Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Musings with Middle

The twins are currently in a play at their middle school, so this afternoon I drove over to pick them up from practice.

Middle hopped into the front passenger seat. "Mom, you missed seeing the wonder that is Ricky."

"Gosh, I guess I'll just have to survive." I pulled out around the cars still in line in front of me, waiting for kids to either pile in or buckle or whatever.

"I have good taste in guys," Middle went on. "First there was Wynn, then there was Boater, and now Ricky."

I was familiar with the first two on her list, whom she'd also supplied surnames for, but I can only do so much anonymizing here without messing up my brain cells. Wynn's a church friend who has boldly declared his love--and his intention to win the Middle Son-in-law Sweepstakes--almost from the moment he met her. Boater is a friend from school, actually in Oldest's grade (so he's now in high school, along with Oldest, and sorta out-of-market), and a good kid.

She didn't provide a last name for Ricky, though. "Do you know Ricky's last name?" I asked her.

Middle spouted it off without hesitation.

Okay then. So it's not a random crush where we like the kid, but don't even know his whole name.

"You know what the difference is between Ricky and those other guys, though?"

I can hardly wait, my child.

"I'm not even crushing on him. I just think he's hawt."

Hahahahaha. Wait until I tell your father, kid.

Thursday, November 14, 2019

After-School Conversations

"Hey, Mom, what is good lying?" Pause. "How do you tell a good lie?"

I just stared at my child, who actually asked me that question.

"I know. Pathetic, going to your mom for lying tips."

"Well, yes, but what on earth made you think I would teach you?"

A sly grin.

Then, "I think I forgot how to lie. I don't think I'd forget how to murder, but I forgot how to lie." She caught me staring at her. "Not that I would ever murder."

Two guesses for which child I'm having this conversation with.

Thursday, August 22, 2019

So It's That Time Again

I meant to write a post a couple of months back, when Middle had shrieked something in the midst of a conversation on a long car ride about how traveling in cars was akin to nothing more than riding in what she termed "death baskets" (you really had to be there), but I've spent most of my summer like this:

"Keep extremity elevated above heart."

Which was, really, why she was having the conversation with Hubby about cars being nothing but "death baskets."

Bert the Pain Pump
For the record, we'd been discussing our car's safety features (seat belts, anti-lock brakes, front- and side-curtain air bags), and I was doing a remarkable job of maintaining the conversation, considering a) how much anesthesia I'd been under earlier in the day, and b) how much juice was still pumping into me, courtesy of the nerve block they'd sent me home under. (Say hello, Bert.) All in all, due to Bert's presence and the two-pronged nerve block in addition to the prescription pain meds, I felt pretty great for just having some major surgery. Stuck in the back seat with my foot up on the console while Middle carried on this hilarious conversation with her father, but really not bad.

So the car is truly quite a safe vehicle to drive, but the realization that she herself is also tooling down the highway at 65 m.p.h. along with the car and doesn't automatically stop when the car might do so abruptly was a bit sobering.

Hence, death basket.

But I was on some really good pain-relieving drugs and didn't maintain enough presence of mind (or consciousness for long enough) to actually write the post then.

The surgery I had was to basically resolve some of my right ankle issues, stemming from severe post-traumatic arthritis due to this accident ten years ago. The surgeon went in and cleaned out the joint, performed a microfracture, and inserted donor juvenile cartilage to help stabilize what had been removed from the bone (eaten away by arthritis, probably). Spiffy, eh? I was very fortunate that the joint did not require a fusion. Thus, home, and six weeks non-weight-bearing and recuperating on the hide-a-bed in the den, since I have to have one-floor living for a bit. I'm walking again, and have progressed to just needing my cane and I'm pretty much full-weight-bearing now, at 9 weeks or so post-op, but I still tire easily and stairs are challenging.

