Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Smoking
So, uhhhhh, I think I'm gonna quit. I went to the website becomeanex.org and it truthfully makes a lot of sense. I'm not sure how successful I'm going to be because frankly, I'm not sure how seriously I want to quit. Well, I know I want to quit, but I'm not sure why. Does it really matter that I don't know why I want to quit or is it only important that I want to quit in the first place?
Monday, December 21, 2009
Daci in a Million Words or Less
Daci came into the world at 6 lb 3 oz and 21 3/4 inches long. It took her four months to learn that nighttime was for sleeping, but she seems to have the hang of that now.
I had prayed for a healthy and intelligent baby, and I got both. Daci talked early and she talked a lot. Nearly every sentence started with "uh, Mom-how come....?" She never walked, but went straight from crawling to skipping. “In a minute” never worked with Daci, as 45 seconds later she was quick to remind me my time was up. Anything that perked her interest was pursued with a tenacity matched only by that of the fiercest guard dog. Whether it was Barbie (for which her entire room was covered in pink), The Little Mermaid, Britney Spears (She even had a Britney birthday cake and nearly refused to eat it), or more recently a slew of bands I’ve never even heard of, it’s all or nothing with her and I like that.
A few random facts about Daci that you might enjoy:
-When Daci was four, I asked her to check on her little sister (who was maybe a month old at the time) in her swing. Daci came back and said, “Mom, she’s fine. She’s just swinging bath and fork.”
-Daci can pick a beautiful dandelion bouquet.
-Daci likes turtles.
-Daci does a hilarious impression of an emu.
-Daci’s eyes have changed colors three times. They were blue when she was born. Then, they turned green. And now, they’re brown.
-Daci wanted to name her little sister Simba after The Lion King. She finally grew to like calling her Corbyn.
-Daci thought “everything” would fall off her little brother when his belly button cord did. I mean “everything”…..
-When Daci was very young, she couldn’t make the “f” sound. So, when asked where she was going her answer would be, “I’m pixin’ to go outside”. Later, when she learned to make the “f” sound, it was often in the wrong place. Like at the beginning of “truck”.
-Daci’s name means, “Little Southern One”.
-Daci dances when she thinks no one is watching. And she’s pretty good at it.
She’s grown from a precocious child into an outstanding young lady of whom I am very proud. With each passing year, she loses more of her child-like ways, and I gain a little bit of insight into the woman she’ll become. As her mother I try very hard not to mourn the passing of the child and rejoice in the coming of the adult, but sometimes I’m not very good at it.
I had prayed for a healthy and intelligent baby, and I got both. Daci talked early and she talked a lot. Nearly every sentence started with "uh, Mom-how come....?" She never walked, but went straight from crawling to skipping. “In a minute” never worked with Daci, as 45 seconds later she was quick to remind me my time was up. Anything that perked her interest was pursued with a tenacity matched only by that of the fiercest guard dog. Whether it was Barbie (for which her entire room was covered in pink), The Little Mermaid, Britney Spears (She even had a Britney birthday cake and nearly refused to eat it), or more recently a slew of bands I’ve never even heard of, it’s all or nothing with her and I like that.
A few random facts about Daci that you might enjoy:
-When Daci was four, I asked her to check on her little sister (who was maybe a month old at the time) in her swing. Daci came back and said, “Mom, she’s fine. She’s just swinging bath and fork.”
-Daci can pick a beautiful dandelion bouquet.
-Daci likes turtles.
-Daci does a hilarious impression of an emu.
-Daci’s eyes have changed colors three times. They were blue when she was born. Then, they turned green. And now, they’re brown.
-Daci wanted to name her little sister Simba after The Lion King. She finally grew to like calling her Corbyn.
-Daci thought “everything” would fall off her little brother when his belly button cord did. I mean “everything”…..
-When Daci was very young, she couldn’t make the “f” sound. So, when asked where she was going her answer would be, “I’m pixin’ to go outside”. Later, when she learned to make the “f” sound, it was often in the wrong place. Like at the beginning of “truck”.
-Daci’s name means, “Little Southern One”.
-Daci dances when she thinks no one is watching. And she’s pretty good at it.
She’s grown from a precocious child into an outstanding young lady of whom I am very proud. With each passing year, she loses more of her child-like ways, and I gain a little bit of insight into the woman she’ll become. As her mother I try very hard not to mourn the passing of the child and rejoice in the coming of the adult, but sometimes I’m not very good at it.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Can I use this knife?
I was moving the kids' bedrooms. I had separated Byron and Rowan and now everyone was going to have their own room. In the "purging" of old toys, Rowan came across a toy he'd gotten at some holiday that (for whatever reason) had not been opened. My daughter Corbyn as always, wanted to be helpful, and asked to borrow the knife to cut the packaging. "Please be careful and don't cut yourself", I said it without even thinking. Seconds later "MOMMY". I didn't answer. In my defense, this child screams with same urgency whether a ladybug has made it into the house, or we're being robbed. It's a coin toss with her really. "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY" and at this point she came to me with blood spurting (IS there a better adjective to describe it? I think not) from her left hand. I scooped her up and ran into the kitchen to rinse it out. As we're at the kitchen sink, I see that the cut is quite small, but is located in that webbing between the thumb and forefinger-making it hard to bandage. That, and blood's pouring out of it like lies from a Democrat.
While rinsing it off and trying to keep Byron from crying (he's the sympathetic one) I'm also trying to keep Corbyn's chin from bouncing off the granite countertop. Her knees are buckling because she made the mistake of looking at all the blood. With Corbyn wavering in and out of consciousness (she was getting pretty woozy at this point) I ask Byron to help me. Bubba (we live in the south, all brothers and sons are Bubba and YES we know exactly who is who), do you remember if we have any bandages? "No" he barely whispered.
Yeah, that's right. I have four kids and don't own not one damn roll of bandages or gauze. This was our first knifing, we're much better prepared now. Then I remember, I have maxi pads under the bathroom sink. "Honey, you know that pretty pink box under the bathroom sink? I need you to bring me one of the 'bandages' from that box". He comes back with a tampon. I pick Corbyn's head back up and say, "No honey, the OTHER pink box...they're in little packages. Please bring me one."
To make a terribly long story short, I bandaged my daughter's hand with a maxi pad and scotch tape and had her lie down. She was miserable. And I had a guilty headache. I went outside and burst into tears because of the happiness I felt at being such a wonderful mother. I mean who wouldn't let their daughter use a knife to open a box?
Her father came home, viewed the carnage, superglued the wound shut-slapped her on the butt and sent her outside to play. Why didn't I think of that? I used to think that the Dad's job was to just keep the kids alive until Great and Wonderful Motherness comes home....but I'm finding more and more that while unconventional, Dads are pretty handy to have around.
While rinsing it off and trying to keep Byron from crying (he's the sympathetic one) I'm also trying to keep Corbyn's chin from bouncing off the granite countertop. Her knees are buckling because she made the mistake of looking at all the blood. With Corbyn wavering in and out of consciousness (she was getting pretty woozy at this point) I ask Byron to help me. Bubba (we live in the south, all brothers and sons are Bubba and YES we know exactly who is who), do you remember if we have any bandages? "No" he barely whispered.
Yeah, that's right. I have four kids and don't own not one damn roll of bandages or gauze. This was our first knifing, we're much better prepared now. Then I remember, I have maxi pads under the bathroom sink. "Honey, you know that pretty pink box under the bathroom sink? I need you to bring me one of the 'bandages' from that box". He comes back with a tampon. I pick Corbyn's head back up and say, "No honey, the OTHER pink box...they're in little packages. Please bring me one."
To make a terribly long story short, I bandaged my daughter's hand with a maxi pad and scotch tape and had her lie down. She was miserable. And I had a guilty headache. I went outside and burst into tears because of the happiness I felt at being such a wonderful mother. I mean who wouldn't let their daughter use a knife to open a box?
Her father came home, viewed the carnage, superglued the wound shut-slapped her on the butt and sent her outside to play. Why didn't I think of that? I used to think that the Dad's job was to just keep the kids alive until Great and Wonderful Motherness comes home....but I'm finding more and more that while unconventional, Dads are pretty handy to have around.
I want to apologize. I got hooked on Facebook and haven't even THOUGHT of blogging in months. I've decided the blog is a much better creative outlet than little chat window spurts at the bottom of my screen every 30 seconds or so (depending on who's online). And in all fairness, I'm blogging today because my kids have yet again done something funny.
Corbyn is 9 and Daci is 13. Corbyn is quite feminine and well, prissy. Daci is uh, well, not. They share a room. But much like oil and water, you can put them in the same container, but they'll never mesh entirely.
