The Wedge Effect

I love teaching my kids things as they grow up.  Eli's learning how to read and Marina is learning the wonders of the toilet.  It's a very exciting time in our house.

Then there are times when I make some poor choices on my lesson subject matter (remember when we taught Eli to pinch booties when he was three?  That is still going on.)  

Yesterday stupidity struck again.  I mistakenly (on purpose) taught Eli how to administer a wedgie.  Since the incidence of wedgie retaliation is great, I also taught him how to deflect and receive a wedgie (if you powerfully clinch the cheeks of the buttocks, the underwear can only travel so far).

While yesterday, I didn't see too much of a problem bestowing my wisdom on my 5-1/2 year old, today has been a much different story.  This afternoon, I was standing at counter cutting onions when I felt a little hand reach under my belt.  As my one hand held a butcher knife and the other was holding a handful of onions, I was forced to resort to the clinch defense.  I felt like saying, "I've made a huge mistake," (Arrested Development style).  There have been several of these unfortunate incidents today.

I have since warned Eli about how giving people wedgies can get you beat up in life, though this doesn't seem to make much difference to him.   This time, I'm positive I'm going to get a call from school in the upcoming weeks...

I really should give my parenting technique a little tweaking in 2012.

Here's my little butt-pinching wedgie-maker.

Christmas Card Clinton Style

Merry Christmas from my odd family to yours.  

For those of you who complained that our card was too small to see, you can click on the picture below and see more awesome details.  

Suspicious Card Activity

It's a week before Christmas and for once we are 89% done with our shopping.  This is kind of amazing, considering I have less time than ever before;  so either I am becoming increasingly more efficient or I am ordering so much stuff online that the UPS man is ready to throw rocks through my window.  I'm not telling which choice is correct.  

In our gifting, we could not forget Eli's teachers.  I asked him to make a card for each of them to accompany his gift.  I believe in artistic freedom so I didn't give him guidelines (I'm so New Age).  Perhaps I should have.  Apparently, to Eli a Christmas card means drawing a picture of Saturn, an alien (which looks remarkably like Woodstock from Charlie Brown), a flower and best of all... a rocket.  

Now I know my sister would say to me, "To the pure, all things are pure" but I'm having a bit of trouble with this one.  I honestly don't think this picture could be more offensive if it was planned (it would not be planned by my son!).

So what now?  Eli was almost too tired to make this card, so asking him to make something else was out of the question.  Should I tape a black box on top of the rocket?  Should I hope his teacher won't notice (and then really hope she doesn't display this somewhere!)?

My laziness and preference for the ridiculous is leaning toward sending it as it is...  Does this make me a terrible mom?  It is all together likely.  But does it also make me someone who will laugh all day tomorrow?  Yes, absolutely.  

Here is the front of the card.  I hope it doesn't get me flagged for obscenity.

Fake Santa Fun

Today I took my kids to visit Fake Santa at my work.  Mark and I are those kind of cruel parents who tell their kids that Santa doesn't exist and then go on to tell them the history of the St. Nicholas.  Yes, yes, go ahead and tell me about how mean and awful we are.  When we give our kids Christmas presents, we tell them they are from us.  And instead of threatening our kids with "Santa is not going to bring you any presents if you are naughty," we say, "I am not going to buy you anything if you hit your sister.  I'm going to buy everyone else something you would like and make you watch them open it." (this is 73% false)

So why, you ask, did I take my kids to visit Fake Santa today?  Because of the simple fact that they were giving away free presents.  I put aside my values for a Color Wonder lap desk and a Rummikub game.  

As usual, we did extremely well.  I had to dress my kids for a successful Fake Santa visit; everyone knows Fake Santas love vests (some of you may recall Eli's denim vest from our "Vestive Christmas card from last year).  I brought Grandma along with me to help wrangle my misbehaving children.  

Before we left home, I had to give Eli a stern lecture about not spoiling the fun for the other kids who believe in Santa.  He had many questions but finally agreed to obey.  As we waited in line, Eli grew a bit anxious.  He kept saying things like, "We're going to be last!  I know we are going to have to be last."  I kept giving him the Mom Eyes and hoping he kept the lid on it.  

When we were third from the front, he announced, "Dad told me to tell Fake Santa that he smells like beef and cheese!"  (Eli and Mark have been watching Elf lately)  Grandma and I had to quickly hush him and tell him he would do no such thing.  I didn't turn around to see what the parents of the girl in the pretty dress thought of this.  All the while, Marina was eyeing Fake Santa with suspicious eyes.

