Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Water Sense Nonsense

An actual conversation with Pierce:

Pierce (upstairs, should be brushing his teeth but the water is just running, yelling downstairs to me): Mom! I need help with brushing my teeth!
Mom: No, you don't! You can do it!

Pierce (three minutes later, water still running): Mom! I need help! I'm wasting water!
Mom: Then turn off the water while you brush!
Pierce: Awwwww...Why?

Welcome to my world.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

"I Just Like the Frosting"

As I was serving Pierce a piece of Charlotte's birthday cake, he asked, "Did you remember that I just like the frosting?". And I thought, "Yeah, I remember seeing bowl after bowl with an intact piece of cake, sans frosting."

Then of course, I get all deep and compare cake and frosting to life. Ready? Here we go. Metaphorically speaking, we have life, which is a lot of cake, topped with only a little frosting, to help the cake go down easier. Those moments in life that are good, the sunset-is-beautiful moments, the kids-obeyed-on-the-first-command moments, and the best-vacation-ever moments, when you can truly say you're happy and all is well. That's the frosting. The life-in-the-trenches moments, the I-can't-wait-until-bedtime moments, the why-are-we-having-this-trial moments are the cake. But do we really only want the frosting? My teeth ache just thinking about all that sugary sweetness in bite, after bite, after bite. Then I would want some cake in there, to shake things up. And some cold milk, too. But not on top of the cake, the way my husband likes it, because my cake would be soggy. So cake, a la milk. Or something like that. Mmmm...

Back to the point.

It's nice to have both to balance each other out. Cake without frosting is just...cake. Frosting without cake is...a root canal in the making. Combine the two, and you have created a yummy dessert. And a balance at the dentist's office. Oh, and the perfect blend to

So eat your cake with frosting and your frosting with cake. Or, if you're my sister, eat your scrambled eggs with ketchup. A lot of ketchup. That makes the "eggs edible." Whatever food you like, eggs, cake, ketchup, frosting, it's all the same. Think of them as "food complements." But not all together, because I couldn't stomach frosting on my scrambled eggs or ketchup on my cake. Ew.

Final thoughts? Let them eat cake. With frosting. And a little milk. On the side. Without the eggs. Or the ketchup.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

I Quit!

Pierce has told me several times that he wants a brother instead of sisters. After I caught him sneaking into the chocolate chips, he told me he "needs a brother to keep me from eating chocolate." Another time he told me "I quit!" when he got mad at Caroline. Usually he just sighs, sags his shoulders, and sadly says, "I want a brother." So I came up with this poem:

For Sale or For Barter

I'm a five-year-old boy in search of a deal;
to sell both my sisters, or trade is ideal.
All I want is a brother;
two for one (please don't tell my mother).

No more dollies and skirts or sparkly shoes;
it's wrestling and dirt and trucks that I choose.
I'm tired of pink and purple, and hearts on the wall;
I'm ready for black and blue and a lot of baseball.

I need a brother to keep me in line;
from eating Mom's chocolate he'd help me decline.
He'd keep me from telling my daddy white lies;
from hitting my friends and giving 'evil eyes.'

I'd make sure he's happy and clothed and well-fed;
I'd share my big room and he'd have his own bed!
We'd throw out the cradle and purses and rings,
and get bats and mitts and other boy things.

We'd play at the park and ride on our bikes;
then fishing and running and taking long hikes.
We'd tell funny stories and laugh through the night;
then clean up our room and never, ever fight.

Yes, having a brother is sounding quite pleasant;
Getting a brother would be the best present!
Is there any such brother out there just for me?
Oh, please, oh, please respond to my plea!

I have two sisters, for sell or for barter;
Living with them gets harder and harder.
Please come take them off of my hands,
and drop off a boy, according to plans.

With much thanks and appreciation,
from J. Pierce {last name} (thanks for the donation).

