Archive for the ‘Jacob’Category

And on the 2,613th Day, Daddy Got His Wish

I’ve got a backlog of stories about festivals and crazy kids and how I apparently won artwork for an auction that I don’t remember bidding at, but all of that has to wait.

Because more pressing issues have surfaced in the Lancaster household that bear revealing. But first, I need to provide a bit of background.

During the winter that Jake was three, he measured 3′ 4″ tall. And weighed around 50lbs. That December, we had to prove his age at a Chinese buffet, because the woman behind the counter thought he was at least six. Luckily, I was carrying his shot record book, which has his birth date stamped inside it. All that to save $7.

Now, before Jake was even BORN, the LOML and I had conversations about what we hoped our child would accomplish and grow up to be — just like any other new parents. And after he was born, and as we began to realize how big he was going to be, the conversations always turned to sports. “He’ll DEFINITELY be tall enough to play basketball!” or “Holy CRAP this kid will make an awesome middle linebacker some day.” And then the LOML’s eyes would glaze over as he dreamed of his first-born son scoring a game winning touchdown in overtime for Notre Dame.

Anyway, later that week (after the Chinese restaurant visit, just before Christmas, 2006), Jake & I were standing in line at a video store. In front of us was a rather large black man in a track suit, who happened to be holding a baby carrier with a blanket over it to keep out the cold.

I leaned down to Jake and said, “Sweetie, look . . . there’s a baby under that blanket.”

And before I could stop him, he lunged for the carrier and pulled the blanket up.

The guy instinctively pulled the carrier toward him and turned around. Embarrassed, I said, “I am SO SORRY! I told him there was a baby under there and he took it as permission to look under the blanket. He’s only three . . .”

His response was to throw his head back, and say “THREE?!”

And before I could reply, he began to pat around at his chest in an attempt to find a pocket. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he put the carrier down, reached for his wallet, pulled out a card and said, “Ma’am, I’m a youth football coach . . . could you please do me the biggest favor EVER and call me when this boy turns six?”

And I said, “Oh-KAY Jerry Macguire! Just because he’s a big kid doesn’t mean he’ll want to play.”

And he said, “Oh, I can get him to play . . .”

And I smiled and nodded and took the card.

When the guy was done checking out his DVDs, he turned to me and said, “I’m serious. You call me.”

We never called him.

But the LOML sure did get a thrill when I returned home and told him what happened. And he LOVES to tell that story. Because he always dreamed that Jake would play football, and it was validation that a football coach would look at his boy and deem him worthy enough to play AT AGE THREE.

Fast forward to last week, when the LOML gave in to years pressure he’d been receiving from a co-worker (who happens to be a Jr. Pee Wee Football Coach) and took Jake to watch a practice session.

He called me from the field and said, “Hon, you should see him! He looks GOOOOD.”

And I said, “What? I thought he was just going to watch!”

And he said, “I know, but he wanted to get out there and the O-Line coach was all, ‘Dude, your kid needs to PLAY,’ so, I let him run some drills.”

That was seven days, 729 conversations, and several hundred dollars ago.

Tonight, when the boys came home from the field, the LOML was carrying one of those big gear bags that football players use to hold their uniform and pads.

So it was official.

I’ve given birth to a Jr. Knight.

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Jake, growling and ready to attack

Please God, let me not turn into a maniacal football mother.

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18

08 2010

Summer Tradition

As a kid, I love LOVED going to the state fair. I was a food eating, ride riding, sweaty mess of a girl that dragged my mom through every inch of that fairgrounds.

Now, I’m a food eating, ride riding, sweaty HOT MESS of a mother, being dragged through every inch of the fairgrounds by her kids.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

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Boys at the State Fair Eating a Corn Dog

Yes, I made them wear red shirts on purpose. Red hides ketchup quite nicely.

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Jake pets the baby goat

"Mama! Do you see the baby goat? Oh my GOD! HE'S SOO SOFFFFT! MAMA! I'MMM PETTTTTING THE BABY GOOOOATT! DO YOU SEE ME? DO YOU?"

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Benny Drives the Mater Truck

Benny is riding the Mater Truck. But you can't really see Mater, because Benny was stage-directing the composition of this photo. "No mama. Closer! Get CLOSER. MAMA, I RIGHT HERRRE!!"