Not surprisingly, when our turn came.  Marina wanted nothing to do with Fake Santa.  We had to insert Grandma into the scene to appease her.  

Here is some photo chronicle of our time:  

This could be my favorite picture of all time.  Marina is clearly showing her displeasure.  Fake Santa is resting his hand on Eli's shoulder, while he is watching the man out of the corner of his eye and smiling like he is in pain.  

The kids about to knock down the cardboard facade.

"Hey, I said look at Mommy!"

 Marina absolutely refusing to look at the camera.

 

 Eli happy about stealing Marina's present from her... before deciding he wanted both toys.

Eli doesn't know the difference between looking like he is in pain and smiling.

I said, "Hey!  Marina!  Look at me!"  This is what she did.  It's like she is a teenager.  

Marina giving her innocent look and Eli forgetting who he is supposed to be looking at.

Marina means business.  Eli looks awesome.

(:

Decorating Distraction

When you stay up extra late on Thanksgiving, wake up early to shop, drink fewer coffee gallons than average, and have a propensity toward ADD, the following nonsense might result when you are trying to put up a Christmas tree and accidentally stumble upon a box of dress-up costumes.  You may also feel compelled to write run-on sentences to describe the scene.  

Eli absolutely loves masks.  I have a feeling he may grow up to be superhero or a bank robber or a porta-potty cleaner - they wear masks, right?  They better.

Marina in her Tinkerbell outfit with Grandma in her 1990's t-shirt, still cheering on my high school soccer efforts.  While Marina's wings kept getting stuck on everything, she refused to take them off.  She knows the merits of form over function even at an early age.

 Eli and Tia looking seriously awesome.  Ariana is wearing a dress made for a 6-year-old, Eli is thinking of making a grab for her magic Tinkerbell wand.

 Marina altering the Nativity scene... Yikes!

 Marina added an extra tutu to the fairy outfit because more is more.

Mark beaming someone with his laser eyes.

 Me, posing dramatically with fake Christmas tree branches, while Eli holds up a latex bald head that looks amazingly similar to Granny Panties.  

Me:  Tired is the new black.  Eli: trying to melt the camera though his mask.

 Bride #2.  This one grooming and looking for nits in the tree.  

 Someone kept camouflaging himself next to the Christmas tree.  

And this!  The prize of all the Christmas tree.  This is a homemade ornament that has blessed our tree for more the 25 years.  I have to hand it to my mother, if this ornament was given to me by this homeless-looking child, I would have thrown it away with the rest of the rotten turkey from Thanksgiving.  

Here I am, in Sunday school, looking fabulous.  Notice that at five, my hair was already becoming a problem, lifting several inches off the top of my head and matching up with the width of my shoulders. I have on very attractive stirrup pants and I am balanced precariously atop this plastic chair for no apparent reason (this was before safety concerns and lawsuits).  Apparently I wanted to convey my dramatic displeasure in this photo by refusing to smile.  This picture deserves to be glued to a wooden block, surrounded by green lace ribbon and immortalized on a fake Christmas tree for over a quarter century.  

Believe it or not, my family was finally successful, after a two-day Christmas decorating challenge.  We had to take a 24 hour break between the tree construction and ornament addition.  Once again, we are models for high productivity.

In reality, we are actually just trying to train ourselves up for a game show like Double Dare (does this still exist?), so we constantly encumber ourselves with masks and garments and then try to accomplish mundane tasks.  You should see what I wear when I try to prepare a meal for my family (which happens only once a month)... this could be why I am so unsuccessful all the time.    

The Rules

As my children get older, I'm finding that people actually listen to the things I say flippantly.  Although perhaps, there are only two such people (small ones, who live in my house) in the world and they happen to absorb 95% of the nonsense I spout (as opposed to my husband who resides in the inverse of this equation).  On occasion, I'm surprised when they remind me of my stupidity (all the rest of the time, I don't even listen to myself).

Today's conversation:

Eli:  Do I have to change my clothes?
Me:  Um, let me think.  We are going to Grandma's and we were there yesterday, so yes.
Eli:   But why?
Me:  Well son, the key to wearing the same clothes day after day is choosing a location where you don't see the same people.  Yesterday we saw Grandma.  If we go back there today, she is going to yell at Mommy for not making you change your clothes.  And even though it is a Lazy Saturday, she is going to tell you that you're dirty.  
Eli:  What about this snake shirt I'm wearing under my sweatshirt, she didn't see that.
Me:  Well, you wore it yesterday, slept in it, and are still wearing it today.  You might as well change that too.
Eli:  But you said we have three days before we start to smell.
Me:  Did I say that?  Hmm.  I guess you are right.  You can wear it again today.

