sueeeus

This one gave his mother quite a scare.  Toddling is such a dangerous pastime, but he wasn’t even toddling when this mishap took place.  No, he was flat on the floor, whining and fussing, and jerked his head to show me he was mad and wanted more attention than I was giving him.  Only there was a bookcase in the way, and he smacked it hard.  I scooped him up instantly and the red line popped out instantly, and the goose egg burst forth instantly and this poor mother shed more tears than her injured babe.

It was alarming to see such a swell grow so quickly on his beautiful little head.  I soothed him and kept an eye on him for pupils dilating strangely and any other signs, and called the doctor.  Of course this happened on a Sunday, as all emergencies seem to take place outside of normal business hours.  By the time the on call doctor returned my call, he was calmed down and behaving normally, as evidenced by the photo above, and the doctor let me know the signs to look for over the next 24 hours, but that from the sounds of everything, he was fine.

And so he is.

I made him wear a helmet for the rest of the day, though.

(Until he figured out how to remove it.)

I love this age of conversation and reason.  He is nearly five, and he has so much to say.  He conveniently listens only when it suits him, but that may be what any normal child does.

I love to tease him!  Recently he’s shown a sensitivity to boy-girl teases.  In Monsters vs Aliens, there is a scene where Susan smooches Derek.  Now, if I say, “My name is Suuuuuuusan, and I’m going to smoochie smoochie you,” he runs and shrieks and covers his face and blushes, “NOOOOOOOOOO, Don’t DO that Mommy!”

He also thinks it’s funny that my name IS Susan.  He makes sure he tells every passerby, “My Mommy’s name is Suuuuuusan.”  And when asked what HIS name is, he responds without missing a beat, “Gallaxhar.”   Only it sounds like “Gow-ax-ove,” so I have to translate and explain, because, well, not everyone has seen Monsters vs Aliens.  Fifty. Thousand.  Times.

He memorizes full scenes.  “Derek, you are a selfish jerk.”  All the way to “Lime green jello with fourteen pieces of pineapple.”

All I have to say is a few obscure words from the movie and it will send him into giggles.  I love that!  I especially love his reaction when I say, “What the flagnar!”  –He gets very animated and tells me, “Don’t SAY that!”   It’s swearing, after all.   We’re working on his vocabulary of approved expressions.  “Oh shoot.”  “Holy Cheezits.”  “Darn-it.”  “Goodness gracious.”   I get severely reprimanded if I say “Dammit,” even when justified after severely stubbing my toe on something.

what the flagnar!

I wonder if I should be concerned that he usually wants to be the villain.  Darth Vader.  Megatron.  Gallaxhar.  Maybe it’s just a male leadership testosterone thing, and not the makings of a future sociopath.

He’s very much into make-believe right now.  I hear him talking to Susan and Gallaxhar, or about them to an imaginary somebody.  He integrates bits of reality.  Recently, he was telling an imaginary someone that Susan and Gallaxhar were dead because they got in a car crash from a drunk driver.

Sometimes he gets things spot on.  “Daddy is being a selfish jerk.”

I don’t want the grown ups’ differences to wrench at the kids, and I want to keep them shielded from my personal emotional unrest with their dad, which is at times very difficult to hide.  So I tell him, “Daddy is just going through a hard time right now and he’s angry, and sometimes when people are angry, they act like that.  Hopefully Daddy will feel better soon.”

And I mean that.

It’s a rough ride for him, being forced to grow up and move into the world on his own, my forty two year old teenager.  Life is much different when you have to concern yourself with accountability and responsibility, when you have to make your own way, pay your own bills.  Anger is probably much easier to work with than fear, uncertainty, and despair.  So anger he manifests, but I can see the frightened boy, and my heart breaks for him, but I have to let  him go.  I have to stay this course.

It’s so very hard, and there’s no easy way through.

Just a very short installment on the assness of the assness of late.

The internet and cable TV/DVR (Comcast) is in his name, and rather than do the civil and simple thing of meeting at the Comcast store and changing the financial responsibility for the equipment from him to me, he took the equipment and told me he’d cancelled the service.

But I called Comcast and no such stop service was ordered.  Not only have I confirmed that I married a liar, I can’t cancel it, since it’s not in my name (seems like it’s MY HOUSE, so I should be able to cancel it, but no, sorry ma’am, we can’t authorize a cancellation) and I can’t order new service until the existing service is cancelled.

