Happy Harmonica (a bit early)!

Last week at dinner one night, my growing kindergartner had an exceptional appetite.

As I watched him shovel in the chicken, I asked, “Did you get a snack at school today, bud?”

Through his mouthful he replied, “Yeah.  We had harmonica cookies.”

Now I’ve lived an interesting life and seen many things, but never a harmonica cookie.  So I bit.  “Um, what’s a harmonica cookie?”

He swallowed and said, straightfaced, “Jessie brought them in.  Jessie doesn’t celebrate Christmas.  She celebrates Harmonica.  They’re from Harmonica.”

He was so serious I could absolutely not crack a smile at how insanely cute it was.  I nodded my head and chewed real fast and thought I was in the clear until my little guy said, “What’s Harmonica?”

I sort of mumbled over the real word for the holiday so as not to embarrass my big kid as I explained that Jessie is Jewish and celebrates Hanukkah near the time we celebrate Christmas.  They were happy with that, since the topic of different religions is a bit too deep for them at this point.

Thank goodness we moved the conversation on to silly things.  But I think I freaked them out when I let it blow and laughed hysterically at a couple of sticky noodles.

 

 

Fun with Phonetics

I have a fantastic 6-year-old who’s learning how to read, so we’re all phonetics at my house these days.  I may be a word geek, but I’ve gotta say, it is a ton of fun to listen to and read with someone learning to read.

Today he drew a priceless picture of the a large bunny–which actually resembled a scary bobcat, but no matter–with these words next to it:  “Hepoi Estro.”  Lost?  Well, that said “Happy Easter.”  The bobcat bunny had a really large left paw, which my son pointed out to me, so in a word bubble he drew the words, “god podra.”  I held the picture away from my eyes and squinted like the sun was piercing my retinas and preventing me from reading the words until he said, “It says ‘good punch’ Mom!  See because his paw is so big, get it?” I said, “Of course I get it.  I just couldn’t see the letters because the sun was piercing my retinas.”  At which point he looked at me like I’m a flake and ran off.

He had a little friend over today and they sat for a bit making Easter cards for their parents, and the friend’s card was even better.  “Happi Ester Mom and Dad I love you and wer gon to bild a fir.”  Now, I’ve never built a fire on Easter, but that drawing of him and his family sitting around the pit with marshmallows on sticks was better than anything Picasso ever did.  Guaranteed.

R-ent kidds gr8?

Just an infant; now a Yellow Stripe Belt

I’m wondering where the hell the last 6 1/2 years of my life just went. 

I swear, about twenty minutes ago I was 30 and under the knife in the O.R., crying with joy as I heard the first infant cries of my oldest son when he was pulled from my body.

Today he tested out of his white belt in his karate class, counting from one to ten in Japanese all by his lonesome, and throwing out some pretty sweet knife hand punches and crescent kicks.  He walked away from his sensei after his test holding his brand spankin’ new yellow stripe belt out to me, his smile so huge I thought it would blow the roof off the place.  Plus, he got the “Student of the Day” sticker (probably because there were only two kids in this class this Spring Break week, including him, and the other kid got it on Monday).  Cue the crying, Mom.

I can see that I will be crying my way through my boys’ youths, but only partially because of the pride at the walking and the talking and the solo peeing and the staying out of jail (God willing). 

The rest of the tears will be shed because I’m tearing through my OWN youth.  When I was in my twenties, it felt like I would be in my twenties forever.  I lolligagged those years away like I had about 600 more of the same comin’ right up behind me.  I took for granted my silent knees (which now, three years from 4-0, crack like MoFos all day long), my perky boobs (which were so very pert, they were their own cheerleading squad), and my baby’s-butt-smooth face (now if I want to pat something silky, it is actually my real baby’s butt).

I feel like I’m in a time wormhole; you know, like in sci-fi movies.  And I’m starting to look as scary as the characters in those films–like that wacked-out chick in Star Wars episode whatever-it’s-numbered-now, that’s walking up this long flight of steps in a flowing white gown with a relatively hot body (minus the hot body) and these grotesque tentacles hanging off the sides of her head.  They used my head for that character mock-up.

