Nailed It!

Lately I have become fascinated by the nail art on Pinterest. Wall art is great. Who wouldn't want to have an original masterpiece hanging where all who enter your home can admire its beauty? Well nail art is similar-It's like having ten tiny canvases on your hands for people to ooh and ah over any time you whip out your credit card or shake a hand. Even better than telling your house guests, "yes, it's a Picasso," is telling the cashier at the grocery store, "yep! I totally painted them myself!" At least in my mind it would be better. I neither own a masterpiece nor the ability to create stunning nail art.
My talented cousin posts her amazing creations like these

on her blog http://thenailinator.blogspot.com/, inspiring me to dress up my own blah fingertips. The problem with all the pics I see online is that I can't measure up! The clear coat smudges the design, and I have nicks before the polish ever dries. Does it ever dry?? No offense, Rach, but do you sit perfectly still all day long with your fingers spread so as not to damage your artwork? Or do you snap the pic as soon as you have them painted before the kids have a chance to need your attention? How long do they look like the photo?WHAT'S THE SECRET??? Also, I am not ambidextrous, so my right hand can never look presentable because I have to paint it with my left.

Here is another stunner The Nailinator created. I watched a tutorial on painting snowflakes and sort of came close this time although I don't want my hands to have to be too close to hers for fear mine would just shrivel up and fall off out of embarrassment: 

 I'm basically a walking disaster when it comes to nail polish, and I think whoever posted this on Pinterest might be my soul mate:

Frankly, I have a long history of nail failures. I bought a pen to create cool designs. Nope. It just bled all over my hand and the bathroom counter. Another time I was tapping a bottle of sparkly polish against my hand to mix it, and the neck broke off. Glass and silver glitter polish exploded all over the bathroom. The whole family was high on the fumes of nail polish remover for a week!
You may be wondering why I keep going to the trouble when I'm destined to make a mess and look silly. Well here goes, my name is Stephanie, and I'm a nail biter. It's true! I bite those suckers to bloody nubs sometimes, but if they are painted, I'm less likely to chomp down. Because I don't want to mess up the polish? No, because I don't want to walk around with red or blue paint chips stuck in my teeth!
I wonder if nail polish would be a biting deterrent for the Great Dane puppy we just got. I keep having to jump up and rescue various items from her teeth. I'd coat the entire interior of the house in "Cinne-man of My Dreams" (thank you OPI for your fun polish names) if it would save the furniture and kids' toys from being chewed up.
Anyway! I've forgotten what I was really going to say, and I have started nibbling on my pinky as I sit here trying to think. That means it's time to pick up the giant pup and go paint something! 

Another Episode of Raising Boys

Tonight the 5 yr old had a Christmas program at school, so being a good mom, I made him change out of holey jeans and a hand-me-down cartoon tee into nicer jeans (from the dirty pile, let's be honest) and polo shirt. I had asked big brother to pick out clothes for him while I was trying to finish another task, and bro chose a button down and a sweater vest. Seriously! Is it Easter already? The shirt and vest were purchased for kid #1, and they're practically brand new still because neither he nor #3 enjoy dressing up. I'm thinking Big thought he could torture Little by making him wear fancy duds. Yeah, he wasn't having it, and that was definitely not a battle I felt prepared to fight. Enter the polo compromise. 

When I was satisfied with his appearance-we had him wearing presentable clothes, smoothed his hair and wiped the crumbs off his chin- we loaded up with just enough time to run one errand, drop #2 off at gymnastics, and hunt for a seat in the crowded school cafetorium.  Now is a good time to include that I had just come in from work where we had pajama day (think preschool teacher. It's funnier if I was an investment banker, but to the other parents picking up at the grade school, any mom in her jammies at 3:30 is entertaining) and changed into jeans and actual shoes v. slippers. For some reason, this was the first time I had seen myself in a mirror all day, and I realized the messy bun I'd thrown my hair into before my 7 am shower was still right where I'd put it! We are THAT family! The mom dresses up by getting out of her pajamas, but since it's not Easter, she doesn't bother brushing her hair, and the kid is wearing pants fresh from the hamper. If my husband is reading this, he's A) completely mortified and deleting me as a Facebook friend B) printing this out to take to a marriage therapist.

So now that I've framed it out, back to the school program. The kid performing in his "clean" duds goes to car, lays on the garage floor and crawls under the car to get to his side. I lost it. Compared to some of the idiotic things I've witnessed in my raising of boys for the last decade, this is certainly small, but come on! Who DOES that?! I mean, if you're just going to belly crawl through filth, can't you do it before you get spiffed up? There's no time to change now, and since we had already scrounged in the dirty pile for nice clothes, it's not like we had a lot of options to fall back on anyway. 

God is good though. When I dropped the boy off in his class, the teacher was handing out cardboard Christmas trees for all the kids to wear. It covered his garage grime perfectly! But then I had the thought, it also would have covered cartoon screen print and holes in the knees. Oh well, I guess he can pull those out of the hamper and wear them tomorrow. 

Raising boys ain't a job for wimps

Living with boys means you never sit on a toilet in the dark. It also means searching for batteries that work will become your quest for the Holy Grail. (The old, useless variety are scattered everywhere) On the other hand, if you wish to find a Lego or a Matchbox car for any reason, you need only to close your eyes and take two steps in any direction for them to materialize right under your bare feet!
Being the mom of boys is a special role that not all mothers are called to, but those of us who are feel both blessed and driven to the brink of insanity by our little men. Trees and rooftops are extensions of their play yards, so we have to keep our eyes peeled and our prayers constant. They will swim for hours without taking a potty break, so we keep the chemicals in balance and our mouths closed in the water. Blood is a part of life, as are black eyes, ragged jeans, and the constant smell of armpit, gas, and halitosis. I assume some of these, at least the odors, will dissipate as interest in girls takes priority over hurdling fences, taking 10 second showers, and making your sister scream with your smelly emissions from whichever end may render them. Another fact of life for the boy mama is that at some point, a mom down the block will call for you to come pick up your precious child and drive him to the ER for stitches. Now the reason for having to have your son stitched back together could range anywhere from tripping over untied shoe laces (1st grade, 4 sutures on the forehead), to doing stunts over the sofa or in a swimming pool (age almost 3, 4 in the lip and age 4, 17 in the mouth and lip, respectively), to running with a metal pole to make sparks on the sidewalk and impaling self on said pole (two weeks ago, 10 sutures below knee cap). The boy in question is the reason John Frieda 4N Dark Brown is my "natural" hair color as opposed to stress-induced gray.

This was Monday when the pediatrician let him remove his own stitches with a scalpel and forceps. Doc really should have taken the sharp objects from his hands before jamming a swab in the boy's throat for a strep test because his natural response was to throw his arms up, narrowly missing cutting the doctor. That is why no mother would ever hand a scalpel to a 10 year old. Ever. You can go ahead and thank me now for not sharing the gory photos the child insisted I take at the ER for him to show his friends. I also refused to let him keep the bloody sock for show and tell.  I am however, willing to let him pick up the next hospital tab should he expose his insides to the outside ever again. 

If you are gifted by God with sons now or in the future, know that it's ok to hose them down outdoors as needed, they won't get sick from eating dog food, and if you end up in urgent care holding a bloody ice pack on your kid, you've got a friend in me. If your sweet little boy drops trow on the church's astro turf playground to relieve himself, well I've been there too, but I pretended he wasn't mine, so you're on your own. May God bless you in your role as super mom, and may He protect your wild ones with quick and tireless angels.