Christmas Tidbits

Did I mention that we put up our tree on Tuesday night? Less than three days before Christmas?

It fell over on Christmas Eve, dropping every last ornament and somehow catapulting the hooks into oblivion, never to be seen again. This is actually the third time (as far as I can remember) that our tree has fallen over in the last five years, and the kids always SWEAR they were not in the room when it happened.

Just after we RE-decorated the tree, we attended our Christmas Eve service where Soren sprinted to the front and center of the church every chance he got, yelling "Hi!" and "Papa?" with all of the strength and volume he could muster.

We brought him home that night sporting a bloody lip and a bite mark on his cheek. Such is baby love.

Z woke up at 5 am this morning. We told him it was the middle of the night, and he swaggered back to bed, drunk with anticipation. If K would not have gassed it up as loud as possible for the rest of the morning (and he blamed it on my cooking!), I might have gone back to sleep before our day officially began at 8 am.

The kids tore through paper and bows, saying, "Ooh!" and "Agh!" and "OH!" about each gift, except for B, of course, who actually offered a running commentary on what gifts indeed had or had not been on "The List".

For example, "I got a batman toothbrush. That was not on The List."
("Do you like it anyway?")
"Yes, but it wasn't on the list....A dinosaur digging kit! That was NOT on the list, but I did want it. I just forgot to ask for it."

You see, it isn't so much that he is unhappy unless that particular something is from The List. It is just that he is mentally checking off how well Santa follows basic instructions.

He's Santa's official boss, I think.

Z got a Spiderman costume that literally could have fit me. It said SEVEN on the package. It looks like an adult 7, although it says "Kids" on the tag. Z spent a good portion of the day asking me to re-roll up his Spidey pant legs. It was annoying, and I kept thinking I should just forbid him from wearing the thing until I (I mean, my mom) could sew it up.

I just couldn't forbid such a thing on Christmas day though. Besides, he needed his costume so he could save the world. Who was I to stop him?

All three kids got Leapfrog pens today. All three pens were on full volume, as the little punks sat in a row on the couch, listening to individual stories. The kids were okay with it. I, on the other hand, was feeling a little schizophrenic. Ah! The voices! The voices! They won't stop! The VOICES!

Besides the little stocking gifts (my favorites), I simply asked "Big Daddy Santa" if I could have money this year. I recently went through my house and got rid of all of my ugly decorations. Let me tell you this place is bare! I will build the decor back up over time, and now I have some cash to do so. Woohoo!

K had LOTS and LOTS of books on his List.

And a beer-making kit.

I could build myself a second home if I would cement K's books together. He really has that many. So I decided K "needed" the other thing. It came in the mail Christmas Eve. M was upset when he realized that every single bottle he tipped to his waiting and very parched mouth was empty.

This particular boy recently moved to a big kid bed at night, and while he sleeps fine and cuddles right in at night, he hasn't taken a nap since he learned how to climb out of his crib. As always, Aunty Angie sent the perfect gift: Scout the stuffed puppy. Scout not only makes awesome animal noises, but he also says M's name and sings lullabies for the tired boy.

The kid is in love.

He snuggled up close with the strange green puppy who kept repeating his name, and he didn't try to climb out of his bed even once. I was glad not to have to re-position the boy in his bed 100 times in that long two hour nap stretch.

S wanted all things girly, and that is what she received. Little Mermaid underwear, Little Mermaid Barbie, Leap pen, toothbrush...
The thing is, she REALLY wanted a Little Mermaid costume, and I, Oh Cheap One that I am, looked and looked for one that was less than $20.

I never found one.

On Christmas Eve, I broke down and went to Walmart. I knew they had the desired costume there, even though exceeded my budgeted price. They were out, and I ended up spending more than $20 on a Princess Tiana dress...a princess that S has not yet even heard of. She was polite, and she did the "ooh", but I think she is secretly wondering if Santa mistook the green on Tiana's dress for the green on Ariel's fins.

