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I've got myself all whipped up into a pre-holiday cleaning frenzy. Although I've got sick kids at home, I'm determined to finish the 90,000 little weird tasks I've left undone for eons, so I'm going to take a little blogging hiatus for a couple of days.
Here, have some cookies, and talk amongst yourselves, while I try to channel Super Mom and purge foulness and crud from my home.
Better yet, run on over to MommyBloggers and say hello! We're featuring Karen of Chookooloonks this week.
MommyBloggers is standing up right now, and we've got our next featured blogger up, ready for you!
In a shocking display of pre-holiday bravado, I hauled my family out of their sick beds and over a few ridges and through the woods to cut our Christmas tree!
Egged on by my guilt from my lack of Halloween/Thanksgiving whoop-dee-doo, I decided we needed to get a jump on the holiday decorating. Not that we'd actually start decorating, but having the tree would allow me to decorate at will. No excuses for Mizz Jenny, no siree, not this season.
The kids were fine with it. I wouldn't say excited exactly, but they were willing to go. The husband, however, had an aching back from the virus we were all fighting, and he was less enthusiastic.
When we arrived at the tree farm, I threw open the doors to the mini van. My husband limped along behind me, as I steamrolled ahead, chirping happy noises interspersed with little hummed carols. The kids wiped snotty noses on jacket sleeves and sent ugly, barking coughs into the cool air. I handed my six year old a saw and put a wheeled battering ram into my five year old's control and then sent them off into the rows of trees.
The kids quickly landed on 'the perfect tree.'
"Wow!" I said. "Wow, that's totally not going to work." Really, I take all the fun out of these outings. My son pouted and I sent the skittering over the hills in search of the next 'perfect tree.'
After several rejections on my part, the kids landed on a tree that would fit on top of the van, and I said "Yes!" After a ceremonial circling of the tree trunk to check for bald spots, I proceeded to lamely squat near the base of the tree and attempt to cut it down.
My husband tried to coach me, but there were, like, branches in my face, and I wasn't going to kneel in the mud, so the kids decided they needed to help.
Sadly, we all were too lame, and my husband had to drop to his knees, groaning in pain, and saw through the trunk. I felt bad, but not too bad, because I needed that tree, and besides, he needed to move those muscles so they wouldn't tense up, right?
The kids decided as the tree fell that they picked that one for ME, but they wanted their own tree. Uh-huh. Apparently they had a taste for sawing things down, and they wanted MORE! MORE! I was glad they didn't have axes available.
Since felling the tree pretty much put the husband into agony, I had the kids help me load tree one onto the battering ram, and then off they scampered to get their other tree.
Once we had two trees, I decided we needed to get our Haul-iday spirit mojo working and get these sap-leaking trees up the hill. I told the kids to get a move on.
She gave it her best shot, but made no progress. She did make some pretty good grimaces.
At six years old, I feel a child should be able to carry their tree up the hill to the barn, doesn't everyone?
Alas, it didn't work out that way. Everyone decided that I should pull the trees up the hill. This photo doesn't do it justice. It was steeeeeep.
Oh, there was belly-aching. There were tantrums. There were lots of breaks to rest on the way up the hill. And that was just me.
Happily, we made it up to the barn, managed to wrestle the trees onto the top of the van, and made it home without taking out any cars behind us with our improperly tied-down trees.
Now, I have two trees in buckets in my yard. I feel rather holly jolly. Now I just have to get motivated to find the tree stands.
***except maybe not... looks like we're having issues again this morning. Sigh. We should be up in a hour or two.***
This last couple of days, we've been moving the MommyBloggers site to a new server, which looks to be completed. Everything is ready to go for our next featured blogger, coming tomorrow!
Come play Q&A with us - we've got 15 "getting to know you" questions up.
Either we all overindulged in rich foods, or we are suffering the effects of a virus... the Circus family has been down for the count since 10 o'clock, Thanksgiving night.
The good news/bad news is that we had to cancel our visit with the inlaws. There was no way we could have made the trip, but it's still disappointing for everyone (and I'm sure my MIL thinks I'm LYING to avoid the trip, even though I'M NOT.) Alas, we will reschedule.
Anyway, we arrived at my parents' house for Thanksgiving at 1pm on Thursday. My oldest had stayed overnight the night before to help set up, and we all were in good spirits. The turkey was taking longer than expected, and we all had some (more) wine while we waited.
Fed up with waiting, my daughter began to whine. (Heh. We should have given her some wine with her whine.) "When is the food going to be done? I'm starving!"
We offered her some snacks, and she decided to go the tragic, starved, neglected child route and declared herself not hungry, in fact, she wouldn't eat, not a bite, no not her, not this Thanksgiving, not ever. What can I say, we have a dramatic streak in this family.
I began to make some sympathetic noises towards my drama-queen child, when my mother decided she wasn't about to listen to the baloney.
(Remember, we'd all had a couple of glasses of wine.)
"Young lady! You will sit at the dinner table, and if you don't want to eat the food, that's fine. We will cut your throat open and the food can fall right out of your neck onto the floor. But you will sit at the table with the family and ENJOY THE MEAL."
Whoa. Grandma is hardcore. Don't even think about ruining the holiday with your whining.
There was a moment of stunned silence as we all processed what had been said. Then we started laughing hysterically. My daughter skipped off into the other room, oblivious.
At dinner, we kept finding excuses to work "I'll cut your throat" into conversation. I think someone said "I'm glad Mom doesn't have any good knives" as we did our most-thankful-for rounds of the table. Good fun, people.
Apparently, this same impulse must live at my core, too.
***MommyBloggers is down temporarily - must be server stuff. Check back - we'll be posting our final installment of our blogger Q&A as soon as we can, and I promise you it is some funny, funny stuff.***
I am an eatin' machine the last few days. It seems that PMS is upon me, for once at a time when food will be plentiful and overeating encouraged.
