Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Things on Thursday: Less than a Week to Go!
As the commercial says, it's the most wonderful time of the year! Nick looks like the children in the ad. Jack, on the other hand, can't wait for next Wednesday.
Today, we're going to Nick's school to practice his locker combination. It's hard to believe my boy will have a locker and that he wanted a messenger bag instead of a backpack. I hope the whole locker thing gets him a tiny bit excited for school. Since school isn't a choice, it's much better to have a good attitude about it.
Life is easier if you're a geek, you know.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
A Little Vacation
Questioning my Intelligence will be back with new content next week (Wednesday).
Until then, here's an encore of one of my favorite essays I've posted here. I recently had a conversation with a mommy whose new baby #2 is challenging all her preconceptions about parenting, and she's experiencing the same baffled, "what-the-heck-is-happening-to-me?" feelings I had after Jack was born. Pride goeth before the fall. I've got none left, and I imagine her baby #2 will suck her down into the trenches with the rest of us muddling-through, prideless mothers. Welcome to the club, my friend. Welcome to the club.
Until then, here's an encore of one of my favorite essays I've posted here. I recently had a conversation with a mommy whose new baby #2 is challenging all her preconceptions about parenting, and she's experiencing the same baffled, "what-the-heck-is-happening-to-me?" feelings I had after Jack was born. Pride goeth before the fall. I've got none left, and I imagine her baby #2 will suck her down into the trenches with the rest of us muddling-through, prideless mothers. Welcome to the club, my friend. Welcome to the club.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Words, Words, Words about Mom
Jack brought this home from school yesterday. My favorite sentence is, "My mom is as pretty as the moon and stars."
This weekend we celebrate moms...those who are raising or have raised humans. Moms are not made by the experience of giving birth. They are made by loving someone who needs them. They are made by joy and celebration over everything from first smiles to mud pies to prom night. They are made by worry and fret over fevers, the influence of peers, and the hard lessons they let their children learn. They are made by kissing boo-boos and taking away Wii time for misdeeds, feeding hungry tummies every single day, getting calls from principals and teachers about issues that make them want to sink through the floor in embarrassment, and bursting with pride the first time their little one remembers to put dirty clothes in the basket. Moms are made by making mistakes and feeling guilty, by moving forward on faith, by praying each and every day that they are doing the right things to raise an adult who can stand competently and happily on his or her own two feet.
Moms are made by holding on and by letting go, and by never, ever forgetting that this human they love was once a helpless baby with a toothless grin.
Let's celebrate our moms--those still with us and those who have passed on--by filling in the blank on one of the sentences in Jack's worksheet above, whichever one speaks to you right now in the moment.*
My mom is special to me because she loved me when I was not lovable.
Your turn!
*If you can't read them, click on the picture to enlarge it.
This weekend we celebrate moms...those who are raising or have raised humans. Moms are not made by the experience of giving birth. They are made by loving someone who needs them. They are made by joy and celebration over everything from first smiles to mud pies to prom night. They are made by worry and fret over fevers, the influence of peers, and the hard lessons they let their children learn. They are made by kissing boo-boos and taking away Wii time for misdeeds, feeding hungry tummies every single day, getting calls from principals and teachers about issues that make them want to sink through the floor in embarrassment, and bursting with pride the first time their little one remembers to put dirty clothes in the basket. Moms are made by making mistakes and feeling guilty, by moving forward on faith, by praying each and every day that they are doing the right things to raise an adult who can stand competently and happily on his or her own two feet.
Moms are made by holding on and by letting go, and by never, ever forgetting that this human they love was once a helpless baby with a toothless grin.
Let's celebrate our moms--those still with us and those who have passed on--by filling in the blank on one of the sentences in Jack's worksheet above, whichever one speaks to you right now in the moment.*
My mom is special to me because she loved me when I was not lovable.
Your turn!
*If you can't read them, click on the picture to enlarge it.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Metacognitive Funk
I am in a metacognitive funk, and oddly enough, I feel pretty good about it.
I've lived long enough to realize that life is about ebb and flow, ups and downs, answers and confusion, order and chaos, concentration and distraction, process and product, focus and funk. In other words, life is dynamic, and we have to take time to process, reflect, and think before we can feel good about moving forward to do what we need to do. Funks are, in fact, natural, normal, and necessary.
Our modern lifestyle forces us to move from one crisis to the next, one appointment to the next, one duty to the next without taking time to reflect about WHY we're doing this or IF we should be doing this at all.
Perhaps we should be doing that.
But how in the world do we figure that out? The study of how we think is called metacognition, and though I'm no expert in the subject, I do spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how people think, why they think the way they do, and what a difference that makes in their happiness.
In a recent conversation, a friend confessed that she didn't feel like a grown-up. She thought she would be something easily labeled by this time in her life, most likely a professor, that would signal to the world and to herself that she was a grown-up. Instead, she feels like a youngster pretending to be a mommy, wife, teacher, lay minister, volunteer, and so forth. She feels a push toward a particular path but a part of her doesn't want to go down that road. She feels like she's moving from one obligation to the next, putting out fires, doing only what is in front of her at any given moment. Where's the focus, the career, the grown-up?
Oh, how I relate to her feelings! She and I (and perhaps you, too) need to take a little time to contemplate the choices we make and move more deliberately. Living in a state of constant distraction isn't healthy, and it's certainly NOT a recipe for happiness.
We all have to do things we don't necessarily want to do. I didn't want to be a stay-at-home mom, partly because I always saw myself as a career-oriented intellectual who could never be satisfied with diapers and laundry, but mainly because I have several examples in my life of women who are stay-at-home moms and are much better at it than I will ever be. Oh how I hate being a loser! These other mommies' houses are always neat and tidy, their floors always clean, their laudry ironed and put away, their kitchens immaculate, their basements completely lacking in cobwebs and chaos. Their children never look shaggy or disheveled, never lack for meaningful activities, and never, ever spend all day in their pajamas.
I, on the other hand, sit here in my breakfast room sipping tea and watching the morning sun as it beautifully backlights the layer of dust (artfully rearranged by some small hand) on my 54" television screen. My boys needed haircuts three weeks ago and spent all day Sunday in their jammies for no better reason than their mother wasn't paying attention.
My grandmother would be so disappointed.
A few months ago, I started noticing the symptoms of metacognitive funk and made the conscious decision to roll with it until some new project presented itself. This funk, I believe, began toward the end of Stephen Ministry training. I had no big project to start, no new class to take its place. Of course, my SM commitment involves regular continuing education and peer supervision, but the newness of it has worn off and left me looking for the next shiny object to chase.
At first, I considered going back to teaching college English. That impulse, appealing as it was, passed rather quickly, for a number of very good reasons. Employment outside the home holds pitfalls for me as a mom. I tend to obsess about doing a good job for anyone who is paying me real money to work, and teaching holds far too many opportunities for obsessive overdrive. Know thyself. I do. In a few years, when both boys can stay at home alone, this option will be more realistic.
No, clearly I need to stay at home and keep my primary focus on the kids. Mom is my job title, and it's a 24/7 gig with a wacky schedule and unpredictable periods of down time that scream for meaningful occupation outside these four walls of domestic bliss.
You're reading one of those occupations. Questioning my Intelligence was born of a desire to write my way out of an existential crisis, and here, almost three years later, I find myself still in that same existential crisis. Instead of seeing my lack of progress as a failure, I choose to see it as a life lesson. Perhaps, if you're the sort of person who tends toward metacognitive reflection, existential crisis is a normal state of being. By embracing the crisis, owning it, and using it in positive ways, I'll figure out what I'm supposed to do next.
And then after that.
And then after that.
Frankly, this metacognitive funk feels like the healthiest thing that has ever happened in my brain, but then, crazy people always think they are perfectly sane, so perhaps I ought not to feel so confident about it.
I doubt my funk will last much longer because, between you and me, I know exactly what I'm supposed to do next. George, God, and the yearning of my heart all tell me the same thing. I'm just scared. I might fail. I'll definitely have to face down that evil voice from my childhood that tells me I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not up to standard. My house will definitely get messier. I'll have to quit doing some of the things I am doing now that I enjoy, or at least scale back on them. It feels scary and huge and weird to start a new chapter. But the next shiny thing to grab my attention is already sparkling right in front of me.
I just need to work up the courage to pick it up and run with it.
Please share stories of your own metacognitive funks...or tell how the rat race keeps you from taking time to reflect and direct your life in ways that might make you happier. What shiny, sparkling worthwhile things are you running with right now? Is there something you should run with but are afraid or reluctant to start?
I've lived long enough to realize that life is about ebb and flow, ups and downs, answers and confusion, order and chaos, concentration and distraction, process and product, focus and funk. In other words, life is dynamic, and we have to take time to process, reflect, and think before we can feel good about moving forward to do what we need to do. Funks are, in fact, natural, normal, and necessary.
Our modern lifestyle forces us to move from one crisis to the next, one appointment to the next, one duty to the next without taking time to reflect about WHY we're doing this or IF we should be doing this at all.
Perhaps we should be doing that.
But how in the world do we figure that out? The study of how we think is called metacognition, and though I'm no expert in the subject, I do spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how people think, why they think the way they do, and what a difference that makes in their happiness.
In a recent conversation, a friend confessed that she didn't feel like a grown-up. She thought she would be something easily labeled by this time in her life, most likely a professor, that would signal to the world and to herself that she was a grown-up. Instead, she feels like a youngster pretending to be a mommy, wife, teacher, lay minister, volunteer, and so forth. She feels a push toward a particular path but a part of her doesn't want to go down that road. She feels like she's moving from one obligation to the next, putting out fires, doing only what is in front of her at any given moment. Where's the focus, the career, the grown-up?
Oh, how I relate to her feelings! She and I (and perhaps you, too) need to take a little time to contemplate the choices we make and move more deliberately. Living in a state of constant distraction isn't healthy, and it's certainly NOT a recipe for happiness.
We all have to do things we don't necessarily want to do. I didn't want to be a stay-at-home mom, partly because I always saw myself as a career-oriented intellectual who could never be satisfied with diapers and laundry, but mainly because I have several examples in my life of women who are stay-at-home moms and are much better at it than I will ever be. Oh how I hate being a loser! These other mommies' houses are always neat and tidy, their floors always clean, their laudry ironed and put away, their kitchens immaculate, their basements completely lacking in cobwebs and chaos. Their children never look shaggy or disheveled, never lack for meaningful activities, and never, ever spend all day in their pajamas.
I, on the other hand, sit here in my breakfast room sipping tea and watching the morning sun as it beautifully backlights the layer of dust (artfully rearranged by some small hand) on my 54" television screen. My boys needed haircuts three weeks ago and spent all day Sunday in their jammies for no better reason than their mother wasn't paying attention.
