The Thesaurus Is Not Terribly Useful.

So yesterday was s.t.i.n.k.o. pretty much.  I think it started off with the coffee. 

We’re out of cream, so I had to drink it black.  Which I can do, but I don’t prefer it.  In fact, I don’t really like it at all unless it’s paired with a bowl of ice cream.  Or chocolate.  But I’ll drink it just to avoid the certain headache that I will get if I don’t drink it.  (And yes, I know I’m an addict.  Leave it.)  Now that Ella drinks skim milk along with the rest of us, I can’t even use whole milk as a back-up to cream.  And I ate all the ice cream, so there’s none of that, either.  (Once I used cool whip as a substitute for cream…not good, just fyi.  I do not believe there is anything dairy about cool whip.  ((Which would explain the “nondairy topping” label I guess.))  Anyway, the cool whip melted into an oily looking substance which floated atop my coffee.  So instead of black coffee, I had black coffee with oil.  Which imho is decidedly worse than just plain ol’ black coffee.  So I won’t be doing that again.) 

After the bad coffee, we did a science experiment where I was an idiot and took a piping hot glass out of the dishwasher and put ice into it and actually said (yes I did) “I hope it doesn’t crack.”  And then it cracked.  So I said “wow kids, look at that, bla bla bla.”  I taught them all about how to crack a glass.  Enriching their lives, that’s what I do.

And then one of the children, who shall remain nameless, was a complete pill for pretty much the entire afternoon.  The source of frustration?  A duplo lego window.  After several hours of fretting over this duplo (I do not even want to elaborate on the ridiculous nature of the problem) we tried to sit and do some enrichment activities.  I told you, I am all about the enriching.   

Anyway, for one of the activities, we were working with colors.  Two colors to be specific, garnet and fuchsia.  Which incidentally, fuchsia was misspelled as fuchisa.  (I find it ironic that “enrichment activities” sent home from school for summertime fun would have misspellings in them.  But anyway…)  Fuchisa was humorous.  For the rest of the activity, I called it fuchisa (foocheezuh).  And Kate thought I was just terribly funny.  But the other, aforementioned child did not.  Moving right along…)

So the aforementioned child didn’t know what garnet and fuchisa were, and I wanted him to figure that out–I didn’t want to give him the answer.  So being the very clever person that I am, I decided to teach them how to look a word up in the thesaurus.  Oh yes, Roget’s thesaurus!  I love the thesaurus, seriously.  I use it nearly daily, to be honest.  (I’m actually not kidding).  So anyway, we couldn’t find garnet in the thesaurus, so I figured we would try fuchisa.  So I go to the index.  And I’m looking up fuchsia…and I get to the fu words and lo and behold what do we have but no fuchsia. 

Let me tell you what they DO have, in lieu of fuschia.  They have “f*ck.”  They have “a f*ck.”  They have “f*cked up.”  They have “f*ck off.”  They have gathered together what seems to be every single variation and expression you could come up with that includes the f dash dash dash word for our reading pleasure.  (Really Roget?  Seriously?) 

I tried to strategically place my hand over the queen mother of all cuss words, but Kate was standing there with her nose about three inches from the page all engrossed in how you look up a word (she is so much like me) and I couldn’t cover them all and I quick closed the book and said “well this thesaurus is useless.”  And that was pretty much a big fat “F” in the Good Mom Department for me.

Then Ella woke up screaming which is always fun.  So I drank some wine.

The end.

Just FYI

My day is going really lousy. 

L O. U. S. Y.

You’re welcome.

The Fourth of July Parade

 

Ella at the Fourth of July Parade.  She especially liked the dogs.  And barking at them.  And also those wierd dancers with the scary masks and crazy hair. 

For more wordless wednesday photos, go here.

For Your Reading Pleasure

1.  Last week,  I found shoes under my pillow.  If you’ll remember, The Man and I have a little game going on.  I did not find the shoes to be hilarious.  It’s way funnier when I do it. 

 

2.  I must preface #2 by asking you to recall William’s rules.  Pay particularly close attention to rule #1.  The one that says ”Don’t look at me when I’m getting dressed.”  Right.  So yesterday I got a note from The Man while I was out which stated the following: 

No more Wii for William today.  When I sent the boys upstairs to change, William did a naked dance in front of Henry.

