Every year our family attends the Easter sunrise service at church; it's a lovely way to celebrate the day, and being held in the field across the street from church, it's truly beautiful. Although casual (when Easter falls in March is it especially casual, as I have to bundle everyone up in snow suits, blankets and boots, usually on top of their pajamas), last year Katy and her best friend tried their hand at "dressing up" for the occasion, and nearly put the me through the roof when they came out of her bedroom at 5:30 in the morning dressed in:
Short colorful dresses
over metallic leggings
with tall boots
colorful scarfs, hats,
and on top of everything
A red velvet hooded cape and
Gabe's Darth Vader Star Wars hooded cape.
All ready to go, and with NO IDEA why I made them go change.
Attention, anyone?
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A Parable about Keeping an Eye on the Kids
One way John would often help me when the boys were younger would be to take one of them with him while he was running errands; as any mother knows, little boys (maybe girls are the same but I guess I won't know for sure) love to egg each other on, especially little boys like mine who have very different interests. My husband loves to read, loves buying books, looking at books, collecting books, et cetera, and many times stops in at the local Parable Bible Bookstore to peruse the shelves.
When Zach was three and freshly potty trained, John was out with him and decided to stop in at this particular store; the ladies there are very sweet but mostly a bit older, giving the impression that they have forgotten what small boys are like - it was my own personal nightmare to take them into the Bible bookstore due to the numerous glass figurines placed on low shelves all throughout the building. However, where books are concerned John is fearless, so in he and Zach went.
John ushered Zach over to the children's play area, where a veggietales movie was playing and a table of giant legos waited to be played with. As he was skimming over a book, one of the sales ladies came over with a small smile.
"Isn't he cute?" she said, gesturing to Zach.
"Mm Hmmm, " my vigilant husband replied, politely glancing up before returning to his book.
"Yes, he's really something." She kept the conversation going, waiting for John to reply. He finally got the hint and lowered the book, only to see his son racing around the store, completely naked from the waist down.
When Zach was three and freshly potty trained, John was out with him and decided to stop in at this particular store; the ladies there are very sweet but mostly a bit older, giving the impression that they have forgotten what small boys are like - it was my own personal nightmare to take them into the Bible bookstore due to the numerous glass figurines placed on low shelves all throughout the building. However, where books are concerned John is fearless, so in he and Zach went.
John ushered Zach over to the children's play area, where a veggietales movie was playing and a table of giant legos waited to be played with. As he was skimming over a book, one of the sales ladies came over with a small smile.
"Isn't he cute?" she said, gesturing to Zach.
"Mm Hmmm, " my vigilant husband replied, politely glancing up before returning to his book.
"Yes, he's really something." She kept the conversation going, waiting for John to reply. He finally got the hint and lowered the book, only to see his son racing around the store, completely naked from the waist down.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Gone Fishing
We live the downtown part of Concord, so there are two parks close by, and we often walk to one or the other of them when it is warm out. Which park we go to is determined by our willingness to chase the boys around, since one is much bigger, although this has gotten easier as they have gotten older.
As toddlers, one of their favorite things to do was go to White Park, where we could feed the ducks as well as enjoy the playground, so we spent a lot of time there with our stale bread when they were younger. The pond is a duck pond - slimy, shallow, but lovely in its own right. The type of pond that makes me issue these warnings often - "Back up. Don't get your feet wet. Honey, BACK UP."
One day we were down there with our leftover offerings, and two year old Zach suddenly took his summer hat off his head, and threw it as far as he could (about five feet) into the water.
I looked at John, telling him without words there was NO WAY I was going into that water. As soon as Zach realized what he had done, he began to cry.
"I want my hat. Hat! Hat! Get it!" It was starting to sink into the green water when suddenly, another hat joined it - plop. Gabe had decided to get in on the fun, and tossed his hat in as well.
Now they were both crying as their hats began their descent into a watery grave. Still, John and I didn't move; it was a hard call, facing the crying children and buying new hats seemed much easier than facing the slime, the feathers, the mud. In the end we knew we needed to rescue our darling boys from watching their summer hats drown, so we sprang into action.
