The Things that Slip by

"Hey, someones bike was left on the sidewalk." Both kids run to the window, and JB says matter-of-fact "Oh, shit. It's mine, I'll go get it."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" a confused Charles asked JB. "I said it's my bike, I'll go get it."

"No, before that"

"Oh, Shit?"

"That's what I thought you said. Where did you hear it?"

"Oh, that's what mama says all the time."

"Please don't say that anymore. It doesn't sound very nice."

"Ok." and with that, she bounded off happily, to put her bike away.

I guess she's been spending too much time with mama... but in my defense... She used it correctly.

The Tickle

It's a fine summer's evening, the kids are taking advantage of the post dinner twilight and scampering in the yard before it's time to begin the bedtime ritual. I'm busily working on the computer, slowly slogging my way through my homework at the coffee table when BW bursts into the house and runs to my side.

"Mama! Wanna know what a tickle feels like?"

Before I can respond, he takes his cupped hands and dumps the contents onto my hurriedly outstretched hands and homework.

I can honestly say that I know what a tickle feels like. I now also know how difficult it is to try and capture what seemed like hundreds of roly-polys that were scrambling for dark crevices, desperate to escape the clutches of a small boy.

The best part... I was wearing shorts. I now know what it's like to move at the speed of light.

A Tent for Your Caterpillars

We have a couple of HUGE cottonwoods in our backyard. HUGE. As in, I hope they don't die in my lifetime because the cost of removing them and replacing those parts of the house that get smashed in the process will cost as much as the dream vacation I've developed in my mind's eye HUGE. So when anything goes wrong with them we tend to act on it without hesitation.

The first summer we lived in our house there was a massive infestation of Tent Worms (or caterpillars) in our area. An interesting species, they are social creatures that usually build a large silk 'tent' in which they sleep at night and gather to communicate about food locations and other colonies of worms. During especially bad years tents can become so massive that they will engulf an entire cottonwood and even kill it. When an infestation occurs, the best method of control is to remove the branches that are involved and kill the worms.

Overnight a massive tent appeared in the cottonwood closest to the house. And of course it was located up high in a branch that required gymnastics and the deft skill of balance while pruning.

Once the branch was down the massive quantity of worms in the tent was disturbing. We didn't want to smash them to smithereens, as that would leave too much nasty behind on either the deck or the driveway. Putting them in the trash would only delay the problem as they would only pupate and become a problem for someone else. We didn't have a bucket that was big enough to completely submerge the tent, it's contents, and the branch. That left one final option: Incineration.

All we needed was a container, the infested branch and a fuel. What could possibly go wrong? And what red-blooded male could possibly refuse the opportunity to play with fire in his backyard?

So, picture it. Its the middle of the summer during a drought, and in the center of the lawn sits a 35 gallon metal garbage can with a hole in it, the branch is stuffed into it with only a few wayward leaves hanging out, and gasoline has been poured over the branch and offending creatures. Charles stands tentatively over the combination, lights a match, drops it in... and.

Nothing. Nothing at all. So, more gas is applied, another match is lighted and dropped. And.

Again, nothing.

We poked, we prodded and we pondered and decided that "white gas" might be a better option. Charles rummaged through the camping equipment and came out with a container. Again we posed into position, poured some gas into the can, lit a match and dropped it.

A small fire began to burn and went out. Charles tipped the container to pour more into the can to try again and at that moment a "whomp" could be heard as the unseen flame opened, travelled up the stream of fuel and into the container, which was at that moment moving as quickly away from the trash can as Charles was, leaving in the lawn as he went a trail of fire and fuel.

The grass, which because of the time of year, drought and water restrictions began to quickly surrender to the trail of fire. Fortunately, we'd recently watered the garden, so the hose was still unraveled and it was only a matter of minutes before the fire had been extinguished and stomped out.

Returning our attention to the cause of all the action, the can of worms, we found that incineration was in fact an efficient method and the caterpillars would no longer be a problem. The lawn on the other hand, it needed some attention.

Would you like a side of Soda with that?

Last nights dinner was relatively uneventful save for one moment. He tried, really, really tried to eat his "No Thank You bites". With the first spoonful his eyes bugged, his face grew red, tears began to well in his eyes and finally he spat it out, wiping his tongue on his shirt, the napkin and anything else he could find to remove the offending taste. "That was NOT good, don't EVER do that to me again, please!?"

