True story...

Me around three.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it here, but I suffered from night terrors as a child and - for whatever reason - never outgrew them like I was supposed to.  So, basically, I still talk, shout and - occasionally - scream in my sleep.  The night terrors are so scary because I'm somewhere between asleep and awake when I have them.  Or, rather, I'm awake and something from the dream world still lingers.  So, I know I'm in my bed.  I know I am waking up.  And everything is as it really is (i.e. I see my clock, hear usual house-at-night noises, feel Trevor beside me, etc.), except that, say, there is a giant spider jumping towards my head or my duvet is covered in ants or there is a scorpion on the ceiling.  You know, that sort of thing.  The WORST one I've ever had was when I was in graduate school and woke up to find a man with a knife standing at the foot of my bed.

Good times, right?

(Sarcasm)

So I scream bloody murder, occasionally throw things (like a pillow or blanket) or jump out of bed because SPIDERS! ANTS! SCORPIONS! HOMOCIDAL MANIAC! and more or less freak everyone in the vicinity out. 

Or did.

Nowadays, Trev just rolls over and says in annoyed voice, "You are dreaming.  There really isn't [fill in the blank] on us/over there.  Just go back to sleep...no, no don't turn on the light...wait...okay, now that the light is on, do you believe me?  Please turn off the light now."

The last time I shared a hotel with my father (this was YEARS ago), I had one, and his response was very similar to Trevor's:  "OMG, You still have these things?  You are fine.  Go back to sleep!"

Even the dogs don't care anymore.  There was a time Gypsy would run over and lick me in an effort to comfort/wake me.  Now she just sighs and groans as she rolls over.

Clearly, no sympathy for me.

Anyway, they really aren't that big of a deal.  Yes, they are freaky, but I can't remember ever NOT having dreams like these.  Plus, they aren't nearly as frequent as they were when I was a kid, and seem to be triggered by things like stress and travel.  They are just one of those things you get with the whole ME package.  And the good news is that I'm totally fine once I turn on the light and reassure myself that whatever I thought I saw isn't really there.

(Except for the guy with the knife.  Just try going back to sleep after that.  I dare you.)

The thing is, Banner has started having night terrors.  Which, in itself isn't that big of a deal because they are very common in childhood.  But - just to be safe - I asked Banner's pediatrician about them at his three year old wellness, and he said there is a very good probability that Banner will never outgrow them either. The good doctor’s advice? “Don’t tell Banner’s significant other about the night terrors until they’ve already exchanged vows at the alter”. Trevor’s response? “Aint that the truth”.

Sigh.

Poor kid.  Looks just like his daddy and gets all his weirdness from me.

Or, better yet, maybe we BOTH get our weirdness from MY father?  Because:

(Don't ask.  I was there and I still don't understand.)

Reason #948 why my father is awesome...

Papa Mint gave my son a hot scooter for his third birthday.

And I don't mean "hot" like racing stripes and an ultra cool paint finish.

I mean "hot" like he found it.  In the alley behind his house sometime back in November or December.

To be fair, he propped it up against his fence and waited for the original owner to return to claim it.  But - several weeks later - it still remained right where he left it.

So, my father moved it into his garage, spent some time cleaning it up (mostly reversing some weather damage and removing baked on tape) and gave it to his grandson. 

Of course, Banner loves it.

Granted, I'm sure the original owner either forgot where they left it or simply didn't care about it anymore, and my father did give them ample time to reclaim it.  It just cracks me up that I have conversations like this one with my dad at my son's birthday party:

Me:  "OMG, dad!  You got Ban a scooter?"

Dad:  "No, I found a scooter in the alley behind my house and thought Banner might like it."

Me:  "Wait.  Slow down.  What?"

Dad:  "Yeah, maybe he shouldn't ride it at Papa Mint's house.  You know, just in case the original owner recognizes it."

Awesome.

Potty Training Confessional...

Y'all.  Potty training?  It isn't for the faint hearted.

