Word Play

If you haven't read the entry below please read it first, because I'm now back to funny, normal stuff.

At dinner, we discussed Alexander the Great and how he actually died of dehydration caused by diarrhea. Not sure how we got on that subject, but when you combine an 11-year-old learning interesting things in school with a 34-year-old learning interesting things in school, you get interesting topics at the dinner table. It's unavoidable.

Add a five-year-old to that, and you get interesting combinations like:

"Die-arhea." As in, people die from diarrhea. That was Jackie's observation.

One thing leads to another, so we then had a discussion about how Hershey (the dog) should not be called "Her-She." Because he's a boy.

Triumph

So, it's a rocky road, family. But amidst the bumps, falls, and bruises, I flew high for a moment today. As we sat around our worn table at dinner tonight dining on hot dogs, grapes, and carrot sticks, I asked the children if they thought they could use their best manners at Grandma's for Thanksgiving weekend. For a moment, I thought a reward might be a good idea, and I even asked the children if there was a reward that might help them remember. Morgan piped up, "Oh yes, a blizzard at McDonalds." I replied, "No, that's not good for you." Then she beamed, "How about a new Webkinz?" "No," I answered, "We can't afford that right now."

Anika, with her hands folded under her chin thoughtfully and cheerfully suggested, "I think our reward can be being able to come home with satisfaction that we acted our best."

Ooh. Loved that one!

Morgan jumped on the band wagon, straightening her shoulders and looking at me sincerely, "Yes, Mom, that's all I need too."

New Song

I'm sitting here listening to the kids play the "ugh" game in the kitchen as they enjoy ice cream, but I'd like to tell you about Morgan's newest song (as you may remember, the last song she sang was the "Oh Crud" song.

Drumroll please . . . the newest song is the "DUH" song.

Crud

This morning, I was trying to take muffins out of the hot oven, but the silicone mitt I was using kept sliding off the pan or into the muffins. At some point I spurted under my breath, "Oh crud."

As if ugh weren't enough in our lovely home. Morgan (8), who has ears like a bat, picked up on my want-to-be expletive, and piped, "YOU just taught me a new word" and began singing sweetly, "Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud, oh crud."

There is beauty all around . . .

Ugh

About a year ago, Anika fell into the habit of groaning, long and drawn out, "Uuugggghhh" when something wasn't going her way. I ignored it for a while, until one day Henry started saying "Ugh" too. Now, the word "ugh" is inherently benign, but I was annoyed nonetheless. So I made a rule that whenever Anika, or Henry, or anyone else, said the word "ugh," Anika had to do push ups. For Anika, this punishment was quite effective--I haven't heard her say ugh in months. However, little Henry quickly figured out that if he said "ugh," Anika did push ups. Now, on a good day I hear "ugh" a few times.

This morning, I think I've heard "ugh" 100 times. Not only that, but Henry says "ugh," and then laughs and points at Jackie (as if she said it). If I were still enforcing the push ups, Anika would be the strongest girl on the block.

Morgan, by the way, is sitting next to me reading as I write, and just proudly turned to Jackie. "Jackie, here's how you spell ugh--U G H."

Kids, kids

I'm babysat a cute little boy Henry's age this morning. While they sat at the table facing each other and eating Frosted Cheerios, I sat on a short bathroom stool with a bottle of lemon Old English, a rag, and a magic erase, and scrubbed dried gunk off my kitchen cupboards.

Needing to pick out the dirt from the cracks, I retrieved my plastic birthday box from a tall shelf and got out a couple of toothpicks. Then I sat the birthday box on the table and went to work. Henry and his friend were fascinated by the box and began removing bottles of food dye and birthday candles from the box. I was a little concerned about the dye, but the boys lined the bottles up on the table and promised sincerely that they would only look and not open.

The conversation as Henry's friend stares at a bottle of red dye sitting on the table:

Henry: I won't open it.

Friend: I won't open it.

Henry: That's real. (Said long, slow, and with authority.)

Friend: Real means dangerous.

Henry. Oh, yes.

