Brotherly Love

Jake's resemblance to a middle-aged man in these photos is a little frightening.

Like Mother Like Son

A few days ago Andrew had an assignment to write about something that happened over Christmas break. I overheard him and Aaron talking about it in the living room while I was doing flashcards with Amelia.

"Write about going to Mexico." Aaron told Andrew.

I didn't think much about it until the following morning when I was packing up the kid's lunches and came across the essay he had written sitting on the Kitchen table. I read all two pages and couldn't believe it. It was pure comedy.

He opened up the essay by stating that we had visited his grandpa in Mexico whose girlfriend was thirty years younger than him. He proceeded to mention that his grandpa had a woman who lived in his house who was homeless and pregnant. She was going to give her baby to Grandpa and his girlfriend. Next he talked about how there were twelve pit-bull puppies in their yard. To add even more flavor he brought up all the dangerous fireworks Grandpa had bought him to play with.

I am expecting CPS any minute now.

Despite the embarrassing content, I have to say the story was highly entertaining. My boy can write.

Us

Growing Up

Last night Andrew went to his first girl/boy party. When he got back I asked him if he kissed a girl. He was not amused. Not at all.

Pictures from his recent etiquette dinner at school:

Our Cub

The people that live behind us are scouting fanatics.  The dad is a pack leader and the mom is a den leader.  Their son is a cub scout and their daughter is a girl scout.  Their lives are consumed with pack activities.  Sometimes I wonder if they poop girl scout cookies.

 Since moving in to our new house Aaron has decided that our boys should become scouts.  I wasn't a fan of the idea.  I was a girl scout from age 10-12.  The uniforms were itchy, they would force us to clean up parks on the weekends, and our leader freaked out when my friend Jessica and I played light as a feather stiff as a board.  If I remember correctly, she called us demon worshipers. 

Andrew out right refused to become a boy scout.  At 12,  he realizes that becoming a scout may put an end to any sort of social life he's got going on.  He was spared, which is a good thing because scouts are far too optimistic for my cynical little Andrew. 

 Jake however, is still young enough that he will not be labeled as a freak for being a cub scout.  He joined the neighbor's pack and loves it.  I find the events excruciating.  There is too much pep involved in every thing and everyone is smiling--all the time! They expect the parents to sing cheesy songs and preform skits and know the boy scout salute.  I suffer through it gladly because it makes Jake super happy.  It's a small price to pay. 

DIY Mustache

                                         This is what happens when you pass out at my house:

                                                          I sick Andrew on you. 

If my Father-in-law hadn't of passed out on our dog bed with a houseful of neighbor kids over this wouldn't have happened to his face. Bwahaha!

Sweet, Sweet, Summer

Bela, our little old lady, happy as can be at Mission trails

Nick, our neighbor, and Andrew, aka Tom and Huck

Our new rope swing that it is getting a ton of use by our family and all the kids in the neighborhood.

Andrew being Andrew

Amelia adores Andrew and he loves her right back

12

Andrew gets BO and is developing arm pit hair. He rolls his eyes at me and is almost always embarrassed by my presence.

That's what it's like to be 12.

He says mom, with the m drawn out a way to make it clear that I am humiliating him. His moods are extreme and his room is always messy. It is clear that things will be rocky from here on out.

The silver lining? He still spills it all. He tells me stuff that most kids don't tell their mothers. Last week he told me that he almost always feels like his friends just don't get him. He also told me that he might want to someday marry the girl in his class who has nearly as many freckles as him.

This year he wanted grown up things for his Birthday--an iPod and iTunes gift cards, He has an affection for NOFX, the Eagles (tragically), and Kayne West, which may be the most bizarre music combination of all time. Also, he detests the Beastie Boys and anything sounding remotely similar to them.

Andrew wants to be a writer when he grows up which makes me irrationally giddy. He keeps stories in a green folder in his closet. He wrote a story about a lizard king that was pretty darn good. He inhales books the way I wish I had at his age.

I see an astounding amount of potential in him that I cannot wait to watch take shape. I am eagerly anticipating all the little adventures his life is going to take him on.

Happy Birthday to my sweet little man.

The Dreary months

The kids plus the dog during winter:

Waiting

Right now I am at The San Diego Children's Hospital waiting for Andrew to get out of surgery. He is getting an ear tumor removed. The medical name for the growth is long and contains a g or maybe a c and is hard to pronounce. However, the technical name sounds far less dismal than tumor.


It's benign and essentially no big deal other than the idea that it is getting in the way of his hearing. So here we are on a cloudy Monday afternoon waiting for the news that the little guy is okay.

In the waiting room, four seats down a man is holding a copy of the Reader story I wrote about TJ. IT makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I have never been in the presence of a stranger reading from a magazine with my face on it. My photo is plastered just underneath his left thumb. I can't help staring at him wondering what he thinks and if he is reading my article or the help wanted ads?

A couple of hours ago Andrew and I were in a small room, he was reading a thick novel I just bought him for Christmas and I was watching the Rachel Zoe project. The anesthesiologist came in to discuss the procedure with us. He had a mole on his left eyelid. It made him look gentle like a guy with make-up on or someone unashamed to wear a kilt. While he explained what would happen during the surgery I stared at his small round freckle.

