Yesterday I had my annual 'Come to Jesus, er, Flylady' chat with my mom about the state of my house. One of these years, one would hope that I would wake up motivated to keep house. Anyway, it seems that I've been on a downhill slide this year, my time being consumed with other projects *cough, cough, blogging, cough* and all excuses aside, it's time for me to take a weekend and scruba-dubba-dubba 'til I just can't scrubba no more.

I'll be back with a fresh post on Monday for sure.

By the way - if there are problems with the new design, can you leave me a comment (and maybe send me a screen shot) so I can try to fix them?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 25, 2006 7:37 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (30)

I'm fortunate to live right down the street from one of my longtime friends. We went to school together from 8th grade through two years of Junior College. Then she moved away, I moved away, we lost touch. She got married, I got married. I had two kids, and she had one when she strolled up my front walk and knocked on my door, her daughter on her hip, just over four years ago.

My son and her daughter are both five, and in kindergarten classes that are right next door to each other. She watches my three-year old so I can volunteer in my son's class, and her two-year old son follows my daughter like a puppy. Just yesterday, we all played together at the park, and our two youngest children stood high on top of the play structure, hooting like owls, and rattling the safety bars like chimpanzees.

They should just spare themselves some future agony and decide to go to the prom with one another, so that any stories we trot out to share with their dates will be old hat.

Anyway.

Our kindergarteners are both reading now, and to encourage them, we've been giving them simple, repetitive books. I gave my friend a copy of a Dick and Jane treasury, and her daughter latched onto it with glee. She reads through the whole thing like a champ. Yay, right?

Except then you have the whole role playing thing. My friend's daughter has decided that she herself is Jane, and her brother is now Dick.

"Come on, Dick!"
"Hurry up, Dick!"
"Dick! Give me that back, Dick!"

When she told me about how she's getting funny looks from people, and feels like she should bring up the Dick and Jane anthology frequently and loudly, I laughed in that awkward way. That "oh yeah, I've been there" kind of way.

See, recently my youngest has fallen in love with "Oobi' - which is some sort of hand character on that Noggin channel. We do not actually get the Noggin channel. We do play some of the games online, and Oobi is rather unappealing, to my personal tastes.

But not so to my girl. She loves the hand. She loves Oobi enough to randomly ask for a chance to play these games when we are far, far from the computer. Like, say, in the park. Or the grocery store. She's got that single-minded three-year old thing going on, where she'll decide on The Thing that will make life worth living (usually something unavailable) and will work herself into a lather, alternating between sobbing and screaming and pleading and conversational attacks.

"Mommy, do you know what I want for lunch? Mommy, do you know what sounds good?"

"How about a sandwich?"

"I want Boobie! Booooooooooooooooooooooooobie!"

That's right. Asking for Oobi would be bad enough. But no. She calls it Boobie. So I've got my three-year old howling for Boobie in all sorts of interesting situations.

Fun. Endless fun.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 23, 2006 8:42 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (18)

Hi! I'm trying to do a new thing with Three Kid Circus, and I'm having some troubles, as you can see. My rocket scientist genes are sadly absent, once again. Never fear, it's like a bad haircut. After a few days, I'll figure out what products I need to use to make it look sassy again. Or I might end up bald from the hair ripping, making products a mute point, and moving us straight into the hat territory. If you arrive here and find a giant hat, don't be surprised.

The BlogAds over to the left there? Those proceeds from those are going to the Mommybloggers.com "Send a Mommyblogger to BlogHer 2006" fund. More details on that project are over at Mommybloggers. I welcome ads from any of y'all... put an ad for your fantastic blog on TKC for a week and help the cause!

More funny on the way. After I find my sense of humor about this silly little design disaster. Or drop kick the whole damn thing into orbit.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 22, 2006 7:22 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

A few weeks ago, I bought my son a dinosaur puzzle at Target. It was a little young for him, sure. But it makes a different dinosaur sound for each variety of dinosaur on the board, and how cute is that? Totally cute, right? Once we got it home, he promptly took the wooden puzzle pieces out of the board and added them to his collection of dinosaur play things, leaving the puzzle board under the couch.

