Moose balancing my checkbook for me.  And looking cuter than a button in Mommy's glasses.

                        You can't see him very well, but this is the latest capture of the amphibian sort.

If you ask Moose what the frog's name is, here is what he'll tell you:

"His name is Me!"

Confused?  So were his parents.

"His name is Me?"

"NOO! His name is ME!"

"His name is You?"

"No, no, no! His name is MEEEEEE!"

"His name is Gianni?"

"Yes, dat's right!"

So Gianni (the frog) got carried around by Gianni (the boy) all day today.  Carried.  Shook.  Dropped.  Squeezed.  Loved.  Cuddled.  Kissed. 

Gianni (the boy) is almost ready for his first haircut.  I know, I know, almost three years old and he just now has enough hair to trim.  It's starting to curl in his ears.  But I'm afraid if I cut it, I'll regret it.  What if it makes him look older?  Ack! My hormones can't handle that.  I'm already having issues with not having a baby in the house anymore.  I'm secretly hoping my sister is pregnant with twins and she'll give me one (she's generous like that.  Why, just the other day she offered to mail me one of her already born ones!) 

Speaking of haircuts, I got my semi-annual one done this week.  Every hair stylist always says the same thing,

'Wowwwww...it's been a while, huh?'

Then they finger through my locks looking bemused.  

I have never liked my hair and whenever it's rebelliously curly I want it straight.  Whenever, for reasons unknown to me, it's straight, I wish for my curls.  Usually it's somewhere in between with a good dose of frizz thrown in to keep me humble.  I bought new hairspray today, guaranteed to weather even rain (get it? weather? HA!) and all sorts of evil humidity Michigan can dish out.  We'll see.  I won't hold out for miracles (Heidi Klum-ish) but I would prefer a step above Side Show Bob. 

In case you hadn't noticed, I changed the blog look again.  No more serial killer house...just a lovely orange to go with lovely autumn.  The trees here in Michigan I have to say, are out of this world.  I passed a purple tree the other day!  A purple tree!  I love, love, love it.  And I don't even like purple; it's my least favorite color.  But on trees?  Fantabulous.  Autumn rolls out a whole new list of annual movies for me: 

One True Thing.  This movie is one I've watched every year for several years with my best girlfriends.  We pop popcorn (which I don't eat, blech), sip tea or wine, braid each other's hair, and sob over Meryl Streep dying of cancer.  Every year I sob harder.  I can't help it, that woman is good.  And William Hurt is amazing in that movie. 

Hocus Pocus.  The girl's favorite Halloween movie. 

Arsenic and Old Lace.  Definitely in my top five favorite flicks ever.  I heart Cary Grant.  He is so funny in this, I never fail to crack up every year.  Even though it's an old black and white movie with no CGI or Disney channel pop princesses, my kids love this movie too.  It is hilariously funny and if you haven't seen it you really really should.

What are your favorite fall movies?

I refuse to believe no one else categorizes their movies according to seasons. 

Hello?

autumn daze

But, Mom, I don't need a nap!  See?  I'm wide awake!  I'm not tired! I'm - zzzzzzz...

The last of the summer garden cucumbers.

Well, the first couple weeks of school (juggling 5 public schoolers, two homeschoolers, and one Tasmanian devil who has discovered scissors) is under our belt.  We've already had our first back-to-school colds making the rounds, with Provolone down with it today.  I haven't been sick in a long while so I'm getting nervous...I might be due.  Anyone want to fill in for me if I come down with the Plague? Hello?  The days are going by incredibly fast.  Gone are the times with my hubs when we can sit down after a long day and watch something on the telly at night.  Too much homework.  I don't much care for most of this homework.  Shouldn't they be doing this in school?  I already spent several hours homeschooling, it confuses me as to why I have to spend two more each night.  It's becoming a soapbox with me.  And I'm not bashing teachers, I just didn't go to public school so all this is new to me.  If the students do all their actual "work" at home with their parents, or respective guardians, then what do they spend 8 hours a day doing in school?  But anyway.  It's a good thing I married one of those people who never forget things (except to bring home milk) because I am not good at this:

But if they need help with this, I'm their girl:

Although it's been a while and I would probably get stuck and have to be air lifted to the nearest hospital for back surgery/hip replacement.

