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!!!"

Happy (?) 4th of July

You should know I have a few phobias. Spiders are a big one. They give me major heebie-jeebies, and I've been known to hyperventilate in the presence of larger varieties. I won't go near them at the pet store and Liz has to pick up Sam to see if they are in a higher cage. I will NOT trap and release them if I see them and have even been known to go out of my way to kill them if I can do so from a safe distance. I tried to watch "Arachnophobia" once and didn't sleep for a month. You get the picture, right??
Also, not terribly fond of bridges-- have this thing about picturing my car slamming through the iron walls and plunging to my death in the icy waters below. I can drive across bridges, but there's a definite rise in blood pressure when I do.
So, spiders and bridges. Pretty normal phobias for the most part, right?? I could probably find several other people who share these feelings. . .

But I have others.

Glass walkways and steel grates for instance. I can't walk on them if my life depends on it. Personally, I haven't the foggiest idea why some moron would have invented such a dangerous and obvious disaster-waiting-to-happen thing such as the glass walkway, all I know is I can't shop at the Galleria in the Baltimore Harbor because of it. Clearly, one of these days, a small child is going to walk across it quite unaware of the danger lurking beneath their feet and the last thing they will hear before they plummet to their demise will be the sound of cracking glass. . .
So I know it's not rational, but yet somehow I still can't convince myself of this fact. And I haven't even gotten to the worst of them--
I am terrified of fireworks.
I'm OK during professional fireworks displays--baseball games, Disney World, standard Independence Day shows--well, I'm jumpy and nervous, but I can function. But do-it-yourself, purchased-from-a-bright-yellow-two-for-the-price-of-one-stand-in-the-middle-of-a-grocery-store-parking-lot?? No way, Jose. I break out in a cold sweat, shake uncontrollably, my heart races, and sometimes I even cry. I won't even light a sparkler.
Now, my husband knows this about me. It's not a new fear, I've been afraid of them my whole life. So why on earth, given that he knows this about me would he suggest we attend 4th of July festivities in Dundalk --the illegal residential fireworks display capital of the world??!!? I have absolutely no idea. So I made a complete fool of myself this evening at a party when the neighbors 10 feet away began setting off fireworks and practically dove under the table like a Vietnam vet having a flashback.
So Happy 4th of July to everyone out there--I'll be under the bed.

Out of The Mouth of Sam

You ever notice how kids only say embarrassing stuff when there are people around to hear it??
I'm sitting on the front lawn trying to assemble my new hedge clippers.
My neighbors are also outside and within earshot.
Sam sees me sitting there with Phillips head in hand and says (in that loud voice only a four year old is capable of):

"Can I help?? I'm really good at screwing!"

Leprechauns

Sam and I were in the car the other day driving home from CCBC. Blessedly, he slept the entire car ride there because he spent the whole car ride home asking me questions. Questions about leprechauns. Now I, in no way claim to be an expert on leprechauns. In fact, I actually had to spellcheck it to see the correct spelling of leprechaun. But Sam wanted to know so I made up answers.

What do leprechauns like to eat? (Cabbage, of course)
How do you know if it's a boy leprechaun or a girl leprechaun? (Boys have beards, girls wear skirts)
Well, once I saw a picture of a leprechaun and it had a beard and was wearing a shirt! (Oh, crap. Well, that must have been a Scottish leprechaun--they wear kilts which kind of look like skirts--that must have been what you saw)
Are leprechauns nice or mean? (Nice unless you try to take their pot of gold)
Do leprechauns bite? (Only French leprechauns)
How tall are leprechauns? (Between 2 1/2 and 3 feet)
Do leprechauns wear shoes?
Do leprechauns like to sing?
Where do leprechauns live?
Can leprechauns drive a car?
How high can leprechauns jump?
Do leprechauns go to school?
Are you born to be a leprechaun or do you hafta go to college?
Do leprechauns have any pets?

It went on and on and on. 22 questions he asked. About leprechauns.
Yes, folks, it's true. I actually quit my job for this.

Refrigerator Art

Eating breakfast this morning Chris leans over and whispers,

"Why is there a picture of the profile of a man with an erect penis on our refrigerator??"

