Category: Kids, kids, kids

. . . and I’m not talking about baby goats.

Hair yesterday, gone today

Last night, I ventured to Home Depot and Lowe’s and Joann’s Fabrics to buy supplies to decorate the church for Vacation Bible School. (Avalanche Ranch!) I waited in line to have 2x4s cut into 6 foot lengths. I wrestled giant sheets of styrofoam (four feet by eight feet!) into my van. I pondered mis-tinted paint, hunting for the shades I needed.

I returned home, utterly exhausted at 9:30 p.m. As I stood in my bedroom doorway, talking to my husband, a pile of beautiful blond curls caught my eye. I scooped up this handful of golden hair and said, “She didn’t!” and he said, “Oh. She did. She shouldn’t have scissors.” And I said, “The scissors were on the dresser. I took them out of her room.”

“Where did she cut it?” I said.

“In her bedroom,” he said.

“No, I mean where on her head?”

“Oh,” he said, “I couldn’t tell.”

This morning, I said to her, “Where did you cut your hair?” and she said, “Here, and here on the side and here and in the back.”

Why? “Because it was in my eyes.”

She is just lucky that her hair is curly and that her curls will hide this wretched haircut. It’s only hair. It’s only hair. It’s only hair.

* * *

The other morning, she came clanging into our room, sounding exactly like the Ghost of Jacob Marley, that ghost in “A Christmas Carol” which drags heavy chains around. She did not have chains, but rather, Barbie roller skates and matching elbow and knee pads.

Fortunately, the three-day roller-skating craze has ended, thus proving my wisdom in paying only $3.00 for said roller skates. (A dollar a day, what a bargain.)

Where I’ve been, what I’ve done and Paris

“Hello. I’m calling to report a student absence.”

“Teacher’s name?”

“Wood.”

“Student’s name?”

“John Smith*.” (*not actual name)

“Reason for absence? Is your student ill?”

“Uh . . . . uh . . . . uh . . . ”

“It’s all right if he’s not ill. I’ll just write parent permission.”

Thus, I was saved from lying before 8:00 in the morning. Today, our older boys had a school-at-home end-of-the-year picnic and the local waterpark had a homeschool day (tickets only $11 compared to the normal $35 price) and so we pulled our younger son out of school, took the day off work and frolicked all day.

However, so did about a kajillion other families, so the waterpark was really crowded. And the pool meant for the younger set was as cold as the ocean water off the coast of Washington, no exaggeration. My 4-year old did cavort in the chilly water and slide down the crowded slide and even dip her face into the water–just because she can–but she had more fun riding rides (an ancient carousel and an assortment of old carnival rides). We slid down one of those giant slides on black carpet–she on my lap–but at the tippy-top, she decided that she didn’t want to do it, but I said, “Oh, too late, we’re sliding,” and we did and when we reached the bottom, she immediately turned to me for a hug with a crumpled chin and an accusatory look. “That scared me!” she said.

We set our 14-year old twin boys free with instructions to meet us at 3:30 p.m. and they eventually found some friends they knew from homeschool P.E. class. I still have no idea if they went on a single waterslide or if they merely savored their freedom by wandering around, bumping into people.

My husband spent the afternoon with our 9-year old, standing in long lines to ride 3-minute waterslides. They also rode a rollercoaster twice. Oh, and my 9-year old went into the wave pool . . . my husband reported that he immediately lost sight of him in the chaos of the crowded waves. My son swam to the very far end of the wave-pool where the waves are of Perfect Storm dimension and, as he reports, “I almost drowned.” He realized he couldn’t tread the rough water for long and wisely swam to safety. My husband relayed this story to me with some shame, as he is the reigning Mr. Safety.
And, as if all that adventure weren’t enough, I spent an hour and a half at our own pool when we returned to town so my daughter could swim even longer. She is practicing underwater somersaults, but she calls them “underdogs.” That child has enough energy to power a small city.

The original point of this dissertation was to explain my dismay this morning when I realized that a domestic bomb of some sort had exploded, leaving mounds of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. I was puzzled until I remember yesterday:

School, followed by work on VBS (Vacation Bible School), followed by a lengthy visit with a friend (whom I’ve been begging to come over . . . she came to pick up some VBS materials, but also to chat which was awesome). She left and I took the kids to the pool . . . came home in time for dinner (thank God for Crock-Pots) . . . then my mother stopped by, then I left for a meeting (VBS!) at church at 8:00 p.m., returning home by 10:00 p.m. I don’t think I washed a single load of laundry yesterday and so today, the molehills have turned into mountains.