I'm trying to decide right now if it is worth it to just go ahead and eat the pumpkin pie, and then have to brave the store this afternoon, or if I should maybe just eat all the whipped cream.
Safe travels to all of you who are heading out to celebrate with family. Good luck to all you last minute grocery shopping warriors. And to all of you who waste a few minutes of your life on Three Kid Circus: I'm truly grateful! Have a wonderful Thankgiving, or um, a great Thursday.
I just finished putting away a load of laundry, and returned to the kitchen to find a naked toddler standing in the middle of the kitchen table.
"Are you a rocket, Mama? Are you a flying pig?"
I didn't know how to answer that.
Yesterday, we picked up a pretend medical kit at Target. The kids spent most of the evening yesterday using the stethescope and fighting over the "Dr. Feelgood" nametag. Oh, the plans I have for the "Dr. Feelgood" nametag...
My oldest said, "Dr. Lauck sounds kind of snappy, doesn't it?" I guess it does.
Later, at dinner, the same six year old kid announced: "I just can't ever get enough barbecued chicken. I've tried, and I just can't."
Meanwhile, across the table, my five year old son took a bite of the garlic bread. "Ooh! It's burning my mouth! Spicerooni!" he yelped while swigging orange juice. "It is hot?" I asked. "It's the goodness of the garlic burning your intentions out. The orange juice is goodness too," explained my six year old, while my son nodded soberly as if this made perfect sense to him.
I've also just noticed a sign on the wall outside the little kids' bedroom - it was obviously made by my son, requesting that girls sign in before entering. My three year old trotted up to the sign and demanded to know if the sign is in hieroglyphics. I stammered for a minute and she put her hand on her hip and said "Whattdya think this is, ancient Egypt?"
But what do I know? I'm just a rocket, a flying pig.
First off - trot on over to Mommybloggers and see who our special guest is this week!
Ahem.
Wow, I am spectacularly bad at managing my time! I can't seem to accomplish anything lately. I'm running days behind on answering emails and phone calls. I am doing laundry on a crisis basis, one immediate need load at a time. I am making meals the same way.
There has to be some sort of medal event for this level of incompetence.
I'm so busy putting one load in and taking one load out, doing the hokey pokey and turning myself around that it has just occured to me that Thanksgiving is (hello!) THIS WEEK. And Christmas is one short month away, and I'm sitting on nothing. NO THINGS, people.
I'm going to have to *gasp* bust some serious moves if I want to actually get this holiday stuff done.
Remember my big lament about boo-hoo, I didn't decorate for Halloween and I'm ruining my childrens' memories? Yeah. Nothing going on for turkeyday yet, either. What is wrong with me? Why haven't I begun my Christmas shopping? Why am I procrastinating on everything?
I'm a big old mess! But! I'm hopeful that spending time with my family on Thursday, followed by a quick overnighter to the inlaws the next day, will either fill me with love and the spirit of the season, or will kill me quickly and entirely, boom. Thank goodness we're just guests this year, because I sense that I would be spontaneously combust should I be required to perform hostess duties. I'd be a big old greasy, charred stain on the rug. With maybe a foot left over.
I'm going to keep turning myself around, hoping to find a fresh, unblemished cheek to put forward. That is what it's all about, right?
Yesterday was a horrid day. Not horrid in the 'zombies attacked my town' sense, but the more mundane 'three kids home with various ailments' horrid.
We started off the morning with whining and demands for astounding new breakfast foods, served by a food-eating battle monkey (thanks Busymom!)and featuring a music and light show. I had only ordinary breakfast foods. Lo, there were tantrums.
Shortly thereafter, it was time to get the kids ready for a trip to the doctor's office.
*insert screaming here*
It was like a barrel racing event at the rodeo, man. I was zigging and zagging between the dresser and the kid and the closet and the other kid and the dryer and the last kid, trying to keep my circles tight and not knock anything over. I should have envisioned this part as whatever the event is called where they hogtie a calf because that would have been helpful.
They cried over the inferior breakfast. They cried over wearing shoes. They sobbed over teeth brushing. The howled when I attempted to brush their hair. I gritted my teeth and winced as I tried to get all three into the van without their voices, united in fury and woe, shattering the neighbor's windows.
"Waa waa waa waaa waa wa waaa waaaah."
I know I actually explained to them how I expected them to behave at the doctor's office (or anywhere, really) but I don't think they heard me over all the bawling. I just turned up the CD and sang along with "Life is Wonderful
When did I get so callous to their cries? Probably when they started crying about breakfast cereal and sitting in the back seat as opposed to the middle seat.
The doctor's office was a disaster. All three kids were great in the waiting room, but as soon as they put us in the padded holding cell, their chimpanzee ancestry became apparently. "Ooh-ooh-ah!" They ricocheted around the room, touching everything.
"Hey, let's read a book!" I pulled the first one off the stack. It's Old MacDonald's Farm. Rock on.
I led the kids in a rousing rendition of Old MacDonald's Farm. Ah! Happy kids singing joyously. I am an AWESOME MOTHER.
That lasted until it was time to sing about the first animal. And on his farm he had a cow..."
"Nooo, M-O-M he had a pig!"
"The book says cow."
"Pig!"
My youngest chimed in with an ear splitting "Cock-a-doodle-dooooo!"
My son just started sobbing again, shoulders shaking and nose running.
"What is it?" I am baffled.
"It is supposed to be a baa-baa here and baa-baa there."
The doctor walked in on our heated animal noise discussion. The kids were good for about thirty seconds, and then they resumed their ping-ponging off hard surfaces. I forced the six year old into a chair, strapped the two year old into her stroller and held my son tight on my lap. Our conversation was hurried, and we agreed to do any follow up via email.
I am NOT an awesome mother.
