What REALLY happens...

...when Auntie tries to take a break for just five minutes and runs to the bathroom:

• Small Fry "flies" a Lego Duplo-block "plane" over my head, shoulders and arms...and then asks if it tickles.
• Small Fry asks me to help her "fix" her plane, which she's already fixed.
• Small Fry asks what I'm doing.
• Large Fry comes in to see what's happening.
• Large Fry starts combing my bangs with her little toy comb.  ("Your hair is so pretty," she says to me.)
• Small Fry announces that Large needs the mirror to see what she's doing to my hair, and runs off to get it.
• Small Fry studiously watches as Large Fry holds the mirror so I can sorta see her combing my bangs in it...as long as I'm straining my eyes, looking way, way up.
• Large Fry asks me to take my hairzing combs out, so that she can comb the rest of my hair.
• As I'm doing that, Small Fry grabs herself and says she has to go potty "really bad."
• I now have to extricate myself with relative haste.  Small Fry meanders over to the dryer, is shocked that the door is hot, and then wants me to "count" as she jumps on the big 16"-square tiles, making her way from one end of the room to the other.

Thankfully, I managed to conclude the business that sent me into the bathroom in the first place.

Overheard at dinner....

Medium Fry:  Bingo!

This is our code word meaning that she's cleared her plate.

Hubby: Do you want some more potatoes?

Medium:  No.

Hubby:  Do you want some more chicken?

Medium:  No.  I'm full.  [pause]  I want a popsicle!


Hubby takes a moment to scold the other two Fries, who are eating at a snail's pace.


Medium [with immense glee]:  I want a popsicle!  After I give you a kiss!  [makes smacking noises twice]


Hubby couldn't contain his chuckle.

I find it very hard...

...to be very mad at Small Fry, who is poking along about getting her jammies on, because she's more interesting in singing "Jesus Loves Me."

I think she sang it through a good half-dozen times before she finally got her pajamas on.

Most Likely to be Unanswered Prayer

"Deawr God, pwease help make me a daddy."  ~Medium Fry

Followed momentarily by:

"Deawr God, pwease help make me a hewro, and help make me a daddy."  ~Medium Fry


I'm really thinking she has half a shot at that last one.  At least, with getting a "yes" answer.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

You simply cannot not be touched by this.

h/t to Peter over at Bayou Renaissance Man.

Milo and Otis

Aunt P, one of my dad's sisters, sent back The Adventures of Milo and Otis with Mom and Dad, for the Fries, when my parents went to Dad's hometown to visit three of his sisters.  (And Aud, of course, a cousin who's like a sibling.)

The Fries got the extra-special treat of being able to camp out in Gramma's living room and eat their supper of PB&J sandwiches there while they watched the movie.

Mom found some pictures of kittens and a pug puppy online that could be printed off and colored by the kids, as a way of saying thank you to their great aunt P.  While poor Boppa is trying to work after the movie, the Fries were at the kitchen table, coloring pictures.  Large Fry was also writing a short note to say thanks, and tell Great Aunt P which one she liked best, Milo or Otis.

Medium was coloring industriously and rambling about the different things they'd seen in the movie.  Mom was standing at the sink and let out a startled laugh when Medium asked this:

"Did they poop out babies?"

I thought Mom was going to have a coughing fit from trying to hold in her laughter.  She repeated the question to make sure Hubby and I heard it.

"Yes," she said over her shoulder to Medium Fry, "they did 'poop' out babies."

"One puppy and one kitten, at least," Hubby said.  "But they didn't really poop them out."


I have to say, "pooping" out babies as a way to describe birth is like saying that their backsides "burped" when they passed gas.

I think I'll save this story for the reception....

Faith

On our way back from visiting some good friends in G-burg tonight, this conversation transpired in the back of the van:

Medium Fry: Deawr God, pwease help my duckie feewl better. He's sick. Pwease make him bettewr.

Small Fry:  And my piggie.

Medium Fry:  Deawr God, pwease help Smawll Fwry's piggie to feel bettewr too. 'Cause Duckie made him sick. Help dem bof get bettewr.

