Pink

Pink is an interesting color.  It brings to mind spring time, Easter, flowers, and bunnies (although I could not begin to tell you WHY pink makes me think of bunnies - I have never seen a pink bunny).

However, this past week my kids have contracted pink eye which, to be perfectly honest, does NOT bring any of the afore mentioned sweetness to mind.  In fact, it brings to mind much nastiness. Pink eye is NOT a symbol of new life and baby animals romping playfully through a meadow.  It is NOT a reminder of time spent with family frolicking in warm spring days.  I do NOT revisit the cotton candy moments of my youth where birds sing, butterflies flutter and kites float lazily on the breeze while children squeal in delight.

  

No, pink eye is none of these things.  Putting the word "pink" in front of the word "eye" does NOT in anyway make the word "eye" more pleasing.  Just the opposite in fact.

Pink eye has made all three of my children look like they have lost boxing matches against really famous boxers whose names I will not even pretend to know.  Their eyes are red and swollen and incredibly foul things leak out of them.  To top it all off I get to line up all of my children for eye drops.  It worked great - the first time.  Now they know it is not a pleasant experience to put stinging, itchy drops in sore eyes.  (You can't say my kids aren't bright.)  As if the drops are not enough the kids are not allowed to touch their eyes.  So here I go...

 I put the drops in. 1 drop 3 times a day.

"Don't touch." I say.

Instantly little hands and even littler fingers leap up to the eye region of the face.  

"Don't touch." I repeat as I attempt to block their ever increasing attempts to reach their eyes.

  Little hands and even littler fingers continue to move with dizzying speed as they eventually break through my defenses and attempt to pop their offending eyeballs out of their ocular cavities.  

"Don't touch." I repeat again as I remove their hands in an attempt to preserve the eye.  

It is at this point that my cute, precious little angels turn into little creatures of pure malice that seek to take my life.

Pink eye is not my friend.

Field trip to the zoo

In the spirit of my brand-new, blog more frequently, resolution, here are pics of the kids at the zoo.  This was their second ever school field trip.  I didn't post pics of the first.  As Aaron would say, "I fail at life".

Here is a pic of the entire class.  Ellie is on the far left of the picture chewing on her Diego sport cup.  Liv is hiding behind the little red headed boy - you can't see her.  Can my kids pose or what?

Ok, seriously.  What is this?  Cheetah?  Jaguar?  Leopard?  How does one tell?  Apparently a trip to the zoo did not help ME at all.

My girls posing again.  They refuse to put down the cups and Ellie wont look up.  So much for a career in TV.

We went to the Wild Zoo which was really a lot of fun.  As you can see the kids are able to get pretty close to the animals.

Sad when the kangaroo poses better than the children.

This was BY FAR the best part of the zoo.  The lorikeet feeding.  The kids were able to hold a piece of an apple and the birds would fly down and eat it right out of their hands.  It was really neat.  Liv loved it.  Ellie, not so much.

Picture of the class before the train ride.

The girls were enthralled by the tortoise (the large, flat, rock looking thing in the upper left hand corner).   Now, I myself am an animal lover and the tortoise was cool and all but this picture captures all the excitement the tortoise has to offer.  This is it.  I finally had to drag them away.  


This was our next big adventure.  Feeding the giraffes.  The girls would not do it so I had to hold them up while I fed the giraffe.  "You will have fun so help me......"

Is it just me or does this camel look dead?  The girls were quite concerned.

I was thinking of doing this with Ashton's hair.  What do you think?

This white tiger was beautiful.  He was sleeping until all the kids came around.  At which point I am thinking, that he was thinking, "Lunch".

Peer-Pressure

So here is the thing about peer-pressure, it never really ends. This seemingly small fact has caught me off guard. I can honestly say, when I was a child, I thought adults were impervious.

I guess I was wrong.

My girls are a bit ........ hmmmm, how to put this nicely, um, competitive? They are competitive. We were driving in the car the other day when my little 4-year-old peanut gallery began to speak.

