Sometimes I think the boys may have vaulted right over the little kid and tween stages and landed squarely in their teens. Owen has recently taken to crossing his arms and saying "whateverrrr" (he'd roll his eyes if he could) when he disagrees with us. I've been trying to tell him it's not polite but it's hard to sound convincing when I actually find it hilarious. And Brendan is still fond of petulantly telling people "I'm NOT going to play with you if you don't [some variation of do exactly what I want immediately]." Tres charmant. They're still very much three year olds, however, when they're leaping on our bed at 6:30am to insist we join them for a "picnic" in the playroom. And hopefully by the time they're actually teenagers, they'll be less likely to scamper out into the hallway buck-naked so they can press the elevator buttons for me...
Well, now that Father's Day is behind us, I think it's finally safe to bring up Mother's Day. I hate to rush these things, you see. We had a traditional Father's Day this year, involving golf, handmade cards from los dos, the customary gifts of sunglasses, flipflops, and running gear, and of course take-out indian food. Also hewing closely to tradition, Mother's Day involved a picnic brunch in the park with the entire extended family on both sides, flowers, and an 8am 4-mile race. Presumably because it was Mother's Day, a disproportionately large number of 30-something runners had their parents in tow, who were snapping pictures up and down the start line. Adorable.
Since our Father's Day festivities somehow didn't get documented (poor dads, always getting short shrift), our Mother's Day photos will have to stand in for both. Please pretend some of these photos involve golf. Or Kevin for that matter.
There was much picnicking, thanks almost entirely to the feast prepared by Aunt Shannon:
Delicious strawberries:
Vigorous assaults on unsuspecting dandelions:
Hunts for "pitchy" pinecones:
Enjoyment of camp chairs:
Dazzling attempts at bubble blowing:
It was mother's day after all, so Owen insisted that Grandma ride in the stroller:
And of course, what picnic would be complete without soccer:
Afterwards, we made the boys' maiden voyage to FAO Schwartz to meet up with an old friend of mine and her kids. It went surprisingly well, as no one's head exploded and we somehow managed to escape the store without buying a single thing. Owen loved the giant piano (as did I) and Brendan practically fainted upon seeing the entire room devoted to Playmobil ("I want this one, and this one, and this one...I'm going to put them ALL on my birthday list!").
Equally unsurprising, this happened almost immediately after setting out on our long walk home:
So the boys seem to have developed a new routine, wherein they periodically grab each other in a combination hug/chokehold and sing "I love my bu-ddy, I love my bu-ddy," giggling all the while. Brendan is usually the initiator and it's intensely cute.
Somewhat less cute - in the playground yesterday, Owen slid down the slide on his belly and it was pretty obvious that the experience hadn't been well received by a certain part of his anatomy. When I (tactfully) asked him about it, his response was "PUNCHED IN THE BALLS!" - naturally at top volume with a balls-out (heh) grin. So that was nice.
And finally, B went mental tonight upon realizing that he would have to eat dinner instead of watching a show (oh, the humanity), and O tried to soothe him thusly, "Why don't we just turn on the tv? <click> Look, Brendan, do you want to watch golf?" When that didn't work, Owen sagely suggested, "Just calm down Brendan, maybe we can watch a show AFTER dinner." Wise beyond his years, that one.
I was off last Friday and was looking forward to some quality one-on-two time with the boys. Much like seemingly every day so far this June, it was raining, so our enjoyable out-of-the-house options were limited. We opted to meet a friend and her kids at the Natural History Museum, and happily headed off. Now I should have suspected something when we walked up to the entrance past a driveway positively CHOKED with schoolbuses. And if that wasn't a sufficient harbinger of doom, I should have paid attention to the fact that the planetarium area was swarming with kids in various matching school tees. But no, it was raining, we were there, and we were going to press on ahead and have FUN. That was our first mistake. We made our way to the hall of ocean life first, after which, emboldened by the relative unawfulness of it all, we foolishly decided to make our way up to the dinosaurs on the 4th floor. Now for those who've never had the pleasure of visiting AMNH, its elevators are slow and crowded and full of harried parents on the best of days, so just getting to the 4th floor is a major ordeal, particularly when you're operating a big rig stroller like my friend. When we finally got up there, we made our next mistake, which was continuing to try and force our way into one of the absolutely wall-to-wall-packed dino rooms. We made it into the first room, where we pretty much cowered in the corner, my friend and I tried not to have panic attacks, and Owen had a mini meltdown because I (heartlessly) proposed climbing up the stairs to see the sauropod the WRONG WAY (as it turns out, the kid strongly prefers to climb up at the head and go down at the tail). We quickly came to our senses and beat a hasty retreat, or as hasty a retreat as the throngs permitted. But then we made our final crucial mistake. We decided to go for lunch at the Shake Shack. I believe the words, "Why don't we try it? It's just around the corner. How bad can it be?" were actually uttered. Turns out the chaos of the Shake Shack on a rainy summer Friday at lunchtime was not the best remedy to the AMNH insanity. Once there, the boys' friend's little sister went into complete meltdown mode, her poor mom spent the entire lunch trying to calm her down, and her son immediately went to Defcon 9 when she tried to take her outside, while B & O seriously considered freaking out about having to share a milkshake and ate next to nothing. (In case you were wondering, my cheeseburger was delicious.)