Today, however, was the first day of school, and everyone else is out shopping for the stuff they MUST HAVE before they go out tomorrow. (I can't drive, either. It's all very exciting.) Hubby has been working third shift since the end of February, after he got promoted to supervisor at his job, so I let him sleep as long as I could. Because, you know, we need all of the binders. And all of the looseleaf paper. And all of the notebooks. And pencils. And pens.

So I'm writing a bit of an update now.

Oldest is doing combination schooling this year. It's her freshman year of high school (how did we get this old?), and she's going to morning classes at the high school proper and finishing out the rest of her classes in the district's cyber program. It's a blend that seems to suit her needs for this year best, and she got really excited about the idea when the teacher in charge of cyber at the high school brought it up to us as a possibility for her. She got a little nervous today when one of her classes turned out to be bigger than she anticipated, but overall, I think it was a good first day of school for her.

Middle is in 7th grade this year, and is really looking forward to this coming school year. Her band uniform is one of the ones that has special gold embroidery outlining the initial on it (because she's one of the better players); she's in jazz band too, I believe, transferring from last year; and she auditioned for Oopsies, the select singing group, at the end of last year--and made it. First practice is after school on Monday, and she can hardly wait. She came home with a folder full of papers for me to sign today. Yay, Mom-homework. First day of school, every year, without fail.

Youngest is also in 7th grade this year. She's on the same team of teachers that Middle is, and we had to do some fancy arranging to make sure they didn't share all the same classes, because--as anyone who's followed this blog for long knows--they might be twins, but they are definitely individuals, and it works best to keep them in separate classes. She likes all of her teachers so far, and a couple of them were Oldest's teachers in the past, so Youngest was passing on greetings when she came home today. She also brought me a folder full of stuff to sign.

When did they all get so big?

Looks like it's going to be a good year.

Sunday, January 6, 2019


It has been previously well-documented here (in the last post, in fact) how much Middle loves our cat, Kimo. This relationship is, actually, quite reciprocal; Middle is Kimo's chosen person, and far be it from anyone to come between them. Kimo goes up and sleeps with Middle at night, cooperates more for claw trimmings when Middle is present, and even does tricks that Middle has taught her.

But when Kimo isn't feeling like the company of the entire Triple Threat (TM), she will come seek me out. Sometimes, when she tires of hanging out in the girls' room after bedtime, she comes and nestles in the crook of my neck as I'm watching television late at night (not uncomfortable in the least). Or, like tonight, she'll settle on the pillow at the other end of my "office" loveseat in the living room and keep me company while I work.

Except she didn't choose so much the pillow tonight as she did my feet.

This had gone on long enough that I needed to both change positions (cranky ankle) and go move laundry over, so I got up, and she jumped to the floor. I was gone from the couch about ten minutes, maybe fifteen, between getting clothes out of the dryer and into the basket, out of the washer and into the dryer, and starting a new washer load.

And then I came back upstairs, expecting to continue work on the manuscript I've been plodding through second-round edits on. I found this instead.

"This is not your spot!" I exclaimed.

You can see how concerned she was about that.

I went downstairs to get myself a refill of Diet Dr Pepper and paused in the den, where Hubby and the girls are watching TV and folding laundry. I pointed at Middle. "Your cat!"


"Your cat! It wasn't enough that she sat on my feet while I edited!"

Middle grinned. "Awwwww!"

I wasn't done. "I went down to take care of the laundry, and I came back, and she took my spot!"


"I told her this was not her room. Then, she went right back to sleep!"

Middle hadn't stopped smiling. "Awwwwwww!"

Hubby laughed at me outright. "What made you think that you could come in here and get any sympathy from that?" He gestured towards our daughter.

I jabbed a finger at her. "Your cat!"

She giggled as I left the room.

Hear me roar.
Kimo had one eye open when I approached the love seat again.

"I'm going to have to evict you," I said as she gazed at me balefully through her open eye. I hefted her off the couch and sat down. "I still have work to do." (Of course, I'm writing this post instead.)

