Roller Coaster Ride and Blessings (Part 1)

A few weeks ago, my husband heard about an administrative job in his school district.

He applied for the job and was called to interview.

The interview was held at the district office, where the panel of big bosses conducted the all day interview between he and three other candidates.

It was grueling.

All of the situational scenarios he'd been asked to 'handle' before the panel were things he had dealt with as administrator at his other school, and passed that phase of the interview with flying colors.

He also had more experience than any of the other candidates.

He came home fairly confident that he'd nailed it.

It seemed he was a shoe-in.

We couldn't help counting our chickens before they were hatched, and excitedly discussed what we would be able to do with the pay raise.

Then, he learned that one of the other men on the panel was already employed at the school with the opening, and in fact, had been brought with the principal from another school to that one and was apparently being groomed to fill the position one day.

And he did get the job, even without formal administrative experience.

As often happens in school districts, the guy was pre-selected for the job, and the interview was really just a formality required after the posting of the job opening.

That had not been something we'd taken into consideration.

It was hard news to take. We were so sure he had things 'all sewn up'.

The Lord had other plans.

It simply wasn't the right time.

It had begun to feel like we were on a roller coaster with big ups and big downs.

Our house-hunt had around this same time become frustrating and embarrassingly long. How long is it even appropriate to string along a real estate agent for, anyway? To meet him at house after house after house to see the inside, only to know right away they were not "the one"?

Our hunt was also wrought with disappointment. Along the way, there were several homes we totally fell in love with...only to learn that they weren't the one intended for us.

We knew this because we'd spent considerable time in prayer, praying the Lord would lead us to the perfect one.

But somewhere in this sequence of what we considered to be big "downs" (read disappointments) on this crazy roller coaster ride we felt like we were on, we began to look at the circumstances around us.

Instead of continuing to trust the Lord, we began to question His timing and His methods, our expectations and feelings tangling up around our feet along with our lack of trust.

And we began to lose hope and sink in the waves of doubt.

But the very next day, the Lord chose to humble and bless us by meeting another very big need in our lives.

When He provided us with a mini-van.

Free.

With low mileage and in excellent running condition.



And we were blown away by the truth of His Word...how He knows what we have need of before we even ask.

He chose that moment-after that really big disappointment-to give us something that we felt we didn't have any business asking Him for while asking for something so big like, you know, a new home.

As if He didn't own the cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10) and couldn't provide both?!

This mini-van is not only a reliable vehicle with heat and A.C. and working windows and a lock button, but also has plenty of room to take others with us when we go anywhere....which the Lord knew we would need on down the road.

Like, say, when I took on a babysitting job for two darling little girls the very next week.

And the amazing thing? He wasn't even finished blessing us!

Oh, but I don't have time to write about all that tonight...

The Cricket's Serenade

Ahhh, back-to-school and those last remaining days of summer.

That time when windows are thrown open at night to circulate cool evening air through houses still warm from summer heat.

A time when the skies are beginning to darken earlier, and the neighborhood settles into a peaceful calm an hour or two earlier than it had been because kids are doing homework now instead of playing kickball in the cul-de-sac until Ten at night.

A time when the scents of the neighbor's barbeques and freshly cut grass perfume the air.

And a time when ginormous crickets make a mad dash for the hole in our screen door, and sneak stealthily inside.

Don't get me wrong...there are few sounds as lovely as a cricket orchestra, their stanzas cresting and falling throughout the evening, serenading us to sleep by night.

But when a lone cricket gets inside?

The results are quite possibly the most annoying sound in the world.

A ringing in my ears.

A knife scraping a dinner plate.

Nails on a chalkboard.

A clanging cymbal.

If only he could play Beethoven or Mozart on his little violin legs. Or maybe some Drew Tretick. Or maybe even some older Dixie Chicks.

Something that I could at least enjoy until I simply couldn't hold my eyes open any longer.

Why, oh why, do the crickets that get inside my house choose to mimic the whiney drone of the neighbor's A.C. unit?

From inside my bathroom?

In my left ear?

All the live-long night?

That is not your mate responding back, Romeo!

Auuugggh!

A Luau, Remembering My Sweet Gram

Our church recently held a mission's fundraiser dinner.

For fun, we did it up with a luau theme.

We had Hawaiian flowers for the women to wear in their hair, leis for everyone, and then brought in palm leaves to make a little hut at one end of our church fellowship hall where folks could get their pictures taken Hawaiian style.

There was lots of yummy Hawaiian themed food (this isn't even all of it...I just forgot to take pictures after the spread was all set out, lol.)

Here were my contributions:

The kabobs took a VERY long time to make, but looked very festive.

When we arrived, I learned that I could have gotten by with only the (much easier to prepare) fruit kabobs. Apparently you can lead folks to the veggie kabobs, but you can't make them eat 'em. Or maybe the jicama scared them away, I'm not sure.

