As a mother, my heart swells with pride when I witness the kids behaving thoughtfully, with no prodding whatsoever. Especially when it involves one of their siblings. This morning was one such occurrence as they were getting ready for school. Well, sort of.
Gone are the days I could just plop all 3 of them in the tub at one time and scrub them down. Bath time at our house has never been a relaxing, nor bonding experience of any kind. Oh, we bought the sweet lavender-smelling soap with calming capabilities after seeing the sweet toddler on the commercial peacefully getting bathed, nary a splash, then promptly falling right to sleep after his bath. But I just slathered it on as quickly as possible and scrubbed down all their little cracks and crevices, grabbed the bottle from one child trying to pour it out to make more bubbles, then turned right around and pulled it away from Tate before he could drink more than a few teaspoonsful. And watch out if it was David's turn to do the baths! From my spot on the couch where I was thanking the Lord that I had a night off from giving baths, I could hear the kids squealing as as he dumped cupfuls of water directly onto their little heads, without shielding their faces and eyes from the monsoon.
No sir, bath time was anything but calm. It was simply a "how can we get this done as quickly and painlessly as possible so you'll smell good for church" activity. One, because they are all three so close in age. And, two, we were bathing them all the time! Syrup in their hair, marker on their face, and other unbelievably messy undertakings. Like eating. Eating anything. We used to buy these little baby biscuits for Reese that were supposed to help her grasping skills because her chubby little hand could hold them all by itself. They would easily entertain her for a few minutes while I tried to get some sort of supper thrown together. Those were the absolute grossest things I have ever encountered. They turned to mush instantly and she would be a mushy biscuit-covered mess 30 seconds into the ordeal. Her grasping practice would have to wait. We ceased buying those.
I knew we had to bid farewell to collective bath times, when they began to outgrow the tub together. Legs would be dangling over the side, the pushing and the shoving began, and I was wetter than they were by the end of it. So we graduated to collective shower times. We discovered the tiny shower in our room was the best bet. They have a full tub with a shower curtain in their bathroom and the floor would be a wading pool when all was said and done.
Our shower has a door we can pull shut. Hallelujah! Of course, our floor still becomes a semi-wading pool when they leave that door open to holler something out to us. But our shower is so tiny, that only two kids could fit at a time. Most of the time, we'd throw the girls in together, I'd soap up their hair, then leave them to their giggling, soaping up the walls, or whatever else they would do, until I would holler into the bathroom that they were going to need to get a job to pay for our water bill. The faucet would promptly shut off.
So now, obviously, they are way too old to shower together, so now we take the revolving door approach. Or the automatic car wash approach if you will. I just don't have time to keep track of who showered when, so they just do it back to back. If one of them needs to shower, well, they're just all three going to. And because of the girls oh-so-lovely curly locks, it's necessary that they shower in the morning. That is, if they want their hair to do anything but rat up and stick out in all directions for school. And because Tate likes to wear remnants of his last meal on his face, his hands, etc. it's best to just always shower him right before we go, well, anywhere.
He always goes last. Because he's the boy. And he just has to run his hand over his hair once, and he's ready for the day. It's usually Reese, Drue, then Tate. Age order. Just another battle we don't have to fight with "who went first last time?". They can't remember where they just took off their shoes. But, by golly, they'll remember who went first in the shower last, or who sat in the back of the van last Tuesday.
And so begins the herding. When Reese is finished, she gets out and covers up with her towel, then we send Drue in, while the water is still running. Then Tate, after Drue gets out and toweled up. It's just our routine. And they have it down pat. So much so, that if one of them does happen to need an extra shower at some point, and I'm not making the other two take one also, they'll still holler out, "Is someone else coming in?" before turning off the water.
So, yes, that was a loooooong explanation of our showering practices, to get to this morning's event. Reese was getting ready at my bathroom sink/mirror while Tate was in the shower. We heard a loud crash come from the shower. Without any prodding to check on her brother, Reese hollered out concerned, "Are you ok?!"
Thus the swelling of my heart began.
Silence (other than the running water).
"Hello?!" she hollered again, growing more concerned.
They really do love each other, I thought.
My heart began to deflate at a rapid rate, when after she still didn't get an answer, she resumed brushing her hair, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Oh well."
