Me: Molly, look at the beautiful sunset out your window.
Molly (joining me): Wow, it's pretty, Mama.
Me: Maybe the Lord will come back tonight. Did you know Jesus is coming back to earth again someday?
Molly: Yes, and then everything that's bad will be good again.
Me: You're right. That will be wonderful, won't it?
Molly: Uh-huh. And then those mean pig-hogs will love people and not bite them.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Susannah is busy "napping," which consists of yelling "I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE!" followed by singing "I'm happy, so very happy! I've got the love of Jesus in my heart" in a deep growling guttural voice punctuated by either long burps or roars. I can't really tell.
I was so hoping that she would sleep and Molly would go to Oma and Opa's house for a while. No such luck! Molly has been having separation anxiety like crazy, even when going to her grandparents house to play. It drives me crazy, since it's not as though I am handing her off to be tortured with sharpened butcher knives, she gets to play on the iPad and eat gummy bears. Speaking of butcher knives, Frankie managed to stab herself in the chest with one. I had a cutting board on the counter with a knife lying on it that I had used to cut apples. It was beneath the cabinet where we keep myriad treats and I had yelled downstairs that indeed she and Molly could have one, while I was putting Susannah down for a nap. They take every advantage when I just want them to be quiet while I read three books, sing My Little Sunshine and arrange four tiny dolls, two purses, four play phones, three stuffed animals and four "cozy blankets." Susannah arranges all of them while she is sitting up and then when she lays down and they all become crooked she yells "AW, YOU METHED ME UP!!!". I digress. So while Frankie was standing on the counter, she somehow slipped off and landed on the butcher knife which stabbed her in the left side of her rib cage. We decided against stitches for two reasons. One, Frankie was screaming that she would rather have any sized scar than possibly go in for stitches and two, I thought perhaps they would call Child Protective Services since the story was too bizarre to be true. Yes, officer, that stab wound beneath her heart was caused by her falling and landing on a butcher knife BLADE SIDE UP.
I was so hoping that she would sleep and Molly would go to Oma and Opa's house for a while. No such luck! Molly has been having separation anxiety like crazy, even when going to her grandparents house to play. It drives me crazy, since it's not as though I am handing her off to be tortured with sharpened butcher knives, she gets to play on the iPad and eat gummy bears. Speaking of butcher knives, Frankie managed to stab herself in the chest with one. I had a cutting board on the counter with a knife lying on it that I had used to cut apples. It was beneath the cabinet where we keep myriad treats and I had yelled downstairs that indeed she and Molly could have one, while I was putting Susannah down for a nap. They take every advantage when I just want them to be quiet while I read three books, sing My Little Sunshine and arrange four tiny dolls, two purses, four play phones, three stuffed animals and four "cozy blankets." Susannah arranges all of them while she is sitting up and then when she lays down and they all become crooked she yells "AW, YOU METHED ME UP!!!". I digress. So while Frankie was standing on the counter, she somehow slipped off and landed on the butcher knife which stabbed her in the left side of her rib cage. We decided against stitches for two reasons. One, Frankie was screaming that she would rather have any sized scar than possibly go in for stitches and two, I thought perhaps they would call Child Protective Services since the story was too bizarre to be true. Yes, officer, that stab wound beneath her heart was caused by her falling and landing on a butcher knife BLADE SIDE UP.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
45
My husband , I realize gets short shrift on this blog. Clearly such wonderful children could not be, as Hillary would agree, raised without a village. And the headmaster of the village is Dean. He is the wind beneath the wings, the rememberer of AWANA patches, the loader and unloader of the dishwasher (kindness, yes, irritation at my stacking abilities, boy howdy), the one who finds extended RV trips genuinely fun, the one who keeps Tim Horton's in business, the tenderest of patient caregivers, the most outraged by customer service.
He has been at my side since he first started teasing me over fourteen years ago leaning over the fragrant remains of the cadaver we were assigned together. When the words "I'm a Christian" came out I was smitten. God brought him to me after a time of great sorrow dating people I thought were good matches. He took Dean and I, different as can be and saw that our hearts fit together to make a unit that has rolled through sickness and health, through more sickness and more and joy and sorrow and we are rolling forever, me and my Milwaukee boy.
He turned 45 this week and he doesn't act a day older as he piles three kids in a blanket and swings them around the house. He still smells good -all the time-no matter how many perennials I've made him dig up in the full sun. He can fix anything; my parents' favorite phrase when a car dies, a refrigerator light won't work, the gutters are askew, is "We'll have Dean take a look at that."
He collects cross-country skis to outfit armies. He picks up toys and picnic tables and bookshelves from the side of the road. He buries dead cats, soothes crying babies, makes lasagna, and loves all things having to do with spicy wings. He sleeps perfectly still on his back, like an sleeping angel and only stirs when someone calls "Daddy!."
Happy Birthday, Dean, I don't tell you enough that you are my dear, dear lover, my fiercest friend, my protector, the father of my precious girls, and my greatest earthly blessing.
He has been at my side since he first started teasing me over fourteen years ago leaning over the fragrant remains of the cadaver we were assigned together. When the words "I'm a Christian" came out I was smitten. God brought him to me after a time of great sorrow dating people I thought were good matches. He took Dean and I, different as can be and saw that our hearts fit together to make a unit that has rolled through sickness and health, through more sickness and more and joy and sorrow and we are rolling forever, me and my Milwaukee boy.
He turned 45 this week and he doesn't act a day older as he piles three kids in a blanket and swings them around the house. He still smells good -all the time-no matter how many perennials I've made him dig up in the full sun. He can fix anything; my parents' favorite phrase when a car dies, a refrigerator light won't work, the gutters are askew, is "We'll have Dean take a look at that."
He collects cross-country skis to outfit armies. He picks up toys and picnic tables and bookshelves from the side of the road. He buries dead cats, soothes crying babies, makes lasagna, and loves all things having to do with spicy wings. He sleeps perfectly still on his back, like an sleeping angel and only stirs when someone calls "Daddy!."
Happy Birthday, Dean, I don't tell you enough that you are my dear, dear lover, my fiercest friend, my protector, the father of my precious girls, and my greatest earthly blessing.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Valentine's Day: Love is Doing And Not
Dear girls,
Something I have been thinking about recently (in addition to how to get away with the perfect icicicle murder):
NEVER purposefully inflict pain on another person, especially someone you've said you love. This encompasses a lot of things, girls. First of all, no pinching. Second, no tripping. Third, no hitting, biting, growling at one another, dirty looks, throwing things or taking another person's helping of strawberries. Life will give you lots and lots of pain all on its own. People you would give all your worldly possessions to heal will die, your cat will have to be buried in the backyard, your health will fail, your friends will move, you might never get to have children even when you desperately want them. Don't add to the misery. If you've vowed to love and cherish someone until death parts you, don't ever be the one who breaks their word. It's you and he against the world. If God gives you a child to love and train, tell them what a privilege it is and mean it. If you have a sister, or are lucky enough to have two, don't speak ugly words that can't ever be erased. If God gives you a husband, make your compliments outweigh your criticisms. If you're a friend, hold hands and pray.
