And Then They Were Five

So yes, my big boys had a big boy birthday last week. Five sounds so grown-up, you know? Five means kindergarten, buying clothes in the boy section of the store, and eschewing Thomas in favor of Transformers and Star Wars and, if possible, Star Wars Transformers.

We had our typical low-key birthday, which for us means a house full of friends and family, a supper of pizza with a cupcake chaser, and opening gifts together. That's all for now. I figure I've got plenty of time in the baby-free future to plan more elaborate parties; plus, they know no different and think my half-assed version of "party" is great and awesome, so who am I to correct them? They'll be exposed to fancier affairs once they start school--I'll keep it low-key as long as possible. Or, you know, forever.

Anyway, the big, important gifts this year were big boy bicycles. By mid-summer last year it was painfully obvious that they had outgrown their trikes, but it was late enough in the season that we kept our mouths shut (they were happy, after all) and passed on this information to my mother, who resolved to find bicycles for them for their next birthday. She and my dad came through admirably, and my in-laws contributed with awesome, superhero-themed helmets.

So the boys opened presents in the living room with everyone looking on, and then my mom asked them to come outside and see something. And there they were: the bikes.

This is what J did, bare feet and all, as soon as he saw
his prize. He just clambered up like a monkey,
no help needed or wanted. Whoa.

The Darth-Vader-riding-a-bike tees were from us.
They can be found here.

And...they were off. There was no stopping them.

There was no stopping five.


ps: I purposefully tried to not get too sentimental, because seriously? I love them at every age and never want to appear melancholy about them growing up. But just in case you crave the sentimental stuff, here's a post from when they turned two, here's a post from three, I failed at four, and to round it all out, here's my tear-inducing post from the night before C was born. Y'all, I know I've said it a million times, but B and J were so very tiny.

Scrapes

We take a break from our normally scheduled activities (namely, wearing ourselves clean out playing outside) to share with you this most innocent and wholesome of sights.

I call it 'Number One Sign that Spring is Here':

Bumps, bruises, cuts, scrapes, bites--you name it, we've got it. The bandage on B's left knee covers a particularly frightening scrape that had me, a fairly chill mom when it comes to such things, a mite worried for a few days, particularly when he matter-of-factly informed me that his knee was "crying." (Ew.) Glory be, it seems to have done the expected and healed nicely on its own, and also glory be to the fact that a minor cold snap has come our way and forces us to be in jeans and long sleeves and sneakers. No more spills for now.

Oh, and if you saw that picture and thought "dirty feet," then you get Second Place. Because we also have those, too.

In closing: Why did I ever get white towels?

Spring Summer Has Sprung

Well, hi there, beautiful.

We've been laying (lying? I will ponder this.) low and off the grid for a little while due to a wonderful foray to Michigan for spring break at The Professor's parents' house. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the academic calender is a wonderful thing.

For some reason we always head north for spring break every mid-March, and while we wouldn't have our visit any other way, I always observe that really, as far as a mid-winter break in the Midwest goes, we are heading in the wrong direction. This year the universe listened and summer sucker-punched winter in the face and I suddenly found myself scratching the bottom of the suitcases looking for something, anything appropriate for all of us to wear in temperatures kissing 80 degrees. (For comparison: one spring break we visited Traverse City and I, Kansas City girl that I am, was amazed to see ice on Lake Michigan.) In Michigan, mind you, the seasons are typically 2-3 weeks behind our own, so imagine our consternation when we pulled up to our house at the end of the week only to discover that everything was blooming, it was too late to cut anything back, and spring had caught us with our figurative pants around our figurative ankles.

Yesterday I ran to Target to scrounge up some flip-flops for the kids (since, you know, I have no summer clothing for them, as usually I can worry about wardrobe changes in May) and was mildly amused to find that everyone else in the community had had the same idea and picked the sandal section bare. Today for church I squeezed the twins into some 4T clothing from last summer (their clothing looks like it's been painted on) and their sister is wearing their train-oriented play clothes outside.

It has been a truly bizarre last few days.

This week we're gearing up for the big boys' fifth birthday party. Wow, five. I don't even want to ponder that number. In typical Case fashion, the "party" is really just dinner with cupcakes and a few presents. I figure they'll start school next year and get exposed to real birthday parties and suddenly their demands will be many and complicated, so why kill myself now when cupcakes and Anakin Skywalker napkins are all they need for a good time? I'm all about the easy.

I'm off to drag my sweaty, dirty kids in for a rest. Please note: sweaty, dirty summer boy body may not be the most appealing odor, but red-headed sun smell certainly is.

