Various comments heard around Mama's house

Rascal (brandishing a whisk): "I keel you! I keel you! You keel my favver, prepare to dieeeeee!" We need to hide The Princess Bride for a little while I think.

Actually, we all love that movie. Unfortunately, we may be more like Miracle Max and Valerie than Westley and Buttercup (although arguably, Valerie is much smarter - so there). As in:

Husband: "I'm not eating that." Referring to the Cashew Chicken I made last night. I may have gone a little heavy on the veggie component.

Mama: "That'll be one 'No Thank-You helping' for Daddy."

Other comments that could be really interesting, when taken out of context...

Kye (who up until about 2 weeks ago could barely speak at all): "Come, Mama. We be 'aked." Think naked, without the 'n'. This is how he asks to go in the shower with me.

Tweenie: "I would rather walk around stark naked." Referring to a very cute sweater given by a loving friend last Christmas. It's warm, and as a mom this is my only criterion. So what if she looks like Strawberry Shortcake?

Remember this the next time you're at Wal-Mart and hear some outrageous comment. There's always a back story.

The times are a'changin'

My grandparents, so the story goes, walked to school through neck-deep snow uphill in both directions. They had to wake up at 4am to milk the cows and their only toys were whatever they could fashion from hay and loose twigs, fastened with bits of cloth pulled off their raggedy clothes.

My parents had it a little better. They lived in the city and only had to walk 17 blocks to school on a level sidewalk. There were plenty of trees to escape into when the bullies came around, and after school they were permitted a half hour of listening to Sunday School records before taking a crack at their mountain of homework. They didn't play on Saturdays because they had 8 hours of chores and a paper route.

I tell my kids that I rode the stinky bus to school. I played with Cabbage Patch knockoffs and collected Strawberry Shortcake scratch 'n sniff stickers that I bought with my allowance. This allowance was earned through daily chores plus yard duty on Saturdays. We had a TV with rabbit ears that beamed 3 fuzzy channels on a good day. I remember when my dad bought our first VCR and standard tape deck.

My kids moan and groan under the load of making their beds and putting dirty clothes in the hamper each day. Their 2-hour TV limit can be selected from a range of programs (but we only have basic cable, so we're in the Dark Ages), and on the weekends they are expected to help out here and there as requested. With all the griping that usually follows, the path of least resistance is to not ask very often. I know this is not the right way to do things, but it might be the sane way. We have high-speed internet, 3 computers, a full entertainment center with all the gizmos, and an Xbox system. Heck, even our van has a DVD player.

Yeah, we're really slumming.

Many things have changed "since we were young". This post was precipitated by a recent article by WebMD on tooth fairy inflation. The going rate in our house is a shiny new quarter. According to friends and family, we are the biggest cheapskates on the block by a huge margin.

I'm just curious--what do you pay for those little bits of enamel that your child's body rejects on its path to adolescence?

Drive Yourself to Drink in 5 Easy Steps

Redecorating Tweenie's room has turned into an epic saga--unfortunately minus the half naked warriors, mythic beasties, and squabbling of bored deities. The paint fumes have made things interesting though.

Yesterday was a miserable damp day, and with little else to amuse ourselves since we downgraded to peasant vision (read here: basic cable), I decided it was finally time to tackle the beanbag chair. Remember that one? I've been trying not to, but some recent pointed remarks on Husband's part have motivated me.

It quickly became clear I was headed down a dark path. Here's how I drove myself to drink - in 5 easy steps....

1. On an idle Sunday afternoon, browse through your local big box furniture store for home decorating ideas. Allow your tweenaged daughter to lead the way through armoires and bunk beds directly to the PlayStation section, featuring beanbag chairs and other themed accessories.

To discourage any possibility of begging, prep for a full eye roll and snort when you flip the price tag. Convince yourself that your 'A' in 8th grade Home Ec is a more than sufficient qualification for reproducing something as basic as a beanbag chair.

