“I see birthday cards, Mommy,” says Mary happily pointing to the mantle.
“Yes, Christmas cards, honey.”
“I see a snow one!” she exclaims, pointing to one with snowflakes, and then pointing to the ones with nativity scenes: “And two God ones!”
Category Archives: Mary
Good times
Oh my. What a day.
Confessions are at 11 am at the Cathedral on Saturdays, so we hauled our sooty little souls down there this morning. I noticed the line was moving quickly, which meant our usual favorite priest wasn’t there. The kids went first, then me. Bill was hanging in the back with the little ones and went after the three people behind me.
A sign inside explained the short confession time: Deaf Priest. Do not whisper.
This would have been a good day to have mortal sins.
So, no lengthy explanations, no probing questions, no nothing. State your sins, say you’re sorry, get forgiveness, get out.
After confession, I like to compare penances. I got one Our Father. Billy said he got three Hail Marys. Goodness! Fritz admitted he couldn’t understand what the elderly Irish priest had said, so he did the Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, Angel of God and St.Michael prayers. Covered his bases. Katie said she, too, had not understood so she did three Hail Marys. Then Billy admitted he didn’t understand the priest either. (Was that a lie he told right after confession?)
I asked the kids if they saw the sign that said the priest was deaf.
No.
They asked about the man being Irish. Jenny, being somewhat out of the loop since she hadn’t gone to confession, asked, “Are all Irish people deaf?”
“No,” I answered, “He happens to be Irish and he happens to be deaf. Not all Irish people are deaf.”
“Oh,” she said, “He’s deaf and he’s Irish. All Irish people are deaf.”
“No!” my husband said. “You’re part Irish. Are you deaf?”
Cheekily, my 7 year old asked, “What did you say?”
*******
Then we went to the store to buy some pants, socks, and shoes because my children keep growing despite my expressly stated order that they should mature, but not grow. Growing can be done when they have jobs to pay for clothes.
By this time, they were starving, and we decided to feed them even though, for sure, my son would grow a half inch during the meal. While we waited for our food, I suggested we play a game to keep everybody’s mind off the fact that we were waiting for food. I suggested that everybody pick a new name and we would all call each other by these different names for the rest of the weekend.
“My name is Empress Maria Theresa. You may call me Empress or Your Highness and you certainly may curtsy or bow when speaking to me. Please speak in German or Czech.”
Bill selected Hector. Fritz wanted to be called Bob. Billy, Hades. Katie, Nancy Drew. Jenny picked some fairy name, then said she didn’t want to play. Fine. Foo on you. Peter first picked Carson Palmer. Mary is Mary.
At one point, Peter was acting like a 5 year old and Bill suggested that he act like Carson Palmer, meaning, like an adult. Images flashed in my mind of the notorious behavior of professional athletes, so I began to protest, “Well, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…” Then I pointed to Billy, “He’s HADES.”
“Good point,” said Bill.
Peter changed his name to Joe Hardy.
*******
It was a steak place, this restaurant, but the children’s menu did not have steak on it. The adult menu had 12 oz steaks or larger (or a 6 oz filet mignon for more than the 12 oz sirloin). There was no steak salad or steak burger or anything small and less expensive, so I told Billy he could not have steak. Feeling bad for our carnivorous young son, my husband ordered a steak and gave him some to supplement his chicken finger lunch.
Billy, I mean Hades, when given his portion, responded, “Thank you for your offering.”
If you don’t quite get that, you obviously haven’t read the Percy Jackson books.
*******
More errands. Mary falls asleep. The kids are given an option to stay in the car instead of going into Home Depot for air filters and light bulbs. Katie and Jenny want to come, but the rest will stay.
“Fritz, sit up front and look 12,” I say. He’s been affecting a “mature” look since he was 11 1/2 so I could run quick errands while leaving a sleeping tot in the car.
“I am twelve!”
“Oh. Yeah. Good. Sit up front.”
*******
At Bass Pro shops, nobody wanted to stay in the car. That’s OK. I came prepared with a book. I happily stayed with Mary.
Bill wants to take me out to shoot shotguns. I know, I know. What a lucky lucky gal I am to have a husband with such romantic ideas for dates.
He said he needed ear protection. He said he knows I’m sensitive to things touching me, and thought perhaps the stick-in-your-ear ear plugs might annoy me. “It’s OK. I’ll just go deaf,” I said.
After the errand, he showed me the stick-in-your-ear $0.99 ear plugs he bought – for him. And he showed me the full-cover-over-your-ears, much-more-than-$0.99 ear protection he bought – for me.
This is love.
*******
On the way home, I read him a few snippets from Rachel Balducci’s book. The theme of these excerpts was Chuck Norris. Chuck Norris is not well known in my home…yet. I noticed how eerily quiet the car became when I was reading. My cell phone rang, and I spoke for a minute to a girlfriend. The din from the back of the van was the usual volume – loud. But when I hung up and went back to the book: silence.
*******
We went home and somebody said something else very funny. I can’t remember it. But I do know that Fritz said, “Mom, you have to put this on your blog!” It doesn’t matter what it was, really. His comment wasn’t at all narcissistic, self centered – somebody else was the clever one. And he has very little clue that complete strangers read this blog. He knows my blog is our family history.
We ran errands and took care of business. We ate lunch and spent the day together. We had fun.
