Wrong Hole
This is self explanatory.
Holy Plow
Friday, February 29, 2008
Choose Your Battles
I love music and have for as long as I can remember.
One of my earliest memories is of falling asleep, sweaty because it was a hot day, on black vinyl seats in my mom's orange Duster car, listening to music. Seventies music. Good stuff... Captain & Tennille. Chicago. Boston. Styx. Kansas. Foreigner. Toto. The Doobie Brothers. Diana Ross. The Four Seasons.
And then came 80s music. More good stuff. Oh yeah, you know what I'm talking about... Duran, Duran. Eurythmics. Tears for Fears. Robert Palmer. INXS. Reo Speedwagon. A Flock of Seagulls. Queen. Yes. R.E.M.
And you can't forget these groups either. Cool and the Gang. KC and the Sunshine Band. The Bee Gees. Abba. (Oh, yes, I did listen to Abba. And I liked it, too!)
The only radio station I listen to, for the past several years now, is the local Christian station. It's not been a conscious choice to stop listening to mainstream music. But when we moved to the Dallas area in 1998, I just immediately found a great Christian radio station and pretty much kept the tuner set there. And I was afraid I'd really miss it when we moved back to this area, because I felt certain there wouldn't be a station to rival it, since it's a smaller locale. But we do have a great Christian station, and that's what I solely listen to now.
And then came kids. And the realization of what some of the lyrics I'd listened to as a kid really meant. Whoa! Risque stuff!
So I knew I didn't want my munchkins to listen to mainstream... for a while anyway. (This is just a preference of mine and not meant to indict anyone else who does listen to mainstream. Read on.)
Early this year, Clay got a new school bus driver, who tunes the radio to a local mainstream station. A station my sweet husband listens to regularly. And so the requests begin.
"Mom, can we listen to Electric? Huh? Can we? Can we? Huh? Huh? Huh?"
I could just beat that bus driver. Except for the fact that shortly after school began, he handed out Frisbees to all the students... from his church... for Awanas. Oh sweet niblets! I can't even judge the man!
I tried for a bit to just say no. But then they figured out that while mommy said no, daddy would say okay. And some very interesting discussions evolved.
Spencer asked me why I didn't like Electric. And I said I just like listening to music that praises God. So he asked Bruce if he was going to hell for listening to Electric. Yikes!
And so I'm taking my mother-in-law's advice: Pick your battles.
Music is not my battlefield. (Love is a battlefield, right? Pat Benatar, thank you very much!)
There will be more discussions to come, I'm sure. But that's a good thing.
Besides, I had to give a mild explanation for abortion to my then 5-year-old when Clay asked about a Casting Crowns song where the lyrics say, "United States of America, looks like another silent night, as we're sung to sleep by philosophies that save the trees and kill the children." (Lifesong album, "While You Were Sleeping")
And now I leave you with Spencer's favorite song. If you shut your eyes and just listen, it's not bad. I can do without the dancing nurses though. Or the lead singer with both ears pierced. And the Goth-looking guitarist/keyboardist. And the flashing lights that show skeletal images on the dancing bodies.
I did check the lyrics online. It's okay.
One of my earliest memories is of falling asleep, sweaty because it was a hot day, on black vinyl seats in my mom's orange Duster car, listening to music. Seventies music. Good stuff... Captain & Tennille. Chicago. Boston. Styx. Kansas. Foreigner. Toto. The Doobie Brothers. Diana Ross. The Four Seasons.
And then came 80s music. More good stuff. Oh yeah, you know what I'm talking about... Duran, Duran. Eurythmics. Tears for Fears. Robert Palmer. INXS. Reo Speedwagon. A Flock of Seagulls. Queen. Yes. R.E.M.
And you can't forget these groups either. Cool and the Gang. KC and the Sunshine Band. The Bee Gees. Abba. (Oh, yes, I did listen to Abba. And I liked it, too!)
The only radio station I listen to, for the past several years now, is the local Christian station. It's not been a conscious choice to stop listening to mainstream music. But when we moved to the Dallas area in 1998, I just immediately found a great Christian radio station and pretty much kept the tuner set there. And I was afraid I'd really miss it when we moved back to this area, because I felt certain there wouldn't be a station to rival it, since it's a smaller locale. But we do have a great Christian station, and that's what I solely listen to now.
And then came kids. And the realization of what some of the lyrics I'd listened to as a kid really meant. Whoa! Risque stuff!
So I knew I didn't want my munchkins to listen to mainstream... for a while anyway. (This is just a preference of mine and not meant to indict anyone else who does listen to mainstream. Read on.)
Early this year, Clay got a new school bus driver, who tunes the radio to a local mainstream station. A station my sweet husband listens to regularly. And so the requests begin.
"Mom, can we listen to Electric? Huh? Can we? Can we? Huh? Huh? Huh?"
I could just beat that bus driver. Except for the fact that shortly after school began, he handed out Frisbees to all the students... from his church... for Awanas. Oh sweet niblets! I can't even judge the man!
I tried for a bit to just say no. But then they figured out that while mommy said no, daddy would say okay. And some very interesting discussions evolved.
Spencer asked me why I didn't like Electric. And I said I just like listening to music that praises God. So he asked Bruce if he was going to hell for listening to Electric. Yikes!
And so I'm taking my mother-in-law's advice: Pick your battles.
Music is not my battlefield. (Love is a battlefield, right? Pat Benatar, thank you very much!)
There will be more discussions to come, I'm sure. But that's a good thing.
Besides, I had to give a mild explanation for abortion to my then 5-year-old when Clay asked about a Casting Crowns song where the lyrics say, "United States of America, looks like another silent night, as we're sung to sleep by philosophies that save the trees and kill the children." (Lifesong album, "While You Were Sleeping")
And now I leave you with Spencer's favorite song. If you shut your eyes and just listen, it's not bad. I can do without the dancing nurses though. Or the lead singer with both ears pierced. And the Goth-looking guitarist/keyboardist. And the flashing lights that show skeletal images on the dancing bodies.
I did check the lyrics online. It's okay.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thankful Thursday - Nutella
This post on what I'm thankful for will not ring with any sound of familiarity for some of you. However, others will understand completely. Here's your test to see under which category you will fall. It's a series of questions. If you answer "yes" to any of them, you will totally get it.
Have you ever stood for more than half an hour waiting for your child to take medication? Have you ever sworn to yourself that this time, with this particular dose of Omnicef, you will keep your cool and not berate your child in the hopes that he will submissively swallow the liquid? Have you tossed that promise out the window twenty minutes later and threatened to hold your precious bundle of love down on the floor, straddle him (or her), cram the medicine dispenser spoon down his throat, clamp his mouth shut, and then blow on his nose like you do to get your dog to swallow its pills? Have you ever made your child cry because of your inept and, in hindsight, downright mean attempts at "making" him take a pill?
Early last week was terrible for Bruce, me and Clay. Clay has an ear infection, and he hates taking medicine. Always has. Last year, each of the five times he had strep, this son of mine would look his pediatrician right in the eye and ask him if he could have a shot instead of a prescription for medication. And he'd take the shot without flinching. (I don't even know if they offer a shot to get rid of ear infections. I wish I'd asked.)
We got a caplet version of Omnicef because the nurse said we could open the caplet and sprinkle the medicine on food or in a drink. Clay was willing to try. I was sold! Oh, but the best laid plans...
The stuff just tastes foul. (I know because I stuck my finger in it and licked it, hoping to tell him it wasn't that bad. But it really was that bad.) We sprinkled it on Go-Gurt. Not yummy. We poured it on peanut butter. Even less tasty. We kept the caplet whole and tried to see if he could swallow it inside a tablespoon of peanut butter. This was particularly messy and lots of gagging ensued. By both of us.
All three of us would be strung out, near tears, by the end of it. The first time, it took 30 minutes. The second attempt took 40 minutes. For the third try, we left the kitchen completely and told Clay he could come out after he took his medicine, but that he had to stay at the kitchen table until he did. We gave up after an hour and tried the equally unpleasant Plan B, which involved even more peanut butter.
And then pure genius struck. My kids love this stuff.
No surprise. It's spreadable chocolate. What's not to love?
My brothers and I ate it on rye bread or Semmel (a kind of hoagie-type roll) in Germany. I found it at a local grocery here a few years ago, and now my kids dip pretzels in it for a snack.
Tomorrow is Clay's last day of medication.
I am thankful for Nutella. Because a tablespoon of that stuff surely does make the medicine go down in the most delightful way.
And again, I'm thankful for forgiveness from God (and from our kids) when we have those "Bad Mom" or "Bad Dad" moments.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Inspirational Art Work
Clay came home from school yesterday with this little masterpiece.
He has free time during class, and this is what he did with it. He put tears on Jesus' face, nails in his hands and feet, and the crown of thorns on his head. And he said, "I thought this would be a good thing to hold on Easter."
His timing could not have been more perfect.
Clay has struggled lately with remembering when he asked Jesus into his heart, and I know that it is an attack from Satan.
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy." John 10:10.
Clay normally has a memory that would rival an elephant's. He remembers stuff from five years ago that he experienced as a two-year-old. His ability to recall stuff has often just floored us.
I was concerned when Clay said he wanted to ask Jesus into his heart as a five-year-old. Bruce got saved as a youngster, and I know from him that when you get saved before you're old enough to make a bunch of mistakes, it's sometimes hard to see the difference between Before Jesus and After Jesus.
I don't ever experience doubts because I was 21 when I begged Jesus to come into my heart and fix my messes. I know exactly what Before and After looks like. I know all the disgusting and harrowing places I'd likely be without Jesus' presence in my life.
But after Clay asked all the right questions for two years, and after a couple different meetings with our preacher at the time, I do not doubt my boy's salvation. He might not remember it right now. But I do.
And I know that God will work out all the details for Clay.
"I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me." John 10:14.
He has free time during class, and this is what he did with it. He put tears on Jesus' face, nails in his hands and feet, and the crown of thorns on his head. And he said, "I thought this would be a good thing to hold on Easter."
His timing could not have been more perfect.
Clay has struggled lately with remembering when he asked Jesus into his heart, and I know that it is an attack from Satan.
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy." John 10:10.
Clay normally has a memory that would rival an elephant's. He remembers stuff from five years ago that he experienced as a two-year-old. His ability to recall stuff has often just floored us.
I was concerned when Clay said he wanted to ask Jesus into his heart as a five-year-old. Bruce got saved as a youngster, and I know from him that when you get saved before you're old enough to make a bunch of mistakes, it's sometimes hard to see the difference between Before Jesus and After Jesus.
I don't ever experience doubts because I was 21 when I begged Jesus to come into my heart and fix my messes. I know exactly what Before and After looks like. I know all the disgusting and harrowing places I'd likely be without Jesus' presence in my life.
But after Clay asked all the right questions for two years, and after a couple different meetings with our preacher at the time, I do not doubt my boy's salvation. He might not remember it right now. But I do.
And I know that God will work out all the details for Clay.
"I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me." John 10:14.
Snooze Button
I told Bruce I was going to blog this, so just know ahead of time that he is aware.
My man is odd. Honestly.
He is devoted to his snooze button. Each morning, Monday through Friday, every 9 minutes, his alarm goes off, he smacks the snooze button, and he climbs back in bed. This goes on from about 6:15 a.m. to 6:50 a.m.
Sometimes I find it very irritating. Especially after our kids got to the point where they'd let us sleep in a bit in the mornings. I would have no kids tugging my arm at 6 a.m., asking when breakfast was going to be ready, but instead I got the wailing drone coming from his alarm clock.
Half the time, Bruce sleeps through that noise until I give him a good shove. (I'm a morning person, but I have my limits!) Other times, I'm too tired to even move in his direction and I lay there like a lump of sludge, just wishing it would all go away.
I have often joked that he could sleep through anything.
He certainly sleeps through each and every time one of our kids comes in our room following a nightmare. He never hears the paper delivery lady putting our Times-News in the newspaper box. He has no idea what time the sanitation department comes by to pick up our trash. And he doesn't hear the sound of the brakes of the school bus when it picks up the middle school and high school students in our subdivision.
Last night as we climbed into bed, he said, "I'm going to have to replace that air vent cover over there. Last night that thing kept whistling when the heat kicked on and it kept me up all night."
Are you kidding me??!!
I just laughed. Hard. Right in his face. And he knew exactly why I was laughing.
I'm thinking he has not only selective listening, but also selective sleeping!
My man is odd. Honestly.
He is devoted to his snooze button. Each morning, Monday through Friday, every 9 minutes, his alarm goes off, he smacks the snooze button, and he climbs back in bed. This goes on from about 6:15 a.m. to 6:50 a.m.
Sometimes I find it very irritating. Especially after our kids got to the point where they'd let us sleep in a bit in the mornings. I would have no kids tugging my arm at 6 a.m., asking when breakfast was going to be ready, but instead I got the wailing drone coming from his alarm clock.
Half the time, Bruce sleeps through that noise until I give him a good shove. (I'm a morning person, but I have my limits!) Other times, I'm too tired to even move in his direction and I lay there like a lump of sludge, just wishing it would all go away.
I have often joked that he could sleep through anything.
He certainly sleeps through each and every time one of our kids comes in our room following a nightmare. He never hears the paper delivery lady putting our Times-News in the newspaper box. He has no idea what time the sanitation department comes by to pick up our trash. And he doesn't hear the sound of the brakes of the school bus when it picks up the middle school and high school students in our subdivision.
Last night as we climbed into bed, he said, "I'm going to have to replace that air vent cover over there. Last night that thing kept whistling when the heat kicked on and it kept me up all night."
Are you kidding me??!!
I just laughed. Hard. Right in his face. And he knew exactly why I was laughing.
I'm thinking he has not only selective listening, but also selective sleeping!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Weights
I started exercising at the beginning of the month. This is nothing monumental. I'm mentally shamed into doing it at least once a year. It's the follow through that gets me every time!
Still, this time I started for a totally different reason than I typically do. I've started exercising before to lose weight (which still certainly could apply), to get more energy (I'm woefully inadequate in that department) and to control the grouchies that come with PMS (sorry to any male readers. I'm so sure that is TMI.). And yet I always stop after several months.
This time, I'm trying to have a totally different mindset. I'm not weighing myself; my jeans will be my guide. Exercise does not energize me no matter how many times Bruce assures me that it will. It just makes me more tired. (However, I do get better sleep when I exercise.) And forget PMS; I'm pretty sure I'm just a grump.
No, this time when I started it was an age-related reason. (Forty is closer now than 30.) I kept getting Charley Horses. And at the stupidest times. I'd try to shave a leg, and I'd get a stitch in my rib cage. Well, that just can't be good. Evidently my muscles, as they were, must have decided to get an early start on atrophy.
I really do not like to exercise. I don't like the feeling of my heart racing, or of sucking air in my mouth so quickly that I nearly swallow that hangy thingie in the back of my throat. And I don't like to sweat. (Bruce makes fun of me often for that! I can sweat if I know a shower is imminent. Otherwise, no, that's out of the question if I have any control of the situation.) I do feel better after exercising though.
I TiVo Denise Austin every morning. She's great. She varies between aerobics, weight training, pilates and yoga. I like the variety. And I like that, if I fast-forward through all commercials, it only takes me around 25 minutes to finish. I'm not competing with anyone here, I just need to keep my muscles from rotting off the bone.
I don't let our kids touch my weights. They aren't heavy, just five pounds. But five pound weights in the hands of wound up kids jumping around next to the television screen and glass door of the entertainment center... somehow that just seems like a bad combination. I'm sure it foreshadows terrible things.
Alas, my bright little 5-year-old has devised his own method of joining mommy during weight training.