Now, let it be known that I'm not exactly a rocket scientist. This may surprise many of you, but it's true. I cannot explain why every time we flip a light switch, one or all of the dinosaur noises start going off. But there you have it. Hall light on? Rrrrrrowwwwr. Lamp off? Reeeee! Reeee! Reeeee!

I unearthed the board and glared at it. I poked it a few times with my index finger and vigorously shook it. My science is flawless. I put in on the couch and flipped on the lamp. Muuuuuuurrrrrrraaaaaack! Aha! Pteranadon speaks!

I put it to one side, meaning to reclaim the pieces of the puzzle and put the whole thing away. Many days later, it continues to emit threatning noises from the top of the entertainment center.

Needless to say, around here, things don't seem to follow a natural progression. There's always an unexpected side effect of any action. Take last night - I first noticed a canned "hee hee hee" noise around dinnertime. It was coming from one of the kids' rooms, but I didn't see the source, so I went about my business. A few hours went by, and another "hee hee hee" filtered through the wall.

I asked the kids. "What is that?"

They played dumb. "I dunno."

I had a load of clothes in the dryer at bedtime, but after the tumbling stopped, I could faintly hear a "hee hee hee" coming from somewhere. Okay. I could ignore it. It was just some toy with a fried battery, which I could find and change tomorrow. No biggie.

"Hee hee hee."

"Hee hee hee."

"Hee hee hee."

I got up and went to silence the laughter. I tried my son and youngest daughter's room first. On the way in, I kicked a spiked plastic dinosaur, and hopped around hissing for a minute.

"Hee hee hee."

Moving into the room, I stepped on the foot of the dancing Boobah, who emitted a fart and began to gyrate and make whistling noises.

"Mama?" My son stuck his head over the edge of the bunkbed, rubbing his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, hon." I staged whispered.

"Hee hee hee."

It sounded like it was coming from my daughter's room. I'm onto you now, sucka.

"Hee hee hee."

My daughter's room was pitch black, and rather than turn on her light, I tiptoed out to the hall and flipped the switch.

"Growl! Roar! Eeeeek! Eeeeek!" came from the top of the television.
"Hee hee hee." came from my daughter's closet.

I pounced on a pile of stuffed animals, and found the culprit. A My Little Pony baby something or other.

"Hee hee hee." I frantically searched for the battery compartment, or an off switch or something to turn it off.

"Hee hee hee." I carried it out into the hall. Turning it over and over, I got no help from the laughing pink pony.

"Hee hee hee." I decided to put it somewhere it wouldn't be heard and go back to bed. I stuck it under a couch cushion, and flipped off the light.

"Muuuuuuuuuraaaaaaaagh!" Nice.

I climbed back into bed, and pulled the covers up. My Liitle Tattle-tale Hearted Pony was just detectable.

"Hee hee hee."

Clamping my pillow over my ears, I slept fitfully. (hee hee hee) My dreams were plagued with plastic pony heads. At six o'clock this morning, my son, whose sleep was also apparently troubled by the "hee hee heeing" seized the pony out from the couch, flipped on a light (roar!) and flung open the front door. He chucked the pony out onto the walk. It bounced a few times on its fabric butt before landing on its side with a dull plastic-y thud. He slammed the front door and heaved a sigh of relief. As he crawled into our bed for a few morning snuggles, we heard it, right outside our bedroom window:

"Hee hee hee."

In the light of day, I found the battery compartment, and ended the madness. Who's laughing now, Pony?

Me me me.

In a fitting footnote to this adventure, my husband just turned off the living room lights on his way to bed, and the dinosaurs went wild.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 20, 2006 9:04 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (34)

Last Sunday, the kids woke up ravenous. They had refused the dinner I cooked the night before, and ate their fill of the 'replacement food' I offered - peanut butter, yogurt and bananas, before sulking off to bed.

When the first kid rose at 6 o'clock, I pulled the blankets over my head and booted my husband out of bed to deal with the urchins. By 6:15, I was standing in the kitchen, sullen and grumbling over a cup of coffee. After a rousing choral performance from the kids of "We're Starving, and You're The Cook, Woman" I parked my dour self in front of the fridge and offered up options.

