Things You Don't Want To Hear Your Three Year Old Say

1.  Hey, Dad, can I play Halo?

2.  YO!  Get at me, dog!

3.  Well, I just killed Anna.

4.  You're driving me ridiculous!

5.  Uncle Mark killed me last night.

6.  Is this the part where we eat Jesus?  (During communion at church).

7.  I need a beer!  (said on a field trip where we dropped Grandpa off at the brewery, where he threw himself prostrate on the sidewalk after hearing NO.  Gianni, not Grandpa).

8.  I'm A Littlest Pet Shop.  The reason you don't want to hear him say this ?  Try saying it out loud with a toddler type accent.  What'd you say?  You're a little p#%^&%*ed off??

Post Script

I TELL YOU ROTTEN READERS I HIT A DEER AND NO ONE BOTHERS TO COMMENT AND MAKE SURE I'M ALIVE???????

HELLO?

ANYONE THERE?

I'M GOING ON A BLOGGING STRIKE UNTIL I GET SOME LOVE AND AFFECTION AND SOME HEARTFELT SYMPATHY AND CONCERN FOR MY WELLBEING.

HUMPH.
HUMBUG.

AND I'M FINE, THANKS FOR ASKING, YOU SLUGS.

FEELING IGNORED HERE IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL!!  (AND IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL, THAT'S WHY I USED TWO EXCLAMATION POINTS.  AND THE CAPS LOCK IS ON.  FOR EMPHASIS).

stuff and nonsense

I don't know why deer season is such a big deal.  Spending all that money on the guns, the licenses, the gear, the camo pants, the sasquatch urine or whatever it is you spray on yourself to attract a deer, the waiting, the watching, the anticipation, the freezing cold temperatures... When all you really need to do is drive my country roads at night in a 15 passenger van.

Couldn't be easier.

Probably could be less messy.

And traumatic.

Both for the deer and for the passengers who shrieked like little girls.  OK, on reflection, that might've been me.

Time for Turkey Day and I do so hope you all have a lovely one.  We're having all the traditional gobs of food here at the Children's Home, just like at your house, only all our recipes will be tripled.  Our dining room table already sags on the ends, like a droopy tired old mustache, and it's really gonna be huffin and puffin under all the weight tomorrow.  But Gen * I wail * where will I get our traditional Vat O' Mashed Taters without you???  And Mommy, who will I complain to when I have to stir the gravy???  And Lary, who will pour me a glass of wine as we snitch all the clam dip???  Not that I drink wine.  Cuz I'm Baptist.  I meant to say ginger ale.  Ahem.

If I was a better blog writer I would have filled this Thanksgiving post with all the things I'm thankful for, counting down each day, filling you all with hope and cheer and peace on earth, goodwill to men, falalala, and warm fuzzies.  But I kinda forgot, and I've been kinda busy, and I know you have too, so suffice to say:

I AM THANKFUL FOR YOU ALL.

Those who read occasionally.
Those who read faithfully.
Those who stumble across it because they hit a typo on their keyboard.
Those who call to make sure I'm OK when I write something a little sad.
Those who send me impatient emails when it's been too long and want to make sure I didn't die a tragic death.
Those who say I should write a book (insane people are lovable).
Those who leave comments.
(I love you most of all).
Those who follow, even though something in my computer is blocking that part on my end so I can no longer see your cutie pie faces.

Happy Thanksgiving, my little fruitcakes!

P.S.

There's a pesky fire law that says I can't have a REAL Christmas tree in the Children's Home.  Pfffft.  Pshaw.  Stoopid rools, says I.  So in lieu of writing about our annual Christmas tree hunt and all the adventure that prevails like I do every year, I guess I'll just re post an old one later in the week. 

As I sit dejectedly by my PLASTIC tree...sadly spraying Pine scented air freshener...NOT drinking wine.
Sniffle.

