Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Musical Lulls

The cd playing in the van on the way home from church tonight is one that I compiled and burned, somewhat in response to Hubby's amused observation that I'm subjecting the kids mostly to the music I like, a lot of which is stuff I grew up listening to.  This one has a mix of new songs I've discovered that I love, and old stuff that I can't seem to give up.

Needtobreathe's newest single, "Slumber," has finished.  The next song is vintage Michael W. Smith, off his third LP.  Typically MWS, it has a long introduction that slowly crescendos to full volume.

And it's in that lull between the end of "Slumber" and when the piano power chords take over in "Lamu" that this happens:

Medium Fry [to Large Fry, mimicking Hubby's sarcasm]: ...being mean, an' if you wanna be dat way, you go wright ahead an' be dat way, 'cause dat's the way you'wre gonna be.  And dat's just fine.

Hubby [echoing Medium in a quiet whisper]: And that's just fine.

He gave me an "Are you getting all this?" look.

Medium: Hey!  Awre you laughing at me up dewre?!

Hubby slapped one hand over his mouth and looked straight ahead out the windshield.

A single beat of silence follows.

Medium [parentally]: Dat's what I thought.

I could not contain my bark of laughter...

Tuesday, September 27, 2011


Small Fry: Dewre was lellow stuff in my nose.  What's it called?

Me: Snot.

Small Fry: Why is it cawlled snot?

Me: Because it is.

Small Fry: Why do I have lellow stuff in my nose?

Me: Because you do.  Please go sit back down on the couch.

Small Fry: But dewre's lellow stuff!

Me: Then get a tissue and wipe your nose.

Small Fry:  I don't need to!

Me (suspiciously): Why not?

Small Fry:  I wiped it off awlwready.

Me: Where did you wipe it?

Small Fry:  Onna blanket.


Rule #3.

Quote of the Day

Small Fry is home sick from preschool today.  She's running just enough of a fever that I didn't want to send her to school and expose the other kids (although, Medium went, so that might be moot), and her teachers don't need to put up with her attitude when she's feverish like this.  I love the little booger, but she can try my patience when she's sick.  The teachers don't need that....


Once I got Large Fry off to school, and got payroll finished, and was trying to catch up on notes after making some adjustments to payroll that was supposedly done, and I got some ibuprofen in her, Small Fry is happily watching Tangled and coloring.

It's cool enough these days that we have the downstairs window A/C unit off...but still warm enough in the house (especially with a laptop on my lap) that I have the tower fan on, oscillating across the room to keep it comfy.

And that's when Small Fry pipes up, as I'm scribbling notes on my recent conversation with Dahling in the office.

"Fan, you'wre messing up my wowrk!  Stop it!"

Thursday, September 22, 2011

I can't make this stuff up.

It's 7:30 p.m.

We've reached the end of The Ballad of Little Joe.

And I order the Fries to do their least favorite thing:  Pick up toys.

Now, granted, there aren't that many that aren't packed up.  Yet, somehow, I find that the smaller amount of toys makes just as big of a mess as all of the toys do.  Must be some kind of Murphy's Law of Toy Rooms or an applied corollary of the Two Lonely Wire Hangers rule (they breed when left alone).

But I want them to get the toys out of the living room, specifically, and mostly put away.

Yeah, it was about as successful as you'd think.

Two minutes into Operation Put-Away, Large Fry announces that she can't pick up toys because she has to go potty.

Close enough to bedtime and having to go potty anyway, so I let her go.

A good eight minutes later, I'm yelling for her to get OUT of the bathroom and quit playing with the water (not necessarily in that order).

And that's when she comes out and tells me.

"Mommy, I stepped in the kitty water and spilled water on the floor."

Because I'm mid-yell at the twin Fries, who are running around and giggling and most definitely not putting toys away, I don't hear most of what Large Fry says.  I heard enough to know that there's water on the floor. But I have other pressing concerns, like her disobedient siblings.

