just a question

At Walmart today - the cashier told me about a new spa that just opened up in town and then asked if I wanted to buy a $25 special on a facial/shoulder massage that she does. I couldn't help wondering if 1) she should be soliciting for her other job while working and 2) I looked like I needed a facial.

Neither question has a very good answer.

boys say the funniest things...

Number four after church today:

"Mom, I want to see heaven, but I want to grow and grow too." ;)

tardiness

I am not known for my punctuality. I believe it's some sort of personality defect - really it's my only flaw. (Please hear the sarcasm there!) If it involves leaving the house by a certain time to get somewhere else by a certain time - forget it.

It drives my husband crazy. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed desperately as we've been driving somewhere for the slow drivers to find other roads and for stoplights to be frozen green. Sometimes it's worked miraculously, but most times, we show up a couple minutes late (even if the clock is set forward by unknown increments.)

But in my defense, it's usually not my fault (unless tardiness is genetic, then in a roundabout way, it probably is. But we won't go there now...)

It's the kids.

They are the reason I am perpetually late and perpetually flustered. We rarely make it to church on time. We'll fly into the parking lot and each of us will have to run with separate kids to make it to their separate areas before the worship team is done with the five songs they do on Sunday mornings. If we have to add a bathroom stop in for the youngest, we're screwed.

We haven't made it on time to freestyle wrestling practice yet this month. Even if I drive like a you-know-what from you-know-where, I still pull up to the school at 6:31. And the kids are running inside in various stages of dress and undress. Last week, I thought we were on a roll...until one boy decided to check the chickens a minute before everyone was out the door. This normally would be cause for celebration (he did something without being asked! It's a miracle!) but not on this day. He set all five eggs on the rug in front of the side door and his brother promptly smushed one when he turned to tie his shoes. Yep, we were late again.

The next time practice day rolled around, we were again just about ready to head out the door on time and I (stupid me) asked the middle child (who never has ANYTHING ready) if he remembered his water bottle. Of course not. Then he couldn't get the lid unscrewed to fill it up. I uncapped the thing and was treated to the not-so-pleasant aroma of stale well water. I couldn't just fill it up and have him drinking stinky water, so out came the Dawn and hot, hot water. You guessed it - late again.

I've lost count how many times we've had to turn around halfway to town to retrieve someone's wrestling shoes. Last week we showed up to guitar lessons without a guitar. I probably shouldn't say "we" because really I have enough on my mind to get four kids into the van and make sure they're not too dirty or that their everyday clothes aren't too dorky in case we stop at Walmart or the library. I can't remember the guitar too. (The upside is that the guitar-forgetter will probably never leave it behind again.)

I feel a bit like a cowboy trying to round up the herd and get them through the door and corralled into the van. All without losing one or forgetting one behind. I'm not a very good drover however, because my four bulls fight me every step of the way, leaving behind tell-tale piles of crap and taking much longer to get going than even the most patient cowboy could tolerate.

So, this morning I was late again. I was trying to get my oldest in to town to meet his father for a doctor's appointment. I was in the van but he hadn't changed his clothes and then he forgot his language book (yes, I'm a mean mom and make my kids take their schoolwork everywhere if they haven't finished it.) Then, driving into town we get stuck behind an idiot in a PT Cruiser driving 45 mph. Hubby wanted me to get to his office early, which of course meant we got there two minutes late. Phooey.

As I was driving home, I noticed my feet felt weird. Looked down to discover I had left the house wearing my slippers. Who do I blame on that one?

It's probably a good thing that my kids don't have to make a bus to school in the morning - they'd end up chasing tail lights like my brothers and I did many, many times. So, maybe it is genetic. Which of course, just means that it's still not my fault - it's my parent's.

the boss

I'm in big trouble...in about ten years.

My four-year-old is going to give me a run for my money as a teenager. How do I know this? Here's a sampling of our ride home from Cub Foods last night.

"Mom, I'm older than you."
"Really?"
"Yep. I'm yours plus one."
"If you're older than me how come you're not bigger than me?"
"I AM bigger than you and STRONGER than you." Then came a "hmmph" - like that settles that.
"And I'm the boss."

He sat and pondered his boss-dom for about ten seconds and then (I'm not making this up...) he spouted, "Hmmm.... what does Mom have to do?" (because after all he is The Boss and can now tell me what to do, or in this case, where to go.)