Jackieism

Tonight I was in Jackie's room, patiently waiting for her to read with me as she flitted around doing whatever five-year-olds do when they're really supposed to be sitting still.

At one point, she began coughing in an effort to dislodge some phlegm in her throat. (Is there some slang way of describing this type of coughing? How about non-slang?)

"Jackie, are you o.k.?" I asked. "Do you need a drink?"

"No, mom," cough, cough, she answered. "Don't worry, I just have a frog in my throw-up."

Daddyism

Today when we knelt down for family prayer, Henry flopped all the way down onto the cold wood floor on his stomach, arms extended above his head. Matthew laughed, “Look, he’s praying prostate.” Silence. “I mean, prostrate.” Oops. Giggle, giggle.

Cow Day

  We visited Chick-Fil-A a few months ago on Cow Appreciation Day.  We all wore felt spots that I hastily cut while hollering at the kids to get into the car. Fortunately, rings of scotch tape managed to hold on the spots, and we passed as cows to receive our free meals, complete with chocolate cake and junky free toys.  

I had no idea just how savory the Chick-Fil-A sandwiches are until this new, exceptional celebration, which I plan to attend yearly.  Thank you Chick-Fil-A!

I can’t even see this title

I’m test driving Windows Live Writer.  Arggghhhh . . . I can’t figure out how to have my font color turn out right.  We’ll see how this goes. 

Kids, Hair, and Scissors

I recently found myself comforting a mother first experiencing her child's self-haircut. I don't have too much to say about that, except the following advice:

• Don't cry.
• Visit a professional hair stylist.
  
• Most importantly, make sure you take a picture.

This is Jackie, the day she climbed up onto the bathroom counter and carefully cut her hair in the style she wanted. If I remember correctly, I had told her for several weeks that I didn't want to cut that silky golden hair.



I may have been sad for a day or two, but I kind of liked her short hair after a while. It fit her spunky personality.



One more picture. This is Morgan a couple of years ago. Yes, that is a rubber band cutting off the circulation in her lips . . . and nose . . . and chin. Unfortunately, I can't find a picture of Anika, but I know she cut her hair too.



I hope Henry doesn't try--that might be a bloody mess.

Grammar and an Exhausted Momma

Just a side note here--It seems that every time I look at old posts I see grammatical/typing mistakes. But mommas have to get in their writing here and there--between this batch of laundry and that batch of cookies (actually, I rarely cook cookies, but you know what I mean). And sometimes I sit down to write and find myself falling over in the chair halfway through my post. Please forgive me, look past my errors, and feel free to laugh with this sleep deprived momma.

I Girl

I bought shoes for Henry the other day at Mobleys, a little ma and pop shoe store just down the street. I buy all our shoes there, where we can't really afford to be shopping. But after years of bringing home cheap shoes that didn't fit right, I decided that I can buy one expensive pair for the same price as two cheap pairs--one of which ends up too tight for my children's gigantically wide feet, and the other which falls apart early.

This time around, Henry chose a dusty gray-blue tennis shoe, complete with gray soles. He was happy about the shoes mostly because they were new. I was happy because the color will stay the same no matter what mud puddle he tromps in.

The next day I told Henry that I would be taking Jackie to get shoes at Mobleys. Henry's eyes widened with delight: "Jackie get shoes like mine?"

"No, Henry," I answered. "Jackie will probably get pink shoes. She's a girl."

Indignant, Henry straightened his wide shoulders, puffed out his chest, looked me in the eye, and asserted, "I girl."

"No," I replied, "You boy."

He insisted without even a blink, "No. I girl."

I suppose I'll talk to him more about that when he's a little bigger.

Wedding Bells

I took the kids to choir today. That, in itself, is a feat, and should be fodder enough for a great posting. Clearly, I lived through it, because I'm here typing on my computer.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Jackie (5) piped up, "Mom, we should bring Stu to choir." Stu is a nice 11-year-old boy with whom Morgan and Jackie especially like to play. The rest of the conversation went as follows:

Morgan, laughing: "Jackie, you love Stuart."

Jackie, dreamily: "Oh . . . yes."

Mom, trying to clarify: "Jackie, do you love Mommy?"

