Thursday, November 30, 2006

"Daddy talked to Santa and . . . "

Daddy pulled the famous parent line out of his parent-pocket-handbook last night. In the midst of complete chaos at the witching hour, he said, "Daddy talked to Santa and he said . . . "

He didn't even get a chance to finish his thought before Big interrupted him with a gasp and an, "Oh my Gosh, Dad, did you see Santa at the hospital? Did he get his hip replaced? Is he going to be okay?"

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Friday, November 24, 2006

Phrases From My Kitchen - Thanksgiving Morning

The story would be a good one, but I've decided to condense it. Pretend you are a fly on my kitchen wall. It's Thanksgiving morning. Here's SOME of what you might have heard.

* "Mom, can I dance with the turkey now?"
* "Is that the business end of the bird?"
* "How come it's swimming in the sink?"
* "Is that blood juice?"
* "Will that blood juice go away before it's time to eat it?"
* "Make it fly again, mom, make it fly."
* "Is that where the gobbler used to be?"
* "Oh, it's silky . . . do turkeys use lotion?"
* "Did you just put your hand in there?"
* "Hmm. It doesn't look like a neck."
* "Is pin-feathers another word for tukey zits?"
* "How do you know which end is up?"
* "Really? IN the bag? It's not safe to play in bags."
* "Where are it's feet?"

The REAL action is in the kitchen on holiday mornings. There's nothing like a pre-dawn poultry anatomy lesson and having your hand up the business end of a bird. Crikey, I was exhausted by 8 am.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

He Loves "WaceCaaaws" This Much

The Bipolar Pretender strikes again. He's Lightning McQueen now. He revvs his engine and zooms around the house. He hollers "aaaaawwwweeee" and falls down claiming to have a flat. He peeters exhausted-ly to a halt and professes to need gas.

Heloves those racecars. He lines them up on the counter and they watch him take a bath. He loves them like little girls love baby dolls and stuffed animals. We don't go ANYWHERE without a "wacecaaaw".

I like this

Do not go where the path may lead --
Go instead where there is no path,
And leave a trail.


Sunday, November 19, 2006

Thursday, November 16, 2006

THE . . .

When a street, highway, byway, interstate, belt loop or whatever fancy term you want to use for ROAD, is preceeded by "THE", it can only mean that the traffic is hell and the drivers are from hell.

On my recent voyage, I had the privledge of driving on THE 101, THE 60, THE 10, THE Santan Freeway, THE Blackhawk Freeway and THE 17 (and several others that filled in the gaps). With each and every mile, I became more thankful and longing for the pleasant congestion of home and the 3-light-towns of my youth.


I'm home. Safe and sound. Thankful that the good Lord thinks enough of me to deliver me unscathed to the safety and softness of my home and family.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Chocolate Chip Eyes

Not so long ago, I was holding, cuddling and rocking Middle. We were talking about her eyes, which are the biggest, deepest, darkest, brownest pools that any child could EVER have. I told her that her eyes reminded me of chocolate chips that are melted and swirled and mixed together.

She looked very lovingly back at me, and told me, "Ya, momma, and your eyes are brown, too. They remind me of poop."

Sunday, November 12, 2006

There is never a good time . . . .

Work . . A business trip for WORK calls. I thought I picked the BEST time to go . . . Only minor projects in the works. No birthday parties, no laundry to do, no yardwork, minimal kitchen jobs. But the truth is, there is never a good time. Alas, I must leave home. I must leave home and leave the Man of the House in charge. For 39 hours, he will be the primary caregiver for Big, Middle and Little. His tasks include:

a. Getting Big and Middle (Clifford will already be up) -- out of bed, 2 mornings
b. Getting Big and Middle fed, clothed, hair-dood, teeth-brushed, and out the door, on time, 2 mornings.
c. Picking Middle up, 2 days (but one is tricky . . .it's at a different time)
d. Picking Big up, 2 days (this is an easy one)-- and he doesn't have to do the kids up the street.
e. Packing snacks for Big, 2 days (I thought this was easy . . I pre-paid her lunch card last week, so no
lunch packing, so, snack is a snap, right? He looked at me tonight like I was wearing a cake on my head when I told him to pack a spoon for the applesauce!!)
f. Dinner, 2 days -- but his folks will help once, probably (won't you??)
g. The Witching Hour -- C'mon Moms out there . . you know that time between 3:30 pm and bathtime when low blood sugars run rampant, tears of tired flow like lava and there's just nuthin' you can do!!
h. Bathtimes . . . (you're in the homestretch, baby!!)
i. Books & Bed . .

