Shameful Shed Shenanigans

I am a royal idiot.

Yesterday afternoon, I was playing in the backyard with the little guys while our man was at a church meeting. We were having a lovely time examining the growing pumpkin in the garden and running around on the grass. Then the punk asked me about the little glow stick that his primary teacher had given him. I cracked it for him, but in the bright sunlight, we couldn't see the mild orange light emanating from the stick, so I had a brilliant idea. "Let's go into the dark shed, Buddy, and I'll show you how it glows!" So, with my camera strapped over my shoulder (it is attached to me all day on the 12th), I led my 3 year-old into the hot, dark tool shed. The basher was busy playing in the dirt, so I didn't bother disturbing him; we would only be a minute. I pulled the wooden door closed behind me so we could enclose ourselves in darkness to marvel at the magical glow that was looped around the punk's wrist.

"See, Buddy? Pretty cool, huh?"

He nodded.

Then I pushed the door and immediately realized that I was the dumbest person on the planet at that moment. The door had locked behind us and there is no latch inside the shed. The basher had just realized that we had gone into the normally forbidden tool shed without him, and came over to yell at the door in hopes that we would include him in our game. As I foolishly tried to figure out a way out, his yells turned to cries and then sobs. I knew we were okay; my man was due home any minute, and we had ample air. We even had plastic chairs to sit on. The basher was physically safe. He would not leave the other side of the shed door, and therefore, was unable to get into any mischief. But the poor guy was completely distraught. With the latch securing the very top of the door, I was able to push the bottom out a few inches in order to hold his hand, which gave him minimal comfort. With my words of comfort and my soft touch, he was able to stop screaming and just breathe in hiccups like one does after a very hard cry.

I tried to feed a rope with a hook over the top of the door in order to catch the latch, but it was on the other side of the door jam, and unreachable. I even tried wedging a shovel in the door like a crowbar, and using my supermom strength to muscle the door open by breaking the lock, but 1) we weren't desperate enough to do that kind of damage to the shed and 2) the basher would not leave the door, and would have been knocked over if I had beaten the door down. He kept sticking his fingers and even his arm in the space that I created when I pushed from my side.

We were stuck in that stupid shed for a good 45 minutes while our cheeks reddened with heat and the basher's cheeks reddened with despair. 

Finally, my man pulled into the driveway. Through my 1-inch view, I saw him come straight from his car to the backyard. He had seen the basher and thought we all must be hanging out. Then, as he told his mom while laughing so hard he was crying, he saw that the basher was standing at the door of the shed by himself. Then he noticed that the door was being pushed from the inside and a hand was sticking out. He heard, "TIM!" and the hand from the shed waved frantically. I saw his face, bewildered at first, and then understanding dawned and he burst out laughing. I laughed sheepishly from inside the shed, knowing what I must look like to my man who likes to tease. 

He freed us, gave the boys a hug and a kiss, and laugh/cried while he called his mom and attempted to explain the idiocy he had just witnessed.

Impertinence

Anyone who has ever been pregnant knows that there are plenty of people in our world who have no problem asking impertinent questions of a gestating woman. I've addressed this topic before, but I will never cease to be surprised at the lack of tact or thoughtfulness these people can possess.

For instance, when finding out that I am about to have a second boy, these weirdos imply that I should be sad that I didn't get a girl this time. What is the sense in that?

Or, when considering the size of my giant belly, these people have asked if I'm sure I'm not having twins.

While we expectant mamas are often the targets of thoughtless, stupid, or intrusive questions and comments, I've found another category of human that shares this same misfortune:

Old men with long, white beards!

The punk and I were enjoying a leisurely lunch at the Costco deli when two sets of strangers joined us on nearby benches. These two couples began conversing with each other, and I, having nothing to distract me besides the task of cutting up the punk's pizza, had no real choice but to witness their conversation. They talked about where they lived and what they were doing at the Murray Costco, and then Mrs. Bandana asked Mr. Whitebeard, "So, are you a Santa Claus at Christmastime?"

He snorted and then grunted, "No." His wife then came to his rescue with an excuse: "He's not good with children."

So, are we all clear about the rules?

1) All mothers should be disappointed if their first two children are of the same sex AND

2) All bearded men are expected to dress in furry red felt in December and let scores of snotty kids sit on their laps.

Peculiarities of Pregnancy

I shall now give you a short list of the weird social peculiarities that a woman is forced to experience during pregnancy, interspersed with a series of photos of the punk. They really have nothing to do with each other, except that I was pregnant with the punk once. And this is what he looks like now, while I am pregnant with his little brother. Besides, you'd rather see photos of him than me, right? Well, that's what you're going to get because I'm better with the camera than he is so if there is any photo-taking around here, I'm the one doing the shooting.