Whatever.  I’m vain.  I just hope that my boy, when he maybe gets his black belt after like 8 years of karate classes, is still proud to walk over and show his old baggy mom his belt.  If he can find me under the tentacles.

6 Signs Your Family is Complete

1.  On your baby’s third birthday you post a sale ad on Craig’s List and have strangers traipsing into his bedroom and carrying out all his furniture for the next week (prompting lots of crying and shouts of, “Mommy!  She’s takin’ my wockin’ chair!”).

2.  You consider looking up the school superintendent’s home address after 5 snow day cancellations in two weeks so you can egg his house.

3.  Eight straight hours of sleep leaves you feeling “not quite rested.” 

4.  You’re walking home from a neighborhood festival with your family and you feel a sudden urge to sprint the rest of the way as fast as Maurice Greene (and you actually do) because you can no longer bear to shuffle along at 0.0000000006 mph.

5.  Your posture is so screwed up from carrying people inside and attached to your body that you feel like Tolkien used your likeness in creating The Hobbit.

6.  You’ve deleted the bookmarked baby naming websites from your favorites and replaced them with those of reputable cosmetic surgeons.

The English Inquisition

I thought I’d left behind the need for crack-of-dawn mental gymnastics when I left law school, and then again when I left the corporate world.

Isn’t one benefit of staying at home with children supposed to be that I don’t have to dig much past the skin of my forehead to function mentally until at least 10:00 a.m.?

Not at my house.  Here’s what I had to answer yesterday upon rising and before breakfast was swallowed.

Chip:  “Mom, what’s 100 plus 100 plus 50 plus 50?”

Mick:  “Hey, Mom.  Where are you?”

Chip:  “Mom, that’s 200 right?  Right?”

Mick: “Hey, Mom.  Is my food ready?”

Chip:  “Mom.  Was I wrong?  Is it really 300?”

Mick:  “Hey, Mom, where are you?  Are you peeing?”

Chip:  “Mommy, what’s 150 plus 80?”

Mick:  “Hey MOM!  Where’s my food?!”

Chip:  “Mom, are you as old as 150 plus 80?”

Mick:  “Hey, Mom, are you back?  I see you!”

Chip:  “Mom, if you were as old as 150 plus 40, you would be in heaven!  Right? Are you going to go to heaven?”

Mick: “Hey Mom, why do I only have two foods?”

Chip: “Mom, you’re not going to heaven for a long time, right?”

Mick: “Hey Mom, are you mad at me?”

Chip:  “Mommy, we’re going outside now, aren’t we?”

And then, we cleared the breakfast dishes, and went outside. 

A Tiny Obama Fan

I volunteered in my 6-year-old’s class today, The Day After, the day Hillary Clinton won Ohio’s Democratic primary over Barack Obama.  

I am an Obama fan.

So I’m sitting next to little Meredith, my son, and two other kids in the hall outside the kindergarten classroom, constructing a giant stuffed rainbow fish.  Meredith is cutting and drawing and thinking.  After looking pensive for a few moments, she looks at me and says, “So Kim, who did you vote for?”

I smile and say, “Well, Meredith, I voted for Obama.  I like him.”

Meredith stops working.  “Yeah, my sister [8 years old!] voted for him.  I think I’ll vote for him, too.”

As I nod, she gets a very serious look on her face and says, “I don’t like Hillary Clinton.”

Curious, I bite.  “Why not?  Don’t you think she seems like a nice lady?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.  I just think she doesn’t make very good decisions.”

Oh, baby girl!  If only her decisions were easy to make.  And if only everyone could be as fantastic as a 6-year-old.   

Hump Day Hilarity

These select highlights from today day never, ever happened, and never, ever would have happened before I had my sweet two children.

1.  A potty chair of full of pee sat next to my kitchen refrigerator for two hours before I had a chance to empty it (attributable to long-bathroom-renovation story).

2.  After my own tinkle time in my own real bathroom and the startling realization that I had no toilet paper nearby or even anywhere in the house, I had to wipe with the only soft thing within reach–a discarded, holey kid sock in the bathroom trash can.

3.  I put a half-eaten chicken nugget in my coat pocket and carried it around there all day.

4.  The millisecond that I opened my eyes this morning, I saw small children, a pink plastic pig and twenty dollars in quarters all spread out next to my face.