My mother-in-law found a recipe in the newspaper and made the dish that was easily the hit of the luau...a fabulous Hawaiian chicken entree that went over rice.

It involved making homemade fried chicken, then refrigerating it overnight in glass baking dishes. The following day, she covered it with a sauce made of pineapple tidbits (in juice) and diced green bell peppers which were cooked together and thickened with cornstarch before pouring it all over the chicken.

Yummo.

Then, somewhere in the middle of all the chaos, I glanced down and saw these.

I call this still-life "well worn potholders beside an ugly dishtowel"

At first glance, I merely thought the flowery fabric looked familiar. It reminded me of a quilt my grandma had made years ago out of sale priced sheets.

But grandma was also known for her potholders.

Upon closer inspection, I got to thinking that everything about the potholders looked familiar...down to the bias tape around the edge, and even including the bar of solid colored fabric grandma would often throw in the middle if there wasn't quite enough of the print fabric left left to make a full circle.

Now my grandma was an original. She used up every scrap of fabric and thread and whatnot, never letting anything go to waste.

And when I picked them up, I realized that whoever had made these had done the exact same thing. They looked identical to some of my own 'signature' potholders by grandma, just a different color scheme.

They even had the pocket on the back to slip one's fingers into. Her trademark, if you will.

But they weren't mine, and I knew I'd never had any in that particular color scheme that might still be floating around the church kitchen.

What in the world?

So...I did the first thing any good scrapbooker/blogger would do and I took a picture. Because, as you know, pictures are supposed to last longer.

My sister-in-law Cheryl caught me in the act, and arching a brow asked, "What are you doing, taking a picture of those old potholders?" She seemed a bit perplexed by my behavior, as would most non-blogger, non-scrapbooker types.

"Heh, heh" I laughed, feeling rather sheepish. "It's just that they look so much like the old potholders my grandma used to make...that it just now got me thinking about her.

Grandma has been gone now for a little over two years, and only recently have I begun to think about her without the raw ache of missing her so much. Now, whenever I get to missing her, I can just scroll back through the wealth of many wonderful and Happy memories made with her without emoting. Much.

However, something about those silly potholders caused me to get a bit misty with remembrance.

"That's because those were some that your grandma made" my sister-in-law replied just then.

"She gave them to each of us [my sister-in-laws] back when you and Jeff got married."

"Oh." Mystery solved!

And I just had to smile, because that was just like my grandma.

She made quilts or potholders for just about everyone she knew and claimed as her own, including Jeff back when I very first met him.

And lucky him, his quilt and potholders were a matching set, lol. She knew right off the bat there was something special about him.

Funny, looking down at those old worn and yet very familiar potholders, I could just see her busy at work, tracing the fabric with a trusty white corelle plate, using leftover quilt batting and other layers of stuff to prevent burns, and hand-stitching bias tape on them like mad to get them all done before the "folks" got to town before my wedding. And considering the size of Jeff's family, quite a feat for a woman with arthritis.

But it was her way.

A more selfless and giving soul I've yet to meet.

Me, the boys and my sweet, generous grandma.

I hope I grow up to be just like her one day.

First Day of School, Anxiety and Growing Up

Last Monday was Jeff's first day back as a teacher, and Jericho's first day back-to-school as a big 6th grader.

It was also Jericho's first year in a new school.

It was a 'coming of age', of sorts, and he seemed to sense it as much as we did.

In recent weeks, we've had some issues crop up that showed us our boy was in fact growing up.

It seems he finally 'got' that there comes a time where a boy needs to choose the path he's going to take in life because it's the right one, even when it's not always the popular one, and that in doing so he begins to mature and turn into a young man.

As part of preparing him for this auspicious occasion, I'd printed out a Bible verse for him:

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I
reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind
me. ~1 Corinthians 13:1

When he read it, he smiled and promptly tacked it to his bedroom wall. And of his own accord, memorized and recited it to us a couple of nights later.

It seemed he was ready to assume the mantle of responsibility, and we couldn't have been more proud of him.

Switching school districts this year was a huge decision for our family. Jericho had attended his old school from Kindergarten through the 5th grade.

The K - 3rd grade pictures haven't yet been scanned, but in case you were wondering, in each one was a total frumpmama a gorgeous, svelte young woman who couldn't possibly be old enough to have such a handsome young son.

After the baby was born, however, frumpmama took control.



4th Grade



5th Grade

That old school was a wonderful one where we had built a lot of good relationships and it was hard to say goodbye, but with gas prices being what they've been and knowing we would soon be buying a home, we knew it was time.

Incidentally, this will also be the first year that father and son will be in the same district, on the same school-year calendar (which also means the same vacation schedule! Woo hoo!) and for the first time ever, on the same campus.

Not every kid gets to go to school with their dad.

However, there was one slight snafu.

