When your mom doesn’t care WHERE you sleep as long as you are in your room and SLEEPING, this just might be the result.
When your mom decides to take a flash photo of you while you are sleeping, this just might be the result.Yesterday, I was determined to take a nap, and I strictly cautioned Peter that if he did not lie down his toddler bed privileges would be revoked, and I would put him in the crib. He wanted the door left open, and this would have been fine, IF my other children had been dutifully following my instructions to BE QUIET, but instead, they were downstairs squabbling. One pugnacious seven year old was sent to his downstairs bedroom, and one shrieking six year old needed to be relocated to her upstairs bedroom right next to Pete’s room.
Pete had set up camp in the doorway: his pillow, blankie and stuffed animals were all neatly arranged on the floor in front of the door which was blocked by a gate. Knowing he would never fall asleep with all the chaos, I told him I had to close the door; he had to go back to bed. He refused (he’s two, that’s what they do), so I put him in the crib, and lay myself down on my bed.
I was really tired, and I tried to convince myself that just being horizontal for a half hour would be as good as actually sleeping. Sleep seemed an impossible goal given the protestations coming from my youngest child’s room. Then Jenny came upstairs, and I would have allowed her to play with Katie in their room, IF they could have been QUIET, but they could not. So I chased Jenny downstairs.
Once again, on my bed, I tried to sleep. But from Peter’s room I hear:
“Nap time over, Mommy? Nap time over? Nap time over, Mommy? Two minutes! Two minutes! Nap time over! Two minutes!”
Believe it or not, he did manage to fall asleep after that, and so did I, briefly.
The kids think it’s funny to sit in my chair at the dining room table and pretend to be me. They point their finger at their siblings gathered around and say, “YOU do your school work! YOU do your school work! YOU do your school work!” Nice, huh? But oh so true. I tend to say the same things day after day after day. Of course, if they would just.do.their.school.work I might be spared the necessity of sounding like a broken record.
And if they would stop asking the same questions every day, we might have some variety in our evening conversations as well. Instead, this is what we get:
Random day, random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Grilled chicken.
RK: Do I like grilled chicken?
Me: Of course! It’s your favorite!
Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Meatloaf.
ARK: Aww, I don’t like meatloaf!
Me: Yes, you do! It’s your favorite.
Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Ziti.
ARK: Ziti? What’s ziti?
Me: It’s your favorite!
Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Chicken livers and brussel sprouts.
ARK: Do I like chicken livers and brussel sprouts?
Me: Sure! It’s your favorite!
They haven’t noticed the trend yet.
Denise at Ordinary Grace is currently my Favorite Person in the Whole World. She loaned me her copy of the book, Back Labor No More by Janie McCoy King. “As a math major…Janie McCoy King developed a thorough understanding of vectors and their application to natural occurrences. Little did she guess that childbirth would lead to her most significant application of this knowledge. {snip} In 1985, faced with her fourth delivery, and painfully aware that back labor was no minor inconvenience, she analyzed her three prior birth experiences and began to see vectors at work in labor and delivery. When she applied this insight to her fourth delivery, the results were remarkably effective. The pain was abolished, and her son, Thomas, was born within twenty minutes.”
Because my blog is my default photo album of family life, here are some pics from the Renaissance Festival we went to on Saturday.
Sir Thomas and Sir Christopher face each other in a joust.
Billy and Katie ride a camel.
King William VIII.
Jenny and Billy on a Merry-Go-Round…or is it a carousel?
When we pulled into our parking space, Fritz wanted to know why there were so many telephone poles. Bill explained that it was a telephone pole farm. It always amuses me when I hear my own dad’s words come out of his mouth.
Because 2 am is THE best time to clean your desk.
Last night, Bill and I watched Old School starring Luke Wilson, Will Ferrell and Vince Vaughn.
The first adjective that springs to mind: juvenile. There was not a single mature character in the flick. If you have a problem with nudity, sex outside of marriage, sex with more than one person at a time, sex with minors, or unmarried people co-habitating, then this is not the movie for you. The warning of “adult situations” doesn’t quite prepare you for ninety full minutes of that sort of thing.