So.  He called back a day later and said he’d return the equipment (no doubt realizing that when he went to cancel, he’d be expected to pay the last month’s fee, so why not give me back the equipment and let me pay it).   I expected him to return the equipment that night or the next day.  But days go by.  No calls.  No return of the equipment.  No return of my fifty thousand calls.  No cancellation.   Nothing.  It’s been a full week now.  And now the service bill is past due, on top of everything else.

Meanwhile, he KNOWS I work from home two days a week and that I absolutely can’t without broadband.  He also knows that this happens to be the single most critical time for me to be able to support long work hours with the culmination of my project nigh on the horizon, and I can’t do that if I have to physically be at the office, because I absolutely have to leave by 4:30 in order to make it to daycare on time.

I can’t do what I do via dial-up.

I can order DSL, but I don’t want DSL.  Besides, I would also have to reconfigure my router and I don’t want to do that.  Such a hassle.

It’s very hard to remain cool and composed when I am so irritated.

I’m still planning on taking the high road through all this, but arggggghhhhhh, it’s very frustrating.

He’s being an ass.  He doesn’t think so, but I think so.  It’s all perception anyway, and this is my reality, regardless of how he sees it.

So, what should I think or how should I take it if he got a new cell phone and won’t give me his new number?  Never mind the part about not telling me, so that I get to continue paying his $100/month service plus there will be a $175 cancellation fee.  Nice move, Mister Communication Skills.  His job changed hands and he won’t give me his new email address either.  He did give me his new work number, but what good does that do me if there’s any reason to reach him while he’s not working?  He won’t tell me where he’s staying either.

Ass.

He was supposed to go to a parenting seminar, ordered by the state in all divorce cases, on Friday.  But did he go?  No.  He had things to do he said.  He said he rescheduled.  I hope he was telling the truth.  I don’t know what happens if you don’t fulfill your court mandated obligations, but I’m sure it’s not particularly pleasant.  He doesn’t seem to think it matters much.  Or something.  Maybe he thinks he’s above the law.

Ass.

Yesterday he showed up to winterize the boat.  I thought he’d do it himself, but he said something about taking it to a friend.  I wanted to go to the cable store to get the account switched to my name, since it’s in his name, and asked if we could do that.  He said he had to get going because his friend had somewhere he had to be at 3.  Since it was after noon, I thought that was pushing it for getting it done, even if they were super efficient.  Meanwhile, I begged him to load the generator in the van for me so that I could return it, since he’s refusing to do anything for me any more.  He won’t install it.  He won’t winterize the sprinklers.  He won’t do anything.  He says, ‘You wanted to be single.  You can hire out.’

Ass.

Am I right?  Anyhow, I figured I’d better return it while I could, but it turns out it had a 30 day return policy and this was day 40.  Nice.  I’m stuck with $1400 store credit for Home Depot.  Maybe I’ll get a granite slab for my island counter.  It was a challenge returning the electrical box as well.  That was $300 and he’d gotten the display, so it was marked down.  The store didn’t want to take it back because it was used (as THEIR display) and it claimed to have all parts there, but when they looked it over, they said it was missing three things and that I’d have to take it back to the store where he got it, 30 miles away.  Meanwhile, I’m holding a tired and cranky LB and trying to keep my ADD BB within reach, and insisting that all the parts that it came with are there.  Back and forth and forth and back, and finally I asked which parts are missing, and they described them, and I said, let’s look in the boxes.  Lo and behold, eventually, I accounted for all the parts.  And they still wanted me to take it back to the other store but I begged the man, and he could see I was on the verge of tears, so he authorized the return and I got my $300 back.  Meanwhile, I’m not sure how my blood pressure fared.  It’s so hard not to voice my frustrations or keep my composure in front of the kids, when I want to SOB and just wail it out because the stress is so….   ….stressful.

Back home, I thought he’d be there.  The cable store closed at 5, so I gave him until 4:30, but started calling around 3:30.  Finally he called me back around 4:30 and had no intention of returning home.  He had dropped the boat off and gone on with his day.  Without so much as a word, when he knew what I wanted to do.  Yet somehow he claimed that he didn’t know I wanted to do that.  So frustrating.  And I had things I needed to do as well, so I ended up driving my tired kids on another errand, cutting into their dinner and bed times and totally messing up their schedule.  Such a frazzled day.  Even so, I sort of expected he might return at some point to put the boat back, but he never did.  When he did call, I finally said to him, ‘You know you’re being an ass, don’t you?’, to which he actually sounded surprised. ‘No!’  Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, and when I said goodbye, he hung up.  Without a goodbye.  How rude.