"Yogurt?"
"NO!"
"Cereal?"
"We are out. Duh."
"Yogurt?"
"We already said no."
"Oh, I was just trying it out because look! So easy! Ready to eat! Woo! Okay. Never mind."
"Toast? RIght, no. Okay."
"Eggs?"

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a weener.

Slurping my coffee and whisking the eggs a little more aggressively than strictly called for, I proceeded to slam down the cast-iron skillet on the stove. I dumped the eggs into the heated skillet and tossed the bowl into the sink with a satisfying crash. I continued to make exasperated noises, huffing and banging and sighing. Passive-aggressive cooking, at its finest.

I cooked up six eggs. The kids each ate one bite and were 'so full.' Apparently they didn't see me STANDING THERE COOKING MOMENTS AFTER BECOMING VERTICAL. Nay, they doth protest too much, and the good lady ranteth-ed and rageth-ed. And left the dishes for someone else to wash, in a martyr's folly. Like I wasn't going to end up washing them myself. Riiiight.

After flouncing out of the kitchen in a huff, I flounced right back in, and set the still-warm eggs on the floor for the dog to eat. That will show them! The dog was eternally grateful, and totally didn't talk back or declare herself full. She licked the plate. Good dog. That will teach those kids.

A scant hour later, there were moans of starvation ringing through the house. Pancakes! Must. Eat. Pancakes.

DId I learn my lesson with the eggs? No. Hell, I even offered them yogurt again, because I just don't learn.

Fifteen minutes later, I had a short stack working and enough batter to feed a village. You know what? They didn't really like'em. Not even with syrup. Because they were just too pancake-ish. Too pancaka. Too pan-poopie. Believe you me there was flouncing and huffing and wild predictions of them digging up roots to eat from the yard, of scavanging for berries because as y'all are my witnesses I was nevah cookin' again.

I banished them to the yard.

Another hour passed, and when the mewling started up again, I almost hurled a yogurt container at the first one through the door. Restraining myself, I ended up squashing the container in my fist, splooging Baby Yo all over my wrist in my fury at their audacity. You want what? Oh, no. Mommy don't cook that.

"Daaaaaddy! We're hungry!"
"Hey, let's get donuts!"

Any clue about who "good cop" is in our family?

I threw up my hands, and made another cup of coffee. The big kids went with Daddy, while my three year old stayed home with me, against her will. Which she made known. Ahem. MADE KNOWN.

She paced back and forth in the front yard, ponytail bobbing as she ranted about the injustice of being too small, too ill-tempered, too squirrelly to be trusted on a trip to the donut store. Then she heard my husband's car pull into the driveway, and like one of those cartoon pointer dogs, her entire body went momentarily rigid, nose pointed at the gate. As her siblings burst through, bearing a pink box of child-rev'em-up, she inexplicably seized the hem of her dress and yanked the whole thing over her head in one fluid motion, swung it around several times, and launched it into the wisteria bushes.

Everyone sort of froze, as she stood there with wild hair, in her pull-up, hands raised overhead in a two fisted salute. I sort of expected a voice-over shouting Gooooooooooooooal! It was very Brandi Chastain of her, and a fitting tribute to the arrival of a breakfast that the kids were guaranteed to eat.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 17, 2006 7:27 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (27)

Yesterday afternoon, I forgot to pick up the kids at school. You heard me right. I flat out forgot to pick them up.

What with the school holiday on Monday, and Valentine's Day on Tuesday, it seems that I was completely unaware that yesterday was Wednesday, and both kids get out at 1:20, instead of the usual 2:30. Yep, my kids sat in the office, probably bickering and pouting until I laller laller lallered my sorry hide onto the campus at 2:00. I muttered something about cold medicine* making me lose track of time to the office ladies, and peppered my children with kisses and stammered apologies all the way out to the van.

See, I spent the morning gleefully tossing things into the dumpster I ordered to do yet another clean-out** of the garage and yard. My allergies were in full snot and headachy glory and I took a little sudafed to keep myself from dissolving into a heap of mucus. Let the dragging-butt begin.

