Winter Driver's...Classified

Let's just start this post off by saying that it's probably good to assume that there will be language.  Not a ton, but, it'll be there.  Cause I don't know many people who wouldn't make a sailor blush when they are driving.  But, I'm going to tone it down, like A LOT!!!!

Great, now with that disclaimer out of the way, let's get to classifying.  Right now, this is my world:

So, as I am taking my kids to school, this world of mine got me to thinking about the classification of winter driver's.  

I'm pretty sure that there are at least 4 main groups or classifications, of winter driver's.

The first driver is the "Holy Shit, is that a snowflake?" driver.  These drivers are often the ones who would lose a race to a snail the moment one little white fleck of what they think is snow lands on the ground.  They have heard of this mythological white stuff that is not quite frozen, not quite liquid, but their experience goes as far as the pictures of snowmen they saw illustrated in children's books.  Beware of the "Holy Shit" driver's.  If you get behind one, you're 45 minute commute (and that's with the extra buffer of bad winter driving condition you give yourself) is now an 8-hour commute.

The second class of driver is just your "Cautious Driver".  These drivers are seasoned Northerner's and Midwesterner's.  We grew up in the snow.  We know it is not some mythological phenomenon, but rather a reality we face 16 months out of the year, or at least it feels like it's 16 months.  A "Cautious Driver" usually compensates for the road based on driving conditions.  They aren't afraid to go faster than the "Holy Shit" driver, but they are seasoned enough to compensate for the conditions.  Sometimes they know 35 in a 50 is the ideal speed, and sometimes they know you can get away with a full on speed limit, maybe slightly over, even with packed snow.  They are continuously changing their speeds as they drive based on conditions, being ever leery of the multitude of other drivers on the road. 

The third driver is "4WD" Driver.  Now the "Holy Shit" and the "Cautious" driver's may both be in 4WD vehicles as well from time to time.  This is not their class, regardless of the type of vehicle they're in.  This is reserved for the moron's who are "Move over, I got 4WD".  They are the ones you see going 75 in a normally speeded 60 zone, but the weather says to go 25.  They don't care.  They'll pass you, maybe even blare their horn, because, you know, they have 4WD and can handle this shit.  Never fret though, this awesome driver is likely in a ditch 2 miles up the road because they were a bit too cocky with their 4WD.

And the final driver is the "Snow Plow" driver.  These are the state or town guys that you see driving, plowing our roads and sanding/salting them so we can get through.  As much as we should be thankful for their efforts in attempting to keep our roads clear, these drivers are the ones that ALL classification of driver's avoid.  Why?  Cause they will take you out.  Seriously, have you ever passed a plow truck going in the opposite direction who wasn't taking up his entire lane, as well as 3/4 of yours?  They rule the road during the winter and they are not afraid to run you off.  Move out of the way if you see this sucker.

In my house, I like to think of myself as the "Cautious Driver."  Although my husband would say I am the "Holy Shit Driver."  But, he is the "4WD Driver," and they think, unless you are another "4WD Driver" or a "Snow Plow", you are automatically a "Holy Shit" driver.  

And let me tell you about these "4WD" driver's.  They think other "4WD" drivers are the worst drivers too.  In fact, if you aren't them behind the wheel, well then you shouldn't even be on the road.  Cause ain't nobody a better driver than the "4WD" driver himself.

So, what kind of winter driver are you?  "Holy Shit", "Cautious", "4WD", or "Snow Plow"?

Worst Mom EVER Club!!!

Yes, you read that title right.  I am a member of the "Worst Mom EVER Club."  What, you never heard of it?  Then clearly you do not have a child.  Or at least not one that knows how to verbalize their ever growing frustration at your unwillingness to allow them to nearly kill themselves on a near constant basis.

This tale has been told for centuries.  Passed down generation after generation.  Knowing moms, aunts, sisters, and grandmother's nodding their heads in understanding.  They've been there...likely with you, or an all knowing sibling.

That is where I am at with my 6 year old son.  He is absolutely sure that I am positively the worst mom "EVER."  And, yes, he often speaks the whole sentence in a reasonable tone while he yells the "ever" for emphasis.  Just so I know about his vast experience with mom's around the entire world.

