Letting Go

When my children were all very young, it was always a big event the first time they could go camping with their dad and not with me. I always expected there to be an early return due to a crying child that first time. Sometimes it happened. Sometimes it didn't.

Now they all camp at least once a year. I don't go, because I don't like camping, but they all do. And they don't need me with them all the time anymore. Dad is just fine.

This year, the two older boys--now 14 (and a half!) and 12--upped the ante. They asked if they could go on a camping trip with just the two of them. No Dad.

We said yes.

The plan was to take them somewhere pretty close just for a night. One of them had a deer hunt in the area closest to our house this past weekend, and I suggested to A. that perhaps this would be the right time for them to do their solo campout. It's only about half an hour away. It was going to be dry and warm. There is cell service there. It seemed like a good opportunity.

So A. loaded their packs, gave them many instructions, and dropped them off.

Small boys, big country.

And then, of course, both A. and I spent some time imagining all the unlikely things that could go wrong in the 15 hours they were there.

Could a mountain lion or bear have attacked them? Could there have been an unexpected storm with lightning strikes? Could someone have fallen in the fire? Could one of them have been bitten by a rattlesnake?

Yes. Any of those things COULD have happened. But none of them did. What it came down to is that those boys are comfortable camping, hiking, and hunting, and we trust them in that environment.

There were several elk that ran by in the stream bed just about twenty feet from their campsite in the middle of the night. This of course woke them up, because elk are huge and it sounded like stampeding horses, but that was pretty much it for excitement.

No deer, either, so the hunt wasn't successful. But the campout was. And I'm sure there will be many more in their future.

Let the Games Begin

At 5:30 a.m., Cubby's alarm went off. Shortly thereafter, Cubby appeared, fully dressed. Of course, I asked him why he had set his alarm to go off a full hour before he usually gets up for school.

"It's April Fools'. Now I have a whole hour to get my bag of tricks ready."

My clocks are now set two hours ahead, there's a trip wire across the other boys' bedroom door, and Cubby just asked me which shoes his brothers wear to school.

I expect there to be some retaliation from said brothers today. I just hope they forget about me in all the, ahem, fun.

If you were wondering what my least-favorite day of the year is, now you know: April Fools' Day with a bunch of little boys. 

Mars and Venus

Yesterday all four children were playing a game and Charlie came to me very upset, saying Poppy was ruining the game.

"How?" I asked.

"It's a gorilla game, and she keeps saying she's the mommy gorilla!" Charlie told me in great agitation.

Poppy was right behind him, chanting smugly, "I mommy gowiwa! I mommy gowiwa!"

"NO, YOU'RE NOT!" Charlie yelled back at her.

"Okay," I said calmly. "What's the problem with her being a mommy gorilla?"

To which Charlie replied, "She ALWAYS wants there to be mommies and daddies and we ALWAYS want to play killing games! THERE ARE NO MOMMIES IN KILLING GAMES!"

Right.

It's hard to be the sole female sometimes.

Back to the (Sur)Real World

We received notification quite suddenly yesterday that there would be Mass this morning at our church. There were, of course, rules regarding how many people could be in the church--in our small church, that's 33 people--and everyone over the age of three was required to wear masks.

I must admit that my initial reaction was, "No way. How am I gonna keep four little kids in masks for an hour?"

I can barely manage to get them to stay quiet in the pew on a regular basis, much less expect them to stay in the pew, stay quiet, and keep their noses and mouths covered the whole time.

However.

When I suggested that maybe I should stay home with the younger ones, Jack immediately said that he wanted to go, and of course Poppy wasn't going to be left behind. So we had to come up with masks for all of us.

We have one fabric mask our neighbor made and gave to us, two hospital-grade N-95 masks that A. bought about a year ago to have on hand for sanding projects and so on, and a lot of large cloth napkins.

The professional masks are actually pretty hard to breathe through (props to the medical professionals who wear those every day), and we weren't expecting to be in close proximity to anyone, so I decided not to use those.

Charlie wore the one fabric mask, and the rest of us wore the cloth napkins, tied bandito-style around our faces.

Not technically required to wear a mask, but not about to go without one if her brothers had one.

We had a really fun few minutes before leaving for church when we were trying to figure out who would wear what, and the children complained that the (clean) cloth napkins smelled funny, so we tried rubbing them with lime, and then I put a tiny bit of the perfume I never wear on them.

Chanel Number 5-scented bandito masks are the latest word in luxury.

