The Glowing Edge

  • The Boys Have Bokken


    …also called bokuto, which are beautiful wooden Japanese training swords. Theirs are $15 internet versions, probably the kind which cause people who know what they are doing to wince at American ignorance. The boys love them, and last night I went up to say goodnight to the Maker, and found him sleeping with his.

    The boys are rarely without their bokuto, obsessively carrying them everywhere they go in our suburban neighborhood, using them to pose and slash against imaginary foes or whack weeds as the mood takes them. The posing is especially favored.

    This morning the Maker was wandering aimlessly around the kitchen with his bokuto, continually forgetting, as is the way of a six year old, what he’s supposed to be doing. So I ask him very helpfully, as is the way of a mom, “Which of your chores are you working on now?”

    He strikes a pose with his bokuto. Ancient Japanese warrior spirits wince. The Maker glares fiercely at the the Cheerios on the kitchen table until I am almost sure that he’s forgotten my question, if not my entire presence. Finally: “I have to vacuum the rug,” he replies, and shifts his pose.

    “Great,” I affirm. “Get to it.” And off I go to finish getting ready for work.

    While I’m sitting on the edge of my bed putting on my shoes, I hear a series of grunts, and eventually the vacuum starts. My audio monitor continues to scan. Why do I not hear the vacuum gliding smoothly back and forth? I am patient. More grunts, loud enough to be heard over the obviously stationary, running vacuum. I sigh, abandon my task, and go back into the den.

    When I walk in, I see instantly what the problem is. It’s really hard to pose with the bokuto AND vacuum the rug. Impossible, perhaps. I’m guessing ancient Japanese warriors did not vacuum for this very reason.

  • back porch days


    This is the reason I live in the south.

    Got up, it’s maybe 68 degrees, slight breeze, and sunshine from here to the highway. It’s Saturday and I get to work from home this morning, so I dried off the table and chairs on the back porch, put some bacon on to fry, and shot this picture.

    By the time I started the biscuits, the Ice was in the kitchen, wanting to cook. Of course, this gives me great hopes for my retirement. Get him to marry someone I adore, then sit back, eat his cooking, and enjoy my grandchildren.

    This is the life.

  • the M&M test

    Tonight I asked the Maker, “If you had three green M&M’s and two brown ones, which color would you eat first, a green or a brown?”

    “Green,” he assured me, with no hesitation at all.

    “To even up the numbers?” I asked, and he nodded. I’ve done it myself, once or twice.

    The Ice weighed in. “I’d eat a brown one, and save the greens for last since they’re the prettiest.” Ah, a man after my own heart. Why do they even put brown ones in the bag, I often wonder. I guess it’s to make us appreciate the bright colors more.

    I glanced at the Husband; I can tell he’s waiting to enlighten us all. “You’re from The School Of Even Numbers, aren’t you?” I say, knowing it’s absolutely true.

    “I founded that school,” he says, poking the table with his finger for emphasis. Then he pauses and shrugs. “But now I just eat them straight from the bag. I don’t even look at the colors.”

    We all stared at him, horrified.

    I guess I’ve made certain assumptions about the way the world operates that just aren’t accurate. Even if eating M&M’s without looking at the colors and evaluating the order of consumption were possible, I can’t imagine someone doing it.

    I’ll try to debrief the kids later, when he’s not around.

  • Things the Husband Has Never Done

    1. Returned a bag of miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to the store (for any reason)
    2. Returned an uneaten miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup to the bag
    3. Gained one ounce from all that not returning
    4. Gained one ounce from the Joe Wieder bulk-up-this-instant system of diet and weight training

    Joe Wieder, cover of Your Physique magazine

  • The Marvelous Magic Snowflake

    Is this little silver metal ornament for your tree. Plug it in to the outlet, plug your Christmas tree lights into it’s plug, then hang the snowflake. Touch the snowflake, tink! the lights go on. Touch it again, tink! the lights go off.

    The ad says it “captivates holiday guests,” but our focus group did not return these same results.

    If you are 6, 9, or practically 12, touch it repeatedly while shoving your brothers away as they attempt to do the same. The game isn’t over until the tree is “accidentally” whacked over or mother snarls. But it’s pretty easy to beat this boss and move to the next level.

  • the middle boy

    is Ice, a self-chosen moniker (as is the Maker’s). He’s the Ice man, the cool dude, mister freeeez.

    And it conveniently gives me sons called, according to birth order: First Ice Maker. Nice.

  • only if someone’s watching

    So I’m outside watching the First, age practically 12, do his skateboard thang on the street in front of our house. He is not wearing his helmet. (Remind me to post a list of excuses that my boys have given me about why they are not wearing, and can not wear, a helmet.) He lines up to ollie over three stacked 2×4’s, then up on the flybox, exiting with a 180.

    Which he completes nicely, except for the 180 that he slews out of, scraping out on his back and left elbow.

    I perish inside, but hide it nicely.

    “Don’t worry, Mom,” he assures me from his supine position, “I’m okay. It happens all the time.”

