Tumbling came to an end yesterday evening.  It was an intense six weeks in which Little H came in only knowing how to do a somersault, quickly learned that she was doing it wrong, lost confidence in her ability to do a somersault, became unable to do a somersault without someone coaching her through it, and eventually re-learned how to do a somersault on her own.  And also she now knows how to do a donkey-kick really well.  So when the summer olympics start looking for yet another useless sport to throw into the mix in order to stretch the media coverage just that much longer, I'm nominating the donkey-kick.

Now for my moral dilemma.  After class, she came running over to Dan and I with a popsicle and a paper.  The paper said something like, "Thanks for enrolling your kid in our tumbling class.  Now you should put her/him in our cheerleading class that starts next month because if you don't then you probably don't really love her/him."

Thankfully Little H can't read.  If she could, she would be begging us to be in the cheerleading class.  Now I'm all for the exercise, but I don't want my daughter to be a cheerleader.  Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against all cheerleaders.  I have a very nice sister-in-law and soon-to-be sister-in-law who used to be cheerleaders.  I mostly just don't want to be a cheerleader's mom.  It's too much drama, and it's too crazy, and I don't want to end up like that lady who tried to take out a hit on the girl who beat her kid in try-outs.  Also I'm trying to force her to play soccer, and girls' soccer and football are in the same season so it just wouldn't work.  What to do, what to do?

A couple weeks ago, Dan's brother and his family drove out here for the weekend for a family reunion.  We liked having them here so much that we turned around and followed them back to California the next weekend.  It was opportune because we also got to see this little cutie be blessed on the 4th of July.

Although we weren't there for long, we crammed as much family time in as we possibly could.  We were able to see Papa and Grandma Meldrum, too, for the first time in a few months.  John and Kelsi, always such gracious hosts, were nice enough to have us for dinner, take us to the beach, and then have us for dinner again (along with a lot of other people after the blessing).  Little H really loves her cousins aunts and uncles and grandparents, and leaving is always so sad for all of us, but I'm glad we got to see them as much as we did over the last couple weeks.  This was the first time Buster actually played with the cousins so that was fun to see.  It's also great to see how he seems to be recognizing his grandparents now, even going a month or two without seeing them.  And I swear, there were times he just couldn't care less if Dan or I were even there, as long as grandma or Uncle John were holding him.

  

Little H started gymnastics last week.  We didn't take pictures that day because, well, we didn't have a camera at the time.  I finally gave up hope that some Good Samaritan is going to miraculously show up on my doorstep with our camera, and we broke down and bought a new one.  (Based on the pictures, you can tell I still haven't taken the time to read the instruction manual.)

Little H loves to tell people she's in gymnastics.  She's learned all sorts of things, like the pizza stretch, somersaulting through a hula hoop, and hopping on one foot with her hands up in the air.  She hasn't quite mastered the army crawl, though, yet.  She started out alright, but once her teacher turned back to help the next kid in line she ran to the other side of the mat.  I'm not sure if there's a national championship in our future, but at least she's having fun.  Buster just likes going because he can climb up and down the bleachers.

And Dan just likes going because..., well I'm not sure.  Maybe because the basketball hoops are the perfect size for dunking.

Little H is an advertiser's dream come true.  She is perfectly happy to just watch the commercials and completely ignore whatever show is on.  Dan likes to mute the commercials, but that's completely impossible when Little H is in the room.  In fact, whenever she sees a Cymbalta commercial, she will run to me and tell me that I "should get that".  (I wish I could see myself through her eyes, sometimes.)

That being said, kids shows advertise Skechers a lot.  A lot, a lot.  She always wants to get Skechers.  I, however, have a hard time dropping $40 on a pair of shoes she's going to outgrow in two months.  So, when we bought a pair of pink velcro shoes for her from Target a couple months ago, she thought they were Skechers, and I thought 'why not?'  One day when I picked her up from preschool, she told me that some kids told her that her shoes aren't Skechers because they don't have an 'S' on them.  Really?  Three-year olds?  How annoying that kids are so brainwashed at so early an age.  Thankfully Little H's teacher told the kids that not all Skecher's shoes have an 'S' on them.  Bless her.