By noon, I was in a stupor, and settled down to watch a little Nick Jr. Sudafed makes my lips feel like they are inflated, and I gave myself a nasty case of cotton mouth while I snored, giant-feeling lips carp-like, drowsing in and out of sleep with my three-year-old scrambling over my lap.

At 1:20, I should have been fetching my kids. Instead, I was making a cup of coffee in my kitchen, and pondering how to spend my last hour before picking up the kids. Which would have been fine, if it was any day but Wednesday.

At 1:45, I made a little pile of things to take to the school, in case I saw my friend there. I thought I'd call her to see if she was home, and then as I looked at the clock, calculating whether she would be at the park or not, it hit me.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Wednesday. It was Wednesday and I was LATE and my kids were sitting somewhere, maybe crying, definitely angry, waiting on ME, and I totally forgot and the school hadn't called me to see if I was coming (which was good) but what if that meant that the kids weren't in the office and they were wandering around (which would be very very bad) and I fuh-reaked out and grabbed my youngest under one arm and raced to the van.

As the van door slid open, the dog took advantage of my frantic state to leap into the van and start barking like a loon. After a few failed grabs at her collar, I threw up my hands and shut the door. To the sound of my dog's hysterical barks and my toddler's whining about having to leave when Blue's Clues was on, I drove to the school. Screeching to a halt in the bus circle, I leapt out of the van. I managed to unbuckle my youngest with one hand while restraining the dog with the other. I closed the door and sprinted with my three-year-old slung on my hip to the office, where my two children greeting me with baleful glares.

From the office, I could hear my dog barking her fool head off in the van. Yeah.

We headed home, me apologizing over and over and over in the front seat, and my children shooting me daggers everytime our eyes met in the rearview mirror. I gave them giant bowls of ice cream, and apologized some more. My son forgave me right away, but my daughter is still angry. I abandoned her. I forgot, and I'm flawed and I can just stuff my apologies into my pants and do a silly dance because she is holding a major grudge.

I've decided that she's entitled to hold her grudge as long as she wants. And I've also decided that I will double check the calendar every day. Also, I'm going to start working on my apologies-in-the-pants dance. Which is pretty stinking funny, if you ask me.****

*The office ladies probably think I have a drug problem, I mean, come on. Who FORGETS to pick up their kids because of antihistimines? Besides me, I mean.
** Who in the world can fill entire dumpsters less than two months apart? Clearly, we are destructive packrats who accumulate material objects and trash them with abandon, creating a wealth of rubble. I am slightly horrified. But I also love having a dumpster to threaten the kids with.***
***No, I don't threaten to throw the kids away. I threaten to throw their stuff away if they don't pick it up.
****Maybe it's not that funny, but the Afrin makes it seem that way. Woooo!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 16, 2006 10:13 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (16)

Well, I do believe my zit (or as Grace pointed out, my all-seeing third eye) has had it's 15 minutes of fame, and then some.

Let's move along, shall we?

I'll be back later this morning with new stuff.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 16, 2006 8:50 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

Nothing says "adorable" like a giant zit in the center of your forehead.

With the inevitability of death, taxes and whatever else is included in that particular cliche' - no holiday is complete if I'm not sporting a giant zit somewhere on my face.

Me and the second head I'm sprouting between my eyebrows wish you love this Valentine's Day.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 13, 2006 6:54 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (12)

Love it or hate it, Valentine's Day is right around the corner. Over at Mommybloggers, we asked some of our friends to share their thoughts on love. We gave them the chance to define "love" and we crossed our fingers. The response was simply breathtaking.

Over the next four days, we will be posting over forty essays, ranging from hilarious one-liners to deep explorations of loss and love. When we started Mommybloggers, we've worked to expose the diversity of the writers who are called "mommybloggers" - over the next four days, you'll have the chance to meet these remarkable writers, and read some truly amazing stories. I hope that you'll take the time to visit their blogs, and add them to your blogrolls.

We are excited to share this wonderful collection with you. We are posting a new essay every hour during the day, so keep on coming back.

