Phibia Part II

Part I here.
Phibia: noun. A childhood or long ago fear that you tell yourself you are over, until the ugly truth comes out.

Recently, Husband and I took the boys on one of those humongous ferris wheels. I mean, not the normal sized ones. This thing was HUGE. The boys were really excited, but I was less than amused. I don't do heights, but put on a brave face.


As we waited in line, I was in a hurry to get on that wheel. Maybe just to get it over with. I certainly didn't really want to get on it. At any rate, we were on it in about 10 or 15 minutes and slowly cranked up and back down.

And then, the wheel picked up speed. What seemed like a nice, gentle roll while standing at a distance now felt like pure horror. I found I couldn't manage to look up or behind me without getting dizzy. I noticed just how rusty some of the bolts were.

CREAK! CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAK!

Was it supposed to make that sound? Was I seriously putting my life in the hands of a stranger?

And if that wasn't bad enough, I then saw this under the roof of our little gondola:

But finally, slowly, the wheel ground to a stop so that the could switch passengers. And at the final stop of the wheel, we were at the apex, hanging there, a potential 125 foot drop above the ground.

What was that news story from years ago about the lady that fell from the ferris wheel, I wondered. How did that happen?

At last, our gondola came to the end of the ride and I was so happy to be on the ground again, where cautions about dropping weren't necessary.

The Earthworms and Me

The Earthworms and Me, or, How I Came to be Standing in My Backyard in the Dark with a Flashlight and Pot of Worms

Let me tell you a little story. A few days ago, we attended the Pinewood Derby at a local park. While I stood with Philosopher Child, Husband took Viking Toddler to another part of the park to try his hand at fishing. They returned with no fish, but not for lack of trying. They also returned with a near-full container of worms.

Fast forward. The day after, I asked Husband what his plans were for these worms, as in, did he plan on going fishing in the next day or so? He said no and to go and set the earthworms free. I did.

Enter Philosopher Child. He scooped them back up and put them in another container, then created what he called an exhibit so that everyone could see.

"That's fine," I told him. "But make sure to put them back in the dirt when you are done."

As I put him to bed that night, he asked if I had put his worms in the dirt.

"No. Did you?" I pretty much knew the answer.

"No. I wasn't done with them."

"But now they have no food to eat and no way to get warm," I said.

This thought caused him to burst into tears. I asked him what was wrong and received a resounding, "I love them!"

As patiently as I could muster, I explained to him that earthworms aren't pets in the same way that a dog or cat are.

Our compromise of this situation was that I, in the dark, go out with a flashlight and release the worms into the wild.

Again.

Statements of Epicness

You saw a few days ago when I wrote about a rather lovely epic statement that Philosopher child made. Now here's some more STATEMENTS OF EPICNESS (picture me saying that in the weird echo-y voice of Pigs in Space).

Philosopher Child: "Look at the size of this WORM!!!"

Viking Toddler: "He's trying to take my brain!"

Husband: "I want some egg nog."
Me: "Don't they have any at the store this week?"
Husband: "No. It's made of unobtanium."

Viking Toddler: "I'm walking like a talking fish!"

Me: "Your teacher says you're mumbling. She can't hear you when you read or when you try to talk to her."
Philosopher Child: "I don't mumble."
Me: "Yes, you do." (This is just a fact.)
Philosopher Child: "There's something wrong with her hearing."

Viking Toddler (while holding up some apples): Look! I'm an apple tree!

Adultness

Adultness: noun (I think? A noun is a person, place, thing, or idea. This is an idea, I think. Noun, right? Let's go with noun.) The level and number of adult behaviors experienced in a given time.

I just got done reading another blogger's account of trying to be an adult and then getting worn out to the point that she rebels. Sometimes I feel like that.

As of the time that I am writing this post (Wednesday, January 19th, 1:31pm), I'm struggling with that myself.

Today, I have folded laundry. Then I washed more. Then I explored the different uses of "green" cleaners and scrubbed the white grout of my kitchen counters. I did the dishes. I picked up toys. I made breakfast and lunches for everyone.

This afternoon, I'm going to make dinner. Like an adult. Dinner is usually Husband's area because he is better at it than me and doesn't mind it. (Although, I am one awesome baker/bread maker. Just saying. Look, I'll prove it.)
(See? I make bread about twice a week. From scratch. Look how responsible I am.)