Shall we begin?

1. Tummy touching.

When I was gestating the punk, the amount of annoyance this act created in me was surprising. I really, really hated it. Especially at work. "Hello, person from Accounting that I've never actually had a conversation with. I've never even shaken your hand, but yes! Feel free to place your hand on my protruding abdomen. That's not invasive at all! Better yet, why don't you stand behind me and we can spoon!"

This time, I'm not as annoyed. Maybe it's because I've already been through it once and I know that some people just really love touching the tummy of an expectant mother. It makes them feel close to the magic or something. Or maybe it's because I know that being annoyed isn't going to do any good because tummy-touchers will be tummy-touchers. Either way, I'd rather you didn't invade my personal space if we don't have that kind of close relationship. (If you are a friend or family member that I regularly hug, you're in the clear.) But if you insist on rubbing my belly, I will try not to karate chop your wrist.

2. Gender expectations.

When I found out that I am having a second boy, I was genuinely thrilled. I felt like I had all the fortune in the world. I have high hopes that the punk and his little brother will have a close bond. It's not that he wouldn't have a great relationship with a sister, but I get excited thinking about two little Bell boys running around together. Some other people, however, seem to have different ideas.

When a close relative found out about the second male, she smiled a sad smile and said, "I'll bet you would have liked to have a girl this time, huh?" Um... no. Not really. I found it a bit strange that having two of the same gender was a cause of grief for this person. Is it that once you have one of each, your family is complete? Will I be an incomplete mother if I never have a variety?

At another time, someone else said, "Oh, well I guess you'll definitely have to have another baby. You have to try for a girl next time, right?" Um... no. I'd be completely happy with all boys. Maybe we'll have another one, maybe not. But if we do, it won't be so we can "try for a girl." How would one go about doing that anyway?

I find it very amusing that people even have opinions about this sort of thing, and that they share these opinions with me. Which brings me to number three...

3. Unsolicited opinions.

Especially when it comes to names. We all know someone who has decided on a name for their little bundle months before the birth, but refuses to share the name with anyone. I used to think this was kind of silly, but after hearing a few stories, I have a new respect for this method. If you tell someone the name(s) you are considering for your baby, you WILL receive a positive or negative assessment, even if it's just an accidental facial expression. Usually, the general public will hold their tongue if they don't really love the name as much as you do, but occasionally, you'll find someone who just has to tell you why you can not, under any circumstances, give your child this horrible name!

I especially love the concerns regarding possible nicknames or childhood taunts. Yesterday, my friend told me that her friend was considering the name Tate for her baby boy. Then some loud-mouthed character blurted out, "Tate, Tate, masturbate!" And that was the end of that.

Early Dose of Testosterone

The punk and I just returned home from an afternoon of pure bliss. This is the reason to be a stay at home mom. We were out running errands in Sugar House, so at lunchtime, we picked up some chicken nuggets and mandarin oranges, and a healthy salad for me (with a side of fries), and went to Sugar House Park to watch the ducks and geese. We relaxed on our blanket and ate until our tummies were satisfied.

Then, we posed by a tree for GQ Magazine.

And found lots of cool rocks and roots in the dirt.

Then we found some new friends. We had seen them at the pond with their own Wendy's bag, and then they ended up on the playground with us. When the punk saw the younger brother, who is his same age, he walked up and gave him a hug. They were instant buddies. While the younger two were climbing and gallivanting, I was talking to the boys' mom while she watched her older boy (about 4 years old) on the slide. We were soon joined by another boy about his same age.

This handsome little redhead initially seemed harmless enough, but soon he took control of the slide and began to assert his rights as slide dictator. When he called my new 4 year-old friend a "stinky head," the poor boy screwed up his face and started to cry. "Mom, he called me a stinky head," he said, his voice cracking. I looked in vain for this little terror's mom. Finally, as he was spitting at me through a long plastic tube, his nanny came up and told him that wasn't nice. He apologized to me and started playing nicely with the other kids.

While he was showing his new playmate how to walk up the slide with bare feet, I figured he had found his manners. Just then, he yelled, "Hey, do you think I have a big penis?"

