Well, like most of you, a lot has happened this year.
First and foremost, we moved into a larger house in town. This was a huge deal as the house on Elk Park was our first home. We had some great memories there, but it was time to move on. We went from a 1400 sqft hobby farm 20 miles outside of town to a 3400 sqft house right smack in the middle of town. Life is different, but still very much the same.
We have a lot more room to run around the house and I still yell at the boys to stop running. The boys have their own rooms but still beg to sleep together. I decided to take my time decorating the house to get it ‘just right’ and have been on a mad painting binge since the day we moved in (I blame the paint fumes for the fact that I actually tasted the sample that reminded me of a Hershey bar).
We still have ½ an acre and were able to bring some of our chickens over from the other house. After 10 years of complaining about chickens, goats and gardens, I’m rather enjoying the chickens, had a great time in our new garden and sort of wish we had a goat or two (please take a moment of silence to pray for Brett).
Brett made Seargent this year and is doing great in his new position. With leadership comes many advantages as well as trials, but he’s braved it all well and is enjoying the challenges it brings.
We live close to a river and Brett and the boys spent quite a bit of time down by the water. As we all love boating and fishing, we did a little shopping for a small boat to putz around in and do some fishing. In the absence of finding ‘the one’, Brett has decided to build his own boat in our garage this winter (please take a moment of silence to pray for Andrea).
We now live close to a great Christian school and the temptation to quit homeschooling was too big to resist. I called the school to get registration information, then got the tuition information and promptly ordered our next year of homeschool curriculum. We changed up some of our subjects and learning styles and have been having a much funner (yep, I’m the teacher!) homeschool experience.
Josh turned 10 this past year and in the excitement, failed to realize the reason his mother was sobbing in the corner was because she could not only remember, with detail, his first smile, but also knows that over half his time with us was over. “Oh, most kids don’t leave home at 20 anymore”. Er, mine will.
Will, Ben and Sam all celebrated their birthdays within a month of Christmas turning 9, 6 and 4 respectively. As this is a very expensive time of year for us, we tried to convince the boys how much fun it would be to just go to a movie and out for ice cream for their birthday and save the gifts for Christmas. We thought them gullible to agree until we realized that, along with a pizza, it cost over $100 bucks for our family of 6 to go to a movie and out for ice cream!! (Curse you 3-D!) I fear next year they will be too smart to agree to a Redbox movie and microwave popcorn, so we’ve taken money out of their ‘future therapy’ fund (we thought the therapy they would certainly need outweighed the need for college or a career) to pad the way for next birthday/Christmas season.
Speaking of which, the boys were in their first Christmas play. When Sam realized that his brothers all got to wear shepherds costumes, he decided he wanted to go to ‘Someday School’ (translation: Sunday School) so he could be a shepherd too. Instead, he struggled in my lap while I proudly video taped all three of my boys picking their noses next to baby Jesus in front of the entire church. Since I’ve had to give up caring about other’s opinions of me 2 kids ago, I decided to cheer them on as any other proud mom would.
Now as we are coming up on 2011, I know that we will have many changes to deal with this next year, but all in all, I’m sure so many things will stay the same. Josh will still love Legos and tornadoes with a passion. Will is still going to be the super sweet, compassionate young man that makes all my friends who have little girls claim him to marry their daughters. Ben will still be able to look at me with his big blue eyes and bottom lip sticking out and turn me (and anyone else in the vicinity) to a puddle and get anything he wants, and then there’s Sam. Precious, precocious, Sam. I’m sure that Sam will still be able to take a hit that would drop a grown man and make all 3 of his older brothers cry out of sheer frustration. I’m also sure that he will learn to ride a bike, shovel snow, learn Latin and drive a car.
Brett will continue to be a strong, compassionate, honest and just police officer as well as father. He will dream up 77 complicated, expensive and time consuming projects to do, start 23 of them, get frustrated that he only finished 2 then realize that all he really wants to do is hang out with his wife and boys and be content that he took the boys sledding, played board games, went camping and fished off the bridge instead of building that boat in the garage. (Right Brett? You’re not REALLY going to build a boat in our garage, right?)
Me? I’ll just spend another year keeping it real. I’ll stay in my pajamas with the breakfast dishes out until someone calls at 1pm to say they are going to stop by, then take the fastest shower on earth, throw my dishes in the trash and water board my boys into cleaning up all the toys so that when the random acquaintance that just dropped something off on my front porch will believe that I’m the get up early, bake from scratch, cleans the house for fun, patient homeschooling Pilates mom.
Yeah, I’ll be keepin it real.
We hope the Lord will bless you all in this next year and that no matter what changes 2011 brings, we can have peace in the one thing that will NEVER change, is the love the Lord has for each and every one of us.
God Bless,
The Corbetts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Sledding
We went sledding today. It's the day before Christmas Eve, Sam's 4th birthday is tomorrow and filled with all the typical Christmas Eve broohaha so we thought it would be fun to do something as a family to celebrate Sam.
The announcement was made "We're going sledding! Put on all your snow gear and get in the car!" The whoops were heard 'round the neighborhood and the mad dash began.
One hour, 7 fights and a bloody nose later, we were finally putting sleds in the car.
"Where's Sam?"
"He's getting his socks on"
"Sam! Hurry up! Everyone is in the car, let's go!"
"I don wanna go"
"What?"
"I don yike sedding"
"Too late, everyone is already in the car, so let's go"
"I DON WANT TO GOOOOOO!"
It is now that the frustration hits, so I squat down to the level of my son whose birthday we are going to celebrate and state "You WILL get your socks on, you WILL get in the car and you WILL have fun. Is that CLEAR?"
The sobs that follow indicate that it is, indeed, clear.
We get to the sled hill and everyone piles out of the car. We have 2 sleds and 6 sledders. The mathematical equivalent of much arguing and crying at the top of the hill as to who gets to go first. Sam has unhappily disengaged from his car seat and his sitting in a lump on a bench with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. "I cold. I don yike being cold" Well, I guess only 5 sledders.
Josh and Will win the toss and get to sled down the hill first. Ben decides to just go down on his belly in order to save face and lights off. Brett and I stand at the top of the hill and watch our little boys having the time of their lives. Well, 3 of the 4, but at least Sam is quiet in his misery, so we're content. It was worth it all the turmoil getting out of the house.
"Moooom! I pooped my pants!"
I stand there next to my man and look for the mom with the fallen face and defeated shoulders whose sledding adventures just ended.
"MOM!"
I look down and see Ben at the bottom of the hill staring up at me.
"Yes dear??"
"I SAID, I pooped my pants"
I look over at Brett hoping that he understood what our 6 year old son was saying, because the cold was messing with my hearing.
"What did he say?"
Brett just silently stares down at Ben with a fallen face and defeated shoulders.
"MOOOM!"
I'm confused. My brain seems unable to wrap around what it happening so I continue to look between Brett and Ben in an attempt to decipher the situation.
Frustrated by the lack of response, Ben now sets off in a huff up the hill in a wide legged stomp.
The heavy sigh next to me triggers a dawning reality.
"Ben, sweetheart, did YOU poop your pants?"
"Yes! That's what I SAID!"
He is now halfway up the hill and looking increasingly uncomfortable.
"What do you mean you pooped your pants??"
It's now Ben's turn to look at me with a blank stare.
"Well, I mean what KIND of poop are we talking about? Do you have an actual terd in your pants?" I look over at Brett and realize by the look on his face, that Ben and I are having our conversation while shouting up and down a sledding hill filled with children, parents, grandparents, friends, co-workers, you name it. As I look around, the look on all of their faces plainly reveal that they are all in on the conversation and, while snickering, thanking God that it's not them.
Ben finishes his awkward trek up the hill and stands tall in front of me oblivious to the fact that the entire sled hill knows what has happened.
Slightly out of breath he states "No, not a terd, more like a wet fart."
"A wet fart or diarrhea?"
His brow furrows as he takes an internal inventory. Hmmm, interesting question you provide, parental unit, I will take a moment to assertain the severity of soiling and get back to you.
I'm standing there bewildered, not so much by the fact that my 6 year old soiled himself on the sledding hill, but more so by the fact that he seems completely undaunted by this. He is standing in front of me looking as though he's deciding between a juice box or chocolate milk.
A short moment later he states "I'm not sure".
Brett looks at me and says "Do you have something for this in the car?"
Are you kidding me?? Yes, of course dear. My youngest child has been potty trained for 2 years, but I regularly carry baby wipes, extra underwear and sledding gear for instances just like THIS!
"No" is what I manage.
Brett comes alive and yells down the hill to Josh and Will "We're leaving! Grab your sled and get in the car!"
"WHAT??!! We only went down ONCE!"
They're right. We got out of the car exactly 7 minutes ago. Three minutes later, we're piling back in the car with everyone grumbling and crying.
Everyone except Sam that is. He's thrilled. He's got a smile on his face and music in his voice "Yeah! We get to go home!"
"Happy Birthday Sam"
"Tanks Mom"
The announcement was made "We're going sledding! Put on all your snow gear and get in the car!" The whoops were heard 'round the neighborhood and the mad dash began.
One hour, 7 fights and a bloody nose later, we were finally putting sleds in the car.
"Where's Sam?"
"He's getting his socks on"
"Sam! Hurry up! Everyone is in the car, let's go!"
"I don wanna go"
"What?"
"I don yike sedding"
"Too late, everyone is already in the car, so let's go"
"I DON WANT TO GOOOOOO!"
It is now that the frustration hits, so I squat down to the level of my son whose birthday we are going to celebrate and state "You WILL get your socks on, you WILL get in the car and you WILL have fun. Is that CLEAR?"
The sobs that follow indicate that it is, indeed, clear.
We get to the sled hill and everyone piles out of the car. We have 2 sleds and 6 sledders. The mathematical equivalent of much arguing and crying at the top of the hill as to who gets to go first. Sam has unhappily disengaged from his car seat and his sitting in a lump on a bench with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. "I cold. I don yike being cold" Well, I guess only 5 sledders.