Emma claims it's an ocean with waves. . . . .

Mother Fucker

Some of you may recall a spat which recently took place between The Husband and myself. It involved him placing Ben Folds songs on the iPod that the children listen to in an effort to expose Emma to the piano stylings of the aforementioned songwriter/performer. After realizing and admitting that his "filter" had "inadvertently" missed some songs with "questionable" lyrics, The Husband assured me he had resolved the issue and removed all of the songs containing lyrics which may land a child in the principals office if sung during class.

I trusted The Husband when he made this assurance to me.

This was, as usual, a BIG mistake.

While preparing dinner this evening, Emma was singing along to her iPod. I wasn't really paying attention as this is a frequent occurrence and usually she's singing "Someday my prince will come" or "Shake a tail feather." No so tonight. I became aware that Emma was no longer singing, but rather speaking as a musician may when speaking to an audience before a concert, and she's saying,

"Rock this bitch?? OK." Then sings, very softly, "I'm gonna rock this bitch. I'm gonna ro-o-o-o-ock this mother fuckin' bee-atch!"

At this point I'm NOT a happy camper. I take away the iPod to investigate how this particular song made it past The Husband's "filter" thinking perhaps, maybe he simply looked at song titles and this particular song has an innocuous one. Nope. It is, in fact called "Rock this bitch."
So I take the iPod to listen (with headphones) to various other Ben Folds songs and find that frequent curse words are apparently a common theme with the band. They seem to be particularly fond of "mother-fucker." I heard such lyrics as:

"hey pretty baby, light your ass on fire;"
"trying to figure out how she's going to fit all that butt into those underwear;"
"he might rock it with his mother-fucking blue shirt on;"
"get your hands off of my woman, you mother-fucker;"

and my personal favorite,

"he's gonna rock out with his mother-fucking cock out."

Chris I should add, is not home right now--he is at school. On his way home, it would be prudent for him to stop at Walmart. I hear they have tents on sale.
Mother-fucker.

The Final Count

18 eggs. 8 double yolks. I'm not a math person, but that's like almost 50% I think! Weird-- at least I thought so. I was prepared to start playing the lottery, right??!! But then I started doing some research and it turns out that they aren't quite as uncommon as I thought. (There is even a store in Baltimore that sells entire dozens of double yolk eggs.) Apparently, all the hormones that farmers are using in the chickens are causing some strange things to happen with eggs. Including yolk"less" eggs, shell"less" eggs, and the weirder, double shell eggs. When I find one of those--I'll get excited. So all of my excitement over my recent freaky egg discovery has been totally crushed by this new-fangled thing called the internet.
The only good thing that came of it was that I began to notice that the double yolkers were longer and thinner than a "normal" egg so I was able to predict accurately if an egg would have one yolk or two, which finally did impress Sam.

Freaky Egg Update

So this won't make any sense unless you read the previous post, but for those of you keeping track--after this mornings scrambled eggs and this afternoons cake, the total is up to 5.
Very, very weird.

The Apocalypse is Nigh

So I'm baking a cake for my friend Paul's 30th birthday and it's not going well, but that's another story. I'm making the cake in stages and I'm mixing the batter for the second part of the cake when I crack an egg into my measuring cup and discover it's a double yolk. Cool. I show Sam. He isn't terribly impressed. So I crack the second egg and discover it's also a double yolk. Freaky, right?? (Sam still isn't impressed.) But I thought it was weird so I took a picture:

Then I decide that my cake pan needed more batter so I set out to mix more. I crack the first egg and it's normal, but when I cracked the second-- you guessed it--double yolk. Really freaky!!! I took another picture:


Now, I'm starting to feel a little uneasy. I bake a lot. And when I say "a lot" I mean really. So I've cracked my fair share of eggs, right??!!? And occasionally you come across a double yolk, but I have never come across 3 in the same day.

I think the world may be coming to an end. . . .

P.S. I wanted to crack the rest of the eggs to see how many more there were, but I figured that was unnecessary and wasteful. But mostly I didn't want to get in trouble with Chris.

