tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68927600735401324042024-03-12T19:11:16.596-07:00Zone DefenseStand FastKittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.comBlogger361125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-18274423620297659072014-11-13T20:00:00.001-08:002014-11-13T20:12:02.620-08:00OhNoOhNoOhNo!Heard from the basement tonight:<br />
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Gracie yelling (assuming it was her because she has the loudest voice ever): "Are you ready to <b>ROCK</b>?!??!?"<br />
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The Rest: "YEAH!!!"<br />
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Gracie (louder, if that's possible): "I <b>SAID</b>, ARE YOU READY TO <b>ROCK</b>?!?!??!"<br />
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The Rest: "<b>OH YEAH!!!!!</b>"<br />
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Oh my stars. I can hear the murmurings now: "She has no control over those kids. It's a shame; they seem so nice. They must be utterly clueless about what their children do when they aren't looking."<br />
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I'm going to spend the next few years praying about how to channel this...enthusiasm about life so I don't have to be unpleasantly surprised one evening while watching an episode of COPS - Campus PD. Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-2912495863663253712014-07-10T22:30:00.002-07:002014-07-11T07:46:04.742-07:00This Is Not A JokeThis snapshot of my world actually started the night before when I told the kidlets that Johnny had a doc appointment the next morning.<br />
<br />
Johnny: "For WHAT??? Am I getting a SHOT???"<br />
<br />
The Chorus: "WE HAVE TO GO TO THE DOCTOR?? DO I NEED A SHOT? IS HE SICK? IS THIS LIKE WHEN WE HAD SHOTS (flu) LAST YEAR??"<br />
<br />
I explained that it was just a checkup with his allergist. No big deal.<br />
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Johnny: "OKAY. So NO shot. Right? Just Dr. S?"<br />
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The Chorus: "Wait! He IS getting a shot? Why is he getting a shot? He didn't last time!!!" Etc for another 30 seconds or so.<br />
<br />
I turned around and finished prepping dinner.<br />
<br />
<br />
We were driving in the car the next morning - on our way to said appointent - when this conversation happened, all in about 2 1/2 exhausting minutes. Keep in mind, we had been in the car for 5 blocks.<br />
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Everyone: "WHY ARE WE DRIVING IN THIS DIRECTION? WHERE ARE WE GOING? THIS ISN'T THE WAY TO THE GROCERY STORE!!" (I had not mentioned a syllable about the grocery store)<br />
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Me: "Remember? Johnny has an appointment this morning with Dr. S"<br />
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Johnny: "It isn't a Drs. Appointment. It's a check-up. You don't get shots at check-ups."<br />
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Me: "Johnny. I called the Doctor to make an appointment to see the Doctor. It's the same thing."<br />
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Oldest Child: "So where are we going?"<br />
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Me: "To Dr. S. Johnny has a check up."<br />
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Oldest: "So no shot, right? Ok."<br />
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20 seconds later:<br />
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Female Triplet: "Hey! Where are we going now?"<br />
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Me: "Still driving to Johnny's check up."<br />
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Same Triplet: "Why?"<br />
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I didn't answer.<br />
<br />
10 seconds later:<br />
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Fourth-Born Child: "Why are we driving this way?"<br />
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Me: "Because this is the way to the doctor's office."<br />
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Same Child: "Why is this the way?"<br />
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Me: "Because this is the way we go."<br />
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Same maddening, yet delightful child: "Why?"<br />
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Me: "It just IS! This is the direction in which we need to drive in order to get to Dr. S's office, so we are taking this road."<br />
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Same child: "Ok. But this isn't the way to the grocery store. Are we going to the grocery store?"<br />
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Silence. I could not physically respond because my brain was starting to shut down.<br />
<br />
10 seconds later:<br />
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The smallest of the bairn: "Why is Johnny getting a shot?"<br />
<br />
Johnny: "WAIT! Did she say I was getting a shot??? You said I wasn't getting a SHOT!!"<br />
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No lie. Only there was more of it. I can't remember it all because it's 12:30 in the morning and I'm just too tired.<br />
<br />
Part of me sort of hoped they would all get shots, just because I had promised they wouldn't and it would have been sort of fun to see the nurses and Dr. run for the hills when 5 kids flipped out on them in unison. Delightful.<br />