Josh and Will win the toss and get to sled down the hill first. Ben decides to just go down on his belly in order to save face and lights off. Brett and I stand at the top of the hill and watch our little boys having the time of their lives. Well, 3 of the 4, but at least Sam is quiet in his misery, so we're content. It was worth it all the turmoil getting out of the house.
"Moooom! I pooped my pants!"
I stand there next to my man and look for the mom with the fallen face and defeated shoulders whose sledding adventures just ended.
"MOM!"
I look down and see Ben at the bottom of the hill staring up at me.
"Yes dear??"
"I SAID, I pooped my pants"
I look over at Brett hoping that he understood what our 6 year old son was saying, because the cold was messing with my hearing.
"What did he say?"
Brett just silently stares down at Ben with a fallen face and defeated shoulders.
"MOOOM!"
I'm confused. My brain seems unable to wrap around what it happening so I continue to look between Brett and Ben in an attempt to decipher the situation.
Frustrated by the lack of response, Ben now sets off in a huff up the hill in a wide legged stomp.
The heavy sigh next to me triggers a dawning reality.
"Ben, sweetheart, did YOU poop your pants?"
"Yes! That's what I SAID!"
He is now halfway up the hill and looking increasingly uncomfortable.
"What do you mean you pooped your pants??"
It's now Ben's turn to look at me with a blank stare.
"Well, I mean what KIND of poop are we talking about? Do you have an actual terd in your pants?" I look over at Brett and realize by the look on his face, that Ben and I are having our conversation while shouting up and down a sledding hill filled with children, parents, grandparents, friends, co-workers, you name it. As I look around, the look on all of their faces plainly reveal that they are all in on the conversation and, while snickering, thanking God that it's not them.
Ben finishes his awkward trek up the hill and stands tall in front of me oblivious to the fact that the entire sled hill knows what has happened.
Slightly out of breath he states "No, not a terd, more like a wet fart."
"A wet fart or diarrhea?"
His brow furrows as he takes an internal inventory. Hmmm, interesting question you provide, parental unit, I will take a moment to assertain the severity of soiling and get back to you.
I'm standing there bewildered, not so much by the fact that my 6 year old soiled himself on the sledding hill, but more so by the fact that he seems completely undaunted by this. He is standing in front of me looking as though he's deciding between a juice box or chocolate milk.
A short moment later he states "I'm not sure".
Brett looks at me and says "Do you have something for this in the car?"
Are you kidding me?? Yes, of course dear. My youngest child has been potty trained for 2 years, but I regularly carry baby wipes, extra underwear and sledding gear for instances just like THIS!
"No" is what I manage.
Brett comes alive and yells down the hill to Josh and Will "We're leaving! Grab your sled and get in the car!"
"WHAT??!! We only went down ONCE!"
They're right. We got out of the car exactly 7 minutes ago. Three minutes later, we're piling back in the car with everyone grumbling and crying.
Everyone except Sam that is. He's thrilled. He's got a smile on his face and music in his voice "Yeah! We get to go home!"
"Happy Birthday Sam"
"Tanks Mom"
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Quotes from this past year
It's been well over a year since I've been on here, and truth be told, it may be another year until I post again.
"What's so hard about posting?" you ask? Well, it's been a very busy year, we moved, Ben started homeschooling, Brett got a promotion, I started decorating....
Ok, ok, I can't do it. It's Facebook! I joined Facebook and all other priorities (i.e. my blog and showering) have been thrown to the wayside. I'm sorry. Mea Culpa!
Here are some of my status updates from Facebook from the past year:
7 year old Will pointing at 3 crosses on the side of the road: "Look mom! It's the cross where Jesus was crucified!" 9 year old Josh: "Will, Jesus was crucified in Israel....(thoughtfully)...or was it Miami?"
7 year old William: "Mom! There's a deluge of mosquitos outside!"
Me: " 'Deluge'?? Wow Will, you sound very intelligent."
Will: "What's 'intelligent'?"
Last night at dinner, Will leans over and says "Mommy, you are so pretty you should be on a Christmas card". I stared at him for a minute, quietly went to the kitchen and got his birthday cake. I took his fork and stuck it in the middle of the cake, placed it in front of him and said "I have nothing left to teach you. Have at it kid."
Yesterday at lunch, Sam (3) picks up his string cheese, brings it up in front of his face and starts to stare it down. He sighs heavily and states "Yets do this" and takes a bite. After a minute or so he exclaims "Hmm..tastes yike chicken!" I'm staring at this kid utterly confused when Josh comes over and says "He's been watching Survivorman".
Sam's outfit for church last Sunday: Favorite shirt pulled from the bottom of the dirty laundry pile, swimming trunks, 1 tennis shoe/no sock, 1 crock/wrong foot. This was discovered, along with maple syrup all over his face and hands, a mile from church. I believe my last words to Brett were "Make sure they're all presentable".
Will: "Mom, why do people have to pay for speeding tickets when the police give them out for free?"
"I like dirt. It tastes just like sausage." Sam, age 3
Having a "Sixteen Candles" sort of day. If anyone out there cares at all about Brett, you might want to give him a call and let him know he FORGOT HIS WIFE'S BIRTHDAY!!!
(Update later that day): We were rushed getting ready for church this morning so I was flustered when I got in the car. Brett told me to do my 'combat breathing' : Slowly inhale for 4sec, hold for 4sec, release for 4sec. It's supposed to calm you in "under fire" situations. Later at chruch, one of the boys finally realized it was my birthday and told Brett. When I looked over at him, he had this "I'm dead" look on his face and I said "Start your Combat Breathing dear."
Please explain to me what possesses boys to fill their waterguns with urine??
Just got back from meeting Brett in town for lunch. As we were leaving, he got a call and had to run to his car, jump in and speed off. The boys all stared in total wonderment. Then Will whispers "I've never seen a real police car with my REAL dad (as opposed to his many stepdads????) speed away to help someone". Then as if on cue, all four boys stared jumping around an howling like wolves!
"What's so hard about posting?" you ask? Well, it's been a very busy year, we moved, Ben started homeschooling, Brett got a promotion, I started decorating....
Ok, ok, I can't do it. It's Facebook! I joined Facebook and all other priorities (i.e. my blog and showering) have been thrown to the wayside. I'm sorry. Mea Culpa!
Here are some of my status updates from Facebook from the past year:
7 year old Will pointing at 3 crosses on the side of the road: "Look mom! It's the cross where Jesus was crucified!" 9 year old Josh: "Will, Jesus was crucified in Israel....(thoughtfully)...or was it Miami?"
7 year old William: "Mom! There's a deluge of mosquitos outside!"
Me: " 'Deluge'?? Wow Will, you sound very intelligent."
Will: "What's 'intelligent'?"
Last night at dinner, Will leans over and says "Mommy, you are so pretty you should be on a Christmas card". I stared at him for a minute, quietly went to the kitchen and got his birthday cake. I took his fork and stuck it in the middle of the cake, placed it in front of him and said "I have nothing left to teach you. Have at it kid."
Yesterday at lunch, Sam (3) picks up his string cheese, brings it up in front of his face and starts to stare it down. He sighs heavily and states "Yets do this" and takes a bite. After a minute or so he exclaims "Hmm..tastes yike chicken!" I'm staring at this kid utterly confused when Josh comes over and says "He's been watching Survivorman".
Sam's outfit for church last Sunday: Favorite shirt pulled from the bottom of the dirty laundry pile, swimming trunks, 1 tennis shoe/no sock, 1 crock/wrong foot. This was discovered, along with maple syrup all over his face and hands, a mile from church. I believe my last words to Brett were "Make sure they're all presentable".
Will: "Mom, why do people have to pay for speeding tickets when the police give them out for free?"
"I like dirt. It tastes just like sausage." Sam, age 3
Having a "Sixteen Candles" sort of day. If anyone out there cares at all about Brett, you might want to give him a call and let him know he FORGOT HIS WIFE'S BIRTHDAY!!!
(Update later that day): We were rushed getting ready for church this morning so I was flustered when I got in the car. Brett told me to do my 'combat breathing' : Slowly inhale for 4sec, hold for 4sec, release for 4sec. It's supposed to calm you in "under fire" situations. Later at chruch, one of the boys finally realized it was my birthday and told Brett. When I looked over at him, he had this "I'm dead" look on his face and I said "Start your Combat Breathing dear."
Please explain to me what possesses boys to fill their waterguns with urine??
Just got back from meeting Brett in town for lunch. As we were leaving, he got a call and had to run to his car, jump in and speed off. The boys all stared in total wonderment. Then Will whispers "I've never seen a real police car with my REAL dad (as opposed to his many stepdads????) speed away to help someone". Then as if on cue, all four boys stared jumping around an howling like wolves!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Things I Never Knew About Raising Boys
1. Sending a boy outside to eat with the dog when they repeatedly burp at the dinner table does not cure belching. It encourages it.
2. All bodily functions are hysterical.
3. You can clip a Lightsaber to a diaper. Actually, you can clip FOUR Lightsabers to a diaper.
4. A boys' ability to hear is directionaly proportional to what they are being told. But maybe that's not just a "boy" thing....
5. Trucks, I knew about... airplanes, guns, superheros, forts, tanks, guns, spit, knives, farts... I had NO idea about.
6. When told to sit still, a boy will actually vibrate.
7. If you want a toilet flushed, you'll have to flush it yourself.
8. "Vomit face toe curd earwax breath" is a compliment.
9. There are 742 ways to sit on a couch.
And the most surprising thing I've found about raising boys, is that
10. I prefer camping trips and shoot em up movies to exotic vacations and chick flicks and a bouquet of dandelions clutched in a dirty fist is more precious than a dozen long stemmed roses.
2. All bodily functions are hysterical.
3. You can clip a Lightsaber to a diaper. Actually, you can clip FOUR Lightsabers to a diaper.
4. A boys' ability to hear is directionaly proportional to what they are being told. But maybe that's not just a "boy" thing....
