It is impossible not to bite a candy cane. It’s the unofficial Tootsie Pop of Christmas.
No matter how many times you tell them no, they will still ask you every day if they can open “just one present” before Christmas.
Unopened presents make great ramps for monster trucks.
Christmas parties at school are major events in the lives of little kids.
There’s something mesmerizing about the voices of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Our boys haven’t a clue who they are, but their song can play on the radio and every activity in the house will cease, as they huddle around that player, captivated by the sound.
No matter how many Christmas cards you order, it is never enough.
Our kids like to get presents, but they also like to give. Brisco brought me a ball and a strip of wrapping paper last night and asked for help wrapping a ball to leave for Santa. “He might have a dog that can play with it,” he said.
There is no limit to the amount of Christmas candy a child can ingest.
Outdoor lights are a must.
Children have a way of forcing you into enjoying Christmas music.
The oldies are still the best Christmas programs on TV. Honestly, Frosty should really not have “Returned”.
The glaze doesn’t go on Santa’s cookies until after they are baked. (It was a blonde moment. And I had lots of help.)
Counting backwards is easier when you get down to 10.
Jefferson Airplane is alive and well and is now multi-generational, making its way into the hearts of our young via electronic toys. “Free ride…take it easy…” Sing it Brisco.
Children can live on boiled eggs and sugar alone for at least four days…and counting.
You know there really is a circle of life when your son and your husband are both excited about the same present: a midnight blue 1964 Impala, Hot Wheels edition.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Creating memories
It’s official. Our kids have totally fallen in love with Christmas. It’s still 10 days and counting until the Big Man arrives, but they wake every morning like it’s only hours away. “How many days now?” the littlest will ask. “It’s 10,” quips his brother, as they sit around the presents that are slightly over-shaken and disheveled under the tree. With just under two weeks to go, the anticipation of Christmas is really starting to create some memories.
One of the biggest I’d say was the day we put up our tree. Randy and the boys went Christmas tree hunting with some friends out north of town. Several hours, a couple runny noses and a hot cup of coffee later, we had a tree, and two wound up little boys whose excitement for the holiday was going full throttle.
Dad cut back some branches and filled an old paint bucket full of dirt, and we stood up that pseudo-Douglas fir right underneath the dancing bobble heads. It was attractive, at first glance, but those over the age of five would soon agree that turning the flat side to the wall was a lot easier said than done. After a day or so of nakedness, the kids insisted that we dress our tree with lights and ornaments…something other than a pair of paper handcuffs made in Wednesday night Bible class. And so another memory was born.
We dug out the Christmas CD, the one and only that exists in our home, and put on some music to help get us all in the proper mood. The boys thought we needed Christmas cookies to add to the festivities, so we pulled out the rolling pin and whipped up the dough, and after rolling several cups of flour right into the floor, taking a flying sweep up big brother back and ingesting at least a quarter pound of straight flour each, we had approximately two dozen candy cane and snowman Christmas cookies--half of them well-done (sorry Frosty).
I had had about as much holiday cheer as I could handle for one day, and lets face it, an activity like that should have been started mid-morning, so as luck would have it, we called it an evening, with the promise of picking up where we left off the following day. And so we did. The next evening after dinner, we clicked on the Cowboy Christmas crooners and made an attempt at decorating our tree.
Not surprisingly, the calm and orderly strategy I had devised for the proceedings blew up right in my face. For days, they begged and they bothered, they pleaded and they whined, and finally, an evening arrived where we could focus--attempt to create that Hallmark moment. And wouldn’t you know, they were more interested in sword fighting with the wrapping paper tubes or making head dresses from the tinsel than in decorating that tree.
Thus, our evening ended: One string of red lights, a box of old fashioned Christmas balls, a dozen or so store-bought ornaments and what was left of the tinsel--all hanging on our spherically-challenged tree.
I know it wasn’t quite the evening I’d pictured. Certainly not Norman Rockwell’s vision of the perfect holiday gathering. But it was the best we could do for the moment. With kids who’d rather wear their stockings than hang them by the chimney with care, we are clearly not George and Mary Bailey. No, we’re more like Jed and Granny Clampett, with slightly better fashion sense. Just trying to make some kind of happy, holiday memories for our kids. And I guess in a way, we did just that--all with only two pokes from a pine needle, three lost ornament hooks and one broken family heirloom in the process.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
One of the biggest I’d say was the day we put up our tree. Randy and the boys went Christmas tree hunting with some friends out north of town. Several hours, a couple runny noses and a hot cup of coffee later, we had a tree, and two wound up little boys whose excitement for the holiday was going full throttle.
Dad cut back some branches and filled an old paint bucket full of dirt, and we stood up that pseudo-Douglas fir right underneath the dancing bobble heads. It was attractive, at first glance, but those over the age of five would soon agree that turning the flat side to the wall was a lot easier said than done. After a day or so of nakedness, the kids insisted that we dress our tree with lights and ornaments…something other than a pair of paper handcuffs made in Wednesday night Bible class. And so another memory was born.
We dug out the Christmas CD, the one and only that exists in our home, and put on some music to help get us all in the proper mood. The boys thought we needed Christmas cookies to add to the festivities, so we pulled out the rolling pin and whipped up the dough, and after rolling several cups of flour right into the floor, taking a flying sweep up big brother back and ingesting at least a quarter pound of straight flour each, we had approximately two dozen candy cane and snowman Christmas cookies--half of them well-done (sorry Frosty).