I never knew Tinker Toys could be so handy!
Is he a genius, or what? I mean, the engineering part will make his daddy proud. I'm just impressed that he came up with a work-out plan that is sure to minimize sweat.
Still, this time I started for a totally different reason than I typically do. I've started exercising before to lose weight (which still certainly could apply), to get more energy (I'm woefully inadequate in that department) and to control the grouchies that come with PMS (sorry to any male readers. I'm so sure that is TMI.). And yet I always stop after several months.
This time, I'm trying to have a totally different mindset. I'm not weighing myself; my jeans will be my guide. Exercise does not energize me no matter how many times Bruce assures me that it will. It just makes me more tired. (However, I do get better sleep when I exercise.) And forget PMS; I'm pretty sure I'm just a grump.
No, this time when I started it was an age-related reason. (Forty is closer now than 30.) I kept getting Charley Horses. And at the stupidest times. I'd try to shave a leg, and I'd get a stitch in my rib cage. Well, that just can't be good. Evidently my muscles, as they were, must have decided to get an early start on atrophy.
I really do not like to exercise. I don't like the feeling of my heart racing, or of sucking air in my mouth so quickly that I nearly swallow that hangy thingie in the back of my throat. And I don't like to sweat. (Bruce makes fun of me often for that! I can sweat if I know a shower is imminent. Otherwise, no, that's out of the question if I have any control of the situation.) I do feel better after exercising though.
I TiVo Denise Austin every morning. She's great. She varies between aerobics, weight training, pilates and yoga. I like the variety. And I like that, if I fast-forward through all commercials, it only takes me around 25 minutes to finish. I'm not competing with anyone here, I just need to keep my muscles from rotting off the bone.
I don't let our kids touch my weights. They aren't heavy, just five pounds. But five pound weights in the hands of wound up kids jumping around next to the television screen and glass door of the entertainment center... somehow that just seems like a bad combination. I'm sure it foreshadows terrible things.
Alas, my bright little 5-year-old has devised his own method of joining mommy during weight training.
I never knew Tinker Toys could be so handy!
Is he a genius, or what? I mean, the engineering part will make his daddy proud. I'm just impressed that he came up with a work-out plan that is sure to minimize sweat.
The Next Great Read
My kids haven't said or done anything funny lately, so I'm dry on what to write today. Wanna play?
Here's a "tag" that I got off the blog of an author I like.
Grab the book you are currently reading, turn to page 123, go to the fifth sentence and post the following three sentences. Then tag five more people.
I'm just now starting to read "In Search of Eden" by Linda Nichols. The front cover is pictured on the left column of this blog under the area that shows the books I'm reading. Here's the lines:
She would set out for the Basque country. Tomorrow morning to New York, then on to Spain. "You'll do fine," Sandra had said, waving her out the door.
I'm not tagging any specific people because I can't limit myself to just five. I'm too nosey... I want to know what everyone's reading. Maybe I'll find my next great read this way.
Play along if you wish.
Here's a "tag" that I got off the blog of an author I like.
Grab the book you are currently reading, turn to page 123, go to the fifth sentence and post the following three sentences. Then tag five more people.
I'm just now starting to read "In Search of Eden" by Linda Nichols. The front cover is pictured on the left column of this blog under the area that shows the books I'm reading. Here's the lines:
She would set out for the Basque country. Tomorrow morning to New York, then on to Spain. "You'll do fine," Sandra had said, waving her out the door.
I'm not tagging any specific people because I can't limit myself to just five. I'm too nosey... I want to know what everyone's reading. Maybe I'll find my next great read this way.
Play along if you wish.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Amazing, Huh?
My friend Cassie has given me a blogging award.
She said some awfully nice things, too. (I did pay her $10 cash yesterday, so perhaps that is why.) Here's what she said:
"this person is one amazing writer....She could write much more than blog entries.....I absolutely love to read her posts...I laugh out loud when I am reading, and I know that I am not the only mom in the world that is attempting to raise christian kids in an ungodly world.....A perfect example of a wonderful mom, wife, and 'teacher' when the need arises..."
Well, I'm floored. To think someone thinks I'm any kind of positive example is what's really amazing.
In the comment section of her blog, I wrote the following:
"Oh, Cassie, what are you doing? I got weepy reading that because most days I feel like the biggest failure as a mom, wife, Christian, etc. You see? I even typed that down in the wrong priority order. The Lord knows He's working with one imperfect vessel here. It's good to know in the midst of all my mess-ups, though, that someone sees a little of Jesus shining through."
You should know that Cassie and I have a mutual unspoken agreement to be one of each other's biggest fans. And not the creepy, Kathy Bates in Misery, "I'm your number one fan" kind of thing.
Cassie likes the way I write. I like her creativity... and occasionally I'm jealous of her OCD tendencies because I know her house is cleaner than mine because of it.
Thanks again, Cassie.
She said some awfully nice things, too. (I did pay her $10 cash yesterday, so perhaps that is why.) Here's what she said:
"this person is one amazing writer....She could write much more than blog entries.....I absolutely love to read her posts...I laugh out loud when I am reading, and I know that I am not the only mom in the world that is attempting to raise christian kids in an ungodly world.....A perfect example of a wonderful mom, wife, and 'teacher' when the need arises..."
Well, I'm floored. To think someone thinks I'm any kind of positive example is what's really amazing.
In the comment section of her blog, I wrote the following:
"Oh, Cassie, what are you doing? I got weepy reading that because most days I feel like the biggest failure as a mom, wife, Christian, etc. You see? I even typed that down in the wrong priority order. The Lord knows He's working with one imperfect vessel here. It's good to know in the midst of all my mess-ups, though, that someone sees a little of Jesus shining through."
You should know that Cassie and I have a mutual unspoken agreement to be one of each other's biggest fans. And not the creepy, Kathy Bates in Misery, "I'm your number one fan" kind of thing.
Cassie likes the way I write. I like her creativity... and occasionally I'm jealous of her OCD tendencies because I know her house is cleaner than mine because of it.
Thanks again, Cassie.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Hostess With the Mostest
Allison went to a birthday party today for Macy, a little girl in her Sunday school class. Macy's mom, Sharon, is one of Allison and Spencer's Sunday school teachers.
Today we discovered another of Sharon's gifts. She is the queen of party planning. It stands to reason that if Sharon is the queen, then Macy is a princess, which was the theme of the party. And by Allison's standards, a finer time couldn't have been had even in Camelot.
The invitation said to bring a princess dress, and there would be a time of dress-up. And plans were to do make-up, hair and nails. Frankly, I was nervous. For Sharon.
But she had it all under control. Every sweet little detail was covered.
Make-up.
Hair.
Nails.
Even the table was fit for a princess.
Do you see the name tag? Princess Allison. Notice the glass slipper, slightly to the left? It's holding After Dinner mints. The girls, I mean princesses, were also served ice cream in pink, plastic goblets. Too precious!
My appreciation for Sharon can't be fully expressed. I constantly worry that Allison will be overlooked because she's our quiet one (with the exception of when she pitches a fit!). The boys demand attention; she doesn't.
To have a few hours of seeing our daughter being a pampered little girl is just priceless.
Today we discovered another of Sharon's gifts. She is the queen of party planning. It stands to reason that if Sharon is the queen, then Macy is a princess, which was the theme of the party. And by Allison's standards, a finer time couldn't have been had even in Camelot.
The invitation said to bring a princess dress, and there would be a time of dress-up. And plans were to do make-up, hair and nails. Frankly, I was nervous. For Sharon.
But she had it all under control. Every sweet little detail was covered.
Make-up.
Hair.
Nails.
Even the table was fit for a princess.
Do you see the name tag? Princess Allison. Notice the glass slipper, slightly to the left? It's holding After Dinner mints. The girls, I mean princesses, were also served ice cream in pink, plastic goblets. Too precious!
My appreciation for Sharon can't be fully expressed. I constantly worry that Allison will be overlooked because she's our quiet one (with the exception of when she pitches a fit!). The boys demand attention; she doesn't.
To have a few hours of seeing our daughter being a pampered little girl is just priceless.
Friday, February 22, 2008
We Wii
That title sounds like something you'd do in the bathroom. Or maybe it conjures a little bit of France for you? Oui, Oui??
Nah, it's just the sound of me caving, again.
Bruce has been hounding me for months to get a Playstation or a Wii... for the kids. Right!
Clay has a Nintendo DS handheld game, but I have held off from getting Spencer and Allison one. We made Clay wait until he could read, and we have every intention of holding out until the younger ones read before they get that mind-numbing stuff. They know that's our policy, and it has been wonderful incentive for them to want to learn to read.
But the other day, I saw a posting online for someone selling a hardly used Wii for a pittance of the original cost. I'm not keen on having more stuff to dust (you'll see in the picture below that I do a poor job of dusting what we already own. Please make no comments on the fine layer that's coating the TV or entertainment center! Mom, shut your eyes before they burn!)
However, I do like saving money. Especially if it's on something I don't want to buy to begin with.
And in some cases, past performance is entirely too indicative of future results.
This is how it often works with us. Bruce wants, he pleads his case. I'm not convinced, he finagles. After months of badgering, I cave.
Knowing full well that caving will happen some time in the next 6-9 months, I feel good. I feel good because we saved now by buying a used product instead of paying full price for a new item when said caving commences.
Despite how the above sounds, I do not control our finances. If you've read this blog before, you know that Bruce is the money "nerd" (I'm not name-calling. This is Dave Ramsey terminology!), and I am the "free spirit". But to me, those are budgeting terms and not spending terms. Bruce and I swap roles when it comes to spending, but only because his toys are more expensive than mine.
We are both frugal. We're tightwads.
We agreed a long time ago that neither of us would spend over a certain amount without the other one's approval. We live by that. It's a respect thing. It keeps us both in check when the "I wanna" hits. Because the "I wannas" always hit hard.
And now, we Wii.
Nah, it's just the sound of me caving, again.
Bruce has been hounding me for months to get a Playstation or a Wii... for the kids. Right!
Clay has a Nintendo DS handheld game, but I have held off from getting Spencer and Allison one. We made Clay wait until he could read, and we have every intention of holding out until the younger ones read before they get that mind-numbing stuff. They know that's our policy, and it has been wonderful incentive for them to want to learn to read.
But the other day, I saw a posting online for someone selling a hardly used Wii for a pittance of the original cost. I'm not keen on having more stuff to dust (you'll see in the picture below that I do a poor job of dusting what we already own. Please make no comments on the fine layer that's coating the TV or entertainment center! Mom, shut your eyes before they burn!)
However, I do like saving money. Especially if it's on something I don't want to buy to begin with.
And in some cases, past performance is entirely too indicative of future results.
This is how it often works with us. Bruce wants, he pleads his case. I'm not convinced, he finagles. After months of badgering, I cave.
Knowing full well that caving will happen some time in the next 6-9 months, I feel good. I feel good because we saved now by buying a used product instead of paying full price for a new item when said caving commences.
Despite how the above sounds, I do not control our finances. If you've read this blog before, you know that Bruce is the money "nerd" (I'm not name-calling. This is Dave Ramsey terminology!), and I am the "free spirit". But to me, those are budgeting terms and not spending terms. Bruce and I swap roles when it comes to spending, but only because his toys are more expensive than mine.
We are both frugal. We're tightwads.
We agreed a long time ago that neither of us would spend over a certain amount without the other one's approval. We live by that. It's a respect thing. It keeps us both in check when the "I wanna" hits. Because the "I wannas" always hit hard.
And now, we Wii.
The Twins
When Spencer and Allison were born, we’d call them “the twins” because it was short. For the first couple months of their lives, Bruce and I survived on four to five hours of interrupted sleep, and monosyllabic conversations.
“How was work?”
“Good. Home?”
“Fine. The twins slept. Clay ate well at lunch.”
“Good.”
“Clay needs a change. Your turn.”
“Okay.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
If we had the energy, Bruce and I would go one syllable further and call Spencer and Allison “the babies”. Conversations improved drastically around that time.
I think “the twins” were probably a year old before I thought, “You know, we need to start calling them by their individual names.” But by then we had passed the habit on to their older brother.
Me, to firstborn: Clay, how did these toys get in the sink?
Firstborn: The twins did it.
Me: Clay, why is there water on the floor?
Firstborn: The twins did it.
And so it’s been for the last few years. But today, I was given a view into the mind of Spencer.
Once every couple weeks, the kids get help in cleaning their rooms. It’s not a pleasant process for any of us, but a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do. They are all perfectly capable of getting their floors picked up enough for me to vacuum. But when I help, I get to find and toss broken toys, bits of paper that never should have been saved, and the occasional candy wrapper that clues me in on the fact that someone has left the boundary of the kitchen with something edible.
Today was the day. I was on a mission, too. Clay has misplaced a school library book, and I needed to hunt high and low for it, because his search wasn’t rendering any positive results. Most often this means that within five minutes of my looking, the object is found and I become frustrated because the kids (and Bruce!) obviously didn’t really put much effort into the task themselves. Today, the book was never located. Alas, on Monday I’ll be paying the school librarian $4.95 to replace it. I told Clay that the first time was on me, but if he loses another one, he’s paying.
Anyway, I was in Spencer’s room, knee deep in foam disks for their shooter guns, marbles, and pieces of Tinkertoys, K’nex and Legos. Spencer had wandered out of the room, like he often does when the need to clean arises. I called him to come back and do his part in cleaning his room. He was to gather his Matchbox cars and put them in their carrying case and to put his plastic dinosaurs and small stuffed animals in their respective baskets. He was resistant to the idea, because playing in Allison’s room was far more fun.
I called to him again.
“Spencer, who made this mess in your room?”
And, seriously, he said to me a phrase he’s often heard repeated.
“Mom, the twins did it!”
I had to remind him that he is part of that whole twin thing. But, I must not be very convincing, because he then said, “No, Mom. The twins. Clay and Allison.”
Frightening place, inside that little red head!
“How was work?”
“Good. Home?”
“Fine. The twins slept. Clay ate well at lunch.”
“Good.”
“Clay needs a change. Your turn.”
“Okay.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
If we had the energy, Bruce and I would go one syllable further and call Spencer and Allison “the babies”. Conversations improved drastically around that time.
I think “the twins” were probably a year old before I thought, “You know, we need to start calling them by their individual names.” But by then we had passed the habit on to their older brother.
Me, to firstborn: Clay, how did these toys get in the sink?
Firstborn: The twins did it.
Me: Clay, why is there water on the floor?
Firstborn: The twins did it.
And so it’s been for the last few years. But today, I was given a view into the mind of Spencer.
Once every couple weeks, the kids get help in cleaning their rooms. It’s not a pleasant process for any of us, but a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do. They are all perfectly capable of getting their floors picked up enough for me to vacuum. But when I help, I get to find and toss broken toys, bits of paper that never should have been saved, and the occasional candy wrapper that clues me in on the fact that someone has left the boundary of the kitchen with something edible.
Today was the day. I was on a mission, too. Clay has misplaced a school library book, and I needed to hunt high and low for it, because his search wasn’t rendering any positive results. Most often this means that within five minutes of my looking, the object is found and I become frustrated because the kids (and Bruce!) obviously didn’t really put much effort into the task themselves. Today, the book was never located. Alas, on Monday I’ll be paying the school librarian $4.95 to replace it. I told Clay that the first time was on me, but if he loses another one, he’s paying.
Anyway, I was in Spencer’s room, knee deep in foam disks for their shooter guns, marbles, and pieces of Tinkertoys, K’nex and Legos. Spencer had wandered out of the room, like he often does when the need to clean arises. I called him to come back and do his part in cleaning his room. He was to gather his Matchbox cars and put them in their carrying case and to put his plastic dinosaurs and small stuffed animals in their respective baskets. He was resistant to the idea, because playing in Allison’s room was far more fun.