In the car yesterday, Daci says, "Mom, I think it's time you let Corbyn shave her legs." Okay so now I'm trying to figure out what Daci stands to gain from Corbyn shaving her legs...cuz there's gotta be something. Far be it from her to ask on behalf of her sister without some sort of pay out in the end. "No honey, she's too young. I probably won't let her until she's 11 just like with you." Never mind the fact that Corbyn is the same daughter who stuck a knife through the webbing in her left hand. I'll post that story next-quite traumatic. Daci says, "Mom, she's really hairy just like me and you, you should really let her do it sooner, all of the other girls her age are doing it." "Daci, I have yet to see one 4th grade girl with freshly shaven (is that a word?) legs. The answer is still 'no' I don't care how hairy we are." And of course, I have yet to learn, I never have the last word in one of these famouse conversations. Corbyn decides to speak for herself at this point and announces from the back seat, "I am NOT hairy like you and Daci. I do NOT have hair on my PENIS and both of you do!"
So, there ya have it. I take comfort in knowing my daughter does NOT have hair on her penis!
Corbyn is 9 and Daci is 13. Corbyn is quite feminine and well, prissy. Daci is uh, well, not. They share a room. But much like oil and water, you can put them in the same container, but they'll never mesh entirely.
In the car yesterday, Daci says, "Mom, I think it's time you let Corbyn shave her legs." Okay so now I'm trying to figure out what Daci stands to gain from Corbyn shaving her legs...cuz there's gotta be something. Far be it from her to ask on behalf of her sister without some sort of pay out in the end. "No honey, she's too young. I probably won't let her until she's 11 just like with you." Never mind the fact that Corbyn is the same daughter who stuck a knife through the webbing in her left hand. I'll post that story next-quite traumatic. Daci says, "Mom, she's really hairy just like me and you, you should really let her do it sooner, all of the other girls her age are doing it." "Daci, I have yet to see one 4th grade girl with freshly shaven (is that a word?) legs. The answer is still 'no' I don't care how hairy we are." And of course, I have yet to learn, I never have the last word in one of these famouse conversations. Corbyn decides to speak for herself at this point and announces from the back seat, "I am NOT hairy like you and Daci. I do NOT have hair on my PENIS and both of you do!"
So, there ya have it. I take comfort in knowing my daughter does NOT have hair on her penis!
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Bombing on Fannin
While flossing my teeth, I hear the crescendo of my sons' (aged 6 & 3) bickering. I have lately stopped refereeing their fights to find they often work things out on their own. Today's fight however would be different. The climax came when the 3 year old yelled to the 6 year old, "GIVE ME BACK MY F#$%ING CAR!". Something snapped in my neck as my head jerked towards them and in their eyes I saw unparalleled fear. They obviously hadn't realized I was so near. I had to have been a sight with the floss now dangling from between my teeth over my bottom lip, and of course the bolts of lightening shooting from my eye sockets didn't help much.
Knowing he had been caught, but not quite ready to resign himself to being in trouble, the 3 year old inched toward the 6 year old while chanting, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I shook my head slowly and said, "that's not nearly going to cut it young man. Come here immediately". Well, now he's already crying hysterically and screaming gibberish (something about please God why me or something like that). Since children walk SO slowly when they're upset, I "helped" him get to the bathroom a bit faster. "Stick out your tongue" and said through clenched teeth. "Abba doo bee lot mak yeahe nononono" he said. "Stick out your tongue" I said in an ever lower octave. On a side note, my 3 year old has taken to screaming "I WANT MY MOMMY" every time I get on to him....odd, but true. "Stick out your tongue" I said a third time. "I want my mommy abba glib (choke, cough, gag, sputter) mama mama mama mama". Finally, he sticks out his tongue. I rub it very liberally with the Dial Anti-bacterial bar soap that has graced the side of my sink patiently awaiting such an occasion. His horrified eyes looked up at me as he plotted my death. I let the soap soak in for about 3 minutes before I walked to the kitchen. He followed me screaming "blah bloom (gag cough sputter) mama mama mama mama blek" (this kid talks and he talks well but when he gets in trouble he turns in to Ricky Ricardo or something). I gave him a drink of tea and he calmed down. I explained to him that he knew f#$% was a bad word (he had said it twice before-I talked to him the first time and spanked him the second time. This would be the third and hopefully last time) and he knew he wasn't supposed to say it. I told him that that word was dirty and we use soap to clean all things that are dirty-including mouths. He slowly nodded (probably still planning on poisoning me later) and went off to play with his brother.
Now I sounded really bad and tough while telling that story, but the truth of the matter is, I had a hard time keeping a straight face. First of all, he sounded just like his father when he said it. Secondly, he used it correctly (in the grammatical sense, as an adjective), and thirdly the way both boys reacted when they realized I was standing there was priceless. Frankly, I found it hilarious but my parental duties prohibit me from allowing such an event to occur without consequences (it's in the handbook under "Events That Might Occur and Their Respective Consequences" Lame title I know, but I didn't write the book).
So after it all calms down, I call my husband. He's livid. He thinks I'm cruel. How could I do that to a 3 year old who doesn't possibly understand what I'm saying (actually it's the other way around-I mean who says abba doo me lak blak blooty farm?) and he thinks I've acted prematurely. I guess he thinks I should just "talk" to him the next time he F bombs someone? How did that work out at Hiroshima?
And for the record, my very soft-spoken patience of Job sister in law used to give her kids apple cider vinegar when they said hateful things. I could always 'pickle' my kids I suppose.
Knowing he had been caught, but not quite ready to resign himself to being in trouble, the 3 year old inched toward the 6 year old while chanting, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I shook my head slowly and said, "that's not nearly going to cut it young man. Come here immediately". Well, now he's already crying hysterically and screaming gibberish (something about please God why me or something like that). Since children walk SO slowly when they're upset, I "helped" him get to the bathroom a bit faster. "Stick out your tongue" and said through clenched teeth. "Abba doo bee lot mak yeahe nononono" he said. "Stick out your tongue" I said in an ever lower octave. On a side note, my 3 year old has taken to screaming "I WANT MY MOMMY" every time I get on to him....odd, but true. "Stick out your tongue" I said a third time. "I want my mommy abba glib (choke, cough, gag, sputter) mama mama mama mama". Finally, he sticks out his tongue. I rub it very liberally with the Dial Anti-bacterial bar soap that has graced the side of my sink patiently awaiting such an occasion. His horrified eyes looked up at me as he plotted my death. I let the soap soak in for about 3 minutes before I walked to the kitchen. He followed me screaming "blah bloom (gag cough sputter) mama mama mama mama blek" (this kid talks and he talks well but when he gets in trouble he turns in to Ricky Ricardo or something). I gave him a drink of tea and he calmed down. I explained to him that he knew f#$% was a bad word (he had said it twice before-I talked to him the first time and spanked him the second time. This would be the third and hopefully last time) and he knew he wasn't supposed to say it. I told him that that word was dirty and we use soap to clean all things that are dirty-including mouths. He slowly nodded (probably still planning on poisoning me later) and went off to play with his brother.
Now I sounded really bad and tough while telling that story, but the truth of the matter is, I had a hard time keeping a straight face. First of all, he sounded just like his father when he said it. Secondly, he used it correctly (in the grammatical sense, as an adjective), and thirdly the way both boys reacted when they realized I was standing there was priceless. Frankly, I found it hilarious but my parental duties prohibit me from allowing such an event to occur without consequences (it's in the handbook under "Events That Might Occur and Their Respective Consequences" Lame title I know, but I didn't write the book).
So after it all calms down, I call my husband. He's livid. He thinks I'm cruel. How could I do that to a 3 year old who doesn't possibly understand what I'm saying (actually it's the other way around-I mean who says abba doo me lak blak blooty farm?) and he thinks I've acted prematurely. I guess he thinks I should just "talk" to him the next time he F bombs someone? How did that work out at Hiroshima?
And for the record, my very soft-spoken patience of Job sister in law used to give her kids apple cider vinegar when they said hateful things. I could always 'pickle' my kids I suppose.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
45 Seconds
I have a confession to make. I fall. I fall a lot. As if that weren't inconvenient enough, I never fall while fully clothed. And I never JUST fall. It usually takes me about 45 seconds to hit the ground. Here are a couple of stories. As always, they're 100% true, and not all that flattering to me. Hope they're enjoyable.
Several months ago, my husband DJ left very early for work. He locked the front door behind him when he left. I got up and got in the bathtub. About five minutes into my bath, I hear DJ knocking on the front door. He had left his keys in the car (so he could leave the car running). So, to keep him from waking up the kids (if you've never met him, he's about as quiet as a Peterbilt)-I grab a towel and run to the front door. We have granite in our entry way. Granite is oh so very damn slick when it's wet. The granite slab in front of our door is approximately 4 feet by 4 feet. I'm 5 feet 4 inches. It took a full 45 seconds to slide from where the granite meets the carpet to the front door. I know my butt hit the ground nearly immediately, but my momentum slammed me wet naked-assed first into our front door (again, 45 seconds later). When I finally stopped, I was facing opposite the direction I had started. Was now horizontal as opposed to the much preferable vertical. And had lost not only my towel but most of my dignity along the way. To add insult to not yet detected injury, my husband yelled through the front door, "What the hell are you doing?" I can only imagine how it sounded from his side of the door, but for crying out loud. It was 5:45 am. What do you mean 'what the hell am I doing?'. I mean, it's all his fault for going to work so damn early anyway....