Once we made it home, the boys were so wiped out from the morning's festivities that they instantly passed out. About an hour later, B appeared in my bedroom doorway, wailing, "MY SHORTS ARE WET!" Crap, I think, he peed during his nap, quel pain. As I walked towards him, I idly wondered how his legs got so muddy from the rain and why I hadn't noticed when putting him to bed. Pretty much instantaneously, I realized that wasn't mud running down his legs. Ewwwwwwwwww. Thus began the hurried sterilization of boy, legs, toilet, clothes, bed, blanket, and somehow even his little armchair while he cried and I quietly died a little inside while trying to suppress the gag reflex. Oh, and did I mention that toilet clogging was also involved? OF COURSE there was.
On the bright side, they both slept until almost 5pm, so I had some time to recover from the horror of it all. When Brendan finally emerged again, he very gently closed the bedroom door behind him, telling me, "Owen is still sleeping so I closed the door." He and I built an elaborate train track route together and then when Owen woke up, Brendan very casually suggested, "maybe we could watch a show while you make dinner?" and they snuggled up the couch together with all their "dollies" and all was good.
Brendan has taken to threatening us if we do something that displeases his majesty by saying, "I'm NOT going to play with you/talk to you if you don't ...." It's a charming habit and one that I hope he loses right quick. The other morning, he played the threat card with Owen, causing Owen to complain about B's tactics:
O: Daddy, Brendan says he won't play with me if we watch my show.
K: Brendan, you shouldn't say things like that. You like playing with Owen, don't you?
B: Yes. And we like holding hands when we walk down the stairs.
Woo boy, did we ever have a crazy day today. Once again our grand plans of spending one-parent-on-one-kid time with the boys fizzled out, reduced to separate subway rides to Grand Central. Owen and I did all the usual touristy Grand Central stuff - checked out the ceiling, rode some escalators, swiped train schedules in every color - before meeting up with Kev and Brendan at the transit museum outpost. Our subsequent plans were almost derailed by an overly enthusiastic Brendan actually biting Kevin on the nose during lunch and then hiding under the table and refusing to make eye contact or apologize. Once we got past that hurdle, however, we hightailed it across town to the Intrepid. We got to check out the Concorde, and I have to say, it was seriously anticlimactic. If I had dropped six grand to fly that thing across the Atlantic, I'd certainly expect a bit more glamour to accompany my supersonic flight. Immediately after disembarking, Owen graced us with a truly spectacular meltdown, caused by my unwillingness to go back to the pylon he was draped over and hold his hand on the walk to the ship. We waited him out on some benches, and got to watch some sweet grandfather-type ask if he was lost and then look over at us all judgey-judgingly. So that was nice. Bless his heart, Brendan tried to act as emissary, running over and talking very seriously to Owen, and then trotting back to tell me, "He wants you. Go to him."
Not surprisingly, given the meltdowns, both boys took superb naps and didn't get up till 5, so we decided to take a little family "constitutional" after dinner down to Emack & Bolios for some ice cream. Not only did the boys devour their own ice cream (well, what they didn't manage to drip on themselves, us or the ground), but they would have eaten most of ours as well if we'd let them. We walked back through Riverside park, stopping off at a playground on the way, and then Owen actually ran up the entire so-steep-i-have-to-walk-my-bike hill to get home. Since he was then, as he put it, "kind of sweaty," he opted for a quick rinse-off in the shower, about which he told me, "I'm enjoying this."
Since we don't usually make it out after dinner, i think the boys really liked the whole staying out until EIGHT O'CLOCK thing. As Brendan said, "I had a GREAT time. I was really happy up in the tower [in the playground]!" As much fun as they had, I think the whole late night carousing wore them out. During bedtime tuck-in, which they usually try to prolong interminably, Brendan actually said, "you can go now. I already gave you a hug and a kiss." Little punk. And Owen told me, "I'm too tired to give a kiss on the lips," so I had to settle for mere cheek and forehead kisses instead.
Well, this Sunday was a lot better than last Sunday in that it involved exactly zero trips to the ER. We went out to Storm King for some sculpture-viewing and general frolicking with two of the boys' special lady friends. Good times were had by all, even if certain pictures of certain people might suggest otherwise:
Admiring the giant Calder sculpture, or "the unicorn" depending who you ask:
Maya Lin's "Storm King Wavefield" looked somewhat less impressive in person, but the "naturally occurring wave formations" did make for some good running hills.
Exactly how many kids fit inside a Noguchi sculpture anyhow?
