Happy New Year?

Ok, so I haven't really welcomed in the new year with a blog post wrapping up and analyzing 2011. Because it would be kind of a complain-y post, or possibly so apathetic and burned-out sounding that people reading it would want to watch St. Elmo's Fire just to cheer up. 2011 is done, kids are awesome, I'm alive and not committed yet. Pretty good all around, I'd say.

So 2012. More of the same. Some days I want to pour salt on slugs just to break up the stress a little. Actually that would add to my stress by making me wonder if my life was turning me into a sociopath. It's possible, you know. So not relaxing then, salt on slugs.

Highlight of this year so far was kicking ass in the GI lab. The doc was quizzing me and his fellow, which turned a little competitive I will admit. To be fair, the fellow had a camera up someone's ass and was slightly occupied with that. However, I reigned in pathology of inflammatory bowel info. I kicked that fellow's distracted-in-the-rectum ass and got recruited to boot. Ew, no.

Another highlight was my girls' weekend with long ago college roommates. It was nice to be a girl for a weekend, and I tried not to say the f-word as much as I do on the mats. One of the girls is pregnant, adorably so (really so cute, pretty much the opposite of my own pregnant self; I was more....large); one just bought a beautiful house and is adjusting to suburban mom-hood (never easy, things can be uptight at times); one brought her very, very cute baby girl (the first of all of us to have a girlie); and one left her boys at home for the first time since they were born (Yay! and also, well, not exactly ragin' nights on the town. Next time, maybe).

In other news, my younger son is becoming obsessed with sport stacking. It is so cute. He is the most ungainly, awkward, overlarge Lenny of a child at times, and then he blasts through a little 3-6-3 in record time. After which he trips on his own feet and knocks over all the cups, pulling the mat off the table as he tries to right them. Poor thing is bigger than any 8 year old has a right to be, size 7 (men's) feet all over the place. I actually got a black eye from his flailing about 2 weeks ago. Someday he'll grow into himself, I hope.

The elder son is claiming puberty. I'm not convinced, though in certain lights his upper lip looks ever so slightly fuzzy. I think he and his gymnastic buddies are having some kind of puberty-off, where the winner has the most body hair, since I hear about it a lot post-workout. Since none of them are showing any signs of any hair at all, I can only imagine that the competition is based mainly upon unconfirmable claims of pubes. I mean, he's already tried out his "I totally have ball hair, Mom." line on me, probably practicing the authenticity for later locker room pube discussions. My response to the claims are generally along the lines of "Cool, dude. Puberty on." Or sometimes, depending on threat assessment, "Please don't show me. I'll take your word for it." Another time it was "Hair on balls, way to go."

Along with the phantom ball hair has come some serious emotional lability. Like laughing to crying in .0002 seconds. It's wild. And the only thing that helps is a cuddle and talking. I discovered that my very catchy song "Puberty Hormones--They're Making You Sad!" did not help the situation at all. I mean, it helped me because it is a hilarious song but did not diffuse the subject of the song's emotions, which was really the issue.

Puberty hormones
Make sadness and ball hair grow
Don't pick up those socks.