Project aghastness

First of all, I haven't been here since January??? Seriously? Ok, my fault. Completely and utterly so. But there has been lots going on around here. Husband and I learned how to make jam. We planted what *started* as a really tiny garden that has boomed and now takes up way more space than I planned. But it's a good thing.
See that? That's a baby cherry tomato. And it seems like it is taking for.ev.er. But, anyway...

Project Aghastness: noun. The feeling of utter astonishment when your child takes on a seemingly impossible project and causes it to actually work.

All unattended cardboard belongs to Philosopher Child. He makes planes and cuts holes and such. Half the time I really don't know what he's working on. But this week's project really takes the cake.

He made a boomerang.

Out of cardboard.

And it worked.

Seriously.

I stood out in the yard and watched him throw it. And I kid you not, that thing came back to him. Really. It happened. I expected it to just sail away, especially when he told me that it particularly comes back if you throw it straight up. However, as I stood there and watched him throw it in a direction that was most certainly NOT straight up, and then watched it arch back to him, I was stunned. Totally stunned.

Husband told me that Philosopher Child had patiently bent parts this way and that until it finally worked.

As a mom, I'm so proud. And shocked. But mostly proud.

Little Shadow

Pocksinket: noun. (A combination of "pockets" and "trinkets." Get it?) A random or out of place item found in a child's pocket.

Remember when I made the list before? Well, there's more now. And anything that's repeated bears repeating.

cell phone eraser
more sand than is possible unless he was getting buried on the playground. Oh, wait. He was.
coins
a rubber pig pencil topper
notes
drawings
maps
the head of a rubber teddy bear (that's right)
rubber bands, rubber bands, rubber bands
rocks
dirt
hair clips
beads
bits of plastic
drink lids (to drinks that weren't his. Yup.)

Are you with me so far? Who even knows what he'll bring home today.

January 1st, 2012

Some resolutions that I will try (mwah haha!) to keep:

-Reach for some herbal tea, yoga, and meditation before/instead of reaching for the ibuprofen.
-Let my kids get dirty more often and look at little irritations (dumping out toys, running through the house, etc.) as just kids being kids. No biggie.
-Be on time in the morning so I don't have to yell, "Let's go! We're late!" at the kids.
-Meditate (the relaxation kind) at least twice a week.
-Lose 20 pounds. Well, at least 15.
-Get back to daily Bible reading. (Didn't know I was religious? Surprise. I am.)
-Flylady, Flylady, Flylady. I'm actually thinking about adding a new section, Fridays with Flylady to the blog. Thoughts?

New Year's resolutions are funny things, aren't they? We get two simultaneous messages.

1. New Year's resolutions are traditional, so you must make them!
2. But no one ever keeps them, so don't try!

I'm going to try to keep these. Really. I think I'm going to post them somewhere in my house.

In 2012, what are you going to really, really try to do?

Superhero in Sensible Shoes

Have you ever sat down and watched any superhero shows with your kids? I have. And seriously, something needs to be said here about the female of the superhero species. See, I've decided that supervillains must be stupid.

Really stupid.

Because, well, superhero gals generally have huge *ahem* upper parts and itty, bitty waists. A smart villain would, were they not so stupid, merely tap the superhero girls on the shoulder. Due to their wildly disproportionate frames, the small tap on the shoulder would cause them to fall over, snapping them like a twig in the process.

But, you know, villains are morons. That's why they're villains, I guess.

And seriously, what is up with their SHOES??? If I'm going to be running around, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, kicking bad guys in the face, I want a good sneaker. Or, at least a ballet flat with a decent sole. What I don't want is a knee-high boot with a freaking 6-inch heel. You're not a go-go dancer, sister! Nor are you a fashionista or a cowboy with questionable taste in footwear.

Over the past 24 hours I have made 3 loaves of bread, a tray of cookies, 3 pizzas, cleaned the bathroom, done a bunch of laundry, gone back and forth to school, broken up fights, and located lost items all while wearing sensible shoes. I am a superhero.

And I bet I could still kick a supervillain in the face.

Why baby names are not fun

First off, let me say that I have no idea what's going on with the font size below. I tried to fix it. And tried. And tried. Blogger is not listening to me, apparently.
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I've got babies on the brain. I'm even dreaming about babies. It's confusing, so I will be asking my uterus in the next few days why it's sending the rest of my body baby signals, seeing as we've decided not to have any more kids.