In my own defense, I believe the "Three Day Stink" conversation came up on a holiday when it was three hours past bedtime and Mr. Rules was freaking out about it being bath day.  Desperation to get your kids to bed trumps desperation to get them clean.  I may also apply this rule to myself... just in case any of you happened to see me wafting around the mall on Black Friday.

Hair Haikus

My Hair is Everywhere
(Thank you Dashboard Confessional for the use of your rhyme)
-Some Haiku dedicated to my Hair

** As an English major, I must own that this is very bad haiku, lacking in sufficient seasonal imagery and word mastery.  It can only be known as Pseudo Haiku.

Brown nest smells like food
Open window expands it
To the size of France

Ever live with blonds *
Cover with oceans of hair
On white floors it shows

Try a new shampoo
Humidity is my foe
Better ponytail

Unmanageable
To my kids goes the gift
Of volume and wave

Lorenzo takes bites
Probably looking for rats
In newly washed mass

So please if you please
No volumizing shampoo
To not block out the sun


* Footnote:  I have only have had roommates who are blonds (and Mark's hair is 1/2" long).  As I have very dark, thick hair, my shed strands are visible from ten yards out.  Blond haired people don't realize their hair falls out just as much as we dark-haireds, you just can't see it as well (so there!).

If you are feeling sorry for my verbally abused hair, I can admit that many of the problems with it actually stem from a user error.  As with many things in my life (like my cooking), I have unrealistic expectations.  I want air-dried hair that lies flat and shines all day.  Instead I have air-dried hair that reaches past the width of my shoulders and only shines when I inadvertently wipe my potato chip fingers in it.

So what should I do?  Make a change?  No, how about I just keep complaining about it and buying more shampoo that promises me miracles... and write poop poetry about it.

The Sam's Curse

Meanwhile, back at the Sam's...

We go to Sam's Club almost every week.  Surprisingly, our most recent trips have been uneventful.  There have been no major meltdowns, no kids slinging boxes of tampons at people walking by.  As a result, I have lowered my guard.  I have allowed myself to believe we could shop like the rest of the general public without embarrassing our entire family at every turn.  But as usual my hopes were premature.

Sam's Club is a social entity in itself.  Since Mark and I are prominent figures in the community, we know people everywhere (despite our antisocial behavior).  Well, perhaps we are not so important as I like to think.  Mark is a teacher and a coach and I work for the biggest employer in town (though I am not the CEO).   Every time we visit the store, we run into coworkers, school families and lots of people that I pretend I don't see so I don't have to come to grips with the fact that they are seeing me in ratty sweatpants and slept-in make-up, or watch them wonder why my cart has 5 gallons of wine in it (it was on sale, ok?).

This last Sunday was the most recognized-people-packed day ever.  Aisle after aisle produced awkward greetings and small talk.  After paying, we sat down for a calorie-packed lunch, just a table away from yet another acquaintance.  My kids were bouncing around, fueled from sugar-infused free samples.  This followed:

Me:  You kids have ants in your pants!
Eli:  [giggle, giggle]  You have spiders on your back!
Me:  Ha.
Eli:  You have bees in your hair!
Me:  Uh, ok... (I have an alarming feeling I know where this is going).
Eli:  [much louder] You have worms on your knees!
Me:  [whispering] That's enough, Eli.
Eli:  [shouting to his dad and consequently the whole store]
        YOU HAVE ANTS ON YOUR NIPPLES!
Mark and I tried to stifle our laughter, especially since the nearby table was no doubt watching in horror as our child profaned the entire store.  We had to act unamused and shocked.

A few moments after the awkwardness subsided, Eli informed me that he had to visit the toilet.  Recently, we have been working on shortening the time spent in the bathroom, particularly since he has been known to spend a solid 20 minutes in the can while someone waits impatiently outside the door.    Acting on his new found skill, Eli sat down on the toilet and immediately started loud, dramatic grunting.  It sounded like someone was strangling a cow.  As we were not the only ones enjoying the facilities, I tried to quietly shush him.  I was met with a "UUUGGGGHHHH".  Good grief!

Lucky for us, we were able to avert our eyes while our fellow customers washed their hands and openly stared at the kid who sounded like he was trying to poop out a basketball (unless they thought it was me...).

As usual, we had to walk out of Sam's with our heads down... and ants on our nipples and sore throats from grunting.  

WTH

This morning, while we were rushing around, getting ready for church (trying not to be late for once), I heard a cheerful voice rolling from down the hall.  As usual his voice carried not only to my ears, but to everyone on the east side.

