Not-so-old Story #2

So about a month ago, the Fries were playing dress-up.

Small.  Not pregnant.

The results were entertaining enough that I went to grab my camera when I saw what they were doing.

Hubby came out as I was shooting pictures and grinned, too.

He looked down at Small Fry.  "Are you pregnant?" he asked.

Large and Medium enthusiastically agreed.  Small, however, disagreed with about as much enthusiasm.

She imperiously informed us, "I have big nippewls, like Mommy does."


Now, I told you that, so I could tell you about this.

Medium Fry has grabbed two of her little barbies.  One is a generic Snow White princess, the other is Disney's Iridessa fairy barbie, who is less endowed than Snow.  Medium is holding them so they're facing each other, chests touching.

"How come they have big nippewls like you?" she asked.


Yeah.  How would you have answered that?

Old Story #1

Remember my discussion on toilet paper?

It wasn't too long after that when I went into the bathroom to see what was keeping Medium Fry.

Medium [wrestling off two sheets of toilet paper]: I got two shits!

Me [trying not to react]: Two sheets, honey.

Medium: I like to say shits.

Me: Just say squares, honey.


And that's why we use squares instead of sheets.

Just remembered!

About a month ago, we were out visiting my parents.  I do not remember what exactly we were discussing--corn, perhaps--but it turned to a conversation about color.

Small Fry: Lellow!

Boppa: Yellow.

Small: Lellow!

Gramma: Yellow.  Yuh-yuh-yuh.  Yellow.*


Small: Yuh-yuh-yuh.  Lellow.


*You can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can't take the classroom out of the teacher....

Word of the Month

Neblee-izer: n. Compressor apparatus used to turn liquid medicine into inhalant vapors, suitable for treating coughs and wheezing associated with bronchitis, asthma and other lung ailments.  Gramma has one, and now so do we.

A Little Less Conversation

Medium Fry: Mommy, watch me count backwards from 10!  10...see, I didn't start with one!  Ten...nine...eight...sewrro...six...fowr...five...two...one!

Me: I see!

* * *

Small Fry [holding up my Tinkerbell cup]: Mommy, do you want some more water?

Me: No, thank you.

Small Fry:  I dwinked awll youwr watewr 'cause I love you!

Shhh!

I'm honestly not sure who called who or how or whatever, but however it happened--Hubby has this tendency to not lock the keypad of his phone and therefore does a lot of pocket-dialing--my mother-in-law called tonight as the kids were eating supper.

Small Fry, upon hearing that it was Gramma Bevvie on the phone, wanted to talk to her.  She talked for a few minutes, then said, "I love you.  Bye," and handed the phone to Medium Fry.

"Gwramma Bevvie?  I didn't have a wuff day today."  Hubby smiled and shared a glance with me.  "Gwramma Bevvie, when we come to youwr howse..." Medium stopped as she got interrupted by her sisters' conversation.  "...can you make cake?" she continued, even though she got overwhelmed by siblings and Oliver and Company on tv.

Hubby tried to muffle his guffaw, and failed miserably.  Medium extended her arm fully, index finger (hallelujah; she usually uses her "tall man") pointed imperiously at him.  "Shhh!"  Then: "Gwramma, when we come to your howse, can you make cake?"  This was quickly followed by another, "I love you.  Bye," and passing the phone off to Large Fry.

Yes, I am pretty sure Gramma Bevvie agreed to make cake.

"Awwwwwwww" Factor

Today was the first day of preschool for the twins.

If I hadn't been so doped up and still hurting from last night's stunning grace debacle, I probably would have been more emotional.  As it was, Medium got all sniffly when it was time to leave.

So, I was curious to see how their first day had gone.

Medium walked in the door first tonight.


Medium Fry: Mommy, I didn't have a good day.

Me: Why not?

Medium: Because I wanted you to come, too!


