For those of you who might be suffering through interminable terminal delays, I offer you this bit of humor:
h/t to Peter over at bayourenaissanceman.blogspot.com.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Merry Christmas
This is the reason why we celebrate Christmas.
You can find the lyrics (verses 7, 5 and 2 are sung in this version, and in that order) here:
http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/NonEnglish/veni_veni_emanuel.htm
h /t to Peter at bayourenaissanceman.blogspot.com
Weepeet da sownding joy....
The munchkins are all tucked in their beds, ostensibly sleeping on this Christmas Eve eve.
Large Fry has moved beyond the need to have music playing to help lull her to sleep, but the twin Fries still like the comfort of the classical station playing in the background. Since we live in nowheresville and don't even have our own radio stations, the classical station we get is out of Maryland. Which actually has nothing to do with the story, really, except that I am enough of a writer to not want to have so many one-sentence paragraphs.
Innyhoo.
This being Christmastime, the classical station is playing sacred (and often choral) Christmas music. The Fries growing up in our rather musically-inclined home, and especially now with the twin Fries being old enough for Junior Church on Sunday mornings, they've heard a lot of Christmas carols this year.
And because the twin Fries share a room, they're prone to talking instead of sleeping. Really prone to talking instead of sleeping, and often end up giggling and shushing each other and Unca D has to shout upstairs at least a couple of times each night, to get them to settle down. (Occasionally, Unca D must also go upstairs and lay down the law.) Thus, we have an intercom monitor locked on transmit in their room, so we can tell when they're being little goobers and not sleeping, and respond accordingly. Because, cute though they are, they are little bears when they don't get enough sleep.
Tonight was no different. Hubby decided he was hungry for Friday's, and they let you phone in orders for pick-up here, so that's what we did for dinner after the Fries were tucked in bed. So we're sitting here, eating our yummy Friday's dinner, when we hear something in the monitor.
Singing, to be precise.
Tonight's musical selection on our classical station included Joy to the World, and both Fries were singing along. During the few measures between verses, Medium Fry observed, "Unca D sang dis sowng in chuwrch!"
It's quiet for another few measures, and then the choir sings the chorus again.
And Small Fry belts out, "Weepeet da sownding joy!"
Large Fry has moved beyond the need to have music playing to help lull her to sleep, but the twin Fries still like the comfort of the classical station playing in the background. Since we live in nowheresville and don't even have our own radio stations, the classical station we get is out of Maryland. Which actually has nothing to do with the story, really, except that I am enough of a writer to not want to have so many one-sentence paragraphs.
Innyhoo.
This being Christmastime, the classical station is playing sacred (and often choral) Christmas music. The Fries growing up in our rather musically-inclined home, and especially now with the twin Fries being old enough for Junior Church on Sunday mornings, they've heard a lot of Christmas carols this year.
And because the twin Fries share a room, they're prone to talking instead of sleeping. Really prone to talking instead of sleeping, and often end up giggling and shushing each other and Unca D has to shout upstairs at least a couple of times each night, to get them to settle down. (Occasionally, Unca D must also go upstairs and lay down the law.) Thus, we have an intercom monitor locked on transmit in their room, so we can tell when they're being little goobers and not sleeping, and respond accordingly. Because, cute though they are, they are little bears when they don't get enough sleep.
Tonight was no different. Hubby decided he was hungry for Friday's, and they let you phone in orders for pick-up here, so that's what we did for dinner after the Fries were tucked in bed. So we're sitting here, eating our yummy Friday's dinner, when we hear something in the monitor.
Singing, to be precise.
Tonight's musical selection on our classical station included Joy to the World, and both Fries were singing along. During the few measures between verses, Medium Fry observed, "Unca D sang dis sowng in chuwrch!"
It's quiet for another few measures, and then the choir sings the chorus again.
And Small Fry belts out, "Weepeet da sownding joy!"
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
My father's advice
Amazing home remedies that really work!
Thanks, Dad. Don't know what I'd do without your help.
*My mother just did this on Sunday. Right after explaining to the Fries that Unca D lost the tip of his left index finger in a factory accident because he "wasn't careful." With a serrated knife. To cut a banana, of all things. Five stitches, folks.
**Dad's helpful advice for Hubby in particular.
***I've got a nasty sinus infection going on right now, that's settled in my chest and giving me a nice hacking cough.
1. TO AVOID CUTTING YOURSELF WHEN SLICING VEGETABLES, GET SOMEONE ELSE TO HOLD THE VEGETABLES WHILE YOU CHOP.*
2. TO AVOID ARGUMENTS WITH THE FEMALES ABOUT LIFTING THE TOILET SEAT - USE THE SINK.**
3. FOR HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE SUFFERERS ~ SIMPLY CUT YOURSELF AND BLEED FOR A FEW MINUTES, THUS REDUCING THE PRESSURE ON YOUR VEINS. [REMEMBER TO USE A TIMER.]
4. A MOUSE TRAP PLACED ON TOP OF YOUR ALARM CLOCK WILL PREVENT YOU FROM ROLLING OVER AND GOING BACK TO SLEEP AFTER YOU HIT THE SNOOZE BUTTON.
5. IF YOU HAVE A BAD COUGH, TAKE A LARGE DOSE OF LAXATIVES - YOU'LL BE AFRAID TO COUGH.***
6. YOU ONLY NEED TWO TOOLS IN LIFE: WD-40 AND DUCT TAPE. IF IT DOESN'T MOVE AND SHOULD, USE THE WD-40. IF IT SHOULDN'T MOVE AND DOES, USE THE DUCT TAPE.
7. IF YOU CAN'T FIX IT WITH A HAMMER, YOU'VE GOT AN ELECTRICAL PROBLEM.
Thanks, Dad. Don't know what I'd do without your help.
*My mother just did this on Sunday. Right after explaining to the Fries that Unca D lost the tip of his left index finger in a factory accident because he "wasn't careful." With a serrated knife. To cut a banana, of all things. Five stitches, folks.
**Dad's helpful advice for Hubby in particular.
***I've got a nasty sinus infection going on right now, that's settled in my chest and giving me a nice hacking cough.
Geez. I'm now giving parenting advice?
This just feels so weird.
