So I hadn't realized quite how long it had been since I had written anything.
Real life was pretty crummy for awhile, and I didn't have the heart to write happy sunshiny stories about random nonsense.
And then it had been so long since I had written, that I didn't know where to start again.
But today I read through some old posts and I realized that some of them were actually pretty funny. And that I'd forgotten about them. And now that life is actually pretty good, who knows how many awesome stories I will forget if I don't write them down?
So in theory, I'm back again.
Not that I can think of anything profound to say, because WeeBee is in the background counting snowflakes in a sing-song voice, and he's apparently determined to reach 500. For some reason this involves making a banner to go on the door, pipe cleaners, and a picture of a snowman taking a nap, courtesy of Lowly. Some days it's just better not to ask...
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
"Mommy, It Died."
No, not my blog. A crayon.
I suppose you've been letting your two year old play with your phone too much when she walks over with a crayon that needs its wrapper removed and says, "Mommy, it died. Charge?"
Now, I'm not sure that she could say, "Mommy, I need the crayon wrapper off" anyway. But it's probably going to take some explaining when her pediatrician asks if she can speak in sentences and I say, "Sure. She says, 'Mommy, it died.'"
Sigh.
I suppose you've been letting your two year old play with your phone too much when she walks over with a crayon that needs its wrapper removed and says, "Mommy, it died. Charge?"
Now, I'm not sure that she could say, "Mommy, I need the crayon wrapper off" anyway. But it's probably going to take some explaining when her pediatrician asks if she can speak in sentences and I say, "Sure. She says, 'Mommy, it died.'"
Sigh.
Friday, January 11, 2013
New Year's Resolution, Part 1
So my New Year's Resolution, for what it's worth, was to get stuff done around the house. Not just sweeping the floor and corralling Legos, although that needs to be done too. I mean real stuff, like putting up blinds, painting, fixing cracks, and such. No more waiting for my husband to have three days off in a row and my kids to sleep late and the weather to be nice and whatever other combination of events that, we all know, is never going to happen. Each month I am picking a room and fixing everything in it that needs fixing. And now, since I've told all 14 of you that follow this blog, I'll feel like I'm being held accountable.
Some days I'm more successful than others. For example, I tried to take the Christmas tree out by myself today. It ended up with more pine needles on the floor than on the tree, Lowly backing slowly away saying, "Help...help...help," in a tiny voice, and WeeBee asking, "Momma, is the tree hurting you? Did it hurt you, Momma?" I still say that Christmas tree putting up and taking down is a two person job, particularly if the tree is a foot taller than you, but I did get it to the curb.
So anyway, this month's goal is to fix the bathroom. My poor sister has been listening to my plans to paint that room for a year. The ceiling has needed to be painted for closer to four. And the bathtub needed to be re-caulked for what has to be the third time this year.
I've never caulked a tub before. To give you an idea of my home improvement skills, I feel accomplished when I hang a picture up on the wall. But having watched every Youtube video on the subject and read more articles than I knew existed, I went to town with the utility knife, caulk gun, and masking tape. (Thanks to my husband, who found the caulk gun in the shed. And got the caulk and masking tape from Lowes. Granted, he might have been trying to escape from the smell of bleach. But he did save me a trip to the store, so I am grateful.)
What did I learn?
1) Removing caulk is boring. Really boring. Not so boring to your kids, who will pull up a potty and a step stool and keep a running commentary on your progress. But to the person scraping the stuff away with a utility knife, it's boring.
2) If you don't dilute the bleach enough when you're trying to kill mildew, your house will smell like bleach for hours. Even if you open the window and turn on the vent.
3) If you still feel like you have no idea what you're doing, use the masking tape to make the caulk stay in pretty, straight lines. Especially if you spent hours removing caulk and bleaching everything in sight. What's another 15 minutes throwing masking tape around?
4) There are some projects best saved for when little ones are in bed. Painting the ceiling is an excellent example of this. But sometimes you've just got to jump in and get started and hope your kids are entertained by you hacking away at a wall with a knife. Otherwise nothing will ever get done.
I have to say, it looks pretty good, in that it doesn't scream "confused homeowner DIY project." I have no idea how it will look in a month, but for now, I'm quite pleased with myself. When the whole room is finished I will post pictures. :)
Some days I'm more successful than others. For example, I tried to take the Christmas tree out by myself today. It ended up with more pine needles on the floor than on the tree, Lowly backing slowly away saying, "Help...help...help," in a tiny voice, and WeeBee asking, "Momma, is the tree hurting you? Did it hurt you, Momma?" I still say that Christmas tree putting up and taking down is a two person job, particularly if the tree is a foot taller than you, but I did get it to the curb.
