Coming up: Falconers scatter to the gusts and zephyrs. Play dates, club days, beach jaunts, Austrian Czecho-bouncy castle birthdays! Safe havens are infiltrated by the bounty boys, while power moms flock to the association of young men. And lavish dinners are proffered to the garbage disposal gods after shopping quests yield bounty. Potty training continues with partial successes and the reminder of the "pet ownership" aspect of rearing children.
Auntie in Jersey: Weekday Looming - Day of the Loud, Austrian Bounce and Wrapping Paper Raves
Sunday bristled at the prospect of becoming a mere day of rest. Whatever eclat and contusions Saturday yielded, Sunday wouldn't merely match and call. Oh no, not the lord's day! Sunday burst upon the day with braggadoccio and bombast to scurry our little home into quite the stir.By the time Ian (stomach only briefly quelled by the "largest poop he'd ever taken" and set aroil again at the prospect of baseball in the afternoon) was off to All-Star Try outs, the cleaning odyssey of yesterday was rerun but bigger badder and wetter. With three mops, this time, and a healthy helping of roller blades.
When all the swiffer jetstream was shed upon the floor, cleaning evolved to decleaning: mainly the beds that Rachel makes every morning in zen garden sand painting sort of gesture. We began in Braden's (a/k/a Adella's) room, laying lego schrapnel appropriately back underfoot on the trail from bed to door. That I have yet to encounter any tiny pieces on my midnight maunders to the bathroom speaks more to luck than planning. Traps laid, fortresses were erected under Sam's canny supervision. For a brief spell, my bed contained all of the pillows in the house and quite possibly in Mountain Lakes. But surely Ian's room could not be neglected. After several attempts to kill mommy (with love), the boys solaced themselves by burrowing under the sheets (mommy had mysteriously vanished around this time), and instructing me that I thought they were talking pillows and I had to count to 10 or maybe just 2-5-3 and then not find them but find them, intermittently showering them with milk from the straw cup of doom.
 |
| The guest service in Casa Falconer is superb - I worry about finding the mint on one of my pillows |
By the time Ian had returned (belly still aching, so see it wasn't just baseball, but moooooooooommmm please can he not have to go to the afternoon game???), fun times had flagged a spell while wildness endured. With a triple storm brewing, it was only with some chagrin that Rachel capitulated with Braden's insistence on accompanying us to the toy - er- grocery store. Sam, the three year old was mercifully distracted by Daddy's soccer invitation. Braden, actually managed to remain a gentleman for the epic loading. It staggers me how much a family of three requires from the grocery store. I believe we had to hire a few mules, and a caravan of camels to haul just the cheese products home! I admit to a fair amount of trepidation upon purchasing my own complementary groceries that there would be no room for them. A head of cabbage and a bunch of kale were pushing the constraints of normal physics before our trip to the Grocer's. But fortunately, mommy's magical powers include a fridge made of the same stuff as the TARDIS and Mary Poppin's purse. Or maybe mommy's just really good at tetris. Either way, all fit fine with a little bit of breathing room (after a good twenty minutes of organization).
By the time we returned from the Himalayas of Denville, it was (finally) almost time for THE CLUB to open. Apparently the exact opening time of THE CLUB is a well kept mystery, unknown to either members or staff members. It was the subject of fevered morning texting. But our latest report was that some of the moms had shown up at 11:30 (since it had been open before that the weekend before and a club member herself had reported 11:30 as a likely opening) and been given the new information that the pool would unfurl its aqueous welcoming tentacles in about a half hour. By the time we wrangled, sunscreened, and pool noodled ourselves sufficiently, we were more than beyond that half hour period and into the "is this really worth doing since we have to leave for a birthday party in like an hour... er... forty-five... oh crap I haven't wrapped the present and I don't know where we're going... ummmmmm now" period. But Ian and Braden got to stay on for a while and Sam joined us only after the present was wrapped and mommy was changed.