Looking to the right and left, I attempted to find something we could use to grab the hats, but being a duck pond there wasn't a whole lot in the way of tools lying around. About twenty feet away a young man was fishing, calmly ignoring us. Without a moments hesitation I marched over to him, smiled as I gestured to my screaming children, and requested the use of his fishing pole. With one look at the boys, who were pointing and yelling and making a general ruckus, he handed me the pole. John made quick work of catching the hats, we returned the fishing gear, and made a snifffling, drippy retreat, having become a little wiser in the art of feeding ducks.
As toddlers, one of their favorite things to do was go to White Park, where we could feed the ducks as well as enjoy the playground, so we spent a lot of time there with our stale bread when they were younger. The pond is a duck pond - slimy, shallow, but lovely in its own right. The type of pond that makes me issue these warnings often - "Back up. Don't get your feet wet. Honey, BACK UP."
One day we were down there with our leftover offerings, and two year old Zach suddenly took his summer hat off his head, and threw it as far as he could (about five feet) into the water.
I looked at John, telling him without words there was NO WAY I was going into that water. As soon as Zach realized what he had done, he began to cry.
"I want my hat. Hat! Hat! Get it!" It was starting to sink into the green water when suddenly, another hat joined it - plop. Gabe had decided to get in on the fun, and tossed his hat in as well.
Now they were both crying as their hats began their descent into a watery grave. Still, John and I didn't move; it was a hard call, facing the crying children and buying new hats seemed much easier than facing the slime, the feathers, the mud. In the end we knew we needed to rescue our darling boys from watching their summer hats drown, so we sprang into action.
Looking to the right and left, I attempted to find something we could use to grab the hats, but being a duck pond there wasn't a whole lot in the way of tools lying around. About twenty feet away a young man was fishing, calmly ignoring us. Without a moments hesitation I marched over to him, smiled as I gestured to my screaming children, and requested the use of his fishing pole. With one look at the boys, who were pointing and yelling and making a general ruckus, he handed me the pole. John made quick work of catching the hats, we returned the fishing gear, and made a snifffling, drippy retreat, having become a little wiser in the art of feeding ducks.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Not to be confused with utter UTTER humiliation
Stopping to pick up groceries with the kids is never fun, and for some reason stopping to pick up one thing seems even worse - it isn't logical, but the bother of getting everyone in and out of the car, traipsing into the store, NOT buying everything the kids want, finding that lone item - it's just a huge pain. This particular time, the culprit was a gallon of milk.
The boys were a bit younger, four and five I would say, and we had to stop at Hannafords on the way home. We piled out of the van, found the milk and had made it to the express lane without incident. I was handing some money to the cashier when I felt an insistent tapping on my leg. Zach was standing just behind me, and was not going to stop tapping until I acknowledged him, so I looked down to ask what was up. As I was glancing down, a couple of things happened:
Zach said, "Mommy, look!"
And I saw a very large woman in line behind him.
Time slowed as my brain began to put two and two together, but Zach was not slowing down. "Look, Mommy!" he said again, pointing this time. "She has a really big bottom!"
Horrified I quickly looked to see if she heard while my arm reached out of its own accord, yanking Zach over to me. My face was on fire, the cashier was handing me my change, and Zach wanted to keep talking about it. I looked him in the eye, steel in my voice as I said, "Zach, STOP TALKING."
His face crumpled at my tone. Blindly I grabbed the milk, my two boys, and turned to make my exit, praying the poor woman was unaware of what was going on. But Zach wasn't done.
"Mom, you won't listen to the the truth!" he wailed. We were almost to the door and I knew if I kept dragging them quickly toward the exit I would be in the cold fresh air and maybe able to start breathing again, so I ignored him and kept going.
"MOM!" he yelled. "LISTEN TO THE TRUTH, MOMMY!!"
We made it to the van, and I got the boys inside as quickly as I could. I lectured with gusto.