My second-cousin's wife has been having a rough couple of weeks. They've got two little kids (2 years and 2 months), and between normal life, holiday crazies, and illness, she was about at the end of her rope.
We chatted for a little while tonight, and I think just having another mom's ear to bend, one who admits her own frustrations and occasional desires to cheerfully give away her kids, was a good thing for her.
It's almost astonishing that I've been a mom longer than she has. I didn't realize that until after we stopped talking.
I remember asking my best friend once, about six months after the girls moved in, if wanting to sell my very cute, very much loved children to the nearest gypsy troupe meant that I was a bad mom. "No," she laughed. "It means you're human!"
I think, in a lot of ways, moms get the short end of the stick. There are so many stereotypes about how perfect we're supposed to be, and how we're supposed to love our children and never be upset and always have a perfect house and...well, I could go on. Reality is, however, far different from all that. (Unless you're Martha Stewart. Which I'm not. Thank God.)
My downstairs looks like a toy-volcano erupted half the time. The other half, it looks like the toybox threw up. The throw blankets are almost never put away. What the kids don't scatter, the cats do. I'm lucky if the laundry gets folded, much less put away.
Little kids do not make for a well-ordered house.
Or a well-ordered life, for that matter.
And when your children are sick, you want to take care of them--but you also want them to behave like quiet little sick kids, rather than screaming banshees or, like my kids, being clingy and whiny and needing you constantly and you start running out of lap AND sanity. I want to be a good mom. I want to want to take care of them. Sometimes, I don't.
And when you, as mom, are sick too? Oh, man, that's a recipe for disaster, and the Doubt Gremlins start talking to you in force. (Doubt Gremlins are close cousins of Worry Gremlins, whose primary purpose is to drive parents crazy with unrealistic but horrifying worries over their kids.) You're a bad mom, because they're sick and still driving you crazy. You're a bad mom for admitting that. You're a bad mom for wanting thirty seconds of peace. You're a bad mom just because!
Hogwash. And, if we were in our right minds and not our own worst enemies, we'd know that.
But we're not in our right minds. We're moms, and that has forever warped the connections for logic (few to begin with, in my case) that we had in our brains before we had kids. We worry constantly that we're not good enough at this job, that we're irreparably harming our kids somehow and we don't even know it. Our worries about what kind of moms we are run almost as deep as our love for our kids.
I can say all this right now, because I'm not having a crisis of mom-conscience. I'm sick, but the kids aren't, and Hubby is home to take care of them while I rest.
But I've had them. A LOT.
Sleep and chocolate seem to help me. That, and the reassurance of my husband that I'm doing a good job.
I suppose we'll never really know what kind of parents we are until our kids are grown.
In the meantime, I'll have to trust that I'm doing the best job I can, and that how much we love our kids shows in the way that they come up to us and tell us, all by themselves, that they love us.
And take a page from comedian Jeff Allen's playbook, and have my kids write out their grievances and the date, and I'll initial it. And then, when they need therapy because of how bad a parent I was, we can breeze through it.
My second-cousin's wife has been having a rough couple of weeks. They've got two little kids (2 years and 2 months), and between normal life, holiday crazies, and illness, she was about at the end of her rope.
We chatted for a little while tonight, and I think just having another mom's ear to bend, one who admits her own frustrations and occasional desires to cheerfully give away her kids, was a good thing for her.
It's almost astonishing that I've been a mom longer than she has. I didn't realize that until after we stopped talking.
I remember asking my best friend once, about six months after the girls moved in, if wanting to sell my very cute, very much loved children to the nearest gypsy troupe meant that I was a bad mom. "No," she laughed. "It means you're human!"
I think, in a lot of ways, moms get the short end of the stick. There are so many stereotypes about how perfect we're supposed to be, and how we're supposed to love our children and never be upset and always have a perfect house and...well, I could go on. Reality is, however, far different from all that. (Unless you're Martha Stewart. Which I'm not. Thank God.)
My downstairs looks like a toy-volcano erupted half the time. The other half, it looks like the toybox threw up. The throw blankets are almost never put away. What the kids don't scatter, the cats do. I'm lucky if the laundry gets folded, much less put away.
Little kids do not make for a well-ordered house.
Or a well-ordered life, for that matter.
And when your children are sick, you want to take care of them--but you also want them to behave like quiet little sick kids, rather than screaming banshees or, like my kids, being clingy and whiny and needing you constantly and you start running out of lap AND sanity. I want to be a good mom. I want to want to take care of them. Sometimes, I don't.
And when you, as mom, are sick too? Oh, man, that's a recipe for disaster, and the Doubt Gremlins start talking to you in force. (Doubt Gremlins are close cousins of Worry Gremlins, whose primary purpose is to drive parents crazy with unrealistic but horrifying worries over their kids.) You're a bad mom, because they're sick and still driving you crazy. You're a bad mom for admitting that. You're a bad mom for wanting thirty seconds of peace. You're a bad mom just because!
Hogwash. And, if we were in our right minds and not our own worst enemies, we'd know that.
But we're not in our right minds. We're moms, and that has forever warped the connections for logic (few to begin with, in my case) that we had in our brains before we had kids. We worry constantly that we're not good enough at this job, that we're irreparably harming our kids somehow and we don't even know it. Our worries about what kind of moms we are run almost as deep as our love for our kids.
I can say all this right now, because I'm not having a crisis of mom-conscience. I'm sick, but the kids aren't, and Hubby is home to take care of them while I rest.
But I've had them. A LOT.
Sleep and chocolate seem to help me. That, and the reassurance of my husband that I'm doing a good job.
I suppose we'll never really know what kind of parents we are until our kids are grown.
In the meantime, I'll have to trust that I'm doing the best job I can, and that how much we love our kids shows in the way that they come up to us and tell us, all by themselves, that they love us.
And take a page from comedian Jeff Allen's playbook, and have my kids write out their grievances and the date, and I'll initial it. And then, when they need therapy because of how bad a parent I was, we can breeze through it.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
We are in SO much trouble....
Last night, as Hubby was getting the twin Fries ready for bed after Wednesday night church, Medium Fry complained about an owie on her leg.
There was a nice, long, red scratch on her left calf.
