Monday, August 19, 2013

Truckabirthdaypocalytic Epic of (W)right and Falconer Proportions

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Farewell to thee, errant Ericson, and off to the dump we run! Hide and seek a ninja tank freeze tag with zombies heats up, but ends in a decided draw. Rock seeking flippers collect twenty tons of water and the ol' sports bra proves to be the absurd purple Yuppiedevice that keeps on giving. While it may moisture wick, it can't quite absorb an entire lake. Treadmisaster threatens the peace and knees of Ian the younger, though he rallies at the last minute for a gradual screaming recovery. And trial madness wraps up in time for the ping-pong game of Who's Got the Case... we wait for full on riots. 


Coming up: Adella contracts a serious and potentially incurable case of working auntiedom. Only time can tell if she can ever quite recover, but in the meantime all rally for the glorious birth festivities of Aunt Adella. Trucks will roar, bikes will rumble and the Lynden Fair will never be the same again (partially because it is now closed - only a day after the Falconer family attended... coincidence??). Cake Wars 2013 heats up between serious contenders. While Ian continues to be battered (har har) by the world around him, he has yet to suffer injury from any actual battles. Despite appearances, Uncle Andrew probably was not killed in the ensuing scuffle... maybe?And it all ends in one glorious birthday burst of eclat and exultation with champagne and sweats.




Side effects of intensive working-auntidom - consult a doctor if any of these symptoms become severe.

1. Enhanced susceptibility to cathartic emotional-aesthetic rapture. It may be that swig of Mozart's Symphony #40 in G minor and its inexpressible palpitating yearning that you hear on the radio or the recollection of Rieux and Tarrou's swim together near the end of The Plague. It could be upon encountering such poignant messages about family and individual identity that are heart-stakingly illustrated in The Smurfs 2, when Girl-Smurf sacrifices her somethingorother to save her new goth-sister smurf from dying and then everyone realizes that step-parents are just as much real parents as any bio-parents.

2. Looking in the mirror mid-office rumble (the papers are still winning!), thinking "I look really tired and puffy, my face looks weird, and my bangs and shorter layers are driving me nuts! I should get a pixie cut!!!" Thank goodness that the office is too messy for scissors to ever be where they are supposed to be. 

3. Having broken the world record for enthusiastically branding any and every comment, action, and inanimate object as "awesome" in a ten minute window of time. 

4. Further realizing that as the non-parent you actually have no control or authority should disciplinary situations arise. This has led to a dicey strategy of dominance through proclamations of incompetence, in turn involving meandering and abstruse expiation on how - given your obviously inability to rise to the challenges faced by mommy - bad behavior could somehow distract you in some way that would lead to injury, incarceration, and/or death for all of us, modified with the quite potent phrase "seriously, now"... 

5. Experiencing minor panic attacks and hopelessness upon sight of any vending machine, candy/quarter machine, and play area in between you and your final destination. 

6. Unanticipated weight loss despite being constantly surrounded in (and covered with) food. There may be some correlation between this and the utter impossibility of ever feeding oneself in the presence of the children without instigating several feverish emergency distractions and/or demands that whatever food has been sighted for MUST be shared with all the children (who will, of course, inevitably scrunch it into some inedible form and then abandon it uneaten but for a nibble and a pinch of drool). 



7. Despite the usual workout routine having gone sideways into a wall faster than Ian off the back of a treadmill, you are feeling muscles you never even knew you had. You are pretty sure that that last soccer-zombie-hide-and-seek-shootem-up-nooo-seriously-do-not-do-that-to-Braaaa-noooo-stop-ok-I-Braden-nooooo-Sam-put-that-down-before-you-oh-god-somebody-call-an-ambulance-swimming-pickleball qualified for some kind of paleo crossfit track points. Are idly considering borrowing your husband's fancy monitor and training watch to track the training effect more closely. 