My grandmother would be so disappointed.
A few months ago, I started noticing the symptoms of metacognitive funk and made the conscious decision to roll with it until some new project presented itself. This funk, I believe, began toward the end of Stephen Ministry training. I had no big project to start, no new class to take its place. Of course, my SM commitment involves regular continuing education and peer supervision, but the newness of it has worn off and left me looking for the next shiny object to chase.
At first, I considered going back to teaching college English. That impulse, appealing as it was, passed rather quickly, for a number of very good reasons. Employment outside the home holds pitfalls for me as a mom. I tend to obsess about doing a good job for anyone who is paying me real money to work, and teaching holds far too many opportunities for obsessive overdrive. Know thyself. I do. In a few years, when both boys can stay at home alone, this option will be more realistic.
No, clearly I need to stay at home and keep my primary focus on the kids. Mom is my job title, and it's a 24/7 gig with a wacky schedule and unpredictable periods of down time that scream for meaningful occupation outside these four walls of domestic bliss.
You're reading one of those occupations. Questioning my Intelligence was born of a desire to write my way out of an existential crisis, and here, almost three years later, I find myself still in that same existential crisis. Instead of seeing my lack of progress as a failure, I choose to see it as a life lesson. Perhaps, if you're the sort of person who tends toward metacognitive reflection, existential crisis is a normal state of being. By embracing the crisis, owning it, and using it in positive ways, I'll figure out what I'm supposed to do next.
And then after that.
And then after that.
Frankly, this metacognitive funk feels like the healthiest thing that has ever happened in my brain, but then, crazy people always think they are perfectly sane, so perhaps I ought not to feel so confident about it.
I doubt my funk will last much longer because, between you and me, I know exactly what I'm supposed to do next. George, God, and the yearning of my heart all tell me the same thing. I'm just scared. I might fail. I'll definitely have to face down that evil voice from my childhood that tells me I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not up to standard. My house will definitely get messier. I'll have to quit doing some of the things I am doing now that I enjoy, or at least scale back on them. It feels scary and huge and weird to start a new chapter. But the next shiny thing to grab my attention is already sparkling right in front of me.
I just need to work up the courage to pick it up and run with it.
Please share stories of your own metacognitive funks...or tell how the rat race keeps you from taking time to reflect and direct your life in ways that might make you happier. What shiny, sparkling worthwhile things are you running with right now? Is there something you should run with but are afraid or reluctant to start?
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Count Me In
Heather Armstrong's blog makes me so happy. Today's post couldn't have been better timed, either, since I'm coming off a three-day weekend during which my children bickered nonstop, the dog ate several dish towels, my husband talked at the dinner table about popping zits, and my head exploded like the much-discussed zit several times.
The Quiet
The Quiet
Monday, January 17, 2011
Jack's Weddell Seal Report
Jack has to do a report on Weddell seals. The report must include one paragraph on the seals (topic sentence, three facts about the seals, and a closing sentence with a particularly cool fact about the seal) plus a drawing of the seal in its habitat. Jack's special education teacher said he should need no accommodation to complete the project.
We collected our facts and composed the paragraph, and then I asked Jack to get his 120-count crayon box and draw a picture like the one I printed off the internet, which was of a Weddell seal lying on ice with snowy cliffs in the background.
About twenty seconds after he put crayon to paper, he announced, "I'm done!"
I looked at the picture. It was green. A green angel with wings standing on two legs in a green box.
"Weddell seals don't have wings!"
"Yes, they do!" he said.
"They don't. And they don't stand on the ice. They don't have legs."
"YES. They do!"
"Bring me your crayons. You're doing this again."
"Noooooooo!!!!!!"
Why do second-grade teachers do this to parents?
We collected our facts and composed the paragraph, and then I asked Jack to get his 120-count crayon box and draw a picture like the one I printed off the internet, which was of a Weddell seal lying on ice with snowy cliffs in the background.
About twenty seconds after he put crayon to paper, he announced, "I'm done!"
I looked at the picture. It was green. A green angel with wings standing on two legs in a green box.
"Weddell seals don't have wings!"
"Yes, they do!" he said.
"They don't. And they don't stand on the ice. They don't have legs."
"YES. They do!"
"Bring me your crayons. You're doing this again."
"Noooooooo!!!!!!"
Why do second-grade teachers do this to parents?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Believing
Monday, Nick showed me his letter to Santa. It included, among other things, a request for Santa to say hello to Mrs. Claus, detailed directions to our house (continent, country, state, county, town, neighborhood, street and number), and candy canes for Santa and Mrs. Claus.
A sweet bribe never hurt, eh?
Nick used his best handwriting, which is a big deal for Mr. Chicken Scratch. He left the letter with our Elf on the Shelf, Chris, so he could hand-deliver it to Santa that night. It seemed safer to him than taking his chances with the United States Postal Service.
Tuesday morning, I slept in, something I almost never do and which left me more disoriented than usual. I staggered downstairs and started making coffee. That’s when Nick assaulted me with the following question:
“Mom, is Santa real?”
WHAT?!?! Hello, I haven’t even had my coffee yet—it’s not even made, for heaven’s sake—and you’re springing this on me. Totally not fair.
I tried every circumlocution my tired brain could muster, including the decisive “Santa doesn’t bring presents to children who don’t believe in him!” Nick would not be deterred.
“Mom, is there a man in a red suit who delivers toys to children in a reindeer-driven sleigh? I have to know the TRUTH!”
So I told him.
And he cried. He threw his arms around me and cried.
I cried, too.
Then, he got mad. “I wish I’d known YEARS ago,” he wailed.
Honestly, his response caught me totally by surprise. You see, I never had an epiphany about Santa. I just gradually realized that Mom was Santa. My sister and I kept up the illusion of believing for years because it made Mom happy. We even gave her a picture of the two of us as teenagers sitting on Santa’s lap at the mall. I’ve heard of families rejecting Santa and raising their children without him, but I’d always thought those families were a bit Scrooge-ish. It never occurred to me (or George, for that matter) to think we’d been lied to.
When I asked Nick if he was angry at me, he said, “No! I’m angry at whoever wrote ‘Twas the Night before Christmas. He lied to kids. That’s just wrong!”
At this point, I explained very clearly that Santa symbolizes the spirit of Christmas and God’s gift of His Son, and that spirit is very much present and alive and real every time someone gives a gift. Children have a hard time understanding what the gift of Baby Jesus really means (a lot of adults grapple with this, too), and that difficult concept is made understandable to children through the story of Santa and his gifts. I also explained that St. Nicholas was a real man who lived in the 4th century and was known for giving presents. That man died, but his spirit lives on in the myth of Santa Claus.
Nick liked this explanation but was still angry, and when I asked why, he said, “Everyone at school was saying he’s not real, and I said he was.”
This made sense to me. He’s been defending Santa against the unbelievers, and now he felt a bit childish and silly…a hard feeling for a kid who wants desperately to be grown up.
So I suggested, “All you have to say when someone says Santa isn’t real is that the spirit of Santa most certainly is real. That is true and anyone who doesn’t believe it is really sad and you should feel sorry for them.”
I was taken aback by how quickly Nick accepted my explanation. He’s now at an age when he can understand symbolic thought, and this both excites me and makes me sad. As an English literature junky, I live and breath symbolic thinking. As a mother, I want my children’s innocent acceptance of this delightful story to continue forever.
At lunch, Nick sat at the table, smiling. He then, out of the blue, declared, “I’m so HAPPY!”
Whew. Christmas isn’t ruined.
But from now on, when a child assaults me before I’ve had my coffee, I’m playing for time.
A sweet bribe never hurt, eh?
Nick used his best handwriting, which is a big deal for Mr. Chicken Scratch. He left the letter with our Elf on the Shelf, Chris, so he could hand-deliver it to Santa that night. It seemed safer to him than taking his chances with the United States Postal Service.
Tuesday morning, I slept in, something I almost never do and which left me more disoriented than usual. I staggered downstairs and started making coffee. That’s when Nick assaulted me with the following question:
“Mom, is Santa real?”
WHAT?!?! Hello, I haven’t even had my coffee yet—it’s not even made, for heaven’s sake—and you’re springing this on me. Totally not fair.
I tried every circumlocution my tired brain could muster, including the decisive “Santa doesn’t bring presents to children who don’t believe in him!” Nick would not be deterred.
“Mom, is there a man in a red suit who delivers toys to children in a reindeer-driven sleigh? I have to know the TRUTH!”
So I told him.
And he cried. He threw his arms around me and cried.
I cried, too.
Then, he got mad. “I wish I’d known YEARS ago,” he wailed.
Honestly, his response caught me totally by surprise. You see, I never had an epiphany about Santa. I just gradually realized that Mom was Santa. My sister and I kept up the illusion of believing for years because it made Mom happy. We even gave her a picture of the two of us as teenagers sitting on Santa’s lap at the mall. I’ve heard of families rejecting Santa and raising their children without him, but I’d always thought those families were a bit Scrooge-ish. It never occurred to me (or George, for that matter) to think we’d been lied to.
When I asked Nick if he was angry at me, he said, “No! I’m angry at whoever wrote ‘Twas the Night before Christmas. He lied to kids. That’s just wrong!”
At this point, I explained very clearly that Santa symbolizes the spirit of Christmas and God’s gift of His Son, and that spirit is very much present and alive and real every time someone gives a gift. Children have a hard time understanding what the gift of Baby Jesus really means (a lot of adults grapple with this, too), and that difficult concept is made understandable to children through the story of Santa and his gifts. I also explained that St. Nicholas was a real man who lived in the 4th century and was known for giving presents. That man died, but his spirit lives on in the myth of Santa Claus.
Nick liked this explanation but was still angry, and when I asked why, he said, “Everyone at school was saying he’s not real, and I said he was.”
This made sense to me. He’s been defending Santa against the unbelievers, and now he felt a bit childish and silly…a hard feeling for a kid who wants desperately to be grown up.
So I suggested, “All you have to say when someone says Santa isn’t real is that the spirit of Santa most certainly is real. That is true and anyone who doesn’t believe it is really sad and you should feel sorry for them.”
I was taken aback by how quickly Nick accepted my explanation. He’s now at an age when he can understand symbolic thought, and this both excites me and makes me sad. As an English literature junky, I live and breath symbolic thinking. As a mother, I want my children’s innocent acceptance of this delightful story to continue forever.
At lunch, Nick sat at the table, smiling. He then, out of the blue, declared, “I’m so HAPPY!”
Whew. Christmas isn’t ruined.
But from now on, when a child assaults me before I’ve had my coffee, I’m playing for time.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Great Moments in Parenting
At dinner tonight, a discussion of comedians took an interesting turn.
Nick: Well, Mike Myers is the sex guy. And you gotta respect him for that.
Me and George: WHAT!?!?!
Me: Nick, what makes you say that?
Nick: He shags everybody.
George: People who shag everybody don't deserve your respect or admiration.
I smiled and thought what a wonderful man I'd married. But then...
George: You might envy them, but you shouldn't respect them.
I'm running away. Anyone have a spare room?
Nick: Well, Mike Myers is the sex guy. And you gotta respect him for that.
Me and George: WHAT!?!?!
Me: Nick, what makes you say that?
Nick: He shags everybody.
George: People who shag everybody don't deserve your respect or admiration.
I smiled and thought what a wonderful man I'd married. But then...
George: You might envy them, but you shouldn't respect them.
I'm running away. Anyone have a spare room?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
A Little of This and a Little of That
Honestly, how much can be packed into three days of our lives? It's crazy here, I tell ya!
On Monday, we took Jack to the Newport Aquarium for his birthday, as we do every year. When I asked him what his favorite part was, he said, "The Nemo fish." So here are the Nemo fish:

