Letter to Congress

Dear Congress,

I know that you are all very busy these days debating budgets, naming health care bills after dead Senators, and whether or not sleep deprivation is considered torture, but I would like you to consider a bill that would make you madly popular with mothers everywhere.

Mothers make up a good portion of your constituents and as a whole are far more powerful than any of those big time lobbyists and special interest groups. Think about it-- essentially every voter in the country is somehow influenced by a mother: their own, the mother of their children, or some other woman that they've latched onto as a mother-figure. So if you can please the mothers, you've got it made!

Here's what I want you to do: enact a new law that moms get six more hours in the day than everybody else has. Implementation and logistics are up to you to figure out, but they need to be hours when everyone else is either frozen in time or sleeping. I'm sure that the writers of Heroes could help you out if you need some ideas. They've got time travel all figured out.

If I had six more hours each day, here are a few of the things I would do:

• I'd read every day instead of just in spurts. I have been plowing through Vanity Fair for the past four months. Now that's sad. But reading the classics keeps my mind sharp and challenged--and if it's good for me, it's good for my family, community, and country.
  
• I'd blog every day. I'd have time to compose profound and meaningful posts about life, motherhood, patriotism, and sometimes food. I'd make a difference in people's lives. I might also have time to figure out how to make some money from this hobby, which would improve the economy.
  
• I'd keep up on my pedicures. This would be appreciated by all who know me, I assure you.
• I'd read more to my kids (during their waking hours) and put off some of my housework for these extra six. Better educated kids= better America!
  
• I'd organize all my closets and cupboards and maybe actually paint them as I've been planning to do for nearly six years. I'm not sure how this would benefit my fellow men, but I would definitely like it!
  
• I'd call my friends and sisters-in-law who have all but given up on me since I had my third baby (let alone since I started homeschooling); we'd have time to talk to each other without our kids constantly interrupting or trying to severely wound each other.
• And if I'm being completely honest, I would probably spend some of this time baking cookies that I shouldn't eat, taking a nap, window shopping online for things I can't afford, looking up old friends on facebook, and other unproductive pursuits. But I wouldn't spend ALL of my time this way.

So you see, these six hours would add up to make a major difference in my life, which would impact my family, community, and country for good. Just imagine if all mothers had these extra six hours. We could probably solve every problem under the sun! So get to work on making this one happen, and we'll take care of your other headaches.

Sincerely,

A Mother with a Plan

P.S. If sleep deprivation is considered torture, then the mothers of America have had lots of practice in enduring such torture. Maybe some of your special investigators should talk to some moms before taking away all of the CIA's interrogation strategies. Yes, sleep deprivation does make you a little crazy, but cruel and unusual? Hardly.

P.P.S. On second thought, maybe 10 hours is a better idea . . .


Readers: What would you do with six more hours in the day? Click on the comment button and let your voice be heard!:)

Overheard At Our House

Kimball: Mom, was Dad skinny when he was younger?

Me: Not really skinny--why do you ask?

Kimball: Because I know I didn't get my skinniness from you.

Just what a post-partum mommy needs to hear to keep her spirits up and make her want to go out in public!

Arch Enemies

Every superhero has a nemesis. Lex Luthor, the Green Goblin, the Joker--these are some truly BAD guys. Our son Kimball thinks he has a nemesis, too, (although I don't know if you call it that if the nemesis is a duo). These two women are seemingly innocent-- in fact, I count them as one of the tender mercies of the Lord in my life! Bronwen also adores them, cheers when they arrive, and frequently mentions them in her nightly prayers. Who are these deceptively evil creatures? They are our housekeepers.

I have hesitated to write about this otherwise compelling subject because if you have preconceived notions about the kind of people who have housekeepers, we probably wouldn't fit that bill--but if you only know me virtually, you would probably make some assumptions. And I have admitted before that I do care what you think, at least those of you who read often.