I called to him again.
“Spencer, who made this mess in your room?”
And, seriously, he said to me a phrase he’s often heard repeated.
“Mom, the twins did it!”
I had to remind him that he is part of that whole twin thing. But, I must not be very convincing, because he then said, “No, Mom. The twins. Clay and Allison.”
Frightening place, inside that little red head!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Learning Leaps
Last night, after I tucked the kids in, Bruce went in their rooms to kiss them all goodnight. We usually do this together, but Bruce was working on homework and on the phone when I started the process.
I headed to bed shortly after, because this week has been a sleepless one for me. While I was in the bathroom taking out my contacts, Bruce came in, laughing. I asked what was so funny.
He said when he went into Spencer's room, he found him sprawled out on the floor, writing letters on paper. Trying to be encouraging, Bruce said, "What are you doing?"
"I'm writing a book," Spencer said.
"Well, what's it about?" Bruce asked.
And as he showed Bruce his paper, Spencer said, "You tell me."
Most famous authors don't need interpreters to understand their own works, but that's okay. He's got to start somewhere.
Then Bruce noticed that Spencer really was writing words down. He had copied them from an Arthur book. That's exactly how Clay got started. He writes books constantly now. But they both started by copying the letters... very literally, too. The letter "a" is not written like the script taught these days, but like a typewriter "a" that you see in books.
It's so exciting to see them grow in their learning.
Today Bruce and I met with the Outreach teacher at Clay's school. He has been undergoing testing since before Christmas, and the last thing they tested was his I.Q. Today's meeting was for the teacher to explain the test results and for us to sign a lot of paper work that would allow Clay to be in the Outreach classes.
We've downplayed this whole process with Clay. He has no idea that the whole testing was to determine how smart he is or isn't. We just told him he should have fun with the testing, and that he might get to spend some time outside his classroom, learning more challenging things. He thinks that's cool.
I really like his new Outreach teacher. She's been doing it since Bruce was a kid, and even had Bruce in her classes a long time ago. I could see her excitement about working with the kids, which is what we've really been blessed with in his school - teachers that love what they're doing.
Funny thing is that during the interview process with the psychologist, Clay told him he really wanted to be homeschooled again for third grade. It's not that he doesn't love his teachers, his buddies or his school.
He misses mommy.
I know because he told me so.
I headed to bed shortly after, because this week has been a sleepless one for me. While I was in the bathroom taking out my contacts, Bruce came in, laughing. I asked what was so funny.
He said when he went into Spencer's room, he found him sprawled out on the floor, writing letters on paper. Trying to be encouraging, Bruce said, "What are you doing?"
"I'm writing a book," Spencer said.
"Well, what's it about?" Bruce asked.
And as he showed Bruce his paper, Spencer said, "You tell me."
Most famous authors don't need interpreters to understand their own works, but that's okay. He's got to start somewhere.
Then Bruce noticed that Spencer really was writing words down. He had copied them from an Arthur book. That's exactly how Clay got started. He writes books constantly now. But they both started by copying the letters... very literally, too. The letter "a" is not written like the script taught these days, but like a typewriter "a" that you see in books.
It's so exciting to see them grow in their learning.
Today Bruce and I met with the Outreach teacher at Clay's school. He has been undergoing testing since before Christmas, and the last thing they tested was his I.Q. Today's meeting was for the teacher to explain the test results and for us to sign a lot of paper work that would allow Clay to be in the Outreach classes.
We've downplayed this whole process with Clay. He has no idea that the whole testing was to determine how smart he is or isn't. We just told him he should have fun with the testing, and that he might get to spend some time outside his classroom, learning more challenging things. He thinks that's cool.
I really like his new Outreach teacher. She's been doing it since Bruce was a kid, and even had Bruce in her classes a long time ago. I could see her excitement about working with the kids, which is what we've really been blessed with in his school - teachers that love what they're doing.
Funny thing is that during the interview process with the psychologist, Clay told him he really wanted to be homeschooled again for third grade. It's not that he doesn't love his teachers, his buddies or his school.
He misses mommy.
I know because he told me so.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
The Giggle
Lately, Clay has been perusing a book my mom brought over with her during her last visit. It's a Bob the Builder German-English picture book.
He was just sitting next to me, trying his darndest to read the German words with no help whatsoever. But I couldn't take it long, so I pitched in with correct pronunciations.
He was working on numbers. One through ten. Eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn.
The problem? Number six in German is pronounced kind of like "sex" in English.
He just tossed me a little giggle when I got to "sechs". The giggle that confirms that he definitely knows there's something up with that word. It was a sweet, innocent little giggle.
I'm not overly surprised. He started asking questions about how babies are made when he was three. I got some great books recommended by Focus on the Family that are a series to be read to kids at different age ranges. There are four books, but I have only the first two because my kids aren't the right age yet for books three or four.
It has been a good year and a half since I read book two with Clay. It's written very matter of fact, uses correct terminology, and it's biblical. I love it. But I squirmed. I don't think he noticed.
He has said other things in the last couple months that make me realize it's time to re-read the book together again. But those comments are not to be shared here. They've been passed on to Bruce, and then catalogued in my heart.
But here I will share a few books in my arsenal for teaching my kids about the birds and the bees.
--The Story of Me (God's Design for Sex, Book 1) by Stan and Brenna Jones. Ages 3-5.
--Before I Was Born (God's Design for Sex, Book 2) by Carolyn Nystrom. Ages 5-8.
And looking further ahead.
--A Chicken's Guide to Talking Turkey With Your Kids About Sex, by Kevin Leman.
And as I pulled these books out to jot their titles here, Clay grabbed the first one in the God's Design series. He's an advanced reader, so I let him have at it.
Bruce just came home from leading the Financial Peace class. I stayed home to let the kids have a bit more time to recuperate from their recent bouts with illnesses (Clay has an ear infection, by the way). So Bruce was catching me up on who was there for childcare and such, and Clay almost shouts the following:
"Huh? I didn't know all babies were born in Virginia. It says here that babies come from Virginia."
Do I need to say more?
FPU
Tonight is the night of our Financial Peace University class. Last night Bruce and I watched the video that everyone else will watch this evening. It's starting to get more intensive.
Bruce and I have loosely followed these principles since we married.
This has not been an easy process. Especially when we lived in Texas and we both worked professional jobs that paid well. (Our neighbor there once told us we were DINKS. We had to ask what he meant. Dual Income, No Kids.) I cannot tell you how many times Bruce chewed me out for going out to eat lunch with coworkers instead of eating my brown bag special from home. C'mon! When has a cold ham sandwich in a ziploc ever tasted better than chicken fettucine alfredo at a restaurant?
Still, there have been tremendous blessings because of Bruce's stick-to-it attitude in finances (I don't get as much credit here, because I went along for the ride a bit grudgingly). If we hadn't from day one lived only on one paycheck, I'd never have been able to stay home with the kids these last almost eight years. If we hadn't started college funds shortly after the three kids were born, those accounts would be non-existent today.
We have an emergency fund. It's not where it should be, but it offered us peace during the two years when Bruce's job situation was unstable and folks were getting laid off left and right. That storm has passed, and we weathered it better mentally and emotionally than we would have if that account hadn't been there.
Even so, we knew going into this class that we had a lot to learn. That became even more apparent to me last night as we watched the video.
Dave Ramsey talks on the DVD about the envelope system. I've never been a fan of this idea. I know people who do it, though, and it works.
I got a little pumped up last night, and blurted out to Bruce, "I think I'd like to give that a try". This is a big step for me, and I'm not sure how it will work out. Painfully, for me, I'm sure.
First, I do not like carrying cash. When we were newlyweds it was because I wasn't sure that I could be disciplined enough not to spend cash somewhere other than where it was intended to go. And the possibility of losing more cash that five bucks makes me ill. Now, though, my main objection is because I feel safer with a debit card than cash... you know, in case I'm mugged. Because that's so likely to happen. (Bruce will roll his eyes when he reads this. You can feel free to join him. I'm simply sharing thoughts.)
Second, the thing about shopping with cash is the whole limit thing. I don't limit what I purchase on groceries when I use the debit card. Which is the whole problem. (Now wait a minute! This is my blog entry. I don't know how Bruce's thoughts just jumped in there. I wish he'd quit that! It's very annoying.)
Last night we "discussed" different options on how we might make this system work to our advantage with grocery shopping. I didn't like anything Bruce suggested. Surprise, surprise!
I'm sure that in the next week, after Bruce's payday, when I am standing befuddled in Walmart, I'll really regret opening my mouth about trying this envelope thing. (All you prospective muggers out there... don't get any ideas. It often takes me a while to work up the gumption to try something new. I may flake on this whole thing and still have only the plastic!)
But... maybe, just maybe, it'll work.
Which would be great, considering that I can then apply any money saved toward paying our pediatrician.
I am taking Clay to the doctor after all. Yesterday afternoon he complained about an ear ache. Hmmm. Another new symptom. In the last week, he's shown every symptom possible short of body parts falling off (We're pretty certain that he doesn't have leprosy). It's still probably nothing but a virus, but this has gone on long enough without any idea of what it might be.
I had a much overdue hair appointment last night. Got a trim and a new perm. Bruce likes it, so I think all is well in the universe. (And it really is. Because if we were mad at each other right now, I wouldn't care if he liked it or not. I get like that sometimes.)
Bruce and I have loosely followed these principles since we married.
This has not been an easy process. Especially when we lived in Texas and we both worked professional jobs that paid well. (Our neighbor there once told us we were DINKS. We had to ask what he meant. Dual Income, No Kids.) I cannot tell you how many times Bruce chewed me out for going out to eat lunch with coworkers instead of eating my brown bag special from home. C'mon! When has a cold ham sandwich in a ziploc ever tasted better than chicken fettucine alfredo at a restaurant?
Still, there have been tremendous blessings because of Bruce's stick-to-it attitude in finances (I don't get as much credit here, because I went along for the ride a bit grudgingly). If we hadn't from day one lived only on one paycheck, I'd never have been able to stay home with the kids these last almost eight years. If we hadn't started college funds shortly after the three kids were born, those accounts would be non-existent today.
We have an emergency fund. It's not where it should be, but it offered us peace during the two years when Bruce's job situation was unstable and folks were getting laid off left and right. That storm has passed, and we weathered it better mentally and emotionally than we would have if that account hadn't been there.
Even so, we knew going into this class that we had a lot to learn. That became even more apparent to me last night as we watched the video.
Dave Ramsey talks on the DVD about the envelope system. I've never been a fan of this idea. I know people who do it, though, and it works.
I got a little pumped up last night, and blurted out to Bruce, "I think I'd like to give that a try". This is a big step for me, and I'm not sure how it will work out. Painfully, for me, I'm sure.
First, I do not like carrying cash. When we were newlyweds it was because I wasn't sure that I could be disciplined enough not to spend cash somewhere other than where it was intended to go. And the possibility of losing more cash that five bucks makes me ill. Now, though, my main objection is because I feel safer with a debit card than cash... you know, in case I'm mugged. Because that's so likely to happen. (Bruce will roll his eyes when he reads this. You can feel free to join him. I'm simply sharing thoughts.)
Second, the thing about shopping with cash is the whole limit thing. I don't limit what I purchase on groceries when I use the debit card. Which is the whole problem. (Now wait a minute! This is my blog entry. I don't know how Bruce's thoughts just jumped in there. I wish he'd quit that! It's very annoying.)
Last night we "discussed" different options on how we might make this system work to our advantage with grocery shopping. I didn't like anything Bruce suggested. Surprise, surprise!
I'm sure that in the next week, after Bruce's payday, when I am standing befuddled in Walmart, I'll really regret opening my mouth about trying this envelope thing. (All you prospective muggers out there... don't get any ideas. It often takes me a while to work up the gumption to try something new. I may flake on this whole thing and still have only the plastic!)
But... maybe, just maybe, it'll work.
Which would be great, considering that I can then apply any money saved toward paying our pediatrician.
I am taking Clay to the doctor after all. Yesterday afternoon he complained about an ear ache. Hmmm. Another new symptom. In the last week, he's shown every symptom possible short of body parts falling off (We're pretty certain that he doesn't have leprosy). It's still probably nothing but a virus, but this has gone on long enough without any idea of what it might be.
I had a much overdue hair appointment last night. Got a trim and a new perm. Bruce likes it, so I think all is well in the universe. (And it really is. Because if we were mad at each other right now, I wouldn't care if he liked it or not. I get like that sometimes.)
Monday, February 18, 2008
Sick humor
I'm tired.
Whenever I'd say that when I was growing up, my dad would always counter with, "You were born tired; you just never got rested." I don't know where he got that. But I do know one thing for certain. Getting rested anytime while our kids are young is not in the cards for me.
Last night was an all nighter. But not with Clay. He seems to be better even though I'm not sure what it was he actually had. I'll just slap the label "viral" on it and call it a day. He told me a minute ago that he felt "fit as a fiddle".
Last night was all Spencer, all night. He doesn't have what Clay had, although I'm sure this is viral as well. It's the stomach flu. I won't go into the lovely details, but there are a few things to share.
This is just proof that our heavenly Father has a sense of humor. I see that constantly in my life.
Spencer absolutely hates to throw up. Nobody likes it, granted, but this kid is the worst I've ever seen. First, he goes through denial. There can be physical evidence to the contrary, but he'll insist vehemently, "I'm not sick." He'll say it over and over, maybe to convince himself.
Then he starts the shaking. And on such a skinny little fellow, it seems very pronounced, like a little sack of bones being shaken in someone's angry fist. I think it's around this time that realization hits him. He is indeed sick.
He turns into a negotiator. And he gets mad. "I'm not going to throw up. I hate it. It's awful. Why does God make germs? They're stupid."
Then he cries. Loudly.
Last night before bed, all three kids wanted to have a sleepover with each other. No school today, so they got the green light to proceed. They picked Clay's room. And even though he has two twin beds in his room, while he slept in his bed, Spencer and Allison slept in sleeping bags on the floor. I'm sure there's some kind of logic in there somewhere.
As Bruce and I climbed into bed, we heard Spencer at our door. Thinking he just woke up because he needed to potty, Bruce walked him to the kids' bathroom. Then he saw "stuff" on Spencer and we knew what we were up against. He cleaned the kid; I cleaned the floor.
Surprisingly, Clay and Allison slept straight through the whole ordeal, which is amazing, because Spencer is very loud when he argues with his body about being ill.
I told Bruce he should go on to bed to get some rest. Spencer and I were up until after 1 a.m., because he fights it so badly. Both our eyes were rolling into the backs of our heads by the time we crawled into his bed together, with the trusty green trash can within reach.
Back up at 3 a.m. Back to bed by 4 a.m. Repeat at 6 a.m. Still, we've had worse nights in this house.
At 6 this morning, we came downstairs. I gave him ginger ale and stuck him in front of the TV, wrapped in blankets, while I sat nearby trying to doze. Bruce came downstairs a little after 7 a.m. and told me to go to bed, and he'd go into work late. Is it any wonder I love that man?
Here's where the humor comes in. Spencer said some of the funniest stuff last night.
While in the throes of his misery, he pitifully announced, "I'm really glad Oma isn't here right now. I wouldn't want her to get sick."
It's all good for mom to get "the vomits", as my kids call it, but not grandmothers.
Later, he said, "Nobody likes getting sick. Not even Madison and Colin."
His cousins. I assured him that he was correct. I'm sure Madison and Colin do not like to throw up.
