Our local PBS station is about to embark on its annual pledge drive and the program guide reminds us to "Tune in for another year of live quilting thrills!" Oh yes. I will definitely be watching that. Needle in, needle out, red square to yellow diamond, pin the facing sides -- I'm all a-tingle.
My 6 year old wanted to know if she could stay up during the pledge drive (which around here is called Festival! 'cause there's nothing that says party like begging people for money) to watch Daniel O'Donnell performing Home in Ireland, a program I am almost certain has a demographic of 60-80 year olds. I have got to start cutting back on her t.v. watching. Either that or we've got to get cable so she can watch Hannah Montana like normal kids.
Still, it would make a nice change from the countless Dora the Explorer videos I've had to endure.
Surfing today while the munchkin naps. Visited Pioneer Woman Cooks! and gained weight just from reading the recipes. I am feeling mildly inspired to make something new which the kids will refuse to eat (as opposed to all the stuff I already make which they refuse to eat). Inspired enough to venture out in the snow to the grocery store? Not really. But I think I'll add a few things to my shopping list and give them a try next week sometime.
It's snowing again. Still trying to remember why I live here.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Random Blathering
No real direction today; just a collection of widely scattered thoughts that I felt like getting out there in a meaningful way. Since I can't actually do that, I'll just put them in my blog instead.
Grant is growing again. I know this because for lunch he ate 6 pieces of lunch meat, a whole pbj sandwich, a granola bar, a bagel, a cup of applesauce and all of his milk. I think when he hits junior high and really starts eating, we'll have to purchase him some kind of membership at Old Country Buffet so we can be sure he gets enough chow.
We arrived home from Arizona to -30 windchills and I am trying to remember why we live here. Jobs, family -- something like that, but pretty meaningless in light of the vile weather.
Which, I've noticed, the weather people on local tv are fond of giving perky names like "Canadian Clipper," I guess on the theory that the sheer jauntiness of the name will cause us to forget that our skin freezes when we walk out to get the mail.
Skin. I have ignored it for a very long time, but now that I am over (f-word), I find that it can no longer be neglected. I have to make time to slather it with lotion after showering -- no small chore, finding an extra 3 minutes in my already abbreviated, kid-attuned shower routine -- or I risk developing nasty, scaly patches, or worse, cracks and splits. These, let me tell you, hurt like the worst paper cut you can imagine, and they refuse to heal without even more attention, like antibiotic cream and bandaids on all the affected areas. I have gone to bed with nearly every finger swathed in a bandage of some sort, like some sort of refugee from a cartoon piano accident.
This morning, the kids let me have a pee in peace. This is remarkable because of its rarity. Normally, I have an actual audience in the bathroom, often an audience that asks uncomfortably frank questions about whatever they may have noticed about the Potty Experience a la Mom. If I don't have a peanut gallery (or is it peenut?) then I have people standing right outside either tattling (Abby Kate), asking for snacks (Grant), or flinging themselves bodily against the door with much wailing and gnashing of teeth (Maggie). Every mother in the world knows what I'm talking about.
I always swore as a parent I would never be a total sucker and buy all that tie-in merchandise that is put out by every children's program out there, be it Nickelodeon or PBS. I was so, so wrong. I have embraced my inner Elmo now and purchased not one, but two Dora the Explorer Valentine books -- not just tie-in merchandise; seasonal tie-in merchandise. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Grant is growing again. I know this because for lunch he ate 6 pieces of lunch meat, a whole pbj sandwich, a granola bar, a bagel, a cup of applesauce and all of his milk. I think when he hits junior high and really starts eating, we'll have to purchase him some kind of membership at Old Country Buffet so we can be sure he gets enough chow.
We arrived home from Arizona to -30 windchills and I am trying to remember why we live here. Jobs, family -- something like that, but pretty meaningless in light of the vile weather.
Which, I've noticed, the weather people on local tv are fond of giving perky names like "Canadian Clipper," I guess on the theory that the sheer jauntiness of the name will cause us to forget that our skin freezes when we walk out to get the mail.
Skin. I have ignored it for a very long time, but now that I am over (f-word), I find that it can no longer be neglected. I have to make time to slather it with lotion after showering -- no small chore, finding an extra 3 minutes in my already abbreviated, kid-attuned shower routine -- or I risk developing nasty, scaly patches, or worse, cracks and splits. These, let me tell you, hurt like the worst paper cut you can imagine, and they refuse to heal without even more attention, like antibiotic cream and bandaids on all the affected areas. I have gone to bed with nearly every finger swathed in a bandage of some sort, like some sort of refugee from a cartoon piano accident.
This morning, the kids let me have a pee in peace. This is remarkable because of its rarity. Normally, I have an actual audience in the bathroom, often an audience that asks uncomfortably frank questions about whatever they may have noticed about the Potty Experience a la Mom. If I don't have a peanut gallery (or is it peenut?) then I have people standing right outside either tattling (Abby Kate), asking for snacks (Grant), or flinging themselves bodily against the door with much wailing and gnashing of teeth (Maggie). Every mother in the world knows what I'm talking about.
I always swore as a parent I would never be a total sucker and buy all that tie-in merchandise that is put out by every children's program out there, be it Nickelodeon or PBS. I was so, so wrong. I have embraced my inner Elmo now and purchased not one, but two Dora the Explorer Valentine books -- not just tie-in merchandise; seasonal tie-in merchandise. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Friday, February 1, 2008
My 4 Year Old, The Lawyer
Scene: the van, on the way to school. It is early morning and I have only had half my coffee. I am understandably somewhat foggy.
Abby Kate: Mom, I don't even know why A-S-S is a bad word. Why is A-S-S a bad word?
Me: (startled) Where did you hear that word?
Abby Kate: Lydia at school. She said it and said it's a bad word. But why is ass a bad word?
Me: Um....if you're talking about a donkey -- 'cause it is an old fashioned word for donkey -- then it's okay, but it's also a very rude word for rear end. Then it's not okay.
Grant: Mom, you have to put a nickel in my piggy bank now.
Me: What? Why? I didn't say a bad word (and for the record here, let me state that the "bad word" I occasionally have to pony up for is "gosh")
Grant: Uh, Mom, you did. You said "butt."
Me: No, I didn't. I said "rear end."
Grant: Uh, Mom, "rear end" means the same thing. You have to pay me a nickel.
You know I can't win; I'm outnumbered.
Abby Kate: Mom, I don't even know why A-S-S is a bad word. Why is A-S-S a bad word?
Me: (startled) Where did you hear that word?
Abby Kate: Lydia at school. She said it and said it's a bad word. But why is ass a bad word?
Me: Um....if you're talking about a donkey -- 'cause it is an old fashioned word for donkey -- then it's okay, but it's also a very rude word for rear end. Then it's not okay.
Grant: Mom, you have to put a nickel in my piggy bank now.
Me: What? Why? I didn't say a bad word (and for the record here, let me state that the "bad word" I occasionally have to pony up for is "gosh")
Grant: Uh, Mom, you did. You said "butt."
Me: No, I didn't. I said "rear end."
Grant: Uh, Mom, "rear end" means the same thing. You have to pay me a nickel.
You know I can't win; I'm outnumbered.
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