"We do not use the word fat. We do not point at people. We never talk about the outside of people, we talk about the inside. We don't want to hurt people's feelings." Zach stuck with his argument that I should listen to him when he is telling the truth, and shouldn't get mad. Somehow I knew I needed to get my point across, but temporarily gave up once Gabe piped up from the back, in all of his big brotherly glory:
"Yeah, Zach. Next time, go up to the lady and say 'Hi, you're really skinny!' "
The boys were a bit younger, four and five I would say, and we had to stop at Hannafords on the way home. We piled out of the van, found the milk and had made it to the express lane without incident. I was handing some money to the cashier when I felt an insistent tapping on my leg. Zach was standing just behind me, and was not going to stop tapping until I acknowledged him, so I looked down to ask what was up. As I was glancing down, a couple of things happened:
Zach said, "Mommy, look!"
And I saw a very large woman in line behind him.
Time slowed as my brain began to put two and two together, but Zach was not slowing down. "Look, Mommy!" he said again, pointing this time. "She has a really big bottom!"
Horrified I quickly looked to see if she heard while my arm reached out of its own accord, yanking Zach over to me. My face was on fire, the cashier was handing me my change, and Zach wanted to keep talking about it. I looked him in the eye, steel in my voice as I said, "Zach, STOP TALKING."
His face crumpled at my tone. Blindly I grabbed the milk, my two boys, and turned to make my exit, praying the poor woman was unaware of what was going on. But Zach wasn't done.
"Mom, you won't listen to the the truth!" he wailed. We were almost to the door and I knew if I kept dragging them quickly toward the exit I would be in the cold fresh air and maybe able to start breathing again, so I ignored him and kept going.
"MOM!" he yelled. "LISTEN TO THE TRUTH, MOMMY!!"
We made it to the van, and I got the boys inside as quickly as I could. I lectured with gusto.
"We do not use the word fat. We do not point at people. We never talk about the outside of people, we talk about the inside. We don't want to hurt people's feelings." Zach stuck with his argument that I should listen to him when he is telling the truth, and shouldn't get mad. Somehow I knew I needed to get my point across, but temporarily gave up once Gabe piped up from the back, in all of his big brotherly glory:
"Yeah, Zach. Next time, go up to the lady and say 'Hi, you're really skinny!' "
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The jogger never saw it coming
For a brief time we had dog named Rowdy, a hound dog with a great heart that did eventually find a different home. Once we got Rowdy I had to figure out how to take him for walks while John was working, and it was tricky because the boys were two and three at the time so no matter what plan I concocted, there were drawbacks. For example:
One morning I decided I would take the boys and the dog around the block - only one block, but still, I figured it was better than nothing. At this time Gabe had a stuffed puppy dog that he had also named Rowdy, and he would tie it to a leash, which is not as effective as attaching something to a leash, so the poor little stuffed animal was dragged to and fro through out the house. That morning Gabe wanted to bring his puppy with us on the walk. I popped Zach into a backpack, handed him his current favorite stuffed animal (a giraffe), hooked Rowdy up to his leash, and headed out the door.
We started off around the block, Gabe dragging his puppy, and Rowdy dragging me along; the progress was slow, like any walk with toddlers, but eventually we made it three-quarters of the way around the block and I could see our house up ahead. Out of nowhere, a jogger passed us, and like a shot, Rowdy took off after him. I broke into a run to keep up with the dog, but of course had my three year old son by the hand, not to mention the other son on my back. Gabe held on for dear life, his poor stuffed puppy flailing along behind at the end of a very long leash, and in all the excitement, Zach squealed and threw his giraffe on the ground.
Now it was like a demented parade, with the jogger in the lead and the rest of us behind - it was so ridiculous that I started laughing, doing my best to keep up with Rowdy as he continued to race after the hapless jogger. Behind me I heard someone calling ,"Miss, excuse me!" and I turned to see a kindly neighbor following me with Zach's discarded giraffe. The margin between my dog and his prey was growing, so now we took up the whole block : the jogger, my dog, me - cackling hysterically , holding on to Gabe and trying to keep Zach safe as we zoomed along, the stuffed animal at the end of its leash that by now looked like road kill, and our conscientious neighbor, racing after us, waving a giraffe in the air like a flag.
Finally, finally, the unsuspecting man was out of sight, so Rowdy came to a full stop and our neighbor caught up to us, her face full of bewilderment.
I took a deep breath, tucked my hair behind my ear, held out my hand to retrieve the giraffe, and smiled.
"Hi, " I said nonchalantly, wondering if she would buy it. "I'm Katie. Thanks!"