And here is the happy birthday boy:

Jack's birthday was all about Thomas the Tank Engine. Literally. The cake, the decorations, the presents were ALL Thomas. What a happy kid he was!

Jack won't build Thomas tracks for himself, so Nick took over our library (which we have blocked off from Daisy, who would no doubt enjoy chewing the wooden tracks to pieces) and built a huge Island of Sodor for Jack that included his new Tidmouth Sheds and Coal Hopper. What a good big brother!

Tuesday, Jack's official birthday, was also the first day of school. Jack was very excited and happy to climb on the bus.

Today, however, he woke up late, lost part of his morning routine as a result, and pitched a fit about going to school. As we stood on the front porch waiting for the bus, he said, "I'm very frustrated with you, Mommy." As the bus pulled up, he stomped away, glanced back at me, and made an ugly face. "Jack, that's not nice," I said. In a lightning-quick change of mood, he stopped, turned, and said, "Mommy, I'm sorry I made an angry face at you. I love you." All smiles, he headed down the drive to the bus.
Nick is a rather jaded fifth grader who would rather pick up dog poo than admit that school is the least little bit fun. This makes getting the annual first-day-of-school picture rather challenging:

Daisy is now big enough to stand on her back legs and put her whole head on the kitchen table. I snapped this picture Monday night when she was sniffing at the Greek lasagne George made. Her new height served her well last night when she sneaked two pieces of bacon off George's BLT and started to swallow them whole before I pulled them out of her mouth. We've started buying bacon by the slice so we can limit how indulgent we are with it, so there were no extra slices to replace those two puppy-contaminated ones. George, who once shared a Tootsie Pop with Hoover, said he'd eat them anyway.
And he did. Bacon is bacon, folks.

My plan to celebrate the first day of school with a morning spent at Barnes & Noble cafe was derailed by Jack's plan. On Monday night, he told me, "Mommy, I have a plan. Listen. Tomorrow after school, I will go to my room and you will decorate the table with Thomas and put out my cake. Then, you will call me down and yell, 'Surprise!' Okay, does that sound like a plan?"
Unfortunately, I didn't have stuff to decorate the table for his birthday. In all the craziness of the last week, I forgot all about it. Plus, he made it clear that his life would be incomplete without "Spencer, the fastest engine on the Island of Sodor." So I spent my day making Jack's plan come true.
Wednesday, I made my plan come true...sort of.

I made it to Barnes & Noble by 9:30, and prepared my table for a celebratory breakfast and some uninterrupted blogging. Breakfast was tasty, and I was filled with a good feeling of sugary, caffeinated satisfaction. The computer, however, started acting up after about ten minutes, moving slowly. Suddenly, the screen went totally blank, then came back after about ten seconds totally distorted, with everything enlarged and pixellated. Then, the screen went black again and came back normal.
Good feeling gone. AIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!! Was I being hacked? Had I been infected with a virus? WHAT WAS WRONG!!!!
I clicked to shut down the computer and up pops the screen that says something like DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER...configuring Windows udates 1 of 16.
Good lord. Sixteen Windows updates. I sat there staring at the screen for about ten minutes, waiting. Just waiting. It was a relief to know that the shenanigans were the result of an overabundance of windows updates, but OH MY GOSH! I closed the system, packed up, and headed to Michael's, where I consoled myself with a few supplies for upcoming Halloween craft projects.
Maybe I'll get to blog at the bookstore NEXT week.
Yesterday afternoon, I had to take Daisy to the vet for shots and a check up. She checked out healthy, and the vet, who doctored Hoover, told her she had some big paws to fill. Daisy enjoyed her visit to the vet, made friends with everyone and every dog there, and we went home. Later, when George returned from his post-work run, he noticed that Daisy's face was swollen. She looked like a sharpei and was scratching at her head. Poor little pup!
I called the vet, who asked me to bring her immediately. Apparently, she had a reaction to part of the vaccine. The vet gave her a shot and me some prednisone to give her at home. George took this picture when we got back home. Her whole face looked so distorted and puffy.

By bedtime, she looked one hundred percent better. This morning, she and Jack sat on the steps looking so cute I had to snap a picture.

Finally, last night, George made the decision to do Ironman Wisconsin on September 12. With the troubles he had in training earlier this summer gone, he decided to go for it. Mom's coming to watch the boys and Miss Daisy. If you live near Madison and want to meet for coffee at the Starbuck's near the Capitol Building, shoot me an email.
Hopefully nothing crazy will happen to get in the way of THAT plan.
On Monday, we took Jack to the Newport Aquarium for his birthday, as we do every year. When I asked him what his favorite part was, he said, "The Nemo fish." So here are the Nemo fish:
And here is the happy birthday boy:
Jack's birthday was all about Thomas the Tank Engine. Literally. The cake, the decorations, the presents were ALL Thomas. What a happy kid he was!
Jack won't build Thomas tracks for himself, so Nick took over our library (which we have blocked off from Daisy, who would no doubt enjoy chewing the wooden tracks to pieces) and built a huge Island of Sodor for Jack that included his new Tidmouth Sheds and Coal Hopper. What a good big brother!