<br />
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<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-77980473217597021442014-06-08T21:46:00.000-07:002014-06-08T21:46:00.618-07:00If You're Smart, Son...Johnny and I were jawing about something completely inane tonight when he said "How do YOU know that?". Of course my reply was:<br />
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"Because I'm the smartest woman <i>you'll</i> ever meet." (not true, of course, but he is thankfully only 6 and therefore clueless about such matters)<br />
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Johnny: "But, how do you know?!"<br />
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Me: "Because I know all about these things and if you know what's good for you, you'll agree with me."<br />
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John then entered the conversation and, because he is super-wise and super-smart, started explaining to his son that it was in Johnny's best interest to agree with me and to understand that his mother truly is the smartest woman he knows. That, if he believes this to be true, only good things will happen.<br />
<br />
By this time Johnny is grinning like crazy because he absolutely loves to talk and it brings him great joy to have both of us, in dialogue, all to himself.<br />
<br />
But then I decided to take this teaching moment even further and offered up a piece of valuable advice. He was then informed that I would be the most intelligent woman he knows until he meets the girl he is going to marry and then SHE will be the smartest woman he knows and ever will know. I will vacate my post, but only to become second on the list. <br />
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For the record, Johnny had asked some question about dinosaurs or something and I actually didn't make up an answer this time because I really did know what I was talking about. <br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-77866462081583801622014-06-07T21:39:00.004-07:002014-07-10T22:52:19.219-07:00Spring 2014 in ReviewFour words:<br />
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Vomit</div>
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Lice</div>
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More vomit.</div>
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Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-36378724149102515002014-02-21T22:23:00.001-08:002014-02-21T22:23:11.576-08:00Nobody Puts Baby In A CornerAs we sat around the dinner table tonight, the talk was about the most important part of the school day: recess. Gracie's been playing soccer lately and I had assumed she was actually doing the running around, kicking the ball part. Not so. Apparently, these little turkeys she's playing with are "making" her be goalie every time and she is understandably getting a little tired of it. Her story was corroborated by Johnny, who would be the very first to shout out any inaccuracies. <br />
<br />
I asked who was making her be goalie and it's some boys from her class. I'm sure they aren't being mean about it (I've met a few and they are mostly sweet), but someone has to be goalie and they don't want to, so they tell Gracie - who really, really wants to play - it's her job.<br />
<br />
Mama hit the roof. In a big, big way.<br />
<br />
I'm going to have to talk to her about it again before she goes back to school because my reaction and advice was disorganized and generally unsound. Looking back on what I said, it probably would not be a great idea for my eensy little girl to get in their grill and give these boys the impression that a can of something was about to be opened up and that she was NOT going to play goalie anymore.<br />
<br />
I mean, she wants to play and she needs to come up with an answer that gets her what she wants - to not play goalie all the time - but doesn't infuriate these boys so much that they don't let her play at all. A don't-argue-with-me-just-do-it "no". <br />
<br />
What I really want to do, more than anything, is to march up there during recess on Monday and start directing traffic so these little kindergarten lovelies figure out how to take turns and not tell my daughter what to do.<br />
<br />
That would be unacceptable. Effective, but unacceptable. <br />
<br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-54771933681350935152014-02-11T22:53:00.000-08:002014-02-11T22:53:01.728-08:00BleghAinsley's going to her first real slumber party soon. To help keep myself from an anxiety attack, I felt compelled to have a mostly one-sided discussion with her about what sometimes happens conversation-wise with giggling girls when it's way past bedtime and they've been on a sugar bender for hours. They're still pretty young and maybe Ainsley isn't as naive as I believe or want her to be, but who knows what they might talk about and my child - who has yet to watch a show with real actors (well, Fresh Beat Band and Imagination Movers) - really hasn't had a lot of exposure to the outside world. <br />
<br />
So I cornered her when there was absolutely no potential for younger sibs to interrupt and we (I) talked about the fact that sometimes girls talk about things that might make you feel uncomfortable and all you have to say is "I don't know" or "Yeah...no". She doesn't have to give a reason. She doesn't have to change the conversation, just bow out. So she just looked at me like I was a weirdo and I felt bizarrely compelled to give her a sample conversation:<br />
