M Facebook Updates

Hey! Who has been praying with M?! I always say, "Jesus, thank you for..." and then let him say some stuff he is thankful for. Last night, I said, "Jesus, thank you for..." and he responded, "BOOBIES!" Papa!??

I found M, on my bed, holding a tampon, an empty Hersey's wrapper, and a tube of toothpaste. Ah, the necessities of life....

M put on Z's muscular Spidey suit, looked down, and exclaimed, "I have man boobs, mom!"

M said he wanted more cereal in his bowl. I told him he had TOO much. He said, "I want THREE much, mom!"


In the last week, M peed in his bed two times. He doesn't want to wear diapers anymore, because he's a big boy, but I don't want to wash his sheets again. I was putting on his cloth diaper cover over his undies, and he said, "Is that a DIAPER?!" I said, "No, it's an undie cover." And he said, "No, mom. It isn't. It hasta be a band aid." So, the boy is wearing a "Band aid" to bed, I guess.

M: "Mom, what's that on your neck?!"
Me: "It's a scarf, Bubs."
M: "Oh. Are you a scarecrow??!!"

A little confused about how to get these on.

Some Facebook Updates about Z

How come Zeke unscrewed the salt cover just enough so I didn't notice but enough so that it poured a giant pile into the dozen eggs I had mixed to make omelets?

How come Zeke had to quick touch the raw chicken on the counter? And why, when I said, "Zeke, don't touch that. That can make you sick!", did he LICK his finger off?

How come Beke's just cut up a caterpillar with my scissors?
"Because it could be poisonous, mom. I didn't want poison around here."
That sucks, then, that you used my KITCHEN scissors to do it, doesn't it, Beeks!?

Beeks puked, then wanted pizza. Guess who thought that sounded like a fine idea? E'hem. Not me.

The kids were playing 20
questions. It was Z's turn to think of an object, so he hinted (as he always does), "Ask me if it says,
'Woof!"
B said, "Does it say, 'Woof'?"
"No," said Zeke, "September
already asked that!"
The answer? An electric horse that zaps electric currents when bugs come by it.
No one wants to play with him anymore.

Poop and Teeth and Lightning

Bubs has not pooped or peed on my foot, on the carpet, or any other non-toilet target for at least seven days. (Oh. Except once after his nap, he said, "I hadta poop," and he had pooped in his new, ugly Cars undies. I asked why he didn't tell me he needed to go, and then realized the door was shut and he was on the 2nd floor at my mom's house. I wouldn't have heard him if he did call, and he can't open doors yet, so his logical explanation ("I was takin' a nap") was a good one.) He's been dry at night, and even when I don't (usually) remember to have him go first thing in the morning, he has stayed dry until I do.

We are officially diaper-free! Woot! Woohoo! I cleared off the changing table, took pictures of his diapers for Ebay, and threw the Desitin in the trash. The kid gets it.

At first, he made us crazy, because he'd yell, "Mom! I'm peein'!" or "I'm poopin', Papa!" We'd sprint over to where he was, throw him on the potty, and then...he'd wait a second before he proudly went. I realized this week, that when he says he's peeing, he just means that he needs to. I (now) calmly say, "Go to the potty..." and he does. He steps on his "baby potty" to get on the "big kid" potty, poops, checks it out, flushes, and washes his hands. He'd like to wipe himself, but I don't like the poop-smeared-up-the-butt look, so I'm waiting awhile before I let him conquer that on his own.

He's big.

I'm going to have him teach our older kids how to tie their shoes later this week. And maybe I'll put him on the schedule for making dinner.

Also, S lost lots of teeth lately. Last week, she lost a front tooth. The tooth fairy had to collect two teeth that night. One from B and one from S. The frickin' loser of a tooth fairy forgot, as usual, and then S heard that another girl she knew got FIVE dollars. They're going to realize the tooth fairy sucks pretty quick-like here. Maybe we should tell her the tooth fairy is senile? Or that her wings break pretty often? That she got stuck talking to Santa Claus on her way over? And about the lack of funds...um, maybe people in Baldwin lose more teeth?
S won't show anyone her (lack of) teeth anymore, because she "found out that whenever [she] does show people, they just start laughing at [her]!" And while I tried to convince her that people laugh when they think something is really cute, I can't help thinking she's looking more and more like a Halloween pumpkin every day. A really adorable pumpkin, of course.