I had had about as much holiday cheer as I could handle for one day, and lets face it, an activity like that should have been started mid-morning, so as luck would have it, we called it an evening, with the promise of picking up where we left off the following day. And so we did. The next evening after dinner, we clicked on the Cowboy Christmas crooners and made an attempt at decorating our tree.
Not surprisingly, the calm and orderly strategy I had devised for the proceedings blew up right in my face. For days, they begged and they bothered, they pleaded and they whined, and finally, an evening arrived where we could focus--attempt to create that Hallmark moment. And wouldn’t you know, they were more interested in sword fighting with the wrapping paper tubes or making head dresses from the tinsel than in decorating that tree.
Thus, our evening ended: One string of red lights, a box of old fashioned Christmas balls, a dozen or so store-bought ornaments and what was left of the tinsel--all hanging on our spherically-challenged tree.
I know it wasn’t quite the evening I’d pictured. Certainly not Norman Rockwell’s vision of the perfect holiday gathering. But it was the best we could do for the moment. With kids who’d rather wear their stockings than hang them by the chimney with care, we are clearly not George and Mary Bailey. No, we’re more like Jed and Granny Clampett, with slightly better fashion sense. Just trying to make some kind of happy, holiday memories for our kids. And I guess in a way, we did just that--all with only two pokes from a pine needle, three lost ornament hooks and one broken family heirloom in the process.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Preparing for Christmas
In the past, preparing for Christmas at our house involved hanging a single strand of lights outside, burning a candle or two inside, and a hectic, last minute dash of shopping and wrapping that would take us late into the early morning-a mere 48 hours before Santa’s big eve. Don’t ask me why; that’s just the way we did it. But this year, our boys seem to have realized that Christmas is coming, and they’ve shown a much greater interest in just how this whole thing works. The result? Someone has had to prepare.
It started when we came home after Thanksgiving to an elaborate display of a winter wonderland right on our very block. Rooftops and trees blinking and glowing with lights helped get our kids exceptionally festive-before the turkey had even been digested. So began our journey toward Christmas.
We dug out decorations that had been boxed and stored for the better part of the last four years, and after knocking off the cobwebs and repeatedly asking, “Why did I keep this?” we had finally salvaged enough holiday décor to make an attempt at a winter wonderland of our own.
I knew if we were to have outdoor lights, I’d have to be in charge, and that was ok by me. So I loaded my handy, industrial-size staple gun and was ready to get to work; however, I didn’t realize until after I’d untangled, tested, stretched out, hooked up and unloaded six strands of lights, two extension cords and a step stool into the front yard that our house is covered in plastic.
I had a moment of reckless whimsy when I thought, “Who cares? Just staple them behind the guttering. He’ll never know.” But that daydream was quickly followed by visions of broken trim pieces dancing in my head. It seemed that this year, outdoor hanging lights were going to have to be something our children admired from afar.
Luckily, I remembered some sound advice I’d once been given: “Put on a festive tablecloth and see how a little can go a long way in making the house seem festive to your kids.” I doubted a red and green table covering was going to satisfy my boys after their anticipation of a re-creation of the famous Griswold residence, but once again, I was pleasantly surprised at the effect it seemed to have. A red candle here and a little tinsel there and we were looking like a page out of Ladies Home Journal.
Of course Christmas isn’t all about the decorating. Apparently, our boys will be expecting presents.
“Mom, I want one of those green things that are about this big, and they are fun and they make noise?” He delivered this statement in the form of a question, which lead me to believe he had little clue about the toy for which he was asking.
Enquiring minds wanted to know: “Uh, ok. What does it do?”
“It makes noise.”
“Is it a race car?”
“Nope.”
“Is it a monster truck?”
“Nope.”
Something green that does nothing but make noise? Yeah, I’ll put that at the top of my shopping list.
“Maybe you could just ask Santa,” I suggested. And so the moment at which my kids started contemplating Santa Claus was born.
“Mama, where does Santa live?”
“He lives at the North Pole.”
“What does he do?”
“He makes toys for kids.”
“All by himself?”
“Oh no. He has lots of helpers.”
I could see from the look of contemplation on their faces that this might be enough to keep them thinking for a few days. And so it was. However, not long after, I gained yet another insight into just how this Christmas idea was taking shape in the minds of my children.
I knew Cooper would probably be working on a letter to Santa at school, but he hadn’t said anything about it. So I asked, “Cooper, what do you want for Christmas?” He thought for a moment, and then he said, “I want six Reece’s.” He paused, and then, “But I’ll take three Reece’s and one Skittle.”
I thought to myself, “Hmm, this limiting of their chocolate thing is really gonna pay off!” Just to make sure, I said, “Is that really all you want?” He paused again for a moment and then began, “Well, really you don’t have to get me anything cause Santa will just bring it.” I liked the way he was thinking…save Momma the trouble (and the money) and let good ole Santa do all the work. Of course there’s just one slight problem with this plan…
I continued to pry. “Cooper, did you ask Santa to bring you what you want for Christmas?”
“Yes,” he replied.
I knew we had not yet seen Santa this year, so I was curious as to just how he had asked.
“When did you do that?” I questioned.
“When I was sitting in the chair watching TV.”
Whoa. Hold up, there Rudolph. We seem to have a problem. “Honey, Santa’s not like God. He can’t hear us when we talk to him. Did you write a letter at school?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Well, Mrs. Johnson probably put those in the mailbox and sent them straight to Santa’s house. I bet you’re covered.”