Next thing I know, all three of them are in the bathroom (something we've forbidden, because Bad Things always seem to happen when more than one Fry is in the bathroom at a time), giggling and arguing, and I'm shouting for them to get back in here.

Small Fry takes the opportunity to tattle on Large Fry.  "She speyuwlled LOTS of watewr on da floor."

I order the twins to the toy room to pick up more toys.  Then I turn to Large Fry to try to get to the bottom of the water problem.

And that's when Medium Fry waltzes into the room and is clearly about to just stand there.  "OUT!" I shouted.  (Yes, it's not been a good night.)

She returns to the toy room in tears, which I hate, but she came in here to watch her sister get punished, I'm sure, not to pick up toys, and I'm not going to deal with that.  Especially when I just told her to go into the toy room and pick up toys there.


It was a Migraine Salute moment.

I performed said Migraine Salute, pinching the bridge of my nose between my index and forefinger.  "What," I ground out between my teeth, "did you do to spill water all over the bathroom floor?  You stepped in the water dish?"

"No!" Large wails.  "In the kitty water!"

"You stepped in the kitty water bowls?  How?"

"Because I dried my hands and moved and I wasn't focusing on what I was doing!"

Okay.  Well.  At least she understands that's the problem.

I moved my laptop.  "Let me see your socks."  Her socks are gone.  Probably now in the dirty clothes hamper, because they're wet.  I snag her pant leg.  Yup, soaked right at the foot.  Another Migraine Salute.  "Get undressed and get your jammies on."

It wasn't until I came downstairs after tucking the Fries in bed (and heaving a huge sigh of relief on my way down) that I discovered how the spillage in the bathroom had been sopped up.

The hand towel from the towel rack by the sink...and a fluffy pink boa from their dress-up toys.


Monday, September 19, 2011

Birthday Bash

September brings two family birthdays, less than a week apart (but still nowhere near as packed as July).  Gramma's was last week.  Hubby's is this week.

Mom's birthday fell on the night that Hubby has to do his worship-pastor thing and run praise team practice.  Couldn't get together then.

Hubby was gone almost all day on Saturday, doing his youth-pastor thing with the kids at the Uprise Festival, which turned out to be lots and lots of (very) loud fun.  (I was envious.  I had lots and lots of loud, too, but very little of it was fun.)

And Hubby's birthday itself is on Wednesday, and that's another youth-pastor thing night, because it's youth group.

Clearly, we could not celebrate on either actual birthday.  And Saturday was out.

So Mom and Dad came out for church yesterday at PSC, and then we all went out to lunch.  Afterward, we came back to the youth house at PSC for cheesecake and presents.

Just as Mom and I are putting the glittery black candles on the cheesecake (Hubby's birthday is a monumental one), Small Fry announces that she has to go poopy NOW!

While she...*cough*...takes care of business, we sing to Mom again (we had a round of this in the restaurant, too).  We're on the verge of singing to Hubby, and Small is still in the potty.

Hubby goes to see how soon she'll be done, since we don't want the candles melting completely into the cake.  He stood in the open doorway and asked if she was done.

Small Fry answered in the affirmative and started to get up.  Then she sat back down.  "Another one is coming out!"

This cracked all of the adults up.

Small Fry finished up, ran out, we all sang, and then she went back to the bathroom to wash her hands.

When she came back, having not heard any water running, I asked, "Did you wash your hands?"

"No," she said.  "I used san' hanitizer."

"San' hanitizer, huh?"  I looked at Hubby.

"What did she say?" Dad asked, from the other end of the table.

"San' hanitizer," I quoted.

"Oh dear.  She's got the gene," Dad observed.

Just how easily the family spoonerizes is a story for another time, but the fact that Small did it without knowing...poor child.  She's going to have a list of phrases just like the rest of us that she has to think carefully before saying, so she gets it right.

Friday, September 16, 2011

It starts.

One box packed in prep for moving, and half a dozen books eliminated as too young for the girls.