It was just an ordinary mundane Saturday, but we want to remember it.
On Camera
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| Why, yes, I would like a sippy cup while I pay bills and listen to Baroque classical music. |
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| Aw, she found my hiding spot. |
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| I’ve found the problem with your sink. |
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| It’s seriously clogged. |
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| Because the linen closet is a great backdrop for a picture. |
10 days later
Did I mention that Mary had a birthday?
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| The pink icing can’t hide the fact that this girl is a cutie pie. |
One reason I love my Dad
At Billy’s soccer game last night, Peter and Mary occupied themselves with coloring. Peter dictated the theme: dinosaurs, which is not Mary’s typical subject matter (being a girly girl she generally draws princesses in pink with lots of frills…maybe ponies with braided manes and flowers…). As usual for her, Mary talked her way through the endeavor and the majority of her prattle was directed at Grandpa who was sitting next to her. My father watched the soccer game, but managed to nod and smile and say the occasional “Oh! How nice!” or answer her questions regarding whether or not dinosaurs had horns or teeth or arms.
At one point Mary asked if dinosaurs had tails. Dad misheard her and with enthusiasm and a perfectly straight face replied:
“Yes, dinosaurs wear heels.”
And match them with their dino purses.
Only 372 days until she turns 4
It’s all coming back to me now: how annoying I find 3 year olds. It has been a few years since I’ve had one of those, and I had forgotten. I will take a 2 year old over a 3 year old any day.
I feel as though we’ve gone back 2 years to that new-toddler stage: unrolled paper towels, unrolled toilet paper, water everywhere, laundry scattered, food as toys and/or “art,” only we’ve added a new element of independence and defiance. Can’t tell her what to do, no ma’am.
And she’s decided that if she loudly screams, people will want to pacify her and give her what she wants.
She’s starting to learn that being diaperless means less padding for the swats to the backside that mom is now doling out on a regular basis. I rarely spank a 1 year old (safety issues mainly). But it seems so necessary to the 3 year old who knows better, but is just checking to see if you’re serious.
Girl, I am serious.
The only thing that keeps them alive at this age, I’m convinced, is their love of imitation and their improved communication skills. It’s hard to stay angry at a child who lisps out, “I sorry Momma,” and then begins to sing “Clean up, clean up,” as she attempts to right her wrong. And when you look up from your dinner plate and see little hands that, only moments before, had been folded reverently in prayer now thickly covered with mashed potatoes, can you help but be a little impressed when she points out the roast beef and carrots and thick onion slices arranged in the form of a face and says, “It’s for my Gwam-ma!”
And of course, there are the frequent moments when she gazes adoringly up into your eyes, smiles broadly, and says, “I wuv you!”
Sigh.
I wuv you, too, little girl. But STOP making messes.
Mary had a little lamb
Actually she didn’t…doesn’t. Recently, she’s been saying to Bill and I, “I don’t know where my sheep is.” She watched a Dora episode where Dora asked if the watcher wanted to go to Mary’s house. Oh, boy, was Mary excited. Dora told all the kids that Mary.hada.little.lamb.Mary.hada.little.lamb. And they were all going to see the little lamb.
Well, Mary’s birthday is rapidly approaching, and I thought I’d get her a little lamb. Being a tactile person, I’d prefer to touch one and find one that was cute and very very soft. But lambs are not very popular, so I haven’t seen any in the stores.
I’ve resorted to online shopping, but it’s hard to tell how soft it is, and if I’m not guaranteed softness, I’ll go with cuteness. But there’s too many choices. And I know, I just know, that there is some Catholic SAHM who hand makes barnyard animals and sells them by word of mouth.
So, I’m looking for recommendations, either a manufacturer of cute, ultra soft plush lambs or a home crafter who can knock one of these little things out in a week or so. Anybody?
To nap or not to nap
Mary is at an in between stage with naps. She won’t fall asleep at a reasonable hour. Then in the late afternoon, she passes out (or is absolutely miserable). And I can’t wake her up for several hours. Then she won’t go to bed until late, and she sleeps a bit later the next day. So she’s not ready for a nap at a good hour. Etcetera.
The other day, I went out to hang up a load of laundry and wrestle spent tomato plants out of the ground. When I came back, I found her thusly, next to my desk. Note, the floor is stone tile – not very comfy. Also note the long sleeve dress, unbuttoned. She was playing dress up. Daytime temps are still in the nineties here, so she’s more than a bit overdressed.
I find these transitional periods wearisome. Very wearisome. At least they’re good for funny photos.
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| Should I color? Do some schoolwork? Eat a lollipop? Naw, I think I’ll just sleep, right here, on the cold hard floor. |
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| First she plunders the lollipop jar, then she passes out, evidence in hand. |
PS: Is anybody else annoyed beyond belief at the new blogger editing? Or is it just me? Can we go back to the way things were?
That’s Monkey for Pippo
Before reading the book for the gazillionth time, Mary and I looked at the cover.
“What’s his name?” I asked, pointing to the little boy.
“Ah…I dunno,” she confessed.
“His name is Tom. And what is the monkey’s name?” I pointed to the stuffed friend.
“Ooo…eee…eee…ah…ooo,” she replied, almost with a straight face.
I didn’t realize my 2 year old spoke Monkey.
New Job Title
Poop Doula.
Wherein I spend a whole lot of time encouraging a toddler to push.
Reit This Way 