My name is Samuel James Corbett and I would like to submit my application for consideration to join the Corbett Brotherhood.
I realize that, at 8 months of age, I am a bit younger than your normal applicants but I believe that my abilities will far outweigh any chronological deficiencies.
I have consulted the REQUIREMENTS FOR BROTHERHOOD ACCEPTANCE and will hereby list those I have hitherto completed.
1. Must have sustained a minor injury due to mom’s gross neglect.
(Please see attached accident report of last week’s highchair incident)
2. Must be able to procure your own dietary sustenance outside of mom’s permission and/or knowledge.
I will submit my list of "Recommended Edibles" as soon as I complete my research on whether the items found underneath the stove, refrigerator and couch have passed the Digestible and Passable Analysis.
3. Mother must state your name in full (last name is optional but the distinct pronunciation of full first name AND middle name is essential) at least 3 times a day. Bonus points for getting her confused enough to say full first and middle name of another child when referring to you.
4. Must alter, maim or completely destroy at least one item belonging to mom and/or dad per month. Please list below.
I find this a particular area of expertise as they still seem to be lax in the area of magazines and books. However, I was able to successfully turn off the computer while mom was about done typing something she had been working on for quite awhile. By the language that proceeded forth and the color of her face (as well as fulfilling requirement #3 above), it is my belief that she hadn’t saved it.
5. Must be able to make one or more parent abruptly stop an enjoyable leisure activity to run pell-mell to check the safety of a cherished possession or life of a child (could be your own life or that of a sibling that has been put in jeopardy).
First, I would like to say that I don’t much appreciate the fact that most of you have chosen to risk MY life in the fulfillment of this requirement and until I am big enough to repay you in kind, I will have to fall back on the corrosive abilities of my abundant supply of saliva to destroy anything of a fibrous nature.
It is my most sincere wish to be able to list myself as one of the distinguished members of The Corbett Brotherhood and hope that you view my abilities and expertise as an asset to your cause.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Samuel James Corbett
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Sudoku - The Difference between Brett and I
I love word puzzles. Crosswords, cryptograms, letter scrambles, you name it, I love it. And, if I must be so bold, I’m pretty good at them as well. My husband even proposed to me with a scavenger hunt of cryptograms – it was thrilling!
A few months ago, we were all at a BBQ at my sister-in-law’s house. There on the table was a book titled Sudoku.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s sort of like a word puzzle but with numbers. It’s really addictive!”
It wasn’t long before several copies of a puzzle were made and a small competition commenced.
I grabbed a sheet and a pencil and after a brief description of the game, started working furiously.
There are 9 squares total with 9 squares inside each of those. You must number the smaller squares 1-9 but each column and each line must also be numbered 1-9 without any repeat numbers.
Got it. Since some of the numbers are already intermittently dispersed throughout the puzzle, it makes it even easier.
First square. Done.
Second square. Piece of cake.
Third square across – all the lines match up. Great.
I look over Brett’s shoulder. The man doesn’t even have the 1st square completely filled in. I have a moment of pity for the man as he clearly doesn’t fully comprehend the simplicity of the game.
I start my second set of squares. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly and easily I’m moving through this game.
I look around at everyone’s furrowed brow and the small pink flecks of eraser flying across their pages. I hazard to mention that this isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I see a few eyebrows raise and I’m guessing a few people biting their tongues as well.
Third and final row. First square, done. Second square, done. I look over Brett’s shoulder, he only has 2 squares completed and is scribbling what looks like some sort of code on the side of his page. (Heavy sigh) He is gifted in so many areas, I really shouldn’t begrudge his inability at this. You really have to have a mind that thinks outside the box in order to fully grasp the concept of word games and puzzles. I hope his failure at this doesn’t somehow emasculate him.
Last square, er, wait I can’t put a 3 there because there is already a 3 in the other line. That’s ok, I’ll just back up a bit. I start to erase. There, the 3 goes there, now we’re good, hmmm, hold on, if I put the 5 there, then there will be two 8s in the next row. Back to the eraser.
My brow is now starting to furrow as pink flecks of eraser begin to scatter across my page. I look over Brett’s shoulder now, 5 completed squares. He seems to be going faster now.
Each time I begin to advance, I find another small flaw and end up erasing a few more squares. It’s not long now and my entire sheet is empty save for the pink and gray streaks across my page.
I look around and begin to see a few smirks around the room. “How you comin’ along there Andrea?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Just had to back up a bit but I’m back in the game.”
