School Started! School Started!

It seems to me that there are two kinds of back-to-school reactions: The Crier and the Cheerer (you can vote on which one you are here.)

I am mostly a cheerer. I love my kids, but we all do better with the rigorous school schedule. My kids are the same way. Three years ago, E.G. was so angry with me for not taking him to Kindergarten that I had to drive him to the empty school to prove to him I wasn't deliberately keeping him from his education. This year, Proximo starts Kindergarten and he is similarly excited to bust outta this joint. I will cheer, cry, and sleep when they're both in school starting next week. Oh, and work. It will be just me and the baby, refusing to answer the door when random people show up, writing during naptime, and enjoying a house that stays clean longer than 5 minutes.

Today is officially the third day of school, but the first where I "served" cold cereal for breakfast. Proud of myself for making it three whole days. Also proud of myself for forgetting to take pictures of my departing child in absolutely no new clothes. Let's not get too weepy, I'm pretty sure I'll remember to take a picture of him at some point this year. Maybe.

It's Joe's back-to-school time, too. He marooned me with these three people to teach the Future of America. He's been prepping for the school year all summer, and recently started meeting with parents and new students in anticipation of his harder classes. Which is where this conversation happened:

"Well, Mrs. So-and-So, I know I just met you, and after talking with the other teachers this seems crazy, but on this paper is my email and number, so if you need to, call me, maybe."

The mom thanked him without a clue and the daughter did an eye-roll facepalm. Your tax dollars at work, people.

Lulu has been cutting teeth for the past two weeks, turning me into a zombie with her midnight, 3am, and 5am blood-curdling wakings. It's been a good time. Only four more years until she's in school, too.

Perhaps I should see if someone is selling some sentimentality and pick some up? Also, extra emotional tears? Because I'm not sad about school starting, not one little bit.

What Happens on Sunday

You might look next to you in the pew at church and see that your son has made a "laptop" out of a folded piece of paper. It has the Dell logo on the outside, just like your machine. And the website he's pulled up? Why, that's the Jet Set masthead. The QWERTY keyboard isn't perfect, but it's pretty good.

Advice on Sharing a Room?

Alright, Hive Mind, I need your ideas and advice.

The Problem:

Six months ago I put the boys in one room and into what Proximo calls bunka-beds. It was several months before Miss Lulu would be born so it would give them plenty of time to adjust to sleeping in the same space.

They have not adjusted well.

It turns out that EG is an early bird. He needs his sleep. He would prefer to go to bed early and get up in the awful early morning hours. He's chipper and with it in the morning. He can even coherently do homework (sometimes faster than if he tries it at night.) No matter what time he goes to bed, he's up early and ready for school.

Proximo is a night owl. (Oh, now that's a shocker.) He invents one million reasons to leave his bed. There is always one more drink, one more hug, something he forgot to say, has trouble sleeping, ran out of sheep to count. He sneaks out of bed and will sit behind the family room door until his breathing gives him away. He will sleep in mornings, and if he stays up late, he'll absolutely sleep in. He's a bit of a grump on the bright side of dawn.

Now, these two have the same 8pm bedtime. EG is exhausted and on his last fumes by this time of night. Proximo is just getting started. Proximo is sometimes literally bouncing off the walls. He's chatty. He won't stop trying to engage EG in conversation. EG is frustrated and begging him to settle down.

Conversely, while Proximo would be fine if he stayed up and slept in, EG waking up and leaving the room often wakes him up. Then he's grumpy, fussy, tantrum-y for the rest of the day.

So EG is often heard yelling in frustration at his brother, who is giggling and hanging all over furniture like a monkey, long after bedtime. Sometimes EG will be able to fall asleep anyway. They will exhaust each other several hours later. I thought it would be better by now, six months into this mess.

Yes, we have a bedtime routine. No, they don't usually have any screen time two hours before bed. We finish homework, engage in hygienic cleaning activities, and read a book or two together. Yes, we've tried wearing Proximo out. Just tonight he literally ran across BYU campus, rolled up and down hills, and raced his brother.  We eventually had to put Proximo to sleep in our room so EG could get to sleep in his. That can't be the answer, can it? We have three bedrooms, so the boys need to share.

What would you do? What have you done?

SAVE US HIVE MIND!

Yelling WITH Your Children

Over my career, most of my superiors have been fantastic and brilliant people. Nevertheless, I certainly had a few stupid bosses in my very early working years*.