"How did that happen?" Hubby asked
"I took a scissor and did dat."
"You used scissors?"
"Yes. I took a scissor and skwatched myself."
"Where did you get scissors?"
"From de owrange dwrawer."
Orange drawer? We have lots of drawers in this house, but none of them are orange.
"From what drawer?"
"De owrange dwrawer. Da little one. I got da wred ones."
"The red scissors?" I asked, jumping in. Those have been missing about a week, and Hubby has sorta blamed me for losing them, since (we thought) I was the last one to have used them.
"Yes."
"You're not allowed to use scissors by yourself!" I scolded her.
"Where did you get them?" Hubby asked.
"Fwrom da dwrawer!"
"Which one?"
"I'll show you." Medium turned, wearing only her nighttime Pull-Up, to go show which drawer.
"Get your jammies on first. Then you can show me."
Medium pulled on the rest of her clothes.
"Now you can show me."
"In hewre." She ambled into the kitchen and went straight for the junk drawer by the fridge, where those red-handled scissors are normally kept. You know, the drawer that has the childproof latch on it.
She pulled open the drawer until the latch stopped it.
"How did you get them out?" Hubby asked.
"I pushed dis down and den pulled da dwrawer out." Medium demonstrated as she talked.
Yep, we are in biiiiiiiiiiiiig trouble here.
There was a nice, long, red scratch on her left calf.
"How did that happen?" Hubby asked
"I took a scissor and did dat."
"You used scissors?"
"Yes. I took a scissor and skwatched myself."
"Where did you get scissors?"
"From de owrange dwrawer."
Orange drawer? We have lots of drawers in this house, but none of them are orange.
"From what drawer?"
"De owrange dwrawer. Da little one. I got da wred ones."
"The red scissors?" I asked, jumping in. Those have been missing about a week, and Hubby has sorta blamed me for losing them, since (we thought) I was the last one to have used them.
"Yes."
"You're not allowed to use scissors by yourself!" I scolded her.
"Where did you get them?" Hubby asked.
"Fwrom da dwrawer!"
"Which one?"
"I'll show you." Medium turned, wearing only her nighttime Pull-Up, to go show which drawer.
"Get your jammies on first. Then you can show me."
Medium pulled on the rest of her clothes.
"Now you can show me."
"In hewre." She ambled into the kitchen and went straight for the junk drawer by the fridge, where those red-handled scissors are normally kept. You know, the drawer that has the childproof latch on it.
She pulled open the drawer until the latch stopped it.
"How did you get them out?" Hubby asked.
"I pushed dis down and den pulled da dwrawer out." Medium demonstrated as she talked.
Yep, we are in biiiiiiiiiiiiig trouble here.
Genetics
About three weeks or so after Bro had moved back to PA, waaaaay back when the girls were still with us "temporarily," we had this huge blowout fight. He made some decisions about how far to extend the guardianship power of attorney that he gave us, and didn't bother to consult us, and we were pretty upset. When Hubby had finally settled down enough (Hubby, not me), he explained to Bro that he'd hurt me and he'd insulted me, and he'd better call me to apologize for his behavior before he expected to set foot in our house again. And he was never again to deal with detailed matters like this with me; he was to talk with Hubby only.
I forget the precise reason I called him (it might have been about the paperwork to get Large Fry evaluated for speech therapy), but I called him. Hubby was out with the youth group kids at a nearby state park, having a summer beach afternoon/evening and bonfire and stuff, and I was home with the Fries. I should not have called him when I was alone, in retrospect. Innyhoo. I called him. I was about to end the very-shortlived (until that point) conversation, when he said, "Listen...um...."
And like the polite sibling I was raised to be, I listened. To an apology that wasn't an apology, followed by his list of reasons why I was mad and why he understood that I was mad.
Only one problem. His reasons weren't my reasons for being angry. So (stupidly) I tried to explain that, no, he was wrong, and continued with why I was mad. He interrupted me, informed me that I was incorrect in my reasons for being angry, re-explained "my" reasons for being upset, and then asked me to stop interrupting him when I tried to correct his erroneous assumptions again. And that's when he suddenly remembered promising Hubby that he wouldn't talk with me about these things...and he refused to let me even finish a thought, much less offer my side of my own emotions. I hung up on him. (For the record, he never did acknowledge that he was wrong, and that I knew my own mind.)
Innyhoo...I told you that story to tell you this one:
Medium has been eating very slowly tonight. As I got up to put my empty plate in the sink, she cheerily said, "I'm so pwoud of yew, Auntie J! You finished awl youwr food!"
"I'm not too proud of you right now," I commented, looking at her mostly-full plate.
"Awre yew angwee?"
"A little bit. You're not eating."
"You awre angwee because you'wre not pwoud of me. You awre angwee because I didn't finish..." She kept rambling while I came out to the living room, where Hubby was sitting and watching Tinkerbell with the sickies. "Your turn," I said.
He went into the kitchen as Medium continued to prattle about precisly why I was upset.
"Well, at least it's genetic," Hubby commented with a grin.
"What is?"
"Her telling you why you're mad."
I forget the precise reason I called him (it might have been about the paperwork to get Large Fry evaluated for speech therapy), but I called him. Hubby was out with the youth group kids at a nearby state park, having a summer beach afternoon/evening and bonfire and stuff, and I was home with the Fries. I should not have called him when I was alone, in retrospect. Innyhoo. I called him. I was about to end the very-shortlived (until that point) conversation, when he said, "Listen...um...."
And like the polite sibling I was raised to be, I listened. To an apology that wasn't an apology, followed by his list of reasons why I was mad and why he understood that I was mad.
Only one problem. His reasons weren't my reasons for being angry. So (stupidly) I tried to explain that, no, he was wrong, and continued with why I was mad. He interrupted me, informed me that I was incorrect in my reasons for being angry, re-explained "my" reasons for being upset, and then asked me to stop interrupting him when I tried to correct his erroneous assumptions again. And that's when he suddenly remembered promising Hubby that he wouldn't talk with me about these things...and he refused to let me even finish a thought, much less offer my side of my own emotions. I hung up on him. (For the record, he never did acknowledge that he was wrong, and that I knew my own mind.)