2. Procrastinate for a few weeks under the guise of having to finish up other outstanding projects until the pleading forces the issue. Make another Sunday afternoon outing to the fabric store, congratulating yourself on the money you've saved so far. Try not to dwell on the fact that this is a considerably more expensive project than you originally assumed.

3. Select a dull, wet day to begin your project. You'll belatedly realize that you can't send the kids outside in such weather when they're pawing through your notions, but note the title of this post is not "How to Whiz Your Way Through a Simplicity Pattern in 15 minutes or less".

Since your preschooler will be eager to participate, enlist his help in (what you assume to be) an age-appropriate manner. Sound really convincing when you explain that his cutting of the remnants into teeny pieces and gluing them on construction paper is the same as making the actual beanbag chair. Try not to feel guilty when he realizes the truth and begins to sob. To be true to this process of driving yourself batty as quickly as possible, plant him on your lap and attempt to cut the slippery fabric at the same time. Thank your lucky stars that you had the foresight to buy extra yardage.

P.S. If you're stupid enough to ask your kids to take some action shots for your blog, don't be embarrassed about the result.

4. As you assemble the pieces, ignore those suspicious crashing noises the baby is making in the kitchen. Until you hear crying or samurai shouts, assume that the situation is not yet dire enough to warrant stepping away from your sewing. Later, conscript all children into stuffing duty. Maintain a vague idea of the geographical spread of project supplies for quick and easy clean-up when finished.

When all attempts to enforce group tidying have failed, herd all children into playroom. Instruct them to not exit the area upon pain of death or revocation of all WebKinz privileges. Call Husband to remind him that you have plans this evening and he was supposed to be home already. Clean up alone, secretly glad for a few moments of peace. Take some extra strength Tylenol. Admire finished product (minus the hole for stuffing that you'll hand sew shut... eventually).

5. Realize you are going to be late meeting your friends. Rush through your beauty routine (or at least, removing traces of packing peanuts from your hair and changing your shirt) and head out for the evening. Forget to check the address, then call Husband in a panic asking him to MapQuest the location for you.

Show up at the restaurant 30 minutes late. Order a glass of chardonnay before realizing your friends are all drinking virgin Margaritas. Laugh it off and order an extra large portion of garlic bread. Your friends are busy moms too and won't judge you for it. Have a fabulous time and stay out late enough to guarantee that all the kids will be asleep by the time you get home.

Since it all ended so well, I think I'm up for the next project.

A little Retail Therapy

Tweenie's BFF is an only child. As a result, we receive at least 4 or 5 phone calls a week for the sole purpose of gushing about this or that new toy. Tweenie is, as you can imagine, devastated each time.

She puts up a really good show. Some expected comments like "Oh cool!" or "I can hardly wait to see it!", then a speedy effort to get off the phone so she can have a good consoling cry in Mama's arms. She's been so good, understanding that a young family of 5 can't compete. And it's not like we don't spoil our kids either - we were just in Florida!

Still, as BFF's collection has now burst the confines of her bedroom and is rapidly filling the guest room plus every available corner of the living room and den, Tweenie's 8-year-old heart overwhelms her more mature mind. I too was a first-born child in a large family, with several wealthy friends. There was only so much vicarious suffering I could endure before the specters of my childhood demanded a response.

On the excuse of having to quickly stop by Linens 'n Things, we decided to pop into Target next door. Normally I would never do this on a Saturday, especially since I also had both boys with us, but it was convenient and I was in a rare mood to shop.

There were a few necessities to get out of the way first: some new pants for Rascal (I really should look for those clothes with the wear-out guarantee because we'd claim it at least once a month) and sneakers for Tweenie. That opened the floodgates.

In the changeroom...