5. Trucks, I knew about... airplanes, guns, superheros, forts, tanks, guns, spit, knives, farts... I had NO idea about.
6. When told to sit still, a boy will actually vibrate.
7. If you want a toilet flushed, you'll have to flush it yourself.
8. "Vomit face toe curd earwax breath" is a compliment.
9. There are 742 ways to sit on a couch.
And the most surprising thing I've found about raising boys, is that
10. I prefer camping trips and shoot em up movies to exotic vacations and chick flicks and a bouquet of dandelions clutched in a dirty fist is more precious than a dozen long stemmed roses.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Products Mommies REALLY Want
Diapers
I recognize that in the world of excrement control, diapers have come a long way from the dripping cotton cloths and pins of yore. Today’s diapers are trim, fit, have gathered legs and boast of their flexibility and capability to move with your growing child.
That’s all good and well, but let’s think about what us mommies REALLY want. Is it the ability for our crawling babies to be able to move more freely and unencumbered towards our collection of Waterford Crystal? Or would we rather the diaper be able to handle the thrice soiled nighttime waste without providing ‘finger-painting’ entertainment the next morning?
Don’t get me wrong, I do care about the comfort of my child, but if I have to chose between a diaper that will handle the fact that my 2 year old climbed on the counter and ate a 3lbs Costco container of grapes, or one that will ‘move and flex with my toddler’, then I’d rather have the diaper that keeps my son stranded on his back like a displaced turtle as opposed to running for my carpet cleaner that can handle ‘pet stains’.
How many companies out there are brave enough to market what we really want but are too embarrassed to admit it?
“NEW Industrial Strength Diapers! Made with 47 layers of thick cotton batting, three layers of extra tight elastic bands and a stay-wet inner layer so your baby feels soggy and uncomfortable each time they go to speed up the process of potty training!”
Now that is a product us mommies could REALLY use.
I recognize that in the world of excrement control, diapers have come a long way from the dripping cotton cloths and pins of yore. Today’s diapers are trim, fit, have gathered legs and boast of their flexibility and capability to move with your growing child.
That’s all good and well, but let’s think about what us mommies REALLY want. Is it the ability for our crawling babies to be able to move more freely and unencumbered towards our collection of Waterford Crystal? Or would we rather the diaper be able to handle the thrice soiled nighttime waste without providing ‘finger-painting’ entertainment the next morning?
Don’t get me wrong, I do care about the comfort of my child, but if I have to chose between a diaper that will handle the fact that my 2 year old climbed on the counter and ate a 3lbs Costco container of grapes, or one that will ‘move and flex with my toddler’, then I’d rather have the diaper that keeps my son stranded on his back like a displaced turtle as opposed to running for my carpet cleaner that can handle ‘pet stains’.
How many companies out there are brave enough to market what we really want but are too embarrassed to admit it?
“NEW Industrial Strength Diapers! Made with 47 layers of thick cotton batting, three layers of extra tight elastic bands and a stay-wet inner layer so your baby feels soggy and uncomfortable each time they go to speed up the process of potty training!”
Now that is a product us mommies could REALLY use.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Hot Potato
We have a game that we like to play in our house. It’s called Hot Potato. Sure, most of you have heard of Hot Potato, probably even played it as a child, but in our house, the rules are a little different.
First of all, our potato is a little different than most. This one isn’t even that hot. More like lukewarm. And squishy. It also moves of it’s own accord and makes lots of noise. To keep things from getting complicated, we like to call the potato ‘Sam’.
Secondly, with most games, everyone sits down, plays the game, someone wins the game, the game ends. Our version of this game has NO END!
Let me demonstrate a typical round of Hot Potato in our house.
When the game starts, I am always in possession of the potato. I put the potato down and it scurries away into a brother’s bedroom. Shortly thereafter, a brother drags the potato back to me. I put the potato back down and it scurries towards it’s own bedroom where the door is promptly slammed in it’s face. The potato runs back to me.
I put the potato down and it turns towards the den where there is a Lincoln log village that has been painstakingly built. After the sound of collapsing logs and a heart-wrenching wail, the potato comes running back to me. It is now turning red and getting increasingly hot.
I decide to end this round by putting the potato away for a few hours. It is placed in the potato bin with some milk to marinate with.
I go outside to get the mail and return to have the potato shoved back into my arms.
“Why did you get the potato out of it’s bin??” I ask.
“It was too loud and we’re trying to watch a video.” They reply. “Besides, it’s rotten.”
I test the air and sure enough, Hot Potato has turned into Rotten Potato.
Round two has begun. Great.
Oh, and the last thing that is distinctly different about our version of Hot Potato is this: It’s the potato that actually wins the game.
First of all, our potato is a little different than most. This one isn’t even that hot. More like lukewarm. And squishy. It also moves of it’s own accord and makes lots of noise. To keep things from getting complicated, we like to call the potato ‘Sam’.
Secondly, with most games, everyone sits down, plays the game, someone wins the game, the game ends. Our version of this game has NO END!
Let me demonstrate a typical round of Hot Potato in our house.
When the game starts, I am always in possession of the potato. I put the potato down and it scurries away into a brother’s bedroom. Shortly thereafter, a brother drags the potato back to me. I put the potato back down and it scurries towards it’s own bedroom where the door is promptly slammed in it’s face. The potato runs back to me.
I put the potato down and it turns towards the den where there is a Lincoln log village that has been painstakingly built. After the sound of collapsing logs and a heart-wrenching wail, the potato comes running back to me. It is now turning red and getting increasingly hot.
I decide to end this round by putting the potato away for a few hours. It is placed in the potato bin with some milk to marinate with.
I go outside to get the mail and return to have the potato shoved back into my arms.
“Why did you get the potato out of it’s bin??” I ask.
“It was too loud and we’re trying to watch a video.” They reply. “Besides, it’s rotten.”
I test the air and sure enough, Hot Potato has turned into Rotten Potato.
Round two has begun. Great.
Oh, and the last thing that is distinctly different about our version of Hot Potato is this: It’s the potato that actually wins the game.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
What You Will (and Won't) Read in our Holiday, er, Valentine's Letter
Letter: We are so blessed to have 4 healthy, happy, rambunctious little boys
Not in the Letter: I don’t think I’m going to make it. Going from 3 to 4 has totally kicked my butt!
Letter: We have really enjoyed homeschooling Josh and Will this year.
Not in the Letter: How many times I’ve asked other home-schooling mommies if they would take my kids.
Letter: It’s been so exciting to watch our little guy go from a tiny, helpless newborn to a walking, climbing, curious little boy.
Not in the Letter: “AAAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGG! How the heck did he get up on the window ledge??!!”
Letter: This was the year of Superheros!! From Star Wars to Robin Hood to Superman, the boys ate it all up!
Not in the Letter: Having to call for ‘Obi Wan and Anakin’ to get out of the pool in front of many curious mommies who actually think I named my kids Obi Wan and Anakin.
The boys putting their street clothes on over their padded Superman and Spiderman outfits and enduring the looks of strangers because my kids look like some genetic steroid experiment gone bad.
Running through the toy department at the store screaming for Josh and terrified he’d been abducted only to find him hiding in an aisle refusing to respond because I was supposed to remember that his name is no longer Josh, but Robin Hood.
Letter: We took our first trip to the emergency room as Will broke his arm after falling (being pushed) off the top bunk of his bed.
Not in the Letter: How long Brett and I rolled our eyes at each other over Will’s head as he continued to writhe and scream about how bad his arm hurt. We were a full half hour into our conversation about how he must need more attention for him to be carrying on like this before I noticed that his arm looked a little crooked….
Letter: I’ve enjoyed playing around in the blogging world this year.
Not in the Letter: “Will everyone please leave me alone for 2 seconds?? Mommy has to try and be funny and you’re all sucking the life out of me!”
Letter: Brett and the boys enjoyed a few camping trips this summer while the baby and I had some peace and quiet.
Not in the Letter: “Make sure you call me at 9am, 12pm, 3pm, 6pm and 9pm every day” 9:05am “Where the heck were you? I almost called the Sheriff’s dept! You’re camping near the WATER?? Make sure the boys wear their life jackets 24/7! Did you bring a gun? Don’t let the boys sleep in the perimeter of the tent in case a bear drags them away in the middle of the night, in fact, I think it would be better if you all slept in the cab of the truck….” 12:07pm “OHMIGOSH! I thought you were all DEAD! What do you MEAN you’re not calling me again??”
Letter: We really enjoyed celebrating the birth of our Lord and ringing in the New Year.
Not in the Letter: Christmas day was spent with Brett stationed in the ‘How the heck do they expect you to get this thing out of the box?’ department and I was stationed in the ‘battery and superglue’ division.
On New Years Eve we decided to light the rest of the fireworks left over from 4th of July and instead ended up creating a new breed of pyromaniacs who stood in the cold chanting “Blow It Up! Blow It Up!”
Letter: We really look forward all the challenges and blessings this next year will offer.
Not in the Letter: Dear Lord, please, we just want to make it through this next year in one piece.
Not in the Letter: I don’t think I’m going to make it. Going from 3 to 4 has totally kicked my butt!
Letter: We have really enjoyed homeschooling Josh and Will this year.
Not in the Letter: How many times I’ve asked other home-schooling mommies if they would take my kids.
Letter: It’s been so exciting to watch our little guy go from a tiny, helpless newborn to a walking, climbing, curious little boy.
Not in the Letter: “AAAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGG! How the heck did he get up on the window ledge??!!”
Letter: This was the year of Superheros!! From Star Wars to Robin Hood to Superman, the boys ate it all up!
Not in the Letter: Having to call for ‘Obi Wan and Anakin’ to get out of the pool in front of many curious mommies who actually think I named my kids Obi Wan and Anakin.
The boys putting their street clothes on over their padded Superman and Spiderman outfits and enduring the looks of strangers because my kids look like some genetic steroid experiment gone bad.
