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    She lost her pen and I lost my mind

    March 21, 2011

    K: Where is your folder?
    Ethan: I don’t know. MOM! We need to find a place to put my bag EVERY SINGLE DAY so I have a routine and can find it.
    K: Who said those words to you?
    E: My teacher.
    K: Exactly. Did you mention to her that you have a specific HOOK by the door for your bag?
    E: No. I forgot.
    K: Just like you forgot to hang up your bag. Your bag, dude. Your problem.

    Fastforward to the afternoon, when I find his folder. Inside is a yellow 😐 face for yesterday, which is not a green :-). I lie in wait to attack him as he gets off the bus.

    K: I found your folder today.
    E: Good.
    K: What’s up with the yellow deadpan face from yesterday?
    E: What are you talking about?
    K: Yellow face with a mouth that goes like this (miming a horizontal line).
    E: I think she had to use yellow because she lost her green pen.
    K: (holding up the evidence) Seriously? She lost her green pen? So she used a yellow pen and accidently made a face like this? (miming horizontal line again)
    E: Oh. Well these kids were talking to me and they wouldn’t stop and then I got in trouble.
    K: So you told me she lost her green pen?
    E: I didn’t want you to be mad.
    K: I just cruised past mad, my friend.

    His father thought the lie was clever. This is what I’m working with, people. I am so screwed.

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    Wherein Eat rides his bike into a blueberry bush

    September 4, 2010

    Eat and I had a wonderful bonding moment last week. He came in while I was cooking dinner.

    E: Mom, I’m going to ride my two wheel bike now.
    K: Great (not really paying attention).
    E: Mom, I need some help because my bike is too big.

    We bought a bike for Ethan a year ago at a Boy Scout yard sale. It was way too big for him but it was cheap and he had clearly outgrown his bike with training wheels. When he was three. He never rode it because I tried to get him to ride without training wheels when we bought it and he was all, “No thanks, I’ll ride my scooter.” He hadn’t ridden any bike in over a year. This was big news.

    K: Buddy, I’m making your dinner. Dad isn’t going to be home until after you guys go to bed. We are going to have to do this tomorrow morning.

    He looked at me with a disappointment that I’m sure I will see many times in his life. He sighed. “Okay, Mom.”

    The next morning I opened my eyes to him staring into mine from 3 inches away.

    K: Yes. We can go today.

    I put both of the smaller kids on the inside of the fence and began my speech from the road as I stood beside his bike.

    K: You will probably fall sometimes. Riding a bike isn’t always easy. But you don’t have to give up. Mom will be right beside you the whole time and we’ll just keep trying until you learn.

    I then realized that his tires were flat, the chain was slightly lose and his hand brakes (who has hand brakes on a kid bike???) weren’t working. So I found a bike pump and pumped the tires up. I acted like I knew what I was doing. He bought it but I don’t know why.

    I handed him his bike and started with the Ginny Hammond pep talk again. I grabbed his seat and he climbed up on the seat with his feet on the pedals. He couldn’t touch the ground. He looked at me and interrupted my you-are-the-awesomest speech.

    E: Let’s go, Mom.

    With his brothers cheering him on from behind the fence, I began to run beside him. On the fourth step, I let go of the seat.

    And he was gone. Without teetering or faltering once. It was like he had been doing it forever. Now, 8 days later, this is him on the bike in the back yard, going down a hill I refuse to mow because it is so ridged and steep I’m pretty sure I’m going to flip the mower.

    8 days. I’m scared to death.

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    Sometimes I forget he is 4

    December 29, 2009


    So we put the baby in his own room and for 5 glorious nights, he slept through the night. If, by sleeping through the night, you mean waking up at 5:17 every morning. Trouble is, his brothers then got up in his stead. I slept Christmas night for 8 1/2 glorious hours but the last two nights? Not so much. I’m not as behind the “Cry It Out” torture method as a common side effect is “Waking Another More Annoying Child Up.” Thus, I find myself jumping up to stop the crying. Last night there was no solution. I didn’t get much sleep.