    I look at his friend, who is skating down to line up for the same run. His friend is carrying his helmet under one arm, as he is most of the time when I see him skating. I call to him with irony he is of course unaware of, “I see you are carrying your helmet.”

    “Yes, Ma’am,” he replies politely, “I only wear it if someone’s watching.”

    Then he turns completely calmly to the First, and says, “Dude, you should carry one of these.”

    The First (R) and his helmet-carrying friend

  • The Maker’s Favorite Gift

    The Maker’s favorite gift was the same as it was last year. It was also the same gift he received somewhere around his birthday, which is conveniently located approximately half-way between Christmases.

    Two words, in order of priority: tape and rope.

    This boy loves him some tape and rope. Three times in the two or so weeks prior to Christmas, the Maker put on our grocery list “Duct Tape.” He’s been out for a month or more, and was reasonably upset that I came back from the store multiple times without any. Finally it occurred to me to suggest, “Maybe Santa will bring you some,” and that seemed to calm him down a bit.

    So his biggest present contained

    • duct tape, 1 roll (they didn’t have the tear-by-hand kind, oh well)
    • painter’s tape, blue, 3 rolls
    • clear scotch tape, 3 rolls
    • multicolored laces, 1 pack
    • 500 feet of nylon rope, purple
    • heavy-duty household twine, 1 roll
    • standard cotton string, 1 roll
    • extra-wide masking tape, 4 rolls

    It was great. It will last about 6 weeks. I’m gonna have to adjust our budget.


  • The Best Moment of Christmas Day, 2006

    was the Maker’s, age 6.

    The way Christmas morning works in our house is that everyone waits on me. I’m not a morning person, in comparison with the rest of my family, all of whom have actually witnessed the sun rising in the east. However, I’d like to point out that I was up past midnight, making sure Santa had no difficulties with anything. I’ll also mention, since it’s my personal blog, that when we got home from church around 9 pm, the Husband said, “I’m exhausted, wake me up later and I’ll help you.” I charitably and without a hint of sarcasm replied, “Oh sure, honey,” and rolled my eyes after he looked away. The night belongs to me. And why shouldn’t it? I live in a household with all males, and don’t even get my own bathroom. A woman has to create her space somehow.

    But as I was saying, I had gotten to bed pretty late (1 am) and at 4:50 am (after precisely 3 hours, 50 minutes of sleep for Yours Truly) I heard the distinctive rapid-fire Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump of a water buffalo galloping down the stairs of our suburban domain. This mom-alarm was followed by a tiny “tink” as the Christmas tree lights were turned on (we have a Marvelous Magic Snowflake), and silence.

    Since the silence remained unbroken by the sound of ripping paper and shouting, I went back to sleep. They can wait on me. Meanwhile, plenty of time to hand-squeeze Mom some fresh orange juice, right? Heh.

    I was willing to be drawn from my toasty comforter by 7 am (precisely 6 hours, minus the Thump-Thump-Tink interval, of sleep), and the circus commenced. The boys all received tool boxes and padlocks (remind me to post on why this was a great gift), and they saw those immediately, since they were not wrapped.

    The Maker, being the smallest and quickest, was the first to pounce upon his biggest present, which was under his toolbox, and about twice the size. He levered it up onto the couch (my dias), and excitedly began to gesticulate and exclaim, “Oh, oh, oh! I hope it’s something I really, really want!” To which I replied out of actual curiosity, “What do you really, really want?” “I don’t KNOW!” he cried gleefully, ripping paper from the roughly 12 x 20 inch cardboard box, “…A bike?”


  • It Was My Best Christmas Yet

    My best Christmas by far, I told my dentist today. I give it, like, a 9 out of a possible 10. The only way it could have been any better would have been if I a) had planned for better microwavable food, and b), hadn’t had minor tooth trauma (dentist’s words), all of which is fine now.

    So part of the deal was the “no cooking” decision. This horrified most of my friends and all of my relatives, although it didn’t faze the boys a whit. Remind me to post on the boys’ diet later. But as I was saying, no cooking meant I pulled out that giant lasagna ($11 in the grocery store frozen section) and baked that bad girl. Well, okay, the husband baked it, but I told him it was Our Christmas Food Plan, and he, being a man, and not having any Pop Tarts handy, baked it when he got hungry. In the actual oven, even.

    That’s the secret to not cooking; you have to wait until someone else is hungrier than you are, then eat what they fix. This can bite you in the butt, of course, if you have only Pop Tarts in the house. But baby, I bought Lasagna. Merry Mrs. Smith-type Christmas, everybody!

    No travel was the other part of the deal. This works better now that we have three children, all boys. Everybody understands our desire not to be in confined areas with them for long periods of time (i.e., exceeding the length of time required to watch Pirates of the Caribbean 2), since they exceed all legal noise limits, and are starting to push the odor envelope on their why-do-I-need-a-bath days.

    Next post — my favorite Christmas story from this year in which my six-year-old, the Maker (his own title for himself, based on his love of creating things), wins the prize.