Fatboy

Grant makes me crazy.

Tonight he seriously risked life and limb 18 different times by sneaking out of bed to ask ridiculous questions like, "Are we dowing have candy for breakfast tomorrow?"

To try and butter me up, "I dust want to tell you, you are bery, bery bootiful." 

Or because he had to go potty for the millionth time. 

(That's code for him wanting to sing on the pot.)

He is a lot of work.

But, dang if he didn't make up for that by being so stinkin' cute and funny.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and I was tired of being in the house. So we decided to load up and drive to post to return library books. I also wanted to listen to a CD of a sermon from our hometown church, my friend had  just sent me.

When your husband's deployed, there is no greater feeling of control and  freedom, than when your kids are buckled in their carseats...and not fighting, whining or crying.

Beautiful, beautiful day. 

Or night.

It was perfect.

The kind of night you would beg to play outside just a little bit longer in as a child. The kind of night you would wander with friends through as a teenager. Having deep discussions. One-upping each other with dares.

The kind that gives hope of spring to people everywhere.

This is the time of year, I find myself thinking, "If only Louisiana stayed like this...I wouldn't want to leave."

But, back to Grant:

After the library, we drove around a bit, and eventually I remembered that I hadn't fed my children. So, we decided to try out a restaurant we'd never been to in town, "Fatboy and Skinny's."

Kinda cheap. Free drinks for the kids. Greasy, good diner.

 Awesome customer service.

While I was washing Grant's hands after he'd gone potty, he looked up into the mirror and said, "I hope dey yike my style."

"Who? The people in the restaurant?"

"Yeah. I dust hope dey yike my style."

I laughed and told him he had great style...and people would be crazy not to like it.

After we sat back down and a few minutes later he said,
 "Oh mom. I really hope dat people call me fat boy. "

"What?"

"I SAID, I REALLY HOPE YOU CALL ME FAT BOY!!!! "

"FAT BOY!! "

"FAT. "

"BOY. "

*Looking around* 

"Hey mom! Dat guy is fat, too!!"

*My arm shooting across the table, over his mouth*

"Okay! Shhh! I get it."

*whispering* 

"Why do you want people to call you a fat boy?" 

(totally forgetting where we were eating) 

"Because he has da best style! AND I dust love fat boys!!!" 

Then I looked down and saw the Fatboy and Skinny characters on the table. *Aaah.*


( A few minutes later, probably because I was ignoring earlier requests to go-- with the logic that he had just gone. ) 

"Oh mom!! Oh mom!! I gotta go to da bafroom again. "

"I have to go NOW! "

"I have to GRAB MY BUTT...BECAUSE POOP is dowing to come out of it. OH my doodness!! TAKE ME to da bafroom!! OH my doodness!!"

 "Shhh! Grant. Calm down buddy. Let's go, I will take you potty again. "

"Please don't yell about poop anymore. Shhh!"

 "OKAY!!! I WILL NOT TALK ABOUT POOP."

"I WILL HOLD MY BUTT WIT DIS HAND, AND YOU CAN HOLD MY 'ODDER HAND TO TAKE ME POTTY!!!!" 

"Oh my doodness mom. I hafta dow so bad...thank-you."

Aww. You're welcome Grant. 

I don't care that this is my third trip to the bathroom.

I don't care that I haven't had a single bite of food yet.

I don't care that everyone is staring in horror at your proclamations of fatness and poo.

Because...

you...

are...

worth it all.

Ode to Spring Soccer

  (Twelve steps for cold, muddy misery:)

1. Rush through homework, skip dinner, change out of uniforms...

all...

because... 

of ... 

SPRING SOCCER. 

*Heavenly choir*

2. Dress five-year-old in heavily gauged plastic shields. Strategically place over shins.  
This is in case of attack.

3. Place expensive, uncomfortable, fashionable shoes on five-year-old's feet.  Attach dangerous spikes to bottom of said shoes to ward off assault from other participants. Feel comforted that five-year-old is wearing her shin shields for gosh sakes! Reason that the added mud and grass ALL over truck is worth it.

4. Important: Forget to dress children for Louisiana's freaking hot/cold, menopausal weather especially so you can win the idiot mom award...again. Leave house with light sweaters and jackets. Don't bother with hats, warm coats or any of that tomfoolery. It's February after all.

5. Drive to soccer. Psyche five-year-old into playing.

6. Get five children out of truck and navigate to one soccer field that is eight miles away from mode of transportation. Wait for five-year-old to rapidly dissolve into a puddle of blubbering incoherent tears (apparent fear of peers in cleats).

7. Bribe five-year-old with every imaginable toy, treat, and tantalizing temptation you can think of. Be flatly repudiated. The past five and a half years mean nothing. 

You are dead to her.

8. Spend 15 minutes playing soccer with other little people while simultaneously entertaining and freaking out baby on hip.

9. Throughout duration, ignore the five-year-old who sleeps in your home, and who is standing on sidelines, crying, blowing snot bubbles and complaining of low temperatures.

Pretend it's all so fun.

10. Last five minutes; give five-year-old your sweater to layer with and wipe nasal mucus on.

 11. Stop for a moment to ponder. To wonder why you're playing soccer with a bunch of midget people shorter than you are. Work through the name confusion of other girl on team named, "Sarah."  Realize sadly no one was cheering for you to begin with. 

12. Leave... towing five muddy, cold, whiny, and crying kids.

Yay spring soccer. 

YOU SUCK!

(Plus my sweater's all snotty.)

Big Ol' Fat Rain

"We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. Shoot, it even rained at night..." (Forrest Gump,1994)

 Rain in Louisiana is of a different caliber than I've ever seen. Not that I haven't seen my share of rain. In Portland, there is a definite rainy season. It's usually accompanied by kind of dreary overcasts, and sloshy mud until the rain dries up. In La Grande, it's about the same--only you have more black ice after a good rain. In Idaho, well I'm getting foggy, but my childhood memories of Idaho are this: good lightning shows once in a while. Rains infrequently, and is overcast less than over in Oregon. And, when it rained--we ran out to play IN the rain. It was great.

The storms in Louisiana are amazing. It's so hot and humid that sometimes the rain coming down is like God throwing water on a frying pan. There is often steam. And...the amount of rain that comes down is no joke. It's like someone is dumping buckets of water down on the South. Instead of individual drops. I also love the thunder and lightning that accompanies the rain here. However, it scares the daylights out of me to let the kids play in the rain. Getting hit by lightning seems like a viable way to get cooked. When the clouds have stopped their downpour...the rain in Louisiana is no overstayed guest. The moisture dries up quicker than you can say,C'est la vie. You can watch the roads get back to their scorching selves, and little raindrops evaporate like magic into the humid Louisiana air.

                                                                   

                                                                    

These three are from back in May, when we first moved in: