I'm Psychic (Though In My Family We Call It "Psycho")
“Look at that UPS truck! Maybe there’s a surprise package in it for me!” I swear I said this to the Husband of the Blog only yesterday, as I drove him up to the airport. “Ooh, or maybe there’s a package for me in THAT truck--or THAT one!” I love packages, and there has been a lot of crazymaking going on lately--maybe that's why I was having the idea that someone might send me a package out of nowhere.
So then, when we arrive home from the Wee One’s doc appointment (cast all gone, yeeha!), what is there waiting on the doorstep? A SURPRISE PACKAGE. Containing the TWO BEST surprise package ingredients EVER--chocolate and coffee.
Thank you, Ms. Lisa. You are indeed a good, good friend!
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Why I Am Never, Ever Going Outside With Them Again. At Least Not Until It Stops Snowing. Which Will Be In May.
This morning I hit upon the idea that we should get out, out of the stuffy house, out into the lovely beautiful snowbrushed landscape. Kids like snow, right? Kids want to play in the snow. I shouldn’t deprive my kids of that simple pleasure. So it’s decided, then. We’re going out in the snow!
I made that foolhardy decision at 9:19 this morning. We actually stepped out the door at 10:05. The preceding 46 minutes were spent locating coats, snow pants, mittens, hats, frog boots, frog boot liners, blankets and the sled, then wrapping the Wee One’s cast (don’t ask) in plastic bags and large socks, maneuvering both kids into previously mentioned snow gear, listening to them gritch about the heat while I tried to find MY snow gear, stuffing cookies and water and overdue Teletubbies videos into my backpack, securing the Wee One in her sled and squeezing out through the mudroom all at once because the Biggie was suddenly too shy to leave my hip and walk out one foot ahead.
We then commenced on the four-block walk to the library, a trip which would normally take a brisk walker like myself seven minutes, tops. Our first stop was 35 feet from the front door, when the Biggie had to kick snow into the creek from the bridge. This is good, I thought, this is the playing in snow type of stuff I was thinking about. We went one block, and then she had to sit in a snowdrift and take a drink of water to “give her legs engerny.” Half a block further, and we dallied by a bush while she dug through the snowy envelope to create a soft, soft bird’s nest. “I am making it extra-soft for the little birds, Mama!” Never mind that all the little birds are sipping Shirley Temples in Florida right now.
Then came the spike in the foot. “Oh, there is a spike in my foot!” she cried and dropped into a snowdrift. Off came the boot and sock, which were each carefully inspected by the chief spike-remover and found to contain no sharp objects. Back on went the sock, tucked carefully into the snow pants and topped by the boot. Upon standing and shuffling forward, “OW! Spike in there!” She took them off again, foot naked in the 16-degree air. Another inspection. Another redonning. Another shuffling. Another removal. Another inspection. Another redonning. Another shuffling. Another removal. This time the spike was on the side. “Can you just walk on the bottom of your foot so the spike doesn’t hurt you?” NO. Off again, inspected again, still nothing found, but this time the spike mysteriously disappeared. I suspect it’s because the chief spike-remover energetically threatened to turn around and go back home again.
By this time, we were nearly two blocks from home. Thirty minutes had passed. The Wee One, immobilized in her sled, was starting to turn a beety shade of pink. At regular thirty-second intervals she was shrieking that shriek of unhappiness, the ear-melting shriek that makes me want to fill her prescription for Tylenol with codeine over and over again. I tried to speed up, but this caused massive outbursts of whining: “You are going too fast! You are going to lose me! STOP! WAIT FOR ME!” Copious tears. Have I mentioned the exponential increase in whining activity lately? How it starts in the morning, gathers momentum in the afternoon, peaks before dinner and ceases only when she starts snoring? (“Ah, this is what three is like,” her teacher says in a knowing way. Um, well she’s FOUR, but I’m sure there’s a nice, pat, unchangeable explanation for it at that age, too.)
Somehow I hustled them over the last two blocks to the welcoming entrance of the library, where we ditched the sled, two layers and the whining, for the moment. Total time elapsed: 52 minutes.
