And This is Why I Love My Husband

Getting dinner the other night, I lost my train of thought.

"What am I doing?" I mumbled to myself.

"I ask myself that all the time," my husband said.

"You ask yourself what you are doing?" I said, a bit absentmindedly.

"Nope. I ask myself what you are doing," he shot back with a grin.

Is it any wonder that I love that man?

Hurt Feelings and Farmer's Markets

Driving home from the farmer's market the other day, Girlie begins sing a song to her brother:

Girlie: "You are a pain in the bu-utt! A pain in the bu-utt! You are a pain in bu-utt!"

Boyo: "STOP SAYING THAT! I NOT!"

Girlie:"You are a pain in the bu-utt! A pain in the bu-utt! You are a pain in bu-utt!"

Boyo: "NO I NOT! NO I NOT! NO I NOT!"

Me: (in the interest of my eardrums.) "Buddy, instead of shouting, tell your sister that her song hurts your feelings."

Boyo: "Stop it! It hurt my feelings."

Girlie: (pretending contrition) "I'm sorry Brother."

SILENCE.

Girlie: "Do you 'cept my pology?"

Boyo: "No!"

Girlie: (whining) "Mom-mEEEEEEEEEEE. Brother won't accept my apologEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."

Me: (wishing for a drink) "Love, I believe we have discussed whining as an unacceptable tone of voice."

Girlie: (sullenly) "Yes."

Me: "And when is it okay to tattle?"

Girlie: "When there is a blood owie or someone has a wompom."

Husband: "Wompom?"

Me:(to husband) "Weapon." To Girlie: "So tell your brother how you feel when he didn't accept your apology."

Girlie: "Brother, it hurt my feelings that you won't 'cept my apology. Will you please 'cept it?"

Boyo: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

SILENCE. Brief, blissful silence.

Girlie: "You are a pain in the bu-utt! A pain in the bu-utt! You are a pain in bu-utt!"

Boyo: "STOP SAYING THAT! I NOT!"

Wordless Wednesday: Have a strawberry!

Rules I Never Thought I Would Have to Enforce

1. We wear pants to dinner. Or at least underwear.

2. We do not ride the dog.

3. We do not stab our sister.

4. We do not lick our food off our plates like a kitty cat.

5. We do not pretend to be a frog in church.

6.  We do not use our toothbrush (or Daddy's) to brush the dog's fur.

7.  We do not shoot people.

8. We do not leave the house naked.

9. We do not tell our sibling to "Smell my butt!"

10. We do not agree to smell our sibling's butt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Children Versus Savages

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Most people have been complimentary about me changing my blog around a bit. Some not so much. But that's okay -- I don't really like most of those people anyway.

But my sister asked me -- what is the difference between a child and a savage?

So here it is for all of you who are wondering:

Children start at about age 7. Babies stop being babies at about 18 months. So what do you call a person who is between 18 months to about 7 years of age?

According to my pediatrician, it would be toddler, preschooler, kindergartner.

To much to remember, in my opinion. I mean, do I have to make a scrapbook for each new stage of life?

"Savage" is a much easier definition.

And when I told my sister I was raising savages, she shot back with, "At least it's interesting."

Interesting is certainly the word for it.

Wordless Wednesday: REALLY, Mommy?!?!

It's time for the new...

I know I haven't been a very good blogger lately. Between work, three kids, and morning sickness, it's impossible to find the time to use the bathroom in peace, let alone sit down to write.

And I was bored with "Momma Musings..." It wasn't as challenging as it used to be; there was no joy. Added to that, once you are your third child and cooking the fourth, I think you are "musing" less and "b&#$%ing" more.

So I decided to give myself a little break. But it was always on the back of my mind... I should write. I miss writing. I want to write. But I never forced myself to find the time.

Then my husband made dinner last Friday night.

He made his specialty -- spaghetti and meat sauce. The kids helped (or hindered) as they love to do. And we encourage that, since that means they eat dinner -- one less battle to fight.

We sit down to our "noodles and sauce." We say Grace (my husband and I are actually praying for the strength to get through the meal). I feed the baby her truly disgusting, mashed up chicken. My husband pours juice. And then we hear:

"Look at me, Mommy!"

I glance in my daughter's direction. She has pulled A noodle from her mound of spaghetti and is spinning in her fingers, watching is fly in a circle in front of her face. Spaghetti sauce is flying -- my yellow walls, the pantry, the white kitchen cabinets.

And then her brother gives a crack of laughter and shouts "I do it too!" Only he is less coordinated than she is. One noodle is three. And now there is spaghetti sauce on my ceiling fan. And on his naked chest. Because he doesn't wear clothes in the house. Ever. "Knock that off right now!" my husband orders, but doesn't make a move to take their spaghetti away. I turn back to the baby, wondering if I can pretend that only she and I are in the kitchen.

The older two are in fits of giggles, twirling, spraying, and - yes, eating - while my husband tells them to stop repeatedly. Finally I turn around "STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!" I order.


Girlie and Boyo momentarily pause. Is Mommy serious? They seem to be thinking. Are we about to get in trouble?

"We DO NOT play with our food! I am not raising savages!" I continue in my stern, it-is-6pm-and-I-have-been-doing-this-all-day-do-not-test-me-voice.

"Yes, you are," my husband interjects.

I stare at him in disbelief while the children watch us, waiting to see how much trouble they are going to get in. And I can't help it. I start to laugh.

"I thought I was raising children, not savages," I told my husband.

"That should be your new blog title," he told me, finishing his salad.

And thus, while my daughter begins to slurp up her pasta like in Lady in the Tramp and my son uses noodles to give himself hair (and a mustache and beard), a new blog idea was born.