In the end, the day was lovely. We went to bed (or I will soon) thankful, not just for what we have, but for what we have been given in Christ. Thanks, Jesus, for giving your life for us. Happy, happy Birthday. We love you.

Flowery Sheets

When our kids were 3 1/2, we moved them to big kid beds.

We rolled up blankets along the side of the bed, so they wouldn't fall out. We bought them new comforters and sheets to match. We made it a big deal. I was awake all night, wondering if they were okay.

Yesterday, I bought a mattress for M. We put up his bed at about 10 at night, and we threw him in it that very night. No party. No new blanket or sheet set. He's using an old flowered sheet of mine. Not even a new pillow.

He slept fine, a little to my amazement. He woke up at 8 o' clock, climbed out of bed, walked down the hall to our room, and announced the new day with a "Hi!"

Later, he dragged me to his room to show me his bed. "Beh", he pronounced, as he climbed in over the railing. He thinks he's big. "Me", he said, meaning "mine".

Poor kid. He's happy. He doesn't know he's the 2nd-hand-no-frills-baby-of-the-world yet. I wonder when he'll start protesting the pink bedroom walls and the flowery sheets...

The Lists

Thanksgiving, while it should be the day we are thankful for the things we have, apparently is also the day to write The List for the things you WANT.

Z did not want the hassle of writing his own, so he asked his dad to do it. Every item starts with Spiderman, such as "Spiderman movie, Spiderman pen, Spiderman fishing pole, Spiderman Pez dispenser".

B wrote his own list, and his sister conned him into writing hers as well.
I have been so gracious as to share some of B and S's lists with you, because it is SO MUCH fun to decipher kindergarten spelling. Obviously, we need to work on word spacing. Good luck.

B's list:
1. Salbote
2. Bbltaperole
3. pelitgun
4. batmanculrinbuk
5 kadeeborswithcrmlinthem
6.batmanthigitcumsupwinyoopuchitduwn

S's list:
1. toydog
2. biwdflbudrflie (I could read this, but what the heck?!)
3. lidlhuwsintheprareehuws
4. curamru
5. Lidlmrmade doll

Think you can get 100%?

Wants

So, I asked the question, "Have you guys been thinking about what you want for Christmas at all?" (and I wondered if their answers clued you in to their personalities at all...)

Z: A sword (he already has one)

S: A chocolate bar (a girl after my own heart)

M: No (because that is what he always says....to everything)



B: I want everything in the whole world! (and then later, he "decided" that maybe a gun and a fishing pole would suffice)

Black

Z has a difficult time with anything requiring fine motor. He usually finds ways to work around it. Not in the typical sense...
He doesn't hold his pencil in a different way so he has more control of his writing.
And he doesn't draw more slowly to get it all "just right".

No, Z finds ways around it by saying, "Well, I tried to write it like that, because I wanted it to look all messy, like a tornado came through." (He had to do that particular worksheet over, by the way.)

Take today for another example.

The kids worked on "self portraits".
I traced their heads and shoulders, added an outline of their clothes, and the kids added details to make the outlines look like them.
All was well, for about 5 minutes.

Until Z had a hard time painting his eyes. They were "too big!" I tried to talk him through it. "They are fine, Z. There is no right way to do this picture. I love that you picked out a color that is so close to the real color of your eyes..."

He began working on his shirt color.

I went upstairs to get M from his nap.

When I returned, Z's picture was all black.


"Z, when you are frustrated, that doesn't give you the right to ruin yours or other people's things." (Item #3 on the infamous Star Chart)

His response?

"I didn't ruin it, mom. I couldn't help it. I am wearing my black Spiderman pajamas, and it's night time. You're not supposed to see me!"

(Creative, Z. Really, you are. You ended up re-doing this project too. Not because I didn't secretly love your creativity, but because you need to learn to work THROUGH your frustration, boy. I love you, black pajamas and all.)

The 2nd edition of Z's self portrait is strikingly familiar. I was thinking maybe Beaker from the Muppets, but I don't think that's it. I can't place it...

Huh.

