Head Case

Evie fell and bonked her head a record number of times today. Nothing says "good parenting" like the sound of a baby's soft head striking a cold, unforgiving, tile floor.

I'm not really sure why she fell so many times, though. I suppose it's possible that the first fall caused a concussion, which threw off her sense of balance and caused more tumbles...thus adding to the severity of the concussion and likely causing permanent brain damage.

But I'd like to think that she was just having a clumsy day.

The most recent incident occurred when she was standing on a large box of Easy Mac, trying to reach the forbidden third shelf of the pantry. Oh, have I mentioned she's a climber? I half expect to see her with rappelling equipment next time.

I truly can't take my eyes off that girl for a second.

This is what Evie can do (if allowed) in 30 mins:

• Pull out diapers from the pantry and spread them across the house (which would actually be convenient if it weren't so messy looking.)

• Pull out bags of brownie mix from the pantry and attempt to chew holes in them.

• Find and open every unlocked cabinet in the kitchen. Empty the contents.

• Crawl under table to "graze" breakfast droppings.

• Turn over laundry basket and spread plastic hangars across the living room floor.

• Remove DVD's from entertainment center and chew on them/toss them aside.

• Wander into the play room just long enough to tear apart Luke's carefully laid train tracks like some diaper-clad Godzilla.

You might be wondering why I would ever allow such a terrible baby-rampage. My husband certainly does. What he hasn't figured out yet is that it takes me only twenty minutes to put everything away that Evie has torn apart during the course of the day. Twenty minutes versus an entire day of hyper-vigilance....of following my daughter around the house with my back hunched over, my index finger outstretched, and my lips permanently shaped into a "NO!"

What he doesn't understand, and what I figured out months ago, is this:

That which does not kill her, can only keep her occupied.

And don't worry about the brain damage. I'm sure she didn't get a concussion.

Although...

(searches Google for "signs of concussion")

"Slurred speech, unsteady walking, and poor coordination."

Uh-oh.



_______________

Bathroom Bliss

I was reading about the history of bathrooms last night, when I came across this interesting excerpt from a book cleverly entitled: The Bathroom.

"It is the place of blissful escape where we steal a few moments of precious privacy. It is the place to which we see to make ourselves feel good--to relax, rejuvenate, recharge. Its importance goes well beyond the mundane practical functions of personal maintenance and the rituals of hygiene; it is where we cleanse ourselves spiritually as well as physically."

Really? I always thought it was the place where you did your business as quickly as possible while awkwardly wedging one foot against the door in a vain effort to keep your screaming children from forcing their way in.

No wonder I feel so worn out all the time.

I was pondering on this just the other day as I was sitting in the bathroom -- Evie was standing next to me, happily unrolling the toilet paper -- when, suddenly, it hit me. There is not one private thing in my life anymore. Not one sacred, untouchable thing that is solely my own. Personal hobbies are elusive creatures, fleetingly enjoyed in the few precious minutes between diaper changes, riot control play time and making three meals a day. Showers are taken late at night and in total silence for fear of waking the kids. And even when the kids are asleep, the baby-monitors are a blaring, constant reminder that we are at the beck and call of these two little tyrants.

My deep thoughts are interrupted moments later when Luke comes running in.

"Buzz Yite-ear!"

He was holding his Buzz Lightyear DVD.

"Not now, Honey. Mommy's on the toilet."

"Buzz Yite-ear!!!!!"

"I'll play it for you in a minute, Luke. Now go away and let Mommy finish."

And then he threw a royal fit.....just about the same time that Evie worked down to the cardboard spool.

"That's it! No fits, Luke. Sit in the corner.""

I shoved them both out the door and locked it.

Unfortunately, our "no-fit corner" is located right outside the bathroom. So, naturally, it isn't long before I hear a voice, crystal clear, floating up from the crack beneath the door.

"Buzz Yite-ear!"

And then I see it. The Buzz Lightyear DVD getting pushed slowly underneath the door. A small hand follows it through, shoving the movie as far into the room as possible.

I tried to ignore it.

Then the door handle starts to jiggle.