Monday, September 21, 2009

Land of the Lost

I'm pretty sure there's a travel agent living in my house, selling one-way tickets to my stuff to journey to the Land of the Lost. Where's my pump for the air mattress? Or what about Caroline's shorts that mysteriously disappeared from her laundry basket? I'm thinking they got together with Dan's recipe book for P90X, Caroline's hair bows, and some of my forks and spoons and took a permanent vacation. With my retainer from the fifth grade. But not with all those missing socks from the washer. Or is it the dryer? Anyway, they have their own exclusive relocation program that only socks know about, 'cause once they're gone, they're gone.
I also think that the stuff must get bored in the Land of the Lost, because sometimes they come back. But not right away. They like to show up when you have to search for another object. Like when I found Charlotte's pink pacifier looking for Pierce's transformer. In the meantime, I will patiently wait for my air pump to resurface. And Caroline's hair bows.
And my silverware.
All aboard.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Counting Sheep Doesn't Work

I suffer from sporadic-episodal-insomnia. Or, every once in awhile, I can't sleep for about one to two hours. Last night was such a night. Charlotte slept in our room in the pack and play (a necessity when Caroline is your sister and delights in throwing books, clothes, and toys in your crib while you are trying to sleep) and cried out in her sleep, which woke me from mine. That's when the epsiode began. I ran through my day, planned the next day, wrote a talk for sacrament meeting that I don't need, wrote this blog (all mentally. I wasn't actually up writing, although that can and does happen), and thought about some upcoming changes in our life (announcements that will come after they happen so I know that they actually will happen!).

Then I heard a noise. It startled me, and I wanted to investigate, but then I thought about those scary movies where the babysitter, or whoever the female is that's home alone, hears a strange noise, goes to investigate, and the whole time you're screaming at the stupid girl to not do it. I didn't want to be the stupid girl, so I stayed put. And nothing happened! There could have been a masked man hiding in the stairwell, and had I gone down, he would have nabbed me and I would have experienced all sorts of unspeakable atrocities. Or, I could have seen Sasquatch and been traumatized for life. I know, I know. Thank goodness I stayed in bed! No stupid heroine here! So now you can see why I couldn't fall asleep. And until someone develops a cure for sporadic-episodal-insomnia, I will just have to suffer through. And keep a notebook nearby. And maybe some snacks.

Just in case.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

To Kill a Fly

Flies are hated at our house. No, I mean ha-ted. Dan calls them "flying pieces of crap," because you are what you eat. Dan can go from happy and content to angry and vengeful in seconds as soon as he sees one. And of course, the flies scatter at the exact moment they see the fly swatter. You didn't know flies had intelligence, did you? A creature who sits on poop and feasts has enough intellect to scram when they see plastic mesh attached to wire. I don't get it.

So here we are in the middle of canning the abundance our garden has produced when the little fruit flies appear. How do they materialize out of thin air? They multiply like, well, like flies. Maybe our tomatoes have been harboring these fugitives, who only come out when they outnumber the humans 400 to 1. Safety in numbers, you know. I have been scrambling to get the kitchen clean and destroy the source for which these little nasty flies live for. And I'm always afraid one will get close enough to my nostrils that when I sniff, well, you get the picture.
So I'm doubly motivated to see the poop fliers gone.


Back to work.
My fly swatter calls.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

That Mom

I realized today I'm that mom. The mom who allows her kids to (occasionally) run around in nothing but a diaper, the mom who yells at her kids across the grocery to put the Pop Tarts back, the mom who lets her kids scream from the other side of the locked door while I get ready for the day. I'm that mom. Sometimes when I do, or don't do, things, I'll think, "If something happens to my kids, and I end up on tonight's news, everyone will be asking, 'Where was the mother?'" That mom. Like the time Girly-girl took off all of her clothes, slipped out the back door in nothing but a diaper, ran around to the front steps, removed her diaper, peed on the middle step, then took off streaking down the sidewalk at 3 in the afternoon. "Where is the mother?" Two steps behind my exhibitionist toddler, trying to convince myself not to bring harm against someone who says "akeekee" instead of "drink," and ignoring the questioning glance of my neighbor who pulled up in time to see me haul Girly-girl into the house by her upper arm, naked body flailing behind.

But I'm not always that mom. I think we all have that mom moments, but aren't completely that mom. Most days, my kids are dressed and I don't take all the kids to the grocery store. Most days, we dance and sing, make cookies, and read books. Most days, I really like my job. And when I find myself being that mom, I try to remember that that mom moments are ok because I won't always have little kids. One day, my kids will grow up and I will no longer be changing diapers 12 times a day, or wiping food, snot and goobers off chubby, smiling faces. I won't always have food dried and crusty on my shoulder. I won't always have a sweet baby to cuddle or little toe nails to paint. I won't always have to clear toys from my bed or find a granola bar in my jewelry box. I won't always have children fighting over my lap or asking for a hug and a kiss at night. No, I won't always be that mom. But I'll always be their mom, and I wouldn't have it any other way.