Tuesday, Jack's official birthday, was also the first day of school. Jack was very excited and happy to climb on the bus.
Today, however, he woke up late, lost part of his morning routine as a result, and pitched a fit about going to school. As we stood on the front porch waiting for the bus, he said, "I'm very frustrated with you, Mommy." As the bus pulled up, he stomped away, glanced back at me, and made an ugly face. "Jack, that's not nice," I said. In a lightning-quick change of mood, he stopped, turned, and said, "Mommy, I'm sorry I made an angry face at you. I love you." All smiles, he headed down the drive to the bus.
Nick is a rather jaded fifth grader who would rather pick up dog poo than admit that school is the least little bit fun. This makes getting the annual first-day-of-school picture rather challenging:
Daisy is now big enough to stand on her back legs and put her whole head on the kitchen table. I snapped this picture Monday night when she was sniffing at the Greek lasagne George made. Her new height served her well last night when she sneaked two pieces of bacon off George's BLT and started to swallow them whole before I pulled them out of her mouth. We've started buying bacon by the slice so we can limit how indulgent we are with it, so there were no extra slices to replace those two puppy-contaminated ones. George, who once shared a Tootsie Pop with Hoover, said he'd eat them anyway.
And he did. Bacon is bacon, folks.
My plan to celebrate the first day of school with a morning spent at Barnes & Noble cafe was derailed by Jack's plan. On Monday night, he told me, "Mommy, I have a plan. Listen. Tomorrow after school, I will go to my room and you will decorate the table with Thomas and put out my cake. Then, you will call me down and yell, 'Surprise!' Okay, does that sound like a plan?"
Unfortunately, I didn't have stuff to decorate the table for his birthday. In all the craziness of the last week, I forgot all about it. Plus, he made it clear that his life would be incomplete without "Spencer, the fastest engine on the Island of Sodor." So I spent my day making Jack's plan come true.
Wednesday, I made my plan come true...sort of.
I made it to Barnes & Noble by 9:30, and prepared my table for a celebratory breakfast and some uninterrupted blogging. Breakfast was tasty, and I was filled with a good feeling of sugary, caffeinated satisfaction. The computer, however, started acting up after about ten minutes, moving slowly. Suddenly, the screen went totally blank, then came back after about ten seconds totally distorted, with everything enlarged and pixellated. Then, the screen went black again and came back normal.
Good feeling gone. AIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!! Was I being hacked? Had I been infected with a virus? WHAT WAS WRONG!!!!
I clicked to shut down the computer and up pops the screen that says something like DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER...configuring Windows udates 1 of 16.
Good lord. Sixteen Windows updates. I sat there staring at the screen for about ten minutes, waiting. Just waiting. It was a relief to know that the shenanigans were the result of an overabundance of windows updates, but OH MY GOSH! I closed the system, packed up, and headed to Michael's, where I consoled myself with a few supplies for upcoming Halloween craft projects.
Maybe I'll get to blog at the bookstore NEXT week.
Yesterday afternoon, I had to take Daisy to the vet for shots and a check up. She checked out healthy, and the vet, who doctored Hoover, told her she had some big paws to fill. Daisy enjoyed her visit to the vet, made friends with everyone and every dog there, and we went home. Later, when George returned from his post-work run, he noticed that Daisy's face was swollen. She looked like a sharpei and was scratching at her head. Poor little pup!
I called the vet, who asked me to bring her immediately. Apparently, she had a reaction to part of the vaccine. The vet gave her a shot and me some prednisone to give her at home. George took this picture when we got back home. Her whole face looked so distorted and puffy.

By bedtime, she looked one hundred percent better. This morning, she and Jack sat on the steps looking so cute I had to snap a picture.
Finally, last night, George made the decision to do Ironman Wisconsin on September 12. With the troubles he had in training earlier this summer gone, he decided to go for it. Mom's coming to watch the boys and Miss Daisy. If you live near Madison and want to meet for coffee at the Starbuck's near the Capitol Building, shoot me an email.
Hopefully nothing crazy will happen to get in the way of THAT plan.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Door-to-Door Waffles, Anyone?
My son desperately wants a new rapid-fire Nerf gun. He was, however, four dollars short of the needed cash to purchase one.
This kid always has an idea. "Mom, guess what? I'm going to make money selling Cherry Delight! You remember the recipe I invented?"
Before I continue, allow me to share his recipe for Cherry Delight.
Nick's Cherry Delight
Ingredients:
waffles
cherry pie filling
powdered sugar
Directions:
Mom makes waffles using the recipe on the Bisquick box. Nick pops the top on the cherry pie filling, spoons some on each waffle, sprinkles each with powdered sugar.
That's Cherry Delight.
My response to his plan was annoyingly socratic.
Me: How are you going to get the waffles and cherry pie filling?
Nick: You're going to get them for me.
Me: Are you going to pay me for the ingredients?
Nick: That wouldn't work! I wouldn't make much money that way!
Me: Who will buy your waffles?
Nick: The neighbors.
Me: How will they know you have waffles to sell?
Nick: I will take them to their door.
Me: How will you keep them warm? How will you deliver them? Are you going to use paper plates? Who will pay for the paper plates?
Nick: [crickets]
Then I explained that, logistical difficulties aside, most people wouldn't want to buy cold, sickeningly sweet waffles from a door-to-door salesman trying to make money for a Nerf gun. Plus, we don't allow our children to go door-to-door anyway.
Me: I have another idea. Why don't we make the chocolate dumplings Ms. Debra made? They are easy, make a bunch, and you can easily sell them from a stand at the four-way stop by the pool.
Nick: Sure! I can sell them for a dollar a piece!
Me: Um. No. A quarter a piece would be better.
Nick: How 'bout 50 cents?
Me: A quarter.
He did make the chocolate dumplings but charged 50 cents each. He also tried selling at our pool first, but of course, as we had told him, no one takes money to a neighborhood pool that has no vending machines or snack bar. Finally, he admitted that the four-way stop would be best. He spent three hours in the hot, hot sun trying to sell chocolate dumplings (devil's food cake mix and one can of pumpkin...they're healthy and taste good, too!).
After an hour of no takers, he called me on the cell phone I loaned him, and told me things were not going well.
Nick: I thought I'd change the sign. [Smart kid!]
Me: What does it look like now?
Nick: It says, "50 cent chocolate."
Me: What did you write it with?
Nick: Blue marker.
Me: Can drivers read it? Are the letters really big and dark?
Nick: [pause] No.
Me: Make your letters bigger and darker and add the word dumplings to it. People may just think you're selling chocolate bars, which might not sound appealing at 9 in the morning.
Nick: Great idea, Mom! How do you spell dumplings?
I told him, and he went back to work.
One kind man took pity and bought two, which resulted in a jubilant phone call to update me on his victory. After that bit of success, the market dried up. After several hours, Nick's friend Jacob offered him $3, and Nick gave him the entire box.
He had earned his money by the sweat of his brow and the generosity of a friend, so I took him to Target, only to find two empty shelves where the gun he wanted should have been.
He took it like a man and said we can check back another day.
I'm proud of my boy and hope he eventually gets what he wants. But I hope his career takes a different path.
Perhaps contract negotiations.
This kid always has an idea. "Mom, guess what? I'm going to make money selling Cherry Delight! You remember the recipe I invented?"
Before I continue, allow me to share his recipe for Cherry Delight.
Nick's Cherry Delight
Ingredients:
waffles
cherry pie filling
powdered sugar
Directions:
Mom makes waffles using the recipe on the Bisquick box. Nick pops the top on the cherry pie filling, spoons some on each waffle, sprinkles each with powdered sugar.
That's Cherry Delight.
My response to his plan was annoyingly socratic.
Me: How are you going to get the waffles and cherry pie filling?
Nick: You're going to get them for me.
Me: Are you going to pay me for the ingredients?
Nick: That wouldn't work! I wouldn't make much money that way!
Me: Who will buy your waffles?
Nick: The neighbors.
Me: How will they know you have waffles to sell?
Nick: I will take them to their door.
Me: How will you keep them warm? How will you deliver them? Are you going to use paper plates? Who will pay for the paper plates?
Nick: [crickets]
Then I explained that, logistical difficulties aside, most people wouldn't want to buy cold, sickeningly sweet waffles from a door-to-door salesman trying to make money for a Nerf gun. Plus, we don't allow our children to go door-to-door anyway.
Me: I have another idea. Why don't we make the chocolate dumplings Ms. Debra made? They are easy, make a bunch, and you can easily sell them from a stand at the four-way stop by the pool.
Nick: Sure! I can sell them for a dollar a piece!
Me: Um. No. A quarter a piece would be better.
Nick: How 'bout 50 cents?
Me: A quarter.
He did make the chocolate dumplings but charged 50 cents each. He also tried selling at our pool first, but of course, as we had told him, no one takes money to a neighborhood pool that has no vending machines or snack bar. Finally, he admitted that the four-way stop would be best. He spent three hours in the hot, hot sun trying to sell chocolate dumplings (devil's food cake mix and one can of pumpkin...they're healthy and taste good, too!).
After an hour of no takers, he called me on the cell phone I loaned him, and told me things were not going well.
Nick: I thought I'd change the sign. [Smart kid!]
Me: What does it look like now?
Nick: It says, "50 cent chocolate."
Me: What did you write it with?
Nick: Blue marker.
Me: Can drivers read it? Are the letters really big and dark?
Nick: [pause] No.
Me: Make your letters bigger and darker and add the word dumplings to it. People may just think you're selling chocolate bars, which might not sound appealing at 9 in the morning.
Nick: Great idea, Mom! How do you spell dumplings?
I told him, and he went back to work.
One kind man took pity and bought two, which resulted in a jubilant phone call to update me on his victory. After that bit of success, the market dried up. After several hours, Nick's friend Jacob offered him $3, and Nick gave him the entire box.
He had earned his money by the sweat of his brow and the generosity of a friend, so I took him to Target, only to find two empty shelves where the gun he wanted should have been.
He took it like a man and said we can check back another day.
I'm proud of my boy and hope he eventually gets what he wants. But I hope his career takes a different path.
Perhaps contract negotiations.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Mommy Dearest
I realize I haven't posted recently about what a mean parent I am. You see, I make my children do things like BRUSH THEIR TEETH or FLUSH THE TOILET or PUT THEIR DIRTY CLOTHES IN THE LAUNDRY BASKET! Oh, THE HORROR! Judging from the whining and complaining, I'd say I'm in the running for the Meanest Mommy Award. Call Child Protective Services immediately, because my children are the most abused boys ON THE PLANET!
Of course, it's a miracle I didn't get arrested yesterday because...
wait for it...
wait...
I made Nick get a HAIRCUT!
Really, I don't deserve to be a mother.
As you can tell from Monday's post, our beautiful boys needed haircuts. George, a former Air Force officer who shaves his head completely bald, gets twitchy when his offsprings' hair touches their ears or collars. He demands they get haircuts and leaves it to me to execute the order.
He's a coward.
Jack actually has no problem with haircuts. In fact, at the barber shop last year, he saw a man getting a crew cut and said, "I want my hair cut like that guy!"
Nick, on the other hand, begins wailing and gnashing his teeth immediately upon the mere suggestion of getting a haircut, begging to get out of it and generally pitching a fit. As you can imagine, it isn't any better on the drive to the barber shop. He sobs, kicks the seat, and hurts my ears with his cries of despair. Meanwhile, Jack helpfully asks, "What's the matter, Nick?"
Monday morning, I sprang our trip to the barber on Nick suddenly to minimize my suffering, if not his. I also announced my intention to take pictures. He was subdued on the drive, sniffling quietly rather than pitching a full-blown fit. I was surprised. At the barber shop, I took this picture. Jack was trying to cheer his brother up. Nick was having nothing to do with it, but he also wouldn't look particularly upset either.

