Thursday, February 25, 2010


Momsolete: adjective. Describes a part of the mom job that has become obsolete with the children getting older.

First off, let me say a little something here. You may have noticed there are a lot of "Comment deleted by blog administrator" stuff lately. No, I'm not happily and randomly deleting comments from my dear readers. I've just been deleting spam messages.

Now, on with our story.

Philosopher Child's school has an account with a certain book company. This book company has a great multitude of their books available on their website for children to view. The books are even read to them by actors with the words on the screen so they can follow along. Personally, I think that's fantastic. I've used it a few times to entertain the kids when I am just trying to get the dishes/laundry/cleaning done.

Coming home from an errand today, Philosopher Child said, "Can we listen to a story on the computer for story time before bed?" Wait, what? Don't I do story time? Isn't that my job?

"I thought you wouldn't want to do it," Philosopher Child continued.

"Did you think to ask me?" I said.

Clearly, he didn't understand what I meant, because then he asked, "Mom, can we listen to a story on the computer?" Not exactly the question I meant.

"I'll think about it," I said grudgingly, acknowledging that I was in danger of being replaced by a computer program.


"She said she'll think about it," Husband said with a smile, seeing much more humor in it than I did.

In the end, I simply grabbed a book off the fresh stack from the library. There were no complaints. In fact, Viking Toddler kept running off to get more books, and Philosopher Child constantly wanted just one more story. Comforting. I guess I'm not quite obsolete yet.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Peanut Picasso

Peanut Picasso: noun. A child that uses art tools and supplies in a way that is not intended by the manufacturer(s).

Behind on the housework. Again. That's kind of typical for me. Therefore, anything that will keep Viking Toddler in one place and not throwing things is a plus. Well, I happened to have some watercolor paints. Non-toxic AND washable. My kind of stuff.

I cut a Styrofoam cup down to make it less tall, filled it with a bit of water, pre-wet the paints, and put Viking Toddler in his high chair with some paper. We're set. I got to work on the chores.

A short time later, I checked on Viking Toddler's progress. He was painting his fingers with great globs of purple. Mind you, he wasn't actually putting his fingers in the paints. He was using the brush to paint his fingers. Not quite what I had in mind, but OK...

He looked up at me and exclaimed, "Mommy! I messy!"

"Yes, you are," I replied. I then showed him how to make fingerprints on the paper with his pre-painted fingers.

His reaction at first confused me. He went about the same activities as before, but there seemed to be an almost unnoticeable change in his mood. It took me a while before I realized what it was.

My little Peanut Picasso wanted a different reaction. When he spills a drink, there is an, "Oh, no!" as I rush to get a towel. When he knocks something over, there is an, "Oh, no!" as I scramble to catch it or pick it up. And when he draws on something he is not supposed to, there is a, "Not there! Draw on paper only!" as I hurry to get him some blank sheets. But when he merrily sat there painting his fingers, and at one point his face, he barely got a, "Look at that. You're so silly." He was a bit disappointed. I guess next time I should throw some confetti or something.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


Little things excite me. Like knowing someone out there actually reads my nonsense. So let me say a great big thank you to my followers! In the past week or so I've gained an extra 12 people, which is the fastest the Mom-tionary has grown ever. You all encourage me to write more.

The other day, when my numbers had jumped to 25, I sat discussing my bewildered excitement to Husband.

"Twenty-five! Twenty-five followers!" I said.

"Twenty-six," he corrected.

"No, twenty-five," I said, and wondered why he was arguing with me.

"Twenty-six," he insisted. "Not everyone who reads is a follower."


Then he advised me that I should post more often.

"Sometimes nothing funny happens," I said. Do you want to read about me washing towels or how I am almost out of bread? Didn't think so.

"Well, something funny is about to happen," he said, and called my attention to the Boys, who were using a chair in a way that I'm pretty sure is not recommended by the manufacturer. Of course I had to put a stop to it. I don't really want to do a post about spending the night in the emergency room. I've already done that. Not that fun.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Balloon Man/Woman

Balloon Man/Woman: noun. A person that tries, at times repeatedly, to give your child something you don't want them to have.

So, your child wants a specific toy. You tell them no for whatever reason (too dangerous, too expensive, not their birthday, not appropriate...), but, despite you not wanting your child to have that toy, a well-meaning but misguided relative or friend gets it for them anyway. You, understandably, are miffed.

