Events of the Day

It's barely 5 in the evening, and I have to wonder how on earth I managed to get through this day alive.

• Medium Fry woke up, insisting that her tummy hurt.  Which we took to mean it was empty, because she was hungry.
• Large Fry was astonishingly ready early for school today (there's something that won't happen again for another two months at least).
• Small Fry had a follow-up doctor's appointment, due to the fluid in her ears from an ear infection at her well-child checkup back at the end of November (less than five days after being in urgent care for a nasty bilateral ear infection)...and then still having fluid in her ears last month.  Guess what.  She still has fluid behind her eardrums.  Another round of antibiotics!  Oh, and a referral to an ENT.
• I can make Microsoft Word turn into its own pretzel, but force me to deal with Publisher, and I want to cry.  But I have to submit an invoice for the contracted work I did over the weekend, so I'm trying to figure it out.  While catching up on my regular job.  While trying to get Medium Fry to eat some Cheerios.
• My boss emailed me about a change we need to make in payroll and billing, and I have no idea how to pull it off, since I was stripped of all magical powers and my wand when I flunked out of Fairy Godmother school.
• Medium insisted, after Hubby and Small got home, that her tummy still hurt, that she felt sick.  She still had no fever.  So Small stayed home with me, and Medium went with Hubby to H-burg so he could hit up a specialty clothes shop that we just don't have here in our small burg.  And she got sick on the way out there.
• I discussed with my other sort-of boss about the work done over the weekend and how to handle my invoice.
• Discovered that mixed-up, mooshed-up Play-Doh had magically gravitated to three other floors in the house.
• I realized lunch was now very late for Small Fry.
• After lunch, sent Small Fry upstairs to go potty in prep for naptime.
• Went upstairs ten minutes later to find out where Small Fry was, and found that she had gone into our bathroom, stood on the toilet, got out the baby powder, and had liberally anointed the bathroom...and had not bothered to go potty.
• Tucked Small Fry in for nap, and tried to concentrate on my job that pays me in cold, hard cash.  Fail.
• Got even later lunch for myself.
• Picked up Large Fry from school.  Report cards today.  Yay.
• Small Fry woke shortly after Hubby and Medium returned (Medium got sick on the way home), and I'm now trying to work, supervise Small Fry (who has done nothing but get into trouble all day, it seems), supervise Large Fry, work, and try to figure out how I'm going to divide my attention to now supervise Large's homework, which is math, which is difficult for Small Fry and taxing for my extremely short supplies of patience.
• Oh, good.  Relief.  Hubby comes downstairs (Medium sick yet again), and takes over supervising Large's homework.
• Discovered by overhearing Hubby's outrage that Small has cut up lots of paper, left out all kinds of Play-Doh, and gotten into the Apples to Apples game and strewn the cards all about the basement toy room.
• Okay, I should not be relieved by this, but Hubby was just literally banging his head against the wall in the dining room over helping Large Fry with her homework, because she's refusing to focus and concentrate on stuff that we know she knows.  I'm just glad I'm not the only one who gets frustrated.
• I now have a headache, still don't have an answer to my billing mystery, and our dinner plans have been hosed.  Yay.

Actually, if life was anything like this for my mother, it's a miracle I made it to adulthood.

And she's going to laugh herself silly over that one.

Bedtime Prayers

The twins got to bed later than usual tonight, due to an overly-messy toy room and the discovery that one of their bedroom windows wouldn't close without some extreme cleaning.

Hubby took care of the cleaning and getting the window closed (I just love home ownership), and reminded me when he got downstairs that they were waiting for me to tuck them in.  Small Fry had told him that "Mommy is going to tuck us."

Yep, ordered around by a 5-year-old.

Sort of.  (How do you say no when your youngest looks at you with pitiful eyes and says, "Mommy, I want you to tuck us"?)

Innyhoo.

I went back upstairs.

I gave hugs and kisses.

I kicked out monsters, giants, wombats, dragons and snakes.

I sent friendly things on their way to Gramma and Boppa's.