Ten minutes later a nurse in zebra print clogs walked Andrew down a long hallway. Half of his back was exposed from the hospital pajamas he was wearing that featured sleeping tigers. Andrew looked back and waved quickly before disappearing down the corridor.

Now I wait, anxious to see him. No matter how routine the surgery is I am still worried and won’t feel comfortable until I see his face.

Shoot em Up

When the boys were toddlers I had a strict anti-gun toy rule in my home. They were not allowed in my house ever! Aaron’s brothers have never believed in this rule and without fail always ended up buying them some wildly inappropriate plastic toy gun for birthdays or as Christmas gifts. I would always throw them away.


Andrew and Jacob used to chew their sandwiches into the shapes of guns and run around pretending to shoot each other. They would fashion just about anything into a gun. It appeared my ban on toy guns was futile.

When Andrew was 5 we moved to a new home. There were so many kids in our neighborhood that it was like a 24 hour amusement park. Many of the kids had toy guns. I eventually gave in about the guns. Now I don’t care so much, also they are old enough  that the allure of playing with such things is pretty much gone.

Last Sunday we had Conrad and Jesse over to celebrate Jake’s birthday. We ate cake, and sang Happy Birthday, and then Jake opened his gifts. Conrad bought him Call of Duty, a game in which you shoot people.  Jesse bought him a bb gun.

Can you believe that!?

Forget about my toy gun rule now my kid has a real one!

Aaron tried to pull the same stunt with Andrew on his tenth birthday. He called me from the store to alert me that he was purchasing our kid a bb gun. I told him that if he came home with such a thing he might as well get used to the idea of sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life. He didn’t buy it. However the following year he did. Andrew opened up his gift and looked at in with a mixture of fear and sheer panic.

“Bring it back,” He told Aaron “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

It was returned the following day. Aaron told me that I was a brainwasher. I’m okay with that.

Jake didn’t have the same reaction. He was so excited and an outing to shot bottles in the wilderness has already been scheduled. I told Jesse that when and if one of my children loses an eyeball from a bb I will kill him. He didn’t seem to care.

The Brauns are annoying.

The Best Quotes Ever

I really need to start writing down the funny stuff my kids say. I'm going to attempt to write a weekly blog post entirely on funny kid quotes

Andrew:

Tonight while helping Andrew prepare for a History test I asked him "What did the Inca emperor expect out of his citizens?" To which Andrew replied "That they all get circumcised?"

Wow! I'm afraid to ask where he came up with that answer. Luckily for the Incas they were not all expected to be circumcised.

Amelia:

"Mommy, if you ever are having a dream you don't like you can just control it. That's what I do. If my dreams are boring or scary I change them to whatever I want."

It must be nice to wield that much power

Jacob:

"Mom can you buy those butt wipe things that aren't for babies. I think they're for old people. It's like old people toilet paper. They're awesome. You can even flush them.

Spoken like a true Braun.

They're Growing Up

Apple picking in Julian

A day in our lives

I fall in love with places so easily that I am certain if it weren't for the stability of Aaron I would move, at the very least, twice a year. I love moving. I love purging my home of unneeded things and packing everything neatly into boxes. I like the idea of starting over and reinventing what our idea of normalcy is.

During the one hour drive to Julian this afternoon, I convinced myself that we needed to pack up and move to Poway, a slightly rural community in the boonies of San Diego. Within ten minutes we were in Ramona. The charming dirt roads, mail boxes lining their quaint streets, and the adorable old fashioned shops had me rethinking Poway.

Finally we arrived in Julian, rich with the smell of autumn and brimming with denim and cowboy boots. The layers of mountains that frame Julian's horizon took the breath right out of me.

"I love it here,” Andrew announced.

He is a mini-me. Andrew tends to voice exactly how I feel at any given moment. The two of us are so very much alike that I worry for the little guy. Every failure of his echoes similar childhood defeats of mine. Nearly daily my heart breaks for him because in his struggles I see my own. It's funny how children can fill you with so much happiness combined with overwhelming worry all at once. I wish that someone had sat me down when I was pregnant with Andrew to tell me all of this.

I will never forget a conversation I had with Aaron's Uncle the week before my wedding. Very matter of factly, he laid out what he thought it meant to be married. He told me that Aaron and I would have the greatest moments of our lives together but folded inside that happiness would be anger, resentment, and sadness. That was okay he assured me. "Marriage is no cake walk but it's worth it!" Uncle Rick told me.

His words have stuck with me.  During those moments when Aaron and I have bitter arguments, I often remember that marriage isn't perfect. I have to love my Husband, my kids, and my life, flaws and all.

Through the years I have learned to cherish the flaws of my family, sometimes even more than our moments of brilliance. Often, It's the flaws that make us beautiful.

So today, while the kids and I explored Julian, laughing, and smiling with the occasional cross word or a whine here and there, I remembered that perfect isn’t interesting or the least bit real and I love that about us.  

