TV and Assaulting Satan

Today Wes watched a lot of TV. Well, I can't be sure how much of it he actually paid attention to, but the electronic babysitter was on more than I want to admit. But I will say that we saw puppets cruising around New York, science kids, dinosaurs, trains, worlds made of words... you get it.

PBS extravaganza.

 

I was laying on the carpet by Wes and I started to feel bad.

Like maybe I wasn't a good mom.

 

I know why we call Satan the Enemy. He creeps in and fills me with self doubt.
I don't appreciate it.

 

So I sat there and started to think about the Truth.

 

Wes has a clean diaper. His tummy is full. His favorite snuggle is laying nearby. We  just read three books. I let him dump his blocks all over the floor (the ones with sharp pointy edges that scurry under my feet when I walk causing me to say not nice things at them). Our house is warm and safe. I have already given him oodles of kisses for the day. Later I am going to take him on a walk by the Waterway and to Frost Cupcakes for a treat.

 

And after I catalogued all the good things Wes had going on at that moment and for the day, I didn't feel so bad about myself. Or the TV.

 

And I felt like I had slamma-jamma'd the Enemy right in the kisser. All Batman style.

 

Ka-POW!

 

 

Antiques, The Zoo, and a Little Upchuck

Friday was a bit of a bust. Kent actually agreed to go to Round Top (antiques galore, junk heaven, Kentie torture chamber of unhappiness) and we decided to make a day of it with Dub. We woke up early (7:30, egad!), packed a lunch, loaded the car up with tie-downs, moving blankets, our hiking backpack for baby, and set off like a herd of turtles.

 We made it about half way there (45 minutes) and suddenly Wes puked ALL OVER himself. Carsick? Mostly milk and toast. MILQUETOAST! It was nasty, nasty, nasty. Of course, I didn't have a change of clothes for him other than some too-small cozy pants that were somewhat dirty and just happened to be in the car. Mother of the Year Award, coming soon!

 We realized that Round Top was not going to happen and that we needed to go back... to the zoo? Yes, to the zoo apparently, because we popped into our house for clothes and then drove 45 minutes to the Houston Zoo which was a flaming inferno of heat and ended up being kinda miserable. We did enjoy watching Wes crawl through a tube under the Piranha tank though. Good times.

 Later, we returned to a hot car that had been baking a puke-covered carseat for 4 hours, so that was fun.

 Saturday felt bad for what his friend Friday had done to me, and so Saturday gave me some rain to make it all better. And it did.



 

 



New 'Do

Wes' hair was getting a little hippie-ish, and I haven't taken him to the kids' salon in the mall because I'm afraid they'll make him look like a dork. They sent out a promotion to our house with a picture of a boy with a haircut, and he looked like he walked out of 1991. It as awful. But I decided to finally bite the bullet and give it the old college try. Now I'm not about to go apply at Fantastic Sam's, but I have to admit hat it turned out...decent! Special shout out to those who make it possible: Sesame Street, NutriGrain Bars (bribe) and my Fiskars sewing scissors.

 

 

Later this afternoon, Wes discovered his shadow for the first time. Now how cute is that?

Sporty Influence

I was one of those annoying but typical kids that wanted to take lessons in all sorts of things, but never longer than two weeks or so. It would only take that long for me to realize that it takes hard work to be good at __________ (fill in the blank) and that you can't just show up and be great at a whole lot after just one lesson unless you're _________ (fill in the blank with name of someone you know who's annoyingly awesome at everything instantly).

Because of my quitting habit, my mom stopped buying me outfits and/or equipment for every kind of lesson I took, and instead resorted to borrowing or thrifting. So I was the girl at ballet class in a poo-brown leotard with a pee-yellow tutu and a cornflower blue ribbon in my hair to tie the "look" together. Smart on her part though, because I'm pretty sure I quit ballet after a month or so, and moved on to the slightly less mainstream "sport" of baton twirling.

You heard me. Baton.

Why the baton you ask? My mom had been a twirler back in her 1960's glory days and I think she may have influenced this decision. For some reason the local news came to do a story on our class on Saturday. That night, we excitedly sat down in front of the TV and waited to see if I had any camera time. Not only was I in a shot but it was a close-up of me in the pee-yellow leotard being scolded for chewing gum. The shot followed me off to the left and zoomed in as I tossed the gum in a trashcan.  We used to have this whole thing on tape but later my older brother Jeff taped over it with episodes of Beavis and Butthead.

During late elementary and junior high I took figure skating lessons. I must have done so for several years because my parents did invest in some shiny white Riedell ice skates and one neon costume with a skirt. I liked figure skating, but I never seemed to get very good at it, and you can only skate in circles for so long before you get bored and try to do a triple lutz triple loop (yes, that's a real move) and fall and get hurt and then everyone is laughing at you, especially the younger girls who are better and have cooler costumes with matching skate covers.  Brian Boitano trained at my rink and accidentally slammed into me one time and sent me sliding face first toward the door where they keep the Zamboni. Thanks a lot, Brian Boitano. Figure skating wasn't my thing.

Then came soccer.

In 9th grade I sold my ice skates, bought some cheap plastic cleats, and enrolled for club soccer. This turned out to be a great decision. I could run and be wild, kick stuff, slide tackle (beware the red card!), fall down, get dirty, and hopefully, get GOOD at it. And in some ways, I did. I went on to play a little in college and then recreationally until a few years ago. I married another soccer player, Kent, who had played from early childhood through college as well, and was way better than I ever was.
We kick a ball around every now and then. We watch the World Cup. We still like soccer more than other sports. We're soccer fans (but not like the crazy Europeans).

Poor Wes. If he wants to try baseball and football or something even scarier to dad- dance or gymnastics, he'll have to deal with hand-me-down gear. But I think if he comes to us and in his little voice says "I want to play soccer", dad will drop what he's doing and zip over to Sports Authority for some kangaroo leather Adidas Copa Mundial cleats and a UEFA Euro Official Matchball. And that's not cheap, friends.

Kentie a la 1984

College Glory Days

Wes doesn't quite get the whole kicking part yet.

And a Baby Makes Three.

In August of last year I sat in front of a high-profile fertility doctor while he told me that I had about a 4% chance of conceiving a baby. Apparently he was wrong, because unbeknownst to me, I was already in the family way and cooking up a bambino. Fast forward to March of the following spring, and I managed to deliver Wesley Aaron Anderson into the world. So here we are, now with a 6 month-old and a foggy memory of a skeptical doctor.