    E: Mom. Mom. MOM!!!
    K: (grrrr)
    E: Mom. Mase woke up.
    K: I heard him.
    E: Mom, he was crying so I got him out of bed.
    K: Where is he?
    E: Mom, he was hungry so I took him downstairs and gave him some animal crackers.
    K: Huh?
    E: (sigh) Don’t worry, Mom. I took care of it. Are you getting up soon?
    K: Mason got up at 3:23 and wouldn’t go back to sleep. I finally fell asleep when Dad left.
    E: He didn’t wake me, Mom. I slept PERFECTLY!
    K: Glad to hear it. Does Nate have milk?
    E: MOM. I took CARE OF IT.
    K: Where the baby?
    E: HERE (picking him up from the floor by my bed)
    K: What are you doing?
    E: I’m carrying the baby.
    K: But you are carrying him upside down.
    Mason: EEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    E: He likes it, Mom.
    K: I know he does, but it’s not right.
    E: Momomomom. I’m taking care of it!

    Yes, you are.

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    I have discovered the answer to the crop circle mystery…

    June 14, 2009

    A four-year-old on a riding lawn mower did it.

    Do you have any idea what is more annoying than a four-year-old going “momomomomomomomomomomom?”  A four-year-old bopping his head to the music pumped in his headphones yelling “momomomomomomomomomomomomom” over the roar of the riding lawn mower to his mother who doesn’t have headphones because someone took all the padding out of the other pair of  headphones and lost one of the ears.

    As an aside, do you know how difficult it is to lose an ear to a headphone that could cover Dumbo’s lefty?  I’m guessing it will turn up sometime during the winter as a sled.

    I let The Boy mow the lawn today.  Before you get your panties in a wad about safety, he was on my lap.  Of course I would have let him do it himself if that mower didn’t have that silly sensor in the seat that requires like 80 pounds on it or the motor conks out.  Don’t think I didn’t think about loading up that bad boy with cement blocks but even as country as we are here, you really can’t let your four-year-old mow the lawn if he is riding around on a tractor with a Japanese motor.  Thus the parental involvement.

    Usually I let him sit on my lap and then I steer but since he brought me a Sierra Nevada and put the bottle in the bottle holder because “that’s what the holder is for, Mom, beer,” I have increased his privileges.

    So I put the blade down to 4 and I let him mow.  This pisses off my husband because mowing on “4” is pretty much the equivalent to making the yard look like a big mound of dirt.  He would prefer that I mow on “6,” which means I would get to mow again in about 3 hours.  No, thank you.

    The Boy mowed in circles.  Lots and lots and lots of circles.  They were perfect.  I was physically nauseated.  Then I saw the copperhead and I started to scream manically like a seven-year-old who just found out she got front row tickets to Hannah Montana and she gets to have pizza for dinner.  I used to be a bad-ass.  I remember those days.  Now I’m yelling like a lunatic about a foot-long poisonous snake that is, follow this, slithering AWAY from me.  And I’m on a riding lawn mower.  My husband ran around the corner of the house.  He looked at me.  He looked at the snake.  The snake looked at him.  He looked at me.

    D:  You should probably just kill it by chopping its head off with a shovel.

    K:  BUT I DON’T HAVE A SHOVEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    D:  There’s one right there (pointing to the shovel a foot away from me).


    D:  Right there (with that look on his face like, “I-thought-this-one-was-a-step-up-from-the-last-wife-who-was-a-lesbian-but-maybe-I-was-wrong” face).

    I picked up the shovel and killed that copperhead like the warrior goddess princess that I am.

    And went back to riding around on my mower in circles.

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    Happy Birthday. No, wait. Not today.

    February 10, 2009

    When people found out that I was due with The Baby (aka #2, not to be confused with #3) on the exact same day as The Boy, I was berated.  Which is my personal favorite.  Like I really care what you think about my family planning (or unplanning).  But if it makes you feel better to tell me, I’m here to serve.  And listen.  As well as I listen to anyone, that is.  Which isn’t that well at all.  Ask my husband.  He’ll be happy to talk to someone who is actually listening to him.

    “They’ll have to share their special day.”

    “You’ll probably even make them share a cake.”

    Hi, I’ll probably make them share a room, do the same sport in school so I’m not going to two different places, and make them share a car.  The only out they probably will have is college, but that is only because one of the children is showing a disturbing tendency to do WHATEVER THE HELL HE WANTS WHEN HE WANTS which will most likely not be conducive to going to a distinguished university.  But, hey.  I’m a product of community college and look how good I talk. And how fun I am.  Snotty education (you know of what I speak, Shane) is well-represented in this family and frankly, parties would be a little boring without me around here.

