5-year-old: "Maybe I want to be a rock star when I grow up. Rock star mom!"
2-year-old: "You kidding me!"
5-year-old: "It's not fair." ( I hear this one a lot. Welcome to life, little one!)
2-year-old: We were on a walk when we saw a gigantic hole. My daughter pointed and said, "Look, Mommy! Look at the big fall-down." I love it when kids improvise when they don't know the right word.
5-year-old: "Do you like the song I played on my Hanukkah?" (She learned about Hanukkah on Blue's Clues, so I'm guessing that's where she got the word.)
11-month-old: I keep wondering if he is really talking or if it is only my imagination. The first words my oldest said were, "all done" and my second said, "kakka" first, which means "poop" in Finnish (her sister taught her to say that word, not me). I think my son is talking, but there isn't any word he says more than once or twice at this point.
I told my oldest daughter to do something (I don't remember what) and she replied, "Is that a direct order?" (We watch a lot of Star Trek at our house.)
Conversations with the two-year-old:
2: "I wan drinka water!"
Her dad: "You want a drink of water?"
2: "Actually, milk."
Her mom: "I love you."
2: "Too-oo!"
29 October 2010
28 October 2010
A Snippet
I do not have a mop. It feels good to say this because although I have always washed my floors with a rag and bucket, I still had this:
But my lil' sister, gorgeous and talented, gave me a haircut at the end of a fun, enjoyable visit at my house.
Thirteen inches have been mailed to Locks of Love, and I have to say that their gain is also mine because now there is a lot less hair pulling happening in my life.
(I realize the after picture is blurry, but it was the best one out of the ten I had my Kindergarten daughter take for me.)
But my lil' sister, gorgeous and talented, gave me a haircut at the end of a fun, enjoyable visit at my house. 
Thirteen inches have been mailed to Locks of Love, and I have to say that their gain is also mine because now there is a lot less hair pulling happening in my life.(I realize the after picture is blurry, but it was the best one out of the ten I had my Kindergarten daughter take for me.)
23 October 2010
Address?
My daughter brought home a paper from kindergarten that encouraged me to help my child learn her name, phone number and address. As I read it, my mind jumped back to junior high and that day that something bad happened to me because I didn't know my address.
I like to keep my most embarrassing moments to myself because I really hope that if I pretend they didn't happen I will be able to forget that they did. However, this thing happened in junior high and I haven't forgotten yet, so I might as well share it. Just for laughs.
It was midterm. My first class was gym. We sat in rows on the gym floor, two big gym classes sharing the same gym at the same period. We were instructed to fill out the top of the grade sheet. Name. Address. Phone number. Now, let me just tell you that I was never good with addresses. That being said, I still can't believe that by seventh or eighth grade I didn't know what my address was. It wasn't like I had just moved or anything: I'd lived on the same land since I was two years old!
The gym teacher agreed to let me look up my address in the phone book by the office. As I reentered the gym, I slipped in something right inside the door. I was stunned. I had fallen so quickly. Confused, I looked at the slimy liquid dripping from my hands.
It was puke.
I don't really remember what happened after that except that my friend who had let me borrow her gym socks yelled at me in the locker room. I can't remember, but I even think she cried (she cried about a lot of things). I kind of wanted to cry myself. I had just slipped and fallen in someone's vomit in front of more than a hundred kids.
Anyway, after remembering that event in my past, with new motivation I set a goal to teach my five-year-old her address. I know it probably won't shield her from embarrassing moments of her own, but you never know.
I like to keep my most embarrassing moments to myself because I really hope that if I pretend they didn't happen I will be able to forget that they did. However, this thing happened in junior high and I haven't forgotten yet, so I might as well share it. Just for laughs.
It was midterm. My first class was gym. We sat in rows on the gym floor, two big gym classes sharing the same gym at the same period. We were instructed to fill out the top of the grade sheet. Name. Address. Phone number. Now, let me just tell you that I was never good with addresses. That being said, I still can't believe that by seventh or eighth grade I didn't know what my address was. It wasn't like I had just moved or anything: I'd lived on the same land since I was two years old!
The gym teacher agreed to let me look up my address in the phone book by the office. As I reentered the gym, I slipped in something right inside the door. I was stunned. I had fallen so quickly. Confused, I looked at the slimy liquid dripping from my hands.