Friday, September 13, 2013
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Adventures in Fostering
We took our plethora o' puppies to get their booster shots this morning. I'm still recovering. If we continue fostering, it may be wise to trade in my minivan for an animal control truck. Just for convenience sake.
Large endeavors, such as piling 6 squirmy, squealing, furry beings into the car for a road trip cause me anxiety. I almost hyperventilated planning it all out last night. I calmed myself down a bit by breaking the enormous task into smaller ones, making it feel a little more manageable.
Step 1: Make sure crates are clean.
Step 2: Bring crates around to the front of the house to await their passengers.
Step 3: Open garage door and extract puppies from their pen one by one for the transfer, swiftly using a puppy wipe on each of them so they'll smell fresh for their appointment.
I made it all the way to Step 3 before my carefully drawn out plan went to, well, the dogs. As I punched in the code and the garage door began to rise, I saw a little nose peek its way out. The puppies weren't in their pen. They were loose in the garage. I believe this scene from Ben most accurately depicts what happened next when all the puppies flooded out.
Drue happened to amble out and stood there as her jaw dropped. "Grab a puppy!" I hollered. "Or three!" We managed to collect them all, and my adrenaline rush enabled me to hoist cratefuls of puppies up into the van with little difficulty.
With the girls guarding the little prisoners, I dashed back in to pluck Tate from the top bunk. "But I'm sleepy," he groaned. (When I'm frazzled my sarcastic humor has a tendency to spin out of control.) "Awww...I'm so sorry to have disturbed your slumber at 9:30 in the morning. Perhaps these terminal disease fighting boosters can wait until a more reasonable hour, so you can continue your beauty rest."
The puppies slept peacefully the entire way. The kids were kind enough to break the silence with their bickering. Tate has discovered his outbreak of poison ivy comes in handy as a biohazard threat against his sisters. Whenever he's bothered by them, I'll hear them scream out, "Mom! Tate's rubbing his arm on me!".
We finally made it to the shelter where the puppies were vaccinated, weighed, and updated in the system. I felt like a proud Mother introducing them all by name and giving a mini background of their personalities and their likes and dislikes.
As we waited for more paperwork to be completed, a shelter worker came out into the lobby and started gushing over my temporary babies. "Oh, they're adorable!" she squealed. "What are they mixed with?"
"Their Mom is border collie, but I don't think they know what the dad is," I explained. Not even thinking about the little ears of my helpers taking in everything.
"Oh, I see," she continued. "Dad was just a wanderer, paying a visit in the night."
Tate was petting the puppies through the crate bars and I could see the little wheels in his mind start spinning as he started putting it all together. He stood up and said softly, "Mommy, how do dogs get married?"
Oh boy.
I felt the color rush to my cheeks and stammered, "Well, they ... ummm...see...they probably..."
The paperwork couldn't have come off the printer at a more perfect time. The staff ushered us out to the car with our little bundles and we drove away as I sighed, "Whew, I need a drink!"
Lucky for me, Starbucks are everywhere.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The Good, the Bad, & poor ol' Bob
For one glorious week each month (sometimes more) I get to drive around in style, pretending I actually have a smidge of coolness deep down inside myself. When David travels, I get to trade in my 7 year old Kia minivan (which I'm considering donating to Science, to undergo testing of all the substances that are stuck to the inside of it) for his 2012 Toyota Highlander. I'm not going to lie, I sometimes make up extra errands, just so I can get the most use and enjoyment out of it.
David keeps his car pristine. We are not permitted to exit his vehicle unless we have in our hands everything we brought with us at the start of the trip. If he's feeling extra generous and happens to let us eat in his car, we must grab every microscopic morsel that didn't quite make it into our mouths, and every shred of napkin, wrapper, bag, cup, straw, straw paper, etc. Sometimes it can take up to 30 minutes for us to be cleared by him to get out of his car upon returning home. He still makes the final sweep himself, and any missed items are tossed out onto the floor of the garage. Doesn't matter what they are, Tate's glasses, my cell phone, perhaps an extra friend one of the children brought along.
David's car affectionately goes by the name "Bob". When we first got it, the kids insisted it needed a name. "My car doesn't have a name," I objected. "Sure it does," they assured me, "It's name is 'Van'". Still a wee bit jealous of his new ride I continued, "Well, I'm not calling it Bob. That's just silliness." The name stuck, however. I decided that before long, we'll have 3 teenage drivers in the house who won't give a darn about naming our vehicles, as they breeze past us with the keys and head out in different directions. And David and I will be stuck at home. Playing gin rummy. So to embrace their littleness, I reluctantly began referring to it as "Bob" as well.