This last one made me laugh out loud.
"Mom, I'd rather spend time with you than be throwing up."
Well, thanks. I'd have thought that was a given, but now that you've thought it through, I'm glad I come out on top in that equation. Good to know exactly where I stand.
Just what I needed. A good laugh to keep things in perspective while dealing with a sick little man.
God is good.
All the time.
Whenever I'd say that when I was growing up, my dad would always counter with, "You were born tired; you just never got rested." I don't know where he got that. But I do know one thing for certain. Getting rested anytime while our kids are young is not in the cards for me.
Last night was an all nighter. But not with Clay. He seems to be better even though I'm not sure what it was he actually had. I'll just slap the label "viral" on it and call it a day. He told me a minute ago that he felt "fit as a fiddle".
Last night was all Spencer, all night. He doesn't have what Clay had, although I'm sure this is viral as well. It's the stomach flu. I won't go into the lovely details, but there are a few things to share.
This is just proof that our heavenly Father has a sense of humor. I see that constantly in my life.
Spencer absolutely hates to throw up. Nobody likes it, granted, but this kid is the worst I've ever seen. First, he goes through denial. There can be physical evidence to the contrary, but he'll insist vehemently, "I'm not sick." He'll say it over and over, maybe to convince himself.
Then he starts the shaking. And on such a skinny little fellow, it seems very pronounced, like a little sack of bones being shaken in someone's angry fist. I think it's around this time that realization hits him. He is indeed sick.
He turns into a negotiator. And he gets mad. "I'm not going to throw up. I hate it. It's awful. Why does God make germs? They're stupid."
Then he cries. Loudly.
Last night before bed, all three kids wanted to have a sleepover with each other. No school today, so they got the green light to proceed. They picked Clay's room. And even though he has two twin beds in his room, while he slept in his bed, Spencer and Allison slept in sleeping bags on the floor. I'm sure there's some kind of logic in there somewhere.
As Bruce and I climbed into bed, we heard Spencer at our door. Thinking he just woke up because he needed to potty, Bruce walked him to the kids' bathroom. Then he saw "stuff" on Spencer and we knew what we were up against. He cleaned the kid; I cleaned the floor.
Surprisingly, Clay and Allison slept straight through the whole ordeal, which is amazing, because Spencer is very loud when he argues with his body about being ill.
I told Bruce he should go on to bed to get some rest. Spencer and I were up until after 1 a.m., because he fights it so badly. Both our eyes were rolling into the backs of our heads by the time we crawled into his bed together, with the trusty green trash can within reach.
Back up at 3 a.m. Back to bed by 4 a.m. Repeat at 6 a.m. Still, we've had worse nights in this house.
At 6 this morning, we came downstairs. I gave him ginger ale and stuck him in front of the TV, wrapped in blankets, while I sat nearby trying to doze. Bruce came downstairs a little after 7 a.m. and told me to go to bed, and he'd go into work late. Is it any wonder I love that man?
Here's where the humor comes in. Spencer said some of the funniest stuff last night.
While in the throes of his misery, he pitifully announced, "I'm really glad Oma isn't here right now. I wouldn't want her to get sick."
It's all good for mom to get "the vomits", as my kids call it, but not grandmothers.
Later, he said, "Nobody likes getting sick. Not even Madison and Colin."
His cousins. I assured him that he was correct. I'm sure Madison and Colin do not like to throw up.
This last one made me laugh out loud.
"Mom, I'd rather spend time with you than be throwing up."
Well, thanks. I'd have thought that was a given, but now that you've thought it through, I'm glad I come out on top in that equation. Good to know exactly where I stand.
Just what I needed. A good laugh to keep things in perspective while dealing with a sick little man.
God is good.
All the time.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
See Last Bit of Previous Post
Not to beat a dead horse or anything, but I just found this video that I thought I'd post to go along with my prior post.
I saw this video several months ago, while JoElla and I were teaching the "His Girl" Bible study to the girls in our Sunday school class at church. If I could have figured out an easy way to show the girls this video, I would have loved it.
1 Peter 3:3-4 "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."
I'm not against braided hair, make-up, jewelry, or nice clothes. I just don't feel like I HAVE to wear those things. (My sweet husband tells me I'm beautiful without having anything painted on my face. And I know His Royal Fiscal-ness appreciates that I'm not tied to having the latest fads in my closet.)
God knows that I have a long way to go before I consider myself to have a "gentle and quiet spirit." (And trust me when I say that Bruce would really enjoy a little bit more of that in the house!)
I'd just rather spend my time chasing that goal, than trying to measure up to the end product in the above video.
It's actually harder to attain. I'll be working on it probably for a lifetime.
I saw this video several months ago, while JoElla and I were teaching the "His Girl" Bible study to the girls in our Sunday school class at church. If I could have figured out an easy way to show the girls this video, I would have loved it.
1 Peter 3:3-4 "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."
I'm not against braided hair, make-up, jewelry, or nice clothes. I just don't feel like I HAVE to wear those things. (My sweet husband tells me I'm beautiful without having anything painted on my face. And I know His Royal Fiscal-ness appreciates that I'm not tied to having the latest fads in my closet.)
God knows that I have a long way to go before I consider myself to have a "gentle and quiet spirit." (And trust me when I say that Bruce would really enjoy a little bit more of that in the house!)
I'd just rather spend my time chasing that goal, than trying to measure up to the end product in the above video.
It's actually harder to attain. I'll be working on it probably for a lifetime.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Hodge Podge
Just a couple things on my mind this morning.
I cancelled Clay's doctor's appointment. His fever is gone this morning, and he says he feels "much better". That will probably change in the next few hours now that I've cancelled the appointment.
He's definitely got something, but county schools are out Monday anyway, so hopefully it'll work itself out on its own. My feeling is that it's the flu, but I would hesitate to give him Tamiflu anyway. I'm the only one who took Tamiflu last year and I can't say it really got me over it any faster.
Switching topics... I'm off to Subway. Not the underground transportation, but the restaurant that serves sub sandwiches. It's where we ate our Valentine's dinner. Nothing but the finest for our family on the holiday of love!
Our kids' appetites are growing, just as their little bodies do. We can no longer order the kid's meal and expect it to fill Clay. Plus, and you should know this is coming, we almost always order the kids water in restaurants. Partly because... we're cheap. Also because that's what they drink at home most of the time anyway. Water and milk. We very rarely do juice, and it's even less likely for us to give them a coke or other carbonated beverage.
So no kid's meals for Valentine's. Bruce and I decided to get the kids a footlong sandwich and have it split into thirds.
Who knew that the concept of thirds would be so hard to understand? I told the girl making the sandwich that I wanted it cut into thirds, and she said, "So you want me to cut it three times."
I said, "Actually, no. To get thirds, you cut it only two times. I'd like three portions, because we have three kids and to have any one portion be larger than another will create World War III in here."
I must note at this point that there were no other customers in the store while we were there. And my children were right in front of the girl behind the counter much of the time. One, two, three kids. A sandwich cut into thirds.
Now, I'm not a mathematics whiz, but even I understand what a third is. In a footlong sandwich, you'd have 12 inches of yummy. Three (because of the whole one-third thing!) divided into 12 is four, last time I checked. So you cut off a four-inch section at one end and then make one more slice halfway through the remaining uncut portion. For some reason, this idea was Greek to the employee.
She finished making the sandwich and her first slice across the bread was directly in the middle. I held my tongue. Before I knew it, she'd cut four more times, so that the sandwich was cut into six sections of about two inches each.
She was very perky when she said, "There you go. Will that work?"
I'm not sure what Bruce was thinking, but he cheerily answered her with, "Oh yeah, that'll be fine."
Little things don't bug him. They do bother me.
My kids ended up eating two sections each of a sixth of a sandwich, which was fine. I'm just left wondering what was so hard about what I originally requested. A third.
My conclusion is simply that people are stupid. I'm not being critical. Well, yes, I am. But I've been stupid enough to recognize it in others.
Now, on to something else stupid.
About a month ago, I got a call on the phone and the number on the caller ID was one I didn't recognize. (I love my caller ID!). Because Bruce is leading the Financial Peace class, though, we've been getting several calls from numbers I don't know, so I answered.
It was a phone survey about television viewing. The kids were being quiet at that time, and I was doing laundry, so I went ahead and played along. One of the questions was if I planned to watch "How To Look Good Naked". I said no.
I lied. Well, not technically, because I didn't plan to watch it, but I did see it last night. Two episodes in a row.
The premise is to teach a woman who isn't content with her figure to love her body after spending five days with Carson someone. I can't remember his last name. But I do know that he was one of the gay men who counseled straight men on fashion in "Queer Eye For the Straight Guy", which by the way I never watched.
We women are warped about our bodies. Is it any wonder? What's on the cover of most magazines is not an accurate portrayal of a real woman. Aside from the affinity that Hollywood types have for plastic surgery, we now have technology that will drastically change a person's printed image.
I wonder how many pictures of men are doctored in Photoshop? Men don't care. I don't mean they have no pride in their forms. But they generally don't spend as much time worrying about their looks as we women do. If Bruce decides to lose a few pounds, he's not doing it to please anyone but himself.
Women are always doing things to themselves to please others. Plucking, shaving, and lasering. Manicures, pedicures, and chemical peels. Lipstick, eye shadow, and foundation. Push-up bras, girdles, and wearing black for the illusion of being slim.
The show addresses those things. Kind of.
The woman in question is brought in her undergarments into a room where there stands a row of other women in their panties and bras. The women are standing in a row from largest to smallest, and the insecure woman is told to place herself in the line where she thinks she'd fit. Her image of herself is almost always wrong. She perceives that she is larger than she actually is.
Then the Carson guy has a headless, but quite large, image of the woman plastered on the side of a very public building, without the woman's permission. (I'd have to kill him for that!) Then he asks passers-by what they think of the woman's figure. They always point out the positives.
In the second show I watched, when Carson played back the nice comments, the woman actually said, "You know, it's nice to hear. But in the back of my head, I'm wondering if you've just deleted out the negative comments."
Uhhh, you think?? This is TV after all.
The woman gets tips on what clothes to wear to accentuate her positive attributes. She gets a little makeover. And then they do a photo shoot. In the nude. Yeah, right! All body parts normally kept private by a bathing suit are still hidden. But then they put her photo up on the side of a building again and she has to asks strangers walking around, "Do you think I look good naked?"
You'd have to threaten the lives of my kids to get me to do that.
All this is well and good. The message is clear: we should be more content with the body we have.
The stupid part is this: Why do we need a gay man to tell us this? I mean, really, what does he know about the female body? Hasn't he spent most of his time concentrating on the figures of other men?
On one show, he pointed out the collar bone of one woman and said, "Men find this area one of the sexiest parts of a woman's body."
I just wanted to climb through the screen and ask: HOW DO YOU KNOW? And besides, I thought the point was to convince a woman to love her figure... whether or not another person does. Who cares if men find the clavicle sexy?
Couldn't they find a woman to host the show? Someone who is content with her figure, even if she's not a size 2. Someone who hasn't had plastic surgery. There are at least a few Hollywood ladies who would fit the bill. Camryn Manheim. Nia Vardalos. Kathy Najimy.
It just baffles me.
I cancelled Clay's doctor's appointment. His fever is gone this morning, and he says he feels "much better". That will probably change in the next few hours now that I've cancelled the appointment.
He's definitely got something, but county schools are out Monday anyway, so hopefully it'll work itself out on its own. My feeling is that it's the flu, but I would hesitate to give him Tamiflu anyway. I'm the only one who took Tamiflu last year and I can't say it really got me over it any faster.
Switching topics... I'm off to Subway. Not the underground transportation, but the restaurant that serves sub sandwiches. It's where we ate our Valentine's dinner. Nothing but the finest for our family on the holiday of love!
Our kids' appetites are growing, just as their little bodies do. We can no longer order the kid's meal and expect it to fill Clay. Plus, and you should know this is coming, we almost always order the kids water in restaurants. Partly because... we're cheap. Also because that's what they drink at home most of the time anyway. Water and milk. We very rarely do juice, and it's even less likely for us to give them a coke or other carbonated beverage.
So no kid's meals for Valentine's. Bruce and I decided to get the kids a footlong sandwich and have it split into thirds.
Who knew that the concept of thirds would be so hard to understand? I told the girl making the sandwich that I wanted it cut into thirds, and she said, "So you want me to cut it three times."
I said, "Actually, no. To get thirds, you cut it only two times. I'd like three portions, because we have three kids and to have any one portion be larger than another will create World War III in here."
I must note at this point that there were no other customers in the store while we were there. And my children were right in front of the girl behind the counter much of the time. One, two, three kids. A sandwich cut into thirds.
Now, I'm not a mathematics whiz, but even I understand what a third is. In a footlong sandwich, you'd have 12 inches of yummy. Three (because of the whole one-third thing!) divided into 12 is four, last time I checked. So you cut off a four-inch section at one end and then make one more slice halfway through the remaining uncut portion. For some reason, this idea was Greek to the employee.
She finished making the sandwich and her first slice across the bread was directly in the middle. I held my tongue. Before I knew it, she'd cut four more times, so that the sandwich was cut into six sections of about two inches each.
She was very perky when she said, "There you go. Will that work?"
I'm not sure what Bruce was thinking, but he cheerily answered her with, "Oh yeah, that'll be fine."
Little things don't bug him. They do bother me.
My kids ended up eating two sections each of a sixth of a sandwich, which was fine. I'm just left wondering what was so hard about what I originally requested. A third.
My conclusion is simply that people are stupid. I'm not being critical. Well, yes, I am. But I've been stupid enough to recognize it in others.
Now, on to something else stupid.
About a month ago, I got a call on the phone and the number on the caller ID was one I didn't recognize. (I love my caller ID!). Because Bruce is leading the Financial Peace class, though, we've been getting several calls from numbers I don't know, so I answered.
It was a phone survey about television viewing. The kids were being quiet at that time, and I was doing laundry, so I went ahead and played along. One of the questions was if I planned to watch "How To Look Good Naked". I said no.
I lied. Well, not technically, because I didn't plan to watch it, but I did see it last night. Two episodes in a row.
The premise is to teach a woman who isn't content with her figure to love her body after spending five days with Carson someone. I can't remember his last name. But I do know that he was one of the gay men who counseled straight men on fashion in "Queer Eye For the Straight Guy", which by the way I never watched.
We women are warped about our bodies. Is it any wonder? What's on the cover of most magazines is not an accurate portrayal of a real woman. Aside from the affinity that Hollywood types have for plastic surgery, we now have technology that will drastically change a person's printed image.
I wonder how many pictures of men are doctored in Photoshop? Men don't care. I don't mean they have no pride in their forms. But they generally don't spend as much time worrying about their looks as we women do. If Bruce decides to lose a few pounds, he's not doing it to please anyone but himself.
Women are always doing things to themselves to please others. Plucking, shaving, and lasering. Manicures, pedicures, and chemical peels. Lipstick, eye shadow, and foundation. Push-up bras, girdles, and wearing black for the illusion of being slim.
The show addresses those things. Kind of.
The woman in question is brought in her undergarments into a room where there stands a row of other women in their panties and bras. The women are standing in a row from largest to smallest, and the insecure woman is told to place herself in the line where she thinks she'd fit. Her image of herself is almost always wrong. She perceives that she is larger than she actually is.
Then the Carson guy has a headless, but quite large, image of the woman plastered on the side of a very public building, without the woman's permission. (I'd have to kill him for that!) Then he asks passers-by what they think of the woman's figure. They always point out the positives.