It was puke.
I don't really remember what happened after that except that my friend who had let me borrow her gym socks yelled at me in the locker room. I can't remember, but I even think she cried (she cried about a lot of things). I kind of wanted to cry myself. I had just slipped and fallen in someone's vomit in front of more than a hundred kids.
Anyway, after remembering that event in my past, with new motivation I set a goal to teach my five-year-old her address. I know it probably won't shield her from embarrassing moments of her own, but you never know.
20 October 2010
Phone
"Hello?
How are you?
Did you have a good weekend?
We're good. It's getting--Don't stand on that!
Sorry. It's getting cold. How is work?
That's good. Oh, Buddy. You stink. Let's go change you.
So anyway, what's new with--No, no, no, no, no.
Sorry. What's new with you?
Wow, you must be--DON'T TOUCH.
Okay, when? I can't wait to see--Hey, where are your clothes?
Yeah, I look--Just a minute, I'm on the phone.
I look forward to it!
No, you can't talk to her, she has to get back to work.
Well, I love ya (as two children cry and one child whines in the background).
You too. Bye!"
How are you?
Did you have a good weekend?
We're good. It's getting--Don't stand on that!
Sorry. It's getting cold. How is work?
That's good. Oh, Buddy. You stink. Let's go change you.
So anyway, what's new with--No, no, no, no, no.
Sorry. What's new with you?
Wow, you must be--DON'T TOUCH.
Okay, when? I can't wait to see--Hey, where are your clothes?
Yeah, I look--Just a minute, I'm on the phone.
I look forward to it!
No, you can't talk to her, she has to get back to work.
Well, I love ya (as two children cry and one child whines in the background).
You too. Bye!"
17 October 2010
Roadkill Review
We almost hit an elk on our wedding night. I screamed and wide-eyed, I asked my husband "What is that?" I knew it wasn't a deer: the thing was MASSIVE. I spent the next two years paralyzed with fear every time we drove anywhere on our deer-infested highways. I just knew that if the icy roads didn't kill us, one of those road signs/elk/mail boxes/deer/tumbleweeds/antelope would get us for sure. I cried "Deer!" too many deerless times and after awhile, my husband quit braking to my warnings.
We have been surrounded by roads with deer warning signs our whole married life, but we have never hit a deer. Well, except that time we were on a tour bus that hit a deer, but that is kind of like a minivan hitting a jackrabbit, so it is probably not worth mentioning. Twice we saw other people hit deer on the road. Once after a visit to our house, three relatives in a pick-up truck hit a deer. The truck was knocked backwards down a steep hill, but thankfully our relatives were not harmed.
We have driven through herds of elk or deer (often on icy roads). There were a few times I thought a collision with one or more of them was eminent, but my dependable driver always got us through safely. I began to relax. I gained the ability to wait until I was sure I was seeing an animal before I called out a warning to my husband.
I just have to insert here a sentence about my sister. She was driving down a country road one night when several rabbits, later referred to as the suicide bunnies, jumped in front of her car, one right after the other.
One black midsummer night, we drove down an unfamiliar road, with our first baby and two cousins in the back seat. My husband slowed to watch out for deer. Almost as if it had been beamed there in an instant, the biggest, blackest cow I have ever seen stood in the middle of our lane. With the help of his lightening-speed reflexes, my husband hit the brakes, but it was obvious that we would not be able to stop in time. Naturally, I screamed with the teenage girls, although I still don't remember hearing the screams. I also put my hands up in a feeble attempt to block myself from the elephant-sized cow in our path.
It happened so fast. (Isn't that what they always say?) The next thing I knew, all I could see was white.
"Am I dead?" I asked myself silently. "What do I do now?"
Then I realized there was an air bag in my face. I moved it away and asked my husband if he was okay but he didn't answer me. It was so dark. I called his name in a panic. Then he said with an urgency I don't think I have heard since, "GET OUT OF THE CAR!" We could smell smoke. I clawed myself out of the passenger side of the car so I could get my baby out of the seat right behind me.