This past weekend was our first foray into a brave new world without pull ups.  I've been prepared for weeks.  In late September, I ordered the Ban Man about 20 pairs of big boy undies with all his favorite things on the front (Spiderman, Superman, Thomas the Train...you know, the usual suspects), and waited for the appropriate time to start using them.  And October did not disappoint, either.  Banner has made spectacular progress over the last six weeks when it comes to all things potty, so I really wasn't all that surprised when his teacher asked if we could "give the big boy pants a 'go' this weekend" to, you know, see how it went.

And, honestly, I was impressed.  True THIS HAPPENED on Saturday night, but really no harm no foul:

Until Monday, that is. 

Apparently, when it comes to using the potty, Banner is all or nothing.  He will dutifully do his business in the potty all day if he feels like it.  If not, meh...he doesn't seem to care if he is wet or sitting in a puddle.

Except I do.  Especially when that puddle is on my couch.  Twice.  In less than fifteen minutes.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The thing is, we had been doing SO.WELL.  Saturday and Sunday were AWESOME, and I was feeling optimistic about our chances of being out in public without a pull up (I know, famous last words, right?!).  So, I took him out for a celebratory sushi lunch (his favorite) after swim class on Monday.  A meal that just happened to coincide with Banner deciding that the whole potty thing was completely overrated.

It didn't start out that way, though.  He peed in the potty like a champ three or four times after swim class - including TWICE at the restaurant.  My confidence was up, and my guard was down.  The food arrived, and Banner started shoveling avocado rolls in his mouth like he hadn't eaten for days. 

Which is, of course, when it happened:

Banner:  "Mama, Banner sittin' in a puddle."

And, sure enough, he was.  Did he care about it?  No.  Just scooted over and picked up another avocado roll from his plate completely unfazed.  He might as well have been commenting on the weather. 

Me, on the other hand, went into crisis mode.  Because that is what you do when you are on a lunch date in public with your two year old son on his third day in underwear, and suddenly discover him sitting in a pool of his own urine. 

Since the restaurant was crowded, I didn't want to make a scene.  So, instead, I surveyed the situation and tried to breathe:

• No one, except me (and technically Banner), was aware of what just happened.
• Thanks to the color of Banner's pants, they didn't even look wet.  They were, in fact soaked through, but you'd never know it just by looking at them.
• We were sitting on a wood bench (Thank God).
• Thanks to an earlier spill, we had a bunch of extra black, fabric napkins.
• Both of us were almost done with our meal.

You see where this is going?

If not, this is the point where I confess.  Be forewarned, however, that my coworker thinks I've done "the most horrible thing".  I say desperate times, desperate measures.

I discretely cleaned up the puddle using the extra napkins, while - simultaneously - finishing my California rolls (so no one watching would suspect anything).  I also grabbed a handful of ice from my water glass and tossed the cubes on the bench next to the wet napkins.  When the waitress came by, I told her Banner had spilled his water again.  She brought more napkins over, and I did my best to wrap the damp ones around the dry ones.  Then I moved the entire bundle into the sun, because the original puddle was...well, warm, and I didn't want anyone to suspect that the majority of the liquid was anything other than spilled water.  When the waitress returned, I hastily paid for our meal, tipped her very well and GOT THE EFF OUT OF THERE.

I know, I know.  Judge away!  I'm 100% guilty!

Personally, I feel like this story PALES in comparison to a similar one from my youth.  And since I'm telling this particular story about Banner, it is only right and fair that I share one from my own childhood.

I was about nine months old when my parents took me with them on a trip to Europe.  Apparently, I discovered pear juice somewhere along the way.  Unfortunately said juice did not agree with me, and...well, to quote my father I "blew my diaper off" at some cute, little restaurant in France.  He even has a video taken immediately after the incident occurred so he and my mother could immortalize it and bring it up from time to time throughout my childhood, because that's the kind of people they are.

