I’m pretty sure that although my daughter has dreams of being a lounge singer, she is better suited to be a linguist.
And it’s not just because her father is a genius and uses words I’ve never heard of before. And it’s not because before I had children, I had a pretty good vocabulary myself.
It’s not even because I suspect my husband of sneaking J.R.R. Tolkien books under her pillow at night, hoping some of Tolkien’s linguistic talent will go to her head through osmosis.
It’s because she’s already started down the path that leads to being a linguist.
I think one of the talents you must have to be a linguist is the ability to make up words on the spot and define them and then convince everyone that your definition is correct. She’s really good at this.
For example, during the Christmas season, we would drive around town looking at lights. If there was a house that had a display of lights that might put Las Vegas to shame, the Four Year Old would say, “HungaMunga!”
Without even waiting for the question that would ask for clarification, she would define her word for us: “HungaMunga. It means A LOT of lights.”
Pretty soon we were all bursting out with “HungaMunga!” anytime we saw a house with a lot of lights. Then my husband began to use it in a sentence, “That house has a lot of HungaMunga. Wouldn’t you agree?”
One day last week I was driving around completing errands with my kids in the car and my daughter started crying. If you know my daughter, it’s not very unusual for her to burst into tears all of a sudden and scare the heck out of you. Sometimes I can be strong enough and patient enough to deal with these little emotional outbursts. Other times she is so spontaneous in her crying that it surprises me and I respond by practically jumping out of my seat.
“What is wrong?” I asked. If you want to, you may believe that I asked this in the most patient and loving Mommy voice. If you want the truth…I probably asked it with a tone of exasperation.
“All the HungaMunga is gone!” she wailed.
I didn’t know whether to laugh because it’s obvious this word has become part of our family vocabulary or cry because I was too tired to explain the cycle of Christmas decorations yet again.
I could make a list of the words that she has made up and have become part of the household vocabulary, but I won’t because I need that list for future blog entries. I have to stretch the fun out.
Another language “issue” I’ve noticed about the Four Year Old, though, is her ability to make sure that everyone understands that words that are used in past tense, are REALLY used in past tense. What I mean is that she throws an extra “ed” on the end of a word to make it as meaningful as possible. She doesn’t just say, “Mommy, I missed you.” She says, “Mommy, I missed-ed you.”
I know this is a typical preschooler thing to do, but I am going to kind of miss (ded) those words when she grows out of them.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
It's not easy being green
The other night I almost had a heart attack.
Well, not really, but I did almost do a cartwheel and shout, "Yippee!"
You see, my daughter ate a vegetable.
Not just any vegetable. But the green one that looks like trees and that one must usually smother in cheese sauce to make it appear edible to anyone under the age of thirty.
"What is this called again?" asked the Four Year Old, holding up her fork that had speared one of the small trees (not covered in any sauce, mind you).
"Broccoli."
She stuck it in her mouth. I waited.
"I like broccoli now."
Inside my head, the crowd was going wild. Cheers of joy filled my head. I mentally spoke to the vitamins in the green stuff she had just swallowed, asking them to find their way to the most vital parts and take root, because who knew when she would eat another vegetable. It took me four years to get her to eat this.
"Oh, good." I said.
"I don't like the white ones, though."
My husband said, "That's cauliflower. That's different. It's okay if you don't like it. You tried it at least."
My daughter ate another piece of broccoli. She could have asked me for anything she wanted and I would have given it to her. Would you like a pony? I will go get you a pony. Thank you, thank you, for eating a vegetable.
Did you ever notice that they make it as easy as possible to lie on the Wellness Questionaire at the Pediatrician's office? Maybe not at all doctor's facilities, but at least in ours. They put all the right answers in one column, and all the wrong ones in another. Does anyone smoke in your home? Is your water heater turned to the right temperature? Do you put your baby in a car seat? It's all yes or no, check this box, type of questions, all the correct answers in the same column to make it convenient to just check down the row. I wonder if whoever wrote that questionaire knew that most mothers are suffering from lack of sleep and multi-tasking headaches, and thought, "The poor dears, let's just make it so they don't have one more thing to think about." So I'm taking my son to get his wellness check up (four months late) and to get his shots and I'm filling out the form, feeling like I could get an A or a happy face sticker on the form for being such a good mom. And then the form says, "Do you offer your child vegetables at every meal?"
I actually hesitated. Like I held my pencil in the air and stared at the form and considered lying by marking "yes." Why, yes, my children are offered vegetables at every meal because what kind of mother would I be if I didn't do that? I'm certainly not the mother who throws five chicken nuggets on a plate in the microwave and asks, "You want ketchup with that?" and calls it good. I'm certainly not the mother who considers chocolate cheerios a decent snack.
I had visions of being tied up to a chair and being questioned by Jack Bauer (Okay, if you never watched 24, you won't get it) on my children's eating habits. Then being declared some sort of vegetable hater or terrorist and hauled away never to be heard from again. Caught by the Counter Terrorist Unit in defense of all things veggie. No, Jack, don't hurt me, I promise to offer peas and carrots.
I marked "no". I do not offer vegetables with every meal. Let the chips fall where they may. I can take it.
That Pediatrician didn't even look at my questionaire.
I still felt guilty - I made a promise to myself that I would make an effort to at least offer vegetables with dinner. And even if they don't eat them, I will have done my job. I was rewarded with 4 small trees of green being eaten by the Four Year Old. The Toddler just threw them on the floor.
You can't win them all.
I gave the Four Year Old cake for dessert.
Well, not really, but I did almost do a cartwheel and shout, "Yippee!"
You see, my daughter ate a vegetable.
Not just any vegetable. But the green one that looks like trees and that one must usually smother in cheese sauce to make it appear edible to anyone under the age of thirty.
"What is this called again?" asked the Four Year Old, holding up her fork that had speared one of the small trees (not covered in any sauce, mind you).
"Broccoli."
She stuck it in her mouth. I waited.
"I like broccoli now."
Inside my head, the crowd was going wild. Cheers of joy filled my head. I mentally spoke to the vitamins in the green stuff she had just swallowed, asking them to find their way to the most vital parts and take root, because who knew when she would eat another vegetable. It took me four years to get her to eat this.
"Oh, good." I said.
"I don't like the white ones, though."
My husband said, "That's cauliflower. That's different. It's okay if you don't like it. You tried it at least."
My daughter ate another piece of broccoli. She could have asked me for anything she wanted and I would have given it to her. Would you like a pony? I will go get you a pony. Thank you, thank you, for eating a vegetable.
Did you ever notice that they make it as easy as possible to lie on the Wellness Questionaire at the Pediatrician's office? Maybe not at all doctor's facilities, but at least in ours. They put all the right answers in one column, and all the wrong ones in another. Does anyone smoke in your home? Is your water heater turned to the right temperature? Do you put your baby in a car seat? It's all yes or no, check this box, type of questions, all the correct answers in the same column to make it convenient to just check down the row. I wonder if whoever wrote that questionaire knew that most mothers are suffering from lack of sleep and multi-tasking headaches, and thought, "The poor dears, let's just make it so they don't have one more thing to think about." So I'm taking my son to get his wellness check up (four months late) and to get his shots and I'm filling out the form, feeling like I could get an A or a happy face sticker on the form for being such a good mom. And then the form says, "Do you offer your child vegetables at every meal?"
I actually hesitated. Like I held my pencil in the air and stared at the form and considered lying by marking "yes." Why, yes, my children are offered vegetables at every meal because what kind of mother would I be if I didn't do that? I'm certainly not the mother who throws five chicken nuggets on a plate in the microwave and asks, "You want ketchup with that?" and calls it good. I'm certainly not the mother who considers chocolate cheerios a decent snack.
