Van Ornamentation

Sometimes I just itch for an adventure, long for a little somethin'-somethin'.

This feeling washed over me while at the pool yesterday. I was talking to my nephew while my other nephews and my own boys played sharks and minnows in the pool.

The whistle blew for '15-minute rest break'. As the kids heaved their wet bodies out of the pool, I glanced around for towels and noticed Jonah's boxers lying on a chair next to his jeans. Now, boxers are really more of an accessory. The top inch sticks out above shorts and jeans, so it's not as if we're talking about a nasty, dirty pair of tighty whities here. In my defense, please keep this fact in mind.

I don't know what came over me.

I think it was too much sun or something evil of that nature.

In a moment of insanity, I picked up his boxers, walked nonchalantly to an empty lifeguard chair stand, and casually slid them onto the pole.

There they hung, waving a silent salute in the summer breeze.

It was a beautiful thing, one of rare beauty. Boxers hanging on a lifeguard chair and an unsuspecting teenager.

A minute or so later, I sat questioning myself. Did I cross the line? I love to play jokes on my kids and vice versa. But I never want to humiliate them too much. I never want to break their confidence.

Just about the time I decided to walk over and take them down before anyone noticed, the music at the pool turned off and the P.A. microphone buzzed. My heart stopped as I realized what was happening:

"Attention. Attention Everyone! I would like to direct your attention to the lifeguard chair at the pool's entrance. There is a pair of boy's boxers hanging on the chair. Would the owner of these boxers please come and remove them now?"

I wanted to remain calm, remain nonchalant, so that no one would know who the underwear belonged to. Really, I did. But I just could not contain myself. I laughed until I snorted, and snorted until I cried.

My poor, poor 14-year old son. I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me.

I felt bad about it (sort of) for a few more hours until after dinner.

I had just come back from running Gable to the pool. The other boys decided they wanted to go to the pool, so we headed back outside. It was then that I noticed a pair of my own underwear hung from the back windshield wiper of my van.

A mom-van with panties.

So yeah, I really just do not feel so sorry for the little punk anymore.

I just don't.

Slight Variations of Words

My friend bought a new car. It's a Volvo, something like the one pictured below.

Except the license plate is different.
The wheels are different.
And it's a different year.
Oh, and the steering wheel is on the other side.

Other than that, it's just like this one.
When she pushes a button, the hard-shell convertible top just pops up and covers the car.

Just like that.

It is impressive looking, and so mechanical looking. Kind of like this:


When we first saw it, one of the boys commented how much it looked like a Transformer. He and his friend came up with a pretty creative name for a transforming car:

Volvotron.

The problem is that while in the car tonight, he kept calling it:

Vulvatron.

(I'm giving you a moment to let that sink in. It's alright, it took me a minute too.)

Jon: Hey, buddy. You should be careful how you say that. It's Volvotron, not Vulvatron.

Boy: Okay (not listening, continuing with his story) My friend's mom's new Vulvatron is great, My friend's mom's Vulvatron is amazing, blah, blah, blah.

Jon: No, really. It's VOLVOtron, not VULVAtron. A Volvo is a car. A Vulva is a part of the female anatomy.

Boy: (Stops dead, hands up) Dad, seriously. I did NOT need to know that.
(pauses) It's just that I'm just not that into hearing about the female anatomy and all.

------------------------------------------------

And now, at 11:00 p.m., most of the house is still up, waiting, watching the clock eagerly. For at 11:32 p.m., 11 years ago tonight, a second Price baby boy was born.

The fireworks are ready.

We must wait.
We must celebrate.
Tick, tick, tick...

The Price Loo

This post is from my old blog. So, if you were around for the old blog, this will be nothing new to you. If you were in church today, you will recall that when the third service started, Jon began to talk only to hear Ryan talking. Apparently Ryan's cordless mike was on while he was in the lobby and it was coming over the main speakers. Jon said, "It's good that he's not in the bathroom. That water's cold." (It remains to be seen if Jon will get into any trouble for this line.) Somehow this is a guy joke that almost every guy gets (or pretends to get). I did not get it, but with some explanation, eventually caught on. And if you are a chick and need a little explanation, rest assured that I will hold your hand and explain it to you so you can be in on this weird guy-joke. This post came to mind and so I'm reposting it. You can pretend it's new though. It'll be fun...really it will be...

Over the years, I've come to realize that what is perfectly normal to me actually has the potential to make others cringe. Such as our bathroom...

In our first home, we had just one bathroom. One tiny bathroom. As boys entered our family, the bathroom began to take on some of their personalities. When Jonah was about seven, he was reading Captain Underpants. So one day he decided to make our toilet into Harry Potty. He cut out little arms and facial features and glued them to our toilet. It was cute. I thought it was very creative and ingenious.

