Speaking of "Busted"

Uhm...

I appear to have used my elder son's actual name in the below post. It slipped my notice until now, which means this is already on everyone's feed (those who have it) and is likely already cached somewhere.

Well, fortunately, my kids have very common first names, so it's not giving up much. The four-year-old is Nicholas, a.k.a. "Nicky", by the way.

I'll likely keep referring to them as the Elder and the Younger, though. For consistency's sake if nothing else.

--------------------

On just one more "amusing things my younger son has said" note, Ms. P related a doozy to me today.

It appears my little angel was hovering over the computer while one of the younger children was using it. This, of course, displeased my child because he wanted to play with the computer and didn't really see the point of his eighteen-month-old little friend using it.

So Ms. P, wise woman that she is, announced, "Hey, Nicky, I'm turning on Nick Jr. Want to come watch?"

He drew his eyebrows down into his nose, looked at her sternly, and said,

"You're dust twying to distwact me."

God help me, I laughed and laughed.

Peas

I've mentioned before how I feel about peas.

To make a very long story very short, peas = bad.

So since my husband knows this, and since my one concession to peas in our home is that I gulp them down whole when he fixes them with dinner, I expect him not to put peas in the freaking fried rice.

So of course, tonight, for dinner?

Peas.

In my freaking fried rice. Which cannot be swallowed whole, thankyouverymuch.

I picked them all out and gave them to my younger son.

"Here sweetie, I saved some peas for you."

"Oh sank you Mommy!"

Whew.

-------------------------

In Chantix news, yesterday was "high" day with the new higher dosage. Today has been "low" day with it. I took my second pill of the day about an hour ago, and am just now back to moving with anything resembling speed. I've spent much of the day on the couch, and even took a nap.

I also did laundry and hosed off two small boys, so I haven't been a total slug.

But dang, I hope I adapt to this newer dosage quickly. I work full time and have two-to-three children (depending on how old my husband is acting at the time -- love you, sweetie!). I don't need to be drugged into exhaustion. I can get that way quite adequately without chemical assistance.

Retail Therapy

Or... not so much.

Today, Mom and I took the boys to one of our semi-local malls.

Back in the day I'd have said "to the mall" or "to [insert name of mall here]." Because back in the day there was one local mall (we now have two) and other malls were far enough away (i.e., more than 15 minutes) to merit a name mention.

Now? Two local, like I said, and several others under an hour's drive. Welcome to growth central, AKA central Florida.

Anyway, we went to one of the semi-local ones which was new a mere 15 years ago and which has also just had a face lift. Our primary purpose? To burn some Saturday hours. Our secondary purpose?

To purchase a bedding set for the eight-year-old. Sigh.

Remember the child back in the Walmart/SpongeBob post? The one who didn't care what kind of bedding he had?

Uh-huh. Those of you with kids older than mine knew what would happen. He finally wanted to pick out his own comforter and sheets.

We ended up at Sears (not Macy's -- I'm crazy, not stupid).

Thankfully, he ignored the delightful Sponge Bob display.

Unfortunately, he spied the Pirates of the Caribbean display.

Ouch.

So now my eight-year-old is the proud possessor of a Pirates comforter, bedsheet set, and decorative pillow (with glow-in-the-dark appliques!).

Need I mention there are a couple of skulls in all this happiness?

Yeah.

So anyway... one kid, Sponge Bob Central.

The other? Skulls.

On the plus side, at least we have an "at sea" theme going. Eyeroll.

(Amanda wanders off, clutching her head, and hopes she'll shake this new practice of referring to herself in the third person in short order...)

Blog Rating Notice

Ladies and Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that a terrible thing has happened to this blog.

This blog has slipped in its ratings.

Yes, dear readers, this blog has slipped to a PG-13 rating.

That simply will. not. do.

So, in light of this (and the obvious fact that I haven't discussed poop within recent memory, nor have I ever mentioned condoms), I give you the following three "post-ettes" in an attempt to raise this blog to its former glorious R rating:

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Cat Poop
Our cats are notoriously finicky creatures. If the litter boxes have not been scooped for, say, thirty minutes, they start clearing their throats and glaring at us prior to entering.

