Pilates

I was dreading going to pilates class. It's been three weeks since I last went. A pinched nerve and Big B's hospital stay were enough to make me hibernate.

But it was time to get moving.

So with a stiff left leg and bloated body, I made my way to class. It's amazing what a little pushing here and coaxing there can do. What seemed nearly impossible became do-able. And just like that, I suddenly had a renewed faith in this tired body of mine.

It felt good!

I have faith in my body. I have faith in me. I have faith in what I can do.

(Was this a post pilates endorphin rush induced thought I wondered. I don't care. I'll take it.)

It's Just Stuff

I am glad that March is almost over. It's been a hard month. Big B's hospital stay on the 5th was trying. In the eleven years since we've diagnosed his seizure disorder, it's always been go, go, go. It has just always been. We do what needs to be done. And that's it. Maybe it's age. Maybe it was a combination of things. Maybe it was coming home from the hospital and he wasn't with me. But for the first time, I felt what it would be like to not have him. Here. With me. It was un-nerving and frightening. The realisation, that I could have lost him forever was overwhelming. The feeling of despair was an understatement.The funny thing is, he'll get over this. Maybe it's his age. Or his somewhat irreverent attitude towards life.

(I wish I could say the same for myself).

My days are organized by lists. Every evening, I make my list and slowly tick them off as the day goes along. Even the silliest, most trivial things make it to my list. Now, it is what it is. Just a list. And these are just things to do. In the end, it's just stuff.

George W. Bush

It just occured to me that the Little Guy hasn't mentioned George W. Bush in weeks. I think it's safe to assume the novelty/ curiosity has waned. I think this whole George thing began when he asked who B's father was. I jokingly said it was George Bush. Big mistake. The Little Guy took me seriously. Then election fever came. He wanted to know how George became president. What would happen if he didn't win? Does George live in Washington? Is Barack more popular then George? Blah. Blah. Blah. Then we asked the boys where they wanted to go for the summer. "Texas" was the very solemn answer. Totally flabergasted, I asked why? "Because George Bush lives in Texas."

Thank You

The Little Guy came home with a present for me.
A classmate had a birthday and cupcakes were shared with the class.
The Little Guy saved half his cupcake for me.

Who would have thought a smooshed half-eaten vanilla cupcake with
light blue frosting could have been any sweeter.

Bedtime Story

I've been hoping to get the Little Guy into story books. I guess I've just grown tired of reading about insects, reptiles, and the fish of Southeast Asia. Not that there's anything wrong with this whole bug/fish thing, but it would be nice to get back into the more traditional themed bedtime story. You know, one that doesn't involve scientific names and geographical descriptions that I can't pronounce. Today we spent the afternoon at the school media centre. As expected the Little Guy headed straight to the non-fiction books. After twenty minutes, he returned with an armful of (more) bug books. So much for change I thought. We finally compromised. Since the maximum number of checked out books is six, we chose three apiece. This evening's reading was called 'Salmon.' On the plus side, I now know that a newly hatched salmon is called a fry and a young salmon is a parr.

What A Boy Wants

What a boy wants. What a boy needs. Some night vision goggles to use when hanging under the covers. "Cause it's cooler then a flashlight."

Of Barbie and Action Figures

"Pack away your dolls," I said. And just like that, Big B and the Little Guy whip their heads around, at what looks like a sweeping 180 degree angle. Like a scene from the exorcist, eyes glaring, they hiss in unison, "They're not dolls....They're...action figures." Creepy. I could never imagine my sister C, channeling Linda Blair if Barbie was called an "action figure." Little Guy informs me that action figures are not dolls. They have arms and legs that move. They can do all kinds of things. I just rolled my eyes. Hmmm. Whatever.

Flashback to the seventies. My sister loved Barbie. She had the whole kaboodle and some. My link to Barbie was the lone Skipper doll I owned. She was like Barbie's poor relative. The only piece of clothing she possessed was the lime green two piece swim suit she came in. There may have been a life jacket too.

Last year B (C's daughter) passed the Barbies, Headless Ken (His head was taped on. It was lost in a pretend skiing accident) and his brother Plastic Hair Ken, their huge house, and car to the Little Guy. Along with the dream house and Corvette came a wardrobe straight out of the late seventies and early eighties. There was no way in hell that the Little Guy was playing with the Barbies. So they stayed in the box they arrived in. Headless Ken and his brother Plastic Hair Ken were another story though. They moved into the huge pink house and started hanging with the Action Figures. Before we knew it, the Kens had not only taken over the house and car, the Little Guy had taken to squeezing them into Barbie's shiny tight wardrobe. Big B and M were slightly distressed at seeing the Kens and Action guys tooling around the flat wearing tight pants, tube tops and boas. The Little Guy was oblivious to the fact, that the Action Guys had transformed into the Village People. This was just all too fun for him. Afterall, Action Figures don't come with a furnished house, car and accesories.

Unfortunately peer pressure and gender issues doomed the Kens. It was impossible for me to push the huge pink house into the closet and we couldn't paint it black (as requested). The final straw came when the Little Guy's posse came for a visit. Later that evening, the Little Guy asked me to give away the Barbie gang.

(Enter: Playmobil.)

A Good Day For Golf

M and the Little Guy wanted to play golf. Truth be told, it's not my thing. I was torn between staying in and bonding with Big B or giving M a break. (Translated: Keep Little Guy entertained when his attention span has reached its golfing limit.) In the end, the golf course won out and off we went.

Despite the uncooperative weather and the all too short attention span, Little Guy played his best game ever. He managed to hit a 130 yard drive on the 8th hole and played par on the 4th hole par 4. I watched from the golf car as M proudly shouted out, "It's a real par! A real par!" I could see M beaming with fatherly pride as his chubby progeny enthusuastically made in the direction of the bunker (translated: giant sand box).

When my two boys made their way back to the cart, M announced that Little Guy was "destined to be a golfer." No doubt, the day's events had renewed his hope that there would be a golfing future for the Little Guy. A far cry from two weeks ago, when he bleakly informed me, that he had accepted that Little Guy just wasn't into golf.

Indeed, it was a good day for golf!