys at camp and head home. My husband is whipping up some fantastic chicken in a mad hurry as we have our final stop: soccer practice!
When we arrive there, it takes 20 minutes to find the correct field. Once we do, we are handed the bad news: our volunteer soccer coach has quit and apparently moved to Florida...over the course of the last week. During all the confusion, someone spies Joe kicking the ball around with the boys. Before my husband can say "wood chipper," a whistle is thrown around his neck and he is christened AYSO soccer coach.
Joe of course tries to explain that he can't commit to any regular coaching given his wayward schedule. No worries! Just whenever you can make it, sir. These guys are good. Had they only been outside our house a few hours earlier, they might have reconsidered such a rash appointment of a man so well-versed in the blasphemous arts.
So with no nap, watery eyes, and shaky wood-chipper nerves, Joe leads a bunch of 5-7 year olds through a series of drills and scrimmages. You can't help but love a guy willing to spontaneously coach soccer wearing sandals and his Breast Cancer Walk shirt.
On the way home, Joe wonders if I could get the boys in bed so he could meet up with some of his cousins for the final innings of the Cubs-Sox game.
It is the least I could do. Plus, I have a blog to write.
My husband limps in after working a 24 hour shift at the firehouse and tells me he doesn't have a call for his second job (a rarity). Great! Now he can get the boys packed up and out the door for their first day of Sports Camp! As he smears peanut butter across frozen bread (which is a great way to save money when there's a sale on bread - it freezes beautifully) and packs swimsuits, his mind arrives at a singular idea: he would like a nap. Today please.For once, I see the guy's point. He worked Father's Day and just about every other day this month. His allergies have left his entire face a tad swollen and his eyes look bloodshot. He can obviously use a break. So after camp drop-offs, a nap it is!
Just grab me a gallon of milk on your way back, eh, honey?
A half hour later, he is opening all the windows in our bedroom (the air-conditioning is still out). Joe sets the ceiling fan on high and tucks in for a good long slumber.
Right as his head hits the pillow, the earth shakes and this horribly loud screeching and thumping noise freezes everyone in their tracks. I look out the window. A huge truck is in our alley (right under our bedroom window) and a bunch of men with chainsaws are hacking off loose tree limbs and dropping them into a giant wood chipper. I hear Joe shout something that only Joe can say with such unique aggravation and near homicidal rage:
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE F&*CKING KIDDING ME!
The truck remains directly under our window for hours. By the time it moves to the next house, I am starting to see the blog-potential of this turn of events and grab the camera:
As each new tree limb is cast into the giant chipper, Joey starts to cry. I also hear some dogs howling in the alley. It is like a symphony of cacophonies. Joe's bedroom rantings begin to outplay the deafening chipper. To save Joey from learning too many questionable words at age 3, I opt for an emergency visit to Atheist-Friend's house. Plus, she has coconut cake.
After a few hours, I pick up the boys at camp and head home. My husband is whipping up some fantastic chicken in a mad hurry as we have our final stop: soccer practice!When we arrive there, it takes 20 minutes to find the correct field. Once we do, we are handed the bad news: our volunteer soccer coach has quit and apparently moved to Florida...over the course of the last week. During all the confusion, someone spies Joe kicking the ball around with the boys. Before my husband can say "wood chipper," a whistle is thrown around his neck and he is christened AYSO soccer coach.
Joe of course tries to explain that he can't commit to any regular coaching given his wayward schedule. No worries! Just whenever you can make it, sir. These guys are good. Had they only been outside our house a few hours earlier, they might have reconsidered such a rash appointment of a man so well-versed in the blasphemous arts.
So with no nap, watery eyes, and shaky wood-chipper nerves, Joe leads a bunch of 5-7 year olds through a series of drills and scrimmages. You can't help but love a guy willing to spontaneously coach soccer wearing sandals and his Breast Cancer Walk shirt.On the way home, Joe wonders if I could get the boys in bed so he could meet up with some of his cousins for the final innings of the Cubs-Sox game.
It is the least I could do. Plus, I have a blog to write.
Monday, June 20, 2011
The Boys of Summer Are Here
Hear that?
Listen.
No?
That's because my blow dryer is O-F-F (at least for the summer). Buzz cuts have been professionally administered all around, and I have 3 boys who now look like new army recruits.
Back in the days before I lost all sentimentality in favor of pragmatism, I would weep when the stylists would click on their buzzers and remove my babies' precious locks. Those sweet little curls of the toddler years were snatched away in nanoseconds. How cold and heartless it all seemed.
