Abby's vocabulary has exploded in the last couple of months and she says things frequently in which we have no idea where it comes from, but she is saying it! So pay attention! One such example:
Washing Abby's face and hands post-lunch, I point to Abby and say, "Who's that!? Who's that cute girl?!"
She giggles, wiping a wet, soapy hand across my arm, squealing, "Me! Me!"
I nuzzle her neck, making her giggle more, replying, "Who's me?"
Abby laughs and says, points at her de-peanut buttered reflection, "Abby Cutey-Buns!"
Who says kids don't listen?
Well, unless we don't want them to. No, Drew, just because Daddy says it, doesn't mean you should. And if Uncle Scott says it, you should NEVER say it. And I do mean, NEVER.
Of course, now that Abby's vocabulary is expanding so, we should add to it with important phrases such as, "I love you, Dada. Mommy needs the Amex." We'll practice these crucial phrases tomorrow.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Nocturnal Wanderings
Dear Houston:
We have a problem...
Drew has not ever been what the average parent would deem a fantastic sleeper. When I say 'fantastic sleeper', I mean will sleep throughout the entire night or nap time without breaks of consciousness where demands of sustenance or entertainment are brokered for the attending caregiver.
"No, you do not need chocolate milk right now and the five knife juggling trick is only performed once per night and that was earlier!"
Sounds of child protestation.
"Please! Your bear didn't need that arm, anyway! Now, go the heck to sleep!!"
More sounds of rebellion.
"Fine! I will sew his arm back on tomorrow! Now. Go. To. Sleep."
Drew, however, does not believe that optimal bartering can be held from his place of slumber. He's learned the best possible way to coerce/semi-consciously manipulate Mom and Dad is to beard them within their own den. He uses his supernatural speed and stealth to creep up beside the bed, lean over me, and ask for things such as pillows, candy, more blankets, a 360, a spare spot on the bed if I could just push Dad out of the way...
After I've wet myself at the sight of his little face only inches from mine and achieved some slender grasp on consciousness, he lays out his demands and I dig up the vocal ability to say, "I love you. Now go the frick back to bed!" If I can work up the energy, I drag myself from the bed to tuck him back in and lock our bedroom door behind me.
This sounds small. Insignificant. However...THIS IS HAPPENING MULTIPLE TIMES EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.
We've tried everything. Bribery, consequences, empty threats. Nothing. Finally, due to a series of events I stumbled upon most of the problem and part of the solution.
I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies a few days ago and had placed them in the usual container on top of the fridge. The following morning, there was a smaller number than the previous evening. In any other instance, it'd be Brandon or maybe me but this night, neither he nor I stirred for a late night, chocolatey snack. Drew was busted and the mysterious day to day changing level of marshmallows and holiday candy suddenly became clear. After I repressed my homicidal urge, I explained to him that giving yourself a sugar high in the middle of the night will most definitely keep you from sleeping soundly and should he try to do it again, I would be forced to do something so terrible to him, that I couldn't even describe it.
The terrible thing (prepare for sobbing) that I was willing to describe was the removal of all sugary goodness from the kitchen. (Not his sobbing! MINE.) Amazingly, after I removed all possible temptation, set up some amateur booby traps, and explained to him that our basic video camera was actually designed to activate with movement and would record his nocturnal adventures in the kitchen, he managed to stay in bed and sleep (mostly) through the night.
Of course, I saved the chocolate! What kind of animal do you take me for? It's in my dresser, keeping the marshmallows completely.
We have a problem...
Drew has not ever been what the average parent would deem a fantastic sleeper. When I say 'fantastic sleeper', I mean will sleep throughout the entire night or nap time without breaks of consciousness where demands of sustenance or entertainment are brokered for the attending caregiver.
"No, you do not need chocolate milk right now and the five knife juggling trick is only performed once per night and that was earlier!"
Sounds of child protestation.
"Please! Your bear didn't need that arm, anyway! Now, go the heck to sleep!!"
More sounds of rebellion.
"Fine! I will sew his arm back on tomorrow! Now. Go. To. Sleep."