He said, "Where did you come from?  Did you come from hell?"  [imagine a sing-song voice]

Mark and I looked at each other.  While I'm fairly positive Eli was speaking to his small sister, we chose to believe he was speaking to a nearby cat.  As this was the case, no further action was required, since everybody knows cats are evil.

Let's hope this kind of question doesn't get us beat up in the mall in the near future.

Clintons Calling

As I am a keen observer of people and their habits (actually this is not true, I'm somewhat unaware of what's going on around me), I have documented some very uninteresting activity in order to bore you for a few long minutes.  

In our house, you can walk into a room and instantly tell which of my family members has been there.  It's not just the mess that can be found in his or her wake (which is pretty significant, believe me) but more what I like to think of as his or her "calling card".  Each one of us leaves a distinctive trail.  

Observe, if you will.  

Marina:  Each time I go into the laundry room, I find the washer door open and Mark's "dress" shoes sitting inside.  They are neatly placed, not haphazardly tossed in.  This is not just once or twice but a very regular occurrence.  Maybe she believes they need a touch up.  

Eli:  He rarely finishes his drink at a meal.  Even if there is one sip left, it goes in the fridge for the next meal.  Often, he forgets there is one already in there and we get a stockpile.
** I realize that the giant condiments in the background would lead you to believe you stumbled into Super Mario Bros' Giant World level, but no, we just shop at Sam's Club and we need an obscene amount of Miracle Whip and mustard.

Mark:  I believe my husband may live in constant fear of dehydration.  Everywhere he goes, several drinks tag along.  This is his bedside table... and this is only from the last week.  At least our toilets get a workout.  

Lily:  Wherever I go, my Nook is sure to follow.  That way, if there is a pause in conversation, I can quickly flip it open and find something more interesting to think about than what is being said to me.  I also enjoy wine.  Notice I drink it in a lowball glass (I just learned what this was called on google).  That's because I'm too lazy to hand-wash a wine glass (although the jokes on me, our new dishwasher is poop and now I have to hand-wash everything.  My poor dishpan hands.)

 Lorenzo:  Immediately after we go upstairs, Lorenzo gets to work downstairs.  He locates an unsuspecting blanket or shirt and humps the junk out of it.  I think he is a nasty little cat.  We find a blanket in this position every time we come downstairs.  I don't know what can be done to break this cycle.  Feline counseling?  Obviously he has a problem.

Fat Linda:  She can be found waiting by her bowl, licking it and begging to be fed, even if she ate five minutes before.  She is dense and obese.  Here she is caught looking dumb during her big moment.  Typical.  (I had to pause to hug her just now because I felt so bad making fun of her feeble mind).

So here we are, the Clintons... somewhat antisocial, quite a bit odd, but kind of a fun bunch, if I do say so myself.  I'm sure there are other families with weird quirks, though maybe they have enough tact to refrain from posting them on the World Wide Web.

I'll be reading my Nook if you need me.

I Don't No

As I am marching proudly through my adult years, an unsettling pattern is emerging.  Everyone who knocks on my door to sell magazines or cookies can verify.  I simply cannot say no to people who are trying to pressure me to buy something.  This seems to be commonly known by all.

More than once I have bought overpriced magazine subscriptions from strangers at the door who told me they were involved in some sort of selling competition and needed my personal check to help them succeed.  They even convinced me to write two separate checks for more money so they could each qualify for some stupid level.  (Before you think I'm a complete idiot, I called later in the day to cancel my order and check... then hoped those hoodlums wouldn't come back and slash my tires for keeping them from winning their competition)

Once again, the No Backbone Syndrome befell me yesterday.  My sister and I were on a hunt for cheap bar stools that can only be found at Ikea.  We went to a Bar and Billiard store and pretty much knew immediately that we were out of our price range.  But before we could turn around and walk out, a saleswoman (I'm so politically correct!) asked what we were looking for and told us to go look on their upper floor.  Of course we obeyed.  We made a round and tried to silently depart but the before we could make it to the door, the saleswoman chased me down again and demanded to know exactly what I was looking for.  When I told her about the Ikea stool, she scoffed at me and told me she wouldn't put her children on a stool of that quality.  I received her judgment with grace and let her pressure me back upstairs to show me stools that were hundreds of dollars out of my reach.  I kept saying no, which made me proud of myself until she pulled one out and used her selling wiles on me.  I told her I would have to talk to my husband.  These stools were five times the amount of my Ikea chose.  She got me to pick out color and finish and then even put together a written proposal and made me give her my personal information.  All the while, my mind was screaming "Get me out of here!" but I couldn't make myself stop the process to leave.  My sister was in awe of my spinelessness.