Ass.

I spent the evening reclaiming my bedroom and bathroom.  I removed all his stuff and put it in his office.  I made more room for LB’s crib, sorted LB’s clothes, rearranged to make things a bit more baby safe near the bed.  LB likes to play ‘run away’ on the bed and crawls off as fast as he can, stops, turns and sits, but he gets SO CLOSE to the edge that it practically makes my heart stop.  I dread him falling, so at least now there are no sharp corners in falling proximity.  It felt good and liberating to have my own bedroom.

Today I had more errands to run.  I noticed the boat house (a 10’x20′ aluminum/tarp structure) had shifted somewhat, and hoped he’d return while I was out and resecure everything.  Imagine the horror of returning home, turning the corner into our culdesac to see the boat house had blown across the front yard and had lodged in and against a tree.  It looked like it must have tumbled end over end completely.  Thank God it didn’t blow into the street or damage any body else’s cars or property.  That was around 4:30.  I called, and called, and called.  I called the new work number, the discarded iPhone number and sent email.  No returns of any kind.  Since it wasn’t blowing any further, being stuck for the time being in a tree, I semi-calmly proceeded to feed the children, bathe the children, put on a movie for BB while I put LB to bed.  8:30, still no word.  So what did I do?  I took the blessed thing apart.  Piece by stinking piece.  Most pieces snapped together, but two parts were bolted, and I couldn’t for the life of me find an allen wrench in the chaos of his garage clutter.  I had to leave them in place, and in the end, one support rod crushed under pressure.  I’m sure he’ll have something unkind to say about that.  But I took care of it.  I took it all down and put all the parts in the utility trailer and even strapped them down so they wouldn’t blow away.

I am woman, hear me roar.

And I am SO PISSED OFF.

in the beginning
perfect in form
smooth
adrift in the sea
CRASH!
broken shards
sharp
tossed, turned
steady onslaught
exposed
vulnerable
washed ashore
tired
worn
smooth
a new form
a thing of beauty
treasure

I have been told, on countless occasion, that I am up tight about things. Especially money matters. Oh, I s’pose there’s some truth to that. What with growing up keenly aware of the value of a dollar and the need to make it stretch to feed, clothe, and shelter nine kids, and all. We never took handouts. No government cheese. No food stamps. My parents were too proud to accept assistance (which made absolutely no sense to me as a child, because, hey, it was free, and if we got food for free, then we could maybe buy clothes at the store, and not the neighborhood garage sales), so we made do. There are others who have real need, I was told. Little did I know I was learning an important life lesson, which was made all the more meaningful the Christmas that I volunteered for the Adopt-a-Family program and filled the Christmas list for an underprivileged family. I shopped happily, thinking of the joy I was bringing that family. It began to turn sour when I drove up to their home and realized that they lived in an apartment complex that I had considered, but decided against because it was too expensive. As I arrived, a very fashionably dressed woman stepped out of a new Toyota Camry, and I soon discovered she was the mother of my adopted family. I was driving a 1982 Subaru hatchback (which I bought for $300). Once in the apartment, I couldn’t help but notice the giant 50-some inch television and the black leather furniture. Honestly, I was sickened by it all. She was saying how glad she was to be able to put something for her boys under the tree. It was all I could do to maintain a cheerful face, leave the bags of gifts and groceries, and hightail it out of there. These are the kinds of people that take advantage of the system, the kind my mother did not want to be. Sure, maybe that woman needed to maintain a particular image in her line of work, but it certainly seemed that she could have been able to do better for her children if she’d cut back a little on herself. But that’s just me. (And I’ve digressed, again.)

I was raised to make do. It was the respectable thing. So it’s been ingrained for a very long time. Sure, there were the teenage years where I would have loved to have something name-branded like the cool kids wore, but I survived. Then came the age of acquisition, my twenties and thirties in which I over-compensated the poverty of youth with all manner of tchotchkies –I finally found that word spelled in a book I’m trying to read. If nothing else, I have the until-now-elusive spelling to show for the effort. Now in my forties, it’s time to purge and simplify. I feel so burdened by clutter and belongings. I want only things that have form, fit, and function. Plus, perhaps, a handful of frivolous items that I absolutely love or that have historic and/or sentimental value. Apart from that, I want to be free of it all. That is where I am now.