In the second show I watched, when Carson played back the nice comments, the woman actually said, "You know, it's nice to hear. But in the back of my head, I'm wondering if you've just deleted out the negative comments."
Uhhh, you think?? This is TV after all.
The woman gets tips on what clothes to wear to accentuate her positive attributes. She gets a little makeover. And then they do a photo shoot. In the nude. Yeah, right! All body parts normally kept private by a bathing suit are still hidden. But then they put her photo up on the side of a building again and she has to asks strangers walking around, "Do you think I look good naked?"
You'd have to threaten the lives of my kids to get me to do that.
All this is well and good. The message is clear: we should be more content with the body we have.
The stupid part is this: Why do we need a gay man to tell us this? I mean, really, what does he know about the female body? Hasn't he spent most of his time concentrating on the figures of other men?
On one show, he pointed out the collar bone of one woman and said, "Men find this area one of the sexiest parts of a woman's body."
I just wanted to climb through the screen and ask: HOW DO YOU KNOW? And besides, I thought the point was to convince a woman to love her figure... whether or not another person does. Who cares if men find the clavicle sexy?
Couldn't they find a woman to host the show? Someone who is content with her figure, even if she's not a size 2. Someone who hasn't had plastic surgery. There are at least a few Hollywood ladies who would fit the bill. Camryn Manheim. Nia Vardalos. Kathy Najimy.
It just baffles me.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Again?
I picked Clay up from school again today, following a call from Nurse Laura.
Last Thursday, he came home right after lunch because he didn't feel well. Headache and stomach ache kind of stuff. He laid on the couch the rest of the afternoon, but no other symptoms came up, so I sent him to school on Friday. He made it through the day just fine, and I attributed the previous day to fatigue.
Not so, today.
To celebrate Valentine's yesterday, I took the kids to meet Bruce for dinner when he got off work. Bruce had class last night, and he usually doesn't get home until after the kids' bedtime. Clay fell asleep in the car on the way there.
I was still thinking he was just tired. He and a buddy of his knocked heads at their school Valentine's party, and Clay came out on the losing side. He has a black eye today. His sweet friend Nathan apologized "five times" today, according to Clay.
This morning, Clay complained about a sore throat, but he ate his breakfast fine, so I quickly stuffed down any thoughts of strep.
And then the phone call. Again.
Today he has a fairly high fever, headache, sore throat, and stomach ache. I always put off going to the doctor. I'm cheap; I admit it. Plus, if it's viral I end up just kicking myself.
But as I signed him out at the school office, I noticed the names of three other kids from his class who had left since lunch time. I asked the school nurse about it. She said the whole wing where Clay's classroom is has had kids out like crazy this week.
Strep throat, and walking pneumonia, and flu... oh my!
I asked her if she'd take him to the pediatrician if he were her son or put it off a bit. She said she'd take him today, in case it was the flu, so they could start him on Tamiflu. We all had flu shots this year (because we all had the flu last year between Christmas and New Year's, and it totally stunk!), but I know it can still be a different strain of the flu.
I'm hoping for strep, even though each kid had it five times last winter. Allison added a sixth case of it in early spring just to really tie off the season.
Still, having a Q-tip swirled in your throat for strep testing is infinitely less intrusive than having one shoved so high into your nasal cavity that it comes back out with brain matter on it. Yep, that's a flu test for you.
And I'm pretty sure the finger prick test for walking pneumonia will be equally fun for all involved.
Seriously, the worst part of it is that Clay won't get to see our pediatrician, who my kids just love because he's silly with them. Unfortunately, he's out until Monday. So instead Clay will be poked and prodded by Dr. On Call and his staff.
Our appointment is tomorrow morning.
And now I must go put two huge lasagnas in my oven to cook for our church's Valentine's banquet tonight... that I no longer plan to attend.
I really love lasagna. But, alas, I won't be eating any tonight.
That's just plain depressing.
Maybe I'll let Clay cough on it before I send it.
No, I wouldn't send it that way. Not really.
I once read that in an interview with Stephen King, he was asked how he could write such horrifying things. His reply was something along the lines of: If I didn't write it, it would stay in my head and I'd be more tempted to act on it.
That's me. I write it to purge it out of my system so that I won't actually let my sick child cough on food that will be served to my unsuspecting church family.
(My sinister laughter fades into the background as I sign off!)
Last Thursday, he came home right after lunch because he didn't feel well. Headache and stomach ache kind of stuff. He laid on the couch the rest of the afternoon, but no other symptoms came up, so I sent him to school on Friday. He made it through the day just fine, and I attributed the previous day to fatigue.
Not so, today.
To celebrate Valentine's yesterday, I took the kids to meet Bruce for dinner when he got off work. Bruce had class last night, and he usually doesn't get home until after the kids' bedtime. Clay fell asleep in the car on the way there.
I was still thinking he was just tired. He and a buddy of his knocked heads at their school Valentine's party, and Clay came out on the losing side. He has a black eye today. His sweet friend Nathan apologized "five times" today, according to Clay.
This morning, Clay complained about a sore throat, but he ate his breakfast fine, so I quickly stuffed down any thoughts of strep.
And then the phone call. Again.
Today he has a fairly high fever, headache, sore throat, and stomach ache. I always put off going to the doctor. I'm cheap; I admit it. Plus, if it's viral I end up just kicking myself.
But as I signed him out at the school office, I noticed the names of three other kids from his class who had left since lunch time. I asked the school nurse about it. She said the whole wing where Clay's classroom is has had kids out like crazy this week.
Strep throat, and walking pneumonia, and flu... oh my!
I asked her if she'd take him to the pediatrician if he were her son or put it off a bit. She said she'd take him today, in case it was the flu, so they could start him on Tamiflu. We all had flu shots this year (because we all had the flu last year between Christmas and New Year's, and it totally stunk!), but I know it can still be a different strain of the flu.
I'm hoping for strep, even though each kid had it five times last winter. Allison added a sixth case of it in early spring just to really tie off the season.
Still, having a Q-tip swirled in your throat for strep testing is infinitely less intrusive than having one shoved so high into your nasal cavity that it comes back out with brain matter on it. Yep, that's a flu test for you.
And I'm pretty sure the finger prick test for walking pneumonia will be equally fun for all involved.
Seriously, the worst part of it is that Clay won't get to see our pediatrician, who my kids just love because he's silly with them. Unfortunately, he's out until Monday. So instead Clay will be poked and prodded by Dr. On Call and his staff.
Our appointment is tomorrow morning.
And now I must go put two huge lasagnas in my oven to cook for our church's Valentine's banquet tonight... that I no longer plan to attend.
I really love lasagna. But, alas, I won't be eating any tonight.
That's just plain depressing.
Maybe I'll let Clay cough on it before I send it.
No, I wouldn't send it that way. Not really.
I once read that in an interview with Stephen King, he was asked how he could write such horrifying things. His reply was something along the lines of: If I didn't write it, it would stay in my head and I'd be more tempted to act on it.
That's me. I write it to purge it out of my system so that I won't actually let my sick child cough on food that will be served to my unsuspecting church family.
(My sinister laughter fades into the background as I sign off!)
The Same Feet
Clay came home from Awanas Wednesday night with news that was interesting to him.
Clay: Mom, Miss Wanda shaved her head!
Me: She did? Why?
Clay: Because her mom has cancer, and she's going to lose her hair from the medicine. So Miss Wanda shaved her head so they'd be in the same feet.
I thought, "The same feet? Where has this come from?"
Me: What do you mean, the same feet? Don't you mean that they'll be in the same boat?
Clay: Oh, no, I didn't mean the same feet. I meant that now they'll walk in the same shoes!
Okay, that makes sense. And it also made me laugh. And then Clay cracked up, too.
Clay: Mom, Miss Wanda shaved her head!
Me: She did? Why?
Clay: Because her mom has cancer, and she's going to lose her hair from the medicine. So Miss Wanda shaved her head so they'd be in the same feet.
I thought, "The same feet? Where has this come from?"
Me: What do you mean, the same feet? Don't you mean that they'll be in the same boat?
Clay: Oh, no, I didn't mean the same feet. I meant that now they'll walk in the same shoes!
Okay, that makes sense. And it also made me laugh. And then Clay cracked up, too.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Change
I haven't been on here in a few days, because I've been processing new information.
I don't do change well. I like for things to stay the same. That comforts me.
I wasn't going to blog about this, but changed my mind. (For a person who doesn't enjoy change, I change my mind often. But that's just because I'm flighty.)
My grandparent's house in Germany sold a couple weeks ago. It made perfect sense for Mom to sell it. She re-married this past summer and now lives in her husband's home. My Opa (that's the German word for Grandpa) died several years ago. And my Oma (Grandma) has been in a nursing home for the last couple years, so the house was empty. It was aging and needing some pretty extensive, and expensive, repairs. It was becoming difficult for mom to maintain, so selling it was the best option.
But it still stinks.
From the time I was born until my dad retired from the Air Force when I was 19, I lived six different places. Kansas, Arkansas, Tennessee, South Carolina, Germany and Oklahoma. The only thing constant during those years, besides my immediate family, was that my mom's parents lived in the same house in Culmitz, Germany, and that my dad's parents lived in first one house and then another, within spitting distance of the first, in Cookeville, Tennessee.
And there is nothing finer than your grandparents' homes.
I spent a summer with my Oma and Opa between 6th and 7th grade. At that time it was great simply because I got to have time away from my brothers. (Now, I'd like to be closer to them both!) My grandparents still worked then, so I was home alone during the day. But I'd walk to the bus stop down the road to meet them when the van from their company dropped them off at the end of the work day. They never had a car, and I'm not sure if they even had driver's licenses.
I was never bored at their home. I would read... a lot. Or go out to the area where my Opa kept the rabbits he raised, and I'd feed them. If there were babies, I'd reach in the cubbie and pull one away from the nervous Mamma Bunny, who would stomp her back leg to warn me of her ire. I'd then play with the baby on a bunch of straw on the floor. I got bit a few times by Mamma Bunny, too, but that never stopped me.
Sometimes I'd walk in the woods behind their house. Or play in the creek that runs behind the garage and back yard.
The creek winds all the way through the village, and my brothers and I would toss leaves or flowers in the water behind Oma and Opa's house and then run like the dickens down the street, to the main road of the village and arrive at the bridge, out of breath, just in time to see our floating foliage pass underneath. Oh, the agony of defeat if we arrived too late!
I helped pick fresh strawberries out of my grandparent's garden. And from that garden I'd snip off pieces of whatever spice my Oma wanted to put in the soup that day. There are spices to this day that I know only by their German names.
I buried a pet hamster in the flower garden behind their house, too. His name was Gus. I named him by using the first letter from the names of each boy I had a crush on that year... Grant, Ulrich (a German boy from the village we lived in) and Steve. Along that vein, I could just as aptly have named him Fickle.
On a good day, in the back yard, if we rolled over the right rock, my brothers and I would find several Ohrenhiller, or ear wig bugs.
We'd poke them with sticks just to watch them move their pinchers. We might have stopped that torture if we'd ever gotten pinched like we deserved, but we were pretty good at it, so we didn't.
My Oma ALWAYS had flowers in the flower bed in the front of the house by the stairs, usually petunias.
The homes in Germany are built to house several generations of a family. Grandparents would live on one floor while their kid's family lived on another. It's not like this as much anymore, because their society is almost as mobile as ours is, and the younger generation doesn't want to live in little villages. Anyway, when you rang the doorbell at my grandparent's house, on each level was a button that you could push that would allow the door to be pushed open... without you having to walk down the stairs to let the visitor in. To us kids, that was just flat-out cool.
If we were at Oma and Opa's house at the right time of year, they'd take us Schwamma hunting. Mushrooms. Opa taught us the difference between poisonous ones and those that were safe to eat. If part of the mushroom had worms in it, it was safe. And did you know that if you see deer poop, mushrooms are usually not far away? It's true.
After gathering bags of mushrooms, we'd take them home, and we were taught how to clean them. One type of mushroom was brown on top and underneath the top was this yellowish, spongey stuff that needed to be discarded... but it was fun to squish with your fingers. Another type just needed the top layer peeled off.
Once they were cleaned, Opa or Oma would cook them, usually with scrambled eggs or a sauce. And we ate them. And lived to tell about it.
We always took walks. For hours sometimes. Up hills, across train tracks, between fields (on the sides, though, because it's not nice to walk through a farmer's fields and damage his crop).
Sometimes we'd take buckets and alongside the railroad tracks we'd stop and pick wild blueberries. I don't remember what Oma made with them once we got home, but I do recall eating a bunch of them while we were in the picking process.
Here's another one of my favorite things about their home. In the mornings, right as your consciousness started to alert itself to the fact that sun was streaming into the windows, you'd hear the train whistle as it cruised along those very tracks that we'd walked upon and where we'd picked blueberries. I love the sound of a train whistle!
My brothers, who shared most of these experiences with me, may have other memories to add. Like the time Chris barrelled down the side street from our grandparent's house on his bike and drove straight into a parked Mercedes. I can't remember how many stitches he got from the wound on his leg, but I bet he can. Terry was engineer extraordinaire for all the countless forts we built in the woods. He picked the sturdiest pine branches and dug the biggest patches of moss for the roof. And we felt like kings when we crawled into the dark, musty-smelling spaces after hours of construction work.
And none of us will ever forget what it's like to have a bare leg brush up against a leaf of Brennessel, or Stinging Nettle. Ooo-chee-wah-wah, as my kids would say.
Bruce gets tired of me glamorizing Germany. And truth be told, the last time we visited (our first trip with the kids) a few years ago, things had changed. The bakery in the village was on its last leg, and has since closed. That's a shame of epic proportions. I know this because I've eaten a lot of baked goods from that place, and they couldn't be beaten.
The country was dirtier than I remembered, too. More trash on the side of the roads, more grafitti on bridge underpasses.
But I don't think our kids will remember those things. They'll think about taking train trips, walking around castle relics, eating authentic German bratwurst and going to the Italian Eis store where we ate lots of ice cream.
This week, I erased the address of my grandparent's house out of my address book. And I just now deleted the phone number off our phone's memory, even though it's been disconnected for a couple years now.
But that doesn't matter. The memories will always be precious to me.
And because I must end on a positive note, I'll include my favorite pictures from our trip with the kids.
The first one is of mom, me and the kids walking up the hill behind my grandparent's house, towards the woods. My grandparent's house is the gray one in the very middle. You can only see the top floor, where the attic is.
The church in the village meets only every other Sunday, and before services start, they ring a bell that can be heard throughout the village. The bell is up inside this wooden, triangular structure that my brothers and I used to stand under. And so I had to do the same with our kids.
We have probably 20 pictures very much like the one below. We ate a LOT of ice cream while we were there.
And this next trio, I like to title, "Walking on the Edge: A Lesson Learned".
He was soaked, and our train was due in about 15 minutes. The train depot was on the edge of town, so I ran like a crazy woman back into town, went to a children's clothing store we'd passed on our walk through the village, quickly grabbed a matching pair of shorts and t-shirt in what I hoped was at least close to the correct size, shelled out far more Euros than I'd like to have paid, and ran back. I'm pretty sure I heard modified Mighty Mouse music playing in the back ground.
"Here she comes to save the day!"
And Spencer wore a new outfit on the train ride back, with squishy socks and shoes and no underwear, because they, too, were soaked but I had no time to shop for undies.
I don't do change well. I like for things to stay the same. That comforts me.
I wasn't going to blog about this, but changed my mind. (For a person who doesn't enjoy change, I change my mind often. But that's just because I'm flighty.)