And, just so we are clear, in the life according to Corbin, I am the leader of this club.

We've all been there.  Our kids are attempting to do something dangerous, and we stop them.  Heck, it doesn't even have to be anything dangerous.  It could be just a simple no to something they want...an object, a task, food, the list goes on and on.  All of a sudden we are the meanest mom, which ultimately lands us into "The Club."

Today my crime was nothing so dire that Mr. Corbin would have perished had I allowed it.  But it was a breach of our established rules.

Ahhh, yes, rules.  We all have them.  Some of our rules are the same, like "we do NOT hit."  Some of them are different.  It's all a manner of different parenting styles, values, and beliefs.

We have a rule about video games.  This is one of those topics where every house has those rules, and they are wide and varied.  Some houses say absolutely no video games, end of story.  Some houses limit them.

I allow video games, but I limit them.  I limit them to only 1 hour of the day once a day.  If they play for less then 1 hour, oh well, they are given the opportunity to play for up to 1 hour once a day.  And Corbin being 6 has the added benefit of being required to also read a minimum of 2 books in order to earn this privilege as well (just the BOB books.  There is no reading of Tom Sawyer in order to play 1 hour of video games....although, hmmmm...just kidding).

This day Corbin read his prerequisite books and then some.  He also played his 1 hour of game time.  And he's at that age where he milks that hour.  My daughter, I can still get away with giving her the 1 hour and she is done after 10 minutes and is completely fine with that.  But not Corbin, he will play all of that hour and try to milk it for just. one. more. second. not. quite. finished. please. just. this. one....*sigh* "fine!!!!"

And sometimes, he tries to get tricky.  These are tricks that I'm not even supposed to realize are tricks.

He pulls out his BOB books on my Kindle and proceeds to read a full series of them.  I think there is like 6 or 7 of these books in a series.  And he reads them ALL to me.  I think to myself, how awesome is my kid, reading books on his own without any prodding from me, I have such an amazing kid.

Hahahaha, that's until I learn the real reason.

"Mom, can I play a game?"

It should come to no surprise, based on our rules, that I said no to this.

"Awww, but I read a lot of books."

When my answer continues to be no for the next five hours (well it was more like 10 minutes, but it sure felt like 5 hours) I was metamorphosized into the "Worst Mom EVER!!!"

The first time my son called me the worst mom, it broke my heart.  I was absolutely devastated.  I mean, I love that kid to my very core, and he is so upset about my actions that he has deemed me as the worst mom ever.

The more time goes by, the more I have to tell him no for one reason or another, the more he tells me, the more I realize I am doing it right.

So, if you are here, and you've been inducted into the "Worst Mom EVER Club", welcome!!!.  Grab yourself a glass of lemonade, or some wine if you prefer (I won't judge...Worst Mom EVER Club is a judgment free club), pull up a chair, and know that your newly found status is an indication that you're doing it right.  Congratulations!!!

Mommy Bling

So, here's a short story within this story about my parenting style.

I'm considered "that" mom within my circle of mom's.  You know, the crazy one.  The one who feeds their kids organic, grass-fed, GMO free almost everything (except for the random trip to artery clogging McDonald's...but those trips are few and far between, and it is my one granola mom mistake in the food world), wears them, co-sleeps, nurses to infinity...you know.  I'm the crazy natural mom.

But, I like to think I'm the COOL crazy natural mom.  Meaning I totally don't care if you aren't the natural mom.  Like I could totally have a boob whipping out in my kids mouth while I'm sitting next to you while you cuddle your kid holding a bottle of formula  in their mouth and I can totally talk to you normally without getting into a fight over which way is better.  I totally think whatever type of mom you are, whatever works for you, then it works period.  My way is most definitely not for everyone.

So, yeah, crazy, COOL, somewhat natural mom.  But you'll just ignore the random trips for a big fat juicy, clog your arterial walls Big Macs that I succumb my children to on occasion.

That's why this story may seem a bit surprising to some of you.  So, yeah, I'm that mom, but I totally didn't know about some of this "Mommy Bling" that is going on around the playground these days.  Which is silly cause I have a 1 year old, so it isn't like I've been out of the "Mommy Bling" world for any length of time.