We blasted a hole in the side of the building with the sonic shock created by my children's lilting voices, and with me blithely apologizing to all civilians within earshot, we tra-la-aaargh-la'd our way to the van.
Back at home, I decided it was nap time for everyone. They decided it wasn't. I flexed my considerable mommy muscles and sent my oldest to her room to play, put my son on my bed with educational TV on, and snuggled my youngest up on her bed. After fifteen minutes, the baby was asleep, but my oldest had entered the room with her brother, and was gleefully keeping him awake.
They were giggling and wrestling around. I snarled something around the door frame about not hurting themselves and stop it and I mean it now, you two. I untangled myself from the baby's grasp and headed to the kitchen to get a drink. Moments later, there was a giant *thwack* and then my daughter started screaming.
My son was hiding under the bed, while my daughter sat in the middle of the mattress, mouth bloody. She had smacked her upper front teeth on my iron bed frame in a WWF-approved move. Luckily, the teeth were still intact, and the blood was from a cut frenulum, not some other major injury. Still, she was scared, and it took a long time to calm her down.
I was scared too. What if I had to take them to the dentist's office?
Luckily, a phone call to the dentist confirmed that we could treat it at home. I snuggled my little bruisers up in blankets on two different couches.
Returning to the scene of the face-bashing, I looked for any blood on the sheets or blankets. Instead, I found that my son had written the entire alphabet on the wall beside the bed. Hey! He can write the whole alphabet... hey wait a minute. That's not okay! A few test scrubs revealed that a fresh coat of paint is in my near future.
Head spinning, I march out to the living room to discuss this new discovery, and find my youngest, squatting in the hallway, eating a stick of butter.
I confiscated the butter, and ran a bath. Then I made myself a cup of coffee.
My husband arrived home to find me shaking and ranting to myself. He stepped effortlessly into the 'good cop' role, discussing the day's events rationally and calmly. I stood in the back, waving my finger around, hand on my hip, but finally finding a little bit of humor.
Midway through his talk with the kids, he spontaneously decided to demonstrate armpit farts. Fascinated, my kids crowded around, as their father did the funky chicken, accompanied by crude noises. My son HAD TO LEARN THAT RIGHT NOW. I watched as my husband passed on the sacred knowledge to my children. I watched as he gently encouraged them, and assured them that with enough practice, they too could make disgusting noises with their pits.
I know it sounds crazy, but seriously, that break in the mood, that unbridled silliness made me swoon a little bit.
I put the kids to bed tonight at their appointed hour, despite their best arguments. Not tired? Too bad! Thirsty? You may have one sip of water from this bottle I have right here. You may not pass go, you may not watch SpongeBob. I am so tough!
As I left their rooms, I imagined arming a sophisticated, laser-controlled system that would ensure the kids would stay in bed. Pressure sensitive floor, perhaps some ion cannons that track movement... that would be awesome! Blast their little buns right back into bed!
I watched Tomb Raider
Now excuse me, while I take my eggnog and direct my children back to their beds for the 900th time. (I really need some ion cannons.)
Today was my son's kindergarten Thanksgiving play - "Tommy the Turkey." We saw the same production last year when my daughter did it, and can I just say "Wow! They really do the same thing every year!"
My son proudly presented me with the invite to the production last week, and I assured him that I would be there with bells on. He talked about it over and over and over and I sort-of blocked some of it out, but I think we can agree that the important thing to remember here is that I knew when the thing was, and I was going to be there, camera in hand.
This morning dawned what felt like hours before I was ready to drag my carcass out of the sheets. Before I was fully upright, my son was at my side, tugging on my hand, chirping something about needing to wear a red shirt yadda yadda yadda. I'm really sharp first thing in the morning. Once I had a hot cup of coffee in hand, I helped him select a red shirt from the closet.
See, he had to wear a red shirt, because he was going to be a redheaded woodpecker in the play, and it would really help the overall story if he had a red shirt on. I lucked out and had one clean. Whew!
I arrived minutes before the play started, because my youngest was on the verge of either a nap or a nuclear meltdown, and it was touch and go whether bringing her into a classroom full of parents with video cameras would be a good idea. I bribed her with some crackers and we made our way into the back of the room.
My son beamed at me under his red construction paper beak. The teacher's aide smiled with relief - since I had arrived so close to showtime, they were worried that I would miss it. Apparently, the boy had been stressing a little.
Anyway, as the teacher turned on some music for the kids to sing along to, my son keeled over on the floor, and then rolled around for a few moments, twirling his ankles, before he flopped over onto his stomach and tucked his legs under him in a butt high in the air, beak crushed on the carpet yoga pose. All this was going on while the kids were sort of mumbling along to the Raffi cassette.
He was half hidden behind the other three woodpeckers, so I don't think his antics ruined anyone's footage. After the song, he straightened up as the little girl who played the turkey made her rounds. The turkey girl was hilarious. She had this walk and posturing that sold the whole turkey persona. Her mother was dying next to me, and said it was all the kid's idea.
Anyway, the play goes something like this:
Turkey has beautiful feathers. Runs into some mean bunnies, who taunt the turkey until it goes home and dyes itself so that it is white like the bunnies. Turkey runs into taunting bluebirds, dyes itself blue. Cruel woodpeckers, goes for red. Yellow something or other - dyes itself yellow. Black cats? You betcha. Turkey goes goth. Then, finally, Old Man and Old Woman spot the now completely humiliated and insecure turkey, and taunt it, and then take it home to turn it a nice golden brown Thanksgiving color.
The End!
Happy Thanksgiving!
Uh. I guess reinacting the whole Pilgrim/Native American dinner thing is politically incorrect, but I'm just not sure on the message of "Tommy the Tortured Turkey." I'm overthinking.
So, my kid snapped to, and performed his lines "Ha ha ha, hee hee hee, you're the silliest turkey I ever did see. You should be red like me, since everyone knows the most beautiful color is red." Shortly thereafter, he went back to laying on his side and fidgeting on the carpet.