But, happy day, Paris Hilton went back to jail and I can’t help but feel opposing emotions: pity for her because she is so clearly distraught, but pleasure because justice is served. If only Paris had been forced to have temper tantrums when she was three and didn’t get her way, she might not be having temper tantrums at age 26 when she doesn’t get her way. I hope that she is in jail thinking about how she messed up and not wondering why this bad thing is happening to her. I suspect she feels like a victim and not like a criminal, though.
You might find it odd that I have an opinion about Paris Hilton, but, of course, I have an opinion about everything. Or almost everything.

Embarrassing misbehavior

I was thinking today about misbehavior that embarrasses us as mothers . . . first I thought about a child who bites, then about a nose-picker, then about one who can’t keep his/her hands out of her pants.

Anybody else have examples of your children’s behavior that makes you blush? (And you can’t seem to get them to stop?)

Non-slumber party

Tonight, I took my four children and two of their friends to see “Shrek,” which we all enjoyed.  My 9-year old son thought it was the funniest “Shrek” movie yet.  My daughter laughed like a maniac, even when she had no idea what was funny.  (I think the Super Loud Laugher sitting in our row may have encouraged her to extreme guffaws.) 

On the way home, we were stopped at a red light.  The kids all noticed two workers removing letters from a Walgreen’s sign.  My daughter wanted to know what they were doing, so we all glanced over just in time to see the lady remove the “S” from “SHIRTS” turning it into “HIRTS 2/$10.”  The kids thought this was amusing . . . “HIRTS, only FIVE DOLLARS!” they shouted and laughed.

And then–it was such a long red light–the woman put back the “S” and moved to the “R” while the older boys stammered, “Oh no, no, no . . . don’t remove the R!” and just at that moment, off came the “R,” turning SHIRTS into . . . well, SHI TS, two for ten dollars . . . and the barking laughter grew hysterical.  The light turned green, I accelerated and the kids screamed with laughter.  I was laughing, by then, at their hilarity.

I’m no longer laughing, though, because somehow I ended up hosting what amounts to a slumber party.  We returned home at nearly 8:30 p.m. . . . I ran a bath for my daughter, then changed into exercise clothes.  Then one of my 14-year old twins appeared at my bedroom door.  He looked sheepish and said, “Uh, Mom . . . we have a problem.”

And then he explained that the two boys who went to the movie with us planned to spend the night.  They’d cleared it with their mother, only no one had bothered to ask me.  “And,” he continued, “John and Joseph [*not their real names] think they are spending the night, too.  They’re downstairs.”

Now, earlier tonight, the same son asked me if John [*still not his real name] could spend the night.  I went a little berserk at his request and explained that “I DO NOT WANT ANYONE TO SPEND THE NIGHT!  I’VE SPENT TEN MILLION YEARS THIS WEEK WITH FOUR HUNDRED CHILDREN IN AND OUT OF MY HOUSE AND NO NO NO NO NO!”  I was very coherent and eloquent.  Ha.  And he didn’t say another word. 

And yet . . . and yet . . . I couldn’t say “no” to these four kids who’d already asked their parents and gained permission and WHY DO THEY WANT TO SPEND THE NIGHT?  (Could it be the ice cream they all ate at 10:30 p.m.?)  I had earlier raved to my son, “WHAT IS THE POINT?”  When I just informed the younger three kids that at 11:00 p.m. I expected them to go to sleep, Joseph [*still not a real name] protested and began to tell me about how things are done at his house and I said, “Uh, at my house, kids do not stay awake past 11:00 p.m.”  (And yet, at the moment, seven boys are awake and it’s 11:16 p.m.)

I haven’t even met the parents of John and Joseph [*uh, fake names].  Seriously, who sends their kids down the street to spend the night at someone’s house without meeting the host-mother (aka the INSANE LADY WHO LETS HALF THE NEIGHBORHOOD SPEND THE NIGHT)?

Well.  Okay then.  It is what it is.  Did I mention that my husband’s out of town for two days?  Boy, what fun I’m having in his absence. 

(The three youngest boys have created an elaborate “fort” in the family room using an assortment of quilts and couch pillows and heavy blocks and . . . oh, a bunch of stuff.  They are sleeping in this haphazard shanty-town.  Well, “sleeping” might be overstating what’s happening at the moment.)