Drew, however, does not believe that optimal bartering can be held from his place of slumber. He's learned the best possible way to coerce/semi-consciously manipulate Mom and Dad is to beard them within their own den. He uses his supernatural speed and stealth to creep up beside the bed, lean over me, and ask for things such as pillows, candy, more blankets, a 360, a spare spot on the bed if I could just push Dad out of the way...
After I've wet myself at the sight of his little face only inches from mine and achieved some slender grasp on consciousness, he lays out his demands and I dig up the vocal ability to say, "I love you. Now go the frick back to bed!" If I can work up the energy, I drag myself from the bed to tuck him back in and lock our bedroom door behind me.
This sounds small. Insignificant. However...THIS IS HAPPENING MULTIPLE TIMES EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.
We've tried everything. Bribery, consequences, empty threats. Nothing. Finally, due to a series of events I stumbled upon most of the problem and part of the solution.
I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies a few days ago and had placed them in the usual container on top of the fridge. The following morning, there was a smaller number than the previous evening. In any other instance, it'd be Brandon or maybe me but this night, neither he nor I stirred for a late night, chocolatey snack. Drew was busted and the mysterious day to day changing level of marshmallows and holiday candy suddenly became clear. After I repressed my homicidal urge, I explained to him that giving yourself a sugar high in the middle of the night will most definitely keep you from sleeping soundly and should he try to do it again, I would be forced to do something so terrible to him, that I couldn't even describe it.
The terrible thing (prepare for sobbing) that I was willing to describe was the removal of all sugary goodness from the kitchen. (Not his sobbing! MINE.) Amazingly, after I removed all possible temptation, set up some amateur booby traps, and explained to him that our basic video camera was actually designed to activate with movement and would record his nocturnal adventures in the kitchen, he managed to stay in bed and sleep (mostly) through the night.
Of course, I saved the chocolate! What kind of animal do you take me for? It's in my dresser, keeping the marshmallows completely.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Things I have learned in Colorado winters
In this frigid night of negative temperatures for the twelfth night in a row, I reflected on the many lessons I have learned about Colorado winters.
1. High Desert is actually Native American for "Be prepared to freeze your tookus off from December to March".
2. Children raised in the South will only venture outside if peer pressured into it by their friends. This is particularly applicable if Mom and Dad just spent an unseemly amount of money on snow/winter gear in order for said children to experience the joys of snow.
3. The joys of snow can actually be timed. After spending a minimum of twenty minutes per toddler to clad them in the six necessary layers, the joys of snow will last roughly seven minutes before children come whimpering to the door, claiming cold despite the obvious sheen of sweat across their temples.
4. All children will use the seven minutes of snow exertion as a ploy to obtain hot chocolate with an exorbitant quantity of marshmallows.
5. The sugar high of the hot chocolate and marshmallows will cause a sibling power struggle, resulting in screaming and possible bloodshed with an inevitable timeout for all involved.
6. Repeat steps 3 - 5 until Mom locks herself in the bathroom with the bag of caramel Ghiradelli's originally purchased for Dad. Ignore screams of rage unless they morph into ones of actual pain. Mentally count the days remaining of Christmas break.
7. Be prepared to promptly answer Southern husband's text messages from work about his plunging body temperature with sounds of empathy and kindness, while offering to make him something hot as long as it is not soup because "that is not a REAL meal."
8. Make sure you have enough hot chocolate to feed a small third world country because when you are forced to go outside for ridiculous things such as collecting the mail and removing Christmas lights, the hot chocolate is the only way to reheat your frostbitten fingers in lieu of having them amputated.
9. Stash at least three extra blankets for yourself as they are purloined during the night by everyone who is mobile and NOT ensconced in a crib, until you are left shivering in your favorite flimsy jammies because your Southern husband assured you he turned the heat up when he actually put on another pair of long underwear, manically laughing all the while.
10. Remember that at some point, spring must arrive and only panic if you see a herd of polar bears decimating the neighbors cattle. That will be an excellent time to test out the four wheel drive on your car as you book it out of town for sunny Mexico or South Texas. (Jill!! Here we come!!!)
1. High Desert is actually Native American for "Be prepared to freeze your tookus off from December to March".
2. Children raised in the South will only venture outside if peer pressured into it by their friends. This is particularly applicable if Mom and Dad just spent an unseemly amount of money on snow/winter gear in order for said children to experience the joys of snow.