I had visions of being tied up to a chair and being questioned by Jack Bauer (Okay, if you never watched 24, you won't get it) on my children's eating habits. Then being declared some sort of vegetable hater or terrorist and hauled away never to be heard from again. Caught by the Counter Terrorist Unit in defense of all things veggie. No, Jack, don't hurt me, I promise to offer peas and carrots.
I marked "no". I do not offer vegetables with every meal. Let the chips fall where they may. I can take it.
That Pediatrician didn't even look at my questionaire.
I still felt guilty - I made a promise to myself that I would make an effort to at least offer vegetables with dinner. And even if they don't eat them, I will have done my job. I was rewarded with 4 small trees of green being eaten by the Four Year Old. The Toddler just threw them on the floor.
You can't win them all.
I gave the Four Year Old cake for dessert.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Christmas is coming...
To Santa or not to Santa? That is the question.
My husband and I briefly discussed this before having kids and as we talked over whether or not we would introduce our children to the make believe world of Santa, I honestly thought it might be a deal breaker and end our marriage before it even started. Seriously, who doesn't love Santa? My husband, apparently. Actually, he might like Santa, but he doesn't like to lie. At all. End of story. Case closed.
I finally got the compromise of we could "play" Santa as a "game". If she ever asks, we explain that Santa is a really fun game to play, but he isn't real like you or me. She's never asked. Okay, I take that back. She must have asked the babysitter. And the babysitter said Santa was real.
Enter her word against ours.
And somehow, I, the person that wanted Santa in the first place, is left to explain that Santa is a game to my four year old who is standing with her hands on her hips, saying, "Oh, no! He's real!"
"Talk to your father," I said. I figured he started this mess anyway.
In the meantime, I end up discussing with a friend how much money I owe to the Susan G. Komen Foundation . This leads to talking about debt. Which leads to talking about my drug addicted brother. Which leads to me talking about how my drug addicted brother acts all tough, but is really scared to death. Which leads to a mention of my fears and insecurities and how come I didn't end up like him.
I say, "There but for the grace of God, go I."
And then I end up spilling my guts about how there is a debt I will never be able to pay. How much I owe God. For saving me from self-destructing. For pulling me out of situations that I was stupid enough to get into.
And I say that I know all the spiritual buzz talk in my head about how I can never pay that debt back, but that's not the point.
I FEEL as if I'm supposed to pay it back and I never can. So I'm frozen in place.
So then my friend brings up lavishing gifts on our children at Christmas time. Actually, I brought that up, but she brings it up and asks if I expect as many gifts from my children in return.
Of course not.
For one thing, they don't have jobs. Their job skills are poorly lacking at this particular time. Unless you can call knowing all the words to Little Einsteins a job skill. Or throwing food on the floor.
No. I give my children gifts because of the sheer bliss I get out of seeing the joy on their faces when they open presents. It's a way to show them I love them.
And I realize I never will pay my parents back in a hundred Christmases for the lavishness of presents and love shown to me. They probably aren't keeping track anyway.
And I won't care if my children ever lavish me with gifts.
As for God...well, you get where I'm going with this.
Open the present. Look inside. Be joyful. Make someone else joyful.
Follow the star. Look in the manger. Be joyful. Make Someone else joyful.
Just accept that I didn't earn the gift and I can't pay it back.
Okay, and this leads back to Santa.
Why in the world do some people hold over kid's heads that they have to be good all year long to earn a Christmas present? Adults can't even be good all year long.
And we don't even remind them of being good all year long for Santa until like, after Thanksgiving.
I don't hear any parents on the playground in July saying, "Knock that off or Santa won't bring you a present this year!"
It's not until Christmas carols start playing on the radio after Thanksgiving that we are reminded we better watch out and we better not cry or pout. Or honk our horn in traffic. Or become impatient with our children. (I'm only talking about myself now). The year is practically over by then. I don't think that's very fair.
I remember one year when I was asked if I had been good all year thinking back to a particular incident in September and hoping Santa wouldn't remember. Oh, the pressure.
I hope my kids grow up knowing that even though they weren't good all year long, they still get presents at Christmas because it's fun and I love them.
And we still haven't completely resolved the Santa issue. Well, I resolved it. I just am putting a bunch of presents under the tree with a name on them, but no "from". So for all they know, the Easter Bunny could have left the presents there.
My guess is my cover is blown anyway because my daughter caught me wrapping one of her gifts and said, "So how's it going wrapping my gift?"
I said, "Fine. Get out."
See? It's all about the love.
My husband and I briefly discussed this before having kids and as we talked over whether or not we would introduce our children to the make believe world of Santa, I honestly thought it might be a deal breaker and end our marriage before it even started. Seriously, who doesn't love Santa? My husband, apparently. Actually, he might like Santa, but he doesn't like to lie. At all. End of story. Case closed.
I finally got the compromise of we could "play" Santa as a "game". If she ever asks, we explain that Santa is a really fun game to play, but he isn't real like you or me. She's never asked. Okay, I take that back. She must have asked the babysitter. And the babysitter said Santa was real.
Enter her word against ours.
And somehow, I, the person that wanted Santa in the first place, is left to explain that Santa is a game to my four year old who is standing with her hands on her hips, saying, "Oh, no! He's real!"
"Talk to your father," I said. I figured he started this mess anyway.
In the meantime, I end up discussing with a friend how much money I owe to the Susan G. Komen Foundation . This leads to talking about debt. Which leads to talking about my drug addicted brother. Which leads to me talking about how my drug addicted brother acts all tough, but is really scared to death. Which leads to a mention of my fears and insecurities and how come I didn't end up like him.
I say, "There but for the grace of God, go I."
And then I end up spilling my guts about how there is a debt I will never be able to pay. How much I owe God. For saving me from self-destructing. For pulling me out of situations that I was stupid enough to get into.
And I say that I know all the spiritual buzz talk in my head about how I can never pay that debt back, but that's not the point.
I FEEL as if I'm supposed to pay it back and I never can. So I'm frozen in place.
So then my friend brings up lavishing gifts on our children at Christmas time. Actually, I brought that up, but she brings it up and asks if I expect as many gifts from my children in return.
Of course not.
For one thing, they don't have jobs. Their job skills are poorly lacking at this particular time. Unless you can call knowing all the words to Little Einsteins a job skill. Or throwing food on the floor.
No. I give my children gifts because of the sheer bliss I get out of seeing the joy on their faces when they open presents. It's a way to show them I love them.
And I realize I never will pay my parents back in a hundred Christmases for the lavishness of presents and love shown to me. They probably aren't keeping track anyway.
And I won't care if my children ever lavish me with gifts.
As for God...well, you get where I'm going with this.
Open the present. Look inside. Be joyful. Make someone else joyful.
Follow the star. Look in the manger. Be joyful. Make Someone else joyful.
Just accept that I didn't earn the gift and I can't pay it back.
Okay, and this leads back to Santa.
Why in the world do some people hold over kid's heads that they have to be good all year long to earn a Christmas present? Adults can't even be good all year long.
And we don't even remind them of being good all year long for Santa until like, after Thanksgiving.
I don't hear any parents on the playground in July saying, "Knock that off or Santa won't bring you a present this year!"
It's not until Christmas carols start playing on the radio after Thanksgiving that we are reminded we better watch out and we better not cry or pout. Or honk our horn in traffic. Or become impatient with our children. (I'm only talking about myself now). The year is practically over by then. I don't think that's very fair.
I remember one year when I was asked if I had been good all year thinking back to a particular incident in September and hoping Santa wouldn't remember. Oh, the pressure.
I hope my kids grow up knowing that even though they weren't good all year long, they still get presents at Christmas because it's fun and I love them.