Oh, I hope we sleep tonight.  I hope they sleep.  I want to sleep. 

*  *  * 

Update:  The three youngest (all about 9 year old, I think) slept–as far as I can tell–from 12:30 or 1:00 A.M. until 6:00 A.M.  The oldest four?  Well, I came down at midnight and told them to turn off the lights and be quiet and go to sleep.  They were ever so cooperative.  Why?  Because as soon as I went upstairs, they turned on the computer and resumed playing Runescape.  (All sites on their computer have to be approved by me–everything’s password-protected–so I am not worried about them accessing other things.)  Oh yes, they did–as I slept, confident in their obedience.  And then, at 3:40 a.m., my daughter woke and crawled into bed with me.  Then at 6:00 A.M., she woke up, whining.  I told her to go back to sleep and then the DOOR SLAMMING woke me at 7:30 A.M.  All the boys were awake and the younger boys were attempting to “prank” the older boys.  Thus, much door-slamming ensued.  I came down in my purple bathrobe and reprimanded everyone . . . I am so not the cool mom, not the fun mom, the ha-ha-ha, isn’t-this-fun?-mom.  I’m the irritated mom who got roped into a non-slumber party and now I’m weary.

By 9:00 A.M., I was ordering everyone to clean up the messes they’d made.  (One kid brought peanuts in the shell and so shells were everywhere.)  By 9:30 A.M., I was sending them home.  By 10:00 A.M., my 14-year olds were falling asleep.  I demanded the truth . . . and that’s when they confessed to playing games all night long–well, they did sleep an hour.  I think they were just too tired to lie.  Huh.  I have now blocked access to their favorite computer game as a little demonstration of the consequences of disobedience and lying.  And the best thing is that they had to choose between going to the beach with me (to explore the low-tide) or going with their friend (who spent the night) to an activity on the military base.  They chose the military base . . . so they are staggering from booth to booth, display to display, activity to activity on an hour’s worth of sleep.  So, there!  Take that!  Now whose laughing?  

My 9-year old got about six hours of sleep.  He’s at a birthday party right now.  My 4-year old and I are going to explore the exposed shore.  I shall return with pictures.  Maybe.

Anyone need to hide a corpse?

Because the boys’ hole is now big enough. 

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Added to answer some questions:

When I asked one son awhile back, “Why?” he said, “Because we’re boys.”  That’s the clearest explanation they can give.  They have been unearthing big rocks, which seems to be the goal of the moment.

My husband couldn’t care less.  Our backyard is quite untamed and dominated by a giant Rainbow play structure and edged by overgrown laurel hedges.  (They kids play inside the hedges which are just beyond the hole.) 

The dirt has been spread down the little slope just below the hole and mounds up now on the sides of the hole.

I’m hoping they lose interest soon so I can refill it . . . but I can’t see a reason to make them stop.

Also, the in the picture, only one of those boys belongs to me.  The others are neighbors.

Why do boys spit?

And why don’t they flush?

Why do boys love to dig holes?

Before guns were invented, did boys turn everything into swords or arrows?

Why do boys smell?

Why don’t boys notice that they smell?

Why don’t boys care if their hands are sticky?

Why do boys hate haircuts?

Why do boys put the empty milk carton back into the fridge?

Why don’t boys notice that they have gunk stuck to their teeth?

Why are boys so gassy?

Plop, Flush, Sob

Today, I found myself in the church bathroom standing next to my 4-year old daughter as she rubbed a fist into her eyes to stop herself from crying.  And then, from inside the stall, we heard the toilet flush and she burst into fresh tears because inside that toilet was the hot pink plastic ring she wore on her thumb to church.  A few minutes earlier, while using the toilet, she dropped the ring with a plop into the toilet.  

A church lady brought her to me and explained that the ring was in the toilet.  I said, “No problem.  I’ll get it out.”  She said, “Don’t you want some gloves?”  I said, “No.  I’ll just use this straw.”  And then I got a plastic fork, too.  Germs, schmerms.   

But we were too late.  The toilet stall door was closed and as we stood waiting to fish for the ring, we heard the aforementioned flush.

She cried and cried because, of course, the ring was long gone.  I did wave a plastic straw in the blue water, just for effect, I guess, but it was hopeless.  We hurried to the Dollar Store which had no rings, though we did buy five bucks’ worth of consolation junk.