A zillion boxes to go.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Salad Shooters

It's a lovely day here, and so I'm sitting outside, despite the two neighbors mowing their grass and giving my ground-mold allergies fits.  I'm still sitting outside.  We had so much rain last week that I'm still getting over my rainy-day gloomees.

Large Fry came home from school about ten minutes after I and my bag of popcorn settled into a comfy chair on the front porch I don't get to use nearly often enough.  She kiped two and a half small bowls of my popcorn and was about to go run off to play when she noticed the little girl standing at our driveway.

"It's my friend!" she announced cheerily.

Then she wanted to go over to her friend's house.  I nixed that, because I've never seen this girl before (she does live just across the street), and I don't know her parent(s).  I said she needed to stay in our yard.  A few minutes later, she wanted to show her friend her bedroom.

Well, right now, Large is stuck sharing a room with her sisters while the carpet in her room gets treated (thank you, Keiki).  And my house is a terrible mess because I haven't been able to do much with two bum ankles and a bum wrist.  So, no.  We're not going to show-and-tell my house today.

I had just finished complaining to Hubby via text that I was hurting today (I'm wearing the lovely bulky ankle brace again today after several days without, so that should tell you something) when I realized I was about out of Dr Pepper and I'd better go inside and get some, and some ibuprofen, before Hubby got home and asked if I'd actually taken something for my various aches and pains.

I came back outside with my new can of Dr Pepper and some ibuprofen to find Large Fry teetering on the edge of trespassing in the neighbor's yard, with her and her friend carrying two of our little green buckets.  I don't figure the neighbor will care, but they have buckets, and they're approaching trees and shrubs...

"Large Fry, what are you doing?"

She shouts something back, but due to the lawnmowers nearby, I can't quite hear what it is that they're hunting.

I ask her to come closer, because I can't hear her.  She runs forward about ten feet.  "I said lettuce!"

I nodded, and she and her friend went back to hunting "lettuce."

"Just find lettuce in our yard, please!" I called as I sat back down on the porch.  (I'm gonna miss this porch.)

As our other neighbor mowed along the front section, getting both his half of the front patch and ours (thanks), Large Fry came running up, hands cupped together, screaming, "Butterfly!"  She proudly showed off the barely-alive (if at all) moth she'd caught, to both me and our neighbor.

They're still happily playing.

I think I'll read the book I brought out here.  My original intent when I came out here, really.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Various Thoughts

I wanted to find a way to properly acknowledge today.

My own words fail me...but I will say that I was very touched by the church bells tolling around town today at 8:46 a.m.

So...since I'm at a loss for words in so many ways, I offer you these selections:

I encourage you to read, even if you disagree with the above authors.

But I definitely encourage you to look at the Cake Wrecks link.  It's the perfect ending to a day that still holds so much powerful emotion for all of us.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Letter Wars

Medium Fry: Yellow!

Small Fry: Lellow!

Medium: Yellow!

Small: Lellow!

Medium: Yellow!

Small: Lellow!

Medium: Yellow! Y! Y! Y!

Small: Lellow!  L!

Medium: Yellow!

Small: Lellow!

Me: Yellow.

Small: Nuh-uh.  Lellow.

Me: No.  Yellow starts with a Y, not an L.

Small: It stawrts wif a !

It's Football Season

Medium Fry: Uncle, why do you like the Buckeyes?

Me: Because he does.

Medium:  I don't like the Buckeyes.

Large Fry: I don't like the Buckeyes.

Small Fry: I do!

Medium: I don't.

Me: Why don't you like the Buckeyes?

Medium: 'Cause I like string cheese better.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

I'm Gonna Have to Try This!

How do you get rid of monsters?

In our house, we have the routine: command all monsters, giants, wombats and dragons to exit the premises, stage right.  At least, the unfriendly ones.  The friendly ones go keep Gramma and Boppa company until tomorrow.

But we just might have to try this one.

Monster spray!

"I'm vewwy angwee!"