8. After several years of cultivating your moppishly mordant sense of wit that delicately balances painfully dry arcanity against moorless erudition, all smoothed over with glib whimsy (end result: about ten vacant stares to every knowing chuckle), the funniest you have ever been - absolutely ever - was apparently during your recent backyard monologue entitled "Senor Butt-Cheek and the Pee and Poop," and you are seriously rethinking a career in literary humor with a line of books that include all variations of Pee, poop and buttcheek, as this is the golden ticket to guffaws. There may also be a spin-off about vomit.

9. You are unsure whether to thoroughly launder all of your clothes or hang them up for display as post-post-post modern works of art, given the exquisite drabbles of random and unplaceable stains.

10. Your last "shower" was a "grass shower" courtesy of the older nephews. You may still have straw in your hair, but you actually think that you might be onto a new beauty trend here.  

The weekend has officially alit and soon I expect a visit from the maturity fairy (who will, of course, run screaming in the other direction). To shuttle us to the point, we had some more of the same shenanigans, with enough lemon-lime twist to keep it "interesting" and sting any open flesh wounds.

Ian has apparently decided that he might as well go for broke on the minor but painful injuries. I feel for the guy, but I am ever so tempted to whip out my thoroughly battered body for comparison after the paper battles at work, the boy battles at Gramma Pam's and my own innate magnetism for haphazardry of the laws of physics. As somebody with a lot of experience getting hurt due to embarrassing bouts of inattention and impulsivity, I don't even remember these things hurt all that much. But once Ian starts wailing, and then Braden finds some tiny wound on his body so he can participate, I start to feel a little left out and there are just so many special contusions, pulls and scars begging to be recognized. 

Yesterday he added to his menagerie of scars and scabs by taking a major spill on the sidewalk. It was a tricky lattice work type sidewalk in Yuppie-ville Fairhaven and his shoe got caught. I know this because I was - of course - watching. Yes, if Ian is getting hurt, I am no doubt somehow participating. But I swear it's just my aura!

 Alternately (and conspiracy theorists are diverting resources from their Truther sites to suss this out for the upcoming TLC documentary and trade show), Braden managed to insert his invisible third foot under Ian as he walked and then use a micro-drone he has on loan from the CIA to push Ian forward. Ian, although not generally a conspiracy nut, seemed to favor this latter explanation and nearly gave Braden his own set of nasty scrapes and bruises in his rage at the incident. Things calmed down into a dulcet howl and chaffer, as I carried him to the car (and yes, I know he was beaming that he had "tricked me" into doing this, but by that point I really needed to go to work, and figured it would make up for missing my workout yesterday). 

He later hit his head while running up a slide during zombie fluffernutter tank tag and seek. This, at least, was not Braden's fault. I was, of course, chasing him per his instructions, so I was again complicit. But definitely not Braden's fault. Nor, to my knowledge, was Ian's quite extensive insistence that he had been dehydrated all day to the point of ague. He gets oddly proud of his little ailments, pausing from the ululation and hair-tearing long enough to ask if Gramma Pam has heard about his latest predicament, or to beam gleefully and detail just how very badly he's been hurt or how much trouble he has been in. To each his own.

Ian is also particularly aware that I tend to write about the kids when they visit. This may be a dicey gambut. On the one hand, he seems to enjoy hearing about himself, and he is enough of a character that I agree he should be celebrated. On the other, I do tend to find his worst behaviors particularly apt for memorialization. I'm becoming concerned that he'll have a full on reality tv attack and start doing horribly things to up his mention-count in my bog. He's already turning to me at various times and insisting I write "about this" and "make lots of jokes about this" in my blog. I see the future and it involves a show on MTV. The heavy burdens of fame. The challenge of any written word endeavor is that in seeking to observe one naturally changes the thing being observed. Fortunately my words have yet to kill any cats that I know of, but I declaim any responsibility for incitation of child-sized riots. 