Tweenie: "I really don't know what to pick! It all looks so fabulous on me!"
Mama: "Let's limit it to three things. You really don't need new stuff, this is just for fun."
Rascal: "Pink! Pink!"
T: "The blue one looks really sophisticated... What do you think?"
R: "PINKKKKK!"
M: "You're the one who'll be wearing it, so you decide."
R: "You take PINKKKK!"
M: "Shh, sweetie. Be a good boy and we'll get some snacks later."
Kye: "Food? Oh YUM!"
T: "BFF has one just like this, only in yellow."
R: "PINKKKK!"
K: "EAT!"
M: "Please pick quickly. The boys are getting restless."
R: "PINKKK!"
K: "FOOD!"
T: "I just look so great in all of it, I can hardly decide!"
M: "Executive decision--the pink bathing suit, red sundress, and tan pants."
T: "Maybe we could take one more quick check through the racks..."
M: "If you are happy with these choices, we're leaving. We can always come back."
T: "Yeah, like next week! BFF's sure to have a bunch of new toys by then!"

I have to admit, it served it's purpose. I'm just scared about this precedent I've set.

Unintended Poetry

Husband is washing some unidentified dirt off our son in the ocean. I don't even want to know what it is...

As our lives get fuller and busier, certain things automatically decrease. Like the criteria of 'cleanliness', 'what we can afford', or what qualifies as 'laundry-ready'.

Another casualty of Becoming Parents is a steady decline in quality conversations. I was once the person who would never shut up, given the right topic (now, my brother would argue that this is still true, but only after 9pm when the kids are in bed or preferably, at Grandma's house).

Lately I have noticed I speak in haiku.

Let's go, we're late now!
Please stop hitting your sister!
I'm the parent here!

What did the cat eat?
What is that disgusting mess?
I'm not cleaning that!

Behave in the store,
or I'll tell Dad about this.
He will not be pleased.

You're eating that now.
I worked on that for hours--
it tastes delicious!

You all be quiet!
I don't care who started it,
because I'll end it.

And then...

You made that for me?
All by yourself? That's so sweet!
Mama loves you, my monkeys.

It always amazes me that I can go from crotchety irritableness to weepy sentimentality in 0.4 seconds. Are my kids using some sort of crazy psychology to get their way or is it love? Most days, I think it might be both!

The logistics of a family trip is no vacation

I was thinking over our recent trip and certain things keep passing through my mind, many of the "how did we survive it all?" variety. It's funny how you look back on your time away and quickly forget all the crazy hoops you jump through in order to enjoy yourself.

So, for example:

1. Realizing that one's struggle with road rage does not diminish over time. It gets worse.

It is also very difficult to deal with when you're trying to be very quiet because the children, who until half an hour before had been little rapscallions who refused to remain buckled in and fought for hours over some ridiculous Happy Meal toy, have finally conked out and you desperately hope to get a few miles behind you before the next wave of irritating behavior.

So when the moron in front of you is driving below speed limit, and an equally annoying driver in the passing lane is creeping ahead at a snail's pace... plus the big rig sitting on your back fender with his high beams searing your retinas, you realize just how many curses you can scrounge up and hiss under your breath before your repertoire gives out. This might just be the point where you suddenly realize just how reasonable airfare can be if you were to book well in advance.

2. Realizing that road rage can easily transfer to other situations, such as suffering through a timeshare presentation or standing in line for an hour with tired kids. The former happened during our first trip to Disney, the latter was this time.

Having spent around $350 on admission, parking and food, we were determined to milk this outing for all it was worth. We dutifully consulted the park brochures and showed up for as many parades, meet-n-greets, and rides as we possibly could. The park was set to close early for a Princess and Pirate party that we couldn't justify paying for, so when the witching hour of 7pm arrived, we along with all the other cheapskates who weren't sticking around began a Pamplonian stampede for the exit.

Considering that our parking spot was probably no more than a 15-minute walk from the main gate, we made the silly mistake of waiting for the parking shuttle (along with everybody else). At the time, our decision was heavily influenced by tired kids whining that they couldn't go one step further, and the line really didn't seem that long. This was before we realized that the shuttle capacity was so small that we ended up waiting for about an hour. 45 minutes in, our kids suddenly decided that they did have enough energy to walk the half-mile or so, but we were tantalizingly close to the head of the line and decided to wait it out.

By the time we actually hit the road for the 10 minute drive back to our hotel, I was not in the mood to tolerate any adverse driving conditions. Husband insisted that he would drive and that I should tilt my seat back and relax. I guess he saw the dangerous glint in my eye and could see I was raring to screech at someone.