But I’ve never, in any job, been screamed at for 45 minutes because a boss woke up on the wrong side of the bed, had refused to put on pajamas the night before so they are cold, standing in front of me in just their underoos, yelling for a blanket, angry that I got the wrong blanket, angrier that I didn’t put on their blanket right, crying because I’m paying more attention to getting someone else out the door so they don’t miss the bus, screaming that I’m hurting their feelings, and upset that they have to use the bathroom like a normal human. 


It would be unacceptable for a boss to scream at underlings or coworkers with that kind of frequency, amplitude, and chaos.

People love to get upset with moms who yell at their kids. I don’t like to yell at my kids, but I will, especially if they can’t hear me otherwise. Don’t get those self-righteous panties in a bunch, I don’t scream at my kids. What’s the difference? Screaming is angry, abusive, and out of control. Yelling is encouraging, provides direction, and in control. Yelling is how stuff gets done. Just ask any mom who has lost her voice due to laryngitis: nothing gets done.



Do those same people get upset at kids who yell at their mothers? I need to know.



Anyway, there’s plenty of yelling and hollering from my kids. I got a big holler from Proximo today because I wouldn’t skip the commercials on the TV show he was watching. I tried to explain that it was “live” TV, but these spoiled, entitled children don’t understand; they’re still frustrated that the TVs at grandma’s don’t pause--like, at all. Our previous analog limitations defy their tiny comprehensions.   





“WHAT?!?!” screams EG when I ask him to do something awful, like pick up the family room. He follows the screaming with a flop onto the floor and crocodile tears. Dude. Maybe I should get you a dog and let it get run over so you get some perspective. Cleaning the SMALL family room is nothing. You should see the 1000 acres of weeding, baseboard scrubbing, and the Bataan Death March I had to do at your age. I don’t even make you can. We didn’t have a dishwasher. I was the dishwasher. And TV? Not only did our TV not pause, but we didn’t even have a TV. That’s right. Please, stop screaming about picking up 3 socks and your Lego battalion.



Yes, I yell sometimes because I love. And because I want stuff to get done. But you don't get to yell back at me because your blanket is on backwards. That's ridiculous.

*No, none of them read this blog. We’re talking a supervisor at the call-in service center, that sort of thing.

The Toothbrush

I stopped cleaning the bathrooms, you might recall, because I'm teaching my sons to clean them. They get the bucket of cleaning tools and potions and instructions on their use. I still have to supervise and conduct the inspections. El Guille is usually OK about the initial cleaning he gets to perform, it's after he fails the first, then the second, and sometimes the third inspection that he falls apart.

Last time we had a fight over whether or not he could reach behind the toilet. I maintained that he could and he maintained that he could not. I won. I told him to use the toothbrush (from the bucket of cleaning tools) and scrub around the commode base with Comet until it was the right color. He whined and I left. That's what I do. If the protestations and whining are too much, I leave until the right changes have been affected. You can't make me stay and listen to that.

Summoned to the bathroom for the 4th inspection, I found a clean toilet base and nearly excused El Guille to go and play. "Did you use the toothbrush?"
"Yes," he answered. Something dawned on me.
"Wait...did you use the one in the bucket or your toothbrush?" He looked at me with big eyes and an apologetic face crumple, "Mine."
"What?! There is a toothbrush in the cleaning bucket! Now you need to go throw your toothbrush into the garbage!"
"OK," he said sheepishly, and when I returned I saw his toothbrush in the garbage.

That night I prompted El Guille to open his new toothbrush and get started on his oral care. I turned to Proximo to brush his teeth.
"Mama?" said Proximo.
"Yes?"
"Mama, my toothbrush tastes weird. It tastes bad."
"What?" I answered brushing more vigorously.
"It tastes bad, my toothbrush tastes bad."

And that's when it dawned on me: Inspect the brushes. El Guille's discarded toothbrush had crusts of blue at the base of the bristles. I turned Proximo's over in my hand and saw it was...yellow.

"YOU USED YOUR BROTHER'S TOOTHBRUSH TO CLEAN THE TOILET? YOU USED COMET ON YOUR BROTHER'S TOOTHBRUSH? YOU THREW AWAY YOURS KNOWING IT WAS FINE? LEAVING HIM TO USE IT? THAT'S POISONING HIM!"


I...just...

The Loss of Two Loved Ones

Thursday night EG casually mentioned over the dinner table that his new, week-old soccer ball was stuck in a hedgerow. The little bully had tried to kick it over our neighbor's 14 foot tall hedges and the ball had disappeared. J immediately left the table and took EG with him to retrieve the ball. They arrived back home 15 minutes later, J in a mood and EG crying. No ball. "How could you let him take the ball out?" J asked me. "I didn't know that he wasn't supposed to take it," I responded.