Except the video clip, oddly enough (or not so oddly if you know my dad), ended with him getting distracted by his sudden need to "document" the slew of topless sunbathers he stumbled upon mere moments after zooming in on me in my mother's arms and taking a close up of the restaurant I had just disgraced.  This segue (or lack thereof) to early 80s European boobies has shocked, awed and confused people for years.  Including Trevor, who - after seeing the clip for the first time thirteen some odd years ago (THANKS, DAD!!) thought he was seeing a video my father shot of ME sunbathing topless on a beach in France.  Which, NO.  No, no, no, no, NO!  For SO many reasons NO!  It was almost a relief to clarify that I was the adorable nine month baby who just crapped herself at the restaurant across the street from a beach full of partially naked women.

(Note:  my father also showed this very same video to a movie theater FULL of people a decade and a half ago during a party in my honor.  Because of course he did.  And - even better - PEOPLE STILL REMEMBER SEEING IT.)

But I digress.

When I so unceremoniously exploded post pear juice, nothing was spared.  Including the chair cushion I was sitting on.  My parents, having just paid, looked at the situation in horror, and - not wanting to own up to what just happened - flipped the chair cushion over and fled like the building was on fire.

Not that my situation on Monday was much better, but at least I tipped well.  Even if I have no European boobies to show for it.

End of confession.

Caption this...

Trevor calls it "Mini Genius Bar".

Last pool day of the summer...

This boy loves his Papa Mint, and the following pictures simply make my heart happy:

Fourth Recap...

It is sort of anticlimactic to discuss what we did on the Fourth, because we did the SAME THING this year that we did in 2012 and 2013.  Not that I would change a thing, mind you.  I'm a sucker for routine.  Plus, it is such a delight watching Banner enjoy the exact same parade and fireworks show that I did at his age.

Sometimes is the simple little things.  Probably why the Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays.  Just good ole fashion summer fun with friends and family.

Anyway, I won't bore you with too many details.  Just a million and a half photographic memories of Banner's third half birthday:

Business as usual...

Waiting for the parade to begin.

Two year olds get a lot of candy tossed their way.  Especially
when they have a sassy fifteen month, female sidekick named Eva.

Have I mentioned that he has A LOT of energy?

Paw-Paw Mint.

CEO, Uncle Yum and Jeep.

Lady Loraine and the FABULOUS Auntie Mimi.

Rachel and Neighbor Becky.

So, yeah.  Catching isn't his best skill.  But to Banner's credit, he keeps trying.

Because being two means you gotta
pull the Dragon Wagon "myself".

After the parade, we returned home so Banner could open his half birthday presents from Jeep:

He is finally getting the hang of opening presents.

Present time was followed by "quiet time".  Little man keeps threatening to drop his nap, but we strictly enforce quiet time because...well, mama and daddy NEED a nap, even if Banner (*thinks* he) doesn't.

We were supposed to meet at my dad's house a little before 5 PM, but were delayed by a stray storm.  Lots of thunder and lightening at our house, but NO RAIN.  A mile away at my sister's house, though?  DOWNPOUR.  Abrams and Mockingbird?  HAIL.  Skillman and Mockingbird?  FLOODED STREETS.  75 and Mockingbird?  SUNSHINE AND RAINBOWS.

For those of you not familiar with Dallas, I live exactly 6.1 miles from my dad, and four miles from 75 and Mockingbird.  So we are talking about a pretty bad a$$ thunderstorm that was less than three miles wide.

Here's a visual (photos taken less than five minutes apart) on Mockingbird:

The weirdest thing is that the storm NEVER crossed 75, and everyone we spoke to that evening was like, "What do you mean it rained today"?

Of course, it would have been a better story if it had actually rained at my house, because I'm all about free water in July.

Anyway, back to the festivities, Banner was a HUGE fan of the band at the club this year.  During their break between sets, he even went and found them drinking coffee and sat down like he was one of the guys.

Number ONE fan.

We weren't sure we were going to be able to see the fireworks because
little groupie didn't want to leave the stage and his new buddies.

But after a few rounds of peek-a-boo, and the promise of another band outside (I kid you not, he ended up on stage!), we were successful in getting him outside.

A rare family photo before the fireworks began.

I may love this photo more than THIS ONE taken last year.

Hope everyone had a fantastic holiday!