Not anymore. Now I merrily skip into Hair Cuttery and offer up one simple request:
Scalp 'em.
For the cost of $10 a head plus tip, I save hundreds of dollars on haircut costs over the next 4-5 months. Unshackled from having to dry, comb, and style hair for a trio of jumpy boys every morning allows me time to make coffee before piano, chess, violin, soccer, baseball, and mommy's analysis for mothers who over-schedule. We practically saunter out the door once hair becomes a non-issue. Why in the name of all that is holy don't I stick to this cut year-round? The sleep gained! The hours saved! The sanity preserved! Heck, I started to want a buzz cut, too! When I suggested this to my husband, he suggested a divorce. Good to know.
As the final dusting of each neck is performed by the stylists, I look at the mounds of castaway hair on the floor of Hair Cuttery. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we are free at last!
Thank you Dan, Jack, and Joey for allowing me to strip you of your Samsonian strength this way. Thank you for not putting up a fight as mommy marches towards a liberated summer. Thank you for not being born girls and demanding french braids and twists (I would have had to outsource to more adept mothers).
Thank you, boys of summer, thank you.
Listen.
No?
That's because my blow dryer is O-F-F (at least for the summer). Buzz cuts have been professionally administered all around, and I have 3 boys who now look like new army recruits.Back in the days before I lost all sentimentality in favor of pragmatism, I would weep when the stylists would click on their buzzers and remove my babies' precious locks. Those sweet little curls of the toddler years were snatched away in nanoseconds. How cold and heartless it all seemed.
Not anymore. Now I merrily skip into Hair Cuttery and offer up one simple request:
Scalp 'em.
For the cost of $10 a head plus tip, I save hundreds of dollars on haircut costs over the next 4-5 months. Unshackled from having to dry, comb, and style hair for a trio of jumpy boys every morning allows me time to make coffee before piano, chess, violin, soccer, baseball, and mommy's analysis for mothers who over-schedule. We practically saunter out the door once hair becomes a non-issue. Why in the name of all that is holy don't I stick to this cut year-round? The sleep gained! The hours saved! The sanity preserved! Heck, I started to want a buzz cut, too! When I suggested this to my husband, he suggested a divorce. Good to know.
As the final dusting of each neck is performed by the stylists, I look at the mounds of castaway hair on the floor of Hair Cuttery. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we are free at last!
Thank you Dan, Jack, and Joey for allowing me to strip you of your Samsonian strength this way. Thank you for not putting up a fight as mommy marches towards a liberated summer. Thank you for not being born girls and demanding french braids and twists (I would have had to outsource to more adept mothers).
Thank you, boys of summer, thank you.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Father's Day Thanks
Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there with an accurate count of their children!
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my own father who gave up the seminary as a young man in favor of procreation. But for the grace of God go I. My dad as a priest? Holy Moses. The Church would have never been the same.
In the name of absolute consistency, my husband is spending yet another day at work. Trudging along through a life of "got to make the donuts." He is at the firehouse today probably wondering how many people will be calling Chicago 911 emergency services for seasonal allergies. Seriously. The pollen count is going to be high - a busy day for sure. This makes me wonder why the appropriate use of 911 is not taught in the Chicago Public Schools. After all, I got my end-of-year paperwork from the Chicago Public Schools reminding me to feed and read to my kids this summer. There was also a list of activities in which I should consider my children to engage:
I really appreciated the last one. What would we have done had we arrived at the beach without these instructions? All this sand? Do we sweep it up? How do we walk in it? Where's that sheet? Ohhhhh - see here, we're supposed to build a sand castle. Thank you, thank you CPS. But look! I've got sand in my toes now. Quick, call 911.
Happy Father's Day, Joe. Thank you for continuing to make the donuts every day for your often unappreciative wife. I need to remember that many mothers walk this parenting road truly alone without the emotional, financial, or physical support you provide daily. There is nobody with whom to discuss whether a 103 degree fever warrants a 3 am trip to the ER. Nobody to put together the Christmas toys with directions that only electrical engineers can make sense of. Nobody who can provide assurances on days when one feels like she is doing everything wrong and failing her children miserably. When a son hits his first ball out of the ballpark, who but a father will agree that the world has never known such talent? Who but a father can reassure a lovelorn daughter that he will always be the one man she can count on? I do not know how moms go this alone. They should be issued superhero capes on Father's Day to mark their amazing feat.