So anyway, this month's goal is to fix the bathroom. My poor sister has been listening to my plans to paint that room for a year. The ceiling has needed to be painted for closer to four. And the bathtub needed to be re-caulked for what has to be the third time this year.
I've never caulked a tub before. To give you an idea of my home improvement skills, I feel accomplished when I hang a picture up on the wall. But having watched every Youtube video on the subject and read more articles than I knew existed, I went to town with the utility knife, caulk gun, and masking tape. (Thanks to my husband, who found the caulk gun in the shed. And got the caulk and masking tape from Lowes. Granted, he might have been trying to escape from the smell of bleach. But he did save me a trip to the store, so I am grateful.)
What did I learn?
1) Removing caulk is boring. Really boring. Not so boring to your kids, who will pull up a potty and a step stool and keep a running commentary on your progress. But to the person scraping the stuff away with a utility knife, it's boring.
2) If you don't dilute the bleach enough when you're trying to kill mildew, your house will smell like bleach for hours. Even if you open the window and turn on the vent.
3) If you still feel like you have no idea what you're doing, use the masking tape to make the caulk stay in pretty, straight lines. Especially if you spent hours removing caulk and bleaching everything in sight. What's another 15 minutes throwing masking tape around?
4) There are some projects best saved for when little ones are in bed. Painting the ceiling is an excellent example of this. But sometimes you've just got to jump in and get started and hope your kids are entertained by you hacking away at a wall with a knife. Otherwise nothing will ever get done.
I have to say, it looks pretty good, in that it doesn't scream "confused homeowner DIY project." I have no idea how it will look in a month, but for now, I'm quite pleased with myself. When the whole room is finished I will post pictures. :)
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Happy New Year!
We've all got colds here. It's been at least 5 years since I didn't have a cold after Christmas, but I suppose that's what happens when you cram a couple dozen people in a house and have a perpetually sniffly little brother. It's ok; we still love you, Beans. Just next year for Christmas you're getting a surgical mask.
WeeBee had an awesome Christmas. He wore out the batteries in his Hess helicopter/truck in a day and a half. The day after Christmas, I woke up to him crashing the truck into my new dresser and told him in no uncertain terms to get that thing out of my bedroom and not return with it. I opened my eyes two minutes later to him tiptoeing into the room with a decidedly stinky grin, (think the Grinch) with the truck inside the helicopter, headed towards my curtains. Curse you, Hess corporation...
And surprisingly, they've been pretty good about sharing toys with each other. (Possibly because they each got a Hess truck.) Every afternoon, Lowly shares her tea set and they have a tea party and make spaghetti and meatballs in the new pots she got for her toy kitchen. (Remember that? It's still standing!) WeeBee tolerates her playing his Sneaky Snacky Squirrel game, although it annoyed him to no end that she wasn't playing it "right."
Aaaand speaking of not doing things right, Lowly just shut a filing cabinet drawer on her finger, so I must go...
WeeBee had an awesome Christmas. He wore out the batteries in his Hess helicopter/truck in a day and a half. The day after Christmas, I woke up to him crashing the truck into my new dresser and told him in no uncertain terms to get that thing out of my bedroom and not return with it. I opened my eyes two minutes later to him tiptoeing into the room with a decidedly stinky grin, (think the Grinch) with the truck inside the helicopter, headed towards my curtains. Curse you, Hess corporation...
And surprisingly, they've been pretty good about sharing toys with each other. (Possibly because they each got a Hess truck.) Every afternoon, Lowly shares her tea set and they have a tea party and make spaghetti and meatballs in the new pots she got for her toy kitchen. (Remember that? It's still standing!) WeeBee tolerates her playing his Sneaky Snacky Squirrel game, although it annoyed him to no end that she wasn't playing it "right."
Aaaand speaking of not doing things right, Lowly just shut a filing cabinet drawer on her finger, so I must go...
Sunday, December 16, 2012
What Goes Up Must Come Down, Part II
Or the further adventures of WeeBee in the ER...
Yesterday evening, WeeBee learned that there is a reason that Mommy tells him not to run in the vestibule of our church. Bad things happen when you don't listen to Mommy. Like tripping over your own feet and faceplanting into a bench, and bashing up your nose so you're covered in blood and screaming at the top of your lungs just as a couple hundred people are leaving Mass to go to the Living Nativity and Christmas Tree lighting.