I found my napkin-mask extremely hard to tie because of all my hair that kept getting tied up in it, and I also found it very hard to keep up because it stretched out just a teeny bit. The kids did really well, actually, although they did all escape with me halfway through the 35-minute service when Poppy announced she needed to pee*.

There's no bathroom in our church, so I had to bring her outside to the village's public bathroom. The three boys all came with me, and as soon as we got out the door, ripped off their masks and started gasping theatrically.

But they did keep them on the whole time with minimal complaining, although with a lot of slipping and readjusting. We need to get real masks with elastic to go around the ears, because I guess this is the new normal.

* She also informed me, at full voice in a quiet church, that she needed to poop. Two-year-olds are not known for discretion.

Feeling the Love

So how did Valentine's Day go down in our house? I instituted a strict Sugar Ban for the entire day because of the previous three days of sugar bingeing (birthday+two days of class parties).

And Cubby chased Charlie around trying to kiss him ("But Valentine's Day is all about love!") until Charlie collapsed on the floor screaming, "I hate Cubby! I hate kisses! I hate Valentine's Day! I HATE THE UNIVERSE!"

So, you know. Typical.

The Woodstove Smackdown

All day, every day.

Charlie: "I suddenly completely understand Flat Stanley."

Just Another Day with the Crazies

This morning, Charlie came outside looking like this:

Some explanation was required.

Me: "What does your hat say? Oh, Ghost Busters.* Have you ever even seen Ghostbusters?"

Charlie: "No, but I heard the song at school before."

Me: "So what made you think of the Ghostbusters?"

Charlie: "Well, I busted Cubby over the head. This is my highest caliber weapon."

Right. Got it.

Shortly before that, I made them all come outside for a photo. My dad had requested that I have them pose by a birthday sign for his aunt, who is deaf, homebound, and turning 90 years old. So I made what is possibly the worst birthday banner ever and shoved my four kids plus the puppies in front of it. 

I took 25 pictures. In some of them Cubby's giant head is blocking half the banner. In others, Cubby looks as if he's throttling one of the puppies. In another, Jack is scowling because I didn't let him hold a puppy. But this one was pretty good.

Further establishing my complete lack of Pinterest credentials.

The best part of this, though, was when I was telling the kids about Aunt Teresa, I told them that my dad used to go stay at her cabin in northern Wisconsin, which had no indoor bathroom. "And that," said Charlie, "is probably why she's lived so long."

You heard it here first: The Fountain of Youth can be found in an outhouse.

* It actually said Gost Busters, but close enough.

I Got Spirit, Yes I Do

Okay, that's actually a complete lie. I have no spirit. Never have. I dislike dressing up, cheering at sports events, and coming up with cute ideas for theme days.

Unfortunately, I have to do all of that this week on the boys' behalf.

See, this week, in addition to being the week of Cubby's birthday and Valentine's Day, is also Spirit Week at their school, culminating in the homecoming basketball game tomorrow. So every day has a theme.

Monday was pajama day. Easy enough, although Charlie, being Charlie, elected not to participate.

Tuesday was dress as something that starts with the first letter of your name, or wear the first letter of your name and make words with your friends. Ooookay. Charlie came up with his own idea for this, which didn't make a lot of sense, but since he was willing to do it all himself, I let it ride. Cubby thought of something about ten minutes before the bus came, but it was too late and he ended up just taping his letter to his shirt.

Today is dress as what they want to be when they grow up. Super. As A. remarked, it's like having Halloween twice. And we all know I suck at Halloween.

However. I resolved to at least try.

Jack said he wants to be a construction worker.

Cubby said he wants to be a bush pilot.

Charlie said he wants to be a wild man (a survivalist without a job, that is)*.

So, with the aid of duct tape, construction paper, and various pieces of furs and random items, we have  . . .

I surpassed myself. Although surpassing myself is a pretty low bar.

Tomorrow they're supposed to dress as their school mascot or in team colors, which is fine, but they're also supposed to have mini-floats (made with, like, little wagons or strollers or whatever) for a halftime parade at the basketball game. Cubby made his at school with a classmate. Charlie told me, again, he didn't want to participate. Until this morning, when he decided he did.

So this afternoon, I will summon my fake spirit once again and help him make a float with Poppy's stroller and a "game board theme." Wish me luck.

* I resisted the urge to tell Charlie he doesn't need a costume for that as that's his natural state.

Boys of Winter

Yesterday morning, Cubby looked out at the 17-degree blowing snow and said to his brothers, "Hey guys. It's a perfect morning outside. Let's go out."