And we still haven't completely resolved the Santa issue. Well, I resolved it. I just am putting a bunch of presents under the tree with a name on them, but no "from". So for all they know, the Easter Bunny could have left the presents there.
My guess is my cover is blown anyway because my daughter caught me wrapping one of her gifts and said, "So how's it going wrapping my gift?"
I said, "Fine. Get out."
See? It's all about the love.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
In Protest
There has been a lot of news lately about the OWS people (Occupy Wall Street- for those of you out of the "know"). I won't comment whether I agree or disagree with the movement-okay, I will.
I feel very diplomatic about it. I agree with some. Not all. I agree to the right to protest. As long as it's not my children doing the protesting against me. I'm slightly jealous in the fact that I wish I could take a drum set down to the street and hang out singing and drumming. However, when I think about how people are probably starting to smell, I decide it doesn't seem so fun. And I would be the only conservative there saying "yeah, you have some valid reasons for being here-but I'm here for the drums."
However, it has got me thinking about the act of protesting and what would be appropriate to protest in the eyes of a child. My children - to be exact.
So if my kids were professional protesters-these are what they would deem "protestable". They have already tested the waters on these. All they need are drums and signs.
I call it "Occupy Ross House".
Things that are worthy of a protest:
1) Getting out of the tub before "prune skin" has set in
2) Any vegetable
3) Turning off 'Little Einsteins' before it's over
4) Putting away toys
5) Throwing trash away
6) Going to bed at a decent hour
7) Not getting a bedtime story
8) Where's my juice?
9) Eating squash with mixed cereal-again
10) Being denied more Halloween candy
Things I wish I could protest about:
1) Not being able to finish a hot cup of coffee
2) Little hands pounding on the bathroom door when I'm trying to pee
3) Eating lunch standing up so the baby doesn't grab it
4) Being woken up in the middle of the night
5) Being "snobbered" (see previous blogs) on
6) Whining
I feel very diplomatic about it. I agree with some. Not all. I agree to the right to protest. As long as it's not my children doing the protesting against me. I'm slightly jealous in the fact that I wish I could take a drum set down to the street and hang out singing and drumming. However, when I think about how people are probably starting to smell, I decide it doesn't seem so fun. And I would be the only conservative there saying "yeah, you have some valid reasons for being here-but I'm here for the drums."
However, it has got me thinking about the act of protesting and what would be appropriate to protest in the eyes of a child. My children - to be exact.
So if my kids were professional protesters-these are what they would deem "protestable". They have already tested the waters on these. All they need are drums and signs.
I call it "Occupy Ross House".
Things that are worthy of a protest:
1) Getting out of the tub before "prune skin" has set in
2) Any vegetable
3) Turning off 'Little Einsteins' before it's over
4) Putting away toys
5) Throwing trash away
6) Going to bed at a decent hour
7) Not getting a bedtime story
8) Where's my juice?
9) Eating squash with mixed cereal-again
10) Being denied more Halloween candy
Things I wish I could protest about:
1) Not being able to finish a hot cup of coffee
2) Little hands pounding on the bathroom door when I'm trying to pee
3) Eating lunch standing up so the baby doesn't grab it
4) Being woken up in the middle of the night
5) Being "snobbered" (see previous blogs) on
6) Whining
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
I noticed that I ended my blog yesterday in mid-sentence. That's because I was very tired. I don't even remember writing that partial sentence.
Why was I tired? Well, for one thing I guess I was fighting off a cold because I woke up this morning with one.
For another thing, I was writing the blog from Urgent Care. We had to take my daughter to Urgent Care because she caught some kind of viral thing and her asthma kicked in. After three nebulizer treatments at our house without any success, we decided to take her to Urgent Care.
I hate asthma. I have asthma, but I haven't had a full on attack in years. My daughter was having a full on attack and she was terrified. She was also very hyper from the medicine. It's not a good combination.
"I need medicine!" She yelled at me.
"I don't look happy!" She cried.
It was awful.
Thankfully, the good nurses and doctors at Urgent Care accepted her right away and rushed her into a room where they gave her a double dose of albuterol and some other medicine we don't have at home. Then they gave her steroids.
She was breathing much better afterward. And if she wasn't hyper before, well, this did it for sure.
While we waited for her prescription of a new inhaler and more steroids, my daughter danced in circles singing, "The pharmacy! The pharmacy! Oh, I love the pharmacy!"
I should have waited to blog about how children can change subjects on you quickly until after last night. Today was a whirlwind of changing subjects.
ME: You have to stay home from preschool today.
HER: NOOOOO!! I'll never see my friend Emily again! Can I do a craft?
ME: What would you like to do?
HER: I want to color a picture. No, I want to make Christmas decorations. I want some juice.
Perhaps putting scissors in the hands of a child on steroids and asthma medicine is a bad idea.
HER: I'm hungry.
ME: Would you like something to eat.
HER: No. Not now. I'm busy. Can I watch 'The Incredibles'?
ME: Okay, I'll be waayyy over here in case you need me. Please put the scissors down.
Another thing I noticed with this round of medicine is that she walks a little crooked. Kind of like a drunken sailor who's trying really hard not to show he's been drinking.
I asked her if she was okay, but she just sang a song about ocean animals in return and asked where the glitter was.
I think this is payback. My mother tells stories about me with asthma when I was little. Apparently after a hefty shot of adrenaline, I told one doctor I had six brothers and sisters. Then I proceeded to recite their names. I gave them names like "Mary Margaret".
Another time after a shot of adrenaline, I dragged my toy box into my mother's bedroom at 2am and said, "play."
When I was two years old, I had to be hospitalized for asthma. While in the hospital, I was so full of adrenaline that I pulled down the oxygen tent the doctors had put up over my bed and stomped on it like a gorilla.
It's going to take me a week to clean all of this up.
And I have 2 more days of this at least.
Why was I tired? Well, for one thing I guess I was fighting off a cold because I woke up this morning with one.
For another thing, I was writing the blog from Urgent Care. We had to take my daughter to Urgent Care because she caught some kind of viral thing and her asthma kicked in. After three nebulizer treatments at our house without any success, we decided to take her to Urgent Care.
I hate asthma. I have asthma, but I haven't had a full on attack in years. My daughter was having a full on attack and she was terrified. She was also very hyper from the medicine. It's not a good combination.
"I need medicine!" She yelled at me.
"I don't look happy!" She cried.
It was awful.
Thankfully, the good nurses and doctors at Urgent Care accepted her right away and rushed her into a room where they gave her a double dose of albuterol and some other medicine we don't have at home. Then they gave her steroids.
She was breathing much better afterward. And if she wasn't hyper before, well, this did it for sure.
While we waited for her prescription of a new inhaler and more steroids, my daughter danced in circles singing, "The pharmacy! The pharmacy! Oh, I love the pharmacy!"
I should have waited to blog about how children can change subjects on you quickly until after last night. Today was a whirlwind of changing subjects.
ME: You have to stay home from preschool today.
HER: NOOOOO!! I'll never see my friend Emily again! Can I do a craft?
ME: What would you like to do?
HER: I want to color a picture. No, I want to make Christmas decorations. I want some juice.
Perhaps putting scissors in the hands of a child on steroids and asthma medicine is a bad idea.
HER: I'm hungry.
ME: Would you like something to eat.
HER: No. Not now. I'm busy. Can I watch 'The Incredibles'?
ME: Okay, I'll be waayyy over here in case you need me. Please put the scissors down.
Another thing I noticed with this round of medicine is that she walks a little crooked. Kind of like a drunken sailor who's trying really hard not to show he's been drinking.
I asked her if she was okay, but she just sang a song about ocean animals in return and asked where the glitter was.
