Of trash and treasures

Last week, I decided to tackle a much-needed project in our house.

Specifically, a project that involved the place where the little people in our house live.

A place where I spent four and a half hours of my time, and uttered more than a few four-letter words.

I tried to let it be. I have ignored these spaces for as long as possible. Plugged my ears, closed my eyes, and sang, "la la la la la la" when walking past those rooms. I wanted to let them have a measure of control over their own lives, and learn the responsibility of cleaning up after themselves. But when I feared the board of health would quite possibly condemn us (and cart me off to bad mother prison), I knew action had to be taken.

I had to do this while they are at school because I don't like it when they sob, whine, and plead as I toss all their beloved treasures junk into the trash.

And you better believe there was a lot of junk.

Like three garbage bags full.

Is it a commentary on society today that children own enough things that you can fill three garbage bags full of stuff and they'll never miss it? Or is it a commentary on the state of my parenting that I overcompensate by filling their little souls with cheap plastic crap from Target instead of love?

Don't answer that.

Now, the thing is, I took some 'before' pictures to show you the great change, but they were SO BAD that I am unable to post them. Pride will not allow me to let you in on the sorry state of those spaces before I got my hands on them. So without further adieu, and for your viewing pleasure, I give you the 'afters':




Here's hoping they stay looking like this for, I don't know, at least an hour or two.

Now excuse me, I've got to run to Target and buy some more of my children's love cheap plastic crap.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Rules to live by: Pinewood derby version

As the mother of two sons and sister to four brothers, I have had to endure the pleasure of participating in countless Pinewood Derby races thus far in my relatively young life.

(Yet another thing I am really hoping guarantees my admittance through those blasted pearly gates. I definitely need all the help I can get.)

I have learned quite a lot in observing these races, and I thought I'd impart some of my wisdom for you here, hoping to help any first-time derby moms about to embark on this most memorable of adventures.


Rule one: You must start nagging your husband about building the car at least two months in advance. Husbands really like that. Better yet, recruit your cub scout for the job. Nothing lights a fire under a man like his child asking every three minutes, "Can we build it yet? Can we build it yet?" It will still not be started until the Saturday before the race, but can you imagine what would happen if you didn't nag? The thing might still be sitting in the box come race day.

Rule two: You must be a backseat builder during the actual process. It's a special treat for your husband to have you second-guessing the design, cutting, sanding, and use of tools. Especially when you don't actually know the names of most of the tools. He will look at you periodically with what you can only assume is extreme love, and you will know your work there is done.

Rule three: Before race day, prepare your cub scout for the possibility of losing every single race. Add to this by reminding him how badly the other boys (who are his friends) want to win. That way, if he does happen to win a few races, he's so surprised and thrilled that he will promise to never ask you for anything ever again in his whole life. Video tape this, if possible, and show it to him Christmas morning when he stares at his empty stocking with dismay.


Rule four: When your son's car is going down the track for the first time, pray like you've never prayed before. Pray that he doesn't come in first, and pray that he doesn't come in last. For, if you win first, second, or third place? You get to spend another extra Saturday racing against other boys at the district level. NO ONE wants to do more than one Pinewood Derby race in a year. No one. (Except your son. But we're not counting his vote here)

Rule five: Try not to laugh at your now-too-old-to-compete son when he sits back ever so coolly with his friends and adds commentary on the cars. Remind him that he's only been a man now for about a month.


Rule six: Wake your husband up periodically or take away his Crackberry so he can be sure that he's part of the fun.

Rule seven: Send the little sister of the family off to play with the other little sisters in the nursery. It's really what's best for everyone. Little sisters like to hang upside down on their chair, as they whine and moan, asking every three seconds, "HOW MUCH LONGER?"

Rule eight: Bring enough treats to feed an army for after the race. Cub scouts have stomachs the size of large SUVs and somehow never get full. You can feel good knowing that other people's kids are eating your cookies instead of yourself. Just be sure to police your own children. Otherwise, you have to ride home with them all hopped up on brownies and sugar cookies. That's never a pleasant ride.