Fun In The Snow

Last week it snowed. I am happy to report that this is no longer the dreaded event it once was because for the first time in my motherhood experience--all three of my children can dress themselves for snow play activities. Trust me--there is nothing more exhausting than putting on 3 pairs of snow overalls, 6 boots, 6 mittens, 3 hats, 3 scarves, 3 coats and then inevitably having one or more of the children come right back in to say they have to pee. I know it's cliche, but believe me--it happens every single time.
But this year everyone can dress themselves--it's wonderful!! So the kids spent all morning sledding and having a grand old time until I noticed Sam's lips were turning a lovely shade of blueberry and Emma was trembling (and not from excitement). I decided it was time to come in and warm up. As I was helping Sam get his wet snow clothes off (alas--we have not reached the point were he can remove the layers independently) he was very, very cold and soaked through to his clothes underneath. So I told him I would run a bath for him so he could warm up. He runs off to his room to finish getting undressed and I hear,

"Mommmiiieee . . . there's something wrong with mine pee-nus!!"

So I go in to see what the matter is, (although I have my suspicions) and discover Sam bent over examining himself and looking very concerned. "Where did mine pee-nus go?" he asks.
So here I am, trying to explain scientifically what happens to the male body when it gets cold, but I can see he 's not getting it. That's what I get for trying to share a little knowledge with my children. "Just go get in the bathtub--it will be fine. . .trust me."

I just can't imagine why not everyone wants to experience this.

Steelers suck.

'Nuff said.

Liz Learns Sarcasm. . . Hooray!

There are certain milestones that a parent looks for their child to accomplish at certain ages. Walking, for example, should be achieved between 12 and 18 months of age. By age two your child should have a vocabulary of 50-300 words. Between 3 and 4 years of age, toilet training should be mastered.

Apparently, sarcasm gets learned right around 7 1/2 years.

So I'm cooking dinner this evening, the television is blaring football (because Chris's beloved basement television has died and he now feels the need to watch all sporting events on the kitchen TV), Chris and his friend Justin are yelling at the television (because this apparently affects the player's performance and therefore the outcome of the game), Liz and Sam are having a very loud Robo-Dinosaur vs. Robo-Man battle right under my feet, a dog is barking, and did I mention I have a pounding headache due to the delightful cold I have acquired from one or more of the outbreak monkeys who sprang forth from my womb and became instantly unable to walk past my drink without stopping to backwash into it.

So I (very sweetly and with marked patience) say to Liz and Sam, "Is there a reason you can't play with those toys downstairs in your playroom?"

And my lovely little second grader says, "Uh, because if we were downstairs, then it would be quiet in here and you would be able to concentrate on making dinner."

And Chris looks at me and says, "Oh great, Liz has learned sarcasm!"

Girls Night Out

I was invited for a girls night out with a new friend I met through my kids school. As I don't get out very often and rarely get to have grown-up girl conversations (the most intellectual conversation I had this week was with my four year old and was about whether the light saber or blaster gun is the better weapon of choice when fighting bad guys in space), I was very excited about the prospect of a night out cutting loose with the girls.
Now, this particular group of women calls themselves JUGs (standing for Just Us Girls). Personally, I think it is an adorable name for a girls group. The smart ass Husband responded with this email:

"FYI, my friend Jim and I are the founding members of SCHolastic Litany Of Nice Guys and we have a group outing tomorrow. Hope that's not a problem."

Once he informed me that I could not in fact become a member of SCHLONG, I shot back this response:

"Well, if I can't join SCHLONG then I'm starting my own group. And you and Jim can't be members of the Knowledgeable New Order of Cute Kissable Exceptional Representatives of Sexiness. So there."

IT'S FINISHED!!!

So here is the finished room--minus some prints of comic book art we're going to hang. Still on the fence as to whether to add Spiderman and Ironman on one of the other walls. . .

Why Are There Only SIX Guys On My Wall?

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!!??!
Now, I know it's hard to see, because it's just a pencil sketch at this point and you have no frame of reference to judge size, but trust me when I say this thing covers about 25 square feet of wall space. And he wants to know why there's only 6 guys. What do you have to do to impress kids these days???