I like to think the reason my "followers" button is not working properly is because I suddenly have 700 followers and blogger can't keep up.

That's all I have to say about that.

Viewer Discretion is Advised

No,no, this post will not be about anything naughty.  Get your minds outta the gutter, folks, for goodness sake.  No, it's simply about the Big Guy.  The Jolly Elf.  The Man in the Red Suit.

And the only reason viewer discretion is advised, is just in case some little eight year old is reading my blog.  Which is highly unlikely.  But far me it from me to dash their childhood dreams.

How much do I love this guy?
Quite a lot.

Every year some well meaning, but totally irritating child tells my children (who also can be well meaning and totally irritating) that there is no Santa.

They never believe the child.

Cora is ten.  She still believes.  I love that kid.

 Incidently, I also love this print.

The only difficult thing about Santa is the gifts.  According to Anna:

'Don't worry about the cost of what I'm asking for Mom, Santa has it covered!'

Amazingly, they've never asked for a pony or a jet.

But they've come dangerously close this year.

Anna wants an American Girl doll.

Somebody please kill me.

Do you even know what those dang things cost?

I could find a cheaper pony.  Still have my feelers out for a less expensive jet.

Also hoping she will do something terribly naughty so I can just fill her stocking with cheap coal.

And here's the other kicker:  in order to PROVE beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a Santa, Cora has decided to let no one - and I do mean no one - know what she wants for Christmas.  The letter will be written, she will walk it to the mailbox herself, and she will wait until the designated postal service worker drives up, and personally hand it to her, so that NO ONE can tamper with it.

Crappity crap crap.

Pardon my french.

I now have to follow the postal worker to retrieve the envelope and plead for it back, which is most likely a federal offense.  Then I will be taken to court where hopefully a nice lawyer and his girlfriend and Natalie Wood will all be there for me, cheering me on, and where we can all prove together that there is a Santa Claus. 

Now don't start telling me how you were right in not ever telling your kids there was a Santa to begin with.   Tawni, hush up and go light your menorah.  I still freakin' love Santa.  Love the trees, love the lights, love the presents, love the cranberry sauce and the holiday music and the birthday cake for 6 pound 8 ounce baby Jesus.  Love every holiday movie ever made.  Quote em all year round.  Love everything Santa stands for...but I may be up a creek this year.
And how.

Will they be devastated to learn the truth?  And will that inevitable day be this year?  I wanna cry at the thought.   I remember the year when the girls were about seven and six and we slept Christmas Eve at the High House.  Andy Kohler helped us play the jolly elf and marched around the deck in his heavy boots, ringing sleigh bells.  Oh my heart.  The girls were so enchanted and DESPERATE to get to sleep.  It was adorable.  And stumbling out each Christmas morning, rubbing their eyes, heading over to the glow of the tree, ready to see what Santa brought down the chimney?  Oh my.  Nothing better. 

Please, baby Jesus, let it last one more year before they grow up on me and elope with a gang of tatted up bikers.

Amen.

MORE Favorite Things and Other Randomness...Randomnesses? Randomi?

1.  I want to be Julie Andrews.  The kids are watching Mary Poppins.  Last week I watched the Oprah with the Sound of Music reunion...I think I busted a tear duct while crying.  I also watched an episode of The Walton's that day.  Again, tear ducts overworked.  Seriously.  Julie Andrews rocks.  If I can't be Julie Andrews I want to be Angela Lansbury.  And those stinkin' cute Disney kids from way back when?  Be still my heart.  I could eat them up.


2.  I have to stop blogging now so I can go look up what happened to all those kids on IMBD.  Goodbye for now.


3.  Is there a way to trade my little trolls for 1950s Disney actors?

Because I can sing "Feed the Birds" to this guy and he doesn't drift gently off to sleep.


And he won't wear jaunty little caps.


And -


oh alright.  I'll keep him.  But if I find a Disney boy look alike roaming the streets, I'm snatching him.