Here's my story of the introduction to "Mommy Bling!!!"

My youngest, Brayton, he's only 1.  He is my heart and my soul.  My baby cakes.  My literal baby.  But he is sooooooooo dang miserable all. the. time.  It is mind boggling how miserable he is.  Nothing in his child rearing has been done differently than the other 2.  He still nurses, he is worn everywhere in a sling or carried.  I still even wipe the kids butt for him if you can believe that.

After a full year of not knowing which way is up with this kid I break down and head to my mommy group.  My mommy group is online, so my responses are like nano-seconds away.  And one of my mommy friends nonchalantly is like "get a Tula."

Like I said, I'm the crazy natural mom, but I'm sitting here thinking to myself on the other side of my computer screen staring at her writing going "What on Earth is a F*ing Tula????????"  Yes, I have the language of a well-educated sailor, and often use it when talking to myself especially.

She posts links of where I can get these said Tula's as well as pictures of her using a Tula.  "Huh, so it's a baby carrier, I got it."

Now, I have a ring sling that can be used well into toddler years.  Especially with my kids cause they weigh like nothing.  But Brayton hasn't been digging it.

I'm told these Tula's can run some major cash.  My mommy friend even tells me, "they will run you $175 and up."  And I'm thinking to myself, that's a lot of cash for a piece of fabric...but I'm a desperate mom.

So, I search her sites and completely fall in love with the Foxy print:

Totally the cutest design ever, right?!?!?

So, I am instantly in love.  You know what that means, right?  OUT OF STOCK!!!!!!

My mommy friend then proceeds to do me a favor...she adds me to this Tula Buy/Trade/Sell group on FB.  Sounds heaven sent right?!?!?

That is until you get the actual cash flow to buy one of these bad boys, and are like:  "hey, the design I want is out of stock, let me see if I can find it USED on this group I'm now magically in.  Magic Tula Group, Magic Tula Group, find me the Foxy Tula I so desire."

I did not find it...but what I did find made my jaw DROP!!!!.  Like I'm 5'6" tall, my jaw dropped 7 feet down.

USED...Not new...USED Tula's were being sold for $350, $400, $450, $500 and more.  Granted, they all had these descriptions (EUC=excellent used condition, VGUC=very good used condition, etc.).  So, from the description, you could tell that, although these pieces of fabric were being used to tote their kids around on their backs, or bellies if they were younger, they were well cared for pieces of fabric.

But, I'm cheap....and poor.  I went to the search engines to find my beloved design that I HAD to have.

Luckily, thanks to the powers that be that are pro "Kim keeping a decent bank account balance", I found said design for a mere $149.

Yeah, I know, I still thought it was a lot of money too.  But, compared to what I was seeing on the USED group, I decided to bring it to my mommy group to "brag" on my find.

I'm told, "yeah, Tula is like the Coach of the mommy world."

Now, I'm not a brandassador.  But, I do know about Coach.  I never got on that train wreck of a ride.  But, I have seen many a friend who has.  And, I think it's great that they have that.  Some people spend lots of money for the tiniest piece of cowhide, and that suits them just fine.

Do you have a Tula?  Is it as Mommy Bling worthy as I'm being led to believe?

From the buy/trade/sell group, it seems by the time I'm done carrying my offspring around, if I keep this thing nearly blemish free, I may be able to pay for all 3 of my kids college tuition from the sale of this thing.

This leaves me to question:  "With the cost of raising a child, why are we spending so much money to purchase a piece of fabric?  Furthermore, why are we paying an exorbitantly higher amount of money for that same USED piece of fabric?"

I don't question the reliability of these Tula's.  They have their purpose for the multitudes of baby wearing momma's, me included.  But.....WOW!!!!  That's all I can really say to the high price tags I have found in the world of the used Tula.

It's A Plane! It's Superman! It's A Wild Turkey?

I'm pretty sure my oldest child, Corbin, needs his own television series.  Or at least his own following.  I am often left staring blankly into space, stupefied and amazed at his superior story telling capabilities.  This day was no exception to the wondrous wordplay that is my sons storytelling abilities.

