When Mom is down, the kids will...play?

I have decided that when you become a mom, you should automatically become exempt from illness. Except I'm not in charge, so there's no free pass on this one. I am recovering from stomach flu, which had me down for a full 24 hours, not including the 6 hour build-up where I felt crummy. While I was confined to my bed, the kids took care of themselves. They turned the TV on by themselves. They dumped a box of cereal on the floor by themselves.  They took one bite out of every apple we had in the fridge and left the rest for me to pick up later. Much later. After Pierce left for school, Caroline took care of Charlotte.  She made sure they had plenty of string cheese and potato chips to last them all afternoon. Or until I got up to put Charlotte down for a nap.  Then Caroline was truly on her own.  That's when the munchies attacked in full force. She came to me with every snack option available.  And then some. She consumed a lot of yogurt yesterday. And string cheese. And Fruity Pebbles. And BBQ chips. We are officially out of snack food.  But I'm officially out of bed.

I came downstairs to this sight:

That's right. Even in the face (or mouth?) of illness, these dishes did NOT run away. Bless you, dishes. What would I have done without you? On the upside, the dishwasher was unloaded, only because all the other dishes were used and sitting in the sink.

Sigh.
One bite at a time.

Or in this case, one dish at a time.

Rodeo

This last weekend we attended a fair and rodeo in the town where I grew up. Two words: Rural. Idaho.
We looked at the 4-H animals, ate some food, and watched the rodeo.  Caroline (3) had a hard time watching the rodeo, so Dan ended up taking her to ride the Ferris wheel at the carnival. That ride cost $8. Really. I'm in the process of buying my own Ferris wheel 'cause we are in the wrong business. Except Dan would have to shrink about a foot in height, smoke a cigar, and call everyone, "shweetheart." And never bathe. Hmm. Let me rethink that one.

The Rodeo was good. Except for the crowded conditions. And the lack of back rests. And the screaming, restless children I call mine. But Pierce (6) got to see real, live cowboys. At the fair, Charlotte (2) got to see pigs in an up-in-your-face kinda way, which did not go over well. She started shaking and yelling.  But I saved her. Hey, when you're only a couple of feet tall, and so is the pig, well.... this stuff happens. And it did. The place reeked, so we didn't dwell for too long. We chalked the whole thing up to experience.  As in, "this is where your bacon comes from," experience. Shocking to kids, but your meat once grunted. And moo-ed, and baa-ed, and clucked. See, experience. I now have a houseful of vegetarians.

This trip is an annual one for us. We make the 3 1/2 hour drive just to see guys bounce on the back of horses and bulls. Somehow we find that entertaining.

And we look forward to it every year. 

Shady Characters

It seems that lately I have garnered some fans from China, or thereabouts. While I appreciate the comments, I do not speak any of the languages originating in Asia. While you, my fans, may read English, I do not read characters. I delete these comments. If you are offended, please understand why. I don't have a clue what you are saying, and that creeps me out.
My next goal is to generate more comments in English than Chinese.

Wish me luck. 

Road to Independence, One Fruit Snack at a Time

I'm attempting to raise independent kids. Kinda tough when they are 6, 3, and 21 months. But you gotta start somewhere, right?

I start with fruit snacks (I know, MAJOR misnomer, but they're still yummy). They come to me wanting me to open their package, a package containing flavored, gummy sugar, a package that begs to be ripped open and devoured in 30 seconds. Or less.

I charge an opening fee. If I open it, I get to take a little of whatever is in that package. They hate it. If they are struggling with opening a package, they'll say, "Will you open this? BUT DON'T TAKE ONE!!!". But I do anyway. I have to. Otherwise, they will feel comfortable coming to me when they're 16, asking me to open their potato chips. Or Snickers. Or whatever it is that teenagers eat.

It's all for their own good. And the good of my sweet teeth, because I know I have more than one tooth that likes sugar.

So, my little sweeties (it's ok, you can roll your eyes here), you can thank me when you're in college and you are able to open Doritos all by yourselves. And with a tear rolling down your cheek, you'll think, "I have my mom to thank for this moment." Sniff, sniff.

I will be accepting my Mother of the Year award anytime now; I can feel it.

Hiatus

I'm unemployed.

My mom called me up a couple of weeks ago to see if she could make the 3 1/2 hour drive to pick up my kids and take them to her house. Um, ok! So, I guess technically I'm not unemployed, but on an involuntary vacation.

Life is good.

I took a really long shower today. I shaved my legs. I enjoyed the absence of banging and screaming.  I didn't have to worry if my kids had escaped and were wandering the streets half dressed. There has been no fighting over the bean bag, no head whopping, and no "I hate you, Mom!".  No Wonder Pets!, Dora, or Batman on TV. No one begging for food, telling you "you will kill us if you don't feed us." No time-outs, consequences, or awards. No hugs or kisses. No sweet little lips lined with peanut butter and jelly being wiped on my pants. No one saying, "Look at me, Mom!".  No singing time. No playing. No reading. No giggles. No smiles.

It's kinda quiet around here.

Then again, it's kinda quiet around here.

Come what may and love it, right?

Come what may and love it!

Redneck Party Wrecker

We bought a TV antenna, 'cuz we be white trash like dat, so we could pick up the free, basic channels in HD. My mouth hit the floor when I read this:

"WARNING: Do not attempt to install if drunk, pregnant, or both.  Do not throw antenna at spouse."

Dang. There go my weekend plans.

I'm Gonna Eat Until I Die!

