Teacup pigs and possibly misuing the word "stasis"

These were taken like a week ago.
I can't even talk about this weather situation.

Hello, Internet. It's been a while. I should really just strive for quarterly updates here to avoid the constant nagging sensation that my blog is withering on the vine. 

Since I last posted, no birds have entered our home uninvited. The ones we did invite were not available, allegedly. Their excuses were pretty flimsy, if you ask me. Something about wanting to live outside where birds "belong," and not wanting to be eaten by a house cat. Stuff like that.

In other news, I did not win an international writing contest. I did make the top ten, though! They even put my name on the site and everything, and I am inordinately proud; I'm not going to lie. I did a thing! Sort of. I at least caught the eye of someone who had some kind of say in this thing. I'll take it. Since I didn't win or place in the top 3, the essay remains unpublished, which is actually a good thing, because it means I can submit it to places that publish such things. The string of rejections that are sure to follow will bring a good balance to this whole situation. It's all about stasis.

My children continue to grow taller and more smart-alecky. We got a second cat named Merlin; he has quickly become the favorite pet. David has taken to pretending to be a teacup pig named Max for most hours of the day, and Anderson spends much of his free time programming with Scratch and making me feel intellectually inadequate, but in a very sweet way. Kurt has been doing a lot of Kurting, as he is wont to do.

Soon, I will leave this part of the tri-state area and point myself northish, to the land of the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. At this point, I'm counting down the hours, along with hundreds of others, to that seemingly mundane Thursday in April. It's hard to explain the magic, but I wish I could bottle it for those times when this writing pursuit feels like the dumbest idea anyone in the history of the world has ever dared to admit. While other, more poised attendees might organize their notes after the conference and approach their work with renewed vigor, I plan to soak it up, get home and write like a maniac until the buzz wears off. 

What else? I turned 39 and started a new and somewhat subdued countdown to the dreaded 4-0, or at least that's what you're supposed to say, I guess. I really can't be bothered. It may have finally sunken in that I'm mortal, as are you (and you and you). Apart from the occasional grip of tummy panic that I've possibly wasted a lot of time of my limited time on a lot of really pointless worries, it's all good. I'm happy to wake up and greet the day each day. Someone has to feed the teacup pig.

Almost not a Baby Anymore

My always-up-to-something, goofy, moody, loving, wonderful little 4-year-old.

I'm just going to lay it out there. This post is unabashedly and unapologetically mushy, sentimental, and maybe a little saccharin, but it's either this or subjecting my "baby" to an uncomfortably intense snuggling session so that I might internalize the essence of being in his 4-year-old presence forever. And I don't think anyone wants to see that happen. I've already been relegated to planting kisses only on his clothes or hair, because my kisses are "too much kisses," which is really just a polite way to say I'm a slobbering troglodyte when it comes to expressing my affection. I can't face that rejection so early in the day.

So here's the deal. My youngest is about to turn 5 and I'm having an unexpected little freak out about this whole situation. We won't have "little kids" in our house anymore! Panic! I'm accustomed to little kids by now. I'm comfortable in little kid land, where I'm very much in charge, and where my children adore me and call me things like "Bubblegum Mommy Cutie Pie Princess of the West." I've become accustomed to my princess lifestyle and I do not want to give it up.

I am not ready to move past the stage where I can scoop him up like a medium-sized dog and feel his hot breath on my chest when he snuggles up on my lap, or the flutter of his soft, enviably-long eyelashes on my cheek while he whispers inane secrets to me about a duck in the mailbox.

I am not ready for the day when he tells me, hopefully gingerly, to stop calling him "baby" or when the two of them will huddle in conspiratorial whispers about what an out-of-touch, goofy old lady I've become.

I'm certainly not ready for the day one of them gets a girlfriend, life partner, spouse, personal goldfish or car! I think I'm getting the spins here. It's all too much.

I know, I know. It will all be okay. And I am incredibly lucky to have two healthy, goofy, loving little boys who are proving every day how kind, smart, and engaged they are becoming. It's a very good life. I just didn't expect this lurch in my chest as my baby crosses the invisible bridge between the land of Dora and tricycles and the one where he'll need deodorant in a few short years.

Today, though, I will sneak a sniff of his little blond head as I help him get untwisted when he tries to take off his pajama shirt.