<br />
"Okay. So some of the girls might talk about boys and they might ask you if you like one. You don't have to answer. Even if there is a boy you like you don't have to answer. Got it? And if they bug you about it and it makes you feel awkward, just keep saying you don't know. Okay?!"<br />
<br />
There had better not be a cute boy. I'm not ready for that. Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-61667087276421379012014-01-11T21:30:00.000-08:002014-07-11T14:42:39.720-07:00I See London, I See France...We all know the rest of the playground taunt, don't we? Well, The Three had thankfully yet to be exposed to this sweet poetry until tonight when I was reading <i>Meet Molly</i>, an American Girl doll book. I had barely finished the rhyme when they started cracking up. This was immediately followed by all three saying it over and over and over and over again. There's only so much a human can handle when three six-year-olds are non-stop chanting anything, much less something supremely annoying.<br />
<br />
Of course I instantly became the big buzz-kill and lectured that they will NOT say that to anyone at school, even if they can see their underwear, that it will hurt someone's feelings, that it's ok to do it at home, in-house, blah, blah, blah. Which brought the conversation to:<br />
<br />
"Yeah! You'll go to the principal's office!"<br />
"Yeah! You'll get in BIG trouble at school!"<br />
"Yeah! Our teachers will be really mad! They'll email you and tell you what we did! Or call!"<br />
<br />
And then they proceeded to chant again.<br />
<br />
Why I said the following is still beyond me, because it took the ridiculousness to the next level:<br />
<br />
"Okay okay okay!! You may NOT say I can see <b><i>your</i></b> underpants! But you can say I can see <b><i>my</i></b> underpants! Got it??!!?!"<br />
<br />
Oh my stars, the room erupted.<br />
<br />
I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE! I CAN SEE <b><i>MY</i></b> UNDERPANTS!" Whereupon they would drop their pj pants and expose their drawers. And laugh hysterically. And do it again.<br />
<br />
I eventually just left. I had lost control.<br />
<br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-17971956486440884062014-01-06T23:16:00.002-08:002014-07-10T22:42:56.534-07:00"Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?" - Pink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">I know the girls did not throw glitter in the air today. I know this because I would have heard hysterical laughter and squealing if they had. Unfortunately, the aftermath of this sweet little glue/glitter/bead craft project, of which I was unaware, was profound. To quote a friend, it was like "a fairy exploded" in my house (thank you, L). Actually, it was more like a troupe of fairies. </span></div>
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The craft table, already covered in paper, crayons, beads, markers, etc, was the point of detonation and therefore suffered the most damage. After that, the sparkly stuff that runs through the veins of many little girls followed the classic shock wave pattern and moved throughout the not-small play room filled with Barbies, Legos and even more Legos, pretend food for the kitchen, and Hot Wheels. Plastic is a magnet for glitter and I can't imagine how I'll ever get it all off. To be honest, I won't even try. I have better and less maddening things to do.<br />
<br />
I don't even know where they found it. I'm pretty mellow about craft projects and the kids are generally free to do whatever they want with whatever they find. Glue, play doh, scissors, recyclables, paint. None of them faze me, but the stuff is usually hidden away somewhere. Actually, I like glitter. Most of the reason why I like it is because the kids get so excited when I bring it out, as if I'm presenting them with the keys to the candy factory and an all-you-can-eat pass. <br />
<br />
I'm not even upset with the girls. Truly. They were so proud of the work they brought up from the basement, down the hall, to the kitchen. They left a trail of gold, red, and blue sparkles wherever their sweet little feet trod. Across carpet. Across hardwood (there will be glitter in the cracks of the wood FOREVER). In the bathrooms. On the stairs. In their bedrooms. In their hair. Wherever my gaze fell, lay a piece of glorious glitter. They handed me their shimmering, drippy creations with their hands covered in Elmer's and I felt a little sick. After the washing-of-the-hands and feet, I forced myself to inspect the crime scene. Every step closer produced more and more evidence until I felt I was literally walking on a path of gold. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.<br />
<br />
So I vacuumed and threw the things away I did not want to try and salvage, and vacuumed some more. It will never go completely away and I'm okay with that. Maybe tomorrow I'll create a glitter clean-up game with the crumbgobblers where victory means you don't have to brush your teeth for one night. For some reason they get all wound up if they don't have to participate in good dental hygiene. It's a powerful motivator.<br />
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<img alt="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/21/0f/bb/210fbbcabf31bd2d880a3625648cffda.jpg" class="shrinkToFit decoded" src="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/21/0f/bb/210fbbcabf31bd2d880a3625648cffda.jpg" height="400" width="400" /><br />