I think this is payback. My mother tells stories about me with asthma when I was little. Apparently after a hefty shot of adrenaline, I told one doctor I had six brothers and sisters. Then I proceeded to recite their names. I gave them names like "Mary Margaret".
Another time after a shot of adrenaline, I dragged my toy box into my mother's bedroom at 2am and said, "play."
When I was two years old, I had to be hospitalized for asthma. While in the hospital, I was so full of adrenaline that I pulled down the oxygen tent the doctors had put up over my bed and stomped on it like a gorilla.
It's going to take me a week to clean all of this up.
And I have 2 more days of this at least.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Yesterday was quite noisy in the car.
Have you ever noticed how children can change subjects on you without any kind of segue what-so-ever?
One moment my daughter was telling me something about something. I would be more specific, but I can't because I couldn't hear her over the talk radio show I had on and the noises my toddler was making.
Then she stopped mid-sentence and said all of a sudden, "Ian is merming."
I said, "What? He's squirming?"
"No. He's merming."
"He's murmuring?"
"No! He's merming!"
"What in the world does that mean?"
My daughter sighed indignantly as if to say to some unknown companion ,"Do you see what I have to put up with?"
Then she said, "Mama! He's going 'merrrr....merrrrr...'merrrr."
And indeed, that's exactly how the sound he was making could be described.
I imagine that all children have their own vocabulary for things. My daughter comes up with new words all the time. One time her brother wiped his nose and drooled on her all at the same time. She said, "Aahhh! Ian snobbered on me!"
Snobbering is a pretty common occurence in our house.
And I have no doubt that until a new term comes along, merming will be a frequent noise heard in the backseat of the car.
I think my son learned how to merm from my husband. I think he merms in his sleep.
I bet I merm in my sleep and I
Have you ever noticed how children can change subjects on you without any kind of segue what-so-ever?
One moment my daughter was telling me something about something. I would be more specific, but I can't because I couldn't hear her over the talk radio show I had on and the noises my toddler was making.
Then she stopped mid-sentence and said all of a sudden, "Ian is merming."
I said, "What? He's squirming?"
"No. He's merming."
"He's murmuring?"
"No! He's merming!"
"What in the world does that mean?"
My daughter sighed indignantly as if to say to some unknown companion ,"Do you see what I have to put up with?"
Then she said, "Mama! He's going 'merrrr....merrrrr...'merrrr."
And indeed, that's exactly how the sound he was making could be described.
I imagine that all children have their own vocabulary for things. My daughter comes up with new words all the time. One time her brother wiped his nose and drooled on her all at the same time. She said, "Aahhh! Ian snobbered on me!"
Snobbering is a pretty common occurence in our house.
And I have no doubt that until a new term comes along, merming will be a frequent noise heard in the backseat of the car.
I think my son learned how to merm from my husband. I think he merms in his sleep.
I bet I merm in my sleep and I
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Nemo, Nemo, and Spot
November is blog-a-thon month.
Some crazy blogger out there decided to challenge all bloggers to blog something every day during the month of November. And some crazy parent of a few of my students decided to mention it.
I don't think I can blog every day for a month-so I'm going to take it one day at a time.
When we moved in to our house, one of the selling points for me was this gorgeous garden surrounding a little fountain in the backyard.
Because we have children, the garden is now a forest. And for the past two years, the fountain had 2 (maybe 3) goldfish in it.
Up until yesterday.
Isn't it crazy that the fish disappeared on Halloween?
Anyway, about 2 and a half years ago, I decided to purchase a few goldfish for my then 2 year old daughter because she was so in love with the movie "Finding Nemo." I don't know what I was thinking. I like aquariums in other peoples houses, but I can't stand the smell of dirty fish water and fish food. But I also counted on the fact that every goldfish I ever owned only lasted about 6 weeks. I could be inconvenienced for six weeks.
My husband agreed to the purchase with the promise that I would take care of the aquarium and fish. "No problem," I told him.
We had a small aquarium already. It was given as a gift to me at my daughter's baby shower with the explanation that fish were "calming" to little kids.
I let my daughter pick out the fish. She picked 3 and named them "Nemo", "Nemo", and "Spot". (One goldfish had a black spot). The fish lasted in the aquarium for 6 months, which is longer then I had expected them to last. I said to my husband, "Aren't they supposed to be dead by now?"
My husband suggested that we put them in the fountain to eat the mosquito eggs forming on the top of the water. ("It's not a koi pond," I said).He also suggested that they might die, but he wasn't wishing death on them. (read: like his spouse). I threw the fish in the fountain.
The fish thrived in fountain. Okay, that's not entirely true. We lost Spot early on and we couldn't figure out what had happened to him. We had all sorts of theories about possible cats or birds in the area, but no real proof of any mischeif. (or do you spell that mischief?)
A few weeks later, a new fish appeared.
"Spot is back," my husband said.
"That's not Spot," I said, looking at the new fish. "Where's it's spot on it's back? Where has it been? It's not like it can hide for weeks in this fountain."
We thought maybe Nemo and Nemo had a baby, but then the new fish was too big to be a baby. And it didn't look like Spot.
Nemo and Nemo (and the fish that may or may not have been Spot)lasted for two years. Well, Nemo and Nemo did. The fish that may have been Spot disappeared again. Every once in awhile I would throw out, "Haven't those fish died yet?"
My husband took over the feeding and care of the fish. I think he was afraid I might kill them on purpose. I wouldn't have. But I would have claimed innocent if they had met with an untimely "accident".
All our fish are gone as of Halloween. I didn't do it. In fact, I was kind of sad that the fish are gone. Not as sad as my husband was, because I think he had grown attached to those little orange creatures, but still.
My daughter hasn't put it together that the fish are gone. I thought it not right to tell her on Halloween.
We are still trying to figure out what happened to them. My husband whispered, "I think it may have been a cat."
Trick on the fish. Treat for the cat, I guess. Poor fish.
Some crazy blogger out there decided to challenge all bloggers to blog something every day during the month of November. And some crazy parent of a few of my students decided to mention it.
I don't think I can blog every day for a month-so I'm going to take it one day at a time.
When we moved in to our house, one of the selling points for me was this gorgeous garden surrounding a little fountain in the backyard.
Because we have children, the garden is now a forest. And for the past two years, the fountain had 2 (maybe 3) goldfish in it.
Up until yesterday.
Isn't it crazy that the fish disappeared on Halloween?
Anyway, about 2 and a half years ago, I decided to purchase a few goldfish for my then 2 year old daughter because she was so in love with the movie "Finding Nemo." I don't know what I was thinking. I like aquariums in other peoples houses, but I can't stand the smell of dirty fish water and fish food. But I also counted on the fact that every goldfish I ever owned only lasted about 6 weeks. I could be inconvenienced for six weeks.
My husband agreed to the purchase with the promise that I would take care of the aquarium and fish. "No problem," I told him.
We had a small aquarium already. It was given as a gift to me at my daughter's baby shower with the explanation that fish were "calming" to little kids.
I let my daughter pick out the fish. She picked 3 and named them "Nemo", "Nemo", and "Spot". (One goldfish had a black spot). The fish lasted in the aquarium for 6 months, which is longer then I had expected them to last. I said to my husband, "Aren't they supposed to be dead by now?"
My husband suggested that we put them in the fountain to eat the mosquito eggs forming on the top of the water. ("It's not a koi pond," I said).He also suggested that they might die, but he wasn't wishing death on them. (read: like his spouse). I threw the fish in the fountain.
The fish thrived in fountain. Okay, that's not entirely true. We lost Spot early on and we couldn't figure out what had happened to him. We had all sorts of theories about possible cats or birds in the area, but no real proof of any mischeif. (or do you spell that mischief?)