Ok, it looks good in list form . . but I have ANXIETY. Real and true ANXIETY. There are little things that ONLY I KNOW (and that's not my inflated sense of importance talking!) For example,

a. When Little says he wants "mommy cereal" . . . Will Man know that Mommy cereal is Brown Sugar Mini Wheats?
b. If Little asks for "Cee-e-ole wif dose dudes on it"; that means Fruity Pebbles and "dose dudes" are Barney and Fred?
c. If Big melts down in a puddle of "I miss my mommy", can he be sweet enough to coax her through the emotional woe?
d. If that boy at Middle's school hangs his stuff on her hook again, will he know how mommy fixes it?
e. Can Man get them through spelling words, art projects, happy calls, homework, point cards, signing the calendar, which papers get returned and which don't, remember which days are gym and therefore require tennie runners and jeans?

Or -- will there be a party in the pantry at my house? Thirty nine hours of no chores, watchin' the fish swim, checkin' the sump, eatin' nuthin' but drive thru and partyin' like it's 1999? I wonder. Stay tuned.

He's Clifford Now

My son.

Sometimes just saying "my son" makes me think of a gazillion different things. But right now, in this moment, He's Clifford. And I am Emily Elizabeth. He calls the Man of the House T-Bone, Middle and Big alternate identities (from Mimi to Cleo, then to KC, and back again.) In our house, right now, it's very unpopular to be Sherriff Lewis or Mrs. Diller. Tears have been shed at dinner because you "have to be Mrs. Diller." Do I write like I'm joking??

This matters right now because he BELIEVES that he is Clifford. He crawls around and eats with his mouth from bowls he places on the floor. He slurps and laps at a water glass. He comes to me when I call, "CLIFF--FORRRD". When he comes, he hangs his tongue out to the side and pants. He licks me good morning.

If such a thing a bi-polar pretending exists, it lives in my son. Just last week, he was completely fixated on saying "butt crack". Before that, he was vrrrroooming around the furniture exclaiming, "Speed, I am Speed -- I am Lightning O'Queen" (yes, I know McQueen but please refer to the Percy story.) Before that, he was a train (Gorgun, I imagine) and slightly before that he was whippin' that handy dandy notebook all around, spending all day "looking for clues."

How glorious, wouldn't it be . . . To be complete caught in the moment? To really believe that you are a big red dog. To be innocent enough to crawl around asking your real life Momma to scratch your tummy.

I'm resolving to pretend. I'm going to start tomorrow. I'll pretnd only for a few minutes. I probably won't pretend that I'm Emily Elizabeth (well, because, remember that is REAL to someone). But I'll pretend something. In a concentrated, I-have-my-heart-into-this-kind-of-way.

Anybody got a suggestion?

Friday, November 10, 2006

Jeans: Cousel Me

To all the women who might be reading, please make a suggestion!

I need jeans. Here are my specifications.

1. They should come in Regular length (or Short), but not necessarily Petite, depending on the Amazon that created them . . . . (and shussssh, Homestead . . . I want no comments about how your inseam is longer than my body!)
2. They should have spandex or some sort of stretch component that will enable me to wear them and wrestle on the floor with the "chillens"
3. Above mentioned stretch component should, preferably, not truly activate until needed. In essence, they should be snug but comfy in the morning, and grow (as I do) throughout the day, with dinner time in their largest state.
4. More on the stretch component: They should be good for more than one day's wear. So, they can't be so stretch and oversized by the end of day one that I can't throw them on again.
5. They must come is some sort of mid-rise. I don't want my cracka-lacka hanging out and I also don't want to tuck the underwire of my bra into the waistband. Mid-rise, PLEASE!
6. Comfort with no over-lap. I want them to FIT . . Is this too much? I don't want my tummy hanging out over top lookin' like a muffin top.
7. I want the front view, back view and profile to ALL be somewhat flattering, since, indeed I am a three dimensional creature.

