The Week in Kids

It's been a long time since I have posted The Week in Kids.  But, it is summer and I have more time.  And, it is summer and we are crazy busy.

This week...

Tante Tricia (my sister) came to visit.

She brought ice cream.

And, baby Lucas.

What?  They won't let me have any ice cream.  What else am I supposed to do?

Also this week...

...the boys had their first ever swim lessons.  They are in the Seahorse class, which is only one step above the Starfish class.  As Sam pointed out, "Starfish can't swim."  Neither can you baby.

Also this week...

...we went to the Jelly Belly Factory (more on that to come) and ate jelly beans until our teeth rotted out of our heads.

Also this week...

There are movies on the ceiling at this dentist.  They don't make his teeth any stronger.

...Sam had to go to the dentist (again), only to confirm that his teeth have, in fact, rotted out of his head.  He has cavities in fourteen of his twenty teeth.  We're talking root canals and caps and stuff, under general anesthesia.  This is not happy news.

Also this week...

...I gave Cate a tub of water and some plastic dishes, so she could "do dishes" just like Mommy.  She promptly took off all her clothes and jumped in.  Uh...she never learned that from me.

Also the week...

...Cate got a new swim suit.  Which she insisted on trying on.  Immediately.

And, posing in.

Okay, what is this about?  Supermodel pout, working the tutu swimsuit over pajamas look.

Also this week...

...we returned Tante Tricia's visit with one of our own.  Uncle Jim gave lawn mower rides.  (And, launched rockets, but more on that later, too.)

See you next week!!! (maybe)

Sam's Incredible and Pizza

You may think that there is no such thing as a skee ball injury, but you'd be wrong.

Do you remember last week, when I said, and I quote, eh-hem "When you have three kids, it is very rare that any one of them gets to spend time alone with both parents...We can't afford to get a sitter for two, so that both Mommy and Daddy can take one out..."

All still true.  But we don't have to pay Nana.  Which means we can afford her.  (Love you, Mom.)  Last weekend, Nana took Jonah and Cate to stay overnight with her, while Sam got to spend a whole bunch of time alone with Mommy and Daddy.

Sam alone is like a fish out of water.  As the middle child, he spends most of his time tagging along with Jonah, or trying to keep Cate from tagging along with him.  But he adapted quickly.  As a huge treat (and to make up for the fact that we did not have the good sense to have him first or last) we took him to a place called, John's Incredible Pizza.  And it was...incredible.

The first thing we did was take ourselves on a little tour of all the different rooms to sit in.  There is, among others, a cartoon room, with huge screens running cartoons, a sports room, with huge screens running sports, and a log cabin room, with no screens at all.  There is a fireplace and big wooden beams, with a pheasant and hunting dog motif.  As the modern, sub-urban, American family wouldn't know how to hunt anything that wasn't on a screen, this room was completely empty.  So, we decided to sit there.  But not until we hit the arcade.

I played skee ball.  Sam played a car racing game, a motorcycle riding game, and a spaceship flying game.  I played skee ball.  Sam rode a horse, a rocket ship, and a giant frog.  I played skee ball.  Sam shot things, beat me (I let him win) at the water pistol game, and bowled five frames.  I played skee ball.  Sam talked me into sitting with him on hard, formed plastic reclining chairs pointed at a screen, while the chairs jerked along in time to the movie shown thereon. This, by the way, jiggles one around quite a bit, and, in hindsight, is not fit for any adult woman over, oh...ninety-five pounds.  I played skee ball.  I also rubbed some Crisco on my hips to get on the kiddie coaster, as he was not tall enough to ride alone.  Minor public humiliations suffered to a soundtrack of pop hits from the eighties.  When was the last time you listened to Howard Jones or Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam?  I ask you.

So you see, I was there for my son.  I participated, I watched, I clapped and cheered like a dutiful mother.  Though, I confess, that during any lull in the activity, I sneaked away to play skee ball, like a pack-a-day smoker trying to get at a lit cigarette.  I love, love, love skee ball.  I always have.  But, now I'm rusty.  My scores were low.  I hurt my back.*  It was sad.  But, I have become a world class whac-a-mole player.  As the mother of three small children, I have had lots of practice.

After about an hour of building up our immune systems by touching everything in the arcade, we settled in for a buffet lunch.  This place does not mess around.  They had fifteen different kinds of pizza, and a well appointed salad bar.  The buffalo chicken pizza was my favorite, and I am emphatically against poultry on pizza.  They have a spicy peanut butter pizza too, but I declined.  Sam's choice was macaroni-and-cheese pizza.  That's right folks, macaroni-and-cheese pizza.  You have to hand it to them, they know their crowd.