"Mom? Are you going fast?"
"Mom? Are you going fast?"
"MOM? Are you going FAST?"

"Yes, I am going fast."

"Are we going to pass that car mom? Let's go fast enough to pass that car."
"Let's go fast mom."
"Pass the car mom."
"MOM. GO FAST SO WE CAN PASS THAT CAR."

"Girls, we don't need to pass the car. We are going fast enough."

"Mom, that car is going to pass us."
"Mom, don't let that car pass us."
"Mom, he's getting ahead of us. HE'S BEATING US!!!!"

(slight pause as our crushing defeat takes hold)

.....

"Mom, are we going to win?"
"Are we going to win mom?"

(This is a question that comes up every day. What they mean is, are we going to be the first to get where ever it is we are going or are "they" going to beat us. The underlying assumption here is that everyone on the road is in fact going the same place we are going and "they" want to get there first.)

"Girls I don't know. Not all of these cars are going to your pre-school." (We were at the time going to pre-school.)

They pause while they process this new information. And, at this point you think, "Wow, she is really handling this thing well. Way to not fold under the pressure." Please read on.

"Let's win mom. Look we passed that car. Yea mom!"
"There is another car. Let's see if we can pass that car mom. Go faster mom!"

(It is here that I must admit I can feel my resolve weakening. After all, I DID pass that one car.)

"YEA MOM!!"
"WE PASSED HIM!"
"LET'S GET THERE FIRST MOM!" (Lesson number one of the day was a dismal failure.)
"DON'T LET HIM PASS US!"
"YEA, HE DIDN'T PASS US!"
"Mom, are you going fast?"
"YOU'RE GOING FAST MOM!"
"MOM, YOU'RE GOING TO WIN!!!!!!"

What I am going to win has never been fully discussed. To be perfectly honest it hasn't even been partially discussed but as I looked down I noticed I was going 65 miles an hour in a 40 mile an hour zone. I am a victim of the dread 4-year-old peer pressure. I hang my head in shame.

phhbtt

I know I am a little back logged when it comes to my blog but I just can't seem to keep up my end of the bargain. What bargain you ask? Well, I really don't know. But, I seem to be failing none-the-less.

For so many people 2007 went out with a bang. A party. Streamers, confetti and drinks. At the very least there was a quiet moment as the ball dropped in Time Square. Not so here in the Grayson household. Ours was more of a phhbtt sort of noise.

Ashton had been sick with a nagging cough for about 2 weeks when I decided to take him to the doctors. Not what I had scheduled for Christmas Eve but I had apparently forgotten to show Ashton what I had planned so it was my fault. Double ear infection was the diagnosis and tasty pink medicine the cure. Ashton was thrilled. Yummy pink "mu" twice a day. The girls were jealous. "Mom, I have a bad cough (cough, cough, choke, choke sounds here). I need some medicine." Nice try!

So dawns New Years Eve day with all it's promises of "out with the old and in with the new". That day where you can contemplate all that the past year has brought and all the things the New Year might bring. That exciting day when you get to sit around thinking about how tomorrow you will get to write 2008 on your checks instead of 2007. New Years Eve has it all really. The past, present and future all rolled up into one glorious day of sunshine. (A little carried away?)

Well, our New Years Eve day began like all others. We ate, we played, and Brock went to work. He called me on his way home and I began to tell him how great our morning had been but how Ashton was having a rough afternoon. During my iterations Ashton began to cry. I, of course, ignored him. I was on the phone and he was not being pleasant. He cried a little harder and I ignored a little more. He began to REALLY cry and I told Brock I should go. "I just don't know what his problem is the afternoon" I told Brock. I sent Brock my love, hung up the phone, and turned to Ashton. He had vomited all over himself. Well, there goes my mother of the year award. So close and yet so far away.