That cat that looks like Stripey there? It's not.
That's Lightning. Our Stripey replacement. M cannot get it through his head that he's a different cat. He keeps saying, "That's Light-en-nen? He's Stripey, he's Light-en-nen because Stripey got run over? He's Stripey?" I'm not sure where his logic goes there, exactly, but I think he thinks Stripey got run over, (didn't die, just got run over), so now we renamed Stripey Lightning, for some reason that's beyond his understanding. Or something.

Stripes

Our cat got run over a few weeks ago. We finally told our kids. We wanted to make sure that it actually was Stripey that got killed before we told them that. It'd be too confusing to tell them that maybe Stripey was dead, and then have him trotting into the garage a few days later.

It's been a long time now, and Stripey still hasn't shown.

He was really needy for an outdoor mouser. Constantly rubbing against our legs and knocking down poor M. Always sprinting to the house from who-knows-where anytime the door was opened. Meowing annoyingly any time we were outside playing. BUT he was a nice cat. Patient when M, as a baby, would pull his tail. And he played along with the kids' games when they would pretend he was a tiger, who of course, needed to be placed on the trampoline (circus ring) or hauled up the stairs of the swing set. He complied when the kids wanted to hand feed him, one piece of food at a time, and he sometimes left his random dead bird or mouse part in the yard to show how much he loved us.
He'll be missed by all of us. Even if my eyes are a lot less itchy these days.

Bye, Stripe. We loved you, and we're sorry if your name went against the cool attack cat image you maybe wanted to portray.

Ornan

Bubs is two tomorrow. I'm serious when I say he was hardly a baby. He went from laying on my chest in the hospital to walking around the house, saying, "Hey Mom, ya know what?!" and telling Knock, Knock jokes. All in about two months. Maybe six.

He wasn't very old when he started climbing to the boys' top bunk. For awhile, I took away the ladder, but he started climbing his sister's bunk, and the ladder is part of the bed. We decided he'd just have to be big enough to understand, "Go down the LADDER. NOT over the side. If you go over the side, you could die."
And now he still crawls up, points to the railing, and says, "Dangerous? Don't go DOWN there??" And I agree that yes, it is, and no, he shouldn't.

The boy climbed before he could walk, and it seems that he was wheeled out of the delivery room reciting the Webster's Dictionary. He has whole conversations with his Batman and Spiderman guys: "You are pink?" (voice change to low) "No, I am blue." (Everything is blue...colors are not his thing) "I think you are blue. Are you wanting to eat?" (voice change again) "No, I want to go away." (voice change) "Can you get your shoes on then??" And so on.

It's usually something worth mentioning if M is quiet for more than 30 seconds. B said today, "Mom, M is being quiet!" And I reminded B that M's mouth was stuffed full of peanut butter. He couldn't get his lips apart.

The thing is? He can say every word you ask him to say, including Gabrielle, licorice, and elevator (which the big kids still call an alligator). But ask him to say his name, and the kid cannot get it out. "I'm Ornan," he announces, "Ornan Micah. I am gonna get the bad guys."

So, Happy Birthday Big Boy Ornan. We're glad that we know you. You are a RIOT to have around. Love you tons and like crazy!

Idiots

I'm sure you've all had this at some point or another in your life: People make rude comments or give unsolicited advice. People insinuate that they are better somehow. In some ways, it's playground talk. It's trying to make themselves feel better by criticizing the way you do things. It's a step more mature (?) than what we did when we were six.

My boys met a kid at the (not so) local playground the other day. They became fast "friends".

The kid was on the largish side.

Soon enough, some little punks started mocking the kid: "Hey Fat Kid!" Soon after that, my kids were also being called "Idiots".

Apparently, the five-year old twin boys thought they were cool, because they were skinnier than the big kid and taller than our short kids.

I wondered what my boys' response would be. Would they side with their new-found friend? Would they mock him to avoid being mocked? Would they fight? Would they cry?

I watched as one of the kids lightly punched Z in the arm; not enough to hurt him, but enough to show that he was, indeed, very tough. Z calmly looked at him, and said, "................."

I didn't know what he said. I couldn't hear him. I just saw the kid kind of slump down and walk away, and I called Z over to ask him what went on.

He said, "I told him if he wanted to play with us, we would play, but ONLY after he stopped being so mean. And so he walked away."