Girls, never ever be a highlighter to the ugly stuff in the world. Don't make it bigger and brighter by your behavior. Your job, when you love someone, is to make pain and hurt in the world fade. It's still there, but you are like a chalkboard eraser, smudging things up so that even though you can still read the words, it's a little bit harder to see them.
Be the first person in the corner for your sister, the first to tell her the world is crazy it's definitely not her, the first one to dismiss one act as not the whole story for the friend you know and love, forgive the unkind word because of thousands and thousands of good ones that your husband has spoken to you.
Cherish the love. Don't escalate the ugliness. God has blessed you abundantly with people who love you. Love them back. Don't make things harder for them. Life WILL do that, IS DOING THAT and will continue to do it and we don't know WHEN. So throw away these disputes, throw them back onto the ugly world they belong, and be the one who is smudging out the hurt.
Something I have been thinking about recently (in addition to how to get away with the perfect icicicle murder):
NEVER purposefully inflict pain on another person, especially someone you've said you love. This encompasses a lot of things, girls. First of all, no pinching. Second, no tripping. Third, no hitting, biting, growling at one another, dirty looks, throwing things or taking another person's helping of strawberries. Life will give you lots and lots of pain all on its own. People you would give all your worldly possessions to heal will die, your cat will have to be buried in the backyard, your health will fail, your friends will move, you might never get to have children even when you desperately want them. Don't add to the misery. If you've vowed to love and cherish someone until death parts you, don't ever be the one who breaks their word. It's you and he against the world. If God gives you a child to love and train, tell them what a privilege it is and mean it. If you have a sister, or are lucky enough to have two, don't speak ugly words that can't ever be erased. If God gives you a husband, make your compliments outweigh your criticisms. If you're a friend, hold hands and pray.
Girls, never ever be a highlighter to the ugly stuff in the world. Don't make it bigger and brighter by your behavior. Your job, when you love someone, is to make pain and hurt in the world fade. It's still there, but you are like a chalkboard eraser, smudging things up so that even though you can still read the words, it's a little bit harder to see them.
Be the first person in the corner for your sister, the first to tell her the world is crazy it's definitely not her, the first one to dismiss one act as not the whole story for the friend you know and love, forgive the unkind word because of thousands and thousands of good ones that your husband has spoken to you.
Cherish the love. Don't escalate the ugliness. God has blessed you abundantly with people who love you. Love them back. Don't make things harder for them. Life WILL do that, IS DOING THAT and will continue to do it and we don't know WHEN. So throw away these disputes, throw them back onto the ugly world they belong, and be the one who is smudging out the hurt.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Lately
Frankie: Frankie is a seven-year-old study in contrasts. On the one hand, she wants me desperately to walk her to the door at school and make sure we have an actual sight-line on her teacher before I leave but on the other hand she says such grown-up things and has such a sarcastic sense of humor that I sometimes forget how short she is. She is probably not growing much for either of two reasons 1) her paternal great-aunts area about 4'11", just shy of midget hood or 2) she comes home with one third of a bite of sandwich and one bite of apple at lunch. Then she hightails it back to her indoor recess. Now in my day, there was no such thing as indoor recess. If there were, I would never have had Scott Stone throw a football at my face and I would never have been able to form that Fart Club with my friends (Silent but Deadly, etc.). I was rather terrified of those large groups of children and would much have preferred reading inside or playing school. Frankie gets to do this twice a day. Somehow she and her girlfriends are allowed to stay in the classroom and putter around for both recess periods. This means she gets exactly thirty feet of walking in per day and maybe that's why one bite of peanut butter and jelly sandwich is probably sufficient for her caloric expenditure/intake needs.
Frankie is an excellent big sister to Susannah. She finds activities for her to do and plays with her in her nursery and guides her by the hand and tries to find snacks for her. She always refers to herself as "Frankie." "Frankie will find some crayons for you to draw with. Should we get beautiful crayons or ugly crayons? That's right, sweetheart, we will get beautiful crayons!" Sadly, when it comes to her middle sister, there is a great deal of yelling and pushing and general irritating one one another. I have told them in no uncertain terms that they WILL be best friends and they better start acting like it. Molly really gets Frankie's nanny by suddenly being uncooperative or losing interest in a game they have started, like playing school. Frankie will be dutifully teaching sight words and suddenly Molly will say "Frankie, I'm not playing this anymore." When I hear that, I grab on to the nearest hard surface and hold on tightly because I know I am going to hear "MOLLY, YOU HAVE TO DO YOUR SIGHT WORDS, YOU CAN'T JUST STOP PLAYING THE GAME! MOLLLY! MOLLLLLLLLLYYYY!!!!" Meanwhile, Molly is placidly making her ponies run races and ignores the wailing and gnashing of teeth. As I recall, my little sister did the same thing. I would be at my wits end and ready to stab her with a kitchen knife just to get some reaction out of her, so I really feel for Frankie even as I am trying to explain that sometimes people want to play a different game and she can't control the universe.
Molly: Molly is turning five next month. She wants to get started on all aspects of her birthday party including baking the chocolate cake. Every day I have to explain why we can't bake the chocolate cake. And every day she is bitterly disappointed. She is also bitterly disappointed with each day's activities. I will play bingo, do a puzzle, teach her some reading, read some books, play My Little Pony, and the next thing I hear is "We never DO anything." She wants a playdate every day and begs me to call my friends. Each hour I hear "Call Miss Carley, Mom. See if Claudia and Jake can come over." On the other hand, she also doesn't like to leave the house. If I announce we are going grocery shopping, she slumps over into a wailing heap. If I announce that she will be spending a few hours with Oma and Opa, suddenly I am the best mom in the whole world and she can't bear to be separated from me. Molly is also very proud of two wardrobe options: one is a sleeveless sundress that she got from her aunt and uncle for her third birthday. The bodice can barely be buttoned and I am quite certain she can't lift her arms above her head. But periodically she will disappear and reappear in that flower-splashed gown to have me tie the sash. I also told her she could buy a dress for her birthday. I made the mistake of saying that in Meijers when we were grocery shopping and we had to hightail it to the kids section post haste. She immediately gravitated to a purple and black rayon number with rhinestones, organza, giant silver hearts and various other hideosities. I hate when I allow my children a say in their wardrobe. Thankfully, she found another dress she liked better at Target, but when I told her it was rather delicate and I didn't want her to wear it around the house all the time, we had to compromise by letting her sleep in it every night. So each evening she is swathed in royal blue pleats and a yellow flower at the waistline. She has other sartorial quirks, including refusing to wear either pair of "Ugg" boots I bought her without wearing three pairs of socks. Do you know how irritating it is to be running late to school and have a child insist on having three pairs of socks put on JUST SO? The answer is highly irritating indeed.