Then Small Fry started to pray: "God is gweat, God is..."

I quickly interrupted.  "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  Angels watch me through the night..."

"Angels watch me frew my mommy..." Small Fry intoned with a grin.

"...and keep me safe till morning light," I finished.

I couldn't bring myself to balk at an extra round of hugs after that prayer.

"Who's dat wif da micwrophone?"

Hubby decided, after watching Kronk's New Groove, we needed to watch something with a little more culture.

Class.

Harmony.

Music.

So he popped in his DVD of the Gaither Homecoming in Jerusalem.

Now, it's worth pointing out here that Hubby sang for over a year as a tenor for a Southern Gospel quartet, and we still have several of his group's CDs.  The man can sing.

So.

The Gaither Vocal Band is singing, and at the time, the lineup was Bill Gaither (bass), Marshall Hall (baritone), Guy Penrod (lead), and David Phelps (tenor).  They're performing oldie-but-goodie "Can't Stop Talkin' About Him," which I remember them singing waaaay on back when Larnelle Harris was with the group.

Medium tapped me.  "Mommy, who is dat?"

"Who?"

"Da one singing wif da micwrophone."

I waited, and pointed to the young blond man on the screen.  "That's Marshall Hall."  I waited until the camera focused on another member of GVB.  "The one with the long hair--that's Guy Penrod."  (Hubby should be proud that I didn't try to indoctrinate Medium on how much we should loooove Guy and his amazing voice.)  The camera moved again.  "The one with the curly hair is David Phelps."  Man, he's got pipes.  "And the older man on the end?  That's Bill Gaither."

Medium nodded.  "I want to meet him!"

"Who?"

"Da one wif da cuwrly haiwr."

From the other end of the couch, Hubby didn't miss a beat.  "Me, too."

Observations from the Middle of the Night

I was awakened from a sound sleep by the frantic calling of my name.  I vaguely registered the presence of Large Fry snoring and pressed up against me, as Medium's voice got more urgent.

"Mommy!  Mommy!  I peed in my bed.  My panties are wet.  My sheets are wet.  My duckie is wet."

I got out of bed and yanked on my pajama pants--sleeping next to Hubby is akin to sleeping next to a pot-bellied stove most nights--and realized that drinking as much Snapple as I did last night means I need a pit stop myself before I assess the damages.

Medium stood and shivered next to me, and so I had her strip off her fleece nightgown (which hardly felt damp) and her panties (which were, well, soaked).  Then I chased her down the hall to wash her off before she put on new panties and jammies.

All I could think of was how glad I was that I'd put on the vinyl mattress protectors after I'd last washed the twins' bedding.  The sheets and mattress pad (and Duckie, obviously) would need to be tossed into the washer, but the mattress would be dry.

It was Medium's first accident in months.  Her sheets weren't that wet, but Duckie was nearly dripping (ew) and the mattress pad was more than a little damp.  Well, if she's going to have an accident, make it memorable, I suppose.

I went and got Hubby, who was still up and watching a movie, and had him help me strip Medium's bed and remake it.

As I tossed the nightgown, panties, sheets, mattress pad and Duckie in the washer, I reflected on several odd things:

• Either she drank more than I did last night, or Medium forgot to go potty before bed.
• I did not want to think about where she had been holding Duckie for him to be that wet.
• Fleece does not absorb liquids like cotton does.
• Mattress pads absorb better than microfiber sheets.
• I need more sets of twin-sized sheets.
• At least I wasn't doing a load of laundry at oh-dark-thirty because someone had gotten sick.
• I am never drinking that much Snapple again at dinner and after.  I required another pit stop before going back to bed myself.

In an amusing post-script, I woke up again briefly when Hubby finally came to bed and carried Large Fry back to her bed.

Not sure when that was.

It didn't last long, however; I found Large Fry nestled between us, on top of the covers, when Hubby got up this morning to get ready for church.

Clearly, taking her back to her own bed was ineffective.

The Only Thing Missing Was "FIRE!"

