NAUGHTY! December 9, 2011

It’s that time of year when some (one) of my children begin to fear that their (his) behavior hasn’t been quite up to standard over the past 11 months.  Panic (and hilarity) has begun to set in.

 

Example 1:  The child who never fails to tell me how fat I am and how pregnant I still look (he’s a real gem, that one), will cover his ears and burst into tears every time Kendra starts singing her choir song about an overweight Santa.  It’s a delightful song, and by the time she gets to the chorus, we are laughing at the lyrics AS WELL AS Anthony’s histrionics.  For some reason, he is terrified that Santa will categorize the entire family as troublemakers and skip our house altogether, not realizing that Anthony is the lone defender of Santa’s waistline.

 

Because it makes perfect sense to protect Santa, who only brings one gift, and relentlessly mock his mother, who provides the rest of the holiday haul, as well as the gifts for his mid-December birthday.  And has half of Santa’s girth.

 

Perhaps this year, Santa will bring the gift and Mommy will give the coal!  Or she will just sing the song over and over and over again, to mess with his head.  (It would serve him right, don’t you think?)

 

(to the tune of “Jingle Bells”)

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, you are much too fat!

I was sleeping peacefully and now my bed is flat!

Oh, Santa Claus, Santa Claus, how much do you weigh?

I’d hate to be a reindeer who has to pull your sleigh.

 

 

Example 2:  He spent last evening re-writing his Christmas list.  There are only a few items on it, which is surprising.  (Maybe he set the bar low, thinking it might earn him some extra points with the big guy in red.) (Not to be confused with the fat woman in pink.)

 

He declined my offer to mail it to Santa;  instead, he brought it into the family room to read it aloud.  “It’s so the elves can hear,” he informed me.  (We have two elves who visit us from the North Pole each December.)  “Game Boy, robot, GB charger, Cars bed.  Do you hear that, Elves?” And then, to me:  “‘Cause they’re the ones who actually make the stuff.”

 

 

While I applaud his determination, I can’t help but think that if he’d just behave himself ALL YEAR LONG, December wouldn’t be quite so stressful for him.

Friday is my (least) favorite day. December 2, 2011

I used to love Friday.  It was my favorite day:  the one I looked forward to all week long.  Now, it’s one of my busiest days.  There is no joy in Friday anymore.  No relief.

 

Friday is my new Monday.

 

I blame Middle School.  Their late-start Friday throws a wrench in my morning schedule.  If I’m being honest, I also blame Kindergarten, because Friday is their early-out day.  When you add them together, my day looks something like this:

 

Remember the summer when…? August 1, 2011

It’s 9:30 PM, an hour past their bedtime, and my four oldest children are running around in the backyard with flashlights, playing some sort of “tag” game they made up on the spur of the moment.  They are having a blast, and neither Kenny nor I want to call them inside yet, even though the teacher in me is screaming in protest. (They need to get back into the school routine! Early bedtimes! Early wake-ups!)

 

THIS is what I hope they remember about this summer:  playing night games in the backyard;  riding the TRAX/Frontrunner from Sandy to Ogden (and back!);  swimming in the neighbor’s garbage cans (you’d have to see it to believe it.  I’ve seen it, and I barely believe it);  sibling sleepovers in the basement;  trips to the library;  scout camp;  four-player video games;  movie marathons;  bowling and dollar movies with Dad;  and the unity that comes with being “the older ones” (even though there is a 7-year range in their ages).

 

If they remember all these things, maybe they’ll forget how many mornings they were forced to eat cold cereal they poured themselves because I was up all night with a new baby and slept in late (or, worse– how many mornings they chose not to eat breakfast because they *coughHannahcough* couldn’t bear the thought of having cereal one more morning), or the places we didn’t visit because I forgot how all-consuming newborns are and still, after 7 weeks, I just can’t seem to get it together to go anywhere further than the public library (and not even the cool one with the puppet theater and the carousel;  and not every week, or even every other week), and– most importantly– just how much  time I spent in the rocking chair, feeding their baby brother.

 

I hope they see it as a season of growth and independence and bonding and love, and happy memories.  That when we get together for a family BBQ and they are all grown up, someone says, “Remember the summer when Sam was born?” and someone else says, “Oh, YEAH!  That summer was AWESOME!  Remember how we used to…?” and they’ll laugh and giggle and make mental notes to do the same things with their young children.

 

Except for Hannah, who will still be nursing her grudge against Cocoa Puffs.