3. Never underestimate the tween. Last time we only managed to meet one of the Princesses, but this time we caught up with all of them. In each case, as soon as the book had been autographed and pictures taken, Tweenie started screaming with delight. Literally.

It reminded me of the time my friend met Drake Hogestyn at a car show (?) and screamed while she was meeting him. She later confessed that he actually staggered backward while she clutched him in her arms, squealing in his ear. That summer, she went to Boston to track down the New Kids On The Block. I never heard the whole story, but she remained a fan long after they split so it must have worked out.

Luckily for Ariel & co, Tweenie waited until she was further away before she started up with the fist-pumping air punches and various noises only audible to canines.

...

And yet, even as I write these memories down I find myself forgetting a thousand details that irked me at the time.

Instead, I think of riding the carousel with Tweenie and Rascal, who whooped like a cowboy (despite the fact that his steed was bedecked with pink roses); running after Rascal and Kye who spotted Tigger and tried to chase him down; sitting on a Naples beach in the middle of February getting the barest hint of a tan.

Good times!

Florida or Bust!!

Husband's friends are snowbirding in Florida. We haven't seen them in about 5 years, so when they called and asked if we'd like to join them last minute it was a no-brainer. Partially also because we are impulse travelers.

You've heard of impulse shopping? Well, we are tightwads at the grocery store but have no conflicts about blowing the budget on a mini-break. And since Florida is right around the corner (ok, so a 10-hour drive but whatev) and our region has been sitting under a dense damp cloud hovering just above freezing, the Florida beaches sounded mighty tempting. I told you it was a no-brainer!

We started out driving through the night to Orlando. Rascal is old enough to take in the Magic Kingdom and as we all know, he's a fan. Husband made some vague noises about shopping for a plasma TV, but then shocked me by deciding to join us after all. He "wanted to see what all the fuss was about". Riiiiiiight. I suddenly understood Rascal a lot better. Interestingly, Rascal didn't want to meet the princesses, but had a jolly time chasing after Captain Hook. Husband approved.

After a few days in Orlando, we headed over to Naples to visit our friends. Although the kids had slept through 90% of the first leg of our trip, the 3 hour drive during the day was torturous. Then Kye surprised us. He's been picking up an enormous amount of vocabulary lately. He started out complaining, "I out! I out!"

He realized he wasn't getting anywhere when we attempted to placate him with granola bars, gummy bears, and pretzel sticks. Shortly afterward, his tune changed: "I stuck! I stuck!" We pulled over and I got out to examine his seat. As I unbuckled him to get a closer look, he squirmed away and shouted with delight. Frowning, I manhandled him back into his chair to his protests of "Hey! HEY!"

As we pulled back into traffic, he was so furious that he filled his pants. Now we had to stop, just a few miles short of our destination. Crap.

Once in Naples, we had a fabulous time. Our friends' children are around the same age as ours, and they got along famously. We stopped for dinner in a pedestrian zone, perched at the closest table to the thoroughfare. We enjoyed our fish 'n chips while the kids ran around like wild apes, hooting and hollering. We endured the stares of fellow diners imagining to ourselves the quiet ride home as the monkeys zonk out in the back seat.

Following in brother's footsteps...

We hit the interstate later that evening, intending to power through the night and crash at home. While the big kids fell asleep almost immediately, Kye was wired from overexcitement, disorientation, and too much soda. We had to stop at least once every hour because he was stuck (and subsequently, full of poo).

Eventually we made it home, where Husband and I lay comatose in various locations around the house. Kye was so thrilled to be back in familiarity that he eagerly accepted a long nap, while Tweenie caught up with BFF and wistfully reread her Princess autographs. Rascal spent most of the time trashing the house unimpeded since Husband and I weren't up to parenting properly. Eventually he got bored and pounced on us. Once fully awakened, he announced:

"Let's go back to the beach now!"

This impulse traveler is glad to be grounded, at least until we recover from our last vacation.