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True. So very true. <br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-13905435903420583142014-01-03T16:42:00.003-08:002014-01-03T16:42:52.835-08:00Classic"Mommeeee!!! GRACIE HIT ME!! SHE HIT ME FOR NO REASON!!!!" - Johnny<br />
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"THAT'S NOT TRUE! I DID HIT HIM FOR A REASON! HE WOULDN'T TELL ME WHERE THE BALL WAS!!!" - Gracie, totally indignant that she would be accused of senseless hitting. <br />
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Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-806056164102579952013-11-25T19:50:00.000-08:002013-11-25T19:50:20.858-08:00You Know You Beat The Average 2.06 Kids Born/Woman (CIA estimate for U.S) WhenYou're waiting with one of your bairn for her checkup and you overhear the pediatrician ask the nurse "So, how many Lairds do we have today? Just one? Oh, okay."<br />
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So sorry to disappoint, Dr. Dave. Next time I'll bring all five and we'll really have some fun.<br />
<br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-2860536678981810522013-11-10T21:29:00.000-08:002013-11-10T21:29:05.771-08:00I Imagined This Would Happen. I Had Simply Hoped It Wouldn't.The kids are in bunk beds. Occasionally their conversations steer towards the "what happens when the person on the top bunk throws up all over the place?".<br />
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Tonight it happened and it happened big. If you've ever wondered how far and wide vomit can go from a five-foot perch, you're welcome to stop by. It was stunning how much carpet the arc of yak covered. Gross, and stunning.<br />
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The best (?) part is, it's only 10:30 pm and only 1 child has come down with the case of the honks. <br />
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Four more kidlets to go. I probably need to cover the interior of the house with tarps.Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-73413163998162783342013-11-09T20:44:00.001-08:002013-11-09T20:44:36.556-08:00Just A Little ObsessedEven though the show is so scripted, I love to watch House Hunters. I hate to make John suffer through it with me, so I don't watch it very often, but I did catch an episode a couple weeks ago that sent me to my thinking seat. The short of it: the couple ended up buying an old fire station (!) and I now believe such a building would be nearly perfect for the Laird 7. What sold me? Two things:<br />
<br />
1. The bay. One stinkin', enormous, high-ceiling'd room. It takes the "great room" and "open concept" ideas to a new level. <br />
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2. The lovely, oh-so-lovely, dorm-like bathroom. 5 sinks (yay!), three stalls, three showers, and a urinal. Now, some people think a urinal is either gross or not that neat. I don't deny the potential for gross, but I would still love to have one for my boy. <br />
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So now I daydream about how fun it would be to convert a firehouse. <br />
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Silly, I know. But cool.<br />
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<img height="393" id="irc_mi" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/98/FireHouse_18_Louisville.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="418" /><br />
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<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-87862965217708916652013-10-06T20:37:00.003-07:002013-10-06T20:37:56.640-07:00Did Lizzy Lose Her Eye?It was 34 minutes past bedtime last night when Gracie tippy-toed downstairs to ask the question above. Seeing as how a two-eyed Lizzy had just tippy-toed herself down the stairs 29 minutes past bedtime, John and I were confused. Lizzy has a bit of a cold, so had she sneezed so hard she said her eye popped out? That is 100% something she would say to be funny. Had she really sneezed so hard with her eyes open and popped her eye out? I hadn't heard any crying, so I think we can eliminate the second idea. That left us with no choice but to start a conversation:<br />
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"Gracie, what are you talking about with Lizzy losing her eye? Did she say that?"<br />
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Gracie: "Yes. She said her eye was missing and I was wondering what happened to it." <br />
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"I don't get it. What are you talking about? What do you mean she lost her eye? Really? She said she lost her eye?"<br />
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Gracie: "YES! She said she lost her eye! Is she going to lose both eyes?" At this point, it should be noted that Gracie has not demonstrated much <i>concern</i> about her sister losing an eye. It was a question born purely out of curiosity. I mean, maybe she was a little worried. She did come downstairs to inquire, which is loads better than just ignoring what Lizzy said (which is what most kids would do if they heard an oddball statement like that).<br />
<br />
[what in the world...]<br />
<br />
Blank staring from all parties.<br />
<br />
And then...Light bulb!<br />