So they did.

Keep up that northwoods conditioning, boys. Wouldn't want to get soft, now would we?

Eavesdroppers Never Hear Anything Good

I was sitting in the bathroom with Poppy last night while she had her bath and overheard the following in the living room:

A.: You guys had better clean that up before Mommy comes out, or she will go ballistic.

Cubby: Yeah, she'll kill us.

Charlie: I'll go distract her.

Immediately after that, Charlie sauntered casually into the bathroom and said, "Oh, hey, Mommy. What are you doing? Poppy sure looks cute in her bath, doesn't she?"

This wasn't distraction enough to keep me from noticing that one of his hands was almost entirely colored green.

Cubby and Jack appeared shortly thereafter. Cubby ratted out Charlie, telling me it was his idea to color the faucet and then turn the water on to see if the water would turn colors.

Because I never keep anything but washable markers in the house, I found this more amusing than enraging, though I did tell them they'd better make sure it was cleaned up.

It was. And now we just have to hope they don't do anything more permanent in this rental house before we move out in a few weeks.

At least life is never dull with them around.

Jack's First Day

Three lunch bags.

Three backpacks*.

Three schoolboys (one of whom is being a jackass, as you can see.)

One brand-new preschooler.

Go get 'em, Jack.

* This was not meant to be an advertisement for L.L. Bean, but I obviously deliberately choose their products for my sons. The backpack Jack is using was Cubby's when he started school, and Cubby has the same lunch bag that is now going into its fourth year of daily use, so I can vouch that L.L. Bean school things hold up to boy abuse.

Good-bye, New York

We're ready . . .

We're excited . . .

We're gone. 

This About Sums It Up

So what's life with a pack of small boys like?

It's going for an after-dinner walk . . .

That turns into a rain walk . . .

That turns into a grass fight with the cut grass left behind by the highway department mower . . .

And a boy with a clump of cut grass on his head who announces himself as "Captain Bird's Nest" (the next generation of Masked Morons* has arrived for sure) . . .

Which then devolves into three half-naked boys running around shrieking outside the house for an hour (or all-naked in one case) . . .

Because they've been locked out of the house until they submit to a freezing hose-down to remove the worst of the grass sticking to them . . .

And holding them down and hosing them while they cry and try to get away . . .

Then cycling all three in and out of the shower/bath . . .

And then cleaning about half a cup of cut grass out of the tub and wiping down mud on every wall of the shower stall.

That's what it's like.

In a word: exhausting.

Though, yes, also sometimes amusing. Except I reached the end of my amusement right about hose-down time last night.

* I had the brilliant idea of writing a graphic novel about the Masked Moron and Captain Bird's Nest. It would be a surefire bestseller with eight-year-old boys. If only I could draw.

The Magic of Disney, Indeed

A couple of weeks ago, I was singing the Cinderelly song from the original Disney Cinderella movie, and Cubby asked me where that song was from.

He'd never seen Cinderella? Well, we must remedy that.

So I got the movie for the boys to watch.

They liked Lucifer the cat. They liked Gus the fat mouse. They liked the royal servant with the monocle.

But then we got to the ball. And when the prince and Cinderella started dancing, the older boys got all squirmy.

Then Charlie said, "I wish the prince would get flushed down the toilet."

Not to be outdone, Cubby added, "I wish they would dance over a toilet and Cinderella would flush the toilet and FLUSH! The prince would go down the toilet."

Boys are fun.

Aaaaand, BREAK!

Cubby and Charlie have a particularly late spring break this year. Perhaps the administration at their school was delaying in the hopes that there might be some actual spring weather for the break. If that is the case, they succeeded.

Behold, many pictures of my children outside. In short sleeves. It's a springtime miracle.

Although, yes, that is snow behind Jack. It is still the north country, after all.

Overheard during this porch picnic from Cubby: "Now this is what I call living." I hope he's always so easy to please.

Poppy is withholding judgment on her voluminous sunhat. The finger's pretty good, though.

Tiny retirees on the teeter totter. Someone get these kids a stylist.

Please just ignore my finger in the corner and instead marvel at the sheer energy displayed in this picture. And then imagine that energy in real life, all day, every day. That's life with lots of little boys.

The way I'm standing makes this the least flattering photo of me ever taken, but I'm posting it anyway because the mountains (we went to the Adirondacks today) are so pretty. And I need to get over myself.

It's supposed to start raining tonight and continue for most of the rest of the week, but at least we got a little bit of real spring during spring break. We'll take it.