This all brought back a memory from kindergarten that is somewhat similar.  Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage when I was in kindergarten.  I wanted one so bad, but all the stores were sold out before Christmas.  (Think Zhu Zhu Pets 2009.)  My grandma was able actually make a doll that looked exactly like a Cabbage Patch Doll and I was none the wiser.  I had an evil little friend who told me that my doll wasn't a real Cabbage Patch Doll because she didn't have the stamp on her butt.  I talked with my mom about that, and she let me know that my doll was magical because it wasn't made in a factory like all the other dolls.  I knew she was speaking the truth because I slept with that doll every night, and no matter where she was when I went to bed, she had always moved to a different place on the bed by the time I woke up.  She must have been up and walking around while I was sleeping.  I loved that doll so much, and I can love and appreciate my mom and grandma even more now that I'm a mom myself.  Right now I have to figure out which kids are messing with my daughter so I can figure out a way to set them straight.

Well, really we visited Dan's parents, but Little H has referred to them as Daddy's Poppa and Grandma since she was able to speak.  Dan had to work up in the Northwest last week, so we decided to make a trip out of it.  We crammed as much as we could into our time up there, and George and Judith completely wore us out.  It was a great week, topped off with a trip to the beach.  We could barely tear Little H away from the water.  We had to promise her that we'd go to the ocean again when we visit her cousins in L.A. this summer.

The only thing that could have made it better is if I hadn't lost the camera.  I lost the camera!  I can't believe I lost the camera!  I hadn't even downloaded the pictures from Buster's birthday, yet!  (That might have been for the best just so Buster doesn't see how lame his birthday actually was—the recreation will be much grander.)  I can't believe I lost the camera!  I have no idea what is wrong with me.  I told Dan that I don't understand just how he puts up with me.  I really must be missing some necessary brain gears.  I have lost/ruined/run over/spilled grease or acid on/misplaced pretty much everything of value we've ever owned.  Except the kids.  That's not true...I've probably ruined the kids but that remains to be seen.  But the camera...with the memory card.  Ugh.  Don't talk or ask me about it, though because it still makes me so mad.  The camera?  Really, Megan?

Oh, also Buster got yet another ear infection which really stunk, and we had to find somewhere that would take out insurance.  He gets tubes tomorrow, though, and I hear that they're magical.

Anyway, these pictures are courtesy of George and Judith.  Thank you guys so much!!!!

 

It's been an excruciating month jam packed with sickness and disease and Dr. visits and medicine allergies, and Dan traveling, and visitors, and Easter, and family functions, and a funeral with my uncle's unexpected passing (something I need to write about more when I get the chance).  The kids just won't stop getting sick.  The worst was whatever stomach flu Little H brought home last week that brought three out of four of us down to our knees.  Dan somehow managed to escape it due to his "superior genes" (his words, not mine) that he didn't bother to pass on to either of his children.  Buster threw up at least 15 times, and only one of those times was I not holding him.  I wouldn't have minded so much if I hadn't gotten sick myself. 

I think my absolute low point was the day I stayed home with both of the kids.  Little H was feeling better, but Buster and I were still in the full swing of things.  I had been up the night before, my stomach hurt, and my back was killing me.  We were all on my bed, and I had just gotten done with a game of Memory with Little H that took forever because she insisted on using all the cards and they kept getting mixed up on the not-so-solid surface of our comforter.  I turned on the cartoons, leaned back on the heating pad and essentially passed out at 11:30 a.m.  I mean, I was sort of in and out of consciousness and could see Little H jumping around and Buster trying to join in while laughing at his sister's antics.  Once in a while someone would land on me, which would normally make me at least yelp, but in my haze, I don't think I reacted at all.  Flash forward to 12:15 when I finally came to.  I glance over to see Buster sound asleep on the pillow next to me.  I lift my head a tad and see Little H laying down on the foot of the bed, engrossed in Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  Ah, peace at last.  But what's that smell?  I raise my head a little further to get a better look and that's when I see the puddle of vomit right in the center of my stomach.  Was I really so out of it that I didn't notice one of my kids puked on me?  At that point the sensitivity has worn off, and it just feels a little ironic, so I slide my sweatshirt off over my head and toss it toward the closet hamper.  No sense in missing out on a chance to continue this nap, or whatever it is.