Gianni is quite thrilled that his birthday is coming up.  I am not so thrilled.  What happened to that little pudgy ewok I gave birth to, like 10 minutes ago?  Where did he go?  Did this curly haired, dimpled toddler eat him?  There is no proof he ever existed.  I may need to curl up on the bathroom floor and weep for a while.

Carry on.

Ok (strangled sob) I'm better now.

He told me this morning that it was also MY birthday and that I could have a party and then he proceeded to sing the happy birthday song to me.  He also said I would be forty-forty.

Don't judge.  He's homeschooled.  Plus, he eats a lot of playdough.

He would like a tractor cake (surprise, surprise) and told his allergist all about it.  The doctor turned to me and said, 'He reminds me of my middle son.  The one I am always surprised is still living.'  I can only assume he said that because as he walked in the door, Gianni was airborne in the middle of a belly flop off the examining table.  He landed well and we gave him a 8.5.

The weather here is officially fall and I only have to go outside and breathe the lovely chilly air and take a walk to see all the trees turning to make my day seem calm and serene and perfect.  Ok, ok, some days it takes more than orange leaves to make everything serene, but for about a nano second there, the world stands still.  Then someone yells for me and someone else yells 'I found her' and then they drag me out from under the tree and force me to be a mother and responsible adult again.  I consider whining and stomping my feet and throwing myself prostrate on the grass, but they'll only demand more dinner and help with the iron and signatures on school papers and threats to drink all my coffee, so I finally give in and stomp back inside.  Must get better hiding places.  And bring dark chocolate.  And Cabernet Savignon.  

Just More Things

1.  Gianni is walking around the house, moaning in sorrow, 'I need my belt!'

2.  Why would you need a belt, oh fruit of my looms, when you aren't wearing any pants?  Or underoos?

3.  Mike has a new coffee cup.  It's in the shape of Darth Vador's head.  So he walks around and says in his eerily accurate James Earl Jone's voice, 'You don't know the power of the dark roast!'

4.  I like canned mushrooms better than fresh.  Is that so wrong?

5.  I worry that it may be wrong.

6.  I love Sharpies even more than canned mushrooms.

7.  The other day Mike said the ceiling fan was turning in the wrong direction and so it was pushing all the hot air down.  Huuuuuh????  So he reversed it.  Whaaaaaaa???  I may have married the smartest man on planet earth.

8.  Though I still suspect he totally made that up.

9.  I am too qualified to homeschool my kids!  Now hush up, this is my blog.

10.  The first week of school is halfway over.  Whew.  I'm exhausted and I didn't even go with them.  All this public school nonsense is new to me.  I start to panic when my kids ask me things.  I don't know when you need permission slips!  I don't know if you get lunch!  I don't know if you can wear a cap!  Stop asking me all these questions!  What do I look like, your legal guardian and professional parent??? Oh, right.  Talk to James Earl Jones.  He's the smartest person EVAH.

11.  Teenages boys are JUST AS MOODY AS GIRLS.  I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'...Who am I kidding, I am REALLY sayin'.  Is it bad parenting to offer them a Midol?

12.  Mike is singing the National Anthem for several thousand people next week.  Cool, huh? 

13.  Two new introductions for ya:

The Teen Queen.  Age 15.  Volley ball player.

Hobbes.  Age 16.  Lone pale teen in a house full of Africans.

14.  If I could, I would color this blog with Sharpies for you and you too, would feel the warm fuzzies only a Sharpie can give you.

15.  I had a super long tiring day today and my ever so awesome female offspring watched their little moose of a brother for 6 hours (don't call the cops, I was only across the street, cleaning one of our other houses).

16.  When I got back Gianni wanted to show me how he 'fixes things,' which involves a plastic hammer and whatever his chubby hands can pretend to nail to his bedroom wall.  So I laid down on his bed and mumbled encouraging, mothering type words while I almost fell asleep.  I say almost because he started shouting, 'wake up!' and hitting me with his hammer.  He's my least favorite child.

17.  Until I look at him again.

18.  I don't think I have the patience for chess.  Three quarters of the way through I start intentionally losing just to make the game go faster.

19.  When you hate napping and have eleventy seven things to do, there is nothing worse than laying down with a toddler until he finally drifts off to la-la land.  I swear, I want to jump out of my skin.