By the time I was out of my door, my husband was already pulling my daughter's carseat out of the back. He had opened his door, climbed out, sprinted around the back of the car, opened my daughter's door, and pulled her carseat out with the speed of Superman, I do not exaggerate.
My husband's parents came upon our stopped car. My father-in-law said he saw us bailing out of the car and wondered if we were all sick, which makes me laugh now when I think about it.
We took inventory of ourselves: my husband's arm was scratched from the windshield glass, I had a bloody nose (I later realized that when I put my hand up, the air bag caused me to punch myself in the nose) and a bruised arm, but other than that we were all just a little shaken up. And the cow...I can still remember exactly how it sounded bellowing somewhere in the dark...
Someone came by who knew the owners of the cows, so we called to tell them what had happened. We hoped they would come and tend to the most likely dying cow. The five of us rode home with family, friends, and strangers. The man who returned me to my in-laws' house accidentally locked himself out of his truck and had to wait an hour for his sister to bring him another set of keys. Then he still had another hour drive to get home. My husband waited at the ER until two in the morning, only to be told that if there was glass in his arm, it would work its way out on its own. That information cost $250. The car, which we loved so much it was like a pet to us, was completely totaled and we only carried liability insurance on it.
Midsummer night seemed unlucky that year, if you are one to look on the dark side. (Don't do it...don't go to the dark side!) But since I am not, let me tell you I believe we were watched over and protected. We were already slowing down when we saw the cow. Those girls in our backseat did not have seat belts on (if I had known, I would have told them to buckle up!), but they were not harmed at all. The car was not on fire, we were only smelling the air bag propellant. It turned out that a family member was able to fix the car eventually and use it for his family, and we were able to get the same kind of car for us.
I know that night was unlucky for the cow, though. Rest in peace, Holy Cow. So sorry!
We have been surrounded by roads with deer warning signs our whole married life, but we have never hit a deer. Well, except that time we were on a tour bus that hit a deer, but that is kind of like a minivan hitting a jackrabbit, so it is probably not worth mentioning. Twice we saw other people hit deer on the road. Once after a visit to our house, three relatives in a pick-up truck hit a deer. The truck was knocked backwards down a steep hill, but thankfully our relatives were not harmed.
We have driven through herds of elk or deer (often on icy roads). There were a few times I thought a collision with one or more of them was eminent, but my dependable driver always got us through safely. I began to relax. I gained the ability to wait until I was sure I was seeing an animal before I called out a warning to my husband.
I just have to insert here a sentence about my sister. She was driving down a country road one night when several rabbits, later referred to as the suicide bunnies, jumped in front of her car, one right after the other.
One black midsummer night, we drove down an unfamiliar road, with our first baby and two cousins in the back seat. My husband slowed to watch out for deer. Almost as if it had been beamed there in an instant, the biggest, blackest cow I have ever seen stood in the middle of our lane. With the help of his lightening-speed reflexes, my husband hit the brakes, but it was obvious that we would not be able to stop in time. Naturally, I screamed with the teenage girls, although I still don't remember hearing the screams. I also put my hands up in a feeble attempt to block myself from the elephant-sized cow in our path.
It happened so fast. (Isn't that what they always say?) The next thing I knew, all I could see was white.
"Am I dead?" I asked myself silently. "What do I do now?"
Then I realized there was an air bag in my face. I moved it away and asked my husband if he was okay but he didn't answer me. It was so dark. I called his name in a panic. Then he said with an urgency I don't think I have heard since, "GET OUT OF THE CAR!" We could smell smoke. I clawed myself out of the passenger side of the car so I could get my baby out of the seat right behind me.
By the time I was out of my door, my husband was already pulling my daughter's carseat out of the back. He had opened his door, climbed out, sprinted around the back of the car, opened my daughter's door, and pulled her carseat out with the speed of Superman, I do not exaggerate.
My husband's parents came upon our stopped car. My father-in-law said he saw us bailing out of the car and wondered if we were all sick, which makes me laugh now when I think about it.
We took inventory of ourselves: my husband's arm was scratched from the windshield glass, I had a bloody nose (I later realized that when I put my hand up, the air bag caused me to punch myself in the nose) and a bruised arm, but other than that we were all just a little shaken up. And the cow...I can still remember exactly how it sounded bellowing somewhere in the dark...