I now start looking over Brett’s shoulder and begin copying madly. He has 2 squares left and seems to be listing the answers as though he were casually writing a note.
I’m in panic mode. My reputation is on the line. It seems that the only squares that are correct are the ones that I copied from Brett. Each time I step out on my own, the mistakes seem to mount faster and faster.
My paper now looks like a piece of ancient parchment as small holes begin to form from the rub marks of my now non-existent eraser.
“DONE!” Brett bellows. Everyone groans and drops their pencils, all equally devoid of erasers. Someone flips to the back of the answer book to check his answers as Brett offers me his untouched eraser. “It’s ok honey,” he says, “you just have to be able to think geometrically”.
A few months ago, we were all at a BBQ at my sister-in-law’s house. There on the table was a book titled Sudoku.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s sort of like a word puzzle but with numbers. It’s really addictive!”
It wasn’t long before several copies of a puzzle were made and a small competition commenced.
I grabbed a sheet and a pencil and after a brief description of the game, started working furiously.
There are 9 squares total with 9 squares inside each of those. You must number the smaller squares 1-9 but each column and each line must also be numbered 1-9 without any repeat numbers.
Got it. Since some of the numbers are already intermittently dispersed throughout the puzzle, it makes it even easier.
First square. Done.
Second square. Piece of cake.
Third square across – all the lines match up. Great.
I look over Brett’s shoulder. The man doesn’t even have the 1st square completely filled in. I have a moment of pity for the man as he clearly doesn’t fully comprehend the simplicity of the game.
I start my second set of squares. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly and easily I’m moving through this game.
I look around at everyone’s furrowed brow and the small pink flecks of eraser flying across their pages. I hazard to mention that this isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I see a few eyebrows raise and I’m guessing a few people biting their tongues as well.
Third and final row. First square, done. Second square, done. I look over Brett’s shoulder, he only has 2 squares completed and is scribbling what looks like some sort of code on the side of his page. (Heavy sigh) He is gifted in so many areas, I really shouldn’t begrudge his inability at this. You really have to have a mind that thinks outside the box in order to fully grasp the concept of word games and puzzles. I hope his failure at this doesn’t somehow emasculate him.
Last square, er, wait I can’t put a 3 there because there is already a 3 in the other line. That’s ok, I’ll just back up a bit. I start to erase. There, the 3 goes there, now we’re good, hmmm, hold on, if I put the 5 there, then there will be two 8s in the next row. Back to the eraser.
My brow is now starting to furrow as pink flecks of eraser begin to scatter across my page. I look over Brett’s shoulder now, 5 completed squares. He seems to be going faster now.
Each time I begin to advance, I find another small flaw and end up erasing a few more squares. It’s not long now and my entire sheet is empty save for the pink and gray streaks across my page.
I look around and begin to see a few smirks around the room. “How you comin’ along there Andrea?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Just had to back up a bit but I’m back in the game.”
I now start looking over Brett’s shoulder and begin copying madly. He has 2 squares left and seems to be listing the answers as though he were casually writing a note.
I’m in panic mode. My reputation is on the line. It seems that the only squares that are correct are the ones that I copied from Brett. Each time I step out on my own, the mistakes seem to mount faster and faster.
My paper now looks like a piece of ancient parchment as small holes begin to form from the rub marks of my now non-existent eraser.
“DONE!” Brett bellows. Everyone groans and drops their pencils, all equally devoid of erasers. Someone flips to the back of the answer book to check his answers as Brett offers me his untouched eraser. “It’s ok honey,” he says, “you just have to be able to think geometrically”.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
A Relative Dimension of Time
The science of physics will tell you that time is a measurable unit which moves at a fixed rate. To say that time is relative, would be to turn society as we know it upside down and inside out.
However, the evidence of the existence of another dimension of time is irrefutable to even the greatest of skeptics when the following mathematical equation is employed:
CA = RT
A
By taking CA (Chronological Age) and dividing it by A (Activity) you will be given the correct RT or Relative Time.
For example, if you take a 2 year old child and divide it by their longing for more juice, even though the ‘actual’ time of fulfilling their desire is 33 seconds, their perception or ‘relative’ time equates to 12 minutes.
The equation works in the reverse as well when you take the a 36 year old parent trying to pacify a screaming 2 year old with more juice, the same 33 second activity will come out to a relative time of 23 agonizing minutes.