Our bedroom was once a garage. The garage morphed into a formal, sunken living room. The formal, sunken living room has become our master bedroom. From our office, the step down into the bedroom is about 8" high. About 5:45 this morning (should I sleep later or get up earlier?...hmm) I get up, put on my fuzzy pink bathrobe (I like it cuz it makes me look old) and had to the bathroom. I head back to the bedroom to start my day when all of a sudden, the 8" drop off has moved back about a foot. It's a hell of a lot closer than it used to be, I'll say that much. So, I step off it ever so gracefully landing on my left big toe and laying my ankle completely over to one side. Somehow, I managed a pirouette with a half gainer twist and straddled the open wire door to the dog kennel (which is conveniently crotch high on my 5 feet 4 damn inches). So now my left foot is swollen and achy and I have a big scrape about three inches south of due north if ya know what I mean. Geez, I can't wait to hit 60 when I'll break a hip doing all this crap.
Several months ago, my husband DJ left very early for work. He locked the front door behind him when he left. I got up and got in the bathtub. About five minutes into my bath, I hear DJ knocking on the front door. He had left his keys in the car (so he could leave the car running). So, to keep him from waking up the kids (if you've never met him, he's about as quiet as a Peterbilt)-I grab a towel and run to the front door. We have granite in our entry way. Granite is oh so very damn slick when it's wet. The granite slab in front of our door is approximately 4 feet by 4 feet. I'm 5 feet 4 inches. It took a full 45 seconds to slide from where the granite meets the carpet to the front door. I know my butt hit the ground nearly immediately, but my momentum slammed me wet naked-assed first into our front door (again, 45 seconds later). When I finally stopped, I was facing opposite the direction I had started. Was now horizontal as opposed to the much preferable vertical. And had lost not only my towel but most of my dignity along the way. To add insult to not yet detected injury, my husband yelled through the front door, "What the hell are you doing?" I can only imagine how it sounded from his side of the door, but for crying out loud. It was 5:45 am. What do you mean 'what the hell am I doing?'. I mean, it's all his fault for going to work so damn early anyway....
Our bedroom was once a garage. The garage morphed into a formal, sunken living room. The formal, sunken living room has become our master bedroom. From our office, the step down into the bedroom is about 8" high. About 5:45 this morning (should I sleep later or get up earlier?...hmm) I get up, put on my fuzzy pink bathrobe (I like it cuz it makes me look old) and had to the bathroom. I head back to the bedroom to start my day when all of a sudden, the 8" drop off has moved back about a foot. It's a hell of a lot closer than it used to be, I'll say that much. So, I step off it ever so gracefully landing on my left big toe and laying my ankle completely over to one side. Somehow, I managed a pirouette with a half gainer twist and straddled the open wire door to the dog kennel (which is conveniently crotch high on my 5 feet 4 damn inches). So now my left foot is swollen and achy and I have a big scrape about three inches south of due north if ya know what I mean. Geez, I can't wait to hit 60 when I'll break a hip doing all this crap.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Love
What Love means to a 4-8 year old .
Slow down for three minutes to read this. It is so worth it. Touching words from the mouth of babes.
A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8 year-olds, 'What does love mean?'
The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined See what you think:
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'When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love.' Rebecca- age 8
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'When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.' Billy - age 4
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'Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.' Karl - age 5
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'Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.' Chrissy - age 6
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'Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.' Terri - age 4
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'Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.' Danny - age 7
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'Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more. My Mommy and Daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss.' Emily - age 8
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'Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen.' Bobby - age 7 (Wow!)
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'If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate,' Nikka - age 6 (we need a few million more Nikka's on this planet)
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'Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday.' Noelle - age 7
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'Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.' Tommy - age 6
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'During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore.' Cindy - age 8
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'My mommy loves me more than anybody You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.' Clare - age 6
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'Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.' Elaine-age 5
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'Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.' Chris - age 7
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'Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.' Mary Ann - age 4
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'I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.' Lauren - age 4
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'When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.' (what an image) Karen - age 7
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'Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross.' Mark - age 6 --------------------------------------------------------------------------
'You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.' Jessica - age 8
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And the final one The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his Mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, 'Nothing, I just helped him cry'
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When there is nothing left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need. Take 60 seconds and give this a shot! All you do is simply say the following small prayer for the person who sent you this. Heavenly Father, please bless all my friends in whatever it is that You know they may be needing this day! And may their life be full of Your peace, prosperity and power as he/she seeks to have a closer relationship with You. Amen.
Slow down for three minutes to read this. It is so worth it. Touching words from the mouth of babes.
A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8 year-olds, 'What does love mean?'
The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined See what you think:
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'When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love.' Rebecca- age 8
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'When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.' Billy - age 4
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'Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.' Karl - age 5
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'Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.' Chrissy - age 6
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'Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.' Terri - age 4
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'Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.' Danny - age 7
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'Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more. My Mommy and Daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss.' Emily - age 8
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'Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen.' Bobby - age 7 (Wow!)
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'If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate,' Nikka - age 6 (we need a few million more Nikka's on this planet)
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'Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday.' Noelle - age 7
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'Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.' Tommy - age 6
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'During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore.' Cindy - age 8
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'My mommy loves me more than anybody You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.' Clare - age 6
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'Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.' Elaine-age 5
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'Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.' Chris - age 7
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'Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.' Mary Ann - age 4
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'I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.' Lauren - age 4
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'When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.' (what an image) Karen - age 7
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'Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross.' Mark - age 6 --------------------------------------------------------------------------
'You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.' Jessica - age 8
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And the final one The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his Mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, 'Nothing, I just helped him cry'
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When there is nothing left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need. Take 60 seconds and give this a shot! All you do is simply say the following small prayer for the person who sent you this. Heavenly Father, please bless all my friends in whatever it is that You know they may be needing this day! And may their life be full of Your peace, prosperity and power as he/she seeks to have a closer relationship with You. Amen.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Bail Out
I'm sick to my stomach over this bail out crap. I try really hard to avoid political statements especially on this blog. But I gotta say, from what I can tell about all of this, a lot of Americans borrowed money against their houses, couldn't afford it and now they're going to get help from the government to keep from losing their homes. The banks are partially at fault for this for loaning the money in the first place. But where does this leave the rest of us? There have been times in my life where I put things on credit, couldn't afford them then suffered the consequences. Where are these consequences now? What happens to those of us who carry very little (if any) credit card debt, deny ourselves certain 'extras' in order to pay our bills on time and in full-and generally don't purchase things we think we may have trouble paying for? What happens to us? I'll tell you. Right now, the interest rates on home loans are extremely low. One would think this would be a prime time to purchase a home. Yet, the banks won't loan any money out because they're too busy refinancing people who owe more on their homes than what they're worth. That's what happens. I can't purchase a home, but my tax dollars will help rectify someone else's poor damn choices. What happens if I can no longer afford my car payment? I lose the car-that's what happens. It sucks, but it's life. What happened to the financial discipline of the old days? Remember when no one bought anything they couldn't afford? "You give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach him to fish and he eats for a lifetime". I know people in my family who have NO discipline when it comes to money. Give them $100.00 and they a) won't have $100.00 by the end of the week and b) damn sure won't have $100.00 worth of anything to show for it. That didn't used to be my problem. Now apparently everybody's problems are mine. I'm not sure I want this responsibility. Hell, I've got a bunch of kids for whom I'm responsible. Am I supposed to raise yours too? I have to balance my own checkbook, am I supposed to reconcile your statement too? I don't think so, but then again, I could have missed something along the way.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I'll be 34 on Friday, March 6th. As I reflect back on my life, I wonder if I've learned anything. I think maybe I have, but there's a lot more left to be known.
1. No matter how good of a parent you think you are, your kids will always prove you wrong.
2. I'm not always right.
3. I'm not a victim of anything except my own poor choices. Eleanor Roosevelt said, "No one can take advantage of you without your permission". I no longer grant that permission.