One little problem that threatened to put a damper on the whole plan.

Jericho gets very nervous about first days.

First anythings, really, especially being thrust into a situation where he doesn't know what to expect.

He's normally a very compliant, easy-going kid, but there have come a few occasions where were had to make him do things against his will, pushing him to take that first step, just so he'd see that they weren't as 'scary' as he thought them to be.

Things like starting Little League, Soccer and going on rides at amusement parks.

And once he tried them out, he realized it wasn't so bad and actually grew to love those things.

For that reason and because we knew he'd fret and worry away the last couple of days of his already short summer vacation, we tricked him into believing that his first day of school was really just a fun, meet-your-teachers orientation day.

His arrival at school was non-eventful. He seemed genuinely excited about being there.

On the way to the gate, unable to let the charade go on any longer, I came clean and told him it was really his first day of school.

He laughed, amazed that we'd been able to pull that one over on him.



He seemed nervous, but it was more a case of typical first day jitters.

I hugged him and reminded him of all the things we've been praying about with regard to this anxiety and told him to just trust the Lord to get him through the day. That this was all part of growing up...becoming a young man. Gaining victory in difficult areas.

He flagged it all off with a semi-cofident, "I'm okay, mom."



And marched off to class.

I left feeling better than ever about leaving him on a first day.

Which was nothing short of a miracle, because there was a season where his anxiety caused a lot of problems for him. Cotton-mouthed, "I'm not sure I can go through with this" kind of anxiety.

It was something he came by honestly enough, I suppose. I tend to struggle with being a worry-wart nervous-wreck of a hypochondriac a bit anxious at times, though I have tried very hard over the years not to let the kids pick up on my own worries.

With Jericho, however, this seemed to become more pronounced the further I got in my pregnancy with Judah.

Around the same time that Jericho (at 8 1/2 years old) finally realized that I would have to go to the hospital to have the baby.

And had heard a couple of stories about how sometimes babies and even mommies didn't come home from that place. Just like his Papa (grandpa) a few years before.

Jericho would rather go to the dentist than the hospital.

And he began to dread the approaching due date, fearful about all the bad things that could happen instead of being excited that he would soon have a long-awaited baby brother.

A little over a week before Judah was due, we sat in the desert heat (under an awning) watching Jericho's soccer matches at a day-long tournament. When we got home that night, Jeff worried that the heat may have been too much for me in my very pregnant state, but I'd been drinking lots of water and seemed to be fine.

We had company in town, and the next morning I felt good enough to spend most of the day visiting with them.

However, late that afternoon I began to feel all the symptoms of a horrible flu coming on, complete with aches, chills and a mild fever.

That evening, I began to fear dehydration and the effects that could have on the baby and called my doctor, who directed me to go straight to the hospital where they put me on IV fluids and a fetal monitor and kept me for observation.

After a few hours of labor pains, they found that baby Judah appeared to be showing signs of possible distress, and so they induced me and eventually opted on an emergency c-section.

Hours later, Jericho, Grandma and the great aunt and uncle that were visiting came to the hospital. Jericho was thrilled to be first to hold his new baby brother, and was reassured that mom was going to be just fine.



I was told we'd be checked out in just a couple of days to recover at home, and everything seemed to be all sunshine and roses.

Later that evening, after being moved to a recovery room (and shortly after Jeff had gone home to get a shower and rest), I fed Judah and a nurse came to put him into his bassinet beside my hospital bed. He was making sweet little baby sounds, eventually dozed off and my room got quiet.

My body was screaming for sleep, but at one point I glanced over and noticed that his blanket didn't appear to be moving up and down with his breathing. I could barely reach the blanket and pulled it away, and he looked still. Too still. His color didn't look right, either.

I panicked.

Having just had a c-section, I was in excruciating pain (the nurses had ignorantly somehow overlooked giving me anything at all for the pain since the c-section), and without the use of stomach muscles, I couldn't sit up to climb out of my bed on my own...because believe me, I tried.

I was utterly and completely helpless, and the little remote box with the button to summon a nurse had somehow slipped out of my reach between the mattress and the bed frame.

I screamed for a nurse, one of which came rushing in. I explained, pointing, and she grabbed him up, saw that his little jaw seemed to have locked and that he'd turned purplish blue, and (thankfully) knew immediately what to do to get him to breathe again...while I fell to pieces in my bed, a severely sleep-deprived, blubbering and freaked out hormonal mess.

I managed to get through to Jeff by phone, and he came rushing back to the hospital. I continued to bawl my eyes out for the next few hours after my baby was whisked away. Jeff went to the NICU to wait there for word, but it was after hours, and nobody would tell us what was happening.

We were finally informed that Judah seemed fine, but would need to spend a few days in NICU for observation and testing to be sure everything was okay.

Jeff was in there with him in my place, so that I could try and get some sleep. By this time, I'd gone without for nearly 72 hours and was beyond exhaustion.