Someone came by who knew the owners of the cows, so we called to tell them what had happened. We hoped they would come and tend to the most likely dying cow. The five of us rode home with family, friends, and strangers. The man who returned me to my in-laws' house accidentally locked himself out of his truck and had to wait an hour for his sister to bring him another set of keys. Then he still had another hour drive to get home. My husband waited at the ER until two in the morning, only to be told that if there was glass in his arm, it would work its way out on its own. That information cost $250. The car, which we loved so much it was like a pet to us, was completely totaled and we only carried liability insurance on it.
Midsummer night seemed unlucky that year, if you are one to look on the dark side. (Don't do it...don't go to the dark side!) But since I am not, let me tell you I believe we were watched over and protected. We were already slowing down when we saw the cow. Those girls in our backseat did not have seat belts on (if I had known, I would have told them to buckle up!), but they were not harmed at all. The car was not on fire, we were only smelling the air bag propellant. It turned out that a family member was able to fix the car eventually and use it for his family, and we were able to get the same kind of car for us.
I know that night was unlucky for the cow, though. Rest in peace, Holy Cow. So sorry!
12 October 2010
My Second Job
After a few years of scrubbing toilets on the weekends, I decided I needed a job where I could get some more hours. Fast food seemed to be the most popular choice among my peers, but I had heard horror stories about greasy burger joints and pizza shops. There was a Blimpie sandwich shop on the outside edge of my neighbor city (there weren't any fast food places in my hometown), so I decided to apply there.
I enjoyed this job because it gave me a chance to serve people face to face (unlike my maid [I mean "room attendant"] job where I was only cleaning up after people after they had checked out or gone out). And I got to wear a red shirt and visor! Looking back though, I think my favorite thing about that job was my employee discount because MY OH MY I am still in love with the grilled chicken sandwich with honey mustard and the BLT with lots of mayonnaise (sadly, it is a long lost love, because I don't live anywhere near a Blimpie now [which is probably for the best because I have since realized how many calories and fat grams live in just one tablespoon of mayo]).
My foster grandparents used to come in often. It still makes me feel so loved because they drove past a Blimpie to eat at my Blimpie (or maybe it was just a Subway...or a Subway and Blimpie...either way, they drove a long way to eat there, something they hadn't done before I worked there, and something they didn't do anymore when I stopped working there). Grandpa would usher his cheerful but senile wife (Alzheimer's) to a table, and I would serve them waitress style. They are both gone now. Thinking of this time in my life makes me miss them.
I'll never forget the day my oldest friend came in... (That isn't really the right word...longest friend? No. He's actually kind of short. The only person on this planet who has been my friend since Kindergarten? Yes. Him.) Anyway, my long-time friend and my...what would I call him? My childhood sweetheart? Okay, so TWO GOOD FRIENDS (this story keeps getting snagged!) came in to ask me what I thought of a guy I had just gone out with for the first time. My long-time friend told me this guy liked me but didn't think I liked him back, so he was unsure if he was going to ask me out again (my friend knew this because they were coworkers). This is all starting to sound a little too middle school, and since I had just graduated from high school I'm going to end this paragraph.
It turned out that my long-time friend convinced my now-husband that he should ask me out again. The morning he came in to Blimpie to see me, the first time after our first date, I almost dropped a whole tray of bread loaves on the floor. The morning light streamed in through the large glass windows and he stood there looking handsome in a black cowboy hat. And the fact that he stood there at my counter was proof that he liked me which caused my heart to leap! Oh Sappy Young Love, I kind of miss you.
Those are my favorite Blimpie memories. My least favorite memory involves an unfortunate run-in my finger had with the gargantuan meat slicer...CRINGE...I've said too much. But since I've already said too much, I just have to say that was the freshest meat ever! Ugh. I'm still trying to forget about that, so I might delete this paragraph later.
This post did not end up being what I had planned.
I enjoyed this job because it gave me a chance to serve people face to face (unlike my maid [I mean "room attendant"] job where I was only cleaning up after people after they had checked out or gone out). And I got to wear a red shirt and visor! Looking back though, I think my favorite thing about that job was my employee discount because MY OH MY I am still in love with the grilled chicken sandwich with honey mustard and the BLT with lots of mayonnaise (sadly, it is a long lost love, because I don't live anywhere near a Blimpie now [which is probably for the best because I have since realized how many calories and fat grams live in just one tablespoon of mayo]).