3. The joys of snow can actually be timed. After spending a minimum of twenty minutes per toddler to clad them in the six necessary layers, the joys of snow will last roughly seven minutes before children come whimpering to the door, claiming cold despite the obvious sheen of sweat across their temples.
4. All children will use the seven minutes of snow exertion as a ploy to obtain hot chocolate with an exorbitant quantity of marshmallows.
5. The sugar high of the hot chocolate and marshmallows will cause a sibling power struggle, resulting in screaming and possible bloodshed with an inevitable timeout for all involved.
6. Repeat steps 3 - 5 until Mom locks herself in the bathroom with the bag of caramel Ghiradelli's originally purchased for Dad. Ignore screams of rage unless they morph into ones of actual pain. Mentally count the days remaining of Christmas break.
7. Be prepared to promptly answer Southern husband's text messages from work about his plunging body temperature with sounds of empathy and kindness, while offering to make him something hot as long as it is not soup because "that is not a REAL meal."
8. Make sure you have enough hot chocolate to feed a small third world country because when you are forced to go outside for ridiculous things such as collecting the mail and removing Christmas lights, the hot chocolate is the only way to reheat your frostbitten fingers in lieu of having them amputated.
9. Stash at least three extra blankets for yourself as they are purloined during the night by everyone who is mobile and NOT ensconced in a crib, until you are left shivering in your favorite flimsy jammies because your Southern husband assured you he turned the heat up when he actually put on another pair of long underwear, manically laughing all the while.
10. Remember that at some point, spring must arrive and only panic if you see a herd of polar bears decimating the neighbors cattle. That will be an excellent time to test out the four wheel drive on your car as you book it out of town for sunny Mexico or South Texas. (Jill!! Here we come!!!)
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
The Marshmallow Shakedown
Happy New Year! In light of making extensive lists of resolutions no sane person will ever be able to keep, I've made a couple. Some are just practical and include orders of chicken wire to create a larger playpen for the monsters (or a cage for the fight to the death - perspective, people!). Others involve healthier eating, getting in shape and other goals that make me vomit a little in my mouth. Let's be straight with each other. There should never be a single day without chocolate and people that think differently are either aliens or morally bereft. Either way - you are NOT to be trusted.
Anyhoo, the only goal applicable to this blog is my goal to write - frequently, pervasively, and often enough that I invade your very brain and should you wake up in a cold sweat, dreaming about toddlers lurking over your bed, Spiderman-style, I've succeeded!
Speaking of dreams, on a totally different tangent, I woke up in my own cold sweat the other night after having a mom nightmare. You know what I mean. A mom nightmare is something that terrifies only a mom and would have just seemed bizarre to your pre-mom self. I woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming that I found lice the size of maggots in Savannah's hair and we had just gotten back from a play date with twenty other kids and the lice were crawling across her scalp and over my hands and the phone started to ring with the calls of angry parents, enraged with their newly infected children.
COULD. NOT. SLEEP. AFTER. THAT.
And yes, I did go and check all their scalps in the middle of the night. Luckily, they will for the most part, go back to sleep, with the exception of Drew, the Incredible Sleepless Wonder. The Sandman and I are going to need to work something out about that boy. If I get picked up on a corner by the po-po, with a bag of glittery dust - well, you draw your own conclusions. As previously established - I AM NOT CRAZY!
So, my children have learned the fine art of bribery, er, tangible motivation. This really began with the marshmallow addiction that has begun to run rampant in our house. I bought them as potty training incentives. Yeah. Didn't work so well. Opportunity to be nude and dance around the potty still stronger than urge to actually USE the potty. We had two potty successes and I rewarded them liberally because, duh, I wanted to set a precedent. Use the potty = get fluffy yumminess. Simple, right?
Nope. Like introducing crack. All of sudden, I was stalked around the house, with the plea for "more masmallows" echoing out of every corner. No place was safe. Even while in the bathroom, with the door locked, little fingers wiggled under the crack, pushing the marshmallow cry towards me.