Hamsters and Heat--I Don't Recommend It

We used to have a hamster.
Well at least now you know where this is headed so take a moment to prepare yourself emotionally.
Her name was Penny and in the beginning she was a lovely little pet. Didn't bite, stayed in her cage (unlike other creatures that reside in my home), only smelled when her cage needed cleaning.
Then she got fat.
For some reason, gaining enough weight to cause a hamster to get stuck inside their crawling tubes also makes them incredibly grumpy. Who knew??!! So then Penny started to bite and the kids lost interest in her. Go figure--who wants to play with something that is going to draw blood??
So one day a few months ago and I put her inside her exercise ball to roll around on the kitchen floor while I was cleaning the cage. Liz comes and, sees her and wants to take her outside. No,not a good idea--it's pretty warm out. Please, please, please, pleeeease, you get the point. My nerves are shot--Fine, take her, just make sure you keep her in the shade. ("Famous last words" sort of applies here)
So I finish cleaning the cage and go outside to tell the kids to bring her inside, and the kids are nowhere to be found, but poor Penny is sitting in the direct sunlight in the yard. She's not looking so good.

Now would probably be a good time to mention that my thermometer read 98 at the time.

I take Penny in and dump her out--she's not moving and she's pretty hot to the touch, so I start dousing her with cool water and after a few minutes she starts convulsing--at least she's moving, right?? She stops seizing and I take a medicine dropper and start giving her drops of water which she eagerly drinks. Then she flips over onto her paws on my hand, sits there for a moment, looks at me, then tries to bite me!! You have GOT to be kidding me!! I just nursed this hamster back from grip of death and she has the nerve to bite me! Unbelievable!

So here I am thinking "disaster averted--lesson learned--PHEW!" but alas, it was not to be. . .
When Chris was putting the kids to bed that night he checked on her and apparently the stress of heat stroke was just too much for the little thing.

Then we had to tell the kids.

It didn't go well. Sam, in his four year old wisdom kept trying to say, "Why did the girls have to take Penny outside??!!" I kept casually clutching him to my chest to muffle his words.
Then the inevitable happened--Emma asks, "Did Penny die because we took her outside??"
(Yes, of course she did.) Chris and I hesitate for half a second and then reply (emphatically and simultaneously I may add)--"NO ABSOLUTELY NOT! IT DID NOT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT!" Nothing really obvious there or anything. . .
So I'm sure somewhere in Liz's summer writing journal there's an entry about how her hamster coincidentally died on the very same day she took her outside to dry roast, uhh, I mean play in the summer sun. . . .

Sam's Room--In Progress

Sam has been in the "baby room" in our house. Sam is 4. It was time for a change, and he requested a comic book superhero room (a decision I'm sure The Husband had nothing to do with). So with high hopes and a plan of work I set out to create the most awesome superhero room a four year old boy could hope for. And this is what it looks like so far:



So here are the answers to the questions I know are on your mind:

1. Yes, everything is hand painted.
2. Because we couldn't find superhero wallpaper border.
3. No, I DO NOT want the link to the site you found which sells superhero wallpaper border.
4. Estimating about 40 hours when all is said and done (I *hope*).
5. No, I would prefer not to come and do the same thing in a room in your home.
6. Yes, one of the dogs now has blue paint down the side of him.
7. Yes, I've had to retouch things a few times. Turns out saying, "Don't touch that--it's wet" means absolutely nothing to a four year old boy.
8. For those of you who were familiar with the old room-- 2 coats of primer (3 over the murals themselves) and two coats of paint.
9. Yes, we WILL be moving before the time comes to repaint this room.
10. Yes, I know I made a mistake.
11. No, I don't plan to fix it by repainting the entire wall, but thanks for the suggestion, Chris. Oh, and bonus points to anyone who noticed the mistake before reading this.

So I will post again as I get more done--I'm planning a mural with at least 6 characters, maybe more if someone buys me liquor or if Sam starts being really nice to me. . .
Oh--and if anyone out there likes to paint and has a steady hand, well you know what Bob Barker says. . .

Winners Never Quit, Quitters Never Win

And I'm OK with that. I quit. Give up. Throw in the towel. Accept defeat.
Mo: 1
Shannon: 0

Anybody want a dog??