So it has been somewhat irksome to notice how intently Mr. Gadget has been perusing the Dell web site and ads, looking at laptops, going so far as walking through the web site configuration wizard. A laptop purchase, at this time, seems frivolous to me, since he has a fairly new, over the top computer already. He does no hard core computing. No graphics, no programming. No blogging. A little emailing. A little surfing. It just seems unnecessary. It’s just another toy. And the acquisition of toys? Annoys me. He came from a large family, and I think they possibly did take some assistance, and they got to wear new clothes, rather than rummage-sale finds, yet, it seems that he remains firmly embedded in the age of acquisition. Perhaps it’s because of his first marriage. I’ve heard tales of how the wife (certainly not he) charged up their credit cards to the limit so the kids could have a good Christmas. They could only afford to pay the minimum so of course the interest charges racked up, and up, and up. Eventually things fell into a state of collection. WTH, I say. So irresponsible. That’s my big thing. Don’t spend money that you don’t have. If you don’t have it, find a way to make do, do without, or save up. However long it takes. Okay, so it may look like the pot is calling the kettle black, because I put nearly all my purchases on my credit card, but I pay it off every month. Never, ever, do I buy something that I can’t pay for at once (well, except real estate, but c’mon… …not many people can buy that outright… …so that’s a reasonable exception). If I say anything, he will always say, “It’s easy for you. You make a lot. You have a lot. You can buy whatever you want.” Apart from the fact that I made a conscious effort to obtain credentials with which to make a good living, whereas he did not, he doesn’t seem to get that one of the reasons I might have more is that I don’t buy every single thing that I might fancy, and that I no longer carry the attitude that I’m missing out on anything and need to keep up with the latest trends. Perhaps he feels like he had to do without for so long (due to trying to keep up with the ex’es spending habits) that he’s still trying to compensate. I get that. I just don’t like it. If he does decide to buy something that requires a loan… Oh my goodness, all hell will break loose. (If I find out about it, that is.)

We’ve kept our accounts separate, and that suits me fine. He had a joint account with his ex which she controlled, and it got out of hand. I had a joint account with an ex that I controlled, and it was fine, but we both maintained our own individual accounts, and also, we never actually married. I wouldn’t mind having a joint account for the common expenses, but it would be one more set of books for me to keep, so our current arrangement works well enough.

It’s just wearisome, that he continues to want things. Expensive things. On many, I cave. We have a large screen tv. We have a 3-car garage. We have a hot tub. We have a 4-wheel drive truck. It’s the act of wanting that I find wearisome. I wish he could be content with simplicity. Where I might like to paddle a canoe or a rowboat, he would want to drive a speedboat with a wakeboard. Where I might like to go sledding and build snow men, he’d want to go snow-mobiling. The faster the better. Where I’m happy to camp in a tent, he dreams of an RV, or at least a camper trailer. All these material things. They suffocate me. And if I ever do find something that I want, I feel guilty about it. As though I shouldn’t have anything, because I don’t want him to have anything. And it’s not that I don’t want him to have anything. I just don’t want him to want what he can’t afford. (And I certainly don’t want to be buying all this crappe!)

Meanwhile, I realized that my old desktop hasn’t, in fact, given up the ghost, and has behaved quite well for the last several months. I hardly use the laptop at all. It’s not convenient to sit outside and blog, because the screen brightness is lacking in daylight. It’s hazardous to sit with it on the couch, what with a rambunctious two year old leaping about. So. I wrapped it up in Christmas wrap and gave it to Mr. Gadget. Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday (and please don’t you dare ask or suggest anything of any monetary value when Christmas and birthday time rolls around, and you’d better give me something really REALLY nice). Now Mr. Gadget is happy, with his almost new top of the line whiz bang $2000 reduced to $1400 with employee discount laptop. Until the next gadget catches his fancy.

I’m starting to come to the realization that if only is no solution to anything at all.

The easiest trap I allow myself to fall into is the ‘if only I were thin’ trap.  If only I were thin, I would be happy.  If only I were thin, I would look good, and if I looked good, I’d feel good, because I wouldn’t have any reason not to like myself, so, I’d be happy. And besides that, if I were thin, others (say, significant others) would love me more.  Because nobody likes fat people.