For nearly the entire twenty-five minute ride home from church tonight, Small Fry expounded upon the things that  had made her "angwee," "upset," and "disappointed":

  • "Daddy, you'wre going the wohng way home.  I'm vewwy angwee an' disappointed in you!"  When Hubby asked if she would forgive him, her rather snooty reply was, "Yes, but I'm steeywll mad."
  • "I don't like going dis way.  Dis is nawt how to go to our house.  I'm vewwy angwee."
  • "I'm vewwy angwee at dem."  When I asked about the identities of the poor "dem," Small Fry opined, "Da people at chuwrch who wouldn't give me hugs.  Dey wouldn't let me hug dem."
  • She was also "vewwy angwee" at PeeJay, because she didn't get to see him and therefore didn't give him a hug.  (Never mind that she just likes to watch him as if he's an aquarium...she hasn't hugged him yet, despite all the "Pweeze take me to see [him]" requests we get.  Or that neither Hubby nor I even saw PeeJay tonight.)
  • "Mommy, I'm vewwy angwee at you."  "Why?"  "Because I am."  It took another three minutes of very distorted conversation to determine that she was "angwee" because I'd tricked her into coming over so I could give her a hug.  "Will you forgive me?"  Small crossed her little arms and gave me a long-suffering look that you usually only see perfected in teenagers. (Yes, she's perfected it already.  We're in big trouble.) "Yes, but I'm steeywll mad."
  • She was "vewwy angwee" at the ladies running the Wednesday night kids' program, because they threw away her ice cweem before she was done, and that made her mad.  And sad.
  • She was also "vewwy angwee" at PeeJay's son D, "becawse he made me touch da yemon. I didn't want to!"  Interesting that she should say that, because she was the one willingly touching the yemon and also the one who told him to be sure to keep it and not get rid of it.
  • "Mommy, don't smile at me!  I don't like dat!"  Which, of course, makes it really hard to not smile.  "I'm not smiling at you," I said, deliberately looking out the window so I'm smiling out at the darkened highway.  "Yes, you awre!"  This made a chuckle, despite my valiant attempts otherwise, to escape. "Don't laff at me, Mommy!!"  At this point, I can't even look at Hubby, because he has a hand over his mouth to stop both his ear-to-ear grin and his laughter.  "I'm not," I say around a bubble of laughter trying to get out.  I clapped my hand over my mouth...and totally failed to keep the laughter inside.  It burst out.  With gusto.  "Don't laff, Mommy!"
When Hubby and I could finally look at each other without cracking up, he whispered, "Are you remembering all this?"

"I hope so."

"Going to make the blog?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Can you remember it all?"

"Even if I only get half of it, it's still hilarious."

5:20 A.M.

*pat pat pat*


*pat pat pat*


I give up the pretense of getting any more sleep.  "What, honey?"

"Can you scoot over an' give me some wroom?"

It's Medium Fry, and she wants to snuggle between Hubby and me.  And it's an hour of the day that I only like to recognize once per 24-hour period, and this isn't it.

I'm laying on my left side, and I reach behind me to see how much extra room I might have.  Nada.  I'm right at the edge of the bed.  "I can't, honey.  I'm at the edge of the bed already."

*pat pat pat*

"Uncle?  Can you scoot ovewr?"

When Hubby fails to rouse to gentle patting, I push on his chest to jostle him.  "Honey, we have company."

He breaches the threshold of barely-conscious, orients himself, and announces, "We already have company."

"Well, Medium is here.  Can you move over?"

"No," he mumbles.  "I've got one kid over here, and another on my foot."

"Well, who's over there?"  I asked.

"Dunno.  I've just got a foot."  He lifts a small foot up, somewhere near his left hip.

I'm easily confused as it is, and ungodly hours of the day really don't help.  I could tell whoever it was apparently was laying on her stomach, from the way her knee bent as Hubby showed me her foot.  "Where's the rest of her?"

"Dunno!  I just got a foot."

Honestly, it looked like whichever kid had only her feet on the bed and the rest of her on the floor.