Running through the toy department at the store screaming for Josh and terrified he’d been abducted only to find him hiding in an aisle refusing to respond because I was supposed to remember that his name is no longer Josh, but Robin Hood.
Letter: We took our first trip to the emergency room as Will broke his arm after falling (being pushed) off the top bunk of his bed.
Not in the Letter: How long Brett and I rolled our eyes at each other over Will’s head as he continued to writhe and scream about how bad his arm hurt. We were a full half hour into our conversation about how he must need more attention for him to be carrying on like this before I noticed that his arm looked a little crooked….
Letter: I’ve enjoyed playing around in the blogging world this year.
Not in the Letter: “Will everyone please leave me alone for 2 seconds?? Mommy has to try and be funny and you’re all sucking the life out of me!”
Letter: Brett and the boys enjoyed a few camping trips this summer while the baby and I had some peace and quiet.
Not in the Letter: “Make sure you call me at 9am, 12pm, 3pm, 6pm and 9pm every day” 9:05am “Where the heck were you? I almost called the Sheriff’s dept! You’re camping near the WATER?? Make sure the boys wear their life jackets 24/7! Did you bring a gun? Don’t let the boys sleep in the perimeter of the tent in case a bear drags them away in the middle of the night, in fact, I think it would be better if you all slept in the cab of the truck….” 12:07pm “OHMIGOSH! I thought you were all DEAD! What do you MEAN you’re not calling me again??”
Letter: We really enjoyed celebrating the birth of our Lord and ringing in the New Year.
Not in the Letter: Christmas day was spent with Brett stationed in the ‘How the heck do they expect you to get this thing out of the box?’ department and I was stationed in the ‘battery and superglue’ division.
On New Years Eve we decided to light the rest of the fireworks left over from 4th of July and instead ended up creating a new breed of pyromaniacs who stood in the cold chanting “Blow It Up! Blow It Up!”
Letter: We really look forward all the challenges and blessings this next year will offer.
Not in the Letter: Dear Lord, please, we just want to make it through this next year in one piece.
Things I Can't Believe I've Said - Or Had To Say
“Get off his head”
“Don’t jump on the baby!”
“Crap, the baby’s eating trash again”
“Get down off the wall” (Yes, my boys can physically climb a wall!)
“Get that chicken out of here!”
“Don’t put your cereal in the VCR”
“Does anyone know where the baby is??”
“The baby is hanging on the DVD drive again”
“How much is a new DVD drive?”
“I know it’s yours but just let him have it so he’ll stop screaming!”
“If you kick his seat one more time I’ll cut your legs off at the knees!”
(Don’t worry, this is usually followed by their peals of laughter – and more kicking of the back of the seat)
“I know they’re all crying, just take the picture anyway so we can get out of here.”
“I’m pregnant AGAIN?!?” (Followed by an intense scowl at my very bewildered husband)
“Just leave it on the floor, the baby will eat it.”
“Is it possible to completely eliminate the hours between 4 and 9pm?”
“I wish I drank alcohol”
“No, but I think their mom’s around here somewhere” (In response to an incredulous looking woman at Target asking if the boys running around the toy department were mine)
“Don’t jump on the baby!”
“Crap, the baby’s eating trash again”
“Get down off the wall” (Yes, my boys can physically climb a wall!)
“Get that chicken out of here!”
“Don’t put your cereal in the VCR”
“Does anyone know where the baby is??”
“The baby is hanging on the DVD drive again”
“How much is a new DVD drive?”
“I know it’s yours but just let him have it so he’ll stop screaming!”
“If you kick his seat one more time I’ll cut your legs off at the knees!”
(Don’t worry, this is usually followed by their peals of laughter – and more kicking of the back of the seat)
“I know they’re all crying, just take the picture anyway so we can get out of here.”
“I’m pregnant AGAIN?!?” (Followed by an intense scowl at my very bewildered husband)
“Just leave it on the floor, the baby will eat it.”
“Is it possible to completely eliminate the hours between 4 and 9pm?”
“I wish I drank alcohol”
“No, but I think their mom’s around here somewhere” (In response to an incredulous looking woman at Target asking if the boys running around the toy department were mine)
Friday, December 14, 2007
Confessions
I let my potty training toddler go naked most of the day. Not only does this cut down on a crucial, timesaving step when it’s time to go potty, but it also almost eliminates his mark on my laundry load.
I let Sam drink from warm bottles.
I purposely tell my kids to clean up their rooms knowing that they will then play as nicely and quietly as they can to not bring attention to the fact that they are disobeying me.
Sam gets upset when I sweep the floor because I’m eliminating a crucial element of his dietary sustenance (I let him eat off the floor).
I don’t let my kids dress themselves when we go out because I care what others think of me.
I tell my kids that mommy is ‘working’ when I am reading the news or blogging on the computer.
My kids often have string cheese and apples for lunch because they can get it themselves.
I will often dress in baggy knit pants and a comfy T-shirt, then wear it to bed that night and then again the next day. Again, this dramatically cuts down on my laundry loads.
I believe that Hawaiian pizza and a milkshake covers all 4 food groups and is then, in fact, a healthy meal.
I rub spit up into the carpet with my sock.
I do cry over spilled milk.
I will take a binky from my toddler’s mouth and give it to the baby.
My 6 and 7 year olds have BB guns, throwing knives and are getting bows and arrows for Christmas.
My 3 year old still calls the baby “Baby Wham” and I think it’s cute.
I have let my kids help themselves to cupcakes for breakfast so that I can sleep a few minutes longer.
The real purpose of these confessions is that I hope my mom will read them and immediately make a plane reservation to come out here and take ‘proper care of these poor babies!’
I let Sam drink from warm bottles.
I purposely tell my kids to clean up their rooms knowing that they will then play as nicely and quietly as they can to not bring attention to the fact that they are disobeying me.
Sam gets upset when I sweep the floor because I’m eliminating a crucial element of his dietary sustenance (I let him eat off the floor).
I don’t let my kids dress themselves when we go out because I care what others think of me.
I tell my kids that mommy is ‘working’ when I am reading the news or blogging on the computer.
My kids often have string cheese and apples for lunch because they can get it themselves.
I will often dress in baggy knit pants and a comfy T-shirt, then wear it to bed that night and then again the next day. Again, this dramatically cuts down on my laundry loads.
I believe that Hawaiian pizza and a milkshake covers all 4 food groups and is then, in fact, a healthy meal.
I rub spit up into the carpet with my sock.
I do cry over spilled milk.
I will take a binky from my toddler’s mouth and give it to the baby.
My 6 and 7 year olds have BB guns, throwing knives and are getting bows and arrows for Christmas.
My 3 year old still calls the baby “Baby Wham” and I think it’s cute.
I have let my kids help themselves to cupcakes for breakfast so that I can sleep a few minutes longer.
The real purpose of these confessions is that I hope my mom will read them and immediately make a plane reservation to come out here and take ‘proper care of these poor babies!’
Friday, November 30, 2007
Products We Mommies Really Want
Closed Captioned Cameras
I have a confession to make: I’m a bad news junkie. I know that there are many women out there who prided themselves about being informed of the events of the day, but once their babies were born, became unable to emotionally handle all the horrible things happening in the world. I, on the other hand, seem to be more drawn to these horrible stories now that I’m a mom because it keeps me in a proper state of panic.
Gone are the days of ‘Stranger, Danger’, I now have myself convinced that the guy reading our meter is secretly plotting some heinous crime.
You can imagine my devastation the first time my 6 and 7 year old sons insisted they were old enough to go in the Men’s Room at Walmart by themselves. “Not until you have a whistle.” I insisted.
Upon deeper reflection, I realized that in this day of digital everything, why not combine the electronic masterpiece of Closed Caption TV with the ingenuity of digital cameras. A Closed Captioned Camera. Just point and click and a caption about that person will appear at the base of the photo.
Snap! DIRTY OLD MAN WHO LOOKS AT NASTY MAGAZINES
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait out here until my sons are done in the bathroom”
Snap! RETIRED NAVY OFFICER BUYING CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR SHUT-INS
“Thank you sir, you may proceed…Er, and will you please make sure my boys aren’t having a water fight in there?”
This device would also be very helpful at the park and playgroups. Just hang back and start taking pictures so that you can direct which group of children your kids should play with.
Snap! OBEDIENT LITTLE GIRL WHO LOVES BABY DOLLS AND WANTS TO MARRY A MISSIONARY.
“Josh, go play with her and BE POLITE!”
Snap! NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY WHO GOT A BB GUN FOR HIS BIRTHDAY
“Will, don’t play with him, but let’s see….” Snap! VERY SAD BOY WHOSE PUPPY RAN AWAY “go share your cookies with that little boy over there”
Of course I realize that this device could backfire on me. I’m sure at some point I will be the unknowing subject of another panicked mommy at the park.
Snap! STAY AT HOME MOM DESPERATE FOR ADULT CONVERSATION. WARNING! WILL SUCK THE LIFE OUT OF YOU!!
I have a confession to make: I’m a bad news junkie. I know that there are many women out there who prided themselves about being informed of the events of the day, but once their babies were born, became unable to emotionally handle all the horrible things happening in the world. I, on the other hand, seem to be more drawn to these horrible stories now that I’m a mom because it keeps me in a proper state of panic.
Gone are the days of ‘Stranger, Danger’, I now have myself convinced that the guy reading our meter is secretly plotting some heinous crime.
You can imagine my devastation the first time my 6 and 7 year old sons insisted they were old enough to go in the Men’s Room at Walmart by themselves. “Not until you have a whistle.” I insisted.
Upon deeper reflection, I realized that in this day of digital everything, why not combine the electronic masterpiece of Closed Caption TV with the ingenuity of digital cameras. A Closed Captioned Camera. Just point and click and a caption about that person will appear at the base of the photo.
Snap! DIRTY OLD MAN WHO LOOKS AT NASTY MAGAZINES
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait out here until my sons are done in the bathroom”
Snap! RETIRED NAVY OFFICER BUYING CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR SHUT-INS
“Thank you sir, you may proceed…Er, and will you please make sure my boys aren’t having a water fight in there?”