One morning I decided I would take the boys and the dog around the block - only one block, but still, I figured it was better than nothing. At this time Gabe had a stuffed puppy dog that he had also named Rowdy, and he would tie it to a leash, which is not as effective as attaching something to a leash, so the poor little stuffed animal was dragged to and fro through out the house. That morning Gabe wanted to bring his puppy with us on the walk. I popped Zach into a backpack, handed him his current favorite stuffed animal (a giraffe), hooked Rowdy up to his leash, and headed out the door.
We started off around the block, Gabe dragging his puppy, and Rowdy dragging me along; the progress was slow, like any walk with toddlers, but eventually we made it three-quarters of the way around the block and I could see our house up ahead. Out of nowhere, a jogger passed us, and like a shot, Rowdy took off after him. I broke into a run to keep up with the dog, but of course had my three year old son by the hand, not to mention the other son on my back. Gabe held on for dear life, his poor stuffed puppy flailing along behind at the end of a very long leash, and in all the excitement, Zach squealed and threw his giraffe on the ground.
Now it was like a demented parade, with the jogger in the lead and the rest of us behind - it was so ridiculous that I started laughing, doing my best to keep up with Rowdy as he continued to race after the hapless jogger. Behind me I heard someone calling ,"Miss, excuse me!" and I turned to see a kindly neighbor following me with Zach's discarded giraffe. The margin between my dog and his prey was growing, so now we took up the whole block : the jogger, my dog, me - cackling hysterically , holding on to Gabe and trying to keep Zach safe as we zoomed along, the stuffed animal at the end of its leash that by now looked like road kill, and our conscientious neighbor, racing after us, waving a giraffe in the air like a flag.
Finally, finally, the unsuspecting man was out of sight, so Rowdy came to a full stop and our neighbor caught up to us, her face full of bewilderment.
I took a deep breath, tucked my hair behind my ear, held out my hand to retrieve the giraffe, and smiled.
"Hi, " I said nonchalantly, wondering if she would buy it. "I'm Katie. Thanks!"
Glamour girl
Katy was seven when John and I got married, and she used to love having me paint her nails and do her hair. She was as cute as a button, which made it even more fun to get her all dolled up. Often I would pick up those cheap little trinkets you can find at Target or the mall, pretend make-up or jewelry, and on the weekends we would have fun playing with them.
One week I found tiny little "press on " nails, Barbie themed if I recall, and she was thrilled. Having never worn fake nails myself I wasn't aware of how difficult it was to actually have them applied to the tips of ones finger, and how impossible to get anything done while wearing them.
All weekend long I would find ten tiny little plastic nails, neatly arranged in two rows, left in different places throughout the house. The worst - and the one that always comes to mind - was when I walked into the bathroom and saw, delicately placed on the toilet lid, all ten fingernails.
One week I found tiny little "press on " nails, Barbie themed if I recall, and she was thrilled. Having never worn fake nails myself I wasn't aware of how difficult it was to actually have them applied to the tips of ones finger, and how impossible to get anything done while wearing them.
All weekend long I would find ten tiny little plastic nails, neatly arranged in two rows, left in different places throughout the house. The worst - and the one that always comes to mind - was when I walked into the bathroom and saw, delicately placed on the toilet lid, all ten fingernails.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Holiday Hilarity Part II; O Tanenbaum
The first year John and I were married we lived in Manchester; I was quite pregnant at Christmas time, and we waited to decorate the giant tree we bought until Jake and Katy came over. We have a fantastic home movie of the event, complete with multiple embarrassing moments, and we enjoy viewing it very much.
The next year we lived in Pembroke and were not going to have a tree due to limited space but at the last minute I changed my mind (no tree?! Hardly ok!) and sent John out looking for the least expensive, smallest tree he could find. And he literally found the tiniest, cheapest tree to be had, bringing it home with broad smile that quickly faded when I couldn't stop laughing at his choice. About three feet tall and balder than Daddy Warbucks, it did indeed fit into our tiny apartment, although finding a side to face "out" that had enough branches to decorate was tricky business.
The following two years we lived in Boscawen and had two babies running around so we opted for small artificial trees we could put out of reach on a tabletop - not very authentic, I know, but it made sense at the time.
