I know.

I KNOW.

It has been just over 9 years since I have been mama to both of them, born just 20-months apart, and yet I am still continuously baffled by their differences. I mean, these two. They were born to the same parents, who were probably too young to be mama and daddy. I assumed they’d be exactly the same. Then again, I assumed by my identical pregnancies that my Joshua was going to be an Abby, so I guess I am often proved wrong.

I should have known from November 2, 2002 just how different these two were going to be. Emily came into the world NEEDY. An attention-seeker to the core, Emily wailed her tiny little head off the entire ride home from the hospital. “Just you wait, Ali. The car is going to be your best friend! Babies always fall asleep in the car.” Those were words I would like all of those experts to eat. She wailed on the way home and never stopped; my baby hated the car. Until November 3rd, 2002, when I plopped baby Joshua in the carseat and he slept the entire ride home. Imagine! I didn’t know it was possible. Whatever Emily needed from me, Joshua did not. He was the world’s easiest baby—no attention-seeking behavior from him.

At 20-months old, my needy child decided that her mama was paying too much attention to her baby brother. So, she decided she was done wearing diapers. Ripped ‘em off. “DONE!” she exclaimed with delicious glee. I could see her rubbing her hands together, plotting. “Now I’ve got my mama right where I want her. My bum is too small to get on the toilet alone and the last thing she wants is to discourage me from this whole potty training business. Whee! Attention for me!” And her brother had to wait to be fed until I was done hoisting his sister onto the toilet, encouraging her business, and wiping her tiny tush.

Let’s fast-forward to today. The 5th grader and the 4th grader haven’t changed much. One still craves and seeks attention. One is as low-maintenance as can be.

And then there’s school.

Emily approaches school the way I did. An eager beaver, she is. She jump-starts on assignments before they are even officially assigned. She needs trips to the dollar store for supplies and she needs constant affirmation that YES, HER PROJECT IS AMAZING. She needs to rehearse her speeches in front of an audience, she needs to email her papers to me for a quick once-over, she needs. She needs. But, to her credit, she performs. Hoo boy does she perform. 98% is not sufficient in her eyes. Where are the other two marks??! She stresses, she worries, she performs. She struggles sometimes in the subjects she can’t perfect. Math, for example. She’s not the best mathematician in her class. Because she’s not the best, she’s obviously the worst.

I don’t worry about Emily. “I wish I had 24 other Emilys in my class.” 

Joshua approaches school the way..well, I don’t even know. He is a mess. He loses everything. I can’t tell you how many pencil cases I have bought this year alone. And how many times I have had to replenish missing pencils, pens, markers, glue sticks and the like. He doesn’t write down his assignments. According to him, he doesn’t need to. “I finished my homework at school.” He finished, that is, until I find out that he hasn’t finished. He has done the minimum. This week, he brought home a book that his teacher compiled featuring the words of each 4th grader; fictional words about fictional pets. The students wrote pages and pages about mythical dogs and cats and hamsters. Joshua, on the other hand, wrote FOUR sentences. But these sentences? They were beautiful. They described the dawn and the dew on the grass and the dog’s panting as he runs through the morning mist. I KNOW. But he wrote four sentences. Not sufficient, if you ask his teacher. He reads at a college level, plowing through series after series nightly. He performs math at a high-school level, when he decides he wants to perform.

This morning I kept him home after receiving an alarming email from his teacher. I won’t get into specifics, but I will say this. When you tell your parents that you delivered an assignment that is a HUGE percentage of your grade 4 grade, and you actually didn’t even do the assignment, we’ve got problems.

Brilliant mind.

Brilliantly bad at delivery.

I’m sure he’s not unique.

But he is unique to me.

I’m used to his older sister.

I’m not used to non-performance. I’m not used to apathy when it comes to assignments. I’m not used to delivering just enough to scrape by.

So I kept him home so he could sit down and deliver a two-page book report. He was finished by 9:00am. When he actually sat down and did it, the words just poured out of him. He read the book. He understood the book. He even liked the book. He just decided not to do the assignment. WHY?

I don’t know how to do this. I cannot wrap my head around it. HOW do I get him to be more organized, to complete assignments, to WANT to complete assignments?

He is such an awesome kid, with so much greatness bottled inside.

But how do we get it out…

…before he fails 4th grade?

Ahem. Sometimes women can tell the difference between PEE and AMNIOTIC FLUID. And sometimes nurses are assholes.