Susannah: Susannah is a constant yakker. If I get the privilege of grocery shopping alone with her, she keeps up a running commentary about what I am doing. "That is chocolate milk. I like chocolate milk! I put it in a big girl cup, Mommy? I no spill. I don't, Mommy. Daddy is at home, Mommy? No. No, he not at home. He at work, Mommy. Oooh, ice cream. I can have it, Mommy? Here, I get it. I can." She got her first haircut a week ago. I trimmed the fifteen hairs that comprised her mullet and she looks so much like Frankie with her teeny weeny bob. Except, much as I was worried about Frankie's lack of hair, I realize we are actually worse off with Susannah's. Like her sisters before her, it gets very fuzzy after naps and refuses to lie down with water and a comb. Maybe I can start flat-ironing it. She remains very cuddly and loves to be kissed and tickled and generally mauled. Except by her sisters. She and Molly yell "NO!" at each other all day long. There is no maternal relationship on Molly's part at all. Sukie is also very presumptous. She helps herself to to an candy she finds without batting an eyelash, she declines to follow orders, she stands on counters to rummage for sweets, she tries to apply mascara or put diaper cream on all her dolls. Then she looks at me square in the eye as though she has a perfect right to do each of these activities and would I please move on so she can proceed.
Sukie also has the wonderful quality of being dissuaded easily. With Frankie, I would dread telling her that she couldn't ride in Dad's car she had to go in Mom's or we were going to skip a book at bedtime because it was so late. I would brace myself for the onslaught of screaming. With Susannah, she will usually object momentarily and then cheerfully say "OK." She has a soft Cabbage Patch doll that she got from her grandparents that she calls her pink baby and carries with her everywhere. When I went to put her to bed the other night, I realized I had left it at my parents' house. I inwardly braced myself to break the news and was convinced I'd shortly be making a phone call begging them to bring it over. I started with a story about how her pink baby was having a sleepover at Oma's and we'd see her in the morning! Brightly! Smilingly! Terrified! But she looked at my joyfully and said "My pink baby. She sleep at Oma's? OKAY!." In that moment, she was definitively my favorite child.
Frankie is an excellent big sister to Susannah. She finds activities for her to do and plays with her in her nursery and guides her by the hand and tries to find snacks for her. She always refers to herself as "Frankie." "Frankie will find some crayons for you to draw with. Should we get beautiful crayons or ugly crayons? That's right, sweetheart, we will get beautiful crayons!" Sadly, when it comes to her middle sister, there is a great deal of yelling and pushing and general irritating one one another. I have told them in no uncertain terms that they WILL be best friends and they better start acting like it. Molly really gets Frankie's nanny by suddenly being uncooperative or losing interest in a game they have started, like playing school. Frankie will be dutifully teaching sight words and suddenly Molly will say "Frankie, I'm not playing this anymore." When I hear that, I grab on to the nearest hard surface and hold on tightly because I know I am going to hear "MOLLY, YOU HAVE TO DO YOUR SIGHT WORDS, YOU CAN'T JUST STOP PLAYING THE GAME! MOLLLY! MOLLLLLLLLLYYYY!!!!" Meanwhile, Molly is placidly making her ponies run races and ignores the wailing and gnashing of teeth. As I recall, my little sister did the same thing. I would be at my wits end and ready to stab her with a kitchen knife just to get some reaction out of her, so I really feel for Frankie even as I am trying to explain that sometimes people want to play a different game and she can't control the universe.
Molly: Molly is turning five next month. She wants to get started on all aspects of her birthday party including baking the chocolate cake. Every day I have to explain why we can't bake the chocolate cake. And every day she is bitterly disappointed. She is also bitterly disappointed with each day's activities. I will play bingo, do a puzzle, teach her some reading, read some books, play My Little Pony, and the next thing I hear is "We never DO anything." She wants a playdate every day and begs me to call my friends. Each hour I hear "Call Miss Carley, Mom. See if Claudia and Jake can come over." On the other hand, she also doesn't like to leave the house. If I announce we are going grocery shopping, she slumps over into a wailing heap. If I announce that she will be spending a few hours with Oma and Opa, suddenly I am the best mom in the whole world and she can't bear to be separated from me. Molly is also very proud of two wardrobe options: one is a sleeveless sundress that she got from her aunt and uncle for her third birthday. The bodice can barely be buttoned and I am quite certain she can't lift her arms above her head. But periodically she will disappear and reappear in that flower-splashed gown to have me tie the sash. I also told her she could buy a dress for her birthday. I made the mistake of saying that in Meijers when we were grocery shopping and we had to hightail it to the kids section post haste. She immediately gravitated to a purple and black rayon number with rhinestones, organza, giant silver hearts and various other hideosities. I hate when I allow my children a say in their wardrobe. Thankfully, she found another dress she liked better at Target, but when I told her it was rather delicate and I didn't want her to wear it around the house all the time, we had to compromise by letting her sleep in it every night. So each evening she is swathed in royal blue pleats and a yellow flower at the waistline. She has other sartorial quirks, including refusing to wear either pair of "Ugg" boots I bought her without wearing three pairs of socks. Do you know how irritating it is to be running late to school and have a child insist on having three pairs of socks put on JUST SO? The answer is highly irritating indeed.
Susannah: Susannah is a constant yakker. If I get the privilege of grocery shopping alone with her, she keeps up a running commentary about what I am doing. "That is chocolate milk. I like chocolate milk! I put it in a big girl cup, Mommy? I no spill. I don't, Mommy. Daddy is at home, Mommy? No. No, he not at home. He at work, Mommy. Oooh, ice cream. I can have it, Mommy? Here, I get it. I can." She got her first haircut a week ago. I trimmed the fifteen hairs that comprised her mullet and she looks so much like Frankie with her teeny weeny bob. Except, much as I was worried about Frankie's lack of hair, I realize we are actually worse off with Susannah's. Like her sisters before her, it gets very fuzzy after naps and refuses to lie down with water and a comb. Maybe I can start flat-ironing it. She remains very cuddly and loves to be kissed and tickled and generally mauled. Except by her sisters. She and Molly yell "NO!" at each other all day long. There is no maternal relationship on Molly's part at all. Sukie is also very presumptous. She helps herself to to an candy she finds without batting an eyelash, she declines to follow orders, she stands on counters to rummage for sweets, she tries to apply mascara or put diaper cream on all her dolls. Then she looks at me square in the eye as though she has a perfect right to do each of these activities and would I please move on so she can proceed.