Now Daniel will continue to enter the litter boxes even up until they're scooped (twice daily -- it's frequent with three cats). Granted, he gives a long-suffering glare at whatever two-legged creature happens to be nearby, but he goes in the box, attempts to cover what he's done -- and at 12-15 pounds he isn't that successful despite the size of the box -- emerges, and proceeds to ignore his servants for at least fifteen minutes.

Patrick displays his disgust only when he's sick to his little gastro-intestinal tract, which leads him to doing such interesting things as going to the human bathroom to poo on the floor beside the human commode.

Now if only we could teach that boy to get on the commode, we might have something worth pursuing.

Emily, though? When her Precious Princess Poopy Palace is not scooped to her satisfaction?

Carpet.

Preferably in one of the kids' rooms.

Because she likes to hear them squeal.

Preschool Poop
Upon returning from dinner at my parents' house one night, I was apparently not moving quickly enough toward the front door.

My utter slackitude resulted in the following monologue from my younger son, who was waiting for me with his big brother at the door while I lugged in several tons of groceries:

"Oh GWEAT!

I dust poopded in my undoopayunts.!

I ated too much and it dust pushded it wight aout!"

(yes, he really does talk like this, and we have to fight the urge to mimic him... hee)

He had likely tried to pass gas (one of his hobbies) and got an unexpected result. I told him it was okay, it was an accident, etc. He got into the bathroom and got cleaned up. All was well.

Until I made this post, that is. Me blogging about this is yet another one of those things which will doubtless be revisited in my now-four-year-old's future therapy sessions.

Condoms
I know this comes as a shock to most of you, but my husband and I occasionally like to indulge in a bit of maritally sanctioned intimacy, also known as nuptial nookie.

Well, to accomplish this without changing our 1:1 kid-to-adult ratio, we use condoms (long story... short of sterilization or an IUD, both of which I'm considering -- the former for him, the latter for me -- it's all we've got).

Since I get to do most of the shopping, I'm usually responsible for procurement.

Unfortunately, I do most of my shopping with the kids, which leads to some hasty choices at times, especially if I wish to avoid the eight-year-old trumpeting, "What's a condom, Mama?"

So yeah, good times.

Anyway, the last time Himself and I decided we'd be killing off a few more rubber trees, he asked me, "Do we have any?"

"Sure honey, on the bookshelf by your side of the bed."

He looked, picked up the packets, and raised one eyebrow at me.

"Spiral ribbed or mint tingle????"

I shrugged.

"That's what happens when your wife buys the Party Pack."
-----------------------

Must post and re-check the ratings... a moment, if you will...



Ah yes. Much better. We're BA-ACK!

Comment Responses (and a bonus rant inspired by AYC)

Okay, yeah, it's kind of a cheat to use a response to comments as an entire blog post itself, but this got so long in the little comment boxy thingie that it was just silly to keep trying to type in there.

Anyway, on to the responses!

Dr. A, man, I hear ya there on the Diet Coke. I was really low on it by the time yesterday night rolled around, so today I bought two twelve-packs in two different places, just to be sure I was adequately supplied.

Those will last until Wednesday. Because I'm working and will be drinking the office's Diet Coke during business hours.

Angel, I'm working on the vasectomy thing. At this rate it looks like I'm going to have to go somewhere and make him the appointment myself, which I understand is difficult what with HIPAA and everything.

Like I said, if I get pregnant again it will be a case of immaculate conception and I will make an absolute killing in the tabloids.

Awesome Mom, I have that eye-poking-out urge over the SpongeBob bedroom going on for sure. Plus I think I'm developing hives.

The elder son, who didn't care what was on his bed? Now wants to get a new comforter and sheets for his room. If he chooses SpongeBob too (he is also a fan) I'll be blogging from the psych inpatient ward.