Rule nine: Congratulate your son on his good sportsmanship, be secretly thankful he didn't win, and pat your husband on the back for a job well done.

Rule ten: Celebrate that you now have 364 days before you have to do this all over again.

Where's the superhero fashion police when we need them?

Has it really been a week since I've posted?

Gasp.

Last week, I felt absolutely bombarded from all directions. I had school events, baseball, cub scouts, tae kwan do, ballet, book club, doctor's appointments, carpools, grocery shopping, errands, and much, much more.

All on a week that I was forbidden from eating any dessert.

It's no wonder something had to give, right? That something, unfortunately, was this little blog. I didn't get to read your blogs and I definitely was not writing here.

My apologies to the one person who actually reads this drivel every day. (Hi, Oma!)

But I feel a little more on my feet this week, somehow dropped a few pounds (thanks to the self-imposed Lent), and am feeling ready to conquer life once again.

But before I fill you in on the fantabulous events of our ever-exciting lives, I must leave you with a little something special that makes me fall over with fits of giggles every time I see it.

But first, please go back and take a look at this.

Well, it has recently made a comeback into our lives, and I must say, the growth Spiderman has occurred since May of 2008 is remarkable, as evidenced by the disturbingly tight extra form-fitting spidey suit.

Spidey was unable to button the suit in the back this year. I am thinking that is a good indication that it is BEYOND fit to wear.

Spidey would tell you differently.


In fact, if I were to allow it, this suit would be seen by grocery store clerks and the good people of Missouri everywhere.

Lucky for all of them, I do not allow it.

Because what you cannot see in these pictures is the suit from the back. And on the back? There is definitely a lot of crack going on. And crack is always going to be VERY BAD in a Spidey suit.

It's true what they say: Crack is whack.

Spidey is matched only in fierceness by Super Girl and her scary jack-o-lantern teeth.



These are two tough peeps that should never be crossed.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

So stay tuned for the exciting events of our weekend, tales from the Pinewood Derby, and maybe (if you're lucky) a recipe to fatten you all up.

Because I really haven't done that in a while and I'd say it's definitely time.

Prisoners of my disease

To my three babies,

In light of a certain situation that took place this afternoon, I feel compelled to issue you a public apology and a pledge, from the bottom of my heart, to be better.

You see, in case you didn't know it by now, your mama has a touch of the OCD. And because I automatically know that Hannah's next question will be, "What is OCD?", I will tell you. OCD, loosely translated, means I am incapable of dealing with messes in our home -- in any way, shape, or form.

This is not your fault.

It is mine. Some may call it a disease; while others look at it with envy and wish they had it, too. But for me, it is the core essential of what makes me who I am.

However, from this day forward, I will try harder to let the natural children inside of you be allowed to come out and play. I will not roll my eyes and exhale my breath loudly when you go outside and the fresh grass clippings cling to your tiny feet.

I will be glad you are playing freely in the fresh air, instead of moaning at the mess I have to clean up.

I will be more understanding of your so-called "leaf collections," and admire your profound interest in nature. Even when I find pieces of them all over the carpet upstairs.

I will realize that most people (your father included) don't spend hours a day thinking about magic erasers and mop kits. Or get excited about new ways to organize closets, or search for ways to make laundry more efficient.

And I definitely will not yell at you for playing chef in my kitchen (especially if you asked me first), even when you break the garbage disposal while dumping your creation down the sink. Yes, you snuck a fast one in there because you asked me in the middle of my Sunday afternoon nap.

And we all know that I'll pretty much say yes to anything when I'm half asleep.

But I promise to try and not complain when you return inside with flushed cheeks and happy hearts, even when I look down to see all the mud you have brought in with you. Because you know what? I love you more than my clean floors.

And that, my darling babies, is really saying something.

Love,

Mama

Help, I'm raising a giant pack of nerds

(Nerds one and two: Expanding their vast stores of knowledge at a museum)

(Nerd three: Doing what she does best, looking pretty)

It is a truth universally acknowledged: Anyone who has ever foolishly thought they were once cool, must raise at least one nerd.

