Fourth Grade Films

Corbyn brings me a permission slip to sign about some movie they're gonna watch. I scanned over it and before blindly signing it as usual, I realized what film we were about to watch. THE film. Traditionally, in fourth grade classes, girls are segregated from the boys and the girls watch a little film explaining essentially that they're going to get boobs, cramps, and body hair. I asked Corbyn if she knew what the film was about and she of course didn't. At the mere mention of the word 'breasts', she nearly lost conciousness. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to watch it and she was sure. I told her that I would be more than happy to explain anything she had questions about. Failing of course to mention that her 13 year old sister would gladly fill in any gaps. But thankfully Corbyn opted for the film. Sunday after the film showing Corbyn tells me she needs to shave. I told her she couldn't start shaving until she was 11. "But mommy, there's hairs under my arms in my pits". Hmmm. "Well, show me- are you sure?". She showed me. And there were five little scraggly hairs under her arms. Yep. Apparently watching THE film triggered my 9 year old's biological clock. I just wish there was a snooze bar.

Weekly Update

I'm always trying a new format on this blog, but I figure I started this blog and I can be as inconsistent as I want. Okay, here's my week in a nutshell.
Let me start off by saying I think this was the longest week in history. Some sort of equinox or something, hell I don't know.
Monday
Well, Mondays are Mondays so there's not a lot to say here. Oh wait, I forgot. My husband DJ had a hard time sleeping thusly making Monday morning more craptastic than usual. He's six feet and 240 pounds. His side of the bed consists of either the middle, or from one corner to the other.
Tuesday
I finally get organized enough to get Byron back to wrestling practice. I took him sporadically at best in December and frankly not at all in January. It starts at 6:00. I get off work, pick up the boys at daycare and drive precariously down Western street while Byron changes clothes in the back seat. We arrive at ten til 6 only to find both of the doors to the gym are locked. Well, of course they are because we're ten minutes early. Well, at five after when no one shows up, I'm already composing my mass email to the coaches and other parents about how inconsiderate to not even show up at the weekly practice. As I'm pulling my self-righteous express out of the parking lot, I come across one of the coaches and ask him why there's no practice. "Because the season ended last month"...and in acceptance of my Mother of the Year award I'd like to thank the Academy and all my fans.
Wednesday
As I'm enjoying lunch with my husband, my cell phone rings and it's a number I don't recognize. And anytime a conversation begins with "Mrs. West?"....well, no good news has ever followed that statement. It was Daci's track coach. Daci had apparently not shown up for after school track tryouts on Tuesday. When questioned on Wednesday, Daci tells the coach that she doesn't want to be on the track team, but just wants to run during the period. The coach lets her know that the whole reason to be in athletics is to compete. So, super quick Daci tells the coach that she can't show up that afternoon because she had an orthodontists' appointment. I guess the grueling interrogation finally broke Daci, because she gave the coach my cell phone number. I was certain to advise the coach that Daci did not have an ortho appt and she would most definitely be at the tryouts. And to have Daci call Dad when she's done running.
Thursday
I honestly can't think of anything of note happening on this day. I'll remember something interesting after I've posted this I'm sure.
Friday
Holy hell, I'm glad it's Friday. Daci the Deceptor has a friend ride the bus home for a sleepover. It comes to our attention that Daci has misplaced (or traded for bubblegum for all we know) several pairs of jeans and a jacket. I call the school and leave a message that if all of Daci's clothes don't come home, then her friend can't spend the night. Well, she and the friend get off the bus with four pairs of jeans but no jacket. Dad calls and well, we gotta take the friend home until this jacket shows up. This jacket of course being a $75.oo SWEATFREAKINSHIRT. Lots of lecturing about responsibility and taking pride in our possessions. At one point as the mother, I realize I'm no longer using actual words, but the WAH WAH WA WAH WAAH of Charlie Brown's teacher. I offer to take her to another friends' house to see if the jacket had been left during another sleepover. Nope.
Saturday
Typical day of house cleaning. I had a hair appointment which was nice. My skunk stripe of gray hair down the middle of my head is SO not attractive, so after two hours in the beauty chair I again look a little closer to my 35 years.
Sunday
We go to church. I send Daci upstairs to pick up Corbyn and Byron while I get Rowie downstairs after the service. I wait in the foyer. Daci comes downstairs with Corbyn and Byron. Byron's not wearing his jacket. I ask Daci where it is and she says, "well, I didn't know he was wearing one"....this is February in the Texas Panhandle and there's still snow on the ground from the blizzard we had last month....uh yeah, he was wearing a jacket. So, I send Daci and Byron back upstairs to retrieve the jacket (see the pattern yet?). I send Rowie and Corbyn to meet Dad out front. After the appropriate "what the hell sorry Lord is taking so long" foot tapping, I trek upstairs and find Byron sorting through the Lost and Found box and Daci standing over the top of him telling him to hurry up. I come to the scene and escort Byron to his class to see if the jacket is in there. Standing over the top of the Lost and Found box Daci says, "Jeez Byron-just take a different jacket out of here and let's go." I nearly lost it at this point. After all, my daughter is now trying to convince my son to STEAL from the lost and found at CHURCH. At first, she said it was a joke. Then she said, "well, how important could these jackets be? They're in the lost and found. If they were that important, the kids wouldn't have lost them in the first place". I thought that perhaps humans are born with an innate sense of irony...apparently that skill isn't fully developed in the average 13 year old girl. So very calmly (through clenched teeth and in my son's Sunday school class) I tactfully remind this child that she has no right to call the little kettle black.