Sukie also has the wonderful quality of being dissuaded easily. With Frankie, I would dread telling her that she couldn't ride in Dad's car she had to go in Mom's or we were going to skip a book at bedtime because it was so late. I would brace myself for the onslaught of screaming. With Susannah, she will usually object momentarily and then cheerfully say "OK." She has a soft Cabbage Patch doll that she got from her grandparents that she calls her pink baby and carries with her everywhere. When I went to put her to bed the other night, I realized I had left it at my parents' house. I inwardly braced myself to break the news and was convinced I'd shortly be making a phone call begging them to bring it over. I started with a story about how her pink baby was having a sleepover at Oma's and we'd see her in the morning! Brightly! Smilingly! Terrified! But she looked at my joyfully and said "My pink baby. She sleep at Oma's? OKAY!." In that moment, she was definitively my favorite child.
SIgh
Me: And so Mary said to the angel "I am God's servant. Let these things happen to me as you have told me."
Molly: She's lying.
Me: What?
Molly: She's lying! She is going to take a bite of that apple.
Molly: She's lying.
Me: What?
Molly: She's lying! She is going to take a bite of that apple.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
If one tactic fails, try another
Susannah: Mom! Mom! Are you? Are you, Mom?
Me: I'm upstairs!
Susannah: Mama! Mom! Mom! Where are you?
Me: I'm upstairs, baby!
Susannah: Suckskia! Suckskia! Do you hear me?
Me: I'm upstairs!
Susannah: Mama! Mom! Mom! Where are you?
Me: I'm upstairs, baby!
Susannah: Suckskia! Suckskia! Do you hear me?
Monday, November 5, 2012
On a walk
Frankie: "I don't know why cars have to be so dangerous. Why can't they just be made of pickles or something?"
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Zannah Zero
Susannah, at 23 months old, has hit a huge developmental explosion.
First, she is getting taller and thinner. Gone are the days this summer when I would marvel at the size of her backside and how cute cellulite is on babies, but so off-putting on adults. We have long complimented her on her girth. "Little Fatty", "Who's the biggest chunk of change? Who?", "Did you get chubbier overnight? Did you?" and so forth. Swimming this summer, my friend Carley shivered and I sarcastically told her to get a little more body fat, which caused Susannah to pat her belly with a shout of delight and yell "BODY FAT! FAT!" and look around very proudly. Even on the first day of BSF, one of the children's leaders took one look at her and said "Whoa, she isn't built like your other two was. This girl got a shape!." That's what I tell myself when I look in the mirror now. That's not an extra fifteen pounds, DEAN, THIS GIRL GOT SHAPE!
Second, she is getting more physically adept. By this I mean she is now able to scribble with a permanent Sharpie over more surfaces of her body in a shorter amount of time and climb more easily onto the counter to try to open up the jar of gummy vitamins. She has black dots marching up her left arm like a tribal warrior's tattoo that have faded to a dull gray after several days scrubbing. And she also regularly hairsprays the crap out of the plastic hair on the creepy Barbie princess vanity that Dean found by the side of the road.
Third, the girl can suddenly TALK. Non-stop chatting, in fact, as I learned on a solo outing with her in Target. "Mama, dese nice shoes! I one, Mama. My name is 'Zannah. I have dis [neon yellow sports bra]? Oh, bra not for babies. Bra Mommies. NO, Mama, dis Zannah's bra [furious running clutching aforementioned bra]. OH, dammit! Dammit! Dammit, Mama! [I'm sorry, what's that? Oh, pajamas! Say PUH-PUH-jamas. Please, please, please say PUH-jamas].
Or yesterday, on the phone with Daddy:
Susannah: Hi, Daddy! I at Mama's house [I love how important I must be in her psyche to be the sole owner in favor of the sole breadwinner].
Dad: What are you having to eat?
Susannah: Oatmeal and taco [chocolate] milk.
Dad: Is Frankie there?
Susannah: Yeah, Hankie at home. Molly at home, too.
Dad: Did you go with mom to get her?
Susannah: Uh-huh. Hankie at 'chool this morning.
Fourth, she is exhibiting some mastery over her bodily functions. She can be pretty good about peeing on the potty. But when I say mastery, I must confess that I mean she has pooped on the potty twice. On several other occasions, during what we would ironically call "dry runs," she has pooped in the bathtub, down the right leg of her pants, and on Frankie's bedroom carpet. But that's a family secret because Frankie would have a nervous breakdown. Molly would wipe it away with a spare sheet of notebook paper and then ask me to serve her some apple slices on the spot, but Frankie would never set foot in her room again.
So, Zannah Zero (the way she pronounces her first and last name), since you can count to twenty and sing your ABCs, I guess it's time to turn two.
First, she is getting taller and thinner. Gone are the days this summer when I would marvel at the size of her backside and how cute cellulite is on babies, but so off-putting on adults. We have long complimented her on her girth. "Little Fatty", "Who's the biggest chunk of change? Who?", "Did you get chubbier overnight? Did you?" and so forth. Swimming this summer, my friend Carley shivered and I sarcastically told her to get a little more body fat, which caused Susannah to pat her belly with a shout of delight and yell "BODY FAT! FAT!" and look around very proudly. Even on the first day of BSF, one of the children's leaders took one look at her and said "Whoa, she isn't built like your other two was. This girl got a shape!." That's what I tell myself when I look in the mirror now. That's not an extra fifteen pounds, DEAN, THIS GIRL GOT SHAPE!
Second, she is getting more physically adept. By this I mean she is now able to scribble with a permanent Sharpie over more surfaces of her body in a shorter amount of time and climb more easily onto the counter to try to open up the jar of gummy vitamins. She has black dots marching up her left arm like a tribal warrior's tattoo that have faded to a dull gray after several days scrubbing. And she also regularly hairsprays the crap out of the plastic hair on the creepy Barbie princess vanity that Dean found by the side of the road.
Third, the girl can suddenly TALK. Non-stop chatting, in fact, as I learned on a solo outing with her in Target. "Mama, dese nice shoes! I one, Mama. My name is 'Zannah. I have dis [neon yellow sports bra]? Oh, bra not for babies. Bra Mommies. NO, Mama, dis Zannah's bra [furious running clutching aforementioned bra]. OH, dammit! Dammit! Dammit, Mama! [I'm sorry, what's that? Oh, pajamas! Say PUH-PUH-jamas. Please, please, please say PUH-jamas].
Or yesterday, on the phone with Daddy:
Susannah: Hi, Daddy! I at Mama's house [I love how important I must be in her psyche to be the sole owner in favor of the sole breadwinner].
Dad: What are you having to eat?