In other news - the new competition between Ian and Braden over who loves the other the most and who is nicest (oddly set against every other competition instigated by Ian, which involves attempting to demonstrate how inferior and stupid Braden is in any relevant way, shape or form) remains hotly contested. Braden, who will randomly take Ian's side even when Ian is being punished for tormenting Braden, does seem to be the obvious pick, but never underestimate Ian's thirst for gold. They may come to blows trying to be momentarily selfless for the other. Or they may again forget this competition and just come to blows anyways. Whatever may happen there will be blows and probably a rousing chorus of IAAAAAAAAAN, with a staccato of evil cackles and a subsequent complaint about how come it's always Ian that gets in trouble??





Roaring and Rumbling Monster Truckastravaganza!!!!

Happy Birthday to me, Happy birthday to me... I evolved from a similar ancestor and some sorts of monkeys... and I smell like one who's recently taken a shower and then been smothered in cotton candy hands too!

I always buy myself a present for my birthday. I figure if anyone knows and can really celebrate exactly what a feat it was making it through yet another year without some kind of bizarre kitchen-related explosion, it's probably me. This year, I bought myself, my hubby and my nephews tickets to the ROAR AND RUMBLE MONSTER TRUCK (and friends!) SHOW. And it was pretty, well... I'm not gonna wax rhapsodic or claim that it took us ten years to get home (we did get home pretty late all the way from the exotic and terrifying land of Lynden), but, ok, it was EPIC!!!!! (RAAAAAAAAAAR VROOOOOOOOM WHEEEEEE) etc. Our first married couple outing with a couple of kids, so our own personal trial by fire on the "ok, how wedded (har har) are we ultimately to the N part of DINK?" issue (and how strong, exactly is our marriage). Most importantly, "were we to have a child, could we manage to take it out somewhere without killing it or losing it (the "it" in that sentence is intentionally ambiguous there).






The answer appears to be: Yes, so long as there are loud screaming trucks to distract them from their ordinary nefariousness. Ian even forgot himself and gave Braden a very long cuddle/hug near the end of the evening before they both passed out in the car. Somehow through a series of distractions, we managed to evade the tantrum over not getting to ride on a monster truck, and the other tantrum about not staying to get autographs. Braden wanted both of these, of course, but it was loud enough and we had enough water bottles and Angry Birds Cheezits to feign a perpetual state of ignorance with a "ooooh shiny thing" kicker. 

A short summary of the awesome: (1) Monster trucks going vrooom vrooom around, destroying hay bales on the course, popping wheelies and otherwise being bad-ass, (2) one monster truck built to look like it was going backwards at all times (Wrong-ways Rick), (3) Freestyle MotoCross!!! - my favorite!! Those guys get some crazy air!!, (4) A "tough truck" race which anyone could enter in. In addition to some seriously tricked out local cars, there was a Subaru and something like an Oldsmobile or a Camry. The latter did not fare well and had to be towed off after its entire rear wheel locked up, suspension went kaput and the body got stuck smack on a hill.






Before that, we wandered with the boys, the sis, the tot, and the gramma-pamorama around the Fair. Now, had I simply dragged Andrew to this, I would have probably spent most of my time making him look at ugly chickens and other strange fowl, but Fairing with children is a slightly different ordeal. It turned out to be fun, albeit not so much in a traditional "wheeee" kind of way as much as an amusing escapade in humanoid sociology.

 One of the biggest lessons that I think I may have sussed from the experience: Never give a child what they want. You may think this is the only way to make them happy, to stop hemt from whining, to prevent impending full-thrash tantrum in the middle of 1,000 other people. You are probably right, BUT if you cave and give the child that balloon or candy or stuffed snake or whatever, the child will immediately (1) turn the thing against you and/or your loved ones, (2) contract an immediate case of extreme ambivalence about the object, and will only resume caring about it after losing it, (3) experience that deep existential moment where attempting to fill the void inside with material goods is like trying to clog a canyon with a penny... and react by immediately WANTING MORE or anything and everything. It's a trap. You have been warned. 