It's a sad day

Perhaps it's a sign that I should give up on checking my son's homework when he recieves a 9 out of 14 on a math assignment I looked over before he handed it in.  It's official: I am not smarter than a 6th grader.  So sad

Shart face

I overheard the following conversation between Andrew and Jacob while they were putting together a Lego spaceship in the living room,


Jacob: "Number 4 is diarrhea."

Andrew:"No, #3 is Diarrhea! There aren't 4 different levels of pooing!"

Jacob: "It goes like this , #1 pee, #2 poo, #3 Sharts, #4 diarrhea."

Andrew:"What does shart mean?"

Jacob:" A poo fart."

Andrew: "Oh, those are the worst! I had to throw my underwear away in the bathroom at school once because of one of those."


Welcome to my sometimes disgusting world of raising boys!

11

 Every year on my kid's birthdays I write them a letter.  When they turn 18 I plan on giving them their yearly letters.

                                           
                                                 Andrew's Birthday letter #11

Last week while sitting next to your friend Russ at your school's church service you leaned over and said to me,“Why do we have to sit with YOU! Why can’t we sit with Russ’s parents?” Then you proceeded to roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest the same way I used to you when I was about your age. I am officially uncool. I arrogantly thought this day would never come. I believed you would always think I was cool. I am younger than the other parents. I don’t drive a minivan. I don’t listen to cheesy music like Celine Dion or country, and I sometimes allow you to watch inappropriate movies.

I guess it doesn’t matter. I am a mom, a figure of authority, therefore by default I am lame. I realize that I need to get used to your snubs. I need to grow thick skin and acknowledge that you are changing. Soon you will no longer be my little boy-child. Within a year or two, your voice will change, you will get taller and start sprouting arm pit hair. I can already see the changes. You are more independent and secure in your skin. I am thankful that you still let me in. At 11, you're still confiding in me. I hope that continues. I hope that at 16 you still trust me enough to tell me what is really going on in your life. I didn’t do that with my parents. By 14 I shut them out completely.

5th grade has been a good year for you. You joined the swim team and the basketball team, you have finally learned to keep a clean desk, and you have started spending a lot more time with your school friends. On the weekends you are almost always with Russ or Jordan. Also you have taken up the annoying habit of talking on the phone with your friends.

You have developed the greatest dead-pan sarcasm of any 11-year-old I had the pleasure of meeting. Nearly everything you say is dripping with cruel hilarity. This year it has gotten you into a bit of trouble. Your teacher doesn’t find you nearly as hysterical as your classmates do. Last week when a preschool student was forced to sit in an unoccupied desk in your classroom (your teacher is the principal of the school) for biting another student, you shouted to him “run for your life little man!” He got up from the desk and fled for the door. Your sarcasm was over his head. Mr. Walker was not pleased with you. I have had to have countless conversations with him over your humor. He is not a fan of what he refers to as your “constant need to distract the other students.” . I wish you would tone it down a bit.

It is insane that you only have 7 more years before college. It scares me to think that one day, not too far away, you will have your own life apart from us. I don’t even want to consider that.

This year you told me you saw the girl you were going to marry, a blonde brown-eyed girl from the neighborhood. You saw her once at the grocery store and again at the Awana youth group our neighbor brings you to. “Why don’t we have any pretty girls at my school?’ you wanted to know. I find this new interest in girls a little troubling. I am certain that it will get worse with age. Have I mentioned that I am so not prepared for you to grow up?

Happy Birthday Andrew.  I love you more than you could ever imagine.  

First

Last night I was able to see the Two Gentlemen of Verona at the Old Globe Theatre. I love theatre. When I was a kid I had big dreams of becoming an actress. I took drama lessons at our local playhouse. I adored acting.

My dream of becoming an actress sizzled out when I went through my 14-15 year-old awkward stage. I took drama freshmen year at my stifling Catholic high school. Thanks to bad skin and braces I suffered from cripplingly low self esteem. That year I decided to work stage crew instead of auditioning for a part in my school's play. The following year I didn't even bother taking drama.  When I transferred to public school all the thespians were tight knit and spoke in false english accents. They intimidated me so I didn't even bother joining the drama club. That's when I gave up acting all together.

Last night Andrew was my date to the play. I thought for sure he would hate it, thinking he was far too young for Shakespeare. I was wrong. He loved it and watched wide eyed the whole time. At intermission I told him we could go home if he was bored. he looked at me like I was crazy

"Mom, this is awesome!" he told me.

It was one of those proud parenting moments where i realized that my kid is really, really cool. I'm glad that Andrew's first experience with the theater was a happy one.

Santa Claus is a fake

Yesterday Amelia informed me that "Santa Claus is not real momeeee!"

The day before, over dinner,  Andrew's best friend filled me in on the fact that they are learning about sex in science class.  When I looked shocked Andrew explained:

"Mom, We're just learning about the flowers but basically it's sex, okay.  We get it. I know what sex is"

I am not ready for my ten year old to use the word sex in a sentence.  In fact I am still not ready to use the word sex in a sentence with my own mother.  My catholic repressed side is screaming from the inside.

They are growing up too fast.  The next thing I know Jacob will be sprouting arm pit hair and Andrew will have Acne coupled with a smoking problem.