Innyhoo...I told you that story to tell you this one:
Medium has been eating very slowly tonight. As I got up to put my empty plate in the sink, she cheerily said, "I'm so pwoud of yew, Auntie J! You finished awl youwr food!"
"I'm not too proud of you right now," I commented, looking at her mostly-full plate.
"Awre yew angwee?"
"A little bit. You're not eating."
"You awre angwee because you'wre not pwoud of me. You awre angwee because I didn't finish..." She kept rambling while I came out to the living room, where Hubby was sitting and watching Tinkerbell with the sickies. "Your turn," I said.
He went into the kitchen as Medium continued to prattle about precisly why I was upset.
"Well, at least it's genetic," Hubby commented with a grin.
"What is?"
"Her telling you why you're mad."
*facepalm*
Medium has gone to the potty in the middle of dinner. It's just her and me at the table. Well, me, at the moment. And that's when I hear a distinctive plop after the water has shut off.
Me: What are you doing?
Medium: Washing my hands!
Me [suspiciously]: Did you pull up the stopper in the sink?
Medium [audibly pushes stopper down]: No! [water gurgles down drain]
Me: Then why did I just hear the soap go plink into the water? [pause; water starts running again] Turn off the water!
Golly.
Me: What are you doing?
Medium: Washing my hands!
Me [suspiciously]: Did you pull up the stopper in the sink?
Medium [audibly pushes stopper down]: No! [water gurgles down drain]
Me: Then why did I just hear the soap go plink into the water? [pause; water starts running again] Turn off the water!
Golly.
Why is it...
...that, when the kids are sick, only Auntie J will do?
I am apparently the only one able to get juice, more Cheerios, and offer comfort.
Which wouldn't be so bad, if I hadn't taken a nap this afternoon at the same time the kids did, during which I had the most bizarre dream I've had in months. Bizarre, and very disturbing.
I suppose it's a nice thing, preferring me to Unca D, who is also here, but it's also a little frustrating that the kids are demanding things of me, rather than asking him for everything under the sun, too.
All part of motherhood, I suppose. I remember wanting my mom when I was sick, and my dad when I was scared.
I'm just hopeful that Medium doesn't get this (foolish hope, I'm sure, but I can dream, can't I?), and thankful that Large seems to be feeling a little better. Small is just laying on the couch. Poor things. Viral bugs just aren't fun.
I am apparently the only one able to get juice, more Cheerios, and offer comfort.
Which wouldn't be so bad, if I hadn't taken a nap this afternoon at the same time the kids did, during which I had the most bizarre dream I've had in months. Bizarre, and very disturbing.
I suppose it's a nice thing, preferring me to Unca D, who is also here, but it's also a little frustrating that the kids are demanding things of me, rather than asking him for everything under the sun, too.
All part of motherhood, I suppose. I remember wanting my mom when I was sick, and my dad when I was scared.
I'm just hopeful that Medium doesn't get this (foolish hope, I'm sure, but I can dream, can't I?), and thankful that Large seems to be feeling a little better. Small is just laying on the couch. Poor things. Viral bugs just aren't fun.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
'Tis the season to be greeeeeedy....
A couple weeks ago, I got an email from my best friend, about her oldest son, who's six. It was another of those fine moments in raising children:
We have yet to have a conversation like that one. I'm sure it's coming, though.
One thing we have done this year is try to emphasize that we have lots, and there are little boys and girls who don't have very much in this world. So I took Large Fry shopping with me at Five Below, and we picked out things for two shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child. And yesterday, Hubby and the twin Fries went through the toy room, and picked out a bunch of toys that they don't really need or want anymore, to donate to the work and witness team from our church that's going to Nicaragua just after Christmas. Nearly every fast-food kids'-meal toy they've gotten in the last year or so went into a bag to be donated.
We are so proud of them.
I was doing my Bible story with Buddy at bedtime the other day and took a little different tack with it. I talked to him about Christmas prophecies, quoting some of them, explaining them, and telling him how the Israelites learned them and waited for hundreds of years for the Messiah to come to fulfill them. I explained that they were looking for the wrong things and misunderstood the prophets, and that when Jesus actually came and was in their midst, they completely missed him!
I then tried to make it applicable to us on a kid level, explaining to Buddy that people in our day and age get carried away with all the Christmas festivities, decorating, presents, and the like, and that we're so focused on what we think of as Christmas that we miss the true meaning of it and forget all about Baby Jesus. I emphasized that we need to remember Jesus is the reason for the season and not to push him aside or forget about him.
Buddy listened quietly, taking it all in and then very somberly said, "Mommy, I hate to tell you, but when we open our toys, I'm gonna forget all about Jesus."
I grinned and told him that was okay, Jesus wouldn't mind that, and that's why we'd tell the Christmas story before we opened our gifts.
I'm pretty sure I relieved him of his guilt at that moment, but I think that comment will go down in the annals of our family history.
We have yet to have a conversation like that one. I'm sure it's coming, though.
One thing we have done this year is try to emphasize that we have lots, and there are little boys and girls who don't have very much in this world. So I took Large Fry shopping with me at Five Below, and we picked out things for two shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child. And yesterday, Hubby and the twin Fries went through the toy room, and picked out a bunch of toys that they don't really need or want anymore, to donate to the work and witness team from our church that's going to Nicaragua just after Christmas. Nearly every fast-food kids'-meal toy they've gotten in the last year or so went into a bag to be donated.
We are so proud of them.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tantrums
Medium Fry has been sent to the corner for throwing a tantrum.
Medium Fry [wailing through tears]: I'm snoring!
Hubby: Well, stop crying.
Medium: I have boogers in dewre! Get out, boogers, get out!
Me: [trying not to laugh]
Medium: Unca D, I have boogers on my fingewr.
Hubby [to me]: Are you writing all this down?
Hubby [to Medium]: Then get a tissue.
Medium: I'm done cwying.
Hubby: Good.
Medium: Small Fwy is in da cwate.
Hubby: So?
Medium: I wanna be in da cwate! I wanted fiwrst!
Hubby: Well, you threw a tantrum, so you had to go stand in the corner. You kicked your legs and screamed and fussed. That's a tantrum. You're not allowed to have tantrums in this house.
