Saturday, November 26, 2016

apology not accepted

In the car last night, Babs said something fairly rude to the Boy. While the parents and Babs tried to settle whether she knew how rude she was, why she should have not said that and the like, he continued to babble and sing happily in his seat, obviously not bothered at all.

But we were bothered (and Babs was too, I don't think she realized how much we would not approve), so I told her to at least apologize. She got an "I'm sorry" out through her tears.

Despite his own conversation, the boy was obviously paying attention, because the minute she choked out her apology he yelled "BIG GIRL VOICE!" repeating a common refrain around the house, "stop talking like a baby and use your big girl/big boy voice."

Luckily it was dark, and the children couldn't see the parents almost cracking up in the front seat from his reply. We explained that she had used her big girl voice and tried to move on.

Friday, November 18, 2016

to care, or not to care

Tuesday morning was rough. I was trying to volunteer at a before-school reading program (chessie), which meant we needed to leave the house 10 minutes earlier than usual. I moved the routine up 10 minutes, but somehow, that was not enough.

One child in particular had her own agenda, and we did not leave on time. After I had dropped off the boy, we were driving to school. I told the girls this was "not okay." That if they wanted me to help sometimes in the morning (which they do), they needed to help us leave on time. They needed to get dressed quickly. They needed to do what I asked, and not continually say "let me do this first."

"But I'll forget," Babs pointed out. "I have a terrible memory."

"That's not true," I countered. "You have an amazing memory for things you care about."

"Yeah, and I don't care about this," she replied.

Yeah, I know.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Ah Tuesdays...

Babs takes martial arts classes. She loves them. My husband takes martial arts classes. He loves them (and they are oh so good for him). Kiddo attends activity day events (in the evening). She loves it. And Tuesdays (luckily only twice a month) these all collide.

It's a complicated schedule. Dinner is precisely at 5, so Babs can eat and be settled and ready to go by 6. She and Daddy then leave. Around 6:15 I take Kiddo to a friend's house who will then take her to their activity a little later. Babs gets home just before 7, and we hang out until Daddy leaves for his class. Then we hang out a little more until just before 8 when we head off to pick up Kiddo, and her friend (and her brother), from their activity so everyone can come home.

It sounds benign, but here is the secret. The boy cannot stay up late. He gets tired, then oh so wired and hyper, and uncooperative. It is fairly miserable. But we all take turns sacrificing for each other in a family. So every other Tuesday, he sacrifices his bedtime.

Two activities ago, it was a week or two before Halloween, and as we drove home the older kids decided to entertain themselves by telling (not very) spooky stories. (But plenty spooky for them.) Ever observant, the boy felt the need to participate. And so he kept trying to tell a story after the other two kids were dropped off, and he could finally get a word in edgewise.

Babs decided it was too spooky, and kept asking him to stop telling it. He wouldn't stop. She asked, begged, pleaded, cried, and he kept doggedly starting again. Finally I snapped at him, "Stop scaring [Babs]! Don't tell the story!"

"I not scaring Babs!" he replied, "I scaring Kiddo!"


(Here is his story, or at least all that we heard, "This is a spooky story!")

Sunday, November 6, 2016

in his nose

The boy has had a runny nose for days, which means sometimes we spend of a lot of time cleaning it out. After a particularly long session the other day, I finally announced that his nose way clean, and all his boogers were out!

"Now I can have grown-up boogers!" he announced with joy. Just like grown-up teeth, except not...

Friday, November 4, 2016

civic duty

My boy and I participated in early voting yesterday. We stood in line for about an hour to do it. That was pretty bad, but I figured it was better than standing in line for over an hour with three kids on Tuesday.

He was so patient. I held him some. He stood some. We were silly sometimes, and sometimes still. But he just patiently waited and waited.

Until we got inside the library (where early voting takes place) and he realized we were not going in, but heading off to some strange room. Then he was done. (I believe he thought the whole time we were waiting to go to the library, and it was worth the wait. That's impressive.)

"I not want to bote!" he complained. I assured him we were almost done, and then we would go into the library. When they told me I could finally start the check-in process I was thrilled, until I realized he had collapsed on the floor in protest of this further delay.

I scooped him up, then checked-in, then got my ballot, and found my booth. In my excitement to be finished, I almost marked the wrong candidate! But I didn't. I voted. I scanned my vote, and finally (!) we headed to the truck books.

Saturday, October 29, 2016

yellow (a memory)

There are moments of my children's lives that are still with me years later, but I can't be sure they always will, so as I remember, I'm trying to write them down.

Babs was about two, and we were sitting in church. No two year old is easy to keep quiet-ish in sacrament meeting, and she was no exception. So anything that would buy us a few moments was fair game.

She had a yellow crayon, and started to color on my face. I figured that had to be fairly harmless, everyone knows you can't color on yourself. It kept her busy for quite a while.

When we sang the closing hymn I turned to my husband and asked, "Is my face yellow?" because, well, what if you could color your skin with a crayon? At first he shook his head, thinking my question didn't make sense (it didn't), then his eyes grew wide, and he said "Yes."

Apparently if your face is oily, as mine is, you can color on your skin.

I'm glad she chose yellow, and I'm equally glad it wiped right off.

gentlemen prefer blonds

This is my girl Babs. As you can see she has super long straight blond hair. Every one comments on it. Last year when someone said "your hair is so long!" she replied "Everybody tells me that." This year she has moved on to "I know." (But really, what is the right response to that comment?)

A few weeks ago, I was at a parents' meeting at the school, and figured out that the lady sitting next to me had a little boy in Babs' class. He actually sits across from her. (The conversation, always, goes something like this: me: "Oh, your child is in Ms. C's class? What is their name?" other: "blah-blah, and who is your child?" "Babs." "Oh! we hear so much about her." All the parents know of her.)

"I think your daughter is the reason I have blond highlights," this mother (of middle eastern descent) tells me.

What?

Apparently her boy has told her all about Babs, and also begged her to get blond hair. He promised to not need anything else in life, no toys, no games, just he needed his mom to have blond hair. After explaining to him that her hair wouldn't do blond, and much more pleading, the father just told her to get highlights. And so now she's (partially) blond, because of my daughter.

(While this story cracks me up, I have not told my daughter. There is just too much she wouldn't understand. I'll tell her later. Much later.