Today I have the great honor of guest posting on my friend Toni’s blog: The Happy Housewife! She is helping spread the word about the contest. If you need any help with meal planning, budgeting, organizing, homeschooling, or finding deals online, The Happy Housewife is THE go-to resource! Check it out!

Meanwhile, speaking of “homemade memories,” we made a new one today:

It’s Noah’s first day of Pre-K (sniff, sniff). When I started tearing up this morning, Noah said to me, “It’s okay, Mom—you can still call me your baby.”

The older Jude gets, and the more I dress him in Noah’s hand-me-downs, the more I am seeing double.

Observe Noah as a baby:

Now Jude:

Each with his own unique look, but unmistakeably brothers.

Speaking of brothers, I stumbled across this scene the other day:

Now that he’s mobile, Jude is always interested in what his big brother’s up to, and they are starting to “play” together, though Jude’s version of playing is mostly chewing on things. Noah is beginning to incorporate him into his storylines, recently asking me if the “Emperor” was done with his nap so that they could continue their galactic battle.

I am glad to have these two little people to occupy my mind and arms and life. Nana (their “Grand-Nana”) is slowly slipping away from us, and I find that I am hugging and kissing the boys all the more, celebrating the life here that precedes the life to come. Please continue to keep my grandparents in your prayers.

What kind of mother lets her children wriggle all over the library floor
while she finds a book?

Um, yeah… That would be me.

Let’s not even discuss how dirty that carpet might be. I really wanted a book.

Jude, happy to be liberated from the stroller, took that opportunity to MAKE HIS FIRST OFFICIAL CRAWL. Knees up, one scooting in front of the other.

Which, poetically speaking, is just too perfect.
A library should always be a place of discovery.

Later in the day, we went over to Beki’s new house for lunch and a swim.

Noah, perhaps inspired by his brother, also felt adventurous,
surprising us with what became the first official swim of 2010.

CANNONBALL!
(Actually what he shouted was, “Captain Piggies!” an inside joke
with Owen which I have yet to understand.)

A wiggleworm and a tadpole, my two sons. It is going to be a busy summer.

I have good news for the universe—the galaxies are at peace. Just look at the scene I came upon at the breakfast table:

Noah had apparently convened a Jedi roundtable over Cheerios and milk.

Vader was a little miffed that the bananas hadn’t turned to the Dark Side (he prefers them overripe).

Yoda was his usual sagacious self. “Love them you don’t. Eat them you will.” He also saw great potential in Jude. “Young Padawan you may be. Strong is the Force in you. Use it for good you must.”

Word on the street is that next month, they’re having a pancake breakfast.

If the Wookiees show up, I’m going to need a lot of batter.

Such is the price of peace.

Yesterday, as I was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, Noah announced, “I made Jude’s hair curly!”

Sure enough, sitting there in his walker with a drooly grin on his face, Jude did look rather coiffed. His thin crop of hair was damp and swirly.

I laughed, then stopped. “Noah, what did you use?”

“Orange juice,” he replied, in a tone that said, “Isn’t it obvious?”

So off we trucked to the bathtub.

Thankfully, it looks like Jude is turning out to be a natural redhead—no orange juice necessary.

Yesterday Noah’s preschool class learned about travel, and the kids were asked to dress as “tacky tourists.”

Noah could not understand why a tourist would not choose to wear a Spider-man costume.

So he sulked a little bit.

Meanwhile, I rummaged through our closet to find some appropriate tourist-wear.

This is exactly how Pete and I dress when we travel:

Eventually I coaxed a smile out of my little boy. But one minute in a beret was enough for him.

I am fully prepared for him to backpack across Europe when he’s 18, dressed as a superhero.

Since it appears this Spider-man phase is NEVER going to end.

I caught this on video last week when Pete was practicing
and Noah chimed in.

Nothing is sweeter to my ears.

Lyrics to “Mighty to Save”
(by Hillsong Australia):

Savior, He can move the mountains,
My God is Mighty to save,
He is Mighty to save.
Forever, Author of salvation,
He rose and conquered the grave,
Jesus conquered the grave.

Shine your light and let the whole world see,
We’re singing
For the glory of the risen king—Jesus.

You know what they say. Once you give something a name, you get attached. It’s inevitable.

Case in point: As you may recall, “Bobby” the pumpkin joined our household last month, and there was never a more beloved vegetable. Since the day he left the pumpkin patch, Bobby became immersed in Noah’s world of three-year-old play: engaging Bionicles in battle, observing the finer points of Lego architecture, watching Cars, listening to stories, and sleeping in a big boy bed. As I watched Noah tuck Bobby in for his nap, swaddling him in his favorite striped blanket, I realized that my boy had signed Bobby’s adoption papers with what he thought was permanent ink.

Only one problem: Bobby was approaching his expiration date, and quickly. His skin, once firm to the touch, bent inward with the slightest pressure. His complexion was mottled and bruised. It was only a matter of time before he collapsed in on himself, going the way of all gourds.

I tried to prepare Noah gently, using numerous approaches:

Casual: “Yup, it’s about time to get rid of our pumpkins.” (This remark sent Noah into tears, and possibly therapy.)

Spiritual: “Noah, God knows how much you love your pumpkin. He will give you a new pumpkin someday.” (More tears. Noah doesn’t want a new pumpkin; he wants Bobby.)

Scientific: “You know, Noah, Bobby is full of seeds. Bobby is rotting on the outside, but his insides are full of seeds that we can plant in the ground. Then Bobby will grow back as a brand new pumpkin next year.” (Apparently the concept of cutting Bobby open was too horrifying to consider.)

Sentimental: “How about we take a picture of Bobby that you can keep in your room?”

Thinking this to be the best solution, I positioned Bobby on Noah’s bedspread, careful to capture him on his best side. I had snapped just a photo or two when Noah intervened, snatching Bobby up in his arms.

Together they cowered in a corner. (Notice that Noah’s shorts are on backwards, which is painfully precious.)

“Bobby doesn’t want his picture taken,” Noah said firmly, like a press secretary calming a media frenzy. Bobby had no comment.

Noah’s anxiety over Bobby’s demise only grew worse. One afternoon, as I read aloud from “The Velveteen Rabbit,” his expression darkened and his eyes filled with tears. I had just gotten to the part where the doctor tells the nanny that the old rabbit had to be burned. Noah was inconsolable.

“I’m sad about Bobby,” he cried, his face crumpled in genuine grief.

“I know, Buddy,” I said, rubbing between his shoulder blades.

It felt a little silly, all this fuss about a pumpkin, but to Noah the loss was real. I hated being the one to tell him that pumpkins don’t last forever, almost as much as I hated sneaking Bobby from his room, slipping him into a plastic bag, and discarding him in an outdoor trash can. I felt like a murderer attempting to hide the body.

But love, like a pumpkin, is filled with seeds, and a child’s soul is fertile ground for new beginnings. This morning as I scanned through a batch of old pictures, Noah spotted one with a pumpkin in the background. “Is that pumpkin like Bobby?” he asked, eyes wide and wondering.

I tensed. “Yes, just like Bobby.”

He considered this: the ghost of pumpkins past. “Oh,” he replied. Then he picked up his action figures and began to play.

And that was our goodbye to Bobby.

Noah:
“Mama, is Jude my best buddy?”

I love when Noah’s questions have easy answers.

Mealtimes with Noah can be a real battle.

Sometimes, quite literally.

So when I make mac ‘n cheese…

I have to make enough to feed an army.

Or my son will beat a hasty retreat.