We Have Takeoff!

Our first butterfly has emerged from his chrysalis! When we got home from church yesterday, the punk came running downstairs to let me know that we had a butterfly!

The punk and his pet.

The basher examining our specimen.

Come out, little guy!

He stayed on the grass for over an hour, presumably hardening his wings to prepare for flight.

The next chrysalis, waiting for his turn.

Goodbye, Friend!

Fingertips

This weekend, the Bells have been sick. Both boys had double ear infections in addition to their colds and, even though my man was out of town, he and I had similar symptoms of sore throat and general ickiness. I reluctantly cancelled all my weekend plans - work and play - to take care of the little guys and try to rest myself. It's fortunate that I had already made arrangements for someone to cover me at work on Saturday morning because at about 5:30 am, after getting up to change the basher's diaper (he was crying, "oooowww... oooowww" from his bed, and it turns out he had a very red bum bum), I actually passed out and bashed my face on the toilet. I have a big red, scabby nose to prove it. It's pretty.

Don't worry, it's nothing serious. After visiting an instacare the next morning, it turns out I was probably just dehydrated. Ridiculous.

Anyway, while I was sipping my hot water with lemon and honey the night before the face-bashing incident, I was thinking to myself that I wish my mom were there to take care of me. I'm 31 years old. I have a husband and two children of my own. And I still want my mom?

When I texted my parents that morning that I needed their help, my dad immediately texted back, "We're on our way." He took me to the clinic while my mom stayed with the boys. After I came home, she took the boys to a park so I could take a nap. Later that evening, my mom- and dad-in-law picked up the punk and the basher and took them to the State Fair so I could rest some more.

It is incredibly comforting to know that I can count on BOTH my parents AND my in-laws anytime I really need help. Not only are we geographically close to both sets of parents, they are both supportive and loving and involved in our lives.

After the boys came home and I had bathed them and put the basher to bed, I was tucking in the punk. We read a book and he said a prayer, then as I placed the covers over him, he asked me if I would rub his back. This took me back to my childhood when I shared a room with my brothers. Every night, we asked for a back rub, and my mom would make the rounds. We all got a minute or two of the best kind of comfort there is. Tangible love from our mama, through her fingertips. So at the punk's request, I smiled and tickled his small, smooth back with my fingertips, and found comfort myself in knowing that I was able to show this kind of love to my sweet boy because I had been taught by my own mom what it means to take care of a child.

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.

Natural History

I loved growing up close to my cousins. They were some of my best friends, and still are! We played together often and knew each other well. During the summer, my cousin Brooke and I would take the number 40 bus to and from each other's houses. (Can you even imagine sticking your child on a bus by herself these days?) Every time our families got together, we would play Barbies for hours, and then, when it was time to go home, we would beg our moms to have a sleepover.

My boys have exactly one cousin. And he lives 5 hours away in Boise, ID. So when James came to spend a week with Grandma and Papa, we squeezed in as much cousin time as we could. We spent two afternoons at the pool, and one morning at the new Natural History Museum.

As an only child, he's not used to having to accommodate weird little kids, but he is a sweetie, and he let the punk talk his ear off and poke him with puppets in the car.

Bell boys

I love the architecture of this building.

Run, Grandma! He's getting away!

You look surprised to see me.

Staring contest

Having Fun Is Hard Work

The slogan of this year's Utah Arts Festival is "Look Dirty. Have Long Man-Hair." I didn't see this slogan in print, but I did see lots of festivalers who took it to heart. 

We took the boys to the Arts Festival in the hope that with exposure to art, music, and diverse crowds (scruffy dudes included), they will develop an appreciation for our lovely city and the people in it. It is my hope that my man and I will always be able to provide a level of exposure to the arts, sports, social groups, and nature that will enhance our boys' lives and help them to grow up to be self-aware, compassionate, and educated. All these hopes and expectations, however, must be tempered during a family outing with two little guys. The lofty goal of cultural enlightenment takes a back seat to the immediate realities of heat (100 degrees), hunger, fatigue, and little-boyness.

We spent 90% of our time in the Art Yard where the boys visited the musical instrument petting zoo, listened to an animated storyteller, enjoyed sandwiches and chocolate milk, and made their own works of art. Maybe someday, we'll be able to visit the grown-up section of the festival. Until then, we will do our best to balance education with enjoyment.

Me: "You look confused."
Tim: "That's just my face."

Play Me, I'm Yours

Ten painted pianos have been installed on the streets of Downtown Salt Lake City for our enjoyment. This project called Play Me, I'm Yours by British artist Luke Jerram is presented by the Utah Museum of Contemporary Art, and is on display through the end of June. The public is invited to sit down and play Mary Had A Little Lamb (the punk's current masterpiece), Solfeggettio by Bach (a piece I learned in junior high, and the only one I have memorized), Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater (a black-keys-only number, which Grandma Caryn taught the punk today), or a personal composition (which the basher shared with his grand audience of bicyclists and passersby).

Go! Play! Enjoy!

(Here's the website, with a map of the piano locations.)

Summer Shenanigans

We gave the basher a haircut. It suits him.

We carried a giant diaper box down the street and went grass sledding. This is so much better than snow sledding! Instead of bundling up in coats, snow pants, boots, gloves, and hats, we just threw on our flip flops and walked out the door.

We have lots of fun things planned this summer. All of them will require sunscreen on the basher's head.

365 Days of the Basher

I feel as though he has always been in my life, but it was only 1 year ago that he joined our family. We started the day by baking in our pajamas: 4 round cakes and 12 cupcakes.

Then we went shopping for a birthday present and last-minute supplies, but the punk decided that a birthday celebration did not provide enough excitement for one day, so he concussed himself on the hard floor of the grocery store. Or so I thought. He hit hard and he cried quite a bit, asking me to carry him (and push the cart containing the basher and our groceries, and carry a dozen helium balloons). He was soon very sleepy and lethargic, and he fell fast asleep on the way home. I called his pediatrician in the car; the nurse told me I could let him sleep, but to wake him in 15 minutes to make sure I could rouse him. I couldn't. So with the basher in bed, I loaded the punk back into the car and headed for the ER. Fortunately, we were able to bypass the estimated 4-hour wait at the ER and visit the punk's grandpa in Radiology. After asking the punk some simple questions ("Q: What's the name of the state fish of Hawaii?" "A: Humuhumunukunukuapuaa."), he pronounced him fine and we returned home. Thankfully, the punk felt better after a nap and a spontaneous and sugar-sweet hug from the birthday boy.

I tried to capture a commemorative photo...

But after taking a face full of dirt, he was done.

We celebrated with cake and ice cream and family.

Happy 1st Birthday, Basher Boy!