Bob still has his new car smell for crying out loud. Or, he did. Until today's events. I've composed the following letter to Bob's owner to hopefully lighten the blow.
Dearest David,
I hope your week in Denver is going well. We certainly do miss your sense of humor and quick wit when you are absent from us. These greetings are filled with an abundance of good news about our afternoon, interlaced with one small bit of bad news.
Good News: Your sweet children and adoring wife (that's me, in case you were having trouble placing her) are totally and completely fine.
Good News: Bob has nary a scratch, dent, nor discoloration whatsoever, on his beautiful framework.
Good News: By ensuring our children continue to develop strong bones and teeth, I am keeping the fridge stocked with calcium rich products.
Bad News: The gallon of milk I purchased at Wal-Mart (Great Value brand, of course, because I'm always looking for ways to save your hard earned money) sprung a slow leak on our way home.
Good News: The humongous floor mat in Bob's trunk is quite absorbent. Impressively so, in fact.
Good News: Because I'm trying to get in shape by running with Reese multiple times per week, I was able to swiftly extract the floor mat, toss it onto the driveway, dash up the stairs, grab towels and carpet cleaner, and sprint back down the stairs to begin working furiously on the carpet, all without breaking a sweat.
Good News: Remember how we used to laugh when one of the kids would drop a milk filled sippy cup under the seat, and we would find it days later by following the smell? Keep those happy memories close to your heart if you happen to catch a familiar whiff in Bob.
I am counting down the hours until we are together again, give or take a few, because the exact time of your flight on Friday has escaped me.
Sincerely,
Your One True Love (that's me again, Kristen)
David keeps his car pristine. We are not permitted to exit his vehicle unless we have in our hands everything we brought with us at the start of the trip. If he's feeling extra generous and happens to let us eat in his car, we must grab every microscopic morsel that didn't quite make it into our mouths, and every shred of napkin, wrapper, bag, cup, straw, straw paper, etc. Sometimes it can take up to 30 minutes for us to be cleared by him to get out of his car upon returning home. He still makes the final sweep himself, and any missed items are tossed out onto the floor of the garage. Doesn't matter what they are, Tate's glasses, my cell phone, perhaps an extra friend one of the children brought along.
David's car affectionately goes by the name "Bob". When we first got it, the kids insisted it needed a name. "My car doesn't have a name," I objected. "Sure it does," they assured me, "It's name is 'Van'". Still a wee bit jealous of his new ride I continued, "Well, I'm not calling it Bob. That's just silliness." The name stuck, however. I decided that before long, we'll have 3 teenage drivers in the house who won't give a darn about naming our vehicles, as they breeze past us with the keys and head out in different directions. And David and I will be stuck at home. Playing gin rummy. So to embrace their littleness, I reluctantly began referring to it as "Bob" as well.
Bob still has his new car smell for crying out loud. Or, he did. Until today's events. I've composed the following letter to Bob's owner to hopefully lighten the blow.
Dearest David,
I hope your week in Denver is going well. We certainly do miss your sense of humor and quick wit when you are absent from us. These greetings are filled with an abundance of good news about our afternoon, interlaced with one small bit of bad news.
Good News: Your sweet children and adoring wife (that's me, in case you were having trouble placing her) are totally and completely fine.
Good News: Bob has nary a scratch, dent, nor discoloration whatsoever, on his beautiful framework.
Good News: By ensuring our children continue to develop strong bones and teeth, I am keeping the fridge stocked with calcium rich products.
Bad News: The gallon of milk I purchased at Wal-Mart (Great Value brand, of course, because I'm always looking for ways to save your hard earned money) sprung a slow leak on our way home.
Good News: The humongous floor mat in Bob's trunk is quite absorbent. Impressively so, in fact.
Good News: Because I'm trying to get in shape by running with Reese multiple times per week, I was able to swiftly extract the floor mat, toss it onto the driveway, dash up the stairs, grab towels and carpet cleaner, and sprint back down the stairs to begin working furiously on the carpet, all without breaking a sweat.
Good News: Remember how we used to laugh when one of the kids would drop a milk filled sippy cup under the seat, and we would find it days later by following the smell? Keep those happy memories close to your heart if you happen to catch a familiar whiff in Bob.