We're sitting around the island in the kitchen tonight, which is plenty big enough (and has enough of an overhang) for the five of us to share a meal.

It's been a long week.

Small Fry has a cold.

Dinner is new.

We're waiting for the rolls to finish baking.

And that's when it happens.

Hubby: Duck season!

Medium Fry: Bunny season!

Hubby: Duck season!

Medium: Bunny season!

Hubby: Rabbit season!

Medium: Duck season!

Hubby chuckled while I wondered when on earth my kids had seen that iconic Bugs Bunny clip.

Hubby leaned over and explained, sotto voce, that Medium had basically been arguing with everything he said since he picked her up from preschool.  Finally, he got so frustrated that he spouted, "Duck season!" Medium immediately mimicked him, and so he told her, "You're supposed to say 'Rabbit season!'"

And it just went from there.

Hubby: Duck season!

Medium: Bunny season!

Hubby: Duck season!

Medium: Bunny season!

Hubby: Bunny season!

Medium: Duck season!

Hubby looked at me with a grin.

"The only thing missing," he said, "was 'FIRE!'"

The Doctor Is In

"Mommy!  You hafta sew my Cliffowrd!"

Medium's tone is most indignant.

She's been after me for days to fix three separate seam rips on her beloved, very old, stuffed hound dog.

Which used to be Hubby's.

Which got appropriated by Medium when Small Fry appropriated the stuffed basset hound, Toby, left behind by our oldest nephew after his marriage.  (He'd lived with us for several months before the wedding.)

I had not found my sewing box after the move.

Medium had.

Presumably because Hubby had, and he'd put it away on the shelf in the coat closet.

Where my eagle-eyed, stubborn, and determined middle child had spotted it this morning.

So I went upstairs and fetched the box, and came back to the den, where my ancient patient was waiting.

Medium came over as I spooled off a length of white thread.

"Fix dis spot fuwrst."  Medium patted Clifford's right ear, which was half undone from the poor thing's head.  Then she bent down and kissed his head.  "I kissed him, so it won't huwrt so much!"

I was about halfway through the ear-reattachment surgery when Large Fry saw what I was doing, and scooted upstairs, only to return a few minutes later with her little purple bunny, who required some serious rotator cuff surgery.  "As soon as I'm finished with Clifford, I'll fix your bunny," I assured her.

Medium repeated her job as my Smooch Anesthetist for Clifford's two remaining suture locations, and then she loved on him once I was done so that Clifford felt all better.

Even Large got to moonlight as a Smooch Anesthetist, kissing her bunny's armpit before I began suturing.

I'm pleased to report that both patients and owners came through the procedures just fine.

Sledding on a Saturday: A Photo Essay

Large Fry

Double Trouble

Push us!

Whoa!

Medium Fry

Up the hill!

Large Fry

Medium Fry

*giggles*

Back to the top!

Large Fry

This is fun!

Here we gooooo!

Yaaaaaaaaaaaay!

I love Medium's pink cheeks.

Yep, getting the snow off the sled is important.

Wride wif me, Mommy!

Skimming along!

Dis is fun!

Ready?

Go!

Lovin' it!

Medium, it's a sled...

...not a shovel.

Large & PeeJay's youngest son, D.

Medium loves Auntie JS's old sled!

Saucy saucer.

Wipeout!

Medium and D.

Wipeout.  Again.

*piff*

Go for it, Small.

Good throw.

Overheard from the toy room....

Small Fry (to Medium): I don't haff a pwoblem!

But, Mommy...

"We don't haf a watewr buffalo!"

"See?" Medium crowed.  "He's wight! We don't haf a watewr buffalo!"

It would seem...

...that Facebook has a nasty case of the cranks.

I decided to catch up on uploading pictures tonight, since I still haven't posted Christmas pictures and I have a slew from sledding the other day.

Mind you, I'm not posting ALL of the pictures I took.

I'm posting the good ones.

Happy kids opening presents.

A scary, first-thing-in-the-morning shot of me, which my mom took as I opened her & Dad's big gift to Hubby and me.