This device would also be very helpful at the park and playgroups. Just hang back and start taking pictures so that you can direct which group of children your kids should play with.
Snap! OBEDIENT LITTLE GIRL WHO LOVES BABY DOLLS AND WANTS TO MARRY A MISSIONARY.
“Josh, go play with her and BE POLITE!”
Snap! NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY WHO GOT A BB GUN FOR HIS BIRTHDAY
“Will, don’t play with him, but let’s see….” Snap! VERY SAD BOY WHOSE PUPPY RAN AWAY “go share your cookies with that little boy over there”
Of course I realize that this device could backfire on me. I’m sure at some point I will be the unknowing subject of another panicked mommy at the park.
Snap! STAY AT HOME MOM DESPERATE FOR ADULT CONVERSATION. WARNING! WILL SUCK THE LIFE OUT OF YOU!!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Broken Trust
**The following events have been given a small amount of artistic license, however, this is an accurate account of events as they happened…in my heart**
Brett and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary this year. It is a momentous occasion to be able to claim a full decade of marriage and I’ve been looking forward to this landmark for, well, the past 10 years. However, all of this was put into jeopardy just this morning.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning and as last night was daylight savings, we got a full extra hour of sleep. What could possibly be wrong with the world when you can actually wake up feeling somewhat refreshed? We decided to stay home from church and have a nice breakfast and just hang out with the kids. After a big family breakfast, the boys decided to go outside and bury the little money they had in the backyard. Brett and I spent the rest of the morning hanging out on the couch and enjoying the quiet.
I got up to go to the bathroom and in the one moment it took for me to glance in the mirror as I passed, the entire trust structure of my marriage crumbled. There on my chin was the biggest, most bulbous whitehead I have ever seen on anyone’s, much less my own, face!! This thing could have been charted on a topographical map and given it’s own coordinates!
As alarming as the discovery of something so heinous on my face, the true devastation was in the fact that I have spent an entire morning with a man who did not deem it necessary to inform me that a creature must have drilled into my face and laid an entire nest of eggs underneath my skin as I slept!
After collecting the shards of my broken heart, I marched into the living room, and through a bevy of tears, confronted this man I once trusted with my life.
“How (sob!) COULD you?!?” (hiccup!)
He slowly diverts his eyes from his book and looks up at me like a man who has no idea his world has crashed around him.
“What?”
I remove the wad of tissue from my now bleeding chin and let the crater speak for itself.
“Oh, that. I thought you knew”
“THOUGHT I KNEW???? Do you not know me at ALL??”
It is now that it begins to dawn on him, that all may not be well. Concern begins to wrinkle his brow and he gets the glazed look that indicates his desperate search for the right thing to say. After several agonizingly silent moments, it becomes clear to me that he is not going to find it.
With resignation and deep hurt I whisper “I trusted you”.
“You CAN trust me!” he desperately responds, “I just thought that you already knew about it and decided to leave it alone for once.”
“So, it’s come to that has it?” My deep wounds begin to numb with the balm of anger, “You think I no longer care about how I look? That I don’t care if you’re attracted to me??”
“NO! I know you care about how you look!”
“OH! So YOU don’t care about how I look! You’ve given up on me??” Pause. “Is there someone else?”
“Andrea, come on, this is ridiculous, it’s just a pimple!”
Incredulous, I respond “A pimple? You really think this is all about a PIMPLE?? It is our marriage and the fact that the basic foundation of trust has been completely SHATTERED!”
He drops his head as he has a hundred times in the past and resignedly states “Ok, what’s it gonna take?”
I stand up straight and with as much dignity as I can muster, state “Dinner AND a movie.”
Heavy sigh, “Ok. When?”
My anger flares, “I think under the circumstances as soon as possible!" I calm down a little and decide to drop the bomb, "That’s not all. I want the movie to be a romantic comedy.”
It is here that he finally comes alive, “What?! A click flick??”
I slowly lower the blood soaked tissue and reveal the gash that is clearly in need of stitches and raise my left eyebrow.
He is beaten and he knows it. He begins to slowly nod his head and quietly says that he’ll call his mom to see if she can watch the kids. He opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind, gets up and walks across the room to the phone.
I turn my back to him and walk to the window and look out at our children shoving dollar bills into the muddy depths of the sandbox. A weary sigh escapes me and I look over my shoulder to see my husband talking on the phone in hushed tones.
A disaster averted. A marriage saved.
I turn back to the window and focus on the falling leaves of the trees, ‘But for how long?’ I think. ‘Until the next salad I eat? Will I always have to wonder if there is spinach in my teeth? Chocolate on my blouse?’
I straighten at the sound of Brett hanging up the phone. He comes to my side and takes my hand.
“It’s all arranged” I turn toward him as the sun breaks through a cloud and bathes our silhouette in soft, warm light.
Brett gazes deeply into my eyes and lovingly says “You have a big piece of goop in the corner of your eye”.
I try to choke back my tears of gratitude and put my head on his shoulder.
All is well. All is well.
Brett and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary this year. It is a momentous occasion to be able to claim a full decade of marriage and I’ve been looking forward to this landmark for, well, the past 10 years. However, all of this was put into jeopardy just this morning.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning and as last night was daylight savings, we got a full extra hour of sleep. What could possibly be wrong with the world when you can actually wake up feeling somewhat refreshed? We decided to stay home from church and have a nice breakfast and just hang out with the kids. After a big family breakfast, the boys decided to go outside and bury the little money they had in the backyard. Brett and I spent the rest of the morning hanging out on the couch and enjoying the quiet.
I got up to go to the bathroom and in the one moment it took for me to glance in the mirror as I passed, the entire trust structure of my marriage crumbled. There on my chin was the biggest, most bulbous whitehead I have ever seen on anyone’s, much less my own, face!! This thing could have been charted on a topographical map and given it’s own coordinates!
As alarming as the discovery of something so heinous on my face, the true devastation was in the fact that I have spent an entire morning with a man who did not deem it necessary to inform me that a creature must have drilled into my face and laid an entire nest of eggs underneath my skin as I slept!
After collecting the shards of my broken heart, I marched into the living room, and through a bevy of tears, confronted this man I once trusted with my life.
“How (sob!) COULD you?!?” (hiccup!)
He slowly diverts his eyes from his book and looks up at me like a man who has no idea his world has crashed around him.
“What?”
I remove the wad of tissue from my now bleeding chin and let the crater speak for itself.
“Oh, that. I thought you knew”
“THOUGHT I KNEW???? Do you not know me at ALL??”
It is now that it begins to dawn on him, that all may not be well. Concern begins to wrinkle his brow and he gets the glazed look that indicates his desperate search for the right thing to say. After several agonizingly silent moments, it becomes clear to me that he is not going to find it.
With resignation and deep hurt I whisper “I trusted you”.
“You CAN trust me!” he desperately responds, “I just thought that you already knew about it and decided to leave it alone for once.”
“So, it’s come to that has it?” My deep wounds begin to numb with the balm of anger, “You think I no longer care about how I look? That I don’t care if you’re attracted to me??”
“NO! I know you care about how you look!”
“OH! So YOU don’t care about how I look! You’ve given up on me??” Pause. “Is there someone else?”
“Andrea, come on, this is ridiculous, it’s just a pimple!”
Incredulous, I respond “A pimple? You really think this is all about a PIMPLE?? It is our marriage and the fact that the basic foundation of trust has been completely SHATTERED!”
He drops his head as he has a hundred times in the past and resignedly states “Ok, what’s it gonna take?”
I stand up straight and with as much dignity as I can muster, state “Dinner AND a movie.”
Heavy sigh, “Ok. When?”
My anger flares, “I think under the circumstances as soon as possible!" I calm down a little and decide to drop the bomb, "That’s not all. I want the movie to be a romantic comedy.”
It is here that he finally comes alive, “What?! A click flick??”
I slowly lower the blood soaked tissue and reveal the gash that is clearly in need of stitches and raise my left eyebrow.
He is beaten and he knows it. He begins to slowly nod his head and quietly says that he’ll call his mom to see if she can watch the kids. He opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind, gets up and walks across the room to the phone.
I turn my back to him and walk to the window and look out at our children shoving dollar bills into the muddy depths of the sandbox. A weary sigh escapes me and I look over my shoulder to see my husband talking on the phone in hushed tones.
A disaster averted. A marriage saved.
I turn back to the window and focus on the falling leaves of the trees, ‘But for how long?’ I think. ‘Until the next salad I eat? Will I always have to wonder if there is spinach in my teeth? Chocolate on my blouse?’
I straighten at the sound of Brett hanging up the phone. He comes to my side and takes my hand.
“It’s all arranged” I turn toward him as the sun breaks through a cloud and bathes our silhouette in soft, warm light.
Brett gazes deeply into my eyes and lovingly says “You have a big piece of goop in the corner of your eye”.
I try to choke back my tears of gratitude and put my head on his shoulder.
All is well. All is well.
Friday, October 26, 2007
About Me
I got this email from a friend today. The point is to read their answers, then return the email with your answers so that you can learn more about each other. Since I’ve been out of the blogging loop recently, I thought for my return I would post my answers for all of you to learn more about me.
WHAT ARE YOU MOST AFRAID OF?
My children leaving home and my children coming back.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD?
Well, I would have to just stick with the general title of ‘Food’. I’m no longer very picky.
WHAT IS YOUR NATURAL HAIR COLOR?
A rich chocolate brown with soft auburn highlights. Ok, so I haven’t seen my natural color in about 15 years, but I can dream can’t I?
HAVE YOU TRAVELED?
I’ve tried, but Brett has given my photo to all Border Patrol Agents as a runaway mom and they keep making me go back home.
DO YOU SCRUNCH OR FOLD (TOILET PAPER)?
So, we are operating under the assumption that the children haven’t used all the remaining toilet paper to mummify each other and that I’m not forced to drip dry? Definitely scrunch – who has time to fold?