All in favor of officially naming the baby “Taco” (just in case), say “yum!” May 18, 2011

At the risk of turning this into a pregnancy-only blog (is there even a risk for that, given how infrequently I post anymore?), I had the WEIRDEST dream last night.  Clearly, I’m in countdown mode, and I only need to bring up the bassinet and pack my hospital bag before I’m fully ready to bring this baby home.  If my delivery-filled dreams are any indication, this baby could come any MINUTE, even if I still have a month or so left on the “calendar”.  I am perfectly fine with this, by the way.  As far as I’m concerned, the earlier the delivery, the better.

 

(For those of you who wonder, I am exactly 33 weeks and 4 days, and have not gone past 38 weeks with any previous pregnancy.  While my “real” due date is July 1, my doctor is planning a mid-June delivery.)

 

So, I dreamed I had the baby, but for some reason, I had completely blocked all memories of delivery (doesn’t sound too bad, right?), so I wasn’t sure if my precious baby was a boy or a girl.  The hospital staff teased me mercilessly, and refused to tell me, insisting I’d find out as soon as I changed the next diaper.  The problem was (and really, except for the mystery-gender thing, it would have been no problem whatsoever), they kept taking the baby away to change it, so after my three-day stay, I still wasn’t sure whether I had a boy or a girl.

 

Then, once we got home, someone (Mom, was it you?) put the baby to sleep, and I figured, no big deal!  I’d have to get up to feed it during the night, and I’d find out when we both woke up whether I could call my baby Sam or Natalie.  Only, we both slept through the night (again, a miracle, if only I knew what to call my newborn!), and during the next day, the steady stream of visitors insisted on changing the baby’s diapers, and found it just as funny as the nurses did that I wasn’t sure of my own baby’s gender.  So, naturally, THEY wouldn’t tell me, either.

 

I woke up in a panic, and after Kenny finished laughing at my dream recap, I vowed to sneak a peek at my chart when I see my doctor next week.  Then I’ll have the double advantage of knowing for certain this baby’s gender (and keeping it to myself, thankyouverymuch)*, and getting revenge for the mockery.

 

What do you think?  Boy?  Girl?  (Thankfully, I haven’t had a hermaphrodite dream… yet.) (And Kenny doesn’t find that suggestion the least little bit funny.) 

 

 

*I won’t really peek.  Chill, Kenny.

Tooth Trauma December 16, 2010

Last night I did something to one of my children that I feel terribly guilty about. It was something I SWORE I’d never do, no matter the circumstances, but I caved and did it anyway. I couldn’t even follow through with it completely, which makes me feel even worse for needlessly inflicting such trauma.

 

I am a horrible, horrible person. I deserve whatever Karma comes my way. *

 

What could she have done? you ask. I’ll whisper it to you. Come here. Closer. (No, I’m not hiding anything behind my back. Certainly nothing from my tool kit.) Are you ready? Sitting down? Okay.

 

I tried to pull out Hannah’s barely-wiggly tooth… with a pair of needle-nosed pliers.

 

Oh, the shame!

 

See, when I was a little girl, my teeth were horribly stubborn, and while I loved the idea of losing teeth and getting money (money!) for them, I wasn’t terribly motivated to wiggle them and make them fall out. And my permanent teeth, possibly hoping to avoid the power struggle, chose to come in around those stalwart baby teeth, making it necessary for my sadistic poor (I get this now) parents to chase me around the house with pliers, hold me down, and yank them out. I feel it necessary to point out that NONE of these teeth were even the slightest bit wiggly, even with crazy permanent teeth growing in around them. (I was like a shark, with rows and rows of unevenly-spaced white teeth, the better to bite your finger with if you try to stick it in my mouth, thankyouverymuch.) I still remember the taste of the cold metal, the painful twisting from side to side, the sharp crack of roots, and the triumphant final yank that filled my mouth with blood and made my parents shout thinly-veiled threats encouragements about wiggling the baby teeth next time, in order to avoid the pliers.