Dangerous.

Kids with fixed expressions of outright glee as they're sledding.

Exceedingly harmful stuff, to be sure.

Who knows how many policies I'm violating by showing my children are happy.

As I'm working through the first album of pics from this year, and typing in captions, I get this notification:

Your account has been temporarily blocked from using this feature.

What, uploading pictures?

I know I have a per-album limit, but I've never been told I have a limit to the number of albums (in fact, they say there's no such thing) I can update and/or start in one day, or the number of pictures I can upload in one day.

Apparently, I have uploaded too many, and this could be abusive or bullying to other Facebook members.

So my ability to post those pictures has been blocked for "several days," attempts to use the feature while I'm banned will result in a longer block, all because pictures of smiling, happy children, playing with their friends, are somehow abusive or offensive.

Give me a break.

Facebook, get your Hanes outta that half-hitch and worry about bigger problems than me posting a lot of pictures.

Geez.

Thank you, Dr. P!

When our doorbelll rang a little after 11 this morning, I wasn't all that surprised to see PeeJay's two sons (15 and almost 13) at our front door.  They do, after all, live just one street over.

It was a little surprising and definitely amusing that they had come to see if my kids could come play.

Turns out, there's a great sledding hill behind Large Fry's school, right across the street.  Perfect for our pint-sized, novice sledders.

We discovered that we don't have any snow pants in Large Fry's size (oops), so we rigged up a smaller pair for the shorter Medium Fry, and I made a mental note to make sure I hunt down snow pants for Large Fry this afternoon.

Then we all trundled across the street, in search of our hill to be conquered.

And by all, I mean the boys, the Fries, Hubby and myself.

We were out there for close to two hours, and had a marvelous time.

I brought along my camera, having been duly exhorted by Boppa that pictures were required of today's outing.  (Did he really think I wouldn't bring my camera?)  I snapped a handful from the top of the hill before relocating to the bottom, where I could catch smiling faces.

After about 20 minutes, Hubby walked over to me, holding out his hand.  "Go sledding with your kids," he said.  "That way they remember you doing it with them, too."

I trekked back up the hill, and Small Fry immediately volunteered to go down with me.  We shrieked with glee the whole way down.

And then I hollered at Hubby to come help me get up.

And I went back up the hill.

Seeing as none of my kids wanted to go sledding again with me (they were having too much fun by themselves), I grabbed one of the other sleds and went down by myself.  This one was a snow-skimmer sled, and it does just what its name suggests.

I had way too much fun.

No, wait, that's just not possible.

I also nearly wiped out Hubby on my third run down the hill on the snow-skimmer sled, but then, that's his own fault.  He wouldn't get out of my way.

I think I went down half a dozen more times before I decided my ankle had probably had enough of a workout.

It was wonderful.

And I would not have been able to go sledding like that if it wasn't for Dr. P. and having the screws in my ankle removed this past summer.

You know, I should probably see if I can find snow pants for me, too....

Turtles, Trees, and the Spiral of Time

Caleb Wilde's Confessions of a Funeral Director is one of my regular reads.

Today, he's got a guest post by blogger Joy Bennett.

The whole thing is worth reading, but for me, this is the money quote:

How can the things which wound and scar us so deeply become the very things that strengthen us and equip us to help others?

Jesus.

This is one of the many beautiful themes we find the Bible. Terrible things happen. I will not say that God causes tragedy, but I will declare that God is not thwarted by it. 

Wow.

I need to remember that.

Daddy-Daughter Date Night!

Hubby decided that he would try to make PeeJay's youngest son's basketball game this afternoon, and he elected to take Small Fry with him, and start a Daddy-Daughter date tradition, beyond just taking one of the Fries to the store with him.

Medium Fry was very upset by this, and very nearly turned green over the whole situation.  (A Skype call to Gramma and Boppa distracted the green-eyed monster long enough that Medium was able to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.)

I was serving dinner for Medium, Large and myself when Hubby and Small Fry returned.  He explained that they already ate.