My other lesson is: probably just leave the kids home from the Fair until they're about thirteen and can go with somebody else's parents. But I jest. Kind of. They enjoyed themselves as well. And, nobody got injured, arrested, or lost for longer than a few minutes. In child-land this is pretty much the equivalent of a slam dunk! The rides were hit and miss for them. They LOVED the rides, but got bored of them quickly. The lines were pretty long and Ian was totally overwhelmed by his myriad choices. The tractors, however, we a pretty universal hit and even Sam got into them. 






I'm a little bummed I missed the ugly chickens this year, but it was quite thoroughly every bit of a Fair birthday experience (going to the Fair on my birthday was a tradition dating back to childhood), and I'm hoarse from screaming and cheering so loudly last night! I'd chalk it up to a win-win for all involved, except perhaps for the neglected ugly chickens. 






A Tale of Two Birthday Fetes - 

While I mostly considered the grand birthdastravaganza to be my self-treat with the Monster Truck Show, I am just too awesome not to laud with grand eclat on the actual day of my birthaversary (8/18). After several inquiries I consented to two official celebrations: one with the nephews and (my personal choice) one with the old bike and chain, Mr. (W)right. 

It was a bit of a study in contrasts, akin to that coldwater-to-hottub swap so popular with the young and crazy 'uns these days. Each deepened shade mayhem and marvel set the glaring highlights of the other, making it a sweet and savory celebration all around with only some minor scarring and only the most passing discussions of birth control measures post-celebration! 

The morning began with a non-denominational binge fest at the Old Country Buffet brunch. Andrew and I, having had our special morning pastry & coffee & canoodle time, were kitted up and ready by about 8:15. This was technically later than the originally planned meeting time, but when kids are involved, these times should be treated mostly as castles in clouds and moonshine on kitten-breath, anyways. Despite my ordinarily relentless punctuality, I was willing to bet on kid-time-tardiness after a late night the night before.

 We received a series of live-blogger updates on the actual preparations in Gramma Pam's monkeyhouse of kiddos over the next few hours. Children rousing, showers running, bathroom doors opening and closing... After a brief spell of stomach rumbling radio silence, we were promptly informed that they were in the car and halfway there just around 9:40 or so. By the time we arrived, the table was empty, and all the boys were off filling their plates with mini-waffles a la Blue-Cherry Icee. I guess they just couldn't wait for us! Ian and Braden were still quite subdued from the events of the evening before (major points for us), and Braden was still in full spidey-makeup.

Escaping just short of full Target back-to-school melt down, Andrew and I retreated for a brief spell. He left on some ride and I sat around harnessing my energy for the afternoon event(s) of the century!

Nephewstravaganzarama Birthday - Andrew and I came a bit early so that Gramma Pam could take the boys to get "my" cake (I don't really like cake, exactly, but the boys were sweet enough to fill in any necessary enthusiasm gaps for me!) and possibly decorations. Rachel was out, so Andrew and I were to watch Sam while he napped. First thing I got upon arrival was concerned disappointment, because I was there and they had not decorated yet. I am the ruiner of all great plans. 


Gramma Pam assured them this was okay. Braden told me that he would be picking out the cake (and eating all of it) and refused to tell me what he might pick. Ian was happy to jump on this perceived character flaw of his brother's self-interest by pointing out to anyone who could listen how much more HE CARED about this party and what a better nephew he was; this made Braden quite pouty and cloudy. Ian also believed that any cake Braden picked would, by definition, be stupid and made sure to reassure me within Braden's earshot that he would make sure to stop Braden from buying any cake whatsoever and thus spare me the horrors of confectionary insipidity.

Themes of some of the birthday tantrums I had missed: (1) Braden was upset because mommy had used the wrapping paper that he had wanted to use on her gift to me, (2) Braden was upset because he was not getting gifts and this was very unfair, (3) it was also outrageously unfair that this was "an adult only" birthday party and he wouldn't get gifts as such.