After a long day of children and chaos and Abby attempting to eat snow that had definitely been tramped on by at least three hundred other people outside the gym, I was putting the munchkins to bed, mentally salivating over a yet unmade cup of hot chocolate. The munchkins weren't going for it. Drew was already out cold but the girls, this bed thing was not on their agenda and had not been approved for mass application and in fact, they were going to get up now, little legs swinging over the crib rails. I played defense and shoved legs back as quick as they came over but that soon dissolved into mad giggles where they scrambled to make me scramble even more.
Finally, in a moment of absolute desperation, I played my trump card.
"Do you want to have a marshmallow in the morning?!"
An enthusiastic dual chorus of "Yeah! Yeah!" emerged.
"Than you have to lay down and go night-night, okay? Here. I'll cover you up. Lay down." Savannah went down with little argument after arranging her thirty-five lovies around her. She is a candidate for "Hoarders - the Toddler Years" but that is another tale for another night.
Abby stood in the crib, staring me down. She'd heard the marshmallow promises before, betrayed by Mommy's yet undiagnosed case of ADHD.
"Lay down, baby. Mommy will tuck you in."
She stared at me, eyes narrowed.
"Do you want a marshmallow tomorrow? You have to lay down and go night-night if you want a marshmallow tomorrow."
Abby laid down and permitted me to arrange her blanket over her. As I leaned down to kiss her, she thrust her pudgy little hand into my face, fingers splayed.
"Fide masmallows!"
I choked.
"You want five marshmallows tomorrow?"
She nodded triumphantly and repeated her demands, "Fide masmallows!"
The gleam in her eyes said quite clearly, "I had a three hour nap and we can play this little game for at least two more hours."
Plus, I'm pretty sure she could read the exhaustion and desire to escape to the couch in mine.
"Okay. Five marshmallows. After you go night-night."
She smiled, a little satisfied smile and permitted me to kiss her good-night.
The next morning.....
I entered, "Good morning, babies! Ready to get up?"
Savannah bounced, "Yeah! Yeah! Get me out of here!"
Abby bounced, "Fide masmallows! Fide masmallows!"
Really!?! Neither sleep nor waking will stop her from her negotiated wages. I paid my marshmallow dues and thought it would be the end of it. However....
Like the mob, she has never forgotten and the marshmallow payment schedule has been considerably accelerated. Run. Save yourselves. I may never get out.
Anyhoo, the only goal applicable to this blog is my goal to write - frequently, pervasively, and often enough that I invade your very brain and should you wake up in a cold sweat, dreaming about toddlers lurking over your bed, Spiderman-style, I've succeeded!
Speaking of dreams, on a totally different tangent, I woke up in my own cold sweat the other night after having a mom nightmare. You know what I mean. A mom nightmare is something that terrifies only a mom and would have just seemed bizarre to your pre-mom self. I woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming that I found lice the size of maggots in Savannah's hair and we had just gotten back from a play date with twenty other kids and the lice were crawling across her scalp and over my hands and the phone started to ring with the calls of angry parents, enraged with their newly infected children.
COULD. NOT. SLEEP. AFTER. THAT.
And yes, I did go and check all their scalps in the middle of the night. Luckily, they will for the most part, go back to sleep, with the exception of Drew, the Incredible Sleepless Wonder. The Sandman and I are going to need to work something out about that boy. If I get picked up on a corner by the po-po, with a bag of glittery dust - well, you draw your own conclusions. As previously established - I AM NOT CRAZY!
So, my children have learned the fine art of bribery, er, tangible motivation. This really began with the marshmallow addiction that has begun to run rampant in our house. I bought them as potty training incentives. Yeah. Didn't work so well. Opportunity to be nude and dance around the potty still stronger than urge to actually USE the potty. We had two potty successes and I rewarded them liberally because, duh, I wanted to set a precedent. Use the potty = get fluffy yumminess. Simple, right?
Nope. Like introducing crack. All of sudden, I was stalked around the house, with the plea for "more masmallows" echoing out of every corner. No place was safe. Even while in the bathroom, with the door locked, little fingers wiggled under the crack, pushing the marshmallow cry towards me.