Meanwhile, I thought of poor little Jericho over at grandma's house, most likely silently worrying himself into a dither while all the adults that were there spoke in hushed tones about what was going on at the hospital, and phone calls were made to our church prayer chain and some local relatives and friends, asking for prayer...and I cried some more.

The next morning, aunt Tammy brought Jericho back to the hospital to see his baby brother again, but they couldn't go into the NICU.

I made it a point to get up and wait for them outside the NICU so that he could see that I was doing better, but he had to settle for a view of his brother through the NICU window. Judah was hooked to all kinds of monitors and machines.



Looking at this photo, I can still see from the slight tilt of his head that he was anxious, fearing the worst, and it always makes me choke up a little remembering the moment and all that must have been going through his mind at that time.

A couple of days later, I was discharged to recover at home, but Judah was kept for a couple more days until some tests came back. This seemed to help assure Jericho that things were getting better.

A couple of days later, we picked up Judah, and settled into a good routine.

At long last, it seemed that Jericho could finally breathe peacefully again, and we saw his happy face again.

Doctors never did figure out what caused Judah to turn blue that day. We know only that his jaw locked momentarily preventing him from breathing. Whether it was a slight jaw malformation or jaw muscles that clenched funny after nursing, we'll never know. I still thank the Lord for causing me to look over and double-check to be sure he was okay when I couldn't see the rise and fall of his blanket.

We're also thankful that it wasn't anything serious, and that he's grown to be quite healthy and robust. As it turned out, Judah wasn't sick once in his first two years of life. He has had some sicknesses since, but those have been blessedly shortlived.

Long-story-short, after this whole experience, it took quite a while but Jericho eventually began to outgrow the anxiety issues, and only a couple of other times did we again see any hint of them...when he got the leading role in play at school, and when he had his first days of school the following years.

Which was why we chose to deliberately deceive him about his first day of school this year. We didn't want the poor kid fretting and worrying away his last couple of days of an already shorter than usual summer break.

We needn't have worried.

The night before, he laid out his backpack then went to bed. And slept soundly all night.

Shortly before the cricket incident, I took this photo because I saw that little Judah had put his "pack-ack" right beside big brothers on the sofa.



Curious, to see what Judah deemed important enough to take to "'Cool", I looked inside and found a long toy snake. (Pack-ACK, indeed!)

Because, you know, every boy needs a snake with them for their first day of school.

Jericho went to great pains to pick out his clothes for this 'orientation' day, and even wheedled us into a couple of not-usually-allowed treats for his lunch.

Not even Jeff's starting back that day (on the same campus) or mentioning that grandma would be joining us for our traditional 'first day of school' family photo session again seemed to phase him.

That morning, Jericho was up and at 'em, dashing around to get ready, and then we took our annual pictures with grandma.



This year's photo...our big 6th grader.

Jericho came home that afternoon with a huge smile on his face, full of wonderful experiences from his first day.

One of which involves special privileges.

Being a teacher's kid who has to hang around before and after hours, he was told that during the times that he's not working on homework he may go to the office or library to help as a T.A. "I get a name badge and everything!" he proudly informed me.

And here he was on his first Friday...our little man.



Yes, with the Lord's help, it appears he's finally conquered the anxiety.

And gets to ride back and forth to school with his dad.

It's win-win for everyone.

Well, everyone except Judah, who really, really wants to go to school with big brother and daddy.

PSF: It's Kn*tt The Same As I Remembered

Hosted by Cecily and Mama Geek

If growing older hasn't already caused you to look at life with a slightly more jaded eye, going to a bastion of Southern California family tourism on a busy summer weekend sure will.

Some vacation advice from FrumpMama:

Never go to Kn*tts Berry Farm on a weekend.

Any weekend during the summer.

Not even weekends that the locals will tell you aren't crowded.

Because millions of other people will have the very same idea.

And you will fret about losing your children in the crush of humanity.

I do not advise a trip like this when temps in Southern California are predicted to be in the 100's and you don't "do" heat well.

Or if you have asthma.

Because you never realize how many of those rides are powered by gas and diesel until you have asthma and begin to suffer from all the fumes minutes after entering the park.

And because you notice that your toddler is, with unbridled enthusiasm, looking up at all the colorful roller coaster tracks looping high above your heads, and you see the little wheels turning in his brain as he devises a way to escape from your clutches and climb to the highest point in the park, which adds a little stress to an already difficult breathing situation.

Thank you, but I'm not wild about becoming that parent whose child becomes a news headline for climbing roller coaster tracks when I turn my back for a second.

With a toddler son like Taz Judah, a mom can't be too careful.

Thankfully, he didn't manage to do that, but he did do other maniacal things...like climb over fences meant to keep people out of dangerous areas, and try to get out of his restraints on a couple of the rides while in motion.