Bitten

So, I'll tell you this story, but you have to promise not to laugh at how amazingly cheap I am.
You will learn, in the next 10 seconds or so, that I not only feed my kids bologna sandwiches (99c/lb), but I also (apparently and surprisingly, even to me) reuse bologna sandwiches.

Shut up.

S did not finish her sandwich.

She did what she does: she nibbled the "meat" that hangs outside of the bread, bit into the bread a few times (only because she needs to comply to the "try everything" rule) and then walked away.

As she walked away, B asked for another sandwich.

I couldn't help but look opportunity in the eye, as I lifted S's plate from the table.

All sneaky-like, I mayo-ed more bread, placed the (almost-wasted!) piece of bologna under a slice of cheese, and presented the ala-new creation to B.

I began to wash dishes when I heard, in the most mono-tone voice ever uttered from B's mouth, "Not eatin' it."

And I was astonished! (And trying not to laugh, of course.)

"Why!? You wanted another sandwich, didn't you?"

And with no words at all, B lifts the top piece of bread, and then slowly and carefully traces very defined bite marks around the outside circle of the "meat".

After he has finished tracing the perimeter of the bitten circle, he offers one, simple word:

"Bites."

And I die laughing.

And he does not see the humor.



The boy did decide that he really wasn't that hungry after all, and he slipped off his chair to go play.

I spent a few more moments placing the bologna re-sandwich in a baggie (probably a washed, reused one) and storing it in the fridge for later. (I'm kidding. I really did throw it away.)

Thou Shalt Be Named...

We have our first official pet.

Although some might not consider an outdoor garage cat official, this is as close as we will probably ever get.

We needed a name for the handsome, purring, striped ball of fur.

Two people called him Stripey.
One person deemed him Lightning.
But the cat was also called Spook and No-no, depending on which person of the family was calling him.
I, personally, wanted to name him Sher Khan, after the tiger on Jungle Book.

After about a day and a half of sheer confusion, we finally put all of our desired names in a bowl, dumped them out on the floor, and waited for the youngest family member to pick up (and try to eat) one of the scraps of paper with THE name written on it.


The name, probably because the odds were two to six, is freaking Stripey. The most obvious and dull name of the century. But two of our six family members are very pleased, and the cat doesn't seem to care either way, as long as we empty his litter box once in awhile.

I love him. I love cats. I do. My friend has a cat that I probably would have cat-napped by now, if it wasn't for the fact that my hands rash up and I get all sneezy and itchy just from thinking about a cat for long enough. (Hi Roland!)

I'm feeling a little bad; like we should let him into our warm house, but he does have a couch AND a chair in the garage that he can claim as his very own. And I did buy him cat treats today, although K keeps saying not to get attached. "He is just a mouser."

And that he is, as can be evidenced below. Good job, Stripey. We are so disgustingly proud.

Humor

I said, "What do you guys want on your toast?", and Z said, "Poop with Corn", and B said, "Underwear juice!", and they both cracked up. Then, Z said, "I want peanut butter butt cheeks!" and B said, "Booger slime!" and they both cracked up. Then B said, "Big butt cheek toast eaters!"

Then S said, "What if no one had any cheeks!?" and she started laughing like crazy.

And the boys were both real quiet, and they just kept looking at her, like, "We don't get it."

I think she has her dad's humor.

:)

"Chinas"

A Conversation about Chinas

Me: Someone needs to improve their aim! There's pee on the back of the seat.
B: Wasn't me.
Me: Well, it was one of the boys in this house. It wasn't S.
Z: Why wasn't it S? Because she has a SHORT peeny?
B: No, because S doesn't have a PEENY. She has a china. Like the country.

Juice

Z: What is this, mom?
Me: It's an energy drink.
Z: (a few minutes later, after taking several sips), Maybe it should be called pee juice.
Me: What? Why?!
Z: This juice tastes TERRible!

We are All Still Home

I'm a home school mom now.

I haven't changed my wardrobe just yet, but you wait...

The next time I plan a shopping trip to the mall, I'm all over that long denim skirt.

And I'm growing out my hair. All one length. And long. Probably to my waist. Or if I get really motivated, I'll grow it until I can sit on it.