 

A child loses something like 20 baby teeth, right? Guess how many I had to have pulled? Go on… guess. If you said 19, you’d be correct! NINETEEN TEETH. No, wait. Twenty-three. THERE WERE TWENTY-THREE. The dentist took pity on me after hearing how many times my parents used the pliers, and pulled a few quickly and (mostly) painlessly each time I went in for a cleaning. Then I had an orthodontist who rivaled Steve Martin’s character on Little Shop of Horrors, and he was HAPPY to inflict great pain. He even did something that I’ve tried to block out, so horrible a procedure it was, that involved cutting up into my gumline in order to make a path for the permanent teeth to, I don’t know, FALL DOWN INTO? It was horrifying and extremely painful, is my point. Novocaine didn’t even begin to take the edge off. And how could I have forgotten the wisdom teeth that were extracted (also under Novocaine) in my dentist’s chair? I remember passing out at some point, because I could see the gaping holes reflected in the dentist’s protective goggles, and when he had to put his foot on the chair by my head in order to get enough leverage to yank out the (impacted) tooth, the pressure was so great that I was certain he’d extracted my soul, as well.

 

(Pardon me… something seems to have unsettled my stomach.)

 

Okay, so after all of this history, which came back in startling clarity after last night’s “experience” **, can you believe that I tried to pull the same stunt on my adorable little daughter? I mean, who could do something so terrible to this face?

 

 

It all started on Sunday, during a particularly boring High Council Sacrament Meeting (add one more offense to the Karma list). Hannah showed me how well her first permanent tooth was growing in, and I started wiggling some of her other teeth, to see if any more were loose. The other bottom tooth was just a little bit wiggly, so I looked to see if I could see another tooth coming in. We found it behind her baby tooth, ready to break through her gums (not the gumLINE, mind you) at an angle that would suggest it was trying to jump down her throat. “You have until Tuesday,” I said. “Wiggle it lots and lots. If you get it out right now, your big tooth may decide to come through the baby tooth hole, instead of through the back of your gums.”

 

She wiggled half-heartedly on Monday, and by Tuesday, it had tightened back up. There were two white points behind (and under) her baby tooth. I sent her to school on Wednesday with the admonition to play with it ALL DAY LONG (I know… her poor teacher just LOVES me) so that it would be easy to pull out when she got home. Can you guess what happened? No wiggling. None. Tight tooth, and now three points were visible behind it. “Okay,” I said. “The tooth has to come out. I’m going to go get my pliers.”

 

I’m not sure what she said in response. It was too hard to tell through all the tearful screaming. (Hell. I am going to dental Hell.)

 

Long story short (too late!): The tooth was too tiny to get a firm grip with the pliers, so after a few jabs into her gumline and some bleeding I HOPE was due to cracking roots, I put them away and tried some tweezers. Then I tried my fingers. Tears dripped down her cheeks and onto her shirt, and I found myself shouting helpful things like “Stop squirming! Do you WANT your new tooth to point back, instead of up?” and “Do you know how many teeth I had to have pulled? Do you?” and “Move that tongue back before I pinch it in the pliers.” In the end, I gave up. Kenny promised me he’d take over if I couldn’t do it, but in a move that was either sheer cowardice or pure brilliance, he suddenly remembered that his car needed gas for tomorrow, and there was just one more Christmas gift he had to pick up before the store closed. Hannah changed out of her tear-soaked shirt and into pajamas, and softly cried herself to sleep, while I fought the urge to pull one of my own teeth in penance.

 

We see the dentist on Wednesday.

 

 

*(Broken jaw, perhaps? Wired shut for six months?)
**(if not a broken jaw, then probably a mouth full of broken teeth that can’t be repaired, and thus will have to be pulled and replaced with dentures)

Missing Out June 26, 2010

I know I haven’t been around much lately.  (Okay… at all. For longer than lately.)  It’s a long, boring story about ridiculous adult insecurity, and I won’t get into the details.  Thanks for keeping me on your RSS readers anyway.

 

Kendra said something yesterday that really made me stop and think, and think, and think some more.  In fact, it’s all I have been able to think about today (you know, except laundry, what to make for dinner, where to put the groceries, etc.).  Yesterday afternoon, she got Hannah and Anthony into their swimsuits and they played in the sprinklers in the front yard for hours.  HOURS.   Now, this isn’t the first time they’ve played in the water this summer.   Heck, it isn’t even the first time they played in the sprinklers this WEEK, but something about it was extra special yesterday, and they had a wonderful time bonding as siblings and (I’m sure) annoying all the neighbors.  Then, when they were finished swimming, they came inside and played games together until it was way past time for bed.   It was one of the nicest evenings we’ve had since school got out, even though we’ve had a lot of really good ones this month, because they were happy and loving and tolerant of each other.

