First of all, thanks to all who called, e-mailed or commented on the blog yesterday. It was fun hearing from you all! And Auntie Mona, I will try to make sure I label the pictures. Also, to see a picture enlarged you can click on it.
My boys have really been giving me a run for my money lately.
Mario will only wear snow boots or cowboy boots, which may be acceptable in snow and/or Texas, but when the weather is a little bit warmer and he is sporting shorts and a t-shirt, not so acceptable. Last year he was addicted to flip-flops. Now I can't get him to even slide a big toe into them. He loves cheetos, and his Auntie Emily has been known to show up at our door with bag of cheetos in hand as bribery for a love. Of course it's always better to get a kiss before it is rimmed with orange cheese!
Joseph loves food. When he is eating something especially delicious his eyes roll back in his head and he MUST make a comment, like MMM, that was SOOO good, Mom! His pre-school teachers marvel at his eating prowess. The only thing they have NOT seen him eat with pleasure were fishsticks. (Can't say that I blame him there.) This past week or so they have been talking about birds, nests, baby birds, etc. They have two little nests with eggs in them on the playground. Here's how one of those teaching moments went:
Miss Amy: Baby birds are hatched out of the little eggs after their Mommy birds have had to sit on them for a while to keep them warm.
Joseph: Miss Amy, can you please quit talking about eggs cuz you're making me HUNGRY!
Brian plays the trumpet like a band teacher's dream. Unfortunately, his behavior in band class is not a band teacher's dream. Brian and Natalia were involved in the Dinner Theater at school on Saturday, which included a 6th grade band performance. I assumed Brian was part of that performance, but I guess I need to ask more questions. At dress rehearsal Friday night his band teacher asked me why Brian was not playing for the Theater since he can raise his band score a whole grade letter. When asked, Brian told me he did not know the music, blah blah blah. Mrs. Gumbel said, "Brian, you know you can play it without practicing. I'll go get you the music." To make a long story short, I lost the battle. Brian should have been named HardHead.
I am a mother to Boys. Thank goodness for my girl.
WHAT IS A BOY? by Alan Beck
Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors. They are found everywhere – on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older brothers and sisters tolerate them, adults ignore them and Heaven protects them.
A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
A boy has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, and when he makes something he has five thumbs on each hand. He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime. Nobody else is so early to rise or so late to supper. No one else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half eaten apple, three feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gumdrops, six cents, a slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature – you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give up- he is your captor, your jailer, your boss and your master – a freckle faced, pint sized bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them with two words – “Hi Dad!”