And I was proud. The kid gets it. You don't have to hit back. You don't have to join in the mocking. You don't have to make a big deal of it. You don't have to get defensive. You just state the facts, clearly and objectively. In adult words, it would sound like: "You are welcome to be my friend when you are treating me respectfully. You can find someone else to spend your time with if you plan on being an ass. Thanks."

I like that. I should learn from my son. I guess I just have. Thanks, young, wise boy. :)

#4

First, I'd like to say that I am giving potty-training a break for awhile. So far, my couch got pooped on. And recently, M was looking a little guilty-like. All the tell-tale signs, ya know? Standing with his back against the wall; statue-still; looking at me like he wondered if I could SEE his poopy butt with my magic mama eyes...
I said, "M, did you poop? Come here." And he did come, and he did poop.

I know because it fell out of his undies and onto my foot.

Besides those two incidents, he generally just pees and poops in his undies when he feels like it, and continues living his life.

So, we are done for now....unless, of course, people have any potty-training advice that could do our family (and my sanity) well.


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

Some of you will laugh (Beth) about this. But here goes. I think I am actually smart. Like intelligent smart. I think that only because I have done really well in school. I like to write research papers. And I generally understand academic subjects easily. But I'm feeling a little gypped (ALOT, maybe) in the common sense area. Is it common sense I lack?

I'm just ditzy. What IS that?

For instance; take today:

Incident #1: I seriously got on my hands and knees and scrubbed all of my tile. Our whole house. Fifteen minutes later, I let the kids decorate cookies. With rainbow frosting. And sprinkles. Even the (almost) two-year-old.

The clean-up sucked. But the decorating part was fun.

Incident #2: Tonight, we went to a friend's cottage, and I took S out on the Sea-Doo.

And seriously.

I got lost. I think, when I circled back around, I didn't circle far enough, so I never passed their cottage again. I thought about doing another circle back, but wondered if I would just miss it again and screw myself up even more. You can only go counter-clock-wise in the lake, (or I would have backtracked the other way) so I ended up going around the WHOLE lake to get back. 15 mph; searching each cottage for the yellow star I knew was SUPPOSED to beacon my return.

Our friend had to come find me on another Sea-Doo, and I followed him back to his dock. (Stop laughing!) :)

Incident #3: I was helping wash dishes in a two-bowl sink. I was washing the dishes in one bowl. All fine, right? Except I was also rinsing the dishes by running water into that same bowl. When the water would get to the top, I'd reach in and pull up the drain little. It wasn't until my friend wisely suggested I run the rinse water into the OTHER bowl that I even realized what I was doing. I think she might have said something like, "Um, maybe you should rinse the dishes in this sink, so you don't have to keep almost overflowing the other sink." Huh. Surprising. I never would have thought of that, because at MY house, I always have clean dishes DRYING or already DRY in that sink, so I don't want to get them all wet again.

The question, then, would be "But there were no dry dishes in HER sink, right?!"

And the answer would be, "No. There were no dry dishes in her sink. Exactly why this is Incident #3. Be quiet."

Incident #4: We ate Klondike Bars.

Harmless, enough, right? Well, it MIGHT have been, except....
For some reason, I bit around the bar instead of simply sticking to one side. Do you know what happens when you do that? You probably don't, because most likely, you wouldn't do that. (E'hem.) It's a little like eating the bottom out of the icecream cone (which I have also done, as has my oldest son, Z, on many occasions). The icecream melts much more quickly, and it slides around, and there is no chocolate edges to keep it in, and pretty soon, it is all down your arm and elbows, possibly on your face....And I looked around and realized that everyone else wasn't even THINKING about their Klondike Bar. They were chatting it up; eating it normally, most of them holding it by the wrapper (Imagine!) so they didn't get melted chocolate all over their hands. (Oh. Huh.)

Once in awhile, especially on nights like these, I am reminded of #4 on my List of 25 things.

I'll say this first though. I might be ditzy, if that is what you call my predicament. And I don't really like THAT about me. But I do have lots of fun. And life is pretty funNY.

Cowboy Dan, for lack of a better title

I went camping last week. Almost alone (with four kids), because K was at a conference all week. Getting ordained and stuff. (And probably wishing he could trade the boredom for some cheesecake at Cafe Latte and some good ol' big kid fishing.) I think I'll talk about some of that stuff later, but as of now....

