Birthday Bests

So I had another birthday recently. And I've decided there are some great things about getting older. Other than just breathing some more and continuing to spend time with the people I love most on this earth.

For one thing, I'm now at that age where I realize that I could be a grandmother without any scandalously young childbearing going on. This realization did not come gently though.

A few weeks ago I was shopping in Wal-mart and my oldest son called me on my cell.

"Great-grandpa called," Clay said.

"He did?" I asked. "Did you talk to him?"

"No, I didn't pick up the phone, but caller ID showed it was him," he said.

(My kids aren't allowed to answer the phone unless caller ID shows a family member's name.)

"You could have picked up and talked to him," I reminded Clay.

"Yea, but THEN I WOULD HAVE HAD TO TALK LIKE THIS!" he shouted in my ear.

I laughed. "Yes, but that's just how you have to talk for him to hear you. Do you want to call him back?" I asked.

"Nah, I'll let you when you get home," Clay said.

"Okay, sweetie. Thanks for telling me. I'll see you soon. Love you, bye."

End of phone call. I pushed my buggy a little farther before this woman walked up from behind me and said something, but all I caught were the words "sweet" and "grandson". I asked her to repeat what she'd said.

"Oh," she said, "I was just commenting on the sweet phone call you just had with your grandson."

My WHAT??!

By then she was beside me and she started to get flustered.

"Well," she continued, trying to back peddle quickly, "now I'm up closer to you and I see you aren't old enough to be a grandma."

She was embarrassed. And I hate to see that.

"Actually, that was my oldest son. BUT I am old enough to be a grandma," I said. "One of my best friends from high school is a new grandma."

She was off the hook and we continued with general chit-chat a few more minutes. I could have let her comment fester a little bit, but I chose not to. She could have been witness to a not-so-nice conversation between me and my son, so I was just glad she heard us on a good day. I focused on the positive.

See, at 41, I'm mature enough to not let little things bother me anymore. I'm also more of a realist.

So I went to the toiletries section and bought a new box of hair color.

The other great thing about turning another year older is that you can let some dreams go. And see that you are better for it.

I used to always think it'd be a great thing to be, um, more fully endowed at, er, certain places on my body.

I'm not against plastic surgery. In fact, even though I don't routinely spend mega bucks on myself, for my two previous birthdays, I did a couple of things that qualify as cosmetic procedures. And I did it just for me.

I had LASIK surgery when I turned 39. And when the big 4-0 hit, this needle freak voluntarily let someone poke a needle filled with who-knows-exactly-what continuously into whatever spider veins they came across on my legs.

I've also dreamed of having a tummy tuck pretty much since the day my twins were delivered eight years ago. I never had a single stretch mark from my first pregnancy, but twins did my belly in. So when I read awhile back that they can suck the fat off your belly and deposit it straight into your breasts, I thought, "Hey, now that's for me! Nothing fake shoved up in there. All me. Just repositioned."

Seriously... what took doctors so long to figure out that stroke of genius?!

So I started dreaming with a bit more consideration. How much would that cost? How much would that hurt? How long would I have to flinch every time my kids came to me for a hug if both my belly and chest were recovering from surgery?

And then I had a mammogram.

And it came back with "iffy" results.

So I had a repeat mammogram.

And it came back with clear results.

And then I decided that if this mammogram thing was going to be an annual thing, sometimes with repeats... well, then, hey - size DOES matter. And it's better to be smaller!!

So that dream died. And I'll happily lay it to rest.

That tummy tuck thing, though... that might still be a "go". It took me lots of years to work up the courage and save the dough for LASIK. It'll take longer if I ever work up to a tummy tuck simply because I'd have to have general anaesthesia. And that's a greater fear for me than needles.

But, probably by the time I work up the courage to do it and have the money to do it, it won't matter so much. Every other part of my body will be sagging then, too. And I'll be mature enough to handle it then.

Yeah, this getting old thing isn't too rotten.

For now.

Toy Fight

I picked up the kids from school today because Clay had an appointment for a haircut immediately after school. Picking up my kids is like a comedy of errors.

They're all spread out in different classes, the younger ones are in a completely separate wing than the older one, just about as far apart as they could be without leaving the premises. The older one has his related arts classes right before dismissal so I never know where exactly he'll be. Just as soon as they all were gathered together near the front door, Clay said he had to go to the bathroom.

Since we were right beside the boy's bathroom, I told him to go ahead. Then Spencer said he had to go to the bathroom, but not before he snatched some toy that Allison had received from a classmate. A silly little plastic lock of some kind. Which Spencer then took hostage on his sojourn into the restroom.

