That's My Boy.

Aidan turned nine years old yesterday. I am in utter shock. Where did the last nine years go? While I think about it, here are some things you should know about Aidan:

He is the most even tempered of all my children. Nothing can get him down. Well, almost nothing.

His eyes are so brown (he did not get this from my side of the family) that you can't see his pupils. They are like dark Hershey kisses.

He looks a lot like his dad.

He loves music and dancing and can really shake it.

He throws a mean football pass and can tear it up on the soccer field.

He loves math and is really good at it. English and Reading, eh, take it or leave it.

He wants to be an astronaut.

He has a wicked sense of humor.

I am so protective of that little guy and love him so fiercely that it literally leaves me breathless.

He got a watch, an iPod, new jeans, Lego's and books for his birthday. He chose double chocolate cake for dessert.

Just to prove to you how funny and quick he is, I will tell you a little story. Two years ago we were having a Christmas program about the Nativity at our church. Children from the neighborhood were dressed up as animals in the manger. Aidan was a sheep. He had on a fluffy white sweatshirt and we had fashioned him a headpiece with puffy ears out of cotton balls. He was adorable. Now picture the program. Mary and Joseph had just started the long walk down the gym to the stage where the manger was set up. The audience was sighing quietly and some had tears in their eyes as Mary climbs the stairs with the baby (a doll) in her arms. Aidan takes this quiet, reverent opportunity to say, and this is a direct quote, "I'm a ba-aa-aa-aa-d boy." 

Yep. My son had just disrupted the most sacred event in our whole religion, the birth of Baby Jesus, by announcing he was a naughty sheep-boy. Very loudly I might add. Do I even need to tell you that everyone, including Mary and Joseph, cracked up. The night never regained the previous sanctity it had.

That's MY boy.

I wouldn't trade him for anything.

Signs of Love, or How To Set Yourself Up For Teasing

Welcome to my blog, Maybe Too Blonde. After much prodding by people who shall remain nameless, I have decided to start a blog. It may be funny, it may not. It may be sad, it may not. But it will always be here. Let me introduce myself with a story.

Those of you out there that know me in person will know how much I love to tease people. I love to make little jokes at other's expense. Like when my brother clogged our toilet. I love to tease him about that. Which brother was it? I'm not at liberty to say.

My husband and I were once on the freeway when a dump truck flew by us at well over 90 mph. We were both shocked by the blatant disregard for safety when my husband said, "There should be a law against trucks going that fast." I looked at him, and I'm afraid, burst out laughing. "There is!", I laughed. "It's called a speed limit!" He then turned bright red and sat silent. I have never let him forget this. I break out this little story, along with a few other gems, at parties and get togethers. And people crack up. Matt takes this all in stride. He is great. But I on the other hand have on many occasions been described as a person who can dish it out, but not take it. When people make jokes at my expense, I tend to pout, get defensive, and leave. Usually all three. My family or friends, sometimes both, have to come and get me from the other room and tell me to lighten up. So it is with this following story that I am prepared to tell that I knew my husband really loved me. Or understood me. Or wanted to make me happy. Or probably all three.

About four years ago we were driving as a family from Disneyland in California to my dad's house in Phoenix. Any of you that have ever driven this stretch of highway know how desolate and barren it can be. Picture me driving. We depart a little town called Kingman where you leave the interstate and take a little two lane highway all the way into Phoenix. We had about a half a tank of gas at this point. I thought it was enough. I was almost, almost, wrong. About two thirds of the way to Wickenburg, the first sign of civilization in the desert outside of Phoenix, I started noticing the needle on our gas gauge dropping much more quickly than I thought it should. With 45 miles to go still to get to Wickenburg, our gas light came on. Crap. Matt started to say in that I-told-you-so voice that I should have filled up in Kingman. This is not the point in the story where I messed up. I slowed our speed from a clippy 65 to a turtle's pace of 40 hoping the reduction in speed would help us consume less gas. Ten miles out of town, the car started chugging. I'm really sweating now. It's 110 degrees out and Matt has just informed me that he will not be the one walking into Wickenburg with the gas can. Another crap. I silently start the bargaining with the Almighty. If you will please just help us get to the gas station, I will never swear again. I will volunteer at the homeless shelter. I will donate all my shoes to charity. Just pleasepleaseplease let us get to the gas station. Miracle of all miracles, we make it. We are still not to the teasing point of the story. Hang on.