I am counting down the hours until we are together again, give or take a few, because the exact time of your flight on Friday has escaped me.
Sincerely,
Your One True Love (that's me again, Kristen)
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Father's Day Fishing Tale
Fishing with our crew is always an adventure. Or, more accurately, a misadventure. Nevertheless, every year on Father's Day, we pack up the rods, bait, tackle, and family, and head out. Ok, so "we", in this case, refers to "David"...I grab the really important stuff, like my hoodie (in case a rare June lake wind blows in), oh, and the camera.
Our bug spray was nowhere to be found, so a quick stop had to be made at the drugstore. Drue's blood attracts all bugs known to mankind. The girl can get 5 humongous bites just going from the house to the car. As David ran in to get the spray, I turned around in my seat and gave the kids a mini lecture. "Now listen up, this is Daddy's day. Let's try and make this a fun outing for him. No whining, fighting, complaining about the heat, bugs, etc. Basically, just act like different children for a few peaceful hours."
Upon David's return, he tossed the spray into the backseat. Tate clutched it to his chest, as though it were the last bottle in the free world, and exclaimed loudly, "I get to be the first one to have it put on!" Perhaps he hadn't paid as close attention to my speech as I would have liked.
We were off. We no sooner had turned onto the lake road, than the complaining started. "Ummm...where on God's green Earth are we going?! I thought you were parking at that nice little beach area so I could get my tan on? That's the only reason I agreed to come in the first place," remarked someone who shall remain nameless. Of course, given the fact that our offspring are neither allowed to (a) talk to their Father in that tone, nor (b) get their tan on, it becomes fairly easy to narrow down who the first complainer might have been.
Good-bye warm, sandy beach fishing. Hello, steep rocky bank we practically had to rappel down with all our equipment. David has one rule during these excursions: If you hook any part of his body, you have to sit out. Thankfully, hooking his shirt doesn't count, because that occurred at least twice. My one rule is: If I see a snake, or any twig resembling one, I'm outta there and will hitchhike home. It doesn't even have to be to our home.
In the time it took me to semi rappel down the bank and join the family, Drue had already gotten her line stuck in a tree. She went on to do it about 12 more times during the course of the afternoon. David got busy baiting hooks, rescuing her line, baiting more hooks, rescuing more lines from the rocks. As Tate stared intently at his bobber, he asked innocently, "Dad? Why aren't you fishing?".
Ok, so I'm sure you're wondering right about now, why I wasn't being more of a help. I am the official "picture taker" and "runner of children to the potty". After I take an appropriate amount of pictures, I do help with the hooking of the worms. I just like to try and keep the worm guts and dirt on my camera to a minimum.
Drue brought her pole to me about every 45 seconds for a new worm. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that every time her bobber went under, she was gazing at the trees around us, or at the pretty butterfly that had landed on her shirt. She wanted nothing to with the worms at all. This was our child who used to enjoy playing with the worms more than she did actually fishing. So I said to her, "Drue, you used to love worms, and play with them all the time. What happened?" She crinkled up her nose and said, "Well, I don't like them anymore. They've turned on me." I was just glad to finally be getting rid of these creepy crawly things that have been taking up residence in my refrigerator for far too long.
At one point, after I'd baited about 35 hooks, and had done my fair share of getting lines unstuck from various impossible places, I noticed a certain person missing. The main man of the day, in fact. Apparently, at some point, David thought, "To heck with this gig," and had gone in search of a secluded spot that we were all too afraid to even attempt to come over to.
Not long after we were there, I hiked up the trail with Reese so she could use the bathroom, secretly wishing for a split second she was a boy and could just go on a tree. I made it all the way back down the trail, and found Drue patiently awaiting our arrival so I could hike back up the trail and take her to the bathroom. On our way back down, I could hear Tate screeching loudly. I assumed he'd taken his first accidental plunge into the water below, but he actually had caught a fish! Not a tiny, 2-3 inch size like they'd been catching, but an actual "keeper". He went on to tell me he named him Joey. Just as I was thinking what a tender heart he has, he said, "I can't wait to eat him!"
