real work

"Mom, we're doing WORK today." (This is my third child, informing me of his father's BIG plans for the day.)

"What about Mom - is she working today?" I ask him.

"No, we're doing ACTUAL work!"

Sigh. A mother's work just doesn't count in a houseful of boys.

math problems

According to a six-year-old, if you add 1/4 and 1/4 and 1/4 and 1/4 you get a dollar. Pretty hard to argue with that logic. And believe me I tried.

dream fulfilled

Walking up to Cub Foods today I spied the bell ringer. I gave each boy a dollar to put into the red kettle. After we got inside, one boy asked me who the money was for. After I explained, another one said, "Wow! I've always wanted to give to the Salvation Army!"

it's nice to have boys...

who don't appreciate all the money you save by cutting their hair. The haircuts didn't go so well tonight - "You cut my hair too short! I look like a dimrod!"

good question

Are you on a certain website too much when your six-year-old says something stupid and then immediately tells you, "You better not put that on Facebook!"

life's little disappointments

Number Three: Where are we going for summer vacation?

Me: Omaha.

Number Three: Are we going anywhere else?

Me: Nope.

Number Three: Oh man! I wanted to go to Mexico!

casualty three

Here's why I love living on acreage.

This child actually got the scissors out to remedy the situation, but eventually (after cutting off a few hunks) decided that Mom had better get in on the fun.

The first thing Mom did of course, was to grab the camera. His reaction was somewhat appropriate.























Yep, that would be about 25 burrs stuck into his lovely, curly hair (that looks oh-so-attractive here.)








The good news is that Mom knew exactly what to do. But only because a few days earlier, she too was caught several times with burrs stuck into her ponytail and bangs.

For future reference: do not pull the burr. That will only tangle things more. Pull the hair close to the roots, and it will gently slide right out of the burr. Eventually, enough will come loose and the burr will come free with little to no hair loss. Scissors are not a solution.

casualty one

This is what happens when 11-year-olds play baseball with five-year-olds.

This child is usually...shall we say...a bit dramatic, so I didn't even comfort him when he came in crying. No blood. No broken bones. No need for tears. (That's our motto around here.)

The next day, I told him to get up in the bathroom and wash his face off. (It looked a bit like dirt.) Only after it didn't come clean (and I very nearly chewed him out for not listening to me) did I realize he'd actually got hurt the day before.

So, I did the only thing I knew that could remedy the situation.

I went out and played 500 with the boys. I was the batter. And the baseball turned into a tennis ball.

Problem solved.

mealtime prayers

Number Four:
Dear God, thank you for the great night. Thank you for the great supper and thank you for lunch.

Number Three:
Dear God, thank y ou for the good food. I love Jeff Gordon! And I hope we can go to Grandma and Grandpa's tomorrow. And I hope all our countrizens are safe.

Number Two:
Dear God, I pray everyone does well in the race tomorrow and there are no injuries. I hope all our cousins are safe and so is Uncle Mike.

(Think we've got NASCAR on the mind around here?)

bugs

from 3/26/07 (I found this written on the back of an envelope on my desk)

Boy #3 at age 3: "Dad, there's a box elder bug in my glass!"
"Okay," comes Dad's reply.
He then goes into the kitchen and takes a drink.
"I thought you said there was a bug in your glass!" Dad exclaimed.
"There is, but I didn't drink him. He's on the other side of the glass!"

Only a boy would do that.

peanut butter concentration

Boy #1 isn't so sure that his younger brothers are capable of doing anything. Because he has always been the trail blazer, he is simply used to doing everything and tends to get a bit conceited about his abilities versus his brothers.

We realized we were relying too much on him and had to have a few teaching lessons with Boy #2 to show him how to put DVDs going, wash dishes in HOT water, sweep dirt into a dustpan and fold jeans, none of which he was excited to do, except the dishes.

With Boy #3, he wants to do everything, even though he doesn't quite know how or isn't quite able to. At five, he is NOT willing to take any guff from older brothers about what he can or can't do. (I think he got a stubborn gene from both Mom and Dad.)