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"Gracie. I think she means the 'i' is missing from her step stool. You know, the letter 'i'?"<br />
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Gracie: BWAAHAHAHAHAHHAA! That's so funny!!! I thought she meant she lost her eyeball!! You know, her <i>eyeball</i>! That's so hilarious! Oh man! Hee hee!"<br />
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"Go to bed, Gracie."<br />
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Thankfully, thankfully, I had noticed earlier in the evening that the "i" was missing from her step stool. We would have had to wait till morning to figure it out, because a full inquisition is rarely done around here after lights-out. <br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-78819456805622322752013-09-27T13:00:00.002-07:002013-09-27T19:28:06.379-07:00Our Mudroom Smells Like Stinky FeetJust so you know, yes we are fully cognizant of the odor that assaults your senses when you walk in our back door. Or our front door. A summer of Crocs, flip flops, and sweaty tennis shoes = that stale locker room stench I had to endure every day for my job way back in my days of teaching PE and coaching. <br />
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Yuck.<br />
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Sorry.Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-82856236624044954072013-09-21T21:53:00.003-07:002013-09-27T22:16:06.104-07:00So Everyone Is AwareI was working on a post last week and John asked if I was writing about how awesome he is. "Yes. Of course I am." was my reply, which was not true. Yes, he is awesome. No, I was not <i>actively </i>making a public declaration.<br />
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I am making one now. John Laird is awesome. <br />
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If it's possible (and I'm not sure it is), he would be even MORE awesome if he would wear this shirt I saw on the playground today:<br />
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<img alt="Amazon.com: My Little Pony "Ponies Forever" Men's Brony T-Shirt (M): Sports & Outdoors" class="product-image product-full_size" itemprop="image" src="http://cdn-s3-2.wanelo.com/product/image/6451566/full_size.jpg" /> </div>
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He said he would not.</div>
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We'll see.</div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-59961263420080014652013-09-15T22:08:00.001-07:002013-09-16T06:59:19.394-07:00Don't Quit The Day Job, Lady.The Trips filled out one of those super-cute questionnaires about me at school a while back, in what was supposed to be a "Kids say the darnedest things" exercise. I ended up nearly devastated. Not because they all listed me as being in my 80's (really, who cares). No, it's that none of them thought I was funny. I know I'm not hilarious, not even close. That title belongs to my sister and a couple other people I've met along the way in my years of existence.<br />
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So apparently I am some sort of ogre. Not funny and certainly not cute, at least in the eyes of three of my children. Okay, okay, I look nice when I go to weddings and birthday parties, which was three times last year. <br />
<br />
John tried to be The Hero and pulled each kid aside and told them to LIE and tell me I was funny. Here's how it went down:<br />
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<i>I overhear John whispering to Johnny "Go tell Mommy she's funny".</i><br />
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Johnny: "Hey Mommy."<br />
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Me: "Yes, Johnny?" <br />
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Johnny: "She's funny."<br />
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Me: "Who's funny?"<br />
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Johnny: {Shoulder shrug} "I don't know." Walks away.<br />
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<i>Cue Gracie, who does the Gracie swagger to the kitchen. </i><br />
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Gracie: "Hey Mommy. You're funny." Then, over her shoulder as she walks away: "But you're really not."<br />
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Me: "Thanks, Gracie." <br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>NEXT!</b><br />
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Lizzy: "Hey Mommy. Daddy told me to tell you you're funny." Walks away.<br />
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Me: "Thanks, Lizzy."<br />
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It's fairly obvious I have some work to do on my stand-up.<br />
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An example of the offensive opinions from the peanut gallery.</div>
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By the way, they are RARELY told to eat all their dinner. </div>
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-71468720064119657302013-09-10T20:31:00.000-07:002013-09-10T20:31:00.080-07:00IndoctrinationI took the kids to the high school track awhile ago to run the crazy out of them. They're always asking question after question after question about the place anyway, and since we had absolutely nothing {free}to do, it seemed like a reasonable idea to pile everyone into the car and pop over to check it out. I hadn't seen the new field anyway, so I figured it would be a winner. It was.<br />