I'm including a picture of the proposal.  That's right, total price $320.02.

I have no intention of buying this expensive stool that is custom made and takes months to be delivered.  I still want the $19.99 Ikea stool but have been too busy/lazy to drive two hours to get it.

I don't know what the heck is wrong with me!?  I say no all the time in the course of my life.  For example, "Lily, do you want to eat these green peppers I grew in my garden."  "NO!"  "Lily, do you think you could shave your legs more than once a season?"  "Sorry, no."  "Lily, do you want to babysit my kids?"  "Absolutely not"

But something about a stranger requesting/demanding something of me tends to paralyze my will.  I'm just glad that so far no one has asked me to give them one of my cats... on second thought...

I think I might need some kind of Yes-Pressure Detox; it will entail sitting on the couch, eating cake, watching Pride and Prejudice.  That ought to do it.  I might need a few rounds before I'm cured.  I'll report back with the results of this study.  In the meantime, I hope no one knocks on my door...

Zip Slip

If you've been trying hard to maintain a professional image for the last few months, dressing carefully every morning and leaving your beloved sweat pants and flip flops at home (unfortunately, the ponytail reappeared after two weeks), then you may want to be sure you don't walk around the office with your fly unzipped for over 2-1/2 hours.  This may counteract all your efforts and give people the wrong idea of what you're about...

I'm just saying.

Nibble and Dribble

Perhaps you have not yet realized that I am a chronic over-sharer.  In case you needed more evidence to be convinced of this fact, I am providing you with this blog.

While my two children have a similar look about them, two more opposite kids cannot be found.  Where Eli is scared of a number of things, Marina stands on top of tables and jumps off, without thought to the ground below.  As we speak, she is playing with Play-Doh and more than once, I have had to instruct her not to eat pieces of it.  

When Eli was a toddler, we made allowance for nose-picking because we understood the necessity of a good clear out, but we told him from day one that there would be no eating of the treasures found inside.  We stressed the "nastiness" of eating boogers.  He nodded in agreement and in five years, we  have never once had an issue.  Marina, on the other hand, has recently made sport of nose picking, and you guessed it, she has turned to snacking on her finds.  I caught her doing this in the car last week.  I sternly told her that it was "disgusting!" and was not to be done.  Eli, who was sitting in the seat next to her, was horrified.  He started yelling, "EWWW!  Marina is eating her boogers!  Ahh!  I can't even look at her!  I can't look at her face.  I'm going to look out the window for the rest of the day, because I can't look at her."

These are two very different children.  One who eats boogers, one who can't even look in the face of a person who does.  How am I to raise two such children?  I don't feel as equipped as I should, somehow.  

In other, totally unrelated news... earlier this week, in the pre-work hours of the morning, Mark was standing in the bathroom, responding to the morning call of nature, when Fat Linda ran (more like lumbered) into the bathroom to do her normal round of knocking things over and getting in the way.  It doesn't need to be said that we believe Fat Linda seems to have a mental slowness about her; that much is obvious.  On this particular morning, she followed her compromised cat instincts to the sound of rushing water and decided to investigate.  Mark, in a state of sluggish morning fatigue, didn't react fast enough and Fat Linda got her head peed on.  You would think at this point, she would have the sense to lower her paws from the rim of the toilet and back away, but nope.  She kept peering into the yellow waters with great interest, not noticing that urine was dripping off her face.  We had to clean off her head and sterilize her so the other kids wouldn't beat her up and call her a piss head.  

Yes, we are a family of booger-eating wimps with at least one special needs cat.  If you feel the need to make a monetary or culinary donation, we are currently accepting. 

The Art of the Move

There seems to be a special recipe that must be in place to orchestrate the perfect move. I’m not talking about dance moves, because we know I need no assistance in that department; I mean the art of moving all your belongings from one living space to another.

Here are the key components that I have identified: planning, adequate supplies, friends, quality furniture, and no unexpected developments.

Yes, once all these things come together, a move can be smooth and seamless. On the other hand, if you are a member of my family, not one of the critical components will be in place and the result will be a disaster worthy of federal aid.

Let’s start at the top: Planning. In my defense, I thought I was packing at a good pace. Each day, I would get home from work, feed the family (they would laugh at this statement), get the kids in bed and then put in some solid packing time. I had boxes lined up on the walls so things looked productive. It wasn’t until two days before the move that I realized we were in bad shape. All the drawers still had items in them and there were stacks of odds and ends in corners. Worst of all, we were out of boxes.  It was like being at Sam’s Club and buying a million tiny things and having to pack it in your car, item by item. So when the day of the move came upon us, we were able to carry the big things out into the truck, but had literal mountains of clutter in every room. This is not a Martha Stewart approved move approach.