M just POOPED on the couch. A big long poop. I don't know how he did it, exactly. He had big boy undies on, and he was walking around the house, making his army men talk ("Hi Fred! I am not Fred! Oh. I did not know that. I am Cowboy Dan. Hi Cowboy Dan!") Seriously. That was the conversation, exactly.
So, he was walking around....
And all the sudden, he walked over to the couch, and said, "IS THAT POOP!?" (all surprised), and of course, it was, and it was his.* This was approximately the same second that Z knocked S's front tooth out. Blood everywhere. (And screaming. Lots of screaming.) And I was on the phone. Of course, her tooth was loose, but not THAT loose. The story goes she tickled him, he threw his head back (onto her tooth), and the thing popped right out. Z and B are jealous. "That's worth a whole six quarters, S!"

She looks weird. Like a gremlin or something. Maybe when the tooth hole isn't so bloody, it will look better. Here's hoping....

(I have no pics of the gaping tooth hole, because she wouldn't let me take one.)

*I put the cushion cover in the wash, but I'm kind of secretly hoping it gets wrecked in there, because I would really like a new couch....


Aren't big boy undies so freakin' cute?

Popeye and Papa

The boys have been watching Popeye. They see the spinach addiction this crazy sailor has, and they don't care. He's a hero, with or without the addiction. As a matter of fact, they decided to try to take up the [disgusting] habit.

So, these crazy boys of ours requested cans of spinach in their prize bucket, and they have been working diligently at earning six stars on their reward chart; three days in a row.
Tonight was the lucky night.
They quickly, and with great professional ease, popped open that flip lid, slugged down some spinach (nasty!), and ran to beat up their Papa.

Apparently, kicking the crap out of Papa is their one and only dream come true, because they were HAPPY boys tonight.

Stars

I noticed that I don't often mention S. And really? It's because she spends her life trying to be perfect. There are no stories of mischief or disobedience. No back-talking or crazy impulsive moves.

The girl hasn't lost a star on her star chart in weeks. Maybe months.

Her biggest fault is the fact that she tattles on others sometimes. She just doesn't understand why someone wouldn't follow the rules.

The girl has "I stayed in my bed" on her star chart. Not because she gets up, necessarily, but because we had to write something in those waiting blanks.

I was in the basement, doing laundry, when I heard her calling me, a little desperately. I peeked in her door, and said, "Honey, what do you need?"

"I need to go to the bathroom!"

"Go!"

"But mom, that would be getting out of my bed!"

"Honey, you can get out of your bed if you need something. Like if you need a drink of water or if you need to go to the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay. Thank you." (The kid thanks me for everything.)

"MOM!"

"What, honey?"

"Is it okay that I yelled?" (Apparently, she is well aware of the boys' star chart too, because "I asked for what I wanted nicely, instead of yelling" is on B's.)

"Yes. You were just using a voice that I would actually be able to hear."

"Oh. Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Thanks."

Mental

Today, an elderly lady came over, from the church.

Z, of course, was in a costume. Cat in the Hat this time. His little face peeking out from underneath his candy-cane striped hat.

"He's usually in a costume of some kind", I explained.

"You should look that up on Google to see what that means", she replied.

I must have looked confused.

"To see what that means, mentally, I mean", she replied.

Huh.

The Trade

So, as I was saying....

Basil arrived home with a penny and much, much more.

We were still in the van, driving through the endless trees to our home, when I heard Z say, "YUM! This is the best cookie ever!" (They weren't. They were dry and stale-looking.)

I said to K, "Wow! B just SHARED!!! Can you imagine!? He SHARED! Without us even suggesting it. Amazing. We should encourage him. This might be a first! We should give him a quarter to reinforce kind behavior!" (Really. I am not exaggerating. The kid doesn't naturally share. Ever.)

And then........

And then, I heard B say, (in a little-kid evil villain voice) "Yes! All the toys in our room are mine. All mine!"

I turned in my seat, and said, "Um, what was that, dear sharing son of mine?"

"Z said if I gave him a bite of my cookie, he would give me all the toys in our room. Even his [cherished] zoo keeper."

E'hem.

So much for sharing.

A Dime

The other day, B wanted to stop at the store to spend his DIME.

I said to the boy, "Boy, you will not, in this life time, find anything worth buying for a DIME."

And he stood, head held high, shoulders stiff. (I think that's his "Why do you STILL question me?" look.)