Anyway, today I'm going to make a duck. Yes, a duck. A raw one. I'm going to cook it. Like an adult. I'm going to have to touch *gag* the raw duck. Like an adult.

And I'm about to clean up some more because another adult is coming over to talk about schooling. Two adults. Talking. Talking about adult things.

Night Confusion Part IV

Night Confusion: noun. The state of mind of a child that wakes up only partially.

Picture it. Middle of the night. I was dead asleep, when I was woken by a blood curdling scream coming from the kids' room. I scrambled out of bed, lost my balance and hit the relentless, fridgid terrazzo floor. I got to my feet, and tried to get to the boys' room. My mind was a whirl trying to piece together what was going on. My still half-asleep mind settled on "intruder in the kids' room" as the most likely scenario.*

I was in their room in under ten seconds. Probably closer to five. I flipped on the light, ready to do my motherly duty which may involve beating the tar out of someone who dared mess with mama bear. However, that proved to be unnecessary. The screaming was because Viking Toddler chose to try to take off his shirt in his sleep and it got stuck on his head.


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*It's probably pretty strange that this is the first place my mind jumped, but let me explain. Family lore, as passed down by Older Sister, states that when we were young, someone had tried to enter our home by coming through the window of the bedroom that my two sisters and I shared. She recalls that the next day our grandfather came by to promptly screw our window shut. Whether or not that was a good idea is not the point. It is, however, why I keep a very close watch on the boys' windows.

Deflacomment

Deflacomment: noun. A comment that completely deflates that second of accomplishment you had.

So maybe you finally got around to mopping the floor. Maybe you ran that errand you've been meaning to for weeks. Maybe you rearranged the closet and now you can see floor. Maybe you got a bunch of laundry washed, folded, and put away, despite having to have a "talk" with the washing machine. (By "talk," of course, I mean kicking the 2-year-old machine that never works right and is now out of warranty.) You are feeling awesome. The day is going well and all is right in your little bubble. You are in a better mood than you've been in weeks. YOU are SUPER MOM! (Or Super Dad. Or Super Grandma. Or Super College Student. Whatever.)

Afternoon is closing in, and you go to pick up your child from school, or dog from the groomers or whatever it is you do with your day.

And then you hear it. That one little remark that pops your happy little high-achieving bubble. You know what that comment is.

Here's mine, via Mrs. Teacher of my darling 6-year-old boy: "[Philosopher Child] is not working up to his potential and is not finishing his school work again."

Pop.

And then you have to go explain to your highly intelligent and philosophical child why he has to do his work, even if it is boring or he knows it already. Again.

Epicness

Epicness: adjective. Description of an action or quote that is fantastic or unbelievable, either in a good or bad way.

A quick search of google right before I typed this let me know that I did not, in fact, make up this word. But I think I can still claim that I came up with it organically. Can't I?

You may now applaud the fact that I digressed in the FIRST paragraph, before I even got to my story.

Anyway, Philosopher Child has been getting in quite a bit of trouble at school lately. He has decided that he doesn't necessarily need to finish his school work, and sometimes he doesn't even need to listen to the teacher. (I suspect he needs to be tested for gifted, the teacher suspects an "inability to pay attention." Long and complicated issue and not the point of this story.)

When I picked him up yesterday, he announced, "I was good in school today. No, wait, no I wasn't. I got all the way to orange!"*

"How did you get all the way to orange?" I asked.

"Apparently it is something called defiance."

Yeah, it's probably bad if I laugh at that. I sent him to his room instead.

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*Our school uses color coded discipline. If you are on green, you are a-ok. Yellow is warning, orange is relatively serious, red is principal's office.

Randomare

Randomare: noun. A nightmare about something random or out of the blue.

The other night, we found Viking Toddler in his bed yelling, "I need new toys!" He wasn't quite awake, but we got him to settle back into bed and go to sleep. In the morning we asked him what he was dreaming about.

"My toys were on fire," he said.

OK...I guess, yes, that would be a reason for new toys. But dreaming that your toys are on fire? Where on earth did that come from?

A night or two later, he had a similar dream.

Last night, I told him to dream about something silly instead.

"Can you tell me something silly to dream about?" I asked.

"The window," he replied.

"The window?"

"Yes," he said. "That's so crazy!"

Uh huh...crazy. I know the feeling.