We are not wealthy (at least by American standards), and in fact make many sacrifices so that I can be at home with our children. We are blessed, however, to have housekeepers who are willing to trade services with my husband. And I will admit that it makes our life nicer. I could technically function as a homeschooling mother of nearly 5, but I wouldn't have a clean house. And Jared and I both agree that having order and a clean house makes a big difference in our life satisfaction, so it might just be worth it to us if this trade ever runs out. And our children still get plenty of opportunities to help with household cleaning and chores, as once a week is not enough to keep the house clean--it is just enough to stop it from getting away from us completely.

Anyway, now that I've issued my disclaimer, let's get back to the subject at hand: Kimball vs. Housekeepers. Months ago I noticed that he got a scowl on his face whenever their arrival was anticipated. He began complaining that they always put his things in the wrong place, that they remade his bed too tightly (as in perfectly), that they mixed up his and Henry's pillows. And don't get him started on how they move his Lego creations around in the playroom. Anytime he misplaces anything, anytime things aren't just where he expects them to be, he begins grumbling about "the housekeepers".

This always launches me into a little lecture about how lucky we are to have them come, how much I appreciate that they come, and how he is responsible for his own things. "If you put your things away before they come like you are supposed to, they won't move them around," I remind him. But it falls on deaf ears. No one will convince him that the housekeepers aren't out to get him. Each week they hatch another maniacal plot to bring agony into his young life.

In an attempt to teach them accountability and ease Kimball's Monday Anxiety, I have agreed with the boys that if they clean up the playroom and vacuum it before the Terrible Twosome arrive, I will instruct them to skip it. Some weeks that works, some weeks it doesn't. And yesterday when we came home to discover that Kimball's recently lost tooth had been thrown away, he was pretty sure that life as he knew it was coming to an end. (Never mind that I had advised him to stash it in his sock drawer, quite sure that they wouldn't recognize a lone molar swimming in a gallon-sized Ziploc--his doing--as a treasure we were keeping for the tooth fairy. He left it in the middle of his bed and they assumed it was garbage, since it looked deceptively like garbage.) Sigh.


At least he hasn't made any "it's them or me" ultimatums. I would hate to have to choose.

House Guests: A How-To Guide

What should you do if you have house guests coming and you are too lazy to prepare meals, entertain them, or do anything other than lie around the house? I highly recommend that you, most of your children, and your guests all come down with the stomach flu.

It helps if you and your kids can get it first, thus evoking pity and help from said guests. Then, after several hours of that, be sure that they, too, become infected. If you're an A-level hostess, please try to wipe the toilet down with a Clorox wipe just before your guests need to throw up for the first time. It will help them feel loved and cared for.

If you manage to pull this off, your guests will not expect you to plan elaborate day trips, to spend money on restaurants, movies, and other activities, nor even to wine and dine them at home with your Martha Stewart-esque hostessing skills. You can even have a gourmet menu planned out for brownie points, but they won't want you to make the food anyway. They will look the other way as the laundry piles up in mounds on your bedroom floor--they know that you don't have the energy to fold and put away all those sheets, towels, pillowcases, and nearly every blanket in the house that has been barfed on, because they don't have the energy, either. Engaging conversation? Completely unnecessary.

Instead, your guests will want nothing rather than a turn in the bathroom, a couch or bed to lie on, and a little ginger ale to sip when they're feeling up to it. And those are the easiest kind of house guests I have ever had. The bad news? They may never want to come back.

Caution: Wide Load

It's baby number five and *SURPRISE* I am showing earlier and bigger than ever before. Yesterday I hit a pregnancy milestone that in previous pregnancies hasn't hit until month 7 at least: I misjudged the size of my round belly and bumped into something. I did this not once, but twice.

As I entered the building to my ob/gyn's office yesterday, I took the corner too quickly and bumped my belly right into the side of the sliding glass doors. Quickly, I looked around to see if anyone had seen my clumsiness. Thankfully, the only person in the lobby was a woman busy trying to keep her two year old from climbing in the elevator, and she took no notice of me. I thought to myself, "Already? This is happening to me already?"