At this point, we're all feeling lots better, but probably still tired, yet.  I snapped this picture of Buster tonight after he gave in to sleep while I was changing his diaper.  I can't help but think it captures how we're all feeling.

...And he's not too happy about me taking his picture right here.  (Doesn't matter much, though, because I outrank him.) 
Welcome home from Spain, Drew!  We can't wait 'til Ana joins you.

Have you ever stepped onto an elevator and it smells really bad like strong cologne or body odor or something else really offensive?  And then you realize you are the only one in this cart so you feel sorry for yourself that you have to ride down however many floors with no one to complain to, and you've already had a bad day and now it's just going to be worse because you just know you're not going to be able to get this smell out of your clothes and hair until you can shower and change.  And then after only a couple floors the cart stops and one or two people get on, and you just know that they think you stunk up the elevator but are too polite to say anything.  And you know this person / people, but not very well, and you want to tell them that the smell is not your fault, but that would just make you look even more guilty.  So no one acknowledges the smell because you are too embarrassed and they are too polite but probably not polite enough to not mention it to the people they work with the next day.  And probably the people they work with are people you kind of know, too.  And then what is usually the most uneventful 30 seconds of your day suddenly becomes the most significant.  And then you think about it too much.  So much that you have to get onto your personal blog and vindicate yourself even though the people who need to know the truth would never read it because they don't know you have a personal blog and wouldn't read it even if they knew.  Also, you don't know the person's / people's name(s) or else you may be tempted to add them as a friend on Facebook because there is a chance they would look at your personal contact information and see you have a blog and connect to it and recognize your story that they played such a key role in.  And as you're writing this you feel a little crazy, but you just know that you will post the story anyway because there is no cure for crazy.

Sigh.

                                 

Both kids have had colds and subsequently ear infections over the last couple weeks.  Buster was the first to fall victim, but Little H followed rather quickly.  Last weekend I was able to join Dan for the last part of his Las Vegas business trip.  It was our post-Valentine's, pre-anniversary trip, and it was so nice.  We went and saw Phantom of the Opera.  I've never seen the show before, but I must say, that it was excellent.  (Have I mentioned how lucky we are to have two sets of grandparents who are great about watching our kids?)

Anyway, while my dad was waiting for us at our meeting point to get the kids, Little H woke up and started crying that her ear hurt.  My dad thought she must have slept on it wrong, and asked her if that was why it hurt.  She responded, "No, Papa it's not my fault.  And also, my sense of smell hurts."  ???  When we got to the parking lot, my dad apologized that he was returning our little girl to us with only three of her five senses in proper working order.

During Buster's doctor visit we found out that he's actually lost weight.  It makes me a little sad.  He's moving like crazy, though, so it was bound to happen.  His favorite thing right now is the tub.  He slips and falls and climbs up and starts over again.

                                

He spends a lot of time there, for obvious reasons.

                  

I also wanted to post this picture of Little H.  I bought her a summer dress a little prematurely, and she wears it all the time around the house.  I have to hide it from her when she takes a bath or else we'd never get it washed.  One lazy weekend I think she wore it day and night for at least 48 hours.  In this picture, I told her to pose and I'd take her picture.  Doesn't it just scream trouble?

                            

On our way to Costco the other day, out of nowhere, this is what we hear from the backseat:

Little H:  We are not supposed to eat poison, huh, Mom and Dad?
Me:  No we are not.
Little H:  Good thing we don't have any poison in our house, huh?
Dan (wisely picking up on a teaching moment):  Well, we have some things in our house that are poison.  We have to be careful not to eat them.
Little H:  Like what?
Me:  Like the things that we clean the kitchen and the bathrooms.  If you eat them they can make you really, really sick.
Little H:  Soap is poison?
Me:  Some soap is poison.
Dan:  Eating any soap can make you sick.
Little H:  Then why do you guys always tell me that I have to eat soap after I get out of time-out?

Well, she got us there.  Tricky little girl, fooling us with her logic. 

And for the record, we have yet to follow through and actually make her eat soap.  Not that I'm against it.  Heaven knows it didn't kill me.