Now our trip to Kn*tts was long anticipated by our family.

Jericho was looking forward to recapturing some of the nostalgia from his younger childhood years, since our last vacation there was when he was only about five.



Judah was all aflutter at getting to see "Thomas", and take a ride on Thomas.

We know this because he asked us at least two hundred and eighty five times on the drive there one of the following:

"Do we get to thee Thomath?"

"Do I get to wide Thomath?"

"Will you thit by me on Thomath?"

"Do we get to thee Thomath?"

"Do I get to wide Thomath?"

"Will you thit by me on Thomath?"

It didn't matter how many times we enthusiastically answered his questions, he continued to pepper us with the same ones over and over and over all. the. way. there.

It was a very, very long trip.

When we finally arrived it was already lunchtime.

Immediately following a renowned Mrs. Kn*tts picnic lunch, to put the kid out of his misery satisfy his curiosity, we took Judah for a train ride on "Thomas".

All abooooard!



All trains are Thomas to our son.



We know this because we live near some train tracks, and some days we'll be calmly driving down the road, and Judah will suddenly scream bloody murder shout with glee from his carseat in the back, "Thomath!" and we will know that he has spotted a train.

And after I recover from heart palpitations and swerving all over the road, I will try to calmly join in his happiness by saying, "Yes, Judah, there's Thomas. But please don't yell while I'm driving, okay?" and somehow manage to refrain from dampening his enthusiasm by launching into a diatribe on heart attacks and traffic accidents brought on by sudden shrieks.

No sooner did we board the train than we were robbed by a 'bad guy'. (Looks pretty scary, doesn't he?)



'Shaken', we got off the train at the next stop.

It was near the grave with the telltale beating heart.



Jericho was not impressed. Pfffft, lame special effects, his body language seemed to say.

But then we came to the jail.

Jeff sent Jericho and I on ahead to look inside while he stayed behind with Judah and our ungainly stroller.

Some dummy was sitting inside the cramped little jail cell.

He said to us, "Well hello, Jericho and Becky!" And without moving his mouth, began 'chatting' about the weather in our hometown, which he named specifically.

Now I knew Jeff somehow had a hand in that, but Jericho was entranced. "How does he know?" his eyes asked, wide with amazement.

The dummy went on to ask how his grandma Bonnie was doing, and what his cousin Kody was up to these days. Jericho was astounded.

Just as we were walking away, the dummy said something else which I didn't catch.

Jericho did, however, and came running up to breathlessly inform me, "Mom! He said he reads your blog!'"

I had to laugh. It was that little tidbit that convinced Jericho that the dummy somehow knew us... nevermind that the dummy sat still the entire time, was made of wood, and looked more like a badly painted chainsaw carving than a real person.

Jeff and the guy in the 'telegraph' office around the corner both looked awfully suspicious when we walked up to the counter.

For a while, we stayed together as a family, enjoying some of the sights and shops throughout the park, then made our way to Camp Snoopy and all the kiddie rides.



The original Snoop-dawg and his entourage.

Judah loved this part of our day.

And I'm proud to say that he totally owned those rides.

He rode everything he was tall enough to ride, and insisted on holding his hands up in the air like the big kids do on the roller coasters...on every. single. ride.

He also took it like a champ when the scrambler jerked to a start, and every little kid on the ride was suddenly banged into the sides of their seats. Because they're all about amusing kids in this place.

He didn't cry or anything.



Later, because he still hadn't got his fill of Thomas, we put him on a rustic and charming little ride that didn't have much of a line.

It soon became clear why this 'attraction' was called the "Huff & Puff".

And why there was no line.

I ask you this...what red-blooded child is going to go into raptures of delight knowing they have to 'pump' their train car around the track by moving a bar up and down...by their own steam...in 105 degree heat?



Whee. This is great fun...I think.

The attendant had to come around and push Judah's cart several times because he was holding things up for the other kids on the track.

She really earned her money that day, let me tell you!

I'm thinking perhaps they should rethink the height requirement for that one.

And maybe rename it Pa Ingalls' Trip to Volga. (That must have been a long, loooong trip).

Moving along, we saw on our park map that there was yet another train ride available, and so walked across the State the park and got in the long, winding line.

For ambience, while standing in line, they have a small river stream that rushes down the giant chicken-wire/foam/stucco 'mountain' past your feet.

Naturally, Judah spotted it immediately and promptly began panning for gold.



Later, while still waiting in that same long, looong line under the beating hot SoCal sun, Judah began misbehaving in a big way. We were forced to take disciplinary action, and then threaten to not take him on Thomas if he continued acting up.

He immediately obeyed. I guess he knew better than to jeapordize his chances at seeing his beloved Thomas again.

At long last, we made it through the turnstiles and boarded our rickety little ore cart.

As we left daylight and descended into the fake mountain bowels of the earth, Judah began to get really squirmy. Kept twisting around and hanging over the edge to see what was going on. (This was one ride you didn't need safety restraints on.)