Adequate Supplies: As I stated before, we ran out of boxes quickly. So when I had a closet full of clothes to transport, there was nothing to pack them in but a giant box that once housed pieces of chairs (about 5-1/2 feet long). We had two such boxes, so Mark’s clothes went in the other one. The size and weight require a “Team Lift” and they now sit in my new closet, unpacked and completely in the way.

Friends: You never realize just how much anti-social behavior can negatively affect your life until you need to move and you have to search your mind for someone to help. Unfortunately, of the small number of people that actually do like us, many had prior plans. Mark and I were actually laughing at the fact that we have moved a number of times in the last 8 years and it has either been just he and I or my sister, my mom, and me (save one time, where we were moving back to town and people didn’t know they didn’t like us yet) So, once again, Mark, my sister, and I grunted and shoved couches through door frames and were crushed under the weight of a floppy, king size memory foam mattress that is impossible to carry. My sister and I tempted fate by attempting to use a dolly (is this how you spell this?) to carry 200+ pounds of solid oak shelf, only to learn later that we were actually using it on backwards (oops). Then a ray of sunshine: one of Mark’s coworkers stopped by for some heavy lifting/unloading. It was fabulous. We felt bad that he had to carry a face-full of cat hair covered couch when he was in fact, allergic to cats.

The morning after the move, I was not surprised to find that my legs were covered in bruises. They are indeed so plentiful, my bare legs look like I’m wearing rare white leopard print leggings. Maybe I should just add an extra-long t-shirt and belt to complete the look.

Quality furniture: If you buy nice furniture, then you don’t have to worry about tearing fabric sounds while you are jamming your couch through a door frame or your bookshelf literally falling to pieces once you set it down in the moving truck. Although, if you can afford nice furniture, maybe you can afford movers, and you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place…

Unexpected Developments: Things like children’s soccer games in the middle of moving day, and finding out you have to pick up more furniture miles and miles away (when you are paying per mile on the truck), or realizing you have a forgotten supply of storage at someone else’s house can upset a moving day. Again, all these things could have been avoided if I would have focused on the planning stage a little more. Also unexpected is having no window coverings in the new house, even in the bathrooms and bedrooms. So you can pretty much be guaranteed to be on display to the whole neighborhood, no matter what you are doing in our house. Why not purchase new ones? A combined shortage of time, measurements, and money. I wonder if my neighbors like my leopard print leggings.

Fortunately, I'm Fortunate

There are certain seasons in my life where I feel like I’m operating exclusively from the “Bad Mommy
Rule Book” (such a book surely exists; if not, I may be authoring it soon).

If you’ve ever read that book, Fortunately you might understand the following
statements.

Fortunately, I “cooked” dinner on Friday night.
Unfortunately, it was Tuna Helper.
Mark was actually thrilled at the thought of not having to eat Cheetos and a piece of cheese for dinner
(insert judgment on the bad wife here). He ate two platefuls. Eli, on the other hand, asked me, “What’s
this? Soup?”
Me: “No, it’s noodles and sauce.”
Eli: “What’s in the sauce?”
Me: “Butter, milk, and a powder packet of mystery spices.”
Eli: “Well, it’s disgusting.”
Me: “Thank you. You’ll be finishing all your disgusting noodles before you leave the table.”
[Sigh] from two parties.

Fortunately, I am a stickler for teaching my child grammar.
Unfortunately, I may overlook some other failings in exchange.
For example:
Eli: “Bang. Bang. I just shooted you!”
Me: [sigh] “No, Eli you didn’t just shooted me, you just shot me.”
Eli: “I’m going to shot you.”
Me: “Repeat after me. You shot Mommy yesterday. You shoot Mommy today. You are going to shoot
Mommy tomorrow. Get it?”
Eli: “Yes, Mommy. Bang. Bang.”
Should I address the violence or the poor grammar? I opted for the grammar; that seems to be more detrimental to society.  I can't have nobody think my boy's ignorant!