4. Louder isn't always better.
5. Less is more, more or less.
6. Washable markers WILL leave a stain.
7. God knows exactly what He's doing whether I like it or not.
8. My parents don't know everything, but they do have a 20 year head start.
9. I don't know who said this, but I like it: "I don't know why it's called common sense when it's not common at all".
10. I am much more critical of myself than other people are.
11. There is something to be learned from everyone I encounter. Regardless of how big of an asshole they may be.
12. When in doubt, read the instructions.
13. A sure cure for my toddler's constipation was to let her wear her 'big girl' panties to church.
14. Checks travel at twice the speed of deposits.
15. No matter how good they tell me I am at work, everyone's expendable.
16. Listening is more impressive than talking. And less incriminating.
17. There are some situations in life where sarcasm isn't the best.
18. I don't like to cook. And it's taken me this long to admit it. I actually hate it.
19. I can't control what anyone else does, just how I react to it. And I usually don't react appropriately.
20. I try to never walk away from a situation wishing I'd said something.
1. No matter how good of a parent you think you are, your kids will always prove you wrong.
2. I'm not always right.
3. I'm not a victim of anything except my own poor choices. Eleanor Roosevelt said, "No one can take advantage of you without your permission". I no longer grant that permission.
4. Louder isn't always better.
5. Less is more, more or less.
6. Washable markers WILL leave a stain.
7. God knows exactly what He's doing whether I like it or not.
8. My parents don't know everything, but they do have a 20 year head start.
9. I don't know who said this, but I like it: "I don't know why it's called common sense when it's not common at all".
10. I am much more critical of myself than other people are.
11. There is something to be learned from everyone I encounter. Regardless of how big of an asshole they may be.
12. When in doubt, read the instructions.
13. A sure cure for my toddler's constipation was to let her wear her 'big girl' panties to church.
14. Checks travel at twice the speed of deposits.
15. No matter how good they tell me I am at work, everyone's expendable.
16. Listening is more impressive than talking. And less incriminating.
17. There are some situations in life where sarcasm isn't the best.
18. I don't like to cook. And it's taken me this long to admit it. I actually hate it.
19. I can't control what anyone else does, just how I react to it. And I usually don't react appropriately.
20. I try to never walk away from a situation wishing I'd said something.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Know What I Hate?
1. Bicycle helmets. Who in the hell decided that we needed this crap? When I was a kid, not only did we not wear helmets, but would promptly beat up anyone seen wearing a bicycle helmet. Not only did we not wear helmets, but half the time, we couldn't be guaranteed that our front wheel would even stay attached to our bike as we ramped off the neighbor's tree roots. We are all still alive and accounted for.
2. Disinfecting wipes at supermarkets. Do you have any idea how many of my children cut teeth by chewing on the handle of the shopping cart? None of my children have ever contracted ptomain, botulism, SARS, AIDS, hoof and mouth disease, or even a common cold from chewing on the shopping cart handle.
3. People who mispronounce my name repeatedly. Dari. Rhymes with Jerry, Larry, Barry, Kari. I understand getting it wrong the first time. But please pay attention when you're corrected. No. It's not short for anything. I guess you could say it's long for DURRRHH.
4. People who get so far behind on their bills all year long and wait for their tax refund to get caught up. What are you doing with the money the rest of the year?
5. People who call my house and ask to speak with my mother.
6. People who don't understand why my children's last name is different from mine.
7. People who say, "you don't LOOK like you've had that many kids". Exactly what am I SUPPOSED to look like? Would you be more comfortable with my appearance if I weighed 450 lbs, had a leather handbag for a face and had lost most of my hair?
8. Exes. I don't mean husbands. Ex-smokers. Ex-drinkers. Ex-meat eaters. There's nothing worse than a reformed anyone. I like my cigarettes. I don't drink anymore, but don't want to hear about how you saw the error of your ways and quit drinking to better yourself. And as for meat, well, I get light-headed if my cholesterol drops below a certain level.
9. People who think spanking is child abuse. If a kid refuses to listen to reason, the only recourse is to paddle that behind. Sometimes physical pain is all a child will respond to. And frankly, people who don't spank are the same ones dragging a screaming, convulsing toddler into the toy section at Wal-mart thinking they can bribe the kid into being quiet by buying them something. This will only backfire my friends. If your kid throws a fit every time you go to Walmart-and you buy them a toy every time they throw a fit....what reason would the kid have for NOT throwing a fit? Paddle the ass. My mom would yank us up by one arm in the middle of church if we acted like little jerk offs.
10. People who look for things to be unhappy about. The world is an ugly place. If you don't like it here, MOVE.
2. Disinfecting wipes at supermarkets. Do you have any idea how many of my children cut teeth by chewing on the handle of the shopping cart? None of my children have ever contracted ptomain, botulism, SARS, AIDS, hoof and mouth disease, or even a common cold from chewing on the shopping cart handle.
3. People who mispronounce my name repeatedly. Dari. Rhymes with Jerry, Larry, Barry, Kari. I understand getting it wrong the first time. But please pay attention when you're corrected. No. It's not short for anything. I guess you could say it's long for DURRRHH.
4. People who get so far behind on their bills all year long and wait for their tax refund to get caught up. What are you doing with the money the rest of the year?
5. People who call my house and ask to speak with my mother.
6. People who don't understand why my children's last name is different from mine.
7. People who say, "you don't LOOK like you've had that many kids". Exactly what am I SUPPOSED to look like? Would you be more comfortable with my appearance if I weighed 450 lbs, had a leather handbag for a face and had lost most of my hair?
8. Exes. I don't mean husbands. Ex-smokers. Ex-drinkers. Ex-meat eaters. There's nothing worse than a reformed anyone. I like my cigarettes. I don't drink anymore, but don't want to hear about how you saw the error of your ways and quit drinking to better yourself. And as for meat, well, I get light-headed if my cholesterol drops below a certain level.
9. People who think spanking is child abuse. If a kid refuses to listen to reason, the only recourse is to paddle that behind. Sometimes physical pain is all a child will respond to. And frankly, people who don't spank are the same ones dragging a screaming, convulsing toddler into the toy section at Wal-mart thinking they can bribe the kid into being quiet by buying them something. This will only backfire my friends. If your kid throws a fit every time you go to Walmart-and you buy them a toy every time they throw a fit....what reason would the kid have for NOT throwing a fit? Paddle the ass. My mom would yank us up by one arm in the middle of church if we acted like little jerk offs.
10. People who look for things to be unhappy about. The world is an ugly place. If you don't like it here, MOVE.
The IRS-'Tis the Reason for the Season
It's been too long since I've posted, and for that-I'm truly sorry. I'm not even sure if I have anything witty to say or if I'll just ramble and type until something comes to me. Actually, that's how I wrote most of my papers in high school.
Tax season is upon us and for most of us, it's a wonderful time of year. The government actually RETURNS some of the money we've lent them all year long. They've borrowed it interest free of course. Not so much as a thank you, just a little letter saying they'll return our money pretty much in their own sweet ass time. My grandfather has a wonderful idea about this whole tax thing. He's always been probably the smartest guy I've ever known (okay Dad, you're a close second). My grandfather still works. Still works EVERY day. I'm not sure if financially he HAS to, or if being cooped up in the house all day with Mamaw is too much for him. Anyway. Here's how he does things.....When he goes to work for someone and fills out his W4, he refuses to have ANY taxes taken out of his paychecks throughout the year. Then, at the end of the year when he files, he figures up what he owes and sends the IRS a check. That way A) they've had to wait all year to spend HIS money and B) they're not using his money all year long interest and penalty free. I mean, talk about reading between the lines and thinking outside the box. He's not doing anything illegal, or even slightly shady. But who else would have thought of that? So, "Hats off Smitty, I like the way you think!"
Tax season is upon us and for most of us, it's a wonderful time of year. The government actually RETURNS some of the money we've lent them all year long. They've borrowed it interest free of course. Not so much as a thank you, just a little letter saying they'll return our money pretty much in their own sweet ass time. My grandfather has a wonderful idea about this whole tax thing. He's always been probably the smartest guy I've ever known (okay Dad, you're a close second). My grandfather still works. Still works EVERY day. I'm not sure if financially he HAS to, or if being cooped up in the house all day with Mamaw is too much for him. Anyway. Here's how he does things.....When he goes to work for someone and fills out his W4, he refuses to have ANY taxes taken out of his paychecks throughout the year. Then, at the end of the year when he files, he figures up what he owes and sends the IRS a check. That way A) they've had to wait all year to spend HIS money and B) they're not using his money all year long interest and penalty free. I mean, talk about reading between the lines and thinking outside the box. He's not doing anything illegal, or even slightly shady. But who else would have thought of that? So, "Hats off Smitty, I like the way you think!"
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sick Guys
I want to preface this blog by stating that I am under no circumstances-a man hater. As a matter of fact, I hate man-haters. If ya wanna hate men, go play for the other team. We're all in this together. I think in this day and age having basic cordial respect for one's spouse is as archaic as using the post office to communicate with someone. BUT, when my husband or one of my sons get sick, I want to pour battery acid in my eardrums to numb the pain. I'll be more specific. My husband was throwing up this morning. Didn't take any medicine-didn't make a doctor's appointment-just went to work. This just spells disaster for everyone he comes in contact with. Not that he's contagious, he's just such a @##$%^@$%^ when he's not feeling well. I once told him it was impossible to feel sympathy for him in his time of need because he's such a jerk.