But anyway...

So, you're pregnant. And you get the same freaking question for hundredth billionth time:

Have you picked a name yet???

Some people just say no, when they really mean, "Yes, but I'm not going to tell you because you won't like it and I really don't care if you like it in the first place, so HA!"

But when I was preggers with Viking Toddler, when Husband and I said, "No, we haven't picked a name yet," what we really meant was, "We've gone through just about every name in the freaking baby books and can't agree on ANYTHING."

I thought picking baby names was supposed to be some kind of awesome? Wasn't it supposed to be on of the most fun things you've ever done?

Well, whoever said this lied. We spent weeks. WEEKS. Finally, out of desperation, we called Husband's Mom. One of the first names that fell out her mouth made us say, "Yes! FINALLY!" Ok, maybe it wasn't quite so dramatic, but still.

But that was the male name that we had selected. We had decided on a girl's name long before that. Elsie. Her (if it turned out to be a her) would be named Elsie.

Until someone pointed out to us that the name sounded like the name of a cow. I don't mean a mean name for a large women. I mean a literal cow. We shortly thereafter changed it to Elise. Close enough.

Pocksinket

Pocksinket: noun. (A combination of "pockets" and "trinkets." Get it?) A random or out of place item found in a child's pocket.

Items I have found in the boys' pockets include:
broken pencils
rocks
nut to a real race car (no, really.)
bits of asphalt
bits of concrete
restaurant menu
pockets full of sand
broken bits of shells
a green fish tank marble
half a tennis ball
a hair tie (WHY????)
bits of paper
grocery store receipts
small toys
sticks
rubber tubing
corn kernels
leaves
acorns
twigs
plastic counting blocks
small snack-sized raisin boxes
a small star hair clip (again, why???)

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.

Sprout Wish

Sprout Wish: noun. A wish a child makes to be older and/or reach a particular milestone that his peers and/or siblings have reached.

Yesterday, Philosopher Child lost his first tooth. (I'll wait while you applaud like you've never applauded before. Done? OK.) He took it out himself, no muss, no fuss, just out. So, in accordance to ancient tradition passed down from whoever thought this nonsense up, the Tooth Fairy, while tripping over toys and being generally grouchy but hoping not to wake up the child, removed the tooth and replaced it with a dollar, making sure to hide the tooth in the back of the child's mother's wardrobe, where the child would not find it.

This resulted in the child dancing around all morning with said dollar.

Of course, this whole situation is fascinating to Viking Toddler. He asked me this morning if I could take one of his teeth out.

"No," I replied. "You have to wait until you are a little older. They'll get wobbly, and then they'll come out."

Viking Toddler then shook his head around, "wobbling" it, in an effort to make his teeth wobbly.

Clearly, I've gotten through to him. *Eye roll*

Balloon Man/Woman part II

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

Walking home from school with the boys. Tra-la-la-la-la. A grandmotherly woman, whom I have seen many times in my travels and never known to be anything but pleasant, stops on her way from the mailbox and watches us.

*Cue the Jaws music*

When we get to her, she asks, "Would the boys like some mechanical toys?"

"No," I politely say, "They tend to break mechanical things."

"Oh, they're just little mechanical dogs. They can't hurt them."

"Well, they're throwers, and--" (Here I was about to tell her about the remote control fire truck that broke the first day, but she interrupted by doing what happened next.)

She turned to my children and asked THEM.

Yeah, hi. Remember me? The mom? The mom that just TOLD YOU NO???

She ran off to get the dogs and brought them back to the kids and happily shows them how they work.

"I bought them for my dogs, but they know they're not real," she says.

I.am.pissed. But I am also pretty stunned and say nothing. She tries to hug me and laughs an apology. Not a real apology, mind you. A fake, "ha-ha get over it, this is no big deal" sort of apology.

Why would you do that? Why would you listen to me tell you no, but be so blatant as to disrespect me in front of my children? Especially when I DON'T KNOW YOU?

Ugh.

So now I have these stupid toy dogs that have long leashes on them. Did I mention my kids like to wrap things around their necks? No? Let me tell you that now. My kids like to wrap things around their necks.

I've hid them. I'm hoping they will forget about them and I can donate them at the first available moment.

Shatter Duty

Shatter Duty: noun. The responsibility of having to tell your child something hurtful for their own good.

Sound harsh? It is. And it sucks. Big time.