Have you ever been scared to death that something terrible was going to happen, like running out of gas in the middle of the freaking desert and then it didn't happen? You were alright? You know that relief that floods over you and you almost can't believe your good luck? That was where I was. The first gas station we come upon on the highway is one of these really old stations. It only has two pumps and they are not the digital kind. They have the rolling numbers that click away as you fill your pump. Matt stays in the car to entertain the kids, who are hot and tired, and I get out and start to fill the car. I prepay and I watch the numbers click away and start to scrub the suicidal bugs off our huge windshield. I scrub and scrub some more. Noticing that the pump is done, I dump the squeegee in the bucket of water, climb in my car, and drive off. Hmm, what's missing? I will tell you what is missing. I drove off with the nozzle of the gas pump still in my car. Yes. It is true. I did this. As we drive off, slowly I might add because I am all about safety, we hear a terrible crashing-tearing-ripping sound. And this is how smart I am because at first, I don't know what it is. But Matt does. He starts screaming "You are still hooked to the pump!" I slam on my breaks expecting gas to be pouring from the pump but it has one of those safe guards that stops gas from going everywhere when people do exactly what I have just done. How did this happen? I'm not sure. Maybe I was just so happy we made it I was in a fog. At this point I look at Matt and say "what should I do?" I thought I was scared when I thought we were going to run out of gas. But now I'm really scared because I think I'm facing a very expensive gas pump repair. We sit there for about five minutes half expecting the attendant to come running out. But nothing happens.

Here is the part of the story where I am not proud of myself. I ask Matt if I should just leave. I know, I know. Not very upstanding, am I? Matt sits there, speechless, letting me figure this out. I then decide to go in and explain what happened, because hey, my kids are watching and for all I know, they guy inside is probably writing my license plate down right this second and calling the cops. I remove the nozzle, which is still in my car, and carry it, hose and all into the gas station. At the counter of the very old gas station which on a side note I think was called Billy-Bob's (no lie) was a girl all of 14. She doesn't even look up at me when I walk in carrying the amputated hose and nozzle. She is chewing gum and reading a magazine. I slowly approach her and when she finally acknowledges me, I carefully, oh so carefully, place the mess on the counter. Now here is where I don't really understand what came out of my mouth but it sounded kind of like this:
"I-was-putting-gas-in-my-car-and-somehow-I-don't-really-know-how-this-nozzle-fell-off-all-by-it-self-when-I-drove-off-with-it-still-stuck-to-my-car-and-I-don't-know-how-I-did-that." She looks at me apologetically and says, just leave it here. I'll let the owner know tomorrow. Okay. You don't have to tell me twice. I looked at her and said "Gotta go!" and ran to the car. Matt was very anxious to know what had happened. Were they calling the police? Was I being chased? I started the car, made sure it wasn't attached to anything, and got the heck out of Dodge.

Now where in this story does the teasing take place you ask. But that is the point. It never does. As we drive the remaining 30 miles to my dad's I am mentally playing out all the things, ammo if you will, that Matt has against me now. Know how blonde my wife is? Let me tell you. She can't even pump gas. I am waiting, just waiting with a big target on my face for the verbal ribbing that I am sure is coming. But it never comes. He has never mentioned it again. I have told the story a few times. It gets a lot of laughs, but Matt never elaborates or makes fun of me. Don't get me wrong, Matt has done his fair share of teasing, but about this, never. I must say, that this one event in my life did cause me to question my intelligence. Was I not as smart as I thought I was? How could I be so stupid! This takes the cake for all the dumb blonde things anyone could do. All I can say is that maybe Matt knew how I was silently lashing myself and figured he had nothing to add. But after about six months of no teasing, I quietly decided that he really did love me and was choosing love over a good tease.

Would I have done the same? I really don't know. I'd like to think I would, but honestly, I'm not sure. I guess at some things, he is better than me. Not teasing some you love would be one of them.

What little things made you realize that you were loved?