"Reading" is one of my daughter's favorite things to do. She loves to grab books off her shelf and either tell the story from memory or make up a new one based on the pictures. If I'm not reading a book to her, she's probably reading it to herself. But, since I've been working for a little over a month now and out of the house several evenings at class, our mommy/daughter reading time, especially before bedtime.
So yesterday afternoon as I was playing with my son in his bedroom, my little bookworm spread out her sleeping bag in the hallway, grabbed a pillow and a stack of books, and settled in for some story time. Watching from the other room, I couldn't wait to hear what creative dialog, plots, and characters she would invent. Opening to the first page, the story began:
First page:
-Mommy, I want you to stay home.
-No, I have to go to work.
Second page:
-Mommy, I want you to stay home.
-No, I have to go to work.
Third page:
-Mommy, I want you to stay home.
-No, I have to go to work.
This continued for six or seven pages or so and reached a rousing climax of:
-Mommy, please I really want you to stay.
-NO, I have to go. See ya!
This is a child who evidently has some issues who now has a mommy whose genetically inherited guilt complex has now been compounded.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
A summer full of funnies, undocumented
So I have clearly been neglecting this blog and I know that's been a great disappointment for the two or three of you that actually read it. I know, I know, I'm a disappointment even to myself. I know of several mommies whose baby books and scrapbooks are filled with daily accounts of first smiles, first laughs, first words, biggest burps and loudest farts, but I'm really just not that kind of mom. That's not to say that I don't cherish every moment with my children, but it's just not in my nature to be cutesy or curlicued, mushy or gushing. I'm sure that at some point down the road, I'll be kicking myself for not recording more memories, but for now, I'm just really bummed that I haven't kept track of the hil-fricking-arious things that my kids have said and done in the past few months because someday I might write a book and make a buck or two off of it. So I'm raising my hand and taking my solemn mommy oath to fully exploit my children's antics and exclamations for your reading pleasure on a much more regular basis. I'm going to reach into the corners of my mind and pull out some of this summer's classic gems and make a mental note to jot down the new ones.
Here's a doozy to hold you over while I'm thinking:
This summer my ever-so-precocious daughter attended Vacation Bible School, which I know is hard for most of you to believe, but bear with me. After only a few days, I found myself the mother of a newly energized convert who would randomly shout out goodies like "Praise His name" at the dinner table. Being the inquisitive tot that she is, she had a plethora of questions about just who was this Jesus guy, where does he live, and what does he do. The best I could do off the top of my head as to the question of Jesus' whereabouts (and this came after a long and trying string of really hard questions coming from a three-year-old, so cut me some slack) was "in the sky, honey, he lives in the sky."
Apparently, the image of the dude who can walk in the air (kind of like an airplane, she asked) stuck with her. Every once in a while when helping me put her brother down for a nap or for the evening, she'll lovingly pat his head and in a sing-songy voice reassure him "Jesus is in the sky. I love you, night night."
Last week after sending baby brother off to the Land of Nod with the usual benediction, my little philosopher looked at me quite seriously and said (and this is a direct quote here, no exaggeration), "Jesus rhymes with Chuck E. Cheese's."
Well, yes, honey, it certainly does and bravo to you for being so adept with a language concept well beyond the expected skill level for your age and so creative to boot.
See, it was worth the wait, wasn't it?
Here's a doozy to hold you over while I'm thinking:
This summer my ever-so-precocious daughter attended Vacation Bible School, which I know is hard for most of you to believe, but bear with me. After only a few days, I found myself the mother of a newly energized convert who would randomly shout out goodies like "Praise His name" at the dinner table. Being the inquisitive tot that she is, she had a plethora of questions about just who was this Jesus guy, where does he live, and what does he do. The best I could do off the top of my head as to the question of Jesus' whereabouts (and this came after a long and trying string of really hard questions coming from a three-year-old, so cut me some slack) was "in the sky, honey, he lives in the sky."
Apparently, the image of the dude who can walk in the air (kind of like an airplane, she asked) stuck with her. Every once in a while when helping me put her brother down for a nap or for the evening, she'll lovingly pat his head and in a sing-songy voice reassure him "Jesus is in the sky. I love you, night night."
Last week after sending baby brother off to the Land of Nod with the usual benediction, my little philosopher looked at me quite seriously and said (and this is a direct quote here, no exaggeration), "Jesus rhymes with Chuck E. Cheese's."
Well, yes, honey, it certainly does and bravo to you for being so adept with a language concept well beyond the expected skill level for your age and so creative to boot.
See, it was worth the wait, wasn't it?