Thrift Is Ever My Watchword

On Saturday, the boys made snowmen. It was all very classic and wholesome, and of course, required carrots for the snowmen's noses.

Though I think Jack was quite right to ask why snowmen have carrot noses. Why not a stick? I do not know why a carrot is the only acceptable nose for a snowman, but it definitely is. So I provided three carrots for snowman noses.

But not without some inner complaining, because that's just a waste of carrots. They freeze, obviously, when shoved into a snowball, and what good is a frozen carrot?

It's not as if we were going to starve without those three carrots, though, so I handed them over with nary a word, in support of wholesome childhood activities.

Then, this morning, as I was throwing various things into the large stockpot to make lamb broth for A. (he drinks it throughout the day as a hot beverage alternative to tea or coffee), I remembered the snowmen and their noses. So instead of getting a carrot from the refrigerator, I went outside and retrieved one from the snowdrift where it landed after its snowman host was demolished*.

Frozen carrots are fine for broth, and this small thing provided a very satisfying start to the day. The rest of the day may go to hell--particularly since at least half the family has again succumbed to a cold, including me and Cubby, who is staying home from school--but at least it started with a small and satisfying triumph.

We take our victories where we can get them.

* Of course it was demolished. Wrecking the snowman is almost as much fun as making it. If you're my sons, that is.

Because Everything's Relative

Cubby and Charlie spent some time this morning running around looking out of windows at the spectacular drifts of snow and whining about not being allowed outside.

It was 15 below zero with a windchill of 40 below zero. No, children, you may not go outside. I try to be at least a little bit of a responsible parent, you see.

I did promise them, however, that they could go out when the wind and temperature had moderated a bit.

At noon, when Jack was down for his nap, I looked at the weather station and saw that it was nine below zero with a windchill of 25 below zero.

Seems moderate to me! Out you go, kids!

I sent them to the mailbox to get the mail, which accomplished three things:

1) It got them out of the house,

2) It saved me from having to go out there to check the mail, and

3) It meant I now have two new DVDs of DuckTales for them to watch later, because the mail included our next Netflix delivery.

I only let them stay out for eight minutes, because of the very real danger of frostbite, but at least they got out to climb 10-foot drifts for a little while. I'm pretty sure those drifts won't be melting anytime soon, which means lots more outdoor fun in the future. When the weather is bit less life-threatening, that is.

Cubby came in grinning and exclaiming, "That was GREAT! This is the best day of my life!" And Charlie, not to be outdone, proclaimed that it felt as warm as summer outside.

Sure. Crazy kids.

An Update, a Photo, and a Confession

Update: The furnace is currently working. Hooray! But not because the repair guy (who didn't show up until 7 p.m. yesterday) found anything really wrong with it. There was a little ice in the intake pipe and he pointed out a dirty air filter that we can change. Other than that, and filling the tank to create more pressure, there was nothing for him to do. It started working when the temperature got above zero. So we have to just cross our fingers that those small things will be enough and it won't stop working again when it gets to 25 below zero this Friday.

Also, no one else has gotten the stomach bug yet, so we are currently--and mercifully--vomit free. I'll give the credit to the pork.

And now, a photo:

Three boys, two shirtless, and all practicing karate in the living room? Welcome to my life.

That was taken during the Christmas Break That Will Live In Infamy. I had the brilliant idea of finding a karate lesson for kids on YouTube in a desperate attempt at distraction. It worked for a few minutes, before Charlie declared it was boring and he wanted one with more action. Meaning I think he wanted to watch more Bruce Lee. Hence the lack of shirt. I believe when this photo was taken, they were learning to block. Cubby was really into it. Too bad there are no martial arts classes around here.

And finally, a confession: We were running very low on milk yesterday. A. was planning on going to the village to pick up his mail and get some milk, but then it started to snow quite heavily and unexpectedly. He didn't want to drive if he didn't have to, so he didn't go. I took stock of the amount of milk left (about a pint), calculated how much I would need for my coffee in the morning . . . and gave the kids water with their dinner. 

Yes, I totally hoarded milk from my children. Their bone development isn't going to suffer because of one afternoon without calcium. Without milk, there can be no cafe au lait. And without Mommy's cafe au lait, there is no joy in the world. 

The end.

The North Country Larder

This morning I had to confiscate a rubber bracelet imprinted with "Jesus Loves You," because it was being treated as a giant rubber band projectile by my precious little gifts from God.