You know, as a mom I feel as if I should be able to handle any difficulty. Any nasty that may come my way. After all, isn't that what mom's do? Do we not handle all those things that others cringe at? Well, to be honest I didn't see the vomit coming. "Now what do I do?" I thought. I really should comfort him, but ... yuck. So I did what - I hope - all moms have done at one time or another. I put on rubber gloves to touch my son. I just couldn't bring myself to do it any other way. So there I was, rubber gloves pulled up to my elbows, hands in the air, approaching my sick son. Compassion is my middle name. To prove this I striped him naked right there in his chair and carried him, held out in front of me, to the bath.

In my defense, once he was clean I cuddled and cuddled him. I even called Brock and told him he was on for dinner prep. I believe we ate out that night.

New Years day and the day after were much like New Years Eve. I sat and cuddled. On Saturday it became clear he was not going to get over the fever himself so we went BACK to the doctors. Double ear infection and the beginnings of pneumonia. Not what I was wanting to hear. It had been a really rough week. Ashton had gotten sick a couple more times. He wouldn't eat or drink very much. He wouldn't play and NEVER (I really can't stress NEVER enough here) wanted to be put down. He didn't just want to be held. He wanted to be held while I walked singing his favorite tunes and rubbing his back. Well, don't we all want that? He cried all the time. It was, for me, a revisitation of the first 5 months of his life when he would cry non-stop for hours at a time.

So there I was, sitting in the doctor’s office with my crying son getting ready to do a "breathing treatment". For those of you who have never experienced the first breathing treatment, it is a thing of pure agony. Ashton couldn't breath as easily as he was used to and I wanted to put a mask on his face.

Let me take a minute here to explain my thoughts on evolution and Darwinism. People generally don't like to have things on their faces. Especially when they are already having a hard time breathing. Natural instinct kicks in when mouth and nose are covered simultaneously. Those people who do not have this inclination are dead. It is called survival of the fittest - or brightest. Evolution. Darwinism.

Ashton has evolved. He kicked and screamed. My little 1-year-old baby had super human strength. I could barely hold him let alone keep the mask on his face. He turned multiple colors and contorted himself in ways I didn't think were possible. It was the longest 20 minutes of my life. By the end we were both crying and sweating profusely. It is at this point the doctor reappeared looking sympathetically at my face. "They usually don't like the first time" she told me. "Don't like?” I thought. That has got to be the understatement of the year and it is only Jan 5th.

After all was said and done I took my son, his breathing machine, diaper bag, paper work, masks and tubing, and keys and left for home. I know I blew mother of the year in 2007 but I really feel as if I am in the running for 2008. If there is one thing I have learned from all the presidential candidates it is that you can never begin self-promoting too early.

To end this too long blog. Ashton is now doing well. He is still on his antibiotics but he no longer has to do the breathing treatments. (The doctor was right. He really only hated the first treatment. He tolerated all the rest fairly well.) His lungs are clear and he is my happy little boy again.

Here is Ashton feeling better and eating spaghetti.

Wal-Mart (aka. The Devil)

Here is a letter I have sent to Wal-Mart. Better known as the devil.

Dear Wal-Mart,


I had never really shopped at Wal-Mart before a couple of years ago. The store near us was so large I decided I would try their photo center. It was the worst customer service experience I have ever had. I swore I would never go back. I called friends and family and told them what had happened. Well, a couple days ago I was talking about paint with my brother. He told me about the Kilz paint. You can get it at Wal-Mart he said. Now I had a dilemma. Good cheap paint and break my boycotting vow or expensive paint at a store I know cares about my business? I decided to give Wal-Mart another chance. I have to say, I have had exactly the same experience. I had to wait 30 minutes in the paint department to get a person. Do you know who I got? Dan from the pet department, Nicole from grocery and Trish from goodness knows where. Apparently, there was no one for the paint department and no manager that knew the area either. So, between the 3 they helped me out. I left the store 1 hour later with 1 quart of paint and nothing else on my list. I have trouble patronizing a store that treats the customers in such an off-handed fashion. Do you know I had sales associates tell me there should be someone in paint and walk away from me when I asked for help? I had other associates avoid eye contact when I tried to get their attention. Some went so far as to walk to the other side of the dividing isle when they had to pass me multiple times and didn't know how to help. I didn't scream or yell, cuss or throw a fit. I thanked Dan, Nicole and Trish for their willingness to help. But how can a store the size of a small town not care about those customers that helped it to grow so big. Here is an analogy for you.