We had a Tuscan soup so that we could use some of the kale we have been receiving in our weekly CSA pickup. It's the first time we've had this particular dish, so we were expecting the usual; neither BW or JB would like it, they'd choke down their bites and we'd move on.

There's an unspoken rule in the house when mama cooks. Everyone. Out. Of. The. Kitchen. It's a good rule, crucial even. It only applies when mama is cooking though. Charles has the curious ability to not only block out the sounds of the children, but he also is impressively able to incorporate them into the experience, sharing and teaching the art of cooking. No so with mama.

I am a good cook, great even when certain conditions are met. No noise, no distractions, no maniacal giggles that indicate that bad things are happening, or screams that just might imply that an injury or fire has already occurred. You know, everyday life for a stay at home mama. But I try, and I do well... but on certain days - whoop - not so much.

At one point the soup got really fizzy when it was cooking, but being a new recipe, it seemed a fluke. The soup was finished; side dishes prepped, table set and the usual chaos of dinner ensued. As usual, Charles and I liked the dish, and JB took her bites and her review was "Not so bad". So BW's reaction was not entirely unexpected, just a bit extreme.

After BW's unusual protest, I looked back over the recipe and everything was suddenly clear as well as the value of the cooking rule. Just as I was reaching into the pantry to get the cornstarch for the soup, the kids came bursting into the kitchen screaming "MAMA" at the top of their lungs. Startled, I had instead grabbed the baking soda and added that to the soup. That also explained why it was runnier than I expected.

It will be awhile before I can convince BW to try that dish again.

Charles in charge?

I'm a bit worried.

I'm not sure which I'm more concerned about; the children, the house, or Charles's sanity.

In the last week I've heard the following statements from him.

"Yeah, duct tape, that should fix it."

and "You can make anything fit with a hammer."

I think if I were to make it to Denver to study medicine, I'm not sure I'd find the house as it was left when I return, the children still resembling children and Charles in his normal state. I fear almost that they will be there in all of their glory, in shambles with the remains of the house smoldering... but, I've always had a great imagination... haven't I?

Finding the pet in the peeve.

In a little less than two weeks I'll be heading north to the town I grew up in to celebrate my high school reunion, and in revisiting the past and reflecting on who I've been and who I've become, one thing has been consistent through the years. Of course, I say that meaning that several things have remained similar, a lot has gotten better, but one overwhelming characteristic about me has been the same since my earliest memories. My pet peeve. The one thing I wish that I could change about me. I HATE it when I ask a question and receive no response. Or, more importantly, I hate who I become when this happens.

Perhaps it's that I grew up in a loud and chaotic family where "he who is loudest is king of conversation" that I grew sensitive to lack of a response to a question posed. Perhaps it's that most questions that were heard received the response "handle it, handle it" or were even ignored or avoided that makes me so unsettled when a question is asked only to be met with silence. Perhaps it's that I'm afraid that the person whom I've posed the question to no longer cares to respond, is no longer interested in a relationship.

Charles learned long ago that the easiest way to make this confident, secure, intelligent, witty and fun person crumble into the unshakably clingy child that I was long ago is to ignore and remain silent to an honest question. I hate that I devolve almost instantaneously into a frantic almost shrieking girl that the more he seems to ignore, the more frantic I become. I've tried to change it; to excise it from who I am, yet every attempt fails. I loathe that person. That caricature of the feminine. I know. I hate to generalize, but I wonder if it is a girl thing.

How many times have you been out shopping to find a guy walking stoutly with purpose in a specific direction while his girlfriend/wife walks alongside becoming more and more frantic as she asks him questions and he fails to respond? I know how she feels, and yet I silently wish her the strength to become silent and hold her own. I wish that for her, and I wish that for myself more than anything.

As I prepare to head north, to remember the days gone by and celebrate the person I've become, I hope that one friend in particular can overlook this awful flaw of mine that has driven them away over time, so that for one brief moment they can give me the chance to show them calm, the fun, the remarkable side of me, because I miss their friendship. I miss our conversations, and I miss that in having this trait they think I am what they avoid with ever fiber of their being; a clingy simpering chick. What I hate most is that they ever saw that side of me, that pet peeve of me.

In the meantime, I'm trying to find the bright side of not having a question answered. Perhaps it's not the answer that I'm seeking, perhaps it's asking the question itself and how it came to be that is important.

Catch a Falling Star...