By the way, she didn't go off in a huff.

I think she wants my blankie.

Friday, December 28, 2018

It's MY Fault!

Just when I was thinking that nothing too crazy was going to happen during Christmas break, Middle bounced into the living room as I was on the phone with Waffle tonight. "Hey, Mom. Can I have two Thin Mints and a piece of fudge to squish between them?" She pointed double finger-guns at me and grinned.

I glanced at the lower right corner of my computer and checked the time 8:14 p.m. Bedtime in less than an hour. "No. Not tonight. It's too late, and that's too much sugar."

I got a full-body-yet-not-so-serious pout in return. "But that's not fair!"

"Nope. It's too much. The end."

"I'm going to change your mind!" Middle flounced away.

I guarantee you, she didn't go far.

In my own defense, my fudge recipe is really rich, and even when cut into small pieces has enough sugar to power most 12-year-olds for a good two hours.

"What did she want?" Waffle asked.

A chocoholic's delight
I explained my precocious middle child's request...just as she ping-ponged back into the room from the stairwell.

"You have to have changed your mind by now!" she asserted.


Middle flailed back dramatically while groaning her displeasure. Waffle snickered on the other end of the line.

I hollered back, "I'm your mother! I'm a cosmic killjoy!"

"Well, duh!" Middle fired back and kept going. I had no idea what she said because Waffle and I were both laughing so hard.

Waffle tried to compose herself. "Did she just say, 'Well, duh'?"

I nodded my head while muttering an affirmative and still chuckling. Knowing the situation was too far gone at this point for me to even be taken seriously, I leaned back and asked over my shoulder, "What did you say after 'Well, duh'?"

With the same amount of amused impudence as I'm sure she injected the first time, Middle repeated, "Can't you be a cool mom for once?"

"No!" I shouted as Waffle roared. I took a moment to glance at my child. "You can have it tomorrow."
Do not take intravenously

Middle slumped to the floor. "But I won't be pumped then."

I smiled. "I'm sure you can pump yourself back up."

She cocked her head at me. "I knew you'd say something like that. But I won't." She paused. "Can I have one Thin Mint and one piece of fudge?"


Waffle and I tried to recover from the serious case of the giggles we'd had throughout the conversation as Middle bopped downstairs.

"How do you have Thin Mints in December?" Waffle wanted to know.

"My mother," I explained. "She bought several boxes and froze them, then brought a couple to us."

A few minutes later, Middle returned to the living room, an accusatory finger raised in my direction. "You raised me too well! It's YOUR fault!"

"What?" I asked about the same time Waffle did through the phone.

"Youngest said she could go ask you for a Thin Mint, and then she could give it to me, and I could have what I want. But I couldn't do that!"

I speared her with a gimlet eye. "Because you'd be out all kinds of sweet goodness if you ever got caught."

"Exactly! It's YOUR fault! How dare you!" Then Middle turned around and saw her cat in the rocking chair behind her. "Kimo! If you tell Mom, she'll let me have what I want!"

"She's begging the cat to talk," I informed Waffle.

She laughed. "Your child is unhinged."

I couldn't stop giggling. "Is it any wonder? I'm her mother."

"Well, it builds character." I could almost hear her smirk. "I'm going to let you deal with that--" Middle was still begging Kimo to speak--"and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Speak, Kimo!
What follows is a sample of Middle's cajoling of the cat to speak so I will allow her to have two Thin Mints and fudge...which went on for a good fifteen minutes before Middle gave up:

"You're just rusty. You can do it. Just say it and Mom will give me Thin Mints and fudge. You talk to me all the time. You're opening your mouth. Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay sooooooooooooooooooomething. And she yawns. Yes, you can do it, Kimo. I believe in you. I'm being patient. Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay soooooooooooooooooooomething. Oh! I know. I have to speak in your cat language, and then you'll do it. I don't know your language. Is it Catanian? Catish? Oh, you're such a good Kimo. You can speak! Just say something! You can do it, baby!"