--Now, you should know that the geniuses who built this house installed door locks that (intentionally??) pop open after a few purposeful jiggles. Luke figured this out five minutes after we moved in.--

Fortunately, I had just enough time to flush and wash up before he popped the lock...and was completely prepared to give him my best "stern face" when he came through. But, as the door swung open, I saw that it had been Luke and Evie pressing against the other side. And they were both looking up at me with the sweetest smiles...as if they hadn't seen me in days.

I'm starting to think that privacy is overrated.



_________________________________

Mrs. Clean

I was in the mood to clean yesterday.

Which means it must have been a full moon. Or Friday the 13th. Or some obscure pagan holiday.

It is a dark and cloudless night when the moon turns blood red. The werewolves howl, the zombies rise...and Stephanie Chandler scrubs her sink.

This just isn't normal behavior for me.

And it wouldn't be so bad if I had actually gotten something accomplished. No, I'm afraid that when I go on a neurotic cleaning binge, it ends up being more neurotic than clean.

So, really it's just a neurotic binge. And that's frightening under any circumstances.

Allow me to give you a time line:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8:00PM- Gently cleanse glass stove top

8:30- Firmly scrub stubborn food from glass stove top

9:00- Vigorously chisel burned up, permanently cemented food from glass stove top

10:00- Notice scuzzy knobs in front of glass stove top

10:05- Clean scuzzy knobs with q-tips and rubbing alcohol

11:00- Notice grimy buildup along the edge of the stove and in the grooves and corners of the oven control pad.

11:05- Use the sharp tip of a knife to clean out grimy grooves/corners/edges.

12:01AM- Finish cleaning food off glass stove top

12:45- Obsessively wipe every trace of smudges/fingerprints from glass stove top

1:00- Admire handiwork

1:01- Remember the bottle of special glass-stove-top-cleaning-solution left in the drawer by home builder.

1:35- Apply creamy, white cleaning solution to perfectly clean glass stove top.

1:45- Get distracted by scuzzy highchair

3:00- Remember cleaning solution left on stove top

3:01- Scrape dried up, stubborn cleaning solution from glass stove top

4:00- Remove dried flakes of cleaning solution from the grooves/corners/edges of the stove

5:00- Sweep dried flakes from counter tops and floor surrounding the glass stove top

5:15 - Take a shower to remove flakes from hair and body

5:30AM - Collapse into bed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And my husband wonders why I only clean during a lunar eclipse...or the Winter solstice.

Wait...isn't this a leap year?






________________

Worry, Rinse, Repeat

It's dark out now. The chaos of the day has faded with the final rays of a setting sun, and peace has descended once more. Sweet, wonderful peace.

And yet, I find my thoughts lingering on the chaos. On runny noses and temper-tantrums, bruised knees and slobbery kisses.

And, suddenly, the house is much too quiet. My heart swells painfully...

I love my kids.

More than I ever thought was humanly possible. I stare at them all day long and dream about them at night. I've committed their features to memory. Every dimple, every freckle, every fold.

I ache for my children.

Even now, as they're asleep in their rooms, I miss them terribly. I feel the phantom of their weight in my arms. I breathe in the intoxicating scent of their hair as it brushes against my cheek. I feel the persistent tug of tiny hands clutching at my clothes, clinging to me.

I would live in this moment forever, if only it were possible. With the kids at this exact age. So beautiful, so innocent, so completely amazing.

I think about them constantly.

Are they hungry, cold, sick? Do they know I love them?

And then, inevitably, my thoughts betray me.

What would I ever do without them?

In the stillness of the night, I lay in bed and imagine a thousand ways they could get hurt or taken from me. The evil in this world is unspeakable. And where there's not evil, there's sickness...disease. Fatal accidents can happen in seconds.

How would I live if something ever happened to Luke or Evie?

It's oppressive, this worry. It weighs me down, grinds me into the dirt and leaves me gasping for air. So, in desperation, I fall on my knees every night and plead with my Savior.

"Protect my children, Father. Please don't take them from me. Please..."

And tonight, in the silence, I hear the echo of His voice.