HAVE YOU LOVED SOMEONE SO MUCH IT MADE YOU CRY?
I love them so much, that is WHY I cry.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT?
Er, next question please….
MERCEDES BENZ OR LEXUS?
Clearly my friends are more upper scale than I. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stick with what I know – DODGE!
FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK
Sunday, Monday and Tuesday (Brett’s days off). Er, unless he’s in a bad mood, then my favorite days are Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
FAVORITE RESTAURANT
Anyplace where I don’t have to cook or do dishes!
FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH
The WWF that occurs in my house everyday.
FAVORITE DRINK
DOUBLE SHOT MOCHAS!! However, I’m desperately trying to acquire a taste for whiskey
FAVORITE ICE CREAM
Starbuck’s Java Chip. Not only is this the best ice cream on earth, but my husband hates coffee and I’d rather die than give my kids caffine, so it’s AAALLL MINE!!
FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT
Whatever is fast and, er, food.
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR CARPET?
“Watch out that’s my coffee!! Aaahhhhh….”
“Mama! Baby bahf!”
“Oops, I poo poo’d”
“Run to the potty! Run to the potty! Run to the…. Crap.”
Who on earth knows what the original color was?
WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES?
Are you serious?? I’m a stay at home, homeschooling mom to 4 boys. Whatever hobbies I once had were wrenched my limp and lifeless hands 7 years ago.
BEDTIME
Well, MY bedtime is supposed to be 10pm, given that the children’s bedtime is 8pm, but since most nights the children don’t get to bed until 10pm, that means I usually don’t get to bed until sometime between 12am-3am depending on how many kids and how many times they attempt the ‘I need a drink’, ‘I have to go potty again’, ‘What day is tomorrow?’, ‘Is that a movie you’re watching?? Can I watch it too?!? Is it appropriate for kids?? Why do you watch movies that aren’t appropriate for kids? Shouldn’t it be inappropriate for you too?’
WHAT MEANS THE MOST TO YOU?
Having a friend that will let me crawl through her door with 4 rowdy kids and watch 17 episodes of “What NOT to Wear” then promises to turn me in so I can go shopping in New York for 5 days without any kids. Oh yeah, and World Peace.
FAVORITE TV SHOW
I like to watch the news. It makes me feel like my life isn’t nearly as sad as I think.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?
Yellow. It’s the color of sunshine. It’s the color of hope.
WHAT DO YOU ANTICIPATE MOST IN YOUR FUTURE?
Knowing that someday I will only be responsible for wiping 1 bottom and cutting 1 plate of food – MINE!
WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
On 1 acre in NW Montana. I’ve been trying to get my own apartment in town for a few years, but they won’t let me leave.
HOW MANY PETS DO YOU HAVE?
Are we talking pets or actual animals that live on my property? We have 10 goats, 25 chickens, 738 mice and 1 good for nothing vegetarian cat.
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACCOMPLISH BEFORE YOU DIE?
My aspirations aren’t very high – I’d just like to die with the same amount of sanity that I entered parenthood with.
WHAT ARE YOU MOST AFRAID OF?
My children leaving home and my children coming back.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD?
Well, I would have to just stick with the general title of ‘Food’. I’m no longer very picky.
WHAT IS YOUR NATURAL HAIR COLOR?
A rich chocolate brown with soft auburn highlights. Ok, so I haven’t seen my natural color in about 15 years, but I can dream can’t I?
HAVE YOU TRAVELED?
I’ve tried, but Brett has given my photo to all Border Patrol Agents as a runaway mom and they keep making me go back home.
DO YOU SCRUNCH OR FOLD (TOILET PAPER)?
So, we are operating under the assumption that the children haven’t used all the remaining toilet paper to mummify each other and that I’m not forced to drip dry? Definitely scrunch – who has time to fold?
HAVE YOU LOVED SOMEONE SO MUCH IT MADE YOU CRY?
I love them so much, that is WHY I cry.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT?
Er, next question please….
MERCEDES BENZ OR LEXUS?
Clearly my friends are more upper scale than I. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stick with what I know – DODGE!
FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK
Sunday, Monday and Tuesday (Brett’s days off). Er, unless he’s in a bad mood, then my favorite days are Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
FAVORITE RESTAURANT
Anyplace where I don’t have to cook or do dishes!
FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH
The WWF that occurs in my house everyday.
FAVORITE DRINK
DOUBLE SHOT MOCHAS!! However, I’m desperately trying to acquire a taste for whiskey
FAVORITE ICE CREAM
Starbuck’s Java Chip. Not only is this the best ice cream on earth, but my husband hates coffee and I’d rather die than give my kids caffine, so it’s AAALLL MINE!!
FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT
Whatever is fast and, er, food.
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR CARPET?
“Watch out that’s my coffee!! Aaahhhhh….”
“Mama! Baby bahf!”
“Oops, I poo poo’d”
“Run to the potty! Run to the potty! Run to the…. Crap.”
Who on earth knows what the original color was?
WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES?
Are you serious?? I’m a stay at home, homeschooling mom to 4 boys. Whatever hobbies I once had were wrenched my limp and lifeless hands 7 years ago.
BEDTIME
Well, MY bedtime is supposed to be 10pm, given that the children’s bedtime is 8pm, but since most nights the children don’t get to bed until 10pm, that means I usually don’t get to bed until sometime between 12am-3am depending on how many kids and how many times they attempt the ‘I need a drink’, ‘I have to go potty again’, ‘What day is tomorrow?’, ‘Is that a movie you’re watching?? Can I watch it too?!? Is it appropriate for kids?? Why do you watch movies that aren’t appropriate for kids? Shouldn’t it be inappropriate for you too?’
WHAT MEANS THE MOST TO YOU?
Having a friend that will let me crawl through her door with 4 rowdy kids and watch 17 episodes of “What NOT to Wear” then promises to turn me in so I can go shopping in New York for 5 days without any kids. Oh yeah, and World Peace.
FAVORITE TV SHOW
I like to watch the news. It makes me feel like my life isn’t nearly as sad as I think.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?
Yellow. It’s the color of sunshine. It’s the color of hope.
WHAT DO YOU ANTICIPATE MOST IN YOUR FUTURE?
Knowing that someday I will only be responsible for wiping 1 bottom and cutting 1 plate of food – MINE!
WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
On 1 acre in NW Montana. I’ve been trying to get my own apartment in town for a few years, but they won’t let me leave.
HOW MANY PETS DO YOU HAVE?
Are we talking pets or actual animals that live on my property? We have 10 goats, 25 chickens, 738 mice and 1 good for nothing vegetarian cat.
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACCOMPLISH BEFORE YOU DIE?
My aspirations aren’t very high – I’d just like to die with the same amount of sanity that I entered parenthood with.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Our Family Bed
I recently read that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had a 9ft bed specially made so that it would fit themselves and their 4 children. Brad was then quoted as saying that they would soon need to move up to an 11 ft. bed.
As flawed as my imagination might be, I couldn’t help but picture a stunning Angelina in satin nightie and flowing hair propped up on her elbow looking lovingly across 4 spread eagled children towards an equally handsome and well coiffed Brad. They reach out their hands to try and touch fingertips together but come up several feet short, smile fondly and then stretch out with infinite space in which to seek restful sleep.
I actually felt a little sad for them as I lay tightly snuggled against my husband’s back in our full sized bed. The baby, having gotten up 20 minutes earlier, was tucked into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder. I sigh contentedly.
I hear footsteps and Joshua appears at our door. He sees us still sleeping and comes and climbs in at the bottom of the bed. He intertwines his body around our legs and quietly snuggles in. The baby begins to thrash and whine a little as I adjust my body to accommodate Josh and the disturbance brings a grumble from my husband’s back.
We re-adjust and everyone quiets down again.
The door creaks and I see Ben sneaking in with his arms laden with 2 stuffed animals, a sippy cup, book and his Buzz Lightyear toy that has lights that spin above his head when the legs are pressed together. He starts to chuck his paraphernalia into the bed hitting Brett in the back with his sippy cup and the baby in the head with the book. The quiet is now officially broken. He hoists his body into the bed and seeing that all horizontal space is taken, firmly positions himself on my face.
Brett glances over his shoulder with a scowl and scoots closer to the edge so that the ice cold sippy cup is no longer pressed against his back, but now falls into a crack to begin rapidly leaking onto the sheets. I move my head to find an air pocket and re-adjust the baby so I can rub the tiny bump developing on his forehead. I no longer have a view of the door but become aware of the presence of another child when the mattress dips heavily and my chest becomes uncomfortably restricted. I adjust my breathing to take shallow breaths and fight desperately to keep my air pocket open when Josh starts screaming “OW! Mom, you’re kicking me!!”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to breathe.”
“Why can’t they sleep in their own beds?” comes the cranky response from the shivering mound now desperately trying to fit his 6ft frame into the 4 remaining inches on the side of the bed.
“Josh! I want some covers, you can’t take them all!” whines Will and begins a tug of war that quickly removes all remaining air from my lungs.
I feel a warm, oozy sludge run slowly down my neck and into my hair as I begin to lose consciousness.
I’m in a tunnel now and see light up ahead. It is flashing and colorful and I begin to run towards it. I reach up and feel something hard and cold. I crack and eye and realize that it’s Buzz Lightyear with his lights buzzing wildly above his head.
Brett has finally given up his attempt to ignore the 4 children screaming and jumping on his bruised and battered body and rolls off the last 2 inches of mattress and onto the floor. The shift sends the mountain of children falling off my chest and oxygen floods back into my lungs.
I’m laying in the cold, wet remnants of the emptied sippy cup with spit up plastered and crusting in my hair. The kids are still fighting over blankets at the foot of the bed and Ben is animatedly playing with his 2 stuffed animals. Desperate for some of the tranquility I woke up with, I seek out Sam and lovingly cradle him on my chest. He looks at me and smiles past his pacifier. I smile back as he reaches up and removes the drippy, drooly binky from his mouth and firmly shoves it in my mouth.