The second adjective that occurs to me: hysterical. The whole thing was funny. I laughed from one scene to the next, often through tears, often suppressing myself so I could actually hear the lines. Each situation led to another one even more preposterous than the one prior that I was no longer constrained by any sense of decency and could just laugh at the silly people doing ludicrous things. Yes, it was an “Oh my gosh…!!!” kind of laughter, and if I actually knew people who were like this I probably wouldn’t find it nearly as funny. It is that the characters are so very unreal, that the movie is so very funny.
Definitely not for little eyes and ears. In fact, I would be embarrassed to watch this with my parents, and don’t think I would ever watch this with my own children, even in twenty years. But I did enjoy it and do recommend it for those still slightly in touch with their own immaturity.
Apparently, my children don’t understand the concept of buying in bulk. This is the sign for their pretend pet store I found:
4 Orphan Puppies for Sale
1 puppy is $1.00
2 puppies is $5.00
3 puppies is $10.00
4 puppies is $50.00
Sure the subject/verb agreement is off, but at least “puppies” is spelled correctly. Their English teacher is only half bad. It’s the economics teacher who needs to be fired.
Like Matilda, I’m considering a ban on toys made in China. From a moral standpoint, I should have banned all things Chinese years ago, but it is so difficult to be diligent about things like that when my daily life is filled with the adventures of real life such as teaching children to read and chasing naked toddlers through the neighbors’ yards.
But as much as moral reasoning may be brushed aside out of convenience (or inconvenience), when I need to begin scheduling product number checks on toys we own, thus taking away precious time from the creation of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or other highly important tasks, I begin to think that perhaps a bit of anti-China vigilance wouldn’t save me effort in the long run.
The latest recall includes the Little People Animal Sounds Farm which of course we own. Unlike the Dora and Sesame Street products listed in the last recall that we happened to have, the recall date on the farm goes back much farther than 2006; the date goes back to 2002. Dutiful Protector of My Children that I am, I go through Mattel’s “help me determine if my product is included” link for the farm and it shows me where to locate the codes that identify when exactly it was made.
I, and my computer, are on the first floor. The farm is in the basement toy room. But I’m procrastinating on laundry anyway, so I grab a notepad and pen and haul the waiting dirty clothes down the flight of steps as I go. That’s one trip down.
I notate the appropriate codes and then turn to the laundry. Fold the clothes in the dryer and add them to the already folded clothes sorted into three baskets based on ownership. Move the load in the washer to the dryer. Empty and sort the mesh hampers and add another load to the washer. Carry the basket of boys’ clothes to the landing halfway up the stairs. That’s a half trip up. And a half trip down.
Carry the mesh hampers up to the first floor. One trip up. One trip down.
Carry the basket with the girls’ and Pete’s clothes up to the first floor. One up. One down.
Carry the basket with mine and my husband’s clothes up to the first floor. One up.
Forgot the notebook. Another trip down. Another trip up.
Back at the computer, I follow the instructions related to the codes on the farm. The next screen wants another code from the same spot. I hadn’t seen this number, or I would have written it down “just in case.” Cursing Mattel for not telling me everything I needed to get from the beginning, I make one more trip down. And one more trip up.
Once again at the computer I briefly ponder whether I want the item to be on the recall list just to make all these trips up and down my basement stairs worth the effort, or if I would just be that much more annoyed with the hassle of having to return a product. Fortunately, my codes passed the test and we’re lead paint free.
The boys will fetch their own basket from that landing, but I’ve got to carry those other two very full baskets up to the second floor. Two up. Two down.
And then I think I’ll be ready for a nap.
I thought it was just pregnancy, but it’s a small wonder that my rear end has been hurting. Bill found three matchbox cars shoved through a tear in the vinyl upholstery of my desk chair. I think the chair has finally made it to the list of Things-I’ll-Put-Up-With-For-Now-But-Will-Throw-Away-When-We-Move. It’s only ten months.
Reit This Way 