We had some unexpected drama this weekend when Brendan managed to tip over on a chair, keeping a death-grip on the sides of it on the way down, thus crushing his poor little fingers between the chair and the floor. There were tears, there was an icepack, and there was immediate swelling and horrible black-and-blue'ness. We panicked, fearing that his fingers were broken and, not willing to jeopardize any potential baseball career, we hightailed it up to Columbia's pediatric emergency room. This was my first ER visit ever, and although I feared the worst from years of watching Noah Wylie and the crew, I still naively said OUT LOUD, "It's Sunday morning at 10am. How crowded can it be?" Oof. It seriously felt like a third-world hospital - they had tents and a makeshift waiting area set up in the lobby to deal with the swine flu hysteria, and every other kid in the waiting room was wearing a flu mask. So there's a good chance that our efforts to save B's fingers have doomed us all, at least to mild flu-like symptoms.
Anyhow, Brendan was incredibly stoic. Or possibly in shock. He stopped crying by the time we left the house, and just clung to us like a tree monkey while clutching the icepack long after it had lost any coldness (and insisting I keep my hand pressed on top of his on top of said icepack). We read stories, rocked out to the ipod, and drank hot chocolate, and B every now and then would very seriously say something like, "I think they feel a little bit better now," or "I'm going to put my hurt fingers in my pocket so they don't get more hurt," and I would die a little from his sweet little boy-ness.
After one hour, we got registered and they took his vitals. After TWO hours, we made it to billing. Finally, after almost THREE hours, we were taken up to pediatric radiology for x-rays, which B loved. We told him on the way up that the x-ray was a very cool camera that took pictures inside your body, which totally intrigued him. He very proudly sat on Kev's lap, examined their lead aprons with great interest, and was fascinated by the actual x-rays (not to mention he loved the post-x-ray stickers).
48 hours post-injury:
Luckily, Kevin's mom was over for breakfast so she hung out at home with Owen and got crushed at Zingo (bingo for little kids, I'm still waiting for the day I finally win a game). When we got home, I guess the hot chocolate and the cool x-ray camera and the stickers made it all seem very glamorous to Owen, prompting repeated questions from him about whether he had ever gone to the doctor with us. I didn't quite know how to remind him about this fun experience, so I mumbled something about a doctor and a hospital gown and quickly changed the subject.
The whole experience made us realize yet again that being a lawyer prepares you for exactly
zero emergency situations, and I worked myself into a mild state of panic about what we would do if OUR BABIES were ever actually really
hurt. Plus, we took them for haircuts later that
afternoon and the short haircut somehow makes them look so much more vulnerable that I almost couldn't bear it.
But you know, why don't I let Brendan and Owen tell you about the whole thing themselves?
After recovering from the horror of the train show, the Bronx Botanical Garden has become one of our favorite weekend destinations. It's sprawling and beautiful, there's tons of room for the boys to run around, and it doesn't make my head explode from boredom (unlike, say, the Diego exhibit at the Children's Museum). We went to see the orchid show, followed by a trip to the "adventure garden" where the boys got to sample "traditional" and "modern" hot chocolate (the modern was the hands-down winner, those old-timey mexicans have nothing on hershey), play mad scientist, and generally tromp about. Luckily we had two expert map-readers to help us navigate our way.
P.S. I don't know if we're the only people who cherish such moments, but we literally had the best line encounter ever on our way into the garden. Because of crippling organizational inefficiencies, there are always massive lines to pull into the garden parking lot. We were patiently waiting our turn when some middle-aged clown in a mercedes convertible blatantly tried to cut the line. Of course, Kevin, who suffers from a mighty bad case of road rage/vigilante justice (I still
fondly remember waiting at the holland tunnel years ago, when Kevin, infuriated by other cars using the emergency lane
to cut the line, deliberately swung his car out to block it, while yelling "emergency lane only,
you bleeeeeeps!!" His car caught on fire a mere twenty minutes later, no joke.) refused to let him in, as did the cars behind us. Next thing we know, a police officer very deliberately marched over to our mercedes-driving nemesis, asked loudly
enough for everyone in line to hear, "what, you think you're special today, you don't
have to wait in line?" and directed him to the end of the line, do not pass go, all while happily informing him how much extra time his sorry cutting attempt was going to cost him. Seriously, this MADE our day. We're petty small people, I know.
In the past twenty-four hours, these exchanges made me burst out laughing:
Scene the first: Owen is oh-so-stealthily hiding behind the door in their bedroom.
Brendan: Owen is hiding so he can look at my artwork on the door.
Me: No, I don't see him. Are you sure?
Brendan, with a gallic shrug of the shoulders: Yes, Mommy, you KNOW what he's like.
Scene the second: It's bedtime and we're about to start reading stories. Brendan changes his mind about Winnie-the-Pooh and makes a last-minute substitution of the Berenstain Bears, of course prompting Owen to do the same.
Me: Brendan, can you grab Owen's book for him, please?
Brendan: Nah, Owen can get it.
Me: Would you mind, since you're already up?
Brendan gets the book and chucks it in our general direction.
Owen: Not very helpful...
Scene the last: Owen comes flying into our room at 3am. The back to bed process involves some mild histrionics, waking poor Brendan.
Brendan, sleepily pushing himself up to his elbows: Someone's SLEEPING in here.