Jackie, stars in her eyes: "Oh, yes. I want to marry Mommy and Stuart. But Mommy is already married, and Stuart is too old. He'll be married before I can marry him."

This reminds me of when I was in love with my cousin. I remember sitting in Grandma's trailer and daydreaming about him. Of course, I was really little. I wonder if Jackie will remember wanting to marry her mother.

Big Birds

This morning was an unusual Sunday. The kids' Sunday morning routine normally takes all my energy and attention if I want to arrive on time to church. For some reason, this morning they were mostly ready earlier than normal--mostly ready means bathed, fingernails cut, dressed, but no shoes (big red flag of course here.) I decided I might have time to do some extra self-pampering: dying my hair, shaving my legs, painting my fingernails. So I ignored the kids and kept to myself in my bathroom. As time went on, I increasingly became aware of an unusual quiet stillness. In conjunction with the ever ticking clock, quiet before church is a very bad sign.

Quickly I brushed on my mascara, swept on my lipstick, grabbed my shoes, and called at the top of the stairs with the most positive voice I could muster, "Kids, time to go." No answer. I tottled downstairs in my wobbly tan heels, lifted the wooden blinds, and peeked out the window. By this point, we should have been driving out. We were going to be late.

Across and in the street nearly twenty Canadian geese squacked and pooped, waddling eagerly toward our children. As I watched, Henry's arm cocked back, and then chunks of white rained down on the geese, and they greedily scrambled for the bread Henry chucked. In his hands was the mostly empty Whitewheat Bread bag, which I bought yesterday for two dollars. His toes were bare. But on his face was a precious, gleeful smile.

Big surprise: we were a few minutes late to church, but I think it may have been worth the extra entertainment.

Who cracked the road?

On the way home from dropping the kids on the bus the other day, Henry kept stomping his foot. I, as usual, was in a hurry trying to get to the gym that morning, and I asked him why he was stomping his foot. "Crack road," he said. I looked down with him at our concrete road, which resembles the skin of an elephant--chinked and rifted in patternless patterns. Henry stomped his foot again, took a big step back to look at the road, and stated authoritatively, "See mom. I crack road."

Excuse me!

I was sitting at the computer and accidentally burped (I promise--accidental). Aware that Henry was playing behind me with a little friend, I immediately said, "Excuse me."

Henry giggled and piped up, "Excuse Andra."

Sixth Grade Homework Strikes Again

Now that we've figured out how to unscramble words with wordsmith.com, how disappointing . . . or funny . . . it was to get this clue for a vocab word:

"Features that makes it unique."

Nice grammar. (They say not to use sarcasm in writing, but hopefully you got it.)

I suppose the answer is physical, as in physical features?

Sure glad I'm not in sixth grade.

Fibber Island Musical Chairs

Anika and Jackie are gone at activity day girls, and Henry is asleep. Jackie brought down a portable CD player to our family room and has turned on a kids CD by They Might Be Giants. She is playing and replaying a funny song called Fibber Island. I think there's a moral to it--maybe something about not lying.

She has arranged a number of stuffed animals, mostly Webkinz in a circle with a chair in the middle. On the chair are a dog and a lion. Matthew is sitting on the couch. He gives me a silly grin that says, "Gotta see this--cute."

I sit and observe for a few minutes. Jackie starts the music and between beats announces different words, most of which I couldn't hear. But I did hear repeatedly, "hot chocolate." After about three of these words, she would turn off the music. And someone would have to leave the circle.

Interrupting, I ask, "Jackie, what are you playing?" Happily, she replies, "Musical chairs, Mom." I regret doing this, because it seems that now musical chairs is over. Now she is playing Anika's recorder for the animals.

I asked Jackie what her animal's names are. Some I have heard before and forgotten.

Hippy (a hippo)

Jasmine (dog)

Dolphne (Dolphin)

Love heart (pink frog covered with purple and fuschia hearts)

Hot Chocolate (a brown Clydesdale)--"Or was that marshmallow . . . you know, he should really be called marshmallow because of his big furry feet.