This story happened on a day where I was given the option to leave my two youngest at home with dad while I got to run solo to pick up my oldest from school.  I jumped on that ship without even batting an eyelash.  I mean, I love my kids more than I love food...anyone who knows me, knows that is a pretty hefty love to be giving.  But, sometimes, a mom has got to just spread her wings and pick up the only missing child in her entourage up solo.

Corbin and I are driving back home, singing, laughing, and just all around acting goofy.  Cause that's how we roll.  We love to be goofy.  Sometimes we can't be so goofy because, well the baby usually sleeps in the car.  And we are way too loud at goofy to be goofy on the way home with baby in tow.

As we are acting a fool, driving along I see a gaggle of wild turkeys.  Yes, I said gaggle.  I'm not really sure how many turkeys are in a gaggle normally...or really what is even a gaggle.  I just wanted to use the word gaggle cause it sounds fun, plus it makes me kids laugh when I say it.  But, there was a LOT of turkeys.

So, I see this gaggle of turkeys running all crazy like in someones yard and point it out to Corbin.  He thinks these are the pets of said owner of yard.  But I quickly correct him and inform him that these are not pets, but merely wild turkey's.

I expect to explain the difference between a pet and a wild turkey.  Ahhhhh, no.  Instead I am left wondering where this kid got his amazing storytelling abilities from.  Instead, he proceeds to tell me about his encounter with a wild turkey.

Yes, you read that right.  My son, my 6 year old child, has encountered a wild turkey.

You see, it all started, from what I understand, the day I went into the hospital to bring into this world my youngest.  While I sat in bed, likely nursing, cuddling, and possibly even sleeping with said youngest child within the confines of the hospital, my son, my oldest, went on a hike with his father.

Vermont is full of places to hike.  And there are certainly no shortages of hiking spots around us either.  But, my youngest was born in January.  Just so you can get an idea of the time of year my oldest story takes place in.

During this hike they encountered a wild turkey.  This so-called wild turkey, upon seeing my child, went all crazy and attacked him.  A crazy wild turkey fight ensued as my son tried to fight for his life during this wild turkey attack.

Luckily he had his father with him.  This allowed dad to walk up behind the attacking wild turkey unheard so that he could grab the wild turkey, throw it against a rock, and kill it.

And what did they do afterwards?  Did they call Vermont Wildlife to report an attacking wild turkey?  Did they rush my 5 year old child (this was last year) to the emergency room to be mended and inspected by medical personnel from his attack?

NOPE!!!  They took the wild turkey that had just barely attacked my son, plucked it's feathers off, built a fire, cooked it, and ate it for dinner.  And once they finished eating their turkey dinner they realized that it was time to come get me and the baby from the hospital so they aborted their hiking expedition to nonchalantly grace me with their presence.

And there in lies the reason that you can never be too careful around wild turkeys....or, for that matter, why you should always encourage your child's storytelling abilities.  Without my sons amazing stories, I would have nothing to dazzle and amaze you with, therefore making this blog pointless.

The Importance of Being Embarrassed

Remember Kindergarten Cop?  Remember that scene where the young boy announces to the extremely out of his element Arnold Schwarzenegger that "boys have a penis and girls have a vagina."

It was hilarious and horrifying at the same time for our parents.  That kid was not their kid, and it was a movie after all.  I was safe in my cocoon of "private parts," "wee-wee," and "pee-pee".

Fast forward to today, and I have now become a parent.  But I have decided to leave the rules of my youth behind and take parenting in a new approach.  Yep, I decided to teach my children proper anatomy terms for their goods.

Now, I know some will just shake their heads at this.  And some will be "yep, same at our house."  And either is ok.  The main gist of this post is not about which method is right or wrong.  It is the full scope of the unspoken rule that, upon entering parenthood, you are required at some point during this ride to be utterly and thoroughly embarrassed.

This rule applies to all parents.  Dad's need not be excluded.  Hey, us mom's can't have ALL the fun.  Dad's need some of the goodness that goes along with everything classy kid like.

But, for today, my embarrassment remains my own.  No dad around to share in this with me.  And, that's ok.  I take full responsibility for this brand of embarrassment.

I know, right now this seems all kind of random.  And, maybe it is.  I am pretty random at times.  And, this blog is titled "Random Ramblings".  But, I assure you I do have a point to this post.