So in my guilt, I took EG, my belly, our long rake, and walked over to the hedges. I spent an hour and a half poking every square inch of that row. All along the top on both sides, in the middle, on the bottom, parting and looking, with no success. By the end, I was covered in dirt, old evergreen pieces, dust, and scratches. I found three balls, two drink containers, an old bird's egg, a shoe, and a frisbee, but no soccer ball.

I walked over to the bully's house to ask his parents to come search, but no one answered. Because of course not. My scratches began to well up into hives. EG looked 4 shades tanner from the dirt that coated him. I drew a bath and went to go find him a towel. When I went back into the bathroom, the tub was almost full and he was sitting between the tub and the toilet...
with my phone
on the edge of the tub
trying to unlock it.

I screamed.
He looked up, tried to grab the phone, and accidentally pushed it into the tub.
I screamed again.
I screamed some more.
I panicked.

J took over EG's bath. 

Phone insurance comes with a deductible, did you know that? And did you know that if your deductible is more than the phone is actually worth the insurance company doesn't care? It could be that the insurance company is even in the middle of a class action lawsuit for trying to make people pay more in a deductible than the phones are worth. But none of this will help you. So you call T-Mobile back and when the nice customer service girl answers, you might start crying. Which means they send you to Customer Care and give you a brand new, much nicer phone for almost the same price as the deductible.

The next day when EG asked me to text his friend's mom to ask if he could play, I got to say, "I can't."
"Why?"
"Remember when you drowned my phone?"
"Oh."
Proximo helpfully reminded me that I could just go get a new phone at the phone store.
"I hope they take pies," I thought to myself.

A couple months ago I had a funny feeling that did not turn out to be heartburn or my usual cocktail of guilt: time to start backing up my computer. My laptop stores all my work, my music, and years worth of my kids' pictures. I signed up for one of those automatic online backup deals.

So when my hard drive died on Friday and Saturday, I was frustrated, but not devastated, and there is a difference, I tell you what. Nick came over to my house Saturday night and gave me the diagnosis. He also offered to help me get it all up and running again, which is why he is going to win at life. Go buy his wife's album.


My phone and my laptop in 24 hours.

Oh man. It's like I'm a pioneer. A pioneer who has to use my husband's tower and barter for computer time. A pioneer who has to use her land line! (Only it's not really a land line, it's VOIP.) I'm trying to treat this constant downtime with some appreciation. Don't people preach all the time about unplugging and living in the moment? Well, I don't approve. Not being able to Google/tweet/calendar/text/call everything, all the time, and immediately, stinks. If I wanted to be in an old-timey re-enactment, I would have signed up for one.

E.G. is Sentenced to the Gulag, I Mean Goes to The Dentist

The last time we took EG to the dentist it did not go well. (And by “we” I mean “me,” as in I take the kids to the dentist, and the doctor, and to everywhere because for some reason I’ve turned into The One Who Does the Driving. Fine.) He needed two teeth pulled: one for being stubborn and one for being bad.

A note about EG: he’s a thinker like his dad and horribilizer like his mother. This means that he psyches himself into dramatic apoplexies based on his imagination. Although he was shot up to high heaven with numbing agent, his screams and cries echoed through the dental office. I, personally, watched the dentist shot him up multiple times, there was NO WAY he was still feeling anything, but the suggestion of work and pain was enough to send him into a freak-out spiral. I held his hand while the dentist tried to convince him that he was OK and that this would take No Time At All. The teeth came out quickly but the fit continued. “BLOOD?” mumble-screamed EG, “There’s BLOOD?” Because in his world, there is nothing worse than something bleeding. Oh, my dear child, there are far worse things than bleeding, trust me, as one who has both given birth and seen the ravages of disease.

We had to go back to fix the cavities a week later.

(Side note: I’m still angry we don’t have fluoride in our water. I hate all you nut bags.)

I informed EG we were going to the dentist when he was already captive in the car. He started screaming and crying, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”
“Do you know what used to happen to children who had teeth problems? Who had an abscess like you did last year? Who couldn’t get their teeth fixed?”
“What?”
“THEY DIED. Now, because we love you, and don’t want you to die, we’re fixing your teeth.”