A few weeks later, a new fish appeared.
"Spot is back," my husband said.
"That's not Spot," I said, looking at the new fish. "Where's it's spot on it's back? Where has it been? It's not like it can hide for weeks in this fountain."
We thought maybe Nemo and Nemo had a baby, but then the new fish was too big to be a baby. And it didn't look like Spot.
Nemo and Nemo (and the fish that may or may not have been Spot)lasted for two years. Well, Nemo and Nemo did. The fish that may have been Spot disappeared again. Every once in awhile I would throw out, "Haven't those fish died yet?"
My husband took over the feeding and care of the fish. I think he was afraid I might kill them on purpose. I wouldn't have. But I would have claimed innocent if they had met with an untimely "accident".
All our fish are gone as of Halloween. I didn't do it. In fact, I was kind of sad that the fish are gone. Not as sad as my husband was, because I think he had grown attached to those little orange creatures, but still.
My daughter hasn't put it together that the fish are gone. I thought it not right to tell her on Halloween.
We are still trying to figure out what happened to them. My husband whispered, "I think it may have been a cat."
Trick on the fish. Treat for the cat, I guess. Poor fish.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Rollie Pollie?
Ever since the birth of my daughter, it's been a race between my mother-in-law and I to see who can get the Halloween costume for the kid first.
She actually won the first year, but I trumped her with the "I gave birth" card. I actually use that card every year because I like dressing up little kids in cute little outfits, but I have to admit that what she does bring to the table makes for good dress up play clothes, and so I'm not about to tell her she can't buy any Halloween costumes for her grandchildren.
Last year she bought this really cute pumpkin outfit for the baby. Which would have actually been perfect because the 4 year old was determined to be a pumpkin and so they would have matched. Except that the pumpkin outfit she got for the baby ended up being for a preemie and wouldn't even fit on my big baby boy's big baby foot. So we ended up using the preemie pumpkin costume for the 4 year old's doll and I ended up dressing big baby boy as a bouncing bumble bee.
This year, I really wanted to come up with something creative and I thought I had found it on the cover of one of my favorite catalogs. There was this little girl dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and next to her was a toddler dressed as The Big Bad Wolf. It was almost too cute to be believed and I actually squealed when I saw it and said to my husband, "Look how adorable! We have to do this!" And my husband smiled and said, "Yes, very cute", but his eyes said "not so much" or "how much is this going to set me back?" or "try again" or something.
What sealed the deal with a big fat "no!" was my daughter looking at the cover and saying, "but I don't want to be Little Red Riding Hood." I tried reasoning with her, but you can only make Little Red Riding Hood look so cool before giving in and admitting you've been trumped. So I finally said, "Well, what do you want to be?"
"I want to be Rapunzel."
"Great! We already have a Rapunzel dress. That makes it easy!"
"No. I want THAT Rapunzel dress," and she pointed to the picture she had found in the catalog of Rapunzel.
"I'm not buying you a Rapunzel dress when we already have one that you fit into. That's silly."
It's a good thing that I didn't buy the dress because since then she has announced she wants to be a cowboy, a bear, and a rollie pollie bug.
"A rollie pollie bug? How are you going to be that?"
She climbed into her plastic crawl tunnel and said, "Look! I'm a rollie pollie bug."
I thought, "Well, at least I won't have to buy a costume."
Finally I told her whether she liked it or not she was going to be Rapunzel.
With that settled, I could concentrate on the toddler.
Enter a trip to Costco. I actually entertained the idea of dressing up the toddler like "Pascal", but the idea of dressing my son up like a lizard just doesn't appeal to me.
"Look at these costumes for Ian!" I told her, pointing to the costume display.
She did indeed think they were cute as well and had pulled out a monkey costume for me to look at. I pulled out a cow for her to look at.
We looked at each other's findings and she said, "I like the monkey."
I said, "I like the cow."
And I had a flash of what shopping with her when she's a teenager is going to be like.
We ended up settling on the monkey because I figured I could always put my foot down next year. And when she's a teenager and asks me if she can get that cute what-ever-it-is that shows too much skin and I say no, and then she says "you never let me get anything." I can pull out the monkey costume card.
"That's not true. You got to dress up your brother like a monkey for Halloween. I wanted the cow."
She actually won the first year, but I trumped her with the "I gave birth" card. I actually use that card every year because I like dressing up little kids in cute little outfits, but I have to admit that what she does bring to the table makes for good dress up play clothes, and so I'm not about to tell her she can't buy any Halloween costumes for her grandchildren.
Last year she bought this really cute pumpkin outfit for the baby. Which would have actually been perfect because the 4 year old was determined to be a pumpkin and so they would have matched. Except that the pumpkin outfit she got for the baby ended up being for a preemie and wouldn't even fit on my big baby boy's big baby foot. So we ended up using the preemie pumpkin costume for the 4 year old's doll and I ended up dressing big baby boy as a bouncing bumble bee.
This year, I really wanted to come up with something creative and I thought I had found it on the cover of one of my favorite catalogs. There was this little girl dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and next to her was a toddler dressed as The Big Bad Wolf. It was almost too cute to be believed and I actually squealed when I saw it and said to my husband, "Look how adorable! We have to do this!" And my husband smiled and said, "Yes, very cute", but his eyes said "not so much" or "how much is this going to set me back?" or "try again" or something.
What sealed the deal with a big fat "no!" was my daughter looking at the cover and saying, "but I don't want to be Little Red Riding Hood." I tried reasoning with her, but you can only make Little Red Riding Hood look so cool before giving in and admitting you've been trumped. So I finally said, "Well, what do you want to be?"
"I want to be Rapunzel."
"Great! We already have a Rapunzel dress. That makes it easy!"
"No. I want THAT Rapunzel dress," and she pointed to the picture she had found in the catalog of Rapunzel.
"I'm not buying you a Rapunzel dress when we already have one that you fit into. That's silly."
It's a good thing that I didn't buy the dress because since then she has announced she wants to be a cowboy, a bear, and a rollie pollie bug.
"A rollie pollie bug? How are you going to be that?"
She climbed into her plastic crawl tunnel and said, "Look! I'm a rollie pollie bug."
I thought, "Well, at least I won't have to buy a costume."
Finally I told her whether she liked it or not she was going to be Rapunzel.
With that settled, I could concentrate on the toddler.
Enter a trip to Costco. I actually entertained the idea of dressing up the toddler like "Pascal", but the idea of dressing my son up like a lizard just doesn't appeal to me.
"Look at these costumes for Ian!" I told her, pointing to the costume display.
She did indeed think they were cute as well and had pulled out a monkey costume for me to look at. I pulled out a cow for her to look at.
We looked at each other's findings and she said, "I like the monkey."
I said, "I like the cow."
And I had a flash of what shopping with her when she's a teenager is going to be like.
We ended up settling on the monkey because I figured I could always put my foot down next year. And when she's a teenager and asks me if she can get that cute what-ever-it-is that shows too much skin and I say no, and then she says "you never let me get anything." I can pull out the monkey costume card.
"That's not true. You got to dress up your brother like a monkey for Halloween. I wanted the cow."
Friday, August 26, 2011
"dot com"
How to speak to a small child is something I still struggle with. I think my husband struggles with it too, but in his own special Einsteinian way.
For example, when asked who the funny looking guy on the outside of the Lucky Charms cereal box is, I respond with, "He's a um...umm...Leprechaun! From Ireland. He's good luck...or something."
My husband responds with reciting verbatim the legend of the Irish Leprechaun, including when and where the story originated. That may be exaggerating a bit, but just a tiny bit. You get the idea.