After the bows from the play, the kids were singing another Raffi song, but my son had to go to the bathroom. The kids sat in a semi circle and sort of mumbled the words and did hand motions, while my son sat on the toilet and belted out an improvised song about love and turkeys and being grateful and hand soap.
He sort of drowned out the mumbling Raffi-farians. I'm so, so proud. We might have ruined a few videos with that little stunt.
At the cookie party after, my son posed for photos and ate a cookie, and then he was ready to go home. On the way out, the teacher caught my arm and confessed that my crack from the previous day was a hit with the staff - when she told me that my son had been really wiggly and out of control, I told her that he was always like that when he was sick. And then I told her that the way we always know that the kids are getting sick is when they act like they are possessed for a day or two. Usually after 24 hours of satanic behavior, noses start running.
Do normal parents not say things like that to teachers? Oops.
I thought back to my own kindergarten thanksgiving production, where if I remember the story correctly, I hid behind my little boyfriend's back and picked my nose through the whole thing. My parents must have been as mortified and yet amused as I am today.
Q: Why do the pilgrim's pants keep falling down?
A: Because they have their belt buckle on their hat!
Once again, my own childhood quirks come roaring back to bite me in the ass.
I'll tell you what didn't come from me, though. My oldest has been to Starbucks with me a grand total of four times. She may have gone with my husband an additional once or twice. We visited Target the other day, and I offered to buy them a pretzel at the end of the shopping trip. We sat down and my daughter demanded to know why Target had the same light fixtures as Starbucks.
They had a little Starbucks in Target, so cute! But we were around the corner from any displays with the logo. My six year old noticed the lights, and knew where she had seen them before and SHE DID NOT GET THAT FROM ME. I don't notice details like that. She's really starting to scare me with all this observing and remembering and the planning. My God. The planning. She's still on about her birthday (March) but is also cooking up an itinerary for our vacation to Florida. (June) And she's concerned that she doesn't have anything green for St. Patricks Day. And she thinks that a barbecue would be nice for Father's Day.
I gave birth to an events planner. Have mercy.
I'm sitting here at my desk with a stack of envelopes in front of me. My six- (and a half, M-O-M, sheesh) year-old daughter and five-year-old son spent two hours asking for more paper, and more envelopes. And more paper again. And some more envelopes.
I got short with them a few times. "I just gave you a stack of paper!" and "I need some of those envelopes. You can't have them all."
My daughter spends a lot of time making invitations to her future birthday parties, so I figured that was what she was up to. My son usually spends his time drawing the same animals over and over. An elephant, a brontosaur, a penguin and a 'cantaloupe' which is really an antelope. Oh! And he draws giraffes. He also draws a representation of our van. He draws all of these things and then asks me to cut them out so that he can play with them.
I've lost my temper over that, too. I get tired of cutting out 'cantaloupes' and giraffes. When I asked him why he didn't just keep the pictures, he told me that he was using these drawings to reinact our Safari West trip, so that "it would stay alive in his heart forever." That was good for a few more cut-outs. I'm a sucker for his dramatics.
Anyway, after handing over half a ream of paper and about 30 envelopes, I caught the kids trying to sneak out the front door.
"Where are you going?" They looked at me sheepishly, and said "we're going to the mailbox to mail our letters."
I had a bunch of flylady stickers (don't ask) and they had used them for stamps. I asked them who the letters were for, and they hid them behind their backs.
"The mail carrier won't take those, I don't think, unless you have the postage."
"M-O-M-M-Y - can you go over there please?" The kids had a whispered pow-wow.
I went into the kitchen and waited. The kids came around the corner, arms linked. They smiled at me and said "Special Delivery for M-O-M-M-Y!" They pressed 20 fat envelopes into my hands. I looked at the first one.
Frume Me
Too Mommy
The next one was different.
"Mommy" was encased in a giant, crooked heart.
The third was a variation on the same theme.
I thanked the little letter writing fools, and opened the first one. Scrawled across the clumsily folded page was a drawing of an elephant with a huge smile and giant teeth. I (Heart) U Mom was written in my son's shaky hand underneath.
The next letter was more polished. I love you mommy evun if you don get me a hors. It was signed with a curly-cue flourish, this time in my daughter's cursive.
On and on I read. Each letter was different, but all of them are love notes. I'll bundle them up and put them in my keepsake box.
I feel like an ass for assuming that their use of paper (all $2 worth) and envelopes (maybe $1) was wasteful. Instead, I got 20 love letters from my two oldest children. A priceless gift, and a perfect reminder to lighten up.
*** THIS JUST IN ****
Mommybloggers.com is back up, once again. Come visit us and read all about the witty and so, so pretty Mir!
It seems that we've had so much interest over at MommyBloggers.com that we've overwhelmed the server. We (and by 'we' I mean Jenn's husband) are working on whatever issues and we (I mean the mommybloggers) are cursing demanding gnashing our teeth waiting patiently to bring you our interview with Mir of Woulda Coulda Shoulda, and the rest of the great content we have planned for this week.
I have been slacking on some of my hausfrau duties lately. The laundry mocks me. The dishes scoff. The clutter is multiplying and I'm spinning around in the center of it all, like a Jenny shaped tornado. I sort of pick things up, and then redistribute them, occasionally flinging things into the next county. It is chaos around here.
The kids have been sick, and irrational. Ha! I just cracked myself up. When are they EVER rational? But yes, the Sick seems to intensify the Crazy and it feels like I am the cruise director on an understaffed pleasure cruise for lunatics.
Suggesting shuffleboard runs the risk of having a puck tossed at your head. The buffet is missing the one food that would make life worth living. The 'guests' are all hungover, lurching around the rolling decks in search of a drink waitress. The guests also keep switching cabins, refuse to dress for dinner, keep attempting to leap overboard and are like bulls in the (duty-free) china shop.