I'm raising three of them.

Here's where it all began. The school had a traveling science fair come and visit the third grade. This prompted my third grader to come home begging to have a family science fair. I mumbled my usual, "Yeah, sure, whatever," a remark that I reserve solely for things that bring them great joy, require no effort on my part, and probably won't make too big of a mess.

All yesterday afternoon, Chase helped Hannah work on her entry for the family science fair. [Yeah, just writing that makes me feel like a big, fat nerd.] Here we see her completed entry on the life cycle of a rabbit:

And because it's just too good to miss, let me break it all down for you. First, the rabbit is born (or bron, as Hannah likes to spell it). I like that the baby rabbit is actually wearing a diaper and seems to be locked in some sort of cage, while the mother sits outside with a smile on her face.

Now we know why rabbits have so many babies, don't we?

Then we have childhood. Which consists mainly of playgrounds, slides, and large lolly pops. Although, I am really hoping the jumbo-sized rabbit on the end of the see-saw is not meant to be me. She seems to have a bit of a weight problem when compared to the other bunnies.

And I can't help but worry about the bunny on top of the see-saw, and how he seems stuck in the air, waiting interminably for Chubby Stie the big boned rabbit to get off the see-saw.


Childhood is promptly followed by the phase of life known as, "adult." Here, we see that adults type on computers and wear ties. I am assuming they are sitting on chairs, even though one of the chairs does slightly resemble a toilet.

I'd like to point out that no one in this house ever sits on the toilet with a laptop, unlike some people allegedly have been known to do.

Once you've completed the adult phase, it is time to mate.

After she finished this poster, she came and asked me what it means to mate. I told her it means you get to hold hands with a boy, on your first date, when you turn 27.

She seemed to believe me.

After you mate, there is only one step left in life: Death.

And I must say, it doesn't look pretty. Death by rabid dog/wolf cannot be a pleasant way to go. Although, if you'll notice, both rabbits appear to have smiles on their faces. Interesting...

Nerd number two (aka, Chase) has just started his own entry. He brought a book home from the library and told me his project was on the human body.

He writes: "Here is a human. He, as we can see, can't see inside him."

That's all he's got so far. I can't wait to see the rest of it, which, I have no doubt, will be anatomically correct.

Nerd number one (McKay) is still tossing around ideas for his special project.

Looks like a very educational week, indeed.

Is it wrong that I sort of want to give them all wedgies and steal their lunch money?

In which his words come back to haunt him, beat him, and kick him where it counts

Today we were driving to church, and the familiar banter between siblings filled the air. Elbows were dug jovially into rib cages. Treasures were held out just slightly farther than little hands could reach. Shoving ensued, and was promptly followed by the unavoidable, yet completely annoying, tattle.

"MMMOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!"

All this before we were even out of our neighborhood.

So, in an attempt to find a little peace in my heart on the sabbath, I put on a CD, and declared that the car was now a talking-free zone. The Husband raised his eyebrows quizzically when the opening number of Joseph filled the air.

I shrugged my shoulders, and proceeded to lose myself in Donny's melodic, "Any Dream Will Do."

Then, in a flash of brilliance, I announced that we would be watching Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat tonight for family night.

Groans immediately filled the air.

[And they all came from the Husband.]

His protests were naturally matched by those of his boys. I was preparing to dig in my heels for battle, when suddenly, from the back seat, a tiny little girl voice spoke up.

"But, Dad, aren't we supposed to be flexible and try new things?"

His very words to them less than 12 hours before, when a plate of foreign-looking food was placed in front of them, had now come back to haunt him. I smiled sweetly, awaiting his reply.

I'm pretty sure that grunt and roll of the eyes was his surrender.

And so tonight we all watched Joseph. Two of us loved it; three of us didn't. Any guesses who loved it?

Although, how anyone could not love this is beyond me:



[Note to self: Must stop posting pictures of half-nekkid men on the blog. Eh, maybe tomorrow. This is just too delicious. And it's about the Bible, after all. How wrong can that be?]