I got Medium to move around a little, sat up, turned, and located the rest of my apparently footless-kid.  Ah, foot still attached...Large had her head down by Hubby's feet, angled in such a way that she kept him from moving at all to change position.

"Large Fry," I said to Hubby.

"Medium," Hubby said gently but firmly, "go back to your own bed."

Head hanging down, and lower lip out and trembling, Medium slithered off the bed after I gave her a quick hug and kiss.

"Large, go back to your own bed."

"I want a hug," Large said.

Hubby gave her a hug, and she stumbled down the hall, passing a moping Medium.

"Medium?" Hubby called.  "Do you need a hug, too?"

She sniffed and nodded.

"Come here."

The hug consoled her enough that she didn't mope as she went back to her room.

I couldn't hold back a giggle. "'All I've got is a foot,'" I said with a chuckle.

"I know," Hubby mumbled.

It took me five minutes to stop giggling so I could go back to sleep.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

I am a Copy Cat

Thanks, Tab, for the great idea of taking this post from YoungMommy and making it my own....


1. Love her mom. Treat her mother with respect, honor, and a big heaping spoonful of public displays of affection. When she grows up, the odds are good she’ll fall in love with and marry someone who treats her much like you treated her mother. Good or bad, that’s just the way it is. I’d prefer good.

Annnd...everybody nap!
2. Always be there. Quality time doesn’t happen without quantity time. Hang out together for no other reason than just to be in each other’s presence. Be genuinely interested in the things that interest her. She needs her dad to be involved in her life at every stage. Don’t just sit idly by while she add years to her life … add life to her years.

Sometimes, all it takes is a duckie in your shirt.
3. Save the day. She’ll grow up looking for a hero. It might as well be you. She’ll need you to come through for her over and over again throughout her life. Rise to the occasion. Red cape and blue tights optional.

It's How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
4. Savor every moment you have together. Today she’s crawling around the house in diapers, tomorrow you’re handing her the keys to the car, and before you know it, you’re walking her down the aisle. Some day soon, hanging out with her old man won’t be the bees knees anymore. Life happens pretty fast. You better cherish it while you can.

How to pray passionately.
5. Pray for her. Regularly. Passionately. Continually.

6. Buy her a glove and teach her to throw a baseball. Make her proud to throw like a girl… a girl with a wicked slider.

7. She will fight with her mother. Choose sides wisely.

8. Go ahead. Buy her those pearls.

"Steal the Paci" might be even sillier.
9. Of course you look silly playing peek-a-boo. You should play anyway.

Small Fry, 19 months.
10. Enjoy the wonder of bath time.

Does a cat the size of a small dog count?
11. There will come a day when she asks for a puppy. Don’t over think it. At least one time in her life, just say, “Yes.”

Or when she's three.
12. It’s never too early to start teaching her about money. She will still probably suck you dry as a teenager… and on her wedding day.

13. Make pancakes in the shape of her age for breakfast on her birthday. In a pinch, donuts with pink sprinkles and a candle will suffice.

14. Buy her a pair of Chucks as soon as she starts walking. She won’t always want to wear matching shoes with her old man.

With Large Fry.
15. Dance with her. Start when she’s a little girl or even when she’s a baby. Don’t wait ‘til her wedding day.

16. Take her fishing. She will probably squirm more than the worm on your hook. That’s OK.

17. Learn to say no. She may pitch a fit today, but someday you’ll both be glad you stuck to your guns.

Large, you look beautiful in your "dress"!
18. Tell her she’s beautiful. Say it over and over again. Someday an animated movie or “beauty” magazine will try to convince her otherwise.

19. Teach her to change a flat. A tire without air need not be a major panic inducing event in her life. She’ll still call you crying the first time it happens.

20. Take her camping. Immerse her in the great outdoors. Watch her eyes fill with wonder the first time she sees the beauty of wide open spaces. Leave the iPod at home.