Dreams are all around us, almost as if they are swirling about in the air above our heads, just there to be plucked from the sky and followed to see where they lead. Dreams of where we want to go on vacation, what we'd do with a million dollars, the dream mate or house, what we want for our kids (if you have them), and what want to be when we ourselves grow up.

Those dreams that are the hardest to attain and provide the greatest lifelong satisfaction are the ones that not only connect with the soul of your being and that you believe are worth working hard for, but they are also the ones that challenge you, cause you to question yourself, cause you to doubt yourself, everything you are and all that you believe.

It's only through the deep questioning and soul-searching that you can really, truly identify not only that which is most important to you, but that which you know is worth fighting for even when it seems that every object in the universe, every odd in Las Vegas is against you. It's been this latest class that I'm taking, a physics class that has caused me to realize this.

I'll admit it. I'm not doing well, at least my grade doesn't reflect that I'm doing well in my class. It really isn't a bad grade. I know that were I not trying to get into med school it would be a respectable grade in that it is the class average, but I am wholly frustrated with it. After spending an embarrassingly large number of hours studying the topic, the associated homework and past sample tests, I STILL only pulled the class average for my exam score.

And I cried. And I sobbed. And I doubted. Doubted the worth in trying to change the course of my life at this time, at this age. With two kids that I dearly love and who love me, with a husband who supports me in my goal, and who wants to see me be all that he knows that I can be, even when I myself don't know what it is that I can do. Knowing that for every hour, every challenge that it is one less moment, one less experience that I'll have with them. Events that can never be relived.

And over the course of the weekend I questioned and I slept and I played. Played with the kids and the dog, with Charles and all things OTHER than physics, school and preparing for my application to medical school. I occupied my thoughts with what makes me happy, with working on my sister's estate to remember my times with her, and regaining contact with those tangible and intangibles that make me who I am. Then, on Monday, I got up and went to my physics class.

I've come to realize that in spite of the grade that is and probably will be posted on my transcript that its the intangible aspects of what it represents. Sure, I don't really 'get' the subject of physics, at least not with this professor. But, I taking it. I'm sticking with it. It's the first 'hard' science class that I've had in 13 years. The first time I've even really thought about physics since I was a senior in high school, 20 years ago. Considering that and all of my other life's responsibilities, I'm actually impressed that I'm doing so well.

And, if I give up now it means that I really didn't want it, at least not enough to survive the challenges that lie ahead. So for now I'm keeping my head down, my book open and my perspective intact so that when the next wave of doubt comes along, maybe I'll be able to surf that one as well.

A little blog of this, a little blog of that...

Wow! There is something really exciting about a person's first guest post. A joy that can barely be contained. Mine was over at Enjoy Fort Collins! and it went up today. Stop by, see what it's all about, and let me know what you think!

Please Pass the Calamine

This summer Charles and I celebrate 17 years of the married life. All together, we have been the best of friends for 20 years, and on most days, it seems like it was just 'last week' that we met.

We are a well paired team, one in which our individual skills, talents and qualities balance out the weaknesses or rough spots of the other. We have become so seamless in our relationship that one of us can easily anticipate the thoughts and actions of the other.

It wasn't always that way; it did take a long time for us to develop this precious skill. I believe that Charles's bottomless well of patience has had more to do with it than anything. Lord knows that with any other I would have been served my ass on a platter too many times to count.

There is a classic story that demonstrates the depths of Charles's patience. It is a true indication of his character, and it is a story that my sister, were she alive, could attest to.

Our home is a tri-level and our living room has a large 2-story vaulted ceiling. The previous owners had 'recently' redecorated the home using a cappuccino brown paint on all the walls, save for the large wall at the end of the room. That one stretches from floor to ceiling with nary a window, architectural point of interest; nothing. Just a long blank looming wall.

In reflecting on it, I'm not sure what decade counted as 'recently' in the world of real estate, as the wallpaper on that mammoth structure was a white, beige, and gold flake portrayal of aspens and deer. It literally had white 'textural' strings that ran vertically down the wall, designed perhaps as a way to introduce interest.

After living in our home for nearly two years and after a number of conversations about redecorating that went no where, one night at dinner I calmly set my fork down, got up and walked over to the wall that had the longest section of wallpaper, bent down, teased a corner of the paper away from the wall, and calmly, but efficiently, pulled the entire strip down. After rolling it up and setting it on the floor, I silently returned to the table and began eating as though nothing occurred.