I conveniently forget that there was a time when I was smokin’ hot (never thin, but I was a cutie), and even then, I still found fault with my looks and wished I could be thin.  I’ve always had something to hang ‘if only’ on.  If only I could get through school.  If only I had a reliable car.  If only I had my own house.  If only I were out of debt.  If only I had somebody who loved me.  If only I had kids.

If only.

It’s nothing but a trap.  An excuse.  A crook that distracts me from the beauty of this moment that I will never get back.  Robbing me of my very life.  Tricking me, disarming me, incapacitating me, making me not like myself, making me think I’m not worth liking.  What’s not to like?  I’m nice.  I’m caring.  I’m friendly.  I’m even half-smart about some things, and can hold a reasonable conversation (depending on the subject, that is).  So I’m not thin.  WHO CARES?  Seriously.  Who?  And if anyone besides me, then why?  Why would anyone care what I look like?  Do I care if someone is tall or short or large or small?  No.  NO!  Well, I do have a little trouble with over-cologned people in close proximity, but I have chemical sensitivity and it’s nothing personal.  I’d love it if I could wear cologne myself.  And I don’t particularly like to be around loud people, because I have noise issues.  Loud pleasant people are okay.  I just don’t stand too close so that my head doesn’t ring.

It may be time to break out the zoloft.  But first I will try some more small changes, and give them a chance.  I’ve been going to the gym four days a week.  I need to make that a part of my day, so that there’s no questioning whether or not it will happen.  It just needs to be part of my life.  And I plan to revamp the menu towards more whole foods, and less cheese and meat.  Definitely less cookies.  I’m a cookie fanatic.  And somehow, more sleep.  I put the kids to bed an hour ago, and struggled between grabbing a little bit of me time, or just joining them.

I wish I had a little more time to blog.  It’s so good to take time to collect some thoughts.  But now I hear the baby crying, so off I go.

*~*~*~*

Being the stellar mother that I am, I took just long enough to reread my post that the baby soothed himself back to sleep.  So I have a little more time.

*~*~*~*

Part of me struggles with taking any time to blog because of Gadget’s accusation that I spend all my time on the computer.  When we argue, it invariably comes up.  To which I say, I WAS PUMPING.  Because I did spend 4 hours a day strapped to the breast pump (and hence, on the computer), back when the dairy was in operation.  Since weaning, I’ve spent very little time on the computer.  (Or so I claim.)  I shouldn’t allow false accusations to make me feel guilty.  So here I am, blogging.  (He’s not here, though, otherwise, I’d have stopped at ‘If only I had kids’.)

*~*~*~*

Well hell.  I might as well come out with it.  I mustered the courage to tell Gadget that even though he was back, I realized that I wasn’t happy with ‘us’, whatever ‘we’ are, and don’t want to try to patch things together any more, because all we’ve ever done is sweep things under the carpet and not one thing between us has ever, ever been resolved.  We’re more like oil and vinegar than yin and yang.

So, he left immediately, a week ago Saturday.  And I’ve not seen or heard from him since.

I’m not letting myself manufacture any assumptions about what he’s thinking or feeling.  How can I have any real idea what’s in his head?

I will just feel more peaceful when all the turmoil is a thing of the past and we’ve settled into whatever our new lives will be.  If only this were all behind us…

*~*~*~*

A coworker’s son was died yesterday.  He was killed by a hit-and-run drunk driver.  He, the son, had been in a coma for the last few weeks, and there was much hope and things were looking promising, but when he finally came out of the coma, there was no neural response.  He drifted away yesterday.  He was 29.  It rips me up, that my friend and her family have lost a child who could have had so much life ahead of him.  It’s so, so wrong.  The order of the universe is all messed up when we lose our children.  We are supposed to go first.

*~*~*~*

It’s tragic that someone with so much potential for a beautiful life has no choice; his life was taken from him, and here I am, alive, and wasting precious moments making excuses for myself.  I’m making changes, and change is hard.  Oh GOD, change is hard.  But I owe it to myself, and it would be criminal for me not to.  It’s time to wake up and do what I can to love each and every moment that I get the privilege of living.

Then and now.