Which brings me to today's story. You see, at our grocery store, they occasionally give out latex balloons to small children. That's a problem for us. With Viking Toddler being so young and still sometimes putting things in his mouth (latex balloons are huge choking hazards), we really don't want to have this particular kind of balloon around. Besides that, there is the problem of them waving them around in the car and fighting over them when they get home. Sometimes we let them have those multi-colored inflatable problems, but mostly not.

On Friday, we were standing together while an older gentleman bagged our groceries. He looked at Viking Toddler and asked, "Would you like a balloon? Ask your Daddy."

"No, thanks," Husband said.

"Are you sure?" the man pressed.

"No, that's OK," Husband replied.

And then the man, who seemed a bit irritated and confused by Husband's refusal, said, "He'll hate you later."

Or, maybe as his parents, we have a reason we are saying no, and next time you should ask US if you can give our child something.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


Keyser: noun. A person who through clumsiness or carelessness breaks or loses objects, particularly, but not limited to keys.

You guessed it. This morning, my keys were unaccounted for. I checked my purse. The table. The kitchen counter. My jacket. I even shook out the sheets looking for them...which reminds me. I should probably make the bed. I eventually found them in my raincoat. I had forgotten that it had been raining yesterday.

But my haplessness with small objects is not limited to keys. I've lost my wedding ring in the washing machine. Twice. (Although that doesn't happen any more since we now have a front loader, and I wear my engagement ring, which holds my wedding band where it should be: on my finger, not tumbling around in the towels.)

The other day, I was cleaning out the boys' humidifier. I planned to wash it out, dry it, and put it away. As you may have guessed it, yes. Crash. I dropped the water reservoir, full of water, into the tub. Now we need a new humidifier.

Last night, I sat with Husband watching TV. I was drinking a cup of truly fantastic tea in a clear glass mug that Husband bought me for my birthday, along with a new tea pot and quite a bit of tea. Now, I usually don't wear my wedding and engagement rings in the house because I'm generally doing housework and I don't want to damage or lose them. But last night I was. I was absently toying with the handle of the cup when I felt my engagement ring slide across the surface of the side of the cup. Now, for those of you who don't know, diamonds and glass are not friends. Though the diamond on my heirloom engagement ring is pretty small, it is no less of a real diamond. I had gouged a chip out of the side of the cup. Oh-freaking-darn-it. I liked that cup.

At this point, you may be wondering how I function every day with two kids, a dog, and a husband. I'll tell you...I have no idea. But apparently my particular brand of nonsense is hereditary. The school nurse called about an hour ago to tell me Philosopher Child shut his finger in a door. Well, he is his mommy's child.

Thursday, February 4, 2010


Momliment: noun. A compliment specifically for moms.

You know the ones I'm talking about. "You're baby is so cute!" or, "Look how good s/he is being!" Recently I started to got Momliments on Philosopher Child's reading ability.

But tonight, my friends, was the most hilarious momliment ever. A man came to the door and I foolishly answered it, thinking it was my neighbor. Well, the man on the other side told me he was doing a power usage survey. And then it happened.

He asked me if my parents were home.

Dumbfounded, I replied, "I am the parent."

He was just as confused. "Oh. don't look...OK..."

I'm going to be laughing about this for a long, long time.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Shopping Shark

Shopping Shark: noun. A person who is a salesperson's worst nightmare because they will argue to get what the want, or a person who has the uncanny ability to make salespeople just go away.

I've learned two things about my family members in the past few years. First, if you want a deal, you shop with Younger Sister. She knows how to double up coupons, talk the salespeople into selling the display model, and knows exactly where to go and when to get the best sales. But if you don't want to buy anything and frankly want those door-to-door salesmen to just go away, you hang around Husband.

The other day, someone that works for a window company came to our door. Husband answered and the woman started on her spiel about who she works for and what she does. At the end, Husband simply said, "No, thank you. Not interested." But instead of the woman just thanking him and walking away, she said, "Why?" Big mistake.

"Just not in the budget," Husband said. "Not interested."

"You're not interested in saving money?" she asked.

At this point, Husband was a bit annoyed. Now, understand, we love, love, love small businesses. What we don't love is people showing up at our door while we're trying to have a relaxing weekend, so it's not surprising when the next thing out of Husband's mouth was, "Do you have a licence?"

The woman said that she did and handed him one, but it was a contractor's licence. He wanted to see her peddler's licence, which he knew by this point she didn't have and wasn't really sure what he was talking about. He calmly informed her that in our town you need a special permit to peddle from door to door, to which she said the funniest words of the day: "I'm not peddling."

Personally, I'd like to know what she would call it if going door to door selling windows isn't peddling.

Regardless, Husband had made his point, and after saying no multiple times, it took explaining the law make her go away.