AunT stared at the two of us, her eyes bugging. Any normal man would have gone completely berserk and would have gotten 'into it' with me. But not Charles. No. Having witnessed all of this, he heavily sighed, and quietly said, "Well. I guess we are painting the house this weekend."

And paint we did, over the course of several weeks. He naturally, chose the colors. But that's what makes us such a good team. We each know what is most important to the other.

Over the course of our life together, we have climbed mountains together, slogged through valleys, each helping the other as it was needed. Now that our children have grown older, and we approach the point where the "seven year itch" becomes a reality for so many, it is easy to see how such a number of the couples that we know, love and respect have succumbed to the pressures and wanderlust of this point of their marriage. For many, it's been a fork in the road of their marriage only to separate and move onto other lives.

I'm not what I would consider a romantic, at least when it comes to the cards that we exchange. I can never seem to find the right words that convey how special Charles is, or how much a part of me he has become. Unlike me, he always finds the right words, the right tone of card to give me, the right gift to go along with it, and the right moment in which to present them.

But I can say this. I would not be who I am nor where I am on this path of life were it not for his love and support, and even though I drive him crazy, I know that so long as we each draw breath, we will be together. I love you my darling, my heart is yours so long as it beats. I look forward to what life has in store for us, and knowing that you will be by my side is a greater comfort that you can ever know.

Happy anniversary love.

They have Legos in Heaven, Right?

Charles has an incredible love of Lego’s. It's a shock, I know, being that he's male and all. Before we married, he purchased a 'really cool' set of Lego's. Cool in that there were a ton of small pieces that came in a container that had a handle, so we didn't have to rely on a box that would grow shabby and weak with time.

When playing with Lego’s, I believe that he's secretly reliving his youth, and now that he has a partner in crime (i.e., a male offspring) he has an even better excuse to spend endless hours, money and attention to the plastic bits.

BW Loves Lego’s as much as Charles, possibly even more. When he was deemed 'old enough' to play with the teeny tiny Lego's that we've all come to know and love (not the clunky, made so you can't swallow bits of plastic that are endorsed by every parenting magazine available), Charles brought fourth THE BOX.

Yes, THE BOX. The box that holds every single Lego that the man ever owned over the course of his lifetime, as well as the ones that he's obtained since reaching adulthood. Hundreds possibly even thousands of little bricks. Clear, opaque, round, sharp, pointy, hinged and if you can think of it, it’s probably there.

After THE BOX and its contents were repeatedly put away and pulled out, risking the integrity of THE BOX's structure, the contents finally found a new home. Thomas the Train and his kinfolk have been relegated to the back of BW's closet, and it's former home, the train table, now hosts the multitudes of colorful plastic pieces.

It's a nightly ritual that once the kids retire to their rooms, BW will knock about for twenty or thirty minutes before timidly coming out and quietly asking if he can go down to the basement and get two or three "Really important pieces, please, please, please?"

We always say yes, as we've learned that saying no only prolongs the pain for all of us. And, as is the normal course of things, he knows exactly which pieces he needs and is back in his room with the door closed, quietly making little boy noises in less than five minutes.

He lives Lego’s, dreams Lego’s, and sleeps among the Lego’s. His room has evolved into a type of Lego-graveyard, never to be fully appreciated until summand to the room in the dark of night. Lego’s are murder on the souls of soft bare feet. Torture devices really.

Charles is familiar with and understands this passion, and it is a strong bond that he shares with BW. JB has gotten into the act as well - with pink Lego sets and special bits and pieces formulated to make 'girl' things (at her request of course!) but she doesn't have the never-ending interest that the boys have. She can't and won't sit for hours mulling over the designs and possibilities of the creations they come up with.

So strong is this boy bond, that Charles and BW spent four hours and twenty-two minutes building a 1,000 plus pieced space shuttle over the Fourth of July weekend. BW is only six. I never knew he had the stamina to spend that much time on one single activity. I guess I never fully appreciated how strong the pull of plastic can be.

I’m not quite sure what he’ll do if and when he finds a time or place where Lego’s no longer have the mystique they do now. I’m not quite sure what Charles will do either.

The Bliss of Spritz

It’s on cloudy spritzy days like today in Northern Colorado that I’m reminded of other corners of the world that I’ve lived or visited, and it makes this place ‘home’ even more special.

I know of few other areas in which such a wide variety of weather can be experienced in a very short period of time. Already this week we have had torrential downpours, severe thunderstorm warnings, tornado warnings, flood warnings, scorching days spent with children splashing in fountains, cool nights, not so cool nights, and wet misty days like today.

