Idiot

Last week I turned left onto the highway into the closest lane like one is supposed to.  There was a motorcycle behind me and when I went to move to the right lane after giving plenty of blinker time, the motorcycle, which had been far enough back for me to move over, gunned it and sped past on the right.

Frustrated, I muttered something about an idiot and let him go by.

Violet, who is four-and-a-half, asked from the back, "Mom, what's an idiot?"

"An idiot is someone who isn't very smart."

"Oh."

So we kept on down the highway and pretty soon she says, "I'm watching that idiot." 

Later he turned off the highway and she says, "Where did the idiot go?"

And that was the end. 

Except yesterday we pulled up to a stop light and there was a motorcycle beside us, which I noticed was parked just inches behind the car in front of him.  Violet pipes up from the back seat, "Is that another idiot?"

"I don't know.  But I guess it is possible."

Maybe I'm the idiot, but it makes me laugh.  I'm sure her preschool teacher will find it humorous, too, when she hears about it from Violet.

Happy Birthday, Calla! How about the flu for your birthday?

Today this kid is SEVEN.  Yes, SEVEN.  But she's about the size of a five-year-old.  She's finally cracked forty pounds, actually.

 

 

 

How do I know this?  Well, for her birthday she got the flu.  Influenza B to be exact.  And when we took her to urgent care they weighed her.  Poor thing also had a fever of 104.  And a nasty, croupy cough as well as a breathing issue.  Yikes.

 

Grandma and grandpa showed up this weekend, too.  Because of that, both the husband and I were able to go with Calla and dinner got taken care of at home without us.  Violet asked at dinner if Calla had thrown up.  Except since she knew she shouldn't be talking about throw up at the table she got up, walked away from the table and asked grandma, who was still sitting at the table, if Calla threw up.  Then she announced that if I was there she couldn't even do that. 

 

Anyway, Calla was pretty droopy and now we have her properly drugged, so her birthday shouldn't be totally miserable.  I would take a picture of her, but she is pretty sorry looking still.  The above picture will have to work.  I love it, though.

 

Happy Birthday dear, sweet girl.  Get well soon.  And we pray that you continue to grow straight and strong and healthy. 

She's on to me!

This morning I was making pancakes for breakfast.  It's a little treat we do sometimes.  Cottage cheese pancakes.  Eggs, cottage cheese and oatmeal.  Except sometimes I substitute cashews for the oatmeal.  Stick it all in the blender and it's yummy.  The kids love them with butter and sugar.  Sometimes powder sugar.  But I don't like powder sugar because I always end up dusting everything while I'm at it and get irritated because then I have one more thing to clean up.

So this morning as I was mixing them up, Violet, who is really coming into herself and consistantly makes me smile these days, comes into the kitchen, leisurely pokes around in the pantry and says, "Mom, can we have poweder sugar on the pancakes this morning?"

And being the mom that I am, I respond, "Maybe."

She gives a little impatient huff, there is a little pause....

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey."

"Can 'maybe' mean 'yes' today?"

A few minutes later the husband appeared from a far corner of the house asking me what I was laughing about. 

And yes, they did get powder sugar with their pancakes this morning. 

And yes, I did just wipe up the last of it a few minutes ago. 

Oh well. 

What's the matter with Violet?

Yesterday one of my friends posted a poem and I immediatly had a new favorite poet.  And I had to email it to the husband.  This is how the conversation went:

ME: Apparently Violet and Mary Jane have the same problem....though this offers no solutions, unfortunately.

What is the matter with Mary Jane?
She's crying with all her might and main,
And she won't eat her dinner--rice pudding again,

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?
I've promised her dolls and a daisy-chain,
And a book about animals--all in vain--
What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?
She's perfectly well, and hasn't a pain;
But, look at her, now she's beginning again!--
What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?
I've promised her sweets and a ride in the train,
And I've begged her to stop for a bit and explain--
What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?
She's perfectly well and she hasn't a pain,
And it's lovely rice pudding for dinner again!--
What is the matter with Mary Jane?

 

 

BRENT: Yeah, those symptoms really do seem to correlate to Violet’s condition, although at times Violet’s seems a bit more severe. Perhaps that author has written a subsequent description offering Mary Jane’s solution. We should check into that.

 

ME:  Correlate? Subsequent? Are those work words? You are smart at work, mister. Not that you aren't smart here. You know.....

 

BRENT:

 

Good Morning Heidi-

I really appreciate your sending the below narrative and thoughts as we consider Violet’s condition and explore ways assistance may be provided. In accordance with our parenting responsibilities vested as of the date of Violet’s birth (July 14, 2008), I concur addressing this issue (“crying with all her might and main”) is a high priority.