Because we needed bread anyway, we stopped at the grocery store.

He marched down the aisles with great purpose, checking the prices on every kid-level item.

Items that he would never need; like those panty hose eggs I didn't even know they sold anymore.

And hairspray.

Boxes of cereal. And soup.

An older man asked him what he was trying to find, and I told him: "He's looking for something that costs a dime", and the man laughed LOUDLY, and offered, "Good luck to ya, kid!"

B gave him The Look and kept walking. And searching.

While I tried to decide between wheat and rye bread, the boy came upon a magical bin of bulk food cookies. His eyes lit up. "One of these?", he gulped.

I really wasn't sure, because I suck at math, and the price was listed by the pound. I told him he could pick one out, and he could owe me if it was more than the tent cents he had in his grimy hand.

The price of the freaking cookie?

Nine cents.

The kid went home with a penny. He proudly went home with a penny, I mean.

And apparently, he arrived home with LOTS more. I'll get to that tomorrow.

Mr. Z

This is a Z Day, I guess. Let's all sit around and discuss a few of his most endearing traits, Shall we? You know, the traits that could also drive a mom inSANE!?

Trait #1: That whole Immediate Gratification Thing? Ahem. Yup. That's him.
The kid WILL NOT wait for anything. He gave the Taco Bell cashier his change the other day (after we had already paid with a credit card), because he couldn't wait until we arrived at the store to spend it.

We saw a Spiderman figure at Meijers on Saturday. One that shot webs from his fingers and could "climb" walls and stuff. One that said cool things, like "Hey. I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spiderman!" It was on clearance for $6. I asked Z if he wanted to save up for it, and he quickly answered, "No. I don't want to save up for anything." While he still talks about that Spiderman he "SO wanted" at the store, he hasn't changed his mind about saving up for it.

Z helps with various chores around the house, and I'll pay him a quarter or so. He CANNOT WAIT to go out and spend his newly-earned money. He cannot think about anything else. The coins literally burn a hole in his pocket (or something to that effect, because he always seems to lose it) unless he spends it that very day. (It's pretty unlikely that we'll run out the door for him to spend his money, so it has usually disappeared before we get to go anywhere. I keep thinking, "Poor kid." But the truth is, he doesn't really care that much.)

Trait #2: PEOPLE PERSON.
The boy gets his energy; (his happiness, his joy, his ability to LIVE) from interacting with other people.
The kids still have quiet time every day. For two hours. Partly for my sanity. Partly because they are with each other all day, every day, and I think it is good for them to develop the skill of entertaining themselves.
Z can hardly stand it. He used to pop his head out every five minutes (or seconds?) and ask, "Is it done yet?" He can tell time now, so he has no excuse on that end. But he STILL comes out to ask every other question he can think of. "Did we eat lunch?" "When is Papa coming home?" "Can you fix my Spiderman costume (the one that has been broken for the last 2 months)?" "Why is my hair white but B's is brown?"
The rule is he can come out to go to the bathroom, but besides that, he has five minutes added to his quiet time for every time he opens his door. He doesn't care. He just WANTS to see SOMEONE! Usually, he ends up taking a nap; not so much because he is tired, but because he just can't handle the quiet!

(Just a second ago, he opened his door, and I responded with, "E (Proper 1st name even!), shut that door." And he did shut it. I just had to remind him to go IN his room before he shut that freaking door.

The other day, Z was having too much fun outside. I asked him to come in, and he pretended to not hear me. He did come in, finally, but he missed his opportunity to eat lunch. He was a little upset (while not that much effected, because nothing really bugs him too much, really). I said, "Z, usually life is better if you do what we ask you to do." And he said, "Yeah, well, better isn't always funner." And that, folks, is the third trait of our boy's.

Trait #3: Looks for the FUN in Every Situation.
Usually, I am so overjoyed to have a kid that likes to have fun. But sometimes, like when he got bored sitting in church (he was sitting by an elderly friend of his, so I had no control) and decided to walk up the middle aisle and in FRONT of the speaker to find something more fun to do, which involved clomping down the echo-ey staircase and down into the basement. (?!) I could have beat the little punk. (I mean "beat" in the most kidding way possible, so quit giving me that "look", stranger in the booth across from me at Applebees.)

Love you, Beeks. Love you alot.