[Three minutes pass.  Give or take.]

Medium Fry:  Auntie, my duckie is dead! He DIED!

Me: He died?

Medium Fry:  Yes!

Me:  I don't think he's dead.

Medium Fry:  Well, he fwrew up!

Me:  That doesn't mean he's dead.


Of course, right on cue, Large Fry threw up due to motion-sickness.

A perfect ending to the story, don't you think?

Just Duckie

Medium (having finished her supper):  Uncwle, can I go upstaiywrs and look for my duckie?

Hubby:  No, not right now.

Medium:  But he's nawt deywre!  I won't be able to find him!

Me: Are you sure he's not there?

Medium: Yes!

Me:  Then where did you put him?

Medium:  I don't know!  I stashed him.

Me:  Where?

Medium:  I don't wemembewr.


Incidentally, I found Duckie under her bed when I tucked the twins in tonight.

Early Morning Conversations

Hubby has sent the twins to get dressed, so they can all go downstairs, and I can stay up here and work.

And hopefully rest.

But mostly, so I can work.


Small Fry (bouncing into our room): I gotta pink shewrt!

Hubby: So I see.

Medium Fry: She's tewlling on me!

Hubby: No, she's not.  Unless you're doing something you're not supposed to be, in which case, stop it, and get dressed!

It's the little things.

My day has been full of little things:

• Little people in my bed before 7:30 this morning.  (Why?)
• A relatively decent night's sleep, even though I had to bunk down with Small Fry about 11 last night.
• A little bit of relative peace and quiet, when Hubby got Large Fry on the school bus and then took the twin Fries out to Denny's for breakfast and then to the store to get a few things.
• Having my walk-in clinic be a subsidiary of my own doctor's office, and the doc's office being slow enough that I got bumped over there for a "scheduled" appointment and so I got seen faster.  (Sinus infection.  My list of symptoms is not little.  Nor is the grade of lousy I feel.)
• Twelve dino-nuggets left in the freezer, when I'm sicker than a dog and still having to take care of the Fries while Hubby goes on his second interview for a youth/music pastor position.  That's an easy dinner!
• Granola bars and juice boxes to round out dinner.  Not the best meal I've prepared, I'm sure.  But they're not going to be hungry.
• The ability to go back to bed myself when I tuck the Fries into bed.
• Nyquil is my new best friend.
• Modern medicine and sympathetic pharmacists. I love you, antibiotics.

Things I would rather not have:

• A triple-digit fever.
• Body aches.
• Sinus headache.
• Sore throat.
• Ouchy ears.
• Arch pain in my left foot.
• Discovering that one of the cats puked on the bed (on my side, no less) while I was at the doc's.
• Having to munchkin-wrangle when I feel this awful.

On the other hand:

• If not for the fever and body aches and assorted pains, I would not know I was sick.
• If not for modern medicine, I wouldn't have antibiotics to help me get better, or painkillers to help reduce my aches, pains and fever.
• Hairballs are a small price to pay for having warm, fuzzy, purring things to come snuggle with me.
• I love my children, and I can't imagine life without them.

You have GOT to be kidding me!

With Hubby being a youth pastor, I have a contingent of teen friends on Facebook, most of them kids from our last youth group.

I still try to be a positive influence in their lives, even though we're not actively involved in their lives on a regular basis.

Now, on a seemingly totally different note, Hubby and I decided, long ago, that, when we had our own children, we would not strive to be their friends.  We would be their parents, which would probably go against the whole friend-mentality more than it would flow with it.  But kids need parents, not friends, especially as they grow older.  And, as we've interacted with kids over the years--and many of them came from broken homes--we noticed the disturbing trend of divorced parents to strive to be their kids' best friend during custodial periods, rather than the parent.  Friends are nice and will let you get away with stuff that parents normally won't.  When one parent subscribed to the "buddy" mentality and the other didn't, it was the parent who was, well, parental who caught most of the flack from the kids.  (And, occasionally, the former/estranged spouse.)  And it caused severe strain on the parent trying to actually parent, not to mention the kids.  The cases where both parents tried to be their kids' best friends left these poor young teens churning in waters with no direction.  A recipe for disaster, in my opinion.