If you'll excuse me, I'll be in a mooshy little puddle over there in the corner for awhile.  *happy sniffle*

Oh, Father.

I managed to trip over my own feet and fall hard in my yard this evening, so I got to spend two hours in the local ER to determine that I didn't break anything, but I severely sprained my formerly-good ankle and bruised my right wrist, just about where I broke it two years ago.

Fun times.

I still have work to do, so I'm still up.  Thankfully, TVLand is here to rescue me with a M*A*S*H marathon.  Bless them.

Airing right now is the 1974 episode "Crisis," in which the camp's supply line is cut and all manner of hilarity ensues as the camp attempts to deal with the various shortages.

As the assigned guys settle down for the night in the Swamp, Father Mulcahey offers this prayer, which still nearly makes me giggle when we do the "serious" version with the kids at bedtime:

Now I lay me down to sleep, a bag of peanuts at my feet.  If I should die before I wake, give them to my brother Jake.

I love this show.

 

Eep.

We think we've found a house.

With Hubby's new job, we really need to move to the town where he's working.

So, of course, new job equals new place to live equals new debt.

We got pre-approved for a mortgage.

Now we're discussing putting in an offer on the house we think will work best for us.

Meanwhile, Large Fry started first grade today.

The twin Fries will start preschool tomorrow, three days a week.

I won't know what to do with myself.

Oh, yes.  I can pack.  Yay me.

Cheese Curl Catastrophe

Medium Fry: Mommy!  It bwoke! [holds up cheese curl that's in two pieces]

Me: So? The calories leaked out.  It's fine.  You can eat it.

Stalling Techniques

Small Fry is the queen.

She needs to be tucked in.

She needs to ask a question.

She needs to have her blanket "not that way!"

And then, no, it needs to be another way.

She needs an "I love you" kiss.  (That's where you form your fingers--on both hands--into "I love you" in American Sign Language, and press the tips of your raised fingers and thumbs together.)

She can't find her piggy.  No, not that one.  The other one.

She took her pig Pillow Pet downstairs and now can't sleep without it.

She took some obscure stuffed animal downstairs...well, ditto the Pillow Pet problem.

She needs to ask another question.

She neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeds you.

She has to go potty.  "But you already went potty."  No, this time she has to go poopy.

Keiki is in the room.

Pa'ani is in the room.

Koa is in the hallway.

She needs her pillow.

You get the idea.

So, at naptime today, she was the last one upstairs, having dawdled over going potty and washing her hands.  And then she balked at actually leaving the living room.

"C'mon, upstairs, let's go!" I said.

She put on the brakes and wheedled, "But I want hewr to take me upstayewrs!"  She pointed to Two-D, who she'd been sitting next to while she finished her juice box.

"But she doesn't know how to kick the monsters out, and I do," I pointed out.

"Wike dis," Small Fry said, and kicked out her right foot.  "Den she can do it."

I looked over my shoulder at Two-D, who was grinning (as much as a 14-year-old can grin without it not being cool to be amused by this).  "I do actually kick."  I gave Small Fry a nudge.  "She's still not taking you up.  Go."

Small Fry pouted the whole way up the stairs...until she got near the top, at which point she informed me, in quite serious tones, that I could get hurt if I tried to go down the stairs by the banister.

Conversations.

Today is not a "normal" day.  Two-D is here to play with the Fries today; she's one of the kids in our youth group, and this is her teacher mom's first day of orientation.  This way, she doesn't have to spend the day alone, and the Fries can inflict themselves on someone new.

Small Fry was adamant that she wanted Two-D to brush her hair.  I said no, because poor Two-D wouldn't know what to do if when Small Fry started crying, because she hates having her hair brushed and her scalp is so sensitive.

I asked who wanted to go first, and got no volunteers.  Medium Fry was determined to not have her hair brushed, clamping both arms over her head.

I decided that meant she'd volunteered.

She dug her heels in.

I only had to count to two to get her to put her hands down.