People Are Weird

A few days ago, I had another Mama Bear Moment. I walked into my friend Shanel's salon, carrying the punk in his baby carrier with a blanket over the top because I was hoping that he would stay asleep for the duration of my hair appointment. As I walked in the door, I passed a lady who looked like a wet cat. Small frame, big eyes, and with hair and skin the same color yellow. She immediately turned to me and said, "Make sure to give that baby some air! That's a heavy blanket." It's a good thing I hadn't followed through with my original plan of covering the carrier in plastic wrap!

I sat down to wait for Shanel, and Cat Lady sat down in the chair right next to me. I had only had time to blink when suddenly, she was reaching her paw out to lift the blanket. I almost slapped her hand away, but instead, I said, "He's taking a nap, and I'd like him to stay asleep." She looked as if I HAD slapped her, but I didn't care. I could even hear him making waking sounds, and feel his little feet start to kick, but I wasn't about to lift the blanket now and subject my little guy to Cat Lady. She would probably want to hold him and nurse him and take him to live with her in a van down by the river. So I rocked the still-covered baby seat while she babbled unceasingly until Shanel was ready for me.

She asked me how old he was, his name, where I grew up, where my husband grew up, how long we had been married ("Oh, you waited 6 years to have a baby?"), if we had traveled before having the baby, and how we had met. When I told her we had met on a blind date, she proceeded to tell me about the "50 couples" she had set up on successful blind dates and her theory that sometimes couples are destined to meet by the hand of someone else. By the time Shanel had finished her previous appointment, which only took about 3 1/2 minutes, Cat Lady was jabbering on about how Scotland and Ireland are her favorite European countries because she owns the keys to several castles where she can talk to ghosts.

Snot On A Train

Yesterday, the punk and I decided to take FrontRunner downtown to spend a lovely afternoon with an old friend. Even though, in my estimation, it cost more to ride the train than to drive down, and even though it took longer than driving when you include parking at the station and waiting for the train, I quite enjoyed the experience. When driving the 30 minutes downtown, I would normally have to either time our outing perfectly so it's during the punk's nap time, or resort to chattering like a monkey and hope he doesn't fall asleep. You see, in our house, it's against the rules to do anything without my permission - including taking a nap before the time I set forth.

So the little man and I were making faces at each other and smiling and holding hands and having a witty conversation that primarily consisted of the word, "Boo!," when I happened to look up and see something that has left me gagging for the past 24 hours. An old man blew his nose into his bare hand, and then slowly moved his snot-filled hand down 2 inches, and slurped it up into his mouth! My eyes bulged, my jaw dropped, and I gulped down my breakfast that was threatening to spew.

As I contemplated the wonder that is public transportation, I was reminded of my days as a bus- and Trax-riding college student. Aside from the general memories of motion sickness and people who smell like a mix of B.O. and mental illness, some specifics come to mind. One was this experience. Another is this:

While riding the bus or the train, I generally kept to myself and read either Harry Potter or math books. (Nerd alert!) So I didn't notice if the following character was on my train, but apparently, I was noticed by him, either on the train, or as we exited. I was walking across the street on my way to class, when I heard someone say,

"Beat 'em up."

I looked up and saw a black man, probably mid-30s, looking at me, but I wasn't sure if I had heard him correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"Beat 'em up!"

"Um.....?"

"Beat 'em up wit yo' fiiiiine self!"

I took that to mean he was complimenting the way I looked, and therefore blushed and smiled, and kept walking. Ahhhh, public transportation. It carries Utah's finest.

Mama Bear

When my friend BPG came to visit us in the hospital after the punk was born, she asked me if I had experienced the "mama bear instinct." I hadn't yet had the pleasure, and honestly, I didn't really think I had it in me.

Until now.

Yesterday, I was at a humongous family party with many people in attendance that aren't related to me, but to my cousin. My family and some cousins were sitting in a little nook, avoiding all the weirdoes that we didn't know, when a stranger came over to join us. She sat right next to my brother who was holding my little guy, and out of nowhere, she just reached over and took the baby! As she held him on her lap, my man, my brother and I exchanged alarmed glances. As I mouthed, "Who is that?!?" to my dad, my cousin said, "Don't worry. We know her." But that did not placate my shock. The strange lady just acted as if she were a part of the family while cooing to my precious bundle, but I was on high alert, and my man actually had to get up and leave the room so he wouldn't reach over and clock the woman. As the little guy started to become increasingly fussy, my man came back in and said, "I'll take him from you." He stood up and took the punk as the lady looked at him with surprise. I thought, "Really, Lady? You're surprised that the baby's dad is taking him from you, a crazy person with no social boundaries?" I breathed a sigh of relief as my baby was returned to his rightful owner.

Growl.