So my kids are fully aware of the proper anatomy terms for their body parts.  This has never caused any issues...yet!!!!

Enter a grocery day.  This particular grocery day landed on a Wednesday.  Wednesday's in my house means my daughter is home with me and not at school.  She faces the difficulty of having verbal apraxia.  But, I can assure you, there was no apraxia holding her back this day.

Lately my little princess has been extremely interested in labeling...specifically labeling body parts.  Thus far her proclamations of said body parts has been reserved for the sanctuary we will call home.  Our entire household is now fully aware of who is a boy and who is a girl and what makes it so thanks to this little angel.

This day of grocery shopping has for some reason inspired my daughter, light of my life, sweetest of sweet, innocence of all innocent to decide she miraculously wants to talk to someone other than her household, teachers, therapists, or friends.  She has decided to dust of her vocal cords for strangers.

It might seem like the fact that when I got to the checkout lane the store was bustling with so much noise you could barely hear the scanner beeping your items as the cashier ran it across.  This particular moment, all that noise proved to be no match for what my daughter had in store.

As she is carefully watching the cashier ring up our groceries she looks puzzled.  I'm not quite sure what is causing those wheels to turn.  But then she decides to open her mouth.

"Are you a girl or boy?"

A little embarrassed, but not overly I explain that the cashier is a lady.  But I understand her confusion because the cashier had very short hair.  So I feel like I can just shrug this off as a little girl not realizing it is possible for girls to desire short hair.  She would quietly accept this and continue on her merry unassuming way.

Wrong!!!  I was so wrong!!!  And when I say I was wrong, I mean it in a BIG way!!!

"So you have a vagina like me!!!"

Remember that so loud grocery store that you could barely hear your groceries being rung up that I told you about?  Yeah, there is now dead silence throughout the entire grocery store.  You can't even hear the whir of the freezers.

To add insult to injury, cause it isn't enough for not only my daughter to announce her similar body parts to the cashier and the eerily silent grocery store that was once buzzing with annoying too loud chatter, I now have every head within my vision turned towards me.  And they aren't turned towards me like that deer in the headlights look you see some people with as they drive by a crash to see what's going on.  Now, I got the glaring looks of utter disapproval.

I think it's worth mentioning that I don't believe this disapproval was at the fact that my daughter knows her anatomy, and clearly knows it well, but more so that she decided to inform the entire Northern half of the United States, or at least the entire population of said grocery store that she was well versed in said anatomy.

And so I nervously laughed it off, paid my bill, and I may have even sprinted out of the grocery store.  In fact, I may or may have not started shopping at a completely different grocery store altogether.  Actually, I didn't even have to go that far.  The store I happened to be at that day was not my usual store.  So, thankfully not too much had to be done on my part other than the sprinting to my car.

And with that moment I was reminded of the singular rule of parenting:  You must be embarrassed by your children.

It is with this rule that I encourage you to remember to NEVER watch what you say around your kids.  Because honestly, the utter humiliation and later gut wrenching laughable moment is totally worth your supposed child rearing faux pas.

Private Time Toys

Somehow I don't think you will decipher the true story by the title.  This is one of those stories that are the nightmares of the most polished of mother's.  But, for the run of the mill, yoga pant wearing, messy bun on top of the head, mac & cheese mixed with boogers and cookies permanently encrusted on the shoulder of all your clothing...yep, you will totally get this story.  Not that it doesn't stop you  in your tracks the moment it occurs.  But once you read the full on story you are going to be nodding along, "yep, I almost peed myself too when it happened to me."

Much like the status of any ragged mother who isn't sure if it's Sunday or Thursday today, I do not have private time.  I'm not even quite sure what that means really.  I envision it as something along the lines of sitting in a hot tub surrounded by rose petals in my water as I soak in a bath with Sarah McLaughlin playing in the background.  Maybe on the radio since it would be insanely weird, and not really conducive to the whole "private time" mentality if she is physically standing in my bathroom for my own personal private time concert.  But, like I said, I'm not quite sure how the private time thing works.  At best, I'd be happy to sit on the toilet without an audience.  I hear they do that somewhere...maybe.

This lack of private time means that I am not even fazed when, while taking a shower, miraculously by myself, my 6 year old bursts into the bathroom with gusto.

