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!

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.