Susannah: Oatmeal and taco [chocolate] milk.
Dad: Is Frankie there?
Susannah: Yeah, Hankie at home. Molly at home, too.
Dad: Did you go with mom to get her?
Susannah: Uh-huh. Hankie at 'chool this morning.
Fourth, she is exhibiting some mastery over her bodily functions. She can be pretty good about peeing on the potty. But when I say mastery, I must confess that I mean she has pooped on the potty twice. On several other occasions, during what we would ironically call "dry runs," she has pooped in the bathtub, down the right leg of her pants, and on Frankie's bedroom carpet. But that's a family secret because Frankie would have a nervous breakdown. Molly would wipe it away with a spare sheet of notebook paper and then ask me to serve her some apple slices on the spot, but Frankie would never set foot in her room again.
So, Zannah Zero (the way she pronounces her first and last name), since you can count to twenty and sing your ABCs, I guess it's time to turn two.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
It was actually a hedgehog
Molly: Look, Sukie, this is a tiny porky-pine. And look here, these are it's little porkies sticking out.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Pen name: Frances
Note handed to me by Frankie today after school on lined notebook paper cut in the shape of a heart:
"I love you faimly. You are the best freinds I can have. Please can we stae up late today because I do not have school tomorow? Today we made art and did computer stuf. I love you. I know how to spell because: B,E,C,A,U,S,E. I hope we can stae up late today all together.
Love, Frances"
"I love you faimly. You are the best freinds I can have. Please can we stae up late today because I do not have school tomorow? Today we made art and did computer stuf. I love you. I know how to spell because: B,E,C,A,U,S,E. I hope we can stae up late today all together.
Love, Frances"
Saturday, October 6, 2012
So they do know their manners, after all
Me: "Elliott, the girls need to eat their dinner and start behaving a little better before they can come out to play."
Elliott: "Oh, okay."
Molly and Elliott convene just outside the door where I can hear their frantic whispers.
Elliott: "Molly. Make sure you say 'Can you please pass this to me?' during dinner, OK?"
Molly: "OK! Yeah! I will say 'May I please have the spray butter?', too"
Elliott: "YES! And don't fight with Frankie. That's a good idea, right?"
Molly: "Sure! And I'll say 'Thank you for dinner and may I please be excused'!"
Elliott: YES! YES!
Elliott: "Oh, okay."
Molly and Elliott convene just outside the door where I can hear their frantic whispers.
Elliott: "Molly. Make sure you say 'Can you please pass this to me?' during dinner, OK?"
Molly: "OK! Yeah! I will say 'May I please have the spray butter?', too"
Elliott: "YES! And don't fight with Frankie. That's a good idea, right?"
Molly: "Sure! And I'll say 'Thank you for dinner and may I please be excused'!"
Elliott: YES! YES!
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Mackinac Island
A few weekends months ago, we fired up our RV, the Challenger, and rumbled our way up north to camp in Petoskey and visit Mackinac Island for the day. My parents came along and rented the tiniest, most adorable cabin all covered in nicely wipe-able fake wood laminate, with a wee little sleeping loft that was irresistible to the girls.
Along the way, while Dean helmed the wheel and tried not to cross the center line, the girls and I brainstormed names for the RV. It was a dry desert of ideas until Molly suggested "Liz." I readily agreed to it because it tickles me to no end when the girls come up with a name that I have never recalled them encountering before. It reminds me of when I named my first doll Mabel. I am sure my mother was hoping for something more current, like Heather or Stephanie or Jennifer (by current I mean the mid-nineteen seventies), but I stuck to my guns with Mabel. I think it is no coincidence that my first doll had white hair. I have never seen a gray-haired baby doll, but my Mabel had it.
Anyway, Liz chugged north until we parked her in the KOA campground in Petoskey. Did you know that KOA campgrounds are pretty much completely awesome? They have tent sites and RV sites and diminutive cabins that are stocked with tiny stainless steel appliances. They have heated pools and pancake breakfasts and the most fascinating assortment of people who own trailers that have plasma TVs on the OUTSIDE and two kitchens, in case opening the door to your RV while you are camping is simply TOO MUCH TO ASK.
The only problem we identified at the KOA (and mind you, this was before I became a mystery shopper, but that, my friends, is a story for another day) was the skunk that came skulking out from the bushes while we were making s'mores. It is really SUPER DUPER hard not to scream when you see a skunk ambling toward you from ten feet away. But you must not scream. And you must somehow, through a great deal of hissing, convince your small children not to scream.
Sleeping in the RV is, for a chronic insomniac, surprisingly not that bad. It helps that being in a RV is in no way actually real camping. There is a nice fan going, the temperature can be kept at a steady sixty-eight degrees and you can make nachos in the microwave. The very best part is that we put all three kids to sleep in the same bed in the back of the camper. I don't care how many beagle puppies you've seen, there is nothing cuter than the three of my children sleeping side by side. Not even sparkly ponies.
We took the ferry over to Mackinac Island for the day and ambled from fudge shop to fudge shop getting free samples. You can fill up doing this. No need to buy any fudge!
Thanks to my mother's warnings, I had basically packed a snowsuit and ear muffs for each of the children for the ferry ride over, but when we got there it was really warm downtown. We walked along the crowded sidewalks and I held Susannah's hand until she suddenly tripped. Or I thought she tripped anyway. She was there one minute and on her knees the next. I fussed over her for a minute and kept walking and she tripped again. And again. It wasn't until I let go of her hand and walked behind her for a minute that I realized what she was really doing was suddenly dropping to her knees of her own volition. For some reason, the crowds, the heat, the constant fudge smell in the air, made her want to get down on bended knee and cause a small army of strollers and shoppers to suddenly swerve. She did it over and over while we walked downtown but walked upright in other portions of the island. As soon as we hit the main road on our way back though, there she was again, kneeling in the middle of the thoroughfare. Thankfully, there are no cars. And thankfully, we didn't cause any Japanese tourists to break a femur trying to avoid landing on the weird American toddler crouched in the middle of the street.
We also rented a horse and buggy for an hour and it only cost us about half a monthly mortgage payment! "Babe" was a real hit though because she obliged us with several vile gas emissions that hinted at the upcoming event which was the highlight of the trip. The view of Babe pooping a scant twenty-four inches from our face was fantastic. My mom had been hoping upon hope for it to happen and dreams really do come true.
Also, even though I have been to horse camp twice in my life, I get no respect. Neither from my peers, nor from Babe. She did not seem awed that I had spent a CUMULATIVE FOURTEEN DAYS with her kind and refused to alter her pace one bit in response to my expert tongue-clickings and lashings. She trotted once, and I led the kids to believe it was all my doing, but Babe and I both knew who was in charge.