So for fun to get him to shape up, I asked the very ominous and thought-provoking question, "Judah, is this where the dinosaurs live?"

He became a little wary of his surroundings at that point, and sat still.

Very still.

Jericho, too, though he would never cop to it.



Which was good, because the stench of the mummies dummies that were working that mine, and the musty, dusty interior of the place really got to me. I was sneezing almost uncontrollably, which totally incapacitated me for the remainder of the ride, and would have rendered me completely helpless to give chase if Judah suddenly decided to go spelunking and Bo Duked it over the side of the cart.

As we wound our way through the "mine" past the chilling scenes with the decrepit mummies of long-gone miners, he clung to his daddy and was never so excited to see the great outdoors as he was when we came up out of the tunnel mine. "Weow outsthide!" he exclaimed in relief.

But his joy was shortlived, because we wound in and out several more times before the ride came to a full and complete stop.

Never was a child so happy to set his feet on terra firma once again.

Imagine...all the fast, looping scary rides at Kn*tts, and he's afraid of the herky-jerky little old Gold Mine ride! Mwahahahaha!

It was about this point that daddy and Jericho split. They wanted to go on big rides that Judah would never be allowed on.

Things like the Ferris Wheel.



And a whole bunch of roller coasters and other rides that I didn't have the guts to go on feel were worth standing in hour-long lines for.

So I continued through Camp Snoopy with Judah, letting him re-ride a couple of his favorites.

Later, he and I took a breather and sat and watched a terrific cultural Mexican Ballet troupe, Pur* C*razon, perform.

Their performance was a lovely journey through Old Mexico, with performances of traditional regional dance.

Something about how each number was introduced reminded me of watching Lawrence Welk with my grandma as a kid, except without the polka and much blowing of bubbles.

I was entranced. It was all so beautiful. And colorful. And well synchronized.

The girls and boys all looked so sweet, performing each number with absolute joy on their faces, never missing a step. They were really good.

Judah sat in his stroller throughout this entire show, watching intently and even clapping when the crowd did.

When that show was over, I saw that Judah was getting kind of sleepy and was obviously in need of a nap.

We poked in and out of shops until another show was to start up.

Later, while standing in a crowded area watching a skateboard/trampoline show, I saw the crowd around me begin to part.

I looked up to see a grown man wearing beaded underwear and a large beaded neck-piece that looked somehwhat Native American stride past pushing a flatbed hand cart.

I only wish I could have gotten my camera out soon enough to catch the reaction of the men in the crowd as they glanced over to see what the commotion was about, only to do double-takes, and then nudge each other and try to contain their laughter. This definitely put the amuse in amusement park for me.

Later that evening, while Jericho and Jeff were still in line at one of the rides, we sat down to watch another show, and lo and behold if it wasn't beaded-underwear man again.

Blowing on a conch shell.

Here are a couple of his friends.

As they began their performance, they informed us that they were of Aztec descent, though their regalia looked very much Native American.

Though the pictures don't do them justice, the costumes were incredible, especially their feathered headdresses, and as their dancing and drums got louder and louder, I could suddenly understand the feelings my grandma had as a young child in a logging camp in the Pacific Northwest, when she spoke of hearing the coastal Native American's pow-wows off in the distance. The drum beats seemed to make your heart beat faster.

Shortly thereafter, we met up with Jeff and Jericho, and decided to make a stop off at the "Gem" store on our way out of the park.

This was the rustic building where period costumed folks sold geodes that they would slice open for you with a modern electric saw.

Jericho wasn't quite sure how he wanted to spend his money, and went inside to take a look at other specimens and fossils for sale.

Judah and I had already been in and out of that store earlier, so we waited outside.

The crowds were beginning to drift towards the park exit, but there was a small commotion from a family seated on some benches near the shop. "La cucaracha!, La cucaracha!" the woman shrieked, and hopped up on the bench.

Sure enough, there on the outside window of the gem store was one of the biggest cockroaches I'd ever seen.

So big, I'm thinking it might have even hissed.

I recoiled.

Because just across the way was the very building where we'd had our 'famous' Mrs. Kn*tts picnic lunch earlier that day.

Ugh.

I guess it brought back the unpleasant memory of the time that my friend Natasha and I took a road trip to Disneyland when Jericho was just a little tot. At the end of a long day, we were standing near a beautifully lit fountain at the base of the Disneyland Hotel, waiting for the parade to pass by.

Jericho, who was three or four at the time, was getting kind of sleepy, and so I was holding him and sort of swaying to the music coming over the loudspeakers, when he lifted his head from my shoulder and said, "Awww, mama...look at that cute mouse."

I thought Mickey and Minnie must be heading up the long-awaited parade, but when I turned to where he was pointing, we instead saw a ginormous rat scuttling along the base of the Disneyland Hotel.