Medium: I've lost my ducks!
Me: They're right there, on top of the dishwasher.
Medium: I don't want dem! [pause] Dey don't like me, 'cause dey say I'm MEAN!
Me: Oh, really?
Sometimes, there's just no winning. :)
Medium Fry [wailing through tears]: I'm snoring!
Hubby: Well, stop crying.
Medium: I have boogers in dewre! Get out, boogers, get out!
Me: [trying not to laugh]
Medium: Unca D, I have boogers on my fingewr.
Hubby [to me]: Are you writing all this down?
Hubby [to Medium]: Then get a tissue.
Medium: I'm done cwying.
Hubby: Good.
Medium: Small Fwy is in da cwate.
Hubby: So?
Medium: I wanna be in da cwate! I wanted fiwrst!
Hubby: Well, you threw a tantrum, so you had to go stand in the corner. You kicked your legs and screamed and fussed. That's a tantrum. You're not allowed to have tantrums in this house.
Medium: I've lost my ducks!
Me: They're right there, on top of the dishwasher.
Medium: I don't want dem! [pause] Dey don't like me, 'cause dey say I'm MEAN!
Me: Oh, really?
Sometimes, there's just no winning. :)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
All I Want For Christmas
Hubby has been out errand-running with a Fry along in the last week or so.
Several days ago, it was he and Large Fry, who got to go along since she was the only one awake after school, when Hubby went. As they wandered around, Hubby asked, "What does Auntie J want for Christmas?"
Large Fry immediately pointed out a bright pink lamp, emblazoned with the word "Diva" on the shade. And then a pink blanket. And nearly every other pink bling-thing that caught her eye.
Hubby chuckled. "You like pink. Auntie J likes blues and greens."
Undeterred, Large Fry pointed out a blue crate.
Hubby didn't think that would go over well.
Tonight, since my ankle (along with a few other locations) was griping at me, I asked Hubby to go fill my pain meds prescription. (One of the delights of being on an anticoagulant is that the strongest OTC pain med I can take is Tylenol, which doesn't do much for joint aches. So I have good drugs.) Small Fry came unglued at the thought of being left behind on such an important errand. Hubby opted to grab dinner while out, and caved in to the little arms wrapped around his neck and whimpered pleas to go along, and he and Small Fry headed out into the cold.
Meanwhile, I rode herd on the other two here at home, repeatedly telling them that, NO, they could not chase each other around, that there was NO running in the house, and that they had to get OUT of the corner by the shelf that held my manger scene (ceramic, made by my mother, and inherited from her mother).
Hubby and Small Fry arrived home over an hour later--it had taken half an hour for the prescription to be filled, Hubby said--with dinner from KFC.
Small Fry handed me my prescription.
"Did you know," Hubby asked, "that you want a snowman cake pan for Christmas? And a coffeemaker?"
"Oh, really?" My "coffee" comes in little cans and bottles that say Dr Pepper on the sides.
"She also thinks you want a blender. I said to her, 'I'm not buying my wife an appliance for Christmas,' and the lady near us in the aisle just chuckled and nodded."
This conversation could not possibly go further without Medium's involvement. "I want twucks for Chwimmis!" she shouted.
Small Fry said, "I want cawrs for Chwimmis!"
Large Fry wants girly stuff, like dolls and My Little Ponies, and dress-up clothes.
Apparently, though, I need to come up with a better list, or I'm going to get pink lamps, pink bling, a snowman cake pan, and a coffeemaker.
Several days ago, it was he and Large Fry, who got to go along since she was the only one awake after school, when Hubby went. As they wandered around, Hubby asked, "What does Auntie J want for Christmas?"
Large Fry immediately pointed out a bright pink lamp, emblazoned with the word "Diva" on the shade. And then a pink blanket. And nearly every other pink bling-thing that caught her eye.
Hubby chuckled. "You like pink. Auntie J likes blues and greens."
Undeterred, Large Fry pointed out a blue crate.
Hubby didn't think that would go over well.
Tonight, since my ankle (along with a few other locations) was griping at me, I asked Hubby to go fill my pain meds prescription. (One of the delights of being on an anticoagulant is that the strongest OTC pain med I can take is Tylenol, which doesn't do much for joint aches. So I have good drugs.) Small Fry came unglued at the thought of being left behind on such an important errand. Hubby opted to grab dinner while out, and caved in to the little arms wrapped around his neck and whimpered pleas to go along, and he and Small Fry headed out into the cold.
Meanwhile, I rode herd on the other two here at home, repeatedly telling them that, NO, they could not chase each other around, that there was NO running in the house, and that they had to get OUT of the corner by the shelf that held my manger scene (ceramic, made by my mother, and inherited from her mother).
Hubby and Small Fry arrived home over an hour later--it had taken half an hour for the prescription to be filled, Hubby said--with dinner from KFC.
Small Fry handed me my prescription.
"Did you know," Hubby asked, "that you want a snowman cake pan for Christmas? And a coffeemaker?"
"Oh, really?" My "coffee" comes in little cans and bottles that say Dr Pepper on the sides.
"She also thinks you want a blender. I said to her, 'I'm not buying my wife an appliance for Christmas,' and the lady near us in the aisle just chuckled and nodded."
This conversation could not possibly go further without Medium's involvement. "I want twucks for Chwimmis!" she shouted.
Small Fry said, "I want cawrs for Chwimmis!"
Large Fry wants girly stuff, like dolls and My Little Ponies, and dress-up clothes.
Apparently, though, I need to come up with a better list, or I'm going to get pink lamps, pink bling, a snowman cake pan, and a coffeemaker.
Today's Lesson
Welcome, boys and girls.
Today's lesson is on consequences.
Consequences are best described as the results of one's actions.
If you're running too fast and trip over your own two feet, a consequence of that choice might be a bloody nose.
If you throw your corn on the floor rather than eat it, a consequence of that choice might be picking up your corn, one kernel at a time, and taking it to the trash can...until all the corn has been picked up off the floor. One kernel at a time.
And today, if you're Large Fry, you learn that a consequence is not a punishment...but it sure feels like it.
Hubby discovered, why Large was at school, that the white plastic shelves in the toy room had been written on.