Which totally made me laugh.  I know, I shouldn’t laugh.  Anyway, just to clarify the rules, you are not allowed to look at William while he gets dressed.  Even if he does a naked dance.  

 

3.  I got this super nice award from Daniele at Life As A Mom…thank you Daniele!  The award states:  This award is bestowed on blogs that are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to how ever many bloggers you choose and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award.

 

I actually had to look up ”self-aggrandizement” to make sure I knew what it meant.  I had a vague sense.  I also had a vague sense of how exceedingly charming I am.    Anyway, what a nice award to receive.   

 

4.  Yesterday the kids found this…

 

 

And The Man wanted to keep it.  I don’t know why.  Because he’s a man I guess.  It’s dead.  It’s in a baggie.  In my house.      

So I took a picture of it.  Because that’s what I do.  Anyway, look how it is preserved for all eternity…in striking position.  You can even see it’s creepy little viper tongue.  In case you were wondering, it is a milk snake (which is not a viper.  But “viper tongue” sounds very snakey).  It’s harmless.  Still gross.  And the deadness doesn’t do anything to lessen the “gross.”  I’m going to put it in Mr. Pink’s mailbox.  Just for fun. 

 

5.  Speaking of whom, Mr. Pink made a nasty comment about my daffodils looking unkempt.  So I spent several hours the other day tying them up into nice neat little bundles.  Now they look very kempt.  You would not believe how long that takes, really.  And I only did about half of them.  When Mr. Pink saw my handi-work, he said it was definitely a pink job.  Mm-hm.  That topic shall never die. 

 

6.  Superfudge.  Remember that book…Judy Blume?  Mm-hmm.  I bought it for Kate.  I was so impressed with myself for choosing this book for Kate, which she devoured in about 2 days.  And then I read this passage:

When I got home that afternoon, I cornered my mother.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to let him go on believing in Santa.” 

bla bla bla…

“I do agree that sooner or later he’ll have to learn that Santa is just an idea.”  She sighed.  “But for now, he’s so enthusiastic and the idea of Santa is so lovely that Daddy and I have decided it can’t possibly hurt.  So please go along with us for a while Peter.”

bla bla bla…

“Well I think it’s a mistake!”  I said.  I turned and walked away.  I couldn’t remember ever having believed in Santa.  When I was three I caught my parents stacking presents under the tree.  And by the time I was five, I knew exactly where to look for the presents my parents thought they had carefully hidden from me.”

 

Well if that isn’t just fantastic.  Now Christmas — nay, her entire childhood — is ruined.  The magic is all over.  I know — it was only a matter of time – I know.  Actually, this was probably a pretty easy way to “find out.”  Unless she actually already knew.  Which is certainly possible.  But still.  Crap. 

The problem with finding books for Kate is that she needs something  a little advanced…like for a 11-12 year old level reader.  But she is only 8.  So I need books that are appropriate topic and material for an eight year old.  Any suggestions?  I tried The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo, and pre-read that to make sure it was appropriate.  I found the selling of a little girl by her father (who never looked back, not even once) to a man that clouts her on the ear so much that her ears begin to look like cauliflower, and the mouse blood and bones and smell of death to be a little much thankyouverymuch.  So she’ll be waiting a little while to read that one.  Sheesh.  So please, your suggestions are very, very welcome.

And that’s pretty much it for this house for this week.  Night-night! 

Eight Hours a Night Will Never Happen for Me

Eight hours of sleep.  Per night, that is.  Right.  I’ll never get it.  And it’s not because of the kids.  At least not directly.  Lately, once I actually get to sleep, I sleep right on through until early o’clock when the alarm disturbs my slumber.   

No, the problem is not the kids.  It’s me.  It occurred again to me last night that if I want to be asleep by 10:00, I need to start getting ready for bed by like 7:45.  Here is the general routine:

-Read just one more blog.  Finish wine.  Read just one more blog. 

-Potty.

-Brush teeth.

-Check on Kate.  Tell her how much I love her.  Tell her how proud I am of her.  Tell her I miss her when she was little.  Tell her I wish I could spend another day like that, just me and her.  Feel guilty.  (There is nothing to feel guilty about, it’s just my own personal form of torture).