21. Let her hold the wheel. She will always remember when daddy let her drive.

22. She’s as smart as any boy. Make sure she knows that.

It works even if (when) you say "Ewwww!"
23. When she learns to give kisses, she will want to plant them all over your face. Encourage this practice.

24. Knowing how to eat sunflower seeds correctly will not help her get into a good college. Teach her anyway.

With Small Fry.
25. Letting her ride on your shoulders is pure magic. Do it now while you have a strong back and she’s still tiny.

Medium.  Rockin'.
26. It is in her nature to make music. It’s up to you to introduce her to the joy of socks on a wooden floor.

Medium, at the splash park near our hotel in Daytona.
27. If there’s a splash park near your home, take her there often. She will be drawn to the water like a duck to a puddle.

28. She will eagerly await your return home from work in the evenings. Don’t be late.

29. If her mom enrolls her in swim lessons, make sure you get in the pool too. Don’t be intimidated if there are no other dads there. It’s their loss.

Large Fry's 6th birthday.
30. Never miss her birthday. In ten years she won’t remember the present you gave her. She will remember if you weren’t there.

Boogie boarding counts, right?
31. Teach her to roller skate. Watch her confidence soar.

Small Fry, July 2011
32. Let her roll around in the grass. It’s good for her soul. It’s not bad for yours either.

33. Take her swimsuit shopping. Don’t be afraid to veto some of her choices, but resist the urge to buy her full-body beach pajamas.

"Will joo mawwy me?" ~Medium
34. Somewhere between the time she turns three and her sixth birthday, the odds are good that she will ask you to marry her. Let her down gently.

35. She’ll probably want to crawl in bed with you after a nightmare. This is a good thing.

Or his sweater, in a pinch.
36. Few things in life are more comforting to a crying little girl than her father’s hand. Never forget this.

37. Introduce her to the swings at your local park. She’ll squeal for you to push her higher and faster. Her definition of “higher and faster” is probably not the same as yours. Keep that in mind.

38. When she’s a bit older, your definition of higher and faster will be a lot closer to hers. When that day comes, go ahead… give it all you’ve got.

Also a good cure for a drippy nose.
39. Holding her upside down by the legs while she giggles and screams uncontrollably is great for your biceps. WARNING: She has no concept of muscle fatigue.

40. She might ask you to buy her a pony on her birthday. Unless you live on a farm, do not buy her a pony on her birthday. It’s OK to rent one though.

Assateague Island, August 2010
41. Take it easy on the presents for her birthday and Christmas. Instead, give her the gift of experiences you can share together.

42. Let her know she can always come home. No matter what.

Sweet moments with the Three: Large, Medium, Small.
43. Remember, just like a butterfly, she too will spread her wings and fly some day. Enjoy her caterpillar years.

44. Write her a handwritten letter every year on her birthday. Give them to her when she goes off to college, becomes a mother herself, or when you think she needs them most.

45. Learn to trust her. Gradually give her more freedom as she gets older. She will rise to the expectations you set for her.

46. When in doubt, trust your heart. She already does.

47. When your teenage daughter is upset, learning when to engage and when to back off will add years to YOUR life. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

First soft-serve cones.
48. Ice cream covers over a multitude of sins. Know her favorite flavor.

49. This day--dating boys--is coming soon. There’s nothing you can do to be ready for it. The sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be.

Large Fry, first day of 1st grade.
50. Today she’s walking down the driveway to get on the school bus. Tomorrow she’s going off to college. Don’t blink.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Another First

Last night, having finally made it upstairs for the first time in almost a week (a severely sprained ankle on Monday had me living on the couch all week; no, it was not my twice-operated-on bad foot), I made a discovery in the upstairs bath.

I had hobbled in there to make use of the facilities, brush my teeth, and take my evening meds (including painkillers; bless modern medicine), and saw some dark hair on the floor.

Now, it could belong to Minou, and fallen out of the trashcan when Hubby emptied the bathroom trash after scooping the litterboxes.  Minou is our Holstein cat, and she's long-haired.  Theoretically, if a recent brushing had landed outside of the can, it could be hers.