It started with him biting my head off when I made my morning call to him on my way to work. He takes one child and two dogs every morning. I take two children. This situation was a lot more even before HE decided we needed another puppy. But that's another blog entirely. He bit my head off because he was trying to get Ro into school. He'd call me back. About an hour later he calls and is very sweet. This 'being sweet after jerkiness' used to trick me into believing sweetness was to be expected for the rest of the day. I've scored better in trig exams.
Then at lunch we eat together. It starts out with him being very cordial, if not a little quiet. The lunch ended with him screaming at me as I went through a yellow (and YES it was yellow AND it was on a 70 mph road). So, feeling like a 16 year old bringing home the family sedan with a new ding, I didn't say anything the rest of lunch.
About an hour ago, he called to inform me that we're about to start fighting like we used to. Meaning we divide the assets and tell each other exactly where to go. We're about to start fighting like that because I didn't carry the mail into the house at lunch because I had to get back to work. I called to tell him what we had. This turned into a lecture about how dirty my car always is and that he's tired of cleaning it out. This is the same car that logs about 100 miles a day back and forth to my work, his work, the kids' school, daycare center, post office, bank, grocery store, eye doctor, dentist appointment, wrestling, volleyball, swimming with the three kids (and sometimes a dog) in tow. I've never asked that he clean out my car and he rarely rides in it so its cleanliness is really irrelevant. I guess at this point I can start bitching about having to wash everybody's clothes every day and how under appreciated I am. But that would just be me naggin then wouldn't it?
So, WE'RE not going to fight like anything today. Today I choose NOT to react to the jerk off things he'll say because he's too stubborn to just admit he doesn't feel good and wants everyone else as miserable as he is. I won't let him bait me into saying things a sailor working in the oilfield would be embarassed to hear. BUT I will remember the standard that has been set for behavior when one is sick. Because apparently being sick gives one license to be insensitive, overbearing, and just rude as hell in general. With that in mind, "COME ON FLU SEASON" I've got a lot to say.
It started with him biting my head off when I made my morning call to him on my way to work. He takes one child and two dogs every morning. I take two children. This situation was a lot more even before HE decided we needed another puppy. But that's another blog entirely. He bit my head off because he was trying to get Ro into school. He'd call me back. About an hour later he calls and is very sweet. This 'being sweet after jerkiness' used to trick me into believing sweetness was to be expected for the rest of the day. I've scored better in trig exams.
Then at lunch we eat together. It starts out with him being very cordial, if not a little quiet. The lunch ended with him screaming at me as I went through a yellow (and YES it was yellow AND it was on a 70 mph road). So, feeling like a 16 year old bringing home the family sedan with a new ding, I didn't say anything the rest of lunch.
About an hour ago, he called to inform me that we're about to start fighting like we used to. Meaning we divide the assets and tell each other exactly where to go. We're about to start fighting like that because I didn't carry the mail into the house at lunch because I had to get back to work. I called to tell him what we had. This turned into a lecture about how dirty my car always is and that he's tired of cleaning it out. This is the same car that logs about 100 miles a day back and forth to my work, his work, the kids' school, daycare center, post office, bank, grocery store, eye doctor, dentist appointment, wrestling, volleyball, swimming with the three kids (and sometimes a dog) in tow. I've never asked that he clean out my car and he rarely rides in it so its cleanliness is really irrelevant. I guess at this point I can start bitching about having to wash everybody's clothes every day and how under appreciated I am. But that would just be me naggin then wouldn't it?
So, WE'RE not going to fight like anything today. Today I choose NOT to react to the jerk off things he'll say because he's too stubborn to just admit he doesn't feel good and wants everyone else as miserable as he is. I won't let him bait me into saying things a sailor working in the oilfield would be embarassed to hear. BUT I will remember the standard that has been set for behavior when one is sick. Because apparently being sick gives one license to be insensitive, overbearing, and just rude as hell in general. With that in mind, "COME ON FLU SEASON" I've got a lot to say.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Ski Trip (by popular demand)
Once a year, my in-laws bless all of us by taking us skiiing. And when I say ALL of us I mean there are 12 of us who go. Two grandparents, four parents, and six children. Kids all range in age from 14 to 3. The first day, we ski. The second day, snowmobile tour and then drive home.
The skiing is really pretty uneventful. I don't ski well, so I'm on ski patrol at the bunny slopes. I chase the little guys in other words. Last year my son (who was 5 at the time) rode the lift and skiied all day. After several mistrials (and a stream of profanity worthy of an Osbourne) I figured out it is a lot easier (and less painful) to NOT help the kids off the lift. It actually works better for me to get off and let them get off on their own and fend for themselves. My daughter does beautifully and soon became frustrated with me. Small problem with the 5 year old son-he can't stop and he can't turn. Skis like a demon though. So, I would just pick myself up off my ass-point him downhill and turn him loose. Dad would stand at the bottom so at least he doesn't careen into a stranger.
So this year, the now 6 year old skiied the intermediate slope ALL day. I mean, he was fast as hell (apparently sticking out one's tongue not only increases speed, but improves balance). He skiied with Uncle Mitch who was the hero for the day. My son stopped and turned as if he'd done it his whole life.
Ah, but that leaves me with the now 3 year old son on the bunny slope. We took a lesson. Ro learned to stop. Learned if he was going to fall, just sit down. Learned to keep his head up, but his knees bent. Rode the ski lift all day. After several turns with the instructor, he rode with me on the lift. He's pretty small still, so I would grab the back of his jacket (like a cat picking up kittens) and literally lift him off the lift-and point him downhill. While he possesses the ability to stop, he often chooses not to. I mean, what am I going to do? Fall down next to him and ground him? Spank him while re-attaching the ski I lost trying to turn? He had free reign and everyone knew it. Most people try to get out of his way, but some aren't so fortunate. Like the really nice 50 something grandma taking pictures of a very pink, fluffy, little red-faced skier. Poor woman never saw the 30 pounds of Oh Shit coming at her. My son managed to take out both her feet and send a really expensive looking camera straight to the ground. She was nice. She understood she said. Grandson about the same age. As I apologized, both skiis swooped out from underneath me. The look on her face said, "oh he must get it from his mother".
We always manage to make it back to the condo alive and eat perhaps the best meal EVER prepared by my mother in law. Don't kid yourself-she's a wonderful cook, but she could be serving cat litter on a flip flop and we'd devour it. Those of us past the age of 30 who fall a lot (okay, that really just means me. everyone else skis great), limp our poor aching bodies to our bed and thank God we lived and that it's over.
Snowmobile tours are meant to be taken slowly in order to enjoy the stunning beauty of the Rocky Mountains. But, when there are 12 people on 7 snowmobiles, we're gonna tear some shit up. I'm sorry, it is what it is. So, last year, my husband and my daughter rode together. My husband decided to pass no less than four of us on the right only to disappear in a gigantic white POOF. "Please stay on the trail at all times" I seemed to remember someone saying somewhere.... The trails are packed down and a little bumpy. Apparently, just half the width of a rented snowmobile to the right and there's 8 feet of powder snow. When I saw my husband and daughter disappear in the snow cloud my stomach clenched up. And then this little pink helmet appeared in the snow like a poptart coming out of a toaster. She was crying. No-wait. She was laughing. She was laughing so hard she was crying. My husband wasn't quite as amused as now his big ass had to figure out how to UNbury a snowmobile. It took him, his dad, and his brother a LONG time to get it out. It sounded like a bunch of fat guys trying to move a fridge. The tour guide wanted to scold him, but what do you say to guy who's 6'1" and 250 pounds? "Be more careful" was about all he could muster.
So this year my daughter decides to ride with me as there's less chance of a crash this way. Midway through the tour you reach a flat meadow. This is where you're allowed to cut loose and go really fast. But you gotta turn. Which is what I was trying to do when I found myself buried under a snowmobile wondering what the frig just happened? Apparently one should slow down BEFORE turning even if there's a small possibility of beating your husband and son to some imaginary finish line....
The skiing is really pretty uneventful. I don't ski well, so I'm on ski patrol at the bunny slopes. I chase the little guys in other words. Last year my son (who was 5 at the time) rode the lift and skiied all day. After several mistrials (and a stream of profanity worthy of an Osbourne) I figured out it is a lot easier (and less painful) to NOT help the kids off the lift. It actually works better for me to get off and let them get off on their own and fend for themselves. My daughter does beautifully and soon became frustrated with me. Small problem with the 5 year old son-he can't stop and he can't turn. Skis like a demon though. So, I would just pick myself up off my ass-point him downhill and turn him loose. Dad would stand at the bottom so at least he doesn't careen into a stranger.
So this year, the now 6 year old skiied the intermediate slope ALL day. I mean, he was fast as hell (apparently sticking out one's tongue not only increases speed, but improves balance). He skiied with Uncle Mitch who was the hero for the day. My son stopped and turned as if he'd done it his whole life.