The world's fattest mother has a higher aspiration than just being a large momma.  Normally I would say that aspirations are good. Admirable. Applaudable. But her recent aspiration makes me squeamish. What is it? Drum roll, please. Rrrrrrrrrrrr........she wants to be...rrrrrrrrrrrr......the world's fattest woman. She wants to weigh 1,000 pounds (are your eyes popping out of your head yet? Just weight. I mean, wait). Shes does have a concern, though.  Now that she has a child, keeping up with that kid will keep mommy's weight down. Down to 600 pounds. Six HUNDRED. If that isn't crazy enough, her partner supports her in her endeavor. "He's a real belly man...". Really? The this-belly-will-smother-you-and-suck-the-life-from-your-lungs type of belly man? Um, Ok.  

The biggest glutton prize goes to you, ma'am. Hands down. Or belly down?

Wicked What?!

Pierce (5 1/2), being upset at me, exclaimed, "If you don't do what I say, I'm going to call you a wicked monkey for the rest of my life!"

Ooh-ooh ee ah! That's monkey for, "I'm wicked."

Part-time Stocker

Dan is starting to scare me. But in a good way, if there's such a thing. He has a new pride and joy. What the previous one was still eludes me, but nevertheless he has a new pride and joy: our food storage. Yes, my husband gets chills when he sees excessive amounts of canola oil and wheat. A little tear might have slipped out of his eye when we were stocking pasta and peanut butter. And visitors beware! You will have to endure a short tour of our cold storage. He has even renamed our storage room. It is now "The Store." "Did you get that from the store?" "Don't worry- there's more in the store" are just some of the things I have heard. His enthusiasm is endearing. And in the event of a catastrophe (assuming our cold storage is still accessable), we will be fine. If fine is drinking powdered milk and eating lots of pasta, that is.

Thank you, honey, for stocking "The Store."


A little shiver just ran up my spine.

It's No Joke

The other day as I was driving my son to school, I saw a chicken cross the road.  Really, I did. We live in a more rural area of Utah and I grew up in a very rural Idaho and not once have I seen a chicken cross the road. Until now. So the question begs, why did this chicken cross the road?

To get to the other side.

Naturally.

My Hidden Talent

I have a hidden talent.  That means if I were to perform at a talent show that took place in a cultural hall, I would be booed off the gym floor and seek refuge in the mother's lounge hoping the odor of soured diaper would keep people at bay.  My talent? I can peel a banana like a monkey.  Impressed? I thought so.  My selfless side is peeking out today, so I am going to share with you this incredible ability.  Grab a banana as you normally would, turn it upside down, squeeze the end, and peel.  I think it's much simpler.  Leave it to us humans to complicate things when the apes already had it figured out. 

And they think humans evolved from apes.  Sheesh!

Employment Terminated!

Last month we received Christmas cards from friends and family which is always wonderful,but I noticed a little something on most of the cards that made me cringe inside. Here's an example: "Merry Christmas from the Smith's!" There! Do you see it? An apostrophe! Um, excuse me? Mr. Apostrophe? I understand you were invited to join the Smith family today. I regret to inform you your services are no longer needed. When the Smiths need to possess something and not be plural, your space will be waiting. Until then, we ask you to wait in line with the comma and semi-colon. Thank you.
Now that Mr. Apostrophe has been excused, the phrase should read, "Merry Christmas from the Smiths."  Ahh! Sweet relief!
Lesson to be learned? There is a time and a place for Mr. Apostrophe. 
Feel free to hire and fire upon demand.

Fun with Mom and Dad

I will now pay homage to the Dick and Jane primers, and to the classic break-down in communication between husband and wife.



See Mom go. See Dad sit.
See Mom work. See Dad recline.
See Mom work more. See Dad read.
See Mom work. See Dad doze.
See Mom fume. See Dad drool.
See Mom bang
around dishes in a
passive-aggressive
manner in an attempt
to let Dad know his
behavior is unacceptable. See Dad stir.
See Mom change tactics. Hear Dad snore.
See Mom nudge Dad. See Dad wake up.
See Mom scowl. Hear Dad say, "What's wrong?"
Hear Mom say, "Nothing." Hear Dad say, "Ok."
See Mom punish Dad for sleeping. See Dad clueless.
See Mom enraged. See Dad upset.
See Mom explode. See Dad react.
See them fight.
See argument escalate.
See argument resolve.
See Mom and Dad kiss.
See Mom go. See Dad sit.

Pets vs Kids

I have three kids and one cat (against my will, but here we are. The cat, not the kids.).  I don't understand people who have no kids and only pets and think the two are comparable. Really? Our cat lives in the garage.  We give it food and water every two or three days and it came potty-trained. Wait- did I just describe a cat or a kid? I get so confused...
Dan had a boss who was not married, but had a live-in girlfriend and they bought a kid dog. Dan had mentioned how sleepless his nights were and how much attention our baby (our oldest) required. His boss said, "I know what you mean! Our dog blah blah blah." Stop. Don't even try to compare my baby to your animal. They are not the same.  They will never be the same, no matter what you may think, ok?  Talk to me after your first kid, then MAYBE I'll be more sympathetic when you complain aobut your doggy and his naughty antics.
 Even though there's no fur or cute waggely tail, my child will give me hugs and say, "I  wuv you, Mommy." What does your dog say? I thought so. Barking and licks from a tongue (a tongue that also licks its behind and eats poop, mind you) don't count.

I have to go; the cat needs a diaper change.

Guessing Game

My husband likes to play guessing games. No, guessing game. “What song am I playing?” he asks as he flares his nostrils. In and out, in and out in some seemingly random movement that's supposed to match the rhythm of a song that I am to readily recognize. Early on in our marriage, he would stump me every time. Six years later, I'm wiser. Much wiser. It's the same song every time: “Jingle Bells.” I'm so good, that when he asks me now, “What song am I playing?” I don't even have to look.

Eyes on the back of my head.

Flare on, honey.