Balance

My SIL was confessing that she is a perfectionist, AND that she wants to be a perfect mom. I think all of us want to be a perfect mom, and I thought about how I feel about my parenting, and I this is how I feel about it:

Sometimes my kids poop in the bathtub, and then BIGGER kids try to stomp on it. Sometimes I get splashed with that same crap water. And I feel like a crap mom (no pun intended, really!)
Sometimes I make my daughter cry harder than she already was by minimizing what she thinks is a BIG BIG deal.
Sometimes my son describes my friend as that "BIG HUGE FAT LADY?", and he tells people at church that his grandpa farts too loud.
Sometimes my kids tell me I yell too much and that I don't play with them enough.
BUT then...just the other day, one of my sons pulled out a chair for me when we went out to eat for my birthday. And I heard him tell the waitress "thanks for dinner".
And my daughter told me that she's glad that she can help take care of her little brother. And my other son said I was a "good mama" because I made some really crappy sweet-n-sour chicken (overcooked rice and chewy chicken). And just recently, my son told his sister she was "lovely".
But then...that was because the other son called her a butt head.
I figure it all balances out in the end. At least I hope it does.

Targets

Why did my 19 month old son poop in the tub? And then why did the boys (the youngest one and a six year old) have to stomp on the brownish floating targets....so that I got splashed with poop water when I (heroically) went to "save them" (as they so dramatically requested)?

I don't have those pictures. You don't have to thank me.

Pinch

Z, B, cousin E, and S

We have a daughter, who, despite our constant encouragement, is STILL petrified of doing anything wrong. I don't know why.
Tonight, she came out of her room after she had been put to bed. I said, mostly out of curiosity, "Why are you out of bed already?"
And she had to use all of her super girl powers not to cry.

Because of that one question.

Because she doesn't want to do anything wrong.

Ever.

And. Then.

We have a son, Z, who is CONSTANTLY doing things wrong...and not really caring one tiny bit about it. Actually, he thinks he is pretty darn cool no matter WHAT he does.

In the span of about five minutes, I heard him say, "What the hell!" four times. As in, "What the hell! How can a baby possibly be that strong!?" And "What the hell!? How come you just walked on my face, M?" And "What the hell!?" (because he hit his head on the couch).

After the fourth time, K went to have a "discussion" with Z about it. You know, about how six year old boys can't really say "what the hell" appropriately. (Can anyone?) And how congregation members might not approve. And stuff.

Z shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, "Okay, Papa."

And that was it. He doesn't mind being corrected. It's just a part of life, right? He's still the coolest thing on the planet, correct?!

We went on Spring Break. My Dad rented a house for our WHOLE family to share. 22 people. 13 kids. Z and his cousin, E, (after living together for 5 days), were fighting about whether adults or kids were smarter. Z said adults were smarter and that they were the bosses. E said kids were smarter because "they have bigger heads and bigger brains." Z adamantly disagreed.

Z pinched E.

We had the talk...about how if you are upset, it is best to try to walk away...or get an adult to help you work it out...something besides pinching or hitting...and then we went to the beach.

E had a pretty good pinch mark, so I said, "Sheesh, E! Look what Z did to your arm!"

E, now a proud victim, went to show Z the damage that was done.

"Look what you did to my arm, Z!"

And Z, beaming, announced, "Yup! I sure am a good pincher, aren't I, E?!"

And E, a little stunned, said, "Yeah. You are." And they were buddies again.

Facebook is Evil

I spend too much time on Facebook. By the time I finish learning about everyone else's fresh-baked chocolate cookies, beautiful days, and busy schedules, I lack the necessary energy to write about my own life. Or my kids'.

M is close to the same age that my older kids were when I started blogging, and apparently, he comes with much more vocabulary. The kid can not be described as lacking in words.

He says family nicknames, like "Hi Beeksy!" and "Hey Baz." By the end of our 10 day vacation last week, he knew all 22 family members names, including S's new stuffed rabbit.

He knows how his world should go, and he requests that it go exactly as he expects: (He IS our youngest.) He demands (with manners, I might add) his "Bottle, please" every morning, followed by "Seery-oh" and "Down, please" when he is finished.

He announces, with exclamation points, "Poop butt!" when he needs to be changed, and "I farted," when he wants a good laugh.

He kids. He says, to me, with twinkle-eyes, "Hi Papa" and laughs (wide-mouthed) when I remind him that I am his mom.