The party in question was held by a new classmate of Sam's. It appears Sam was either the only invitee or at the very least the only attendee from this kid's Kindergarten. The remaining guests were a farrago of neighbors, ex-neighbors and otherwise not-specified families with unpredictably aged children. Upon arrival we discovered that the European parents (or European mom, who is Austrian with a Czech au pair and a New Yorker husband) were starting the party on the Euro-version of time. Being genetically incapable of avoiding early arrival, Rachel, Sam and I had arrived precisely at the scheduled time thus thoroughly beating the birthday boy to his own bouncy castle. Technically, we were two minutes early, but this was spent texting our mutual mother on the the telephone so as not to be gauche. The guest of honor was asleep when we arrived, but the quite eager-to-please mums sheparded us to his play room, and Sam was not particularly bereft for the absence of the owner. Other cute children slowly trickled in, as did some parents. Toys were abandoned for the Leviathon bouncy castle in the front yard (this was a lavish affair - with a reception tent, some form of catered food, and a beverage armory for both kids and parents.
Sam continued to be mostly ambivalent to the surrounding children (though he liked the birthday boy's new gifts and other people's water bottles pretty well), but Braden - who had been shuttled to the party upon finding baseball "boring", threw himself into the mix with wild social abandon. We were uncertain he'd ever allow us to leave, but there was mayhem to wreak at home.
Having been far too good for far too long, Sam and Braden conspired in their adorable little super hero costumes (Batman and Boba Fett are a dangerous combo) and sterling grins to infiltrate Rachel's final bastion of calm and order: the laundry room. Apparently this is where wrapping paper was kept. Was. Rachel made the mistake of leaving me and the boys in the basement for a few minutes, during which time Braden extracted the spine from one roll of wrapping paper as a weapon. Sam followed suit by drenching the play room in Christmas foil and birthday wrappings.
I admit that when Braden came out with the first roll, I was bemused: it was a small shred of wrapping paper that he was calling his play mat. Sam went to join him. Braden was beaming with a used wrapping paper roll (his "staff"). I suppose I thought this was recycling. I'm really not sure what I thought until several more rolls unfurled and the rising storms blustered at my suggestion that we stop and put these back wherever they came from. Sam started temper-tantrumming and Braden blissfully bounded up to mommy to show the - by now - five spines of wrapping paper rolls that he'd commandeered. Rachel was less blissful. This was apparently a bit of a snapping straw that set the percussion of the rest of the evening. A minor bout of "every one's frustrated" developed into a larger one when dinner plans were foiled by a pesky carnival.
After some telephonic driving discussion (parents in separate cars) and heated negotiations, the worst possible solution was reached: going (this is really gut-wrenchingly awful, so hold on to your hearts and stomach) home to eat. Apparently this is slightly worse than being flayed, skinned and rubbed with boiling lemon-salt marinade. So I would judge by the deafening decibels droned out over the return trip. After some substantial sturm und drang a sleepy soporific Sunday set upon the group. Rachel slipped out to Denville yet again to pick up the proscribed ice cream treats for Sam's birthday celebration at school (in a month, but school is weird). And the boys resumed their glee with a late night rollerblading match that - surprisingly - did not end in bloodshed or serious contusions. I admit I was skeptical when Ian and Braden enlisted me to play "keep the ball away from the grownup on wheels" with the promise that things were much crazier and louder when they played with mom, but my fairly sedate version of "chasing" (walking quietly and going "ok guys, shhhhh Sam is sleeping") definitely paled in comparison to mommy's final denouement of the evening.
No bones or light fixtures were broken in either instance, and the children were semi-willingly shuffled off to bed apace. Though I will say that by the time Grandpa Ian made his nightly call and I scurried to my room to read the final morass of temporal philosophy that remained in Ada (possibly my favorite chapter of the whole lavish word-porn piece), there was quite a lot of whining and fraternal fussing coming from Ian's room. Thank goodness for sound machines!
Today is the beginning of my full throttle school week o' fun. If I'm lucky there will be a pilates break between the birthday feting and the homework battles. Rachel was excited to use me as an excuse to get some Y time, and Sam actually has preschool nowadays.
Between preschools & playdates & impromptu naps, we had a shocking amount of childless time today! Possibly minutes to even something approximating a couple of hours. Break out the laundry! Monday meant a morning school chacha (staggered for Ian, same for Sam and Braden). Sam's stroller came laden with birthday treats for his early birthday celebration, it being later this month in the "summer" period when all the kids are away.
What on earth does an active mother and her daffy sibling do with non-boy time? No, no no no no not shopping. You've met me, right? No, we went to the (every one raise your arms and mime along) Y-M-C-A... it was fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A. We went to Pilates! Which rounds out my Monday Pilates with female family theme quite nicely.