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Of course they HAD to run the track (they didn't know it was the only option), which led to "Running On The Track 101". It was one of the few times they have ever been slightly fascinated with what was coming out of my mouth. Annie didn't care to stay in her lane. Everyone else was thrilled to have something that was all theirs. <br />
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Yes, I know it isn't the true 100m start. It was hot, they had already passed it, and I was already flirting with irritating them. So we compromised to try our first "Runners to your mark" stance. They thought they were they were so speedy-quick. Kidlets, Momma won't <i>make</i> you run, but maybe you could humor me for a season or two? Please? <br />
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Can't go to a stadium without jumping and rolling and cartwheeling in the end zone. It's so super-cool. They thought, and still believe, they are super-cool. <br />
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Got to get 'em hooked while they're young. :)<br />
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<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-83212663022805605662013-09-09T19:23:00.001-07:002013-09-09T19:23:27.531-07:00Two Steps Forward, One Giant Step BackOne of the kids was clearly not using her sweet little head tonight and "asked" me to be quiet. To give her a wee bit of credit she did ask in a polite voice and she did say "please". However, this is obviously a question that is not to be tolerated. A question a child should never, unless in an emergency situation, ask an adult, at least in this house. <br />
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This incident falls into the "giant step forward" category because everyone else but Annie had an "Oh, Snap!" moment, stopped what they were doing, whipped their heads around, eyes and ears wide open to see how badly Mommy was going to lose it. It's nice to know that somewhere, tucked away in their internal files, they know that some comments are disrespectful to adults. So...hooray?<br />
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But then, within 5 minutes of a little victory, I stumbled across this:<br />
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Apparently, it is excruciatingly difficult to toss dirty clothes in a basket I positioned in the un-classiest yet most-convenient location. They almost had to put <i>more</i> effort in order to miss.<br />
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We'll get there. <br />
Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-19244919805901129562013-07-04T22:44:00.002-07:002013-07-04T22:44:20.929-07:00I Know This Happens To Almost Everyone, But...There are 930 pics on my phone and over 150 of them are of this little chucklehead.<br />
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Another 80 are of a kitchen cabinet. And then another 100 of the sofa:<br />
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The movies are fabulous as well, but I'll spare everyone a sampling of the 3 second mini-clips of rude noises that are scattered about my camera roll.<br />
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Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-69159177888443117642013-07-02T14:37:00.001-07:002013-07-02T14:37:46.437-07:00Two Thoughts1. Class lists came for Ainsley and The Trips today. Looking at their sweet names on the lists, in different classrooms, made me a little weepy. This is for real, folks, and I'm not liking the thought that this chapter of our life is closing in just a few weeks. They make me completely insane sometimes and I love watching them grow up, but...you know.<br />
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2. Along with the class lists was the "supply list" and we may have to take out a loan to cover this mess. Plus, they all need new backpacks this year. And probably lunch boxes. And shoes. And underwear.<br />
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Good grief. <br />
<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-71212821369224987742013-06-15T21:18:00.003-07:002013-06-15T21:18:28.934-07:00Quote Of The DaySetting: In the car, on the way home from the zoo.<br />
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Johnny: "MOMMMEEEE! Lizzy won't talk to me!"<br />
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Me: "What are you talking to her about?"<br />
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Johnny: "I'm trying to ask her a question!"<br />
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Lizzy: "I'm ignoring him."<br />
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This is exactly what I've been trying to tell them to do when a sibling is bugging the tar out of them (which is what was happening). At least someone is listening.Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-55897065399123473062013-06-14T22:16:00.000-07:002013-06-17T22:49:58.071-07:00Dear Laird KidletsI am tired. You are funny and insightful and silly and I love you. You are also children and behave like children (as you are supposed to do) and it can be exhausting to be your Mommy. It's a good exhaustion and I'm thankful to have the opportunity to experience it, but there isn't a whole lot of physical or emotional energy left in my tank and this is why the house looks the way it does and grilled cheese and pasta and rice are the Big Three in the meal rotation. It is also why you all know what "crazypants" and "Mommy's going koo-koo" means and when those words come out I'm about 8 more seconds of you all fighting/whining/crying away from losing it.<br />