A person walks into the store and the little glutton in all of us jumps for joy. There is food to eat and chairs to sit on while you are eating it. You can buy a TV to watch or any kind of stereo you need if you like movies or music with your food. While you are enjoying life's better indulgences you can have the tires on you truck fixed and by your new eye-glasses to help you see better on the way home. Lonely? You can buy a pet at your local Wal-Mart. Allergic to your new pet? Stop buy the pharmacy to pick-up some medication to clear you right up. Yes, Wal-Mart has every thing you could ever hope to need. Mecca for shoppers. Until you begin to feel sick and you drop to your knees in the middle of the isle. Then they just walk on by trying not to make eye contact as you lay gasping for breath on the cold floor. After all, there are shelves to fill for the living. As you take your last breath you realize that while Wal-Mart can give you a lot they are not really there when you need them. In fact, they tend not to notice you until you begin to stink. At which point Dan from pets, Nicole from grocery, and Trish from where ever come dutifully with shovels to scoop your rotted remains out the door. Thanks for nothing Wal-Mart. This corpse is going to Target.

Sincerely,
Heather Grayson

Sandman

One day, when the girls were at pre-school, I decided Ashton and I should have some fun.

"Let's get your shoes on and go to the park!" I told Ash. Well, he RAN to the closet and got his shoes. We put them on and then he RAN to the back door. (Just a little FYI for those of you who have not seen our house, the back door does not lead to the park.) There could have been a couple reasons for this confusion. One, it is possible that Ashton did not hear a word I said after the word "shoe". Ashton loves his shoes. They mean the world to him. Or, at the very least, they mean the following 3 things.

1) he is not going to have to go to bed
2) he is not going have to stay in the house
3) he is not going to have to go to bed

Or, it is very possible that Ashton does not know what "park" means yet. Both of these reasons are equally viable and, after careful consideration, I realized neither matter at all. Let's face it, the kid was happy in the backyard and I didn't have to strap him into the car and haul his bum to the park. It was a win-win situation, why debate the reasons.

So I cheerfully opened the backdoor and out we went into the wondrous world of our backyard. The weather was beautiful. The birds sang and the butterflies ... well the butterflies did what all butterflies do - they flew around. But, they were pretty and I enjoyed them immensely. It was not too hot (hallelujah after the summer we had) but the sun shone and all was right with the world.

**A little side note. As I sit at my computer Ashton is laying on the floor next to me with his shirt pulled up, drumming on his tummy. Ahhhh, life’s little pleasures.

Anyway, back to my story. It was a nice day and Ashton and I took advantage of it. We ran and played with balls and played in the little playhouse. Picture perfect moment really. And then it happened. Ashton noticed the sandbox. Now, the sandbox is an enigma for Ashton. On one hand, it seems to be a fun place to be. Certainly, the girls seem to enjoy themselves. On the other hand, when he touches the aforementioned sand it sticks to him in a rather irritating fashion. What to do, what to do? There was something different about this day though. Dare I say magical? Ok, not really magical more along the lines of mommies undivided attention. So off to the sand box we went. We touched. We realized, with mommies help that sand is ok. So - dramatic pause here - we got in. Let me tell you, this is when the fun really started. Ashton could get his hands and his toes involved in the digging. He would grab fists full of sand and let it run out his chubby little fingers. He would shove his hands as deep in the sand as they would go. He would kick his feet through the sand and look at the tracks his heels made. Wow! Did we have fun! And then it happened. I showed him the shovel. Well, if the sand was fun before it was nothing compared to what he was now experiencing. Sheer delight that only a child can find in a toy that, for all intensive purposes, only digs. But, man could it dig! We scooped and dumped, scooped and dumped. Beautiful. I began to give him large scoopfuls of sand to dump. He was in little boy sandbox heaven.