(Bear with red velvet Christmas hat)--" Berry doesn't have a name, so I'm naming him Berry." Oh, excuse me. That's probably Beary, though I think Berry should be perfectly acceptable.

Sixth Grade Homework

It's Back to the Future in Sixth Grade. Does anyone know where Leningrad, U.S.S.R is? Anika has to find the latitude and longitude of this city.

(See St. Petersburg, Russia on Wikipedia.org if you're confused.)

Xthsi Deagr Meohwkro

Anika's homework assignment tonight was great fun. Let's see if you can figure these out. Unscramble the definition of her social studies vocabulary words:

elrag ndsalseams no caurefs
ruseef at thta maeks tinueqiu
rehsa noomcm tescarsitcirach
yke xanpilnige lsby mso

Hmmmm. . . .

For those of you who don't have children bringing home homework like this yet, I suggest you become familiar with web sites like wordsmith.org, which takes scrambled words and gave us hundreds of possible unscramblings for some of these words.

Quarter Capers

Tonight's excitement: How many places can Henry try to put a quarter:

In the computer?

"No Henry."

In the paper shredder?

"No Henry."

In Henry's ear?

"No Henry."

Arteries

I took my kids with me to the doctor today. Simple appointment--I just wanted an antibiotic for some minor tonsillitis and some suggestions for how to care for my recurring plantar fasciitis. The kids were great. We played Simon Says in the waiting room, which fortunately wasn't very full. We managed to pull a few smiles out of the secretary and another patient. Another patient left the room, but I don't think it was because of us.

Finally we went back in the room. H had a great time open the door and peeking out to see who he could make smile. Later, as the doctor gagged me with the tongue depressor, the kids climbed up on the leather chair to look at the poster on the wall. The poster displayed various images of healthy and unhealthy arteries and hearts. H looked at a picture of a swollen artery with blood bursting out. "Eeeewwww." Then he looked at the crosscut picture of a healthy artery next to it, and giggled, "Look at that shoe!" If only all arteries looked like empty shoes. We'd live forever.

My Turtle Shell

When I first published this blog, I had a few comments from friends about internet safety. I really want my blog to be about our children, so until I decide how I feel about internet safety, I'm using some code names for our children. These will change over time when I think of some catchy substitutes.

In case you're interested, J is five years old, and H is two years old. Most of my stories come from them, I think because younger children generate funnier moments. A is 11, and M is 8. I probably will avoid writing much about their current adventures, since A, especially, is entering that sensitive tween/teen age. And though she doesn't see what I write, I prefer not to put her out there.

For those of you who don't use the internet as much, DH is my Dear Husband.

Quotable Quotes

Me: “Where are you going to college?” J: “B Y Woo.”

“Ooowwwww.” --H's reaction to feeling the hair on my unshaven leg tonight.

J: “Is mommy milk good?” She thinks a bit. “Of course it is. It's made of of fruits and vegetables.”

Thanks for the Observation, J

“Mom, you have a big, big bottom,” J pointed out. “Whenever your bottom is big, your whole body is big.”

J's World

Every time my children are assigned to speak, pray, or read a scripture in church, I forget. It's inevitable. It doesn't matter if I penned a note on my palm. It doesn't matter if I wrote myself a reminder on a small paper and clutched it until I got home to my calendar. It wouldn't even matter if I slipped that small paper in my bra. I'm sure I'd forget it was there and wonder later that week whose tissue went through the wash.

With each new addition to the family, my memory has worsened. And though I've been reminded this week that J is supposed to give a 5-minute talk in primary, here it is Saturday night, and I have again forgotten. Of course, I really should be helping her right now instead of writing in my blog, but some things simply must be recorded, like our discussion tonight. It went like this:

Me, lamenting: "Oh J, I'm so sorry I forgot your talk. I can't remember anything."

J: "That's not true mom. You remember lots of things."

Me: "Like what?"

J: "Like one plus one. And that my name is J."

At this point M (8) jumps into the conversation: "Actually, J, I don't think Mom's good at remembering our names."

Sigh. No vacancies in this brain.

Don't worry. My self-image is still intact despite my early dementia and dreadfully honest children.