So I picked it up.

Hair, yes.  Dark, yes.

Minou's?  No.

Not unless Minou had suddenly gone brown and curly.

And given the looseness of the curl, it was clearly not Medium Fry's.

Which left Large Fry...or Small Fry.  And whoever had done the snipping.  I knew that the owner of the hair wasn't necessarily the cutter of the hair.

I hobbled back to bed and sent Hubby a text, asking if he knew who belonged to the hank of hair (about two inches long and maybe an inch in width).

So that's what that was, he replied.


Well, the good news was that he'd given all three Fries baths earlier that night, and the missing hair wasn't readily apparent.  Which means nobody else would easily notice it if we didn't.

That's a bonus.

This morning, after I came downstairs, I fixed the Usual Suspects with a gimlet eye.  "Whose hair got cut?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," Hubby jumped in. "Who?"

Large Fry raised her hand just enough to admit guilt.

"Who cut you hair?" Hubby demanded.

"I did," she said, tears brimming.  Hubby was using his Don't Even Try To Lie To Me voice.

"Where did you get scissors?"

"From the windowsill."

"The windowsill?"

"The black ones!"  Blubbering commenced.

"With the curved blades?" I asked, jumping back into the interrogation.

Large Fry thought a minute, and then nodded.

I was momentarily impressed that she'd managed to cut off that much hair with those "scissors"--the claw trimmers I keep there for when I can catch Minou (notoriously difficult to catch) during her evening adore-me moments in the bathroom.  Minou doesn't often mosey downstairs, and it's easier to grab her in her favorite room: the upstairs bath.  So I keep a pair of trimmers there for that reason.

"Those are nail trimmers for the kitty!"

Hubby gave a stern lecture about how they do not use scissors on hair, the dire consequences of doing so in the future, and that kitty nail trimmers are not scissors.

I have to admit, I've been wondering when our first hair-cutting experience would happen....

Friday, September 2, 2011

Watching "Mulan"

Medium Fry: Is he dead?

Hubby: No, he's unconscious.

*skip to credits rolling*

Medium Fry [half sitting on a small table, with one foot raised & propped on a chair, and wobbling back and forth]: I'm unkonschuss!  I'm unkonschuss!

Hubby: No, you're not.  You're talking and sitting up.

Medium [not to be deterred]: I'm unkonschuss!  I'm unkonschuss!

Hubby: No, you're not.  You're talking and sitting up.

Medium: I'm unkonschuss!  I'm unkonschuss!

Hubby: No!  You're not!  You're talking!

Medium: No, I'm not.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Grandparental Jealousy

It's Thursday.

Hubby, thanks to his new job, has to work.  It's praise team practice night.

Since I have lived on the couch in the living room since Monday night, and still feel unsteady about handling stairs, and there's no way I can stand up long enough to cook (just getting to the half bath down here is an adventure), Hubby contacted my folks to see if they would come out tonight, pick up the twin Fries from preschool, and help supervise dinner, and put the kids to bed.

If school wasn't in session, it wouldn't be such a huge ordeal...I'd just keep them all up until Hubby got home about 9ish from practice, and let him put them to bed.

But Large Fry really needs to be in bed closer to 8 than 9, soooo....

My folks agreed to come help.  Mom even brought dinner!  (Thanks, Mom.  It was yummy.)

The kids weren't as enthused, because it was something kinda new, and so there was much the way of cake.  Homemade angelfood cake, to be precise, frosted with Mom's rich chocolate icing.

I observed at one point, when there was a lull in the Fries' almost-unending conversation, that grandparental jealousy was in full force.

"Oh?" Dad asked.

"Yeah.  Medium asked Gramma Bevvie the other night if she could make a cake the next time we come."

"I was wondering why your mother made a cake in the middle of the week for no apparent reason," he said with a chuckle.

Mom came back in from the kitchen.  "Well, I couldn't let Gramma Bevvie outdo me!"