7 Quick Takes: Volume 33

I spent way too much time writing my quick takes post this morning and lost the entire thing. Will attempt to recreate it now, double time. First, let me wipe away tears of internet-induced frustration.

Aaaand, here we go:

(1) Cringe.

I am an idiot. I just figured out yesterday that I've been mis-singing a lyric in my all time favorite Beatles song. I thought the Hey Jude line was "the moment you need is on your shoulder," but actually it's "the movement you need is on your shoulder." I've even used this line, or my version of it, in two blog posts.

I stand corrected. Sheepishly corrected. I fixed one of the posts, but left the other as is, to keep myself humble.

Please feel free to make me feel better by telling me your own most embarrassing Lyric Fail.

(2) Wisdom.

After a particularly awesome soccer practice last night, Lola Berry said:

"When you play hard and do well, you have more fun."

Perhaps this would be good to remember for life in general.

(3) Celebrating

Instead of being at BlogHer '11, I am here with my daughters celebrating Dangles the Monkey's birthday (she has a few per week). Little T took an orange coat off her Molly Wiggins doll, wrapped it up, and gave it to Dangles as a present. We think she looks charming in her new toggs. We are having blueberry muffins for "cake," and washing it down with Irish breakfast tea with cream and sugar.

All this and I saved at least $300!

(4) Sleep, or the Lack Thereof.

I need sleep. Badly. My son's alarm went off last night at midnight -- he claims he has no idea who set it -- and kept going off at neat five minute intervals for the next 35 minutes. Right next to his head. He did not hear it. I finally got up and crushed the thing with a stiletto heel to get it to stop, and then I couldn't get back to sleep until around 3am. Two hours later, I was awakened again, this time by a pee-soaked four year old. Don't worry, she didn't suffer the same fate as the alarm.

So. I'm tired. And I decided my girls can spend this particular summer day watching a movie. Their survival might depend on it.

(5) A Growl a Day.

To make myself feel better about letting my girls be couch potatoes today, I decided to take them and the dog on a quick walk before starting the movie. They wanted to ride various wheeled conveyances: Lola Berry, a bike; Lady E, a scooter; Little T, a trik. "NO WAY!" I said. "We will get half way down the block, and you will get tired, and you'll want me to take your wheels, and I will have the dog, and NO WAY!"

we won't we promise we won't we promise we won't we promise

Please, please please please please please

mommie mommie mommie mommie mommie mommie mommie

You know I gave in to that onslaught. Fast forward, not far, just half way down the block, and two of them were standing next to their wheels and wailing. That's when I heard a gutteral shout: "Stay with your wheels and ride! That's the deal!" I didn't even know I could make myself sound like that.

It all worked out. We made it all the way around the block with wheels turning and people riding, and by half way through, Little T had stopped whining "But my legs are full!" She even raced me the last stretch to home.

(6) The Price

I've written about this hillside a couple of times before. The first time, back in April of 2008, the sign read 4,012. More than 2,000 U. S. soldiers have died since then. We should always know the price of war. Today, it's 6,175 priceless lives.

Actually it's much higher than that, because that number only counts American servicemen and women, not soldiers from any other country, not American contractors, not civilians, not enemies.

But for the 6,175 and counting, there is a hillside to always remind us.

(7) The Sun.

It's overcast here today, so we had to find our sun from another source:

Luckily, we only had to go as far as our back garden. Here's hoping everyone finds a little sunshine in their Friday.

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Please visit Conversion Diary for the original 7 Quick Takes and visit the links of other Quick Takers!

And thank you for stopping by. Feel free to step out of the anonymous shadows and post a comment.

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Why Information Is Good for Kids

image credit: www.cksinfo.com

My 12 year old son has discovered the movie Stand By Me. Classic, wonderful, fantastic movie, especially for teen boys. Granted, twelve is more tween than teen, but he is straining against that particular boundary with every ounce of his hormone-ravaged puberty-bound person.

So I let him watch that movie. It has since become his favorite of all time, and we've had some great conversations, about fathers and sons, about profanity, about friendship and cruelty, about story-telling, and more. Apparently, one of the words used in this movie is also a word he asked me the meaning of years ago. At the time and at his age -- maybe 8? -- it seemed entirely inappropriate to really answer his question, so I opted for the following: "Oh, that's another word for kitty-cat!"