There were times that I would take a shower only to discover that all of the shampoo, conditioner, hand soap, shaving cream, and any and all of my lotions had been made into 'mixtures' by Jonah and Gabe.

Then there was the night that I tripped and fell over a lightsaber on the bathroom floor. In the dark. Into my forehead. Any other mother may ask, "Why, pray tell, is there a saber on my bathroom floor?"

Just the other day, my little friend, Benjamin, was perplexed as to the reason that there was a raccoon skull on the floor. I fail to see why this perplexes him...

Toenail collections, scab collections, rock collections, sand collections. Piles of powder, snow, mud. And don't even ask my boys what they do while they are...um...in there with the door locked. Many, many times I have entered the potty, post...you know...and have found Star Wars action figures hanging, all within an arm's reach of the toilet. Not only hung, but first bound and tortured by band-aids, then hung by toilet paper. Sometimes they are choked with toothpaste, sometimes they are frozen in carbonite Hans Solo-style, by being embedded in a bar of soap. Dental floss goes quickly in our home, not because of it's hygienic properties, but because it has great zip-line properties. When paired with Batman, it's the greatest adventure of the day.

Often I find an entire roll of shredded toilet paper in the sink, mounded up soggy volcano-style with any assortment of lava inside: toothpaste, antibiotic cream...mud.

A few years ago, this was a conversation I was involved in:
"Melanie, you wouldn't believe the things my kids were doing in the bathroom. It got so bad that I had to close and lock the bathroom door and hide the key."
"Oh, what were they doing?"
(heavy sigh from my cousin), "They were (whisper here) unrolling the toilet paper - the entire roll! You just wait, you'll be locking your door any day now."

I guess that maybe I should have locked the door the day that Jack decided to get a drink by himself. Out of the toilet. The unflushed toilet. But he was so proud of himself...

I think that really creative things can happen when my children actually have to sit still for a while. And being in the bathroom forces them to be still until nature is finished with them.

And I happened to like the Harry Potty.

Wife of a Leper

In the spirit of full disclosure (the words of EK), this is a nasty post dealing with such words as pus and blood and oozing and dealing with such things as diarrhea and vomiting.

Hi, my name is Melanie and I am married to a leper.

His skin is blistered and oozing. Big pieces of goo just drop off of him at any given time. Skin mixed with pus and sometimes blood. It's a disgusting sight. I can't, or rather don't, touch him. To touch him means to come away with a sticky shirt and I don't like sticky shirts that have pieces of skin and drops of pus on them. Call me heartless, but I just don't.

He is not an animal.

Okay, so he doesn't have leprosy. It's just poison ivy. But it's bad. He looks as if he has a really bad sunburn on the affected areas. From the sunburned areas come crusty brown mountains of yellow lava that flows and flows...and flows. By the time his clothes come off of his body, or rather, are peeled off his body, they are stiff.

Seriously.

And since children read this blog, let's just assume that 'affected' areas are just arms, stomach, and legs, okay? Because if you are a man and start to think of blistering poison ivy on other 'affected areas', you may really start to feel it...

Remember how excited Jon was to have the chainsaw? Well, in his zeal, he sliced right through the dog's invisible fence AND got into some poison ivy. Now for most of us, we could get into poison ivy and end up with an itchy rash. Not Jon. Ever since I've known him, he has gotten poison ivy often. But about twice a year, he really gets it. Full-blown, keep-you awake-all-night-gritting-your-teeth kind of gets it. One time he got it internally after breathing it from a campfire. That was lovely.

I have known my beloved since January of 1991 and during that time I have known him to miss two days of work due to illness. Oh no, it wasn't after he'd been up all night with a raging fever and liquids coming out of both ends. He went to work after that. It was from poison ivy.

He was working at the steel factory. His uniform consisted of jeans, steel toe boots, two pairs of long socks, and long sleeves. All. Year. Long. In a steel shop. (He could wear short sleeves in the summer, but when he has poison ivy, it puts people in a panic when they see it so he usually tries to wear long sleeves to cover it up a bit) It was June and hot. And he had poison ivy. His legs were covered, top to bottom, in festering, oozing blisters. The blisters would weep onto his jeans and dry, causing his jeans to stick to his legs. Any movement broke them open. The cycle would repeat again and again, all day long. By the time he got home on that particular Wednesday night, he painfully peeled off his work jeans...and they stood up alone.

He took Thursday and Friday off, the poor leper.