As for Brisco, it seems a letter attached to Cooper’s, that simply read, “Ditto” would have been the easiest way out. He finally decided on six Skittles, a hat, presents-with nothing in particular in them-and a bag of dirt. I bet ole Santa can handle that.
This year, with 17 days till impact, we are more prepared than ever. Decorations are up, tree is lit, and presents are wrapped. We are as on the ball as we’ve ever been this early in the season and it makes a mother proud to have her to-do list dwindle so quickly. And as we enjoy these last few weeks before the big day, it is clear that from decorations to presents to thoughts of Santa, a little Christmas preparation has gone a long way to making two little boys wonderfully excited about Christmas…even without a single light on display.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It started when we came home after Thanksgiving to an elaborate display of a winter wonderland right on our very block. Rooftops and trees blinking and glowing with lights helped get our kids exceptionally festive-before the turkey had even been digested. So began our journey toward Christmas.
We dug out decorations that had been boxed and stored for the better part of the last four years, and after knocking off the cobwebs and repeatedly asking, “Why did I keep this?” we had finally salvaged enough holiday décor to make an attempt at a winter wonderland of our own.
I knew if we were to have outdoor lights, I’d have to be in charge, and that was ok by me. So I loaded my handy, industrial-size staple gun and was ready to get to work; however, I didn’t realize until after I’d untangled, tested, stretched out, hooked up and unloaded six strands of lights, two extension cords and a step stool into the front yard that our house is covered in plastic.
I had a moment of reckless whimsy when I thought, “Who cares? Just staple them behind the guttering. He’ll never know.” But that daydream was quickly followed by visions of broken trim pieces dancing in my head. It seemed that this year, outdoor hanging lights were going to have to be something our children admired from afar.
Luckily, I remembered some sound advice I’d once been given: “Put on a festive tablecloth and see how a little can go a long way in making the house seem festive to your kids.” I doubted a red and green table covering was going to satisfy my boys after their anticipation of a re-creation of the famous Griswold residence, but once again, I was pleasantly surprised at the effect it seemed to have. A red candle here and a little tinsel there and we were looking like a page out of Ladies Home Journal.
Of course Christmas isn’t all about the decorating. Apparently, our boys will be expecting presents.
“Mom, I want one of those green things that are about this big, and they are fun and they make noise?” He delivered this statement in the form of a question, which lead me to believe he had little clue about the toy for which he was asking.
Enquiring minds wanted to know: “Uh, ok. What does it do?”
“It makes noise.”
“Is it a race car?”
“Nope.”
“Is it a monster truck?”
“Nope.”
Something green that does nothing but make noise? Yeah, I’ll put that at the top of my shopping list.
“Maybe you could just ask Santa,” I suggested. And so the moment at which my kids started contemplating Santa Claus was born.
“Mama, where does Santa live?”
“He lives at the North Pole.”
“What does he do?”
“He makes toys for kids.”
“All by himself?”
“Oh no. He has lots of helpers.”
I could see from the look of contemplation on their faces that this might be enough to keep them thinking for a few days. And so it was. However, not long after, I gained yet another insight into just how this Christmas idea was taking shape in the minds of my children.
I knew Cooper would probably be working on a letter to Santa at school, but he hadn’t said anything about it. So I asked, “Cooper, what do you want for Christmas?” He thought for a moment, and then he said, “I want six Reece’s.” He paused, and then, “But I’ll take three Reece’s and one Skittle.”
I thought to myself, “Hmm, this limiting of their chocolate thing is really gonna pay off!” Just to make sure, I said, “Is that really all you want?” He paused again for a moment and then began, “Well, really you don’t have to get me anything cause Santa will just bring it.” I liked the way he was thinking…save Momma the trouble (and the money) and let good ole Santa do all the work. Of course there’s just one slight problem with this plan…
I continued to pry. “Cooper, did you ask Santa to bring you what you want for Christmas?”
“Yes,” he replied.
I knew we had not yet seen Santa this year, so I was curious as to just how he had asked.
“When did you do that?” I questioned.
“When I was sitting in the chair watching TV.”
Whoa. Hold up, there Rudolph. We seem to have a problem. “Honey, Santa’s not like God. He can’t hear us when we talk to him. Did you write a letter at school?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Well, Mrs. Johnson probably put those in the mailbox and sent them straight to Santa’s house. I bet you’re covered.”
As for Brisco, it seems a letter attached to Cooper’s, that simply read, “Ditto” would have been the easiest way out. He finally decided on six Skittles, a hat, presents-with nothing in particular in them-and a bag of dirt. I bet ole Santa can handle that.
This year, with 17 days till impact, we are more prepared than ever. Decorations are up, tree is lit, and presents are wrapped. We are as on the ball as we’ve ever been this early in the season and it makes a mother proud to have her to-do list dwindle so quickly. And as we enjoy these last few weeks before the big day, it is clear that from decorations to presents to thoughts of Santa, a little Christmas preparation has gone a long way to making two little boys wonderfully excited about Christmas…even without a single light on display.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Sunny with a chance of drama
There’s really nothing better than 70 degree weather on Thanksgiving. Forget that packing heavy coats takes up too much room and that we always seem to lose at least one mitten and that there is no end to blowing snotty noses when it’s the typical, turkey-day forecast. I simply hate to be cold. But the weather was no issue this Thanksgiving holiday. It was beautiful and sunny and perfect for a weekend outdoors.