Then, only a few minutes later, after leaving a special little something behind in a cup for the medical assistant to inspect, I exited the office's bathroom and bonked my belly with the door. Really? Twice in an hour? This is getting embarrassing.

And with a little more than 3 months to go, hopefully I'll still fit behind the steering wheel in month 9. Anyone interested in shuttling my kids to swimming lessons this June?

Overheard At Our House

Kimball: Mom, I just read in this book that if you want to live to be 100 years old, you'd better stop eating blueberries!

Me: Really? I thought they were supposed to be so good for you! (In fact, I only eat them for that reason. I don't love a blueberry unless it involves a muffin or scone.)

Kimball: Yes, it says that blueberries prevent the aging process-- so you'll never get to 100 if you eat them, I guess!

This photo was found on a great blog about growing your own blueberries--just in case you don't want to see 100!

Confessional

Here is all of the food I ate yesterday (to the best of my memory):

• 3 pieces of french bread with butter
• 3/4 of a Sees Bourdeaux Heart (roughly the size of 3 normal pieces)
• A handful of grapes
• 2 handfuls of Valentine Peanut MnMs
• 1 triangle of the quesadillas I made for my kids' lunch
  
• 1/3 bag of Pop Secret Homestyle Microwaved Popcorn
• 1 baked potato with butter and cheese (I fully intended to put sour cream on it and forgot because I was eating in front of the computer.)
• about 6 Sees Candy Red Hot Hearts (they are smallish)
  
• 10 blackberries
• 2 1/2 frosted heart sugar cookies (large)
  

At this point, I suddenly realized that I felt VERY SICK. I had planned for my family to eat leftovers last night. I forced myself to also eat:

• 1 bowl of chicken and dumplings

I still feel terrible this morning. Cream of Wheat, anyone?

"The" Gift of Christmas

Does this happen at your house? It seems like every year, no matter how many or how few presents our kids get, whether or not they got exactly what was on their list, there is one present that EVERYONE wants. One present that is the source of greatest excitement, greatest conflict, greatest anxiety, and greatest pleasure. Every year.

This year, the gift was Henry's. A Clone Trooper Voice Changing Helmet. I had seen it in the stores and thought it was really overrated. Every time we passed it at Costco, my kids would drool over said item. But two weeks before Christmas, I pulled out everything I had purchased to wrap it and discovered that Henry was woefully underrepresented in the presents department. As in, I'd bought him a t-shirt. And as there wasn't much on Henry's wish list, you might not be surprised to find that Santa brought Henry the Clone Trooper Voice Changing Helmet that everyone wanted.

What may (or may not surprise you) but certainly took me off guard, was that this year, everyone else has wanted to play with it, too. As in the adults. As I was in the kitchen late on Christmas Eve, working on pull-apart bread for the morning's breakfast, I could hear Jared in the living room, playing with the dumb thing. And it was loud. I had to come out and shush him before we woke all the kids up at 11:00 pm and ruined Christmas.

Not only did all three boys want to try the helmet on immediately, but the moment that no one else was wearing it, Bronwen tried it on.

Friday morning, we piled into the car to visit my family in Southern Cal. I said the voice changing helmet should stay home. I was overruled by everyone else. And before we even got into my mom's house, two of my brothers (ages 27 and 24) had already tried on The Helmet. I hugged a clone trooper in greeting on the sidewalk.

As if that wasn't enough, last night after the kids were in bed, I found my mom trying it on. What the?????

So I guess I'm the only member of the family that doesn't get the allure of The Helmet. Does that make me out of touch?

What was The Gift at your house this year?

No Liars Here!