That's not to say that all children of divorced parents have such issues.  There are divorced parents who work hard to present a united front to their children, to be their kids' parents even when the parent decision is a whole lot less popular than the friend decision.  I commend them.  It's hard.  There's undoubtedly a reason behind the divorce, and clearly, these estranged spouses are not each other's best friends.  But at least they are trying to do right by their kids.  Sadly, from what I've seen, these types of divorced parents are in the minority.

Of course, there are those parents who are still married who try to espouse the total-friend philosophy of parenthood.  The results are very much the same: if one parent tries to be parental when the other is going the all-out buddy route, it stresses the fabric of the family.  If both do that, the kids are again rudderless, because they aren't being provided any kind of consistent direction.

Soap-boxing aside for the moment...

I noticed the status of one of our former teens this afternoon.  She's 14.  Her status informed her Facebook world that she got her bellybutton pierced today...and that her parents aren't happy.  Another friend immediately commented that she wanted to see pictures.  My young friend said she already took some, and that her parents took her to get the piercing done.  But they aren't happy.

They. Took. Her.

That means they consented to a piercing on a minor, paid for it, and let her do it.

But they're apparently angry that she got it done.

Why on earth did these parents not say NO?!

To me, the math is simple: two parents against the idea that one kid wants something equals kid does not get what kid wants.  Even one parent saying no cancels out what one kid (or more) wants.

That's in my house, though.

I personally think that the parents have no real right to be upset, because they agreed to and paid for this.  If they aren't happy she had it done, it's their own dumb fault...because they let her.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned.  But, quite honestly, my young friend is 14.  There's no need for her to have a bellybutton piercing now.  She doesn't need to feel "sexy."  She's 14!  In my opinion, fourteen-year-olds have no business trying to look sexy.  And it's not going to kill her to wait until she's 18 and can legally consent to a piercing as an adult before she pierces her bellybutton.

Her parents should have been parents...not her friends.

Feel-Good Quote of the Day

Cupcakey goodness.

Large Fry, to me, as she saw me check a Facebook picture comment on my BlackBerry--a picture of the cupcakes I made so she can celebrate her July birthday with her school friends:

You're the best buddy EVER!

Complete with happy squeal and big hug.

Made my day.

Dr. Auntie J, DSVM

Ever since we watched Disney's The Great Mouse Detective on our way to Gramma and Boppa's house a week ago, Medium Fry has been asking where "her" big doggie is.

Toby, who used to belong to my oldest nephew, is a big plush basset hound, the namesake of said character in The Great Mouse Detective.  And he now belongs to Small Fry.

I unearthed a big stuffed beagle from Hubby's childhood days and gave him to Medium Fry so that she would have a big doggie too.  At first, he was also Toby.  These days, he answers to Bruno, the name of the faithful hound in Cinderella.

However, Medium being a small child, and thus doing small-child things like sticking fingers in holes found in stuffed animals, discovered a split in the seam on poor Bruno's back.  And soon widened it.

I confiscated Bruno.

Followed quickly by confiscating the matching Portuguese Water Dogs from the Build-a-Bear Factory that belong to the twins, who had apparently not been zipped up tight enough for toddler hands.  They were open now along the back seam, where their stuffing went in.

And there were two frogs, from my brother.  Small Fry's had a loose-ish nose marking, a simple stitch of triple-strand embroidery floss.  No doubt it was "helped" along in the loosening by Small Fry herself.  Medium's frog had half a nose, because she'd pulled out one of the two strands.  And a hole along the seam of the patch on the frog's belly.  (What can you expect for $5?)

Plus a smaller stuffed frog of unknown origin but actually green in color (the other two were pink and purple, with embossed flowers in the fabric), suffering almost half a decapitation.

And, of course, Medium's little tiger and his aortic dissection (of sorts).