And then, of course, you have the stressed out, also sick captain, who just wants to hole up in the lounge and watch a show.
Mutiny is just around the corner - will the guests win, or will the cruise director wrestle the control back, and return the ship to safe waters?
Stay tuned and find out.
Holy Crasheroli! We've had such a huge interest in todays interview with Mir of Woulda Coulda Shoulda that our servers are behaving badly.
I've put up a mirror of the main MommyBloggers page here:
Hopefully, we'll be up and running with the interview shortly - you won't want to miss it.
If you've got little girls, you have to check out Shanonn's beautiful hairbows at her online store. Perfect for all those holiday outfits.
When she starts making them with some sort of electric current that zaps hairbow yanking fingers, I'll be all over them. Go shop, and tell her I sent you :)
Also, come on over to MommyBloggers today and see who we've got in the hotseat!
I've mentioned my children's lack of joke telling ability before. This is not to say that they are lacking humor. Oh, no. The joke telling thing is something I'm afraid I passed down to them.
See, I can hear a really great joke. "Oh! That's a great one!" I tell myself, and I promptly shove it into my brain, where is balances on top of a stack of crap collected over the last few hundred years.
If I tell this joke within 1.25 minutes after hearing it, I have a good shot at telling it right. Otherwise, my brain starts messing with it. I sort-of have a little problem with embellishing. I like to add a bunch of little 'extras' to make the joke 'better' - fatal mistake number one. As I retell (and embellish the crap out of) the joke, I often get swept away in my narrative. A confused look on the face of the person I've cornered for joke-repeating purposes signals that it's time to bring it on home. I stretch my little brain towards the punchline. If I actually remember the punchline, I start giggling and ruin the effect. I get a weak 'oh, ha ha' from my captive audience. If, as is more usual, I remember how the joke ends, but not the punchline, I try to wing it. Disaster. Another joke lies massacred at my feet, while the person I'm trying to amuse laughs AT ME.
To hear me tell it, I'm super funny. Known for my sense of humor, in fact. Just not for my joke telling ability, okay? So it isn't all that surprising that my kids can't tell a joke to save their lives.
Last night, I was showing my oldest a bunch of websites about hamsters. She's had this idea that she wants me to help her build a website about hamsters. I poo-poohed this idea, and decided to do a little web-surfing to show her that there are already many sites about hamsters. Another website about hamsters? I just don't see how that is needed. (Says the woman who just co-launched another site for mommybloggers...I clearly could be wrong here, but I'm just not feeling the hamster thing.)
Anyway. After squashing that dream, we stumbled across a kid's site with jokes! Wooo! I began to read through some Thanksgiving jokes. All punchlines were met with silence. "How is that funny?" my girl wanted to know. I found myself trying to explain, which kills a joke dead. "Oh, you know. Turkeys say gobble? Right? Huh? Gobble?"
Help. Us.
My girl then tried her hand at Thanksgiving jokes. "Mommy, why did the turkey run away from the pilgrims? Because he didn't want to get eaten! Get it, mom? Get it?"
I pulled her into a hug. "Oh, honey. You're just not a good joke teller." (Hi! Mother of the Year - special jury prize for crushing egos!)
"I know, M-O-M. I just keep trying, every day." She smiled sadly.
"I know, honey. Maybe you're just too funny for jokes."
"Yes. And I know everything about hamsters."
"You really do, sweetheart. You're the hamster expert."
"That's why I need a website."
All three kids are leaking poisonous-looking green stuff, and I'm thinking that this is yet another spectacular example of how Jenny Month is truly over. Are you listening, parenting gods? I'm totally hearing what you are trying to say. Next year it will be Jenny Week.
Last night, after an unenthusiastic dinner, I gave the kids some medicine and snuggled up with all three kids in my bed. I must have fallen asleep around 8:30, but when my husband came to bed at 10, I was suddenly wide awake. We scooted the kids into the middle of the mattress and soon his snores joined the barnyard of sounds produced by my children.
The girls slept well, but my son tossed and turned. He coughed and spluttered and actually bit me twice while I tried to stop him from grinding his teeth. His arms and legs were in constant motion, and despite the dose of medicine, he just couldn't relax.
He slept, though.
Me? I lay awake, dodging flailing limbs and thinking about the past day. Taking inventory is my 'favorite' insomnia activity.
I thought back on picking my son up at school. He beamed at me, gave me a huge hug and kiss, and then excused himself to go give a round of hugs to all his friends once more before we could go. He still doesn't know half of their names. Nonetheless, he's apparently well-liked.
When I met my daughter at the door of her classroom, she stomped out, sullen. I bent to give her a hug, and she burst into tears.
"What's wrong?"
"Susie says I can't play with Janie anymore because she's only allowed to play with her."
I hate playground politics. I was rather indifferent to it, never being truly popular, but never an outcast, either. But it is very obvious that I do not share my thick skin with my daughter. She is easily wounded, and takes things personally.
"Well, what did Janie say?"
"She didn't talk to me. Only Susie."
I am so bad at this stuff. So bad. I guess I'm going to have to talk to the teacher and see what is going on from her perspective. I could tell my daughter that it doesn't matter, that Susie is just being a meanie, and that of course Janie will still play with her. I've been on playgrounds, however, and I've seen what kind of influence the Susies of the world can wield over the Janies.
I know that it matters to my daughter, and I don't want to minimize her concerns. I never understood the whole social standing thing, and I am sure that this little "you'll play with who I say" power play by Susie will be forgotten by Monday. Their friendships are so fluid at this age.
I gathered her up in my arms, and I told her that Janie can play with whoever she wants, and she probably just wanted to play with Susie. I kissed her wet cheek, and told her that even though Susie tried (and succeeded) to hurt my daughter's feelings by excluding her, that Susie's not the only kid on the playground, and she should enjoy her other friends.