After a long day of children and chaos and Abby attempting to eat snow that had definitely been tramped on by at least three hundred other people outside the gym, I was putting the munchkins to bed, mentally salivating over a yet unmade cup of hot chocolate. The munchkins weren't going for it. Drew was already out cold but the girls, this bed thing was not on their agenda and had not been approved for mass application and in fact, they were going to get up now, little legs swinging over the crib rails. I played defense and shoved legs back as quick as they came over but that soon dissolved into mad giggles where they scrambled to make me scramble even more.
Finally, in a moment of absolute desperation, I played my trump card.
"Do you want to have a marshmallow in the morning?!"
An enthusiastic dual chorus of "Yeah! Yeah!" emerged.
"Than you have to lay down and go night-night, okay? Here. I'll cover you up. Lay down." Savannah went down with little argument after arranging her thirty-five lovies around her. She is a candidate for "Hoarders - the Toddler Years" but that is another tale for another night.
Abby stood in the crib, staring me down. She'd heard the marshmallow promises before, betrayed by Mommy's yet undiagnosed case of ADHD.
"Lay down, baby. Mommy will tuck you in."
She stared at me, eyes narrowed.
"Do you want a marshmallow tomorrow? You have to lay down and go night-night if you want a marshmallow tomorrow."
Abby laid down and permitted me to arrange her blanket over her. As I leaned down to kiss her, she thrust her pudgy little hand into my face, fingers splayed.
"Fide masmallows!"
I choked.
"You want five marshmallows tomorrow?"
She nodded triumphantly and repeated her demands, "Fide masmallows!"
The gleam in her eyes said quite clearly, "I had a three hour nap and we can play this little game for at least two more hours."
Plus, I'm pretty sure she could read the exhaustion and desire to escape to the couch in mine.
"Okay. Five marshmallows. After you go night-night."
She smiled, a little satisfied smile and permitted me to kiss her good-night.
The next morning.....
I entered, "Good morning, babies! Ready to get up?"
Savannah bounced, "Yeah! Yeah! Get me out of here!"
Abby bounced, "Fide masmallows! Fide masmallows!"
Really!?! Neither sleep nor waking will stop her from her negotiated wages. I paid my marshmallow dues and thought it would be the end of it. However....
Like the mob, she has never forgotten and the marshmallow payment schedule has been considerably accelerated. Run. Save yourselves. I may never get out.
Monday, December 10, 2012
This is the house that Plague built...
This is the house that Plague built
These are the germs, harbingers of death,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built
These are the hands both grimy and cold
That passed around the germs, tiny minions of old,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built
This is the runny nose, oozing with slime
That tricked the hands, so grimy and cold,
That passed around even MORE minions of old
That dwelt in the house that Plague built.
That is the tissue that reddened the nose,
That runny nose, oozing with slime,
That tricked the hands, no cleaner with time,
That were passing more germs, harbingers of doom,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built.
That is the hand soap, oh so unused,
That sits by the tissue that reddened the nose,
That runny nose mistaken for a leaky hose,
That tricked the hands so grimy and cold
That were passing more germs, demons so bold,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built.
These are towels so woefully abused
That sit by the soap all wretchedly unused
That sits by the tissue that reddened the nose,
That tricked the hands so grimy and cold,
That were passing more germs, those minions of old,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built.
That is the vomit that spews forth each day
That the towels must clean as best they may
That sit by the soap sad and forlorn
That sits by the tissue all splattered and torn
That reddened the nose, oozing its slime,
That tricked the hands, still sticky at times,
That were passing the germs, masters of crime,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built.
This is the mother, losing her mind,
That despite Lysol and bleach, cannot seem to find,
A single corner of the house untainted or lacking
The sneezing, choking, coughing, or hacking
That cleans up the vomit that spews forth EVERY DAY
That the towels must clean as best as they may
That sits by the soap so sad and forlorn
That sits by the tissue all wrinkled and torn
That reddened the nose, forever oozing its goo,
That tricked the hands, still disease-laden, too,
That were passing the germs, in which evil will brew,
That dwelt in the house that Plague built.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
The Power of Potty Training
This is becoming a problem. Seriously.