5.   I fantasized about working in a cubicle next to a loud talker who loudly clipped his thick toenails at lunchtime. (This person actually exists.  I used to work next to him).

All-time favorite quotes

These are some snippets from my kid-quote archive: 

–A lady at the library asked Chip his name when he was 2 1/2 years old.  He said, “Chip.  But my daddy calls me Buttabean.”

–Chip, 2 1/2:  “Mommy, you no have no penis.  Daddy have a penis.  I have a penis.  You have hair.  You have hair on yo butt.”

–Chip, ditto.  “Do clouds have faces?”

–Chip, doing puzzles with me on the coffee table at 2 1/2:  “What’s up with your work friends, Mom?” 

–Mickey age 2.  Keep in mind, he cannot say the “tr” combination, or hard “g.”  He says “Fractor,” ”fricycle,” and “fruck”– though he sometimes leaves the “r” out of “fruck.”  So he’s playing with some trucks on his old Fisher Price parking garage his daddy bought him on E-bay, and he drives his truck up to the gas station.  I’m reading a magazine on the couch next to him when I hear, “Mom, my f_ck needs some ass.”  My head spins around Exorcist-style and I stupidly ask, “What?!” and he repeats it.   It’s sidesplitting to hear a 2-year-old drop the F-bomb.  (I swear, he has never heard that word before, he just cannot say “tr” to save his life.)   

Quotes of the Day

1.  Chip (6) and Mickey (3) run around the basement like maniacs for 30 minutes playing tag, during which Mick gets 52 drinks of water.  Mick walks up to me, all seriousness, and says, “Mommy, my belly is full of water.  I feel it in there.  My heart is red.  But I think it’s gonna be pink in a minute.”

2.  Chip learns someone he loves is in the hospital for some quick tests because she felt sick.  He worries about the tests (for chest pains), and asks, “Can she go home after the tests?  What if she needs to get her bone fixed?”

3.  Chip asks me if he can play a video game, and I say no.  He protests.  I say, “You’re 6 years old.  You have the rest of your life to play video games.”  He yells at me, ”Then I’m never going to get to the next level!”

4.  Mick:  ”My heart is pink now, Mom.” 

5.  Chip falls off the coffee table, where he should not have been sitting, as we’re coloring. He knocks over a giant tub of crayons.  I give him a wary look, then say, “Can you pick up the crayons, please?”  He starts crying, saying through his sobs, “Mom!  You should have cared more about me! I hurt my arm!  All you care about is the crayons!”

6.  Best of all, these.  Mick’s very first words of the day:  “You’re the best mommy.  I love you, Mommy.”  Chip, as he’s trotting down the driveway to the bus this morning, ”I love you!  I’ll miss you!  Stay at the door!  I’ll wave to you when I get on the bus!”  (Who was crying all morning?  You guessed it.)   

Rise and Shine

I woke this morning with a little finger up my nose.

It wasn’t mine.

Funny, because I was just bragging to someone this weekend that Mickey’s the wonderful sleeper of our two kids.  We ruined Chip, rocking him to sleep until he was five and still lying with him in his bed every night until he falls asleep.  It’s completely normal to be followed around in the night by Chip, wanting to get in bed with us and cuddle since we’ve conditioned him for it.  We made our bed, and now he’s in it with us.

But Mickey was the One.  He was the Chosen Sleeper.  We tossed that kid into his crib to sleep when he was about a minute old, afraid of another one gone to the Dark Side of Bedtime.

I fear the dream has died.  This morning, when the newspaper carrier’s thumping car stereo bass woke me at 5 a.m., I heard tiny feet padding down the hall toward me.  It was Mick–not three feet tall, crazy long hair standing on end, wet thumb hanging out of his mouth, mid-suck.

He looked too adorably pathetic not to let in.  I threw back the covers and let him join the rest of us.  Then the sucking subsided and his thumb fell out of his mouth and he was fast asleep.  I stayed there listening to all the slurping and sighing and sniffing morning breath until I could no longer stand trying to get comfortable on the balance-beam slice of mattress they all left me.

It didn’t take long. Two hours of it was all I could take….