As he made his next cast, he said, "I don't know how, but I'm an expert at fishing now." Awww...tenderhearted and humble. A few more little fish were caught before all was said and done. Reese insisted she caught the "big one" a few times, but it kept getting off her line. "Ugh, I hate this pond!" she announced. Tate was beaming right next to her saying, "I love this pond! I caught a keeper!" (Add sympathetic to the list), I was proud of Tate for keeping such good track of his bobber each time he threw it in. He referred to all his nibbles as, "Mine twitches a lot." He even baited his worm a few times and said, "I hooked my own worm, and the fish love it!"
Reese gave us her grand total as we were packing up, "I got two fish." Tate said, "Oh, I got more. I can't even count 'em". Reese shot back, "You got three, Tate."
We made it back to the car with most of the stuff, and as David was packing everything into the trunk, I was standing there doing nothing. So I had the considerate idea to rappel back down and grab the bucket with Joey in it. After I hiked back up with the 50 pound bucket of water, David proceeded to grab it and pour out at least 25 pounds of the water, so it wouldn't slosh too much on the ride home. The thought crossed my mind to pour the other 25 pounds of water on top of his head, which I probably would have followed through with if I hadn't been too tired to lift it.
David cleaned Joey when we got home and Tate ran inside to tell me, "We got all the chicken out!" I peered into the bowl and saw 3 little nugget sized pieces of Joey. Tate reassured me saying, "He's with Jesus now."
Next year, I'm think I'll just hook David in the ear first thing, so I can sit out...on the beach.
Our bug spray was nowhere to be found, so a quick stop had to be made at the drugstore. Drue's blood attracts all bugs known to mankind. The girl can get 5 humongous bites just going from the house to the car. As David ran in to get the spray, I turned around in my seat and gave the kids a mini lecture. "Now listen up, this is Daddy's day. Let's try and make this a fun outing for him. No whining, fighting, complaining about the heat, bugs, etc. Basically, just act like different children for a few peaceful hours."
Upon David's return, he tossed the spray into the backseat. Tate clutched it to his chest, as though it were the last bottle in the free world, and exclaimed loudly, "I get to be the first one to have it put on!" Perhaps he hadn't paid as close attention to my speech as I would have liked.
Good-bye warm, sandy beach fishing. Hello, steep rocky bank we practically had to rappel down with all our equipment. David has one rule during these excursions: If you hook any part of his body, you have to sit out. Thankfully, hooking his shirt doesn't count, because that occurred at least twice. My one rule is: If I see a snake, or any twig resembling one, I'm outta there and will hitchhike home. It doesn't even have to be to our home.
Drue brought her pole to me about every 45 seconds for a new worm. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that every time her bobber went under, she was gazing at the trees around us, or at the pretty butterfly that had landed on her shirt. She wanted nothing to with the worms at all. This was our child who used to enjoy playing with the worms more than she did actually fishing. So I said to her, "Drue, you used to love worms, and play with them all the time. What happened?" She crinkled up her nose and said, "Well, I don't like them anymore. They've turned on me." I was just glad to finally be getting rid of these creepy crawly things that have been taking up residence in my refrigerator for far too long.
We made it back to the car with most of the stuff, and as David was packing everything into the trunk, I was standing there doing nothing. So I had the considerate idea to rappel back down and grab the bucket with Joey in it. After I hiked back up with the 50 pound bucket of water, David proceeded to grab it and pour out at least 25 pounds of the water, so it wouldn't slosh too much on the ride home. The thought crossed my mind to pour the other 25 pounds of water on top of his head, which I probably would have followed through with if I hadn't been too tired to lift it.
David cleaned Joey when we got home and Tate ran inside to tell me, "We got all the chicken out!" I peered into the bowl and saw 3 little nugget sized pieces of Joey. Tate reassured me saying, "He's with Jesus now."
Next year, I'm think I'll just hook David in the ear first thing, so I can sit out...on the beach.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
They're Watching...and Waiting
Here's a helpful hint if you ever find yourself settling in to watch a movie, or even just a TV show, with my sweet family:
Do NOT, under any circumstances, get up out of your seat for the duration of the program.
Be sure you have everything you could possibly need before plopping down. Make sure you've used the bathroom. I suppose if you smell smoke, it might be ok to get up and check it out, but don't say I didn't warn you.
As soon as you begin to rise, you will be attacked by a barrage of requests. "Can you get me a drink? A napkin? My blanket? My stuffed puppy with one eye that's been missing since since 2010?!"