And I jumped up on the nearest bench screaming.

Totally ruined it for me, shaking all the pixie dust off of the whole experience.

No, my friends...going to theme parks as an adult is simply Kn*tt the same as I remembered it.

But it was worth it all to see moments like this.

When we finally got to the car, Judah asked for some food. After hiking all over that park, he was hungry.

He just didn't have the energy left to eat it.

Now that is tired.

One Of Those Days...

Have you ever had one of those days where you walk into the kitchen first thing after you get up and you see a large cricket jumping around in there, but because you are a total wuss about bugs your fearless (nearly) three year old cricket-catching son isn't yet awake, you are forced to grab a nearby wide-mouth mason jar and try to capture it until such a time as your young warrior can dispatch the thing for you, but instead it gets away by hopping rapidly around the kitchen forcing you to follow it around leapfrog style trying to cover it with the jar, only to have it seek shelter behind the chest freezer in a paper-towel tube that somehow found it's way back there and is now covered by dust bunnies, and which then reverberates loudly with the chirping of said cricket all day long?

Meanwhile, you run around all day long like a chicken with it's head cut off trying to get school supplies into sons backpack, clothes laid out, lunches made and myriad other duties tended to for your husband and son's first day back at school so you can finally haul your carcass off to bed?

But getting to sleep takes waaaay longer than usual because you lie awake feeling huge motherly guilt for purposefully deceiving your 6th grader son into believing that his first day back is really just a fun, orientation day (because he gets overly anxious about first days and other new things and you don't want him to worry away his last couple of days of his shorter-than-usual summer break)?

Then, as if that wasn't enough to mull over, your head is spinning because you've got a dozen very important details to remember over the next couple of days on top of first-day-of-school details, things that must be handled immediately because escrow and moving into your future home in a timely manner all hinges upon it...and then you finally manage to drift off to sleep only to be wakened an hour later when your youngest child wakes whimpering with growing pains in his shins (no doubt from jumping off of the dining room table top repeatedly throughout the day every time your back was turned)...and so you get back up to read up on what nutritional thing needs to be 'boned up' on in the near future and to massage his little shins, and then to finally think coherently enough to apply a heating pad so that he can go back to sleep?

And then finally drift back off to sleep once again only to be awakened by muscle cramps from being in an odd and extremely uncomfortable position (thanks to a third person in your bed) and you realize that you're thirsty and so you slide your legs over the side of the bed and lean towards your nightstand to flip on the lamp only to fumble around in the dark and to nearly knock said lamp off of nightstand (which you miraculously manage to catch and set to rights without making any noise to speak of and silently congratulate yourself for your prowess in such things)...and then you sit back up trying to remember why you needed the light on to begin with, and after an overly long and fog-brained middle-of-the-night thought process, finally determine that it was to get some water...which reminds you that it's excessively hot in the house, and so you get up and turn the A.C. on, and hobble back to bed, but upon arriving at your bedside decide to carry your youngest son back to his bed so that you might have a chance at at least one hour of shut-eye before it's time to get up and start another day, but stumble on a very sharp hot wheels toy lurking in the darkness of the hallway and have to limp back to bed?

And then you sit back down on the bed, and reach for that glass of water and hear a kind of scratchy sound on the floor beside your bed, and out of your periphery you notice something smallish ginormous and dark jump on your mattress between your legs, and you glance down and see that it's a very large bug, with a menacing walk, and you scramble backward across the bed with the agility of a gymnast (which you had no idea you were capable of because, you know, adrenaline gives you super-human strength), and you scream bloody murder at 3 am, which promptly wakens your husband from a dead sleep and he instantaneously jumps to his feet, performing an oscar-worthy Matrix move complete with a primal scream and Karate chop action while you laugh hysterically at his reaction, because just then you've looked down to find that it wasn't a deadly bull dog ant or whip scorpion like you had conjured up in your mind, but was simply that same cricket you chased around early that morning, the one that had gone strangely silent, coming to exact revenge after nearly losing a limb under the mouth of that jar earlier in the morning?

Oh.

Well I did.

It's Time...

So there has been a lot going on around here lately (more on that early next week), but I just have a minute, so I'll leave you with this:

You know it's time to potty train your stubborn strong-willed toddler...when he can't stand his own stink, does a stiff-legged penguin walk into his dad in the living room carrying a pull-up, diaper ointment and the container of wipes, meticulously opens up and lays out a stack of wipes on top of the container as he's seen you do for the past 2 years and way-too-many months, and says, "Please change my dipe. It bugth me."

What we can't seem to get him to do is to tell us he needs to go before he does the deed in his pull-up.

We're preparing for a possible move, and I just don't know that I am up for the whole "let him go naked until he learns to go to the restroom" approach that worked with our oldest way-back-when, because, frankly, I don't want to risk having to clean up poo behind him day after day until he finally gets it right.