They also make something called "nacho pizza" which must be quite popular.  The pan was empty when we went by.  Then, as we were eating, they made an announcement, and you could tell it was a big deal, that the nacho pizza was ready, come and get it.  This was followed quickly by the sounds of obese people in $90 "athletic" shoes power-waddling to the buffet.  (Okay, I shouldn't be so harsh.  If they had said "nacho cheesecake," for example, I might have thundered along with the herd.)

Arcade games and a buffet lunch.  We, the adults, were sated.  Sam however, had one more thing he wanted to do.  Dance, on the hearth of the Cabin Room fireplace, for a rapt audience of two.

It was incredible.

*I may very well have hurt my back trying to dislodge my girth from the kiddie coaster, but do you see how I dropped one factual sentence next to another, thereby implying that they are connected?  Is it my fault if people jump to the wrong conclusion I want them to jump to?  This is a law school education at work people.

[The pictures that don't include Sam were taken from the John's Incredible Pizza Facebook page and HERE.]

Bend it like...

Do you remember the moment your oldest child figured out you are mortal?  My moment came last week.

I have always wanted to be a mom.  I have never wanted to be a soccer mom.  I am fine with mini-vans, juice boxes, and sun screen bought in bulk.  I just don't want to spend every Saturday morning, for the next fifteen years, sitting on the sidelines of a soccer field.  And, that's not even counting the practices.

Unfortunately, you can not be any kind of mom with out a kid.  And, my kid seems to be better at kicking a ball than pretty much any activity he has tried.  I don't want to be a bad mom, so we have enrolled Jonah in a soccer class.  It only meets once a week, on Friday nights.  This I can live with.  If he loves it, I may need to take it like a big girl; pull up my mom jeans and a camp chair, because Saturday morning soccer it will be.

So far, he has had two classes.  Afterwards, we go out for frozen yogurt, just the two of us.  I miss that one-on-one time, now that school is out.  We have the best conversations.

"Mom, I'm pretty good at soccer," he said, after his second class.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  Except sometimes I trip over the ball."  This is true.  I have seen it.  He is getting better, though.  He gets up a lot faster now.

"Well, honey, sometimes that happens," I said, knowing how easily he can get frustrated.  "You can't be good at everything right away.  You will get better with practice."

"Why can't I be good at something right away?"

"You just can't."  You can't, can you?  I mean, it's never worked for me.  "Even the best soccer player in the world had to learn how to play first.  And then he had to practice."

"Who's the best soccer player in the world?"

"Honestly, I have no idea."  I am going to be a really bad soccer mom.  "I know who the most famous soccer player in the world is."

"Who?"

"David Beckham.  He's from England."  All I know about soccer I learned from People Magazine.

"Is he good?"

"Oh, I'm sure.  I think being good is what made him famous."

"Maybe I'll be like him someday."

"Maybe," I said.  Minus the tats and the plastique wife, I thought.  Posh, my foot.

"Can we go see him?"  See him?  See him how?  See him play?  On the street?  For tea?  Doesn't matter.  The answer is the same.

"I don't think so," I said.

"Why not?  Won't the Queen let you in?"  How did this get to be my fault?

"No.  I don't think the Queen much cares.  I can get in to England."  Okay, so I was a bit defensive.

"Well, we should go to England and meet him."  Sure.  It's that easy.

"Honey, it's not that easy.  He's famous.  All kinds of people want to meet him.  I wouldn't even know where to find him."

"Call him up and ask him."

"I can't just call him up.  It's doesn't work like that."

"Why not?" he asks.  Why not, indeed.  The child's line a reasonable, yet ridiculous questions had me off balance.  I was now engaging in this debate.

"Well, for starters, I don't have his number."

"You should get it," he says, all matter of fact like.

"I can't get it."

"Forget it," he said, resigned and disgusted.  "I'll have Daddy call him."

{I borrowed the art above from an article at babble.com}

She Is Not Practicing to be a Drunk Sorority Girl

Yes, this is a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet.  How, you ask, did I come to have a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet?

I blame the size of the house.

Our house is the smallest one in our neighborhood.  Twelve hundred square feet, three bedrooms, two bathrooms.  Don't misunderstand, I am not complaining.  I love this house.  Its is a sufficient blessing, and we are happy to have it.  I also know, that by world-wide standards, I live in a mansion.  With clean running water and electricity.  Refrigerator, gas stove, central heat and air, flushing toilets (like the one my daughter is hugging).  In several countries, I am a queen.  I appreciate this bounty.