When we arrived he refused to get out of the car. I got him out of the car. He refused to leave the car’s side. He refused to get into the office. I got him in the door. He ran to the corner, kicked off his shoes, curled up in a chair, laced his arms through the chair arms, and declared his intention to fight the dying of the light. The other man in the waiting room was amused.
“Next time,” I said to the receptionist, “I want a prescription for Valium--for both of us.”
“Do you want us to give him nitrous oxide?”
“How much extra is it?”
“It’s $42.”
“WHAT? That’s IT? YES, DO IT.”

I gave EG the requisite threats and he walked back with the dental assistant, crying and screaming the whole way. After about 15 minutes they brought him back out.
“There’s nothing we can do, he’s not cooperating, here’s a referral to a pediatric endodontist.”

I took him outside where he continued to his Reactor 5 Meltdown. “ANOTHER DOCTOR?” He screamed.
“Yes.”
“BUT HOW LONG WILL THAT TAKE? I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SOMEONE ELSE I DON’T WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE...”
“I don’t know what to tell you, “ I said as we drove away, “You have to get this done and if it’s not at this dentist, it will be at another.”
“I want to go back.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know if they can even take you anymore.”
“I want to try again.”
“Fine, but you can’t give them any grief. You have to listen to them and do what they say.”
“OK, but I want you to hold my hand when I get the shots.”

We drove back to the office and the dentist agreed to try again. EG was a little upset when I couldn’t hold his hand--I guess preggos aren’t allowed in the same room as the laughing gas--but the assistant held his hands the whole time. EG finally listened and breathed through his nose to catch all the magic effects of the nitrous; it made him chatty and a little mixed up.

Whatever, he got all his work done and left happy.

Now, I need some nitrous so I can get some “work” done.

Is It Girl or a Boy?

What did he ask Santa for?

A baby sister.

Do you know what he's been asking for almost once a week since last March?

A baby sister.

Do you know that when he prays at night he asks the Almighty for a sister?

Until he found out that we really were expecting a baby, and then he prayed that the baby in Mama's tummy would be a girl.

"Why do you want a girl?" I asked.

"Because it's not fair," he answered, "I'm a boy, Proximo is a boy, daddy is a boy, and you are the only girl. It's just not fair."

When we asked Proximo if the baby in Mama's tummy was a girl or a boy he looked over his glasses and said, as if we were complete idiots for even asking, "It's a baby."

Today is the day we find out if E.G. will have another little brother to steal his Legos and torment his friends, or his long-imagined and much hoped-for baby sister.

What do you think we're having?

Conversations with E.G.: Egg Edition

Team Star Wars pancakes for birthday breakfast courtesy of Tia La Quina

“I’m sorry I was so sick tonight.”

“It’s OK!”

“Do you have any questions about the baby?”

“Yeah...how did it get in there again?”

“Remember how I have eggs inside me?”

“Yes, but how did they get in there?”

“I was born with them. Moms are born with all the eggs they’ll ever have.”

“Whoa. Like a thousand?”

“Try like a million!”

“BZZZZT!”

“Any other questions?”

“How does it turn into a baby?”

“Dad fertilizes the egg. It’s just like a seed, and then the baby grows.”

“Did you know that popcorn has like a little guy inside it and when popcorn gets really hot the guy's face goes like THIS and then he POPS?!”

The Blog Also Rises

“Hello?”
“Where have you been, freak?”
“Blog? Is that you?”
“Yes, where have you been? It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Am I supposed to feel sad about that? The nausea can’t be that bad anymore, and you can write through the dry heaves. You’ve already done this twice before.”
“It just feels different this time.”
“You always think that, but the truth is that morning sickness is morning sickness and any self-respecting writer can write through anything. Think about Hemingway; he wrote everything in a revolving state of drunk and hungover.”
“Maybe that’s why I never really cared for Hemingway.”
“No, you never liked him because he was annoyingly masculine.”
“Guns and women and war and guns and killing and colonialism and manhood and GAH.”
“Right, but one of you is famous and the other of you spends most of her day face-deep on a sofa wondering when the next wave of heaving will reach her metaphorical shore.”
“Can we talk about something else? Please? In a hurry?”
“What’s that in your hand?”

“It’s a list of questions El Guille wrote down for me to answer.”
“HA! It’s all math questions! No one can doubt the parentage of your child now!”
“Wait, was that ever up for debate?”
“Nevermind. How is the fetus?”
“Sucking the life out of me. Remind me why we do this?”
“You’re creating humanity anew! Experiencing the incredible life force! Every new baby refreshes the world! Or maybe that’s a Pepsi. For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
“Enough with Hemingway, seriously. Plus, that story might not even be attributable to Papa.”
"Oh, sure, go check Snopes. Can you do anything ever without checking Snopes?"