Your insight in connecting Violet’s condition with Mary Jane’s is great work and your observation on work words and status is, well, right on. Let’s ponder the Violet/Mary Jane scenario that a bit more… Perhaps exploring whether or not Mary Jane successfully resolved her issues will provide some meaningful insight as we move forward. I propose we add this to our agenda for discussion when we meet later today.

I understand Violet’s current condition is challenging at times, however, your work in this area is not unnoticed. You are (and have been) a great partner with this program as evidenced by successes gained with all the children, smiling faces and full utilization of the programs limited available resources. I look forward to opportunities whereas we can continue to partner together.

Thanks Heidi; have a great afternoon.

-Brent.

 

 

I love this husband of mine. 

 

Oh, and the poem is by A.A Milne and it's called Rice Pudding. 

Sneaky Sheep and a funny boy

Carsten is two.  And I find him hilarious.  He speaks in complete sentences, says the darndest things and does the darndest things.  He rules his world.

For example, complete sentences.  Last week we were dropping Violet, whom he calls by her French name of Why-Le, off at preschool when he spotted his dad walking down the hall.  My thought would that he just says, "DADDY!"  But no, he gets a goofy grin on his face and says, "Hey!  What are YOU doing here??" 

And yesterday he was sitting at the table and fell out of the chair, catching himself just in time but not in enough time that he could actually right himself by himself.  He needed help.  But instead of crying or saying, "Help!" he yells, "Hey!  I need you to come help me!"  And not just once, but several times while hanging off the table wedged between two chairs.

Today he did the same thing.  I said, "Carsten!" in an attempt to get his attention.  And instead of saying, "What?" he says, "What do you want, mom?."

He's a goofy kid.

He's a goofy kid who loves hats.  In fact, he owns five hats.  A bear hat from Glacier Park, a dinosaur hat I got for him in Washington DC this summer, a John Deere hat, a baseball hat he got for Easter, and a cowboy hat his great grandma gave him for his birthday. 

And he wears them all.  In fact, he picks which one he will wear depending on he outfit he is wearing--an outfit that HE picked out.  He also knows that he can't wear them at the table or to church.  It's funny. 

My personal favorite is the cowboy hat because he looks so cute when he wears it and he won't wear it without his cowboy boots, also a gift for his birthday. and his cowboy boots make him strut and apparently make him put his hands in his pockets.  Plus, I like to call him "cowboy" and he reminds me of my great grandpa. 

To illustrate my point:

 

 

But I also will admit that he isn't ALL perfect.  He's kind of a pill in church and I would love it if he would let us put him in the nursery.  But he won't have any of that, so one of us usually ends up out with him while he talks too loud and makes all kinds of odd observations. 

 

It would be so much more convenient if he would just go in the nursery.  Especially on Fridays.  I take the kids to a homeschool co-op every Friday and while I only signed up to teach two classes, I ended up with three.  Now, I love this whole teaching gig.  I really, really love it.  And I was thinking, and I have since realized that I was quite mistaken, that I might actually get to do it as a teacher and not as *mom*.  But Carsten would have none of that.

 

The first week I went to the nursery they provide, which is quite convenient because you know all of us crazy homeschool moms who drag all our kids with us everywhere we go.  But Carsten would have NOTHING to do with it.  In fact, I still heard him screaming when I exited the building after I went down TWO hallways and around three corners, up some stairs and out the door. 

 

He was absolutely hysterical.  But I didn't feel like I had a choice.  I didn't know who I felt more sorry for: him or the nursery workers or the other kids in the nursery.

 

You think I'm exaggerating.  But I'm not.  The next week was even worse.  He cried hysterically until I finally called Brent and told him to come get him.  By the time Brent got there Carsten had cried himself to sleep.

 

The third week I pretty much decided that I did in fact have all the tools necessary to not feel like I had to leave him in the nursery.  And I felt like I was emotionally damaging him if I forced him to go in there any more.  He told me all week that he didn't want to go in the nursery.  All week long.  "I don't want to go in the nursery."  And his little lip would stick out and he would look like he was going to cry just thinking about it.

 

So the next week instead of sticking him in the nursery, I got him out of the car and threw him on my back in a carrier.  He told me he didn't want to go in the nursery a half dozen more times before we even got into the building.  I told him he was going to stay with me.  And he did.  And he didn't scream like I was handing him to ax murderers.  That was nice.

 

He did pretty well in class.  Not too distracting and all the girls totally think he's the cutest thing ever.  Which of course he is.  And by second hour his was back in the carrier and headed for a nap.  He slept for an hour and a half. 

 

We have since repeated this several times.  Brent also has every other Friday off, so he takes Carsten when he can.  That works out nice, too. 

 

The kid also likes to read.  Sometimes I will realize that I haven't heard from him in a while and when I find him he is sitting with a pile of books just looking at the pictures intently.  And it is obvious that he has been doing it for some time.  He is quite mesmerized by them, actually.