My foster grandparents used to come in often. It still makes me feel so loved because they drove past a Blimpie to eat at my Blimpie (or maybe it was just a Subway...or a Subway and Blimpie...either way, they drove a long way to eat there, something they hadn't done before I worked there, and something they didn't do anymore when I stopped working there). Grandpa would usher his cheerful but senile wife (Alzheimer's) to a table, and I would serve them waitress style. They are both gone now. Thinking of this time in my life makes me miss them.
I'll never forget the day my oldest friend came in... (That isn't really the right word...longest friend? No. He's actually kind of short. The only person on this planet who has been my friend since Kindergarten? Yes. Him.) Anyway, my long-time friend and my...what would I call him? My childhood sweetheart? Okay, so TWO GOOD FRIENDS (this story keeps getting snagged!) came in to ask me what I thought of a guy I had just gone out with for the first time. My long-time friend told me this guy liked me but didn't think I liked him back, so he was unsure if he was going to ask me out again (my friend knew this because they were coworkers). This is all starting to sound a little too middle school, and since I had just graduated from high school I'm going to end this paragraph.
It turned out that my long-time friend convinced my now-husband that he should ask me out again. The morning he came in to Blimpie to see me, the first time after our first date, I almost dropped a whole tray of bread loaves on the floor. The morning light streamed in through the large glass windows and he stood there looking handsome in a black cowboy hat. And the fact that he stood there at my counter was proof that he liked me which caused my heart to leap! Oh Sappy Young Love, I kind of miss you.
Those are my favorite Blimpie memories. My least favorite memory involves an unfortunate run-in my finger had with the gargantuan meat slicer...CRINGE...I've said too much. But since I've already said too much, I just have to say that was the freshest meat ever! Ugh. I'm still trying to forget about that, so I might delete this paragraph later.
This post did not end up being what I had planned.
08 October 2010
A Few Questions
1. Why is it called the living room when it is the room we live in the least? My husband explained it once to me: something about a parlor and dead people, but I still don't get it.
2. There are so many abbreviations that don't make sense to me. Where is the logic in: Pounds = lbs. ? And Number is No.? Ounces = oz.?
3. Am I the only one who is disturbed by the names of the flavors of Ramen noodles? When you look at them, they appear to be flavors of different kinds of meat: chicken, beef, pork, shrimp...but then there's ORIENTAL!?!
So, as I always do, I turned to Google and wikipedia for answers.
(No. 1) First of all, I have to say that I do not call the FRONT room a living room. My husband does, though. So my children hear, "Don't play in the front room!" from me and "Don't play in the living room!" from him. Anyway, wikipedia told me that architects were trying to get rid of the gloomy funeral feeling of the parlor, so they renamed it "the living room." My husband is always right.
(No. 2) Well, wikipedia told me that lb. is the abbreviation for libra (an old Roman measurement), but why we use the abbreviation of libra for the word "pound" I still don't know (unless it is because the abbreviation pd. is already taken). My study of this question also led to the controversy about lb. vs. lbs. which I will not even get into! And I am left with no desire to search for the reasons for "No. & oz," but feel free to tell me if you know.
(No. 3) I looked at the Top Ramen website and was relieved to see they now have chili flavor, so I feel a little better about the whole thing. I haven't bought Ramen noodles in years...
2. There are so many abbreviations that don't make sense to me. Where is the logic in: Pounds = lbs. ? And Number is No.? Ounces = oz.?
3. Am I the only one who is disturbed by the names of the flavors of Ramen noodles? When you look at them, they appear to be flavors of different kinds of meat: chicken, beef, pork, shrimp...but then there's ORIENTAL!?!
So, as I always do, I turned to Google and wikipedia for answers.
(No. 1) First of all, I have to say that I do not call the FRONT room a living room. My husband does, though. So my children hear, "Don't play in the front room!" from me and "Don't play in the living room!" from him. Anyway, wikipedia told me that architects were trying to get rid of the gloomy funeral feeling of the parlor, so they renamed it "the living room." My husband is always right.