"It's just a useful repository of which people should perhaps avail themselves more often."

“Yeah, we're all impressed you can use the Internet. Let me ask, are you craving anything interesting?”
“Meat. I ate a hunk of ham for a midnight snack the other night. I felt so primal.”
“How Green Hills of Africa of you.”
“Stop it.”
“I thought you were into Asian foods, like last time.”
“After an unfortunate night following a maiden voyage to Pei Wei Diner, we might have cut that obsession short.”
“Can you really vomit on command?”
“Affirmative.”
“Wow. I’m kind of impressed. Can you stay awake?”
“Not for a million dollars.”
“So you’re a narcoleptic refunder? What a delight!”
“I’ll say.”

The Never-ending Birthday Party

E.G. is planning his birthday party. Many hours of work--E.G. crouched at the coffee table, pencil in hand and paper at the ready--have been spent on the growing list of details. This is serious business: only boys this year. The guest list will be decisive and carefully curated. A number of considerations are on the table: location, activities, and culinary proclivities. Our home has yet to host a birthday party for him, so after some consideration, festivities will be in-house. I don’t want to scare Jordan, but we might have a budding party planner on our hands. I'm just saying she should watch her back: a whole lot of almost seven is hot on her heels.

We are engaged in high-level coordination, dear readers. If you can’t hack the birthday intensity, best to retreat to your thrown together, half-hearted soirees filled with whichever gender happens to arrive and whomever was free.

As we ate dinner the other night, party planning mercifully tabled, J asked E.G. to turn to me. “What do you think? Should your mom dye her hair blond?” I swiveled my head back and forth a little so he could declare his objective opinion. “Hmm,” he said, squinting a little and sticking his tongue out of the hole where a front tooth used to be, “No, I think she’s pretty much perfect just the way she is.”

(I guess I’m his Bridget.)

Enough sentimentalities; it’s invitation time.

Hand-made? Store-bought? Theme? Engraved?

Oh, the agonizing choices!

The Tabasco Affair

Immediately after telling El Guille he couldn’t go play at his friend’s house and instead had to come to the market with me, he had a Chernobyl Level 7 meltdown.

“YOU IDIOT,” he screamed.

Can’t say I’ve ever been called an idiot by my child before. He proceeded to rant, rail, kick, scream, and execute all manner of awesomely bad behavior (including trying to steal my purse.)

“You IDIOT!” he screamed three more times, once outside the car and twice inside it. Now, I don’t know what your managerial structure looks like, but in our house, that kind of insubordination is not tolerated.

I bought a bottle of Tabasco at the market. We were out. And I had plans.

On the way home, I offered EG two choices:

1. Clean the playroom

2. Four drops of Tabasco on his tongue

He howled at the choices and cried at the possible ramifications of either decision; weighing them both over and over until he’d worked himself into a virtual lather of tears and anguish.

He picked the Tabasco.

“Hold still,” I said, and ordered him to stick out his tongue. I dropped one drop onto it. For two whole seconds, silence. And then the freak-out started. The terrible sounds! The evil of peppery vinegar! I insisted he stick out his tongue again, and not willing to put up with a mini-tantrum at every drop, I put three more drops inside. Oh, the horrors! Never has a child been so brutally punished! Cursed be the Avery Island and its infernal Mcllhenny inhabitants!

"It's KILLING ME, MOM! I'm NOT KIDDING! I'm going to DIE! I MEAN IT!"

I went back to chopping onions.

After the ten longest minutes in the cosmos, EG said in a tragic voice, “Mom, it hurts so bad, I think I’m bleeding.” I turned around to find this:

Yes, that’s fruit roll-up applied to his face to mimic blood and to elicit sympathy.

It didn’t elicit even a drop of sympathy, but it did prompt me to laugh hysterically.

Twisty Slides

The other night as we were having family dinner, El Guille struck up a conversation with us about the happenings at school.

"Do you know those twisty tube slides at school? The ones shaped like a 'U'? Well, sometimes when the guys in the orange vests aren't looking, some people jump off those slides." He took a bite,"In fact, I am some of those people."

Point of fact, that kid is awesome.

Adventures in Music Appreciation

the scowl in its natural state

Deb Fotheringham sweetly offered me a couple tickets to her Time EP release party, to be held at a location inside my ten-minute radius. I decided that this happy occasion would be the perfect night to take El Guille to his first music show. When I giddily told him the news, he scowled at me. This isn’t terribly different than when I suggest anything in the world to him that isn’t what he’s doing right now: from eating his dinner to changing his behavior. (It’s the same disbelieving scowl I probably project when you tell me The Cheesecake Factory is good.)