The trip was a whirlwind because we turned around and headed right back home, but first stopped in Ellsworth, the little northern Michigan town where my grandparents grew up and where they returned after retiring. It was bittersweet to go back and remember our visits. I was shocked to realize that there was a river about four blocks from my grandparents' house because we only visited three landmark locations: their home, the little stone house at the top of the street, and the candy store where we spent the dollar my grandma put under our pillows. Sometimes it was a Bic pen and a notebook, or other times, a full-sized candy bar. Molly and I always politely said our greetings and lingered in the kitchen long enough for it to seem like we had come to see my grandparents instead of the real reason we had come: to see what was under our pillows. In hindsight, it might have seemed like we didn't care. In reality, that treat stands out as the best tradition, along with the parting gift of being able to pick out our own jar of canned fruit (pears for me, peaches for Molly).
I wonder what will stick in my girls' minds from their childhood. I hope their memories are filled with skunks and horse poop and Shirley Temple movies in the RV.
Along the way, while Dean helmed the wheel and tried not to cross the center line, the girls and I brainstormed names for the RV. It was a dry desert of ideas until Molly suggested "Liz." I readily agreed to it because it tickles me to no end when the girls come up with a name that I have never recalled them encountering before. It reminds me of when I named my first doll Mabel. I am sure my mother was hoping for something more current, like Heather or Stephanie or Jennifer (by current I mean the mid-nineteen seventies), but I stuck to my guns with Mabel. I think it is no coincidence that my first doll had white hair. I have never seen a gray-haired baby doll, but my Mabel had it.
Anyway, Liz chugged north until we parked her in the KOA campground in Petoskey. Did you know that KOA campgrounds are pretty much completely awesome? They have tent sites and RV sites and diminutive cabins that are stocked with tiny stainless steel appliances. They have heated pools and pancake breakfasts and the most fascinating assortment of people who own trailers that have plasma TVs on the OUTSIDE and two kitchens, in case opening the door to your RV while you are camping is simply TOO MUCH TO ASK.
The only problem we identified at the KOA (and mind you, this was before I became a mystery shopper, but that, my friends, is a story for another day) was the skunk that came skulking out from the bushes while we were making s'mores. It is really SUPER DUPER hard not to scream when you see a skunk ambling toward you from ten feet away. But you must not scream. And you must somehow, through a great deal of hissing, convince your small children not to scream.
 |
| "Daddy" got cold, but luckily I was there to lend him my jacket. |
 |
 |
| I try not to look at this picture, because really, who can feel romantic toward that face on the left? |
We took the ferry over to Mackinac Island for the day and ambled from fudge shop to fudge shop getting free samples. You can fill up doing this. No need to buy any fudge!
Thanks to my mother's warnings, I had basically packed a snowsuit and ear muffs for each of the children for the ferry ride over, but when we got there it was really warm downtown. We walked along the crowded sidewalks and I held Susannah's hand until she suddenly tripped. Or I thought she tripped anyway. She was there one minute and on her knees the next. I fussed over her for a minute and kept walking and she tripped again. And again. It wasn't until I let go of her hand and walked behind her for a minute that I realized what she was really doing was suddenly dropping to her knees of her own volition. For some reason, the crowds, the heat, the constant fudge smell in the air, made her want to get down on bended knee and cause a small army of strollers and shoppers to suddenly swerve. She did it over and over while we walked downtown but walked upright in other portions of the island. As soon as we hit the main road on our way back though, there she was again, kneeling in the middle of the thoroughfare. Thankfully, there are no cars. And thankfully, we didn't cause any Japanese tourists to break a femur trying to avoid landing on the weird American toddler crouched in the middle of the street.
We also rented a horse and buggy for an hour and it only cost us about half a monthly mortgage payment! "Babe" was a real hit though because she obliged us with several vile gas emissions that hinted at the upcoming event which was the highlight of the trip. The view of Babe pooping a scant twenty-four inches from our face was fantastic. My mom had been hoping upon hope for it to happen and dreams really do come true.
Also, even though I have been to horse camp twice in my life, I get no respect. Neither from my peers, nor from Babe. She did not seem awed that I had spent a CUMULATIVE FOURTEEN DAYS with her kind and refused to alter her pace one bit in response to my expert tongue-clickings and lashings. She trotted once, and I led the kids to believe it was all my doing, but Babe and I both knew who was in charge.
The trip was a whirlwind because we turned around and headed right back home, but first stopped in Ellsworth, the little northern Michigan town where my grandparents grew up and where they returned after retiring. It was bittersweet to go back and remember our visits. I was shocked to realize that there was a river about four blocks from my grandparents' house because we only visited three landmark locations: their home, the little stone house at the top of the street, and the candy store where we spent the dollar my grandma put under our pillows. Sometimes it was a Bic pen and a notebook, or other times, a full-sized candy bar. Molly and I always politely said our greetings and lingered in the kitchen long enough for it to seem like we had come to see my grandparents instead of the real reason we had come: to see what was under our pillows. In hindsight, it might have seemed like we didn't care. In reality, that treat stands out as the best tradition, along with the parting gift of being able to pick out our own jar of canned fruit (pears for me, peaches for Molly).
I wonder what will stick in my girls' minds from their childhood. I hope their memories are filled with skunks and horse poop and Shirley Temple movies in the RV.
Monday, October 1, 2012
I was really irritated yesterday when I came across two Strawberry Shortcake Dolls who had been viciously beheaded. Frankie will only claim responsibility for one act of terror and claims it was an accident, Molly claims she did not decapitate anyone. In any case, I have two headless doll that, despite having no mouths, are verbally abusing me with statements about ungrateful children, ineffectual parenting, the whole experiment going horribly awry. But then I heard Molly on the couch with the headless figures:
"Oh, dear I just realized I have no head! What will I do! I am just a body, I can't see or hear!"
"Oh, here is a friend! And she has no head either! This is wonderful!"
"Oh, friend, you can use my body to be your head; look your underpants can be my eyes and your legs can be my long ears! Wasn't this lucky, friend."
Redemption can come in size large or small.
"Oh, dear I just realized I have no head! What will I do! I am just a body, I can't see or hear!"
"Oh, here is a friend! And she has no head either! This is wonderful!"
"Oh, friend, you can use my body to be your head; look your underpants can be my eyes and your legs can be my long ears! Wasn't this lucky, friend."
Redemption can come in size large or small.
Friday, August 3, 2012
For months now, Susannah has been a good egg about going down for naps and at nighttime. The routine is solid: we read two books, she turns over onto my shoulder, tucks a book under her chest and puts her head down while I sing to her. Usually she joins in with the singing but doesn't peep when I lay her in her crib.
