The nice weather made me want to be outside. The only problem was our yard and patio were a wreck. There were at least a dozen pool toy inflatables, accumulated over the years and scattered about. Most had been chewed on and mauled by either the kids or the dogs. Who could really tell? There was also the veritable hazardous materials issue with all the expired pool chemicals, or as I like to call it: my experiment to get that white line off the tile.

We had the husband’s bbq smoker—a monstrous thing that still hasn’t been taken on its maiden smoke voyage, even after two years. We had moving blankets . . . wait, what? Why? Never mind. Sports equipment, 3,000 balls of all shapes and sizes, and I’ll be darned, a gigantic chocolate smudge the youngest proudly claimed as having done to the stucco last summer.

Most of this was neatly stacked—it’s hard not to laugh at the irony—on top of an outdoor dining table I haven’t had the pleasure to know is there for the last couple of years. I told my husband that most of it, if not all, had to go. Including the bowing table underneath. I proudly called it The Great Purge. The hubs called it unfair. He’s quite close to becoming a bona fide hoarder. Which is why he protests filling a garbage can with stuff he asserts he can use for some unspecified purpose in the indeterminate future. Pfft!

It’s because of his close proximity to landing on a reality TV show, and also for my peace of mind, I do as many purges as possible throughout the year—even though this was the first outdoor attempt in years. Charles got as far as bringing the trashcan to the patio, but then stood there, pouting. I knew I had to act quickly, or I’d lose the momentum.

“If you throw all this stuff away, how about we go to Lowe’s and pick out some new patio furniture where the old table used to go?” I asked.

Thank you, Lowe’s. Thank you for being crack-like candy to the suburban male.

We actually went to Bed Bath and Beyond first. Ha ha! Got you, Husband! We bought a huge umbrella sans the huge base. Charles and I thought we could fashion our own base in the ground with a cement plug, of sorts. We’re being pretty conservative in our estimates, when we say the cement base will be operational soon. 2015.

Our youngest made the real find, however, moments after he tumbled a stack of lawn chairs on himself. As the wee one got up, his daddy pulling chairs off him two-by-two, he grabbed a box from a low shelf.

“Oh look, Momma. These are nice lights,” he said.

They were. So, I bought two boxes—the round café lights you can see strung up all over alleys and squares in Europe and South America.

By the time we got to Lowe’s, the patio set purchase was looking grim. When did these things get so expensive? I must’ve missed the news report detailing how wicker was a commodity the likes of diamonds. Besides, isn’t there a “Birds will habitually mess on it and you’ll be too lazy to wipe it down,” discount for all outdoor furniture?  There should be.

Oh well.

At the end of the day, we didn’t have a new outdoor dining set, but did have an umbrella that would stay in the box for the next three years, and two boxes of those gorgeous café lights. I took the time to string them up and then waited for nightfall.

C’est magnifique! In my Bakersfield backyard, no less.

To bunk bed, or not to bunk bed? That’s the question taking up prime real estate in my brain these days. I have one picked out for my boys, and they’ve already started making grandiose plans about converting the top bunk into a fort, but I’m not sure I should fork out the money if they’re going to tell me in a few years they’re too old for it. This bunk bed is no joke, by the way. It has stairs, an actual stairwell. Don’t tell my sons this, but I agree with them: The stairs make it a gazillion times cooler.

Right now, both boys cuddle up together on a queen bed in the guest room. Although, the Star Wars posters and the vast spray of dirty, stinky socks would suggest that room is not, ever has, or ever will be a guest room. I don’t know how the co-sleeping started, but I can see it starting to wind down. First, I spotted the great wall of throw pillows, separating the bed in two. Then there was the garden variety of complaints of fitful sleeping, such as, “He hit me,” “He stole my pillow,” and “I think he made my insides bleed.”

Before long, the little one up and decided he wanted his own bed again, if having his own bed meant taking over mine. He liked my pillow, too. And no, he didn’t want to share. I caved into this sleeping arrangement—with 1/10^th of a pillow—because no matter what a younger, brighter, and bushier-tailed mom says about how she won’t let her child in her bed, I’m in such desperate need of sleep, I’d let a feral raccoon crawl in with me if it meant going back to dreamland.

Then, the real kicker came when the eldest decided it was too lonely in the big bed by himself, so he, too, wanted to jump in our bed and join the party. Yeah, no. This is when the bunk bed subject came up. I asked them, “Would you two stay in one room if we bought you bunk beds.”

Their eyes flashed with delight. I could almost see them sharing a brain and planning the ten-point double twist somersaults off the top.

When they saw this monstrosity of a bunk bed I had been considering, with the stairwell and even a wall of shoe cubicles—which, when the boys leave the house, I could convert to a wine rack—they said they’d leave me, my bed, and my nighty-night time alone.

I wanted to call them little liars, but as a mother, surely, that would not have been one of my finer moments. Instead, I opted to believe them, even if they only meant it for ten seconds. I still haven’t bought the bunk bed, though, because I’m still mulling both the price tag and the longevity of the bed’s novelty.