I kid you not.

I only wish I'd videoed some of her monologue for the wedding reception.

Friday, November 30, 2018

Let Them Eat Cake

We have leftover cake tonight.

As Middle finished dinner, she asked, "Mom, can I have that piece of cake?"

Well, no. She can't have that piece of cake. That piece of cake was a full quarter of the cake, which I'd cut last night but hadn't divided into smaller pieces. Half of the cake was leftover, but had been cut into the two remaining quarters. No way was I giving her an entire quarter of a chocolate cake.

She giggled when she realized it wasn't a single slice.

"You can have cake once I slice it." I cut the quarters into six relatively even slices, and Middle immediately picked out the biggest one. "That's mine!"

Sometimes, it pays to be the parent. She didn't argue. I put a slice on her plate and she dug in, with gusto.

Being that it was a fend-for-yourself night around these parts, I collected the rest of my dinner and then came out to get my cake, not trusting that my chosen piece would remain until I was done eating everything else.

Middle scraped at the frosting caught in the fluted edges of her plate, pressing in the tines of her plastic fork. "That's right," I encouraged her. "Get it all."

I stepped back into the kitchen for something and returned to the dining room...where Middle was licking the plate. I smacked the top of her head.

 She lowered the plate and gave me a look that was both sheepish and completely unrepentant. "I'm just getting every last morsel, as you advised."

I really didn't know how to argue with that.

Adventures of Pua

Yesterday, these goobers turned twelve. Hard to believe, I know, because the day before that they were just five.

One of the things Youngest had specifically requested as either a birthday or Christmas gift was a stuffed version of the pet pig from Moana. Middle loves ducks, as any longtime reader of this blog knows, but Youngest has a love for piggies that is nearly as big as Middle's love of duckies. (In fact, Youngest is beginning to have a hard time eating bacon and ham if she thinks about it too much. But I digress.)

I had, to her great delight, found the pig in question, whose name is Pua. Not only that, I'd found a good-sized one, and managed to have it delivered in time.

Because we can't have a birthday for my girls without a pig and a duck for their respective persons. (Hubby agreed, despite his groaning about why are we bringing in more stuffies when we're trying to get rid of the over abundance we have.)


This morning, while I huddled in my jammies under a fleecy blanket and monitored the time, Youngest had taken several minutes to carefully swaddle Pua in several blankets downstairs on the (ugly) green hide-a-bed couch in the den before she left for school.

I went to work without knowing about this.

I came home and lugged groceries inside, and was met by a goofily grinning Hubby.

"Youngest left Pua wrapped up in blankets in the den this morning," he said. "And Pua was bad."

I followed him to the den.

The blankets that had once surrounded Pua had been recklessly undone. A pair of Hubby's reading glasses perched on Pua's nose. A sleeve of crackers was tucked in next to the pig, with (of all things) a foam football behind them. On the other side of the pig, a bowl of what appeared to have been mashed potatoes was left with the spoon in it. (Eating in the den is verboten.) Pua's front feet clutched the remote for the TV, while the Roku remote sat carelessly nearby.

Having masterminded a series of Duckie escapades in the past, I chuckled.

And then I got on board.

I finished almost all of my diet Dr Pepper that I'd taken to work with me and tucked it in next to Pua, the sneaky thief who stole one of Momma's sodas too, in addition to all the other "crimes."

And after Hubby left for work and I changed my clothes, I turned on the TV, tuned into Netflix, went back a number of episodes, and set Pua up to be watching The Flash when the kids came home.

It was great.

I sat up in the living room, watching M*A*S*H and having a snack, when the girls got home about 3:15, grinning like a fool to myself. It didn't take long before the twins popped into the living room.

"Mom! Did you see what Dad did to Pua?" Youngest grinned from ear to ear.

I smiled. "I helped."

I can't wait to tell Hubby how well it played out.