20.  I think I may have developed late in life ADD.

21.  Mike calls his own particular case "ADOS".  That stands for Attention Deficit - Oooooo Shiny....!"

22.  I got the last season of Lost on dvd from the library!  This is doubly exciting because it only checks out for one week.  But since I'm out of district my library card for this particular library expires on the 30th.  So I plan on keeping as long as it takes to get through all 16 episodes plus bonus features.  Because what are they gonna do, fine me? 

23.  Right now my brother is saying I make a terrible Christian.

24.  Hush up, Gary, this is my blog.

25.  That's all, folks.  I gotta go make dinner for 10 people. 

Ode to kitchen items

I'm still moving in.  Really.  I'm turning into Elasta Girl in The Incredibles who calls Mr Incredible at work to say they've officially moved in after three years because she just opened the last box.  It may take me that long, not because we have much - we sold practically everything before moving here - but because we don't own any bookshelves at the moment.  Which is a sin, I'm pretty sure.  Like, the 11th commandment or something, right?  Thou shalt not not own bookshelves.  Shalt not not?  Is that a triple negative?

In my unpacking frenzy, I of course have the kitchen just about the way I want it.  So here you go, an ode to kitchen items:


Cuisinart electric can opener...how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways:

1.  You don't open half the can, skip a centimeter, then start cutting again, only to stop at the end with another uncut centimeter, leaving the contents completely unaccessible.  Leaving me to shake, pound, mangle and smack the can in a hopeless attempt to salvage that part of dinner that is now, at that moment, desperately important and desired.  It could be garbanzo beans that expired in 1997, but now you really gotta have them.
2. You don't take up too much counter space.  How humble and unassuming of you!
3.  I bought you at a thrift store for a mere 2.99.
4.  You look shiny and expensive and purr like a kitten.
5.  I never have to fumble in a drawer for you only to be stabbed by knives and those little bamboo skewers that I've never bought but mysteriously find their way into every kitchen I've ever owned.


The microwave.
How else would I nuke my coffee 14 times in one morning?  Without you I'd be forced to bake potatoes in the oven.  Unthinkable.  They roll around in there and drop through the racks and when I go to rescue them, the ungrateful little spuds burn me everytime.  There's a reason why they're called hot potatoes.

My kitchenaid mixer.  It'd be darn difficult to make weekly homemade pizza crust without you.  Not impossible, but darn difficult.  Someday I promise to learn how to use the pasta attachment.

The dishwasher.  Not the one that's broken right now and for the past week.  I don't like you at all and I'm not talking to you.  Breaking within two weeks of me moving in.  Rude.  I'm speaking to the new one should it ever arrive.  I haven't even met you yet, but I love you more  as much as I love friends and family.

Programmable coffee maker.  But we've talked about that before.

Bounty paper towels.  Or Viva.  Or Brawny.  But mostly Bounty.  Absorbant, rinse out-able, and they perforate easily enough that if you're juggling a jelly stained toddler, a hot saucepan, a ringing phone, and smacking a hungry teenager who is reaching for the fridge all with one hand, you can still rip one off with the other.

Life and Gianni-isms

Just some favorites of late:


When in the bathtub he hollered,
'Hey you Mom!  Come in here!'

I come in like the obedient mother I am.

'You bring me hamburger?'

'Uhhh, no.'

'Oh ok.  You bring me chicken nuggets?'

'That would be a negative, ghostrider.'

Sighs deeply and sadly.

'Oh nebbermind,' he says.

                                                                    ----------------------------


He says to call him 'Gianni Big Boy.'

'Is Mommy a big boy, too?'  I ask him.

'No, dats silly!  You da Big Mamma.'

Delightful.


                                                                  -----------------------------


When I tuck him in at night, I got in the habit of 'tucking him in like a burrito.'  This has evolved into tucking in like a taco, an 'enchilalala,' a ham sandwich, and a lasagna.  


                                                                  -----------------------------


This is not an -ism, but yesterday I walked by the window only to see the little moose in nothing but his birthday suit, hands clasped behind his back, contentedly pee-ing into the firepit in the yard.  How long do we have before we are fired from working as professional parents/excommunicated from the Baptist Church?


                                                                 ------------------------------


Also, yesterday he microwaved a pencil.  When I smelled a strange smoky smell, my mind didn't automatically jump to the ol' Pencil in the Microwave conclusion.  It certainly will from now on however.


                                                                ------------------------------


He likes to randomly tell people,  'I killed a man with this thumb.'

Since he holds up his index finger when he says it, that only adds to the cuteness.