My guests, however, may not share my world view.  And, they must use the children's bathroom.  I do my best to keep it visitor-friendly.  No urine on the toilet, no toothpaste in the sink.  It may be a low standard, but it is higher than it could be.

To this end, I have worked with the children, to use a paper towel to wipe their face, and then the sink, after they brush their teeth.  "Make sure all the blue is gone," I tell them.  Then go throw the paper towel in the garbage.

Cate has become very good at this.  But, when she started, she was inclined to toss the paper towel in the toilet.  "No, no,"  I told her.  "We don't throw paper towels in the toilet.  They make the toilet sick."  She was upset at this.  She did not want to make the toilet sick.  She's very sweet that way.

So now, after she throws the paper towel in the trash can, she leans over and hugs the toilet.  "I yuv my potty," she says.  Everyday.

That is how I came to have a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet.

Why I Shouldn't Have an iPhone...or drink

Now that I am on Twitter, if I had an iPhone, I could tweet about anything that came to my mind.  Immediately.  I thought that would be fun.  Then, I read this stream of texts I sent out last Saturday night.

[ME to my sister]  Hubband and I are at Chili's recreating our first date, except we have Cate with us.

[SISTER]  Oooooo.  But he knows how that turns out, right?  Silly man.

[ME]  Except this time I am having a margarita, so he might get llucky.

[SISTER]  Thanks for sharing.  Is "lucky" with two Ls pronounced "YUCKY"?

[ME]   LOL Though that's not saying muuch since I'm durnk.  (*editor's note:  I'd had about two sips at this point, though I did feel intoxicated.*)

[ME]  And, Cate is flirting with the cute, but obviously gay, waiter.  DOG I need and iPhone so that I could tweet from here.

[ME]  Just called Hubband a "jungle lover."  Prolly good think I can't tweet from here.  Did I say tweet in my last text, cuz I meant tweet.

[ME]  Hubband's taken Catie to the bathroom with him because he does not trust me alone with her.

[ME]  Can you believe that?  Just as well.  That brat was cramping my style with the cute, gay waiter.

[ME]  You don't seem to be responding.  Is now a bad time?

[ME]  Hello.  Are you there?  HELLO!  I'm yelling in Chili's.

[ME]  Okay, he is taking me to Borders (*book store*), but he is parking at OSH (*hardware store*).  What can this mean?

I'm sure glad I didn't have an iPhone that night, or I would have tweeted all of this stuff, and made it public.  For the whole world to see.  How embarrassing.

The Second Most Humiliating Thing That Happened to Maria Shriver Last Week...

...was that People Magazine published this picture of her (taken in 1977).

Family Hug

When you have three kids, it is very rare that any one of them gets to spend time alone with both parents.  So we work at it.  Nothing big, mind you.  We can't afford to get a sitter for two, so that both Mommy and Daddy can take one out for ice cream.  Besides, we are a family.  Like it or not, siblings are part of the deal.  But, most days, each kids gets what we call a  "family hug."  Which, ironically, does not include the whole family.

The other day, Cate walked up to Hubband and me, raised one arm to each of us, and said, "Hugs, mommy, daddy, hugs."  Family hug!  Hubband scooped her up, and we all hugged, and kissed on her, and told her we loved her.  "I yuv you, too, Mommy.  I yuv you, too, Daddy."

"Who do you love more, Cate.  Mommy, or Daddy?"

It was a joke, inappropriate for a two year old, I know.  It was more for her father that her, but she did not miss a beat.  She sat up a little straighter on her Daddy's arm, and smiled.  Big.  She looked at me, at Hubband, and back at me.  Grinning the whole time.  She knew it was a trick questions!  Finally she said, "I yuv my boys [her brothers]."  She thought that was hysterical.

I guess the joke was on me.  Bad mother!  Bad.  Bad.  Bad.

For the last five days, her boys have been out of town, and Cate has been home alone with us.  At first, she was a little off balance.  "Where my boys go?  I miss my boys.  When my boys come home?"  But by the second day, she only missed her brothers when we asked her if she did.  The rest of the time, she was basking in all the attention.  

They'll be home this afternoon.  She may close the door on them.  Or, she may welcome them with a giddy squeal, and a great big family hug.  I'm betting on the latter.

[The picture above is Cate, with her Nana, 

and another of her "boys", her cousin Lucas.]