Exchange of Good

I'm happy to report that Noah has earned back his stuffed elephant. Here's a video documenting the release of Flower. NOTE: This video is not for the faint of stomach (i.e. I apologize for the very shaky camera):
 

Fiscal responsibility and a stuffed elephant

Noah learned about money this week. Here's what I attempted to help him learn*:

• Things cost money. Things like that cool pair of prescription glasses you intentionally busted when you got upset in Kindergarten on Wednesday.
• You have no money. You're five, after all. Sure, by your age I was selling off my M.U.S.C.L.E. Men action figures at ".25 cents apiece or 3 for $1.00," but I've largely sheltered you from such questionable business practices in hopes that you would shun the business world entirely, become a commercial pilot, and provide a lifetime of flight benefits to your mother and me**.
• You are responsible for a new pair of glasses. We've discussed this before (check off another classic parent line that has now escaped my lips). 
• Again, things cost money. Things like Flower, your giant stuffed elephant that you received from Mamie at Christmas (thank goodness Grandma Linda isn't following this blog right now or ever).
• When you don't have money, you can sell goods or services to make money. There's currently no market for tantrum throwers, tub splashers, or cat terrorists. This means you will sell Flower the stuffed elephant in order to pay for a new pair of glasses.  
• Banks buys stuffed animals.  

Okay, so the last one might not be pulled straight from your college Econ textbook. Nevertheless, I managed to schedule an appointment at our local Chase branch to sell Flower the stuffed elephant. Noah and I arrived ten minutes before closing, he handed over Flower, and they handed him $20.00 (from the savings account he doesn't know about). They then opened their safe and Noah got to watch Flower go into the Big House, banking style.

"I'll come back for you Flower!" was the last thing the elephant must have heard, quickly followed by the icy clang of the heavy metal gate.


*Learning would, of course, imply that the entire marketplace concept was internalized. I'll hope that the lesson was learned, but am positive at least one thing was internalized: the free cookie at the bank.

**Given the VERY strong prescription Noah is touting currently, I might want to reconsider the pilot career and redirect his life goals towards the medical profession in France (complete with vacation home in the South) or perhaps professional refereeing.

Marisa's Mustachioed Marvel

Marisa has been warning everyone about her husband as of late. Actually, her tone has been more apologetic if anything. I can't seem to get two words into a conversation without her interrupting to explain "My husband doesn't normally look like this. He's usually much less creepy."

It kinda gets to a guy after a while. And "less creepy?!" Doesn't that infer that there's some level of creep in me even without my spasmodic shaving habits?

Judge for yourself. Given that I've been called Mussolini by a friend (a friend not very steeped in history I might add, unless he was referring to a pre-facist Mussolini... in which case I stand molto corrected), a cartoon mouse by my wife, and the ever-popular "child molester" - I'm pretty bulletproof at this point.
 

Dear Mother of Small Boys

Dear Mother of Small Boys,

I can't remember what first caught my attention. Perhaps it was the feet of your second boy bursting up from the behind the church pew like a spirited humpback calf. Perchance it was the infantile yet ultimate-style brawl over colored pencils during the second sermon. Whatever the distraction, it was always to you that my eyes gravitated. You, with your hair yanked out of its ideal placement by hands too small to understand large plastic curlers or sheer volume conditioner. You, with your stunning almond-shaped eyes filled one moment with motherly compassion and ablaze with righteous indignation the next. You, with a blouse spotted with spittle and dried bits of wholesome breakfast cereal. How did my visual periphery ever stand a chance? You were a Norman Rockwell Model and professional wrestling referee wrapped in one. You were loving. You were accommodating. You were potty-training... all within a period of time usually set aside for daytime dramas or a demanding crossword puzzle.

As far as I'm concerned, you're the number one natural wonder of the world. A human being that willingly gives herself up to be loved and hated in love; to be smothered by hugs before snack time and stinky poop midway through. Your bad days are chock full of high-pitched screaming, timeouts, and a constant barrage of projectile objects; your good ones are filled with high-pitched screaming, a few less timeouts, and a constant barrage of slightly softer projectile objects.

Remarkably stable considering you always either have your biggest fans or harshest critics in tow, you constantly look at mothers around you and wonder where you're failing while they look back wondering the same thing about themselves. You're succeeding wonderfully for the simple fact that you care enough about your children to be constantly convinced that you're failing terribly in their upbringing.

You stay up at night worrying about getting accepted to the right kindergarten or having enough clean underwear to last tomorrow.

You're a fierce protector, a lioness that rages when confronted with bullies, narrow-minded people, or inappropriate cartoon characters.

You're your boys first choice for comfort and the last person they want to kiss at night.

You're a short-order cook, housekeeper, teacher, trainer, housekeeper, law enforcer, singer, housekeeper, storyteller, instrumentalist, librarian, playground playmate always waiting for the next role to fill.

You're everything always and invisible often.

You're nothing short of awe-inspiring and awesome and every other adjective closely associated with those two.