Tears welled immediately in Allison's eyes. And Woe Is Me, Act I began.

"He took my toy."

"It's my favorite toy."

"I got it from someone in my class."

"I'll never see it again."

Clay had returned from the bathroom by then but a glance at my watch confirmed we were running late. And my boy has been sporting a Shag for quite some time. This haircut was necessary!

I was losing patience. What was taking Spencer so long? Why can't these boys hold their bladders for the duration of a 10-minute drive across town? Can my girl possibly whine any louder?

Finally, I bent over and looked into Allison's eyes.

"Allison, Spencer does these things to bug you. When you react, he wins. Quit crying. I'll make him return it when he gets out of the bathroom."

She was not convinced.

"He'll lose it!"

Big deal, I'm thinking. It's probably the cheapest thing that the dollar store sells.

"Well, if he loses it, Allison, I'll make him buy you a new one."

Still, she was not convinced. Because of one small detail.

"Mom, how can you make him buy me a new one? It said it was Made In China!"

Needless to say, we are not planning any trips to China.

The toy has been returned to its rightful owner.

Apologies have been made.

All is forgiven.

Except for maybe the fact that I laughed in my weeping daughter's face. That wasn't a shining moment of motherhood.

Peace and Quiet

A short conversation with Spencer just now went like this:

Spencer: Mom, you know that tomorrow is a school day, don't you?

Me: Yes. Isn't it great?!

Spencer: Yes. I mean, no.

Me: What? What's not great about school tomorrow?

Spencer: It's great for you.

Me: Why is it great for me and not for you?

Spencer: You get peace and quiet.

"Hmmmm," I think to myself. "I am so busted! My kid knows why I love school days. It's quiet at home. No fighting children. No squealing car noises coming from the boys as they wreck cars. No tattling siblings.

"But I don't want him, or any of them, to think I don't miss them. Or that I don't love being their mom. Or that I don't enjoy spending time with them.

"What do I say now??"

Obviously, I was over thinking, as I am prone to do.

Because this is what was said next...

Spencer: You don't have to hear the teachers talking all day.

Oh. Yeah. THAT kind of peace and quiet.

Shew!

The Beast

Spencer is playing flag football again this year, his second year after taking a year off last year. He really wants to play tackle football. He definitely has the attitude, I'm just not convinced he has the body type. He's a skinny minny. Muscular as can be, but a lightweight for certain.

Next year he can play either flag or tackle football, but I am hoping he'll choose another year of flag before he goes for tackle.

His team is not faring very well. But it's certainly not because of lack of effort on Spencer's part.

This weekend, the game announcer even dubbed Spencer a "defensive beast". And he was. I can't even remember how many flags he pulled off of the opposing team players. But I vividly recall exactly how he looks when it happens.

First, he concentrates.



Then he watches the person with the ball.



He reaches for their flag (he's behind the official, but you can see his hand almost to the flag on the left).



He gets the flag and holds it up like he's a fisherman with his prized catch.



It takes him a couple of seconds to relinquish the flag.



It's really a joy to see, and I'm not even a huge football fan. But he is. So I am. For him.

He also scored at least one touchdown.



But I don't think he knew exactly where he was supposed to stop, because he kept on running well past the area.



Good times!

Dead and Gone

I have to follow-up on my last post.

The cricket is dead.

Peace now reigns in our home.

Well, except for when the kids are home from school. Before they fall asleep at night.

But at least we're all having an easier time falling asleep again.

Here's the kicker: Jiminy's death was entirely accidental. I don't know who gets the credit.

I had been to the local Wal-mart to buy some Borax, but they were sold out. I called Bruce and asked him to check at the one near his work on his way home. Also sold out.

Ironically, that night, the chirping ceased.

The next day, I accidentally discovered why. While opening our downstairs door to the garage, I saw something black near the bottom hinge. Something kind of spikey. And crunchy looking.

Mr. Amore evidently sang his last love song and when no love interest appeared on the horizon, he came out of his hiding place behind our drywall, and crawled right into the door crack at just the wrong time.

I told you it was bad luck to mess with the Moody people's sleep.

Bad Luck

Back in college I had a favorite journalism professor who walked into class one day with stitches. Journalism classes are a bit more relaxed than some other classes, an English Composition class, for instance. We students felt free enough to ask Mr. Stubblefield what happened to him to produce the stitches.

Turns out he killed a cricket. Which in some cultures is considered bad luck.

Evidently, a cricket got into my prof's home, and in his efforts to whack the bug, Mr. Stubblefield ended up injuring himself.

I remembered all this last night as I lay in bed listening to the incessant chirping of a cricket. An unwelcome guest in our home. One who has outstayed his welcome by about two weeks now.