And at first, you'll want to help. You really will. One look into their pleading little eyes, and you'll want to deliver the precious item they are needing so desperately at that very point in time.
Don't. Do. It.
It's a trap. A neverending trap that leads to 1001 other items they will discover they are in need of. Or, upon delivering a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice that you personally picked all the pulp out of with a fork to one child, another child will look longingly at it, licking his or her lips, and back you'll go into the kitchen. Only to discover you used the last orange and now need to make a trip to the store.
I've grown weary. Only because I know they lie in wait and specifically plan to ask me for these things as soon as I get up. They could have just eaten a stack pack of saltines causing their throat to become as dry as the Sahara and begin to close up, but instead of getting up to quench their thirst, they will keep one eye on the TV, and one eye on you, just waiting for you to shift in your seat.
As uncaring as this sounds, I've started denying them their requests. I feel it's part of my duty to help them become more independent little beings who are capable of thinking to themselves, "Hmmm, I'm a wee bit thirsty. I think I'll get up and go to the kitchen to get myself drink". David does not share my belief, however, unless he's really, really tired. Which doesn't happen very often. I've caught him many a times, sneaking them drinks and whatnot that I've already said "Absolutely not!" to. It's all part of his quest to become the favorite parent.
The other night we were all cozily gathered in the living room and for some reason, not thinking, I got up from my seat. This time, the offending party was Reese. "Hey, Mom can you get me a glass of water?" she asked, as she shoved another handful of popcorn in her mouth.
"Ugh!" I replied. "No. I knew you were going to ask me for that as soon as I got up. I just knew it!"
I headed into the kitchen feeling proud. Teaching her a lesson that I am not her own personal handmaiden. I expected to turn around and see her following behind me to serve herself. Instead, I heard her yell from her spot on the couch, "Ok. How about lemonade then?".
Be sure you have everything you could possibly need before plopping down. Make sure you've used the bathroom. I suppose if you smell smoke, it might be ok to get up and check it out, but don't say I didn't warn you.
As soon as you begin to rise, you will be attacked by a barrage of requests. "Can you get me a drink? A napkin? My blanket? My stuffed puppy with one eye that's been missing since since 2010?!"
And at first, you'll want to help. You really will. One look into their pleading little eyes, and you'll want to deliver the precious item they are needing so desperately at that very point in time.
Don't. Do. It.
It's a trap. A neverending trap that leads to 1001 other items they will discover they are in need of. Or, upon delivering a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice that you personally picked all the pulp out of with a fork to one child, another child will look longingly at it, licking his or her lips, and back you'll go into the kitchen. Only to discover you used the last orange and now need to make a trip to the store.
I've grown weary. Only because I know they lie in wait and specifically plan to ask me for these things as soon as I get up. They could have just eaten a stack pack of saltines causing their throat to become as dry as the Sahara and begin to close up, but instead of getting up to quench their thirst, they will keep one eye on the TV, and one eye on you, just waiting for you to shift in your seat.
As uncaring as this sounds, I've started denying them their requests. I feel it's part of my duty to help them become more independent little beings who are capable of thinking to themselves, "Hmmm, I'm a wee bit thirsty. I think I'll get up and go to the kitchen to get myself drink". David does not share my belief, however, unless he's really, really tired. Which doesn't happen very often. I've caught him many a times, sneaking them drinks and whatnot that I've already said "Absolutely not!" to. It's all part of his quest to become the favorite parent.
The other night we were all cozily gathered in the living room and for some reason, not thinking, I got up from my seat. This time, the offending party was Reese. "Hey, Mom can you get me a glass of water?" she asked, as she shoved another handful of popcorn in her mouth.
"Ugh!" I replied. "No. I knew you were going to ask me for that as soon as I got up. I just knew it!"
I headed into the kitchen feeling proud. Teaching her a lesson that I am not her own personal handmaiden. I expected to turn around and see her following behind me to serve herself. Instead, I heard her yell from her spot on the couch, "Ok. How about lemonade then?".
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Apples & Oranges
Right after Michael Jackson died, we were seeing his face all over magazine covers and tabloids at the checkout stands. The girls were very intrigued by him and wanted to know who he was. It didn't seem to do him justice to simply say, "He was a singer", so each time a song by him would come on the radio I would say, "This is Michael Jackson."
