Morgan's Motto

Morgan sidled up to me this morning and asked in her sugary, I-want-something voice, "Mom, I wish that I could have a big birthday party for my next birthday."

Knowing her birthday is six months away in December, I turned, bewildered and curious what she was concocting. "Morgan, what kind of party are you thinking of? We could have a party now and not make it a birthday party."

"I want it to be a hot dog party to go along with my motto," Morgan answered.

Hmmm. I gave it half a thought and moved on.

But later I found this sign on her door:


"I heart hot dogs cause I'm a flying chicken."

I wasn't aware that flying chickens ate hot dogs. Good thing we buy all beef hot dogs.

Shoe Mystery Solved

Our ward choir practice is held in the basement of a member's home. In order to preserve her light-colored carpet, she requests that we remove our shoes at the door, which creates a large pile.

As I left choir practice today, I was shocked to find that someone had accidentally taken one of my shoes and left her mismatching shoe. With a couple of other choir member witnesses, I laughed and then created a list of possible perpetrators from the members who had already left. We easily exonerated Danuta with her tiny feet and Alana with her oversized Crocs. Barbara was out of town, so that left only our choir director, Koko, as a taller person who might possibly have size 10 feet like mine. She became my principal suspect.

But Koko has been cleared and the true perpetrator found. . . .









Me.

Do you think anyone in church today noticed that my shoes didn't match?

(The shoe on the left is my old favorite retired to dark regions of my closet. I seem to have forgotten what it looks like but some how managed to grab it this morning. The shoe on the right is my new favorite black shoe.)

All About Words

We walked around the block today and purchased some cups of lemonade from a little girl down the street.

I just heard the following from outside the door:

Dad: "Henry, come throw your cup away."

(Klonk, klonk--the sound of the cup hitting the concrete.)

Dad: "I mean, Henry, come throw your cup away in the garbage."

Swimmy's Death Bed

This is Swimmy Huckleberry Fin Stuart Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (plus a couple of other names I'll not include for privacy sake)

He's dying (or so I think).



But he's making the best of last hours.



Having one last nightmare.



Resting on the bottom.



Talking to his imaginary friend.

We have loved him dearly and will miss him, even if Morgan has been asking for the past year if she could have a pet hamster when Swimmy died.

Valentines

From Jackie (6) to Henry (3)

Der Henry,
I love you so much that win (when) you ar not here I lmslst (almost) cry.



Anika (12) to Morgan (9)



Anika to Jackie

I think that is a rose Jackie drew on the valentine.

Der Stoort, (Stuart is a 12-year-old boy that Jackie adores.)
I hop yer lisin to this poueme. (I hope you're listening to this poem.)
Rosis ar red, villitse ar blu,
(Morgan I think takes over writing here)
I wish you would know how
I have a crush on you.



Morgan to Matthew:

Dear Dad,
You're the BEST dad ever!
Please be careful with the duck. The duck's name is Snifsy.
Love, Morgan



Jackie to Morgan:
Dear Morgan,
I hope you know hoe much I love you.



To Anika
From Jackie (in Anika's handwriting)

Love Stays With You.



To Anika
From Jackie
Second Page, still in Anika's handwriting

Sugar or Spice?

The kids came to me in the kitchen this morning, as I was madly whipping up some cranberry/raisin oatmeal cookies to give our primary teachers for Valentines Day.

The kids glowed.

"Mom," Anika sweetly said, holding out a jewelry catalog for her school fundraiser. In her other hand, she held a little fabric money pouch, visibly heavy with coins. "We have put all our money together. We have ten dollars and fifty cents. You can pick anything from this catalog."

My heart was like a piece of chocolate in the warm sun--totally and sweetly melted.

I sat down on the couch with the kids crowded around. There were two items in the $10.50 price range--sun earrings, and some hanging loop earrings. I chose the hanging loops.

Big Kid on the Block

Yes, this tooth is anatomically correct.

Complete with an MOD filling on the top.

Dead Mom, the Sequel

If you haven't read my post, Dead Mom, two posts ago, this is the sequel--you might want to read that first.

Today I was driving home from Costco, and I again passed the Hatter Exchange.

"Henry, there's the dead mom," I said, sure that I hadn't won the discussion about the mannequin in front of this consignment store.

"Mom," he said confidently, "That's not a dead mom. That's a piece of plastic."

"Who taught you that?" I asked, incredulous that he really had processed what I told him. I don't even remember using the word plastic.

"Oh, I don't know" was his nonchalant answer.

Go figure.

Fleeting Moments

This beautiful video just made me cry--watch it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olSyCLJU3O0&feature=player_embedded

So what are my fleeting moments that sometimes seem hard but I wouldn't trade? Henry trying to remove his backwards shirt, but he's pulled it off backward so that his arms are stuck behind him, and his shirt is tight behind his head. Jackie begging me every night for more books and a cuddle.

All the kids pleading to go everywhere with me--I try never to say no. My friends don't understand this, but I do. I won't have my children wanting to go everywhere with me forever.