We've tried all the remedies and prescription stuff. It helps, but the poison still has to just run it's course. It's painful even just to watch. I hear him now playing guitar downstairs and all I can think about is his arm rising and falling to strum the strings and those blisters being scratched open again...

It's drying up now and should be cleared up in a few days. If not, I'm sending him off to the leper colony. He's leaving too much of a mess here.

A Growing Obsession

As I've recently disclosed, my sons are obsessed with armpit hair. They are also obsessed with anything that is repulsive to their mother. And you really don't want to know what they were doing at the beach today. Without clothes....

We started our co-op on Monday. This co-op never ceases to amaze me. It has close to 400 children, all homeschooled, and it runs like a well-oiled machine. When we joined five years ago, I envisioned a homeschool co-op to include lots of women wearing denim jumpers with apples on front. Bad hair and colored, folded over socks that matched their shirt and hair bows.

It's not like that.

Mind, there is the occasional apple jumper woman, but she is the exception.

Over the years, I have made friends of all sorts. I realized on Monday that I actually missed some of the co-op friends over the summer. I think I may have hugged close to 10 people on Monday. 10!!!! And I actually wanted to hug them.

One thing that is sweet is the fact that I run into a lot of the boy's teachers over the course of a day. I love to hear about my boys from another's perspective. (Well, if they had a negative perspective, I wouldn't like it though.) My friend Rachel is Jack's art teacher. She had an amazing art class and I'm not just saying that because she reads this blog...There were two art classes available for Jack to take. One, you sit and color and paint and the other, you grow and explore and create. Which one to take, hmmm? Anyway, Rachel said that they were letting the kids introduce themselves and Jack said something along the lines of, "My name is Jack-armpit hair-Price. They call me Jack armpit hair because I have a lot. And it stinks."

This is my son in whom I am well pleased...

Fascination

Never in all of my life have I seen such fascination.

And it's all over armpit hair.


I simply was not aware that armpit hair is so coveted when one does not have any to speak of. At first it was cute, then it was funny. But now, I'm just now sure how I feel about it other than simple 'awe' at how common this topic of conversation has become. Said conversations revolve around:
-guessing how much any random person has
-wondering how much it stinks and making appropriate gagging noises
-discussing what it would be like to have one 'really long hair that can wrap all the way around your body'
-how many they have, but you just can't see because they are so blond

I do not enjoy this new fascination so much. I don't mind it until I overhear things about my own armpits. Yes, there seems to be much laughter and whispering at my expense and it is making me a little self-conscious. I actually found myself on the defense today about the shaving habits of women. These boys were acting as if it were a crime to have a little stubble. How many men don't have any facial stubble at any given point of the day?

It is just amazing to me how big of a milestone this must be for my boys. Just the other night, from the back of a dark, silent van where all the boys were presumed to be asleep, we heard a gasp followed by, "Oh my gosh, guys, I seriously feel an armpit hair and I'm dead serious."

And even more surprising was seeing the other two recently-presumed sleeping heads pop up, turn on the overhead lamp, and check out the situation.

This will pass, won't it?

Be Careful of the 'secret' ingredients

We were eating dinner tonight when this son of mine started to panic. It had something to do with the ingredients in the barbecue sauce. He couldn't get the words out, but it obviously was something bad. Finally, he asked if he would get in trouble if he read the package out loud. After being assured he was cleared, he began to read. Everything was fine until he came to..

mole-asses

Yes, my beloved son swore off barbecue sauce for good when he believed that he had been eating mole-asses all these years.

Once he found out that it was indeed molasses (which he had never heard of, the city boy), he was relieved, because, as he said, "I do not want to eat moles or their asses!"

Well, amen to that, sonny boy.

My Son

At the urging of my family, I am going to post this story. I have my reservations about posting it, so if you get the feeling that you may be disgusted with me, you best stop reading now.

This is the kind of story that could, quite possibly, make my son disown me. So, please, don't read this at his wedding. I may never get to see my grandchildren if you do that.

We ate at Taco Bell today after church. Well, the boys did ~ I watched. I just can't eat that stuff. Jack had to go to the bathroom and I mean...go. He didn't want to go in there all by himself, so I went in with him. Now, for some reason, Jack found it necessary to disrobe before he rid his body of Taco Bell waste. So, off came the shoes, underwear and pants. This took quite a while, but finally he got down to business. I heard him whisper, "Mom, mom, watch this!"

At this point, you must picture my little buck~naked child on the toilet. There were certain parts of a boy that were now fully on display. And that part that was on display is what he is now telling me to 'watch'. That was where the 'show' was taking place. And now, here is the 'show' in all it's glory...

Jack: Mom, are you watching?