Whether it’s in a bunk bed, separate twins, or staying in the guestroom’s queen they currently like to drool on, I want to keep the boys together in the same room, regardless. I have several reasons for that, but above all else, I want the camaraderie. However, if you catch me on a day I’m being overtly blunt, I’d state it for what it really is: “I want to force them to get along.”

Jamming them together in one room is a new method for me. I had originally opted to give them separate rooms. However, something occurred to me on a trip to the Kern County Museum, where I toured all those old, little houses. One of them, can’t remember which one, had an information sign that said it used to belong to a family of six. Maybe more. It was hard to keep the numbers straight when I kept wondering where the old-timey mother was supposed to hide when the kids frothed at the mouth.

More importantly, I was perplexed how an entire family managed to live in such close quarters. Then, it dawned on me—and this is really only personal speculation—that whomever these people were, I’d put money on them not being a bunch of self-indulged, whiny buckets of flesh who expected to get their way at every turn. When you bunk up with people, listening to them snore, smelling their feet and getting the occasional jab to your insides, you start to see the necessity of getting over yourself.

I guess I should get those bunk beds sooner rather than later.

I had one of those comedy of error days. You know, when it seems as if the world is trying to cram as many things in as possible to go haywire. By the end of the day, I was actually thinking I should drive through a fast-food joint, because by that day’s flip-flopping rationale, my order would’ve been right.

Still, I think mixed-up, crazy days are not only inevitable but necessary. Mainly from what I like to call the “Shaken Syndrome.” I once watched someone illustrate how what is truly inside of us will sooner or later come out. The speaker had a cup of water, shook it, and bam, water’s on the floor. To which, he asked, “Why did the water come out?”

My youngest just turned 4, and though I realize he’s still a far cry from driving, shaving and telling me he’s going to marry that girl no matter what I think, the turn of his years from 3 to 4 hit hard.

The husband says I shouldn’t lament, but I can’t take him seriously; he’s the one who’s putting red Xs on the passing years, getting more excited as they get older and taller. He wants bigger boys to play basketball with, to go on rides with him at Magic Mountain, and although the boys don’t know this yet, he’s waiting for the day he can pass our backyard pooper-scooper baton for that horrible chore.

We only have the two boys, yet they’ve experienced opposite rearing philosophies. With the older one, I actually get excited as he gets older; everything he does and accomplishes is a first for us. Thus, I push and push some more so he doesn’t only arrive first, but arrives first in style. I think this is a pretty common firstborn thing. Born leaders and all that jazz.

However, I’m also protective of him. Sure, I want to shove him into deeper waters, encourage him to go farther, but by goodness, I don’t know what’s out there. So, I’ve decided to tag along, making sure all goes well. Poor guy. I fear he will always remember me as being this pestering shadow. He’s vocal though; he’ll tell me when it’s time for me to go hide in the car. And as long as I have my zoom lens, I’ll oblige.

The younger one has a different role. I want him to be my baby forever. I didn’t encourage him to crawl and I certainly didn’t reinforce that walking business. So, naturally, he went from sitting there like a log to flat out running.

But don’t feel too sorry for him — with the fact I tried to physically cripple him and all. He’s had a much freer run of things than his older brother. For example, all those deeper waters I send the older one off into . . . the water’s fine! So little brother gets his life-jacket, a slap on the shoulder, and I send him off without as much worry-warting.

TOO close! Way too close!

Also, I released the everything-has-to-be-perfect death grip by the time my youngest was born. I think the best example to illustrate this is the Play-Doh. When my oldest was 3, we gave him this gigantor tub of Play-Doh colors and accessories. Whenever he wanted to bring it out and play, anal Mommy would give him only a few colors and a few of the accessories. That was until he started mixing the colors. Much to my current chagrin, I felt the chromatic carnage of mixing blues with oranges and reds with greens was too much to bear and subsequently, the poor guy was downgraded to playing with only one color at a time. I know! I’m horrible!

But because I felt so bad for being uptight about it, by the time the little one was into Play-Doh, I scrapped all previous inhibitions. I let him play with as many colors and accessories as he wanted, and then left him with only the following instruction: It doesn’t belong in your nose, ears or mouth; and all the dogs’ orifices are off limits, too.

Of course I’m still harboring remnants of the OCD that originally made me go bat crazy at the thought of an innocent, creative child mixing his Play-Doh, so even though the younger one gets to mix his colors, I have to remove myself from the situation. Often, I’ll be in my room, rocking back and forth on the bed, muttering, “It’s just Play-Doh. He’s just butchering the Play-Doh.”

Yes, I’m fully aware the disease lingers, but rejoice with me that I’m no longer imparting it to my children! You should also rejoice in the fact that the oldest isn’t scarred from having Mommy trying to keep things orderly during playtime. He seems to have bounced back from my uptight stage. In fact, we’re currently trying to get that one to remember flushing the toilet, so no way he has OCD. Wait a minute … maybe that’s payback for holding back on the Play-Doh for all those years. Touche’ kid, Touche’.

At any rate, Happy Birthday youngest! It seems like it’ll only be tomorrow when I’m looking out the dining room window and wondering why you don’t call. But for now, you’re still my baby. And oldest, all our hopes and dreams are riding on you, so don’t let us down. Kidding! Go mix your Play-Doh. Knock yourself out.