Valuable lessons

She was searching for lipstick. I told her I thought I had one somewhere... maybe it was in the bathroom, or a coat pocket, or a camera bag. After we searched, and searched, and searched, I re-thought what I had previously thought. Then I thought perhaps I had thrown that one tube of lipstick away. Then I tried to remember the last time I might have used it. Meanwhile she continued to search for it.

"Mom, what's this?"

It was a can of shaving cream. Half-empty. Almost as old as she is.

The way I saw it, there was only one thing to do.


Four minutes is about how long it took me to post that picture on facebook, in the other room, by the way. Meanwhile, a couple of valuable lessons were simmering.

Being the Swedish Chef is good, but there's always more imagination to be had. Fun is good, but more fun is better. Pretend bugs leaving their footprints all over the table is good, but bugs walk on the walls too, so obviously that's better.

Lesson number one: Don't turn your back on the shaving cream.


Lesson number two: Shaving cream will take the finish right off the table.

Game on

Nothing says true love like:

Someone searching Asia for a meaningful, plastic, made-in-China souvenir gift for his wife. 'Cause Lord knows you can't get stuff like that around here. Even better, he had previously (repeatedly) told me not to purchase said item because of all it's redeeming plastic junk qualities. He settled for a chocolate candy bar instead. It had intriguing Chinese script on the wrapper which made it extra cool.


Nothing says irony (no, not ironing) like:

That fantastic plastic made-in-China itemapparently not for sale in China. Being a "piece of junk" is actually it's most endearing characteristic (I swear I'm not being sarcastic for once), which is why it has held a place of honor on my Amazon wish list for so long. You know how this ends, right? My sweet husband showed up with an empty Hershey's wrapper, because it would have melted on the way home anyway.

Magical

A neighbor asked if I was surprised. My blank expression was accompanied by a four-second inner monologue echoing in my brain that went something like this: "Surprised that I'm a year older? That my nearly-eight-year-old spent half the church service hiding under the pew because he couldn't stand the guest-pastor's voice? That we might actually have some chicks hatching soon? That the mohawk fits the littler boy's personality perfectly? That someone broke the unspoken no-birthday gifts rule and did a dang good job of it too!? Oh, no. Wait. What if it's that thing that I joked to my husband was going to happen only because the winner gets a girly girl prize, and that is just my luck."

And yep, it was that thing.

4H kids learn a whole lot of life skills, like the uncanny ability to put together a very very last minute entry for the Fair and still somehow walk away with the super-fancy Champion ribbon. It's a priceless talent to have, really. My Mom will be thrilled to hear that I've still got what it takes.

So I sincerely ask, what in the world will I do with a $20 styling salon gift certificate?

My husband sincerely asked, "What if a man had won it?"

I looked at his partly-bald head and giggled, "I guess you could get your hair cut!"

Anyway, last night topped off a pretty great week with a magical combination of ingredients: My children were sleeping and their Daddy was home to watch them. It was warm out. There was just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes from being obnoxious. In a quiet corner of the barn, tiny peeps sang to their Mama hen as they fought their way out of their shells and into a whole new world. Electrons from the sun were blasting the Earth's magnetic field, causing the sky to dance overhead.

To the best of my knowledge, none of the psychotic little skunks crossed my path when I was out of the car.

And I stayed up way, way too late.

Magic, I tell you.

Me. Another excuse. What's new.

My lack of regular posting here again? I have a really good excuse for that (again). You'll never ever guess... I'm in the midst of a monitor crisis. Crises? Yes, plural. Hopefully we'll get this figured out before I rip all the hair out of my head. I'm going to owe a very helpful person in Australia a virtual beer before this is over. Or more likely, a keg. You think I'm kidding, but really? I'm not.

I may also sell all my digital photography gear and go completely to film just to avoid the whole issue. Anyone interested in a Canon 70-200 2.8 IS? But you can't have the hood. I cracked it completely in half with my shocking good looks.

And prices are dropping like crazy on the 5DII, one of you make me an offer and get a great deal so I can switch to Nikon.

Did I just say that out loud? No. Film. *cough, cough* I meant film.