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Complete and utter chaos
It is 10:15 a.m. Both children have been screaming non-stop since 7:30 a.m. There has been a total breakdown of order and authority and the best I can do at this point is watch in shock and awe and pray for it all to be over.
The more the baby cries, the faster the snot drips out of his nose and the redder his eyebrows get.
My daughter is rolling on the floor making sounds previously unknown to man and screaming "I want my daddy." Me too, sister, me too.
The more the baby cries, the faster the snot drips out of his nose and the redder his eyebrows get.
My daughter is rolling on the floor making sounds previously unknown to man and screaming "I want my daddy." Me too, sister, me too.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Ways your children can make you look bad, Part 1
While walking through Costco, and almost pulling down a bottle from one of the "expensive" bins, Ms. Fancy Pants says loudly (of course, there's no volume control on that kid)....
"Mommy, we need some wine."
Nice. She probably can't tell you what spinach looks like, but she can sure spot a bottle of booze pdq.
"Mommy, we need some wine."
Nice. She probably can't tell you what spinach looks like, but she can sure spot a bottle of booze pdq.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Why new carpet is just not a good idea right now
Despite the fact that we have an 18-month-old and a 3-year-old, my dear husband still thinks that we could use some new beige carpet. How can I even begin to explain the faulty logic behind that. Let's see, there's: vomit, pee, grape juice, chocolate ice cream, drippy green snot, mud, blood, melted popsicle, stickiness of unknown origin, and oh yeah....poop.
Allow me to set the scene:
It's Wednesday afternoon and Mr. McBooBoos is sitting on the floor in Miss Lala's room when suddenly a foul odor emanates from his general direction. I pick him up to investigate and in the spot where he had just been sitting, there's a toddler-sized circle of runny yellow poop. Now, if you have kids, but have yet to experience the buttocks to neck covered with poop phenomenon, let me guarantee you that one day, your child will be so covered with crap that the only option will be to hold him out in front of you as far as you safely can and quickly deposit him in the tub, clothes and all, and start the hosedown. More than likely, when the clothes start coming off, the poop that had been previously limited to the back area will find its way into the hair and onto the feet, between the toes. Any reservations you might have had before about actually touching the poo-poo are as good as out the window, because you've got a dirty job to do, and you've just got to hope that by the time you're finished, you've somehow avoided baby caca smears on the walls and in your own hair.
So the moral of the story is: no new carpet, and you, too, will be covered in poop one day.
Allow me to set the scene:
It's Wednesday afternoon and Mr. McBooBoos is sitting on the floor in Miss Lala's room when suddenly a foul odor emanates from his general direction. I pick him up to investigate and in the spot where he had just been sitting, there's a toddler-sized circle of runny yellow poop. Now, if you have kids, but have yet to experience the buttocks to neck covered with poop phenomenon, let me guarantee you that one day, your child will be so covered with crap that the only option will be to hold him out in front of you as far as you safely can and quickly deposit him in the tub, clothes and all, and start the hosedown. More than likely, when the clothes start coming off, the poop that had been previously limited to the back area will find its way into the hair and onto the feet, between the toes. Any reservations you might have had before about actually touching the poo-poo are as good as out the window, because you've got a dirty job to do, and you've just got to hope that by the time you're finished, you've somehow avoided baby caca smears on the walls and in your own hair.
So the moral of the story is: no new carpet, and you, too, will be covered in poop one day.
To the god of impossible wishes.....
Dear Higher Being,
While I realize this is probably too much to ask, I have a few requests I would like you to consider:
...could you please make it less rewarding to be greedy and throw something awesome out at the really kind, selfless people out there?
...could you just wipe the slate clean with your giant Magna-Doodle and give everyone the same opportunities no matter where they come from or what they believe?
...and could you please make people stop killing and hurting other people? It really sucks.
Alice
P.S. Oh and by the way, could we just do one little switcheroo...broccoli in the bad column, chocolate Oreo cheesecake in the super-extra-good-for-you column? Thanks.
While I realize this is probably too much to ask, I have a few requests I would like you to consider:
...could you please make it less rewarding to be greedy and throw something awesome out at the really kind, selfless people out there?
...could you just wipe the slate clean with your giant Magna-Doodle and give everyone the same opportunities no matter where they come from or what they believe?
...and could you please make people stop killing and hurting other people? It really sucks.
Alice
P.S. Oh and by the way, could we just do one little switcheroo...broccoli in the bad column, chocolate Oreo cheesecake in the super-extra-good-for-you column? Thanks.
Friday, March 28, 2008
My husband is so smart....
