Sam went on a trip with his grandparents for a few days last week.

Owen was devastated.

Well, he was Owen-style-devastated, which is actually rather mild.

His teacher asked him how he was doing without Sam around:

"I am sad," Owen replied.

"Really? You don't look sad."

"Wewl," he shrugged, "I am," and wandered off to play.

That's the difference between Owen and Sam. Sam tends to spend his life at the endpoints of the continuum. On any given day/hour he can vacillate wildly between one and ten, spending only as much time in the 4-5-6's as numerically necessary to get to the opposite extreme.

Owen, on the other hand, gives new meaning to "restriction of range."

I was despairing the other day about Sam and the wild ride that is his emotional life. I was wondering how to "fix" it. But then it occurred to me that for some people, the 1's and 2's are worth it because they get to have the 9's and 10's. I was watching some home videos recently and marveling at Sam's capacity for JOY. It's really unlike the way I live my life, which, like Owen, is pretty solidly middle of the road, emotionally speaking.

And who am I to say one is better than the other?

I feel frustrated sometimes because it seems to me like he is making his life harder than it has to be.

But maybe someday he will pity me because I don't get to feel the same kind of euphoria he does when it turns out we DO have chocolate pudding!!!!!!!!!!!!

Irony yet?

We we driving home from school planning a snack when Owen accidentally said, "I want it wif keem cheese."

AHAHAHAHA, the boys both laugh.

"You said KEEM cheese!"

BWAHAHAHAHA, wiping the tears from their eyes.

Oh they just can't get over it. He said "KEEM!"

Finally they collect themselves.

"I meaned, can I have it wif CWEAM cheese."

Unforeseen bonus of children

They back you up about your spouse's . . . quirks.

Sam went downstairs this morning. Each step he asked, "Dad? Can I watch a show? Dad? Can I watch a show? Dad? Can I watch a show?"

He eventually came back upstairs and I asked if Dad had said yes to the show.

Sam replied, morosely, "He didn't say nuffin because I think his ears are broken."

A quick count

I've calculated the amount of some of the things I do on a weekly basis.

Socks to be washed if it's been a GOOD week: 70

Nails I'm responsible for clipping IN ADDITION to my own: 60

Lunches to pack: 15

Lunch bowls to wash: 30 -45

Outfits I need to put together: 28

That's SO many socks and nails! And just THINK for a minute about how long it takes to choose 28 complete outfits.

Fortunately, everybody is grateful for all the work I do.

The kids especially. They are always all, "Hey, mom, thanks for buying and washing and choosing my clothes each day! I definitely won't whine about being forced to dress myself!"

"Man, mom, I'm so appreciative of all the hard work it must be to buy food and prepare food and pack it into appetizing lunches, there's no WAY I would complain about the injustice of being asked to CARRY MY OWN lunchbox!"

That's the kind of thing MY kids say.

Certainly not things like, "This is my mom! She has a squishy belly!"

Now it just makes me feel guilty

This blogging thing used to be fun. Mostly it was a good a place to tell all eight of you at the same time the story about Owen getting sent home from daycare with seeds in his ears.

But now I have a job.

Where I can't slack off.

Ever.

So I'm tired.

So I can't write anymore.

Sorry about that.

So stop checking.

If you see me change my occupation on facebook you can start checking again.

And other things they didn't cover in the manual

Recently, Owen has been doing this thing where he gets upset because we're not giving him something he wants, or not doing something he wants us too, or not peeling his grapes and carrying him around on a feather pillow. So he's upset and he'll start to cry and then he'll start to be all,

"Mah Eye! Mah Eye! Mah Eye huwrts!"

And I'm taken aback. Because where did that come from? And do I believe it? I feel like the minute I was breathing a sigh of relief that my kids were old enough to tell me in words that they are in pain, they also became manipulative enough to FALSELY claim they are in pain when I dared to thwart their will in some way.

But if I believe that his eye hurts when he cries, what do you suppose that's about?

You don't think it has anything to do with the fact that he likes to stroke his eyeball with his dirty stanky homma blanket that he also likes to put up his nose and in his ear, do you?

Fierce cheesy snacks

Chris and I got home from from an evening out to find Owen with his head in the lap of our babysitter, Cake. (I mean, some people might call her Kate, but that's not really as catchy, is it?)

My youngest son's expression was one of man who has seen too much.

"I think he had a bad dream," Cake tells us.

"Dere were Cheetos on my wight," Owen pipes in, sniffling. "Dey fewl on me and bited my skin off."

Jesus Christ those were vicious, vicious, cheese puffs.

I'm like 99% sure he meant that there were cheetahs on his light, which, while not making a whole like more sense, at least doesn't make me want to burst out laughing in the face of my obviously traumatized son.

Parenting. It's a delicate line we walk. Between scarring the children by using them strictly for entertainment value and squeezing every last bit of enjoyment out of the little buggers.