After a long (12 hours!) and completely uneventful labor—save for the Jason Biggs lookalike (and actalike) who came in to check how dilated I was and proceeded to tell me that it was his first time, um, with his hands inside of a lady—I had a baby boy in my arms. We had two surprises that day. A November 2nd baby and a boy. I just assumed I was carrying another girl, as my pregnancies were identical. He was supposed to be an Abby, but came out a Joshua.

My initial shock of What was I going to do with A BOY??!? wore off immediately as I pulled him to my chest, snuggled him and thought I have a boy! I am the mama of A BOY!

I am so thankful for this bundle of boy.

He plays baseball and hockey and pokemon.

He loves his DS and iPod and Wii and XBOX.

He likes monsters and ninjas and cowboys and aliens.

He loves The Goonies and The Karate Kid and Star Wars and Indiana Jones.

He gets dirty and silly and crazy and loud and angry and sweet and lovable.

He is a carnivore.

He is a math whiz and he loves to read, sometimes until 2 in the morning.

He is a master manipulator and a computer hacker.

He is all legs and arms and corners and yet still manages to be a great snuggler.

Burps and farts are always funny.

I am the mama of a boy.

A boy who is nine today.

Except, that, it kind of sort of is almost exactly all of time. The beginning years of our marriage enjoyed such fun times as not having any money and having three babies in 4.5 years. We argued about VISA bills, and they were presented to me in such dad-like fashion, with yellow highlighter markings through all of my frivolous expenses. I threw many “YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER!”s his way. And we had a really awesome and exciting way of fighting that included the stink eye and the silent treatment. But somewhere along the way, we stopped doing that. We started stressing less about money, we started sleeping more. We stopped arguing and ignoring, and there hasn’t been a stink eye from anyone other than our preteen daughter in ages. We have hit this great place. I go to sleep happy at night, I wake up happy in the morning. I absolutely love my life.

Until I get onto to Twitter and see that my lovely husband of 13 years has decided to use Twitter to tell me that he has turned my 8-year-old son into Lloyd Christmas.

The resemblance is uncanny, really. And I can’t help but wonder what kind of hairdressers he is visiting in New Brunswick. Because seriously?

SERIOUSLY?

My son has this amazing mop of fabulous hair. It’s messy, it’s long, it’s all over the place. But if you have ever met my son, that is the essence of him. He’s messy and all over the place. We made this exact mistake last October, and I could barely look at this boy who they tried to convince me was my son. I didn’t even recognize him.

Go ahead and get all high and mighty.

YES. It’s just hair. Yes. It will grow back.

Yes. It’s not like he shaved it completely off.

Yes, Kristin, it most definitely could be worse. (Related: HAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!)(Also related: I really need that.)

Yes, there ARE people who are worse off.

Yes, yes yes yes. All of your points are valid, of course.

It still doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be upset or angry or disappointed that my husband of thirteen years should have known better. It does, however, make me happy to know that while other couples have actual, real problems, my husband and I fight about haircuts. I’m guessing it’s probably a good sign for our future; for what we’ll argue about when we are older and grayer and droopier and wrinklier and we spending out old age sitting on our white porch. Haircuts.

SIGH.

Double sigh.

I had better start teaching him how to break up street fights and how to do THE LIFT. And maybe one day the ladies will forgive him for the Lloyd Christmas haircut the same way we forgive Ryan Gosling for Breaker High.

(I was actually just the slightest trifle worried that my 8-year-old had done something wrong.)

“Mommy! Oh my god! I got A CYCLE! Do you know what that is? It means I got A HOME RUN! A TRIPLE! A DOUBLE! AND A SINGLE! All tonight! In ONE game! And I made two huge plays at second base and got two people out.”

“Well, from the giant smile on your face and the milkshake you are inhaling, I’m guessing this is a good thing?”

“Are you kidding?? It’s, like, the best thing to ever happen to me ever in my entire life.Daddy just kept saying something about some dude named Kelly Gruber.”

“I’m guessing that he’s different than Macgruber?”

“Who knows? Daddy really says weird stuff sometimes.”

“Hey, Josh. How come when *I* come to your games, I spend the entire time in the port-o-potty with your sister or buying snow cones or trying on helmets or playing in the park and when Daddy comes, he gets to see your shining moments?”

“I’ll tell you what, Mommy. Come to the next game. Leave the pooping spectators at home. I promise I’ll do something special for you.”

And then he winked at me.