Look for more on motherhood and memory loss later. I guarantee it's coming. And someday you will get to read my dissertation on why mothers forget things but in reality have cumulatively superior memories.

Tales of Housecleaning Diversions

I woke up this morning with a mission: to clean the house. As usual, I wasn't sure where to start—every room I walk into is messy. So I just start. I pick up a toy here, a toy there. Several hand towels, tags left on the floor from someone's new outfit, books looked at and then left on the floor. Underwear—clean? Dirty? I toss it immediately in the dirty clothes—I've had a few too many experiences with sticking my nose on the underwear, only to find that I wish I hadn't.

I walk into the kids room—all the kids' room. We tried to move Anika to her own room, but she didn't want to be alone. H has also decided he doesn't want to be alone, so he's been sleeping on the floor in the kids room. That wouldn't be a problem, except that he woke up with a couple of itchy flea bites this morning, compliments of Hershey, I'm guessing. At 5:30 this morning I endured H wailing about his bumblebee bite on his leg, and then I just couldn't help but argue for a few minutes with him about whether it was a bumblebee bite or a flea bite. In the end, he won—I gave up. Or deep in my heart I said, “H, dear, I love you too much to argue. You're right, that tiny, itchy, bite can be a bumblebee bite if you'd like it to be so.”

Whew—what a tangent. Back to my original story. So I walk into the girls room this morning, look at the mess, and take a deep breath. Ahhhhh . . . what the heck is that smell? It smells like perfume. Uh-oh. I glance quickly around, trying to get a sense of where the smell originates. I take a step and sense moisture under the ball of my foot. There, painted onto the carpet are two inch stripes of white, with a Secret shower-fresh antipersperant left next to it.

Just as I'm discovering this, H comes into the room, “Mom, train.” I ignore him, and he insists, “Mom, come, train.” I ignore him again, and his tone of voice rises, “MOM!” I take him by the hand, and he leads me to the bathroom, where he has unwrapped 13 bars of Ivory soap and lined them up to make a train. Clever.

For some reason I can't bring myself to clean up his messes right now. Still on my mission to clean house. I'll clean up later. So I head downstairs, buff a few windows, spray and shine the guest bathroom toilet, and head into the kitchen to begin wiping down counters (not with the same rag, mind you.) Suddenly I hear the sound of an aerosol can. Can't be good, I think. But I'm in a bit of a fog still from waking up too early this morning. Maybe, just maybe it's really Anika spraying before dusts. A few seconds later I manage to convince myself this isn't true, and I follow the sound to it's source—H in the bathroom spraying Lysol Air Freshener on the toilet.

It smells good, and I don't really think H's hurting anything, and I'm too tired to make him stop when he doesn't want to, so I let him continue cleaning the toilet. Any responsible parent would have taken the air freshener away and let their child cry, but for some reason I don't categorize myself as responsible—just nice. Or not. I think he's big enough not to spray it in his own face.

I'm pretty sure I'm right about not spraying in his own face, and I really do get the nice label, because I don't over react when I come upstairs and find him with a rag and the spray cleaning the bonus room rug. It has a big flowery-smelling wet spot on it, and H sitting scrubbing with a two-foot rag. In my fog, I think, cute, and walk away to do more work.

By the time I walk upstairs again, the whole house is smelling like an English garden in spring, and H is spraying the Lysol air freshener on his dresser and wiping it with a rag—dusting. Amazing the uses he has found for his Lysol spray. “Honey, I think you've used enough spray,” I say. For some reason he has decided to agree. He hands me the bottle. It feels light . . . I know it was heavy when he started.

I wonder how long our house will smell so beautiful.

J's World

DH talking to J about H's poopie diaper:

"Would you like to change H's diaper?"

J: "I don't know how."

DH: "Someday you'll know how."

J: "Yep. When you're a grandpa, I'll change your diapers, Dad."

Here I am. Here's my first post. I think this blog is going to be about my children, and my life as a mother, since that what I do every second of my life . . . except maybe a few hours here and there when I sleep. I'm not sure how to do a blog . . . hopefully it's like bike riding, and I'll get the hang of it eventually, never to lose this very important skill.