Viking Toddler asked for a Superman cape for his birthday last July. Being crafty and using any sort of excuse to add to my craftiness, I whipped one up. He's been playing with it on and off since. Lately, it's mostly been on.

When I first made him his cape, I was careful to remind him about the rules of reality, as in, a cape won't make him fly and Superman is just a movie and not real.

Today, a lady I knew was telling me about a child years ago in the Philippines (her home country) that *supposedly* tried to fly down the stairs and didn't survive. True story or not, I decided I ought to give our little guy a refresher in gravity.

"You know you can't fly, right? It's just a story. Some kids have tried it, and gotten very hurt."

See the bold part? That's the only part he heard. The next thing I knew, he said, "Can I try flying off the roof?"

All stop! Hold everything! What did my child just ask me???

So, while making breakfast, I had a conversation with my little guy in which I had to explain to him in no uncertain terms that people can't fly. I told him Superman and Batman aren't real, they're just stories, and those were just actors in the movies that were made to look super with camera tricks. I reiterated that people, including himself, can't fly.

"Oh," he said. "Not today?"

No, not just not today. Not at all. Not ever. Superheros aren't real, no one flies, and if he tried it he would get hurt.

I literally saw his heart shatter. His lip stuck out and he got all teary.

This wasn't in the manual.

Misobject Part II and what's up with the pear bird over there

OK, this isn't quite a "part II" in the way I usually define it, but it is an update. I've been told by Husband that I have been remiss in updating the story. So here we go. About that slipper...

Here was my theory: since we left the dog in the care of a neighbor when we left on an unexpected and sudden trip, we also left our neighbor our house keys. We figured, if the dog becomes a problem, she could bring the dog to our house and just come in and feed her and let her out. I thought that perhaps she was cleaning up her house, saw the slipper, and decided if it didn't belong to her kids, it must belong to us. Then, she used the key to drop off the slipper in our house.

Makes perfect sense. I was rather proud of that theory.

And then, it turned out to not be true.

See, the slipper was not a slipper at all. That's right. Not. a. slipper. You see, Philosopher Child had just been upgraded from a 5-point-harness car seat to a big boy booster seat, and that "slipper" was...oh, I'm so embarrassed...an armrest cover for the booster seat.

ANYWAY...

And, now what's up with the new background. I get my backgrounds from The Cutest Blog on the Block. There's a link in the upper left hand corner. I still love their backgrounds and everything, but the background that I was using has been removed and replaced by new ones. Sorry. The bird is a place holder until I find another one that I like. Maybe I'll have a vote on a new one or something.

Misobject

Misobject: noun. An object that you have no idea where it came from or how it came to be where you found it.

Did you miss me? I missed you! I was called out of town rather suddenly (everything is fine), and haven't had much time to write.

However, something unusual happened upon my return, which was yesterday, in case you were wondering. But again, I ramble.

I planned on making bread today. As I was cleaning off the table, I found a child's slipper. Just one. And although that is not remarkable in and of itself, what is odd is that it is not ours. I don't recognize it even a little bit. It certainly does not belong to my children, and since we have been away for almost 2 weeks, coming back to find it is a bit strange.

I thought, well, some companies send out samples of their wares in hopes that you will buy some. Maybe that's what this is. Unlikely, but not impossible. I asked Husband about it, since he's the one who brought in the mail, but he didn't know what I was talking about.

So here we have one odd mystery slipper.

I have a suspicion of where it came from. I'll have to do some more investigating.

Shark Call

Shark Call: noun. A phone call that you know won't be good news.

So, you're phone rings in the middle of the day. The caller ID says that it is your child's school calling. Like seeing a shark fin pop out of the water a bit too close to you, you know something bad is about to happen.

The school nurse called me the other day. Apparently Philosopher Child was refilling his water bottle when another child bumped him. Splash. He needed a new set of clothes. I can't say that I was super excited about having to run up to the school, especially since we walk, but accidents will happen. I packed a pair of pants and a shirt, grabbed Viking Toddler, and headed to the school.

Half way there, I realized that I forgot to pack Philosopher Child some undies. I thought, well, he can't be THAT wet, can he?

See where I'm going with this?

He was, in fact, THAT wet. Which meant after I got to school, I had to turn around, go back home, get him some undies, go back to school, come home for half an hour, then go pick him up to take him home. I was at his school a total of four, count them, four times in one day. I was exhausted. But, like I said, accidents will happen.