The good news is I'm never going to have any trouble getting documentation that I am a practicing Catholic at that parish. Like I said, a couple hundred people now know me as "that mother with the screaming bloody kid."
(Thank you to the kind people who held Baby Lowly and gave her cookies and juice while I tried to calm down my hysterical son. And to the lovely woman whose name I didn't actually catch who offered WeeBee one of her kid's toys, and walked me to the car. And to everyone who got me towels and ice, and the priest who opened up one of the side rooms so I could sit with WeeBee without a small mob gawking at him.)
Numerous people offered to call an ambulance, but I figured that was a bit excessive (thank you for the thought, though!) I belong to the "don't call an ambulance unless your bleeding, broken, or 90% dead" school. And if you're bleeding, half your blood had better be on the floor, and if your broken, there had better be a bone sticking out somewhere. WeeBee was so worked up that an ambulance would have done more harm than good at that point.
Eventually he calmed down enough that we were able to make a run for the car. After some mac & cheese and an episode of Octonauts, all was right with the world. Aside from the blood that he refused to let me wipe off his face, and his swollen nose. Unfortunately my go-to medical experts (my sister and husband) were out of state, and had to make do with text messages and broken cell phone calls for consulting. (Curse your cruddy Jersey Shore service, Sprint!) I really didn't want to take him in to the ER (we really need more urgent care centers in this part of the world) but I also didn't want to be some sort of negligent parent who left their son with a broken nose. Or have him ranting about it every time he wants to make a point when he's 13. I'm sure there will be enough things for him to blame me for, without giving him ammunition.
So I put Lowly in her pjs, told WeeBee we were going to get him medicine, and went for a little ride to the hospital. Thankfully, we got there at the perfect time on a Saturday night - right after all the sports injuries had left, but before the drunken hipster invasion. I expected WeeBee to throw a fit as soon as he realized it was basically a glorified doctor's office, but he was intrigued. And his nurse fell in love with him when he saw the stretcher and said, "But Momma, I have to take my shoes off first! They are so dirty!"
Surprisingly, the child who throws a fit at the doctor's over having his height measured hopped right out of the stroller. He stayed still for 3 out of the 4 x-rays. He let me wipe off some of the blood, and even shared his picture book with Lowly. And within an hour and a half we were out of there, with a badly bruised but apparently unbroken nose.
What can I say, my family has hard heads. Poor survival instincts, but hard heads.
Yesterday evening, WeeBee learned that there is a reason that Mommy tells him not to run in the vestibule of our church. Bad things happen when you don't listen to Mommy. Like tripping over your own feet and faceplanting into a bench, and bashing up your nose so you're covered in blood and screaming at the top of your lungs just as a couple hundred people are leaving Mass to go to the Living Nativity and Christmas Tree lighting.
The good news is I'm never going to have any trouble getting documentation that I am a practicing Catholic at that parish. Like I said, a couple hundred people now know me as "that mother with the screaming bloody kid."
(Thank you to the kind people who held Baby Lowly and gave her cookies and juice while I tried to calm down my hysterical son. And to the lovely woman whose name I didn't actually catch who offered WeeBee one of her kid's toys, and walked me to the car. And to everyone who got me towels and ice, and the priest who opened up one of the side rooms so I could sit with WeeBee without a small mob gawking at him.)
Numerous people offered to call an ambulance, but I figured that was a bit excessive (thank you for the thought, though!) I belong to the "don't call an ambulance unless your bleeding, broken, or 90% dead" school. And if you're bleeding, half your blood had better be on the floor, and if your broken, there had better be a bone sticking out somewhere. WeeBee was so worked up that an ambulance would have done more harm than good at that point.
Eventually he calmed down enough that we were able to make a run for the car. After some mac & cheese and an episode of Octonauts, all was right with the world. Aside from the blood that he refused to let me wipe off his face, and his swollen nose. Unfortunately my go-to medical experts (my sister and husband) were out of state, and had to make do with text messages and broken cell phone calls for consulting. (Curse your cruddy Jersey Shore service, Sprint!) I really didn't want to take him in to the ER (we really need more urgent care centers in this part of the world) but I also didn't want to be some sort of negligent parent who left their son with a broken nose. Or have him ranting about it every time he wants to make a point when he's 13. I'm sure there will be enough things for him to blame me for, without giving him ammunition.