The boys were packed and ready to leave by dawn. Nothing could contain their excitement about playing ball with their cousins, taking rides on Uncle Glendon’s barrel train, and the anticipation of spending the next three days at Granma and Granddaddy’s. From trampolines and tire swings to nature hikes and mud pies, there’s nothing these two boys enjoy more than the warm sun, a cool breeze and a chance to embark on a new adventure with their friends.
We spent Thanksgiving day at Mamaw and Papaw’s with the other 27-grands and 18-great-grandkids. The boys never seem to get enough of the creek and the milk barn and the newly-discovered rows of round bales they spent hours jumping over and across, and unfortunately falling through.
It seemed like a fun game. The older cousins were really good at it, and even Cooper was managing to make it across, despite my gasp at his every leap. I wanted to object, and in fact I tried, but it’s no fun being the overprotective, scaredy-mom who puts a damper on all the fun, new games. So I acquiesced…and the drama ensued.
It’s certainly no secret that if ever there’s an inch to be given, Brisco will find it, and find it he did…quite literally, between two, 6-foot hay bales, with his size eleven feet. It was quite a shock, seeing him leap from mound to mound, only to fall just short of the other side, his body sliding down the rounded edge, arms over his head, flailing about for something to hold on to. It was at precisely that moment that he panicked.
The boy was fine, safely suspended between two bundles of hay. But he certainly couldn’t be convinced of that fact. I, of course, knew just how he was feeling. Panicking is usually my job. I’m good at it, and it comes naturally where my kids are concerned. So when Brisco started screaming and kicking and crying real tears, I could empathize. “I can’t move! I can’t get out! Mom! Help me! I’m stuck! Come get me! Please, Mama! Where are you?!” On and on he went.
Squealing. Like a little girl.
If I hadn’t been able to see that he was safe, I’d have thought surely he was being eaten by a starving, mad cow. But he wasn’t. He was only locked in place, arms strapped to his sides, unable to wiggle free from two gigantic bales of hay. Must have been 12 seconds of pure torture for the poor boy to have been held in one place for so long.
I rescued him from his itchy strait jacket, scolding and cuddling him at the same time. But apparently this trauma would only last about a minute and a half before he wiggled out of my over-protective grasp and was off petting calves, pitching gourds and laughing and playing with baby Jenna.
It seems no matter where we travel or what the occasion, there’s always an adventure that lies in store. It’s fun and crazy and hilarious and maddening all at the same time. Most days I can’t even imagine what I did with all my time before these two little tornadoes came along. But one thing’s for sure: day or night, rain or shine, life with these boys is always sunny…with a chance of drama.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The boys were packed and ready to leave by dawn. Nothing could contain their excitement about playing ball with their cousins, taking rides on Uncle Glendon’s barrel train, and the anticipation of spending the next three days at Granma and Granddaddy’s. From trampolines and tire swings to nature hikes and mud pies, there’s nothing these two boys enjoy more than the warm sun, a cool breeze and a chance to embark on a new adventure with their friends.
We spent Thanksgiving day at Mamaw and Papaw’s with the other 27-grands and 18-great-grandkids. The boys never seem to get enough of the creek and the milk barn and the newly-discovered rows of round bales they spent hours jumping over and across, and unfortunately falling through.
It seemed like a fun game. The older cousins were really good at it, and even Cooper was managing to make it across, despite my gasp at his every leap. I wanted to object, and in fact I tried, but it’s no fun being the overprotective, scaredy-mom who puts a damper on all the fun, new games. So I acquiesced…and the drama ensued.
It’s certainly no secret that if ever there’s an inch to be given, Brisco will find it, and find it he did…quite literally, between two, 6-foot hay bales, with his size eleven feet. It was quite a shock, seeing him leap from mound to mound, only to fall just short of the other side, his body sliding down the rounded edge, arms over his head, flailing about for something to hold on to. It was at precisely that moment that he panicked.
The boy was fine, safely suspended between two bundles of hay. But he certainly couldn’t be convinced of that fact. I, of course, knew just how he was feeling. Panicking is usually my job. I’m good at it, and it comes naturally where my kids are concerned. So when Brisco started screaming and kicking and crying real tears, I could empathize. “I can’t move! I can’t get out! Mom! Help me! I’m stuck! Come get me! Please, Mama! Where are you?!” On and on he went.
Squealing. Like a little girl.
If I hadn’t been able to see that he was safe, I’d have thought surely he was being eaten by a starving, mad cow. But he wasn’t. He was only locked in place, arms strapped to his sides, unable to wiggle free from two gigantic bales of hay. Must have been 12 seconds of pure torture for the poor boy to have been held in one place for so long.
I rescued him from his itchy strait jacket, scolding and cuddling him at the same time. But apparently this trauma would only last about a minute and a half before he wiggled out of my over-protective grasp and was off petting calves, pitching gourds and laughing and playing with baby Jenna.
It seems no matter where we travel or what the occasion, there’s always an adventure that lies in store. It’s fun and crazy and hilarious and maddening all at the same time. Most days I can’t even imagine what I did with all my time before these two little tornadoes came along. But one thing’s for sure: day or night, rain or shine, life with these boys is always sunny…with a chance of drama.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Things to think about
I think my youngest has swine flu. Last week I caught him sucking the syrup out of his pancake and spitting the bread back in the plate. A few days later as I was clearing the breakfast table I noticed a sticky spoon laying by his half eaten waffle. Seems spoons scoop sticky syrup more easily than forks.