For some strange reason, even though my boys can run crazy all over the house or park, they seem completely incapable of running laps at soccer practice without bringing shame to the family name. Jared's family name, of course. You see, I see myself in them. I have never enjoyed running, nor have I been very good at it. But I do firmly believe that if I learned to push myself harder and run more often, I could be better at running. And I am noticing that in many areas (not just physical) I am needing to teach the principle that "we can do hard things." I do not want to raise kids who give up at the first sign of some hard work.

So, in an effort to teach my boys how to be runners and how to do hard things, I have determined to add lap-running to our curriculum. In all honesty, this event occurs about once a week, although I pictured it happening on a daily basis. And it's my fault. Did I mention that I hate running?

Today after Henry's speech appointment we headed over to the park with a $5 pizza from my favorite franchise. The boys were surprised to find out that before we ate any of the greasy goodness, we would be running laps around the park: our age plus 2. (No, I did NOT run 37 laps; thanks for asking.)

Henry, the one who just might be confused for someone with his legs painted on at soccer practice, was the first to enthusiastically run all 8 of his laps. The kid never stopped once to walk. I don't know if his father would have been proud or infuriated, but his father wasn't there. I slapped him a high five and gave him a slice of pepperoni.

Ian finished next and threw himself down on the blanket for his reward. Five laps is really nothing for him, as he seems to have the boundless energy required for lap running--the reason that he didn't finish earlier had to do with the allure of the park equipment.

I had started running laps with them but had been seriously hampered by a 19 month old who freaks out when she sees her mother running away. I kept moving around the path and would occasionally jog for several yards, but wasn't making very fast progress with her in my arms. I guess this wasn't going to count as my workout today. I had, however, lapped Kimball, who had petered out after two laps and was walking quite slowly while moaning. The rest of us cheered him on and encouraged him through the next several laps, which he alternately walked and jogged half-heartedly.

When he got to his last 2 laps, he asked me to run with him. I got Bronwen interested in a piece of garlic bread and agreed. We took off and he sprinted far ahead (I knew he was being lazy earlier and was not so easily winded as he made out to be.) Laughing, he looked back at me and taunted:

"Mom! I'm faster than you!"

"Yes, you sure are!"

Then, with absolutely no malice in his voice, but just the matter-of-factness of youth, he said, "Maybe it's because of all that weight."

I guess it's better than having random people asking me when I'm due, but it stung nonetheless.

"Yes, son, I'm sure you're right."

I wanted to double his lap requirement at that point, but I didn't particularly want to jog 10 more with him, so I let it slide and went over to nurse my wounds with a slice of pizza pie.

Kids don't cut you any slack, do they? Your friend might tell you how great you look and that all those workouts must be paying off, but your kid will never lie. Dadburnit!

Meeting of the Concrete Minds

My oldest boys are very black-and-white thinkers. When they are pretending something, it is real. I get in big trouble for using words like "play" or "pretend" because as far as they are concerned, that is a betrayal. They have also been known to get into full-blown wars with Ian because he insists something completely fictional is truth. They are the self-proclaimed defenders of truth, even if that "truth" is their own pretend. It turns out that this may run in the family.

A couple of days ago, my niece and nephew came over to play for a few hours. The boys were so excited to show off their clubhouse and introduce Cooper and Catelyn to their secret club and to "Clubea," the foreign land lying just outside our back door.

They had only been outside for 15 minutes or so when I could tell that things were headed south. I went out to investigate and this is what I found:

• One tear-stained face of a six-year-old, who informed me that "we are in America!"
• Two boys, indignant and hurt that their cousin refused to recognize Clubea as a sovereign nation.
• Two preschoolers who couldn't care less about the battle and were only interested in the trampoline (much to the club president's chagrin).

No amount on coaxing on my part could convince either side to back down. I finally told them that my boys could call it "Clubea" and Cooper could call it "America" and we'd move on. I foolishly thought that this would solve it, but a few minutes later I was again summoned to the back door.