Scott, it was indeed both a fun and crazy Sunday. And hee! on the Problem Child room. You know, in the second Problem Child, my old orchestra director and his chamber group were the quartet in the wedding scene.

Yes, that is my one claim to vicarious fame.

As for kiddie bedding in stressful medical situations, well, I took my pillow to the hospital when I had my first son and had my old Raggedy Ann and Andy pillowcase on it, so I'm totally with you there.

The jury is still out on the sponge wall. We shall see. It isn't too complicated, so it could happen. When he hates it in a few years, he can help us paint over it.

AYC, three isn't so bad? What's one more?

:faints:

Woman, you do understand that at three children, we adults would be freaking outnumbered in this house? And that's only the beginning. The younger son is trying figure out how to spell to put a sign on his room keeping his elder brother out (because his mean mommy won't help him spell it), and the elder brother already has a sign on his door (because he wrote it himself without any assistance from me) saying,

"No little brother.

Unless I send him to get something.

Then he can come in."

Now, ma'am, picture these two little dears sharing a room.

I'll give you a moment for that to sink in.

Now picture them alone with their new sibling, a frazzled daddy, and a mommy who's practicing crocheting with a blunted plastic hook on the eighth floor of our local hospital.

Yes, that would be the previously-mentioned psych ward.

Ain't happenin', sister.

(But thanks for giving me a good rant to sign off on!)

WalMart and SpongeBob

No deep introspection today, folks. Just me, my Chantix, my bubble gum, my Diet Coke (they will have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers), and life in general.

This morning we made a run to WalMart. Now usually it takes an act of Congress (or my lunch with my parents) to pry me out of the house before noon on a Sunday. But for various reasons, most of which are totally under my control, my younger son's bedroom was never officially "decorated," and we finally remedied that today.

Back when we bought this house we were at one kid, and one kid only. Then one day (I think Bloody Marys were involved) we both agreed that if we were going to have another child, we should really get started on it sometime soon as Himself didn't want to be seventy years old watching his own kid graduating from high school.

Well, the birthday of the younger child puts him firmly at sixty-three when that child will finally graduate, so he's safe there unless I get knocked up at forty.*

But on the day of our closing, neither of us knew I was about eleven days pregnant. Neither of us knew that God had been actively listening when we said "We really should get started on it soon," and took us at our word (or failing that, He was pretty sure we'd change our minds if swift action wasn't taken).

When we were driving home from signing our lives away for the next thirty years (I think by now we own the pantry outright), I realized that I was technically "due" that day and nothing had happened.

It wasn't only that, though, as I'm notoriously all over the map as far as my periods are concerned. It was also the fact that I'd been napping and had developed an aversion to both coffee and Cool Ranch Doritos, which for me are pretty sure signs of gestation. Also, there was the weird development that while most of my body measurements were going down (I was in week three or four of the Body-for-LIFE program), my waist measurement was increasing slightly.

Eeewwww.

So I put the then-only child to bed, and hurried off to buy a home pregnancy test.

I came home and did the whole pee-on-a-stick thing, then sat and watched the results window.

Two lines.

Huh.

I walked out of the bathroom, found my husband, and handed him the test. His brilliant response?

"There are two lines. And?"

"Yes, there are two lines."

"Ohhhh... two lines. Uhm, are we happy about this?"

"I'm not sure. I'll let you know in the morning. In the meantime, I think we'd better scratch that idea about having a guest bedroom."

They're not kidding when they say "Man plans, God laughs."

Anyway, the next morning I'd had time to absorb what this new pregnancy meant and was more fully with the program.

"Honey?"

"What?"

"We're happy about this."

"Okay."

So we moved from our apartment into the house in a few weeks when morning sickness was finally in full swing, which made me so much less helpful than I would have liked to have been. We got the extra-utero child's room fixed up for him with a big boy bed and matching sheets and comforter.

He didn't care what was on his bed, so I picked out something semi-normal looking.

