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.
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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.)

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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.

Puke and the Boy

S puked on her lemon custard cake (covered in thick, Crisco frosting) at church on Sunday morning.

As per my usual obsessive pattern, I covered her in antibacterial spray the rest of the afternoon.

Obsession paid off. No one else got sick.

Except maybe Bubs.

Bubs puked Cheerios once while he was crawling across the kitchen floor and Mac-n-cheese another time. I told mom that and she said, "He shouldn't be EATING macaroni and cheese!" Hahahahahahaha! I live to irritate my mom, it seems.

After those two small mishaps (is chunky baby puke a mishap?), he seemed fine. He is happy and healthy now. And busy and curious and FAST.

Did I mention that our baby got big over night? In one week, he got two teeth, started crawling, learned how to sit from laying down, and now pulls himself up to standing on whatever is in his reach (siblings' legs, toilets...)

Today, the boy opened the cupboard under my sink, turned over the garbage, and was trying to eat dental floss and grape vines/stems while I took a very quick trip to the bathroom. (Do I need to tie him down while I pee? Hold him on my lap?!) I think he gets into more stuff than my other kids did. Or else I forgot already. It seems like he just crawls from one thing to the other all day. I thought he was easy when he started crawling, because he could entertain himself more.

I was wrong.

Now he's tipping small couch-side tables over (the red one in the photo), getting stuck under kitchen chairs, tearing apart our books (the white one in the photo), eating magazines....

Every time I turn my back, the kid is on a mission to destroy. Sheesh.

Play

I am all shades of feeling bad tonight.

We were eating lunch (well, I was cutting up food for M, pouring milks, refilling plates), and Z asked, "When is Papa coming home?"

I thought maybe he wanted to work on the clubhouse with K and I wanted to let him know it'd have to be after his quiet time. "After your quiet time. Why?"

"Well, I just like him better." (Fork through heart)

Of course, that begs the question, "How come?", which was answered with a "He plays with us more."

And I just didn't respond. And I really don't think he was trying to make me feel bad. He said it all matter-of-fact. Like he was saying just any old fact; like the table was brown. Or B picks his nose and eats it. Or balls are round.

"I just like him better..."

And it kills me, because I feel like I do play with them. I just played Simon Says and read piles of books with them. But I also did the laundry, changed and fed M, cleaned up breakfast, made beds, and planned my menu for the week.

I know that I don't play with my kids as much as K does. He works at work.

I work at home.

I have way more stuff to do at home than he does. He has time to play with the kids when he is home, because he is actually DONE working. I still have laundry and dishes and bills and phone calls to make.

I know I shouldn't take it personally. That's dumb. But still..."I like him better?!" Sheesh. Punk.

"The Club House"

Last fall, I took the kids into the woods to make a fairy house. They loved it.

K always has to one-up me, doesn't he?

Naps

When the kids turned four, they switched from taking a nap to doing quiet time. Mostly because the kids appreciate having time away from their punk siblings for awhile. Time to not have to share. Or get along. Or talk nicely. Time to play with books and toys with no interruptions.

Yeah, I like the time out also. To update blogs and stalk people on Facebook. You caught me.

Of course, they can take a nap if they want to. And it seems like S and Z choose to nap at least 4 out of the 6 days that they do quiet time. S always fell asleep on her bed while "reading".
Recently though, the girl got kicked out of her room when M started taking naps in there.

This particular quiet time, she apparently was tired, because she made herself a bed and then promptly laid in it...not to awoken even by her yelling brothers and a picture-taking mom.

I think what finally woke her was the word "brownies" that came in the form of, "Hey mom, will the brownies be gone before S wakes up?"

Suddenly, she appeared on the top of the stairs. Ready for a brownie and some milk.

Genetics

Those three pictures are not all of Soren. Would you have even wondered? If I didn't scan them, and if the quality of the two of S weren't so crappy, I would do a poll and make you guess. I'd sing that song, "One of these three is not like the other...."
Every time I look at that boy, I have flashbacks of our girl. They do similar expressions. They have similar movements, even. Isn't that crazy? That I think they move the same? I didn't even know I noticed that S moved a certain way. Until I saw it repeated in the Bubs.

I don't know if S just has one of those universal looks, or if the Papa's side just has burly genetics...because S also looks alot like her cousin, G. I saw a picture on K's desktop the other day, and I said, "Hey. How'd you get that picture and I've never even seen it?", because I usually take and upload the pictures, you know...

And K said, "Oh. My sister just sent that to me."

And it was only then that I realized that the picture was not of S, but of her cousin, G.




Oh. Also, our boy officially sits now.