I hadn't done that in awhile and a few days ago while we were driving, the song "Billie Jean" came on. I turned it up, and out of curiosity, asked the kids, "Do you know who sings this"?. Tate had no clue, but the girls both said semi-confidently, "Michael Jackson". "That's right!" I said, "How did you know that?". "I could tell by the music", Reese said.
I felt as though I had finally accomplished my task of teaching them to be able to recognize probably the most popular artist of my time until she continued, "I was gonna say either Michael Jackson or Elvis...I get those two mixed up sometimes."
I hadn't done that in awhile and a few days ago while we were driving, the song "Billie Jean" came on. I turned it up, and out of curiosity, asked the kids, "Do you know who sings this"?. Tate had no clue, but the girls both said semi-confidently, "Michael Jackson". "That's right!" I said, "How did you know that?". "I could tell by the music", Reese said.
I felt as though I had finally accomplished my task of teaching them to be able to recognize probably the most popular artist of my time until she continued, "I was gonna say either Michael Jackson or Elvis...I get those two mixed up sometimes."
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Draw Like the Wind
Thanks to the introduction by my sister and niece, our family has become quite enamored with the game Draw Something on our phones/ipods. Basically, a techie version of Pictionary that you play against other people. When we first started playing, Drue astonished me with her undiscovered artistic talent. That girl could draw! And, she's a great little guesser too.
As the weeks went by, her drawing sort of took a step backward in ability. I think she just got in a hurry and wanted to get the picture finished quickly, so she just scribbled down whatever. This tends to be her approach to life as well. She's more focused on getting a particular task finished quickly, rather than taking her time and really appreciating it, and give it her all sometimes.
"Ugh...Drue. I have no idea what this is," I've said a few times as I marched into her room and requested she give me a hint, or just tell me outright what she drew. Once, she accidentally picked a word she was unfamiliar with to draw a picture of. So, instead, she just wrote the word with her finger and that's what I saw when I went to guess her picture. Then she decided she'd do that more and more. She would start to draw the picture and then end up writing the actual word on there. What in the world? So I teasingly gave a her a hard time about it.
"Try and draw the picture, goofy," I said. "No more of this writing the word stuff. Just draw the picture as best as you can, and if we can't figure it out, we'll ask you for a hint".
It's funny when you are playing multiple people because you sometimes forget who you're drawing to at the time. I once thought I was drawing David the word "Rapture" so I drew Heaven's Gates and people floating up to it. I thought it was very cleverly done, when Drue came down with her IPod and said, "What the heck?". Oops.
The other night we were playing back and forth before bed and I laughed out loud when I saw what was coming through from her. Knowing I had just talked to her about not drawing the word but trying to draw the picture, I watched as a message came through from her on the game to my phone, "Don't tell Mom..." and underneath she wrote the word "lizard". Of course, I called her into our room and busted her for it. She thought she had sent her "drawing" to David's phone!
As the weeks went by, her drawing sort of took a step backward in ability. I think she just got in a hurry and wanted to get the picture finished quickly, so she just scribbled down whatever. This tends to be her approach to life as well. She's more focused on getting a particular task finished quickly, rather than taking her time and really appreciating it, and give it her all sometimes.
"Ugh...Drue. I have no idea what this is," I've said a few times as I marched into her room and requested she give me a hint, or just tell me outright what she drew. Once, she accidentally picked a word she was unfamiliar with to draw a picture of. So, instead, she just wrote the word with her finger and that's what I saw when I went to guess her picture. Then she decided she'd do that more and more. She would start to draw the picture and then end up writing the actual word on there. What in the world? So I teasingly gave a her a hard time about it.
"Try and draw the picture, goofy," I said. "No more of this writing the word stuff. Just draw the picture as best as you can, and if we can't figure it out, we'll ask you for a hint".
It's funny when you are playing multiple people because you sometimes forget who you're drawing to at the time. I once thought I was drawing David the word "Rapture" so I drew Heaven's Gates and people floating up to it. I thought it was very cleverly done, when Drue came down with her IPod and said, "What the heck?". Oops.
The other night we were playing back and forth before bed and I laughed out loud when I saw what was coming through from her. Knowing I had just talked to her about not drawing the word but trying to draw the picture, I watched as a message came through from her on the game to my phone, "Don't tell Mom..." and underneath she wrote the word "lizard". Of course, I called her into our room and busted her for it. She thought she had sent her "drawing" to David's phone!
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