Do NOT ask how we got home.
This morning I hit upon the idea that we should get out, out of the stuffy house, out into the lovely beautiful snowbrushed landscape. Kids like snow, right? Kids want to play in the snow. I shouldn’t deprive my kids of that simple pleasure. So it’s decided, then. We’re going out in the snow!
I made that foolhardy decision at 9:19 this morning. We actually stepped out the door at 10:05. The preceding 46 minutes were spent locating coats, snow pants, mittens, hats, frog boots, frog boot liners, blankets and the sled, then wrapping the Wee One’s cast (don’t ask) in plastic bags and large socks, maneuvering both kids into previously mentioned snow gear, listening to them gritch about the heat while I tried to find MY snow gear, stuffing cookies and water and overdue Teletubbies videos into my backpack, securing the Wee One in her sled and squeezing out through the mudroom all at once because the Biggie was suddenly too shy to leave my hip and walk out one foot ahead.
We then commenced on the four-block walk to the library, a trip which would normally take a brisk walker like myself seven minutes, tops. Our first stop was 35 feet from the front door, when the Biggie had to kick snow into the creek from the bridge. This is good, I thought, this is the playing in snow type of stuff I was thinking about. We went one block, and then she had to sit in a snowdrift and take a drink of water to “give her legs engerny.” Half a block further, and we dallied by a bush while she dug through the snowy envelope to create a soft, soft bird’s nest. “I am making it extra-soft for the little birds, Mama!” Never mind that all the little birds are sipping Shirley Temples in Florida right now.
Then came the spike in the foot. “Oh, there is a spike in my foot!” she cried and dropped into a snowdrift. Off came the boot and sock, which were each carefully inspected by the chief spike-remover and found to contain no sharp objects. Back on went the sock, tucked carefully into the snow pants and topped by the boot. Upon standing and shuffling forward, “OW! Spike in there!” She took them off again, foot naked in the 16-degree air. Another inspection. Another redonning. Another shuffling. Another removal. Another inspection. Another redonning. Another shuffling. Another removal. This time the spike was on the side. “Can you just walk on the bottom of your foot so the spike doesn’t hurt you?” NO. Off again, inspected again, still nothing found, but this time the spike mysteriously disappeared. I suspect it’s because the chief spike-remover energetically threatened to turn around and go back home again.
By this time, we were nearly two blocks from home. Thirty minutes had passed. The Wee One, immobilized in her sled, was starting to turn a beety shade of pink. At regular thirty-second intervals she was shrieking that shriek of unhappiness, the ear-melting shriek that makes me want to fill her prescription for Tylenol with codeine over and over again. I tried to speed up, but this caused massive outbursts of whining: “You are going too fast! You are going to lose me! STOP! WAIT FOR ME!” Copious tears. Have I mentioned the exponential increase in whining activity lately? How it starts in the morning, gathers momentum in the afternoon, peaks before dinner and ceases only when she starts snoring? (“Ah, this is what three is like,” her teacher says in a knowing way. Um, well she’s FOUR, but I’m sure there’s a nice, pat, unchangeable explanation for it at that age, too.)
Somehow I hustled them over the last two blocks to the welcoming entrance of the library, where we ditched the sled, two layers and the whining, for the moment. Total time elapsed: 52 minutes.
Do NOT ask how we got home.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
“Mama, do you want to know what makes a baby in the mama’s belly?” “Sure.” (I’ve dealt with this before--see the entry for August 25, 2003.) “A little bit of love on a little honeymoon.”
This is what happens when you allow your child to listen to country music. We have the Husband of the Blog to thank for this, NOT ME. He has them trouping about to the melodies of Alan Jackson and his ilk. Not that I ever listen to it, no. It’s not like I have the lyrics to “Livin’ on Love” and “Drive” memorized, no way!
This is what happens when you allow your child to listen to country music. We have the Husband of the Blog to thank for this, NOT ME. He has them trouping about to the melodies of Alan Jackson and his ilk. Not that I ever listen to it, no. It’s not like I have the lyrics to “Livin’ on Love” and “Drive” memorized, no way!
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