-Check on Henry.  Take his hearing aids out, take them apart, put them in dry aid kit.  Remove umpteen pillows from underneath his head.  Cover him up.  Kiss him.  Tousle his hair.  Stare at his freckles.  Relish his silence.  Tell him I love him.  Tell him he’s going to do so well.

-Check on Ella.  Soak her in.  Smile at her arms wrapped around jellycat so tightly.  Wonder if she’s cold.  Think maybe I should turn the heater on.  The temperature display light doesn’t work anymore so you can’t see the temperature setting so I turn the hall light on.  Check setting on heater.  Turn hall light off.  Start to leave.  Decide to touch her foot to make sure she’s still breathing.  (I know, I know, I’m a freak.)  Ella wakes up.  Pick her up.  Hold her tight.  Smell her hair.  Put her back in bed.  Kiss her goodnight.  Five times.  (You have to kiss her once above the railing, and then once through each of the pickets at the end of her bed.  It’s not worth fighting.  Besides, those are the sweetest kisses ever.)  

-Potty again.

-Pull back the covers to climb into bed.  No sheets.  Oh, right.  Needed to make the bed this morning.  But it’s so much more fun to make it at 10:45 at night when you’re exhausted.  Which is why I put it off, of course.

-Make the bed, all the while mumbling nasties to myself.

-Climb into bed.  Realize that I forgot to say night-night to William.  Debate getting up.  Feel guilty.

-Get up, go in to see William.  Hold his hand.  Tell him he amazes me.  Pray to God that he is healthy forever.  Think about the “what if it happens again…”  Wiggle his loose tooth.  Call him ”Little Bill.”  Tell him I love him.

-Get back into bed. 

-Think of something I need to remember.

-Get up to write it down.  Can’t find a pencil.  Go get one.  Can’t find any paper.  Go get some.  Write it down.  Put pencil back.  Remember something else.  Go get pencil.  Write it down.  Put pencil back. 

-Get into bed. 

-Lay there for 45 minutes wondering why I can’t sleep (I need to drink more water…I need to eat better…I need to get to bed earlier…) 

-Finally, sleep visits.

-And then someone–who was not me–set the alarm to the “rooster” setting.  Which I once thought would be just a terribly humorous thing to do to startle The Man out of sleep some morning.  Mm-hmm.  Somehow it was less humorous when I wasn’t the one doing it.  COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!  That was after about 5 1/2 hours of sleep.  And that is not atypical.

In fact, the entire bedtime routine is rather typical for me.  So I don’t think I’ll ever get the eight hours of sleep. 

Not ever.

The Purple Balloon

One of my favorite pictures from her 2nd birthday.  She must have played with that balloon for an hour.  Or two. 

Click here for more Wordless Wednesday photos.

Twenty Little Things

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”

Inspired by this post at whatever, I’ve created a list of twenty little things I’d like to do this summer:

I resisted the temptation to write things on the list that I’ve already done.  It’s a rather strong temptation for me, in case you didn’t know that. 

And I promise to not treat this as a “to do” list.  You know, to prove that I did stuff.  That, unfortunately, is another one of my lovely tendencies. 

If we do half the things on this list, it will be a wonderful summer…

The Rules

This sheet of paper has been posted to William’s doors for several weeks now.  I finally bothered to read it.  Get a load of this:

William J (in case we weren’t sure exactly which William)

My rules

1.  Don’t look at me when I’m getting dressed. 

2.  Only six and up on the top bunk!  (this is important because excluding his brother from the top bunk is legitimate for another 6 months)

3.  If you pass gas in this room you will [have] to leave.

4.  No wrestling or jumping on the top bunk!  (if you try it, you’re liable to knock yourself out with the ceiling, anyway.)

5.  No hiding from me!

6.  Henry don’t yell talk sing or w[h]isper at bed time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Alrighty then.  I’ll be sure to pass gas elsewhere when I want to remain in William’s room.

***

One other thing…I caught the two year old sitting at the island, chugging juice straight out of the container today.  She’s so klassy.  At least she didn’t chuck that across the room when she was done with it. 

***

Pink Jobs, etc.

Catchy title, don’t you think? 

Moving right along.

This weekend we had some friends over for a happy hour.  Oh how I love the happy hours.  Really.  