The Bullet Dodger

About a week ago, a friend asked, "So, what is M doing lately?", and I couldn't even think how to answer, because, "What do babies do exactly?" But I mentioned that he babbles some, he sleeps some, and he rolls (a little less than) some. He would roll maybe twice a day, and that was past his quota.

He was done.

No more rolling.

Way too much work.

But lately, the littlest boy is getting around more. He doesn't crawl yet, but do you remember how Jack Bauer rolls when he is dodging enemy bullets? Our boy can roll like that.

Not quite. But close.

I will lay him down in one spot, and I will come back to find him on the other side of the living room. Sometimes he has managed to wedge himself half-way under the couch or under the wicker chairs.

So I have been reminding the kids to pick up their little toys when the rolling boy is anywhere near them.

I laid M in an empty room, only to return, minutes later, to this:




And this:



I reminded the kids again to pick up their swallowable (my own vocabulary, yes?) things.

They did.

The rolling boy didn't care. He just started playing with the big things, experimenting to see which parts he could still successfully stuff in his mouth.

The problem with the big toys is that he usually ends up pulling them over on himself and getting hurt. These pictures were taken just minutes apart. He pulled the stroller over on himself, knocking himself in the forehead.

I took it away.

When I returned, the roller had made his way to the big pet shop and had turned it over onto himself as well.
He'll learn soon enough, I suppose.

And just for you, Rach...

Breaded Pigs

Tonight, K made breaded pork chops. Z asked what kind of meat pork chops were.
"Pig", I said.
He studied his plate for a minute and asked, "Do pigs have breadcrumbs on them like that?!"
And somehow, K managed to squeak out (without laughing), "No, pigs don't. I added the breadcrumbs before I put them in the oven."

Teapot Murders

Before we begin, it has been brought to my attention that one might need a small vocabulary lesson in order to fully understand this story:
Main Entry:

fart machine

Pronunciation:

\fah-ert mosh-een\

Function:

noun

Date:

2007 (?)

Definition: A fart machine is a small, black circle with a speaker on it. Out of the speaker comes all varieties of flatulence. There is a remote with it, so that the person holding the remote can put the speaker under someone or something (a chair, perhaps?) and then go to another room to push the remote. It creates all kinds of surprise for the person sitting on or near the machine and hilarity for the person holding the remote.

Okay then, on with the story...

How many movies can you count where the lonely, relaxed woman sports a thin robe, warms up the stove for a cup of tea, and goes to relax in the other room? The tea kettle whistles, the music gets more and more dark and animated, and we know her end is imminent.

I felt like that woman today. I had the tea kettle experience.
K took the kids out, so I could get some homework done. All was quiet...

Except for a man's voice. One that was hardly audible. But still, a man's voice. If we lived in the city. No problem. Probably a neighbor or something. Out here? We don't have neighbors. At least not neighbors that we'd be able to hear...

My mind whirred with all of the men that K might have pissed off in his sermons and with all of the ways that they might want to get back at him.

They'd want to hurt his loved ones, of course...

His wife.

I got up slowly from the couch, and then thought, "It isn't really a man. It has got to be the radio."

I tiptoed to the radio.

Nope. (gulp)

K's computer?

Off. (hmmm)

The basement?

Possibly, but did I want to check?

No. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen anyway.

And then, just like the teapot scenario, B's (ahem) fart machine started going off. I knew I had just seen the remote to that thing in the bathroom.

On the counter.

I raced to the hallway to see if it was still there. It wasn't. At least, I couldn't see it from where I was.

Again, I tiptoed.

This time down the hallway. To B's room. Where the farting persisted.

Was my death about to come to me by way of an animated human fart? I didn't know, but my homework wasn't getting done. I was being distracted, and I was annoyed. I would possibly kill the murderer just out of sheer annoyance.

I opened the bedroom door.

Nothing, except the loudly farting (and hiding) machine.

I searched through countless toys until I found the thing and quickly flipped the off switch.

But still...when would my killer come? I knew I had heard him somewhere in the house. He now had baited me into position. I had to get out of this room. Quickly. (I was seriously scared!)

All espionage-like, I made myself one with the walls, and slid silently down the hall, to the kitchen again. The male voice was louder, closer....

And it was coming from K's ipod. On the kitchen counter.

There is absolutely no good ending, (I mean, I'm not dead, and that is good) but if I was an author (and I'm clearly not), this ending would suck, because the conclusion is this:

For some freak reason, the frequency in our house went wacky (or something), causing the fart machine and K's ipod to start going off simultaneously. I still don't understand it. K said that happens sometimes. (?)

All I know is that I am happy to not have been wooed to death by a fart machine. That would have just been embarrassing.