So I put Lowly in her pjs, told WeeBee we were going to get him medicine, and went for a little ride to the hospital. Thankfully, we got there at the perfect time on a Saturday night - right after all the sports injuries had left, but before the drunken hipster invasion. I expected WeeBee to throw a fit as soon as he realized it was basically a glorified doctor's office, but he was intrigued. And his nurse fell in love with him when he saw the stretcher and said, "But Momma, I have to take my shoes off first! They are so dirty!"
Surprisingly, the child who throws a fit at the doctor's over having his height measured hopped right out of the stroller. He stayed still for 3 out of the 4 x-rays. He let me wipe off some of the blood, and even shared his picture book with Lowly. And within an hour and a half we were out of there, with a badly bruised but apparently unbroken nose.
What can I say, my family has hard heads. Poor survival instincts, but hard heads.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Rest In Peace
You think you have problems, and then something like the massacre in Connecticut happens, and you realize your life really isn't that bad after all.
Those poor babies.
If it's possible to find peace after something like this, I really hope that one day their family and friends find it.
Those poor babies.
If it's possible to find peace after something like this, I really hope that one day their family and friends find it.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
To Believe or Not Believe
Growing up, I did not believe in Santa.
<cue gasps and looks of pity>
It had something to do with my mother not wanting to lie to us, although our apartment in Brooklyn wasn't exactly conducive to chimney travel anyway.
I don't think it scarred me for life, although I suppose I wouldn't know. I've always vaguely wondered what it would be like to really believe that a fat man in a red suit travelled around in a sled pulled by reindeer and would bring you whatever you asked for. Knowing that it was our dad doing the shopping, my sisters and I made an attempt to keep our Christmas lists reasonable. A pony might have made its way on to there once or twice, but we didn't really expect to get one. I guess we thought it was just good to clear up any doubt in my dad's mind, should a random pony become available.
My little brother, on the other hand, believes in Santa - basically because he can't be trusted not to tell his entire class that Santa isn't real.
Which brings me to my current predicament - what to tell WeeBee.
This is the first year that he has really paid attention to Christmas. While I didn't believe in Santa, people assume that any kid under the age of 8 or so does. He's seen Santa decorations and cartoons, but I wasn't sure whether he already thought this was an actual person. I mean, it's not like every time we watch tv I say, "Ok, WeeBee, we're going to watch Octonauts now, but Captain Barnacles isn't a real polar bear." Once you start that, where does it end? At a certain point you have to just hope your kid has some sort of grasp on reality. I kind of doubt he'd never trust me again if I told him Santa was real, but I also don't buy into the idea that telling him Santa isn't real will ruin the wonder and magic of Christmas. I was probably more in awe of my dad getting everything on my Christmas list than I would have been of Santa and his elvish posse getting the job done. I mean, it's Santa's job. The guy has nothing better to do for 363 days a year, and money is no object.
Too bad my dad never had a sleigh with reindeer, though. That would have been cool.
Anyway, I figured I'd just treat Santa like a character in a story, and go from there. So, I tried to explain the story of Saint Nicholas. Apparently I did a pretty bad job, because WeeBee's version was that Saint Nicholas brought toys to poor children whose mommies and daddies didn't have money for toys, but it was ok that WeeBee's Mommy and Daddy didn't have any money because Santa would bring him toys. Totally not where I was going with that.
Which lead us to the following conversation:
Mommy: So on Christmas Eve, Daddy and I will take the presents and put them under the Christmas tree, and they'll be there when you wake up in the morning!
WeeBee: NO! NO, MOMMY, NO! (Jumps up and down and waves arms) SANTA WILL PUT THE PRESENTS THERE! SANTA WILL DO IT! I WANT SANTA TO!
Mommy: Umm...yeah...fine...ok, ok!
That totally caught me off guard. All along he's been fine with the idea of Mommy and Daddy getting him presents. He knows, for instance, that Daddy is going to try to get him a toy helicopter for Christmas, and that Mommy is going to try to make him an Octonauts toy. Somewhere along the line, Santa became a glorified UPS driver or something.
I tried bringing it up again today, and things got even more muddled.
Mommy: So...Mommy and Daddy are getting you presents for Christmas, but you want Santa to put them under the tree?
WeeBee: Nooo, Santa is going to bring me presents! He makes presents! Santa has a workshop, Mommy!
Mommy: What?
WeeBee: Santa has a workshop, and he makes presents!
Mommy: Well...it's kind of just a story...but...well...since when do you know Santa has a workshop?
You try looking into the eyes of an overly excited three year old and tell him there is no Santa. I'm pretty jaded, but even I couldn't do it.