The last few days, she goes down nicely, but wakes up about an hour later screaming like a banshee. Literally, she screams like she is on fire. The same way she screams in the church nursery if anyone dares to approach her while she lies prone on the nursery floor flailing and screaming "NOOOO!" if anyone offers to pick her up. Or the same way she screams while rolling face first in the gravel of the driveway when I tell her she can't ride her little car into the road. "In DA ROAD, YESSSS!"
Anyway, the point is that she would not stop screaming and it woke the other girls which is anathema in my house. We do not wake children. This is why I have been walking on the balls of my feet for SIX long years. Because if I put my heels down, it MIGHT WAKE a child. It is the same reason that I do not load or unload the dishwasher while a child is sleeping and the reason that I climb the stairs in a spread-eagled position because I know that the top five stairs squeak like a quintet of mice newborns. So when Molly and Frankie woke up and yelled for Sukie to be quiet, I finally relented and took her in my bed since Dean was at a movie and couldn't put his foot down and make me let her cry it out (I think if she was yelling "Daddy" plaintively instead of "Mommy," even his good intentions would be puddling on the floor).
All that earned me was another hour and a half of a very cheerful and bubbly baby with absolutely no intention of slumber and every intention of chatting. Every time I told her to lie down she would burst into song; " 'ooooooMORROW, 'ooooooMORROW, I yuvya, 'oooooMORROW, 'oo're onyee a day AWAAAAY! (slight pause) AGAIN! 'oooooMORROW....." and so on. Then she'd begin chanting what I do when she has a hard time sleeping. I go through a long list of names and tell her they are all sleeping, in my most hypnotic voice, hoping she will soon add herself to the list. So last night she dutifully lay still for a while, softly listing "Oma night-night, Opa night-night, Inkie night-night, Molly night-night, Jude night-night, Tylvie night-night, Ever-botty night-night. OK, MAMA? OK. MAMA? Good night, MAMA! (slapping my face) Good-night!." Next she pretended her hand was a cell phone "Allo? Allo? Ummmm. Ummmm. OK!" and then busied herself tucking her baby doll in over and over again, kissing it and saying "Night-night, baby. You blankie. Night-night." I finally had it when she began singing Rock-A-Bye Baby and swinging her baby so violently that its plastic head continually whacked me in the forehead.
My good cheer gave way to some good sound parenting and, one regular routine later, she was back in her own crib. But, truthfully, I woke up during the night smiling about fat toddlers singing "Tomorrow."
The last few days, she goes down nicely, but wakes up about an hour later screaming like a banshee. Literally, she screams like she is on fire. The same way she screams in the church nursery if anyone dares to approach her while she lies prone on the nursery floor flailing and screaming "NOOOO!" if anyone offers to pick her up. Or the same way she screams while rolling face first in the gravel of the driveway when I tell her she can't ride her little car into the road. "In DA ROAD, YESSSS!"
Anyway, the point is that she would not stop screaming and it woke the other girls which is anathema in my house. We do not wake children. This is why I have been walking on the balls of my feet for SIX long years. Because if I put my heels down, it MIGHT WAKE a child. It is the same reason that I do not load or unload the dishwasher while a child is sleeping and the reason that I climb the stairs in a spread-eagled position because I know that the top five stairs squeak like a quintet of mice newborns. So when Molly and Frankie woke up and yelled for Sukie to be quiet, I finally relented and took her in my bed since Dean was at a movie and couldn't put his foot down and make me let her cry it out (I think if she was yelling "Daddy" plaintively instead of "Mommy," even his good intentions would be puddling on the floor).
All that earned me was another hour and a half of a very cheerful and bubbly baby with absolutely no intention of slumber and every intention of chatting. Every time I told her to lie down she would burst into song; " 'ooooooMORROW, 'ooooooMORROW, I yuvya, 'oooooMORROW, 'oo're onyee a day AWAAAAY! (slight pause) AGAIN! 'oooooMORROW....." and so on. Then she'd begin chanting what I do when she has a hard time sleeping. I go through a long list of names and tell her they are all sleeping, in my most hypnotic voice, hoping she will soon add herself to the list. So last night she dutifully lay still for a while, softly listing "Oma night-night, Opa night-night, Inkie night-night, Molly night-night, Jude night-night, Tylvie night-night, Ever-botty night-night. OK, MAMA? OK. MAMA? Good night, MAMA! (slapping my face) Good-night!." Next she pretended her hand was a cell phone "Allo? Allo? Ummmm. Ummmm. OK!" and then busied herself tucking her baby doll in over and over again, kissing it and saying "Night-night, baby. You blankie. Night-night." I finally had it when she began singing Rock-A-Bye Baby and swinging her baby so violently that its plastic head continually whacked me in the forehead.
My good cheer gave way to some good sound parenting and, one regular routine later, she was back in her own crib. But, truthfully, I woke up during the night smiling about fat toddlers singing "Tomorrow."
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Galatians chapter 5
Here are the fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
I've got love, if love is a bursting feeling of gladness and blessing. If it's putting you before me, I've got it, too, some of the times, when I change your diaper and feed you cinnamon toast. But lots of times, when I need a nap and you want to do a puzzle, I don't.
I've got joy, if joy is looking at your three faces sleeping in one bed in the camper. But if it's remembering God's goodness even when the yard is long and dry and the laundry is three feet high, sometimes joy is in short supply.
I've got peace, if peace is knowing that we're all in the palm of God's hand. But if it's the real hard work of casting off anxiety about my dad's Parkinson's disease and my growing up girls, peace can be hard to come by.
I've got a little patience. I don't snap when you ask me for a treat the first time, but sometimes, when I hear "Mommy, can I," for the hundredth time, I forget the millions of second chances I've gotten and not deserved.
I've got some kindness, but less than I used to have. I'll still stop for a turtle in the road, but I've got little left for my own two cats, in whose company I see only more fur, more food, more scratched carpet.
I've got some goodness, but it doesn't come easy.
Faithfulness is easy in marriage. It's hard in doing the laundry and keeping the bathtub clean. It's even harder in making dinner every night. Sometimes faithlessness looks like a mess on the closet floor.
Gentleness isn't so hard when it comes to your little faces. It's harder with your husband, though his feelings are probably just as tender as yours. Lots of times my tongue is like a Colorado wild fire.
I don't see much self-control in my too-tight pants and the snooze button. I'm a bruised reed, but I'm still fighting to stand up straight.
Lord, give me a taste for what is good. Make selfishness bitter in my mouth and Your fruit sweet on my tongue.
I've got love, if love is a bursting feeling of gladness and blessing. If it's putting you before me, I've got it, too, some of the times, when I change your diaper and feed you cinnamon toast. But lots of times, when I need a nap and you want to do a puzzle, I don't.
I've got joy, if joy is looking at your three faces sleeping in one bed in the camper. But if it's remembering God's goodness even when the yard is long and dry and the laundry is three feet high, sometimes joy is in short supply.