Ah, but that leaves me with the now 3 year old son on the bunny slope. We took a lesson. Ro learned to stop. Learned if he was going to fall, just sit down. Learned to keep his head up, but his knees bent. Rode the ski lift all day. After several turns with the instructor, he rode with me on the lift. He's pretty small still, so I would grab the back of his jacket (like a cat picking up kittens) and literally lift him off the lift-and point him downhill. While he possesses the ability to stop, he often chooses not to. I mean, what am I going to do? Fall down next to him and ground him? Spank him while re-attaching the ski I lost trying to turn? He had free reign and everyone knew it. Most people try to get out of his way, but some aren't so fortunate. Like the really nice 50 something grandma taking pictures of a very pink, fluffy, little red-faced skier. Poor woman never saw the 30 pounds of Oh Shit coming at her. My son managed to take out both her feet and send a really expensive looking camera straight to the ground. She was nice. She understood she said. Grandson about the same age. As I apologized, both skiis swooped out from underneath me. The look on her face said, "oh he must get it from his mother".
We always manage to make it back to the condo alive and eat perhaps the best meal EVER prepared by my mother in law. Don't kid yourself-she's a wonderful cook, but she could be serving cat litter on a flip flop and we'd devour it. Those of us past the age of 30 who fall a lot (okay, that really just means me. everyone else skis great), limp our poor aching bodies to our bed and thank God we lived and that it's over.
Snowmobile tours are meant to be taken slowly in order to enjoy the stunning beauty of the Rocky Mountains. But, when there are 12 people on 7 snowmobiles, we're gonna tear some shit up. I'm sorry, it is what it is. So, last year, my husband and my daughter rode together. My husband decided to pass no less than four of us on the right only to disappear in a gigantic white POOF. "Please stay on the trail at all times" I seemed to remember someone saying somewhere.... The trails are packed down and a little bumpy. Apparently, just half the width of a rented snowmobile to the right and there's 8 feet of powder snow. When I saw my husband and daughter disappear in the snow cloud my stomach clenched up. And then this little pink helmet appeared in the snow like a poptart coming out of a toaster. She was crying. No-wait. She was laughing. She was laughing so hard she was crying. My husband wasn't quite as amused as now his big ass had to figure out how to UNbury a snowmobile. It took him, his dad, and his brother a LONG time to get it out. It sounded like a bunch of fat guys trying to move a fridge. The tour guide wanted to scold him, but what do you say to guy who's 6'1" and 250 pounds? "Be more careful" was about all he could muster.
So this year my daughter decides to ride with me as there's less chance of a crash this way. Midway through the tour you reach a flat meadow. This is where you're allowed to cut loose and go really fast. But you gotta turn. Which is what I was trying to do when I found myself buried under a snowmobile wondering what the frig just happened? Apparently one should slow down BEFORE turning even if there's a small possibility of beating your husband and son to some imaginary finish line....
Friday, January 16, 2009
Follow This Blog
If you enjoy reading my rants and raves let me know about it....there is a blue link on the top right hand corner that says Follow This Blog. I have this set up so you don't have to be a member or anything. So, let me know how ya feel. I guess if you don't enjoy reading my rants and raves, get off my blog.
The Inquisition
When I asked the Lord to bless me with happy, healthy children, I forgot to ask for dumb ones. When my oldest daughter was four, I became pregnant with what would become her sister. I knew I was going to have a lot of explaining to do once I blossomed (read “swelled up like a blowfish”) in my pregnancy. At the end of my first trimester, I took it upon myself to broach the subject with her. “You’re going to have a little brother or sister,” I told her. In my naiveté, I thought this would be sufficient. Since babies are so fearfully and wonderfully made in their mother’s wombs, why can’t He tattoo instructions on the bottoms of their feet? Anyway, her response was an indignant “Why?” Not having been saved yet at that point, but having a firm belief in God nevertheless, I explained that God had decided it was time for her to have a sibling. “Well, is it in your tummy like on TV?”“Yes, that’s where God puts all the babies.” Simple enough. “Well, how did it get in there?” she asked, clearly disgusted at this point. “Uh, err, well ya see, um, hey.” Not a complete answer, or even complete words. Yeah, that’ll explain it. In my brilliance, I then responded, “God and Daddy put it there.” And with His mercy, that was enough. For then.
Two years later, I found myself in the same situation. Except now, The Inquisitive One was 6 and far wiser than before (thank you kindergarten). After being told she was going to be blessed with another sibling, she simply smiled and said ‘Cool’. Oh, we could only be so lucky…driving down the highway (doesn’t it always happen like this?), she popped off with, “Exactly HOW did Daddy put that baby in your tummy?” And before I could respond she asked, “Why are you making that face?” (Poker faces having never been an aptitude of mine).
So I told her, “You see, it’s very complicated. When we get home, I will talk to your father and we will decide how and what to tell you,” and frankly, I was quite pleased with myself. No less than 7 seconds later, she blurted, “You had sex didn’t you?” in an “Aha! I caught you!” sort of way. All I could say was, “Yeah.” Being caught red-handed, so to speak, I asked her if she even knew what sex was.
Well, of course she did: “naked lovin.” I felt the need to explain no further.
Two years later, I found myself in the same situation. Except now, The Inquisitive One was 6 and far wiser than before (thank you kindergarten). After being told she was going to be blessed with another sibling, she simply smiled and said ‘Cool’. Oh, we could only be so lucky…driving down the highway (doesn’t it always happen like this?), she popped off with, “Exactly HOW did Daddy put that baby in your tummy?” And before I could respond she asked, “Why are you making that face?” (Poker faces having never been an aptitude of mine).
So I told her, “You see, it’s very complicated. When we get home, I will talk to your father and we will decide how and what to tell you,” and frankly, I was quite pleased with myself. No less than 7 seconds later, she blurted, “You had sex didn’t you?” in an “Aha! I caught you!” sort of way. All I could say was, “Yeah.” Being caught red-handed, so to speak, I asked her if she even knew what sex was.
Well, of course she did: “naked lovin.” I felt the need to explain no further.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Great Adventures of Tracy, the Hyperventilator
My friend Tracy babysat two of my children for six years. She kept my son since he was six weeks old. I actually met her while pregnant with him, and my daughter was two. She had at first told me she didn't keep newborns. As our friendship progressed, she called me at work one day to tell me, "Stop looking for someone to watch that baby, I'm going to keep him". No, "hey Dari it's Tracy" just cut the crap and get right to it. That's my Tracy.
Well, my son was born and Tracy and her husband Ed come to the hospital. Ed probably would have paid a small fortune to be anywhere but there. But, you don't argue with Tracy and Ed had been trained well.
I believe Byron was about 3 weeks old the first time Tracy watched him. As I dropped him off Tracy asked, "Do I need to buy bottled water to make his formula?" I tried not to smirk too badly when I said, "um-do you have a sink?" She said, "well, yeah". I prodded her further by adding, "well how about you run some warm water out of that son of a bitch and make that baby a bottle?" Tracy has probably the best laugh I've ever heard come out of an adult. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and said, "I'm so glad you're not THAT mom". And no, I most certainly am not THAT mom.
Fast forward about 2 years-frantic call from Ed (well, as frantic as Ed gets anyway). "Dari, it's Ed. Byron was playing outside and fell out of the swing and bumped his head pretty hard. He's got a knot, but he didn't cry until I dug the dirt out of his nose". So I asked, "well, is he okay?". Ed replied, "Hell, he's fine. But I think Tracy may need an MRI".
Just keep breathing in and out Tracy, and you'll be fine. Love ya!
Well, my son was born and Tracy and her husband Ed come to the hospital. Ed probably would have paid a small fortune to be anywhere but there. But, you don't argue with Tracy and Ed had been trained well.
I believe Byron was about 3 weeks old the first time Tracy watched him. As I dropped him off Tracy asked, "Do I need to buy bottled water to make his formula?" I tried not to smirk too badly when I said, "um-do you have a sink?" She said, "well, yeah". I prodded her further by adding, "well how about you run some warm water out of that son of a bitch and make that baby a bottle?" Tracy has probably the best laugh I've ever heard come out of an adult. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and said, "I'm so glad you're not THAT mom". And no, I most certainly am not THAT mom.
Fast forward about 2 years-frantic call from Ed (well, as frantic as Ed gets anyway). "Dari, it's Ed. Byron was playing outside and fell out of the swing and bumped his head pretty hard. He's got a knot, but he didn't cry until I dug the dirt out of his nose". So I asked, "well, is he okay?". Ed replied, "Hell, he's fine. But I think Tracy may need an MRI".