When he climbed into the barber's chair, I told him to look sad. He said, "NO!" The barber told him to pose for the picture, and he said, "No, she's just going to put it on her blog!"
Can't put anything over on this kid.

The other kid, however, was having a wonderful time having his long locks shorn.

In the end, Jack was, of course, happy with his super short do. I have to get more creative to torture him, such as offering him a turkey cheese dog instead of a regular cheese dog...the turkey ones are a different color, and he's convinced I'm trying to POISON HIM. Ah, I love the sound of the screams.

Nick, however, wouldn't even let me take a picture of his do. That's quite a flinch he's developed, don't you think?
So there you go. I torture my firstborn with trips to the barber shop AND THEN BLOG ABOUT IT. When he's full grown, his therapist is going to have a wonderful time with this.
Of course, it's a miracle I didn't get arrested yesterday because...
wait for it...
wait...
I made Nick get a HAIRCUT!
Really, I don't deserve to be a mother.
As you can tell from Monday's post, our beautiful boys needed haircuts. George, a former Air Force officer who shaves his head completely bald, gets twitchy when his offsprings' hair touches their ears or collars. He demands they get haircuts and leaves it to me to execute the order.
He's a coward.
Jack actually has no problem with haircuts. In fact, at the barber shop last year, he saw a man getting a crew cut and said, "I want my hair cut like that guy!"
Nick, on the other hand, begins wailing and gnashing his teeth immediately upon the mere suggestion of getting a haircut, begging to get out of it and generally pitching a fit. As you can imagine, it isn't any better on the drive to the barber shop. He sobs, kicks the seat, and hurts my ears with his cries of despair. Meanwhile, Jack helpfully asks, "What's the matter, Nick?"
Monday morning, I sprang our trip to the barber on Nick suddenly to minimize my suffering, if not his. I also announced my intention to take pictures. He was subdued on the drive, sniffling quietly rather than pitching a full-blown fit. I was surprised. At the barber shop, I took this picture. Jack was trying to cheer his brother up. Nick was having nothing to do with it, but he also wouldn't look particularly upset either.
When he climbed into the barber's chair, I told him to look sad. He said, "NO!" The barber told him to pose for the picture, and he said, "No, she's just going to put it on her blog!"
Can't put anything over on this kid.
The other kid, however, was having a wonderful time having his long locks shorn.
In the end, Jack was, of course, happy with his super short do. I have to get more creative to torture him, such as offering him a turkey cheese dog instead of a regular cheese dog...the turkey ones are a different color, and he's convinced I'm trying to POISON HIM. Ah, I love the sound of the screams.
Nick, however, wouldn't even let me take a picture of his do. That's quite a flinch he's developed, don't you think?
I will, however, sleep with an easy heart, knowing my son's hair is NO LONGER MY RESPONSIBILITY and that I had some fun with his histrionics.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Ominous Portents
The last day of school. Jack's bus will be here in 30 minutes. And it's storming, with window-rattling thunder and lightning flashes and rain, rain, rain pounding the windows. Hoover is panting with fear and following me like a shadow.
If we were in a Shakespearean play, this would not be good. Not good at all.
Thank goodness we're not in a Shakespearean play. Right?
If we were in a Shakespearean play, this would not be good. Not good at all.
Thank goodness we're not in a Shakespearean play. Right?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there, especially my own! (Love you, Mom! Thanks for having me!)
My friend Sharon posted this on her FaceBook status, and I want to share it with you.
First Born
The day you were born, I don’t remember if it was warm or not;
If the sun shone or rain slashed across a sky obscured by pain and doubt.
But I know that I held you for hours; stared at you in awe –
And felt the warmth assault me,
Felt all the old forgotten smiles creep back –
Until I wasn’t sure which of us
Had just been born.
by Leslie Garcia
My friend Sharon posted this on her FaceBook status, and I want to share it with you.
First Born
The day you were born, I don’t remember if it was warm or not;
If the sun shone or rain slashed across a sky obscured by pain and doubt.
But I know that I held you for hours; stared at you in awe –
And felt the warmth assault me,
Felt all the old forgotten smiles creep back –
Until I wasn’t sure which of us
Had just been born.
by Leslie Garcia
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
When Snuggle-Bunnies Goes Bad
George and I lay on the boys' bed last night for Snuggle-Bunnies (our nightly ritual of tucking the boys in and spending what is supposed to be a little quiet time with them). During Snuggle-Bunnies, George and Jack often play a variation on "Got Your Nose!" with Jack stealing various facial parts off George. Last night, it went too far.
Jack: Got your butt!
George, Nick, Me: GROSS!!
Jack (cackling gleefully): I got your BUTT!
George: My butt just farted in your hand.
Jack: GROSS!!
Nick (laughing): "My butt just farted in your hand!" That's so funny! Say it again, Dad!
George: My butt just farted in your hand.
Just wanted you to know I'm running away from home. The testosterone in my house has carried butt/fart humor too far.... I need some estrogen.
Anyone know a good convent that will take a Methodist?
Jack: Got your butt!
George, Nick, Me: GROSS!!
Jack (cackling gleefully): I got your BUTT!
George: My butt just farted in your hand.
Jack: GROSS!!
Nick (laughing): "My butt just farted in your hand!" That's so funny! Say it again, Dad!
George: My butt just farted in your hand.
Just wanted you to know I'm running away from home. The testosterone in my house has carried butt/fart humor too far.... I need some estrogen.
Anyone know a good convent that will take a Methodist?
Friday, March 12, 2010
The First Lesson of Parenting
We have such scintillating and instructive dinner conversations in our house.
George: Nick, use your fork to eat your pastrami.
Me: Were you born in a barn? Do you want some hay?
Nick: [silly button pushed, grabs fork in fist and shovels food in his mouth, leaving a long piece of pastrami hanging unattractively from his mouth]
George: DUDE! You know better than that! And hold your fork right. You look like Ug the Caveman.
Nick: [gets even sillier]
George: No girl will ever go out on a second date with you if you eat like that.
Me: Yeah, and one day you will care about what girls think. I guarantee no girl will ever kiss you if you have such bad table manners.
Nick: [more silliness]
George: Seriously, dude, good manners are really important.
Me: BURRRRRRP! [It just snuck out, I swear!]
Nick: [hysterical, table-slapping laughter]
George: [to me] Thanks. You just undid years of good parenting.
Me: Do as I say, not as I do.
George: Yeah.
And for your listening enjoyment, The Mom Song.
George: Nick, use your fork to eat your pastrami.
Me: Were you born in a barn? Do you want some hay?
Nick: [silly button pushed, grabs fork in fist and shovels food in his mouth, leaving a long piece of pastrami hanging unattractively from his mouth]
George: DUDE! You know better than that! And hold your fork right. You look like Ug the Caveman.
Nick: [gets even sillier]
George: No girl will ever go out on a second date with you if you eat like that.
Me: Yeah, and one day you will care about what girls think. I guarantee no girl will ever kiss you if you have such bad table manners.
Nick: [more silliness]
George: Seriously, dude, good manners are really important.
Me: BURRRRRRP! [It just snuck out, I swear!]
Nick: [hysterical, table-slapping laughter]
George: [to me] Thanks. You just undid years of good parenting.
Me: Do as I say, not as I do.
George: Yeah.
And for your listening enjoyment, The Mom Song.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Days of Whine and Tears
Will the flippity-flip-flip-flap snow ever end? When will we get back to some sort of routine? Oh, the freakin’ white! Oh, the freakin’ cold! Oh, the freakin’ whining! Make it stop! Please!
I feel a bit better now. Thank you for listening.
You see, this is the first winter in memory when we’ve had snow on the ground and then received more snow, and then more snow again, on top of that. We’ve lived further north in Michigan and South Dakota, but I simply can’t remember this ever happening before. Of course, who am I to be astonished when our snow total is in the neighborhood of eighteen inches? It’s not the most snow I’ve ever seen at once by at least a foot. Besides, my sister and mother in Maryland have over thirty-six inches of snow. They have something to whine about.
So why am I whining? Because whining is highly contagious, and I just experienced two days trapped in my house with two little boys who whined and fought about every little blasted thing they could possibly whine or fight about.
I feel like Mrs. Bennett in Pride and Prejudice: “Oh, my nerves! If I could just get them married off, they would be someone else’s problem!” But they are seven and ten, too young for marriage, even by Mrs. Bennett’s easy standards.
I wanted children. I must remind myself of this. Frequently.
First thing yesterday morning, they fought over who got to pick a movie first. (“It’s my turn!” “You always get to pick first!” “Do not!” “Do, too!”) Then they fought over the movie picked. (“Not Thomas the stupid Tank Engine! You always pick that! I hate Thomas!” “Not Eragon! I hate Eragon! You always watch movies I hate!”). Then I said, “If I hear one more word of bickering about the television, I will turn it off and neither of you will watch a single movie for the rest of the day!”
That shut them up.
For five minutes.
Nick: You can’t eat ice cream for breakfast!
Jack: I can, too!
Nick: No, you can’t. You need to eat something healthy!
Jack: FINE! I’ll eat pretzels.
Nick: That’s not healthy!
Jack: Yes, pretzels are healthy. Mom, are pretzels healthy?
Me: No, Jack, they aren’t. You need to eat a bar, a banana, or cereal.
Jack: Nooooooo!
Nick: See, I told you, Jack. You have to eat healthy.
Me: What are you having for breakfast, Nick?
Nick: Goldfish.
And so it went. On and on. Nick actually broke down in tears and cried because…are you ready for it?…Jack ate the Starbursts Nick had been saving since Halloween. Can you believe the hideousness of the crime?!? Then Jack pitched a complete tantrum because George wanted him to put on his clothes before heading out to play in the snow.