 

As I was tucking the kids into bed, Kendra gave me a hug and said, “How sad for Alex, that he missed out.   Because he really missed out on a fun time.”   (Alex’s friend Christian was spending the day at our house, and since he didn’t have another change of clothes, they stayed dry, inside.  They assured me they still had a great time doing tween-boy things– to me it looked like messing around on Christian’s phone, playing video games, watching silly videos on YouTube, and saying “dude” as many times as humanly possible, but I’m a mom.  What do I know?)

 

“I know,” I told her.  “I’m sad he missed out, too.  Maybe tomorrow you can do something with him, just the kids.”

 

Fast-forward to this morning:  Kenny and I went to pick up food from the co-op, delivered part of it to my mom, had a really great date at the grocery store where we saved a whopping $75 on our bill, and came home to find that the house was still standing, no one was injured and the kids actually still liked each other.

 

[I have to say, I am really enjoying the luxury of leaving Alex and Kendra in charge for an hour.   They are each in charge of one younger sibling, and they follow the "no phone, no door" rule.   It has been AGES since Kenny and I did anything together on our own, (with the exception of our anniversary lunch) which becomes even more apparent when a trip to the grocery store on a Saturday morning is equivalent to dinner and a movie.   I guess there *are* perks to having your kids get older.]

 

When we got home, the kids helped carry in the groceries, picked through the bag to find the “good stuff” (read:  junk food), jumped up and down when Kenny said he wanted to wash the cars, and asked if they could get their swimsuits on RIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRIGHTNOW.   The younger three turned on the sprinklers and held their own mini car wash for bikes, complete with chalk-drawn lane markers and a water-gun rinse.  They were having a blast!

 

So, even with all this sibling goodwill and fun and entertainment, Alex chose to stay inside and play a video game.  They begged him to join them outside, and he declined.   When I told him his game time was over, he grabbed a book and started reading it.  I tried to coax him outside to play with his brother and sisters, and he took his book outside on the shaded front porch for about 5 minutes before he came back inside, seeking relief from the heat.

 

“You should go get your swimming trunks on and join them!” I said.  “Then you’d be cool.”

 

“Nah,” he said.  “I don’t feel like it.”

 

I tried again, a little bit later, and got the same response.  No amount of encouraging (me) or begging (the other kids) could change his mind, and so I let it go.

 

I remembered what Kendra had said from the night before, about missing out, and it really made me think.   What great experiences do I miss out on because they’re mildly uncomfortable?  What opportunities have I missed because I’ve been distracted by something else?  When there is something I’d like to do that I feel under-prepared for, do I give up right away, or do I look for a solution?

 

So here I am, back at my badly neglected blog.   I’d like to tell you it took me this long to complete all the tasks on my last post, but the truth is, I got distracted.  There are so many opportunities I missed, so many stories I failed to tell, because it was mildly inconvenient or I was feeling insecure about sharing them.  I’ve decided that enough is enough.  I like blogging.  I like telling the stories of the crazy that goes on here.  I need to be better about seizing opportunities (not just blogging ones) that come my way, and better at prioritizing my time.

 

No more missing out.

The Eyes have (had) it March 5, 2010

     I have worn reading glasses for about a decade now (just typing that word “decade” made me want to break out the granny chain for them), if by “worn” you mean remembered them only when my eyes were really tired or I found myself developing more headaches than normal. This week I’ve been having some problems with my eyes, so after a mental recounting of all the times I’ve worn them in the past month (exactly two) and a panicky search through half a dozen bags to narrow it down, I finally found them and put them on. Surprisingly, the blurry spots cleared just a little, and I feel much better for wearing them.

 

     However, there are a few things that are driving me crazy. First of all, if I go to wash anything in the kitchen sink, the steamy water hits the stainless steel and my glasses fog up instantly. The same thing happens when I stick my head in the freezer (in my defense, I was looking for some food that had gotten pushed to the very back… it’s not like I go around sticking my head in freezers just for kicks), or when I take a pan out of the oven. My kids can’t hug me without pressing up against them, so they are constantly a mess of smears and cheekprints and heaven only knows what else. And the spots behind my ears are crying out in pain. It’s worse than sleeping a skinny headband, and waking up to find that it’s grafted itself to your scalp.

 

     I know I didn’t have these problems when I used them strictly for reading, and it’s almost enough for me to give up and take them off, but then when I do, I notice that my eyes don’t rebound so fast from long-distance to short-distance viewing, and objects aren’t quite so clear. (Actually, if I’m being honest, things aren’t at all clear now anyway, seeing as I tucked my kids into bed and they insisted on pressing their faces against mine when we hugged goodnight. It’s like I’m viewing the screen through some wispy clouds.)