We really might have tried public education. We aren't against it at all.

It's just that the kids in this area are calling their teacher a "bitch" and a "slut" before they are even to the ripe old age of five. And they are already discussing who they will date next.

I know. Because I witnessed it in my kids' preschool last year.

And the teachers I talked to said that it would be lucky if the kids learn anything at all, because the teachers spend so much time just trying to keep order.

I still might have given the local school a chance if the principal didn't wreak of politician-ism. K said, "I know your reading program has not had a very good reputation. What have you done to improve that reputation?"

And the guy didn't answer. He just ripped on every other school within 100 miles, and said, (but didn't give any facts to prove it), "Our reading program far outweighs [insert any school name you can think of]."

So, here we are, on our third week of homeschooling.

To date, we are all still intact.

Pippi

I love Pippi. Have I said that before? I used to want to be Pippi. I remember dressing up like her on several Halloweens. And at a costume party at camp one summer.

My friend, Marsha, and I used to BEG my mom to rent the movie (the one with voice overs), and we would watch it every time we got together.

I recently started reading Pippi to our kids. And of course, they love her too. Because she is cool. And funny. And strong. And cocky. And rich. And nice. And red-headed. Everyone loves a red-head. Unless that red head is an ugly step child.

I rented the movie. And while the new one isn't as good as the originals, the kids still adored her. They are officially obsessed.

Today, (and yesterday and the day before) they pretended to be Pippi (or Pippi's dad, in the boys' case) in all sorts of precarious situations. Rescuing kids from an orphanage fire, drawing her horse (life-sized) on the classroom wall, climbing into a hollow tree...

This particular photo is of Pippi (S), "when she was a princess of the natives", Pippi's pirate/sea captain Papa (Z), and Pippi's monkey, Mr. Neilson (M). All floating away on the boat that would soon end up at Ville Villa Kula.




If you have no idea what I am talking about, you need to read the book. Even now, when you are in your late to mid, um, 30s? 40s? 80s?

Moving On Up

Z's First Lottery

Z is just impulsive. We're trying to rein that impulsiveness in these days.

Imagine this scene:

We are leaving the grocery store. I am pushing the full cart, passing an old lady, (blue hair, slippers), who is slipping wrinkled, dirty, one-dollar bills into the lottery vending machine.
Keith is carrying M, with B and S right behind him. Z is trailing somewhere behind(as usual).
Imagine you then hear K say, (quite sternly), "Z, NO!"

But he says it too late, because "Slam!"

And then, (old lady voice), "Oh no! I didn't want that one!"

"Slam!" again. (That is the sound the vending machine makes as Z hits the bright yellow button that must have been calling his name).

Then, "Oh, now you bought TWO!"

The boy chose, not one, but TWO, of the lady's lottery tickets for her.

All with such amazing speed that neither Keith or I could even think to stop him.

And of course, neither of us had any cash on us to be able to pay her back.

K told me later that after the look of rage and shock crossed the lady's face, she became calm (amazingly), and said something about how she had been a kid once. She understood.

Here's to hoping she wins with one of those "lucky?" tickets.

Once, when I was naive and dumb (is that the same word twice?), I thought that there had to be other involved parents, here, in Up North, Michigan. I just didn't know where to find them.

So, I enrolled my kids in preschool.

Only to sit at the parent-teacher meetings with the teachers and one other person.

That other person?

My husband.

And try as we might to get other parents involved, only one other mom ever showed up.

One time. Maybe twice.

And she wouldn't talk to me. At all. Mostly, she ignored me. Or glared at me.

So.

We tried t-ball. We were informed the DAY BEFORE that t-ball was to start "tomorrow". We were camping, so we didn't make it.

The next week, the kids were excited. We "went fast...like Lightning McQueen" to their 1st practice. We waited for the coach to show up.

And we waited.

And waited.

And picked our noses and ate it. (Well, we didn't. But they did.) And "we" scuffed our shoes in the dirt. And threw sand. And whined a little.

And waited.

She never came.