 

One of his favorite books recently is a book we got from the library called Sneaky Sheep.  It's about these two sheep that are constantly trying to sneak away from the flock to go up to the high meadow because they are convinced it is lovely.  But the sheepdog always finds them. 

 

One day they manage to make it pretty far and they run into a wolf.

 

Now back to Carsten.  This evening he was sitting on the floor mesmerized by the book and then he got up and brought it over to us.  It was on this page where Rocky and Blossom find themselves face to face with the wolf. 

 



Carsten pointed to the wolf and told us it was the wolf.  I asked him, "What does the wolf want to do?" 

"He is hiding."

"Yes he's hiding.  What does he want to do with the sheep?"

"Put them in the nursery."


Yes.  Apparently he would rather get eaten by a wolf before he will ever step foot in a nursery again. 

I was laughing so hard I actually was rolling on the floor with tears in my eyes. 

Stupid fundraisers

Today Violet came home with a note about Box Tops for Education in her folder.  Yes, she is in preschool.  She LOVES it.  I adore her teacher.  It's wonderful all around with the tiny exception of the social nightmare that is other preschool parents.  Apparently there is some unwritten rule that you are not to make eye contact, and if you do, you are glared at.  Whatever.

Back to my tirade. I hate fundraisers.  I always have.  Particularly fundraisers where I have to save labels from horrible soup, tops of boxes from horrible food, buy coupons or coupon books I won't use, or purchase over-priced cluttery things that I don't want.   I distinctly remember Grace, my ever on top of things kid, coming home and explaining to me in detail that we needed to save these things and why.  Even at the store I cringed when she got excited about them and felt we HAD to buy that box.  Eeek!  All this simply out of guilt or some other sort of motivation.

I told Violet's sweet teacher as much today.  I told her that the whole premise was ridiculous and I intended to just write the school a check for $10 rather than seek out horrible food to feed my family and a chance to give the school mere pennies.  I may have shocked her some, but she was very gracious.  Did I mention I love her?

Now since then I have made a vow.  I have vowed that if ever I am blessed with the opportunity to organize a fundraiser for some sort of youth program, I will buck tradition (surprised?) and probably shock a few people in the process.  Hopefully I will start some sort of a trend.

My idea is that I will make up a pledge sheet to give each child.  It will say something like:

Because I realize that nearly every fundraiser I have participated in has been some marketing scheme by a rather large company selling me a product disguised as food with a promise to give mere pennies to my school, and because I really have no need for trinkets or coupons or any other form of clutter, I pledge ($5  $10  $15  $20) to the above program with the understanding that I get nothing in return other than the comfort that 100% of my donation will be used for the purpose stated above and I am free of clutter and guilt. 

And then there are a bunch of lines for names and amount donated.  (Yes, that is one huge sentence.  But it's effective, don't you think?)

If someone came to my door with something like that, I'd sign up in a heartbeat.  So refreshing.  And honest, dammit.

Kayaks!

My parents and two brothers (with their families) came over this weekend.  And since we haven't been enjoying summer like we normally like to (trips, moving, etc. take a lot of energy! And I'm embarassed that I haven't blogged more than once a month for the last four monts!), we thought we'd go enjoy the lake.

Mom and dad have a new kayak.  And a great friend of ours loaned us three of theirs.  Since mom and dad hadn't used theirs yet, they actually debated breaking a bottle of beer across the bow to christen it.  But they decided not to waste the beer and saved it for after we got home.

Brent and I went on a date.

 

Actually, it was something like 30 minutes paddling around the lake. 

 

But hey, that's about as close to a date as we've had since all the kids were in Sunday School or sitting with grandma at church for 15 minutes two years ago or something.

 

We take up a lot of shore line.  So nice to go enjoy the sun!

 

Daddy took Calla out in the kayak.  She was pretty scared at first, but decided it was fun. 

 

At least until daddy lost his hat and tried to reach it and almost tipped over.

 

Grace took every chance she could to get in and on the water.  She was all over it and had a great time.

 

 

Speaking of kayaks.  How about a YAK? 

 

What?

 

Doesn't everyone bring their YAK to the lake with them? 

 

No? 

 

Oh, well this guy must think pretty highly of his yak.

 

It's name is McCloud.  And it apparently likes to get in the house too.  I only know that because I asked, sarcastically of course, if it slept in his bed. 

 

Oh, and he has something like four dozen yaks.

 

And if you google "yak" you get a lot of "kayak." 

 

I'm thinking that kaYAKing is a once in a lifetime experience.

 

And a date with your husband after four kids is a once in a blue moon or so experience.

 

 I love this guy.  He even let me go shopping with my mom and sister-in-law while he stayed home with everyone else and started dinner.  I found a great sweater and a new purse to replace my awesome red one that Carsten broke the zipper on. 

KaYAKing.  HA!  I'm going to laugh about this for a LONG time.