Conversation with husband last night:
Husband: I see that you bought toilet paper at Costco today, but didn't use the coupon.
Me: There's only one roll left in the entire house.
Husband: But that's like three dollars you could have saved with the coupon.
Me: That coupon isn't even good until April 4th. Today's March 27th - that's 8 whole days.
Husband: So?
8 days, 1 roll, 3 toilet-paper using human beings. You do the math.
Husband: I see that you bought toilet paper at Costco today, but didn't use the coupon.
Me: There's only one roll left in the entire house.
Husband: But that's like three dollars you could have saved with the coupon.
Me: That coupon isn't even good until April 4th. Today's March 27th - that's 8 whole days.
Husband: So?
8 days, 1 roll, 3 toilet-paper using human beings. You do the math.
An open letter to my 18-month-old son
Dear Mr. Mc-BooBoos,
When you're a sweaty, brooding, monosyllabic teenage boy, I'll look back and remember how lovely you looked coming around the corner wearing your sister's old purple ballet slipper footed jammies, armed with a Barbie in each hand - brunette on the left, blonde on the right.
Sure, you had nothing to do with the choice of evening wear, seeing as how at this point you don't have the fine motor skills necessary to dress yourself. But double fisting the dollies was all you, and next time there will be photographic evidence.
I suppose that cross-dressing in the interest of getting a bit more use out of perfectly good pajamas will no longer be a viable option once society has imposed upon you its preconceived notions about the appropriateness of ballerina-themed clothing for children of the male gender, but who am I to interfere with your love of miniature silken haired misrepresentations of female beauty with remarkably unlikely bust to waist to hip ratios?
Love,
Mama
p.s. I promise never to make you wear hand-me-down days of the week Disney princess panties.
When you're a sweaty, brooding, monosyllabic teenage boy, I'll look back and remember how lovely you looked coming around the corner wearing your sister's old purple ballet slipper footed jammies, armed with a Barbie in each hand - brunette on the left, blonde on the right.
Sure, you had nothing to do with the choice of evening wear, seeing as how at this point you don't have the fine motor skills necessary to dress yourself. But double fisting the dollies was all you, and next time there will be photographic evidence.
I suppose that cross-dressing in the interest of getting a bit more use out of perfectly good pajamas will no longer be a viable option once society has imposed upon you its preconceived notions about the appropriateness of ballerina-themed clothing for children of the male gender, but who am I to interfere with your love of miniature silken haired misrepresentations of female beauty with remarkably unlikely bust to waist to hip ratios?
Love,
Mama
p.s. I promise never to make you wear hand-me-down days of the week Disney princess panties.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Overheard last night in the kitchen...
3-year-old actress-in-the-making to her daddy (you're going to have to imagine the dramatic tone for yourself as there's no way to convey it in the imperfect medium that is the blogosphere):
"Could you please just go away, I'm trying to relax by myself."
Note to self - the precocious three foot tall one will repeat whatever you say, verbatim. Proceed with caution.
Note to husband - please stop saying "Nice ass" to me every time I turn around or you're going to be the one to explain it to her teacher.
"Could you please just go away, I'm trying to relax by myself."
Note to self - the precocious three foot tall one will repeat whatever you say, verbatim. Proceed with caution.
Note to husband - please stop saying "Nice ass" to me every time I turn around or you're going to be the one to explain it to her teacher.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Note to self
Stop going to the gym at 3:30 when school gets out and the entire cheerleading squad in all their 20-inch-waisted glory is parading around the locker room in their skivvies. Not so good on the self esteem.
Just wait until your father gets home
This morning my friend stopped by to drop off a giant pink plastic Barbie house that has outrun its course of usefulness at her house. She thought that maybe my little princess might have fun with it. Since I'm not one to turn away free stuff, I happily accepted it....in all of its unassembled 30-some-odd pieces glory. With no instructions. This friend of mine is about to find herself demoted from my list of all-time most favoritest people. I've spent the last three hours trying to dodge my daughter's persistent pleas to put the darn thing together so we can play.
Now I'm no dummy by any standards, but spatial relation type problems have never been my forte. Write an 8 page paper overnight about the significance of bodily functions in 16th century Spanish novels? No problem. Explain the ins and outs of the Dewey Decimal system? Right on that. But ask me to put a bunch of seemingly unrelated pieces together to form something that will stand up on its own and sort of resemble a house? No thanks.