                                                                ------------------------------


In other news, we are in a home!  Why, that's crazy, you say?  Don't I know it.  We have been painting and moving and packing things and unpacking things and it's amazing how forgetful you can be about things like that.  Can't be that bad, I'll think.  But yes, yes it is.  Slooooooooooooow and painful.  I'd like to get rid of anything we can't wear, eat, or read.  But no one will let me.  If I ruled the world it would be a sparse, well organized place.  But I'm not complaining.  I'm looking outside my bedroom window as I type, watching butterflies flit across our ball field.  OUR ball field?  Yes.  No, I don't plan to take up sports any time soon, except in the stands, most likely cheering for the wrong team and being utterly confused as usual.  We have two footballers (football players, boys who play football, whatever) in the house right now, a J.V. and a varsity.  I think that has something to do with their ages...or grades...or skills...or something.  All I know is it's constant practices, "two-a-days," conditioning, uniform orderings, weight lifting, and we haven't even gotten to football season yet.  I like to ask how their "costume fittings," and "rehearsals" are going, but no one finds me as amusing as I find myself.  But really, come one, it's boys in colorful tights...how manly can it be?

Moose practicing his telemarketer skillz

Next week is the Bike-A-Thon and you may want to turn off your phones, or pay special attention to your caller I.D.  because, my little friends, if I have your personal phone number, you will be getting a call from one of my lil' darlings asking for sponsorship.  (Unless you are one of the sweetums who responded to my email, and in that case I will let you have your weekend).  I know the idea of my hubby riding 25 miles in August heat sends you into spasms of giggles, but let me assure you, when I am curled up in a ditch somewhere 9 miles in, gasping for breath and trying not to retch, it will not be a laughing matter.  This could very well be my last blog.  If I die you're going to feel really guilty for not pledging that few bucks. 

view of the sunset

Monday we get a new boy here at the house.  He's 14.  Because apparently when we specifically told God we'd really prefer to have lots of babies, toddlers, or girls He found our plans immensely amusing.  If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans, isn't that how the expression goes?  Also a rockin' Van Zant song.  But in all seriousness, the boys are great.  And they come in handy when you need someone to carry groceries, cart out trash, and reach the bagel cutter in the tippy-top cupboard.  So even if no one will watch Anne of Green Gables or Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes with me I guess I will survive.  I guess.  


In other other news, I am going to be an auntie again!  This simultaneously makes me happy and makes me sad.  Happy because I can go shopping and not feel guilty (it's for little baby Takashige who really, really, REALLY needs this loud, obnoxious, beeping, rolling, large toy!), sad because I am not there to watch my little sister finally get fatter than me.  It's only when she's preggers that I can get away with calling her little pet names of affection, like Fatty-Fat-Fat, and Chubbaroo, and Blimpikins.  I can do it on the phone, but it's not as satisfying.  Oh, stop judging me, if you feel the slightest twinge of sadness for her, let me remind you that this woman can eat the same amount of chow that a lumberjack can put away, never diet, never exercise, and still manage to stay a svelte size 2.  She's disgusting.  Where's my pitchfork and my angry mob?  So when she's got a bun in the oven, I enjoy myself.  The only good thing about being far away, is she is strangely cranky when gestating.  I don't know why, the chuberella.  Also a good thing: I can answer her phone calls with the shout,  'Are you in labor???  Do we need to boil the water yet???'   Ahh, it never gets old, not even in nine months from now.  She doesn't call much these days.


Oh, and speaking of phones, I'd give you all our new number, but I don't know it.  We're thinking of getting another cell phone though.  Thoughts?  It seems silly, redonkulous really, to have a home number and TWO cell phones.  I mean, really?  Ten years ago, hardly any of us had cell phones, now suddenly we have to have a phone with us at all times?  But then I think, what if Mike's in town and I'm not and I really really need some Cheezits?  Or some sharp cheddar?  Or some Hagen-Daazs Banana Foster ice cream?  What then?  I can't be expected to just do without, can I?  I didn't think so. 


And that's why they call me Big Mama.

Dirty piggies and such.

The reason why I have to wash the tub freakishly often.

But he's so very very handsome, he's worth the ridiculous amount of Comet it takes to clean up after him.

Recently discovered something even better than a snack cupboard.  The garden!  The peas!

She told me to take the picture.

Again, 'Take the picture, Mom!' she begged.