Despite all our efforts to stifle it, apparently our kids are officially “new age”. They discovered a rotary dial telephone at the office and were completely at a loss as to how to make it work.
After running out of our regular soap-in-a-bottle a few weeks ago, I put a new bar of soap in the bathtub. A real bar of soap. At bath time, both boys yelled into the other room, “Mom! What is this thing?” “Yeah, Mom, what does it do?”
A mother knows she is just past exhausted when she tries brushing her hair with the cleaning scrubber and taking off her makeup with the fingernail polish remover…all in the same week.
Things you never really want to hear your kids say:
Sometime before ten in the morning, “Mom! That third sucker I had was kinda squishy!”
“Um, Mommy, uh, I didn’t mean to, but there’s kind of a lot of water in the kitchen floor.” Um, Cooper, uh, that’s what happens when you turn over an ice chest full of dirty water.
“I think I slid into a pile of cow poop,” just seconds after sliding into a pile of cow poop.
“I’m cleaning the bathroom sink for you, Mom.” Which initially sounds like a kind gesture until one realizes it is being said by a three year old with limited access to appropriate cleaning supplies. That’s right. The only thing he could reach: half a roll of wet toilet paper.
Who’d have thought a trip to the cotton patch would have one kid wanting to weave a shirt and the other kid in tears because he wasn’t allowed to eat it. Cotton, son. Not cotton candy.
Brisco Berra, at 6a.m., hair standing on end, wet thumb dangling, eyes wide, all of about two inches from my sleeping face, and he screams in a whisper: “Mom, tomorrow is today!” Yep. It sure is.
Pork rinds really are the perfect mommy snack. No matter where you leave an opened bag or how long it sits, they taste the same-days later-when you finally remember you were eating them in the first place.
Does anyone really know the appropriate age for molding a child’s sense of humor? I certainly don’t. Evidently though, it’s sometime after age five. Last week, Uncle Derik decided he had a knock-knock joke he wanted to share. “Go ahead,” I said. “But I’m sure you’ll have to explain the format.” The poor children: deprived and undeveloped.
“Knock-knock,” Derik said, at which time he was met by two sets of eyes and one collective, blank stare.
“You are supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’” I told them.
“Who’s there?” they chimed.
“Centipede,” said Derik.
“…Centipede who?” I encouraged them to say.
“Santa peed on the Christmas tree,” Uncle Derik said with a grin.
And again with the blank stare; these boys had no clue. Abbott and Costello they are not.
But they did give the rest of us a laugh when they tried their hand at telling their own brand of knock-knocks. Cooper was really on fire.
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Banana hat.”
“Banana hat who?”
“LUIGI!!!”
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Banana car.”
“Banana car who?”
“LUIGI!!! HAHAHA!”
And so my child’s sense of humor was born. After a few minutes of knock-knock/Luigi jokes, I was laughing so hard I had to leave the room. I know. Only a mother. But the gusto with which he was sharing was almost too much to watch. It was only when Brisco started telling knock-knock/poop face jokes that we had to put an end to the party. Oh well. I guess we can’t all be funny.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Despite all our efforts to stifle it, apparently our kids are officially “new age”. They discovered a rotary dial telephone at the office and were completely at a loss as to how to make it work.
After running out of our regular soap-in-a-bottle a few weeks ago, I put a new bar of soap in the bathtub. A real bar of soap. At bath time, both boys yelled into the other room, “Mom! What is this thing?” “Yeah, Mom, what does it do?”
A mother knows she is just past exhausted when she tries brushing her hair with the cleaning scrubber and taking off her makeup with the fingernail polish remover…all in the same week.
Things you never really want to hear your kids say:
Sometime before ten in the morning, “Mom! That third sucker I had was kinda squishy!”
“Um, Mommy, uh, I didn’t mean to, but there’s kind of a lot of water in the kitchen floor.” Um, Cooper, uh, that’s what happens when you turn over an ice chest full of dirty water.
“I think I slid into a pile of cow poop,” just seconds after sliding into a pile of cow poop.
“I’m cleaning the bathroom sink for you, Mom.” Which initially sounds like a kind gesture until one realizes it is being said by a three year old with limited access to appropriate cleaning supplies. That’s right. The only thing he could reach: half a roll of wet toilet paper.
Who’d have thought a trip to the cotton patch would have one kid wanting to weave a shirt and the other kid in tears because he wasn’t allowed to eat it. Cotton, son. Not cotton candy.
Brisco Berra, at 6a.m., hair standing on end, wet thumb dangling, eyes wide, all of about two inches from my sleeping face, and he screams in a whisper: “Mom, tomorrow is today!” Yep. It sure is.
Pork rinds really are the perfect mommy snack. No matter where you leave an opened bag or how long it sits, they taste the same-days later-when you finally remember you were eating them in the first place.
Does anyone really know the appropriate age for molding a child’s sense of humor? I certainly don’t. Evidently though, it’s sometime after age five. Last week, Uncle Derik decided he had a knock-knock joke he wanted to share. “Go ahead,” I said. “But I’m sure you’ll have to explain the format.” The poor children: deprived and undeveloped.
“Knock-knock,” Derik said, at which time he was met by two sets of eyes and one collective, blank stare.
“You are supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’” I told them.
“Who’s there?” they chimed.
“Centipede,” said Derik.
“…Centipede who?” I encouraged them to say.
“Santa peed on the Christmas tree,” Uncle Derik said with a grin.
