The Joys of Boys

Pretty boring around here. It's nice and sunny today. Yesterday was sunny, too. Harrison played on the swings while I attempted to take out a couple of tree stumps with a pick ax. Not the best tool for the job, but I'm too scared to get out the chain saw. Maybe I'll try it if Harrison takes a nap tomorrow...

Today was speech therapy at 9 a.m. We were doing great time-wise. The boys finished breakfast at 8 a.m., and I headed upstairs to get dressed. I told Hutton, "Please go get dressed!" and ran upstairs. I ran down a few minutes later to help Harrison find his shoes. Hutton was sitting in the bathroom in his pajamas, playing with the toothbrushes. "Sweetie, please put those away and get dressed!" Ran back upstairs to put on some makeup. Couldn't figure out which lame shirt to wear. "Hmm, it's cold out now, but will be warm later. What should I wear?" As if anyone who sees me in the lobby of the speech therapist's office, or at the pet store, or anywhere else I will go today cares. Finally picked out a cotton shirt with a matching cardigan. Ran downstairs, annoyed that it took me so long to get ready. That's OK, we'll still make it on time...

...Or not. Hutton is sitting on his bed. Naked. Not dressed. Not at all. Angry Mom comes out of hiding. "HUTTON! PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON NOW!!!!"

Six minutes later, we're leaving, six minutes later than we need to leave to have any chance of making it on time. Angry Mommy is still bitching for the first five minutes of the drive, making sure to drive home to Hutton that when Mommy asks him to get dressed, she in fact wants him to put his clothes on. She doesn't want to have to repeat herself more than once. Blah blah blah. The steam eventually escapes from my head, and Partly Sane Mommy returns. We are only 10 minutes late. Not the end of the world, right? Our speech therapist still gets paid for 60 minutes of work, right?

Harrison and I then went to the pet store, to pick up some cat food for Tully, that will hopefully not be contaminated with gluten or melamine or whatever the hell killed other poor, unfortunate pets elsewhere. After the pet store, we headed to Payless. I wanted some shoes for doing yard work in, and picked up some of those plastic clogs. Harrison insisted on looking at shoes for himself. (A boy who likes to shop? What's not to love about that? I don't have a daughter, after all!) He wanted "racecar shoes" -- the Lightning McQueen "Cars" sneakers. I lied and told him they didn't have his size since he had some month old sneakers from Stride Rite. He started getting fussy, so I plied him with some camo rainboots. That did the trick, until we got to the register and he looked at the glasses, and wanted new sunglasses. There were only women's glasses, but the cashier "helpfully" pointed out where the kids' sunglasses were. They had "racecar" sunglasses for $8. The same sunglasses we had at home, just with a Lightning McQueen decal on the side. Joy. I asked Harrison if he wanted them, and he yelled, "NO!" Hmm. Fine. I bought the shoes and we left. Immediately, Harrison started crying about the racecar sunglasses. Moments later, full blown tantrum over racecar sunglasses. I dragged him, literally kicking and screaming, out of the mall and to the car, politely explaining that he had said "no" when I asked if he wanted the glasses, and we didn't have time to go back now. "Racecar sunglasses!" Between tightly pursed lips, "Harrison, you didn't want the sunglasses when we had the chance to buy them." "Racecar sunglasses!" Sob, sob. "This is what we call a missed opportunity." RACECAR SUNGLASSES!" Repeat for five more minutes.

Dragged Harrison, still screaming, to the speech therapist's office, got Hutton, dragged Harrison, still screaming, back to the car. Finally explained to Harrison that if he wanted to go to art class in the afternoon, he must stop screaming. Miraculously, it worked. He stopped screaming and we all enjoyed the ride home.

At home, I gave him the regular sunglasses with no Cars stickers. He excitedly put on his "racecar sunglasses". Wow. Who knew.

The Bus Gods Smiled

Today after taking Hutton to the bus, Harrison and I headed to his new art class. It's a nice way to get all the crafty stuff done without having to make a big mess in my own house. He gets to paint, cut things out, and use glitter, and I don't have to worry about the glitter everywhere until we bring the finished project home next week. Win-win!

After art class, we headed to BFF's house for lunch and companionship (I get some adult conversation, Harrison gets to play with her four-year-old daughter). As I was announcing, "Harrison, we need to leave to go get Hutton!" he was in the process of pooping. OK, quick diaper change. Then we got out to the car, and I realized we were going to be late. Crap. We had 10 minutes to get home -- a drive that takes at least 15. D'oh!

I drove as quickly as I could, without endangering the life of my child and myself. I managed to hit every red light. My stomach was dancing around, telling me, "You suck! You are going to miss the bus, and I bet the driver doesn't have your cell phone number and it will take an hour to track her down and get Hutton. Yep, you suck, all right!"

"Shut up, Stomach!" (This wasn't necessary to say out loud, as my stomach and I can communicate without speech. Stomach also tells me when it needs chocolate.)

I was growing more anxious by the second, as I was at least 5 minutes later than the regular bus arrival time, but when I turned onto the next to last street before our house, I noticed a short bus a few streets up driving in our direction. Hmm. It didn't look like Hutton's bus, but just maybe....

I turned onto our street and pulled to the side of the road. I got out of the car just as the bus pulled up. It was a substitute bus -- smaller and older than the regular one, which was why I hadn't recognized it. Hallelujah! I commented on the "new bus" to the driver, and she said, "Yeah, it's small, old, and SLOW! The regular bus is getting an oil change." I smiled and thought, thank you, Slow Bus! I made no comment about how I had been late and just pulled in moments before. No reason to let the driver know how irresponsible I am, right?