Both of our answers get the same response from Little Miss (a.k.a. The Four Year Old). This is a slight tilt of the head, awkward silence, and then finally an "oh" followed by a sigh. I fear when she gets older she may add, "Why do I even bother?" to this little routine.
I was really struck by how I need to work on my communication skills with Little Miss the other night.
We were over at a friend's house when my friend's youngest daughter (slightly older than The Four Year Old) stepped out on to her porch and uttered a shriek.
Little Miss immediately demanded to know what was wrong with her friend.
"She stepped on a sticker," my husband explained.
Well, I know that in Little Miss vocabulary the word "sticker" refers to something that has a cute picture on the front and sticky stuff on the back. Hardly worth a yelp.
I attempted to clarify the multiple meaning word for my child.
"Not a sticker sticker. Not like you get from Miss Jackie to put on your shirt when you do a good job. It's a pokey sticker. The kind you find on the ground and step on."
I got the typical quizzical reaction. Not being one to give up easily, I tried again.
"You know, a pokey thingy that comes from a tree or bush and can give you an ouchie."
There was silence as we loaded my kids into the car. I'm sure The Four Year Old was trying to process what I had said.
As we were driving home, a small voice came from the back seat.
Little Miss said, "Well, if I need to know more about pokey stickers, I guess I can go to pokey stickers dot com on the computer."
I didn't know if I was relieved my child already knows there are other resources out there that may have a better answer than her parents, or frightened. Either way, I better find "how to speak to a four year old dot com" quick.
For example, when asked who the funny looking guy on the outside of the Lucky Charms cereal box is, I respond with, "He's a um...umm...Leprechaun! From Ireland. He's good luck...or something."
My husband responds with reciting verbatim the legend of the Irish Leprechaun, including when and where the story originated. That may be exaggerating a bit, but just a tiny bit. You get the idea.
Both of our answers get the same response from Little Miss (a.k.a. The Four Year Old). This is a slight tilt of the head, awkward silence, and then finally an "oh" followed by a sigh. I fear when she gets older she may add, "Why do I even bother?" to this little routine.
I was really struck by how I need to work on my communication skills with Little Miss the other night.
We were over at a friend's house when my friend's youngest daughter (slightly older than The Four Year Old) stepped out on to her porch and uttered a shriek.
Little Miss immediately demanded to know what was wrong with her friend.
"She stepped on a sticker," my husband explained.
Well, I know that in Little Miss vocabulary the word "sticker" refers to something that has a cute picture on the front and sticky stuff on the back. Hardly worth a yelp.
I attempted to clarify the multiple meaning word for my child.
"Not a sticker sticker. Not like you get from Miss Jackie to put on your shirt when you do a good job. It's a pokey sticker. The kind you find on the ground and step on."
I got the typical quizzical reaction. Not being one to give up easily, I tried again.
"You know, a pokey thingy that comes from a tree or bush and can give you an ouchie."
There was silence as we loaded my kids into the car. I'm sure The Four Year Old was trying to process what I had said.
As we were driving home, a small voice came from the back seat.
Little Miss said, "Well, if I need to know more about pokey stickers, I guess I can go to pokey stickers dot com on the computer."
I didn't know if I was relieved my child already knows there are other resources out there that may have a better answer than her parents, or frightened. Either way, I better find "how to speak to a four year old dot com" quick.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Decay?
You know when you learn the definition to a new word, or you learn how to spell a word, then it seems to come up all the time?
For me, recently it's been "feral". That means wild, or wildlike. My soon to be one year old son seems to approach things in a very feral way. He is very feral.
I actually get introduced to new vocabulary words all the time because my husband is a walking dictionary and throws fancy words around in his daily speech. He's also a writer, so I guess it comes with the job. But seriously? I can't keep up.
I like it when the four year old learns new words. She will dwell on the word and try it out for several days, seeing how it fits in her world. The other thing I like about the four year old's vocabulary is that I can still keep up with it. However, by about day 3 or 4 of the new word, I'm ready to move on.
I used to be kind of an "anti-computer" teacher. Computers are good for research, but they can't "teach" anything.
I stand corrected.
I myself have gotten addicted to this website called "Time 4 Learning". I think it's a great website for teaching kids and, as a teacher, I highly recommend it as a supplemental tool.
But alas, that is not where my daughter learned her new vocabulary word, "decay."
My daughter learned this happy little vocabulary word from pbskids.org. Namely "Sid the Science Kid." After spending about a half hour playing with some Sid the Science Kid game, my daughter asked me, "What's decay mean?"
I began with my usual processing stall of, "Well..."
My daughter then answered the question for herself. "It's when things get old and slimy and icky."
"Okay. I guess that's one way to look at it."
"Like when the apple got decayed. Or when my juice gets decayed. Or when things in the fridge get old."
"Right. That's absolutely right. But even leaves can decay outside and return to soil."
That was a little too much for her. "Okay," she said as a dismissal.
Over the next several days, "decay" became the word de jour.
"I can't eat this," she said as I placed a grilled cheese sandwich in front of her. "It has decay."
"No it doesn't. Where?"
"Right there. See?" She pointed to a slightly burnt part.
"That's not decay. That's crispy."
She mumbled something about decay and began to tear the offending part of her sandwich off.
On the way to preschool, she said to me, "I'm going to leave my juice in the car. PLEASE don't let it decay, okay?"
She asked for some water later in the day. I handed her a water bottle.
"Does it have peanuts in it?" (We've trained her a little to well to ask about peanuts because of her allergy).
"No. No peanuts."
"Does it have decay?"
Sigh. "No. Just drink it."
She examined the bottle closely before taking a drink.
I'm seriously thinking of writing Sid the Science Kid a letter. I don't know what I'd say. But I feel the need to sarcastically thank him for teaching the word "decay" to my child so well. Something like, "Dear Sid, Please come live with her until she learns a new vocabulary word. I've had enough."
For me, recently it's been "feral". That means wild, or wildlike. My soon to be one year old son seems to approach things in a very feral way. He is very feral.
I actually get introduced to new vocabulary words all the time because my husband is a walking dictionary and throws fancy words around in his daily speech. He's also a writer, so I guess it comes with the job. But seriously? I can't keep up.
I like it when the four year old learns new words. She will dwell on the word and try it out for several days, seeing how it fits in her world. The other thing I like about the four year old's vocabulary is that I can still keep up with it. However, by about day 3 or 4 of the new word, I'm ready to move on.
I used to be kind of an "anti-computer" teacher. Computers are good for research, but they can't "teach" anything.
I stand corrected.
I myself have gotten addicted to this website called "Time 4 Learning". I think it's a great website for teaching kids and, as a teacher, I highly recommend it as a supplemental tool.
But alas, that is not where my daughter learned her new vocabulary word, "decay."
My daughter learned this happy little vocabulary word from pbskids.org. Namely "Sid the Science Kid." After spending about a half hour playing with some Sid the Science Kid game, my daughter asked me, "What's decay mean?"
I began with my usual processing stall of, "Well..."
My daughter then answered the question for herself. "It's when things get old and slimy and icky."
"Okay. I guess that's one way to look at it."
"Like when the apple got decayed. Or when my juice gets decayed. Or when things in the fridge get old."
"Right. That's absolutely right. But even leaves can decay outside and return to soil."
That was a little too much for her. "Okay," she said as a dismissal.
Over the next several days, "decay" became the word de jour.
"I can't eat this," she said as I placed a grilled cheese sandwich in front of her. "It has decay."
"No it doesn't. Where?"
"Right there. See?" She pointed to a slightly burnt part.
"That's not decay. That's crispy."
She mumbled something about decay and began to tear the offending part of her sandwich off.
On the way to preschool, she said to me, "I'm going to leave my juice in the car. PLEASE don't let it decay, okay?"