Not just drawn on...written on. With letters.
Which (for now) clearly revealed the guilty party: Large Fry.
The twin Fries can't write letters yet.
And when Large Fry got home from school, Hubby showed her his discovery. "What is this?"
Large Fry mumbled a response.
"Yes, someone drew on the shelves. Do you know who did it?"
Immediately, Large Fry pinned the blame on her younger siblings.
"Large Fry, we're going to have a talk about lying."
This caused her to change her tune, and she 'fessed up.
Thus, she discovered the consequence to writing on the shelves: having to wash it all off. By hand.
Much whimpering, whining, crying, and wailing commenced. It took her 45 minutes to get the shelves (which do have some texturing, making it hard to get all the crayon out of those grooves) clean enough to pass Unca D's inspection.
But I don't think she'll be writing on the shelves any time soon.
So, what have we learned today?
"Not to write on the shelves."
And what happens again if you do?
Punishment plus cleaning off the shelves? Oh, yes.
That's all. Class dismissed.
Today's lesson is on consequences.
Consequences are best described as the results of one's actions.
If you're running too fast and trip over your own two feet, a consequence of that choice might be a bloody nose.
If you throw your corn on the floor rather than eat it, a consequence of that choice might be picking up your corn, one kernel at a time, and taking it to the trash can...until all the corn has been picked up off the floor. One kernel at a time.
And today, if you're Large Fry, you learn that a consequence is not a punishment...but it sure feels like it.
Hubby discovered, why Large was at school, that the white plastic shelves in the toy room had been written on.
Not just drawn on...written on. With letters.
Which (for now) clearly revealed the guilty party: Large Fry.
The twin Fries can't write letters yet.
And when Large Fry got home from school, Hubby showed her his discovery. "What is this?"
Large Fry mumbled a response.
"Yes, someone drew on the shelves. Do you know who did it?"
Immediately, Large Fry pinned the blame on her younger siblings.
"Large Fry, we're going to have a talk about lying."
This caused her to change her tune, and she 'fessed up.
Thus, she discovered the consequence to writing on the shelves: having to wash it all off. By hand.
Much whimpering, whining, crying, and wailing commenced. It took her 45 minutes to get the shelves (which do have some texturing, making it hard to get all the crayon out of those grooves) clean enough to pass Unca D's inspection.
But I don't think she'll be writing on the shelves any time soon.
So, what have we learned today?
"Not to write on the shelves."
And what happens again if you do?
Punishment plus cleaning off the shelves? Oh, yes.
That's all. Class dismissed.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Holiday Humbug
With our peculiar parenthood situation, we often run into issues that most parents, well, don't.
Often, the issues involve the girls' biological parents.
Case in point, the girls' biological mother, emailing us and telling us she's shipped "really big" presents for the twin Fries' 4th birthday, along with something for Large Fry, without clearing that "really big" presents are okay (our house is old, small, and we just don't have a lot of room for "really big" stuff), or that it's okay to send a present to Large Fry (when we'd decided that, since Large is now five, she understands it's not her birthday and that's why she isn't getting presents). Incidentally, we're still waiting for those "really big" gifts to show up. And since SIL is over in Afghanistan, we're expecting the usual lots-of-talk that amounts to almost-zero-action.
Today's issue involves my brother. And, really, it's not just today's issue. This has been ongoing for the last couple of months.
Somewhere around September, Bro pulled Hubby aside during a routine visitation to ask when the girls could possibly meet his new girlfriend and her kids. Hubby agreed, provided that the meeting took place in an environment familiar and comfortable to the girls (ie, our house or Gramma & Boppa's), and that we weren't introducing her as Daddy's girlfriend. Both Bro and his GF took exception to her not being labeled as the girlfriend, but our reasoning was that we didn't want to make that introduction, in the (rather likely) event that the relationship crumbled and they split. It would protect the girls. And besides, Bro's divorce still was not final, and while he sees nothing wrong with having a girlfriend while still married, we disagree with his choice, and we don't want that actively modeled in front of the girls. We offered to compromise by introducing GF as "Daddy's special friend," and seeing if my parents would host a meeting time on Bro's birthday weekend in October (our home is NOT an option), but apparently, that wasn't good enough. GF was mad, and said no way was she going to meet us now and so nothing happened.
We let it go. If she was mad, there wasn't much we could do about it. Since it wasn't an issue, for the moment, there was no need to dwell on it. With the holidays approaching, we decided that a meeting was now not going to happen until after we'd gotten through the holidays, especially with the changes in my mother-in-law's health.
That lasted about a month. Bro once again pulled Hubby aside during a visitation early in November, saying that GF really needed to meet the Fries before the end of the year. "Why?" Hubby asked. Stubbornly, Bro said, "Because it needs to happen before then." Hubby held to our earlier decision. A meeting could not happen until after the holidays.
Bro was insistent. Hubby pressed more, and Bro confided that he had "a question" to ask GF, and she needed to meet the girls before then. Plus, he'd already put down money on a ring.
Sigh. This is very typical behavior for Bro. He'll make a decision that affects all of us, and then expects us to just go along with his last-minute plans...because the Fries are his children, after all. Well, according to the court, they're our children as well, and since we are the ones tasked with raising them, we really dislike him throwing biology at us as a good reason for him to disrupt our lives. Hubby tried to explain that our first and last thoughts, every day, are what is best for the girls. That's not something that Bro has to consider. Bro was unhappy, but Hubby stuck to his guns.
The issue was tabled until the next visitation, which happened to be at my parents' home, the weekend before Thanksgiving. I stayed downstairs and worked, trying to get ready for a very shortened payroll week, until lunchtime. When I came upstairs after Mom called down that lunch was ready, Bro and Hubby were discussing it again. Hubby was insistent. This meeting was not going to happen until after the new year. Bro said he didn't see why not. Hubby explained--again--that the holidays are extremely busy, and it's a stressful time of year for the girls, and we felt it was best to wait until things settled down before introducing Daddy's new girlfriend. (Not to mention, his divorce wast still not final.) Again, Hubby said, the girls are our first priority. Bro is waaaay on a back burner. He didn't know what that meant, so Hubby elaborated and said that Bro's life is not a priority of ours. The debate continued until we were finally able to herd Bro out the door, still grousing about the fact that we wouldn't do this. He even went so far as to say, "If you're not going to give me this, then don't get me anything for Christmas."