We returned the next week.

And then once more. And that was it. We missed one week while we were on vacation, but FOUR practices (absolutely no games) total. The last practice was canceled, because the carnival was in town.

Huh.

So this week, we brought back our Reading Contest book list to the library. B handed it to the librarian, I explained that I read to all three kids every time I read, so I just listed them all on the same paper.

And the librarian (you know, the one that is supposed to ENCOURAGE reading) got visibly frazzled.

She said, "Oh great! What if they ALL win? You read to THREE kids instead of ONE!? I hope they like to share!"

(And then later, to another librarian, when she thought that we were out of ear-shot), "Some lady read to THREE kids instead of ONE!? And they are probably going to win! What do we do with THAT?! Great!"

And we did win. And the sad thing is, we started two weeks into the month-long program. With a total of 37 books. Not novels, friends. Just picture books. That's three picture books a day. That's not completely literary starvation or anything. But it certainly isn't excessive.

Not library-winning activity in any other part of the country.

And I'm still looking for that infamous involved adult. You know, the one that actually wants kids to excel in life. Apparently, it isn't in the school system. Or the rec department. Or the library.

Maybe the bars?

People

We like people.

For over one month, literally every day, we were either visiting someone, or someone was visiting us. Usually, I would be arriving home at the same time someone was coming to visit. Or someone was coming to visit a couple of hours after someone else had just gone home.

We just returned home from RI, and the last three days have been visitor-free.

I am bored.

And lonely.

Poop and Showers (and Thank You Cards)

Out of all the people in the universe whose home we could have stayed at, somehow we ended up at the future bride and groom's house.

In a camper.

In their backyard.

So while they had a wedding (and rehearsal dinner and after-wedding gift-opening party) to prepare for, they also had our huge family to contend with.

I think we were mostly annoying-free. We stayed outside. Except to (ahem, poop and) take a shower.

So I wrote a thank you card to the bride and groom.

S saw it sitting on the table, and she drew a card of her own. Is that not the cutest bride and groom you ever saw!?

Something Must Have Happened in RI

Dinner Guest Rule: Know What Kind of Meat You are Serving! :)

Z is a social kid. And sweet. And very curious. He loves people, and he loves people to love him. The problem is, he wants SO badly for people to like him that he sometimes gets carried away with his absurd statements and curious (obnoxious) questions.

He said, to a single (wishes he wasn't) bachelor, in a circle of a bunch of people, "You're nobody's dad." And the man, trying to ignore him, turned away from Z. Of course, Z, thinking the man didn't hear him, only began to restate the fact; "You are NOBODY'S dad!" If the man didn't annoy me so much with his own social ineptness, I might have more quickly pulled Z away.

I did pull him. Just not very fast. I am mean.
-----------------

We had a friend over for dinner. Z not only announced every. single. time he farted, he also burped (and excused himself), and asked, "R, what did you bring for dinner? What did you make? How come you didn't bring anything?" And while I told her not to bring anything, Z apparently thought she should have at least brought him some dessert! :)

(Our friend did, however, bring dinner for the next night, and Z was thankful the rest of the week, as we had leftover lasagna almost every day.)

-------------------------

Z has a habit, only when new people come over, of announcing his every move. "Hey, Scott! I am brushing my teeth lying down! Hey! I am walking across the kitchen floor. HEY! I just cleared my throat!" And so on. And while I continually try to teach Z the ethics of social annoyances, he doesn't understand why everyone wouldn't want to know that he "just peed in the hallway bathroom" or that he "just hit his elbow on the table".

I often pull him aside, and say, "Z, we can talk about farts with family and some friends, but not with just any ol' body." Or "Z, we usually don't talk about going pee with company". Or "Z, sometimes it is annoying for people to hear your every thought."

But then I remember, um, he probably gets his social talents from me:

I announce farts. And talk about how I almost peed my pants. And while I don't usually ask our guests why they didn't bring dessert, I have fed them meat without knowing exactly what kind of meat it was. Who does that!? And I might not announce my every move, but I do run my mouth ALOT, and I forget to listen to other people, and most of the time, the things I am saying are just not all that necessary. So, the boy really doesn't have a chance. Unless he starts learning from his dad.