She asked for some water later in the day. I handed her a water bottle.
"Does it have peanuts in it?" (We've trained her a little to well to ask about peanuts because of her allergy).
"No. No peanuts."
"Does it have decay?"
Sigh. "No. Just drink it."
She examined the bottle closely before taking a drink.
I'm seriously thinking of writing Sid the Science Kid a letter. I don't know what I'd say. But I feel the need to sarcastically thank him for teaching the word "decay" to my child so well. Something like, "Dear Sid, Please come live with her until she learns a new vocabulary word. I've had enough."
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
I am Houdini
We all have different titles that we secretly label each other with. For example, the baby is "the Climber", or "the Destructor". My four year old is "the Singer." My husband is the "Absent-Minded Professor." And I am "Houdini".
This is why.
I am the only one who can find anything (with the exception of my cell phone-the absent minded professor is very good at finding my cell phone). Better explained-I'm the only one who can see things when they are under something, behind something, or have been moved.
Example:
Husband: Where's such and such?
Me: On the table.
Husband: I don't see it.
Me: It was on the table just a minute ago.
Husband: Are you sure?
Me: (walking over to table, lifting up a book which was covering such and such) You have to move things around.
Husband: Thank you.
Another example:
Me (to four year old): Hand me that thing-a-ma-jig
Four year old: Where?
Me: On the counter.
Four year old: I don't see it, Mama.
Me: LOOK BEHIND THE SALT.
Four year old: Oh. There it is!
Notice that they are impressed and say thank you when I perform this trick. That is why I am Houdini. No one else can perform this trick. Just me.
And I was feeling pretty invincible as a Houdini until the other day when I realized I couldn't find a single pacifier in the house.
The baby was screaming and a pacifier was nowhere to be found.
Which is so dumb, because I have like, fifty of them.
It seems I have been outsmarted by the pacifiers. How can fifty pacifiers just vanish? It's not like we live in a mansion. It's not like they can walk away on their own. It's not like they can find a better mouth to suck on them somewhere else. Where did they go?
Because the baby was screaming and all I cared about was quiet, I sent my husband downstairs to find a pacifier. "Go find a pacifier."
My husband came back with the most archaic pacifier I have ever seen.
"That's it?" I sighed. "That's the 'pacifier-of-last-resort'."
My husband looked at me like I had lost my mind.
"It means if that's the only one we can find, there are no other binkies in the house! Where did they go?!?"
The next day I went out and bought two new pacifiers.
I set one aside and gave one to the baby. He was very appreciative.
By the end of the day, both of the pacifiers were in my daughter's hands and she was playing a game called "Run from the Binkies."
"Don't lose those," I told her.
"I won't."
The next day I couldn't find any pacifiers again.
"Where are the pacifiers?" I asked my daughter.
"I don't know. Maybe in the blanket?"
I shook out the blanket that was on the floor. No pacifiers. I was pretty frustrated and threw around words like "ridiculous".
I got home from my staff meeting today and there was my baby, sitting in the middle of the kitchen, sucking on one of the new pacifiers.
"Hey! There's the pacifier!"
My four year old said, "Yep. We found it."
There goes my Houdini title.
This is why.
I am the only one who can find anything (with the exception of my cell phone-the absent minded professor is very good at finding my cell phone). Better explained-I'm the only one who can see things when they are under something, behind something, or have been moved.
Example:
Husband: Where's such and such?
Me: On the table.
Husband: I don't see it.
Me: It was on the table just a minute ago.
Husband: Are you sure?
Me: (walking over to table, lifting up a book which was covering such and such) You have to move things around.
Husband: Thank you.
Another example:
Me (to four year old): Hand me that thing-a-ma-jig
Four year old: Where?
Me: On the counter.
Four year old: I don't see it, Mama.
Me: LOOK BEHIND THE SALT.
Four year old: Oh. There it is!
Notice that they are impressed and say thank you when I perform this trick. That is why I am Houdini. No one else can perform this trick. Just me.
And I was feeling pretty invincible as a Houdini until the other day when I realized I couldn't find a single pacifier in the house.
The baby was screaming and a pacifier was nowhere to be found.
Which is so dumb, because I have like, fifty of them.
It seems I have been outsmarted by the pacifiers. How can fifty pacifiers just vanish? It's not like we live in a mansion. It's not like they can walk away on their own. It's not like they can find a better mouth to suck on them somewhere else. Where did they go?
Because the baby was screaming and all I cared about was quiet, I sent my husband downstairs to find a pacifier. "Go find a pacifier."
My husband came back with the most archaic pacifier I have ever seen.
"That's it?" I sighed. "That's the 'pacifier-of-last-resort'."
My husband looked at me like I had lost my mind.
"It means if that's the only one we can find, there are no other binkies in the house! Where did they go?!?"
The next day I went out and bought two new pacifiers.
I set one aside and gave one to the baby. He was very appreciative.
By the end of the day, both of the pacifiers were in my daughter's hands and she was playing a game called "Run from the Binkies."
"Don't lose those," I told her.
"I won't."
The next day I couldn't find any pacifiers again.
"Where are the pacifiers?" I asked my daughter.
"I don't know. Maybe in the blanket?"
I shook out the blanket that was on the floor. No pacifiers. I was pretty frustrated and threw around words like "ridiculous".
I got home from my staff meeting today and there was my baby, sitting in the middle of the kitchen, sucking on one of the new pacifiers.
"Hey! There's the pacifier!"
My four year old said, "Yep. We found it."
There goes my Houdini title.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Sing A Song!
Today was a rough day.
It's really hot.
And I had to take my daughter to the dentist to get 3 cavities filled.
While waiting at the dentist, watching Toy Story 3 in an air conditioned lobby, my husband sent me a text message to tell me that blue paint got spilled all over the hallway carpet. And partly on the wall and a nearby door. And all over the changing table it was sitting on. Maybe I should come home.
It's my fault for putting the paint in the hallway on the changing table I was planning on taking to Good Will. We had finished painting my daughter's room, and it seemed like a decent place to put the paint until I could work up the stamina to carry it down to the garage.
It's his fault for running into the changing table and toppling over the paint.
We're are both to blame.
So I didn't get to watch my daughter get her cavities filled.
Here's the thing: when I told her we had to go home and reschedule, she cried. She thinks she loves going to the dentist. They play Toy Story 3.
She cried all the way home.
My husband sent me out for "shop rags" to help pick up the paint. I guess while I was gone, he had to reprimand her about something and she cried. So when I got home, she was crying.
I felt like crying too. But that was because there was blue paint all over my hallway carpet.
When I went to go make her dinner, she reached for something in a kitchen drawer that I have deemed "not a toy". She cried.
When her baby brother pulled her hair,she cried. I told her, "I cry when he pulls my hair too."
Then she went outside to play.
Cue plastic microphone.
There she was on the porch, singing her little heart out. She was totally out of tune. She made it up as she went along. But she sang with gusto and I'm sure all our neighbors could hear her. She sang about trees and plants. She sang about friends and being sorry. She sang about Rapunzel. She sang about being lost. She sang and sang and sang. And she came back into the house as if she were a whole new person.
My husband was smart enough to record some of it.
Our carpets got clean-thanks to a friend who owns a carpet cleaning business. But the day was not without it's tensions and hurt feelings.
While putting my baby to sleep tonight, I found myself holding him against my shoulder and yep, you guessed it, singing.
It's really hot.
And I had to take my daughter to the dentist to get 3 cavities filled.
While waiting at the dentist, watching Toy Story 3 in an air conditioned lobby, my husband sent me a text message to tell me that blue paint got spilled all over the hallway carpet. And partly on the wall and a nearby door. And all over the changing table it was sitting on. Maybe I should come home.