Medium: I don't like you!

Me: I still like you.

Medium [gesturing angrily towards Two-D]: I like hewr better than you!

Me [continuing to brush]


Medium:  You'wre mean!

Me: So you've said.

Medium:  When I gwow up, you won't take care of me anymore!

Me: What, honey?

Medium [insistently]: When I gwow up, into a gwown-up, you won't take care of me anymore!

Me: Well, when you're grown up, you won't need me to take care of you anymore.

Medium [almost heartbroken]: See?  I told you!

Me [desperately trying to muffle a chuckle, and failing]


Medium: Don't laff at me!

Me: I'm not.

Medium [pointing to Two-D again, but less sullenly]: I still like hewr better than you.

You know, sometimes it's just like that here.

Correction.

I am not the only one in the house who felt it.  I'm just the only one on two legs.

The cats apparently felt it.

Mika was still out of sorts forty minutes later when I herded the Fries upstairs for naps.  Small Fry went to collect her piggy from where she'd left it on our bed, and Mika actually lowered his ears and hissed at her, clinging to his cozy spot on the bed.  (Usually, he'd just jump up and skitter away.)

Analysis of an Earthquake

I am the only one in the house who felt it.

I was sitting calmly at my desk in the living room, happily uploading my best friend JJ's picture of her newest son so I can brag about him, the kids were romping around playing, and suddenly...it seemed like I had a herd of elephants doing a ten-second imitation of Michael Flatley.  Only...not as coordinated.  My chair shuddered.  Heck, it felt like the whole house shuddered.

Which, really, is not a good thing when one has a rock-wall foundation.

And one's husband is not at home.

And one is afraid to go down the basement steps alone.

The kids were blissfully clueless, having romped right through it all on their own.

I honestly checked the back of my desk chair--it's upholstered--to see if I had fighting cats hanging onto the back, and I'd somehow missed it.

Then I smelled something funny, like melting plastic.  Dishwasher!  I jumped up and opened it up to find that the handle piece for my rotary cheese grater had jumped down to the bottom, from the top rack, and was cozied up to the lower heating element.  Well, that solved the smelly mystery.

Dad, rather than responding to the MMS text picture of JJ's new son, Batman Baby, wrote, "Whoa...did we just have an earthquake?"

And that's when it started popping up all over Facebook.

Of course, it's not until just now that I realize I can blame the 5.9 quake in Mineral, VA, for my melted grater handle.

Hubby's cell service became uncharacteristically spotty, which didn't help my freak-out nerves, which were already in full-fledged, lights flashing and sirens whooping, alarm mode.  I had to call him four times before I actually got through to him, out on the golf course where he and Da Boss are having their weekly mobile staff meeting.

"So, do you have to take a stroke penalty if the earthquake moves your ball?" I asked, by way of greeting.

"What?" he says.

They didn't feel it.

Goobers.

At least the kids weren't upset by it.

It's been a VERY long day.

The Fries are--well, two of them, anyway--sick.

Large Fry has a nasty bilateral ear infection and mild bronchitis.

Medium Fry has an ear infection and nasty bronchitis.

Small Fry has an interminable case of "I must be sick, too!"

I have extreme exhaustion.

Of course, Hubby was gone all day today.

And by "all day," I mean that I barely remember him leaving around 7:45ish this morning, and he's still not home yet.  He and the PSC youth group went to Hershey Park for the day.

By the time bedtime rolled around, I was so relieved to be tucking them in, because, as I told Hubby at our bedtime phone call, if they weren't going to bed, someone would be meeting Jesus.

Lest you think I don't love my kids, I do.  Really.  A lot.

Small Fry: I love you forever, Mommy!

Me: I love you forever, too, punkin.  You try my patience sometimes, but I love you forever. [turned to Medium Fry]  And I love you forever, too.

Like you would not believe.  I love them.