It's awful, because I know that kids are always going to act this way, and I suspect my daughter has done it to other kids, just judging from her occasional treatment of her siblings. It sucks to be on the receiving end. Hopefully, her sense of humor, her sense of fairness, and her self-esteem will keep her from being too hurt by this alpha-girl behavior.
Gah.
Somebody needs to soothe me. Who wants to hold me, patting my back while I repeat odd phrases, over and over?
I've been brought to the brink of insanity today by a series of seemingly unrelated, unimportant events.
1) Picture retake day at school is also "pajama day" at school. Does anyone see a dilemma with this? I mean, in theory, it's no biggie, except when you are five and six, you are all about school spirit. ALL ABOUT IT. And the recorded message from the school announcing that all the class photos were messed up, so please bring your children to school in 'photo' clothes, and send their pajamas for them to change into...just, no. I did not send the pajamas, and I am a horrible, evil witch. But, like, RESCHEDULE PAJAMA DAY. Or cancel it.
2) I, against my better judgement, allowed my oldest daughter to get one of those motorized dogs that respond to certain stimuli. They bark and whimper and move their heads. Whatever. It's not like we have a real dog. (Donna the Dog resents this new intruder as much as I do.)
Anyway, I let her take the thing along in the car on the way to Photo/Pajama Day, but made her leave it behind. I left straight from the school for my morning of random errands and music class with my youngest. Every bump in the road triggered whimpers and panting noises, combined with a creepy motorized head turning sound.
So, I'm driving along, listening to this high pitched "huhhhn huhhhn huhhhn" followed by a grinding "whirrrrrrr" sound. Every 30 seconds.
I did the smart thing, and pulled over, only to find that there is no off switch. And I didn't have a screwdriver to take the thing apart. I threw it into the trunk, at which point my youngest started howling and screaming for "doggie come baaaaaaack!"
Mutter Binga Shuga Mugga. Fine. I hand her the dog, and resume our course towards HELL.
3) We stopped to pick up some soft-soled shoes at a wonderful children's store and I ended up buying a little wooden whistle for my daughter. Another dubious parenting choice! I loaded her back into the car, and between the "huhhhn huhhhhn huhhhn" and "whirrrrrr" and "toot-toooooot!" I was feeling edgy.
4) Music class was fun, and my daughter fell asleep in the car on the way home, whistle still in her mouth, making little tweeting sounds as she breathed. I turned up some music, drowning out the sound of the whining fake dog. I rewarded myself with a little something-something in the form of an Eggnog Latte. "Why, hello, Eggnog Latte! Mmmm. You smell delicious! Why don't I just spill you down the front of myself before I get more than two sips?"
Yeah. So now, I'm just rocking back and forth, muttering and making a mechanical whining sound while smelling vaguely of nutmeg.
Oh! And my clothes dryer isn't working. See? It's fantastic to be me today!
Last night, after the kids were tucked into bed, I puttered around the house, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I put away some laundry. I watched a little television, but got distracted. I surfed a little on the computer, but felt restless.
My husband came into the kitchen and started nosing around in the cupboard for a little something to snack on.
"Didn't you just go shopping?"
"Yes. But I deliberately didn't buy any junk food." I said this smugly, because I'm actually losing some weight right now, and am feeling righteous about it.
"But...I'm craving something yummy."
"What? Dinner wasn't good enough for you?" This is such a joke because turkey breast, steamed broccoli and carrots and mashed potatoes totally don't fall in the 'yummy' category. I mean, okay. They are yummy, but not YUMMY.
"I want something sweeeeeet." Oy. I know where the kids get their whining from.
I sent him out of the kitchen and decided to make a little desserty thingie for him. I pulled some sugar and butter and vanilla and heavy cream out, and decided to make a caramel sauce for dipping apples.
Within a few minutes, I had the sugar bubbling away, whisked in the cream, vanilla and butter and poured the whole sinful smelling mix into a pan to cool. I knew there was a reason that pastry chef classes rocked. Also, a reason that my tush is ginormous.
The caramel was setting up pretty firm, not really saucy, so I decided to forgo the apples and just eat the caramel straight out of the pan, with a spoon.
I took a heaping spoonful into the living room, where my husband was crashed out asleep. I woke him, handed him the spoon, and returned to the kitchen. I decided that I would have a little as well. I mean, I made the stuff, right?
Oh my caramelly goodness. I ate a giant mouthful of the stuff, and then put the rest away for "the kids" to eat "after school."
Well, guess what? It's 10 am, and I've just snarfed down the last piece with a second cup of coffee. The kids didn't even know that it existed. My husband only got that one spoonful. And I don't feel the least bit guilty.
Because, in my opinion, I still didn't buy any junk food at the store. Really, homemade caramel is downright wholesome, when you think about it. I've discovered that sharing a simple, dessert like this with my family (hah!) can be a fine idea. Because I totally did make it for them.
I made it (and ate it) with love.
I've always loved that expression for sore feet.
Anyway, it applies today. "Woof!" says my left foot. "Arooof!" says my right foot. This is starting to remind me of Sandra Boyton's Doggies
"Arf Arf Arf!"
I went to see Jason Mraz last night, and stood through the show (which was fantastic!) and by the end, my feet were throbbing uncomfortably. I hobbled back to the car, and drove home. I got in at 1:30 am, which is waaaay past my bedtime on a school night, and despite sleeping like a log (and waking up with last night's eyeliner giving me a stunning resemblance to Alice Cooper) my feet still haven't recovered.
Obviously, the answer here is for me to pull out my box of bon-bons and commence with the ass-sitting, soap-opera watching and bon-bon eating we stay-at-home-moms are known for. Alas, we seem to be fresh out of treats. Perhaps I will stoop to putting left-over halloween jimmies on my toast. But the feet-up channel surfing is going to have to wait, I fear.
