A letter to my washing machine

Dear Nearly-New, Front Loading, Expensive Washing Machine,

I've had you for about 3 years now. During that time, your service has been questionable at best. I should have seen problems coming when your brother, Dryer, arrived not being able to dry beyond 30 minutes. At that point, I called in the repair technician, who eyed me skeptically. He didn't appear to believe that Dryer had arrived broken. After a while with his computer in front of Dryer, he finally announced with triumph that it was, in fact, broken. Why do I remind you of this, Washer? Because you came as a set and you are known by the company you keep.

Now, Washer, you and I have had several issues that has nothing to do with Dryer. I'd say the first inkling I had that you are, in fact, a complete idiot, was the day I dared to try to put bleach in the bleach tray while the washer door was open. The bleach ran out and onto the floor. Don't you think you should wait do dispense bleach until you are washing something? Just a thought.

Further, when I tell you I want you to clean something, I'd like it clean. It's to the point that even when I put soiled clothes on a rinse first, and THEN a wash, they are STILL not coming out clean. Let me point out that cleaning is your JOB. I should not have to run clothes through the wash twice in order to get the same results that I saw with my ancient old Washer before it died. Even as it was dying, it did a better job than you.

Here's something else, Washer. I've noticed that every now and then I find small holes in my clothes. No, I don't have moths, so don't give me that nonsense. We both know it's you. I have proof. I looked you up online. I'm not the only one with this problem. Stop it. You've put holes in shirts, pants, and Husband's Great-Great Grandmother's quilt that she made for us. This is unacceptable.

Also, STOP TANGLING THE CLOTHES. This not good for the clothes, my stress level, or your likelihood of continued existence. This is one of the ways things get ripped, or at the very least spend some quality time with Iron. Pant legs should keep to themselves. Sheets should keep to themselves. Stop it NOW.

Now, about the hand wash cycle. I was psyched to see you have one, as I have many handmade articles of clothing. Here's the thing, though. The spin speed for this cycle is low. This causes clothes to come out completely and utterly dripping wet. So wet, they can't go in Dryer. I was glad to see you allow me to manually set the spin speed to high, in order to get clothes that are not dripping wet. This is what that "Spin Speed" control on your face is for. But, even though I tell you I do NOT want sopping wet clothes, you choose to ignore me. This causes me to have to run it through an ADDITIONAL drain and spin cycle. Uncool.

I'd love to leave it there, but here's something else. You are ALWAYS OFF BALANCE! For crying out loud, Washer, if I say, here, wash these towels, what I don't want you to do is use them to cause yourself internal haemorrhaging by allowing your drum to bounce violently around your body. This, also, is unacceptable.

I want to tell you one more thing. You know how I said I have to put the clothes on a rinse before wash to get them clean, and even then it doesn't always (or even usually) work? Your stupid design makes it so I have to physically open the door before I tell you I want you to go from rinse to wash. But you are designed in such a way that the clothes fall forward when I open the door. One time a pair of pants got caught and I didn't notice. You, in your infinite stupidity, decided it was ok to go on your way. That's how you ripped your gasket that cost us over $100 to replace, and that was just for the part.

I won't even discuss the times you didn't spin the water out of the machine.

If this behavior continues, I'll have no choice but the next time you go off balance to just let you beat yourself to death.

Sincerly,

Kristina

P.S.: Dryer, I've noticed that you aren't drying clothes until dry, neither when I use the presets, nor when I manually set the time. You also seem to ignore heat settings sometimes. Low means low, high means high. Your manual says if the clothes come out damp I should just put them away like that, because it's greener or something. You're supposed to be energy saving, but that kind of energy saving in this climate gets you moldy clothes. My eyes are on you, buddy.

Pomergency

Pomergency: noun. Any sort of potty emergency and/or annoyance.

We went to an air show. Hazzah. I'm not crazy about them (I don't exactly dig loud noises), but Husband and the Boys like it. I'm the moral support. Or something.

Anyway, the kids have this really annoying habit of calling "I have to go potty!" whenever we are out and they are bored. Do you know how to tell when they really, actually, have to go? Me either. Generally, unless they JUST went, I dutifully take them.

And so we find Viking Toddler and I standing in line, and by line I mean a roughly assembled mass of people standing impatiently in front of a row of portable toilets, each little toilet hut roughly the size of a linen closet.

Finally, it is our turn to try to fit ourselves in these awful little things. First off, we should have kept walking to find some toilets that were NO WHERE NEAR the beer tent. But I didn't think that far ahead. I just saw LOTS of toilets, and that, to me, meant fast.

Well, we got inside, and some (possibly drunk) guy had missed the toilet. I mean, clearly wasn't even facing the right direction. But Viking Toddler has to go, and I have hanitizer at the ready.

And then we go back to our seats. That's the point when Philosopher Child has to go. Husband takes him. About 45 minutes later, Viking Toddler has to go again. So we go back to an ever growing line and try not to touch anything once inside. This time, he decides he doesn't have to go after all. We go back to our seats. A little while later, he has to go again. And then Philosopher Child. I just want a drink of water from being out in the sun all day. Except someone has drank all my water. Big suprise.

Statements of Epicness Part II

Part I here.

You know what's fun? Kids (Sometimes. OK, often. Most of the time. When nothing is breaking and no one is yelling at you). You know what's even more fun? When kids don't know what to call something and they try to use descriptive terms to get the point across.

The other day, Viking Toddler was tired and he yawned. Only, as really odd as it may sound, he didn't know the word, "yawn." Clearly, I have failed. He's got a nice vocabulary, but apparently I've neglected to teach that one.

Anyway, he wanted to tell me he yawned, but not having the word, he instead said, "I have tired in my mouth."

Makes sense, I guess.

Poof Behavior

Poof Behavior: noun. Behaviors that can be linked back to a source, and once the source is eliminated, the behavior goes poof.

For weeks, Philosopher Child was getting into trouble almost everyday at school. Not big, principal's office things, but small things like talking during work time, playing when he should be working, and being generally disruptive. Now, although some of it is attributed to boredom (he's shown to be far above his peers in certain subjects), it didn't seem to be all of the problem. And why was he only in trouble in the afternoon?

One day, as I was doing some work in the kitchen, he told me that his sandwich in his lunch had been soggy and he hadn't been eating it. He'd only been eating the fruit/veggies I put in, and even then not always.

"How long has this been happening?" I asked.

"A long time," he replied.

Hold it. He hasn't been eating lunch? And he's only in trouble in the afternoon? Oh, for crying out loud.

I rearranged his lunch box so that his sandwich wouldn't be soggy and encouraged him to eat. His behavior magically improved.

But wait, there's more! If he hadn't been eating his lunch, what had he been eating? Enter Little Hyperactive Friend. For the sake of simplicity, let's call him LHF. Now, LHF, it would appear, brings a donut in his lunch quite often. I don't know if it's every day or not, but it does appear to be often. First off, I don't know why you'd send donuts with LHF at all, as he is LHF (or at least, he appears to me, but I'm no expert). But as I'm not trying to start an argument over parenting/food choices, let's leave it as I don't understand. Anyway, LHF has been giving Philosopher Child his donut. So, he's been going all afternoon with little more than a sugar-covered fried pastry in his system.

Gee, I wonder why he's been getting in trouble?

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???)

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.