My first born son has kept me either giggling or tearing my hair out since he was born. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that boys are not different from girls. They are. From needing cute little baby boy clothes in 48 shades of blue, instead of frilly pink lace, to their jokes as they grow up, they are different.

I remember distinctly the first time Stuntman made the car noise. He was about six months old, and no one had taught him to make that sound, and all of a sudden, there it was, hanging in the air, almost visible……vroooooom. And bugs, oh my, yes, they do love bugs, and frogs, and assorted slimy creatures. And also flying, with or without the Superman cape, but especially when wearing only underwear.

It was my son who taught me again that playing in the rain could be fun. He was the first one to ever ask “why” when I said, “come in, it’s raining.” And it was his logical “but we get wet when we take a bath” that made me change my mind and let them all play outside anyway.

Different isn’t bad, though it can be a little scary. In fact, I realized I had crossed over to a mother of sons the first time I put my hands in my pockets and drew out marbles and hot wheels instead of hair bows. I knew it was going to be okay, the first time I made one giggle by driving that car on his arm.

Perhaps it is time to investigate higher quality personalized pens in my continuing quest for writing perfection. I could maybe get ones with built in sirens that sounded an alarm when touched by fingers not attached to my own hand. Do you think that would work?

And don’t even ask how she’s taking this Vegas trip. She accused me of using that to miss her regional competition (for which they aren’t even qualified yet, mind you) and it’s not even the same weekend. Of course, maybe if I dialed up the Excalibur Las Vegas they could fit me in. Even though I have already turned in the form that says if the team makes the cut, we’ll go to regionals. Even thought they are the day after Thanksgiving. And yes, she saw me turn in that form. What. Ev. Er.

As for the boys, we have a bigger problem. The guy who said he would be the Den Master is …. not. Not answering phone calls, not returning emails, not organizing meetings, not, not, not. We have a parents meeting next week with the district director to see what we can get going. There is no way I can be the Den Master. I’ve already taken on the position of awards coordinator, and I was supposed to have a helper with that. She’s also…. not.

I have not told he boys all this, of course, but they have asked about scouts. They are looking forward to the camping, the meetings, the tiny little body shop supplies for the Pine Wood Derby cars. And frankly, so am I.

Hey, let me ask for your help, too! Could I get you to click this banner, and donate a little but for Alzheimer’s research?

Thanks!

As for me, I’ll probably fill up a good chunk of my new 1GB SD card that day. And, yes! Of course, I’ll share!

Technorati Tags: bottles, The First Years

And here’s the meager pile of stuff the little clothes police declared fit to wear anywhere.

I have one more picture to share which I will do on Midlife Musings. It’s a special one just for Bob, who left me an incredibly scalding comment on my post from last Saturday. It doesn’t really belong on this blog, and since he commented on the other one, too, I am going to place it where *I* want it to be.