Apparently, Cooper had used the club's sidewalk chalk to write: "Yor in umeriku." (You're in America.) Kimball had promptly, and with hostility, crossed it off, violating the strict codes of sidewalk chalk. He was in the process of summoning the residents of Clubea to Club Court by banging a rhythm on his drum (an upside down tin trashcan). Cooper refused to recognize the powers of the court.

Concerned that my little dictator was getting out of control with his cries for punishment for treachery, I sent him in to cool off in his bedroom for a few minutes, which generally works wonders. In the meantime, I tried to help Henry and Cooper come to some sort of understanding while Ian and Catelyn helped me pick tomatoes for dinner. Henry-turned-diplomat finally suggested that the concrete could be America for the afternoon while the dirt and weeds that make up the rest of our backyard would be Clubea. Cooper was satisfied with this compromise, although he wanted it to be clear that he would not be leaving America because, "This is the only free country! Clubea isn't a free country!"

When Kimball returned, he grudgingly agreed to join the international pact but spent a good 10 minutes debating with his American cousin the freedoms enjoyed by the citizens of Clubea.

Despite these speedbumps they spent the rest of the afternoon playing well together as neighboring nations, if by together you mean playing in the backyard without entering each other's territory. Finally, Bronwen woke from her late nap and they were allowed back into the house, which was obviously neutral territory and the international friction subsided completely.

Jared and I chuckled over the incident. Those boys are definitely cousins! I guess that blood may be thicker than water, but concrete is even thicker.

Filing a Report

Hello, FBI? I am calling to report an alien abduction. It took place several months ago, but the clone that they left is such an amazing physical likeness to our three-year-old that it took us a while to figure out what happened.

Our Ian is the easy, laid back, thank-goodness-we- have-him kind of kid. Case in point: He slept through the night (12 hours) long before he was two months old. He proved to be uber-flexible when it came to napping schedules, since he was always being woken up to pick up someone from preschool or so his mom could fulfill her demanding church calling. He was cheerful nearly always and a joy to be around. People were always commenting on how sweet he was, how compliant, how easy to watch. Sure, he was busy, but since he announced everything he was going to do before he did it (we called him "the Narrator"), it was easy to nip problems in the bud.

But this clone "Ian" that the aliens left us has an altered personality. He is anything but compliant, and nothing we do seems to motivate him to do what we want him to. He doesn't respond to threats, bribes, begging, time outs, spankings . . . who ever heard of a human child like that? Instead of being flexible and laid back, he now has rigid alien customs that he must abide by:

• that his blankets need to cover his legs but not his feet
• his toast needs to be cut diagonally
• he cannot wear a pair of shoes that is not his current favorite, regardless of whether it is appropriate for the occasion or outfit
• he has stopped eating everything in sight and has decided that he won't eat half of our human food
• cameras inflict physical pain on his alien brain, and thus he cannot tolerate having his picture taken, and will run screaming from the room in agony when one is produced
  

When he doesn't get things the way that he wants, this clone child is prone to ridiculous fits unlike anything seen before (in this previously perfect child).

We are loathe to give him up until we get our own Ian back, but we implore you to make this rescue mission a top priority. We can only imagine what alien Ian will be like as a teenager.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Sorry I have been so pitifully absent, dear readers. I am away on vacation and will confess that I have been longing to check my Google Reader and to post a thing or two so you know how much I still love you.

We spent all day on Friday at a family reunion (fodder for many future posts, I assure you). Ian was meeting lots of my aunts and uncles whom he didn't remember meeting before, due to his short-term memory toddler ways. About half way through the day, I discovered that he was telling everyone that his middle name was Frank.

Frank? Really? Where did he get that? Give me a little more credit. I may like some unusual and old-fashioned names, but Frank?

My indignant husband (whose first name is the same as Ian's actual middle name) tried to convince him that he wasn't named Frank, but the more we talked about it, the more Ian insisted that he was Frank, ("to protect my true identity"). Where does he come up with this stuff?