The concert was supposed to be an excuse for my sister, brother and I (and my bro's girlfriend) to hang out. But my sister is in Europe right now, and my brother broke up with his girlfriend, so I just went with my brother. Can I tell you how gleeful I was to be carded and get a big old "over 21" stamp on my hand from a surly, sunflower seed chomping security person? I know everyone was carded, but I'm pretending it's because I am so young-looking.
The Fillmore is a weird venue, where you stand on the dance floor, and perhaps dance, or mosh, depending on the band. Or you just stand, and maybe twitch occasionally. There seems to be a rule that if you are over 6', you will stand in front of me.
My rule is that if you are blocking my view, I will totally poke you in the back and ask if I can stand in front of you because I am so little/young/cute. Worked like 4 times, netting me an unobstructed view of the show. Sorry, tall people! You shouldn't have to move, just because I am short. But dude, there should be a tall people section and a short people section. It's just logical.
I feel tired today, but if there is one thing that motherhood prepares you for, it is functioning on a few hours of sleep. The unusual part of this tiredness is I asked for it, and I'm totally not complaining (husband, are you listening?) because I got to go play out in the real world, boss around some tall people, see Robin Williams in the balcony, and see some great performances.
I'm a lucky dog. Even if my dogs are barking.
Over at MommyBloggers - we've got our first special guest interview today... come say hello!
Goodbye, Pumpkin Spice Latte. Oh sure, those baristas are still making you, but I've had enough of your cloying sweetness, your oily aftertaste. No, PSL, it's time for me to move on. I've been a one fancy-pants kind of coffee girl for too long.
Oh, no. Don't look so sad. I still love you! I really do. But I have to get out there, taste some new coffees. It's not you. It's me.
Come on, Gingerbread Latte. Let's get out of here.
*winking over my shoulder at Eggnog Latte and Peppermint Mocha, and mouthing "I'll be back, fellas!"*
Together with Jenn Satterwhite of Mommy Needs Coffee and Meghan Townsend of I'm Ablogging, I cordially invite everyone to come and check out our brand-spanking new site:
Since our panel at BlogHer 2005, we've been looking for a way to change perceptions about "fluffy mommy blogging" and to promote some fantastic writers. With the launch of mommybloggers.com, we are planning on doing just that.
With a new featured blogger every week, and fresh content daily, we hope to amuse and enlighten our readers. Come on by, and bring a friend!
Ladies and Gentlemen! Prepare to be astounded as Mizz Jenny Lauck tumbles ass over teakettle from her high horse of doom! She will go shrieking from the height of insane tongue-lashing to her final point inches above the arena floor.
Don't look away, folks, or you'll miss the miraculous rebound, full of relieved laughter as she shoots skyward once again, ricocheting merrily above the center ring before coming to a swinging stop in midair!
Thrills and chills at Three Kid Circus, these last few days! I've been mean, rude, and uncharacteristically morose. Ask me a simple question like "How was your day?" and I'll give you a laundry list of complaints. Every time a kid opens their mouth, I heave a melodramatic sigh and act martyred. "Juice? You want JUICE?"
I wish I had something obvious to blame it on. I'm busy, sure. I'm experiencing a nice bout of PMS, and I'm feeling guilty as all get out. Cover your heads! Incoming confessions!
I never managed to get the house decorated for Halloween, beyond a few scattered items. I used to relish the decorating, spending entire days setting things up just right. I'd sit back at the end of my decor spree and light a few scented candles and enjoy. The last few years, I've been doing a lousy job of it.
Same thing with all the holidays, come to think of it. I've been slacking on the seasonal decorations. I've also been lax in the seasonal celebration department, too. This isn't such a big deal for me, but for my kids, my oldest in particular, it is just awful. She wants a big fuss. And I want her to have a big fuss. I just don't want to have to orchestrate it all.
When I was growing up, my mom and dad bent over backwards to make sure that the holidays were marked with fanfare. We had a decorated house, homemade treats and fancy dinners. No matter how little money there was, we had a bounty of thoughtful gifts and made happy memories. My mom carefully built little family traditions that carry on to this day. I realize now that my parents had to work hard to make all that happen. Growing up, it was automatic.
I want those same things for my kids, but I'm struggling to make it happen. My husband grew up in a family with no festive celebrations of any kind, so he's no help. I'm at war with My Lazy over the need to haul out a box of nicknacks to scatter around for a few weeks at most. I am trying to find my holiday spirit, and it's somewhere sunny and sandy, thumbing its nose at me.
The thing is, I want my children's memories of the holidays to be joyous like mine. I know that these years are fleeting, and I've let holidays go by in a blur, assigning no meaning, only going through the motions. I have no doubt that my parents had to put on a brave face and pretend for us sometimes. I never knew, though. The old fake it until you make it clause comes into play - I only hope I can sell it to my super observant children.
I don't want to plaster a smile on my face and unclench my teeth. I want to be excited about it. I want to be wrapped in magic. I want to be generous and open. I want to enjoy every minute. I want to do everything with love.
The look for me this season? Bootstraps. I believe I'll start yanking myself up by them right now.
Halloween comes once a year,
The ghosts and goblins we need not fear,
For they are boys and girl like me,
Dressed up so cute for all to see...
We survived another Halloween here at Three Kid Circus. More than survived. We had a great time, largely due to the planning and organization of other parents. Not one to pass up a chance to toot my own horn, I'll say that both class parties went off without a hitch, the kids had fun, and I wasn't manic at all. Okay, well. Maybe just a little. But I'll come back to that.
We went to a pumpkin patch on Sunday, a new one for our family. The kids loved pulling around tiny red wagons and pushing around the wheel barrows. We ran around, choosing the perfect pumpkins, again and again. Favorites lasted for mere seconds until the next orange globe peeked out from under green leaves and winked. Seductive pumpkins this year.
