My four-year-old daughter was so excited that I put bubbles in the bathtub she said, “I’m so happy I could just scream like a little girl!” Thank you for saying so rather than doing so.
Another time she asked my husband, “Dad, did Jesus make your hair very small?” She’d never seen him getting a hair cut, nor seemed to notice every time it was shorter, so it seemed a valid question.
My seven-year-old daughter was making mistakes with her math worksheet. She wasn’t paying attention to whether or not it was an addition or subtraction problem, as it kept changing on her. I said, “Pay attention to the symbol. The symbol is key.”
She responded in a flowy voice: Read the rest of this entry
I was not disappointed when I found out that my third child was yet another female. Hooray! Once again I dodged the bullet of being sprayed during diaper changes and of having to scrub the bathroom floor after the growing child’s every use!
There was more I thought I was avoiding: what my mother calls “juvenile boy humor,” a.k.a. fart and burp jokes. Yet, apparently, at least in this house, that sort of entertaining is genderless. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to admonish my children, “Stop talking about burps and gas! You’re not boys!” (My children have yet to learn the word “fart,” thank you very much.)
They just grin and run off, only to make the same scenario play out another day.
On one such occasion, after reprimanding them yet again, I turned to my husband and shook my head in exasperation. He smiled and said: Read the rest of this entry
I’m trying my hand at novel writing. My oldest is eager to read my book. I’ve caught her a couple of times trying to read over my shoulder as I type, but I’ve told her she’s too young for it. At dinner she asked, “Can I just read the parts that I’m not too young for?” I said she can read it when it’s published. She’ll probably have children of her own by then, so it should be all good.
Then my seven-year-old said, “Maybe your book will be made into a movie.”
“That would be great!” I said, impressed that she was looking out for the success of her momma.
But then she added, Read the rest of this entry
Perhaps they’re just pleased that I’m finally washing all those clothes.
Here’s my laundry method. There’s a reason I’m spelling it out for you. Wait for iiiiiiiittttt!
1. Procrastinate until laundry basket is full to overflowing.
2. Pick up scattered articles of clothing that have fallen off the laundry heap and shove them back in the basket.
3. Heft the load to the washing machine.
4. Open washing machine…speed up steps here because you, presumably already know how to do laundry, and if not, you probably shouldn’t really be learning from me.
5. After I pour in the detergent, I set aside some large article of clothing, or, as in today’s example, a baby blanket, and put the detergent cup upside down on said article to drain out more of the good stuff while I fill the washer.
6. Fill the washer.
7. Lift up-turned detergent cup so as to toss in last item.
8. If you’re lucky, you will find that the laundry gods are smiling upon you: Read the rest of this entry
“MOMMY! Paul won’t give me the big sticker!”
“Well, John, why don’t you suggest a solution? Maybe find out why he’s saving the big sticker, or maybe see if there’s another sticker he *would* give you, or maybe trade two of your little stickers for his big sticker. Could you try to work something out?”
…PAUL!!! MOMMY SAYS YOU HAVE TO GIVE ME THE BIG STICKER!”
-from one of my favorite FB friends (Names have been changed.)
This is the title of a book I’m reading by comedian Jim Gaffigan. It’s pretty funny. I recommend it for all you parents out there. Lots to relate to. For me it’s him talking about how pale he and his children are. I totally get that. He even graced his book with a picture of himself in his swim shirt. I get that too.
My four-year-old has a full-body swimsuit. It’s actually called a rash guard–what surfers wear to avoid getting a rash from contact with their board. Why they make these in size 4 I’ll never understand. I can’t exactly picture my little girl hanging 10. But it was in the hand-me-down bag from another family, and since I’m cheap, I kept it. Plus, since two-thirds of my children are redheads, all the skin coverage they can get is for the better. In case you’ve never noticed, red hair=white skin. Look up pictures of your favorite red-headed actress and you’ll see what I mean.
The other third of my children may actually have been switched at birth. I seriously suspect this because she is capable of tanning. However, for myself (my mom is a redhead and I got her skin pigmentation but not the tell-tale excuse of the gorgeous red hair. Thanks for only passing on the lame genes, Mom!) and those two redheads of mine, the sun is our enemy. Sadly, I live in San Diego county, only a few miles from the coast; therefore, beach=fun fun happy fun time for children, and arch-nemesis for me. At least I’ve got my youngest mostly covered.
Of course wearing a rash guard anywhere other than the lower half of the West Coast or Hawaii just looks weird. This past summer we were in Ohio at a lake. I suddenly, for the first time, felt very self-conscious about my daughter’s wardrobe. “What a cute swimsuit,” someone said. “Is she Amish?” Read the rest of this entry
It was my fault, really. I spotted the butterfly just standing there on our back patio. I called the girls over to see it. They came on tiptoes. Then they sat in awe and spoke in hushed tones, not wishing to disturb it or scare it away.
Attempts to get them to eat breakfast were thwarted by the mystique of the orange, black, and white. Soon sketch pads came out and whole pages were being devoted to the majesty of the monarch.
Suddenly the silence was broken as one girl called out to me a curt but anguished, “Mom!” I rushed to the scene, sensing the distress in her voice. Read the rest of this entry