The crib went into the "guest" room, along with various boxes that contained nothing vital enough to unpack (but of course vital enough to move) and a full size bed my husband had in storage. I made that one up with some other sheets and comforter that I chose. So for about eight months we had a guest room/ nursery/ storage room.

Time passed, the second son was born, the boxes were eventually unpacked, and for a couple of years he couldn't have cared less about what was in his bedroom. However, eventually he wanted a "big boy" bed. So we moved the full bed and the crib out and got him a little twin bed like his big brother's.

I had good intentions about getting him a comforter and some such stuff, but my grandmother had just died and we had tons of sheets and other things from her house. He fell in love with a set of butterfly print sheets (very old, very soft, very orange -- the child has an interesting sense of style), and things just kind of remained that way for the next couple of years.

But last weekend as we were doing the weekly dredging of his room to be sure he still had a carpet, he mentioned he might like a bedspread other than his SpongeBob throw blanket. So that's how I ended up at WalMart this morning, relieved that we were finally not going to see SpongeBob plastered over the top of his bed anymore.

We walked down the bedding aisle and he saw it. The Holy Grail of bedspreads.

(Y'all know where this is going, of course.)

Yes, it's got SpongeBob on it. So does his new set of sheets and both pillowcases.

And then there's the little fold-out SpongeBob table and chair set we got to complete the look, because, well, we must have somewhere to do all our artwork, I guess.

Oh, and to write the sign he's affixed to the door of his bedroom which says "No cats. Only kids allowed." He wanted to add "No big brothers," but I told him that would be a bit tacky.

Emily can't read, though, and scoots through his door anytime she can manage it, much to his eternal consernation.

His SpongeBob throw blanket is now carefully arranged on his floor as a rug.

He has also informed me that we need to paint one of his walls to look like a sponge. I told my husband, who just clutched his head between his hands.

It's SpongeBob-ariffic. I kind of wince when I walk by, but he's such a happy prideful little guy about it that I end up smiling even though an interior design desecration induced migraine is trying to beat my eyes out with a ballpeen hammer.

So anyway, that was my day. Happy four-year-old, pained-but-amused husband, and an eight-year-old who still doesn't care what sheets or bedspread are on his bed, but who is now the proud owner of a purple beanbag chair.

It's all minor, but sometimes life is just good. Even with WalMart and SpongeBob.

*God, please don't take this as a challenge. I will swear off sex before I have another child, and if you're that determined I should lose what little is left of my mind and become the mother of three, I'm gonna make a killing in the tabloids.

Weight and Body Issues (and other stuff, because I'm ADD-ish like that)

Well, I told Scott I'd address this in another post, so here I am.

Addressing it.

In another post.

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First though, I've been visiting a ton of blogs by people who are much much better at this writing thing than I am. Like, say, Scott's blog. Or the Queen of Dysfunction, who is now totally my idol in blogging about family matters and such. That chick knows how to bring the funny. Seriously. And although I know it's difficult to contemplate, I think she has a better grasp on profanity than even I possess.

I have an English degree (which I've mentioned once or twenty times here). All I can think when I look at this blog is that my professors must have been on some serious crack.

And then there are all the clearly focused blogs, like Mostly True Stories (labor and delivery), or any one of Angel's blogs (chronic headaches, weight loss, hurricanes, quilting, and crafting, in that order), or Stan's blog, which chronicles his adventures in Chantix land and the aftermath thereof.

Me? I'm all over the place. Rants? Got 'em. Family silliness? Got it. Bleeding forever without dying? It's here. Smoking? Yep. And now the quitting smoking and Chantix stuff.

I'd link it, but, well... you can find it in the archives if you're interested.

And to all this mish-mash, I'm adding weight loss issues.

Oish.

So if any of you come here hoping for some kind of consistency in the nature of the posts, I'm very sorry for disappointing you.

I mean that sincerely.

Hell, sometimes I wonder why I do this myself. I'll notice readership going up, get all freaked out, and wonder if I should even keep inflicting this mess on a small but slowly-increasing segment of the unsuspecting public.