Fortunately, I attended my son’s second ever soccer game.
Unfortunately, I acted like a psycho while I was there.
For whatever reason this week, Eli decided to look at the ground and the clouds while jogging back and forth on the field, managing never to make contact with the ball or anyone else. I stood on the sideline yelling, “ELI! LOOK AT THE BALL! WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU LOOKING AT OVER THERE? THE GAME IS IN FRONT OF YOU!” Yes, I was that mom.
We are fortunate to have a large family represented in town. So, each time Eli plays soccer, he has a cheering section 15 strong. We also are a bit unruly. More than once we have laughed loudly when someone shoots the ball into their own goal (luckily not Eli). This week, we were watching a girls game where one girl threw the ball in, directly at her teammate’s face. It ricocheted off and she screamed. I don’t know which was louder, her scream or our hooting laughter. We simply do not know how to behave in public. But let’s be honest, watching a bunch of 5 and 6 year old play soccer is ridiculous fun.

Fortunately, I address my children’s constant bickering.
Unfortunately, I nag them and annoy everyone around me.
Marina has decided she is a parrot. Everything I say, she follows me and repeats it. So, when
she and Eli are fighting over a toy, I swoop in and stop it.
Me: “Quit it, you two.”
Marina: “Quit it!”
Eli: “She started it!”
Me: “Both of you. Sit down.”
Marina: “Bof of you! Quit it! Quit it!”

She is stealing my nagging mom authority. Who can take me seriously when I have a mini-me behind me mimicking my every word and movement (and not following any of my instructions)?

As I was typing this, I was eating my yogurt with a fork out of sheer laziness. Predictably, the yogurt fell through the spoon and glopped all over my black sweater, conveniently on the chest and again on the stomach. I would think of Fortunately/Unfortunately statement for this, but it seems to all lean to the unfortunate. And the stupid. I’m glad I won’t have the chance to change this shirt for six more hours. Any attention is good attention, right?

Hair She Is

Do you ever feel like your child looks like a cross between Drew Barrymore in Firestarter and Harry Dunne in Dumb and Dumber?  

Yeah, neither do I.   

Notice we have some confusion as to the proper location for our underwear.

(P.S. Before you get mad at me for torturing her and making her sit on the toilet, understand that this is the attitude I was met with when I told her to get off the pot and come eat some dinner.) 

** See if you can find which picture is NOT Marina

Stalling for Time

When I find myself suddenly, overwhelmingly busy, I inevitably have an irritating mental shift.  I become physically unable to make simple decisions without complicating them with a long string of "Lily-ish" thoughts.

Here is a sampling of some recent strings of useless thoughts that have run like a ticker tape through my head for the last week and a half:

Scene: The bathroom at work - a location I visit literally dozens of times a day, due to a high measures of liquid intake.  Enter Lily, stage right.

There are about 12 stalls from which to choose.  Which one should I go in?  As a creature of habit, I'm tempted to consistently visit the same stall.  The following is a transcript from my brain waves, captured by superior technology using advanced scientific techniques:  [Wednesday, August 25.  14:24 hours]

"I'm inclined to visit one of the first stalls but experience tells me that those are subject to high traffic and are therefore covered in more pee and poop germs.  Then there are the back stalls, which should be considered the 'business' stalls, that have only one purpose.  Furthermore, I don't want to go in that stall because I can see from the strained position of the feet that there is a battle waging.  So I will choose a middle stall, Far From the Maddening Crowd, different from the one I picked on my previous visit to Toilet Town."

It shouldn't take this long to choose a bathroom stall.  But since I am already busy, my mind has sabotaged me with an overabundance of thoughts, adding an overly busy mind to a packed schedule.

Today when I was in there, I decided to give into an odd impulse and fold the toilet paper into a little triangle - like they do in the hotels.  That might be my calling card from now on.  When I next visit, I will know if someone has been in that stall since me.

I might be one of the most brilliant people who regularly visits the bathroom.  Let me know if you need some help choosing the stall that's right for you.

Tales from the Crib

Do you ever wonder if your kids might be a bit weird?  I wouldn't call it a fear of mine, because I myself am weird; look how well that's turning out for me...  But let's just say I have an awareness of it.

Typically, Eli says the most random and awesome things.  He has been the source of much amusement over the years.  Then lately, seemingly out of no where, Marina has swept in and showed that she, too, is a strange duck.

I may have already mentioned the day she freaked me out by casually walking over to the refrigerator and correctly naming most of the magnetic letters stuck there.  Neither Mark nor I have had any letter-learning sessions with her.  She must have picked it up from all the PBS educational programing (for viewers like me) she has been watching.  She's not even two yet.... it's just weird.

I'd also like to share a bedtime ritual of hers.  Here it is in picture form:

Every night before bed, she feels the need to line up all her babies and friends between the wall and the crib.  It acts as a sort of prison for them.  Notice the second little one from the left, she must have been particularly bad today.  It might be like a modern day version of putting her friends "in the stocks".  Now everyone who walks through her room will seem them publicly humiliated.  She does ease their discomfort by going down the row and giving them kisses, though.