What can I say...I'm a mom.  Being barged in on, it's par for the course.  I imagine one day my children will come to realize the social decorum that they are required to exert with other people also pertains to me.  But, as all of you with children know, there is nothing that is not considered as the utmost of dire emergencies when mom is actually doing something that does not involve her full attention on the kids.  Hence the lack of private time protocol...because when mom does have "private time," dad putting on Toy  Story 3 instead of the very first Toy Story like was requested is of the utmost dire emergency and must have mom's ultimate authority and attention.

Another thing to note, you will never find this kind of utter disregard for social protocol when dad is in the bathroom.  It just never happens.  There will never be anything in the world that can't possibly wait until dad's done.  A full on fire could be consuming the entire house at this exact moment, and the kids will leave dad to do his business and finish.

Back to my interrupted shower.  You know, the one I am totally unfazed with because...well, I'm a mom.

Now, just because I am unfazed by my children's lack of decorum when it comes to mom, that doesn't mean that I am not exempt from those bug eyed, heart stopping, breath taking moments that kids throw upon us pretty much on a daily basis.  And that is exactly what this moment was.

"Mom, how come some mom's have private time toys for private time?"

OMG!!!!!  My arms frantically start clumsily flaying out from my sides as I try to find my bearings before the heart attack and stroke that I am sure I am experiencing right now overtakes me and I slip and fall in this shower and add in a broken neck to the list of fear inducing ailments.

I try to compose myself as best as I can as the soap from the shampoo starts burning my eyes, wondering where on Earth this is coming from.

I clear my throat in an attempt to make sure that I do not sound like the scared little 2 year old I feel like, and instead present myself as the cool, calm, collected, "ain't nothing fazing me" mom.

"Private time toys?  I'm not sure what you mean honey.  Where did you hear about these private time toys?"

"From daddy."  He says this as if it is the most natural thing for a father to tell his son about so-called "private time toys."

At this point I am ready to go on a Momma Bear rampage that would bring down the house.  Navy Seals would avoid me.  I am now the deadliest predator known to the entire animal kingdom...a pissed off mom!!!

Somehow I manage, through gritted teeth, to stay calm, cool, and collected.  "And what did daddy tell you about these private time toys?"

"You know...that they say poop and pee."

Hmmm, I'm beginning to think my mind and my son's inquiry are not running in the same direction.

"Mom's private time toys that say poop and pee?"

"Yeah, you know, like Marlee's baby toy with the potty.  The one you don't like."

And so I am left with the utter embarrassment, thankfully that I am only aware of, that my initial thought was WAY off from what was really being asked.

And, with that, I leave you with the more appropriately worded real question:  "What is up with the insanely disturbing Baby Alive that has a potty?"

It Was the Bear

So, my life consists of these 3 wonderfully amazing kids.

See, totally the cutest kids ever, right?!?!?  Yeah, I'm a little biased, but they are pretty darn cute...plus, I made them  :)

So, the older two are 6 and 4 years old.  And the 4 year old will follow her brother to the ends of the Earth.  She is completely enamored with her brother.  And my 6 year old, well, he's definitely a 6 year old boy...and, much to the dismay of my daughter at times, has quite the imagination.

Today, that imagination has put my daughter into a crying panic that would make a hormonal pregnant woman who forgot what her feet look like to shame.

It is the weekend.  This means that yesterday was Friday, which means in our house all snow gear comes home.  We do live in Vermont after all, and this is the dead of winter.  So, yeah, Vermont...winter...lots of snow on the ground.  Snow gear is required to be brought home from school for weekends when mom feels like if she hears another "Mom, mom, mommy, MOM!!!!!  So-and-so is looking at me" she may stab herself repeatedly with a dull spoon.  Hey, I just want the annoyance, not the injury :)

It's only Saturday, and, yes, I have already gotten to that point.  So, the kids were made to get dressed (I swear clothes are like kryptonite to my kids...I may as well be monitoring a nudist colony here), put their snow gear on, and GET  OUT!!!!!!

