DON'T Feed The Seagulls

Grammy took the kids and I to Fenwick Island, DE for our second annual "Grammy Vacation." Loads of fun--great weather, exhausting, but we all had a terrific time.
Sitting on the beach one afternoon, Emma decides to have a snack. So she fishes the cheetos out of the cooler and starts munching. Now up until this point, the only bird we've seen is a little sand piper (at least I think that's what it was) running along the surf eating those little periwinkle shell thingys that wash up with the waves and bury themselves in the wet sand. Cheetos, however, being the "cheese that goes 'crunch,'" are apparently excellent at attracting seagulls, and it wasn't long before a rather large one flew in and landed dangerously close to us.

"Oh, look! A bird!" says Emma.
"DON'T feed the seagulls!" I warn them.
"Why not?" the children all question in unison.

So I go on to explain that one seagull, once fed, will call to all his seagull buddies and become many seagulls in a moments time.
Now, this would be a good time to reiterate that my children not only rarely believe anything I say, but also generally view me as somewhat of an idiot. They never heed my warnings. I see Emma kind of casually holding a cheeto out in her hand and I repeat my previous warning a little more emphatically. Now, my children have seen "Finding Nemo" many times, so I remind them of this scene, hoping in vain that they will remember and believe good old Walt Disney when they won't in fact believe their own mother. No such luck. Emma "accidentally" drops the cheeto which the seagull quickly and happily devours.

"Seeeeee Mommy--nothing bad happened!!"
"Just wait," I say.

Sure enough--a few seconds later a second gull flutters casually down to the sand. Followed by a third, then a fourth. . . . then 10 more.
Emma, I should mention, is afraid of flying birds. We discovered this at the Baltimore Zoo the year they opened their "feed the parakeets" exhibit. (Still bummed we didn't get that day on video) She does fine with birds on the ground or in cages or sitting in trees, but she is terrified of birds flocking and flapping over her head.
So the birds are all swarming and hovering over our heads, flapping and hoping for another handout. Sam is running away crying, Liz is yelling and swatting at the gulls with a sand shovel, and Emma has grabbed the boogie board and is cowering under it shrieking, (at an incredibly shrill, high pitched volume), "THEY'RE GONNA EAT MY HAIR!!!! GET THEM AWAY FROM ME!!!! MOMMIIEEEE HELLLLLPPPPP MEEEEEEEE!!" People are staring, the lifeguards are laughing, and I'm just wishing I had a flask of rum.
So we finally get all the birds shooed away and things are settled back down again, when about an hour later, Liz has gotten the snacks back out and truly does accidentally drop one in the sand. With the speed of a jaguar chasing down a gazelle, Emma streaks across the sand, with her arms covering her head, screaming, "LIZ, BURY IT!!! BURY THE CHEETO BEFORE THE SEAGULLS SEE IT!!!!!!"

Myrtle Beach 2009

All in all, vacation this year was a lot of fun. 2 particularly funny things come to mind so I'll share them:

A friend of The Husband recommended a seafood buffet for dinner but warned that it's popular and has potential to get crowded. He suggested we "go early." The Husband interpreted this to mean we should go at 4pm (it's dinnertime somewhere, right?) So I'm lounging around at 3:15 reading a book--dinner so not on my mind-- and The Husband says, "Come on! It's time to go to dinner!. . . . AND--I have a coupon!!"
So I pulled up my knee socks, put on my sandals, tucked a kleenex into my sleeve and said, "Let's go."


For those of you that know my children, or have children of your own, you know that children bicker. They fight and they tattle . . . . constantly. "He's touching me. . . . she took my toy. . . . he pinched me. . . . she kicked me. . . . he's thinking about looking at me". . . . and on and on and on. It's ridiculous and It. Never. Ends. Frankly, I get extremely tired of hearing it. So this summer I've adopted a new campaign. I call it my "IDC" program. What does "IDC" mean, you ask?? Simple. "IDC" = I Don't Care. It's not good parenting, it's probably downright bad parenting, but you know what?? IDC.
So all this summer whenever I hear things like, "She's playing with my Transformer and she won't give it back!" I say, "I don't care."
"He took a pencil and wrote on my paper!" --- "I don't care."
"She has her leg on my side of the seat and she's almost going to touch me." ---"IDC"

You get the picture, right?? One would think that after several weeks of getting nowhere in their tattling efforts, they would give up. Nope, not my kids.

So we're in the car driving home from Myrtle Beach and they start up. . . again. And I've had enough so I launch into a particularly well written and poignant lecture about how tattling is unnecessary and annoying and how they need to learn how to more effectively interact with each other and problem solve without involving an adult and I've been going on for about 7 minutes when Sam pipes up from the backseat: "Sky ramp!" and The Husband begins to laugh uncontrollably.
And I actually quit my job for this.

A Little Worried

Drove home from Myrtle Beach yesterday. Emma had to pee around 10pm somewhere north of DC so we stopped at a gas station. I thought it was a relatively decent area of town, but when we walked in there was a young woman in the little shop mart who was . . . how shall I put it. . . . well let's just say she works mainly at night, gets paid in cash for her. . . uh. . . services, and doesn't provide receipts.
Sam walks by her (eyes popping out of his head), checks her out from head to toe and says, "WOW! Did you see that really tall lady??? She was PRETTY!!!"