But, since the two sick ones are starting to feel better, they are acting more like kids and less like sickies.  And I'm fried tonight.

And I find that parenthood is best taken with a hefty dose of humor.

Innyhoo....

Earlier today, Medium had asked if we were going to take our potties to the new house.  I told her that, no, we weren't; we would take our little potty seats with us, but the new house will already have potties, so ours will just stay here.  I don't think I convinced her.

Because this happened at bedtime.

As I finished tucking the twins in, I told them they needed to be quiet and go to sleep, because we had a big day tomorrow.

Me: Do you know what we're going to do in the morning?  We're going to look at houses!

Twins: *gasp*

Medium Fry: And look at the potties?

Me: Yes!

Small Fry: An' da bewwooms?

Me: And the bedrooms.

Medium Fry: And the beds?

Me: Well, maybe.  Not all of them will have beds, because some of them don't have much furniture in them.  Some of them will.  But we're going to take all our beds to the new house with us when we move.  We're not moving tomorrow, though; we're just looking to see which house we want.

Small Fry: An' we'll take all ouwr bewwoom toys?

Me: Yep!  We're taking all our stuff.

They think this whole new-house thing is pretty cool, and I'm glad about that.  However, they're even more impatient than I am! They're ready to be moved yesterday.  Large Fry, especially, thinks that the new house will automatically come with a new bike for her.  I'm glad they're excited.

I'm also unbelievably glad that they're in bed...and that Hubby will be home and able to help ride herd on them tomorrow.

Large Fry's new solo...

♫ Then sings my soul, my Savior Gahttabe, how great I art...  ♪

Shoot me now.

It's been one of those days.


Small Fry: Is Wobin Hood's hand small?

Me: Yes.  Compared to Little John's.

Small: Is Wittle John's hand big?

Me: Yes.

Small: Why is Wobin's hand small?

Me: Because he's a fox.

Small: Why is he a fox?

Me: Because he is.

Small: Why is Wittle John's hand big?

Me: Because he's a bear.

Small: Why is he a beawr?

Me (about to bash my head against the nearest wall):  Because he is!

***


Medium Fry: Has Wrapunzel met Yoogeen yet?

Me (staring at the baby Rapunzel): No.

***

Mother Gothel is singing "Mother Knows Best" in the movie Tangled.

Medium Fry:  Why is she singing?

***


Flynn Rider: C'mon, Blondie.

Large Fry: Did he call her "Blondie"?

Me (exasperated): YES!

***

Mother Gothel is racing through the tower house, looking for Rapunzel.


Medium Fry: Did Wrapunzel leave her house?

Me: Yes!

Medium: Why?

Me: Because it's part of the story!


And it's been dumb questions all stinking day.

I'm going to go nuts soon, and it's really a very short trip.

"Change is good. I like change. Maybe I'll grow a mustache."

We're experiencing something of an evolution here at our house.  (Although, perhaps, it's really more along the lines of a revolution.  Read on.  Then you can decide.)

At the beginning of this not-so-little adventure, we decided--for the sake of the temporariness of it all (feel free to laugh heartily here)--to stick with the titles we held previously:  Auntie and Uncle.  After all, that's what we were.  Are.  Whatever.

But now it's been over three years of the Fries living here with us.

They've started to notice things.

Like...the fact that most of their friends live with Mommy and Daddy (or one of the two).

I'd have to say that, since about Thanksgiving-ish last year, the twins decided to do some mental sorting.  Within a few weeks of this percolating in their little brains, I was almost exclusively Mommy to the twins, especially Small Fry.  Hubby became sometimes Daddy, sometimes Uncle.  Large Fry tended to stick with Auntie and Uncle as her primary forms of address.  But then, she remembers more, having been almost three when the girls came to live with us.  She remembers the people who originally held the names Mommy and Daddy.  She remembers living with them.

We chose to leave our names up to the kids.  If they wanted to call us Mommy and Daddy, that was fine.  They preferred Auntie and Uncle?  Also fine.  It was their choice, and not something we forced them to do.