Sacrament meeting, at church, with Henry and Jackie fighting over my lap and Morgan squeezing in next to me. Or the kids climbing into bed with me in the morning, when I'm still trying to sleep, and then fighting over who gets to be next to me.

Hand prints on the glass doors. Microwaved fruit. Water dumped out of the tub. "Oops, Mom." All worth it.

Those are just a few to begin. I tell my children often they are not allowed to grow up. But they won't obey this one. So I have begun living in the moment, or trying, as I recognize that moments are fleeting.

Dead Mom

Today Matthew left quickly from church with the three girls, while I took my time visiting, taking Henry to the bathroom, and searching for his lost picture from Sunbeam class. I wasn't in a hurry.

So as we drove home, Henry and I conversed. We passed something that Henry insisted was a broken swimming pool--I suppose because it was surrounded by cheap green fencing with one inch green plastic slats. Three menacing rows of barbed wire surrounded the top, and several brightly colored keep-out signs were posted on the padlocked door. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the city power.

Either way, it wasn't worth arguing. "Oh yes, Henry, look at the broken swimming pool!"

We drove a little further before Henry piped up, "A dead mom."

"Huh?" I asked.

"A dead mom. I see a dead mom."

"Henry," I said, "my mom is dead." I've always imagined having some special experience where my kids could possible meet my mom in spirit. The thought did cross my mind at this point that maybe this was it. He was seeing my mom . . . um . . . out the window on the road. In the seat next to me . . . This thought didn't last long.

I'm sure I've told Henry at some point that my mom was dead, but I kind of assumed that he was too little to care or remember.

"Henry, how did you know my mom was dead? Did you talk about that in church today?"

Henry at this point, began whining, flustered. "Dead mom. Mom! Turn around!"

I wasn't in a hurry to get home and face my motherhood responsitilbities, so I made a u-turn at the next. Then I drove a mile or so back down the road while Henry asserted over and over, "Not there, not there."

After a few minutes, he began bouncing in his seat: "There! There! Dead mom."

So I flipped another u-turn, and drove slowly up the road, trying to see where the dead mom is.

"There it is mom!! There is the dead Mom!"

If you look really closely, you'll see a white mannequin with a dress and a hat leaned leaned up at the top of the stairs on the right side of the house. She's always there advertising Hatter Exchange, a seldomly frequented clothing consignment shop that resides in the little house.

"Henry," I tried to explain, "It's not real. It's kind of like when you make things out of play dough, only someone made a big mom and put a hat and dress on it."

"No," He insisted, "It's a dead mom."

"O.K. Henry. Thanks for showing me the dead mom."

As we pulled into our driveway, Henry mused, "Hmmm . . . I didn't hear the dead mom."

Anikaism

At the dinner table:

Morgan (3rd grade) : "Jackie, your homework is really just easy and fun."

Jackie (kindergarten) : Not listening, continues to eat her macaroni and cheese.

Anika: "Yah, Morgan, the real homework starts in third grade. That's when you really start doing hard stuff."

Metaphors

I confess . . . those words seem to pop up every so often on my blog. But as part of my purpose is inject some reality into parental writing, my confessions seem appropriate. .

So here we go: I confess that my kids are picky eaters. There you have it. More about that on another day. This really is only a tiny bit related to my story, but nonetheless I feel much better having confessed.

But for today, here's the story. After a healthy but delicious dinner out with friends, I was really looking for a a few extra carbs--you know, a cookie, a cinnamon roll, or a loaf of warm homemade bread. I had to settle for a bag of pistachios.

As I stand at the counter savoring my pistachios, Henry wanders up and peers at my pistachios with one eye squinted. The look on his face reminds me of my childhood, when my mother would point out a beetle on the ground and we would all kneel on our hands and knees and scrutinize the beetle with fascination. Intense.

I say, "Mmmmmm . . . these are so good. Would you like to try one?"

Henry with a what-are-you-thinking-mom laugh says, despite having never tried pistachios, "No, no. I don't like them."

"No problem," I reply, feigning absolute joyous indifference. "More for me. Mmmmmmm."

I ignore Henry, knowing that nothing I can say will get him to try those delectable pistachios.

Slowly I notice his face closing in on them, his eyes still scrunched and focused on the pistachios.

"Look," I say, "they're green."

"Ooh yah," he observes,"like watermelons."

I guess so, crosses my mind.

"Mom, you're eating little watermelons."

If only that were true.

Imperfection Reigns

I bet you thought you had the best birthday decorations. . .

I bet you thought you made the cutest cake . . .

Of course, there is indeed a story behind this cake. I confess that unlike my mother, I do NOT make my own frosting. I don't feel bad about that, I admit. And after as many flops as I have had, the cakes I see in the grocery store are starting to look pretty darn pretty . . .

But enough of my guilty excuses. Back to the story. We had a busy day that day. At some point, Anika snuck into the vanilla Betty Crocker frosting container and savored a few spoonfuls.

We laughed. I told her she deserved to have the ugliest cake ever.

I Big

Henry: I big.
Morgan: No Henry, you are big when you are four.
Henry: Oh.