And, then something unexpected happened. I handed Ashton a shovel full of sand and Ashton dumped it (as he had been doing) into his gaping, baby bird type mouth. Well, to be honest I didn't see it coming. I watched in horror but I didn't move. I didn't twitch. I didn't even think, NOOOOOOOOO!" No, I sat there in stunned disbelief. Well, immediately after I jumped into action. Perhaps to make up for my complete lack of any sort of response whatsoever, I grabbed his little head and thrust it towards the sand.

**Another little side note here. Notice I said "towards" the sand. I did NOT shove his face in the sand. That would be wrong.

Anyway....... As I was saying, I grabbed his head, thrust it TOWARDS the sand, mouth down to dump out the offensive sand and shook it. Slightly. Needless to say, Ashton didn't like it. Not one bit of it. He didn't like the sand in his mouth and he didn't like the thrust and shake maneuver that I was beginning to feel completely redeemed me from my previous failure.

Now, let me take a minute to explain to you what this looks like. I wasn't taking small shovelfuls of sand. Ashton could do that on his own. Oh, no. I was taking large, heaping, full to the brim shovelfuls of sand. Because of the sheer amount of sand Ashton, in my opinion, was in grave danger (is there any other kind?) of suffocating himself. So if I thrust and shook with a bit more gusto than was actually required, it is perfectly understandable.

Once I had poured the dry sand out of his mouth, noticed that he made a fairly decent sand pile himself, I again took charge as only a mother could do. First things first I told myself. I need to get the sand off the body before I take him in the house. Of course, you don't want to track sand into the house, never mind that your son just had a near death experience. So, because the shaking of the head had worked so well for me, I shook the body as well. Amazing how mach sand children can accumulate from just sitting and eating isn't it? Anyway, I shook and then I carried him into the house and cleaned him up.

After relating our day to a friend she said, "At least you know he won’t do it again". Well, to be honest I didn't know any such thing. And as I predicted, a couple months later he did it again. This time I was much quicker on the draw. Not nearly as much sand was ingested.

Here is our most recent picture of Ashton. Dad is responsible.

First Day of School

Well, the day has finally arrived. The girls have started pre-school. I had thought that once both girls were in school I would magically have all this extra time to get stuff done around the house. This is not true. I now have more to do. Now I have to drive them to and from school AND while they are gone I have only one child at home.

I would just like to take this time to apologize to all those mothers out there who only have one child. I have to admit I thought my job was harder. I thought, "One. How easy! Come on, what do they have to complain about!" Well, as it usually goes, now that I have walked in your shoes I know how easy it is not. One child means no playmates but mom. One child means no toys matter but mom. One child means no one to fight with, laugh with, cry with - but mom. One child means (yea, I get it) no one and nothing but mom. So much for all that work I was going to get done. Perhaps I should have sat Ashton down and explained my plans to him. That way we could have both been on the same page. i.e. he would have laughed in my face and told me I was dreaming. Oh well.

The girls LOVE school. They get all of their stuff ready the night before. Their bookbags go by the door (just like daddies briefcase). They pick out our cloths (mom usually gets it wrong). And they imagine what they might be doing the next day. They currently have every (and I do mean EVERY) piece of school project "stuff" on the walls. Pre-school is over at noon so once I put Ashton down for his nap the girls eat lunch and describe in detail their days, breathing only when absolutely necessary, each talking louder and faster than the other in order to be the one to "tell" mom what happened during the day. They relate who played with whom. What Miss Debbie's dogs did. And who got to bring snack for the class. They have even begun to color their pictures yellow because that is Miss Debbie's favorite color.

Here are some pictures of their first day.
























Ashton is feeling very important as well.