The above equation is equally accurate even as the chronological age of the individual advances as proven in the following examples:
14 year old male
Desire drive = Relative Time to receive license is 1 Eternity
36 year old female
2 weeks overdue with 4th child = Relative Time of pregnancy is 9 years
As rich as my research has been, I do admit a small blip in the Relative Time Continuum for subjects over the age of 60. It has been my experience that as one approaches this increasingly vital age, the less relative and more literal time seems to be.
Case in point, if you take a 63 year old grandmother and divide it by a day long ordeal of babysitting 3 grandchildren then the statement of “I’ll be there to pick the kids up ‘in a minute’” is taken as a literal 60 second period before said children are placed out on the curb for pick up.
This theory is also proven in the following equation:
63 year old male
Waiting for menu in restaurant after server declares “I’ll be back in a sec with your menu”
= You have literally 1 second before male walks out of restaurant in a huff declaring he will never return to this slap shod place with the crappy service again.
However, the evidence of the existence of another dimension of time is irrefutable to even the greatest of skeptics when the following mathematical equation is employed:
CA = RT
A
By taking CA (Chronological Age) and dividing it by A (Activity) you will be given the correct RT or Relative Time.
For example, if you take a 2 year old child and divide it by their longing for more juice, even though the ‘actual’ time of fulfilling their desire is 33 seconds, their perception or ‘relative’ time equates to 12 minutes.
The equation works in the reverse as well when you take the a 36 year old parent trying to pacify a screaming 2 year old with more juice, the same 33 second activity will come out to a relative time of 23 agonizing minutes.
The above equation is equally accurate even as the chronological age of the individual advances as proven in the following examples:
14 year old male
Desire drive = Relative Time to receive license is 1 Eternity
36 year old female
2 weeks overdue with 4th child = Relative Time of pregnancy is 9 years
As rich as my research has been, I do admit a small blip in the Relative Time Continuum for subjects over the age of 60. It has been my experience that as one approaches this increasingly vital age, the less relative and more literal time seems to be.
Case in point, if you take a 63 year old grandmother and divide it by a day long ordeal of babysitting 3 grandchildren then the statement of “I’ll be there to pick the kids up ‘in a minute’” is taken as a literal 60 second period before said children are placed out on the curb for pick up.
This theory is also proven in the following equation:
63 year old male
Waiting for menu in restaurant after server declares “I’ll be back in a sec with your menu”
= You have literally 1 second before male walks out of restaurant in a huff declaring he will never return to this slap shod place with the crappy service again.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Many Languages of Parenthood
All my kids have been late talkers. I originally believed this developmental delay was due to the fact that I had all boys. It is well documented that girls commonly develop language and motor skills faster than boys do. I have had to admit, however, that my extensive quad-lingual abilities have affected the language development of my children.
Many mothers throughout the ages have, upon the birth of their first child, been endowed with an almost miraculous ability to speak Wahnese.
“Wah!”
“He’s hungry”
“Wah!”
“He’s tired”
“Wah!”
“He wants you to turn down that god-forsaken music because his head is about to explode!”
I have often been complimented for mastering the more complex language of Uhnnish. I admit I struggled with the varying dialects that my children spoke when reaching toddlerhood, but now that my 3rd child communicates solely through this language, I can herald complete understanding while even my husband often stands dumbstruck by the demands of his 2 year old son.
“Uh!”
“He wants more juice”
“Uh uh!”
“I prefer not to go to bed at the present time as I lack the desire to sleep”
But it is the fluency of which I understand Idunnoan that I am most proud of. This is a more complicated language that instinctively develops in every child above the age of 4.
“Why did you just call your brother a stupid idiot?”
“I dunno”
Translation: I realize that ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’ have been placed on the taboo word list in our house, however, since watching you running around the yard for an hour chasing one of the escaped goats and screaming “YOU STUPID, IDIOT GOAT!” I thought that possibly it was now ok to say.
“Why did you punch your brother?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because he’s a jerk and I knew that you wouldn’t do anything about it and it’s worth any punishment to be able to wipe that smirk off his face.
As Idunnoan is a sub-language that every man, woman and especially teenager speaks until the day they die, this fluency has helped me to understand the intricacies of my husband as well.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rick and his wife had their baby?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because I knew you were going to ask me what they had, how much it weighed, what the name is and how her labor went, was it a medicated or natural birth, is she breast or bottle feeding and frankly, I just don’t care about any of it.