As if any mother of three boys needs additional workout training. Really. Aside from the main activities with Sam all involving either (1) variations on non-sanctioned wrestling (2) lifting a thirty plus pound toddler in various difficult contortions (cross-fit mommy and baby could so be a thing) (3) any series of variations on (something) + running around the house in screaming circles. Aside from playing soccer/football/drag the roller blading kid around with Braden and Ian. Aside from the actually running for triage purposes. Aside from attempting to wrestle a writhing screaming child into or out of various clothing (change of wardrobe per child a requisite five outfits a day). Aside from walking to school pushing a stroller one-handed while holding onto a roller blading child and possibly carting the other child on one's back... yeah. Sure. More exercise. Totally. Lazy, these moms.
The Lakeland YMCA fitness schedule is steroids beyond the Bellingham one, which caters far more to downtowners and those who prefer a less intense variation on their cardio experiences than the exclusive GYM-type-gyms. At Lakeland, fitness classes come fast and hard, and space is limited. You may trample somebody double-downward-dogging. After peering in at the finale of Cardio HITT Fitness Bootcamp Babes - or whatever the thing requiring lots of grunting and fast action weight flinging is actually called, which I believe was actually just "Ripped" - I was a tad concerned about being flocked by power moms in Pilates.
Fortunately, Pilates lacks a certain extreme element that caters to today's savvy (and maniacal) lacrosse mom. It appears your average lacrosse mom prefers something with a bit more thrashing, possibly some yelling, and any variety of potential injuries. Basically lacrosse mom's need the lady-version of fight club, which maybe manifests as a really packed Though packed, Pilates was a bit more of a blended class with fellow neophytes, while skewing slightly older in general. It was sufficiently difficult, though.
And Rachel reached a revelation after the glow could go and we were back to normal chasing about: all those moms who live in workout clothes have a point! At least in the summer. She's still going to cleave to her jeans and whatnot in the winter, but from now on, workout capris all the way, baby. I am honored to be witness to a sartorial epiphany. Who knew I'd beaten her to the fashion mom milestone?
And the workout togs came in handy through a belabored trek home from preschool with Sam, who vociferously insisted that he be the only one to push his stroller ("NO HELPING" at peril of tantrum). He managed to persist in his reign of unruly independence all the way through lunch, at which point he succumbed to Morpheus' sweet serenade, and nodded off first in the car and then on the couch. Since Braden was off on a playdate (what he may later term a "death march" and other might call "a nature walk"), Rachel once again had blessed time to begin the evening repast a la slow cooker. Very important that the boys have something over which to bluster and sob because it is not the awesome soup with refried beans they imagined up two seconds ago after becoming thrilled at the smell and sapor of tortilla soup. Thank goodness she had ample time to work up both a personal lather and some young quite dashable expectations.
After re-receiving the play-dated boys (and playdate residue), it was off to the beach. Which is distinguished from the club by being about one mile down the road, sandier, possibly slightly smaller, and free to all Mountain Lakes families. Considering Ian had yet another baseball practice in about an hour and a half, this was quite the Quixotic endeavor, facilitated only by friendly fates and the blessed proximity of the beach itself. We may well have spent an equal amount of time "getting ready" to go to and from the beach.
But Rachel found her Heathers, or at least two of them and some additional non-Heathers with acceptably cute children to fill in for the absent Heather. And a mother needs some social time sympatico moms named Heather to discuss the roster of the YMCA fitness schedule, and the inevitable gossip about various infamous fitness instructors, and fellow parents. Dirt was flung, watermelons soiled and baby tears shed, but no children drowned in the making of this beach excursion, and all of the Falconer boys made it back to the car in a few sandy pieces just in time for Ian to be carted off to baseball, and for Braden and Sam to prepare their pre-dinner tantrums while stewing in a lukewarm bath.
They represented themselves well in the tantrum department, but were interrupted by an invitation to come bounce on the giant trampoline next door after dinner. At that point, they made vague inroads into their slow cooker stew between scarfing leftover chicken fingers and the attendant tortilla chips. Yet another lull settled upon the Falconer's not-so-little domicile. Screaming and shouting was viewable from behind glass and in a yard once removed from ours.
Should be mentioned that the invite was courtesy of Ian's unstoppable allure with the ladies. Both of the neighbor girls love Ian. Braden loves at least one the neighbor girls. Sam loves saying "dog-poop" and jumping on the neighbor girls' trampoline. It all works out. Except that Ian's been so busy, that poor little Abby hasn't seen him in several days now. She practically had to be pried from our doorway after she walked the younger brothers back later in the evening, and insisted that Rachel text her when Ian was home so she could come back over. Apparently her father was not a fan of this plan, it being after eight o'clock at that point.