It has always been #1's job to make the sandwiches for lunch. I buy a natural brand of peanut butter that is a bit more goopy and runny than Jif, so ability really matters in this chore. (Cleaning peanut butter drips off the table, floor and bench just isn't much fun.)

This doesn't sit well with #3, who wants to do everything himself about three years too early. He finally wore me down yesterday with his incessant whining - I gave in and let him make his own sandwich. (Apparently older brother has cooties or something.)

To his credit, he was pretty careful, but his brothers were hecklers from the get-go, insisting that he was going to get peanut butter all over everything.

His response was classic from Number Three: "I'm five! I know how to concentrate!"

Slow and steady wins the race in peanut butter sandwiches and putting older brothers in their place.

it's boying

Life is tough when you're five. You're too young to play a guitar. Your parents are too tight to buy you a dirt bike. You're too big to wrestle with a two-year-old. And for sure, you're too cool to work.

Because, after all chores are boy-ing. All you want to do is play your new Pac-man video game but Mom won't let you because you haven't put your clothes away. You haven't done that because it's "boying."

Everything is "boying." Or at least everything that you don't want to do.

It's a good thing your mother has a sense of humor and will laugh about how you say boring instead of getting crabby with you because you won't listen and you're sassy and you just called her a nut head.

She probably will, however, draw the line at calling her "boying." That will offend her more than just about anything else. She would rather be a nut job, or rather a nut head, any day than be boring.

You, however, had better watch yourself. Even though you're only five - you ought to know better than to not do your chores. Your mother worked long and hard to turn those clothes right side out, wash those clothes and fold those clothes and she would appreciate it very much if you would just shut your boying little mouth and do as you're told. If you don't - you might find yourself being very boyed sitting on a very boying stool with your little boying nose pointed in a very boying corner for a very boying long time. Then maybe you can say, "It's boying."

little mister sassy pants

Grandpa took Boy #3 ice fishing last week. This was a special event - getting away from your brothers and of course, Grandpa has much better snacks than at home. And he lets you eat as much as you want. (Unlike some mean mommies we know.)

Well, apparently Grandpa was going the extra mile and provided pop for our precocious little three-year-old. Only, it got partially spilled. Then it had to be set down while the men did “serious” fishing. And then (I think I got this story straight), lines were tangled, which isn’t hard to imagine when you think of fishing with a preschooler. So Grandpa was trying to do it all and somebody decided he wanted a drink. Now.

Well, Grandpa said no, not now. Little Sassy Pants replied in a huff, “Fine! I’m never coming fishing with you ever again!”

(At this point, hearing the story, I am completely mortified. Then I wonder how I can blame those genes on my husband...)

Grandpa took the attitude in stride and replied, “That’s okay - your brothers will come fishing with me.”

(I hate to even write this...)

“No, Grandpa, they’re not gonna come fishing with you ever again either!”

I’m pretty sure his two older brothers wouldn’t agree with #3’s statement, but he was positive about it. At least Grandpa has been laughing about the whole thing and doesn’t seem too put off by the grief his grandson gave him.

I find it endlessly fascinating and very embarrassing at how emphatic and bold this child is. He can look me straight in the eye after I’ve told him to pick up his toys and say, “No!” without so much as a twinge of remorse - until he sees the Tabasco sauce bottle come out.

He is so quick to justify his behavior, to demand his demands, to spew, “Fine! I don’t like you anymore!” that I worry it’s more than a stage. Part of it I know is his personality - he is simply quick-witted - and part of it I suppose is just human nature.

We are selfish, demanding, unsympathetic and sassy at times - even to God. We make demands during our prayers and huff if they’re not answered. We whine about what we have to do and sniffle about whatever ails us. We sometimes aren’t all that happy and we let God know all about it. We’re as impossible to please as an ornery three-year-old. Especially when we don’t get our way.

“Fine! I’m not coming fishing with you ever again!”

I wonder if God has Tabasco sauce.