Just keep breathing in and out Tracy, and you'll be fine. Love ya!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The S Word by Kari Johnson
In this day and age, unfortunately, our kids are bombarded by images, enticements, information, and misinformation about sex from a very early age. Friends tell them what “French-kissing” is, and they come home and ask about it—in Kindergarten! By the time they reach fourth or fifth grade, some “overeducated” child in their class has told them what it means to “make out.” It’s scary.
Unfortunately, we can’t keep our children from encountering this stuff. That would require locking them in a fortress, away from all other children, and preventing all contact with the outside world until they were eighteen. We all know that the probable results of that would be that, upon entrance to that world, they’d either be complete misfits or we’d end up seeing them on “Girls Gone Wild.”
But I digress. As I was saying, kids learn a lot about sex at a very early age. So, we’re supposed to talk to them about it, and be “open” and “honest.” How the heck do we do that? Well, it’s not easy. Let me use my now 10-year-old daughter, a fairly precocious only child, as an example. I’m a big believer in open lines of communication. How else can we teach kids our beliefs and morals, besides TALKING about them? I’ve always encouraged her to ask me about anything she wants to know. Sometimes, I wonder why…
When she was three, she figured out how babies get out of Mommy’s tummy. We had a cat that was VERY pregnant, and so if you felt her belly, you could feel the babies moving. My daughter was rubbing Sally’s belly, and she looked at me and asked how the babies were going to get out. So I, being very wise (so I thought), told her, “God makes a special way for babies to get out of their mommies’ tummies.” End of story, right? Ha! My daughter sat, rubbing on and looking at the cat, for about five minutes. Then she asked, “Do they come out her po-po?” My reply, after I quit choking, was a simple yes. Short and sweet. Please, no more questions. Ha! The next one was, “Did I come out of yours?” Oh Lord. Another short and sweet yes. Have mercy, please. “Does it hurt?” she then asked, while pointedly looking at my crotch. Well, this time, after another short and sweet yes, I had sense enough to leave the room.
Well, if that was as bad as it got, it’d be fine. It gets worse as they get older. Eventually, and way before you explain it to them, they gain an understanding of the act of sex (apparently, that’s another lecture in Playground 101). Then, they learn that sex makes babies. Then, because you’ve told them a zillion times that you don’t have sex until you’re married, they think to ask you why ol’ so-and-so next door has a baby but doesn’t have a husband, only a live-in boyfriend. Or why the neighbor’s daughter, who’s too young to get married, is clearly pregnant. Try to explain that one.
The best recent conversation I have had started out like this: I was driving down the highway, 70 miles per hour, when my daughter suddenly blurted out, “You know how sex makes babies?” I veered back out of the bar ditch and very calmly said, “Uh huh.” Oh no, here we go…”Well,” she asked, “does it always make babies, or is there a way that it sometimes doesn’t.” Oh, okay, some little boy on the playground was talking about condoms. However, we’re 10 years old here, so I’m NOT going there at this point. “Nope,” I replied, “If you don’t want to have a baby, you don’t have sex.” It got quiet for a long time. Not good. She got a little smile, almost a smirk, on her face and said, “So, you’ve only done that once?”
At that point, we were in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The good Lord, knowing that I would not have an intelligent, appropriate response to that question, saw fit to show me an empty parking space right in front of my eyes. We pulled in, got out, and went shopping. Conversation effectively avoided (until next time). Thank God for small miracles.
Seriously, though, sex is one of the most uncomfortable (and just downright embarrassing and horrible) things to talk to your kids about. It’s not easy to bring stuff up, and it’s not easy to realize that though you thought you were bringing up something new, your child “already knew that, Mom.” It’s not easy explaining that sex is a beautiful, loving act created by God, to be reserved for the sanctity of marriage, intended as a way to both create a family and to bond with your soul mate. It’s just not easy, period. Not in the world we live in…
I have decided to just stock up on Kleenexes (for all the tears I’m undoubtedly going to shed), paper bags (for all the times I will hyperventilate), and perhaps a straightjacket and some crayons. Seriously, though, I’m hoping that if I keep my wits about me, keep a sense of humor, and pray a LOT, my daughter and I will both make it through her teen years alive. I’m not quite as sure about the fates of her future boyfriends…
Unfortunately, we can’t keep our children from encountering this stuff. That would require locking them in a fortress, away from all other children, and preventing all contact with the outside world until they were eighteen. We all know that the probable results of that would be that, upon entrance to that world, they’d either be complete misfits or we’d end up seeing them on “Girls Gone Wild.”
But I digress. As I was saying, kids learn a lot about sex at a very early age. So, we’re supposed to talk to them about it, and be “open” and “honest.” How the heck do we do that? Well, it’s not easy. Let me use my now 10-year-old daughter, a fairly precocious only child, as an example. I’m a big believer in open lines of communication. How else can we teach kids our beliefs and morals, besides TALKING about them? I’ve always encouraged her to ask me about anything she wants to know. Sometimes, I wonder why…
When she was three, she figured out how babies get out of Mommy’s tummy. We had a cat that was VERY pregnant, and so if you felt her belly, you could feel the babies moving. My daughter was rubbing Sally’s belly, and she looked at me and asked how the babies were going to get out. So I, being very wise (so I thought), told her, “God makes a special way for babies to get out of their mommies’ tummies.” End of story, right? Ha! My daughter sat, rubbing on and looking at the cat, for about five minutes. Then she asked, “Do they come out her po-po?” My reply, after I quit choking, was a simple yes. Short and sweet. Please, no more questions. Ha! The next one was, “Did I come out of yours?” Oh Lord. Another short and sweet yes. Have mercy, please. “Does it hurt?” she then asked, while pointedly looking at my crotch. Well, this time, after another short and sweet yes, I had sense enough to leave the room.
Well, if that was as bad as it got, it’d be fine. It gets worse as they get older. Eventually, and way before you explain it to them, they gain an understanding of the act of sex (apparently, that’s another lecture in Playground 101). Then, they learn that sex makes babies. Then, because you’ve told them a zillion times that you don’t have sex until you’re married, they think to ask you why ol’ so-and-so next door has a baby but doesn’t have a husband, only a live-in boyfriend. Or why the neighbor’s daughter, who’s too young to get married, is clearly pregnant. Try to explain that one.
The best recent conversation I have had started out like this: I was driving down the highway, 70 miles per hour, when my daughter suddenly blurted out, “You know how sex makes babies?” I veered back out of the bar ditch and very calmly said, “Uh huh.” Oh no, here we go…”Well,” she asked, “does it always make babies, or is there a way that it sometimes doesn’t.” Oh, okay, some little boy on the playground was talking about condoms. However, we’re 10 years old here, so I’m NOT going there at this point. “Nope,” I replied, “If you don’t want to have a baby, you don’t have sex.” It got quiet for a long time. Not good. She got a little smile, almost a smirk, on her face and said, “So, you’ve only done that once?”
At that point, we were in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The good Lord, knowing that I would not have an intelligent, appropriate response to that question, saw fit to show me an empty parking space right in front of my eyes. We pulled in, got out, and went shopping. Conversation effectively avoided (until next time). Thank God for small miracles.
Seriously, though, sex is one of the most uncomfortable (and just downright embarrassing and horrible) things to talk to your kids about. It’s not easy to bring stuff up, and it’s not easy to realize that though you thought you were bringing up something new, your child “already knew that, Mom.” It’s not easy explaining that sex is a beautiful, loving act created by God, to be reserved for the sanctity of marriage, intended as a way to both create a family and to bond with your soul mate. It’s just not easy, period. Not in the world we live in…
I have decided to just stock up on Kleenexes (for all the tears I’m undoubtedly going to shed), paper bags (for all the times I will hyperventilate), and perhaps a straightjacket and some crayons. Seriously, though, I’m hoping that if I keep my wits about me, keep a sense of humor, and pray a LOT, my daughter and I will both make it through her teen years alive. I’m not quite as sure about the fates of her future boyfriends…
Like Feathers in the Wind....
I have a three year old son who has (finally) grasped potty-training. He being the fourth child, I knew we were on treacherous yet rewarding path. There’s nothing cuter than little tiny buns in their first pair of Superman undies, and that sight alone (failing to mention money saved on diapers) is my reward for persistence and perseverance in the face of grueling odds. And the odds are definitely stacked in favor of a willful toddler whose desire for independence is only outweighed by his stubbornness.
So onward and upward...my potty-training regime has always included open access to the restroom. Meaning, if I’m “resting” in that particular “room” the child in training has access to come in and observe. It seems to me kids learn a lot by watching as they're natural imitators.
One of the more challenging parts for a parent during this time in the child’s life is the child's obsession with the body parts we’re trying control. My son decided to name his penis a “hooter”. His hooter was his new best friend. He carried it everywhere. A sort of confirmation that he was just like everyone else, except maybe a bit smaller. A “pinkie” to everyone else’s thumb (on this note, this same child took to calling his underwear “pinkie bumps”-no further explanation necessary). I personally get a little creeped out by children saying “penis” or “vulva”. So, hooter it is.