We arrived at the auditorium and found aisle seats. The opening act was an earnest singer-songwriter accompanying himself on guitar. The first song was a lovely tune, sung quietly yet with feeling. “I’m bored,” E.G. said halfway through.
“Shhh,” I whispered. The song ended and we all clapped. The singer started his next song.
“HEY. NOT THE SAME SONG AGAIN. HE ALREADY PLAYED THIS,” noted E.G., the subtleties of a solo artist falling on unappreciative ears.
“How much longer do we have to sit here?”
“Until it’s over.”
“I want to watch Clone Wars.”
“It’s not on until 8:30, and it’s only 7:15 right now.”
“THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG.”
“Shhh.”
“I’m going to go get a drink.”
“You can’t, see how they shut the doors? They don’t want you to go in and out.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I can find it myself!”
“It’s probably a good idea if I...”
“NO! I’m really good at finding things. See ya.” And he left the auditorium. After a few minutes he slid back into the room. “I can’t find it,” he declared, which was when I had to slide out. I didn’t dare take him back into the auditorium so I watched him run around the installations and play with the drinking fountain. He nearly careened into Deb as she tried to center herself before the performance. I talked him into returning to our seats by promising that he could watch Star Wars: The Clone Wars for the very first time that night IF he sat quietly for Deb’s show. I immediately handed over my phone so he could play Pac-Man.

Now, were I you (single, childless, possessed of respect for the performing arts,) I would have made a disgusting face at this kind of parenting. A cell phone? Yes. But they’re so bright and tacky! Yes, but really, Pac-Man is on a black background so not that bright. They are loud! It was on silent. Shoving a screen in front of your child, it’s just lazy! Yup, lazy and desperate. And really, how dare you bring a child to a concert who would misbehave? I had to try it one time. I hope you learned your lesson. That I did. No more shows until he is at least 8, or Mötley Crüe comes to town.


In Summary:


Deb is really pretty, did you know that? If your name is Nick, you probably did. She’s also one of eleven children, did you know that? Chances are you’re related to a Fotheringham by this point. She’s also funny and endearing on stage, which, as it turns out, is kind of how Deb is when she’s not on stage. Deb also does this. I really like her music; it’s on heavy rotation in the car (especially track one--what’s that one called, Deb? Paris?) Next time I won’t bring someone who has a permanent scowl attached to his face, who keeps asking me when we can leave because he doesn’t want to miss The Clone Wars, who rolls his eyes and makes choking noises during songs, and would have been happier surrounded by Legos instead of culture.

Not that Legos aren’t culture.

Oh, you know what I mean.

Teaching My Son The Proper Order of Baseball

A conversation wherein a certain 6-year-old proves his parentage...

"Those, those are the New York Yankees, and they're the bad guys."

"They're the bad guys? The New York Yankees? That's a funny name."

"Yes. No matter who they are playing, today it's the Chicago White Sox, we're against the Yankees. They're the bad guys."

"Who are we for? Who are the good guys?"

"The Red Sox, but they aren't playing today."

"Do you know what team I like?"

"What?"

"I like Star Wars."

Listerine

I bought a brand new bottle of fluoride mouthwash for children a couple days ago. Why? Because cavities are way more expensive than mouthwash (but are certainly more amusing.) I supervise the kid's intake and expell of the stuff, because no one wants to be the mom whose kids developed a drinking problem from the Listerine (no offense, Dimetapp moms.)

Saturday night I put the kids into the tub and went to get a towel. I heard Other Half supervising. Someone screamed/hit/smacked/spilled on the other and so tub time ended prematurely (no hair washing.) A few minutes later I looked over at the counter and noticed that the full bottle of mouthwash now had one centimeter of liquid left. I looked at it again. I counted the hours since I'd purchased the mouthwash. I looked again. Still one centimeter, not even a decent American half inch.

"El Guille," I said, "Want to tell me what happened to the mouthwash?"

That's when he did his guilt-ridden posture: Mouth widening into a cheshire-grimace, shoulders raising, head-ducking, eyes like teacups.

"I..."

"I...what?" I demanded.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I poured it all into the bathtub."

"WHAT?" I managed to get out, and then turned my head and pursed my lips to keep from laughing.

"I poured the whole thing into the bathtub. And then I got back in it."

"With your brother?"

Buzzed head nod.

"And..." *stifle* "What happened?"

"The color didn't change and the water didn't taste any different."