Who the heck *is* this boy? Where did he come from?

Now if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to check mls.com and find us a house in a warmer climate…

Sticky and I do not mix.

Lollipops. Maple syrup. Ice cream. Glue sticks. Cotton candy. Caramel. Timbits. Honey. Laffy Taffys. Gum. Juice.

*Shudders*

The problem with this, of course, is that I am the mother of three young children, two of which tend to be on the sticky side more often than not. It’s really repulsive, actually.

This weekend, on sort of a semi-whim, we grabbed the kids and took them downtown for brunch and to visit Kensington Market and Chinatown for the first time. We often forget that Toronto is such a wonderful city with all of these great nooks and crannies filled with loveliness. We live in the nosebleeds, which means, essentially, that we dont really live anywhere near downtown and require both a car and a subway ride to get there. After spending the last few months working downtown and exploring some of the neighborhoods, I realized that we never take advantage of what this city has to offer. And so, brunch at The Drake Hotel. It was lovely, really, and something different for the kids. They didn’t really notice, as they were elbow deep in their buttermilk pancakes with ice cream and maple sugar berries.

Pancakes. Ice cream. Maple Sugar berries.

Of course, the beauty of having kids old enough to take semi-whim-like trips downtown is that we no longer need strollers or diapers or baby food or bottles or wipes or diaper bags. But, you know, NO WIPES.

This meal was an anti-sticky girl’s nightmare.

So, after hosing the children down as best as we could, giving them a fresh new palette to decorate with further stickiness, we set out for the day. We visited Kensington market and explored the produce and the vintage clothing shops and the bakeries and the cheese shops. We tried on 800 pairs of sunglasses and looked at vintage cowboy boots. We went to Chinatown and bought a new wok and some chopsticks and marveled at all the new fruits and vegetables that we had never seen.

And then. Oh my god. THEN. Someone who was not me bought these for the kids.

Do you know what happens to giant ice creams that are shaped like cartoon characters when they are out for more then 8.6 seconds in 90-degree weather?

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

They were covered, head to toe, in sticky, goopy goodness.

This is the stuff of nightmares, I tell you.

The only thing that could possibly be worse would be if they were SIMULTANEOUSLY CHEWING CEREAL IN MY EARS.

Joshua, age 5: “I can’t ride my bike.”

Joshua, age 6: “I don’t want to ride my bike.”

Joshua, age 7: “I will never ride my bike.”

Joshua, age 8: “I give up.”

Me, age 33: “I will give you this here crisp $20 bill if you learn to learn to ride your two-wheeler.”

Any guesses as to how many minutes passed before he was riding that thing?

I’ll give you a hint. It was fewer than 6.

My son took me for a ride, by, well, quite literally taking himself for one.

Little scammer.

“Guess what, Mommy! I got an infield home run!”

My heart was LITERALLY bursting out of my chest.

Yes, I realize that my heart was not actually literally bursting out of my chest, but ever since Chris Traeger came to Pawnee, I have not been able to not use literally in literally every single sentence I speak.

My girls have always known who they are and what they are passionate about. Emily is my singer and my actress; my hip hop dancer and my guitar player. Isabella is an artist and a figure skater; a storyteller and a princess. The girls make friends quickly and they have planned their own playdates before I can even suggest them.

Josh marches to a bit of a different drummer.

While his sisters surround themselves with friends who are THEIR VERY BEST FRIENDS IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD, MAMA, OMG, Josh never really “clicked” with anyone in particular. He was always happy to play with anyone and everyone, but he didn’t have those friendships, the kind my girls had that included gabbing on the phone and sleepovers and day-long playdates. Josh has never had a best friend. In fact, he has never even had a great friend.

And while the girls are oozing with passions, and don’t have enough days in the week (or funds in the bank) to do all of the dancing and acting and swimming and music they desire, Josh was pretty lukewarm about, well, just about everything.

He took karate which he liked but didn’t love. He went to basketball camp which he liked but didn’t love. He played hockey which he liked but didn’t love. He swam which he liked but didn’t love. He joined a soccer team which he liked but didn’t love.

He was content, but not excited about anything.

Until now.

Over the last couple of months, Josh has clicked with a friend and neighbor from a few blocks down.

Suddenly, something very new is happening around Casa de Martell. Josh is talking on the phone and begging for playdates and having sleepovers and going to the park with Adam and bringing him along on family activities. He is excited about his friendship with Adam.