And again with the blank stare; these boys had no clue. Abbott and Costello they are not.
But they did give the rest of us a laugh when they tried their hand at telling their own brand of knock-knocks. Cooper was really on fire.
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Banana hat.”
“Banana hat who?”
“LUIGI!!!”
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Banana car.”
“Banana car who?”
“LUIGI!!! HAHAHA!”
And so my child’s sense of humor was born. After a few minutes of knock-knock/Luigi jokes, I was laughing so hard I had to leave the room. I know. Only a mother. But the gusto with which he was sharing was almost too much to watch. It was only when Brisco started telling knock-knock/poop face jokes that we had to put an end to the party. Oh well. I guess we can’t all be funny.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Baseball, Viagra, and multi-grain toast
I love it that my kids are hooked on Scooby Doo and The Pink Panther. They’ve been checking out the Flintstones and the Jetsons pretty regularly too. Brisco is even taking a liking to Krypto the Superdog. I don’t remember watching that one much, but the song that goes with it sure is catchy.
Sorta like all the commercials that are gaining their attention as well. It’s crazy the kind of stuff that catches their eyes…and ears. I first started noticing it one day when Brisco said, “Mom! There’s a blue guy on TV and he said, ‘There’s smart, and there’s K-Mart smart!’ That’s funny. He’s little, but he’s not people.” Of course I was totally confused.
Their favorite commercial for a while seemed to be the Holiday Inn spot that plays “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” while workers quickly prepare the guest room as if they are the grounds crew during the seventh inning stretch. The boys would always stop whatever they were doing and say, “Look! They’re fixin’ to rake the carpet!”
After that it seemed they were hooked on the commercial advertising New Era baseball caps. I’ll set the scene: After walking yet another batter, Cole Hamels of the Phillies looks up to see what everyone supposes is his pitching coach standing on the mound. Cooper recites his lines, “Come on, Cole. Keep pounding the corners! Get ‘em to chase one outside.” Then Hamels says, “Who are you?” And the camera cuts to two little kids in the stands just shaking their heads, embarrassed once again by their father’s intrusion. And Brisco finishes it up with an “Aw, Dad! Not again!” Like Mastercard, it’s priceless.
As of recent, Brisco seems to have fallen pretty hard into the advertisement trap. He’s the perfect candidate for a trip into the black hole of “want” created by professionals who market every toy under the sun to children who think they “need” it all. Their strategy has not failed to make an impact on this one. Monsters, board games, flying saucers, and a dozen other toys he’s never seen or heard of, but has decided after a 20 second blip on the screen that he just might like them. “Can you get me that? I wanna eat that! Oooh! I want that! Mom, can you just get me everything?”
Then there are the commercials that don’t make a bit of sense even to the adults watching them, much less to our two kids. Of course, that’s no matter. They still walk around the house saying, “Copy. Copy. Copy. Copy.” “Crab. Crab. Crab. Crab.”
The music really gets their attention as well. They used to like the baseball commercial that just had a lot of clicks on it. Mouse clicks, and then all the MLB products. Now they like the one Taco Bell does for black tacos. Yesterday while getting himself dressed for bed, we overheard one of the boys in the back saying, “Black eye. Black dog. Black taco.”
They both wanna try the yogurt that the lady in the story sucks right out of the cup. And Brisco swears he wants to eat the straight-outa-the-box toaster strudels. I can’t convince him that he’s already tried them, and they simply weren’t up to his standards.
Even the car commercials seem to catch their eyes. At first, Brisco was considering a new Mustang. “Mom, can we get that car with the glass hood? It will get us to the beach faster.” But now I think he’s decided the one he really wants is the BMW. Great taste. Dream on.
Then there are the ones that you wish they’d never seen at all. “Mom! There’s the talking window again!” Thanks Viagra. Or, “Outa my way, freak!” Way to go Doogie Houser. I’ll give you a call on that cool new phone when my kid gets a naughty note at school for rude behavior or foul language.
It seems implausible that my five year old has now been introduced to Slim Shady via a commercial for the newest version of the Wii. Pretty sure he hasn’t a clue who or what Slim Shady really is (or means). Frankly, neither do I, but he sure does like the beat.
And just when I’ve about decided to disconnect the cable altogether, my little sugar tooth convinces me that all is not lost. That yes indeed, there is some redeeming value to television commercials in the 21st century. As he looked up one morning from his near-empty, oversized, Halloween pumpkin full of candy…hands sticky from Starbursts, Tootsie Roll stuck in the back of his teeth, and remnants of chocolate built up in the corners of his mouth…he said, “Hey, Mom, do you think we can get some of that multi-grain toast?”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sorta like all the commercials that are gaining their attention as well. It’s crazy the kind of stuff that catches their eyes…and ears. I first started noticing it one day when Brisco said, “Mom! There’s a blue guy on TV and he said, ‘There’s smart, and there’s K-Mart smart!’ That’s funny. He’s little, but he’s not people.” Of course I was totally confused.
Their favorite commercial for a while seemed to be the Holiday Inn spot that plays “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” while workers quickly prepare the guest room as if they are the grounds crew during the seventh inning stretch. The boys would always stop whatever they were doing and say, “Look! They’re fixin’ to rake the carpet!”