Finally, unable to choose one pumpkin each, we loaded the wagons and steered the kids back to the hay maze, where they rambled around, giggling and whooping. We allowed ourselves to be 'scared' at every "BOO!" adding to the hilarity. We finally untangled the kids from the hay, and headed home so that I could start baking cookies.
I baked 24 cookies for my oldest's class to decorate, which was nothing except the cookie cutter the teacher provided was larger than my hand, and I could only bake four cookies at a time, at 20 minutes per cycle. 8 batches of dough were needed to complete this giant cookie process. I love to bake, so it wasn't a problem - except it was difficult to keep the kids away from the dough. They don't fear salmonella, no matter how I explain it.
I also made the deviled eggs ala Jenijen. The kids loved them! I also ate a fair amount of them myself, making me all egg-breathy. Finally, I made a run, sans kids, to HALLOWEEN SUPERSTORE to brave the crowds and get myself a witch hat.
Oh. My... I'm so glad I didn't bring my kids. It was housed in an old grocery store, and it was gory corpses and scary masks as far as the eye could see, in all directions. You had to wind your way through all this truly nasty stuff to get to the kids' area, and frankly, I know that Halloween has become more about adults, and is getting more 'hollywood' every year, but I felt horrible for the kids who were hiding their faces in their hands, or looking around with scared expressions.
I scored a witch hat, and then made my way home. After the kids crashed, I loaded up party supplies, boxed up my giant cookies, and laid out costumes. I curled up on the couch and fell asleep watching "Most Haunted" after about five minutes. I woke with a jolt some time later, and stumbled back to bed.
Halloween morning, I got the kids up and fed, and then slipped them into their costumes. My son wore his knight costume, and my oldest wore her princess dress. My youngest always trips over the hem of her dress, so I pulled out a costume from years past. She announced "I'm not an elephant! I'm a camel!"
I think the trunk betrayed her, but that's just me.
We walked to school and back, and then I loaded up the car and headed in for a double-header of fiestas. I dressed myself as a witch. In hindsight, not such a departure from my normal.
Other moms rock. Seriously. My last minute planning would have been horrible if all these other moms hadn't just stepped up and made cute snacks, and hadn't shown up to help lead games, and make crafts. We had plenty of helpers for each class, and plenty of food and activities. Whew!
I got rave reviews for bringing all the party stuff in a giant orange and black tub. Yay me! Heh.
As the first party wound down, the kids lined up for their halloween parade, and I scampered, my youngest in tow, over to the first grade classroom to begin decorating. Again, I was met by five or six other moms, who did cute things with the crepe paper streamers I handed over, and got everything all set up, so that the party ran like clockwork.
My youngest was cranky, and I was starting to do that little screaming noise on the inside, freaking out silently about dealing with her for another hour and a half, when my husband appeared in the doorway. He came for the parade, and left with both my son and my youngest daughter, leaving me unencumbered. He scored so many points with that move. So, so many.
After the final bell, I took my praise-garnering giant orange and black tub (heh) and my daughter to the car, and returned home.
The kids relaxed for an hour, while I scooped the guts out of a few pumpkins. We carved in designs, ate some dinner, and got back into our costumes. We joined a group of trick-or-treaters meeting up at my friend's house and set off.
Last year, I was so excited because we didn't have any tantrums on the trick or treat route. No kids face down crying on lawns from crashing blood sugar or just the unbearable weight of impersonating a unicorn.
This year was EVEN BETTER. The kids totally hit their stride - my youngest, at almost three, was sprinting up to doors, "Twick Or TWEEEET" bursting out on every third step. They all got the concept this year, and it was fun to watch their excitement.
At one point, my son was done. He just couldn't go on, so my husband took him back home. My daughters and I continued on with the group. Shortly thereafter, engrossed in a conversation, I did a lazy kid check, and discovered that my oldest was up ahead with the group, but my youngest was out of eyeshot. I spun around and bellowed her name as I retraced our steps. She stepped onto the sidewalk, beaming, from two driveways back. She yelled "I twick or tweeted!" and then turned and yelled "thank you!" up the driveway.
Horrified that she had gotten separated, I scooped her up, and carried her for the rest of the time, only releasing her to scamper up to a door and then directly back to me. She was content to be snuggled in my arms, and after a few more houses, we made our way home.
My husband's friend puts on an elaborate haunted house every year, although we were all tired, we loaded the kids into the van and headed over to see all this guy's work. My son and husband were raring to go. My daughters and I were not so excited, but we all went in as a family. My youngest was oblivious, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes closed on my husband's shoulder. My son raced ahead, shouting "Boo!" around the corners. My oldest was shaking like leaf the entire time, and I felt horrible for subjecting her to it.
When we made it back out into the crisp night air, she stopped trembling, but was clearly troubled. I apologized up and down. My son demanded another trip through, and my husband took him, while my girls and I waited out front. As my son and husband appeared around the corner of the house, my son raced to the entrance again, and yelled to my oldest "come on!" My daughter, looked at me once, and held her head high as she marched back to the entrance. "Wait for me!" she called to her brother, and the two of them disappeared.
I panicked. "Go with them!" I shouted at my husband, and shoved him back towards the entrance. Long minutes passed until my smiling daughter appeared. "Why did you go back inside?"
"I had to see that everything was pretend, so that I don't have nightmares. It was all silly. Can I have some candy?"
Who is this kid? She is surely not my daughter. I have walked out of countless haunted houses in my day, after the first cheap scare. If I am scared, I just stay scared. You will not see me marching stiffly back to confront anything. My daughter has a backbone of steel, and a lot of common sense. I'm baffled, but proud.
Back at home at last, the kids crawled into pajamas and then straight into bed, dropping off almost immediately.
I am also baffled by the lack of butterfingers and almond joys in the treat bags this year. I might have to go buy my own, instead of relying on the bounty provided by our neighbors.
Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! Pictures at Flickr!