Many mothers throughout the ages have, upon the birth of their first child, been endowed with an almost miraculous ability to speak Wahnese.
“Wah!”
“He’s hungry”
“Wah!”
“He’s tired”
“Wah!”
“He wants you to turn down that god-forsaken music because his head is about to explode!”
I have often been complimented for mastering the more complex language of Uhnnish. I admit I struggled with the varying dialects that my children spoke when reaching toddlerhood, but now that my 3rd child communicates solely through this language, I can herald complete understanding while even my husband often stands dumbstruck by the demands of his 2 year old son.
“Uh!”
“He wants more juice”
“Uh uh!”
“I prefer not to go to bed at the present time as I lack the desire to sleep”
But it is the fluency of which I understand Idunnoan that I am most proud of. This is a more complicated language that instinctively develops in every child above the age of 4.
“Why did you just call your brother a stupid idiot?”
“I dunno”
Translation: I realize that ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’ have been placed on the taboo word list in our house, however, since watching you running around the yard for an hour chasing one of the escaped goats and screaming “YOU STUPID, IDIOT GOAT!” I thought that possibly it was now ok to say.
“Why did you punch your brother?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because he’s a jerk and I knew that you wouldn’t do anything about it and it’s worth any punishment to be able to wipe that smirk off his face.
As Idunnoan is a sub-language that every man, woman and especially teenager speaks until the day they die, this fluency has helped me to understand the intricacies of my husband as well.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rick and his wife had their baby?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because I knew you were going to ask me what they had, how much it weighed, what the name is and how her labor went, was it a medicated or natural birth, is she breast or bottle feeding and frankly, I just don’t care about any of it.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Frames of Time
I have found that teaching my children how to tell time is imminently easier than teaching them what time actually is.
“When are we going to the pool?”
“In an hour.”
“How long is an hour?”
“It’s 60 minutes.”
“Oh. How long is a minute?”
The solution to this time troubling dilemma however, has been resolved within the intricacies of our own family.
The following are a few examples of how the frames of time have evolved in our home:
Q: When are we going to the pool?
A: In about a tantrum.
Q: Mom, when is it lunch time?
A: In just a few complaints.
Q: When will daddy be home from work?
A: About a fist fight from now.
Brett and I have not come out unscathed by our demented sense of time either.
“I ran into Rick today”
“Wow, how long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Must be about 2 kids now. I mentioned having him over for dinner next paycheck.”
“I thought we were going to go camping, what about next mortgage instead? Oh, before I forget, your brother called a few tantrums ago and wants to borrow your saw.”
“Great, last time he borrowed something I didn’t see it for 3 kids, 7 utility bills and a nightshift.”
“When are we going to the pool?”
“In an hour.”
“How long is an hour?”
“It’s 60 minutes.”
“Oh. How long is a minute?”
The solution to this time troubling dilemma however, has been resolved within the intricacies of our own family.
The following are a few examples of how the frames of time have evolved in our home:
Q: When are we going to the pool?
A: In about a tantrum.
Q: Mom, when is it lunch time?
A: In just a few complaints.
Q: When will daddy be home from work?
A: About a fist fight from now.
Brett and I have not come out unscathed by our demented sense of time either.
“I ran into Rick today”
“Wow, how long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Must be about 2 kids now. I mentioned having him over for dinner next paycheck.”
“I thought we were going to go camping, what about next mortgage instead? Oh, before I forget, your brother called a few tantrums ago and wants to borrow your saw.”
“Great, last time he borrowed something I didn’t see it for 3 kids, 7 utility bills and a nightshift.”
Saturday, August 11, 2007
No Touching my Coffee
It’s 1:00 and I have a splitting headache. I tried to warm up some coffee from yesterday but it turned out too rancid for human consumption. I’m tired and hungry and the boys are having an unauthorized mud fight in the back yard.
The thought of a cool, frothy iced coffee propels me to get the boys together for a trip to the store for a frozen pizza and my coveted coffee.
A quick wipe down and a couple clean shirts later, we’re piling into the Jeep. Before I turn the key in the ignition, I can already hear (thud), “Ow!”, (thud), “Ow!”, (thud)…. The boys are taking turns punching each other in the chest. I choose to forgo the standard ‘rules of the car’ speech and instead declare “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!”