But then I screw my head on straight and figure, well, I like blogging. I liked it before anyone even read this damn thing (I have two other ancient blogs to attest to this). And apparently, it's good enough for some folks to read.

I just question your judgment and mine in my more dark and introspective moments ;)

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Anyway, on to weight issues!

I was always a very skinny little kid. Or slender. Whatever. When I was four I had my tonsils out and scared my parents out of about ten years' growth by my impersonation of an ambulatory skeleton for about six months after the surgery.

Mom was very conscious about feeding her family healthy food. I remember once in mid-elementary school we were learning about what happens when food goes bad. It must have been related to a book the teacher was reading us or something. But anyway, one night Mom was serving us meatloaf and I spied something, uhm, "off" in my slice of loaf.

"Mom! This meat is bad! It's... it's... green."

"That's just a spice, sweetie."

Uh-huh. But gullible child that I was, I swallowed her lie.

And the freaking peas that she'd ground up and put into my Holy and Sacred ketchup-drenched meatloaf.

I hate peas. Hate them with a passion unequalled. I came home from class one day to find my husband (who is well aware of my hatred of these particular legumes) feeding our precious-and-then-only son this vile vegetable.

The little ingrate was gulping them down with great relish.

Since that time, when the man cooks? He makes peas as the vegetable. And I, conscientious mother that I am (I will set a good example, dammit), shovel them into my mouth in HUGE spoonfuls, hold them carefully on my tongue, and then swallow them down whole with a huge gulp of whatever liquid I'm happening to drink that night.

If it's wine, I'm good and buzzed by the time I have to do the dishes.

When #2 son was born, I stared the nasty beast of engorgement dead in the eye. What was the solution to the agony of my breasts? Frozen. Freaking. Peas.

God, I can still smell them thawing/cooking on my chest. I saved them for after-care for my husband's vasectomy-that-has-yet-to-happen.

I probably should toss them, along with the frozen breastmilk that's been gathering dust for four years.

And then there's the placenta from Son #2's birth, which we really meant to plant/ bury somewhere. But we didn't, and as it's a biohazard we're supposed to take it back to the birth center to dispose of it. So there it sits, taking up room in my freezer... oish.

Anyway...

Brought up eating healthily, even if slightly against my will, skinny kid, blah blah blah... which brings me to high school.

I was in the high school orchestra with Angel's husband. Our director was an interesting individual. One time I was wearing a skirt that clearly showed my rather narrow waist (it was twenty-two inches back in the day), and our conductor said, "Do you ever eat?"

Uhm, yeah. Actually, I did. I had a rather healthy relationship with food. My parents had given up trying to serve me peas -- it helped that I ate just about any vegetable that wasn't a pea -- and when it came to hunger, I ate. When I wasn't hungry anymore, I didn't eat.

You know, reasonable stuff like that.

But with this being orchestra, and with various evening performances and eating afterward, it was like some sort of eagle eye was upon me.

We'd go to Pizza Hut and I'd eat a slice of pizza or two, and all I'd hear was, "Good lord, eat girl! You're going to waste away to nothing!"

No, no I wasn't. Yes, I had a very narrow waist, but that isn't where I gain my weight. First place any excess weight goes on me is to my thighs and butt (the song Baby Got Back was so written for me). Saddlebags are the bane of my existence. In a full skirt with a narrow waist, sure I looked like a toothpick. But put me in jeans, shorts, or a straight skirt and it was very VERY clear I wasn't skeletal.

Still, I was at that whole "craving approval" stage, so I ate on command.

Over time, I got used to eating more than I should, just so no one would look at me with that "She's anorexic, we must feed and/or institutionalize her" expression in their eyes. Luckily, at that point my metabolism kicked all kinds of ass, and I stayed within the 122-127 range.

Unfortunately, over time my metabolism slowed. And over time my stress increased, and I dealt with stress by cramming more and more food down my gullet. After all, eating gained me approval. Approval felt good. Ergo, stress was relieved by eating!