Surprisingly this happened without a fight.  Seems normal enough to have no fight about the outside with kids, but, unless you forgot, I am in Vermont in the dead of winter with kids who are seasoned nudists.  So, usually, the thought of having to put on the nudist-nullifying clothes sends my kids into a frantic panic I swear my neighbors can hear, and the nearest one is at least a mile down the road from me.

Sipping on my hot coffee, contemplating the mess that is my abode (I have 3 kids), while the youngest hair pulling inducing child sits on my hip alternating between shoving his Plums puffs in his mouth and wiping his snotty face on my shoulder (I rarely notice the snot anymore.  In fact, I'm pretty sure it is normal attire for the worn and weary mom) I start to come back to some sort of normal semblance of a mom.  Well, minus the fact that I am grudgingly looking at my messy abode wondering how such tiny creatures can cause destruction that would bring a typhoon, tornado, and snow storm at the same exact moment in the same exact place to shame.

So, when my daughter starts knocking on the door to come in (she can't quite open the door by herself) I think that I am ready to start this process over one more time.  Or.........at least I THOUGHT!!!!

There is something about having an older brother with an imagination.  I'm not quite sure what it is because I am the oldest child.  But, the things that my oldest puts his sister through, I'm pretty sure that he is channelling his uncle.  The stories I could tell of my day to day with that ball of interesting imagination.  But, those are stories for another day.

So, my daughter is ready to come inside.  I walk over to the door to let her in only to find her clinging to her older brother.  He is laughing with this devilish grin...the kind of grin you know is going to come with a story that will make you wish you had some Bailey's to add to your coffee.  And my daughter is crying hysterically as she is clinging to my oldest.

I try to coax her inside, but she is not budging.  This is ridiculous.  The girl wants to come in, but I cannot for the life of me get her inside away from her brother, who proudly exclaims that he is quite content continuing his mission outside.  Her crying meltdown just seems to encourage the devilish grin that has seemed to have taken up permanent residence on my son's face.

After an hour of coaxing, or maybe it was only a minute, I finally get her inside.  In the world of crying emotional girlyness, it could've been anywhere between two seconds and four hours.  My perception of time is skewed during these moments, and I can never really decipher the actual time lapse.

Upon entering the indoors my daughter jumps into my arms, wraps her little arms around my neck, and continues her blubbery meltdown.  What is wrong with this child.

Some more coaxing reveals the reason for this meltdowns to end all meltdowns, as well as the reluctance to release her talons from her brother.

You see, it was the bear!!!!

Are you confused yet?  Yeah, so was I.

Turns out, older brothers with imaginations are great at inducing fear into you.

While my daughter proclaims that she is ready to go inside and requests that her brother follow her to continue playing in the warmth of the house, most likely sans clothes cause that's how my kids roll, my son decides to take a different approach in his proclamation that he is not quite ready to shed the skin coverings my kids usually abhor.

He proceeds to tell her that he isn't going inside.  But, since she is going inside he will need to watch out for the bears in case they come out of the woods and into our yard to eat him!!!!

So, have you gathered from the mile away nearest neighbor and bears in the woods that I almost literally live in the woods?

But, it is January...in Vermont.  So, Vermont, January, dead of winter.  Yep, that means hibernation for our bear population.  But, somehow my kids have inherited this wild imagination where they can see various wild animals every time they go outside.  Usually they are being chased by wild wolves and barely make it back to the house without being eaten alive by said wolves.

And so, I sit, with my little girl's arms wrapped around me as she turns into a blubbery mess that would put a ready to pop pregnant woman to shame.  Petting her hair the way a mother does to help soothe her child, I try...note attempt to the highest of all levels as I can possibly muster...to assure her that her older brother is 100% safe to play outside without the fear of a wild bear suddenly deciding that it is warm enough to venture out and attack said brother, all without laughing.

And you want to.  You want to laugh.  And you hope against all hope that the shaking your body is producing from the sad attempt at holding back uninhibited laughter is mistaken for the thought that you are crying with her and not laughing at her.

And, so, it is with that, that I urge you, when you have your children...have a girl first.  These stories do not start quite so soon.  But know, if you have a boy, they will most certainly start no matter what order you have your children in.  But, at least if your oldest is a girl, you can prepare yourself a little better for what is sure to be all things boys....like the bear attacks in the dead of winter.