 

     Getting older sucks. Going from occasional to permanent glasses sucks too. Having to clean my glasses every hour or so so I can actually see through them makes me feel stabby. (That is my new favorite expression. It’s so… real.)

 

     What doesn’t suck? When Kenny tells me they make me look hot. (Thank you, Honey, you little-white-liar!)

 

White Trash Wall Art, Sutton Style November 4, 2009

     During my two-month absence from the blog, I was (fortunate?  cursed?  humiliated?) to have experienced several situations that put me in a special sort of category.  A People of Walmart category.  A take-your-kids-to-work-with-no-pants sort of thing that morphed from the mortifying into the hilarious, at least for those who happened to view it.  Us.  Whatever.  (Trust me, those stories are coming.  And you will LOVE me for them.  Just not tonight.)

 

     I try to adopt the “laugh so you don’t cry” mentality, which may be a sure sign of my descent into full-blown white-trashiness (“Hi, my name is Kemi and I have no class.”   “Hi, Kemi.”), but I’ve found that it helps me retain what little sanity I have.  Especially when dealing with my husband  children  family.  Perhaps the ability to embrace the tackiness that makes up my life is somewhat like Prozac, only without the pharmaceuticals. 

 

     So, my life being what it is, after I got all the kids to school this morning, and Abbie went off with her dad (*insert your own title-related joke here*), I noticed a two-inch spot on the wall in the hallway.  Upon further investigation, I saw that someone had used my wall as an artist’s canvas.  This someone, when interrogated after her Kindergarten dismissal, said that she didn’t have time to grab a sheet of paper, and therefore felt completely justified in using the wall.

 

     Also?  This is not her first time.  Nor is it the first (or second, or hundredth) conversation we’ve had about what markers and crayons are SUPPOSED to write on.  And yet?  I find mini masterpieces on her limbs, her clothes, her sheets, her books, MY books…

 

     Who needs wallpaper (or nice paint) when you have an artiste  living under your roof?  Perhaps I should charge for her services and fund my retirement.

 

Living Room Abstract

2′  x  3′

Hannah, age 2

Dry erase marker on white paint

(faded paint courtesy of magic eraser)

Composed while artist’s mother was nursing artist’s infant brother

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Hallway

2″  x  2.5″

Hannah, age 5  (three weeks shy of 6)

Red felt tip on white paint

Composed covertly while artist should have been in bed

 

 

 

 

     Oh my goodness, we’ve turned into this: 

 

Something noisy this way screams March 4, 2009

     After spending my morning in two classrooms yesterday, I thought I’d relieve Kenny for a bit and take Hannah and Anthony with me on a few errands.  (Mistake #1.) 

 

     We went to the post office first, where they fought over who got to stand on the base of the “wait here” sign and Anthony did pull-ups on the counter.  Then we went to the credit union (drive-through window…  I know better than to take him inside) where he yelled nonsense words at the cashier and kicked the back of the seat.  Then we went to the grocery store, where I had a list of six things I needed to purchase.  Six.  Not sixteen.  Not sixty.  Not six hundred.  It should have been an in-and-out trip.

 

     It went horribly, horribly wrong.

 

Baby Love March 1, 2009

     I had another dream last night.  Another dream about babies (although this one was MUCH LESS FREAKY than the first one!).

 

     I dreamed that my brother asked me to carry his baby (remember that “Friends” episode?  “My sister’s gonna have my baby!!!” ), and I was going to have twins;  a boy and a girl.  My dream happened to be right at the end of the pregnancy, when I was feeling punky and tired and strange, and confident I was going to have those babies within the next 24 hours.

 

     I was very “zen” about the whole impending-delivery thing.  I remember letting people feel my bare stomach, because you could easily feel heads and bottoms, and little feet and hands (at that point, Anthony crawled into bed with me, so I probably was feeling that, just not internally).  I remember making a list of questions to ask my brother, like did he want to be in the operating room?  Did he want me to breastfeed while we were all in the hospital?  Did he want them to stay with me in my room?  (I really hoped the last two answers would be “yes”.)

 

     And, like Phoebe (from “Friends”), I really wanted to keep one.  Or both.  Oh, I would have happily given them to Kevin, but I was secretly hoping he would change his mind and let me take them home.

 

     I don’t even need help deciphering this dream. 

 

     If I could only convince my husband…