Try try as I might...

My sons Byron and Rowan go to bed at 8:30. Actually, they're in bed around 7:30 and take turns picking their evening movie. Their TV has a timer that I can set and it will turn off after so many minutes. As we all know, I'm pretty regimented around my house, so when there's any deviation from the norm, it really shakes up some snow globes.
Byron had a project that was due last week-yeah I know, and that's another blog entry entirely. Anyway, while doing, uh-helping him finish his project I realize it's 8:45 and no one is bathed, or in bed watching movies. I hand the glue stick off to my daughter Corbyn (the Enforcer) and scoop up 4 year old Rowan and herd him to his bedroom to get ready for bed. Well, of course this radical turn of events just sends this poor child over the edge. He's hollering and stomping and all the things (his father) he does. We get into his room and it is TRASHED. So I say, "Ro, you've got to pick up these toys before bed". Instantly he starts hollering even more and stomping even harder (a 34 pound boy can rattle a 2200 sq ft house when he's really pissed). He begins launching the toys into the box, "These toys are dumb" "I hate these stupid toys, they're all broken and dumb anyways" "I don't wanna live in this house anymore. I'm going to live in the road" all the while hurling toys (with amazing accuracy I might add) into one of his two toyboxes.
On a side note, Ro does not like to wear shirts with buttons. Well, the morning before this happened, I actually got him to wear a (brand new with the tags still on it) long sleeved Rugby type shirt with three buttons. So after the toy tirade, it's time to put on the PJ's. I'm trying to stifle my laughter watching him pacing back and forth while probably concocting an elaborate terroristic plot to destroy the daycare center or something. So, in an attempt to calm him down, I say "thank you for wearing the shirt with buttons on it. You sure look handsome". With lightening bolts shooting out of his eyes and his skull about to split down the middle under the pressure of the pulsating veins he just squinted his eyes and stared at me. "Rowie, it's kinda hard to keep being ugly when Mommy's using nice words isn't it?" Still glaring he said, "Yeah. But I'm still tryin'". And believe me, he is trying.

The Stigmata

So, we've made it back from the annual ski trip alive yet another year. We did things a little differently this year by riding snowmobiles the first day and skiing the next. This was Daci's first year to go, so she rode behind me on the trail up to the meadow. When we got to the meadow, she drove my snowmobile and I rode my mother in law's. Red River didn't get much snow this year so what snow they do have is packed down really hard. Daci and I are flying through the middle of the meadow. Because neither one of us weigh a whole lot, our butts would fly off the snowmobile seat whenever we hit the bumps in the middle of the meadow. Slow us down??? Nah, we just went faster. And faster. And faster. I'm following Daci through the meadow when she hits the bumps-her butt flies up-I laugh-she lets go of the handlebars and faceplants into the concrete, er snow. I stop laughing. I careen up beside her and help her up off the ground. Her face is red and she's crying laughing crying laughing slobbering and laughing. I say, "honey, get on mine and let's go see the guide" to which she says, "hey, where are we going?". "Uh, let's go up here and see the tour guide", hell, I thought she landed on the side of her head and had snow compacted into her ear canals. Mid slobber she says, "Why?". Um, because at this point she's bleeding. There's blood running out of her mouth and her eye. Yeah, her EYE!!!! Like, instead of tears, she's crying blood. I've seen my kids eat bugs and poop Legos, but I've never seen one cry BLOOD. I said as calmly as I could muster, "because you're bleeding honey and we need to get it checked out" and her response? "Oh shit Mom-let's go".
Now, in case you're wondering I do not allow my children to swear (read the Bombing on Fannin), so her little expletive lead me to believe that perhaps she'd hit the snow pack pretty hard. Well, after all is said and done, she remembers falling off the snowmobile and she remembers me making her get back on it later and riding some more....she has no memory of the stigmata.