I Wonder How He'd Look if He Wasn't a Pacifist

See that mighty knight? And the eye-patched pirate? They are trying to protect the princess from the evil enemy. The princess was actually doing a pretty impressive job whooping the enemy's butt herself, but you know...we let the boys think they were helping anyway. Male chivalry is important, I guess.

To them.

Not to me.

By the way, if you read this said enemy's blog, you might think he was a pacifist.


I just have a hard time believing that sometimes. I don't know why.

Clothes and Drawings

Z informed me that "turkeyflage" is much more practical than "camel-flage', because "we don't really shoot camels around here! Who cares if camels can see us or not!?"
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B has been drawing like crazy. Not that long ago, he asked me how to draw a dalmatian.

I showed him. An oval for a head, then a big, black nose, two dots for eyes, and some little, black ears. He watched me, and made one similar. It was one of the first drawings he's done that actually looks like the thing he was copying. I was proud. I had him sign it, and I dated it and hung it up.

My sister came over, and said, "B, nice picture!"

"My mom made that," he said.

And no matter how much I tried to tell her that I wasn't guilty, she still looked pretty unconvinced in the end.

I threw it away, and I quickly decided that he no longer can copy my drawings.

Only originals from now on, baby!
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S asked if she was big enough to pick out her own clothes, "because the boys always do", and I was thinking, "Yup, but they only have cachis and jeans...you can't really screw that up!" Finally, she won me over, and I thought, "Oh well. She can't screw up TOO bad. She really only has SOME jeans with colors and stuff on them...maybe she won't pick those..."
I was right. She didn't pick those flowery jeans. She picked a skirt. And tights. Huh.

Good try, sunshine! We might wait awhile to try the independent dressing thing again.

Random Stuff About Your Mom

I thought I should paste this list here, because I wouldn't want my kids to miss out on how cool their mom was....

1. I used to have to wear an eye patch to school, and my mom drew an eye on the top of it to make it look better. I probably scared people.
2. I scratched my best friend's eye, and she had to wear a patch WITH me for a week. I thought that was cool. She didn't.
3. When we used to have those desks that slanted towards us, our teacher rearranged the room so we were facing another classmate. My desk partner puked on my desk, and it rolled down my desk towards me. I escaped just in time.
4. I used to think that I was mentally impaired, and my family just didn't want to tell me.
5. When I was in 8th grade, I transferred to a new school. The teacher asked where I was from, and I said, "I'm from Mars." Well, actually I said, I was from MARNE, but everyone thought I said Mars, and they started calling me Tard. I KNEW IT! ( see #4)
6. I say dumb things to people all the time, like when I asked a former classmate (a guy) what his name used to be or when I told a guy (who was all thankful for the good care the funeral home people gave his wife and who was all teary-eyed that they cared so much to make her look so beautiful), "Oh. Well, that's their job." (see #4)
7. I used to think that I had such long toes because I was gonna be in some big tragic accident that left me with severed hands. I would need my toes to write and draw.
8. I bleached my eyebrows gone once when I decided that Hydrogen Peroxide would be a good thing to clean my face with. I didn't realize my eyebrows were gone until people started asking about them. (see #4)
9. I have to pluck my nose hairs all the time.
10. Someone asked me if my kid was my grandkid just a few months ago.
11. Someone asked me if my sister was older or younger than me. She's TWELVE years older than me, darn it all!
12. I got in an accident once, when I first got my license, and we weren't sure if the noise was our car being crashed or if our music was just up too loud. (see #4)
13. Then, I drove away from the accident, because I didn't know you needed to stop. (see #4)
14. Someone chased us down.
15. I'm doing this stupid list instead of doing my homework.
16. I've been in seminary for SEVEN years.
17. I still have two more years to go. One class per semester...
18. I hope I can use my degree some day.
19. My kids all look more like my sister-in-law than me.
20. When I go away with her, people automatically ask HER if they are twins, how old they are, and what their names are.
21. When I first got married, K took a big ol' bite of uncooked rice, because I followed the recipe, and it said, "Serve over rice". It didn't say "cook the rice first"! (see #4)
22. I haven't improved much.
23. My kids have eaten candy every day since Halloween. The other day, they ate a popcorn ball, a sucker, and Kool-aid for dinner. (That's really true, Cind!) :)
24. I'm done. No more Random Things. I've got to go play "Knock Over the Other Person's Army Guys" with B.
25. Okay, one more. I have scars all over the place. Most of them are from when I tried to show off for a cute guy by pedaling my bike really fast down a steep paved driveway that curved at the end. (I fell, sliding on my knees, hands, and face.) The other ones (the ones on my hands) are from getting bitten by Alroy, my favorite biting human ever. He lived in the group home I used to work at.

Bubs is Almost an Adult

Some friends said I should blog more about Bubs, because they still feel like he is a tiny baby, and they were surprised to see he was a near-adult when they came to visit recently.