Brilliant, eh?

Still, I managed to hold my weight around 140 or 150 up until I hit my early thirties. I wasn't totally happy at those weights, but my husband met me at 140 and thought I was the most beautiful creature he'd ever met (have I mentioned how insanely brilliant he is recently?), so I was content.

But then I went back to work. And although working was definitely a stress reliever in some ways (I didn't have to potty train my second son -- hah!), it brought stress in other ways, especially the whole "Dealing with clients who are getting divorced/ dealing with CPS/ looking at prison sentences" thing.

And so I ate, and ate more. Because it felt good.

Then I was out trying to buy something to wear for my brother's May 2006 wedding. Holy cow, everything I tried on made me look fat!

I was wearing my size 18 "immediately post-partum" jeans by then, but still, they were clothes I already owned, so I hadn't really paid attention to the increasing girth of my body.

The pictures came back from the wedding. Ouch. I'd weighed myself sometime within relatively recent memory and had seen that I was weighing about 180. Not good.

But that "recent memory" had been several months in the past.

Finally, in August of 2006, it happened. That "Eureka!" moment. The moment I knew I'd crossed the line from "rather curvier than usual" into "fat."

It was a Saturday. I was at Publix with my kids. My elder son got on the scale to weigh himself -- it's a hobby of his -- and then I figured I might as well see the bad news.

I didn't have to see it. The dear boy broadcast it for the entire store.

"Mommy, you weigh 200! Isn't that quite a lot?"

Shit.

"Yes, honey, it is quite a lot."

My mother had noticed my weight gain more than I had up until that point, and had said that she'd pay for a month of NutriSystem for me if I wanted to try it out. She wasn't pushy (she's never pushy with stuff like that), but she let me know the offer was there.

I e-mailed her the following Monday and let her know I was ready.

I stayed on NutriSystem for three months, and lost 27 pounds on it. After that point, I decided to do it on my own. And besides, Lean Cuisine is really rather tasty, in a "good Lord, would they just give me MORE FOOD" kind of way.

So since that time I've been counting calories, and have attempted to keep my daily intake between 1200 and 1500. If I go over it, eh, it happens. And if I'm under 1200, I eat until I've made it to 1200. I don't want to totally freak my body into starvation mode or anything.

Besides, cheese is really really good at 10:00 at night. Hee.

So now, about a year later, I weigh between 159 and 160. It's hugely different from the 200, but it's still a far cry from the 150/140 I was accustomed to, and even farther from the 122-127 range I used to enjoy.

I don't need to ever hit the 120's again. But I wouldn't mind dipping into the 130's. So I keep going, keep counting, and keep hoping.

So anyway, that's my whole "Amanda Gains and Then Loses Massive Amounts of Weight" story. Yeah, it's "only" forty pounds, but folks, it's FORTY FREAKING POUNDS. That's EIGHT 5 lb. sacks of flour.

That's the weight of my four-year-old.

So hell yeah, it's an accomplishment. And I'll shout it to the rooftops.

And that, dear readers, is why I'm panicked about gaining weight while I quit smoking. It's not totally rational, but I hope this makes it a bit more understandable.

Addendum to Previous Post

Eventually, the elder offspring was able to focus enough to determine that Josh had 9 marbles total.

And I did not burst out and say, "Kid, he has 3 green and 6 red! Three plus six equals nine! Come ON!!!!" even though my brain was shrieking it. Because I know what it's like to have words and numbers flung together seemingly willy-nilly and have no clue what to do with the ungodly spawn thereof. For me, it created a disconnect between reading (fun) and math (dull) and probably screwed with left- and right-brain functions as well.

It's like learning to play the piano. First you learn how to use the right hand, then the left, then you put them both together. Musically, it was usually no biggie (although don't fling any of J. S. Bach's Inventions at me -- I am halfway convinced he was possessed when he put those nasty little compositions together), but for math it was quite another story.

