Scrapping

I used to scrapbook.

I did.

But then I couldn’t keep my scrapbook up-to-date.  That made my OCD need to find a yoga class to take, so that it could breathe deeply and release all the bad energy, so I quit.  Scrapbooking became another item on the list entitled THINGS MAMA HAS GIVEN UP ON.

Downtown Abbey is on that list, too.  Don’t judge me.  I tried.  I watched the first season on DVD, but it was too hard to translate the extreme British accents while my boys were running wild through the house and shooting Nerf guns and throwing cereal like they were Cupid at a wedding and the cereal was glitter.  I had to resort to my Horrible Mother Voice, which involved me hollering out, “Stop it!  Just be quiet!  I can’t hear what the Brits are saying, and I’m not sure what kind of mayhem the butler is involved in, while the two of you are staging a war against one another with foam darts!  MaMaw wants to watch her program!”

Plus, scrapbooking was hard, and it required work.  Like, REAL work.  There was all that THINKING ABOUT the layout you wanted, and then trying to create it with scalloped scissors and two-sided tape and silver markers and more stickers than a first grade classroom has, and then you had to make all your pictures actually FIT on the page, and what if you’re one of those girls who (ahem!) takes A LOT of photos?

And sometimes, scrapbooking would require you to do things out of your comfort zone.  For instance, I once had to drive a 1972 Toyota Landcruiser that didn’t want to be driven by me, because we were in desperate need of scrapping supplies.  My friend, Shelly, was at my house, and Hubs had left with the boy, who was a mere toddler. Shelly’s husband had dropped her off, and Hubs had taken our truck, which was our one and only vehicle at the time.  (It’s because we were GREEN before being green was cool.  We were saving the environment from too many toxins, from too many cars on the roads.  In other words, we lived in an adorable little house that was practically in the heart of downtown Small Town, USA.  It was two blocks from the school where I teach, and four blocks from Hubs’ office then, so we could both walk to work every single day, and it just made sense to be responsible adults who just had one truck payment.)  (Sadly, we didn’t really care about toxic fumes in the air then.)  Hubs, though, had this 1972 Landcruiser which was named Yoda.  He does, in fact, still have it.  We don’t really claim Yoda as a REAL VEHICLE.  It goes nowhere.  It lacks a heater, and it’s personality is exactly that of a nasty, malicious, devious, junior high MEAN GIRL, but Hubs loves her, and he’s always planned on “fixing her up.”

Which I guess means “giving her a heater for those chilly days” and also “insuring that she’ll get you from Point A to Point B without leaving you on foot and laughing about it.”

Shelly and I needed more scrapbooking supplies, and our only option was to drive Yoda to the store.  And really?  I had worked on a sod farm and was capable of driving TRACTORS, for crying out loud.  What could Yoda possibly offer me in the way of difficult vehicles that I couldn’t handle?

Turns out, she refused to shift.  Only, she shifted quite nicely as we shakily made our way TO the store.  And then she quit shifting halfway there, on a rather busy avenue in town, and listen… She forced us to drive in first gear, while we put our dark sunglasses on and prayed to Jesus that no one we knew would see us cruising along at a top speed of six miles per hour in a roaring area of thirty miles per hour.

But you know what?  The most wonderful thing about having a good friend with you in those times of sheer stress is that you’ll end up laughing.

And that’s exactly what we did.  Shelly and I laughed until we nearly peed, and then we cranked that NO POWER STEERING; NO, MA’AM; NONE AT ALL steering wheel and turned Yoda around.

And we drove back home at a maximum speed of six, all in first gear.

And then Yoda died in front of our house, but she gave up the ghost before we got her in the driveway.  In fact, she died in the street.  In the way of traffic.  And she refused to start again for me.  So, I did what any normal girl would do.  I walked to the neighbor man’s house and said, “Listen.  Can you get my car into my driveway?”  And do you know what a guy will do when he’s asked that question?  He will get the car into the driveway, or he will die trying and simply pull the car with his bare hands off the street.  Let it be said of no real man that he couldn’t get a Toyota into a driveway when a girl asked him to do so.

Yoda started right up for him, because OF COURSE SHE DID.  I think he even got her into fourth gear before he parked her.

I’ve never liked Yoda.

And that is the true story of how Shelly and I never made it to the store for more crafty, scrapbooking supplies, which was a definite contributing factor in regards to REASONS I DON’T SCRAPBOOK.

(Also, Yoda is for sale.  She’s contributed nothing to our family.  We have no fond memories of driving her on bumpy mountain roads, with her top off, while the breeze blew in our hair and we thought about the picnic lunch in the back.  All Yoda has ever done is sit, ooze the air out of her tires for no real reason, and refuse to shift.)

(The first $50 bill takes her home.)

So then I started a blog in 2009.  I started it mostly because Hubs’ sister lives in a major, thriving metropolis on the complete opposite side of the United States from us.  She was forever saying, “I just wish I could see all the kids on a regular basis and be involved in what they do.”

Since she couldn’t come to the baseball games and the school parties for all her nephews and nieces, I brought them to her, via the World Wide Web, and a little blog called Jedi Mama.

Ad that is why, people, I’m going to put pictures of Thing 2 playing with Play-Doh on the blog tonight.  It’s because this is my family’s VERY DIGITAL scrapbook, where we preserve all of our memories, and I never have to worry about driving Yoda anywhere, as related to this blog.  And, since I have boys, I know that I’m actually doing this for their wives, because boys never get overly sentimental about anything.

Boys, in fact, don’t care about scrapbooks or OH, LOOK!  JUST LOOK HOW SMALL YOU WERE IN THIS PICTURE!!

But…

… behold!  Thing 2 and his Play-Doh from a couple of nights ago!

IMG_1797 IMG_1799 IMG_1800 IMG_1804 IMG_1815 IMG_1818And look what I even managed to capture on my camera’s memory card!

It’s the boy, who usually runs and hides when I’m taking snapshots, because he’s fourteen and too cool for pictures.

IMG_1807That’s the boy AND HIS GREEN CONTACTS.  It’s still very weird for me to see him with light green eyes, instead of his normally shocking blue eyes, that God picked out for him.  Sometimes I do a double take and say, “Whoa.  Um… your eyes aren’t blue!”

And then… there are THESE pictures.  These snapshots are the last ones that we will take of Thing 2, while he’s a two-year-old.

It’s because tomorrow, he’ll turn three.

IMG_1822 IMG_1823 IMG_1825 IMG_1826Tomorrow morning, we will no longer have a two-year-old toddler.

We’ll have a three-year-old, who thinks he’s really fourteen.

And THAT — those very last pictures as a boy of two — is something to put in the scrapbook.

Y’all have a good Wednesday evening.

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