Now the last thing I want to do in 2008 is tell an impressionable 3 year-old girl that Mommy just can't figure it out and we'll have to wait for Daddy to come home to fix it for you. But it's the truth...(well, Mommy just doesn't really want to figure it out right now is probably closer to the truth). Here's hoping that a couple extra math and science summer camps will make up for the inappropriate message of female inadequacy I'm probably sending.
Now I'm no dummy by any standards, but spatial relation type problems have never been my forte. Write an 8 page paper overnight about the significance of bodily functions in 16th century Spanish novels? No problem. Explain the ins and outs of the Dewey Decimal system? Right on that. But ask me to put a bunch of seemingly unrelated pieces together to form something that will stand up on its own and sort of resemble a house? No thanks.
Now the last thing I want to do in 2008 is tell an impressionable 3 year-old girl that Mommy just can't figure it out and we'll have to wait for Daddy to come home to fix it for you. But it's the truth...(well, Mommy just doesn't really want to figure it out right now is probably closer to the truth). Here's hoping that a couple extra math and science summer camps will make up for the inappropriate message of female inadequacy I'm probably sending.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Pulling out the big guns
So my three-year-old is smart enough to have figured out that "I have to go potty" trumps everything and uses it as an excuse to get out of just about anything she doesn't want to do. If she's feeling particularly savvy, she'll slip in "...or I'm going to have an accident." After shoving her brother off the ottoman today she swiftly got her hiney taken to time-out and predictably pulled out the old pee-pee excuse to escape punishment. But you can't fool me, no siree bob, so I told her that she was just going to have to have an accident and clean it up herself. For extra measure, she added in a little crotch grabbing and against my better judgment, I said o.k., go potty, because really, who was going to be the one blotting the pee out of the carpet? What a sucker.
She promptly resumed her jumping on the ottoman yelling "Oh my God, Japanese." Whatever that means.
She promptly resumed her jumping on the ottoman yelling "Oh my God, Japanese." Whatever that means.
Panty mystery...solved
So it sems that they do make Sunday underwear, I just happened to get a package without. I was trying to examine the Disney princess 7-pack without opening it, (I'm pretty sure that "research" wouldn't have been an adequate excuse for putting my hands all over someone else's little girl's future undergarments)and it looked like there were different designs for every day as opposed to my faulty package with only six. But the O.C.D. in me has come to accept it and even lets fancypants wear underwear that doesn't correspond to the proper day of the week. That's progress. Trust me, it is.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Isn't there a lifetime limit for that kind of thing?
So I'm taking my daughter out of the carseat in the back of the van when, plop, there it is, bird poop on my coat. This is not the first time this has happened to me. No, my friends, it's not even the second. It's the third. Do we think that's above the norm for how many times a bird-crappeth-upon-a-person? But at least it didn't hurt, because the last time it happened it about knocked me out.
Let's go back to the summer of 2001, shall we? The husband and I were up north in Michigan and all of a sudden I was ready to turn around and smack him because I was pretty sure a rock had just my head. But was it a rock? Nope, it was the giant stone-like turd of one of those big seagull type birds that are constantly flying way too close to our heads here in this great state of ours. The husband (who was then just the boyfriend and is pretty lucky he got the upgrade) thought it was pretty funny, especially considering we had just tried to check in at the hotel and they told us our room wasn't going to be ready for a couple of hours, therefore I had to walk around with greasy yellow avian fecal material in my hair. I have to hand it to him, though. He did do a pretty thorough job trying to wipe it out with a newspaper or something similar, which was the only paper product we seemed to have in the car. So much for a romantic walk along the waterfront.
So I suppose in the scheme of things, a little birdy poop on the fleece pales in comparison with the poopbomb that nearly caused a closed head injury.
Let's go back to the summer of 2001, shall we? The husband and I were up north in Michigan and all of a sudden I was ready to turn around and smack him because I was pretty sure a rock had just my head. But was it a rock? Nope, it was the giant stone-like turd of one of those big seagull type birds that are constantly flying way too close to our heads here in this great state of ours. The husband (who was then just the boyfriend and is pretty lucky he got the upgrade) thought it was pretty funny, especially considering we had just tried to check in at the hotel and they told us our room wasn't going to be ready for a couple of hours, therefore I had to walk around with greasy yellow avian fecal material in my hair. I have to hand it to him, though. He did do a pretty thorough job trying to wipe it out with a newspaper or something similar, which was the only paper product we seemed to have in the car. So much for a romantic walk along the waterfront.
So I suppose in the scheme of things, a little birdy poop on the fleece pales in comparison with the poopbomb that nearly caused a closed head injury.
Bad bunny
Are those old raisins I keep finding on my carpet or did the Easter bunny get loose in here?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Hey, fellow Michiganders...
