Boys Are Gross

I don't usually like to compare boys to girls.  I strive to be neutral, especially with my daughters, and not box them into gender-specific roles.  However, after three years of living with two boys of the same age I have come to the conclusion that boys really are just gross.  Not to say that my girls haven't made my stomach churn on occassion, but not quite to the extent or with the same conviction as the boys.

Owen has two primary interests at the moment:  Spiderman and magic tricks.  There are others, but these are the ones that consume him on a daily basis.  He must be adorned in a Spiderman shirt at all times...even if the only one available is covered in yogurt and blueberry juice.  He shoots webs at anyone who dares to oppose him.  He also tries to shoot the cats with a nerf gun because they are "bad guys."  Explaining to him that Spiderman does not use guns is a moot point.  Spiderman uses whatever resources he has to defeat cats, parents and siblings.  Connor is usually Batman, so this works for him.  Batman has a few odd traits, too, though:  he uses a sword, wears goggles, and somehow attacks by saying, "Batman" followed by a strange sound that is a cross between a belch and shattering glass.

This morning Owen was not Spiderman.  He was a magician.  He came up to me in his Spiderman t-shirt and a Pull-Up, and told me, "Mom...say 'Hocus Pocus.'"

"Hocus Pocus."

He then pulled out a pair of my underwear...from inside the front of his Pull-Up.

"Ta-da!" 

I'm not really sure what to say about that. 

Later, he pooped in his Pull-Up. 

I'm going to take a moment to note that we are having many issues with potty-training.  Both boys know how to use the potty...they just refuse to do so most of the time.  They are totally unconcerned with the nastiness (and rashes) that result from this choice.

I went to change him, and his bottom was bright red.  After several attempts to wipe, with him squirming and crying, I decided to just stick him in the shower.  As soon as I get him set, Connor walks into the bathroom...naked from the waist down.

"Mommy, I want bath."

"Not now, Connor...Owen isn't getting a bath...he's getting a shower."

"Oh.  I'm dirty."

He holds his hands out to me...and they are covered in poop.  I turn him around and see that his bottom, legs and socks are also covered in poop.  I wipe up what I can, and stick him in the shower with his brother.  After hearing several versions of a song where the chorus consisted of variations of "booty-butt-butt," I hear Irelynn, who has now entered the bathroom, say, "Ew, Connor...are you peeing in the shower?"

"Yes."

I look in at him. He grins back at me, peeing.

"Connor...don't pee in the shower."

"Okay."

I finally get them clean, and notice Owen has a nice dangling booger.  Now, of all things, this is one of the few things that actually make me feel sick to my stomach.  I reach to get a tissue...but not before he gets it with his finger...and puts it in his mouth. 

I shudder, and for the second time today I am rendered speechless.  He just smiles. 

The boys are now in bed, and as late as it is, I might have to take a shower myself.  I really need to get rid of the boy cooties. 

Moving, Pets, and Extreme Couponing

I am emerging from paperwork and boxes to attempt to post an update.  The Sawdon family has been through quite a bit over the last few months. 

After a year of renting a four bedroom house (which even a four bedroom rental is difficult to come by,) we have moved into a five bedroom home.  I cannot express just how much of a difference one more bedroom creates.  Irelynn, who was sharing a room with the twins, now has her own bedroom.  She has already adorned her space with Hello Kitty items and a Justin Bieber poster.  The boys have also adorned her room with action figures and streaks of make-up she got for Christmas on her walls.  Note to relatives:  giving a five-year-old make-up is asking for trouble.  Giving a five-year-old with twin three-year-old brothers make-up is asking for disaster. 

In other news we have lost...and gained...another pet.  We had several issues with Kenobi running off, and having to hunt him down.  This was frustrating, but his anxiety and aggression at the vet's office became a much greater concern.  We had to reschedule an appointment to have him neutured because he was too aggressive and hard to control.  After the second time, they had to put him down because he was literally attacking people.  Needless to say, we will not be getting another dog.  My sister, for my birthday, brought a little bundle of fur across the state to surprise me.  Long-haired, Siamese, and tiny, she won over everyone...even Bruce who wanted to kill my sister at first.  We named her Bailey, and she became quick friends with Maggie.  She has become the spoiled baby of the family, receiving treats on a regular basis from all members of the family.  Maggie also gives her treats...by entering the pantry and chewing holes through bags of cat treats, and then scattering them onto the floor.  We have since learned to only buy cat treats in canisters with lids, and put it up high out of children's (and pet's) reach.

I am also entering the world of couponing.  Living in a bigger house is wonderful, but it means I have to learn to budget a little better.  I never realized just how crazy the coupon world is...it is like an extreme sport.  So extreme, in fact, that my oldest son is getting sports injuries in attempts to help me save money.  While we were dropping off our recyclables at the recycling place in town, I thought I would check the newspaper bin to see if I could score some extra coupon inserts that people had thrown out.  There are huge dumpsters, each allocated for a different item (plastics, cardboard, magazines, etc.)  The newspaper one was quite full, and I was able to find some.  Jay climbed the other side of the dumpster to help.  (I want to add here that I did not actually ask him to help, he offered on his own accord.)  After a few minutes I told him we probably had enough, he could get down. 

"I can't."

I looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

He put his hands in the air, and I saw that he was hanging, from the dumpster, by the seat of his pants.

"My pants are caught."

Not to worry, my teenage son was able to free himself from the dumpster...but I'm sure it severely hurt my chances of him helping me in the future. 

Perhaps the five-year-old would be of better use...she could actually fit inside the dumpster to search...

I know some of you are concerned, but it's okay...with all the money I will be saving I will be able to afford therapy for my children later.  I'm sure they will need it.