Today I will sit on my hands while he makes his own peanut butter sandwich for lunch, even when he wipes the knife on his shorts and there's more peanut butter on the table than the bread.

Today I will maintain something between a grimace and a smile when he's on his 13th successive knock-knock joke with no punch line.

Today I will scoop him up from behind, and delight in his squeal of surprise. I will twirl him around and sing into his ear while we dance to "Long Gone Daddy," and I will try hard to memorize all of it. The size of his little warm body in my arms. His weird little boy smell. The way he says "we're" instead of "our," and how he always says thank you with such genuine sincerity whenever I make him pancakes or skeptically hand over the kid scissors.

I will remember that at 4, he loved smoked salmon and hated watermelon, and that he sometimes had to put one of his three baby dolls, Tom, Craigslist, and Cabba, in time out for breaking the rules.

I will remember how much he loved dancing and singing, and how he did both with exuberance, every single time.

I will remember that above all, he really just wanted to be exactly like his big brother, and that being with his mommy and daddy, grandparents, uncles and aunt made him happier than anything else in the world.

And even when he is faced with navigating the sometimes excruciating process of growing up, and it makes him angry and confused, I vow to remember the way his tiny hand fit inside mine when he was 4, and how he once reached for me instinctively whenever he was worried. And I'll hope that he will carry our pure, eternal love for him in his heart, and that it helps when the world shows its claws now and then.

And I will watch this video, and many others like it, and smile, laugh, and probably cry like a sentimental mommy is meant to cry at a time like that. Because despite being "mine," my little David is his own little person, and it's a gift to be able to be a part of his growing up. I will miss this part so much, but I'm so excited to see what tomorrow brings, too. Did I mention that part about how grateful I am for this awesome life?

I've got your April Fool right here, foo

Your baby will fool everybody with this brilliant and hilarious disguise.

Maybe I missed a memo, but I'm pretty sure whoever dreamed up April Fool's Day didn't mean to imply that getting pelted with Matchbox cars or told the same "secret" (the secret is "poop") 85 times in a row, would count as acceptable April Fool's Day pranks. I thought I'd been raising these people better than that. Motherhood is a zero sum game on the best days. For every proud moment, like when they actually say "please" in front of another living soul, there is another, less proud moment, like when they sob continuously for an hour at a birthday party because they lost the robot race (sorry, Harry - later, he said it was the best party ever). ;)

I've never really been into this whole April Fool's scenario, at least not on the giving end. I've fallen prey to many an elaborate and not-so-elaborate prank, staring mouth agape at my 54-year-old friend as she describes with tears in her eyes, the sordid affair that resulted in her current, shameful pregnant state. Yes, yes of course I'd sit with her in the waiting room at the OB's office. No, no I didn't judge her. Things happen! Like miraculous pregnancies...hey wait, BAH, screw you, etc. I vacillate between incredible naivety and extreme paranoia. Depending on the day, I'll buy any bridge you're selling or I'm googling the email address you had 10 years ago on suspicion that you're involved in an internet money laundering scheme because you asked me to spot you for lunch.

I digress. Well, that should probably be the name of this blog. Sarah Digresses. Sarah's Digressions? That sounds too close to a dysentery kind of condition. Have I mentioned that a dysentery kind of condition is sweeping through our community? No fools, I promise. It's horrible and disgusting. I guess it's a noro-virus like the kind you get when you unwittingly board a cruise ship with 2,000 other pudgy Midwesterners to sit around in the same tepid swimming pool water (that just happens to be teeming with vacation-destroying germs and 40-year-old men who never left the frat, mentally). I actually like the tacky, cattle herding experience of a cruise, so don't send me mean emails, please. I've just btdt, though thankfully I didn't come away with a "I went on a cut rate cruise and all I got was the opportunity to vomit over the side of the ship until I passed out" t-shirt.

Anyway (I digress), that shit is everywhere. Pun intended, I'm sad to report. Although again, thankfully not here. Knock on wood.

I think the biggest prank that's been played on me so far today has to do with the fact that Kurt is still sleeping, whereas I've been awake since 6:45, shivering in bed under 4 covers in the 64-degree house (this is why you don't let Kurt mess with the thermostat), silently crying as my children race through the house screaming about bugs that aren't really there (April Fool's mommy ahahahaahahaah). All I know is that if any of these people has messed with my coffee, they will be celebrating without me next year because I will be in mommy prison.

I wonder if it will be quiet there.