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05

08 2010

And on the 1,103rd Day, He Made Her Cut the Boy’s Hair

I’ve always wanted a little boy with long hair.

Growing up and all the way into my adult years, I’ve been a “rocker chick.” I liked my dudes to have longer hair than me. (Until I met the LOML, of course.)

And during those years, I envisioned having a little boy with super cool long hair and a leather jacket and a name like “Dominic” or “Thaddeus.”

I could not have been happier after having Jake — he actually CAME OUT OF THE WOMB WITH LONG HAIR. It was like the metal gods smiled down upon me and said, “Ye shall possess a first-born son with locks that Metallica themselves would be jealous of.”

But then the LOML intervened and Jake got his first haircut at 5 months old. Because the poor kid had hair so long that we had to pin it up “samurai style” to keep it out of his eyes and mouth. It’s been short ever since. And sometimes the LOML goes so far as to shave it all off at the beginning of summer, which irritates the crap out of me because it makes Jake look like “Vern” from Stand By Me.

Then along came Benny. WHO WAS BORN BALD.

It took him three years to get his trademark hair — the hair everyone likens to that of Dolly Madison.

The LOML has been threatening to get his hair cut since Christmas. Then in April, I decided that I thought I’d be ready to go through with it by Benny’s third birthday.

Which came and went with no scissors in sight. I thought I was home free.

Until this past weekend, when the LOML called me on my bet, loaded the car with my camera gear, and said, “Let’s go.”

There were a few moments before we even went in where I thought I might cry or vomit or grab Ben and make a run for it.

But I acquiesced, grabbed my rig, and started to shoot. It was the only thing that kept me from having an out of body experience.

Below is the before picture:

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Benny Gets a Haircut

Benny, ROCKING the Dolly Madison look and waiting patiently for his turn in the chair.

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The noise from the clippers drew Benny’s attention to his older brother. Who HATES getting his hair cut.

Benny Waits to Get His Hair Cut

Benny looks on as his older brother is subjected to the clipper treatment.

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I probably should have promised him something cool, but all he got after he was done was a root beer sucker.

Jake Gets the Clipper Treatment

Seriously. Do I *REALLY* need a caption here?

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Five minutes later, Benny would get in the chair.

Benny in the chair . . .

I love this image. He sat down in that chair as if we had said, "We'll buy you some ice cream if you sit still." Oh, wait . . .

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I have a photo of the “First Cut,” but I couldn’t bring myself to post it. Here’s what became of the first cut:

Baby hairs . . .

Remnants of the "First Cut."

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And finally, the “After” pictures:

Jake's "After Picture"

This image makes Jake appear to be TWELVE YEARS OLD. Next week kids will start asking him to buy their beer.

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Benny's "After Picture"

Here's the 'Zilla with his new 'do. His shoulder action reminds me of Schroeder from "Peanuts."

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He seems to think that, now that his hair is shorter, he can run faster. If I had made that argument before going in, the LOML probably would have kept his hair long.

04

08 2010

This is What Happens When I Leave the Boys Alone With My Husband

When the LOML and I first bought our house, we were all young and in love and pregnant with Jake and most things worked but there were also things that needed fixing.

And instead of fixing the things that were broken, the LOML went on a destruction spree which totally ruined a few of the nice things and has turned our lot into something that renters wouldn’t even want to live in. Like the fact that we have no tree or plants or even a REAL LAWN out front. We have green weeds that are mowed to look like grass. And don’t get me started on the back yard – what was once a nice little place to hang out now has a gaping hole dug out “so that we can have pavers someday.” And whenever it rains a pool of water collects in the gaping hole so that our back yard can become the neighborhood breeding ground for mosquitoes and West Nile Virus. But I digress.

Because this little story is about a door knob. Or lack thereof.

A couple of weeks ago, Jake got stuck in the bathroom. And after employing various methods of trying to get the knob to unlock (bobby pins, small flat head screwdrivers, toy laser guns), the LOML decided to just take the doorknob off. Upon dismantling of the doorknob assembly, he noticed that it was actually not one whole doorknob set, but two different doorknobs (one for each side of the door) paired together to make one set. Seriously.

ANYWAY, a few days later, the LOML went to Home Depot and spared no expense in getting us an $8 replacement doorknob assembly. THIS IS IMPORTANT.