It's my fault for putting the paint in the hallway on the changing table I was planning on taking to Good Will. We had finished painting my daughter's room, and it seemed like a decent place to put the paint until I could work up the stamina to carry it down to the garage.
It's his fault for running into the changing table and toppling over the paint.
We're are both to blame.
So I didn't get to watch my daughter get her cavities filled.
Here's the thing: when I told her we had to go home and reschedule, she cried. She thinks she loves going to the dentist. They play Toy Story 3.
She cried all the way home.
My husband sent me out for "shop rags" to help pick up the paint. I guess while I was gone, he had to reprimand her about something and she cried. So when I got home, she was crying.
I felt like crying too. But that was because there was blue paint all over my hallway carpet.
When I went to go make her dinner, she reached for something in a kitchen drawer that I have deemed "not a toy". She cried.
When her baby brother pulled her hair,she cried. I told her, "I cry when he pulls my hair too."
Then she went outside to play.
Cue plastic microphone.
There she was on the porch, singing her little heart out. She was totally out of tune. She made it up as she went along. But she sang with gusto and I'm sure all our neighbors could hear her. She sang about trees and plants. She sang about friends and being sorry. She sang about Rapunzel. She sang about being lost. She sang and sang and sang. And she came back into the house as if she were a whole new person.
My husband was smart enough to record some of it.
Our carpets got clean-thanks to a friend who owns a carpet cleaning business. But the day was not without it's tensions and hurt feelings.
While putting my baby to sleep tonight, I found myself holding him against my shoulder and yep, you guessed it, singing.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Bee Chase
I love the Fourth of July. It's one of my favorite holidays. I love the parades, and the music, and the BBQ's. Might I add that I think red, white, and blue look fabulous together.
I get teary-eyed when the Star Spangled Banner is played. I'm such a sap.
Until yesterday, I've never had a bad Fourth of July.
I don't know if it was because it was my first Fourth of July with two children. I don't know if it was because it was 96 degrees outside with enough humidity to melt your face off. I don't know if it was because when we came home in the afternoon, between the morning festivities and the evening festivities, I decided to work on painting my daughter's room and got hotter and sweatier and stepped in paint. I don't know if it was because we were all hot, sweaty, and cranky, and then we threw my equally cranky mother-in-law into the mix.
I think that by the time I got chased by a bee, I was ready to go home and crawl into a fetal position on the floor.
Here's how it went down.
We arrived at the local University several hours ahead of firework time in order to have a picnic and get a good spot to watch the fireworks. Usually I pride myself on being able to find the prime firework spot, but I was off my game this year and we couldn't quite decide where to place our stuff. My husband had dropped my mother-in-law, the kids, and I off to go stake out a spot and get set up while he parked the car.
As soon as I set down our brightly colored towels to sit on and our cooler and bags full of goodies, my mother-in-law said, "There's a bee."
I said (now holding my ten month old), "Well, I hope it goes away. I'm allergic."
"How allergic?"
I thought of the last time I was stung by a bee and couldn't walk right for several days because my thigh had swelled up to the size of the Good Year Blimp. "Pretty allergic."
"Well, it seems to like you."
I heard a buzzing noise right near my ear. I began to panic.
Now I know that you are not supposed to antagonize bees. I know I am supposed to calmly find a way to remove myself from the situation in order not to anger the bee. But I had the baby in my arms and I began to run.
I don't look attractive when I run.
I ran the length of the grassy area, my ten month old in my arms, my four year old screaming, "Run!" following in pursuit.
And yet the bee kept on.
A few times I managed to leave him behind, only so he could find me again and buzz around my hair. At some point, I set the baby down so I could run faster. I ran and ran with that bee chasing me.
I had quite the audience. I could hear murmurs about what that crazy lady was doing running back and forth on the grass. I heard the word "bee". I heard my mother-in-law explain to a nearby picnicking family, "She's allergic."
By the time I had completed my tenth lap around the grass, I could feel my asthma kicking in. I wondered where my husband was. I stopped for breath.
Someone nearby stated, "He's still in your hair."
I think I shouted, "Get it off me!"
A woman threw a towel over my head. And trapped the bee inside the towel with me.
I threw the towel off.
"The bee's still there," my daughter said.
"He's really angry now," my mother-in-law added.
My family has excellent observation skills, if you haven't noticed.
My husband arrived just in time to see me dance around in circles.
"Bee! BEE!" I screamed. "Kill it! He's after me!"
My husband picked up a towel. "Hold still. Hold still! I need you as bait."
"WHAT!?!"
The first time my husband tried the towel, he only managed to hit empty air. I began to dance around again.
"Hold still!"
WHACK! The towel hit my arm.
"Ouch!"
"I think I got him."
I get teary-eyed when the Star Spangled Banner is played. I'm such a sap.
Until yesterday, I've never had a bad Fourth of July.
I don't know if it was because it was my first Fourth of July with two children. I don't know if it was because it was 96 degrees outside with enough humidity to melt your face off. I don't know if it was because when we came home in the afternoon, between the morning festivities and the evening festivities, I decided to work on painting my daughter's room and got hotter and sweatier and stepped in paint. I don't know if it was because we were all hot, sweaty, and cranky, and then we threw my equally cranky mother-in-law into the mix.
I think that by the time I got chased by a bee, I was ready to go home and crawl into a fetal position on the floor.
Here's how it went down.
We arrived at the local University several hours ahead of firework time in order to have a picnic and get a good spot to watch the fireworks. Usually I pride myself on being able to find the prime firework spot, but I was off my game this year and we couldn't quite decide where to place our stuff. My husband had dropped my mother-in-law, the kids, and I off to go stake out a spot and get set up while he parked the car.
As soon as I set down our brightly colored towels to sit on and our cooler and bags full of goodies, my mother-in-law said, "There's a bee."
I said (now holding my ten month old), "Well, I hope it goes away. I'm allergic."
"How allergic?"
I thought of the last time I was stung by a bee and couldn't walk right for several days because my thigh had swelled up to the size of the Good Year Blimp. "Pretty allergic."
"Well, it seems to like you."
I heard a buzzing noise right near my ear. I began to panic.
Now I know that you are not supposed to antagonize bees. I know I am supposed to calmly find a way to remove myself from the situation in order not to anger the bee. But I had the baby in my arms and I began to run.
I don't look attractive when I run.
I ran the length of the grassy area, my ten month old in my arms, my four year old screaming, "Run!" following in pursuit.
And yet the bee kept on.
A few times I managed to leave him behind, only so he could find me again and buzz around my hair. At some point, I set the baby down so I could run faster. I ran and ran with that bee chasing me.
I had quite the audience. I could hear murmurs about what that crazy lady was doing running back and forth on the grass. I heard the word "bee". I heard my mother-in-law explain to a nearby picnicking family, "She's allergic."
By the time I had completed my tenth lap around the grass, I could feel my asthma kicking in. I wondered where my husband was. I stopped for breath.
Someone nearby stated, "He's still in your hair."
I think I shouted, "Get it off me!"
A woman threw a towel over my head. And trapped the bee inside the towel with me.
I threw the towel off.
"The bee's still there," my daughter said.
"He's really angry now," my mother-in-law added.
My family has excellent observation skills, if you haven't noticed.
My husband arrived just in time to see me dance around in circles.
"Bee! BEE!" I screamed. "Kill it! He's after me!"
My husband picked up a towel. "Hold still. Hold still! I need you as bait."
"WHAT!?!"
The first time my husband tried the towel, he only managed to hit empty air. I began to dance around again.
"Hold still!"
WHACK! The towel hit my arm.
"Ouch!"
"I think I got him."
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