I hope I never cross this little one.  Her verbal skills rival Mark Twain's...  But on a brighter note, she gives the best hugs in the northern hemisphere.

Nature Vs Nurture

Nature vs. Nurture:

I think some things are written into your DNA.  You can't fight nature, baby.  The Clinton's don't like to waste precious toilet time.  That's where some of our brightest ideas start.  Where do you think Mark came up with the plan to eliminate national debt?

You're invited to come use our toilet/gaming room.

P.S. These pictures are not staged.  

2008

2011

A Day in the Life...

Ever wish you could spend the day with the Clintons?  I am giving you that chance with a pictorial history of yesterday.  Sorry about the odd black borders on a few of the pictures, there were taken on my phone and I had some technical difficulties.

It went something like this:

Hooray!  Coffee time in the morning with Mommy's new giant coffee cup!  Quick explanation of the importance of this cup:  I like to drink my coffee out of the same cup every day.  It must be considerable in size as I am a glutton for huge portions.  I had the perfect one but it suffered an unfortunate accident recently when I forgot about it in the microwave.  Mark didn't look inside when he was heating up his dinner and smashed right into the beloved cup, exploding it all over the kitchen.

This beauty is the large replacement (Thanks, Mark!).  Notice it is a 20 ouncer - so big, Marina can sit inside, as seen here.

Marina sat politely waiting for her breakfast.  Some delicious Kix cereal Mommy slaved away on.  She is a pleasant-looking child with a new trick; she keeps sneaking into the kitchen and stealing food from the cabinet.  Yesterday, Mark found her sitting in front of the TV eating happily from a bag of Taco flavored Doritos.  

Eli took a little time after breakfast for some creative drawing time.  He would identify his drawings for me.  I asked him about this particular one, he told me it was "tapeworms".  Oh yes, of course.

Marina's new baby doll.  She is very serious about taking care of her.  She was placing her in the booster chair for feeding time.  If you look closely, you can see the baby's legs are curiously shiny - almost like the talk show hosts on TV.  Why?  Apparently the baby had a diaper rash that required large amounts of Vaseline to be placed all over her legs and in her removable diaper.   

10:04 AM:  Pause our day to receive some disappointing news.  The offer we put on a superb house was outbid by another butthead.  This was extremely unfortunate, as we were already mentally placing our cat-scratched furniture all over the house.  

After the bad news we regrouped and were looking for our new perfect house online.  For whatever reason, at that moment, it was like both of our kids caught fire.  They were jumping and rolling all over us and screaming at each other.  All four of us sat on the couch in a line and every once in awhile an arm or leg would dart out and hit someone else.  

Somehow in all the jostling a most astonishing thing happened.  Someone knocked into me, which launched my NEW kick-a smart phone off of my lap.  It soared through the air and landed inside my giant [full] 20-ounce coffee mug.  I sat stunned for a few seconds before I screamed a word for dung (possibly an expletive - sorry kids).  I grabbed the coffee soaked phone and ran to triage (the kitchen) where I bandaged it quickly in paper towels and assessed the situation.  There was coffee gushing out of its orifices.  I quickly pulled off the cover and removed the battery (more coffee!), which already revealed the telling red water damaged indicator.  I buried it in rice and started to wring my hands and pulling at my clothes (good thing they were elastic).  

Lucky for me, I added insurance on the phone 10 days ago... It was DOA (dead on arrival, for you non-medical drama TV show watchers).  

Notice the guilty-looking giant coffee cup.

Believe it or not, the day did actually go on (just like Celine Dion sang it would).  We were forced to employ a non-family member babysitter for once since everyone is traveling these days.  We spent the majority of the day cleaning up so we could invite a member of the outside world into our house. 

As I opened my purse to pay her, I was made aware once again of the nonsense that often makes up my purse. After she left, I paused to take stock of what was inside.  

Here we go for another segment of What's In Lily's Purse!  

Not an exhaustive list. 

A bottle of home-brewed beer that someone gave me just before I left work.  

A box of Gas-X (I'm old).

A list of school supplies I've been carrying around for 2 months.

A Nook. (always!)

An empty pantyliner wrapper (what!?) - which it turns out I had in my zippered "secret compartment".  At some point, it escaped into the middle section and shed it's wrapper (scandalous).  

A computer cord (under the Nook).

Some mints that make both Mark and me nauseated but he keeps going back for more.

2 Empty gum boxes

and no fewer than 13 lip glosses

Dinner time.  Same meal.  Two different responses to it.  

Welcome to our world!