My grandparent's house in Germany sold a couple weeks ago. It made perfect sense for Mom to sell it. She re-married this past summer and now lives in her husband's home. My Opa (that's the German word for Grandpa) died several years ago. And my Oma (Grandma) has been in a nursing home for the last couple years, so the house was empty. It was aging and needing some pretty extensive, and expensive, repairs. It was becoming difficult for mom to maintain, so selling it was the best option.
But it still stinks.
From the time I was born until my dad retired from the Air Force when I was 19, I lived six different places. Kansas, Arkansas, Tennessee, South Carolina, Germany and Oklahoma. The only thing constant during those years, besides my immediate family, was that my mom's parents lived in the same house in Culmitz, Germany, and that my dad's parents lived in first one house and then another, within spitting distance of the first, in Cookeville, Tennessee.
And there is nothing finer than your grandparents' homes.
I spent a summer with my Oma and Opa between 6th and 7th grade. At that time it was great simply because I got to have time away from my brothers. (Now, I'd like to be closer to them both!) My grandparents still worked then, so I was home alone during the day. But I'd walk to the bus stop down the road to meet them when the van from their company dropped them off at the end of the work day. They never had a car, and I'm not sure if they even had driver's licenses.
I was never bored at their home. I would read... a lot. Or go out to the area where my Opa kept the rabbits he raised, and I'd feed them. If there were babies, I'd reach in the cubbie and pull one away from the nervous Mamma Bunny, who would stomp her back leg to warn me of her ire. I'd then play with the baby on a bunch of straw on the floor. I got bit a few times by Mamma Bunny, too, but that never stopped me.
Sometimes I'd walk in the woods behind their house. Or play in the creek that runs behind the garage and back yard.
The creek winds all the way through the village, and my brothers and I would toss leaves or flowers in the water behind Oma and Opa's house and then run like the dickens down the street, to the main road of the village and arrive at the bridge, out of breath, just in time to see our floating foliage pass underneath. Oh, the agony of defeat if we arrived too late!
I helped pick fresh strawberries out of my grandparent's garden. And from that garden I'd snip off pieces of whatever spice my Oma wanted to put in the soup that day. There are spices to this day that I know only by their German names.
I buried a pet hamster in the flower garden behind their house, too. His name was Gus. I named him by using the first letter from the names of each boy I had a crush on that year... Grant, Ulrich (a German boy from the village we lived in) and Steve. Along that vein, I could just as aptly have named him Fickle.
On a good day, in the back yard, if we rolled over the right rock, my brothers and I would find several Ohrenhiller, or ear wig bugs.
We'd poke them with sticks just to watch them move their pinchers. We might have stopped that torture if we'd ever gotten pinched like we deserved, but we were pretty good at it, so we didn't.
My Oma ALWAYS had flowers in the flower bed in the front of the house by the stairs, usually petunias.
The homes in Germany are built to house several generations of a family. Grandparents would live on one floor while their kid's family lived on another. It's not like this as much anymore, because their society is almost as mobile as ours is, and the younger generation doesn't want to live in little villages. Anyway, when you rang the doorbell at my grandparent's house, on each level was a button that you could push that would allow the door to be pushed open... without you having to walk down the stairs to let the visitor in. To us kids, that was just flat-out cool.
If we were at Oma and Opa's house at the right time of year, they'd take us Schwamma hunting. Mushrooms. Opa taught us the difference between poisonous ones and those that were safe to eat. If part of the mushroom had worms in it, it was safe. And did you know that if you see deer poop, mushrooms are usually not far away? It's true.
After gathering bags of mushrooms, we'd take them home, and we were taught how to clean them. One type of mushroom was brown on top and underneath the top was this yellowish, spongey stuff that needed to be discarded... but it was fun to squish with your fingers. Another type just needed the top layer peeled off.
Once they were cleaned, Opa or Oma would cook them, usually with scrambled eggs or a sauce. And we ate them. And lived to tell about it.
We always took walks. For hours sometimes. Up hills, across train tracks, between fields (on the sides, though, because it's not nice to walk through a farmer's fields and damage his crop).
Sometimes we'd take buckets and alongside the railroad tracks we'd stop and pick wild blueberries. I don't remember what Oma made with them once we got home, but I do recall eating a bunch of them while we were in the picking process.
Here's another one of my favorite things about their home. In the mornings, right as your consciousness started to alert itself to the fact that sun was streaming into the windows, you'd hear the train whistle as it cruised along those very tracks that we'd walked upon and where we'd picked blueberries. I love the sound of a train whistle!
My brothers, who shared most of these experiences with me, may have other memories to add. Like the time Chris barrelled down the side street from our grandparent's house on his bike and drove straight into a parked Mercedes. I can't remember how many stitches he got from the wound on his leg, but I bet he can. Terry was engineer extraordinaire for all the countless forts we built in the woods. He picked the sturdiest pine branches and dug the biggest patches of moss for the roof. And we felt like kings when we crawled into the dark, musty-smelling spaces after hours of construction work.
And none of us will ever forget what it's like to have a bare leg brush up against a leaf of Brennessel, or Stinging Nettle. Ooo-chee-wah-wah, as my kids would say.
Bruce gets tired of me glamorizing Germany. And truth be told, the last time we visited (our first trip with the kids) a few years ago, things had changed. The bakery in the village was on its last leg, and has since closed. That's a shame of epic proportions. I know this because I've eaten a lot of baked goods from that place, and they couldn't be beaten.
The country was dirtier than I remembered, too. More trash on the side of the roads, more grafitti on bridge underpasses.
But I don't think our kids will remember those things. They'll think about taking train trips, walking around castle relics, eating authentic German bratwurst and going to the Italian Eis store where we ate lots of ice cream.
This week, I erased the address of my grandparent's house out of my address book. And I just now deleted the phone number off our phone's memory, even though it's been disconnected for a couple years now.
But that doesn't matter. The memories will always be precious to me.
And because I must end on a positive note, I'll include my favorite pictures from our trip with the kids.
The first one is of mom, me and the kids walking up the hill behind my grandparent's house, towards the woods. My grandparent's house is the gray one in the very middle. You can only see the top floor, where the attic is.
The church in the village meets only every other Sunday, and before services start, they ring a bell that can be heard throughout the village. The bell is up inside this wooden, triangular structure that my brothers and I used to stand under. And so I had to do the same with our kids.
We have probably 20 pictures very much like the one below. We ate a LOT of ice cream while we were there.
And this next trio, I like to title, "Walking on the Edge: A Lesson Learned".
He was soaked, and our train was due in about 15 minutes. The train depot was on the edge of town, so I ran like a crazy woman back into town, went to a children's clothing store we'd passed on our walk through the village, quickly grabbed a matching pair of shorts and t-shirt in what I hoped was at least close to the correct size, shelled out far more Euros than I'd like to have paid, and ran back. I'm pretty sure I heard modified Mighty Mouse music playing in the back ground.
"Here she comes to save the day!"
And Spencer wore a new outfit on the train ride back, with squishy socks and shoes and no underwear, because they, too, were soaked but I had no time to shop for undies.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
It's On!
Date night is on!
Nobody showed any further symptoms of illness, so the kids will be sleeping over at the Moody's tonight.
I'm just giddy with all the possibilities. I'm pretty sure we'll go eat at Salsarita's. It's my favorite, because it's better than normal fast food but we don't have to leave a tip, so it's cheaper than a sit-down restaurant.
We're considering a movie, but I'm not "in love" with anything that's playing. It's been a VERY long time since we've gone to a theater to watch a movie, so that would be nice. I'd probably swing more toward a rental from Blockbuster, but I'll leave it up to Bruce.
Last night I did my twice-a-month, big grocery shopping trip to Wal-mart, and I had a different kind of experience that I thought I'd share.
When I do our "the cupboards are completely empty" shopping on Bruce's pay day, it's a chore. I'm at the store for hours and I'm always concerned that I won't be able to fit it all in one shopping cart.
I generally go in the evenings so that Bruce has the kids at home. It's torture to take them grocery shopping if I have a lot on the list. That's just too long to expect them not to get antsy. It's boring as whiz to them, and I can't entertain them while I'm trying to compare prices.
I stood in line last night behind another couple who had a buggy full like I did. When it was my turn, a young couple stood in line behind me. I'm pretty sure they were just dating and not married because they paid separately. Poor people... he literally had only peanut butter to purchase, and she had only two items.
A couple minutes after standing behind me, he said, "Do you need any help with that? When we first got here I didn't realize you had so much."
I laughed and said, "Oh, my poor husband realizes it every time I do this shopping trip."
And he said, "I know what you mean. That's how it is when my mother goes."
I first thought, "I am not old enough to be compared to your mother, young man. I'm pretty certain." And then I thought, "Should I be insulted here? Do I look so decrepit that he actually thinks I can't transfer all this stuff onto a conveyor belt?"
But then I shifted my thoughts, because I can do that. And often should.
I realized I was falling into the kind of thinking that I really don't like. The thoughts and mindsets that lead to women being insulted when men hold doors for them or act in other gentlemanly ways. I always wonder what's wrong with those women. Thank the good Lord that someone is still teaching their kids manners these days. It gives me hope for my little gentlemen at home, that they'll see other young men doing what Bruce and I are teaching them to do, and see that it is good and right. And I pray my daughter grows up realizing she's special enough for any little guy to treat her with respect and honor.
I thanked the guy in line behind me.
A couple minutes later, he very nicely asked, "I'm not trying to pry or be rude or anything, but how long does it take you to gather that many groceries?"
I laughed outright and told him a couple hours. I held inside my next thought, which was, "Pay attention. A few years from now, you'll get married, have yourself a few munchkins and this will be your life!"
I loaded my groceries and punched all appropriate numbers and buttons to ensure that Wal-mart could directly draft the huge amount I'd just spent out of our bank account. It took a minute to fold the foot-long receipt into a neat little bundle that would fit into my wallet. During that time, the guy behind me finished paying and his girlfriend was getting her items rung up.
He again said, "Seriously, if you want any help loading that into your car in the parking lot, we'd be happy to help."
I love this kid!
And flash backwards five years ago when I was waddling around Wal-mart hugely, almost grotesquely, pregnant with our precious twins, I'd have taken him up on every single one of his offers. Sadly, at that time, not one person ever offered help. Hmmm, where's a modern day Superman when you need him?
I thanked the fellow again, and declined his offer of help. Then I smiled the whole time I walked to the van, loaded the groceries and drove home.
I love it when we see good deeds. But I am reminded of a recent sermon I heard which included the statement that we shouldn't be surprised when bad things happen in this world. We should be astonished that there's any good here at all, considering who rules this realm.
There's a wonderful song that's just been released by Michael English. The album is not out yet, so I can't find anything on the World Wide Web to post here, but when it comes out, I'm posting it.
It's called something like, "The Only Good In Me Is Jesus." He talks about being thanked for doing something nice and realizing it wasn't in his nature to do those things. He goes on to say if you could see his thoughts, you'd know that all the good in him is simply Jesus.
So true for us all.
Nobody showed any further symptoms of illness, so the kids will be sleeping over at the Moody's tonight.
I'm just giddy with all the possibilities. I'm pretty sure we'll go eat at Salsarita's. It's my favorite, because it's better than normal fast food but we don't have to leave a tip, so it's cheaper than a sit-down restaurant.
We're considering a movie, but I'm not "in love" with anything that's playing. It's been a VERY long time since we've gone to a theater to watch a movie, so that would be nice. I'd probably swing more toward a rental from Blockbuster, but I'll leave it up to Bruce.
Last night I did my twice-a-month, big grocery shopping trip to Wal-mart, and I had a different kind of experience that I thought I'd share.
When I do our "the cupboards are completely empty" shopping on Bruce's pay day, it's a chore. I'm at the store for hours and I'm always concerned that I won't be able to fit it all in one shopping cart.
I generally go in the evenings so that Bruce has the kids at home. It's torture to take them grocery shopping if I have a lot on the list. That's just too long to expect them not to get antsy. It's boring as whiz to them, and I can't entertain them while I'm trying to compare prices.
I stood in line last night behind another couple who had a buggy full like I did. When it was my turn, a young couple stood in line behind me. I'm pretty sure they were just dating and not married because they paid separately. Poor people... he literally had only peanut butter to purchase, and she had only two items.
A couple minutes after standing behind me, he said, "Do you need any help with that? When we first got here I didn't realize you had so much."
I laughed and said, "Oh, my poor husband realizes it every time I do this shopping trip."
And he said, "I know what you mean. That's how it is when my mother goes."
I first thought, "I am not old enough to be compared to your mother, young man. I'm pretty certain." And then I thought, "Should I be insulted here? Do I look so decrepit that he actually thinks I can't transfer all this stuff onto a conveyor belt?"
But then I shifted my thoughts, because I can do that. And often should.
I realized I was falling into the kind of thinking that I really don't like. The thoughts and mindsets that lead to women being insulted when men hold doors for them or act in other gentlemanly ways. I always wonder what's wrong with those women. Thank the good Lord that someone is still teaching their kids manners these days. It gives me hope for my little gentlemen at home, that they'll see other young men doing what Bruce and I are teaching them to do, and see that it is good and right. And I pray my daughter grows up realizing she's special enough for any little guy to treat her with respect and honor.
I thanked the guy in line behind me.
A couple minutes later, he very nicely asked, "I'm not trying to pry or be rude or anything, but how long does it take you to gather that many groceries?"
I laughed outright and told him a couple hours. I held inside my next thought, which was, "Pay attention. A few years from now, you'll get married, have yourself a few munchkins and this will be your life!"
I loaded my groceries and punched all appropriate numbers and buttons to ensure that Wal-mart could directly draft the huge amount I'd just spent out of our bank account. It took a minute to fold the foot-long receipt into a neat little bundle that would fit into my wallet. During that time, the guy behind me finished paying and his girlfriend was getting her items rung up.
He again said, "Seriously, if you want any help loading that into your car in the parking lot, we'd be happy to help."
I love this kid!
And flash backwards five years ago when I was waddling around Wal-mart hugely, almost grotesquely, pregnant with our precious twins, I'd have taken him up on every single one of his offers. Sadly, at that time, not one person ever offered help. Hmmm, where's a modern day Superman when you need him?
I thanked the fellow again, and declined his offer of help. Then I smiled the whole time I walked to the van, loaded the groceries and drove home.
I love it when we see good deeds. But I am reminded of a recent sermon I heard which included the statement that we shouldn't be surprised when bad things happen in this world. We should be astonished that there's any good here at all, considering who rules this realm.
There's a wonderful song that's just been released by Michael English. The album is not out yet, so I can't find anything on the World Wide Web to post here, but when it comes out, I'm posting it.
It's called something like, "The Only Good In Me Is Jesus." He talks about being thanked for doing something nice and realizing it wasn't in his nature to do those things. He goes on to say if you could see his thoughts, you'd know that all the good in him is simply Jesus.
So true for us all.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Because We All Do It
Either because we're cheap or because we're trying to watch our caloric intake, nearly everyone in our extended family has ordered water with a slice of lemon at a restaurant.
This changes that for me. Keep in mind that I tend to over-react, or so I'm told. I also exaggerate. And I diligently follow nearly all rules and heed all warnings to the nth degree. Those traits can be exasperating to those I love, I know.
Still, this is just yucky.
Don't watch it if you're eating, or have recently eaten. Or if you plan to eat out any time soon.
Good gravy, Pete!! (Got that saying from my good friend Melanie in Texas. I still say it eight years after hearing her say it.)
What's wrong with people?!
Wash your hands when you go to the bathroom. Don't cut meats in the same place that you cut other foods.
How hard is that?