They seem so different, and yet, when viewed like this, they could almost be the same person!  In the first picture, BB is 9 months old.  In the second picture, LB is 14 months old.  They both started out at nearly 10-1/2 lbs (10lbs 7oz for BB and 10lbs 6oz for LB), but BB has stayed on the BIG BOY growth curve, whereas LB has shifted to the Little Boy growth curve.  (Actually, he’s still on the tall side, but he’s not ginormous like his big brother.)

Where did my brown haired baby go?  I have two blondies with blue-grey eyes.

I like ‘mid-century modern’ things, as far as architecture and some furniture goes.  I found a set of 4 chairs on craigslist for $20 (for the set) and have been meaning to update the color and fabric for some time.  When Gadget left, it was the perfect opportunity to seize the day and consume ourselves in the project.  The boys were very good in the fabric store, and BB and I played I Spy, which was a great way to keep him happy while spending altogether too much time in one shop.  He was busy looking for turtles and frogs and pirates and whatever else I could spy, while I looked for the perfect seat fabric.  When it came time to decide, BB made the final choice.  He did well!

He even helped sand the chairs.  I wouldn’t let  him use the staple gun, to his chagrin, but he was pleased that he got to have a part in the transformation.

I am happy with the way they turned out.  I like the way they wrap around, like captain’s chairs.

In other news, I’ve been on a quest for the perfect cappuccino cup.  I want bone china, but I just can’t find what I’m looking for.  To be fair, there are some that I like, but the price is unacceptable.  Who pays $37 for a cup?  I want a specific half-moon shape, like the classic English teacup, and I want a specific volume, in the range of 5-7oz.  So far, I’ve settled on some 5oz porcelain from Sur la Table, 7oz porcelain from Ikea, and bought a few Bodum-style double walled numbers to try out as well.

The Bodum (actually, they are Teavana) cups are very pretty, especially with clear drinks like herbal tea, cranberry juice or ginger ale.  I still want bone china, though.

The double wall is a pretty effect.

So the quest continues.  It seems like everyday bone china in a plain, classic look is readily available at very reasonable prices in England, and maybe Australia.  Just not here.  Hrumph.

My BB loves to draw, and I just love the things he comes up with.  I think he’s very good.  He uses different colors and makes designs and shapes and stays within the lines when he wants to, and beyond the lines when it suits him.  I love that!

This drawing was a heart breaker.  It’s the first family drawing he’s made, and he did it the very day that Gadget left.  Look!  I have extra arms, because I do so much.  (Artistic interpretation taken liberally.)

This one cracks me up.  He did this just the other day.  ‘Mommy, this is a sign.  It’s a no BB sign.  You put it on your door.’  Genius!  I swear, I have not taught him the sign symbol with the circle and slash that represents ‘do not’, and I can’t think of any on our normal routes.  Dora, Diego, or Sponge Bob must have taught him.  I do bark at him to stay out of the bedroom while I’m trying to put LB to sleep.  Every. Single. Night.  He just wants attention, but insists on demanding it at precisely the time when I need to be exclusive with LB.  Any distractions stir up the sleep cycle and the meltdowns commence.  It’s a precarious balance.

“Mommy, this sign says ‘No running across the street and jumping in puddles or else you will get in big trouble because you could get hitted by a car and runned-ded over and have to go to the hobspital.’

This one is very Van Gogh.  All the windows and lines.  I especially like this one.  The spaghetti sauce is a nice touch, too.  You know, real.  Authentic.

One problem about loving to draw is that one who loves to draw might, especially if he’s 4-1/2, draw on, oh, just about anything.  To help channel this love, I thought it would be good to provide an allowable space for artistic expression.  What could be better than a whole wall?!

Chalkboard paint is a great invention.  It can even be tinted (within a limited palette), so I got blue.  Blue is, after all, BB’s favorite color.  Am I a thoughtful mother, or what?  BB being BB, however, was unable to resist the temptation to continue drawing on any available surface while waiting for the chalkboard paint to dry.  During this time he decorated my camera case and eventually had to do a little time for his crime.

LB, not wanting to miss any of the action, joined him.  (How I wanted to get a picture of the moment when they were standing side by side, both noses to the wall!  It was short-lived, since the curtain was much more interesting.)

Finally!  Let’s draw!  They had just come home from daycare and didn’t even wait to take off their jackets.

He likes to draw aliens, lately.  These are inspired by ‘Galaxar’.’

And here it is, in full splendor.  It makes me smile.