By the time we moved to Concord, Jake and Katy were living with us, and I was determined to make as many holiday memories as I could. We found a nice tree down for sale (short and fat and FULL) and also carried on our five year old tradition of decorating stockings to hang up - we did this for eight years, but alas, "going green" led us to keep the stockings from a couple years ago.
The next year I decided it was time to take things up a notch, and asked Dad and Mom if we could find a tree out of their woods, and claim it as our Christmas tree. Having fond memories of cutting down trees in MY grandfather's woods, I thought this was my best idea yet. We bundled up the kids on a snowy day and drove over to my parents, where we headed down into the woods armed with a small saw, and my determination to ignore all of the complaining and looks of martyrdom. It seemed a lot harder to find a decent enough tree than I had figured but it was really cold so we finally settled on one we found way down the path, and Dad and John started sawing away. The men took turns carrying/dragging the tree up the trail, and we finally made it to the house, only to realize we hadn't planned on a secure way of getting the tree home on the van roof. Dad found some rope and John started tying, aiming daggers at me to the whole time. (Surprisingly, my southern boy does not appreciate long walks in the snowy woods carrying children, tools, and trees.) Finally done we piled in the van and headed home, opting to take the highway because it was snowing so badly we were afraid to take the back roads. The fifteen minute drive took about twenty-five minutes, and when we pulled into the driveway I was ready to make hot cocoa and decorate the tree, hoping the rest of the family would thaw out soon - figuratively and otherwise, as no one else had fully embraced my idea of picking out our tree.
As I was getting out of the van John said, "Where's the tree?"
"What do you mean?" I said. "It's on the roof."
"No it isn't." The tree had flown off somewhere between Pembroke and Concord, in a snowstorm somewhere along the highway.
With a HUGE sigh John sent me in the house and went out looking for the scrawny, scrubby tree that was perfectly camouflaged in it's natural habitat, the woods on the side of the road.
He called me an hour later from Wal-Mart, "I'm coming home.I've got a tree."
* * *
The year after that, John told me I had to let him go out and get the tree. Thinking to surprise him on his day off after the long weekend he had just worked, I stopped at Agway and got an enormous pine tree on clearance (I love bargain shopping and had no idea this carried over into Christmas trees) so I bought it on the spot. Once I got home I found our tree stand and set about getting the tree up, all the while thinking about what a nice wife I was to pick up a tree so John wouldn't have to, especially after last year's fiasco. Soon I discovered why this particular tree was in the clearance bin- the trunk was unusually wide, so that it would not fit into the tree stand. No matter, I thought, and headed out to buy a bigger stand. Five sold-out stores later, I was back home in defeat, realizing I would have to shave the trunk down to fit into the small stand.
The saw from the year before was nowhere to be found, so I grabbed the only sharp thing I could find - our meat cleaver. It was really hard work so I had Jake come out to the living room to help, and he started whacking away at the tree trunk, briefly trying out a samurai sword he had to see if it would work better (it broke). John awoke to all of the banging and chopping and came out into the living room, half asleep, to see his entire family covered in pine needles and wood chips, trying to shove a ridiculously full tree into a teeny tiny tree stand.
We now own a very boring, six foot tall "fake" tree that can be assembled in about twenty seconds flat, and although I do miss the real trees, I've decided this is one battle John should win. For now.
The next year we lived in Pembroke and were not going to have a tree due to limited space but at the last minute I changed my mind (no tree?! Hardly ok!) and sent John out looking for the least expensive, smallest tree he could find. And he literally found the tiniest, cheapest tree to be had, bringing it home with broad smile that quickly faded when I couldn't stop laughing at his choice. About three feet tall and balder than Daddy Warbucks, it did indeed fit into our tiny apartment, although finding a side to face "out" that had enough branches to decorate was tricky business.
The following two years we lived in Boscawen and had two babies running around so we opted for small artificial trees we could put out of reach on a tabletop - not very authentic, I know, but it made sense at the time.
By the time we moved to Concord, Jake and Katy were living with us, and I was determined to make as many holiday memories as I could. We found a nice tree down for sale (short and fat and FULL) and also carried on our five year old tradition of decorating stockings to hang up - we did this for eight years, but alas, "going green" led us to keep the stockings from a couple years ago.