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So I crash at night instead of cleaning or writing or sorting through clothes you've outgrown in the last two weeks.<br />
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And then I think of something funny one of you said today, like how Gracie still says "mind" instead of "mine", even though she has been told 457 times that isn't how it's supposed to be said, only to reply "I KNOW! That's how I like to say it!" and stomp off indignantly. And I laugh and shake my head and fall asleep on the couch.<br />
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I love you all very much. I really do. I'm just tired. <br />
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<br />Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-71169075888862229212013-05-04T22:25:00.003-07:002013-05-06T18:33:40.949-07:00When Our Best Attempts Turn To Crap And Back AgainI fanatically love, love, love my little part of the universe, but the January-March/April weather is horrible. It makes me want to homeschool my kids for those three months and take them on some random RV tour around the country, just to get out of here. But then I remember the "school" part of homeschool and laugh like a maniac because I am not a go-getter and those three months would simply be a first Summer break.<br />
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So when we woke up and the forecast was Potential For Lovely, I said we were going to a playground. The field trip was necessary since the level of teasing, arguing, and general ugliness between the sibs was escalating and someone would have found themselves flying to the stratosphere if we had not left the house.<br />
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By the way, when planning a playground visit with four kids, ages 5 and under, just any random park won't do. In order to keep it as easy as possible, the bathroom must be close, a drinking fountain that works (but not so much that they can have a spontaneous water fight - this does happen), and there is ideally only one play area, etc, etc. So the one I chose fit a couple requirements and we were off. <br />
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It did not go well.<br />
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Within 3 minutes (golly, I wish I was exaggerating), someone had to go potty. No real surprise here because someone always has to go to the bathroom, but I was caught off guard when the bathrooms were locked. As in the "not yet opened for spring" locked. Totally and completely uncool and there was NO WAY I had time to load everyone up and haul them 1 mile down the road to a grocery store to unload them, take them in, herd them around the restroom, load them back up, drive the the park, and then unload them so someone else could tell me 4 minutes later that they needed to go potty even though they had vehemently insisted to the point of tears that they didn't have to while we were crammed in one stall at the grocery. No way.<br />
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So, dag-nabbit, we hiked to the furthest point at the park where only a couple neighbors and playground families could tell what we were up to (it's hard to be discreet with four kids running like crazypants for the trees <i>shouting</i> "Is she going to tee-tee in the trees, Mommy?? IS SHE GOING TO TEE-TEE IN THE TREES?!!?!? HAHAHAHA!! YAY!!! REALLY?? FOR REAL??". They had turned almost maniacal with how thrilled they were. It is most definitely a walk of shame. But I held my head up and readied my "Well, what do you expect me to do" face if some random dared question my decision to allow public urination. <br />
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So we're there and I was pretty confident I had perfected the art of girls urinating in the outdoors a couple years ago, but I had never managed this while one was wearing a skirt. Because of that, it did not occur to me that the skirt would hang down and therefore be covered with tee-tee to the point of saturation. And then the girl (and the mom and the girl's sibs) freak for different reasons. And then the family re-emerges from the trees with one child wearing different clothing (thankfully it was one of those times she was wearing pants underneath), but sobbing because she really loves skirts and wanted to wear that particular one that day, and other children whining because they wanted to pee in the trees as well and why won't you let me, Mommy? And I'm trying to look nonchalant as I hold the dry corner of a drippy skirt.<br />
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Part II<br />
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The kids didn't want to play on the fun, new playground, opting instead for the old-school, wood chip and pea gravel, metal variety artfully decorated with bird poop. Fine, and I actually don't mind this and I sort of understand. The rubberized playground is boorrriinng because there is nothing to pick up and throw at siblings or shove in one's nose or ear. Or get stuck in a shoe so that "<i>Mom</i>, I had to take my shoes off to get the wood chips out and then I haven't had the chance to put them back on". And the plastic slides and stuff don't hurt our melons as badly as the metal bars.<br />