You're a mother of three small boys and I couldn't imagine a more perfect woman to have catch my attention.

Sincerely,
Father of Small Boys

Please bless the food

The other night, Noah offered our dinnertime prayer. In the middle of his expressions of gratitude for a myriad of animals, their stuffed counterparts, and imaginary beasts, he managed to bless the food as follows:

"Please bless the food... that it will not be poisonous..."

So let this be a friendly reminder to us all. I think that we're much too eager these days to "bless the food that it will nourish and strengthen," while failing to acknowledge the real possibility that our enemies might have broken into the kitchen in the dead of night and poisoned our pot roast right under our noses. I, for one, am grateful that at least Noah hasn't ruled out middle-age feuding tactics when it comes to family prayers.

B-b-b-benny and the Trax

Who hasn't heard the story of the household canine who gets out of the yard and, like Forrest Gump on all fours, starts running for the closest state line? Been there, read that, right?

Well, in honor of the Climate Summit in Copenhagen, the Smurthwaite household increased it's carbon paw print this past month when Benny, our six year old pup, (a mixture of breeds that defies multiple natural laws and probably even Geneva conventions) used Trax, SLC's lightrail, to get away.*

Now I know what you're thinking. You're probably picturing five little Smurthwaites lined up nicely on a train platform, decked out in matching Burberry winter garb. Snowflakes float down from above like sprinkles of powder sugar while a leashed Benny simultaneously sits and stays close by.

"Choo-choo..." A train approaches and hisses to a stop.

Train doors open. Benny, without provocation, breaks free and hops all aboard. Doors close "thump." Burberry-clad Smurthwaites then run along next to the train, pounding on the side of train like slightly modernized gorillas, pleading with the conductor to open, but to no avail. The train slowly pulls out of the station... "Ding-ding," with Benny's head sticking out a nearby open window, tongue out and ears flapping in the frigid morning air.

That would be a fun mental image, but that's not what happened. Think less "It's a Wonderful Life" and more "The Great Escape." In hindsight, I'm positive that Benny had actually memorized the morning Trax schedule weeks prior. Biding his time like Steve McQueen, he feigns interest in a half-eaten tennis ball until the window of opportunity arrives. Window of opportunity arrives. Benny begins to yodel-lay-hee-howl in his "I really have to go" voice. Marisa (pictured in an SS uniform solely for the purpose of furthering the mental image) reluctantly allows the furry POW out in the backyard, where he breaks for the escape hole he's been digging through the frozen tundra of our backyard.

Hitting no man's land, Benny flies like a furry dart across the neighbors yard, over our busy street, and up to the Trax station. Now an escaped con, he decides not to purchase a ticket via the teller just to stay in character. However, he does simultaneously sit and stay.

"Choo-choo..." A train approaches and hisses to a stop.

Train doors open. Benny trots aboard. Doors close and classic escape music begins playing. At this point, the furry version of Mr. McQueen has got it all. He's heading for who knows where and no one can stop him. He's only forgotten one thing: to ditch his dog tags in the nearest deep puddle. Which is precisely why, 15 minutes later, Marisa (no longer dressed in SS uniform) gets a phone call she never expected. You know, that one where somebody tells you your dog has just taken the train.

Editor's note: It is controversial as to whether Benny actually increased the Smurthwaite household's carbon footprint since public transportation was the escape method used. However, duly noted is the writer's opinion that a canine, having never before used any form of transportation, augments the overall ecological footprint of it's master the moment it decides to take a train, plane, or automobile to further it's own agenda. Had Benny learned to ride a bicycle to escape, greenhouse gas emissions would not have been mentioned in the article.

What We Didn't Do in 2009

The Smurthwaite Christmas cards are going out over the next few days and, while I've never been one to send out the annual summation of familial highlights, this year I did mention on the back of the card that people could find out more about us by going to this very blog. So here are some things to know did not happen to the Smurthwaites this year:

1. Sammy and Noah did not empty an entire 25 lb. bag of flour on the kitchen floor on New Year's (see top left picture above)
2. Noah did not exhibit any symptoms of OMS
   
3. Dave and Marisa did not end up last in their categories in their first ever Olympic triathlon (second to last is so far away from being last)
4. Dave and Marisa did not have any more children
5. Noah, Sammy, and Oliver did not spend any time in the Emergency Room (although Marisa did)
6. Dave and Marisa did not visit 190 of the world's countries
7. Dave and Marisa did not miss the boys terribly while traveling
8. Noah, Sammy, and Oliver did not miss their traveling parents
9. Dave did not almost drink a pint of Guinness, no matter what you might hear from others
10. Marisa did not manage to stop becoming more beautiful with each passing day
11. Noah did not even come close to passing his annual eye exam
12. We did not move to Hawaii, no matter what Noah says
13. Due to an unexpected email notification, Marisa did not manage to surprise Dave with a birthday trip to Washington DC 
14. You, most likely, did not even make it to the end of this list and that's okay

We do, however, wish you all a very Merry Christmas and the best New Year imaginable.