I've got peace, if peace is knowing that we're all in the palm of God's hand. But if it's the real hard work of casting off anxiety about my dad's Parkinson's disease and my growing up girls, peace can be hard to come by.
I've got a little patience. I don't snap when you ask me for a treat the first time, but sometimes, when I hear "Mommy, can I," for the hundredth time, I forget the millions of second chances I've gotten and not deserved.
I've got some kindness, but less than I used to have. I'll still stop for a turtle in the road, but I've got little left for my own two cats, in whose company I see only more fur, more food, more scratched carpet.
I've got some goodness, but it doesn't come easy.
Faithfulness is easy in marriage. It's hard in doing the laundry and keeping the bathtub clean. It's even harder in making dinner every night. Sometimes faithlessness looks like a mess on the closet floor.
Gentleness isn't so hard when it comes to your little faces. It's harder with your husband, though his feelings are probably just as tender as yours. Lots of times my tongue is like a Colorado wild fire.
I don't see much self-control in my too-tight pants and the snooze button. I'm a bruised reed, but I'm still fighting to stand up straight.
Lord, give me a taste for what is good. Make selfishness bitter in my mouth and Your fruit sweet on my tongue.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Father's Day
We spent Father's Day with my mom and dad having a cookout and watching my poor hip-replaced father trudge around with his cane. Hard to believe that the man who taught me to play HORSE and spent much of my childhood nailing drywall to the ceilings needs a titanium joint. The thought really creeps him out, so I pretended to listen near it and said I thought I could hear a scraping sound of metal on metal. I don't think he found the humor in it.
My mother uses any family occasion as one in which to indulge her incredible craving for beef of any sort. My father, for moral reasons, is a semi-vegetarian. He won't eat pork or beef since, apparently, pigs have the intellect of the average three-year-old. I say, show me their little hooves spelling their names and I will sincerely believe you, but for now I will just go with it. My mom and Dean and I try our very best to avoid these things as well, but my mother's Dutch heritage sometimes emerges and she just needs to sink her teeth into the nice juicy flesh of a big steak. Hearing that Dean is on the Atkins diet (his version of a semi-annual cleanse), she seized upon the opportunity to procure some nice T-bones. I must say, cows, you may be bad for the environment (though, if excessive flatulence were a problem for people, I know exactly which family member should be slaughtered) and you may wish to live your life in peace, but DANG you are tasty. My dad spent his meal delicately spearing his flaky salmon while the rest of us sunk our teeth into that salty, fatty goodness.
Susannah dug into not one, not two, but three pieces of leftover chicken lasagna. She comes by her hefty thighs honestly. She gets that from her mother.
Susannah, using the incentive spirometer from my dad's hip replacement surgery.
Frankie was filled with pride over her card and gift to her dad. She painted a picture of herself and Dean and suspended it from a card filled with hearts and family portraits. It killed me to see her nervous anticipation and Dean's teary eyes. She also picked out a package of spicy jerky for him at the farmer's market and paid five dollars for it out of the forty-eight dollars that she has saved to purchase Go-Go the Walking Puppy- the toy of her dreams. I guess her dad was more important to her. Isn't that what love is all about?
My mother uses any family occasion as one in which to indulge her incredible craving for beef of any sort. My father, for moral reasons, is a semi-vegetarian. He won't eat pork or beef since, apparently, pigs have the intellect of the average three-year-old. I say, show me their little hooves spelling their names and I will sincerely believe you, but for now I will just go with it. My mom and Dean and I try our very best to avoid these things as well, but my mother's Dutch heritage sometimes emerges and she just needs to sink her teeth into the nice juicy flesh of a big steak. Hearing that Dean is on the Atkins diet (his version of a semi-annual cleanse), she seized upon the opportunity to procure some nice T-bones. I must say, cows, you may be bad for the environment (though, if excessive flatulence were a problem for people, I know exactly which family member should be slaughtered) and you may wish to live your life in peace, but DANG you are tasty. My dad spent his meal delicately spearing his flaky salmon while the rest of us sunk our teeth into that salty, fatty goodness.
Susannah dug into not one, not two, but three pieces of leftover chicken lasagna. She comes by her hefty thighs honestly. She gets that from her mother.
Monday, June 11, 2012
We wait a long time around here for summer weather. In fact, we suffer through months and months of soul-sucking cloudiness, when every step in the slush is on a path of gloom. When the sunshine breaks through and the flowers burst into bloom, I dare say we are the most grateful of all the 48 continental states.
Summer signals the happiness of planting a garden. By the end of the summer, the bloom is off the rose and all the produce seems suddenly rather a burden than a joy (who wants to can when it's ninety degrees out?), but right now, when things are planted in tidy ornamental rows, it is pure bliss. I like to spend the evenings tucking the pea shoots into yarn stretched between two sticks and tying the tomato plants to the stakes and marveling at exactly how many basil seedlings came up. It pains me physically to thin the seedlings to the proper spacing. Who do I yank by the roots? Who am I to say this one lives and this one doesn't? Suddenly, gardening becomes the metaphysical.
It's always the metaphysical, really, watching something come to life and grow and die in a matter of months.r We're seedlings, too. Though thankfully, we're not subject to such a capricious master, one who might forget to water or lose interest in holding our vines close to the stake. No, we're pruned tenderly, regularly, fertilizer always at the ready if only we'll take it, and our sun is always in the sky.
Summer signals the happiness of planting a garden. By the end of the summer, the bloom is off the rose and all the produce seems suddenly rather a burden than a joy (who wants to can when it's ninety degrees out?), but right now, when things are planted in tidy ornamental rows, it is pure bliss. I like to spend the evenings tucking the pea shoots into yarn stretched between two sticks and tying the tomato plants to the stakes and marveling at exactly how many basil seedlings came up. It pains me physically to thin the seedlings to the proper spacing. Who do I yank by the roots? Who am I to say this one lives and this one doesn't? Suddenly, gardening becomes the metaphysical.
It's always the metaphysical, really, watching something come to life and grow and die in a matter of months.r We're seedlings, too. Though thankfully, we're not subject to such a capricious master, one who might forget to water or lose interest in holding our vines close to the stake. No, we're pruned tenderly, regularly, fertilizer always at the ready if only we'll take it, and our sun is always in the sky.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Very alarming
In the car:
Frankie: Dad, if you were stung by a hundred thousand bees what would happen to you?
Dean: Well, I'd probably die.
Molly: Dad, if you died, I'd find 199 bees to sting me so I could kill myself.
Frankie: Dad, if you were stung by a hundred thousand bees what would happen to you?
Dean: Well, I'd probably die.
Molly: Dad, if you died, I'd find 199 bees to sting me so I could kill myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