I guess we'll have to give our next child Jared's name all over again. I hope she's okay with that!:)

Picture is of Ian being pushed on the swings by my aunt Kim, also known as Super Kimmie.

Twilight Camper

So, Kimball is experiencing his first Cub Scout camp. In our area, instead of having "Day Camp," they call it Twilight Camp and schedule it from 4:00-8:00 pm (I'm sure in order to accommodate more parent helpers.)

He is having the time of his life and comes home every night sweaty, filthy, and bubbling over with stories about what he has done. Last night I stood and watched him take a shower because I wanted to be sure that he was actually using soap on his muddy, chalk-covered self (you know how boys like to call "wet" the same as "clean",) and he was cracking me up showing me the proper stance for archery. I asked if he felt like Robin Hood (they are using a Sherwood Forest/King Arthur theme, "Cubs of the Round Table"), and he said, "Nah, I felt more like a beginning archer. I'm not that good. YET."

Later, I was reading through is camp memory book that he had been working on and died laughing over this entry:


I am choosing to not be dismayed over the fact that his highlights so far both involve weaponry (let alone that they require better hand-eye coordination than he and I have combined!) He's a little boy and I fully expected him to like those events. I'm just glad that he can go to cub camp to do that kind of thing, because I don't see archery or BB gun shooting becoming a part of our homeschool curriculum!

I Kid You Not

Before Jared & I moved to Northern California, this L.A. girl had always thought of this part of the world as full of farms and hicks, etc. We quickly found that our area has beautiful nature to offer that you can't find for all the concrete in L.A., (like my beloved oak trees) and I find it charming that I can catch a glimpse of a Pottery Barn and a horse barn in a five minute drive.

But our town is pretty suburban and track-home-ish, so imagine my surprise the other night when I went out on my front porch to see one of these running down the street with a police car in hot pursuit:

Behind the police car were a few kids on bikes and a minivan, all trying to catch this runaway pig. They had it cornered in the back of our cul-de-sac when the cop made the mistake of chasing on foot and the pig got away and ran out of the cul-de-sac and around the corner. It was possibly one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I didn't know that pigs could move so fast. I just hope it was safe and sound in the end.
(Of course, Jared thought it was the perfect opportunity to pull out all the pig references for cops that he could think of. If he were posting, that's what this would be full of. But I'm not completely comfortable with such humor . . . . )

Why I Could Never Be a Professional Photographer

Have you ever tried to get three young boys to look at the camera at the same time? Anytime that we attempt this, we take countless pictures and it always goes something like this:

"Why don't you all stand on this cool rock while I take a picture?"
"Ian, come over here for a picture, please."
"Now look at me and say, beach!"
"Guys, look at ME!"
"Henry, Ian, look over HERE!"
"Come on, guys. I just need ONE picture with everyone looking."
"Let's pretend that we're explorers who discovered this beach. Look at the camera for your picture in the newspaper."
"Boys, please look at me."
(Saying nothing and hoping that by some magic, that will work.)
"Forget it. Go play. I guess we won't get a great picture on the beach."

For more on our beach exploring, check out our nature walk post on the homeschool blog.

Overheard at Our House

I don't know how it is at your house, but at our house, dinner time seems to be a time of constant negotiation. I never intended it to be this way and frankly, it drives me crazy. (I guess the upside is that it may prove useful one day if they ever get to mediate between two parties in a war or something. Maybe then, when my children have successfully brought about world peace, all this dickering at the dinner table will have been worth it!) Where did I go wrong, that my kids, instead of just gratefully gobbling down their dinner, feel the need to bargain and negotiate?

"How many bites of this do I need to take?"

"What do I have to do to get another piece of bread?" (At least it's homemade whole wheat.)

"Do I have to eat my vegetables? All of them?"

"Is there going to be dessert tonight?" --I know they are wondering if it's even worth it to eat the dreaded broccoli, green beans, barley, or whatever other poison their wicked mother is force feeding them.

