Blegh

Ainsley'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.  

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:

"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?!"

There had better not be a cute boy.  I'm not ready for that.

I 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 Meet Molly, 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.

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:

"Yeah! You'll go to the principal's office!"
"Yeah!  You'll get in BIG trouble at school!"
"Yeah!  Our teachers will be really mad!  They'll email you and tell you what we did!  Or call!"

And then they proceeded to chant again.

Why I said the following is still beyond me, because it took the ridiculousness to the next level:

"Okay okay okay!!  You may NOT say I can see your underpants!  But you can say I can see my underpants!  Got it??!!?!"

Oh my stars, the room erupted.

I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE!  I CAN SEE MY UNDERPANTS!" Whereupon they would drop their pj pants and expose their drawers.  And laugh hysterically.  And do it again.

I eventually just left.  I had lost control.

"Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?" - Pink

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.




True.  So very true.

Classic

"Mommeeee!!! GRACIE HIT ME!! SHE HIT ME FOR NO REASON!!!!"   - Johnny

"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. 

You Know You Beat The Average 2.06 Kids Born/Woman (CIA estimate for U.S) When

You'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."

So sorry to disappoint, Dr. Dave. Next time I'll bring all five and we'll really have some fun.

I 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?".

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.

The best (?) part is, it's only 10:30 pm and only 1 child has come down with the case of the honks. 

Four more kidlets to go.  I probably need to cover the interior of the house with tarps.

Just A Little Obsessed

Even 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:

1. The bay.  One stinkin', enormous, high-ceiling'd room.  It takes the "great room" and "open concept" ideas to a new level. 

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. 

So now I daydream about how fun it would be to convert a firehouse. 

Silly, I know. But cool.