I'll entertain any suggestion, and will most like bear the sheer pain and emotional turmoil of a fitting room. Thanks.

Thank God for Small Imperfections

I have bumps on the backs of my arms. I despise them and always have. But Middle, when truly shaken, loves the bumps. She ever so gently runs her fingers over those bumps, like she's tickling the underside of a turtle. And after a few concentrated minutes of "bump-touching", she's soothed like nobody else's arm bumps could.

I also have a mole. Not big, but not small. Truly, in a rotten spot -- to the left side of my lips in the corner of my mouth. Little likes to touch this bump. As he becomes more and more verbal, he simply says, "need to touch your bump." This one is difficult to sleep through, but I bear it because it's worth it to feel him snuggle his little body in and relax in complete trust -- soothed by "the bump". A quick touch to the bump has also become his universal "bye-bye" to mommy. From playplace to dates with Gram, he's wave and kiss goodbye, then come toddling back for a "wait, need to touch your bump." He presses it like the president and the little red button and then is off for a happy visit.

Big has always had a bit of an ear thing. I have photos of her as a baby being toted in the backpack with one hand yankin' on my ear, and one hand on her ear. This remains. No, not the backpack, and it's not like it was, but she still loves the feel of an ear.

This must conjure up a funny image, so know that I'm not laying down with a bin of bon-bons for my afternoon arm-bump tickle, lip-bump touch and ear pull. Thankfully, eh?

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

"Percy, Percy, Percy"

A story.

My son loves trains (well, and planes and cars and tools and all things manly) -- but this is a story about trains. This is a story about Percy, specifically.

For all you Thomas fans out there, you are "in the know", but for those who are not so intimately familiar with all of Thomas' Friends, here is the down and dirty. Percy is a green steamy with a number 6 on his side. He's happy and friendly, and quite a lovely role model for young boys everywhere. He's honest, he works hard, he gets in to trouble and finds his way out of tight jams with an innocence that's difficult to capture in a talking train.

My son loves him (and all of the others). But, my son, as many other toddlers of this age (I would imagine), can't say R's with the clarity and precision that a a name like PERCY deserves. His annunciation, though very good, is still a bit shaky with PERCY. (Go ahead, figure it out now, or you'll be confused as you read on.)

So, to move forward, he was sleeping as I went into a restaturant with Middle and MOM. We tenderly laid him in the booth and proceeded to order lunch. Midway through, he awoke, disoriented, only moderately rejuvinated and missing Percy, whom he had left in the carseat.

"Percy, percy", he began saying, "where is HIM?"
"In the car", I replied.
This did not suit him.
He began saying loudly: "PERCY, NEED IT, CAN'T BE WITHOUT PERCY!! OH PLEASE MOMMY LET ME HAVE IT, YOU GET IT FOR ME. " (Ok, ya'll, he's now pleading with me, MOM is busting a gut across the table over a turkey club. Middle is cracking up, but doens't know why . . . And I'm digging deep in the pocket of that purse wondering where my keys are (as I'll never be able to retrieve PERCY sans keys!)

Long minutes later, Little is still declaring his love for "PERCY, PERCY, PERCY!!" And I'm realizing that they keys are in the car, which is wet and only midway through the tunnel of wash/tire prep/bug shield/duracoat (or whatever).

Hmm. So, now we travel with Gordon (which sometimes slides out more like "Gorgun" but that beats the other up one side and down the other!!)

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Saving Stuff, Pitching Stuff

There is lots of conversation about there about folking saving stuff and folks who pitch stuff. Purging, though not the contents of your stomach. Rather, the contents of your closets, boxes, sheds, lofts and garage shelves. Someone out there needs a bit of support on their recent decision to pitch. And here, I officially state, "I'm with ya, girl."

I like stuff. I like nice stuff.