After that it seemed they were hooked on the commercial advertising New Era baseball caps. I’ll set the scene: After walking yet another batter, Cole Hamels of the Phillies looks up to see what everyone supposes is his pitching coach standing on the mound. Cooper recites his lines, “Come on, Cole. Keep pounding the corners! Get ‘em to chase one outside.” Then Hamels says, “Who are you?” And the camera cuts to two little kids in the stands just shaking their heads, embarrassed once again by their father’s intrusion. And Brisco finishes it up with an “Aw, Dad! Not again!” Like Mastercard, it’s priceless.
As of recent, Brisco seems to have fallen pretty hard into the advertisement trap. He’s the perfect candidate for a trip into the black hole of “want” created by professionals who market every toy under the sun to children who think they “need” it all. Their strategy has not failed to make an impact on this one. Monsters, board games, flying saucers, and a dozen other toys he’s never seen or heard of, but has decided after a 20 second blip on the screen that he just might like them. “Can you get me that? I wanna eat that! Oooh! I want that! Mom, can you just get me everything?”
Then there are the commercials that don’t make a bit of sense even to the adults watching them, much less to our two kids. Of course, that’s no matter. They still walk around the house saying, “Copy. Copy. Copy. Copy.” “Crab. Crab. Crab. Crab.”
The music really gets their attention as well. They used to like the baseball commercial that just had a lot of clicks on it. Mouse clicks, and then all the MLB products. Now they like the one Taco Bell does for black tacos. Yesterday while getting himself dressed for bed, we overheard one of the boys in the back saying, “Black eye. Black dog. Black taco.”
They both wanna try the yogurt that the lady in the story sucks right out of the cup. And Brisco swears he wants to eat the straight-outa-the-box toaster strudels. I can’t convince him that he’s already tried them, and they simply weren’t up to his standards.
Even the car commercials seem to catch their eyes. At first, Brisco was considering a new Mustang. “Mom, can we get that car with the glass hood? It will get us to the beach faster.” But now I think he’s decided the one he really wants is the BMW. Great taste. Dream on.
Then there are the ones that you wish they’d never seen at all. “Mom! There’s the talking window again!” Thanks Viagra. Or, “Outa my way, freak!” Way to go Doogie Houser. I’ll give you a call on that cool new phone when my kid gets a naughty note at school for rude behavior or foul language.
It seems implausible that my five year old has now been introduced to Slim Shady via a commercial for the newest version of the Wii. Pretty sure he hasn’t a clue who or what Slim Shady really is (or means). Frankly, neither do I, but he sure does like the beat.
And just when I’ve about decided to disconnect the cable altogether, my little sugar tooth convinces me that all is not lost. That yes indeed, there is some redeeming value to television commercials in the 21st century. As he looked up one morning from his near-empty, oversized, Halloween pumpkin full of candy…hands sticky from Starbursts, Tootsie Roll stuck in the back of his teeth, and remnants of chocolate built up in the corners of his mouth…he said, “Hey, Mom, do you think we can get some of that multi-grain toast?”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Happy Halloween
I heard a bit by Jerry Seinfeld last week that perfectly captured the spirit of Halloween- and both of our boys. It couldn’t have been any more accurate or true if the two of them had written it themselves. It captured the obsession our youngest has for anything sweet and the determination our eldest showed this Halloween for portraying a bonafied superhero.
It gave me a glimpse into what I’m sure will be an unforgettable decade of Halloween nights to come, and even brought back a few memories from my own childhood. I’m sure it will do the same for you.
Seinfeld on Halloween
“When you’re a kid, you can eat amazing amounts of food. All I ate when I was a kid was candy. Just candy, candy, candy, candy. In fact, the first 10 years of my life, the only really clear thought I had was: ‘Get Candy.’
‘Get Candy! Get Candy! Get Candy! Get Candy!’
Family, friends, school…they were just obstacles in the way of getting candy. So the first time I heard the concept of Halloween as a kid, my brain couldn’t even process the idea. I was like, ‘What is this? What did you say? Someone’s giving out candy? Who’s giving out candy? Someone we know is JUST GIVING OUT CANDY?!
‘I gotta be a part of this. Take me with you! I’ll do anything you want! (Seeing a white, folded sheet lying on the bed)…I can wear that! I’ll wear anything I have to wear. I’ll do anything I have to do to GET THAT CANDY.’
The first couple of years I made my own costumes. A ghost one year. A hobo the next. I knew my destiny was to someday get a real Superman costume from the store. You know the one. The cardboard box….the cellophane top…mask included in the set. Oh baby!
Remember the rubber band on the back of those masks? That was a quality item. Thinnest gray rubber in the world. It was good for about 10 seconds before it snapped out of that cheap little staple they put it in there with. You would go to your first house. ‘Trick or…’ snap, it broke. I don’t believe it.
So the day finally came. I convinced my parents to buy me an official Superman Halloween store costume. I was physically ready. I was mentally prepared. And I actually believed that when I put the costume on, I would look exactly like the Superman I had come to know on television and in the movies. Unfortunately, these costumes were not exactly the “super fit” that I was looking for. I looked like I was wearing Superman’s pajamas. It was all loose and flowy. The neckline came down to about my stomach. I had that flimsy little ribbon-string in the back holding it all together. Plus my mom made me wear my winter coat over the whole thing anyway.
I don’t recall Superman wearing a jacket. I read every comic book. I do not remember ever once him flying with a coat on. Not like the one I had. Cheap corduroy. Phony fur.
So, we went out anyway. The mask kept breaking. The rubber band kept getting shorter because I needed to keep tying it. It kept getting tighter and tighter on my face. Then I couldn’t even see.