I agreed to do so.

But in attempting that feat, I realized I have little to say:

He still does all the same stuff. He's just bigger.

He eats, and he is mostly content with the every 3 hour set-up. Once in a while, he gets mad that I am not a "24 Hour Drink Bar".

He poops. Alot.

He cries when Z kisses him too much, but is otherwise pretty smiley.

He rolled over two times, and then decided that was way too much work for his cellulitey body.

He drools lakes-worth.

He is cute. Very cute.

And he is good entertainment when S's toys have lost their appeal.

Water

Our trip to GWL was better than I expected. The room was HUGE, and the kids had their own little room/log cabin entirely. And their own TV. I never knew what a blessing that could be. Woohoo! We weren't stuck watching Dora when we really wanted to watch 24.

The waterpark was completely age-appropriate for them. When I called before-hand, the receptionist said our kids wouldn't be able to go on some of the bigger slides, so I was picturing these wimpy baby slides for them while K and I took turns on the big ones.

When we got there, the kids could actually go on almost everything by themselves, including two really long slides, and K and I could take them with us on the three really big inner-tube slides.

I literally had to carry a clinging, crying S up a ROPE LADDER (imagine that, will ya?) and shove her terrified, shaking body down the long slides the first time (before the attendant noticed and told me to stop), because I knew she would like it if she would only just try it.

"Like it" ended up being an understatement. The girl spent most of her day in a constant cycle; going up and down those two yellow and red slides, over and over again. They actually ended up being her favorite thing of the day.

Ahhh, what a little "mom pressure" can do...

There was also a regular swimming pool, a gigantic shallow pool (that I sat in with M alot), and a hot tub.

We stayed for 10 hours the 2nd day.

We'll go back next year.

Five Years Ago, again

When my brother died, I was ten. I remember not knowing how to be on the anniversary of his death. Was I supposed to pretend like it was like every other day, so my parents wouldn't have to remember? Was I supposed to be sad? Was I supposed to be happy, so they wouldn't feel bad about my remembering?

Of course, I grew up, and realized that my parents were thinking about Nate anyway, so it wouldn't hurt to acknowledge the day. And I didn't have to pretend to be happy or sad. I just needed to let my parents know that I still remembered.

Today, five years ago, we lost our Adeline. We didn't want our kids to have that same pressure I felt. We didn't want them to feel pressured into sadness on this day.

At some point, when they are older, the kids might have questions. They might be more affected than they are now. They might be sad at not having had time with their sister. We want to open to talking with them. We want them to feel good about asking those questions. On the other hand, the kids might not be affected by having lost Adeline. They hardly got to meet her. We want them to feel free to not be emotional as well.

So, we decided that we, the parents, should acknowledge the day, (so that the kids don't have to tiptoe around it), and talk about how sad losing Adeline made us feel. Then, because we are thankful for our healthy kids, and we are thankful that Adeline is having a riot with Christ, we can use this day too have fun together too. A day to thank God for our family.

Maybe none of that makes sense to anyone. It doesn't have to. I just know that I would rather acknowledge our sad feelings, remembering Adeline, and then move on from there to thankfulness, for her time with us here, for her good ol' time with Christ now, and for the gift that God gave us in the family we have with us here.

We chose today to go the Great Wolf Lodge. The kids are excited. I must be too, because I couldn't sleep when I thought about getting to go on water slides all day.

FIVE!

The big kids had a birthday. They are five years old.
Z said, "When I was sleeping, I was four, and then I turned five. When I woke up, I was bigger and stronger!" And it seems pretty close to the truth. These five years flew by.

Christmas Money

We are going to the Great Wolf Lodge! A indoor water park and hotel. The hotel offers "a Kid Cabin suite sleeping area with a bunk bed, a day bed and their own TV. In the main portion of the suite the adults have a queen bed, and a corner gas fireplace." Woohoo!

My Grandma gives us money every Christmas, and usually I throw it into our bank account, and end up using it for groceries or gas or something. But THIS year, B saw her give me the envelope, as she said, "Merry Christmas to your kids!"

He asked, "What did Mooka (Grandma) give to you?"

"Money for Christmas", I said.

"What will we DO with that money?", B said.

And I realized that this is the first year that we would actually have to devote that money towards something fun for the kids. I'm sure my Grandma would be glad, as she probably didn't know that her Christmas money went towards tampons, milk, and wheat bread.

So we decided that we should spend it on something that we could do as a family.

Thus, the Great Wolf Lodge...

(Hey, Auntie Ange, this would be a good time for you to come visit us. At least we would be out of the cold winter wonderland for one night!) :)

Happy, Merry, Late Christmas