Well, yes, I am feeling a bit out of sorts. Thanks for asking. And yes, I have several other much better things to write about here.

But it's been awhile. The blog was lonely. So there you go.

Better luck next time.

I'll tell you all about Arnold then. Promise.

Pudding, etc.

Do you ever make chocolate pudding for the kids, and then eat every last drop of it (with a spatula) before they ever knew it existed?

Do you ever step out of the shower with a noticeable scratch on your forehead because there was a stiff twig in your shampoo?

Do you ever have a Shakespeare-type tragedy unfold at bedtime? The little brother begins to lift the toilet lid so he can pee, even though you told him to wait until his older brother used it for a step-stool to get up to the counter, so that he could brush his teeth. The big brother reacts in brotherly love by jumping onto it anyway, which smashes the little brother's fingers between the toilet seat and the porcelain bowl. The big kid completes his awkward ballet move by tripping over his little sister, knocking her down while she generally minds her own business.

But it's not over yet.

When told to go into the other room to discuss what just happened, he flops onto the couch in such a manner that he inadvertently kicks you in the nose. Hard.

Do you ever find that the dog has relocated her food bowl, along with a beheaded rat, to the place your front step would be, if you had one?

Have you ever had a day like that?

No?

Really.

Huh.

Yeah, me neither.

A nut driver

This flat tire? It wasn't on my car.



Not merely hours after the man of the farm got into an airplane and flew off across the country. But it's no big deal, you know, because someone had the foresight to purchase a certain tool thingie... because the last three times our roads-which-are-in-perfect-condition (cough, cough) gave me a flat, it wasn't me who couldn't get the tire off the car.

And to quote The Bean, "It's tooooo tight!"

These boys of mine are just old enough to be dangerous.

"Just back the car up to the shop, Mom."

They thought they had it all under control.

"We'll just turn on the air compressor and use Daddy's nut driver."

I snorted.

"Daddy's what?"

Try not to laugh, people. It gets worse.

I knew that tool was in my trunk for this precise moment so I told the boys that, no, I was the one who had it all under control. After all, I am the mom. Then I opened the little black plastic tool case in the trunk and both boys gasped and jumped and squealed, "A NUT DRIVER!".

*angels singing*



Really.

Except it was a piece of JUNK!

"Don't say dat Mommy"



"Girl, where are your hair clips?"

Maybe it was a cheap piece of junk. Maybe I didn't know how to use it. Maybe I don't know how to do my little girl's hair. Maybe some weird you-get-what-you-pay-for combination of them all. But I'll tell you what... when somebody needs cupcakes to celebrate his birthday at preschool the very next day, and a horrid lapse in kitchen ingredient inventory caused by a thyroid medication mishap (that I really don't want to discuss) means that I haven't got a single drop of vegetable oil in my cupboards or butter in my fridge...

It is not ME who will find a way.



I am a nut driver. Yes I am. Thankyouverymuch.

(and it is also not me who's very third post on this blog was about a flat tire)

My little melons

Some of you have been asking about my tiny little melons. I need to say this: It feels kind of awkward and strange. I mean, do I really need to put my melons out there on public display?



Okay. So the truth is, objects may be smaller than they appear in that picture. And a little lopsided. And maybe I started to worry after my blogging friends (one after another) privately confided in me that they weren't at all satisfied with how their own little melons turned out.

These ones were developed in Minnesota. Literally, not figuratively. Minnesota is close by. Pretty close by. So I thought we should be good.

Still, I prepared the kids for the likely scenario that instead of juicy goodness, poo and filth might ooze out of them once we finally whacked one open.

If there is one thing from the garden I've been waiting for and dreaming of... One thing. Yeah, this would be it.

Hmmm...



Smells good enough.

But how would it taste?

I saved the seeds just in case we would want to plant acres and acres of them.



See. I told you they were small.

Being the sacrificial giving mother that I am, I signed myself up for the first taste. To save my kids. In case the melons were poisonous. Because that was a real possibility, you know.

Ready.

Set.

Go!



Ding! Ding! Ding! We HAVE a winner, folks!

The man of the house, the one who runs the tiller, and complains that I always plant everything way too close together, he had one suggestion:

"Maybe we should till up that whole area of alfalfa next year and grow melons instead"

He likes my melons.