We encourage you to participate - if you post a "love" entry on your blog, link to Mommybloggers and let us know. We'll be creating a master entry with links to entries appearing outside of Mommybloggers.com. As always, if we missed you in this invite, please drop us a line and let us know you'd like to participate in a future roundup.

Enjoy!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 11, 2006 10:45 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (2)

I had the two big kids home from school for the last two days, and it almost killed me. They've got what appears to be allergies gone wild, resulting in a deep, ugly cough and a fever that disappears moments after the final decision to keep the kids home has been made.

This morning, I looked at that flashing 100 degrees and blinked once before I yelled "Kiiiids, get your coats on. We're going to be late!"

Oh, don't look at me that way. You would have done the same thing, had you spent the last two days Chez Jenny.

First of all, my youngest? She is three. Being three must be painful. Being three means wanting That! That! That! That! and yet being unable to stop screaming long enough to do more than point vaguely and take a deep, shuddering breath before resuming the THAAAAAAAAAAAAT! business. Being three means that THAT is always the wrong THAT. And that THAT means more crying. Until she lands on THIS and THIS fixes things for like two minutes. Then she spots THAT again and poor Mommy ends up crushed under a heap of rubble caused by the sonic blast of toddler anger collapsing the ceiling.

You add in the antics of my older two, and you've got yourself a fat slice of headache waiting to happen.

What I'm personally loving right now is the older two's ongoing verbal sparring match, and how when I break it up and send them to their corners, they sneak into each other's space to continue the battle.

I send them to their rooms, and within two seconds, one or the other is creeping towards the room of their rival. I don't understand it. You are making her mad. She is making you mad. Stay away from each other.

"But M-O-M! We want to play!"

"Fighting isn't playing."

"We're just pretending."

"Yeah? No. Get away from each other."

WIthin five minutes, they are back together as though magnetically attracted. They cannot stay away. I am mystified. But then again, I don't think armpit farts are the height of hilarity, so what do I know? I'm probably missing out on the thrill of the battle.

Its all fun and games until Mom spoils the fun by insisting that we stop verbally assulting each other with names like poopy diaperhead. Geez.

I have to laugh, because they should know that my correct name is Poopsie Liverbutt and they are, in turn, Booger Liverbutt and Flunky Liverbutt, and their little sister is Chim-Chim Liverbutt. Like, get it straight.

I'm going to get a referee shirt made up. The vertical stripes seem slimming, and there's no law that is has to be polyester, right?

Starting tomorrow at Mommybloggers.com, we're featuring a new entry on love every hour! (between 8 am and 8 pm CST) We'll be continuing through the weekend to Valentines's Day. Be sure to check it out, and if you would like to play along at home, please write an entry on love (your definition) and post it on your blog with a link to Mommybloggers.com and let us know. We'll include you in a post of linking entries!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 10, 2006 10:09 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

Recently, the kids celebrated their Hundredth day of school. I'm sure we were given warning well in advance. I might have read that note and set it aside to write on the calendar. In reality, I think that as soon as it connected with a flat surface, the surrounding clutter gleefully launched itself into the air and landed in a triumphant dogpile on top of the note.

*eye twitch*

So, yes. I forgot, until the day before, when my daughter said "I have to bring a hundred things in a bag!" and my son said "I need a hat with a hundred things on it!" and the submerged information started to flail tiny fists against my temple. I could have planned ahead, and had this done weeks ago! I could have been prepared this time. I could have...

Who am I kidding? I threw the kids into the van, while they continued the brawl that had started at school pickup. We drove to the party store across town, and scored a plastic top hat and a bunch of dinosaur party favors, and then we headed home. I toyed with the idea of sending my daughter on a nature scavenger hunt to get 100 tiny tidbits, but when she hauled a landscaping rock and 3' tree branch to the front steps and returned to find more 'tiny' items, I blew the whistle.

"Hey! You can take 100 pennies!" I shouted out the front window. "And you can even keep 'em after!"

She immediately dropped something slimy-looking and wiped her hands on her white blouse as she trotted into the house. I fetched our loose change box and ceremoniously wrote "100 DAYS!!!" on a ziplock baggie. The little miser went to work stacking coins and cackling over her sudden wealth.