(No. 2) Well, wikipedia told me that lb. is the abbreviation for libra (an old Roman measurement), but why we use the abbreviation of libra for the word "pound" I still don't know (unless it is because the abbreviation pd. is already taken). My study of this question also led to the controversy about lb. vs. lbs. which I will not even get into! And I am left with no desire to search for the reasons for "No. & oz," but feel free to tell me if you know.
(No. 3) I looked at the Top Ramen website and was relieved to see they now have chili flavor, so I feel a little better about the whole thing. I haven't bought Ramen noodles in years...
01 October 2010
On Becoming a Sister
I was a three-year-old only child when I went to sleep that pre-autumn night. In the early morning, I woke up to the sound of a newborn baby crying. All of a sudden, I was a big sister. Walking into the bedroom at the end of the single-wide trailer and seeing my mom and dad with a tiny new person is my earliest memory. I have pictures of me holding her when she was a baby, and she looked like a little porcelain doll.
When I was five, I remember my dad calling me from the hospital (we were staying with my mom's oldest sister) to tell me I had another sister. He said she looked like a little Indian. I remember more about her babyhood because I was a little older. She was snuggly. She still is.
The three of us had all kinds of childhood fun. My favorite memories are of the forts we made, some out of paths laid into tall weeds, some under the shade of the tamarisk (we called them tamarack) trees, and I remember one that we dug into the ground that had a swimming pool for a roof (or something--I can't really remember what the roof was made of). We carved steps into the hard-packed red dirt that led down into it.
When I was thirteen, we were blessed with another sister. The three of us stood in the doorway of the delivery room when she arrived. I loved her with my whole heart from the moment I first saw her. Tears rolled down my masked face as I listened to her very first cries. After that, we spent a lot of time together. I played a little mommy and she played the cute baby (and she was really good at it!).
It breaks my heart when I think of my youngest sister and how one by one, we all left her behind. I don't know if that is where her amazing independence grows from, but I wish I could have savored her childhood a few years more. I still think of her as my baby sister, even though she is now an adult teenager.
When my mom was almost twenty, she had me. When I was almost twenty, she had my brother. I got married and moved away just after he turned one, so I missed out on most of his life. When I was in elementary school, I remember being fascinated with my friends who had older siblings that they didn't know very well. My sisters and I spent so much time together, I couldn't imagine not knowing a sibling. I later learned what it felt like to be that older sibling: I hope my brother knows I love him even though we didn't ever get to spend much time together.
Being a sister has been one of my favorite roles in life. I know there have been many times I was not what I should have been for each of them, but I always loved them.
And I always will.
When I was five, I remember my dad calling me from the hospital (we were staying with my mom's oldest sister) to tell me I had another sister. He said she looked like a little Indian. I remember more about her babyhood because I was a little older. She was snuggly. She still is.
The three of us had all kinds of childhood fun. My favorite memories are of the forts we made, some out of paths laid into tall weeds, some under the shade of the tamarisk (we called them tamarack) trees, and I remember one that we dug into the ground that had a swimming pool for a roof (or something--I can't really remember what the roof was made of). We carved steps into the hard-packed red dirt that led down into it.
When I was thirteen, we were blessed with another sister. The three of us stood in the doorway of the delivery room when she arrived. I loved her with my whole heart from the moment I first saw her. Tears rolled down my masked face as I listened to her very first cries. After that, we spent a lot of time together. I played a little mommy and she played the cute baby (and she was really good at it!).
It breaks my heart when I think of my youngest sister and how one by one, we all left her behind. I don't know if that is where her amazing independence grows from, but I wish I could have savored her childhood a few years more. I still think of her as my baby sister, even though she is now an adult teenager.
When my mom was almost twenty, she had me. When I was almost twenty, she had my brother. I got married and moved away just after he turned one, so I missed out on most of his life. When I was in elementary school, I remember being fascinated with my friends who had older siblings that they didn't know very well. My sisters and I spent so much time together, I couldn't imagine not knowing a sibling. I later learned what it felt like to be that older sibling: I hope my brother knows I love him even though we didn't ever get to spend much time together.
Being a sister has been one of my favorite roles in life. I know there have been many times I was not what I should have been for each of them, but I always loved them.
And I always will.
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