I also like negative space, vacant shelves and boxes and crates that stack neatly inside their emptiness. I like productive sorting. I like a box for charity, a bigger box for the dumpster and a small box to keep.

Pitchin' and purgin' stuff makes ya feel good! Here's to the chuckers, pitchers and purgers out there!! Toss in happiness!!

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Oh, She's so sweet.

"Dum Dum da Dum"

Middle with GG at "the compartment"; Halloween 2006

"Me and Mills"

Here is Big with the Great Gram on Halloween, 2006. And before I see any comments with the words "Jon" or "Benet" followed by anything like "pageant", "princess", or "what is that child's mother thinking . . . . " PLEASE remember that it's Halloween. She's Cleopatra! She doens't normally wear ANY make-up and she certainly doesn't go out with snakes strapped in her hair!!

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Dear Santa, Draft no 1

Hmm . . A list may work best. This is the time of the year where, as I plan for the holiday with the man in the red suit, jiggly tummy and rosy cheeks, that I become totally confused about the overlapping birthdays (4 in December . . . including 2 the week of the fat man -- heck, one on the DAY of the fat man!)

So . . . draft one . . ready, aim, fire:

I tell the kiddos to compose a list to Santa with three things on it (hey, three wise men, three gifts, right?) -- Plus, he's got a busy schedule!

Big wants a violin and a sheet of music. She's furiously thumbing thru the toys r us catelog and sears wishbook to fill that third line.

Middle wants a pony. Yes, as she wrote that, I said, "Honey, what kind of pony?" She said an "appleino" (which I planted just the day before as I mixed Appaloose and Palamino to play. She didn't like "palamoosa" quite as well. Okay, she's at that critical age where she believes me. And she added a guitar (it must have a strap) and slippers. (Ok, finally, something I can do!)

Little . . . hmm. . . he has the concept of a list down pat. We've been working on his "list" for weeks. He's carrying around a small spiral bound notebook (his "handy dandy notebook", if you will). He pauses to write in this freqently. It's peppered with only slight confusion as he pauses and says, "oh, did you see that clue?" or "we have all three clues!" On his list is the spiraly climb-the-mountain-and-zoom-your-car down Lightning McQueen thing and a new handy dandy notebook.

The man in our house wants nothing. He just got a new 240 gallon saltwater fishtank and a custom stand and canopy to go with it, so guess what? He's getting nothing.

I have nearly all of my other gift buying bases covered, but the confusion is really over the Cars birthday and the birthday party that falls earlier in the week.

So, Santa has to Santa, for the sake of preserving the innocence, right? Which means Santa is a big, giant loser if the abovementioned treasures don't show up on the big day . . which means that if Santa brings the climb-and-crash set, the the birthday faries are good to bring cars to go with, yah?

Har-hump. Yes, a list . . Draft 2 must be in list form.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Normal Is What You Are

You've heard of those funny kids. Parents send funny stories in to Reader's Digest and Parenting Magazines about these kids. These are the kids that most parents sort-of, deep-down want, but instead they get the whiny, pouty, finicky ones that they love, but are often times a self-admitted pain in the regions located below the lower back and just slightly above the thighs. Well, meet Middle. She's a funny kid. It's normal for her to dress in swimming goggles and a spider man cap. She probaby had on her pink cowboy boots with this. She might have been wearing argyle tights. It's normal for her to gallop through the house on the Swiffer duster. As she runs by, it would be normal to see that she has a sports bra tied to a pencil with the twistie tie off of the hamburger bun bag. This is her flag, and she is hollering, "yee haw." This is Middle.

Wow, this is fun.

Well, here's a great big Colorado hug to all the family out yonder. I've been reading all about your plumbing troubles and hilarious, gut-busting recounts of the 4 am girls night at "the wedding". Can't wait to see the re-cap from the latest shopping expedition with mmh -- ah, I was there for that! What fun!! I'm loving all of the email, but am very honestly, really, really rotten and responding . . . which . . . . brings me to the invitation for all-a-ya'll to bookmark our "blog". You can visit as often as you wish and get caught up on the family scoop.

This is for sale . . .

This is for sale, right up the street from me. It has lovely upgrades. Can you come buy it?