If Bruce sees this, he'll never take me out to eat on our date night. He's already completely convinced that all restaurants, and all their employees, and nearly all people who eat at any given restaurant are gross.
Maybe he's right.
He loves it when I say that.
This changes that for me. Keep in mind that I tend to over-react, or so I'm told. I also exaggerate. And I diligently follow nearly all rules and heed all warnings to the nth degree. Those traits can be exasperating to those I love, I know.
Still, this is just yucky.
Don't watch it if you're eating, or have recently eaten. Or if you plan to eat out any time soon.
Good gravy, Pete!! (Got that saying from my good friend Melanie in Texas. I still say it eight years after hearing her say it.)
What's wrong with people?!
Wash your hands when you go to the bathroom. Don't cut meats in the same place that you cut other foods.
How hard is that?
If Bruce sees this, he'll never take me out to eat on our date night. He's already completely convinced that all restaurants, and all their employees, and nearly all people who eat at any given restaurant are gross.
Maybe he's right.
He loves it when I say that.
Healthy, Wealthy and Wise
Yesterday I had my first health screening. Bruce's employer is finally catching up with other companies and has started a wellness program. They're even doing a weight-loss challenge for employees.
They usually offer a health screening to employees only, but this year, they included spouses. I told Bruce to sign me up. All my family (and probably Bruce's, too) knows that I have a strong propensity to eat junk food. I eat healthy, too. I actually like fruits and veggies. And I generally like the healthier meats, like fish and chicken, over the red meats (some times you just have to have a steak, though!).
But I like junk food. A lot. I don't mean the chips variety of junk. That's all Bruce's territory. Nope, not me. I like sugar. The more, the better. If it's sweet, it's got my name all over it. The only saving grace in that is that I don't typically go for the high-fat sweets, like chocolate bars. Again, that's all Bruce.
I like candy. Pretty much every holiday, I hit that special aisle at Wal-mart. The one that has seasonal items, and usually a slew of junk food. I feel very at home there.
And every major holiday, I have my addictions. For Valentine's Day, it's all about the conversation hearts, but only either Necco brand or Brach's. That other stuff is just icky. For Halloween, I like Tootsie Roll Pops. At Christmas, I like those melt-in-your-mouth peppermints by Bob's. (I just ate my last one yesterday. Sigh!) In between holidays I hit hard the Twizzlers and Hot Tamales.
Shortly before we got the notice from Bruce's employer about the health screening, I read something about a pre-diabetic phase and I told Bruce that I sometimes worry about that. I said that while I was chomping on an Airhead from the kids' Halloween stash.
So yesterday was the big day. Got my blood pressure checked, my finger poked, and my blood studied. And I'm all good. Not even anywhere close to pre-diabetic. No cholesterol problems. All fine in the HDL, LDL, and triglyceride departments, whatever all that stuff means.
So I came home and celebrated by eating half a bag of Dum Dum suckers.
Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm still actually cutting back. Trying to look ahead. I'm not getting any younger, so I need to quit eating like a teenager. At least most days of the week.
Topic change. We're not really wealthy. I just liked that phrase above for a heading.
Bruce is, however, leading our church's first foray into Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. Our first class was this past Tuesday. We have a good group of people coming. And we're excited on a personal front because as homework, we all are to do a simple budget this week.
We've never had a good budget. I don't do numbers. My eyes glaze over, my brain freezes, and my insides turn to mush. It's not the restrictiveness of a budget, because if I'm heading grocery shopping and Bruce says my favorite phrase of all time, "Take it easy" I can actually comply.
It's the sheer volume of numbers involved. And I'm not implying that his paycheck is huge. I mean the categories that need to be figured out - all the places we spend money. Ugh! It's just too much. Neither of us is really a big spender. But there's always the water bill, the cable bill, electricity, trash, newspaper, groceries, blah, blah, blah. I just don't enjoy all the detail that goes into a budget. I like things simple.
Still, we need a good budget. It'll tickle Bruce to no end. I think he thinks this is going to be a bonding experience. I'm surprised he doesn't schedule a date night around it. Oh, maybe he's saving it for Valentine's Day.
Uhh... wait a minute! This week, out of the blue, he did ask his parents to watch the kids so we could go out on a date night. You don't think....
Nah, he wouldn't.
As to that prospective date night, it's beginning to look iffy. I picked Clay up from school yesterday at lunch time. He was nauseated, pale and had a headache. He'd complained of a sore throat early this week. His school nurse said strep and the stomach virus is going around. (Yippee... a few of my favorite things. I'll break into a Julie Andrews song any minute now.)
Allison is also saying her throat hurts.
But you know what Dr. Mom did, in her vast wisdom?
Nothing. I sent Clay to school this morning and told him to at least try to make it until lunch time, so he's not counted absent and I won't have to get a doctor's note.
I'm not shelling out the co-pay to visit the pediatrician unless something new happens. A fever, a rash, someone not being able to eat a meal because it hurts too bad to swallow, vomit (or its opposite). Something more than aches.
Oh crud! The phone is ringing. School nurse? We shall see.
They usually offer a health screening to employees only, but this year, they included spouses. I told Bruce to sign me up. All my family (and probably Bruce's, too) knows that I have a strong propensity to eat junk food. I eat healthy, too. I actually like fruits and veggies. And I generally like the healthier meats, like fish and chicken, over the red meats (some times you just have to have a steak, though!).
But I like junk food. A lot. I don't mean the chips variety of junk. That's all Bruce's territory. Nope, not me. I like sugar. The more, the better. If it's sweet, it's got my name all over it. The only saving grace in that is that I don't typically go for the high-fat sweets, like chocolate bars. Again, that's all Bruce.
I like candy. Pretty much every holiday, I hit that special aisle at Wal-mart. The one that has seasonal items, and usually a slew of junk food. I feel very at home there.
And every major holiday, I have my addictions. For Valentine's Day, it's all about the conversation hearts, but only either Necco brand or Brach's. That other stuff is just icky. For Halloween, I like Tootsie Roll Pops. At Christmas, I like those melt-in-your-mouth peppermints by Bob's. (I just ate my last one yesterday. Sigh!) In between holidays I hit hard the Twizzlers and Hot Tamales.
Shortly before we got the notice from Bruce's employer about the health screening, I read something about a pre-diabetic phase and I told Bruce that I sometimes worry about that. I said that while I was chomping on an Airhead from the kids' Halloween stash.
So yesterday was the big day. Got my blood pressure checked, my finger poked, and my blood studied. And I'm all good. Not even anywhere close to pre-diabetic. No cholesterol problems. All fine in the HDL, LDL, and triglyceride departments, whatever all that stuff means.
So I came home and celebrated by eating half a bag of Dum Dum suckers.
Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm still actually cutting back. Trying to look ahead. I'm not getting any younger, so I need to quit eating like a teenager. At least most days of the week.
Topic change. We're not really wealthy. I just liked that phrase above for a heading.
Bruce is, however, leading our church's first foray into Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. Our first class was this past Tuesday. We have a good group of people coming. And we're excited on a personal front because as homework, we all are to do a simple budget this week.
We've never had a good budget. I don't do numbers. My eyes glaze over, my brain freezes, and my insides turn to mush. It's not the restrictiveness of a budget, because if I'm heading grocery shopping and Bruce says my favorite phrase of all time, "Take it easy" I can actually comply.
It's the sheer volume of numbers involved. And I'm not implying that his paycheck is huge. I mean the categories that need to be figured out - all the places we spend money. Ugh! It's just too much. Neither of us is really a big spender. But there's always the water bill, the cable bill, electricity, trash, newspaper, groceries, blah, blah, blah. I just don't enjoy all the detail that goes into a budget. I like things simple.
Still, we need a good budget. It'll tickle Bruce to no end. I think he thinks this is going to be a bonding experience. I'm surprised he doesn't schedule a date night around it. Oh, maybe he's saving it for Valentine's Day.
Uhh... wait a minute! This week, out of the blue, he did ask his parents to watch the kids so we could go out on a date night. You don't think....
Nah, he wouldn't.
As to that prospective date night, it's beginning to look iffy. I picked Clay up from school yesterday at lunch time. He was nauseated, pale and had a headache. He'd complained of a sore throat early this week. His school nurse said strep and the stomach virus is going around. (Yippee... a few of my favorite things. I'll break into a Julie Andrews song any minute now.)
Allison is also saying her throat hurts.
But you know what Dr. Mom did, in her vast wisdom?
Nothing. I sent Clay to school this morning and told him to at least try to make it until lunch time, so he's not counted absent and I won't have to get a doctor's note.
I'm not shelling out the co-pay to visit the pediatrician unless something new happens. A fever, a rash, someone not being able to eat a meal because it hurts too bad to swallow, vomit (or its opposite). Something more than aches.
Oh crud! The phone is ringing. School nurse? We shall see.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
When?
Here's a little bit of the conversation in the car this morning after we dropped Clay off at school.
Allison: Mom, why did the dog cross the road?
Mom: I don't know. Tell me why.
Allison: Because the dog is the same color as the mailbox.
Mom: Oh.
Hmmm. What to do. What to do. To laugh and make her feel funny, or not to laugh and make her realize she's not funny.
I tossed her a weak little chuckle.
And I wondered, "When? When will Allison and Spencer crack a joke and actually be funny?"
I remember Clay's first funny joke. My memory is like a sieve, so the very fact that I recall this is testimony to it actually being humorous.
For your reading pleasure, here is THE joke that made me realize that our first born actually "got it" with comedy.
Clay: Mom, why did the boy take a skunk to school?
Mom: I don't know. Tell me why.
Clay: He took it for Show and Smell.
I gave a genuine laugh on that one. Partly because it was so unexpected... it actually made sense in addition to being funny.
I think pediatricians should use making a funny as one of the milestones kids should reach by a certain age.
Just a thought.
Allison: Mom, why did the dog cross the road?
Mom: I don't know. Tell me why.
Allison: Because the dog is the same color as the mailbox.
Mom: Oh.
Hmmm. What to do. What to do. To laugh and make her feel funny, or not to laugh and make her realize she's not funny.
I tossed her a weak little chuckle.
And I wondered, "When? When will Allison and Spencer crack a joke and actually be funny?"
I remember Clay's first funny joke. My memory is like a sieve, so the very fact that I recall this is testimony to it actually being humorous.
For your reading pleasure, here is THE joke that made me realize that our first born actually "got it" with comedy.
Clay: Mom, why did the boy take a skunk to school?
Mom: I don't know. Tell me why.
Clay: He took it for Show and Smell.
I gave a genuine laugh on that one. Partly because it was so unexpected... it actually made sense in addition to being funny.
I think pediatricians should use making a funny as one of the milestones kids should reach by a certain age.
Just a thought.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Perfectly Made
Yesterday was a day full of spankings. Oddly, they were awarded mostly to Allison.
She stomped her foot and gave me an ugly look when I told her to do something. Pop on the booty!
She's going through a phase where she's pinching the boys for each slight infraction. A couple of swats for that.
Before I go further, let me say that I am not a spanking-happy parent. On my side of the family, Bruce and I are considered the strict parents. But on Bruce's side of the family, we are considered the lenient parents. I'm pretty content with that. It's a good medium. A good blend between the Moody and the Mitchell sides.
Now back to the story...
Then the biggie hit. The Mount Saint Helen's of all explosions.
At lunch time the rule in our house is to finish your sandwich first, then fruit or veggies, and then you can eat the junkfood, like chips or cookies. I had to leave the kitchen for a minute and I came back to find that Allison's chips were nearly gone and her sandwich lay there, half eaten. Her banana was untouched. This is not a new occurrence with this munchkin.
I reminded her of our rule and told her to get back to her sandwich. She started crying. And then she acted like she was gagging. Again, this isn't the first time she's pulled this particular theatrical feat.
She insisted her sandwich tasted "funny". This is the same kind of sandwich she requests each and every day for lunch. But on the off chance that there was something wrong, I asked Spencer how his had tasted. His was fine, he said; so using my great powers of deduction, I figured her's must also be fine.
She was still gagging and holding in her mouth a now visibly mushy bite of sandwich. I told her to take a drink of milk to wash it down.
She acted like she was choking, sloshed milk out of her cup, and cried out that she couldn't swallow. If you've ever taken any health class and learned the Heimlich, you know that if a person can talk, they ain't choking!
Her fit was gaining momentum, and my blood pressure was rising as well.
I told her to "suck it up". I said she was in control of everything about her body at that moment. If the bite she took was too big, then don't take such a big bite next time. If she couldn't swallow because she was still crying, then stop crying. I said I was leaving the kitchen for one minute and she had better have that bite swallowed when I got back.
Meanwhile, if you could have just seen poor Spencer beside her. She was gagging, and he was checking the distance between her seat and his. Then he scooted over to my chair to put some distance between him and the possible geyser.
After one minute's time, she had not swallowed her bite. But she had worked herself into an even finer lather. You know what's coming next, right?
I sat down and told her to bend over across my legs so I could spank her. She protested.
She said...
"But Mommy, it's not right for you spank me. Spencer's bottom is made more for spanking than mine is. His bottom is softer."
I was beyond humor at that point and simply said, "God made each one of us with a bottom just perfect for spanking. That's what it's there for."
"His bottom is softer." Where does she get this stuff? What precious little minds they have to come up with such logic.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:14
She stomped her foot and gave me an ugly look when I told her to do something. Pop on the booty!
She's going through a phase where she's pinching the boys for each slight infraction. A couple of swats for that.
Before I go further, let me say that I am not a spanking-happy parent. On my side of the family, Bruce and I are considered the strict parents. But on Bruce's side of the family, we are considered the lenient parents. I'm pretty content with that. It's a good medium. A good blend between the Moody and the Mitchell sides.
Now back to the story...
Then the biggie hit. The Mount Saint Helen's of all explosions.
At lunch time the rule in our house is to finish your sandwich first, then fruit or veggies, and then you can eat the junkfood, like chips or cookies. I had to leave the kitchen for a minute and I came back to find that Allison's chips were nearly gone and her sandwich lay there, half eaten. Her banana was untouched. This is not a new occurrence with this munchkin.
I reminded her of our rule and told her to get back to her sandwich. She started crying. And then she acted like she was gagging. Again, this isn't the first time she's pulled this particular theatrical feat.
She insisted her sandwich tasted "funny". This is the same kind of sandwich she requests each and every day for lunch. But on the off chance that there was something wrong, I asked Spencer how his had tasted. His was fine, he said; so using my great powers of deduction, I figured her's must also be fine.
She was still gagging and holding in her mouth a now visibly mushy bite of sandwich. I told her to take a drink of milk to wash it down.
She acted like she was choking, sloshed milk out of her cup, and cried out that she couldn't swallow. If you've ever taken any health class and learned the Heimlich, you know that if a person can talk, they ain't choking!
Her fit was gaining momentum, and my blood pressure was rising as well.
I told her to "suck it up". I said she was in control of everything about her body at that moment. If the bite she took was too big, then don't take such a big bite next time. If she couldn't swallow because she was still crying, then stop crying. I said I was leaving the kitchen for one minute and she had better have that bite swallowed when I got back.
Meanwhile, if you could have just seen poor Spencer beside her. She was gagging, and he was checking the distance between her seat and his. Then he scooted over to my chair to put some distance between him and the possible geyser.
After one minute's time, she had not swallowed her bite. But she had worked herself into an even finer lather. You know what's coming next, right?
I sat down and told her to bend over across my legs so I could spank her. She protested.
She said...
"But Mommy, it's not right for you spank me. Spencer's bottom is made more for spanking than mine is. His bottom is softer."
I was beyond humor at that point and simply said, "God made each one of us with a bottom just perfect for spanking. That's what it's there for."