And  after all the karate and basketball and soccer and hockey and swimming, he has finally figured out what he loves.

My son is a baseball player. He is a great runner, a great ball thrower, a great batter. He gets better and better every single week. And most of all, HE LOVES IT. He looks forward to going and he is all smiles when he bursts through the door to tell me about singles and doubles and infield home runs.

It may have taken him a little bit longer to get here, but he’s here.

And I literally could not be more proud of him.

But Mommy, I don’t know how to smile.

But Mommy, I DO need to wear my Clark Kent glasses that used to be my Rio 3D glasses, you know, before I popped the lenses out.

But Mommy, I’m SUPER bored.

But Mommy, I don’t think you are funny. I have nothing to smile about.

But Mommy, I don’t know where to look.

But Mommy, I can’t sit here any longer!

But Mommy, I need to pee.

But Mommy, can’t you just make the girls do this???

But Mommy, this is the worst punishment in the world.

Actually, now that I think about it…

It might just be THE BEST PUNISHMENT IN THE WORLD. Hee.

Yes. I am. Even she has faith in me that I can do this on my own. I used to be very “Becca! Help me! I broke something! Fix it for me!” and because she’s amazing and wonderful and talented as hell, she does it for me. But now I’m all, I actually have the time and I fancy myself a pretty capable person and a quick learner and now it’s time to get my act together and not rely on poor Becca to fix my problems, but to help me help myself. So, today it’s moving my blog from one host to another, once I do all my twitter polling and research and actually decide which host to go with. Tomorrow…it’s on to teaching myself html!

Anyhoo. Other than having to deal with a 4th grader who thinks she needs to have a cell phone and having to sit in a sushi restaurant with friends with my face in my iphone cursing about my hosting problems, things are good. No, really, she thinks she needs a cell phone. For what exactly? I mean, my child is chauffeured to school each morning and chauffeured to her after-school activity and then chauffeured home again where she can talk to her friend via facetime or facebook or skype, or, you know, the actual telephone. Kids these days. MAN. I explained to Miss Emily about my first portable phone, which was not exactly a cell phone as it was mounted into my car and it was only for absolute emergencies. “Now, Ali, I don’t want you to even pick up this car phone unless you are amidst an 8-car-pileup. Mmmmmkay?” Also, it was the size of a small child. So, no cell phone. But it’s really all I hear about right now. ALL.

Josh scored his first hockey league goal ever. This is huge for us. Josh likes hockey, but he has never really LIKED hockey. Last year we were in Atlanta, where, surprise! the kids do not play ice hockey. So, he missed a year of skating and a year of puck handling and a year of being on the ice. So, when we came back to Toronto, we threw him back into hockey and he was all, but I really just want to play baseball. Unfortunately for my son, he lives in the wrong climate for baseball. In Atlanta, they can play year-round. In Toronto, it’s cold by September, and in April it’s still snowing. (Yes. It is. It snowed LAST NIGHT) So, his team lost their last game which meant they only had one more game…the consolation game where the losers play each other. And Josh was all, finally, I am done with this. Only he scored. Finally. He went to the net. He shot. He scored. He rejoiced.

And now he’s signed up for hockey camp and he’s ridiculously excited about it and he hasn’t stopped talking about hockey since yesterday. It’s amazing what one goal can do for a child.

A boy who loses things.

A boy who loves his mommy.

A boy who loves beyblades.

A boy who hates the pool but loves the ocean.

A boy who is obsessed with Harry Potter.

A boy who is the worst mime ever.

A boy who wears skinny jeans.

A boy who does the Truffle Shuffle.

A boy who thinks the tooth fairy’s name is Gwyneth.

A boy who asked my dad if he fought in the Civil War.

A boy who always monkeys around.

A boy who loves hockey.

A boy who had THIS conversation:

Josh: Daddy, Britney Spears died.

Husband: No, she didn’t, Josh.

Josh: oh right, that was Moses (yes, that Moses. from the bible. because the two are so easily confused)

A boy who writes like this:

A boy with attitude.

A boy who loves to watch The Packers play.

A boy who reads a novel every night.

A boy who rocks at Angry Birds.

A boy who could eat 18 pieces of salmon sashimi in a single sitting.

A boy who isn’t afraid to put on a pair of tights to play mungojerrie in CATS.

A boy with eyelashes.

A boy who has me completely and totally wrapped around his little fingers. God, I love this kid. Happy Birthday, J-Boy.