Overheard

Boy am I bad at writing lately. I blame Facebook and Pinterest and the fact that my sister lives in the same time zone and, oh, yeah, the three little maniacs who live with us. I've got a lot on my mind, too. We're waiting on the results of one more school lottery for Danny before deciding what to do about school for him in the fall. I'm inclined to just keep him home. We didn't get into either public Montessori school and are number 134 on the waitlist for the state charter Montessori.

I also can barely remember anything that the kids say. Lately, however, it's all sounded like 100 decibel roaring, mostly coming from the nearly 2 year old menace. You see, Owen has turned into a bit of an intimidating bully. He pushes his siblings around, bites, hits, charges and roars at them to express his displeasure or just for his own entertainment. Of course, it's not without provocation. Fiona is fond of snatching his toy the second he puts it down and laughing maniacally as she runs away. If he's crying, I can always count on her being nearby.

Why is he crying, FiFi?
Because, [pregnant pause, shoulder shrug and head tilt], I didn't do anything. Her other favorite response to this question is: Because I did nothing. Right.

And the kids have just been plain destructive lately. I sent the kids out to harvest some chard from the garden for dinner and they came back with this disturbing story:

We went out the door window, Danny tells me. 
Um, we don't have a door window.
Yeah, we do. We broke the screen. Brilliant. I just hope no one saw my children escaping from the front window.

And lately, Danny's brain has been telling him to do all sorts of things.

I made a mistake. My brain told me to eat jelly beans, Danny says after getting caught sneaking jelly beans.
Well, there's another part of your brain that knows not to eat the jelly beans after Mommy said no. Next time listen to that part. 

What do they do in the karate place? Danny asks.
They teach you how to fight and kick.
God doesn't like fighting. Yeah, and neither does your mother.

And if someone is bad to me, I will shoot them with this mop, Fiona informs me. Yes ma'am.

Baby ducks in the street!! Fiona squeals. They're taking a walk with their beaks.

DANNY HIT ME. AND THEN DANNY FORGOT NOT TO HIT ME, Fiona wails. And then she threw her head back and wailed even more forlornly.

Why is your shirt off? I ask Fiona.
My shirt has a runny nose.

No, you can't drink that, Danny warns his Uncle Tim. Diet Coke is for girls. If you drink that you will turn into a bad ... , and here he pauses as he catches my eye. A bad what? Mommy?

My hair moves when I wiggle, Fiona says. She's discovered that her hair moves when she shakes her head. I told her it was one of the coolest things about being a girl. (And I mean it.)

Bye, bye pee pee. Bye, bye pee pee. Bye, bye pee pee. Bye bye, Fiona says as she flushes the toilet. Every single flippin' time.

She's a nice girl, Fiona says of Nana as we play with the sticker book Nana gave her. She has a pretty shirt I think.

I can't find pretty pajamas, Fiona wails one night. (Actually, she says this every night.)
Then wear ugly ones, Jim responds. Of course, I usually get sucked into a 10 minute ordeal of sifting through pajamas with her while she summarily rejects every option in her drawer.

Mom, hey mom, mommy, mom, whatever your name is, Danny mumbles. Can I change my name now?

Loud noises, Molly, Owen says to the dog when she's barking. This is what we say to the kids to remind them to tone it down.

Have a great weekend.