You know how there's those big old nasty dirty mountains of three-month-old snow piled up so high in our parking lots that you can't even use half the spaces? (Did you ever wonder how the grocery carts managed to get themselves stuck up on the top of those things seemingly all by themselves?)
Well, right now, as we speak, there are people living in our very own country, napping contentedly in their hammocks outside at 8:00 p.m. enjoying 75 degree weather?
And their votes counted.
Just thought you should know.
Well, right now, as we speak, there are people living in our very own country, napping contentedly in their hammocks outside at 8:00 p.m. enjoying 75 degree weather?
And their votes counted.
Just thought you should know.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Awesomely Excellent Quote of the Day
Yes, I know, I got all excited about starting this thing and then abruptly disappeared. Life has been distinctly unfunny for a couple of weeks, but I'm getting my mojo back.
So here goes....
And today's awesomely excellent quote of the day came from a young man who is clearly an outstanding example of the quality youth today's public schools are churning out and apparently had nothing better to do today than walk around the mall and inflict his amazing intellect upon my husband (who was minding his own business, walking around with little man on his shoulders) with this winner:
"Hey man. Is that white boy your son?"
Rock on pants-around-your-ankles-dude
So here goes....
And today's awesomely excellent quote of the day came from a young man who is clearly an outstanding example of the quality youth today's public schools are churning out and apparently had nothing better to do today than walk around the mall and inflict his amazing intellect upon my husband (who was minding his own business, walking around with little man on his shoulders) with this winner:
"Hey man. Is that white boy your son?"
Rock on pants-around-your-ankles-dude
Friday, February 29, 2008
Like a deer to a salt lick
It may be cliche, but you really can't turn around for a second when you have little kids. As I was trying to get dressed this morning (which really is a basic human right, not a luxury), I turned around to discover that my daughter was licking my empty contact lens case with great passion. Yes, licking it. Hands in pants, hands in toilets, fingers in noses, tongues on contact lens cases, snot on blankies. It's no wonder these kids are sick all the time.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
After 38 years of marriage he probably won't leave you
Dear Mother,
Please don't complain that you have no one to vote for in the upcoming pivotal Ohio primary. There are two qualified, historically significant candidates, either of whom would drastically raise the IQ of the Oval Office. And please stop pretending to be a Republican for the sake of keeping the peace with my father.
Love,
Your "raging lunatic" Democrat daughter
Please don't complain that you have no one to vote for in the upcoming pivotal Ohio primary. There are two qualified, historically significant candidates, either of whom would drastically raise the IQ of the Oval Office. And please stop pretending to be a Republican for the sake of keeping the peace with my father.
Love,
Your "raging lunatic" Democrat daughter
God wouldn't want you to wear Sunday panties
In the movie When Harry Met Sally, Sally tells Harry that little girl "days of the week" panties didn't include a pair for Sunday because of God. Yes, because of God. I hadn't really thought about that until today when I bought my first package of days of the week underwear for fancypantsy. We exictedly unrolled each pair revealing the name of each day and its respective princess. It was only upon spreading them out on the table to place them in order that I discovered that indeed, there was no Sunday pair. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and....Saturday???? Could this be? Was Sally Albright correct when she declared that the impropriety of wearing a pair of cotton panties emblazoned with the word Sunday was just too much for God to handle? Or did I just get a defective package of 4T Hanes Disney Princess underpants for little girls? The mystery remains unsolved....
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
It's not a snot rag
Dear husband,
Please don't use your son's stinky blankie to wipe away the stuff that drips forth from his nostrils. It's just plain unhygienic and leaves crusty little green bits on it.
Thank you for your understanding,
Your loving wife
Please don't use your son's stinky blankie to wipe away the stuff that drips forth from his nostrils. It's just plain unhygienic and leaves crusty little green bits on it.
Thank you for your understanding,
Your loving wife
How do you not be sick?
-Mama?
-Yes, honey.
-Do you want to know how you can don't be sick?
-Yes, honey.
-Cake.
Right on.
-Yes, honey.
-Do you want to know how you can don't be sick?
-Yes, honey.
-Cake.
Right on.
Trust me on this one
Dear daughter,
Please don't ask me why when I tell you that it's not polite to stick your hands down your pants in public, even if the public is just your mom. You'll understand when you're older. Just trust me on this one.
Love,
Mom
Please don't ask me why when I tell you that it's not polite to stick your hands down your pants in public, even if the public is just your mom. You'll understand when you're older. Just trust me on this one.
Love,
Mom
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