Parents are so unreasonable.
There were moments of joy, such as when Jack caught a fish on Wii Play. They were cooperating and getting along, mainly because Nick was fishing for unearned time on the Wii. We make him read to earn limited time every day, a restriction explained to him in detail before the Wii entered our house. Jack, however, wants nothing to do with the Wii anyway. By getting his brother to play, Nick snuck some extra time because he was “helping” his brother.
This might not have been so bad, except that the last two weeks have been a Groundhog Day of whining and tears. Oh, the circumstances vary a bit when the weather permits us to make it out of the driveway, such as on Saturday when we spent three hours at the optometrist’s office. The happy conclusion of much whining there: both my children have 20/20 vision. Both, however, deeply desire glasses. Nick pretends indifference, but he malingered (a fancy medical term for lied), pretending he was both colorblind and couldn’t read the big E. When he thought Dr. Hampton had his “prescription” in front of his eyes, he saw 20/20.
Jack, on the other hand, walked into the exam room, climbed in the chair, and announced, “I’m ready for my glasses now!” Dr. Hampton asked why he wanted glasses. “I want to show my friends at school. My friend has glasses. I want glasses.” She had him cover one eye and showed him the last line on the chart. He read the tiny letters perfectly. He repeated this performance with his other eye. Oh, the tragedy of perfect vision! So many tears!
Other tragedies hit my house-bound children yesterday which provoked whine and tears. We ate all the brownies, and there were no more! They couldn’t watch movies or play the Wii every second of the day. Our firstborn had to shovel a path on the deck so the old, arthritic, crippled dog could get out into the yard to do his business. Nick also couldn’t have a play date with a friend who lives in another neighborhood. Jack couldn’t go on a nine-hour road trip to see cousin Rory or scream “Pikachu, I choose you!” over and over and over and over again.
Even over dinner, Nick whiningly insisted that he did not owe me extra reading for the extra time he snuck on the Wii. I swear that boy should be a lawyer when he grows up. I can see his television advertisement now: "Wish you were injured in the workplace? Talk to Raihala Law. We can make that worker's compensation happen for YOU. Malingerers welcome. I understand your suffering!"
George and I finally got the two whiny ones in bed, and we sat peacefully watching the Olympics while waiting for Lost to start. Lost is our one network-television indulgence these days. Nick interrupted the peace and called me upstairs, where we had the following conversation.
Nick: Mom, you’re probably going to say no, but I’m going to ask anyway. I don’t like the rule about having to read to earn time on the Wii. Can we just agree that I’ll read more but not have to read to play the Wii?
Me: No.
Nick: Please!
Me: No. You must read to earn time on the Wii. We’re done.
Nick: This stinks!
Oh, son, you have no idea.
I feel a bit better now. Thank you for listening.
You see, this is the first winter in memory when we’ve had snow on the ground and then received more snow, and then more snow again, on top of that. We’ve lived further north in Michigan and South Dakota, but I simply can’t remember this ever happening before. Of course, who am I to be astonished when our snow total is in the neighborhood of eighteen inches? It’s not the most snow I’ve ever seen at once by at least a foot. Besides, my sister and mother in Maryland have over thirty-six inches of snow. They have something to whine about.
So why am I whining? Because whining is highly contagious, and I just experienced two days trapped in my house with two little boys who whined and fought about every little blasted thing they could possibly whine or fight about.
I feel like Mrs. Bennett in Pride and Prejudice: “Oh, my nerves! If I could just get them married off, they would be someone else’s problem!” But they are seven and ten, too young for marriage, even by Mrs. Bennett’s easy standards.
I wanted children. I must remind myself of this. Frequently.
First thing yesterday morning, they fought over who got to pick a movie first. (“It’s my turn!” “You always get to pick first!” “Do not!” “Do, too!”) Then they fought over the movie picked. (“Not Thomas the stupid Tank Engine! You always pick that! I hate Thomas!” “Not Eragon! I hate Eragon! You always watch movies I hate!”). Then I said, “If I hear one more word of bickering about the television, I will turn it off and neither of you will watch a single movie for the rest of the day!”
That shut them up.
For five minutes.
Nick: You can’t eat ice cream for breakfast!
Jack: I can, too!
Nick: No, you can’t. You need to eat something healthy!
Jack: FINE! I’ll eat pretzels.
Nick: That’s not healthy!
Jack: Yes, pretzels are healthy. Mom, are pretzels healthy?
Me: No, Jack, they aren’t. You need to eat a bar, a banana, or cereal.
Jack: Nooooooo!
Nick: See, I told you, Jack. You have to eat healthy.
Me: What are you having for breakfast, Nick?
Nick: Goldfish.
And so it went. On and on. Nick actually broke down in tears and cried because…are you ready for it?…Jack ate the Starbursts Nick had been saving since Halloween. Can you believe the hideousness of the crime?!? Then Jack pitched a complete tantrum because George wanted him to put on his clothes before heading out to play in the snow.
Parents are so unreasonable.
There were moments of joy, such as when Jack caught a fish on Wii Play. They were cooperating and getting along, mainly because Nick was fishing for unearned time on the Wii. We make him read to earn limited time every day, a restriction explained to him in detail before the Wii entered our house. Jack, however, wants nothing to do with the Wii anyway. By getting his brother to play, Nick snuck some extra time because he was “helping” his brother.
This might not have been so bad, except that the last two weeks have been a Groundhog Day of whining and tears. Oh, the circumstances vary a bit when the weather permits us to make it out of the driveway, such as on Saturday when we spent three hours at the optometrist’s office. The happy conclusion of much whining there: both my children have 20/20 vision. Both, however, deeply desire glasses. Nick pretends indifference, but he malingered (a fancy medical term for lied), pretending he was both colorblind and couldn’t read the big E. When he thought Dr. Hampton had his “prescription” in front of his eyes, he saw 20/20.
Jack, on the other hand, walked into the exam room, climbed in the chair, and announced, “I’m ready for my glasses now!” Dr. Hampton asked why he wanted glasses. “I want to show my friends at school. My friend has glasses. I want glasses.” She had him cover one eye and showed him the last line on the chart. He read the tiny letters perfectly. He repeated this performance with his other eye. Oh, the tragedy of perfect vision! So many tears!
Other tragedies hit my house-bound children yesterday which provoked whine and tears. We ate all the brownies, and there were no more! They couldn’t watch movies or play the Wii every second of the day. Our firstborn had to shovel a path on the deck so the old, arthritic, crippled dog could get out into the yard to do his business. Nick also couldn’t have a play date with a friend who lives in another neighborhood. Jack couldn’t go on a nine-hour road trip to see cousin Rory or scream “Pikachu, I choose you!” over and over and over and over again.
Even over dinner, Nick whiningly insisted that he did not owe me extra reading for the extra time he snuck on the Wii. I swear that boy should be a lawyer when he grows up. I can see his television advertisement now: "Wish you were injured in the workplace? Talk to Raihala Law. We can make that worker's compensation happen for YOU. Malingerers welcome. I understand your suffering!"
George and I finally got the two whiny ones in bed, and we sat peacefully watching the Olympics while waiting for Lost to start. Lost is our one network-television indulgence these days. Nick interrupted the peace and called me upstairs, where we had the following conversation.
Nick: Mom, you’re probably going to say no, but I’m going to ask anyway. I don’t like the rule about having to read to earn time on the Wii. Can we just agree that I’ll read more but not have to read to play the Wii?
Me: No.
Nick: Please!
Me: No. You must read to earn time on the Wii. We’re done.
Nick: This stinks!
Oh, son, you have no idea.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Lucky Zen State
I am in a Zen state as I reheat leftovers for dinner. We sit down, and the following conversation occurs:
Jack: I want to pee on the floor.
Nick [laughs hysterically]: He wants to pee on the floor!
George: I think he said he wants to be on the floor. What did you say, Jack?
Jack [slight impish grin]: I said, I want to pee on the floor.
Me: You would be in big trouble if you did.
George [teasing]: Yeah, we’ll treat you like a dog. We’ll rub your nose in it and throw you outside. [both boys laugh hysterically]
Me [Zen state compromised]: Let’s not talk about pee at the table.
At the end of the meal, my Zen state has been recovered by George’s brilliant chicken and dumplings. Hoover is begging, so I blow on his face. Dogs hate that, but in his beggarly intensity, Hoover barely reacts.
George: That was mean! Why did you do that to the dog?
Me [still Zen]: Because he’s an obnoxious beggar. [Look at dog, who is totally fixated on the table and more energized and alert than usual]. Are you going to jump on the bed all by yourself tonight, Hoover?
George: He looks like he could. He’s all full of piss and vinegar.
Nick [laughs hysterically]: That’s funny! Piss and vinegar! Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha.
Me: Do not repeat that, Nick.
George: Why not? It’s not bad.
Me: It’s not appropriate for school.
Nick: Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha. That’s funny!
Me: My Zen state is rapidly deteriorating.
George: You live in a house with three boys. Four if you count the dog. You’re lucky to have any Zen moments at all.
Jack: I want to pee on the floor.
Nick [laughs hysterically]: He wants to pee on the floor!
George: I think he said he wants to be on the floor. What did you say, Jack?
Jack [slight impish grin]: I said, I want to pee on the floor.
Me: You would be in big trouble if you did.