"I had to take her out to dinner," he said.  "After the game was over, I asked her if she liked our date, and she said no."  He gave me a rueful grin.  "I guess it's not a date if there's no dinner."

On their way home, he said, Small Fry had apparently seen a doggy in a car.

Now it's just something to comment on, whereas three and a half years ago, that would have freaked her out.

"Daddy," she said excitedly, "I saw a doggy in the window!"

"I wonder how much it costs," Hubby remarked.

Without missing a beat, Small Fry replied, "The one wif the waggly tail?"

And then she gave Hubby a perfectly impish grin.

She was still singing when they got home.

♫ How much is that doggy in the window, the one with the waggly tail.... ♪

Mid-Meal Grace

I was sitting at the dining room table tonight with Large and Medium Fries, having dinner.  Large had prayed at the start of the meal.

Apparently, they both really enjoyed tonight's ziti, because they both thanked me for making this "yummy food!"

About halfway through the meal, Medium looked over at me.

"Thank--" she began, then she stopped.

Instead, she turned her eyes heavenward.

"God, thank you fowr making dis food.  Thank you for making it!  Thank you for being good and awesome and nice and wright!"

And then...

Medium blew God a kiss.

She grinned at me.  "I blew Him a kiss!" she said, equal parts impish and loving.

Then she flung out her hands towards heaven.

"And I frew Him a hug!"

I have to believe God's grin was bigger than mine.

Observational Skills

Yesterday, Medium Fry was laying on Hubby and snuggling with him on the couch in the living room.  And that's when Medium notices something important.

Medium Fry: Uncle?

Hubby: Yes?

Medium: You'wre not zipped up.

Hubby: I'm not?

Medium: No.  You'wre zipped down!

The Postman Always Rings Twice...

...but the UPS man comes to your back door and knocks (leaving your brand-new checks).

And the girl scouts come to your front door.  It's cookie-ordering season again....

Innyhoo, after I sent the happy girl scouts on their way (can hardly wait for my Samoas!), I saw Hubby laying on the living room couch.  About the time I decided I wanted a hug from him, because he gives the best hugs, since I have had a very rough day, Small Fry threw herself onto his chest and glommed on with great glee.

"Hey, what if I want a hug from Daddy?" I asked.

Small Fry grinned around the thumb in her mouth and shook her head.

"I can't have a hug?"

She repeated the head shake, thumb still in her smiling mouth.

"Really?  I can't have a hug?"

"I think she can have a hug," Hubby said.

Small Fry shook her head no, grinned some more, and snuggled in tighter.

I did the only sensible thing.  I tickled her to get her to move off.

Small giggled and giggled and I caught her as she toppled, setting her feet on the floor.  Then I sat down and got my hug.

Small tugged at Hubby's arm, moving it away from him.

And around her thumb, she jabbered, "Get off him so I can haff him!"

This...

...is one of those days in which I wish I lived in the Three Stooges's world.

I could smack around those who need to be smacked around, and it would be viewed as comedy.

Bittersweet Bemusement

I spent some time today over at our old house, working on the final cleanup before we're 100% out of there.

I tossed bigger trash in the garbage bag and swept up the little stuff as I worked upstairs; I'd taken care of sweeping up downstairs yesterday.  I fiddled and boxed up a few more things, random stuff that had been left behind after the big move.

And then I stood in the middle of the twins' old room.

I didn't want to.

But it needed to be done.

And I told myself not to wince; they're just removable wall stickers, not really Winnie-the-Pooh and friends.

I picked at the edge of the first sticker...a happy little non-threatening bee.  Then Lumpy and his mom.  Then Pooh and Piglet and honey hunny pots.  Tigger.  Flowers.  A bluebird.  Roo.  More Pooh, Piglet and Tigger.

As I peeled, I remembered the day my mom and I had carefully applied these stickers to the wall.

It seems so much longer than two and a half years ago.

After we had filed suit in court, my mom had suggested that we spend some money and make our house look more like a home.  Curtains on the windows.  Decorate the kids' rooms.  Pictures on the walls.  Things that suggested permanence.