I had a terrible time with math starting when I was around my elder son's age (8), and it continued until sometime between my sophomore and senior years in high school when it finally just clicked, that math is just another language. Learn the vocabulary, grammar, and mechanics, and yes, you too, can survive math class!

I don't know what sparked this transition for me. It could have been the consistent use of language in geometry in tenth grade that did it. It could have been the poor idiot student teacher in eleventh grade Algebra II, who couldn't teach let alone control a classroom to save her life who spurred me on out of a desire for GPA preservation. Or it could have been both of those plus my most awesome trigonometry/ analytical geometry teacher my senior year who finally made it gel.

Regardless, I survived, and survived to make A's in Calculus I and II on the college level as well.

The boy can do it. It just depends on the "click".

And on him managing to keep from flinging himself about in frustration long enough to pay attention. Oish.

(Note: He did apologize for being rude, lest anyone think I raised a total brat.)

Ah, Normalcy

I've finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so life can get back to normal around here and on my blog. All I'll say is that it didn't end up being burned. Heh.

Yes, all you non-HP-fans can now breathe a sigh of relief (until the release-night recap).

Everything's pretty standard this evening. Shorter kidlet's in bed, and taller kidlet's grumping over his homework. So am I, for that matter. I remember word problems back when I was in school and how they boggled my mind. Apparently, it's genetic... the mind-boggling-ness of word problems, that is.

I don't know what it is about word problems. In early elementary we got used to 1 + 1 = 2, and even worked our way up to 345 + 987 = 1,332. But toss those numbers into a paragraph? Oy gevalt.

My elder son is painfully bright. I hear rumors that I, too, was bright, before I reproduced and my brains leaked out with the afterbirth. But one problem with bright kids is that they can be so freaking accustomed to getting everything in a snap, that when they encounter a hurdle? Zero coping skills. And I mean NONE.

I remember sitting with my father at the kitchen counter as he'd try and try to help me understand the problems. I'd grit my teeth and squinch my face up, "But I don't get it!!!!" He'd keep on explaining it to me patiently.

It's a wonder the poor man isn't bald.

Tonight? It's my turn to rip my hair out. Homework went something like this:

"Okay honey, if Bob gives Josh 6 red marbles and 3 green marbles, how many marbles does Josh have?"

Huffy breath, exasperated sigh, "I don't kkknnnnoooowwwww!!!!!!!"

"Honey, let's look at the problem. Okay, what is the main idea of what this is saying?"

Leg flail, wiggle, roll eyes back in head, tooth grindage (that last one was me), "I don't knnnoooowwwww!!!!!"

"Okay, stop. Look at the paper. Look at it. Now. Read. The. Problem. To. Me."

"Uh!!!" After another leg flail and mumble, finally he grits out the sentence.

"So, what do you need to find out?"

"Grimblemurffle."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't understand you."

"How many marbles does Josh have!!!!"

"Son you will use your polite voice with me or I will let you finish this by yourself." Enter the Mom Look of Impending Doom. "Are we clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. And you're right. The problem asks how many marbles Josh has. Now, how would you figure that out?"

Huff, puff, "I don't knowwwwww!!!!!"

*headdesk*

Quote

I'm reading a new book, The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes, and this passage tickled me. It's a bit long for a subtitle, but I really needed to share it somewhere and my husband just doesn't have my taste in "literature", so my blog is going to have to be the venue:

...[Mare] didn't mind kicking a guy around, but she drew the line at screwing up her Corpse Bride dress.

"For the last time," she said, shoving her veil back into place so she could see him better. "You're an evil minion. You do not get the girl, you do not get laid, you do not get anything but humiliated." She shook her head at him, splayed on the concrete floor, covered in orange goo and white pellets. "Why anybody ever applies for the evil minion job is beyond me. Didn't you see this coming?"

"I'm a vice president," he said from the floor, outraged.

"You're a minion," she snapped. "You might as well have a target painted on your forehead."

Hee! I'm still giggling. Reminds me a bit of the Evil Overlord list.

My nerd factor is high. What can I say?