We didn't budge.
We also suspected that part of the reason why he was pushing this so much was because GF had already told him that she wouldn't say "yes" unless she'd met the Fries first. Not to mention the fact that we could see the writing on the wall about this relationship, and, due to other circumstances that we'd been made aware of, we could see how both Bro and GF were really using each other in this relationship. (Not a good foundation for a marriage, that.)
Hubby started having second thoughts about our decision last week, which led to him having a conversation with my mother that almost indicated that he planned to reverse his decision, which led to me getting upset, and that led to Medium Fry scolding me as my emotions boiled over: "Auntie J, you be nice to my Unca D!" (Being chastised by my four-year-old would have been amusing if I wasn't so frustrated.) The big issue with Bro's requests (for just about anything, really) is that he will take about a zillion miles if you give him an inch. And this was part of my problem with the thought of changing our minds. If we said yes to a brief meeting, he would milk it for all he could get, to the point of badgering us relentlessly until we gave him what he wanted. Plus, I told Hubby, I was really tired of him expecting us to up-end our lives just because he'd made some decision that affected our entire family, not just the kids (as Bro seemed to think), without consulting us, and expecting us to cheerfully let him run our lives.
Hubby ultimately decided to talk with the associate pastor at our church, who is leading the weekly men's discipleship group that Hubby is involved in. As it turned out, it was just Hubby and Pastor J that night, and they discussed the situation at length. Hubby came home and told me that he was not going to change his mind about a holiday-time meeting with Bro and his GF. Our decision would stand. (My mother heartily approved.)
We'd planned to spend Christmas with my mom and dad, since we had spent Thanksgiving with Hubby's mom and family, and we knew that Mom was planning to invite Bro for Christmas dinner. Problem: we really didn't want to spend a big part of Christmas with Bro. With Christmas being on a Saturday, and Hubby's worship team leading on Sunday, the 26th, we were running into scheduling conflicts. We did not want to have Bro around to watch us open our gifts, and we couldn't figure out how to make that happen without sacrificing our Christmas morning at home, as we usually do, before going out to Mom & Dad's for dinner and more presents.
My mother called this afternoon, saying that she'd sent a text message to Bro, asking if he planned to spend any part of Christmas with them. He sent a text back, saying he'd like to bring GF and her kids to dinner at Mom & Dad's.
Like a 13-year-old not getting the answer he wants from one parent and going to the other, my brother went and tried an end run around our decision by going to Mom and getting her permission to have GF & kids along for the ride.
Mom sent a text back that she would have to consult with us. Which, Hubby thought, Mom shouldn't have done, because his request technically didn't involve us.
I really think, since he'd couched it as a request, she could have delayed sending her text, talked with us, and then sent him back a simple text: No, GF was not invited to this event.
This puts us in an entirely unwinnable position: our collective choices now either "prove" how evil my parents are, or how evil we are, or force us to do what Bro wants. Regardless, he gets something he wants no matter what we do.
Mom told Hubby that she'd already told Dad that they would be going wherever their granddaughters are for Christmas, if we were unable to go to their home.
It makes going back to the in-laws look preferable to staying here in the area.
Often, the issues involve the girls' biological parents.
Case in point, the girls' biological mother, emailing us and telling us she's shipped "really big" presents for the twin Fries' 4th birthday, along with something for Large Fry, without clearing that "really big" presents are okay (our house is old, small, and we just don't have a lot of room for "really big" stuff), or that it's okay to send a present to Large Fry (when we'd decided that, since Large is now five, she understands it's not her birthday and that's why she isn't getting presents). Incidentally, we're still waiting for those "really big" gifts to show up. And since SIL is over in Afghanistan, we're expecting the usual lots-of-talk that amounts to almost-zero-action.
Today's issue involves my brother. And, really, it's not just today's issue. This has been ongoing for the last couple of months.
Somewhere around September, Bro pulled Hubby aside during a routine visitation to ask when the girls could possibly meet his new girlfriend and her kids. Hubby agreed, provided that the meeting took place in an environment familiar and comfortable to the girls (ie, our house or Gramma & Boppa's), and that we weren't introducing her as Daddy's girlfriend. Both Bro and his GF took exception to her not being labeled as the girlfriend, but our reasoning was that we didn't want to make that introduction, in the (rather likely) event that the relationship crumbled and they split. It would protect the girls. And besides, Bro's divorce still was not final, and while he sees nothing wrong with having a girlfriend while still married, we disagree with his choice, and we don't want that actively modeled in front of the girls. We offered to compromise by introducing GF as "Daddy's special friend," and seeing if my parents would host a meeting time on Bro's birthday weekend in October (our home is NOT an option), but apparently, that wasn't good enough. GF was mad, and said no way was she going to meet us now and so nothing happened.
We let it go. If she was mad, there wasn't much we could do about it. Since it wasn't an issue, for the moment, there was no need to dwell on it. With the holidays approaching, we decided that a meeting was now not going to happen until after we'd gotten through the holidays, especially with the changes in my mother-in-law's health.
That lasted about a month. Bro once again pulled Hubby aside during a visitation early in November, saying that GF really needed to meet the Fries before the end of the year. "Why?" Hubby asked. Stubbornly, Bro said, "Because it needs to happen before then." Hubby held to our earlier decision. A meeting could not happen until after the holidays.
Bro was insistent. Hubby pressed more, and Bro confided that he had "a question" to ask GF, and she needed to meet the girls before then. Plus, he'd already put down money on a ring.
Sigh. This is very typical behavior for Bro. He'll make a decision that affects all of us, and then expects us to just go along with his last-minute plans...because the Fries are his children, after all. Well, according to the court, they're our children as well, and since we are the ones tasked with raising them, we really dislike him throwing biology at us as a good reason for him to disrupt our lives. Hubby tried to explain that our first and last thoughts, every day, are what is best for the girls. That's not something that Bro has to consider. Bro was unhappy, but Hubby stuck to his guns.