Give them to me.

I shake my head and start to cry.

"I can't! Don't you understand that they're everything to me? Bad things happen in this world...even to faithful Christians! Why should I expect to be protected from that?"

Again, I hear Him...

Give them to me.

Now, the anger comes. The helpless frustration.

"What if something terrible happens to them? What if that's your will?? I can't take that chance!"

His voice is calm. Sad, even...

Give them to me.

I'm sobbing now. Trembling with pain and fear.

"Oh, Jesus. I love them so much it hurts."

There is silence then, long and painful. Until, finally, I hear a whisper upon my heart...

So do I.

And suddenly, I remember Moses. The man that had an encounter with the Creator of the Universe...and argued with Him.

No matter how many times God reassured Moses that he would not be returning to Egypt alone, the man continued to doubt.

What if, what if, what if?

Finally, I just have to believe that God was fed up...

"Then Moses said to the Lord, 'Please, Lord, I have never been eloquent...for I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.' The Lord said to him, 'Who has made man's mouth? Who makes him mute or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?'" (Ex 4:10-11)

And then it hits me...I've been arguing with God as well. Here I am, telling the Savior of Man that I love my kids more than He does.

How utterly foolish...

To think that I can out-love the CREATOR of love.

To think that Christ's nail-pierced hands are somehow insufficient to hold and protect my children.

To think that God Himself, omniscient and omnipotent, would not know what's best for them.

Forgive me, Father.

Bad things might happen to Luke and Evie...I know it and I hate it. But God is bigger than all the evil and sickness in this world, and He is faithful.

And I know that, no matter what happens, there is no safer place for my precious children...than in His loving arms.



"Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you."

1 Peter 5:6-7

All About Luke

________________________




Luke kissed his own boo-boo the other day.

What's next? An apartment in the city??!

My oldest child is only two years old and I'm already getting phased out. Rumor has it that he and Evie are considering layoffs this summer.

In preparation, I've made a list of the things that make me such a valuable asset.

• I kiss without prejudice -- no face is too filthy!

• I have the baby-booger-extracting skills of a gifted surgeon.

And that's pretty much all I have so far. It needs some work, I know, but I still have time. At the end of the day, I'm afraid that I need these kids WAY more than they need me.

Perhaps we can negotiate a lower salary.

Wait.....



**********************************



In an exciting turn of events, Luke finally said I love you for the first time (without any prompting).

Too bad he was talking to the humidifier in his closet.

Chris was putting some clothes away when it caught Luke's eye.

"That's a fan," Daddy simplified.

"A fan."

Chris went to close the door and Luke waved at it.

"Bye-bye, fan. I wuv ooh."

I'm sure he'll get around to telling his poor Mommy that he loves her. I the meantime, I'm just trying to be patient. I mean, I'm probably on the waiting list...between his tooth brush and the electric can opener, perhaps?


*****************************************


A couple of days ago, I was in the process of changing Evie's poopie diaper while talking on the phone...which is about as effective as typing this blog with my toes.

Itt juyst doosn''';t wrork./

Behind me, Luke had shut himself in the bathroom. Normally, he has no problem opening doors, but this one was giving him trouble for some reason. As I was chatting and wiping away, I slowly became aware of Luke banging on the door and yelling while jiggling the handle. He was starting to sound a little panicked so I hurriedly finished up Evie's diaper and turned to open the door.

I pulled the handle and had barely cracked it when Luke yanked it open suddenly, stuck his head out, and said with a big grin....

"Yes?"

Hmmm...I'd better start working on that list again.

Let's see...

• I'm the only one that can reach the DVD player....

_________________

All About Evie

My daughter has taken to walking around the house while holding our phone to her ear.

"Heyaaah!"

Hmmmm...(shoving my cell phone out of sight)...wherever did she pick that up?

I must not be too bad, though. At Evie's one-year-appointment, the pediatrician specifically asked if she was mimicking phone use.

I nodded proudly.

See? All babies pick that up! It's not a reflection on how much time Mommy spends talking on the phone.