The next year I decided it was time to take things up a notch, and asked Dad and Mom if we could find a tree out of their woods, and claim it as our Christmas tree. Having fond memories of cutting down trees in MY grandfather's woods, I thought this was my best idea yet. We bundled up the kids on a snowy day and drove over to my parents, where we headed down into the woods armed with a small saw, and my determination to ignore all of the complaining and looks of martyrdom. It seemed a lot harder to find a decent enough tree than I had figured but it was really cold so we finally settled on one we found way down the path, and Dad and John started sawing away. The men took turns carrying/dragging the tree up the trail, and we finally made it to the house, only to realize we hadn't planned on a secure way of getting the tree home on the van roof. Dad found some rope and John started tying, aiming daggers at me to the whole time. (Surprisingly, my southern boy does not appreciate long walks in the snowy woods carrying children, tools, and trees.) Finally done we piled in the van and headed home, opting to take the highway because it was snowing so badly we were afraid to take the back roads. The fifteen minute drive took about twenty-five minutes, and when we pulled into the driveway I was ready to make hot cocoa and decorate the tree, hoping the rest of the family would thaw out soon - figuratively and otherwise, as no one else had fully embraced my idea of picking out our tree.
As I was getting out of the van John said, "Where's the tree?"
"What do you mean?" I said. "It's on the roof."
"No it isn't." The tree had flown off somewhere between Pembroke and Concord, in a snowstorm somewhere along the highway.
With a HUGE sigh John sent me in the house and went out looking for the scrawny, scrubby tree that was perfectly camouflaged in it's natural habitat, the woods on the side of the road.
He called me an hour later from Wal-Mart, "I'm coming home.I've got a tree."
* * *
The year after that, John told me I had to let him go out and get the tree. Thinking to surprise him on his day off after the long weekend he had just worked, I stopped at Agway and got an enormous pine tree on clearance (I love bargain shopping and had no idea this carried over into Christmas trees) so I bought it on the spot. Once I got home I found our tree stand and set about getting the tree up, all the while thinking about what a nice wife I was to pick up a tree so John wouldn't have to, especially after last year's fiasco. Soon I discovered why this particular tree was in the clearance bin- the trunk was unusually wide, so that it would not fit into the tree stand. No matter, I thought, and headed out to buy a bigger stand. Five sold-out stores later, I was back home in defeat, realizing I would have to shave the trunk down to fit into the small stand.
The saw from the year before was nowhere to be found, so I grabbed the only sharp thing I could find - our meat cleaver. It was really hard work so I had Jake come out to the living room to help, and he started whacking away at the tree trunk, briefly trying out a samurai sword he had to see if it would work better (it broke). John awoke to all of the banging and chopping and came out into the living room, half asleep, to see his entire family covered in pine needles and wood chips, trying to shove a ridiculously full tree into a teeny tiny tree stand.
We now own a very boring, six foot tall "fake" tree that can be assembled in about twenty seconds flat, and although I do miss the real trees, I've decided this is one battle John should win. For now.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Holiday Hilarity part I
Every year while Jake was growing up I would buy some funny boxers to put in his Christmas stocking, kind of a tradition - like the new Christmas pjs we always have. The first year it was Superman boxers, and then I found that during the holiday season American Eagle always sells kind of funny themed ones, so the next year I bought a pair with smiling Christmas trees.
The next year I inadvertently bought the pair that we still laugh about, the ones with the strings of Christmas bulbs. It all seemed innocent enough until about five months later when I was switching Jake's laundry from the washer to the dryer and saw, written on the flap of the boxers in huge letters words that no one's mom should ever ever associate with their underpants:
NAUGHTY or NICE?
Now I am so careful when I buy men's underclothing, looking for any inappropriate words that may be hiding inside.
The next year I inadvertently bought the pair that we still laugh about, the ones with the strings of Christmas bulbs. It all seemed innocent enough until about five months later when I was switching Jake's laundry from the washer to the dryer and saw, written on the flap of the boxers in huge letters words that no one's mom should ever ever associate with their underpants:
NAUGHTY or NICE?
Now I am so careful when I buy men's underclothing, looking for any inappropriate words that may be hiding inside.
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