"Right," I said, and then sternly discussed a few notes about things costing money, and this mouthwash was supposed to last, and cavities, and responsibilities, and maybe Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

I repeated the story later to Other Half.

"Oh," he started laughing, "Well, that wasn't the only thing."

"What?"

"Uh, when Proximo had to sit on the toilet, I maybe didn't clean him all the way off and just stuck him back into the tub."

Wow. What a hot pair we will be.

In totally unrelated news that bears repeating even if you've heard it before on Twitter:

Proximo ate the peanut butter out of the mousetrap this morning.

We're so proud.

Real Eggs Only With Candy! And Lies!

I decided to make these candy-stuffed real eggs I found on Not Martha last Easter Eve because I am crazy pants. And because I like to trick my children.

El Guille and I dyed the raw eggs together. I threw away all the color tablets, except blue, teal, and green, when he wasn't looking because I wanted the eggs to look pretty and not like a kid dyed them. Even trying to be careful, EG broke one egg. Plan on this kind of reinforcement for the subterfuge. If he hadn't of broken an egg, it would have been a good idea to accidentally drop one, or throw it against the wall, because he needed to remember that when he went to bed he was leaving raw, colored eggs.

I took a Dremel with the flat circular attachment to drill the bottom of the eggs; cutting a round hole about the size of a quarter. (See, Morgan, I really did use a Dremel, Ha!) I shook the raw egg into a container and then put the empty egg shell into a pot of boiling water for 5-10 minutes, depending on how long it took me to remember to go take them out. I used an old toothbrush and rinsed out the insides under cold water. Boiling the eggs immediately removed all the dye color. So next time, when your kid wants to take the egg out approximately 30 seconds after he put it in the color, and you're going to pull the wool over his eyes anyway, let him take it out.

I re-dyed the empty eggs. Of course I did.

I set them to dry and even after a few hours, the insides were still damp. Next time, I'll take Megan's (Not Martha) advice and let them dry overnight. However, that will necessitate even more lies to your children as they demand to know what happened to the eggs they dyed yesterday LOOK OVER THERE! IT'S A DINO-SPACESHIP-TRANSFORMER-LEGO! I don't know if you have a secret spot where you can hide a bunch of eggs suspended on bamboo skewers while they dry, but I'd encourage you to find one. Lying to your children, it's what holidays are all about!

While the documentary The Cove was playing, I put a Werther's hard caramel, a few Haribo gummy bears (because they are the one, true gummy bear; all others are crap,) and some Mentos in each egg. I don't know. I panicked while candy-picking at the store. The inside of the eggs, although sterilized and left to dry for two hours, were still a bit damp. I bet someone with more follow-through could have located a hair dryer and completed the job. I used hot glue to affix mini-muffin paper cups to the bottom of the eggs while I watched the crazy-awesome team try to rescue dolphins. I cried a little, because, *sniff* dolphins, man.

This picture taken with my phone, because it was on me and I didn't want to find a camera

In the morning, EG picked up an egg and started to investigate the paper stuck on the bottom. Be fast on the distraction, guys, or the surprise you have planned for later will be ruined. I was fast on the distraction. And when I served almost a dozen scrambled eggs for breakfast they didn't suspect a thing. Kids are so clueless.

After dinner on Easter Sunday, I brought out the plate and encouraged Proximo and EG to ignore years of "DON'T SQUEEZE THAT EGG" and smash their eggs.

They were completely delighted. Proximo go the hang of it right away, palming an egg and winding up like Curt Schilling to pulverize an egg on the tabletop. EG came up with an elaborate egg transformation explanation on the spot involving a significant expansion of Easter bunny powers.

It was worth the time I spent to dye, slice, shake, re-dye, dry, stuff, glue, and hide. I'd do it again next year, for sure.






P.S. Thank you all for your continued emails, messages, carrier pigeons, and phone calls. You've been so marvelous, generous, and helpful. It's meant so much to me. Keeping up with the volume of correspondence is daunting, but I read all your messages even if I don't reply right away. Merci.

Blueberry Pancakes Were the Sled

This morning I made whole wheat blueberry pancakes from scratch and the world imploded into a vortex of fire and noise.

I wasn't aware that I'd committed an unforgivable offense against my son by making something so delicious and nutritious. Why don't I just let him eat Cheetos again? I may have reminded him about children that have no homes, no beds, and no food. He took in all my suggestions and still refused to eat.

When we picked El Guille up from school, he pressed me on where we were going. I refused to answer until he was in the car. "The doctor."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
"They're just going to weigh, measure, and make sure you're healthy."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"
"I can, and I will, and there will be no shots."
"I'M SCARED."