I considered telling her that Evie points the remote at the TV as well, but you know how busy doctors are...


************************************************


Meal time with Evie is always an adventure.

I swear, that girl goes all day and night without touching her hair one time. But put her in a high chair and cover her hands with saliva, grease, and food particles...and wild horses couldn't keep those grimy digits below her ears.

The best part comes at the end of the meal.

You see, she's only twelve months old and can't possibly tell you in any verbal way that she's all done. So, I have to experimentally hold a piece of food up to her mouth and see what she does.

If she's still hungry, she'll open right up for it.

If she's full, this teeny-tiny, delicate little angel smacks the piece of food out of your hand so hard, it takes a small construction crew to excavate it from the wall.

Fortunately, she hasn't managed to hit anyone with her edible projectiles yet...but not for a lack of effort on her part.

One of these days, my luck is going to run out.

Could you imagine the medical report?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stephanie Chandler

Age: 26

Official cause of death: Skull fracture and massive brain trauma caused by what appears to be...a piece of cooked carrot?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Gusto!

...that's what my daughter has.

Or, at least, that's what we're all going to call it.





___________________________________

Anything you can do, I can do better.

________________________________________

screech \ˈskrēch\:
1.to utter or make a harsh, shrill cry or sound
________________________________________


I was online today and reading about Screech Owls. One site had an audio clip of an actual Screech Owl....screeching.

I don't know who decided to name these beautiful creatures but they clearly did not have children.

Luke has made screeching into an art form. It's a relatively new hobby, and one I'm hoping is short-lived as well. You know, one of those hobbies that come up out of nowhere and you spend way too much money getting into. Three weeks later, you have all these supplies and absolutely no more interest in them. So you box them all up and shove them upon an unsuspecting friend or family member who, in turn, sends them along to someone else. Years later, they get donated to a charity and some poor, homeless man on a cold city street is finally able to crochet himself a blanket.

Until then, I'm just trying to find a way to cope.

We were eating Sloppy Joe's for dinner and all Luke wanted was the potato chips. Now, nutritionally speaking, they're probably about equal (.0001% good stuff versus .00001% good stuff). But the masochist in me just loves any chance to battle with my son.

I wanted him to eat some of his sandwich before I would give him more chips.

"Luke, eat the sandwich and you can..."

SCREECH!

"Eat the sandwich and..."

SCREECH!

"Just eat the sandwich..."

SCREEEECH!

I sigh heavily, close my eyes and count to ten.

Go to a happy place. Go to a happy place.

Feeling a little calmer, I open my eyes and look over at the boy.

"Luke..."

SCREEEEEECH!

My happy place just burned to the ground.



*****************************************



Bath time has gotten out of hand.

Evie drinks from the faucet, which wouldn't be such a problem if it didn't involve a near death experience each time. Luke tries to stand up with a foot on either ledge of the tub, or sit on the very back ledge and slide down into it like he's at some kind of really cheap water park. Both maneuvers end up with some serious bumps and bruises...and enough water outside the tub to give Mommy a bath as well.

Neither one of them will hold still for a micro-second.

Which is odd, really. You'd think with their little bottoms all glistening and exposed, the kids would be more obedient.

Go figure.

The best part about bath time is when it's over....when two little children, all wrapped up in towels, are led into the bedroom by their daddy. Mommy trudges along after them, leaving a small river in her wake.

Once there, we tag-team the kids...getting them all "lubed up" and smelling sweet. Then we read to them, and sing with them, and love on them until it's time for bed.

This all went terribly wrong one night when we were getting the kids dressed in their pajamas. Actually, I was laying on my back recuperating while Chris did all the work.

Luke, who was completely naked at the time, walked up to me.

"I hut."

He had taken a minor tumble, but there weren't any visible wounds.

"Where do you hurt, baby?"

He turns around and carefully lowers a single buttock towards my mouth.

I laugh and kiss the boo-boo....he'd just had a bath, after all.

But, apparently, that wasn't good enough because the next thing I know the child is SITTING on my face. Cheek to cheek, in all the wrong ways.

I screeched so loud, the window cracked.