A few ear-piercing, head splitting miles later, I lean out the window to receive the ice-cold mocha covered in whipped cream into my anxious and shaking hands. For a few precious seconds, all talking ceases as I take my first sip. Ah, sweet nectar of life! Then, as if someone suddenly turned off a mute button, a bevy of “I want some!”, “Can I have a drink?!”, “Mama! Me!!” and “Waah!” ring out among a multitude of hands all grabbing and pushing at the same time. “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!” is all I can manage while I struggle to maintain ownership of my small cup of salvation.
While driving to the store, I occupy my mind with ideas of inventions that would hold a coffee cup around your neck so that a small nod of your head would bring it’s soothing relief instantly to your lips, but before I can perfect my design, we are parking and piling out of the car.
Once inside the store, I make the horrific realization that bucking the baby into the cart will require both of my hands, so begrudgingly I call Josh over and explain to him that he is it to HOLD my coffee and DO NOT DRINK! I struggle with several different carts before finding one that will both buckle and roll and turn to tenderly receive my frothy gift from the gods. The site that waits before me is both of astonishment and horror. My hands are frozen, extended in the air and my mouth drops open in a silent scream. Josh is standing there with the straw, the passage of liquid life from the Holy Grail into my Temple, stuck completely up his nose.
“Wha… why…” I stammer.
Beginning to realize that he might be doing something wrong, Josh begins pulling the length of straw from his oozing nasal passages and says “What? I wasn’t drinking it.”
It’s 2:00 and my head is pounding. The boys are all piled back in the car each holding a package of cookies and a frozen pizza. Even the baby seemed to grab contraband items from the shelves as I walked through the store in a zombie like state. The ice in my coffee is melting and the whipped cream is coagulating into chunks among the watery liquid which now has an unmistakably green tinge to it. My stomach starts to churn as I look at the crusty straw. The back seat sounds like a rowdy saloon full of sailors on leave as they sing and pound back cookies like shots of whiskey.
I turn to address the mutinous crowd and, through clenched teeth, say “No talking. No touching.”
The thought of a cool, frothy iced coffee propels me to get the boys together for a trip to the store for a frozen pizza and my coveted coffee.
A quick wipe down and a couple clean shirts later, we’re piling into the Jeep. Before I turn the key in the ignition, I can already hear (thud), “Ow!”, (thud), “Ow!”, (thud)…. The boys are taking turns punching each other in the chest. I choose to forgo the standard ‘rules of the car’ speech and instead declare “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!”
A few ear-piercing, head splitting miles later, I lean out the window to receive the ice-cold mocha covered in whipped cream into my anxious and shaking hands. For a few precious seconds, all talking ceases as I take my first sip. Ah, sweet nectar of life! Then, as if someone suddenly turned off a mute button, a bevy of “I want some!”, “Can I have a drink?!”, “Mama! Me!!” and “Waah!” ring out among a multitude of hands all grabbing and pushing at the same time. “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!” is all I can manage while I struggle to maintain ownership of my small cup of salvation.
While driving to the store, I occupy my mind with ideas of inventions that would hold a coffee cup around your neck so that a small nod of your head would bring it’s soothing relief instantly to your lips, but before I can perfect my design, we are parking and piling out of the car.
Once inside the store, I make the horrific realization that bucking the baby into the cart will require both of my hands, so begrudgingly I call Josh over and explain to him that he is it to HOLD my coffee and DO NOT DRINK! I struggle with several different carts before finding one that will both buckle and roll and turn to tenderly receive my frothy gift from the gods. The site that waits before me is both of astonishment and horror. My hands are frozen, extended in the air and my mouth drops open in a silent scream. Josh is standing there with the straw, the passage of liquid life from the Holy Grail into my Temple, stuck completely up his nose.
“Wha… why…” I stammer.
Beginning to realize that he might be doing something wrong, Josh begins pulling the length of straw from his oozing nasal passages and says “What? I wasn’t drinking it.”
It’s 2:00 and my head is pounding. The boys are all piled back in the car each holding a package of cookies and a frozen pizza. Even the baby seemed to grab contraband items from the shelves as I walked through the store in a zombie like state. The ice in my coffee is melting and the whipped cream is coagulating into chunks among the watery liquid which now has an unmistakably green tinge to it. My stomach starts to churn as I look at the crusty straw. The back seat sounds like a rowdy saloon full of sailors on leave as they sing and pound back cookies like shots of whiskey.
I turn to address the mutinous crowd and, through clenched teeth, say “No talking. No touching.”
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