He gave the nurse a hard time about taking his blood pressure, his pulse-ox, and refused to have his temperature taken with the ear monitor.

The doctor was greeted with a scowl. I brought up the pancakes. I've been bringing up the pancakes to everyone. Who freaks over homemade blueberry pancakes? I think people should know. Strangers should know how awesome I am and how ungrateful my child is for all his mothering. I should have a shirt made.

Then the doctor suggested a round of flu shots for all. I agreed. Two birds.
"YOU SAID NO SHOTS."
"Right, I know. I'm sorry, but, there is a bug going around that makes you very sick, like, you have to stay in bed for two weeks with no friends, school, TV, or games."
"There is?"
The nurse piped in, "I was in bed for a month."
"See? A month! Now, do you want it in the leg or the arm?"
"NO SHOT!" he screamed as he crawled under the counter and into the corner underneath the computer cords.
"Don't make me come under there and get you."
"NO SHOT!!"
I caught him when he tried to go lateral and put him onto the table. "Arm or leg?"
"NO ARM! NO LEG!"
"You can choose. Leg hurts less, arm hurts more."
"NO ARM! NO LEG!"
He got them in the leg and shrieked as if he'd gotten them caught in a combine. His little brother cried for two minutes and needed a hug, that was it. We walked out of the office, El Guille visibly dragging his leg, you know, with the sudden onset of polio and all. "We're meeting Cousin M and you're going to say some stuff in a microphone for her."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
"It's just like in Rock Band when you sing into the microphone. It's for her movie. You just have to say a few things into a microphone."
"I'm SCARED!"
"No, you're not, " I declared as we parked on the BYU campus.
He dragged his leg and whimpered down the HFAC hallways until we got to the sound booth. I explained that he would sit inside and say things into a microphone. This was how his favorite movies were made! Wall-E, Cars, all of them, people sat in a booth, said some words, and then they would draw the pictures. He visibly brightened. He almost didn't need the four Starburst M slipped him.
Almost.
He perched on his chair, put the headphones on his head, and repeated the dialogue that M fed him through the microphone. He started smiling for the first time all day.

And then we had to walk back to the car with the wounded leg dragging behind us. It's a good thing we were in the HFAC, because this kid was putting on a performance like you wouldn't believe. I felt like all the acting students could see the pathos he exuded, and envied his commitment. I, personally, was done. His craft is exhausting me. I'm calling James Lipton in the morning. I can't wait to see the career retrospective.

Cheetah

El Guille came out of his room after bedtime tonight and told Other Half, "I think I want to run fast like a cheetah."


"OK, but you really need to go back to bed fast, like a cheetah."


"Would it be OK if I looked like a cheetah? Would that help?"


"What do you mean?"

Yes, he'd already used a black marker to color in spots.

photo courtesy

El Guille asked if I would play Ninjas with him. "How do you play?" I asked him.
He explained how one person hides and the other person tries to find the first person. Then he drew out his hands, made them into guns, and emitted gunshot noises from his mouth.
"Ninjas don't use guns," I immediately injected, because I am a know-it-all and a fun squash-er. (So I like my children to play their imaginary games with a dedication to historical accuracy--SUE ME.)

Apparently, the revelation that ninjas didn't use guns is a disappointment. Just wait for your further lessons on 17th Century Japan, child, there will be a quiz on the rise of the Tokugawa Shogunate.

I agreed to play Ninjas after we looked up throwing stars on Google. (Why I agreed to play after the tutorial on throwing stars and not before the tutorial on throwing stars is a lingering mystery.) It's my turn to hide first. I pick a spot around the corner in our very dark formal living room. E.G. creeps up the stairs and creeps back down. I jumped out, all silent in deadly ninja pose, as he turned to go into the living room. He jumped back and started crying. "TOO SCARY! You can't be that scary, mom, you're not supposed to be that scary!" He sobbed and sobbed.

Kid. Seriously. You wanted to play Ninjas and now I am going to play the crap out of historically-accurate ninjas. My new go-to outfit will include veiling my face and I shall work it with super stealth. I will take up Kanji for daily communication. I may go as far as to consider a resume supplementation indicating an interest in part time ninja-ry.

After the upsetting events of the previous evening, and some deep ninja soul-searching, followed by a long ninja bath, we had friends over for homemade churros y chocolate. Because Ninjas eat mostly churros, right?

(And before you ask, here's the recipe: Make some churros. And some chocolate. Eat.)