"What is a problem?" you say. Other than the fact that you are a hair-tiny-bit crazy and you live in a house of crazy and Husband Numero Uno has these interesting expectations that involve high heels and immaculately coiffed children and self and spotless ruffled aprons as I rub his feet after bringing him a steaming plate of dinner which includes at least four sources of protein covered in some kind of sauce.
The problem is my sweet twincesses. They refuse, flat-out, refuse to stay clad. When I say 'clad', I mean wearing a single piece of fabric, beading, or swaddling wrap. We get up in the morning and after the haze of sleep fades away and I have ever so conveniently left the vicinity to harry their brother into his routine prior to school delivery, they perform the fastest strip ever! (This is taking into account the hampering effect diapers can have on the clothing disposal routine.) They are naked in two minutes or less. At this point, they will come giggling out of whatever corner they shred the impediments of clothing.
Savannah runs giggling up, "I'm NAKED!!!"
Abby is hot on her heels, "NAKEEEEEE!!!"
They streak across the house roughly five minutes before I need to load them into the car to take Drew to school. They laugh hysterically as I scramble to reclad them in some sort of apparel as the temperature outside is roughly negative 12 degrees which means our house is about 45 since NU is strenuously opposed to the concept of running the heater.
(Okay, it's not really negative 12 but to our Southern blood, anything below 40 degrees feels at least 30 degrees lower than the listed temp. At least until we can mainline some hot chocolate while wearing seven layers of clothes.)
I succeed in clothing them and away we go. Later, we return and the stripping cycle repeats. Abby has, with her amazing powers of observation or the stench of my desperation, managed to deduce my desire to see them "poo-poo in the potty" so after the 'nakeee' and the laughter followed by my closing in on them with the gleam of victory in my eyes and diapers/apparel in my hands, she shrieks, "Abby go poo-poo potty!" and runs away, as quickly as her pudgy toddler legs allow (which is pretty darn quick, just so you know) to the bathroom to perch on the big potty, not one of the pink training potties that Mommy went to the effort of acquiring.
"That's great!" you say. "You can finally get them out of diapers!"
Oh, yes! That was my exhilarated thought as well.
Savannah follows, never to miss the fun and we enter the bathroom, ready and enthusiastic to USE THE POTTY!!! HOORAY!!!
Savannah then climbs in the tub and dances around while Abby mounts the big potty, ready for conquest, and sits down, fully determined ........upon the toilet seat cover which she will NOT let me lift up.
Insert image of me banging my head against the wall after five minutes of toddler argument before adult capitulation. Keep an eye on 'em, okay? I'll be in the kitchen, refilling my crack, er, hot chocolate IV.
"What is a problem?" you say. Other than the fact that you are a hair-tiny-bit crazy and you live in a house of crazy and Husband Numero Uno has these interesting expectations that involve high heels and immaculately coiffed children and self and spotless ruffled aprons as I rub his feet after bringing him a steaming plate of dinner which includes at least four sources of protein covered in some kind of sauce.
The problem is my sweet twincesses. They refuse, flat-out, refuse to stay clad. When I say 'clad', I mean wearing a single piece of fabric, beading, or swaddling wrap. We get up in the morning and after the haze of sleep fades away and I have ever so conveniently left the vicinity to harry their brother into his routine prior to school delivery, they perform the fastest strip ever! (This is taking into account the hampering effect diapers can have on the clothing disposal routine.) They are naked in two minutes or less. At this point, they will come giggling out of whatever corner they shred the impediments of clothing.
Savannah runs giggling up, "I'm NAKED!!!"
Abby is hot on her heels, "NAKEEEEEE!!!"
They streak across the house roughly five minutes before I need to load them into the car to take Drew to school. They laugh hysterically as I scramble to reclad them in some sort of apparel as the temperature outside is roughly negative 12 degrees which means our house is about 45 since NU is strenuously opposed to the concept of running the heater.
(Okay, it's not really negative 12 but to our Southern blood, anything below 40 degrees feels at least 30 degrees lower than the listed temp. At least until we can mainline some hot chocolate while wearing seven layers of clothes.)