Fast forward to last Friday night, when I decided that I wanted to get out of the house for a while and go see a movie alone (we do that sometimes — it allows me to see “girl movies” and it allows the LOML to see “crappy movies” without one having to drag the other along). When I got back at around 10:30, the LOML was still up and quite chatty for someone who just spent three hours alone with my kids.

After I was done brushing my teeth and was climbing into bed, he said, “So, your sister got a pretty interesting phone call tonight.”

And I was all, “Oh SHIT. Who’s in the hospital now? Did someone die? Is everything okay?” because I just KNEW he was talking about Terry, and SHE’S the one who always gets the death/dying/family emergency calls first and WHY IS HE JUST NOW TELLING ME THIS??

And he said, “No, no, it’s not like that. Everything’s fine now.”

And I said, “NOW? Everything’s fine . . . NOW?”

And he was like, “Yeah, we had a little excitement here at the house . . .”

And I said, “WILL YOU JUST F-ING TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED?”

And he lowered his head, started to laugh, and said, “I locked myself in the bathroom.”

Here now, in his own words, is Troy’s recount of what happened:

“Okay, so I was in the bathroom installing the new doorknob and I had only got HALF of it done when Benny comes in and says ‘Bye Daddy! Have a good day!’ and I was all, ‘Okay, have a good day’ but I had my back turned and didn’t realize that as he was saying this he was shutting the door, then all of the sudden in the mirror I see the door shutting and I tried to stop it from shutting but he’s such a quick little shit that I didn’t get to it in time. Then when I tried to open the door it wouldn’t open so I called for Jake and asked him if Benny was okay and he was all, ‘Yeah, Dad, he’s in your room watching Kipper’ so I said to Jake ‘Daddy is stuck in the bathroom and I need your help’ and then it got really quiet. Then Jake said ‘Are you stuck on the toilet Dad and do you need some toilet paper?’ and I laughed and said, ‘No I can’t get OUT of the bathroom because the door won’t open.’ So then Jake asked ‘Whaddaya want ME to do?’ and I said ‘Hang on, let me see what I can do from in here.’ Then I took a screwdriver and I took apart what I could of that fricking cheap-ass doorknob that I paid $8 for – I should have known it would break because it was only $8 stupid bucks . . . stupid lock . . . anyway, I took it apart and then told Jake to pull on the doorknob gently and the other side fell out so I could see him through the hole in the door. Then I said, ‘Jake, go get Daddy’s wallet off the counter,’ and I swear to GOD that kid came back with a CREDIT CARD. How he knew I wanted to get a credit card out I DON’T KNOW, but he slid it through the hole and I tried to get the door to open with it but it didn’t work. Then I said, ‘Okay Champ, go get Daddy’s phone off the counter.’ And when he brought it back it wouldn’t fit through the hole so I had to try and guide him through the calling process and when he finally got the contacts list up I tried to put my finger through the hole to find your name but I couldn’t reach it and see it at the same time so I told Jake, ‘Okay, rub your thumb on the silver button until you see Mommy’s name,’ and he said ‘I don’t see Mommy in here’ because he was looking for the ‘M’s’ for ‘Mommy’ so I told him to hold up the phone so I could see it and it was all the way down at the bottom and I saw your sister’s name and I said ‘OKAY, PRESS THE GREEN PHONE BUTTON!!’ and he pressed the button, put the phone up to his ear AND WALKED AWAY. I could hear him talking on the phone like he was just talking to a friend so I had to yell, ‘JAKE!! TELL AUNTIE TERRY THAT I NEED HER TO CALL YOUR MOM!’ and then he said something into the phone but I couldn’t hear what he was saying so I freaked out and took the screwdriver and just started ramming it into things inside the hole and the door came open and then I said, ‘TELL HER NEVER MIND I GOT OUT OF THE BATHROOM.’ And then he said something into the phone again and then hung up. After that, I threw that piece of shit doorknob away and put the boys to bed.”

*SIGH*

Here, now, is my niece Kristen’s recount of what happened. Because when Jake called “Auntie Terry’s House,” Kristen was the one who answered the phone:

“So last night, the phone rang and I answered it (exciting right?) and I hear “Auntie Terry?? Call grandma!! My dad is locked in the bathroom!!!” I have NO CLUE who it was but it sounded urgent so I didn’t say anything about not being “Auntie Terry”. I kept asking “Who is this? Sweetie, calm down, what’s your name and I’ll call Grandma.” I never got a name but I heard “Never mind, just call Kathleen!” (I’m now assuming that it’s Jake on the phone and Uncle Troy was stuck in the bathroom.) So now I’m thinking I shouldn’t really call Grandma about this…and then I hear Uncle Troy say “It’s ok! I got out!” Phone call ended. It was quite the change of pace for my Tuesday night. I still really have no clue what happened, but you better get that blog up soon ‘cause I have to know Uncle Troy’s side of the story!!”