And Screech Owls everywhere hid their beaks in shame...




____________________________________

And now, for something completely different!

___________________________________________________



I was watching TV this evening and heard a reference to the Collyer brothers, a rather infamous pair of compulsive hoarders that were born in the late 1800's. They lived and died in a townhouse in Manhattan. When neighbors complained of the smell, police had to dig through over 100 TONS of junk in order to find the bodies.

Apparently, the technical term for a compulsive hoarder is: Disposophobia. I know what you're thinking...what does a fear of garbage disposals have to do with hoarding? The truth is, I have no idea, but you know how those stuffy, academic, Latin-speaking types can be.

Anyhow, I was reading about these two, ill-fated brothers and thinking to myself...

I bet they never accidentally threw out their Social Security cards.

...or the deed to their home.

...or any "final-notice" utility bills.

...or valuable, yet-to-be-deposited checks.

You see, my husband suffers from Hoardophobia...that's a fear of hoarding, for you lay-people.

I've begged him to seek counseling (and heavy medication) but he's in denial. He thinks it's normal to retrieve the mail from the box and deposit it directly into the trash can. Or, (even better) take out everything that looks important and shove it to the back of an obscure, junk-filled, kitchen drawer. Then, after letting it age and collect for a few months, throwing it all out in a fit of uncontrolled, obsessive-compulsive, clean-freak rage.

Okay, so it's not really a rage. It's more like this semi-conscious, zombie-like stupor. I could have sworn that I saw his eyes actually cloud over once, but I can't be certain.

He has no memory of it afterwards, which seriously impedes any recovery efforts on my part.

"Where did you put the mortgage bill?"

"Oh, it's uh...in the drawer next to the fridge."

"That drawer is empty."

"What? That's impossible. I remember putting it there."

"Well, it's empty. Maybe I'll check the trash."

"I did not throw it away!"

(sounds of rustling)

"Chris?"

"Yeah, Sweetie?"

"I looked in the trash can and found a mortgage bill, two vehicle titles, our marriage license, a package of clean diapers, $65 in cash, our 'last will and testament,' a set of fine china, the keys to the mailbox, and our two children."

"Wow! How did that get there??"

I wonder if the Collyer brothers have any single great-grandsons?




______________________________________

Faith Healing

Luke is obsessed with boo-boos.

Not long ago, he figured out that boo-boos got kisses and attention...and he's been a huge fan of them ever since. Naturally, when he runs out of real boo-boos, he'll start making them up.

He'll come up to me, holding or pointing to various parts of his body. His elbow, his shoulder...the arch of his foot.

"A boo-boo, Mommy!"

"Awww. You want me to kiss it?"

"Tiss it."

And then, quite miraculously, it's all better. I'm like Benny Hinn without all the forehead shoving!

The other day Luke came up to me and held out his index finger.

"A boo-boo."

"You want Mommy to kiss it?"

I remember he gave me a funny look then, which should have warned me, but I shrugged and kissed his fingertip anyway.

Turns out Luke's pronunciations of "boo-boo" and "booger" are nearly identical.



***************************************



Evie walked while drinking from her sippy cup yesterday. If that's not a milestone, then I don't know what is.

My little girl is so amazing.

Lately, when we've gone to take objects away from her that we don't want her to have (cell phones, wallets, butcher knives, etc.) she hasn't even made a fuss. Quite the opposite, in fact! Moments before you grab it out of her clammy little fist, she smiles and eagerly holds it out to you. As if to say...

"Oh, there you are! I've been looking all over for you. Here, this belongs to you. Go ahead...you may have it."

I find myself wanting to fall on my knees and thank her for her benevolence.

Oh, she's good.

The only one around here that doesn't fall for her charms is Luke. Every time the poor girl picks up a toy, her brother is there snatching it away from her. It's like he has some kind of elaborate surveillance system set up!

Evie can be sitting alone...in her bedroom...in the crib....with the door locked. She spies a toy next to her and glances around furtively.

No one there.