Across the kitchen table, a migrane was brewing as I attempted to figure out how to attach a bunch of plastic dinosaurs to a plastic hat. Glue! No. Takes too long, and it's not working. Aha! Hot glue gun. Crap! Melts the plastic on the hat!

My son stood practially on top of my shoulders, micromanaging the placement of the dinosaurs, and suggesting ways that I could NOT screw up his hat. Frustrated, I toyed with the idea of throwing the dinosaurs against the wall, breaking the plastic hat over my knee and giving the whole steaming pile of project materials an obscene gesture before flouncing out of the room in rage-fueled tears.

But no. I restrained myself. I took a couple of tylenols, and found my sewing kit. That's right. I ended up SEWING dinosaurs on the hat. SEWING.

The hat was a hard-to-puncture-with-a-needle plastic so I had to pre-puncture the sucker with a push pin. Good for taking out some angst, but still. Then while sewing (and don't even get me started on the boy's insistance that herds be kept together, and arranged by color - just NO) I had to line the needle up carefully with the pre-punched hole or it wouldn't go through.

This was painstaking, painful sewing. With a micro-managing five year old on my shoulder and on my very ass.

Behold! The majesty that is my son's 100th Day of School Hat, entitled "Ode To Dinosaurs -they still exist, you see, but only in bony form, but they once roamed Northern California, and someday, if we dig enough in our yard, we will find one but probably not a triceratops, more like a pachecephalasaurus, but maybe only it's leg bones, but we'll know because it has bird-hips and in fact dinosaurs still roam the earth because they are birds and birds are them."

100 Days of School 2006_040, originally uploaded by mizzjenny.

Behold.

This is what all that attachement parenting has done for me. My children are all, "get away, woman!" Anyway, more photos on Flickr. Go see 'em!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 8, 2006 9:36 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (27)

From a notebook found in my six-year-old's bedroom:

Animole tip nombr one. Don't scar a snak. It will bite you.

Animole tipe nunbr two. Don't bothre a bare. It will atack you.

There are also a few drawings, one labeled "cobra" which has the hood of a King Cobra and is very good actually, and one labeled "grisly" which looks very much like Blue from Blue's Clues.

A few days ago, I read her a beginning reader's book called "Animal Rescue Club." This girl of mine has always been obsessed with animals. Reading a story about a group of kids on bikes who work with a wildlife rescue center, well...it was like a dream come true.

"Mom! Can I join their squad?"

"Oh, honey...that's just a story. Those kids are pretend kids."

"Oh, well, can we call the rescue center here? And I'll need a basket for my bike."

"Oh, um. Hmm. I don't think, uh. Hmm." I'm just a picture of eloquence when my kids start asking for things that I have no intention of delivering.

"Wait. Maybe I have to be seven. Do you think I have to be seven to be on the Animal Rescue Squad?"

"Oh, um...I think you have to be ten. Yes. Ten."

"Where does it say that?" She begins to flip through the book, looking for confirmation. "M-O-M, it doesn't say that."

"Oh, well, I'll check and see if there is a youth volunteer program at any of our local animal rescues. But we'll probably have to wait until summer.'

"Summer? SUMMER?" She's seriously put off by this. "We're going to FLORIDA this summer." A light goes off in her eyes. "Maybe I can help rescue alligators!"

Maybe I should suggest a tip for her book:

Animol tipe nunbr three: Don't ask Mommy to allow alligator rescues. She will say NO.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 7, 2006 8:17 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

The van was warm from sitting in the sun as I drove through the parking lot of Trader Joe's. I leaned my head against the seat rest and navigated through narrowed eyes. In the seat behind mine, my three-year-old was singing a medley of some sort, about vanilla and pineapples and other stuff that sounded vaguely like it might make a good mixed drink.

"Mommy? What is my speciality?" She struggled with 'speciality' her voice rising and cracking on the final ee.

"Oh, uh, huh." I wasn't focused in on what she was saying. "You are good at lots of things, sweetie."

"Mommy? What is your speciality?"