Last night was no exception. Kimball had opted to not eat dinner at all when he saw that our dinner was roasted zucchini and chicken caesar salad (with the chicken on the side, out of respect for his hamburgertarian ways.) But when he realized that it was Family Home Evening night, he concluded that there would probably be dessert of some kind later. So he asked me to serve him some zucchini. As it was the only thing he planned to eat, I gave him a generous portion--over half a cup, I'd say, more than I'd generally give a child if they were eating other food with their dinner. He took one look at it and asked,

"Mom, how much do I have to eat?"

"The whole plate, dear," I replied.

Kimball got a twinkle in his eye and said, "Do I have to eat the zucchini, too?"

I laughed out loud at his cleverness, and then corrected myself. He did not need to eat the whole plate. Just all of the zucchini. He did and got to be the one to finish off the lemon cream cheese pie that I'd made for Easter (incidentally, he hadn't had it on Sunday because all he would eat for dinner was fruit salad and dinner rolls. That just shows you how mean I am, even on Easter. It's not like he hadn't eaten half a pound of chocolate earlier in the day anyway!)

Parched

Last night we put our kids to bed and prepared to have some friends come over to play games and hang out. Our kids' bedtime is between 7:00 and 7:30 PM, which many find to be cruel and unusual. We have learned, however, that our children will rise long before 7:00 AM regardless of what time they went to bed; thus, bedtime is early around these parts.

We told the two older boys that since it was a Friday night, they could read in their beds for half an hour before they turned out the lights, but they could not come out of their rooms. They had their drinks and paid one last visit to the bathroom, we had family prayer, and they were off to bed.

Not ten minutes later, while we were still getting ready for guests, Kimball popped up and wanted another drink. We sent him back to bed with a warning that if he got up again, he'd lose his precious "screen time" for Saturday. (Since Fridays and Saturdays are the only days they get to play the Lego Star Wars video game, this would be a tragedy of epic proportions.) We knew that if we didn't nip this in the bud, he'd be up every ten minutes for hours, checking to see what we were doing under the guise of getting a drink.

Hours later, our friends had gone home and we were checking on each one of our kids. I love that time to cover them up and kiss their sweet, sleeping faces. Jared and I burst out laughing and laughed until we cried when we came to Kimball and Henry's room. Outside the door was a sign that Kimball had obviously made. You already know what a melodramatic child he can be.


Thankfully, when we entered the room, we found living, breathing children and not the promised skeletons, dying of thirst in a veritable desert! Hopefully he doesn't report us to CPS!:)

I'm A Clutz. Make That A Dumb Clutz.

Warning: This post contains graphic images of a mutilated musical instrument. If such content is too strong for you, or if reading about people doing ridiculously stupid things and getting hurt will make you squirm uncomfortably (like my mom does when she watches The Office,) then you should probably turn away now and check in with me another day.

Have you ever hurt yourself doing something so stupid that you cringed every time someone asked you what happened because you were going to have to tell them? Like the time when a nameless person (who gave birth to me) sliced her finger to the bone, requiring stitches, because she was using a Cutco knife to scrape up the last bits of tasty goodness from the pull-apart bread plate on Christmas night? Or when my dear anonymous friend (whose name rhymes with "candy" and begins with an "M") broker her wrist when she crashed on her 5-year old's Razor scooter? Well, do I have a story for you.

First, a little background. Jared & I, as conscientious parents, make every effort to expose our children to culture at an early age. Money is no object in our pursuit of a classical education for our children, which is why Ian has learned so much from his music appreciation courses-- available on Playhouse Disney (tee hee!) He loves Little Einsteins, a show on which the four young characters explore classical music and art in a silly red jet that they call "Rocket". (I do not understand why Rocket is a character on the show, rather than just a vehicle, but this show was written for an audience of 3-7 year olds, so I guess I'm not supposed to understand. But I digress.) Anyhow, Ian is very interested in musical instruments and knows the names of many including cello, viola, trumpet, harp, . . . you get the picture. He has been asking for a "real trumpet" for some time now. So when we were visiting my mom earlier this month, Jared was clearing out her basement, garage, and store room for her and found a trumpet in her "Deseret Industries" pile. It had been left out in the rain and was no longer a fine instrument, so we figured that it was perfect for our three year old maestro. We brought it home and he was thrilled and has even slept with it on several occasions over the past two weeks.