4.  The holiday music channels are up on Direct TV!  Unless it's not Direct TV I have... I forget.  What's the other one?  Dish Network?  I think that's the one.  Anyway, there's several to choose from and it makes me very, very content.  Please pass the eggnog.

4.  This here is how we do a little campfire/wienie roast in Michigan! 


Note the proximity of the propane tank.
Ahem.


Your children are safe with me.
I am a professional mom.
Truly.








5.  I think it may be a sad state of affairs of my stress level if when I catch myself singing the "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog" song from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, that I misinterpret the words.  After careful consideration of the lyrics, I do believe they say 'it's a brand new day, get your problems solved!'  NOT  'It's a brand new day, let your problems start!'


At least I was singing it cheerfully.




6.  If you run out of creamer for your coffee, sweetened condensed milk makes an oh-so yummers substitute.  However, at 4 billion calories a spoonful, you probably shouldn't snarf the remainder of the can.  Helpful hints from me to you.  Your love handles will thank me; in fact, I can hear them now.


7.  I got a blog award from this sweet gal which so totally made my day because now I know I have five whole readers instead of four.  Thanks, Sami!  And now, in true blogging fashion, I am passing it on.  Check out our mutual pal in fact, here.  She spunky, she's DISGUSTINGLY photogenic, she has six boys (and all of dem she done birthed herself), she has excellent fashion sense, she drinks a lot of coffee, she homeschools, she has feet that are my feet's twins separated at birth which we sadly only discovered after I moved so we didn't get to share our Flintstone shoe collection with each other, she, in short, rocks.  Check her out.   But don't like, get to love her more and leave me behind, I don't need the rejection, OK?  OK.  It'd be difficult to continue my co-dependent relationship with y'all if you aren't here.  Just sayin'.


8.  I'm very excited to watch the country music awards tonight.  I am so grabbing the remote right outta these rotten teenager's sweet little angel's paws, settling down with some snacks, and pretending to rock out with Martina McBride.  I am from the West.  This is the East.  They call it the Mid-West, but they're all delusional here.  I'm gettin my cowgirl on and how!  Actually, I did get the boys completely hooked on the Zac Brown Band's version of Devil Went Down to Georgia.  Even my inner city kids can get down with some serious guitar picking.


9.  They now make Gain dishwashing liquid and Febreeze.  I may have died and gone to heaven.  Except I haven't bought any yet.  But after I buy some, I may die and go to heaven. 


10.  You're still reading?  Really?  I love you five.

Kids Say the Oddest Things

Some of these have been blogged about before, but there's nothing wrong with a little rerun!




1.  I can't believe I had to hiss the words last Sunday,  'Gianni, we do NOT shoot people in church!'


2.  A couple weeks ago the absolute funniest thing happened.  I don't know if explaining it can give it justice, but let me tell you, those who were there were wiping tears of mirth for quite a bit afterwards.  Sitting outside I casually mentioned the sun going down.  Gianni starts racing across the field as fast as his short little legs will carry him, hollering, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!'  Abruptly, he stops, drops his head in the most dejected fashion you can possibly imagine, and begins to trudge back to us.  With tears in his eyes, he reaches my side, and whispers, 'I couldn't stop it, Mom....I just couldn't stop it.'


3.  When Anna was about three she went walking with Daddy.  'Man,' he said, 'Isn't it a beautiful day?  Smell that fresh air!'  She obediently sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and replied,  'Smells like my boogers.'


4.  While waiting at a stoplight when the girls were around the ages of 3 and 4, a group of goth teens in black trenchcoats walked by.  They were all in black and their long coats were whipping in the wind.  'Heros!' shouts Cora,  'Mommy, look at the heros!!'


5.  While grocery shopping one day Cora marched up to a very tatted up individual.  'When I do that,'  she informed him,  'My mommy takes away my markers.'