Boy Fascination . . . . Still

Henry: I not a big boy.
Daddy: Yes you are.
Henry: I not as big as you.
Daddy: I'm not a boy, I'm a man.
Henry: Where's your p_____?

Love at Home

It's cold. Dreadful or exhilarating, I haven't decided yet. Probably both.

In North Carolina, we use heat pumps to warm our homes. Though I just spent a few seconds skimming over a wikipedia article, I haven't bothered to really understand how they work. But Matthew tells me they're quite inefficient when the temperature drops.

After a $500 heating bill last month, we purchased a couple of electric blankets and a space heater and turned the temperature down to 60 degrees. The beauty of this is that I was cold before the electric blanket, even with the house temp at 70 degrees. But now I'm toasty warm all night. It's wonderful.

The electric blanket is popular in our house. I'm not sure a box of chocolate would attract the children as much. Unfortunately our queen size bed fits myself and about three children, tightly. Matthew is the one who "rolls over" and out of bed.

So there I was this morning with three children all cuddled up in the cozy electric blanket bed. And our conversation went like this:

Henry: "I big. I [am] like Morgan."
Morgan: "Do you want to be like Daddy? Do you want to have kids?"
Henry, wrapping his arms around Morgan: "Oh yes. When I big, you my best friend."
Jackie, musing: "Mom, can people marry brothers and sisters?"

The Adventures of Henry

They never stop--the adventures. In a way, I hope they don't, anyway.

Have you ever tried shaking a can of cocoa powder, with the top off. It's pretty exciting. Henry can tell you all about it.

As Henry gets older, he gets more and more helpful. He likes to cook and vacuum especially. Last week he decided to wash the kitchen window behind the sink . . . with the sink sprayer. Our counter in the corner to the right of the sink slopes just enough that it will hold about 3/4 inch of water. By the time Anika noticed and came to get me, we already had a little swimming pool going. We could have given Morgan's fish, Swimmy Huckleberry Fin Stuart Petty Willis, a great time. Or he could have swum in the water that had pooled in the oven. Or in the water that had pooled in the cupboard. Or on the floor. Too bad I didn't think of it at the time.

Anikaism

At the dinner table:

Morgan (3rd grade) : "Jackie, your homework is really just easy and fun."

Jackie (kindergarten) : Not listening, continues to eat her macaroni and cheese.

Anika: "Yah, Morgan, the real homework starts in third grade. That's when you really start doing hard stuff."

I Girl, I Boy

In case you remember an early post about our toddler gender confusion. The saga continues and ends here and now. I have abbreviated a word, mostly so that it doesn't mess up everyone's filtering. Hopefully this story doesn't offend anyone, but I think it's kind of cute.

I have continued to try to explain to Henry that he was a boy, but with three sisters, this concept has been a difficult one.

One morning, I am dressing to Henry, and once again explaining that he was a boy because he had a p----.

"Mom," he insists, "Jackie has a p----."

"No she doesn't," I reply.

Henry stands up and starts toward Jackie, who is listening to the conversation. "Jackie, do you have a p----?"

Jackie immediately and unabashedly pulls down her pants and shows him. It's like a light turns on--Henry's face brightens up, the darkness of confusion dissipates. "Oh, I boy." And that's that.

Late to Church . . . Two Weeks!

Generally, I'm on time.

But not always.

Last Sunday:

After finishing my preparations for sharing time, I methodically bathed and dressed the two younger children while the older children responsibly prepared themselves. That, with additional minutes here and there reminding children to make beds and put dirty clothes in the hamper instead of on the floor, left me with about 20 minutes to shower and dress myself. It was a race. I won the race, or so I thought.

Triumphant, I grabbed my coat, checked once more to make sure the iron was off, flicked off a few lights, and rushed downstairs to find that the three older kids had obediently already gone to the car. But there was Henry. Hiding under the table. With a spoonful of chocolate ice cream, probably his second, since a first seemed to be all over his face, light blue tie, and crisply pressed white shirt.

Henry was serious about that spoonful of ice cream. But I guess I was serious about leaving. A wash rag and a few screams (from Henry, that is,) and we were out the door . . . late.

This Sunday:

I decided to make a roller box for sharing time this week.

We rolled pictures that the children drew last week in primary--pictures of how they know Heavenly Father and Jesus love them. (This, by the way, was a hugely popular activity.)

I finished cutting creating the roller box Saturday night. It took a lot longer than I expected because I did it while we watched a movie. So Sunday morning I taped around 70 pictures together so they were ready to roll. After this took me at least 30 minutes longer than I expected, I was left with only 20 minutes to shower and dress.

When I rushed down, again triumphantly on time, the girls had again gone to the car. But there was Henry, completely naked, on the kitchen table wiping it with a paper towel. Yikes. I had forgotten to dress him after his bath. (And no, our children are generally not allowed on the table.) The worst of it, though, is that he had forgotten that I hadn't dressed him and had accidentally urinated on the kitchen table. "Sorry mom," he sweetly said.

So I was late because I then disinfected the table and dressed Henry. Funny--I could care less about a little urine on the table or being 10 minutes late to church when I think about that angelic apologetic face.

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.