Yesterday afternoon, I was trying to get Ian down for a nap. Lately, it is no easy feat to get him to do anything that he doesn't want to do, so I was using all my cunning to lure him into his bedroom. (Generally, once he's in there and I'm reading to him, the process goes fairly well.) So, I said, "Let's play hide and seek. I'll go hide!" I took off running and heard him coming down the hall after me without stopping to count. Rather than telling him to stop and count, I sped up. Rather than just standing behind the bedroom door (since the whole point was to get him into his bedroom,) I decided that I needed to hide. I did not bother to turn on the light because 1) there wasn't time--he was hot on my heels, and 2) it's easier to hide in the dark, right?

I flung myself down in the narrow space between his bed and the window, only to discover a trumpet there, beneath my thigh. I cannot describe the pain, but please remember that I was running and that I need to lose some weight, so the force with which I struck the trumpet was significant. I laid there, moaning "owie, owie, owie," with tears streaming down my face. The only good thing was that it got Ian's attention. He was very concerned, since I was clearly in pain. (No, he never did fall asleep, the little stinker.)

When I turned on the light and looked at the trumpet, this is what I saw:
Poor trumpet. I will spare you a photo of my multi-colored thigh. That really would be too much! Jared has managed to bend the bell almost back to normal, but my leg will not be the same for some time. So if you see me limping along, don't ask what happened. It's really too ridiculous to tell.

Overheard at Our House

The other morning, when I called Kimball to come out to breakfast, I heard sobbing from his bedroom. I went in to investigate. Kimball was on top of the bed, crying as if all was lost (this is not terribly unusual--he only knows one way to cry, and that's as if all is lost.)

Me: Kimball, what's the matter?
Kimball: I can't come to breakfast. (sob) I can't get down from the bunk bed.
Me: Why can't you get down?
Kimball: Because I have a shell instead of legs (wail.)
Me: What? (Then, noticing that his legs are in a pillowcase,) What's going on?
Kimball: Henry destroyed the Transmogrofier and now I'm stuck forever with a shell instead of legs!
(He points to a large piece of cardboard on the bedroom floor, that has intricate drawings all over it that are obviously machine parts and a faint "X" drawn through them. Clearly, this is the destroyed Transmogrifier.)
Me: I don't think that this Transmogrifier is destroyed. Perhaps Henry was trying to ruin it, but it looks like he failed to me. Let's transmogrify you back into a kid with legs. And let's do it quickly. I'm clearing away breakfast in 15 minutes.
Kimball: (Sniffle, sob) Mom, it's destroyed. And now I'm doomed!
Me: (Deep breath) Son, let me see if I can get the shell off your legs. (I peel the pillowcase from his reluctant body.) Ok, it looks like I transmogrified you. Now come to breakfast.
Kimball: Now my hideous spider legs are exposed! I can't get down.
Me: Well, please figure out how to get yourself out to breakfast if you want to eat. (Yes, I'm kind of a killjoy. Except for the fact that there didn't seem to be any joy involved in this game, anyway.)

A few minutes later, Kimball arrives in the kitchen in an army crawl. He warns us:

Kimball: No one look at my hideous spider legs. And no one touch them--they are covered in deadly poison! (sniffle)

Obviously, this kid reads too much Calvin and Hobbes!

The Power of Positive Thinking

I walked into the hall bathroom the other day to discover that Kimball had been busy with the window markers:
I guess that no one needs to teach this kid about the law of attraction!