    They are boys.  I know this because right now one is behind me, standing on the counter, pouring water from cup to cup to dirty cup on the counter and, evidenced by the splashing sound, his aim sucks.  I’m sure girls do these really messy things.  I just don’t remember doing them anywhere other than within the containment of a large bath tub as a child, where messes really should be contained.  But do they really care about having to share their birthday week?  I would have to think they were wussy if they did.

    So now birthday week is upon us.  I know this because when I got home from the wine festival on Sunday, my children presented me with an ice cream cake.  “Happy Birthday, MOM!!!”

    Hold your congratulations.  It wasn’t even remotely my birthday.  I looked at my husband and he just shrugged his shoulders.  See, we have started the birthday confusion here and now I am paying for having two children born 4 days apart. And I would like to thank my husband for feeding into the confusion.  He mentioned something about having more time on the weekends to celebrate.  Except I didn’t get home until 7, so I’m not sure that counts as more time.  Remember last year when I went to the Bizarre Bizarre and I came home at 9 to find my in-laws and my family had celebrated The Husband’s birthday without me?  Complete with streamers and cake.  I’m thinking they might just start celebrating all holidays on weekends when I am working.  But back to the birthday confusion.

    You see, today is Nate’s School Cupcake Birthday.  Not to be confused with his REAL BIRTHDAY TOMORROW.  Then Thursday is The Boy’s School Cupcake Birthday.  Not to be confused with his REAL BIRTHDAY on Sunday and his REAL BIRTHDAY PARTY on Sunday which is also Nate’s REAL BIRTHDAY PARTY.

    It only seems fair that we start the week out with an ice cream cake and end it 8 days later with TWO cakes made by the Cake Lady’s able little hands.

    I have to go and frost the cupcakes.  And damn preschool for having 1 child beyond a box of cupcakes for two classes.  Seriously.  Wouldn’t it have been awesome if I had just had to make one batch?  Lazy, lazy mother.  Wait until #3 has to celebrate his birthday 1 month early with his brothers.  I just might do it…

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    Kids. They never listen.

    January 12, 2009


    You have some questions right now.  Yes, The Baby has a butter knife in his right hand.  Yes, that is a quart of motor oil to his right.  The food getting spit out of his mouth?  The pizza from yesterday that he found somewhere that he was properly advised NOT TO EAT because it is a day old and would taste like crap.  Which apparently was not believed.

    I then went downstairs to upload the pizza debacle.  When I came back up stairs, I found this.


    Technically it is the dining room table but it is still in the living room from New Year’s Eve.  Yes, that happens to be a 5-gallon bucket of deck stain on the dining room table.  It has to warm up to actually be put on the deck because you can’t put deck stain on a deck in weather under 40 degrees.  It was colder than 40 degrees where the stain was in the garage.  Grant it, it’s colder than 40 degrees on the deck.  Hey, I’m not the mathematician in the family but 2 plus 2 is looking a lot like 5 right now.

    The stickers on the reading glasses?  So Dad knows which ones are the correct ones.  Not to be confused with just trying them out at the store to see which ones are best.  Let’s just buy 4 pairs and play the “I CAN’T READ” game every single time a pair goes on.  Or at least 75% of the time. The crumbly mass The Baby is sitting upon?  Hot crushed red pepper.  He was actually sneezing.  Pink earphones?  In a package when I saw them last.

    The Republican haircuts?  I know the craze is to make your child look unwashed by letting their hair grow long and unruly.  We like to use clothing as a conversation piece about whether these children ever get bathed.  And when someone has vomited in the barber shop just a couple of days before, they do their best to make sure you aren’t coming back any time soon.


    There are an incredible amount of hand prints on that mirror, right?  Those prints are from a year ago.  My husband keeps his stash of his beloved Windex well-hidden.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I can barely keep the fam in clean underwear and socks.  Clean a mirror?  Surely you jest.


    Nasty feet with unclipped toenails?  Check!  On the table?  Check!  Not just on the table but the nicest table cloth.  Interestingly enough, no one even hedged or looked apologetic when I busted them.

    It’s not even 10:30 yet.

    Jess is very concerned about what we intend to call The Baby when we have the newer, more important Baby.  It’s clear The Boy is a disappointment.  We may as well get a jump on moving beyond the middle child and focusing on the child that is most important, Baby #3.  If you have an opinion (as I know you do), let me know in the comments what you think the name should be for The Baby and for this little rug rat that is determined to come out via my belly button.30weeks6days


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