I’m in the restroom when my son decides to engage in some “on the job observation”. Well, two year olds aren’t very tall by nature, so his eyes were nearly perfectly level with the action. It wasn't long before he pointed and said, “Mommy’s hooter”. Looking back, I should have pretended not to hear him. But instead I explained, “Daddies and brothers have hooters. Mommies have hoohaws”. He smiled and said, “well, your hoohaw has feathers”. And believe me, if I could fly-I would have.
I don't understand why I felt it necessary to name my own ‘parts’. I’ve never felt a need to reference them (present article excluded) to anyone except my doctor with whom I can use the clinical terms. Having been a parent most of my adult life, I haven't peed in private in nearly 13 years. I think it's a good time to start.
My advice is this:
1. They make potty training videos now-BUY ONE. No need for the live action shots. Children can “observe” a cartoon going potty and probably enjoy it twice as much.
2. Sometimes it’s just better to let people ‘call ‘em like they see ‘em’. I mean after all, why can’t Mommies have hooters?
So onward and upward...my potty-training regime has always included open access to the restroom. Meaning, if I’m “resting” in that particular “room” the child in training has access to come in and observe. It seems to me kids learn a lot by watching as they're natural imitators.
One of the more challenging parts for a parent during this time in the child’s life is the child's obsession with the body parts we’re trying control. My son decided to name his penis a “hooter”. His hooter was his new best friend. He carried it everywhere. A sort of confirmation that he was just like everyone else, except maybe a bit smaller. A “pinkie” to everyone else’s thumb (on this note, this same child took to calling his underwear “pinkie bumps”-no further explanation necessary). I personally get a little creeped out by children saying “penis” or “vulva”. So, hooter it is.
I’m in the restroom when my son decides to engage in some “on the job observation”. Well, two year olds aren’t very tall by nature, so his eyes were nearly perfectly level with the action. It wasn't long before he pointed and said, “Mommy’s hooter”. Looking back, I should have pretended not to hear him. But instead I explained, “Daddies and brothers have hooters. Mommies have hoohaws”. He smiled and said, “well, your hoohaw has feathers”. And believe me, if I could fly-I would have.
I don't understand why I felt it necessary to name my own ‘parts’. I’ve never felt a need to reference them (present article excluded) to anyone except my doctor with whom I can use the clinical terms. Having been a parent most of my adult life, I haven't peed in private in nearly 13 years. I think it's a good time to start.
My advice is this:
1. They make potty training videos now-BUY ONE. No need for the live action shots. Children can “observe” a cartoon going potty and probably enjoy it twice as much.
2. Sometimes it’s just better to let people ‘call ‘em like they see ‘em’. I mean after all, why can’t Mommies have hooters?
What the...?
Having already been gifted with two daughters, I was finally blessed with the son for whom I’d prayed most of my adult life. One daughter was six, and the other was two. My son may have been a week old when my oldest daughter decided to watch me change a diaper. I thought nothing of this innocent observation and was quite flattered that she felt me interesting enough to watch. Most of my queries these days were met with a cluck of her tongue and a roll of her eyes. My son disrobed, I carefully wiped him down, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the familiar “What the….?” forehead wrinkle. She’d been on her father’s family farm hundreds of times, and was very aware of the difference between hens and roosters, but it occurred to me, she’d never actually SEEN it. Inevitably, she pointed there and said, “What’s that?" This did not shake me as one might think. I’ve had MANY frank conversations with this child, and at this point she had me pretty seasoned. My SuperMom Answer of the Year was, “Those are called testicles. That’s part of the difference between boys and girls, and those are the parts that will help him make babies someday.” I literally high-fived myself. I mean, really, who could have answered that better? Honest, informative, yet not too graphic. My smirk of self-righteousness was met with a look of utter horror as she asked, “Are they gonna fall off when his belly button does?”
Speechless, all I could mutter was "Let's hope not".
Speechless, all I could mutter was "Let's hope not".
Dreams and Vapors
My friend Kari and I always come up with these fabulous plans. Sometimes even going so far as to put stuff on paper, only to look back two years later at a bunch of unfinished summer road trips, compilation novels, remodel projects, and garage sales. It's really all Kari's fault anyway. I mean after all, she actually finished college, so she ought to be good on the follow through, perhaps I've corrupted her beyond all repair. Anyway, the next several posts will be a collection of short but true stories chronicling our trials raising our kids.
The many faces on an 8 year old girl
Oy vey, this child. I'm not so naive as to think my daughters won't be moody and overly emotional once their hormones completely ravage their once sweet and caring little souls. BUT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! This child will be the death of me. Everything either makes her cry or makes her angry.
She has gotten into a rut of wanting to wear the same shirt with the same jeans 3 days a week. So, my husband and I made a game of seeing if she can not wear the same outfit twice in one week. This should not be a problem when you consider she has more clothes in her closet than a sidewalk sale at Old Navy. One would think.
Thursday evening, she picks out her outfit not only for Friday, but for Monday as well. Please press pause on the celebrations.
Well, come Friday morning, she suddenly remembers it's spirit day and she wants to wear her school t-shirt with the mascot. And it TOTALLY doesn't go with pants she's already picked out. Keep in mind that spirit day is by no means a requirement for 3rd grade. But judging by the boo-hoos and lamenting her general misfortune in life, we could be lead to believe she's just been diagnosed with some horribly disfiguring disease. So, out come the faded jeans (bypassing the THREE brand new pair) and her school logo shirt. She added a long sleeve shirt underneath and a different necklace, so I suppose all was not lost.
Monday morning rolls around. The outfit reserved for this day has been lying in her chair since Thursday night. Suddenly it occurs to her that the long sleeves on this outfit (we live in the Texas panhandle and it's an average of 30 degrees this time of year with the winds blowing straight out of the north at roughly 45 mph) will be as stifling as trying to squeeze a St Bernard in through the cat door. So, another 30 minutes spent lamenting her terrible misfortune of being cursed with this family. Maybe I didn't breast feed her long enough?
She has gotten into a rut of wanting to wear the same shirt with the same jeans 3 days a week. So, my husband and I made a game of seeing if she can not wear the same outfit twice in one week. This should not be a problem when you consider she has more clothes in her closet than a sidewalk sale at Old Navy. One would think.
Thursday evening, she picks out her outfit not only for Friday, but for Monday as well. Please press pause on the celebrations.
Well, come Friday morning, she suddenly remembers it's spirit day and she wants to wear her school t-shirt with the mascot. And it TOTALLY doesn't go with pants she's already picked out. Keep in mind that spirit day is by no means a requirement for 3rd grade. But judging by the boo-hoos and lamenting her general misfortune in life, we could be lead to believe she's just been diagnosed with some horribly disfiguring disease. So, out come the faded jeans (bypassing the THREE brand new pair) and her school logo shirt. She added a long sleeve shirt underneath and a different necklace, so I suppose all was not lost.
Monday morning rolls around. The outfit reserved for this day has been lying in her chair since Thursday night. Suddenly it occurs to her that the long sleeves on this outfit (we live in the Texas panhandle and it's an average of 30 degrees this time of year with the winds blowing straight out of the north at roughly 45 mph) will be as stifling as trying to squeeze a St Bernard in through the cat door. So, another 30 minutes spent lamenting her terrible misfortune of being cursed with this family. Maybe I didn't breast feed her long enough?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Okay, maybe a bit redundant, especially since I just opened this blog today. Barack Obama has his choice for the presidential dog narrowed to 2-a labradoodle and a portugese water hound. I asked my friend Kari to clarify a portugese water hound. I won't state exactly how she worded it, but let's just say a portugese water hound is even more effeminate than a labradoodle. Kari's argument is this-we're the strongest, most powerful nation in the world, shouldn't our president have a really bad ass dog? I understand his daughter has a dog allergy-so get her a fish. I think Kari's right though, our president should have a really huge, growling Doberman. I'm a fan of Dobermans-or would it be DobermEn? hee hee. A pit bull maybe with a great big spiked collar tethered to one of the columns at 1600 Pennsylvania might send just the right message. Even if our nation is becoming more and more "all bark and no bite", can't we at least make sure there's a bark?
First Day
01/12/2009
Well this is my first day blogging and I don't know if I know what the hell I'm doing, but thought this would be fun. I'd like to thank Rosie O'Donnell for her inspiration and my friend Kari :). Lots of things happen to me EVERY DAY that I think other people will think are funny, or scary, or maybe just plain assed weird and most people won't like this, but then again it's a day in MY life not yours....
D
Well this is my first day blogging and I don't know if I know what the hell I'm doing, but thought this would be fun. I'd like to thank Rosie O'Donnell for her inspiration and my friend Kari :). Lots of things happen to me EVERY DAY that I think other people will think are funny, or scary, or maybe just plain assed weird and most people won't like this, but then again it's a day in MY life not yours....
D
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