Ghosts of all those framed photos show on the living room walls.  Those photographs are sitting in our new house, patiently waiting to be hung.

The princess castle and curtains from Large Fry's old room are gone, the curtains moved and the castle picked and peeled off long ago.

The Pooh wall stickers were the last reminders of that.

I remembered how carefully we had smoothed those stickers onto the wall.  We'd done the princess castle in Large Fry's room first, and then moved on to the twin Fries' room, sprinkling happy 100 Acre Wood friends around the room.

We were careful not to apply bee stickers above Medium Fry's crib, because she was so terrified of buggies.

We were careful to place the stickers high enough on the walls to not have them be attacked by small children standing up in their cribs.

They made a definite improvement in the room.

Those were some scary, difficult days.

The revocation of the powers of attorney we had held meant that we were caring for these children with no legal grounds should they need something like medical care.  We were in a very tense waiting period, our petition having been submitted to the court for an emergency special relief to keep the children in our care until we could reach the hearing.  My brother's letter had given us "about a week" to prepare the kids for the move to the new guardian's and to "say [our] goodbyes."  He gave no specific date.  We had no idea if or when he (or the newly named guardian by POA) would show up on our doorstep.  Our lawyer had advised us to not let him--or anyone else--take the children before the judge ruled on our request to maintain guardianship until the hearing.  We lived in a very safe neighborhood, in a very safe town, and for the first time in two and a half years, I was terrified to be home alone.  We kept our doors locked all the time, in a place where I could leave the house for half an hour to an hour, not lock the doors, and nothing would happen while I was gone.  It was awful to live in such constant terror and worry.

Mom and Dad set aside their normal lives for a week, journeying out to spend the day with me and the Fries while Hubby went to work, so that I wouldn't have to be alone at the house.  We bought material; Mom sewed curtains.  Dad and I bought curtain rods.  Hubby and Dad hung the new curtains.  We bought sheers for the living room.  We bought more sheers for the kitchen, which Mom cannibalized and created new valances out of.  (Large Fry helped.)

And we stuck Winnie-the-Pooh and friends to walls.

I remember being very glad my mother was there to help me do all this stuff.

Here I was, in my mid-thirties, and desperately thankful that my parents were there to make it all okay again.  Sure, that's oversimplifying, but I cannot deny the fact that the presence of my parents reassured me that I would be okay.  The Fries would be okay.

As I carefully peeled Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, Roo, bees, Lumpy and hunny pots from the walls, I reflected on how much had changed since that day.

We've got physical custody of the Fries.  We've bought a house.  Large Fry is in school; the twins are in preschool.  Hubby has a new job.  The twins are out of cribs and in big-girl beds.

Not everything has changed, though.

Winnie-the-Pooh and his pals still decorate their room.

It's good to keep your friends around.

I think I'm honored!

I've been immortalized in hysterical poetry (which is, admittedly, better than any poetry I could write)!

DaddyBear's Den: Get it out of my brain!

I know I'm honored to be in such bloggy company.

There he was...

Hubby was just minding his own business this morning.

He went to the local grocery store, where the church has an account, to pick up his standard two dozen donuts for his Sunday School class (he teaches the teen class), like he does just about every Sunday.

He went through the line and paid.  No problem.

It wasn't until he was walking out that it dawned on him that his two dozen donuts had cost less this morning than they usually do.

Hmmm.

So my 40-year-old husband fished out his receipt to see what the difference was.

The 20-ish cashier had given him the senior-citizen discount!


He inherited his family's get-yer-gray-early genes, but he promptly decided it's definitely time for some Just For Men for his beard (which has gotten a lot more gray and white in it now than he had four years ago).

Bedtime Conversation

With Large Fry's new loft bed, I have to climb up a couple rungs on the ladder to give her a hug and tuck her in at night.  This has become a very sweet ritual, because I get to stand there and talk to her for a few minutes at the end of the day.  Sometimes she tells me a little about her day, and sometimes she asks me questions, and sometimes she just wants reassurance.