Hubby once asked one of the Fries why she'd called him Daddy.  "Because I love you, and I want to call you that," she answered.

Kinda hard to argue with that logic.

So...we answer to both names.  There are days that I'm only Mommy.  There are days (most of them) when I'm called by both.

Because the Fries do have a relationship with their biological dad, my brother, Hubby hasn't been called Daddy with the same level of frequency that I'm called Mommy.  But for the twins, especially now that they've been thrust into the new normal of Hubby working again, he's Daddy far more often to them than he's not.  And when we're not sure which daddy one of the Fries is referring to, they can clarify it easily: Daddy-Uncle.  Or Daddy-S (my brother).  More often than not, the Daddy they want is Daddy-Uncle.

And I told you that story to tell you this one.

We met up at a park in S-burg tonight with a family from our new church, just to kind of get to know each other better.  There's a playground to entertain the Fries after dinner, giving the adults a chance to watch but still talk without (much) interruption.  Win-win.

And as we're sitting there talking, the Fries are running around the playground, getting dirty, making friends, and having a wonderful time.  Large and Medium are playing together-ish in the sandbox.  Small Fry is clambering all over the playground equipment.  It was probably an hour after they started playing that Large Fry came away from the sandbox and made the acquaintance of a little girl about four, who was pretty much her exact opposite in coloring: fine blond hair, blue eyes, I-burn-easily skin.  Large Fry had her by the hand and was leading her around.

Hubby noticed this and called over to Large Fry, telling her to make sure that the little girl stayed in the area where her mommy knew she was.

Then he turned back to me, where I was talking with TE.  "Wave at them," he instructed.  "Wave."

So I did, even though Hubby kinda blocked them from my view by then.

"Did you hear what she's saying?"

I shook my head.

"She's telling that little girl, 'The lady over there in the pink--that's my mom.'  She was pointing you out as her mommy."

I looked down at my bright pink shirt and back up at Large, still holding the hand of her new little friend and heading for the slides.

My smile must have been as mooshy as my heart felt, because Hubby grinned said, "Yeah, I figured that was worth interrupting your conversation for."

**Props to you if you know which movie I'm quoting in the post title.

Get your hankies.

Los over at Ragamuffin Soul offers up his list of things he wants to tell his son, on his first day of school.

Funny and heart-wrenching (in a good way).

A Glimpse into the Past

One of the neat things about Facebook is that it will occasionally show me my status updates from a year ago.

Today's selection, from a year ago today, recounts this conversation between the twin Fries:

Small Fry: I don't wanna haiwrcut!

Medium Fry: It's not a haiwrcut!  It's a rolly fing!  It makes youwr haiwr stwraight!


Small Fry is now the only one who somewhat-consistently puts that w in front of the r.  Medium doesn't, really.

Except, of course, for today.

When she told Boppa she wanted to play ween awoun' da wosie.

Excuses

Today's naptime excuses:

• "But I want you to tuck us in."  (Hubby is off today, and I'm working.  He'll be doing the tucking.)
• "My dolly is sckawred.  She needs to be wif you.  Medium's dolly is skawred, too."
• "I have to go potty."  Well, then.  Why are you in my room, which is the opposite direction of the bathroom?  (Medium Fry here.)
• "Why are you up?" "I hafta go potty."  "Didn't you just go potty before nap?"  "Not poopy."  Sigh.  You can't argue with that.  (Small Fry, who I found on the potty when I went to see what was taking Medium so long.)

Fortunately, Large Fry had the good sense to confess that, no, she didn't really have to go potty, after I caught her out of bed.

OY.

Ours is not to wonder why.

Last night, Hubby and Medium were snuggling on the loveseat while he played on his computer.

And that's when it happened.

Hubby:  Why are you rubbing your tuchus on me?