Under Gramma Pam's wise aegis, each boy came back with a cake. Braden had picked a small tuxedo mousse cake, while Ian chose a chocolate-vanilla cake with balloons on it. Braden claimed the mousse cake as his and insisted that he would eat it all by himself, or just have first-slice privileges (which would carry over to all other birthday cakes in all other circumstances and I am certain he'll be knocking on the door of that royal baby named after George Costanza in about a year demanding his slice!) 

Both boys were purportedly deeply chagrined that there were no streamers at the cake store, and flummoxed to discover that Gramma Pam did not have a fully stocked streamer library in her basement (appropriate authorities have been notified). It was only with steely grit and determination that she avoided spending the rest of the afternoon store hopping for streamers. 



Upon their return, the boys were again miffed that I'd come before they could finish their decorations (except that was ok because FOR SOOOOME REASON - dagger eyes, dagger eyes - they didn't have any decorations) and write on the card, so I hid in the the other room while Ian proudly wrote some very sweet things on my card and then belittled Braden for his inability to do so as well. Pictures, of course, are stoopid. Braden squawked a bit but major disasters were averted with promises of unforetold sugar rushes to come. After heavy deliberations, the space was deemed appropriate for cake (er, I mean me!), and the two choices were unveiled. Braden, indeed, had the first slice. As all things taste better when snatched from somebody else's fork, I just let Uncle Andrew feed me bites of his samples. Braden much preferred Ian's choice, so the rest of "Braden's" cake is in our fridge for Uncle Andrew's next exciting growth spurt! 

Midway through cake, Sam woke up from his nap and Ian and Braden charged ahead to tormen-.. er play with him. I followed suit hoping to prevent bloodshed. The boys scuffled a bit and, yes, Ian once again managed to trip himself on the treadmill (blessedly at much lower speeds, with me prepared this time to turn the damned thing off before he could even hit the ground). Blaming Braden (when Ian does get his reality tv show/gritty suburban AMC drama, that will be the title), but otherwise unscathed, Ian left. And so Braden left. I spent the next twenty minutes with Sam, who had pulled the "delightful nephew" card for the afternoon (poor kid, such a burden!) Downstairs, the boys pummeled each other with inflatable swords and - from the look of it on my return - almost killed Uncle Andrew (turned out he'd just passed out). Once Sam was finally ready to come downstairs and inhale a piece of cake, Rachel attempted to re-wrangle the boys for presents. 





I needn't tell you that the next battle to ensue arose over which boy got to open "my" presents. We thought maybe they could take turns, which kind of worked until it didn't. I'm just happy that my last Batman comic from "the boys" (and their awesome, increasingly distraught mother) was not torn to shreds. After Uncle Andrew risked life and limb to retrieve it, they set upon each other fully again and the decibel levels increased exponentially to the inevitable and highly predictable point of minor injury, tears, and rueful sword confiscation. Andrew and I made our grand departure as Sid the Science guy intervened to placate the roiling mess of pre-pre-teenage angst and tribulation. 




Bike and Chain Birthday - Andrew and I returned home about 4:30, drank a mini-glass of Cook's Champagne (which I find surprisingly tasty), and Andrew rounded off a week of gift giving with the final socks in my collection and a pair of earrings. My totally amazingly sister had given me a heart rate monitor, so of course the first order of business over drinks was to set the thing up. Andrew, channeling the Golden Cheetah Stravalicious Garmin Gods managed to summon the appropriate spirits and bring the device to life! He brought his down for comparison in size. Sorry to say  he didn't wear his on our subsequent walk around the back trails of Padden. I wore mine! Oh yes. I know exactly all sorts of random details about my own circulatory system now and made sure to continue a perpetual announcement on the heart rate status over time and terrain. 







After a brief intermission for Andrew to swap his laundry and for me to don pajamas, we had dinner and then watched some more Red Dwarf before - and this is where it gets wild - going to bed a little early!

Quite the day, let me tell you. I feel I've really earned the thirtysomething status this year!

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