She takes a deep breath and holds it in before cautiously reaching for the prize. Slowly, ever so slowly, her fingers inch towards the goal. Nervous sweat glistens on her brow. Her six teeth clench tightly together.

Closer...closer.........YES! She has it!!!

"No, Evie!"

And there's Luke, ripping it out of her hands.

Poor girl.

I bet she'd like to give him a boo-boo worth crying about.




__________________________________________________

VILE BEAN!!!

I gave Luke Beanies & Weenies for lunch yesterday (wow, spell check didn't have a problem with that??)

I now have one more item to add to my long list of things NOT to feed Luke until he's in college.

He picked out all the weenies and painted the table with the beanies. And the bean juice (I don't know what else to call it) dried up and turned into this flaky, powdery crust. It covered the table, the chair and most of his body. As if that weren't bad enough, I still had to give him lunch! Three pieces of weenie just wouldn't cut it. The quickest fix is a PB&J sandwich. This would also be on "the list" if it weren't such a convenient way to fill the hole on that kid.

Suffice to say, I ended up getting a mess on top of a mess.

I got my revenge, though.

As you might have expected, bean juice is amazingly resilient. It took quite an effort to scrub the stuff off of Luke's face and body, his skin turning a lovely shade of pink as the minutes wore on. Halfway through, he started kicking his legs and squirming.

"No! Help!!"

At which point I affected my best villainous tone...

"No one can save you now, Child! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-haaaaa!!"

Then, the torture continued as he was forced to watch his sister (once again) drinking out of his cup. He was still strapped into his booster seat, helpless to stop her.

"Noooo! My pee-pup!!" (<-- Toddlerese for "sippy-cup")

I considered explaining to the boy that, had he not thrown his sippy on the ground to begin with, Evie never would have gotten a hold of it. But, somehow, I'm afraid the logic would be lost on him.

"NO, Evie!!!"

Finally, the amusement wore off and I intervened.

I'd like to hope he learned his lesson...but I wouldn't bet my bean juice on it.



*************************



WARNING: To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this plastic bag away from babies and children.

I've read this warning on grocery bags before and rolled my eyes at the stupidity of the American consumer. Frivolous law suits have nearly ruined the common sense of this nation. "Warning: Hot Coffee" can be found on every McDonald's coffee cup. "Do Not Ingest" on a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner? Thanks for the warning! That was starting to look mighty yummy...

What insanity!

So, naturally, I didn't think twice when Evie was playing with a plastic grocery bag.

It's just a plastic bag! I mean, what are the odds that she can actually open it up and get it over her head in just the right...WHOOPS!

I turn around for one minute and the child is wearing the bag like a death mask. I can even see her little mouth, open and gasping for air as the plastic sucks into it.

I grabbed it off her before she was in any real danger but it was still a scary thing.

So, the next time you see a senseless warning label, you can thank people like me.

I'll be waiting for your call...


_______________________________________________

Little Cupcake Video

Evie - eating her birthday "cake"....

Sweet Awakenings

Luke woke up early this morning. Not by much...twenty minutes, maybe. But I savor every precious second in my big warm bed, so twenty minutes is an eternity. I tried ignoring him but he was getting louder with every moment and I was afraid he'd wake Evie up as well. Bedlam would surely ensue.

And I like to put off bedlam as long as possible.

So I got him up and brought him back to bed with me. I'm not sure what I was hoping for. Surely, I'm not naive enough to think he would curl up with me and go back to sleep. And I'm not delusional enough to think I could actually continue to doze while a 30 lb child jumps on my chest.

Let's just say I was...optimistic. I'm a sippy-cup-half-full kind of girl.

He actually did lay under the covers with me. For all of ten seconds. Then, the boy got up and began pulling the covers off of his poor, cold mother.

"Get up, Mommy! Get up!"

Actually, it was more like "Eh up, Mommy" but when I put it into context, I managed to puzzle it out. Why, stick a pipe in me and call me Sherlock!

Just as I was about to throw a pillow at the interloper, he crawled up to my face and gave me one of the sweetest kisses I've ever received.

His face is so fresh and bright in the mornings. His lips are so soft and pink.