The chickens got the peeling, and they agreed.



After that, I'm almost ready to declare the entire pathetic garden a roaring success this year. Almost.

Linking up with:
KinderGARDENS - almost done (the linky seems to have gone missing)
Selfie Magic

Boo hoo moo moo

My sweet Bean's standard answer to the question "Why are you sad?" is an odd one. It makes me smile. I haven't the slightest clue where it came from, but I love it almost as much as when she says "me (h)appy" when she's clearly not.

"Me sad a moooooo"

And she says it sincerely too.

She took it to a whole new level the other day when I asked her why she had such a rough night. Her explanation: "Me sad a moo. Me tip down a moo. My feet. Boo hoo hoo..."

I wasted no time in pulling up this fine little jewel on You Tube. Gotta love You Tube. You want it? It's there.

And now? Her "me sad a moo" is not only sincere... it is enthusiastic. And accompanied by singing.



My mistake was showing the kids how to push the "replay" button. I've been regretting it ever since. Go ahead, watch it. You'll thank me later. And I say that with absolutely no sarcasm whatsoever (at all).

Bye bye moo moo bye bye moo moo bye bye moo moo bye bye moo moo bye bye moo moo bye bye moo moo...

Thirteen years

I counted three times just to be sure. It was thirteen years ago.

Thirteen years sounds like a long time, but it's not.



He wore his Marine Corps dress blues. I had daisies in my hair.

It was the best Monday morning ever.

I'd marry him again.

The games we play

If you try to take my picture in a professional sort of way, Mommy...

I'm not gonna make it easy.





I'll do everything I can to not look into that camera.



Unless, of course, you tell me there is a bug in the lens.



Don't think for one moment that promising me a yummy treat is going to work.

I'll let you know exactly what I think of being bribed, and I'll even look into the camera, to be sure you get the message.



And just to drive the point home, I'll pee my pants too.

You Capture - Games

Right now

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. I was enjoying a peaceful moment hanging clothes on the line when all hell kid choas broke out in the house.



Why is it that things can go from happy calm to complete and utter destruction in 2.5 seconds flat?

Upon questioning the guilty-looking parties, I ended up with conflicting stories involving a whoopee cushion, a little girl who was supposed to be napping, and someone's butt being shoved off a bench onto the floor.

Evidence:


This was immediately followed by a poop explosion (a poopsplosion?) the likes of which I haven't before seen in my six and a half years of being a mother.

Every cloth diapering mom knows the first diaper to go into a squeaky clean pail is a nasty one. Every. Darn. Time.

I guess I forgot. Or something.

You know how you can whip a wet diaper off the kid while slipping a clean one underneath in one swift motion?

It pretty much flew everywhere.

But Right Now?

She's asleep. Sweet victory!

Both beaters

It's a beautiful thing, sometimes, when your brothers are trying to kill each other in the next room...



if the noise from their rough play is so extraordinarily loud that they never even heard the mixer...



and you get both beaters to yourself!

It was her idea

If I try to be a super-eco-freak by refusing to put the little Bean in disposable diapers when we head to the Big City for the day, it means I still have to wrap the wet cloth diapers in a plastic grocery bag until we return home.

If everyone (ahem) in this house used re-usable shopping bags, there would not be any plastic grocery bags multiplying in the cupboard.

If there were no plastic grocery bags in the house, I would use an empty Cheerios bag because if there is a way I will find it.

If the previously mentioned wadded up plastic grocery bag containing wet cloth diapers is on the floor of the car, the Bean's Daddy will throw it in the trash when we stop at a gas station in the Big City.

If cloth diapers end up in the trash, I wonder why the heck I even try.

If the pile of cloth diapers remaining at home is worryingly small, it won't matter because the eighteen month old little Bean will suddenly decide she is a big BIG girl.


{I can't get enough of her wispy hair}

If she proudly shows everyone in the house her pee in the potty chair, I become deaf from the roar of the cheering crowd.

If she makes it an entire two weeks with very few daytime wet diapers, I start to wonder if this isn't possibly, unbelievably, the very real deal.