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.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
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.
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