Tonight's conversation was a little different.

Large Fry: Mommy?

Me: Yes?

Large: When I get married, you'll be a Gramma?

Me [smiling]: Yes....

Large [stroking my cheek with her fingers]: And Daddy will be a Boppa?

Me [smiling still]: Yes, if you have kids after you get married.

Large: But I'll miss you.

Me: Well, I still miss Gramma and Boppa, but I still get to see them sometimes.

Large looks at me thoughtfully, and continues stroking my face.

Me: Do you think I'll be a good Gramma?

Her eyes light up like little glowing chocolates.  That alone would have been answer enough, but she smiles and nods, too.

Me: Do you think Daddy will be a good Boppa?

Large is still all eyes alight as she nods again.

Then she looks worried.

Large: But I'll miss you.  I don't want to go away.

Me [soothingly]: And you don't have to.  Not for a very long time.

I gave her another hug and kiss.

Me: Goodnight, sweetie.  I love you.

Large [sleepily]: I love you too.

Authoresses

When Hubby dropped the twin Fries off at preschool this morning, we learned that their little field trip to the local middle school to write letters to Santa had made the paper.

Not only that, but the article was even on the front page.  The start of it, anyway.

Why, yes, we live in a small town.

One of the English teachers has been inviting preschoolers to visit her English classes since 2004 so that her sixth-grade students can help preschoolers write letters to Santa.  This year's sixth graders are the ones in the first crop of preschoolers to get help writing their letters back when the program first started.  (I think that's kinda neat.)

We knew about this field trip, about ten days before Christmas.  What we didn't know is that the kids' letters to Santa would be submitted to the paper, and that some would get published.  Kids from three preschools were at this event...eleven "Dear Santas" were printed...and both Medium and Small Fry's letters were chosen!

Small Fry wrote:

Dear Santa,

This year for Christmas, I want this because I have been good:  beach toys and pet reindeer.  Thanks!

Fwom Small Fwy

Medium wrote:

Dear Santa,

For Christmas, I would like a doll baby.  I want more Hola [hula] stuff.  I also want a fish and squeaky fish, and new flipflops from Santa.  I have been a good girl this year. I also want a Barbie, a flag, a new house & a roller-coaster in the new house.  

Thank you, Medium Fwy

Dear heavens.

We're in trouble.

English Geekery

I grew up in a house that spoonerized.  A lot.  To the point that I have a list of phrases that I must stop and carefully think through before I say them, otherwise they come out as yever net or swell foop.  I was once so tired that I informed my friend SnarkyDad that he had widerspebs up in the corner of his entryway.  It made perfect sense to my spoonerizing-prone brain, but took SnarkyDad a good ten seconds to catch up with my warped mind.

I'm telling you, I grew up talking about Rindercella and her three sisty uglers, and Whow Snite and the Dweven Sarves.

Oh, yes.  And Beeping Sleauty.

I used to crack up in helpless giggles at the sound of the word purple when I was small.

I got an email from my dad back at the start of the current Iraqi conflict, asking what the most fun city name was that had been in the news lately.  Jalalabad.  (It's in Afghanistan, if you were wondering.)

Yes, my mental funny bone is still tickled by funny-sounding names like Ypsilanti and Conococheague.


Dad and I keep a list of the amusing street names we've come across, places like Mud Level Road (you have to wonder about the history of that particular nomenclature) and Temporary Drive (which, despite its name, is paved asphalt).

I love Victor Borge's phonetic punctuation and inflationary language.

If nothing else, all this proves my love of words and the English language.

Or it just proves I'm nuts.  Which, to be honest, if you haven't figured out now, it still shouldn't be too much of a surprise.

And it should explain why I loved this poem about English pronunciation.

I only had one word trip me up.  Momentarily.  And only because I'd never seen it before.

Yes, I know.

That's frightening.

Welcome to my husband's world.

Dinner Conversation

Small Fry: Medium Fwy, why do you haf such a big booster seat?

Medium: Because I have a big bum!