Boys Aren't Men

I'm not an overly protective sort of mom. I don't usually worry or fret. I don't have a lot of rules, like eating in certain rooms, not watching certain shows, or not throwing aerosol cans into the bon fire. My kids don't have play clothes and church clothes. But they do have clothes, so I consider them lucky.

Even I got worried, though, when I dropped them off to work last week. They were doing a lot of work at a house that had been neglected for years. Some of their jobs were to paint the basement with waterproof paint, remove the vine from the brick exterior of the house, cut down the overgrown bushes, weed whack and mow, and spray the weeds. It was hard work. It was man work.

My boys are not yet men. Which was the main thought in my head when I saw the tools they unloaded from the truck to do the jobs on their list. It started fine with screwdrivers and paintbrushes. But when they both grabbed a chainsaw, fear seized my soul.

"Wait!" I commanded in my mom voice. "You guys aren't using those chainsaws are you?"
"Well, how else can we cut down these bushes?" they asked, logically and innocently.
"Any other way!" I told them. "You may use a regular saw, or a butter knife, or even a herring."
"Mom!" they groaned. "We know how to use chainsaws. Dad taught us."

I felt proud of myself as a mother when I drove away after forcing them to agree to a contract signed with their own blood stating that they would UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES use man tools without a REAL LIVE MAN watching them, and they would only use such tools in a way that would make a responsible mother HAPPY.

Then they sent me these pictures.

I've lost control.

Dog Hot

I may have mentioned that I have an Alaskan Husky. ALASKAN.

Not only is this poor dog out of his climate, he is in the middle of the most miserable heat wave in recent memory. The earth is scorched. The grass is dying. The sun is blazing. Just opening a door to the outside causes my children to run for ice to rub on their faces and necks.

Both me and my dog are going to great lengths to keep his furry body cool. I bought him a swimming pool for those times when he has be outside for more than ten seconds. When I water the flowers he treats the event as his own personal water park experience.


But he is even more creative than that. One time we shouted for him for ten minutes before finding him happily splashing in the leftover water from an earlier shower. He refused to exit that shower until the sun set.

Then he discovered that he could use his paw, although he does not have an opposable thumb, to remove the vent cover and place his entire head into the cool air coming from the vent in the floor. He slept that way for hours. He dreamed happy dreams of snow, ice, and sleds.

I tried his method and stuck my entire head into the refrigerator. It works.

He makes a good point. It's not just hot out there - it's dog hot.

The Hulk

Lately it has been a zillion degrees. It starts out hot and gets hotter through the day. It makes simple things hard, and it makes me grumpy. The air conditioning is trying, but in the case of air conditioning vs. a zillion degrees, a zillion degrees wins. I think the only way to really make it feel nice and cool inside my house during these oppressively hot days is to go outside for fifteen minutes and then reenter. Then it feels positively lovely for a few moments. 

I woke up to a disaster last week. The two pillows I use were flung in opposite directions across the room. The top sheet was yanked out, pulled up and over my head, and crammed into the space between the headboard and the mattress. The bottom sheet was peeled back from the mattress and lumped up under my feet. Even my husband's pillow was resting precariously on a floor lamp across the room. 

Since I was pretty sure that everything was tidy and neat when I fell asleep, I rubbed my eyes and took another look. Still a disaster. I looked across the top of the bare mattress at Mike to see what in the world he had done.

"You did it," he said, exhausted.

"I did what?"

"You did this mess."

"While I was asleep?" I asked, skeptical. 

"You kept saying you were hot and you tossed around, yanked at the sheets, threw stuff. All Night Long." 

"I do kind of remember being hot, but I thought I just folded the sheet back."

"Being hot turns you into The Hulk," he mumbled on his way back to a pillowless sleep.

The Hulk. That is something nobody has ever compared me to.

I think I like it.

Crazy Cardinal

Being Bored

Flying With Gusto

I know sometimes birds fly into large windows. I get it. But we have a crazy cardinal at my house who is persistent beyond normal persistent behavior. He has been dive bombing my window every day since April. The same window.

He sits outside on a wooden railing acting like he is going to do anything but dive straight into the window. He looks around, as if bored, glancing to and fro but never at the window. This is the tactic he chooses to use to convince the glass to relax and be caught unawares. Then, in the smack middle of glancing at a tree or stick, he spins like a lightening ballerina, flies with gusto, hits the glass, slides down the glass, and lands in the rocks in the yard. Then, he eventually ends up back on the railing staring anywhere except at the glass.

Dive Bombing

Sliding

We are so used to the staccato hammering that we don't even notice anymore.

But our guests are quite entertained.

Poor bird.

Drama in the Theater

I went to two movies this week, which is not normal for me. I love going to see movies, but it just seems hard to find the time to do it very often.

One thing I especially love about seeing a movie out in public instead of at home in my pajamas is the drama that takes place before the movie. Like in the ticket line. Or the popcorn line. There are so many different kinds of people all shoved into a small space, drama is bound to happen. And it did.

Someone's Granny was the absolute highlight of one movie experience. I was getting my popcorn as I noticed Granny, who had to be at least 80, shuffling through the line next to me. She was stooped at the neck, wrinkled, and gray haired. She was wearing biking shorts, a tank top, and a biking helmet. She was alone and she was there to see Magic Mike. Yes, the movie about the male strippers. She got herself an extra large tub of popcorn, shuffled her way into the theater, and wore her helmet though the entire movie. She is now my all time goal of what I want to be when I grow up.

The other movie experience was much more horrible. I was in an extra fine mood because it was date night with my husband. He is funny and I always find myself laughing when we are together. We arrived at the theater, and I made a trip to the bathroom while he ordered the tickets. Then we stood in line and ordered our popcorn together. But, I took those moments to be extra friendly to all those standing around me. I conversed and cracked jokes with total strangers. I was feeling good, and I knew I was funny because everybody kept laughing. Even when I thought my jokes were a bit lame, people just laughed. I had them eating out of the palm of my hand.

Then I felt a tugging on my skirt and heard a voice whisper into my ear, "Your skirt is tucked into your underwear, and your underwear is inside out."

Humility.

I'm so glad they keep those theaters dark so I could melt into my chair and disappear.