Last week Spencer complained that the cricket's song was disturbing his sleep, but I figured that was all pish posh. I mean, seriously... a thorough nocturnal sweep of our home done by my husband determined that said cricket is indeed in the basement. One flight of stairs up is our living room, dining room, kitchen, half bath and den. We started shutting the door at the top of the stairs when the love-starved cricket's mating call disrupted our TiVo time in the den.

How, then, could my child hear the chirping when all our bedrooms are an entire floor above the main floor? Two floors away from the cricket?

So much for being a doubting Thomas.

Crickets don't normally bother me, so I don't normally kill them. I can even remember playing with the black field crickets when I was a kid (which I'm sure was an idea pitched by one of my brothers).

I do, however, become completely unglued at the sight of a camel cricket. They're gross. A face not even a mother can love, I'm sure, which is a pointless consideration because I'm positive the critters are blind. What other insect jumps right at you as you are trying to get away from it? Freaks! (Don't tell me spiders. Most of the time they're not jumping at you, but are simply caught in their own webs and are along for the ride as you hop, skip, jump and screech while trying to escape.)

But anyway, camel crickets don't chirp (found that out online). Coincidentally, this is more proof in my mind that they are blind. They don't even need to cut to a love song to attract a mate. They know they're ugly but because all their possible girlfriends are also ugly AND blind, none of them care. Why bother strumming a sensual tune if that's the best offer you're gonna get? Save your energy for hopping directly at the mother of the house the next time she's downstairs to get milk out of the extra fridge. Then tell all your possible conquests how high you made the mom jump, how fast you made her run and at what decibel you made her scream. Now that's the stuff you impress a female camel cricket with! If evolution were true, I'd expect that one day a camel cricket would be born with eyesight and thus ensure the extinction of the species.

Back to my cricket chirping problem.

I lost probably 20 minutes of much-needed sleep last night thanks to some dopey, puppy-dog-eyed cricket who just needs some lovin'.

Hear me now, Mr, Cricket: I am not sympathetic to your plight. Get a room! Preferably one of your own. Outside of my house. My home is not your bachelor pad! And the only safe sex you'll be having is going to be outside of my house.

Because while some people may think it's bad luck to kill crickets, I'm not one of 'em.

Let me tell you about bad luck.

It's bad luck to keep the Moody people from their sleep!!

Death to all crickets!

Camping and Crafting

Just back from another camping trip to Deer Run RV Park in Crossville. We really enjoy that place. I think this was our fourth or fifth stay. It was definitely the most crowded visit we've had. And even though I do not like crowds, it still felt... um, not so crowded.

Not too many pictures to post. When we go to this campground, we really don't plan much running around off site, except for a visit down to Cookeville to see my grandpa, dad and brother (and his family). Maybe that's the thing I like best about our stays there... it's real down time!

The campground did have some craft time planned for the kids because of Labor Day weekend.

They all made this God's Eye craft:



Allison also did this craft:



No crafty picture of Spencer. Instead I give you this:



The fishing poles had no hooks, but Bruce told the kids they could play with them anyway. Some time AFTER they got the okay but BEFORE Bruce regretted it (he was spitting mad once he had to take apart each pole to fix the jammed up fishing lines), Spencer runs up to us with fish in hand.

Sure, it's small. But he caught that thing with his own hands! No hook!

I even asked him if the fish was floating when he found it. Nope. The fish struggled after being pulled from the water.

Still, it was probably sick or something. I mean, Spencer's fast, but that fast? I have my doubts.

Whatever! It made Spencer's day.

And you can't argue with that.

Spencer and Allison's 8th Birthday Party

Yesterday we had Spencer and Allison's birthday party. Eight years old. It sure doesn't seem like it's been that long.

We actually held them off from opening their gifts until shortly before the party... three days after their actual birthday. Sadly, the delay was solely because we have run too much the last week, from event to event and literally had no time to celebrate. SO lame!

Pay no attention to the wilting peace lily. I always forget to water that thing.



Clay, taking after his daddy, camera in hand.





For the first time (and maybe the last!) we bought separate cakes for them both. They were actually cupcake cakes, which equalled a total of four dozen cupcakes. And that's a lot of cupcakes! Precisely why that may never happen again.



That's a kitty on Allison's cake. In case you can't tell. Because to me, the picture makes it look like just a fur ball.













One last picture. Regardless of whose birthday it is, I always invite at least one friend for each of my other kids to play with. I started that to keep my younger two out of Clay's hair during his parties, but turnabout is fair play and all that.

Here's Clay and his good friend Joseph.