6.  After watching the kid's classic movie, E.T., Anna at the age of seven said she hated it.  Too sad?  Nope.  But when things die 'they really REALLY need to stay dead.  Who shows movies to kids of things coming back to life? That's just really creepy, Mom.'


7.  Mike used to tell the girls he was going to drop the hammer, in a teasing way of course.  Until one day while being pushed in a shopping cart, Cora yelled at the top of her lungs, 'No Daddy, NO!  Don't hit us with the hammer again!'


8.  One night Cora and Anna really wanted to sleep with Mommy.  They begged, they cajoled, they weaseled.  Finally, Mommy appealed to their sympathys.  'You two have each other,'  Mommy said,  'If you are both in bed with me, then Daddy will be alone and will be so sad!'  'No, he won't' they answered smugly, 'God is with him.'


9.  Cora informed Anna quite rudely one day that it was unlikely she could ever grow up to be a princess.  'Fine,'  Anna shot back,  'Then I'll go with my other choice and grow up to be a monkey!'


10.  Cora won't sit through a romantic movie, no matter how kid friendly.  After watching most, but not all, of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, I tried to tell her she should stay for the ending because maybe it wouldn't be what she expected.  'Yeah, Mom, I'm pretty sure I can figure it out without actually having to sit through it,' she replied.


11.   Watching movies in a group home with nine kids, most of whom are from the inner city, can be an adventure.  While watching LadyHawke, in a particularly quiet moment, one of the teens suddenly shouted, 'Look out, LadyHawke, you're about to get shivved!'


12.  Anna is quite possibly, the world's most stubborn person.  While being forced to try one tiny bite of spinach one night, she sat at that table for hours.  Finally, after the holidays had come and gone and my hair had turned white with age and I had several new grandchildren, she ate one nibble.  'Hey, Mom!'  she yelled across the room,  'Good news!  This isn't NEARLY as disgusting as it looks!'


13.  When Gramma told Anna to say the magic words 'pretty please with sugar on top,' Anna oblidged.  When given what she had asked for, Anna yelled, 'Hey!!!  Where's the sugar?'


14.  An overheard conversation between a six year old Cora and a four year old Anna: 
Cora:  You know God gave everyone different gifts, don't you?
Anna:  Yep.
Cora:  I don't know what mine is though.
Anna:  Mine is biting my toenails.
Cora:  Yeah!  That's such a great gift...(sighs)  I wish that was my gift from God, but it's only yours cuz you're special...


Isn't she though?!

Spooky Mommy Guilt

III hII have this constant companion.


It lurks.


It stalks.


It hides in shadows...


waiting for me to mess up.


It doesn't wait long.


Then - 
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll.  It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.


It's my Mommy Guilt.


I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.


I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.


In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses).  Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.


Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.


But anyway.  When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt.  It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.  


You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.


Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?


Were they making this up as they went along?


Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?


Did they?


Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?


And will our children do/say/feel this way too?


Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?


Working moms feel guilty about working.  Stay at home moms feel judged for not working.  Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child.  Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing.  Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling.  Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them.  We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided.  Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.


I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List.  Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind.  But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer. 
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive.  The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.  


I feel guilty for feeling guilty.


Maybe I just need chocolate.


There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.




















this post is linked up with Emily at ave t

This phis constant companion.


It lurks.


It stalks.


It hides in shadows...


waiting for me to mess up.


It doesn't wait long.


Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll.  It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.


It's my Mommy Guilt.


I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.


I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.


In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses).  Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.


Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.


But anyway.  When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt.  It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in. 


You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.


Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?


Were they making this up as they went along?


Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?


Did they?


Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?


And will our children do/say/feel this way too?


Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?


Working moms feel guilty about working.  Stay at home moms feel judged for not working.  Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child.  Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing.  Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling.  Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them.  We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided.  Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.


I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List.  Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind.  But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer. 
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive.  The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt. 


I feel guilty for feeling guilty.


Maybe I just need chocolate.


There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.