George [teasing]: Yeah, we’ll treat you like a dog. We’ll rub your nose in it and throw you outside. [both boys laugh hysterically]
Me [Zen state compromised]: Let’s not talk about pee at the table.
At the end of the meal, my Zen state has been recovered by George’s brilliant chicken and dumplings. Hoover is begging, so I blow on his face. Dogs hate that, but in his beggarly intensity, Hoover barely reacts.
George: That was mean! Why did you do that to the dog?
Me [still Zen]: Because he’s an obnoxious beggar. [Look at dog, who is totally fixated on the table and more energized and alert than usual]. Are you going to jump on the bed all by yourself tonight, Hoover?
George: He looks like he could. He’s all full of piss and vinegar.
Nick [laughs hysterically]: That’s funny! Piss and vinegar! Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha.
Me: Do not repeat that, Nick.
George: Why not? It’s not bad.
Me: It’s not appropriate for school.
Nick: Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha. That’s funny!
Me: My Zen state is rapidly deteriorating.
George: You live in a house with three boys. Four if you count the dog. You’re lucky to have any Zen moments at all.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Lost and Found
Last week, George had a dream about losing Jack. He told me about it before heading off to work. “We were in this huge space, like a mall, and Nick alerted me to the fact that Jack was nowhere to be seen. You weren’t there. I was totally freaking out until I found him near a row of doors, with some lady tying him to a pole. I felt such unbelievable relief when I fell to my knees and gave him a hug.”
Isn’t it odd how, in dreams, things like strangers tying lost kids to poles are perfectly normal? I once dreamed that a potato was growing out of my knee. This evoked only mild curiosity in my dream self, but upon waking, I wondered if I needed to see a shrink. What would Freud do with that? No wonder I have insomnia.
Today, George and I took the boys to the Cincinnati Museum Center, which houses several different museums, including a really fun Children’s Museum. A few weeks ago, we saw an advertisement for a new Egyptian mummy exhibit. George and I both love history. Nick is interested in ancient Egypt. How could we resist?
We arrived early, saw most of the mummy exhibit, watched the Omnimax film Mummies: Secrets of the Pharaohs, and went to the atrium café to eat. After lunch, we planned to finish the mummy exhibit, and then go to the Children’s Museum. Jack just wanted to go to the Children’s Museum. When we all finished eating, George and Nick carried the trash to the bins across the dining area, and Jack and I followed them. When I reached George, he asked, “Where’s Jack?”
“Right here,” I replied, gesturing to my left where he was a second before.
Only he wasn’t there. Jack was gone.
Those of you with children can imagine (and may, in fact, have experienced for yourselves) the panic we felt: the pit in the stomach, the rush of adrenaline that makes you feel like you’ve just jumped off a bridge and suddenly realize you forgot to attach a bungee to your ankle. Yeah. That same horrible feeling George had in his dream, only this was real.
George sprinted for the door to see if someone had taken Jack outside while I continued searching the huge, crowded atrium. George came back inside just as I started looking for a security guard. Figuring that Jack may have gone to the Children’s Museum downstairs, George sprinted down the escalator while I briefed the security guard.
“We’ve lost our son. He’s seven and has autism.” In that moment, it dawned on me that Jack does have autism and might not be able to tell someone he was lost. He’s never been lost before, and I had no idea how he would react.
I gave a description of Jack’s clothes and hair, which the man relayed on his radio, announcing a Code Three. He was so calm, and it didn’t dawn on me until later that he probably deals with Code Threes regularly, seeing as he works security in a Children’s Museum. For me, I just appreciated his level-headedness as he moved across the atrium straight to the photo kiosk near the trash bins. I hadn’t even noticed the kiosk, but we'd all walked right past it on the way to the trash bins.
Jack loves photo kiosks. The guard found Jack’s coat inside. But where was Jack?
The guard, Nick, and I crossed the atrium to check the other photo kiosk, and as we passed the hallway to the Omnimax theater (where I’d searched fruitlessly earlier), I saw Jack walking beside a woman pushing a stroller.
“Jack!” He saw me and ran into my arms. As we hugged each other, the woman pushing the stroller said, “He told me he needed help. He said he was lost.”
“Thank you,” I said, unspeakable relief in my voice. I turned to Jack and said, “I was so scared, honey! Why did you leave me?”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I got lost.” He was surprisingly matter-of-fact about it.
“Don’t EVER do that to me again. Stay right by me.”
“Are you angry, Mommy?”
What do you say in these situations? What I wanted to say was, “Yes, I’m furious you scared me so badly, and when I’m done hugging you, I’m going to KILL you!” I figured that might be a tad hysterical and got a grip on myself. “No, I’m not angry. I was scared, and now I’m happy you’re back. And I’m proud of you for telling a grown-up you needed help. That was the right thing to do.”
I thanked the security guard and realized that George was downstairs still in full panic mode. I held tight to Jack’s hand while he, Nick, and I headed downstairs. We met George halfway down and his relief matched mine. We continued downstairs, where I found a bench, sat down, and tried really hard not to sob hysterically. I was shaking and queasy.
Jack said, “Mommy, I’m sorry. Am I in trouble?”
“No, you’re not in trouble.” I pulled him onto my lap and just held him until I could stand again. We spent a few more hours in the museum, bought souvenirs, and headed home.
This evening, George said, “Every time I looked somewhere and didn’t see him, I sank deeper into a pit of despair.” He posted about the horror on an internet forum, and a woman shared how a similar episode with her first born triggered premature labor of her second. I believe it.
Jack says he wasn’t scared while he was lost; he says he just needed to ask a grown-up for help. George and I, on the other hand, are having a tough time shaking the panic. I have to suppress sudden urges to burst into tears. He keeps mentioning how horrible it was. We both feel that we lost ten years of our lives in that ten minutes Jack was missing.
Fortune’s Wheel, a powerful image in medieval literature, turns constantly, making happy people sad, and sad people happy. One doesn’t expect a full revolution in such a short period of time, however; it’s extraordinarily disorienting. But we’ll calm down eventually.
After all, what was lost has been found. Sometimes, dreams do come true.
Isn’t it odd how, in dreams, things like strangers tying lost kids to poles are perfectly normal? I once dreamed that a potato was growing out of my knee. This evoked only mild curiosity in my dream self, but upon waking, I wondered if I needed to see a shrink. What would Freud do with that? No wonder I have insomnia.
Today, George and I took the boys to the Cincinnati Museum Center, which houses several different museums, including a really fun Children’s Museum. A few weeks ago, we saw an advertisement for a new Egyptian mummy exhibit. George and I both love history. Nick is interested in ancient Egypt. How could we resist?
We arrived early, saw most of the mummy exhibit, watched the Omnimax film Mummies: Secrets of the Pharaohs, and went to the atrium café to eat. After lunch, we planned to finish the mummy exhibit, and then go to the Children’s Museum. Jack just wanted to go to the Children’s Museum. When we all finished eating, George and Nick carried the trash to the bins across the dining area, and Jack and I followed them. When I reached George, he asked, “Where’s Jack?”
“Right here,” I replied, gesturing to my left where he was a second before.
Only he wasn’t there. Jack was gone.
Those of you with children can imagine (and may, in fact, have experienced for yourselves) the panic we felt: the pit in the stomach, the rush of adrenaline that makes you feel like you’ve just jumped off a bridge and suddenly realize you forgot to attach a bungee to your ankle. Yeah. That same horrible feeling George had in his dream, only this was real.
George sprinted for the door to see if someone had taken Jack outside while I continued searching the huge, crowded atrium. George came back inside just as I started looking for a security guard. Figuring that Jack may have gone to the Children’s Museum downstairs, George sprinted down the escalator while I briefed the security guard.
“We’ve lost our son. He’s seven and has autism.” In that moment, it dawned on me that Jack does have autism and might not be able to tell someone he was lost. He’s never been lost before, and I had no idea how he would react.
I gave a description of Jack’s clothes and hair, which the man relayed on his radio, announcing a Code Three. He was so calm, and it didn’t dawn on me until later that he probably deals with Code Threes regularly, seeing as he works security in a Children’s Museum. For me, I just appreciated his level-headedness as he moved across the atrium straight to the photo kiosk near the trash bins. I hadn’t even noticed the kiosk, but we'd all walked right past it on the way to the trash bins.
Jack loves photo kiosks. The guard found Jack’s coat inside. But where was Jack?
The guard, Nick, and I crossed the atrium to check the other photo kiosk, and as we passed the hallway to the Omnimax theater (where I’d searched fruitlessly earlier), I saw Jack walking beside a woman pushing a stroller.
“Jack!” He saw me and ran into my arms. As we hugged each other, the woman pushing the stroller said, “He told me he needed help. He said he was lost.”
“Thank you,” I said, unspeakable relief in my voice. I turned to Jack and said, “I was so scared, honey! Why did you leave me?”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I got lost.” He was surprisingly matter-of-fact about it.
“Don’t EVER do that to me again. Stay right by me.”
“Are you angry, Mommy?”
What do you say in these situations? What I wanted to say was, “Yes, I’m furious you scared me so badly, and when I’m done hugging you, I’m going to KILL you!” I figured that might be a tad hysterical and got a grip on myself. “No, I’m not angry. I was scared, and now I’m happy you’re back. And I’m proud of you for telling a grown-up you needed help. That was the right thing to do.”