Awww.  Aren't they cute when they aren't plotting ways to harm each other?

We have moved.  Again.  I feel like Mr. Fredrickson, old and infirmed.  I have spent the last 72 hours painting rooms and moving STUFF.  I have decided I no longer like STUFF.  STUFF should be kept far, far away from me.  If you can't wear it, eat it, or read it, I don't want it. 

Sage advice from seasoned group home teens:  always opt for the lower bunk.  Why?  Because gas rises.  I'm not sure I ever needed to know that, but now I do.  And so do you.  You're welcome.  More teen guy redonkulousness wisdom to follow in later posts.

I love history

We got our first time off this month and went to the Yoop.  You know, the U.P.?  No?  Yeah, I didn't know what anyone was talking about either when they referred to this.  Turns out there's this part of Michigan called The Upper Peninsula which is basically, but not really, Canada.  You have to cross a five mile bridge over the tippy tops of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan to get there, AND you have to pay a toll so it kind of feels like you're entering another country.  Anyway, we went there for a couple days and of course, knowing us, turned it into an educational field trip for our offspring who we forget to homeschool half the time.  Here's what we learned:

When you use a spray-on sunscreen, don't be fooled.  You still need to rub it in, just like you would the regular ol' lotion type.  Why?  Because if you don't you will end up with a sunburn in the lovely pattern of a lace doilie or knitted afghan. 

Other things we learned:

There's a fort called Michilimackinac.  It's the longest on-going archaeological dig in America right now; they've been digging it up since the '50s.  It was built in the 1700s, so we're talking colonial times, people!  My favorite time period!  Now I have an uncontrollable urge to watch my very favorite movie ever, The Last of the Mohican's.  I can hear Daniel Day-Lewis calling to me actually...No matter where I go, he will find me.  No matter how long it takes...no matter how far.  Sigh.  I could watch that movie everyday and not get tired of it.  But anyway.  For a mere $30 we got to spend all day inside the fort, soaking it up.  The fort was originally built by the French and was used for the fur trade (getting all those beaver skins back to Europe for high fashion was a major trade) via the lakes, which were the international highway of the time.  After the British overtook the French during the French and Indian War, the British got their redcoat rumps kicked by the Indians who were annoyed by the British lack of gift-giving (the French were good gift givers it turns out).  During a game of Baggatiway, which is like lacrosse, the Indians "accidentally" hit the ball over the fort walls and the British didn't think twice when they rushed in to retrieve it.  The Indian woman pulled out knives from underneath their skirts and blankets, handing them to their men, and after a large handful of soldiers met their fate and the rest were captured, the point was made.  Afterwards, the British remembered to give better gifts and friendly relations were resumed.  Well, until the next war: the American Revolution.  Right around that time, the general decided the fort was not super well protected and for two years, they dismantled it and sailed it (summer) across Lake Huron, or sledded it (winter) across Lake Huron, to Mackinac Island.  What wasn't worth taking was burned so the French couldn't have a comfy place to camp out while they plotted and planned their attacks.  So what didn't burn completely is what they're digging up now.  The rest of course, is replicas.

A typical hearth.  Imagine keeping this going 24/7 because it was also your oven and stove top!  And then imagine you're wearing a corset and skirts that each have three yards of material in them.  Interesting facts about the clothes: by the age of 7 the girls made their own, and by the age of 9 the girls made all their younger siblings as well.  Because the washing and scrubbing on a washboard would pop off buttons, the women would snip off every single one EVERY SINGLE TIME they did laundry, then sew them back on.  This is why the ladies clothes had less buttons and more ties and ribbons.  I guess the saucy flirty look was just an added bonus. 

Moose in a tri corner hat.  I am concerned about how shy and introverted he is.  Should we seek help for that?  It must because of how unsocialized and weird us homeschoolers are.

Part of the fort.  See the bridge in the background?

Also shy, my girls.
And short.
Oh, if you were shorter than 5'6" you couldn't join the British army.  Unless you 'promised to grow.'  True story.





So, that's the story of Michilimackinac (silent C at the end).  Actually, that's only some of the story, but I forgot to grab a brochure on my way out so I'm going on my flawed memory.  That concludes the history part of my blog, at least for now, and until the next field trip.  If you're hanging around for a math or science blog, you'll be waiting a loooooooooong time, my friends.  The very thought sends shivers down my spine.