Friday, May 20, 2011


Did you ever have one of those weeks that goes downhill fast and you have no idea why? Yeah, last week was that week. Last Monday evening, I wrote this charming e-mail to my mother:

Are you working tomorrow night? If not, I was wondering if you'd like to come up around dinner time ... and "see the kids" while we run away and never come back. Does this sound like an offer you can't refuse?

So naturally, blogging sort of took a backseat as I went into survival mode. Which usually involves Diet Coke and Luna Bars and gas-guzzling van rides just to get some relief from snotty nosed, whiny children who use me as their personal napkin and complaint box. Seriously, the baby cannot resist wiping his nose on me. It's almost like he's marking me as a dog marks his territory.

No one said anything funny last week. At all. Well, maybe a few things. This week was much better. Even though we had one false ear-infection alarm visit to the doctor and the baby followed me around arms outstretched and moaning like a zombie all week. I pretty much spent the week carrying him or running away from him.

Perspective is a funny thing. When things are so bad you can't even remember what happened, anything is a step up, I guess.

Anyway. Enjoy ...

While mommy made this ...

When do you have time to sew, dear? my mother asks when I show her Fiona's new pajamas.
When Fiona is busy spilling coffee on the counter. Here's a video that I'm putting in her permanent record.

Mom, look. Go that way. I want to see the darnkeys. Huh? All mommy sees that way are geese.
Darnkeys, he says again, even more emphatically.
What are darnkeys? I ask. Then I get it. Darn Geese. I laughed so hard I cried. (We don't like those darn geese that poop in our yard and saunter in the middle of the street.)
... Fiona was doing this.

My dad is fixing the Volvo. It has a leak in the bottom, Danny reports to PopPop.

Want some, Fiona tells Jim who had a bag of black licorice bites.
You don't even know what this is. For all you know, it could be crap pieces. He gives her one.
Crap pieces, she giddily declares as she shows me her loot.

Goodnight, mommy. 
Goodnight, Fiona.
Get out. This mother-daughter thing is off to a fantastic start.

Nana, nana. Is it time to get up yet? Danny asks at 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday.
No, it's still very early. 
But the birds are singing. I think she told him that the birds were crazy. Yes they are, Nana.  

When you fill your bank up, we can take it to the real bank and open an account. 
Yeah, and I can be a work guy, Danny replies.
You'll need a uniform for that. 
And a car. Oh boy. He's four and already wants a car.

Just one cup of apple juice, Danny. It's time for water now.
No, no, boys get two apple juices, Danny informs me. The gender superiority complex starts early apparently.

Let's go in the pool now, Danny says at his friend's birthday party this weekend. I was not looking forward to corralling two kids in a freezing cold pool without having a bathing suit for myself.
Look, Danny, your sister's playing basketball.
Oh, I've got to go play with her. And off he trotted.
Thank God for short attention spans!

See, there's this nice little dividing line built right into the sofa, kids, I tell them one night. They'd were wrestling on the couch. Again.

You are not qualified to operate a door, Jim tells Fiona. She enjoys slamming doors. She is such a girl already. It's a wonder no one has gotten hurt yet.

How can you all be so bad at eating? You've done it three times a day for years now, I tell the kids who have managed to spill applesauce all over the table. Again.

I want to sit on my lap, Fiona says. She wanted to sit on my lap. What's mine is hers, apparently.

I shared marshmallows with my sister, Danny informs me this morning as he and Fiona bound into my bedroom. The two of them stole downstairs before I got up.Why do they only share when they're getting into trouble together??

Have a great weekend!

1 comment:

PJD said...

I want to sit on my lap, Fiona says. She wanted to sit on my lap. What's mine is hers, apparently.

That's how Hartley, the cat, feels about my lap. Dad