Those of you familiar with the movie will surely remember Vern, the chubby kid who provided so many classic moments. ("That's easy. Pez. Cherry flavored Pez. No question about it.") Well, today in the car, Sam was telling more stories from the movie and he momentarily forgot Vern's name. I offered helpfully, "Oh, his name is Vern!"

Sam, right out there in front of his little sibs: "Right. But they all call him pussy!"

And that, my friends, is why kids need accurate information: so they don't grow up to teach their younger siblings that it's perfectly acceptable to go around calling people pussy.

Can you say BACKTRACK? I can!

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What Have You Done For Me Lately?

Mom: "I really need some tea, but I'm too tired to move, so I guess tea is not happening for me."

Dad: "That's what you have kids for."

Mom: "Right! Cenzo, will you put the heat on underneath the tea pot for me?"

Son: "Is that really why you had kids?"

Dad: "Well, if it is, then we are absolute failures, because you never help us do anything."

Word, daddy-o.

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It's been a red letter week at Lake Alatorre. I couldn't even write it if I tried. Actually, I wouldn't want to. This is a week I hope to leave behind, and one that had better result in a reduction in my overall Purgatory time. Good-bye week. May your ugly head never rear again, may your claws unclench forever, may you scurry away into the hole from whence you came. And may that hole be a black one, a swirling vortex that will swallow you whole and for all time.

OK, maybe it wasn't that bad, but still and anyway, I'm damn glad it's almost over.

How was yours?

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I Can Fool Some of Them Some of the Time

My "twins" spent two nights at my mom and dad's house this past weekend. No, I don't actually have twins, but we've started referring to Child Born 2nd and Child Born 3rd as The Twins because they are interested in the same activities, can play together for hours, and have similar temperaments. They have this sympatico thing going on.

So "The Twins" spent the weekend with my folks, where they learned a few things:

• If you compliment Poppa's BBQ-ed chicken, Grandma will decide to have him make some for dinner.
  
  
• The creek running along the property is just as much fun as Mom says it is.
  
  
• If you say how much you like going to the pub for lunch, Grandma will bring you there.
  
  
• Poppa looked like a little girl when he was a small child; there is photographic proof of this hanging in the upstairs bedroom.
  

But I learned something too. After they'd been back for a few hours, "The Twins" were talking about the Giants games they watched during their visit.

Lola: "I bet they lost today, too. They were losing when we left."

Cenzo: "Yeah, they lost when we watched last night! There were a lot of 's' words in the house during that game."

Me: "Oh, so Poppa was saying the 's' word a lot? Well, there were a lot of 's' words around when I was growing up, too."

Cenzo: "Then how come YOU don't use the 's' word now? And other letter words?"

BINGO! There is the kernel of truth I learned today. I hide my 's' words, and all my other letter words, well. Hallelujah!

Although it could be that he just can't hear me above the cacophony that is my household. Either way works for me.

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Paying it Forward

Picture three daughters sandwiched together on the back row of the minivan (hall of hell, is what I call it). Daughter A is walloping on Daughter B, who is stuck in the middle. Daughter B is getting upset, starting to whimper and protest.

Pan camera to the front of the car, where dad is driving and monitoring the situation through the rear view mirror. Mom is leaning her forehead against her hand, hoping the noise stops soon and knowing that it won't.

The fateful words from dad: "Don't let her do that to you, Daughter B. If you don't like being hit, hit back!"

Mom cringes, waiting for the inevitable epic fail this advice will yield.

Sure enough, a loud wail erupts from the back seat, adding to Daughter B's now continuous cries of distress.

Dad: "Don't hit Daughter C! Daughter A was the one hurting you, why did you slug Daughter C!?!?!?

* * *

I knew it would end badly. I just didn't know it would end up expanding outward to involve ever more family members.

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The scene fades as the minivan trundles down the highway to a soundtrack of wailing girls.

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Because I Can

I served brussel sprouts tonight.

This was received with a level of resistance that would impress most revolutionaries. I, however, am the Supreme Dictator, and the sprouts went down. Not before I uttered some interesting sentences, including:

"You cannot stand there with your mouth full of food! That's not how we roll! You have to swallow!"

"This is so good for you: learning to eat stuff you don't like! I'm so proud of you!"

"Not fair that she has two and you have three? You're right. I'll give her three."