I thought for a minute and swung into a parking space. Sliding the shifter into park, I engaged the parking break and spoke into the rear view mirror, holding my daughter's gaze with my own.

"I like to tell stories!" I offered.

"Oh, you mean you are a liar." She said, thoughtfully.

Oy. No, no. That's not what I meant at all. At least I didn't tell her I like to blog. She probably would have called me a geek.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 6, 2006 1:38 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

My three-year-old cornered me in the bathroom and shoved a book in my face. Caught with my pants down, I made a few attempts to shoo her away. She wasn't having any of that.

I opened the cover, and began to read the story.

"NO! No! No! Not that page, Mommy! Read this one!" She ruffled through the pages, settling on a page with no dialog at all, but a drawing of a snail shooting through space on a fire hydrant.

I know. Who bought this book?

Anyway, she apparently just wanted me to listen to her as she thinks aloud. I obediently held the book while she pointed to the pictured heavenly bodies.

"Mommy! This is the mooooon." She tapped the book twice, and moved on to the next celestial object.

"This is Saturn. See the beautiful rings? They are so spicy and delicious. I love buffalo rings."

I smothered a laugh. "Oh! Um..."

She interrupted me, by stabbing her finger at the next orb on the page. "This is Morbius."

Another jab. "This is Twinkle Wittle Staaaaar. And that's everything in the sky."

There you have it. The universe, simplified. You're welcome.

I just upgraded to MT 3.2, so if you notice any bugs or problems, please drop me an email.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 4, 2006 9:28 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

*drumroll*

I just slipped ON A BANANA PEEL coming around my kitchen island.

Yeah. One foot made contact with a BANANA PEEL, and the other continued forward in a stiff-legged kick, even as gravity began to pull my torso to the floor. I landed on my ample behind with a woofing/whooping noise shooting oh so lady-like from my lips, and then toppled over, smacking my head on the floor, and thwacking my wrist on a cabinet knob. My eyes watered and I looked up through the circling blue birds to see my three-year-old pointing and cackling.

"Boom!" she gasped, clutching her sides. "Boooooom!"

*cymbal crash*

Who does that? Who actually slips on a banana peel? I gave the banana to the toddler to snack on, and put the peel in the trash. I didn't know that she would retrieve it, only to place it in my path.

I'm all stiff and sore, but I can't stop laughing about it. Neither can my kid, which makes me suspect that I was just punk'd. Heh.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 2, 2006 1:09 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (15)

Its another gray, rainy day. The drizzle has dampened my spirits a bit, but not my hair. No, my glossy locks are frizzing and I suspect my cowlicks have absorbed moisture from the air or something because they are encouraging my hair to express itself in an unruly way.

My children, too, are expressing themselves vigorously. Perhaps they have absorbed moisture too. They are all pumped up, and feeling the need to shout and flail about the house.

I lit a scented candle (for the memory of my sanity, ha!) to snap me out of it, and now my kitchen is filled with the synthetic aroma of something vaguely apple-ish. I'm not enjoying it as much as I thought I would. It sort of feels like that scene when the crewmates discover Bishop is an android in Aliens. I distrust glass-housed, synthetic apple crisp en fuego, wrapped in a "painter of light" shrinky-dink label.

The kids. THE KIDS.

1) My son + dinosaurs = insane amounts of trivia directed at my back as I flee the room, hands clamped over my ears. "Hey, mom! Hey! Did you know that plesiosaurs might have been air-breathers? Mom?"

2) My oldest daughter + anyone else breathing air in the universe = hissy fits complete with glares, huffing, hair tossing and foot stamping. "Mooo-oooom!"

3) My toddler daughter + my eyesight straying from her (very cute but come on, now) person = Aaaaaaah! Abandonment! Betrayal! Scorn! Also, get me some juice!

I'm not sure who put me in charge around here. Personally, I'd welcome a little conformity right about now, but no. Even my hair is laller laller lallering at me.

I realize this should have a point, but if I had one, it has been blunted by repeated rammings into my left eye.

Time to break out the pirate eye-patch and join the sideshow.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%February 1, 2006 4:32 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)