The issue was tabled until the next visitation, which happened to be at my parents' home, the weekend before Thanksgiving. I stayed downstairs and worked, trying to get ready for a very shortened payroll week, until lunchtime. When I came upstairs after Mom called down that lunch was ready, Bro and Hubby were discussing it again. Hubby was insistent. This meeting was not going to happen until after the new year. Bro said he didn't see why not. Hubby explained--again--that the holidays are extremely busy, and it's a stressful time of year for the girls, and we felt it was best to wait until things settled down before introducing Daddy's new girlfriend. (Not to mention, his divorce wast still not final.) Again, Hubby said, the girls are our first priority. Bro is waaaay on a back burner. He didn't know what that meant, so Hubby elaborated and said that Bro's life is not a priority of ours. The debate continued until we were finally able to herd Bro out the door, still grousing about the fact that we wouldn't do this. He even went so far as to say, "If you're not going to give me this, then don't get me anything for Christmas."
We didn't budge.
We also suspected that part of the reason why he was pushing this so much was because GF had already told him that she wouldn't say "yes" unless she'd met the Fries first. Not to mention the fact that we could see the writing on the wall about this relationship, and, due to other circumstances that we'd been made aware of, we could see how both Bro and GF were really using each other in this relationship. (Not a good foundation for a marriage, that.)
Hubby started having second thoughts about our decision last week, which led to him having a conversation with my mother that almost indicated that he planned to reverse his decision, which led to me getting upset, and that led to Medium Fry scolding me as my emotions boiled over: "Auntie J, you be nice to my Unca D!" (Being chastised by my four-year-old would have been amusing if I wasn't so frustrated.) The big issue with Bro's requests (for just about anything, really) is that he will take about a zillion miles if you give him an inch. And this was part of my problem with the thought of changing our minds. If we said yes to a brief meeting, he would milk it for all he could get, to the point of badgering us relentlessly until we gave him what he wanted. Plus, I told Hubby, I was really tired of him expecting us to up-end our lives just because he'd made some decision that affected our entire family, not just the kids (as Bro seemed to think), without consulting us, and expecting us to cheerfully let him run our lives.
Hubby ultimately decided to talk with the associate pastor at our church, who is leading the weekly men's discipleship group that Hubby is involved in. As it turned out, it was just Hubby and Pastor J that night, and they discussed the situation at length. Hubby came home and told me that he was not going to change his mind about a holiday-time meeting with Bro and his GF. Our decision would stand. (My mother heartily approved.)
We'd planned to spend Christmas with my mom and dad, since we had spent Thanksgiving with Hubby's mom and family, and we knew that Mom was planning to invite Bro for Christmas dinner. Problem: we really didn't want to spend a big part of Christmas with Bro. With Christmas being on a Saturday, and Hubby's worship team leading on Sunday, the 26th, we were running into scheduling conflicts. We did not want to have Bro around to watch us open our gifts, and we couldn't figure out how to make that happen without sacrificing our Christmas morning at home, as we usually do, before going out to Mom & Dad's for dinner and more presents.
My mother called this afternoon, saying that she'd sent a text message to Bro, asking if he planned to spend any part of Christmas with them. He sent a text back, saying he'd like to bring GF and her kids to dinner at Mom & Dad's.
Like a 13-year-old not getting the answer he wants from one parent and going to the other, my brother went and tried an end run around our decision by going to Mom and getting her permission to have GF & kids along for the ride.
Mom sent a text back that she would have to consult with us. Which, Hubby thought, Mom shouldn't have done, because his request technically didn't involve us.
I really think, since he'd couched it as a request, she could have delayed sending her text, talked with us, and then sent him back a simple text: No, GF was not invited to this event.
This puts us in an entirely unwinnable position: our collective choices now either "prove" how evil my parents are, or how evil we are, or force us to do what Bro wants. Regardless, he gets something he wants no matter what we do.
Mom told Hubby that she'd already told Dad that they would be going wherever their granddaughters are for Christmas, if we were unable to go to their home.
It makes going back to the in-laws look preferable to staying here in the area.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Curses! Foiled again!
There are rules for your kids that you create for the sake of your own sanity.
We have a few of them.
One of the biggest ones is: No singing at the table!
When there's singing at the table, there is not eating. Where there is not eating, there's an unhappy Unca D and Auntie J.
This has now come back to bite me in the rear. I can sing at the table, without ignoring my food.
And it's Christmastime. Christmas music is some of the best stuff there is. I love it! I sing along! I can't help it! I burned a couple of mixed-music cds to play in the house!
Naturally, I had one of these playing on Monday, during the twin Fries' birthday lunch.
One of the selections on that cd was from a 1990 contemporary version of Handel's Young Messiah, "For Unto Us a Child is Born." It's lively. It's peppy. It's just fun! It shows Handel's great celebration of the birth of the King of Kings. I've sung versions of the Messiah on several occasions. I know the parts. It makes singing along irresistible....
And that's what was playing as I sat down at the table for lunch.
And, of course, I was singing. Out loud.
Hubby gave me a stern look. "No singing at the table, Auntie J," he said.
Crap! My own rule got leveled against me.
I hate it when that happens.
My parents, the goobers, just laughed at me.
We have a few of them.
One of the biggest ones is: No singing at the table!
When there's singing at the table, there is not eating. Where there is not eating, there's an unhappy Unca D and Auntie J.
This has now come back to bite me in the rear. I can sing at the table, without ignoring my food.
And it's Christmastime. Christmas music is some of the best stuff there is. I love it! I sing along! I can't help it! I burned a couple of mixed-music cds to play in the house!
Naturally, I had one of these playing on Monday, during the twin Fries' birthday lunch.
One of the selections on that cd was from a 1990 contemporary version of Handel's Young Messiah, "For Unto Us a Child is Born." It's lively. It's peppy. It's just fun! It shows Handel's great celebration of the birth of the King of Kings. I've sung versions of the Messiah on several occasions. I know the parts. It makes singing along irresistible....
And that's what was playing as I sat down at the table for lunch.
And, of course, I was singing. Out loud.
Hubby gave me a stern look. "No singing at the table, Auntie J," he said.
Crap! My own rule got leveled against me.
I hate it when that happens.
My parents, the goobers, just laughed at me.
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