I can't think of a better way to start the day.


*******************************************

Where Luke is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the mornings, Evie is all crust and grogginess.

Clearly, she takes after her mother.

It just takes her a while to get going. And she's more than happy to be cuddled first thing in the morning, as well...which is like manna to my poor heart. Most of the time, Evie just wants to walk. She walks laps around the interior of the house. She walks laps around (and under) the kitchen table. She walks from one kitchen cabinet to the next, committing to memory the ones that are locked and the ones she can plunder. I'm not sure if there's any point of the day that she's conscious and NOT walking. If we had carpets, you would surely be able to see the ruts.

She knows when you're about to pick her up, too. She's must see it in your eyes as you walk towards her. If you're walking by her to get to something, she doesn't even twitch. But if she senses that you are going to grab her up, the child scrambles like a mad-baby to get away from you.

This morning she was drinking from Luke's sippy-cup. In a perfectly calm tone of voice, I told her "No, Evie. That's Luke's sippy." And then slowly (as not to spook her) I stood up.

I've never seen her move so fast.

She threw down the sippy-cup with a clatter and dashed away from me!

What did she think I was going to do to her? I've never spanked the child. I've never put her in the corner or disciplined her with anything more than a firm "no"....

She wasn't afraid of punishment. She was afraid of getting picked up!

I'm trying not to take it personally...

Home is Where the Milk Stinks

You know you're behind on housework when you go to dump a glass of milk into the sink and nothing happens.

(...pauses for effect...)

On a related note, can I just say that I hate the term "housewife"? It's demeaning and degrading and a thousand other bra-burning exclamations that I won't bore you with. I didn't marry the house. I'm not an accessory to the house, like a house-plant or a house-fly. And, let's face it, if I were married to the house, we'd be in couple's therapy by now. And it would probably end in a tragic and messy divorce.

People would come for a visit...

"I just love your house."

"Oh, we're not together anymore."


........................................................................



On a completely unrelated note, I've finally figured out the perfect way to get Luke to "open up" when I brush his teeth.

I yell at him.

Right in his face.

Not a loud, angry yell. Just a sustained noise, loud enough to make him smile. In no time at all, the kid has his mouth wide open and he's yelling back at mommy. And I have all the time in the world to brush those molars.

Last night Evie joined in as well.

She was walking around his room (yes, that's where we brush) and came right up to us during our shouting match. She was so cute, blinking up at us with such innocent curiosity. Then her little mouth opened and she started yelling like a pro...matching our pitch almost perfectly.

There we were, all in a circle. Yelling our heads off at each other.

Imagine what the fly on the wall must think.

...or the neighbors.

I hope they're kind enough to mention his extra white smile when they gossip about us.



__________________________________________

The truth is out!

I've always suspected that my kids were diabolical sneaks. Now I have proof. At the tender age of twelve months, Evie has been caught pink-handed!

I was watching from across the room as she played on the kitchen floor. Sounds innocent enough, right? I noticed she had something small in her hand and was swinging it around playfully, having no apparent interest in consuming it.

After a few minutes of observing, my better judgment kicked in and I went over to take the UFO (Unidentified Finger-clutched Object) away from her. The second she saw me coming over, the little stinker shoved that thing in her mouth faster than you can say "choking hazard." Fortunately, mommy can sprint when the occasion calls for it and Evie only managed to get half of it in her mouth. Turns out it was just a piece of plastic wrapper....not very dangerous unless strangely textured poop causes you some kind of mental anguish....and, really, it just fascinates me so there's no problem.

Anyhow, ummm...what was I talking about?

Oh, yes! Sneaky children.

I can't think of an example for Luke's sneakiness right now, but I'm sure there are plenty. He does have issues with gratitude, though. Just this morning he came up to me and pointed at the foot of his sleeper-pajamas. It was askew.

"It broken!"

"Oh, you want mommy to fix it?"

"Fix it."

So, being the good mother I am, I made the adjustment and smiled at him. Only, he was no longer there. He was running off to play, while yelling at the top of his lungs:

"I did it!!"


Little stinkers...


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