I pulled out my sewing kit, because I promised Medium at bedtime last night that I would fix her tiger.  And Bruno.

And since I'm "operating" on two, might as well fix 'em all.  I unearthed my sewing kit and got to work after the kids were in bed.

I felt the need to mutter something to myself about "Camp Patch-'Em-Up," and debated a Facebook status post with that reference, but not many people would get my rather vague M*A*S*H reference.

I can't help it if dialogue sticks with me.  But that's another story.

Innyhoo...

After I returned these poor stuffed friends to their proper owners late last night, I proceeded to crash.  I do not remember Hubby coming to bed.  Despite my griping ankle, I hauled myself out of bed and staggimped (staggered + limped) down the hall for my morning constitutional, trailed by Large Fry.  (Hubby being sick, I was charged with getting her on the bus.)  While in there, not tending to personal business alone, the twin Fries woke up.  As I'm washing my hands, Small and Medium appear in the bathroom doorway...arms overloaded with their mended friends.

Small happily squeals my name, grinning from ear to ear.  "You fixed dem!  Tankoo!"

I only wish I'd brought my phone to the bathroom with me, so I could have snapped a shot of her happy face and overflowing-with-friends arms.

A Tail of Two Pa'anis

Last night at bedtime, Hubby feeling like he was death warmed over and run aground by a truck, I took the Fries up to tuck them in.

I got the twins all snuggled in bed, their blankets on them in the right order, and kicked all the monsters out.  I was finishing up hugs and smooches when Medium Fry spoke.

"My Pa'ani is scawred."  She held up her stuffed kitten.  "He needs you."

I gently took her little kitty and cradled him on my right hand and arm.  I scratched his little head and told him there was nothing to be afraid of.

"But dewre's monstewrs.  He's afwaid of monstewrs."

"Oh, but there are no monsters.  I kicked them out, remember?  And even the friendly ones are gone--they're at Gramma and Boppa's."

"Dewre's somesing outside dat scawred him."

"It's outside."  I looked at the kitty and stroked his little fuzzy head reassuringly.  "If it's outside, it can't get in.  You're safe."

Pa'ani Squared

I started to hand her little Pa'ani back to her--so named because he looks an awful lot like our white/ginger tabby of the same name--but Medium stopped me.

"He wants to stay wif you fowr awhile.  He wants you to pwotect him."

"Are you sure?"  Sometimes she does change her mind about these things.

"Yes.  He wants you."

"Okay."  I prepared to head out once again, this time with a little Pa'ani cuddled against my neck.

Medium spoke my name again.  "My wittle tigewr is scawred too."

Her little TY beanie tiger with the ridiculously huge green eyes looked up at me from her outstretched hand.  "You're scared too?"

We almost went through the same litany, but then I realized her tiger had a little hole in the seam of his chest.  In the end, both the tiger and the "baby Pa'ani" went back downstairs with me (along with a host of other animal friends who needed similar "surgery.")

I told you that story to tell you this one.

When I went to bed last night, I brought up all the successfully sewn-up stuffed friends, plus Medium's "little Pa'ani," and returned them to their rightful owners in the twin Fries' room.  Medium stirred a little as I dropped the book I'd been carrying too, and I tucked Carla, her Build-a-Bear dog, next to her.  She threw her arm over Carla and went right back to sleep.  I also tucked in her little tiger and her little Pa'ani.

And I went to bed myself without further thought.

Somewhere in the murky light of almost-dawn, in the haze of 5-ish a.m. and bleary, sleepy eyes, I was startled awake.  Not Koa, who has a history of yowling with a toy mouse clenched in her jaws, wanting to play at the most inopportune times (like when I want to sleep).  No, it was Medium.

"Whattsamatter, honey?" I said.  (I think.  Or some variation thereof.)

She shoved her kitty into my face.  "Pa'ani wants you."

And then she turned around, without another word, and went back to bed herself, making my, "Can you go back to bed now?" a bit redundant.

She was apparently even less awake than I was, because I needed to go down the hall to her room and put her blankets on her, because she couldn't quite figure out how to do it herself.