When There Are No Words . . .

As our friend Kelly spoke about her son, I clutched Paul's hand and tried to focus on holding myself together.

She spoke about his belly laughs and his love of uniforms. She even laughed as she detailed how he had dressed as a cowboy or a policeman to pretend and to play grown up.  She related his love of sports and of the outdoors.  Finally, she finished with the simple words, "Tommy, you will always be my baby boy."

And, I lost it.

I sobbed. 

I cried for my friends, Kelly and Randy, who had lost their 20 year old son and were now speaking at his funeral.  It is a reality that I am sure that they had never prepared for or conceived.  And even though both Kelly and Randy were composed and spoke beautifully, I could only imagine the pain that they would feel when they went back to their home without their baby boy, Tommy.

I cried for all the red eyed young adults that sat zombie-like in the church pews.  And, even though they weren't kids anymore, when I looked at them, I pictured them as they used to be when they were my students.  I could remember this one's braces and crooked smile and that one's penchant for wearing his ball cap backwards.  They were adults today, but they were also still babies when it came to life's lessons, and their shocked eyes gave away their very raw grief.  They were stunned that one of them, one of their own, was gone.

And despite the fact that I knew it was selfish, I cried at the thought that I could lose my son.  My baby boy.

It was just too much to hold inside.

My tears spilled down my cheeks, unchecked.  My mascara made rivers that tracked down my face and dripped off my chin.  With one hand, I dabbed at them with my ball of wadded up tissues, and with the other hand, I clung to Paul in a vise-like grip.

I am hanging on.

I am hanging on.
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If you are of the praying sort, please keep this family in your hearts.  They need lots of love and support. 
~Annie

A Bad Ass And A Booger Picker

Yesterday I had the pleasure of taking my kids to get their influenza immunizations.

I know.

I know.

You are jealous.

While in the office, the nurse explained that the kids would be getting the flu "sniff". The sniff vaccine is a mist that is sprayed  in the kids' nostrils one at a time, and after it is sprayed, the kids must sniff heartily.  Easy peasy.

When the nurse was finally done with her explanation, Ab asked her, "Is this the one that drips down your throat for a bit afterwards?"

The nurse indicated that it was, and that's when my first surprise of the day occurred.

"Then give me the shot!"  Abbie stated emphatically.

The nurse raised her eyebrow in disbelief. Clearly, not many kids requested a shot instead of the sniff.

I confronted Ab.  "What? You would rather have a shot? Are you sure you are my kid?"  I asked not believing it could be true. 

She explained simply, "I hate that feeling of the stuff running down my throat."

Well OK.

I could understand that, and let's face it.

My kid was a bad ass.

Who knew?

So, Ab bared her arm and was shot up.



picture compliments of newsofworld.com



Ethan, however, opted for the sniff vaccine.  After snorting mightily to his own delight, the nurse chuckled and instructed Ethan, "Now, don't blow your nose for at least 30 minutes.  We want the medicine to take effect."

He nodded, and we were on our way.

Later, as I picked up the kids from school I got surprise number two.

"How was your day E?" I asked as we walked home together.

His smile filled his entire face, and he replied, "Great!  I picked my nose three times!"



picture from kidzworld.com



I stopped mid stride and looked at him.  "What?"

He stopped too and continued grinning.  "I said . . . I picked my nose three times!" He enunciated slowly to show that he wasn't kidding.

As his mother and a registered germ-a-phobe, I was completely grossed out.  "Why Ethan?  Why would you pick your nose?  You are old enough to know how to use a tissue!"  I scolded.

He looked a little perplexed when he answered, "But the nurse said not to blow my nose, " he paused and then finished, proud of his own ingenuity, "so I picked it instead." 

Nice.

I have a bad ass and a booger picker.

What other mom can have claim to that?


And . . . on Aunt Crazy's recommendation . . . I am linking up to Kmama's Proud Mommy Moments . . .
Bad Asses and Booger Pickers apparently qualify.
:)


 


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Come join me on twitter . . .  @annieinsanity

I visited my son's first grade classroom today to be guest reader . . .

I visited my son's first grade classroom today to be guest reader.

Yes.

I did.

Stop laughing.

It went a little something like this.

"You WERE a teacher?  What do you do now?"   hmmm.  I don't know.  Sit around and eat bon bons all day?

"I got my yellow belt last night.  My mom said it cost 1000 dollars."  Note to self . . .  that family is in the karate clique.  Hope that Ethan never picks a fight with yellow belt boy.

"Why is it so cold?"  Because Mother Nature appears to be in menopause this year.

"My mom said no flip flops today."  Really?  I didn't know that, but I did hear that Starbucks has their Pumpkin Spice Latte up and running, so there's that.

"What's that?"  Oh no?  What??

"That!"  Oh!  That!  It's a not a tumor !(Thank you Arnold Schwarzenagger.)  Wear your sunscreen though.  Definitely wear your sunscreen.

Skeletons can't drink.  Really?  Well neither can your teacher while she is here, although I am pretty sure that if it was me, I would be driven to drink each and every day of the school year.

So, dear Mrs. K of first grade, I salute you my dear lady.

I was toast after 15 minutes, and you do it every day, all day.

You are a saint.

Thanks.

When Hump Day Took On A New Meaning

Yesterday, Wednesday, hump day took on a new and quite literal meaning.

Indy, the puppy, shall we say, "found his groove" yesterday.



humping dog picture compliments of metacafe.com

 Chair leg?

Humped.

Throw pillow?

Humped.

Lovable, stuffed monkey?

Humped 6 ways to Sunday.

And, my friends,  you want to know the worst part about this?

The worst part is that my kids want to know just exactly WHAT Indy was doing. . .

That  . . .

And I can't look the monkey in the eye.