"You have to get out of the van."
"Why is that?"
"Then I don't have to wear a seat belt."

"If you don't wear a seat belt you can get hurt."
"Nope. I'm strong. I'm like Noah."

Apparently Noah was a strong man (or at least The Boss thinks so after watching Evan Almighty the other week.)

"Mom, know what?"
"What?"
"I'm gonna change my name."
"Really?"
"Yep. I'm gonna."
"What name are you going to be?"
"I'm gonna be Matthew. That would be a good name."

Matthew is his new best and only friend who he met at wrestling. They have been known to sneak out of the wrestling room into the boys locker room to open lockers in search of money. Last match, they found about 64 cents. Number Four got the dime and four pennies. Matthew got the quarter. Matthew is five.

Thankfully by this time we pulled into the garage, so I didn't have to hear any more from "The Boss."

He bolted out of the van and ran to the edge of the sidewalk.
"See Mom, I am the Boss. I can pee farther than you."

How am I supposed to compete with that?

butter battle

So, just a random question - can not cleaning the cast iron frying pan from last night's sauteed mushrooms get you sick?

I only ask because I didn't. Clean it that is.

I just took a paper towel and wiped out the remainder of the butter and plopped my frozen green beans in. Perhaps it wasn't such a smart thing to do because now my green beans are smelling slightly like mushrooms. Which really makes me crabby because there is little else is this world that compares to green beans sauteed in olive oil and finished off with fresh garlic pressed over them.

Well, I'm at the point that I really don't care. If I do get sick, it'll be welcomed. Then I'll have a good excuse to not get anything done except for bad daytime television and random knitting. (Only have like five projects started and not finished - that's another rant for another day...)

Bring on the butter barfing.

spring can fling

I'm not sure what's wrong with me. So many people I know are thrilled with the early thaw, the sunshine, the warm weather, with SPRING.

Not me. I think there may be a gene that went astray somewhere in my code. Well okay, perhaps one of many. But for this post - we'll only focus on the "Yay! Spring!" trait that somehow mutated to "Spring puts me in a bad mood" quirk in me.

I do not like this time of year. I do not like it with a beer.
I do not like it while in bed. I do not like it wearing red.
I tell you very honestly. I do not, do not like the spring.
Why that is, I could not tell. Only that it makes me yell.
Why it is that I can say - spring can fling - I'm in a fray.
I tell you very honestly. I do not, can not like the spring.
I do not like it when I wake. I do not like it for Pete's sake.
I do not like it like you do. I do not like you 'cause you do.
Spring can fling that's all I'll say.
Talk to me again in May.
Maybe then I'll be less a bummer.
Maybe then it'll be closer to summer.

Yeah...

I'm still wearing my long johns since it's not THAT warm and I really really hate all the muck and mud that four boys find this time of year. Warm weather means I have to start (gasp!) shaving my legs again and have to deal with the itchiness that goes along with that. And don't even get me started on spring cleaning - I'd really like to sink my teeth into whoever thought up that wonderful idea. (In case you can't tell - I'm not a happy camper. And I can't even blame it on cabin fever anymore or the lack of sunshine.)

The really weird thing is that I've been this way at least since college. I'm a writing major who mostly did non-fiction stuff and newsletter articles. Spring is the only time of year that I write poetry. Mainly because I need to be a bit in a funk to write a good poem and for some strange reason, Spring does that to me.

Case in point: I got a poem published one year in Bethel's annual competition (can't remember the name of it) that was entitled: Man: My Casus Belli.

Look it up - it will explain a lot.

So, I'm welcome to theories as to why this time of year gets me crabby, short, impatient and restless. Maybe you can figure out why I'd like to give spring a fling and move on to fall.

Oh, and just to demonstrate that I don't write bad poetry like the Dr. Suessism above, I'll try to hunt down those college rants and publish some soon. They're probably all saved on 3x5 discs, so it might be a task to recover... but hey, y'all are worth it. And of course I'd like to prove my point.

boys say the funniest things...

"Where's my good morning hug?"

His response: "I don't hug girls anymore."

I almost cried, but I'm not the sentimental type. Ha.

it's nice to have boys...

because they come up with answers like this:

Doing geography this morning, Number Two had to label the four layers of the earth. He wrote 'mantle' and then immediately put "Mickey" in front of it. "Sorry Mom, I couldn't help myself" was his explanation.