Fire Station

Last week The Professor took B and C to the local fire station for a tour organized by a friend of ours. The baby and I elected to stay home, as we had had a bad night, and inexplicably J also decided to stay home. He acted nervous about being around the trucks, even though, in the manner of small boys everywhere, he loses his dang mind every time he sees one on the road. So he played quietly upstairs, the baby and I snoozed on the couch, and my husband took our other two to visit the local firemen and their trucks.

(Note: This may have actually been a couple of weeks ago. I honestly have no idea. The passage of time is an elusive and intangible thing for me. I have been stuck at home for days with four very sick kiddos, including a precious baby whose very cry is hoarse, for the love, so forgive me if I get details confused. Or fail to brush my teeth until the late afternoon. Or sob uncontrollably.)

Anyway! The fire station! A few pictures. In which my daughter discovers the art of making funny faces.

In case you're wondering how J took all of this: When his siblings came home bearing official firefighter stickers and rubber duckies, he burst into tears and demanded to be taken to the fire station.

Naturally.

Zumba!

For the last few weeks I have been partaking in physical activity that does not involve me rushing my daughter through the house, pushing her stubborn bottom while hollering, "JUST GO TO THE BATHROOM FOR THE LOVE." Nor does said physical activity involve nursing or telling my poor husband, "Please don't touch me." I know, I know. Amazing.

No, I have been going to a Zumba! class. (I think that the Zumba! gods come and get you if you don't write it that way and make you do the Cuban salsa, complete with furiously waving arms, for 20 minutes straight as punishment.) My sister, a friend, and I go to a class offered at a local church on Tuesday evenings, and my mom and I hop on over to our local library for another class the very next night.

Here's the thing: like a lot of people, I have always really hated to exercise. For one thing, I am not terribly coordinated, so organized sports and I never really got along together. I was always musical, so after about seventh grade I just gave up on sports and accepted my role as band geek. (And lest you think this means I never got active, may I just remind you that I was in high school band in Texas. Which means marching. All. The. Dang. Time. I was a size zero in high school with admirable muscle tone.) Once I got to college and realized that Mr. Storie wasn't after me for not staying in formation, I let things slide, and, yes, gained weight. Physical activity was sporadic. Then I had kids, and you know the story: Weight, a complete loss of abdominal muscles, and no time for hair washing or, you know, sleep, let alone exercise. A vicious cycle.

Mom, My Sister the Goddess, and I were sick of looking like moms. We had been talking about pursuing Zumba! once my sister and I had our respective babies, and finally schedules coalesced and we found ourselves going regularly.

And guess what. I love it. I absolutely love it.

I was worried that my lack of coordination was going to be a detriment to my success and that everyone in class was going to first stand back in abject horror and then point and laugh in unison. But when we arrived for our first class, it became clear that this was not a Zumba! class like you see in promotional videos; you know the ones, filled with hordes of toned, nubile young woman wearing nothing but their sports bras and a smile. (Interestingly enough, these nubile young women never tie their long hair up, instead allowing it to get sweaty and tangled. Ridiculous.) All three instructors are middle-aged, and two of them are decidedly plump. Obviously fit, because they could dance me under the table, but not conforming to society's standard definition of fit (which is, of course, "anorexic and also imaginary.") The women (yes, all women) in the class range in age anywhere from 18 to 65 and represent all known body types (besides, say, morbidly obese.)

When we first arrived we were a little late, so we slipped into the class and tried to keep up. I surreptitiously glanced around myself from time to time, any nervousness I brought with me slowly puddling to the floor (ew) as I saw that the coordination in the room varied as widely as the body types did. Then it hit me: I was not in high school anymore. I was an adult, struggling with my body image after four children, seeking exercise, in a room full of women with the same foibles and fears and jiggly thighs. No one else was looking around. Instead, all attention was on just absolutely letting go and moving and getting active. Coordination, attractiveness, and the ability to salsa (that one took me awhile) didn't matter. What mattered was moving as much as possible and being enthusiastic.

After a couple of classes I had completely shed the nervousness. I still stumble and bumble, but I like to think that embracing the letting-it-all-go mentality has helped eased my stiff muscles and made it easier to wiggle my hips. And guess what? I feel sexy. Really, I do. Not that we are doing sexy moves or dancing to sexy music. I mean, our classes are in a church and a library, for heaven's sake. But shedding my fears and giving it my all and doing my best to look as natural as my ridiculously cute Columbian instructor have all helped raise my self-worth up a couple notches, and if that doesn't make a housewife feel sexy, then I don't know what will.

Just so you know, this is what I imagine like when I'm doing Zumba!, when I'm in pain and loving it and smiling this ridiculously wide, goofy smile:



See what I mean about the hair? So. Stupid.

And this is what I actually look like:

The End.