Medium Fry:  Becauwse you'wre so cute an' fluffy!

A Huge Difference

Hubby recounted this conversation with the new boss (MIKA!  Stop fishing in the plastic trash bags!), which shows just how different this position from his last one:

Hubby: So, when I'm picking out Scripture to read in the service, do you care which translation I use?

Da Boss: Ummm....  English.

Hubby: I know we have NIV Bibles in the pews, and I've used the NLT myself....

Da Boss: I'd put the NLT right up there with the NIV.  I use The Message in my personal devotions.

Hubby: So I can use The Message?

Da Boss: It's in English, isn't it?

Hubby: Really?


I think Hubby would be fine reading just about any translation/transliteration...except for maybe the Hawai'ian Pidgin version, Da Jesus Book.  Yes, there is such a thing.

Then again, Da Boss seems to be a relatively laid-back guy.  Hubby might be able to get away with Pidgin.

Really? REALLY?

After a couple of weeks of the Fries having an imbalanced approach to meals--two of them would eat great at one meal, the other wouldn't, and it would shuffle at each meal--for the last couple of days, they've all eaten well.

It's shocking.

Last night, I only fixed one box of doctored-up mac and cheese (I added a couple of slices of deli-cut Vermont white sharp cheddar)...and it wasn't enough for the four of us.

So I fixed two boxes today (it was requested for lunch and was easy enough...keep 'em happy and me sane).  We do have leftovers of that, but still, they ate everything I put on their plates.

Tonight, I fixed hot dogs for the Fries and made myself a turkey sandwich.  I gave the kids the ultra-healthy cheese curls to go along with their hot dogs (don't judge me; I'm still wading through post-op exhaustion).  I brought out three cups of milk and we all had a picnic of sorts.  We ate dinner and watched The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh.

They each wanted more hot dog.

I'd given them almost two whole hot dogs apiece, sans buns.

They wanted more cheese curls.

I gave them a few more.

They each had a relatively big ginger snap cookie.

Still thirsty, they got themselves little water bottles from the fridge.

I nixed a second cookie.

I'm finally getting around to eating my sandwich, and they're done.  With everything.  And they're running around.

Small Fry comes over to me.  "Can I haffa snack?"

What?

"No!  You just ate dinner!  Almost two hot dogs, cheese curls, milk, cookie, water...how can you still be hungry?"

She gave me an impish grin (channeling my sister again).

Two minutes later she was back with a box of iced animal crackers.  "Can I have dese?"

"No!  Go put them away!"  She started to put them on my desk.  "No.  Put them back where you found them."

Sigh.

Note to self.  Need to make at least six hot dogs when you're doing a bunless meal.

The Fries are now snuggling with their 100 Acre Wood friends from Auntie Mille and Uncle J.  Only appropriate to have them with you when watching their movie.

My turn for a cookie.

Now, how did THAT happen?

So Small Fry had a world-class meltdown today that necessitated me taking a break from work and playing the heavy while Gramma kept the other two Fries occupied.

After much in the way of tears, wails, screams, shrieks, and discipline (resulting in more tears, wails, screams and shrieks), I told her she could go play outside as soon as she stopped wailing and crying.  (Trust me.  It was both.)

She sniffled loudly, and scrubbed her hand across her nose.

"Go get a tissue," I told her, seeing the booger that had vacated her nose to prime finger-top real estate.

"Don't WANNA tissue!"  Her hands swiped furiously at her shorts.

Okay.  Not gonna even try to fight that one.  "Fine."

She went outside, proceeded to wail and cry out on the porch, which meant I took another break from work to go tell her to come inside and stand in the corner until she was done crying, at which point she could leave the corner and go outside to play.

It wasn't until after she'd been outside, the pizza had arrived, and I finally decided I ought to eat that I looked at the shoulder of my shirt.

Where I found her booger.

HOW in the world did a booger aimed directly at the backside of her shorts end up on my shoulder?!