I thanked the security guard and realized that George was downstairs still in full panic mode. I held tight to Jack’s hand while he, Nick, and I headed downstairs. We met George halfway down and his relief matched mine. We continued downstairs, where I found a bench, sat down, and tried really hard not to sob hysterically. I was shaking and queasy.
Jack said, “Mommy, I’m sorry. Am I in trouble?”
“No, you’re not in trouble.” I pulled him onto my lap and just held him until I could stand again. We spent a few more hours in the museum, bought souvenirs, and headed home.
This evening, George said, “Every time I looked somewhere and didn’t see him, I sank deeper into a pit of despair.” He posted about the horror on an internet forum, and a woman shared how a similar episode with her first born triggered premature labor of her second. I believe it.
Jack says he wasn’t scared while he was lost; he says he just needed to ask a grown-up for help. George and I, on the other hand, are having a tough time shaking the panic. I have to suppress sudden urges to burst into tears. He keeps mentioning how horrible it was. We both feel that we lost ten years of our lives in that ten minutes Jack was missing.
Fortune’s Wheel, a powerful image in medieval literature, turns constantly, making happy people sad, and sad people happy. One doesn’t expect a full revolution in such a short period of time, however; it’s extraordinarily disorienting. But we’ll calm down eventually.
After all, what was lost has been found. Sometimes, dreams do come true.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Weekly Giggle #6
Jack [in plaintive tones]: Mommy, I want you to make it snow today.
We're going to chop down a Christmas tree. Last year, snow made our annual chopping expedition particularly beautiful, and Jack, with his amazing memory, wants to have the same experience this year.
Wouldn't it be GREAT if mommies could do anything--even change the weather?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Random Raihala
Here are some random observations from the past week of holiday fun. Enjoy.
*George is an awesome cook.
*A small boy can create a tsunami in a bathroom and still completely deny responsibility even when there’s a witness. BTW, water stains on downstairs ceilings CAN dry to invisibility, if you’re lucky like we are.
*A random sales associate at Best Buy knew everything I didn’t about the Wii and was hugely helpful. (Dang, Best Buy should pay me for this!) Yes, we ARE the last family in our entire freakin’ neighborhood to buy a Wii. I can’t believe we’re caving on this one. Please don’t judge me.
*Our kitchen table can hold approximately 248 cook books and cooking magazines without collapsing. I kept moving the stacks to the book shelves, and my mother-in-law and George kept moving them back to the table. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Given the quality of cooking the two of them produced, I am obviously not complaining. It’s just an observation.
*The Bon Appetit Special Collector’s Edition: Provence has disappeared in our house. A reward will be offered to anyone who finds it before George expires from despair.
*Four adults in one week produce enough empty beer and wine bottles to fill up the recycling bin and make it mildly embarrassing to put the bin out on trash day. What will the neighbors think?!?
*The movie Fantastic Mr. Fox is deeply, deeply weird. Christopherson is a stupid name for a fox. I practically fell asleep, but George remembers that Whack Bat ends when someone calls “hot box.” Dudes have the oddest ability to remember stupid sports facts, even when the games are made up in deeply weird movies.
*Hiking in the woods on a sunny fall day is a combination of sheer joy (sighting a deer bounding through the underbrush) and sheer parental frustration as boys bicker (Mommy, Jack kicked me! Mommy, Nick pushed me! Don’t touch me! Mo-ohmmmm! I’m tired. I can’t take another step! It’s too steep! I want to go home!). You’d think we were force-marching them up Mt. Everest. (Give me oxygen!!!!) Papa saved the day by taking everyone to McD’s afterwards for french fries. Papa rocks!
*The microscope Nick got for Christmas last year is super cool. It has a light aimed down at the slide so you can look at opaque objects. Nick and Grandma share an interest in rocks, so they looked at Nick’s mineral collection under the microscope. There’s no humor in this, but it was highly cool, in a geeky, geological sort of way.
*When people say they don’t want biscuits, they lie.
*Bacon laid on the turkey curls up at the ends so it looks like Pippi Longstocking. Combine it with the gravy-making genius of Grandma, however, and you get the best gravy EVER IN THE HISTORY OF GRAVY. Burp.
*George tried growing a goatee over the holiday. I do not like facial hair on a spouse as it reminds me of kissing my mustachioed grandfather…can you say, “Ewwwww”? Yeah. He doesn’t care what I think on this issue, but he finally got annoyed with it catching on his pillow as he tried to fall asleep and shaved it off. Thank you, George. Now he’s either lazily not shaving his cranium or letting his hair grow out (can’t make up his mind on that one), and I pointed out that his peninsula of hair (you know, the one in the middle of the forehead that has receding coastline on either side?) has disappeared. He pointed out that it had, in fact, not completely disappeared and can be felt, though not seen, at this point. If he keeps growing his hair out, he’ll have a sad little island of hair surrounded by bare skin right on the top of his head. My increasingly gray hair seems less a problem in light of his hair woes, don’t you think?
*If you turn off the heat to open windows to air out your old-food-scented house and decide two minutes after opening the windows that it is too cold outside and a Yankee candle will have to suffice, you really ought to turn the heat back on. Otherwise, you will awaken the next morning to a 60 degree house. Just sayin'.
*Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It deserves not to be lost between Halloween and Christmas.
*As we tucked the boys in tonight, I realized there are now only 23 days until Christmas. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!!!???!!!???
*I need a hug.
*George is an awesome cook.
*A small boy can create a tsunami in a bathroom and still completely deny responsibility even when there’s a witness. BTW, water stains on downstairs ceilings CAN dry to invisibility, if you’re lucky like we are.
*A random sales associate at Best Buy knew everything I didn’t about the Wii and was hugely helpful. (Dang, Best Buy should pay me for this!) Yes, we ARE the last family in our entire freakin’ neighborhood to buy a Wii. I can’t believe we’re caving on this one. Please don’t judge me.
*Our kitchen table can hold approximately 248 cook books and cooking magazines without collapsing. I kept moving the stacks to the book shelves, and my mother-in-law and George kept moving them back to the table. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Given the quality of cooking the two of them produced, I am obviously not complaining. It’s just an observation.
*The Bon Appetit Special Collector’s Edition: Provence has disappeared in our house. A reward will be offered to anyone who finds it before George expires from despair.
*Four adults in one week produce enough empty beer and wine bottles to fill up the recycling bin and make it mildly embarrassing to put the bin out on trash day. What will the neighbors think?!?
*The movie Fantastic Mr. Fox is deeply, deeply weird. Christopherson is a stupid name for a fox. I practically fell asleep, but George remembers that Whack Bat ends when someone calls “hot box.” Dudes have the oddest ability to remember stupid sports facts, even when the games are made up in deeply weird movies.
*Hiking in the woods on a sunny fall day is a combination of sheer joy (sighting a deer bounding through the underbrush) and sheer parental frustration as boys bicker (Mommy, Jack kicked me! Mommy, Nick pushed me! Don’t touch me! Mo-ohmmmm! I’m tired. I can’t take another step! It’s too steep! I want to go home!). You’d think we were force-marching them up Mt. Everest. (Give me oxygen!!!!) Papa saved the day by taking everyone to McD’s afterwards for french fries. Papa rocks!
*The microscope Nick got for Christmas last year is super cool. It has a light aimed down at the slide so you can look at opaque objects. Nick and Grandma share an interest in rocks, so they looked at Nick’s mineral collection under the microscope. There’s no humor in this, but it was highly cool, in a geeky, geological sort of way.
*When people say they don’t want biscuits, they lie.
*Bacon laid on the turkey curls up at the ends so it looks like Pippi Longstocking. Combine it with the gravy-making genius of Grandma, however, and you get the best gravy EVER IN THE HISTORY OF GRAVY. Burp.
*George tried growing a goatee over the holiday. I do not like facial hair on a spouse as it reminds me of kissing my mustachioed grandfather…can you say, “Ewwwww”? Yeah. He doesn’t care what I think on this issue, but he finally got annoyed with it catching on his pillow as he tried to fall asleep and shaved it off. Thank you, George. Now he’s either lazily not shaving his cranium or letting his hair grow out (can’t make up his mind on that one), and I pointed out that his peninsula of hair (you know, the one in the middle of the forehead that has receding coastline on either side?) has disappeared. He pointed out that it had, in fact, not completely disappeared and can be felt, though not seen, at this point. If he keeps growing his hair out, he’ll have a sad little island of hair surrounded by bare skin right on the top of his head. My increasingly gray hair seems less a problem in light of his hair woes, don’t you think?
*If you turn off the heat to open windows to air out your old-food-scented house and decide two minutes after opening the windows that it is too cold outside and a Yankee candle will have to suffice, you really ought to turn the heat back on. Otherwise, you will awaken the next morning to a 60 degree house. Just sayin'.
*Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It deserves not to be lost between Halloween and Christmas.
*As we tucked the boys in tonight, I realized there are now only 23 days until Christmas. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!!!???!!!???
*I need a hug.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)