Thank you, Joe for making it all that much easier and allowing me to do the one full-time job I love whole-heartedly, despite my complaints to the contrary. We've got your new hammock here, all boxed up and ready for you to assemble. Once you have a day off that is.
Here's hoping for a great day to the many dads out there who take emergency and non-emergency calls from their families. I guess not being able to find the coupon for The Sports Authority could have waited until tomorrow. Sorry about that, honey.
We love you!
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my own father who gave up the seminary as a young man in favor of procreation. But for the grace of God go I. My dad as a priest? Holy Moses. The Church would have never been the same.In the name of absolute consistency, my husband is spending yet another day at work. Trudging along through a life of "got to make the donuts." He is at the firehouse today probably wondering how many people will be calling Chicago 911 emergency services for seasonal allergies. Seriously. The pollen count is going to be high - a busy day for sure. This makes me wonder why the appropriate use of 911 is not taught in the Chicago Public Schools. After all, I got my end-of-year paperwork from the Chicago Public Schools reminding me to feed and read to my kids this summer. There was also a list of activities in which I should consider my children to engage:
- Jump rope
- Visit your relatives
- Sit under a tree
- Ride your bike
- Build a sand castle at the beach or park
I really appreciated the last one. What would we have done had we arrived at the beach without these instructions? All this sand? Do we sweep it up? How do we walk in it? Where's that sheet? Ohhhhh - see here, we're supposed to build a sand castle. Thank you, thank you CPS. But look! I've got sand in my toes now. Quick, call 911.
Happy Father's Day, Joe. Thank you for continuing to make the donuts every day for your often unappreciative wife. I need to remember that many mothers walk this parenting road truly alone without the emotional, financial, or physical support you provide daily. There is nobody with whom to discuss whether a 103 degree fever warrants a 3 am trip to the ER. Nobody to put together the Christmas toys with directions that only electrical engineers can make sense of. Nobody who can provide assurances on days when one feels like she is doing everything wrong and failing her children miserably. When a son hits his first ball out of the ballpark, who but a father will agree that the world has never known such talent? Who but a father can reassure a lovelorn daughter that he will always be the one man she can count on? I do not know how moms go this alone. They should be issued superhero capes on Father's Day to mark their amazing feat.Thank you, Joe for making it all that much easier and allowing me to do the one full-time job I love whole-heartedly, despite my complaints to the contrary. We've got your new hammock here, all boxed up and ready for you to assemble. Once you have a day off that is.
Here's hoping for a great day to the many dads out there who take emergency and non-emergency calls from their families. I guess not being able to find the coupon for The Sports Authority could have waited until tomorrow. Sorry about that, honey.
We love you!
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Lenonad Here...Get Your Freshly Squeezed Lenonad!
Daniel's long-time dream of owning and operating his own lemonade establishment is about to come true. My little entrepreneur has been searching for venture capitalists since he was four years old. His favorite game is to practice giving "change" to imaginary patrons. He's even scoped out various locations for the greatest amount of foot traffic. His mother has briefed him on overhead, pricing, and net profit.
He is ready.
Plus, his Uncle John has almost finished building the actual stand. I'm not sure what to expect, but anything is going to be better than the computer box Daniel asked to use to construct his lemonade stand a few weeks ago.
My boy may have gotten his financial acumen from other people in the family, but he certainly inherited some of his mother's marketing savvy (as well as her spelling deficiencies):
With or without spelling errors, I found Dan's attempt charming. I may even have it laminated this weekend. I particularly enjoyed his decision to designate the birth order of each of the stand's proprietors:
He is ready.
Plus, his Uncle John has almost finished building the actual stand. I'm not sure what to expect, but anything is going to be better than the computer box Daniel asked to use to construct his lemonade stand a few weeks ago.
My boy may have gotten his financial acumen from other people in the family, but he certainly inherited some of his mother's marketing savvy (as well as her spelling deficiencies):
With or without spelling errors, I found Dan's attempt charming. I may even have it laminated this weekend. I particularly enjoyed his decision to designate the birth order of each of the stand's proprietors:
For as much as Daniel can turn my hair grey with all his arguing, negotiating, and bargaining, he's got a certain drive that I really respect. He acquired none of his mother's fatalistic tendencies, and instead sees the world in need of conquering. For as often as I try to teach Daniel to "play it safe," he insists no obstacle can really stop him. Of course with an adult height predicted in the realm of 6'7" - 6'8," obstacles should know better than to get in Daniel's way.
Hats off to the little boy who knows no limits. And a little sympathy please for the poor mom who keeps trying to set them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)