A friend happened to be visiting in town this past weekend and was so excited that we had received a tornado warning. That one was never likely to develop was beside the point. He had experienced the adrenalin rush associated with the possibility of danger… the same danger that is often portrayed on the weather channel, television or as in movies like the ‘Wizard of Oz’ or ‘Twister’.

We who live here are so exposed to such watches and warnings that most of us have lost that thrill, and we find it more annoying than anything, especially when our lazy hours

in front of our favorite show are interrupted.

But really, it can be a fun and exciting experience. Perhaps it is because I have small children, and with recent guests, that interests in weather phenomenon has been rekindled and modern technology allows us to watch the weather radar in real time to predict and follow a storms progression.

Being a high desert, it doesn’t seem like Northern Colorado has many spritzy days. We tend to have major downpours followed by bright sunny days. Today’s weather reminds me of the fun I’ve had wandering the streets of Seattle, exploring locations like Pikes Place Market, or moments when I’ve had the luxury to curl up with a book and a hot cup of tea or to watch a classic movie while snuggled up as a family making days like today so welcomed.

Sadly, this day is a busy one, so I won’t be able to pick up that book that has been begging to be cracked open for too long, nor will a movie be watched while snuggled up. Instead, as time allows, a pot of chili will be placed upon the stove for tonight’s dinner, and between errands, a warm cup of coffee will be enjoyed while standing near an open window, feeling the spritz of the weather, and enjoying the smell of the rain, knowing that tomorrow will probably be quite hot and sunny again.

Patience as a Virtue...

Squirt. In order to fully appreciate our corner of the world, you need to know about Squirt. Simply saying she's the family dog doesn't quite do her justice... So, I apologize for the length of this post.

Squirt is a greyhound and yes, that is her actual name. All seventy three pounds, standing 28 inches at the shoulder. When she came to us nearly seven years ago at the age of four months, she was a squirt, in every sense of the word. She was a tiny little thing that was a wiggly, licky, happy go lucky roly-poly whose tail would weeble-wobble her around the room it wagged so hard. And, when excited she would either lie on her back and piddle on herself or on the floor as she wiggled from one person to the next.

She became available to us a few weeks after my precious grey Herman passed away. I'm not entirely sure of what I was thinking since I was six months pregnant with my first child and I was working full time crazy hours as well.

It is very unusual to have a greyhound as a puppy. Most are raised for racing and become available for adoption only when they have a physical impairment or after they've 'retired' from the circuit - but by then they are usually close to maturity... Neither situation applied to Squirt.

As the runt of the litter, she was rejected by her fellow pups, and was taken in by the breeders to wean her. Alas, even after being returned to the litter, she was still rejected and developed her habit of 'squirt' when approached by the pack of running litter-mates. This, friends, will not do if a racing greyhound needs to be part of a pack running at full speed when the gates open.

She was in every sense of the word, the best child-proofing tool ever to set foot on this earth.

If it wiggled, she chewed it. If it was planted, she dug it up and spread it to every single corner of the yard she could find. If there was grass, she burned it out with her running loops. If it was a wall she'd lick it until reaching the 'chalk' of the wall board. If it was a stuffed animal and she found it - the guts would shortly be blowing around the back yard. And if it could be climbed, she conquered it. She loves to lick. And if she meets someone who will let her lick them... she will give them googlie eyes all the days of her life. She was and remains a whining fool and without rhyme or reason she whines any hour, every hour, day or night.

She is one of the smartest dogs I've met and until recently, (I'm knocking on wood right now) she was a master escape artist. Once she left the house she was off and running until sheer exhaustion would make her stop in her tracks. She can run nearly 53 miles an hour. I know this because I clocked her speed as I was chasing her with the car on one adventurous 'outing'.

Over our life with her, we've tried prozac (it worked a little), we've tried behavioral training, going to the dog park, long walks, and if you can think of it we've tried it. The only thing that HAS worked is time. Finally, after six years she's begun to nap. Greyhounds typically sleep 12 to 14 hours a day, beginning around the age of 3 or 4. Not so with Squirt. Anything associated with the word 'typically' does not apply to our girl.

She loves people. When she sees a potential 'friend' she loses all control of herself and it's like she's a four month old puppy again. On trips to the dog park she has little to no interest in the other dogs... you'll find her making the rounds with the other people at the park. Her most favorite activity is to participate in or attend a parade - where massive throngs of people are at her beck and call for loves. She leaves an impression on people. Even though we visit our vet only once a year (now, thankfully) the doctors and staff recognize her and cheer her name the moment we enter the clinic.