Plus, leaving the bathroom door is not an option with a son like Taz Judah.

An open bathroom door around here is taken as an open invitation for him to vandalize commit the following crimes:

a.) splash in the toilet water with abandon and maybe even drag his nearby bath toys into the fray

b.) gleefully unroll the entire roll of T.P. (or dump it into the toilet whole, depending on his mood and how much time he has to work with)

c.) to climb up on the toilet, shimmy his way precariously across the vanity counter, dig in the vanity mirror cabinet and gel his hair to new heights and/or splash on daddy's cologne so he can "wook han-some"

d.) wrest the lid off of daddy's mouthwash and gulp with abandon until he either hears me coming down the hallway or it finally registers that, like vanilla, it smells good but burns going down

e.) all of the above

Can you see my dilemma?

We're dealing with the terrible twos almost threes around here in full force, peeps.

So...stay tuned for the hilarious hijinks as FrumpMama frantically spins plates tries to hang onto her last thread of sanity while potty-training her toddler and packing up the entire house, getting the possible new house inspected, enters escrow, picks out flooring we'll have to live with for a long, long time, chooses paint colors that will go with existing furniture and decor and sets up a home daycare, all while trying to get oldest son registered in a new school district on a different track without him knowing (long story) because Daddy started back to work today and Jericho is supposed to start Monday but doesn't yet know it...and Jeff may yet get interviewed for an administrative position for another school slated to begin Monday, which would mean Jericho would then have to transfer to that school so they can ride together...**sucks in huge gulps of air**

What a rush, huh?

And so, as the old Beatles song has it, "Won't you pleeeeease, please help me, help me, help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Thank you kindly for any potty-training tips y'all might have!

Help a FrumpMama keep her sanity!

A Bloody Mess!

Our youngest son is tough.

No, seriously. This kid can fall down, get scratched up and bleed, wipe it off on his shirt, jump up and keep going.

Which is probably good, because he is also a daredevil. Always getting himself into scrapes.

Have I mentioned before that I don't do blood well?

I get all squeamish and weak in the knees. And begin to feel my heart palpitate and I get a little faint...

But alas, this post isn't about me.

So the other day, our boys were roughhousing in the living room.

It wasn't a big deal. They had all the cushions off the sofa (as usual), and were building a 'fort' with the bottom cushions as walls, and the back cushions as a roof.

It was all fun and games until I glanced at the clock and saw it was waaay past bed time, and even though we are on summer break, this hour of the night was simply unacceptable. Besides, we had a full day ahead of us the following morning.

"Put the cushions back, boys. Now. It's way past bed-time" I said, using my most authoritative, 'you'd best do what I say' mom-voice, and went back to checking blogs.

The horsing around continued, and long-story-short, we soon had a bloody mess on our hands.

And the sofa cushions.

And a freshly washed white down blanket that we recently brought back from the laundromat because our washer is still down.

Because Judah was bleeding like a stuck-pig, and needed a place to wipe it all off, because "It'th icky."

And it was an icky, gory mess.

Head wounds. They bleeeeeeed profusely.

Now, one would think that playing with 6 inch thick foam cushions would be perfectly safe, right?
Wrong.

Not when big brother suplexes into you with a cushion, sliding up with it at the same time.

Injury city.

So you know that little tag of skin inside your mouth that holds your upper lip to your gums?

Yeah that one. (Because I know that right now you are feeling around with your tongue to find that very place to which I refer, huh? Yeah, that's what I thought. Don't deny it.)

Well, Judah no longer has one on his upper lip.

Now, he's got loose lips. Or maybe I should say lip...as in the top lip now flaps in the breeze.

Maybe not quite that bad.

Oddly, it actually did us a service, because before the 'detatching' incident occurred, it was very hard to brush his upper teeth. His lip was affixed to his gums immediately above where his front teeth meet with the gums, by a very short 'tag' of skin, which left two little pockets on either side which were infamous for gathering and storing food for later, which was especially true after eating something starchy like cheetos.

And then, as Judah would say, "It bugth me", and he would proceed to dig around up in there to relieve himself of the annoyance (much like some kids do in their nostrils, eliciting the same wretching-gagging effect from any onlookers).

Okay, so now that I've given you that disgusting visual, and since this post wasn't already gross enough, I'll go back to the whole issue of blood.

Did I already mention how much blood there was?

It was like a crime scene!

Okay, maybe not that bad, but it did get all over the place and was very gross and unfun to clean up.

And amazingly, the kid did not cry. Not once.

Until I scolded them both severely for not obeying me the first time. Because it seems that when children disobey their parents, someone always ends up getting hurt.

And then he cried. Rivers of tears. "I thowwy, mama" he said, and flung himself into my arms.

I was just about to reply when he said, "I pug-ib you."

And really, even if it did shave a year off my life, how could I not?