So now, as best as I can understand it, he is trying to cover all his bases, and get presents from Mommy, Daddy, and Santa, all of which are being delivered by Santa.
He also wants me to make a chimney out of cardboard and glue it to our house. I tried to explain that wasn't quite how that worked either, but you can imagine how that went.
And this, my friends, is where I wash my hands of this entire situation. I tried. When he's eight and comes home from school in tears because Junior said there is no Santa, I can tell him I told him that five years ago, but he wouldn't believe me. I am so not getting blamed for this.
At least we agree that Christmas is Baby Jesus' birthday.
<cue gasps and looks of pity>
It had something to do with my mother not wanting to lie to us, although our apartment in Brooklyn wasn't exactly conducive to chimney travel anyway.
I don't think it scarred me for life, although I suppose I wouldn't know. I've always vaguely wondered what it would be like to really believe that a fat man in a red suit travelled around in a sled pulled by reindeer and would bring you whatever you asked for. Knowing that it was our dad doing the shopping, my sisters and I made an attempt to keep our Christmas lists reasonable. A pony might have made its way on to there once or twice, but we didn't really expect to get one. I guess we thought it was just good to clear up any doubt in my dad's mind, should a random pony become available.
My little brother, on the other hand, believes in Santa - basically because he can't be trusted not to tell his entire class that Santa isn't real.
Which brings me to my current predicament - what to tell WeeBee.
This is the first year that he has really paid attention to Christmas. While I didn't believe in Santa, people assume that any kid under the age of 8 or so does. He's seen Santa decorations and cartoons, but I wasn't sure whether he already thought this was an actual person. I mean, it's not like every time we watch tv I say, "Ok, WeeBee, we're going to watch Octonauts now, but Captain Barnacles isn't a real polar bear." Once you start that, where does it end? At a certain point you have to just hope your kid has some sort of grasp on reality. I kind of doubt he'd never trust me again if I told him Santa was real, but I also don't buy into the idea that telling him Santa isn't real will ruin the wonder and magic of Christmas. I was probably more in awe of my dad getting everything on my Christmas list than I would have been of Santa and his elvish posse getting the job done. I mean, it's Santa's job. The guy has nothing better to do for 363 days a year, and money is no object.
Too bad my dad never had a sleigh with reindeer, though. That would have been cool.
Anyway, I figured I'd just treat Santa like a character in a story, and go from there. So, I tried to explain the story of Saint Nicholas. Apparently I did a pretty bad job, because WeeBee's version was that Saint Nicholas brought toys to poor children whose mommies and daddies didn't have money for toys, but it was ok that WeeBee's Mommy and Daddy didn't have any money because Santa would bring him toys. Totally not where I was going with that.
Which lead us to the following conversation:
Mommy: So on Christmas Eve, Daddy and I will take the presents and put them under the Christmas tree, and they'll be there when you wake up in the morning!
WeeBee: NO! NO, MOMMY, NO! (Jumps up and down and waves arms) SANTA WILL PUT THE PRESENTS THERE! SANTA WILL DO IT! I WANT SANTA TO!
Mommy: Umm...yeah...fine...ok, ok!
That totally caught me off guard. All along he's been fine with the idea of Mommy and Daddy getting him presents. He knows, for instance, that Daddy is going to try to get him a toy helicopter for Christmas, and that Mommy is going to try to make him an Octonauts toy. Somewhere along the line, Santa became a glorified UPS driver or something.
I tried bringing it up again today, and things got even more muddled.
Mommy: So...Mommy and Daddy are getting you presents for Christmas, but you want Santa to put them under the tree?
WeeBee: Nooo, Santa is going to bring me presents! He makes presents! Santa has a workshop, Mommy!
Mommy: What?
WeeBee: Santa has a workshop, and he makes presents!
Mommy: Well...it's kind of just a story...but...well...since when do you know Santa has a workshop?
You try looking into the eyes of an overly excited three year old and tell him there is no Santa. I'm pretty jaded, but even I couldn't do it.
So now, as best as I can understand it, he is trying to cover all his bases, and get presents from Mommy, Daddy, and Santa, all of which are being delivered by Santa.
He also wants me to make a chimney out of cardboard and glue it to our house. I tried to explain that wasn't quite how that worked either, but you can imagine how that went.
And this, my friends, is where I wash my hands of this entire situation. I tried. When he's eight and comes home from school in tears because Junior said there is no Santa, I can tell him I told him that five years ago, but he wouldn't believe me. I am so not getting blamed for this.
At least we agree that Christmas is Baby Jesus' birthday.
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