He prays. He says, "Jesus, Amen." Yes, that's it. But isn't that what we'd all like to say when we are hungry and there are steaming bowls of food going quickly cold in front of us? No? Oh. Well, then.

The kid is a joy. He is happy. Polite. Fun-loving. Adorable. And very, very talkative. I guess he is making up for his really quiet mother, wouldn't you say!?

Yelling

The "conversation" went like this:

Me: "Kids? (pause) KIDS?! (pause) Kids?!"
Kids: (silence)
Me: "Kids!?"
Z and B: "WHAT!?"
Me: "M locked me in the storage room downstairs!"
Kids: "Oh!"
Me, as I waited for the boys to come rescue me, "I guess I'll vacuum in here."

Ten minutes later....

Me: "Z, I thought you were gonna come unlock the door!"
Z: "Why don't YOU unlock it!?"
Me: "I'm LOCKED IN!" Come OPEN IT!"
Z: (footsteps down the stairs, door opens, then...) "Why do you have to KEEP on YELLING?!"

My Kids are Dorks

I guess Facebook makes me get lazy on the blog. I'll try harder, kids, because one day, I'll have this blog saved and printed in books for you. But I don't plan on having my Facebook updates around forever.

So, sometimes, you guys are dorks. You wear Spiderman costumes while you do homework. You like to pretend you are paleontologists; protective goggles and all. You dress up in the worst color combinations imaginable and think that you look superb. Of course, M, you had no choice in the matter. You are forced into wearing diaper covers (only at night) that look strikingly similar to a shower cap; simply because they are cheap.
I'm wondering if dorkiness is genetic, much like red hair and freckly skin. My mom and sisters say I was a dork as a kid: I wore really thick, pink glasses (goggles, my mom calls them now). I always had my face in a book. I used to get 10 books out of the library every week, and I'd have them all read by day three. If I wasn't reading, I was recording myself as I made up my own stories. As you know, I have had a life-long fear that I am mentally impaired, and no one wants to let me in on the truth. (Shut up.)

Yup. I was a dork.

Judging from the outfits your Papa sported in old photos, I'm thinking he wasn't far from being a dork himself.

You kids have little hope. The truth is, though, the sooner you accept your dorkiness, the better off you'll be. If you spend your whole life trying to prove you're not a dork, you'll miss out on a lot of fun.

There was a kid in our school that I was secretly in love with. His name was Jesse Byker. He was a dork. The truth is, he was WAY cooler than any other kid in school. Because he just didn't care. He wore what he wanted. He was interested in dorky things, and he was not apologetic about it. He had fun. He had good friends. He had cool shoes. I think Converse low-tops, if I remember correctly. Except they weren't popular then. (I just stopped blogging to Facebook stalk him. I couldn't find him. I'm kind of all sorts of nostalgic and sad. I wish I could have dated him. I met his wife once, not that long ago. She was kind of crabby. Maybe that's because I told her I'd been secretly in love with her husband for most of our high school careers? I don't know).

Anyway. Embrace yourselves. Love who you are. Don't try to impress anyone. Say yes to what you want and no when you don't feel like it. Some day, when high school isn't your whole life, you'll be glad you wore ugly shoes and that you actually indulged in your love of writing poetry. Some day, someone will love you for your dorkiness. I mean, really. Look at your dad. He's a dork, and I love him! Oh wait. That's because I'm a dork too. Huh.

A Bedtime Prayer

Zeke said, "Dear God, Thanks for people, and animals, and land and oceans, and thanks for wash clothes and sponges; especially that little yellow one named (yell this) SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS!" (which, of course, made me laugh uncontrollably....)

When I finally gained my composure, I said, "Okay, keep praying.") and Zeke said, "Hahahahahhahahahah!"

I laughed again (couldn't help it), but I also got up to leave, and he said, "Hey. I was in the middle of praying!"

I said, (because I wanted to watch a movie and eat a giant bowl of chocolate ice cream) "I have alot of stuff to do. If you want to pray, you have to be serious about it." (Why do we SAY that kind of stuff?! Are we trying to turn our kids away from God!? We want Him to be more boring than ourselves!? Anyway...on to the story...)

Z agreed to seriousness, then said, "God, thanks for water and food, and especially thanks for MR CRABBY'S CRABBY PATTIES!" And we both died laughing and we really WERE thankful for crabby patties, because who isn't!? They are hilarious!