Little heartbreakers, my nephews.
Today promises a little more nephew and a little less gal-time, which is probably a good thing for the boys. I spy a play date on the calendar of course. But it is a rare night in which there is no baseball and Daddy Ryan has proclaimed it's Daddy and Braden night. Adella has proclaimed "it's time to try that run she keeps idly considering before the hoards rush down and colonize the area"
Auntie in New Jersey: As the K-Cup Mexi Pizza Casserole Crumbles
Another day of boyless moments, as Sam and Braden both had preschool this morning. It was a bit shorter of an interlude, since Braden's playdate was at the house, but we still managed to (1) avoid power yoga (enough's enough), (2) go on an epic journey to Target for another semi-load of groceries and accouterments. There were some moments of angst, as one would expect in the land o' plenty of waaaay too many choices for any rational brain to process. Socks, in particular, were quite the challenge. Ian goes through socks like tissue. Not literally (which may be implied by the fact that the prior fragment was patently a similar), of course. He doesn't really blow his nose in his socks. But he does have a tendency to cast them aside in such a way as to require several replacements a day. Those that are not simply abandoned are destroyed in not-quite-barefoot outdoor gallivants. Regular replacements for the sockery are a necessary supply item. But there are rules! Black is too severe. Grey is dirty. Too many colors makes it difficult to match. Variations in pattern turns laundry into a sorting nightmare... High ankles would be uncomfortable. Low ankles might chafe. You get the idea... Let's not even speak of the k-cup section. Ryan needed decaf. But they were out of the donut shop version. Ryan hates Starbucks. He needs a blonder lighter blend... there are five billion varieties but none of them quite... Coffee experiments were to go slightly awry with a later keurig stab at iced caramel macchiato. Note to moms: caramel macchiato frappes are not exactly the same thing as caramel flavored k-cups on ice. Rachel can attest to this. Note to Adella: actually if you remove the ice before it melts and dilutes the coffee, the caramel macchiato k-cup actually is way more tolerable iced.
Given that there was already the prior semi-load of groceries in fridge and freezer, our ten minute rush to load things into the appropriate cooling boxes before preschool pick up required the full extent of Rachel's mom-jitsu. I stashed the pantry items well enough for no man or child (but hopefully woman) to ever find again. And we were on a dash once again to drive the one minute drive, which would theoretically be a five minute walk if children were not involved (a thirty to forty minute sludge-rollicking screamfest if certain Falconer toddler children are involved). We'd get our fair chance to experience that walk on the walk to a ghost-pick-up. In other words, the pick up was an illusory rouse in the benighted hope that a ride in the stroller might lull an overtired toddler to sleep. Instead, he hopped out of the stroller, insisted on pushing it for a few feet before abandoning the stroller and running around just about anywhere but the path to school.
Before this little walk attempt, there was a diversion in the 89 degree East Coast goulash because Sam wanted to play bubbles while jumping with the neighbor-girl, Mia, or something like that. She was just preparing for a ballet recital, an endeavor which involved dressing up in very white togs and then gallivanting out in the garden with Sam. Bubbles were not a huge success in Sam's hands, but Mia managed to create some dazzles before they retreated into her mommy's house (where we all were huddling from the humidity). And before that Rachel desperately thought that driving just a little bit further on the way from dropping Braden off at soccer would rock Sam to sleep. He was furious at the gall of her cheap trick, and screamed from the instant we passed the turn off for home until ... well I'm sure he stopped at some point after we got in, but I can't guarantee that.
The only thing that seemed to divert him - other than the neighbor girl - was a thorough pool day in the kitchen sink. Anything short of dousing himself in luke warm water while wearing dishglove flippers. He, naturally swooned as soon as we went to retrieve Braden from his play date. Since it was officially "too late" for a nap, the waking was brutal and only ameliorated with handy application of some opiate children's programming. This media narcotic was effective to still the boys while mommy waved her culinary wand to make a several course meal that would inevitably go under-appreciated by the tyrannical critical palates of a series of insouciant meal snobs.
The menu: upside down pizza pie; stir fried veggies; strawberries, bananas, and pineapples in a side cup (variously selected fruits edited out per each boy's personal botanic kryptonite); and a Naked brand Mighty Mango juice smoothie.