Later tonight, at Fred Meyer, I thought I’d check to see if they carried plastic rings for little heartbroken girls.  The lost ring came from a game called “Pretty Pretty Princess,” but I found the game at Value Village, the thrift store.  But hope propelled me down the toy aisle at Fred Meyer and there I found plastic treasure:  the very game in question.

My daughter will be so thrilled tomorrow morning when she finds not just one replacement ring, but five plastic rings with matching plastic necklaces and bracelets.

I wonder if she’ll remember the lost plastic ring in the flushing disaster of 2007?  I know I will never forget her devastated face when she heard the flush of the toilet.  And now that I’ve came up with replacement rings, I can stop feeling guilty for laughing just a little inside at the absurdity of it all.

Creativity and Dirt

Here is what I found when I checked on the kids in the back yard today.  He’s reading.

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Later, I found the two youngest kids reclining in the makeshift hammock.  “Shhh!  Pretend you’re asleep,” he said to her.

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Then, still later, I investigated a pound-pound-pounding noise and found my oldest son excavating a hole under the sidewalk.  At this point, I said, “Why do you need to dig a hole?”

He looked up at me and said, “Mom, we’re boys!” 

That explains it all.

Here it the hole before it reached the center of the earth:
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Hair Today

Saturday night I noticed that my 9-year old’s bangs looked odd, as if he’d sawed at them with scissors.  I said, “Did you cut your hair?”  He said, “Oh, uh, no.”  I said, “You did, too!  Why did you cut your hair?”  He said, “Oh, that.  Well, uh, I was feeling uncomfortable and I had something in my hair and so I cut it.”   (He was outside.  Came inside, found scissors, took them outside and cut his hair.)

What?  So I got my sheers and trimmed up his bangs, leaving him with a hairstyle which can only be described as Little Dutch Boy.  nod_dutchboy.jpg 

I heard vague rumors about one of my 13-year old sons getting gum in his hair (“It was not my fault!  I cut it out!  It was here in the back!”) as we drove to church on Sunday morning.  Why am I not even consulted in these matters?

Today, there I was minding my own business and the same 13-year old said, “Hey, why does Gracie have gum in her hair?” And I scoffed.  “She doesn’t have gum in her hair!”

Only, she did have gum in her hair.  She had four evenly spaced wads of reddish gum along the left side of her head.  This was not good because she is hair-deficient.  While her hair is curly, it is sparse and in almost four and a half years of living, she’s managed only to grow a short curly mop.  100_0134.jpg 

Without alarming her, I asked, “Why did you put gum in your hair?”

She denied it.  I said, “You have gum in your hair!  How did it get there?”

And she said, “It just fell into my hair!”

I used cooking oil to ease it out of her hair, thus avoiding scissors entirely.  We were lucky this time.  I just hope she doesn’t decide to use her expert scissors skills to cut her curls off because if I’ve learned anything in 13 years of mothering, it’s that a bad idea masquerades as a good idea when it presents itself to a 4-year old.  (Also, I’ve learned never to walk around the house in socks.  You never know what puddle or piddle you might step in.)

Naps, Dollars and Boys

I took a nap today.  You know what that means, don’t you? 

Don’t you?

That means that after the nap, I was groggy and headachey.  Recent news stories suggest that naps might benefit your heart, but I have always found naps unappealing, except during those rare months of pregnancy when naps were essential.  When I wake from a nap, I never feel refreshed, but rather as if I’ve spent a half hour submerged in a murky pond, deprived of oxygen.  I come up with algae in my hair and sand in my eyes.  

Anyway, I took a nap today while listening to kids stomping up and down the stairs–playing tag?  hide-and-seek?  dodge ball?  My daughter came in periodically to insist that we go shopping.  From under the comforter where I’d hid my face, I promised a trip to the store after the kids went home.  And, sure enough, at 6 p.m., we went to the Dollar Store where she wandered up and down the aisles admiring all the tacky ceramics and cheap stuffed animals.  She spent her five bucks and a few of my bucks as well.  (I mean, sure, we needed that clear plastic bag full of 250 hair bands, even though she won’t wear any sort of hair accessories, ever.  And the stickers?  Oh yeah, we must have stickers.  And a felt basket decorated as a bunny.)

(I needed the nap because I am still fighting off this cold.  Today was the day of the headache and occasional cough.) 

My crocuses have begun to sprout, but I fear they will not survive the trampling of boy feet in the back yard.  Alas.  But, I am not in the business of growing crocuses, but of growing boys.  Still, I think I’ll put a little fence around my little garden patch because I’d like to grow flowers, as well as boys.