I was trying to breathe through that hole that gets all sweaty. ‘Whoosh! Whoosh!’ The mask kept slicing into my eyeballs. ‘I can’t breathe! I can’t see! But let’s keep going! We gotta get the candy!’
About half an hour through trick or treating I took that mask off. Forget it. ‘Bing-bong. Yeah, it’s me. Give me the candy. Yeah, I’m Superman. Look at the red pant legs.’
Year after year I never gave up on Halloween, but I remember those last years of trick or treating. I was getting a little old for it. Just going through the motions. ‘Bing-bong. Come on, lady, let’s go. Halloween, doorbells, candy…let’s pick it up in there.’
They’d come to the door, and they’d always ask you those same stupid questions, ‘What are YOU supposed to be?’
‘I’m supposed to be done by now. You wanna move it along with the Three Musketeers? I got 18 houses on this block sweetheart. You hit the bag; we hit the road. That’s how it works.’
Sometimes people would give you that little white bag, twisted on the top. You knew that was gonna be some crummy candy. No official Halloween markings on it? I don’t think so.
‘What is this? The orange marshmallow shaped like a big peanut? Do me a favor. You keep this one. Yeah, we’ve got all the doorstops we need, thank you very much. We’re going for name candy only this year.’
At the end of Halloween, I was able to fill a punch bowl so full of candy, the top of it was curved. It was like a planet! And I would consume the entire thing THAT NIGHT! The next morning, I’d wake up and feel fantastic!
And that’s when I realized…when you’re a kid, you don’t need a costume.
You are Superman!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It gave me a glimpse into what I’m sure will be an unforgettable decade of Halloween nights to come, and even brought back a few memories from my own childhood. I’m sure it will do the same for you.
Seinfeld on Halloween
“When you’re a kid, you can eat amazing amounts of food. All I ate when I was a kid was candy. Just candy, candy, candy, candy. In fact, the first 10 years of my life, the only really clear thought I had was: ‘Get Candy.’
‘Get Candy! Get Candy! Get Candy! Get Candy!’
Family, friends, school…they were just obstacles in the way of getting candy. So the first time I heard the concept of Halloween as a kid, my brain couldn’t even process the idea. I was like, ‘What is this? What did you say? Someone’s giving out candy? Who’s giving out candy? Someone we know is JUST GIVING OUT CANDY?!
‘I gotta be a part of this. Take me with you! I’ll do anything you want! (Seeing a white, folded sheet lying on the bed)…I can wear that! I’ll wear anything I have to wear. I’ll do anything I have to do to GET THAT CANDY.’
The first couple of years I made my own costumes. A ghost one year. A hobo the next. I knew my destiny was to someday get a real Superman costume from the store. You know the one. The cardboard box….the cellophane top…mask included in the set. Oh baby!
Remember the rubber band on the back of those masks? That was a quality item. Thinnest gray rubber in the world. It was good for about 10 seconds before it snapped out of that cheap little staple they put it in there with. You would go to your first house. ‘Trick or…’ snap, it broke. I don’t believe it.
So the day finally came. I convinced my parents to buy me an official Superman Halloween store costume. I was physically ready. I was mentally prepared. And I actually believed that when I put the costume on, I would look exactly like the Superman I had come to know on television and in the movies. Unfortunately, these costumes were not exactly the “super fit” that I was looking for. I looked like I was wearing Superman’s pajamas. It was all loose and flowy. The neckline came down to about my stomach. I had that flimsy little ribbon-string in the back holding it all together. Plus my mom made me wear my winter coat over the whole thing anyway.
I don’t recall Superman wearing a jacket. I read every comic book. I do not remember ever once him flying with a coat on. Not like the one I had. Cheap corduroy. Phony fur.
So, we went out anyway. The mask kept breaking. The rubber band kept getting shorter because I needed to keep tying it. It kept getting tighter and tighter on my face. Then I couldn’t even see.
I was trying to breathe through that hole that gets all sweaty. ‘Whoosh! Whoosh!’ The mask kept slicing into my eyeballs. ‘I can’t breathe! I can’t see! But let’s keep going! We gotta get the candy!’
About half an hour through trick or treating I took that mask off. Forget it. ‘Bing-bong. Yeah, it’s me. Give me the candy. Yeah, I’m Superman. Look at the red pant legs.’
Year after year I never gave up on Halloween, but I remember those last years of trick or treating. I was getting a little old for it. Just going through the motions. ‘Bing-bong. Come on, lady, let’s go. Halloween, doorbells, candy…let’s pick it up in there.’
They’d come to the door, and they’d always ask you those same stupid questions, ‘What are YOU supposed to be?’
‘I’m supposed to be done by now. You wanna move it along with the Three Musketeers? I got 18 houses on this block sweetheart. You hit the bag; we hit the road. That’s how it works.’
Sometimes people would give you that little white bag, twisted on the top. You knew that was gonna be some crummy candy. No official Halloween markings on it? I don’t think so.
‘What is this? The orange marshmallow shaped like a big peanut? Do me a favor. You keep this one. Yeah, we’ve got all the doorstops we need, thank you very much. We’re going for name candy only this year.’
At the end of Halloween, I was able to fill a punch bowl so full of candy, the top of it was curved. It was like a planet! And I would consume the entire thing THAT NIGHT! The next morning, I’d wake up and feel fantastic!
And that’s when I realized…when you’re a kid, you don’t need a costume.
You are Superman!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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