Me: Yup, what's up?

Jack: (Looking down) Hey, weenie, do you want ketchup with your french fries?

And then...

He made it move (without touching it, mind you) and nod 'yes'

Ahhh, my son. Ain't he a smart one?

When Jack finally finished and re-dressed, I told Jon and the boys about Jack's little hidden talent that he showed to me in the bathroom. So, when it was time to leave:

Jon: Jack, are you finished with your food?

(Jack playing, not paying attention)

Jon: Jack, Jack, are you finished or not?

(Jack playing and still not paying attention)

Jon: (leans down, now eye level with Jack's crotch, Yells) Hey! Weenie! Is Jack done with his food?

To which Jack gave everyone an example of how his penis could say yes all by itself.

Carnage

Ryan's blog about getting chickens took me back to a week with my three nephews and one niece in the country.

I should have known it was going to be a heck of a week because just being anywhere with these kids was/is an adventure. A very loud adventure.

I was left in charge of the kids, the horses, the dogs and cats for five days. Jon was there most nights, but for the most part, it was just me and seven kids. Seven.

The first night, one of the boys woke me up to tell me that he was sick. He was. Never doubt a pre-teen boy when he tells you he's sick. Just guide his sweaty body to the bathroom and it will save a lot of laundry ~ trust me on this one as I learned the hard way. This poor boy had liquid coming out both ends. Now, it's one thing to clean up after one's own children ~ that's no big deal, but to clean up after someone else's children...

I walked out in the front yard after that first long night. It was early, but I had to feed and water the horses. I had my industrial-sized flashlight and my borrowed barn coat and I felt like a farm girl. I noticed debris all over the ground, but I didn't stop to see what it was as I was on a mission to feed the horses. I was a farmer now and no debris would stop me.

By the time I finished with the horses, the first light of the morning was coming up and I could now see that the front yard was littered with animal carnage. Lots of it. A huge assortment of it and the dogs were enjoying it tremendously. There was a dead, disemboweled rabbit with it's tail across the yard, a horse femur, yes a femur, and the jaw of a deer.

During breakfast we heard the squealing of a rabbit being killed by the dog. The dog tortured it a while and then brought it to us to enjoy. I had one of the boys move it to the side of the barn for burial later that day.

I thought that some fresh air might be good for the sick one, as well as give the house some time to air out. Strangely enough, it smelled. We walked up the road to the farm next-door. You know, the one that Scooby got shot at this past Christmas. I stray...

As we approached the farm's pastures, we noticed Mr. Mike's big ol' cow laying just beside the road, mysteriously still. Was she dead? I kept telling the kids that she was just a sound sleeper, but eventually we found out that this huge cow was indeed dead. We stood by her and had a moment of silence. While we were having this beautiful moment where I was explaining life and death, we again heard a terrible squawk. This time, one of our dogs had gone through the fence and got a chicken by the neck. Immediately, seven children started screaming and chasing the dog. Mr. Mike started shooting his gun in the air, and I just stood apologizing.

By the time we caught up to the dog, he had, of course, broken the chicken's neck. We decided that a funeral was in order for the chicken, as well as the earlier-killed-rabbit, and we would also pay a fitting tribute to the dear old cow as well. The kids all set to work making wooden crosses and painting memorial rocks. I dug a grave and as I dug, the kids kept bringing animal parts to be buried ~ the tail of a rabbit, the foot of a deer, the crusty body of a frog. The grave grew and grew and the funeral preparations grew and grew. By dinner, I announced the time of the funeral was just 30 minutes away and all final preparations needed to be in place promptly. Drama was in the air and the kids even changed clothes in respect.

We met at the gravesite as the sun went down in streaks of red and pink over the barn. Each of the children read or said something about the animals and their life. Then we all decided to sing Amazing Grace. Strangely enough, a lump grew in my throat. I couldn't even sing! I marveled at the tender hearts of children and the raw yet exquisite beauty of nature. But then my nephew started carrying the dead chicken to the grave on the shovel. The head of this chicken hung off the side of the shovel and as Anthony walked, this chicken head bobbed up and down in time to the song. Dominic shifted while he sang and Isabella screamed, "Don't step on the bunny, you're stepping on THE BUNNY!" To which Dominic yelled, "He's DEAD Isabella!", which of course sent Isabella into tears. Anthony, with the dancing chicken on the shovel, attempted to drop him into the grave, missed, dropped him on the rocks, and the dogs took off with him again. Once again, I had seven children screaming and running and I was left apologizing to no one in particular.

Oh, the carnage. Oh, the noise and oh, so much drama.

Yet that, my friends, was one of the best weeks of my life.