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This means that, within 8 minutes of playing on the preferred, older play area, three heads rung the monkey-bar-climby-thing, 5 shoes were tossed and I think Annie performed a taste test on the pea gravel, dirt, and wood chips. Those which did not pass her exam were sprinkled on her head.<br />
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Part III<br />
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All's well that end's well. Everyone eventually chilled out, had some fun, myself included, and I witnessed several other parents more crazed
than I. As we left, still holding what was now only a damp skirt, I did
a mental pat-on-the-back.<br />
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Success.<br />
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Three of them got their bell rung on this contraption. And one of them managed to do it by simply standing there. I have no idea how it happened.</div>
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Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-13792814898239945302013-04-04T22:12:00.001-07:002013-04-04T22:12:32.050-07:00"My heart is hurting"One of the girls had a rough morning this Easter. She is the one who wears the title-mentioned heart on her sleeve, the one who seems incapable of any degree of stoicism, and of maintaining some semblance of control over her emotions and behavior when feelings are running high. She is the one whose personality lives at the apex of the pendulum swing, rarely resting in equilibrium. As I say this it is important to note that we desperately love her in spite of that and we even more desperately love her because of that.<br />
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So when it's hard and there's more drama than usual, and on a day like today when we are in the middle of celebrating the joy of Easter, that the struggle becomes even more difficult when passions are escalating. And after a challenging exchange of words when I'm trying in vain to find an angstrom of patience in my well, when she tells me her heart is hurting and broken, that my heart hurts and breaks too. My heart breaks because I can't fix hers. I try and try and as much as I desire, I will never be able to perfectly heal her. Don't misunderstand me, she is at the age where she needs me (and John) to make her feel unconditionally loved and to take away her hurt . It is one of the things we are commissioned to do, and it is a great blessing and privilege to make her feel loved. Beauty results from the <i>trying</i>.<br />
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So I pray. I pray that one day she will discover that Mommy and Daddy do our best and have loved and still love with all we that we have. I pray that one day all the pieces will come together and she will know with absolute certainty that God is the only one who can heal her brokenness. I pray that one day her healed heart will know Joy on Easter morning. Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892760073540132404.post-73528890367305612212013-03-19T20:42:00.003-07:002013-03-19T21:02:31.288-07:00Here! You do it! Or, how I almost lost my Lego Builder Elite Status.<br />
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It started with an ultimate find: the kids were at Fooz's house and she discovered an UNOPENED Lego set, circa 1980-something, under some shelves. The kids were besides themselves and couldn't wait to show me. <br />
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A pull-back race car, support vehicle with trailer, 500 pieces. No sweat, right? I mean, these are the kids who are flipping out because a Lego store is supposed to come here and pore over catalogs and the Lego website, trying to decide the sets they want, in order of importance. Big decisions.<br />
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This should have been a walk in the park, blindfolded, and finished in 30 minutes. It was not. Whatever cars or trucks we've put together have been predominantly brick-based with a couple axles. Sure, lots of layers and eensy parts, but ultimately no sweat. These bad boys were crazypants and took a few hours of actual concentration. John and I helped Ainsley with the first car, John worked on the second, and Gracie and I (and Lizzy a bit) helped with the trailer. And that's where my coolness factor stumbled a bit. A lot. Enough that John was hysterically laughing at me and I was trying not to curse out loud. It was one of those "It's finished, let's try it out. Why isn't it working? What's the deal? Wha...some of it's upside-down". Frick and Frack!!!<br />
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That's when Ainsley walked in and I said "Here. You do it!" and, of course, she did. Most of it at least, while John just thought the whole gig was hilarious. The can't-tell-if-he's-breathing laughing. Punk.<br />
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But I rallied and figured it all out and everyone is happy and The Mommy is still a little cool. Or maybe it's more that I won't have to hear "Hey, give it to Daddy because you know Mommy can't do it".<br />
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I live for the little victories. Kittyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12332183674395784998noreply@blogger.com1