I succeed in clothing them and away we go. Later, we return and the stripping cycle repeats. Abby has, with her amazing powers of observation or the stench of my desperation, managed to deduce my desire to see them "poo-poo in the potty" so after the 'nakeee' and the laughter followed by my closing in on them with the gleam of victory in my eyes and diapers/apparel in my hands, she shrieks, "Abby go poo-poo potty!" and runs away, as quickly as her pudgy toddler legs allow (which is pretty darn quick, just so you know) to the bathroom to perch on the big potty, not one of the pink training potties that Mommy went to the effort of acquiring.
"That's great!" you say. "You can finally get them out of diapers!"
Oh, yes! That was my exhilarated thought as well.
Savannah follows, never to miss the fun and we enter the bathroom, ready and enthusiastic to USE THE POTTY!!! HOORAY!!!
Savannah then climbs in the tub and dances around while Abby mounts the big potty, ready for conquest, and sits down, fully determined ........upon the toilet seat cover which she will NOT let me lift up.
Insert image of me banging my head against the wall after five minutes of toddler argument before adult capitulation. Keep an eye on 'em, okay? I'll be in the kitchen, refilling my crack, er, hot chocolate IV.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Try not to have bigger biceps than...
I am fixing Drew's bike. He has ANOTHER flat since somehow he rides through tire deflating material at least once every three days. I cannot lie. This flat has existed for about a week since someone under the age of ten left the bike pump behind my car tires and that required Mommy surgery and testing prior to tire application. Plus, I just didn't want to.
I FINALLY figured out where the hole is after dismantling the bike to get to the tube, holding the tube in a tub of water to look for those telltale air bubbles (unsuccessfully, I might add), and inflating the tube and holding it closely to my ear, rotating it slowly. Of course, it is tiny. Miniscule. So small that I am amazed I can view said hole without a microscope. I am amazed how sometimes it is the littlest things that put a damper in our day. After the patch job, (We go ghetto here with SuperGlue and duct tape.) I am putting everything back together when I feel someone standing over me. I haven't watched the Walking Dead this week so I did not scream and scramble backwards, hands seeking a weapon, prior to non-zombie status being established as I would have with recent viewing. Husband Numero Uno stood a few feet away, watching me tighten the bolts on Drew's bike.
Me: Hey. Are the girls ready to get down?
I'd left them strapped in to their seats, rejecting my carefully prepared dinner for chunks of pear.
NU: I'm going to need you to do stuff like this (gesturing at the bike, screwdriver, wrenches, and pump) in the garage with the door closed.
Me: (brief pause) Ahhhhhh.
NU: (standing there grinning)
Me: We would hate for you to be de-masculinized in the front of the neighbors when they realize you don't know how to operate a socket wrench.
NU: Duh. (As he sauntered back inside)
I promised I wouldn't tell ANYONE, except all of our closest friends and family. I'm kind of busy this week though. Would you mind passing along the message to them? Thanks. I knew I could count on you. ;)
I FINALLY figured out where the hole is after dismantling the bike to get to the tube, holding the tube in a tub of water to look for those telltale air bubbles (unsuccessfully, I might add), and inflating the tube and holding it closely to my ear, rotating it slowly. Of course, it is tiny. Miniscule. So small that I am amazed I can view said hole without a microscope. I am amazed how sometimes it is the littlest things that put a damper in our day. After the patch job, (We go ghetto here with SuperGlue and duct tape.) I am putting everything back together when I feel someone standing over me. I haven't watched the Walking Dead this week so I did not scream and scramble backwards, hands seeking a weapon, prior to non-zombie status being established as I would have with recent viewing. Husband Numero Uno stood a few feet away, watching me tighten the bolts on Drew's bike.
Me: Hey. Are the girls ready to get down?
I'd left them strapped in to their seats, rejecting my carefully prepared dinner for chunks of pear.
NU: I'm going to need you to do stuff like this (gesturing at the bike, screwdriver, wrenches, and pump) in the garage with the door closed.
Me: (brief pause) Ahhhhhh.
NU: (standing there grinning)
Me: We would hate for you to be de-masculinized in the front of the neighbors when they realize you don't know how to operate a socket wrench.
NU: Duh. (As he sauntered back inside)
I promised I wouldn't tell ANYONE, except all of our closest friends and family. I'm kind of busy this week though. Would you mind passing along the message to them? Thanks. I knew I could count on you. ;)
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