Here, now, is my sister Terry’s recount of what happened.

“When the phone rang I recognized the number so I told Kristen to answer it, and she got really quiet, and was SO CALM the whole time. I could hear her saying, ‘Okay sweetie . . . tell me your name’ and thought it was weird, but was SO AMAZED at how calm she was! After she got off the phone she said, ‘Uncle Troy locked himself in the bathroom but he’s okay now’ and we laughed about it, and I’ve been dying to hear the other side of the story so we could piece it all together.”

Seriously. It’s like my blog writes itself.

Oh! And by the way — do you want to know what he replaced that “cheap-ass eight dollar lock” with?

He replaced it with a NINE DOLLAR LOCK. I kid you not.

27

04 2010

Conversations With Jake: Gag Me With a Thermometer

Conversations With Jake Logo, (c) 2008 Mama Needs a Cosmo All Rights Reserved DO NOT COPYI told this story to a few of my co-workers today, and they were all, “Oh my GOD Kathleen!! You need to put that on your blog! Have you put it on your blog? Have you?!” And I was like, “Hell NO!” because I’m totally convinced that Child Protective Services reads my blog and is just itching for a reason to take my boys away.

Then I realized that what I did (in this particular instance) wasn’t all that bad. I mean, it’s not like I left Jake and Benny in a car for six hours while I gambled at a casino or something. This type of “parental absence of mind” is much more acceptable. Or at least “confessionable.”

So, here’s the story:

A couple of weeks ago (the evening of Easter Sunday), Jake came to me and quite dramatically stated,

“Ohhh MOMMMMM, I don’t feel so good. My tummy hurts and I think I have a feverrrr.”

Seriously. This kid has more drama packed into his being than Charlton Heston.

And I was all, “Uh, of COURSE you don’t ‘feel so good.’ You spent all day eating candy.”

But the 5% left of “caring mom” in me chose to feel his forehead, and it WAS kinda warm, so I went to the bathroom and retrieved our newly purchased thermometer. Complete with sample cover for trial use.

I opened the box, and then decided to use the trial thermometer cover. It was one of those “peel here, insert thermometer, then peel off other side” kind of covers, so I didn’t really have to touch it, which made me feel like I was being all super-sanitary and worthy of a gold star.

“Here,” I said, “keep it under your tongue for ten seconds.”

Now, before I go further, I have to explain that Jake has always had a really (REALLY) bad gag reflex. This kid has issues with just getting his teeth brushed in the morning, so I was quite worried that this temperature taking thing would turn into an adventure.

And, true to form, Jake coughed and gagged and spit it out onto the bathroom counter.

“Jake!! What is your problem?! It’s just a thermometer!”

“But MOMMM!”

“Seriously, Jacob . . . I’ve got no other way to do this so put it back under your tongue for ten seconds. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“No mom! It tastes weird.”

“Weird?”

“It’s kinda slippery and it tastes awwfull. YOU DO IT!”

I stopped short of asking him, “What’s your damage, HEATHER?” because I’m also thoroughly convinced that my six-year-old has a teenage girl trapped inside his body and is driving force behind his Charlton Heston dramatics.

Anyway, I decided that YES, I WOULD TAKE MY OWN TEMPERATURE AND SHOW THIS KID THAT HE’S BEING A TOTAL NUTJOB, and then reached for the thermometer without looking at it because for some reason I wanted to stare him down to make a point. And in doing so, I inadvertently picked it up by the “wrong” end (the temperature-taking end) and felt it.

And . . . it WAS kinda slippery.

And for one brief second I had a minor out of body experience, having realized what I just did to my own son.

I cringed, slowly turned around, reached for the bathroom wastebasket, and retrieved the thermometer cover wrapper.

And there it was. All spelled out for moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas and babysitters WHO CAN READ GOOD:

“Pre-lubricated for rectal comfort.”

[Insert gag noise here.]