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."