I bolt upright sputtering and spitting with children flying everywhere as I jerk pillows and blankets out from under them to try and wipe out my mouth. I barely grab Sam’s leg as he begins to topple over the side and the incensed cries and yells from fallen children fill the room. Breathing heavily I look over at my husband who still has a sour look on his face and firmly declare “I want a 9 foot bed!”
As flawed as my imagination might be, I couldn’t help but picture a stunning Angelina in satin nightie and flowing hair propped up on her elbow looking lovingly across 4 spread eagled children towards an equally handsome and well coiffed Brad. They reach out their hands to try and touch fingertips together but come up several feet short, smile fondly and then stretch out with infinite space in which to seek restful sleep.
I actually felt a little sad for them as I lay tightly snuggled against my husband’s back in our full sized bed. The baby, having gotten up 20 minutes earlier, was tucked into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder. I sigh contentedly.
I hear footsteps and Joshua appears at our door. He sees us still sleeping and comes and climbs in at the bottom of the bed. He intertwines his body around our legs and quietly snuggles in. The baby begins to thrash and whine a little as I adjust my body to accommodate Josh and the disturbance brings a grumble from my husband’s back.
We re-adjust and everyone quiets down again.
The door creaks and I see Ben sneaking in with his arms laden with 2 stuffed animals, a sippy cup, book and his Buzz Lightyear toy that has lights that spin above his head when the legs are pressed together. He starts to chuck his paraphernalia into the bed hitting Brett in the back with his sippy cup and the baby in the head with the book. The quiet is now officially broken. He hoists his body into the bed and seeing that all horizontal space is taken, firmly positions himself on my face.
Brett glances over his shoulder with a scowl and scoots closer to the edge so that the ice cold sippy cup is no longer pressed against his back, but now falls into a crack to begin rapidly leaking onto the sheets. I move my head to find an air pocket and re-adjust the baby so I can rub the tiny bump developing on his forehead. I no longer have a view of the door but become aware of the presence of another child when the mattress dips heavily and my chest becomes uncomfortably restricted. I adjust my breathing to take shallow breaths and fight desperately to keep my air pocket open when Josh starts screaming “OW! Mom, you’re kicking me!!”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to breathe.”
“Why can’t they sleep in their own beds?” comes the cranky response from the shivering mound now desperately trying to fit his 6ft frame into the 4 remaining inches on the side of the bed.
“Josh! I want some covers, you can’t take them all!” whines Will and begins a tug of war that quickly removes all remaining air from my lungs.
I feel a warm, oozy sludge run slowly down my neck and into my hair as I begin to lose consciousness.
I’m in a tunnel now and see light up ahead. It is flashing and colorful and I begin to run towards it. I reach up and feel something hard and cold. I crack and eye and realize that it’s Buzz Lightyear with his lights buzzing wildly above his head.
Brett has finally given up his attempt to ignore the 4 children screaming and jumping on his bruised and battered body and rolls off the last 2 inches of mattress and onto the floor. The shift sends the mountain of children falling off my chest and oxygen floods back into my lungs.
I’m laying in the cold, wet remnants of the emptied sippy cup with spit up plastered and crusting in my hair. The kids are still fighting over blankets at the foot of the bed and Ben is animatedly playing with his 2 stuffed animals. Desperate for some of the tranquility I woke up with, I seek out Sam and lovingly cradle him on my chest. He looks at me and smiles past his pacifier. I smile back as he reaches up and removes the drippy, drooly binky from his mouth and firmly shoves it in my mouth.
I bolt upright sputtering and spitting with children flying everywhere as I jerk pillows and blankets out from under them to try and wipe out my mouth. I barely grab Sam’s leg as he begins to topple over the side and the incensed cries and yells from fallen children fill the room. Breathing heavily I look over at my husband who still has a sour look on his face and firmly declare “I want a 9 foot bed!”
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Day in the Life
Its 5am and I’m awakened by the rapid pattering of barefeet. Seconds later my two year old hoists himself and his bevy of bedtime essentials into our bed. He snuggles in and I hope for another couple hours of sleep. At 7am I waken again after a fitful attempt to sleep with a thrashing toddler and realize that I’m wet. I’m hoping this is due to a leaky sippy cup as opposed to a leaky diaper but I am not so lucky.
I put on a clean pair of pajamas (getting dressed means I’m ready to be productive, and I’m just not there yet), and start making breakfast for the other kids groggily emerging from their rooms. I’m feeling industrious so I make bacon and eggs.
The boys sit down at breakfast and begin complaining that they wanted cereal. “Children all over the world would love to have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You’re lucky to have food at all!” I respond.
Halfway through breakfast I realize that Ben has not touched a single bite of his food but has opted to grab the dry cereal off the baby’s tray and shove it in his toy sharks mouth and pulverize it to dust. He then takes his toy truck and begins running it through the remnants in order to assure maximum destruction. My husband looks contemplatively at his son and his untouched food and says “How does he grow?” “I have no idea” I respond.
Seven complaints and a tantrum later, breakfast is cleaned up and Brett is off to work. I start a pot of coffee and inform the troops that they are to get dressed, brush their teeth and make their beds.
I settle down in front of the computer to read the news with my cup of coffee and, upon hearing ten pounds of Legos being dumped on the floor, realize that it has been 20 minutes since my last finger sweep of Sam’s mouth where I find a mangled mass of cardboard which I soon identify as a puzzle piece.
Overall, the morning is quite peaceful as the boys are careful not to fight because they know that at the first signs of discontent, they will bring to my attention their blatant disobedience to get ready for the day.
After working at the computer for a bit, I decide it’s finally time to get dressed but at the sight of Ben’s soaked diaper hanging between his legs, I chose to change him first. It is only hanging mid-thigh and I usually try to wait until it hits his knees but I’m feeling industrious. For good measure I grab Sam as well and secretly praise myself for being so efficient. I grab 2 diapers and set them both on the hallway floor for changing. Upon opening Sam’s diaper, I am met with a pungent odor I had not expected. “UNDIAGNOSED POOP! UNDIAGNOSED POOP!” I shout. The alarm is sounded and my boys respond with the efficiency of soldiers at the wail of a bomb raid. William runs and throws his body across Sam while I struggle to keep his legs and hands from spreading the mess. Josh runs for the box of baby wipes and Ben lays in utter stillness and silence. It is a serious moment and we all exhale a sigh of relief when it is over.
When I come in from disposing of the soiled diapers, I find Sam sitting in front of the computer as if waiting for my presence before he reaches up to push the power button. As I am ½ an hour into writing a 45th Anniversary letter to my parents, I streak across the house and dive for his hand. In the scuffle, it is MY hand that brushes the power button and deletes all my heartfelt musings. I teach Ben a few choice words to reveal in front of company while I do another finger sweep of Sam’s mouth to discover a honey roasted peanut and a wadded mass of paper that looks a lot like a check stub. I remove the paper and give him back the peanut.
I make lunch then put the younger two down for a nap while the older two escape outside and begin digging a trench in our newly seeded yard. I sigh and decide to be content that at least they aren’t trying to dig up our dead cat again and that the house is quiet.
I start washing sheets and realize that I can no longer put off cleaning the bathrooms as I find that the toilet in the boy’s bathroom is no longer fit to urinate in.
While hanging the sheets on the clothesline, I see the boys have created a small pond in their trench and have taken their $30 Playmobile Pirate ship to sink into its muddy depths. I close my eyes and decide to go inside and clean the kitchen then start in again on my 45th Anniversary tribute to my parents (“Congratulations guys, I think you’re neat” is all I seem to manage). I hear whoops and hollers outside and see that the boys are now jumping on the trampoline – naked.
Ben wakes up from his nap and staggers out of his room, also naked. I go to investigate and find a completely dry diaper sitting on the floor and his bed completely soaked from mattress pad to comforter. I strip the bed and begin yet another load of laundry.
By 5:00, the boys beds are still unmade, their teeth unbrushed and I’m still in my pajamas. Ben has dumped all his toys bins so I call the boys in to begin cleaning up the mess. There is much protesting as they begin to whine that it is Ben’s mess so I take the much anticipated moment to delve into my speech of how I clean up their messes all day long and maybe this will help them to have a little more appreciation for what I do. They roll their eyes and decide to just clean it up before I can start in on my “You should be thankful to even have toys” tirade.
Brett calls from work to tell me he is going to be late. I’m bummed but decide to look on the bright side that I can just throw some granola bars and bananas at the boys for dinner.
It’s 7:00 and we’re approaching Zero Barrier. Bathtime.
I attempt to stem the flow of disaster by informing the boys that they are to get in the shower, get wet, soaped, rinsed and OUT of the shower. There is to be no splashing, playing, yelling or fighting.
An hour later, the boys are running around the house naked and screaming. I’m trying to sop up the water on the floor and wipe the water droplets ominously hanging from the ceiling like stalactites while yelling over my shoulder at several sets of deaf ears, “Just how hard is it to keep the water INSIDE the tub??”
I’m harried and ready for the house to be quiet again and try to rush through bedtime prayers, but Ben finds it necessary that every item in his bed, including the Spiderman on his pajama shirt, has a turn to pray and the quickie ritual is stretched out an agonizing 20 minutes.
The baby starts crying and Josh begins praying for the safety and provision of the whole world. I sigh heavily and try to get my mind on what is important (the spiritual growth of my son) but after he begins to pray that everyone he knows does not have nightmares that night, I begin to get antsy. Sam is still crying when Josh closes his prayer “Thank you God that I have such a good mommy who is pretty and smells good. Amen.” I silently leave his room and return with a package of cookies for him to sleep with and then go and put the baby to sleep. From the rocking chair I see the stack of inedible items on the counter that I rescued from his mouth – an eraser, 3 legos, a piece of plastic, a knarled up page from a book, 2 more puzzle pieces and a baby wipe which I desperately hope was nicked from the wipes box and not the trash.