Talking to Your Kids About Sex... Or Not

"Mom, can I have a Bratz doll?"

"No."

"Why? Everyone else has--"

"No."

Exaggerated sigh.

"I don't think they are appropriate for you."

"'Appropriate'?"

"Right. They have too much makeup on and their clothing is far too promiscuous."

"'Promiscuous'?"

"You know, hootchie gear."

"'Hootchie'?"

"If you dressed like that, the boys would get... ideas."

"'Ideas'?"

"They'd want to do... things with you."

"'Things'?"

I sat there with my head in hands, searching for the right words to communicate my concerns. I come from a very conservative Mennonite background and must blush whenever naughty words are used. Unfortunately, using vague ideas and euphemisms doesn't quite capture the message.

Recently I had decided to get over my heebie-jeebies and start using proper names for certain body parts. I quickly learned my lesson, and publicly. It turns out that when one is in Costco and one's son is calling his brother a "penis head", one wishes one would have stuck with "winkie".

I had The Talk with Tweenie last summer. It took a good hour to get through the main points with plenty of awkward silences and beating around the bush, but I managed to muscle my way flame-faced past all the terminology and whatnot. I had prepped for this little chat by reading up on another mommy blog who clearly is much more comfortable with such things than I, but yet I still found myself struggling. It was a lot less embarrassing for Tweenie - is that weird?

Still, talking girl to girl is one thing. I told Husband that the boys are his department. He agreed, and yet I feel uneasy. Will he actually talk it all out with them? Or will it be more like: "Dudes, don't get into trouble with the ladies."

"'Trouble'?"

Will they choose to interpret this as "don't get caught" or "don't do anything I wouldn't" - neither of these choices is acceptable to me. I dated him, remember? I know what went on; I was there.

When I was that age, my mom sat me down on the sofa with the B volume of the World Book Encyclopedia. She turned to Body and showed me the various transparencies.

"Let me know if you have any questions," she called over her shoulder as she got the heck outta there. And so I received a very clinical education, peppered with words like "scrotum", "urethra", "fallopian tubes", "glands", and "coitus".

Would it have been a more educationally satisfying conversation if we had resorted to "boobies" and "willies"? Hard to say.

Gettin' my geek on

So I decided that my blog with its cookie-cutter Blogger template just isn't real sexy. I'm gonna try something.

Something.... something awesome. Something... insane.

Having learned how to speak German as an adult has empowered me. I figure, how hard can HTML really be? If anything, I am more worried about how to come up with compelling illustrations that encompass my blog's feel than how to code it.

This is my inner (and let's face it - dominant) geekish tendency that is also a die-hard optimist. How could this fail? It has the wonderful marriage of ultimate control over creative efforts and budgetary concerns. The latter which, if you haven't noticed, is pretty influential seeing as how my ship is still somewhere way beyond the horizon and who knows when or if it'll actually arrive at my dock.

It should be interesting. After all, it took me six months to figure how to go from a 2-column template to 3. Anyway, I only needed about 3-6 months to learn German (ok, so I was living there and it was a crash-course immersion thing, but still...) so I figure a techy language written in English can't be that difficult. Right??

I also think of this as yet another attempt to stave off the increasingly persistent ravages of mommy-brain on my Self. I had a dream last night about comparative shopping for car snacks. I read labels in this dream. I knew I was in trouble. However, the idea of starting up with a new foreign language seems too intimidating for me at this stage, so we'll go with HTML and see where it takes me.

I'd like to apologize in advance for any weirdness you may encounter over the next few weeks when you stop by. I have a dummy blog to test with until I have a finished product, but you just never know.

Why did I think to mention all of this to you on a Friday night when I should be doing something more valuable with my time (like watching Ghost Whisperer perhaps?)? Maybe it's because I just finished the final touches on Tweenie's room (I'll post a pic soon, when I'm done with the beanbag chair) last weekend and am still riding out the after-effects of paint fumes. Good thing that like the tree-hugger control freak I am, I chose VOC-free paints. But still....

...feeling the effects.