"His bottom is softer." Where does she get this stuff? What precious little minds they have to come up with such logic.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:14
Monday, February 4, 2008
Just My Personal Opinion
The following is posted by me and is not to be construed in any way as indicative of the opinions of the management (that would be Bruce).
Today, Mike Huckabee was out stomping near our airport. I wanted to go, but it's yucky weather. And I didn't want to take the kids because their attention span would have run out far earlier than mine would have. One of us would have been frustrated before too much time passed.
I met this man LONG ago and in a land far away... Arkansas actually. Back when he was governor and we lived there and I was a reporter for our local newspaper. It wasn't a personal meeting. There were at least 25 other reporters and editors there. And the sole purpose of the meeting was to pander to the media. I get that.
Still, I liked him then. And I like him now.
I don't claim to have any superior political knowledge. I'll even admit that I re-took a State & Local Government class in college because my grade wasn't too hot the first go 'round.
But in this great country, my vote counts as much as that of the most politically savvy individual. The point is just to vote.
In this Godtube exclusive, presidential candidate Mike Huckabee explains what he considers to be the most crucial issue for voters in the upcoming election when considering a candidate.
Don't watch it if you don't want to. Won't bother me a bit.
I just like him.
Today, Mike Huckabee was out stomping near our airport. I wanted to go, but it's yucky weather. And I didn't want to take the kids because their attention span would have run out far earlier than mine would have. One of us would have been frustrated before too much time passed.
I met this man LONG ago and in a land far away... Arkansas actually. Back when he was governor and we lived there and I was a reporter for our local newspaper. It wasn't a personal meeting. There were at least 25 other reporters and editors there. And the sole purpose of the meeting was to pander to the media. I get that.
Still, I liked him then. And I like him now.
I don't claim to have any superior political knowledge. I'll even admit that I re-took a State & Local Government class in college because my grade wasn't too hot the first go 'round.
But in this great country, my vote counts as much as that of the most politically savvy individual. The point is just to vote.
In this Godtube exclusive, presidential candidate Mike Huckabee explains what he considers to be the most crucial issue for voters in the upcoming election when considering a candidate.
Don't watch it if you don't want to. Won't bother me a bit.
I just like him.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Tears for Tom
To quote the sports announcer, "A perfect season is only a perfect season if you win the Super Bowl." And the New England Patriots did not.
While getting ready for breakfast this morning, Clay asked me which team I was rooting for. I had no idea who was even playing. My dad is probably not proud that he raised a daughter who could not care less about football.
I've always told dad I never wanted my kids to play football. It's that overprotective Momma nature in me. When Bruce and I watched "We Are Marshall" a couple months ago, I literally yelped out loud during one scene involving a particularly brutal tackle. I can't take it.
Clay likes sports strictly to play them. He is not overly competitive.
Spencer is our VERY competitive boy. He has no fear of playing any game, with anybody. He's like a little chihuahua that's willing to play with a mastiff.
When Spencer was born, I accepted that I'd have to bury my fears and never let my kids know of them. And they don't. (About sports anyway.) Clay would take every "what if" and twist it to mythical proportions (like me), and Spencer would take every warning as a challenge.
Last fall, I encouraged Clay to play Upwards flag football. He was afraid he'd get hurt. I stressed that it was "flag" football, but he wouldn't budge.
Since then, between listening to his buddy Ben and playing his Nintendo DS game, he has developed an interest in the game. And a man at church who stays with the kids during children's church has fostered in Clay a real love of the game. He even went so far as to buy (with his own money) a couple extra balls, because the older boys wouldn't let Clay and the younger fellas play with the only football in the church gym. Both Mr. Mike and Clay have a ball now, so that chances are good that at least one of them will remember to bring an extra ball.
And Clay has changed his mind about playing football. (I'll handle my own psychoses on the game privately.)
So I wasn't surprised when Clay asked this morning about the game. I gave him the only tidbit I had gleaned from the papers.
"Which team does Manning play on? That's the team I'm rooting for."
Evidently not the answer he was hoping for. To make a long story short, we ended up betting on the winner of the game. I regreted it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. But Bruce ran with it. He told Clay to go get $5 from his piggy bank, and he matched it with money from his wallet.
Great. I've got my 7-year-old gambling. Makes a Momma proud.
That kid watched every second of that game, except the parts that Bruce fast forwarded through. He was even starting to get cocky. And yet, in the end, the New York Giants pulled it off. An upset to be sure.
And my poor little guy cried. His face scrunched up and everything. I felt terrible when he handed me the $10.
I watched while Bruce consoled him, and then I couldn't take it anymore. I gave him the $10 back. And Bruce gave him a mini-lecture about placing bets.
The tears dried up immediately.
That little booger wasn't all that upset about the Patriots losing. He was upset that he lost his $5, and the chance at winning my $5 as well. Actually, Bruce's $5.
He is his daddy's son, after all. I should have spotted it quicker.
While getting ready for breakfast this morning, Clay asked me which team I was rooting for. I had no idea who was even playing. My dad is probably not proud that he raised a daughter who could not care less about football.
I've always told dad I never wanted my kids to play football. It's that overprotective Momma nature in me. When Bruce and I watched "We Are Marshall" a couple months ago, I literally yelped out loud during one scene involving a particularly brutal tackle. I can't take it.
Clay likes sports strictly to play them. He is not overly competitive.
Spencer is our VERY competitive boy. He has no fear of playing any game, with anybody. He's like a little chihuahua that's willing to play with a mastiff.
When Spencer was born, I accepted that I'd have to bury my fears and never let my kids know of them. And they don't. (About sports anyway.) Clay would take every "what if" and twist it to mythical proportions (like me), and Spencer would take every warning as a challenge.
Last fall, I encouraged Clay to play Upwards flag football. He was afraid he'd get hurt. I stressed that it was "flag" football, but he wouldn't budge.
Since then, between listening to his buddy Ben and playing his Nintendo DS game, he has developed an interest in the game. And a man at church who stays with the kids during children's church has fostered in Clay a real love of the game. He even went so far as to buy (with his own money) a couple extra balls, because the older boys wouldn't let Clay and the younger fellas play with the only football in the church gym. Both Mr. Mike and Clay have a ball now, so that chances are good that at least one of them will remember to bring an extra ball.
And Clay has changed his mind about playing football. (I'll handle my own psychoses on the game privately.)
So I wasn't surprised when Clay asked this morning about the game. I gave him the only tidbit I had gleaned from the papers.
"Which team does Manning play on? That's the team I'm rooting for."
Evidently not the answer he was hoping for. To make a long story short, we ended up betting on the winner of the game. I regreted it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. But Bruce ran with it. He told Clay to go get $5 from his piggy bank, and he matched it with money from his wallet.
Great. I've got my 7-year-old gambling. Makes a Momma proud.
That kid watched every second of that game, except the parts that Bruce fast forwarded through. He was even starting to get cocky. And yet, in the end, the New York Giants pulled it off. An upset to be sure.
And my poor little guy cried. His face scrunched up and everything. I felt terrible when he handed me the $10.
I watched while Bruce consoled him, and then I couldn't take it anymore. I gave him the $10 back. And Bruce gave him a mini-lecture about placing bets.
The tears dried up immediately.
That little booger wasn't all that upset about the Patriots losing. He was upset that he lost his $5, and the chance at winning my $5 as well. Actually, Bruce's $5.
He is his daddy's son, after all. I should have spotted it quicker.
A Reversal of Fortune
We have not had much luck with fish.
As stated on previous posts, it took a mere two weeks for seven goldfish to decide they couldn't live in our house. So they died.
Here we are a few months later, attempting tropical fish instead. We started with five, and one died. Yesterday, I marched into PetSmart with my body bag (a ziploc containing our dead fish) and traded for two Red Wag Platty fishes. They're pretty, huh?
After our new, bagged fish were acclimated to the temperature of our tank, Bruce released them to swim free. And he made a prophetic statement: "Wouldn't it be great if you bought a pregnant fish and we raised some baby fish?"
He went on to say how we'd need a bigger tank. And you're supposed to separate the pregnant fish for some reason and then the babies for some other reason. All this translated in my mind to "more work".
Uhhhh... no. "Great" isn't the word I'd have used for that idea.
And yet, this morning when I stumbled into the kitchen to feed the fish, they had indeed multiplied.
A lot.
Okay, here's where I go off and use the big "s" word we don't allow the kids to say.
Stupid PetSmart employee who bagged me a pregnant fish! If I wanted to breed fish, I'd have asked for a Mamma fish. I even purposefully nixed guppies for their reputation of being vigorous breeders.
There are now 15 itty, bitty (kinda cute) fishies swimming amongst our other six, planned fishes.
And, of course, we have to admit that these babies are illegitimate, because we have no idea who the parents are. At this point, they could be Tetras or Mollys. They're just little gray blobs with fins. (We're pretty sure they aren't Plattys, because they really haven't been in the tank long enough to be the proud parents of this brood.)
However, go back up to that picture of the pretty Red Wag Plattys. And tell me that first one on the left doesn't look a little big around the middle.
I'm sighing and rolling my eyes as I think of the possibilities.
I will admit, they are fun to watch. Those little things hide everywhere, blending into the gravel on the bottom or resting in the branches of the plants.
If they live, I'll be happy to share the love and pass out a few freebies. Our tank isn't big enough to sustain that many fish, and we aren't buying a bigger tank.
I even asked Clay if he'd ask his teacher if she'd like a classroom pet. She's going to love me!
As stated on previous posts, it took a mere two weeks for seven goldfish to decide they couldn't live in our house. So they died.
Here we are a few months later, attempting tropical fish instead. We started with five, and one died. Yesterday, I marched into PetSmart with my body bag (a ziploc containing our dead fish) and traded for two Red Wag Platty fishes. They're pretty, huh?
After our new, bagged fish were acclimated to the temperature of our tank, Bruce released them to swim free. And he made a prophetic statement: "Wouldn't it be great if you bought a pregnant fish and we raised some baby fish?"
He went on to say how we'd need a bigger tank. And you're supposed to separate the pregnant fish for some reason and then the babies for some other reason. All this translated in my mind to "more work".
Uhhhh... no. "Great" isn't the word I'd have used for that idea.
And yet, this morning when I stumbled into the kitchen to feed the fish, they had indeed multiplied.
A lot.
Okay, here's where I go off and use the big "s" word we don't allow the kids to say.
Stupid PetSmart employee who bagged me a pregnant fish! If I wanted to breed fish, I'd have asked for a Mamma fish. I even purposefully nixed guppies for their reputation of being vigorous breeders.
There are now 15 itty, bitty (kinda cute) fishies swimming amongst our other six, planned fishes.
And, of course, we have to admit that these babies are illegitimate, because we have no idea who the parents are. At this point, they could be Tetras or Mollys. They're just little gray blobs with fins. (We're pretty sure they aren't Plattys, because they really haven't been in the tank long enough to be the proud parents of this brood.)
However, go back up to that picture of the pretty Red Wag Plattys. And tell me that first one on the left doesn't look a little big around the middle.
I'm sighing and rolling my eyes as I think of the possibilities.
I will admit, they are fun to watch. Those little things hide everywhere, blending into the gravel on the bottom or resting in the branches of the plants.
If they live, I'll be happy to share the love and pass out a few freebies. Our tank isn't big enough to sustain that many fish, and we aren't buying a bigger tank.
I even asked Clay if he'd ask his teacher if she'd like a classroom pet. She's going to love me!
Saturday, February 2, 2008
If You Give a Mouse...
Here's an ode to Laura Numeroff, the writer of "If You Give a Pig a Pancake," "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie," "If You Take a Mouse to School," and "If You Take a Mouse to the Movies." (We're BIG fans. She has other books, but we own all four of these.)
Here goes. My version, with a twist.
If You Give a Boy Access to the Computer Room
by Tanja
If you give a boy access to the computer room,
he'll probably get a couple dozen sheets of computer paper out of the ream that is stacked on the desk. He'll do it when nobody is looking.
He'll ask his mom if he can color with crayons.
Because she's cleaning the bathroom at that moment, she'll absentmindedly say, "Not yet, honey."
He'll still want to do something creative though,
because he's bored with the mountain of toys in his room.
He'll think for awhile and then ask his mom if he can "punch," using the hole puncher and the heart-shaped scrapbooking tool that she long ago turned over to the kids' craft supply box.
By then his mom will be upstairs doing laundry,
but he'll have toted the stack of paper along with him on his quest.
She'll say, "In a minute," because her arms are full of wet jeans that she's transferring to the dryer.
He'll decide to stop asking mommy.
He'll carry the paper to his room,
and he'll remember the book that his Meemaw gave his older brother for Christmas.
It's called "Flight School: Paper Airplanes That Soar."
He'll recall all the fun they had as they went through all 96 sheets of decorative paper that were included at the back of the book for plane construction. It took only two weeks.
He's pretty sure he can make a great airplane all by himself. He won't need the book or his big brother's help. And he can use plain paper.
He tries his first plane.
It's okay,
but he's certain he can do better.
In 15 minutes, he's worked his way through the whole stack of paper.
He wants to do more,
so he heads back to the computer room for extra paper.
In another 15 minutes he's filled a plastic storage container with all his masterpieces... and three Wal-mart bags as well.
Having finished the laundry and a few other chores, his mom peeks in on him. She sees his hard work and all his paper airplanes. She realizes she has an addict on her hands. (She's recently tossed more plane parts than Boeing does in a year's time.)
She takes a picture.
She decides to clean it all up in a few days,
when he's not looking.
After he's had time to enjoy his planes.
And chances are, she'll pay more attention next time he asks to do crafts.
And he won't be allowed free access to the computer room, and the paper, again.
Here goes. My version, with a twist.
If You Give a Boy Access to the Computer Room
by Tanja
If you give a boy access to the computer room,
he'll probably get a couple dozen sheets of computer paper out of the ream that is stacked on the desk. He'll do it when nobody is looking.
He'll ask his mom if he can color with crayons.
Because she's cleaning the bathroom at that moment, she'll absentmindedly say, "Not yet, honey."
He'll still want to do something creative though,
because he's bored with the mountain of toys in his room.
He'll think for awhile and then ask his mom if he can "punch," using the hole puncher and the heart-shaped scrapbooking tool that she long ago turned over to the kids' craft supply box.
By then his mom will be upstairs doing laundry,
but he'll have toted the stack of paper along with him on his quest.
She'll say, "In a minute," because her arms are full of wet jeans that she's transferring to the dryer.
He'll decide to stop asking mommy.
He'll carry the paper to his room,
and he'll remember the book that his Meemaw gave his older brother for Christmas.
It's called "Flight School: Paper Airplanes That Soar."
He'll recall all the fun they had as they went through all 96 sheets of decorative paper that were included at the back of the book for plane construction. It took only two weeks.
He's pretty sure he can make a great airplane all by himself. He won't need the book or his big brother's help. And he can use plain paper.
He tries his first plane.
It's okay,
but he's certain he can do better.
In 15 minutes, he's worked his way through the whole stack of paper.
He wants to do more,
so he heads back to the computer room for extra paper.
In another 15 minutes he's filled a plastic storage container with all his masterpieces... and three Wal-mart bags as well.
Having finished the laundry and a few other chores, his mom peeks in on him. She sees his hard work and all his paper airplanes. She realizes she has an addict on her hands. (She's recently tossed more plane parts than Boeing does in a year's time.)
She takes a picture.
She decides to clean it all up in a few days,
when he's not looking.
After he's had time to enjoy his planes.
And chances are, she'll pay more attention next time he asks to do crafts.
And he won't be allowed free access to the computer room, and the paper, again.
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