Edited to add:

I guess the Evil Overlord allusion was deliberate:

[Mare]
"I can't talk now. Xan has grabbed Danny and Elric for some kind of Evil Overlord plan and we have to turn her into a geranium."

Snerk.

It. Is. FINISHED!

Ladies and Gentlemen:

I would like to announce that at 2:45 p.m. EST today, the Spec That Would Not Die was finally sent to meet its maker (of copies, that is).

This after working on it until 1:30 a.m. last night, then continually once I arrived at work this morning.

I put a rubber band around it, boxed it, then put two rubber bands around the box. Upon handing it to my boss I informed him that he should treat it like the Ark and leave the box closed lest his face melt off.

My younger son's bedtime is at 8:00. My elder's is at 8:30. Tonight, my bedtime may well be around 8:31.

Not enough coffee in Colombia to keep me awake.

But it's DONE!!!!!!!

Now I just have to do three dictation tapes, finish the filing from the last spate of bill-paying, fill out the Change of Administrator form for our company's health insurance, complete the Power Point presentation I'm authoring on How We Use and How Not to Abuse the New Wide-Format Copier/ Plotter/ Scanner...

Heh.

And yes, I love my job. Plus the boss I was doing the spec for bought me a grande black coffee from Starbucks. Can't beat that.

Grown Up

I spent yesterday with my two sons, Vomit Comet #1 and Vomit Comet #2.

Vomit Comet #2 (the four-year-old) got sick in the middle of Wednesday night, and so was pretty perky by late morning. Vomit Comet #1 had an "ooky" stomach when he woke up and proceeded to kill a throw blanket on my couch.

It was old, tattered, and marked Dry Clean Only. We're letting the county landfill handle it.

I felt like crap the whole day, which I attributed to having been up half the night with VC#2. That is, until I passed the Sponge Bob thermometer on my dresser. On impulse I picked it up and put it in my mouth.

101.5. Nice. I popped a couple of aspirin and went to bed.

I woke up this morning, got dressed, got the kids ready, took them to school and daycare. I went to work, with an "Infectious Disease" sign on my forehead. Had to. We're leaving for Georgia early EARLY Monday morning (like 6:00 a.m. early), and I still have another specification to get out which I'll be bonding with this weekend. Plus next week is mid-month, which means bill paying and payroll, so I had to get as much of that ready as I could as well.

And on the way to work, my evil automobile which I'm planning to drive to Georgia decided to accelerate itself. In PARK, even. It got to over 2000 RPMs, was leaping off the starting line at every light without me even touching the accelerator, and continued to engage in similarly interesting behavior all the way to the garage where I took it.

Of course, the mechanic couldn't find anything wrong with it.

Of course, it started doing it again when I picked it up after work.

Damn, I hate that car. If it leaves me stranded on the side of the road with two little boys, I'm going to pitch a gold-plated hissy fit. Mentally, that is, because I can't scare the kids.

Then I'll be a full-on grown up again, and call Triple-A.

Dignity

Our Daniel is a very dignified cat. See how dignified he is?



Now picture this animal with pink spots. Which he now has due to some "creativity" on the part of the four-year-old.

Hee!

I'm such a bad cat mommy some days.

Not my JOB???

What is my job as a parent, relating to school issues?

My job, first and foremost, is to keep close tabs on my children's progress and status within the school system. That is the most important part of what I do.

However, in some circles there is some question about just what a parent's job is regarding the state of a school itself, along with the state of the school system in which we reside.

I think any responsible parent keeps a thumb on the pulse of the state of the school system, via news reports and other input, and also pays attention to the school atmosphere in general, as both these things can affect children in varying ways.

I find that reasonable.

However, I have recently learned that my desire to pay attention to my son's school as a whole and to the school system itself makes me into a "watchdog" type of parent, who obviously must not trust the system or I wouldn't need to keep an eye on it.

I don't agree, obviously. So if anyone has an opinion, let me know. I've out-debated this in the area where I was, so I'm just curious regarding others' views.