Jesus loves you, but not when you try to take out your brother with a Sunday school bracelet.

Anyway. That has nothing to do with the rest of this post, which is all about a beaver. Or rather, about another beaver*.

And here it is, with its eventual consumers.

That photo, by the way, is totally staged. Jack is holding a trap, which he is not normally allowed to handle. Cubby is holding a hatchet, which he is normally allowed to handle but which doesn't play any part in the trapping of the beaver. And Charlie didn't even go to check the trap, instead just running out for the photo op when the real trappers returned with the rodent and then going back into the warm house to continue building with Tinker Toys. He's holding the trap setting tool. What a fraud.

Anyway again.

Now that A. has trapped another beaver, I am required to make beaver tacos again. I can do without them, personally, but the kids love them. Like LOVE LOVE them. They talk all the time about the beaver tacos we had last year, so of course, when they saw this beaver, they were all, "YAY! Beaver tacos!"

A. and I are less enthusiastic. Beaver meat is okay, but it's awfully . . . red. I know that sounds weird, but it's really, really red, in an almost disturbing way. Kind of like liver, and man, I really hate liver.

No matter, though! It's not about me. A. did all the cutting and trimming of the meat for me, so all I have to do is cook it. Which I did by putting the meat in some water to come to a boil, and then forgetting it was on there when I took Jack down for his nap. I came upstairs to a stove covered in boiled-over beaver juice.

It is about as appetizing as it sounds, yes.

I got that cleaned up, though, and now have the meat successfully simmering gently on the stove. I also have a grouse in the refrigerator to cook. A. shot it when he was deer hunting. Grouse I can wholeheartedly recommend. They taste like really good chicken.

Beaver in the pot, grouse in the refrigerator. It's a northwoods kitchen for sure.

* I just realized I never responded to a person in the comments of that post who asked if we have a lot of beavers in our area and what kind of trap A. uses. The answers are: There are a TON of beavers here. A. is trapping them at a neighbor's hunting cabin, where there are so many that the cabin is in danger of being submerged in the ever-expanding beaver pond. And the traps A. uses are instant kill traps set under water, so they're very humane.

We Do Stuff, I Take Pictures, Then . . .

Then the day we did the stuff is past and the pictures are old and somehow (somehow=newborn + other family members that still require care and feeding), I've just never written about it.

So here! Have a whirlwind update!

We went to the Adirondack Wild Center* on Saturday because it was free admission day. It's a little over three hours in the car to get there and back. I didn't really want to go with the baby, but I also didn't really want to leave A. to try to keep track of three crazy little boys in a public place. The baby slept almost the entire time, including in the car. The little boys were crazy in the car, but they got to see a live barred owl and get a bag of Cheetos from the center's cafe. Doesn't get much better than that.

In what is becoming a regular occurrence, Poppy soiled herself so thoroughly on Sunday morning that she required a full outfit change. Maybe she does it on purpose to ensure her lazy mother changes her out of her pajamas before church.

The first outfit choice was adorable, but not warm enough.

Much more neutral than last week's pink color palette.

So I had to put another layer over that:

A bit androgynous, but that's what happens when your hand-me-downs come from three older brothers. (One of whom is photobombing with his hand there on the baby's knee.)

Poppy did not sleep through the service this time, because she pooped again and woke up just before the opening hymn. Which is when I discovered that I only had one properly sized diaper in the diaper bag.

Rookie mistake.

I spent the next hour hoping she would stay clean and I wouldn't have to Macgyver a size 5 diaper into something that would fit a size 1 baby.

I didn't. Thanks, Poppy.

We finally got our half cow, which must have been the smallest cow ever, because the steaks are tiny. I did ask for a smaller cow, though, to make sure it fit in our freezer, and the boys love having their own individual steaks. A. just loves having steak at all, and I love having beef to change up our diet of constant lamb. Happiness all around.

Both Cubby and Charlie brought home pieces of paper with things to decorate for this week's open house at school--a turkey for Charlie and a tree for Cubby--with instructions to use "any media except food." I suggested they could use the designer duct tape sent by Aunt Tara. The reason she sent designer duct tape was because my niece used to use it to make headbands and so forth, so they had a lot on hand. Which is why we now have an entire shoebox filled with over a dozen different rolls of patterned duct tape.

Jack of course must also have some; he made an original creation.

We also used the duct tape to secure the packages of lamb we wrapped up. It's nice to have designer meat packages in the freezer.

And I think we'll end there with a mic drop. Thank you and good night.