As Rachel was serving out the food, Sam left his stuperous stasis on the couch (where he'd been cuddling surreptitiously with goldfish) to remove a snack container of Cheerios, providing absolutely no acknowledgment or response to the reminder that dinner was coming. He proceeded to shove a few handfuls in his mouth while on the couch and left the remainder on the coffee table when called to actual dinner. There is also a bowl of air popped popcorn on the coffee table that appears to have been there since Sam forbade Rachel to eat from it or remove it earlier in the day. In addition to the pre-prandial munchies, Sam ate a handful of pizza dough from mommy's plate, half a cup of whipped cream which had been subsequently added to the fruits at Braden's request, his mango juice, and a few bites of leftover mac and cheese from a prior meal. He ate a bit of fruit with his whipped cream, but not the entire banana that he then demanded and which was provided to him. That lay untouched amidst the cheese, mac, and pizza. In about a half hour, Sam became overwrought demanding more mango juice.
Braden, ate one carrot and one brussel sprout, most of his mango juice, all of the whipped cream and some of the fruit underneath it, several bites of his left over mac and cheese, and one-fourth of the babybell mini cheese that he requested midway through the meal. After retiring from the dinner table in search of roller blades, he added a few heavy handfuls of cheerios which were still on the coffee table. Near the end of the evening, he had something from the upper cupboard dessert thing.
Ian had apparently already eaten at his friend's house. Realizing he was not allowed to play Minecraft until he did his homework, he insisted he could do his homework while sitting away from the table but still talk. He did not eat any of the fruit Rachel prepared for him, so I confiscated it to re-use in a future oatmeal snack. He later retrieved the candy basket from the upper cupboard and had some kind of candy before running upstairs. And at Rachel's request (she is concerned he is getting no calcium), he ate a D'anon yogurt.
Ryan ate all of his food and then ate a Chobani Key Lime. He later went out for beer.
Rachel allowed Sam to pick at her plate, because hell at least he was eating something. She ate a small portion of her remaining meal (which was delicately served), but without the pizza crust. She then ate several additional bites of leftovers while she cleaned.
The garbage disposal ate whatever Rachel couldn't eat or put into tupperware. I'm guessing quite a full gourmet meal by the end.
Oh family dinners!
For the evening entertainment, the home was declared a roller rink. After being very excited to have a Daddy-Braden night (Ryan's suggestion since he spends so many nights with Ian at the endless baseball practices), Braden declined Ryan's suggestions and insisted that he'd rather rollerblade inside. Somehow this evolved into mommy playing with Sam and Braden downstairs, Ryan leaving the house to buy beer, and Ian disappearing to some special corner or other. Braden gave a special wrap up minor-tantrum about wanting to be able to go over to the neighbor-girl's house and play before shedding his roller blades and playing in the sink with me for about fifteen minutes. This initially began as a means of spiting mommy for being so cruel as to not let him crash the neighbor's party to play on the trampoline. It evolved into a fun science experiment/dish washing while mommy's back was turned. He did remember to sulk again once he'd finished up in the sink and Daddy had returned beer-laden and ready for Braden bonding. They watched about five minutes some sort of show together that was not mexican mud wrestling (although that was the initial starter show) until Rachel received a text from Michelle that the neighbor girls were coming out to play.
And a final entertainment for the evening. On the cusp of being fully potty-trained, Sam managed to pee into the toilet all by himself... he also managed to poop while being, but this managed to miss the toilet by a fair margin. In fact, it fairly plopped onto the floor in several piles and Aunt Adella had to intervene to stop him from stomping about in it while she was cleaning up. The parents were upstairs at the time and thought that Braden was joking when he started screaming that Sam had pooped on the floor. He was decidedly not, I assure you. Anyways, not a big deal and I was able to roll in from the kitchen with wet naps and paper towels. I've had pets. This phases me far less than the more complex emotional reactions and food related quirks.
Somehow, every one made it upstairs and to bed in time to gather strength for the next days tempests, T-Storms and psychosomaticish illnesses of any sort of variety. Adella's thinking the stomach/bug-bite-injury/skinned knuckle is fully covered, so perhaps she'll just get situational Leprosy or something. Should go well with the workout clothes I've donned in naive hope that perhaps we'll manage to make it to the gym in the face of Sam's waffling opinions on the YMCA daycare and Ian's apparently gut wrenching stomach pains (must've been that yogurt - obviously the yogurt).
No comments:
Post a Comment