They hate me. This gives me the glowing feeling of being sure I am doing something right.

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And the new normal is...

On the way home from school today, the girls asked me if we could go to a local bakery. I said no, we weren't going to stop anywhere, we were going to go home and have a nice normal evening.

A few minutes later, I told them what we were going to have for dinner and I mentioned that maybe we would even sit down and eat at the table for once. (Our dining room table is rarely empty enough for all of us to sit together at the same time...too much laundry, books, school papers, etc.) Lola piped up: "I thought you said tonight was going to be normal."

Snide little thing.

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Oh, and one kid threw up her brussel sprouts, so maybe that Supreme Dictator thing was a little premature. I'll have to refine my technique.

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It Must Be So Easy to Raise French Children

Today, I asked my three year old to put away her bowl and spoon.

"No" is what I got in return. That and these gems: "I'm not gonna." "La la-la la-la la, you can't make me." "I hate you." Lots of these responses came from an upside-down mouth, as she repeatedly stood on her head (on the couch cushions), and bounced up and down like a crazed squirrel.

There must be very few vocations that require as much on your feet creativity as parenting does: I had to work hard to come up with new and effective ways to get her to carry her bowl and spoon into the kitchen that did not involve using a choke hold, damaging my vocal chords, or promising her a pony.

It was not easy. 15 minutes of my life are now a foggy, misty blur because I sacrificed them to the intense concentration necessary to get what I wanted from her while avoiding the aforementioned prohibitions.

The bowl and spoon ended up where they belong, and I lost minutes off of my total life span for the grief and suffering I endured along the way. I have no memory of what finally did it, what wore her down.

* * *

Cut to dinner time. Once again, dishes needed to be cleared away. It so happened that I served dinner to my three girls (it was a ladies night at our house) with a French accent. The three of them thought this was pretty funny, and kept asking for "That French Guy." Apparently, I can do french, but it's a masculine french.

Anyway, I braced myself for the clean up resistance, also known as the Toddler Liberation Front. But the most amazing thing happened. I made my request in a french accent -- "Pleeeeeze, put zee deeshes away in zee keetchin, mon chere!" -- and the previously recalcitrant three year old complied with glee. She even asked me to ask her to put something else away!

So I guess I will have to get used to sounding like a french dude, if I am to ever get what I want from her. Might be a little strange in public, but if we skirt the whole tantrum thing and I get to keep some of those bonus minutes at the end of my life, I'm all over it.

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Things We Say

We took the kids to a local Summer Concert Series on Friday evening; the weather was lovely, the music was good, and the kids had a blast. They ran around with a pack of insta-friends, the kind only kids seem to be able to make.

At one point, I noticed both of my girls doing the "gotta go" dance while trying desperately to keep on playing. So off to the bathroom at the pizza place.

Once inside, my four year old decided she didn't have to go after all. This has got to be one of the most frustrating bits of parenting: getting a kid to pee when you know she has to and when she chooses that moment to assert a little pre-K control.

So what brilliant words of wisdom did I pull from my arsenal to get what I wanted? For your edification, I present what NOT to say in this situation: "Fine, Elizabeth. I know you have to go, and I'm not bringing you back here in 10 minutes when you realize how badly you have really have to go."

Yeah, that'll show her. Cause I'm sure when she's back to the gotta go dance, I'll just let her pee down her legs and leave her standing in a puddle, just to make my point. She'll learn her lesson then, won't she?

What compels a person to say something so ridiculous? Because really, all it will do is make me look less credible in the future, for issuing empty threats and inventing unenforceable consequences.

Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I was back in the bathroom with Elizabeth. She won.

It doesn't seem like it should be so hard to keep one's mouth shut when one is in danger of saying something extremely stupid. Apparently it is.

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In other news, the girls and I made cookies yesterday. When I cracked the egg into the bowl, Lola announced to her sisters that a raw egg is really a baby chick. I was a little concerned that this would be upsetting to them, especially since right after this piece of news, I turned on the electric mixer and the little baby chick got all mixed up. These girls are hearty: they immediately got these bright smiles on their faces, waved at the bowl, and said: "Bye-bye, baby chick! Bye-bye!"

Not one to abandon a small defenseless animal, Elizabeth announced that after we ate our cookies, we could rub our bellies and thereby take good care of the little baby chick.

A little weird, but compassionate none-the-less!

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