Sorry boy. You're toast.

Blanket Party

We did it.

Sorry, Teresa. The kids loved their blankies so much they were driving us completely crazy. The kids couldn't sleep without them. They wanted to bring them to every place that required sleeping: to Grandma's, on vacation, camping, to their cousin's, and to Rhode Island to see East Coast Nana and Co.

"That is fine," we thought, "we will just make this a lesson in responsibility. If they want to take their blankets, they are responsible for making sure they have them when they leave."

And while the kids did take that responsibility, they always waited until the last second to start looking for their blankies.

And we always let them look.

For as long as they needed.

Because the truth is, we are as attached to the frickin' things as they are.

Those blankies, from their special neonatal nurse, (Z's "Jane" and our friend now), are a reminder of how much our family has been through together. Our friendship with nurse Teresa started because we were in a NICU room with her, watching our babies fight for their lives. And it hurt to be there every day. And it felt hopeless most of the time. And lonely. (Too bad I didn't have a blankie at the time.) And we had to let our tiny daughter go when she too tired to fight. And we had to wonder which one of our kids would be next...which one would require a phone call when we have finally gone home to get some (restless) sleep.

And then...progress, and less beeping on the monitors, and less bad news, and less "we need to let you know"s, and more smiles and growth and hope.
And finally, our kids were big enough to come home, and strong enough to give a blankie to, (knowing that they were in for the long haul and that they would be old enough to appreciate them some day).

(This wasn't the post I meant to write. Sheesh. Stupid blankies are making me all emotional!)

So, the blankies went into the time capsules (aka plastic box with lid). Partly because they were driving us crazy and partly because K and I were scared that, at some point, the kids might have lost or wrecked their blankies somehow, and that loss might be harder on us than it is on them.

After we had "The Talk", and made a big deal out of "The Placing of the Blankies in the Time Capsules", we had dessert, to celebrate being old enough ("five and a HALF") to say goodbye to their blankets.

As we were blowing out candles and eating our Oreo icecream, S said, "Can we have our blankets before we go to bed?"

She said it with a hopeful grin, knowing that the answer was a negative. It was a good, hearty try, and we told her she could have her flowery, holey, sleep-breath-scented thing again when she was eighteen. (We were secretly grateful that they have no concept of time, or this might have been just a little bit more traumatic.)

The kids are doing well. They all slept fine last night.

But I might have to take a quick peek at those darn blankies every so often, when the kids are fast asleep.

Patch

We took a trip to the ophthalmologist the other day.

Apparently, all three kids have the exact same issues. And the issues were explained in technical language that I didn't really understand.

Something about a blind spot. And not 20/20.

I listened to the parts I needed to listen to. Specifically, what my responsibility was in helping my kids.

My job in this eye thing is to patch.

All three kids have to wear a patch for one hour per day. On alternating eyes.

When I was little, I had to patch. But I had to wear the thing ALL DAY LONG. Every day.

To school, to church, to the store. I hated it. As I mentioned once before, my mom tried to make it better by drawing a realistic-looking eye on the flesh-covered cover.

It looked horrible. I probably scared little kids.

Maybe even big, burly men.

So, today, we started the patching process with our kids.

And their patches are much less frightening, I think.

Jogging

I have been running lately. I am running in a 5K on Saturday.

And I haven't run over 1 mile until about three days ago.

And then I ran two.

It was really hard for me. The kind of hard that made me think I would rather die than take one more step.

I remember before I had our kids I would run and feel all healthy and strong.

I smiled while I ran.

Now, when I run, I feel my saggy butt hanging down and hitting my leg. And my stomach muscles are all pulled apart (your fault, kids!), so my stomach is somewhat like jelly and is oh. so. distracting when it is not staying still like it should. And I must need a tighter bra, because those babies aren't behaving either.

Running just doesn't feel like it used to.

But, I just turned 34. Maybe that has something to do with it.