Outside.  Sunshine, warmth.  Chalk, bikes, bubbles.  The kids play.  The kids eat.  The adults talk.  The adults eat.  The margaritas flow.  Good times.  Sigh… 

Where was I?  Oh, right.  Happy hour.  So we’re all enjoying each others’ company and I totally missed the front end of this conversation but I did manage to hear the “…that’s a pink job” come out of the mouth of one of the men in our midst.  Let’s just call him Mr. Pink from now on.   

(Hi Mr. Pink!  Are you reading this?)

So yes, he said that pink job thing.  (I wish I could remember what job it was that he called “pink.”)  Anyhoo, there was a discussion that ensued, and I don’t really remember all of it.  Or any of it.  Except the pink comment. 

The idea is, I guess, that some jobs are “pink” and some jobs are “blue.”  Now, in this house, I don’t believe there are any pink or blue jobs.  There are jobs that I prefer to do myself for one reason or another, and there are jobs that The Man prefers to do himself.  Some jobs require strength that I don’t have.  Like mowing the lawn.  The Man likes to mow the lawn.  I concede that to him.  (If there IS a blue job, mowing the lawn is it, imho).   

So I’m just wondering.  Are there pink jobs and blue jobs?  Or am I just kidding myself?     

Oh, and we must all overlook Mr. Pink’s unfortunate position on pink jobs.  Because he makes the nice margaritas.  And if I’m being honest, I don’t want those to go away.  And also, he’s really a pretty nice guy.

***

In other news, one of the jobs ’round here has been claimed by Henry.  It is the “beer stocker.”  He has made it his number one priority to make sure the frigo is always fully stocked with beer.  I caught him doing it one day.  I walked into the kitchen and nearly tripped over a case of beer on the floor.  I wondered what the four little hoodlums had been doing with it, until I realized Henry was standing there, unloading beer from it and putting it in the frigo.  One small step for Henry, one giant leap for Mama.  Next I’m going to teach him how to pour a beer without a lot of head.  I’m kidding, of course.  He needs to know how to frost the mug before pouring.   

***

At what age do the table manners kick in?  Seriously, when? 

***

Ella throws her drinks.  Every single meal.  Every snack, every meal.  Everytime.  You should see her.  It’s rather comical if you’re not actually the one living through it.  She takes her sippy cup, turns it upside down and sucks furiously on it, and then chucks it across the table when she’s had enough.  I don’t get it.  Could she not set it down nicely? 

***

I’m featured over at 5 Minutes for Parenting’s A Dose of Humor!  Because I’m so very humorous.  Check it out!

Pretty Stories

Henry set the table on the patio that evening with an assortment of placemats and mismatched napkins.  I liked it that way…nothing matching…and little seashell napkin rings.  The six of us crowded around that table, enjoying the grilled steaks, and shrimp cocktails, and corn on the cob and tomato-basil salad.  And then we had rootbeer floats in those fancy soda fountain glasses. 

I looked around at one point, and thought what a pretty story it was…the six of us, together, on the patio on Father’s Day.  The sunshine was warm.  There was a breeze ruffling the leaves in the trees.  It was like one of those snapshots in your mind…how you think your life will be but rarely ever is.  Peaceful.  Happy.  Pretty.

The Man and I put the kids in bed that night, and then sat on the front porch with a glass of wine.  We watched the fireflies.  We listened to the crickets.  (We came inside when someone began blasting the crazy indian music.)  ((Not that I have anything against crazy indian music, per se, but it doesn’t really go with the crickety-firefly kind of evening we were having.))

We went to bed feeling like the day had been a really good one.   A really pretty one. 

And then the barf started.  (Do you see what I mean when I say it always comes back to the barf?)

It was the two year old this time.  (Their aim with the barf is real bad.)  ((Actually, they have no aim.  It just bursts forth.))  So I cleaned her up, The Man changed her sheets and I rocked with her for a while, then put her back in her bed, where without delay, she barfed.  Again.

So I bathed her while The Man changed her sheets again.  And I rocked with her again. 

We sat there in that rocking chair with the sour smell of barf still lingering in the room.  Her soft ringlets fell on my neck as her head rested against my temple.  I could feel her breath on my cheek and her tiny little body curl up into mine, just the way she had done when she was an infant.  Me and Ella, there in the small hours of the night. 

And right then, in the midst of all that ugly barf, I remembered how pretty my life is. 

“our lives are made
in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours,
these small hours still remain” — Rob Thomas