She is also the most gentle creature who's only crime is that she is completely unaware that she is a huge animal. She allows children of all ages and sizes to touch her, probe her, crawl on her and pet or even pat her. If she is uncomfortable with a situation the only thing she'll do is extricate herself from the kids and wander away. That, or regard Charles or I with a plaintiff look. We never allow small ones to hurt, tease, or abuse Squirt, but we've also found that she's happiest being in the midst of the small people.

She is a good companion too... save for the frickin' whining. She maintains the schedule in the house, letting us know when it's time for dinner, bed, time to get up to head to school or work, and she is the consummate welcoming committee when one or all of us return at the end of the day. And, if someone is off schedule, Squirt is the first to worry. And worry, and worry until everyone is tucked in where they belong. On nights when BW or JB is at a sleep over or Charles is out of town on a business trip, no one gets much sleep since Squirt patrols the house the entire time.

She is simply, another character in the cast of crazytown.

Ro-Sham-Bo!

Overheard conversation between BW and JB...

"...this time you be rock and I'll be scissors... aw man, I lost again?!"

A dandelion among the roses.

BW, JB and I were out running errands yesterday, and one of the stops was at the dollar store. I was looking for cozys for our beer and soda cans so that we could relax by the pool without worrying about the beverages warming up too much.

While there, I told the kids that they had been so good all day that they could each have one item. BW quickly picked out his toy - a spring loaded foam airplane launcher.

JB however, was at a loss for what to get. She said that she wanted something that would make her beautiful so that she could be popular. This is the girl who during the end of year preschool slide show, whenever a picture with her would appear, most of the kids would cheer her name.

Over the course of the day she mentioned the 'look beautiful so I can be popular' comment a number of times, and in spite of or perhaps because of the reassurance we'd give her, she grew increasingly more insecure about herself. I'm not sure where it comes from, but I've seen it before.

My sister AunT was never truly happy with whom she was, and that she wasn't able to attain that which she so greatly wanted. She sought the sexiness and allure, the thinness and the glamour akin to what is portrayed in shows like 'Sex in the City' or the magazine Cosmopolitan. She was never to accept that she was the dandelion among the roses.

I hope that JB does.

She has a sturdiness about her, a survivability that will take her where she needs to go in life... an intelligence and competition that will let her rise to the top of what ever challenge she takes on. She has a kindness and an intrigue that draws people to her. When you are sad, she's the one handing you the kleenex and giving you a hug with kind words to make you feel better. She is hardworking, but never fails to laugh, dance and sing when the moment is right. She has a true sweetness about her that I pray never fades.

I also hope with every fiber of my being that she never succumbs to the marketing splash and the peer pressure that tells her she isn't good enough and that she can be better. I hope that I can do a better job with her than I was able to do with AunT.

Denim and Dudes

This morning, like so many others before, was filled with the chaos of running late. Late for work, for school and for play date drop-offs. Charles had already left with JB for his day of meetings and her day of playing with her best-est girlfriends, leaving me and BW for the final scramble.

Somehow, between the craziness of work, school, (trying to) keep house, raising two active little ones, chasing after our greyhound and Mr. Toad, we managed to not only wash, but also dry the laundry. Well. Charles did. When I do laundry, I separate the clothes by person so that as each one is done it can be folded and put away. Charles 'gets the job done'. For that I am ever so thankful. Most of the time it even gets put away, it just might take a few days.

As with other mornings, when asked to get dressed, BW whined "Can you get my clothes for me, PLEEAAAASE?" After grumpily getting an outfit from the dryer, we proceeded with the rest of the routine; I'd hold up his shirt - he'd change into it and so on.

When I held up his pants and told him to put them on, his eyes grew big and said "I'm not wearing those."

"Yes you are. You asked me to get you some clothes, I did, now put them on."

"No, mama. I don't want to wear those."

"GRRRRR. There is nothing wrong with them. We are running late. Put the shorts on we need to go now!"

"Mama, please don't make me wear those...please turn them around and look at them ... Please?"

Flustered and frustrated I turned them around to see what all the fuss was about. Poor child.

There in all of their glory were butterflies and sequins.

In my haste, I'd grabbed his sister's shorts.

He prefers khakis now.