By the time Brett gets home, I am sitting down on the couch for the first time that day. “So, what did you do today?” he asks. I look around me and realize that the house looks as though I’ve been in bed reading romance novels all day. I give a heavy, defeated sigh and respond, “Nothing.”
I put on a clean pair of pajamas (getting dressed means I’m ready to be productive, and I’m just not there yet), and start making breakfast for the other kids groggily emerging from their rooms. I’m feeling industrious so I make bacon and eggs.
The boys sit down at breakfast and begin complaining that they wanted cereal. “Children all over the world would love to have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You’re lucky to have food at all!” I respond.
Halfway through breakfast I realize that Ben has not touched a single bite of his food but has opted to grab the dry cereal off the baby’s tray and shove it in his toy sharks mouth and pulverize it to dust. He then takes his toy truck and begins running it through the remnants in order to assure maximum destruction. My husband looks contemplatively at his son and his untouched food and says “How does he grow?” “I have no idea” I respond.
Seven complaints and a tantrum later, breakfast is cleaned up and Brett is off to work. I start a pot of coffee and inform the troops that they are to get dressed, brush their teeth and make their beds.
I settle down in front of the computer to read the news with my cup of coffee and, upon hearing ten pounds of Legos being dumped on the floor, realize that it has been 20 minutes since my last finger sweep of Sam’s mouth where I find a mangled mass of cardboard which I soon identify as a puzzle piece.
Overall, the morning is quite peaceful as the boys are careful not to fight because they know that at the first signs of discontent, they will bring to my attention their blatant disobedience to get ready for the day.
After working at the computer for a bit, I decide it’s finally time to get dressed but at the sight of Ben’s soaked diaper hanging between his legs, I chose to change him first. It is only hanging mid-thigh and I usually try to wait until it hits his knees but I’m feeling industrious. For good measure I grab Sam as well and secretly praise myself for being so efficient. I grab 2 diapers and set them both on the hallway floor for changing. Upon opening Sam’s diaper, I am met with a pungent odor I had not expected. “UNDIAGNOSED POOP! UNDIAGNOSED POOP!” I shout. The alarm is sounded and my boys respond with the efficiency of soldiers at the wail of a bomb raid. William runs and throws his body across Sam while I struggle to keep his legs and hands from spreading the mess. Josh runs for the box of baby wipes and Ben lays in utter stillness and silence. It is a serious moment and we all exhale a sigh of relief when it is over.
When I come in from disposing of the soiled diapers, I find Sam sitting in front of the computer as if waiting for my presence before he reaches up to push the power button. As I am ½ an hour into writing a 45th Anniversary letter to my parents, I streak across the house and dive for his hand. In the scuffle, it is MY hand that brushes the power button and deletes all my heartfelt musings. I teach Ben a few choice words to reveal in front of company while I do another finger sweep of Sam’s mouth to discover a honey roasted peanut and a wadded mass of paper that looks a lot like a check stub. I remove the paper and give him back the peanut.
I make lunch then put the younger two down for a nap while the older two escape outside and begin digging a trench in our newly seeded yard. I sigh and decide to be content that at least they aren’t trying to dig up our dead cat again and that the house is quiet.
I start washing sheets and realize that I can no longer put off cleaning the bathrooms as I find that the toilet in the boy’s bathroom is no longer fit to urinate in.
While hanging the sheets on the clothesline, I see the boys have created a small pond in their trench and have taken their $30 Playmobile Pirate ship to sink into its muddy depths. I close my eyes and decide to go inside and clean the kitchen then start in again on my 45th Anniversary tribute to my parents (“Congratulations guys, I think you’re neat” is all I seem to manage). I hear whoops and hollers outside and see that the boys are now jumping on the trampoline – naked.
Ben wakes up from his nap and staggers out of his room, also naked. I go to investigate and find a completely dry diaper sitting on the floor and his bed completely soaked from mattress pad to comforter. I strip the bed and begin yet another load of laundry.
By 5:00, the boys beds are still unmade, their teeth unbrushed and I’m still in my pajamas. Ben has dumped all his toys bins so I call the boys in to begin cleaning up the mess. There is much protesting as they begin to whine that it is Ben’s mess so I take the much anticipated moment to delve into my speech of how I clean up their messes all day long and maybe this will help them to have a little more appreciation for what I do. They roll their eyes and decide to just clean it up before I can start in on my “You should be thankful to even have toys” tirade.
Brett calls from work to tell me he is going to be late. I’m bummed but decide to look on the bright side that I can just throw some granola bars and bananas at the boys for dinner.
It’s 7:00 and we’re approaching Zero Barrier. Bathtime.
I attempt to stem the flow of disaster by informing the boys that they are to get in the shower, get wet, soaped, rinsed and OUT of the shower. There is to be no splashing, playing, yelling or fighting.
An hour later, the boys are running around the house naked and screaming. I’m trying to sop up the water on the floor and wipe the water droplets ominously hanging from the ceiling like stalactites while yelling over my shoulder at several sets of deaf ears, “Just how hard is it to keep the water INSIDE the tub??”
I’m harried and ready for the house to be quiet again and try to rush through bedtime prayers, but Ben finds it necessary that every item in his bed, including the Spiderman on his pajama shirt, has a turn to pray and the quickie ritual is stretched out an agonizing 20 minutes.
The baby starts crying and Josh begins praying for the safety and provision of the whole world. I sigh heavily and try to get my mind on what is important (the spiritual growth of my son) but after he begins to pray that everyone he knows does not have nightmares that night, I begin to get antsy. Sam is still crying when Josh closes his prayer “Thank you God that I have such a good mommy who is pretty and smells good. Amen.” I silently leave his room and return with a package of cookies for him to sleep with and then go and put the baby to sleep. From the rocking chair I see the stack of inedible items on the counter that I rescued from his mouth – an eraser, 3 legos, a piece of plastic, a knarled up page from a book, 2 more puzzle pieces and a baby wipe which I desperately hope was nicked from the wipes box and not the trash.
By the time Brett gets home, I am sitting down on the couch for the first time that day. “So, what did you do today?” he asks. I look around me and realize that the house looks as though I’ve been in bed reading romance novels all day. I give a heavy, defeated sigh and respond, “Nothing.”
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Products We Mommies Really Want
Vomit Alarm
In case there is anyone out there in that great void of blogland that works in the Product Development Industry, I thought I would give you a budge towards some products that us mommies REALLY want.
I will begin with a product that I could have used this morning for example. A Vomit Alarm.
Too many times have I lain an ailing child on the couch with a pillow, blanket and bowl and their list of instructions: “If you feel like you need to throw up, run like hell to the bathroom and do it in the toilet. If someone is on said toilet, grab them and throw them to the floor. If you feel like you may not make it to the bathroom, then USE THIS BOWL! You are washable, my couch and carpet are not. Do you understand these rules as I have stated them to you?” A feeble ‘yes’ is the usual reply, otherwise a weak nod of the head. After signing an affidavit, the ailing child is left to rest.
It is then a mystery to me how this same child, given all the tools and instructions necessary for the proper removal of one’s stomach contents, can then proceed to lean over the couch and heave all over the carpet while holding the bowl aloft in the other hand.
As many of us mommies have more than one child and cannot umpire with a bowl waiting for the pitch, a Vomit Alarm would certainly come in handy. I’ve attempted to set up a human alarm in the form of a sibling to come screaming when heaving begins, but they are usually more interested in watching the process and giving the standard “Ewww, gross!” to come and get me.
I’m not asking for anything elaborate, just a device that can measure the heave factor and give out the standard warning. A soothing female voice that will warn me as to when it is a false alarm (“Dry heaves commencing, comfort needed”) or when the stomach is in fact getting ready to empty it’s contents (“Regurgitation imminent, bring reinforcements”).
No more streaking through the house throwing children and chairs aside at the sound of a cough, no more washing sheets and showering children at 2am and no more wailing from a brother who had the misfortune of being in the lower bunk when the ailing child up top turned towards the wall instead of the bowl. Ah, the bliss of a vomit free environment.
Please stay tuned for more Products Mommies REALLY Want in future blogs.
In case there is anyone out there in that great void of blogland that works in the Product Development Industry, I thought I would give you a budge towards some products that us mommies REALLY want.
I will begin with a product that I could have used this morning for example. A Vomit Alarm.
Too many times have I lain an ailing child on the couch with a pillow, blanket and bowl and their list of instructions: “If you feel like you need to throw up, run like hell to the bathroom and do it in the toilet. If someone is on said toilet, grab them and throw them to the floor. If you feel like you may not make it to the bathroom, then USE THIS BOWL! You are washable, my couch and carpet are not. Do you understand these rules as I have stated them to you?” A feeble ‘yes’ is the usual reply, otherwise a weak nod of the head. After signing an affidavit, the ailing child is left to rest.
It is then a mystery to me how this same child, given all the tools and instructions necessary for the proper removal of one’s stomach contents, can then proceed to lean over the couch and heave all over the carpet while holding the bowl aloft in the other hand.
As many of us mommies have more than one child and cannot umpire with a bowl waiting for the pitch, a Vomit Alarm would certainly come in handy. I’ve attempted to set up a human alarm in the form of a sibling to come screaming when heaving begins, but they are usually more interested in watching the process and giving the standard “Ewww, gross!” to come and get me.
I’m not asking for anything elaborate, just a device that can measure the heave factor and give out the standard warning. A soothing female voice that will warn me as to when it is a false alarm (“Dry heaves commencing, comfort needed”) or when the stomach is in fact getting ready to empty it’s contents (“Regurgitation imminent, bring reinforcements”).
No more streaking through the house throwing children and chairs aside at the sound of a cough, no more washing sheets and showering children at 2am and no more wailing from a brother who had the misfortune of being in the lower bunk when the ailing child up top turned towards the wall instead of the bowl. Ah, the bliss of a vomit free environment.
Please stay tuned for more Products Mommies REALLY Want in future blogs.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Application for The Brotherhood
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
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
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.”
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