Why can't the nurse ever call with good news?

Incidentally, I am love, love, loving the comments. You all are just so sweet!

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.

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.

Ingrained Nonification

Ingrained Nonification: noun. A fact, set of numbers, or other very important item that is so ingrained in your head that you could recite it in your sleep, and yet very inexplicably and suddenly forget it.

Picture it. Target. The year: 2009, a mere three days before Christmas. I was having a lovely evening with the Boys and Husband. We went out to a very uncrowded but fantastic Asian restaurant that served both Chinese and Japanese food. I tried sushi, the raw kind, for the first time (I think). Viking Toddler and Philosopher Child pretty much ate a whole bowl of those fried noodle things. Lovely evening.

We popped off to Target afterwards because we needed a few things. We got our items, got in line, and while Husband was entertaining the Boys and generally just looking about about 3 feet away from me I swiped my card and punched in my pin.

Click. Something inside says I've just done something wrong. The machine asked me to put the pin in again.

Click. Something says that still wasn't right. It wasn't. The machine asked for my pin again. If machines could talk, it would probably say, "Please enter your pin again. The CORRECT one this time, if please."

Click. A third time. Pin still not right. I stood there, dumbfounded, and realized that I have no idea what my pin is. I have completely forgotten that little number that I've used without thinking hundreds of times.

Husband stepped in and swiped his card. Good thing he was there.

And I'm still not sure what my pin is.

Preschool Manners Part II

Click here for part one.

Preschool Manners: noun. Actions that would be considered rude by an adult, but seem harmless, even honest, to preschoolers.

Monkey Son #1 came up to me the other day to hug me. I was standing upright, and his head only comes to my middle. When he hugged me, he laid his head on my stomach.

"Mommy!" he said. "Your belly is squishy!"

Nice. Thanks.

Panic Wave

Panic Wave: noun. A particular type of panic that gets worse and worse as the minutes tick by, whether by new information or simply an increase in awareness or emotion.

It started off as a good morning. We were going to have fried polenta with syrup for breakfast, which is a rare treat. I started the prep and Husband went off to work. Now, he likes to listen to his scanner (a habit I hate), and about two minutes later, he opened the door again and announced that a school bus had been hit by a train, three students killed, three cars derailed, and they can't find the driver of the school bus. *Feeling a little panicked? Keep reading. It ends well.* Husband left again, and I went into the next room to say a quick prayer for the families of the children who died and those who may be injured.

Husband came back a few moments later. This time he said the bus wasn't hit by a train, but the train exploded, and the explosion hit the bus. Oh, yeah, that's so much better. [Note my sarcasm.] I became nasueous, so I decided to forget the polenta and just give the kids cereal and skip breakfast myself.

Well, we were thinking about the possibility of evacuating. Husband had already decided he wasn't going to work until he knew whether or not we had to leave our home. Who knows what was on the train, so I decided to be ready in case we had to leave. As I was working on it, Husband heard over the scanner that there was a plume of smoke that was drifting, and there was going to have to be evacuations. Fortunately, not for us. It was blowing the other direction. Husband, ever the curious one, decided to climb up on our (low) roof to see this smoke. A minute later he came back down, in a much less panicked mood.

"It's a drill!" he said. "There's no smoke."

"And is no smoke why you think it's a drill?" I asked. Just the fact that he can't see it doesn't comfort me.

"No," he said. "Apparently people have been calling and they announced it!"

Well, that was fun. And I went to go make the polenta.

Preschool Personify

Preschool Personify: verb. Personification (granting human qualities to) by a preschooler.

A few days ago was Monkey Son #1's birthday. He is now a whopping 5 years old! He had been asking to have a picnic for the longest time and I just hadn't done it, although all he wanted was to eat lunch in the yard. His birthday, I decided, would be the perfect day.

But then came a really big, really nasty line of storms. There goes the picnic. Oh, look, isn't the radar decorated in pretty colors today! Oh, and some tornado warnings. Nice.

Monkey Son #1 started asking about tornadoes. He thought that you could shoot a tornado, and then it would be dead. End of story. I explained to him that tornadoes are made of wind and dust and such, so you really can't kill it. He indicated that he understood.

Later, he decided that police would be able to shoot the tornado when it comes near, and that would be that. I again told him that tornadoes are made of wind, and are therefore not alive. You can't kill something that is not alive.

I'm still not sure he believes me.