Thursday, April 28, 2016

The Masked Moron, Times Three

When I was young, between the ages of five and eight, my family lived on the island of Oahu. As is only to be expected when living in Hawaii, we went to the beach a lot. We did not live particularly near the beach, however, so it was kind of a long drive every time.

It was boring for little kids, so to entertain himself, my brother--about ten years old at the time--would put on his swim goggles, wrap his towel around his head, stick up a sign in the window announcing himself as "The Masked Moron," and make faces at all the cars passing us.

Even at that young age, I mentally rolled my eyes and thought how dumb boys are.

I remembered this particular game a few years ago and thought to myself, "Oh my God, my own son is going to be a Masked Moron in only five years or so."

Yeah, that was wishful thinking.


The next generation of Masked Morons has arrived.

You can see Jack is already taking notes for his own ridiculous masked play when the time comes. There are three of these boy things in my house, you know. I guess I'd better practice hiding my eye rolling now.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

More Fun All the Time

Day Two of Spring Break, a.k.a., The Week of Trial by Child:

Cubby appeared downstairs at 5:53 this morning, announcing that he had thrown up on his pillow. He then retired to the couch in the living room with a vomit bowl in case of further indignities.

Then Jack woke up and Cubby had to be relocated to the davenport* in the parlor with the doors shut to separate the invalid from a totally uncaring large baby who wanted to crawl on the invalid's face and put the vomit bowl on his head.

It's nice to have such a large house sometimes.

It's pouring rain outside, so I guess it's just as well that one of the Three Musketeers is out of commission and not going crazy in the house.

Now it just remains to be seen who else will fall victim to the virus. Stay tuned.

* A davenport is a couch, but since this couch is almost a hundred years old, it gets the designation of "davenport." Because that's what they were called when this particular piece of furniture was given to A.'s grandparents as a wedding present in 1928. History lives at Blackrock.


Monday, April 25, 2016

An Inauspicious Beginning

Day One of Spring Break, a.k.a., The Week of All Three Children, All the Damn Time:

Jack started babbling to himself in his crib in the room adjoining ours at 4 a.m. and continued for the next hour and a half. I didn't get him up and he did go back to sleep, but that was it for me. I was awake for the day at 4 a.m. and up at 5:30 a.m.

When I did get up, I found that the coffee maker had died. Luckily, the MiL has both a French press and a plain old filter cone thing, so I could still make my beloved coffee with chicory. It didn't taste the same, though, and I was grumpy about this.

Charlie woke up spoiling for a meltdown and eventually had one over his egg. Which ended up on the floor.

But!

The children actually managed to play relatively well today, and were mostly outside despite the threat of rain.

The dead coffee maker inspired a trip to a store in the Small City, at which we also got some desperately needed shoes for Cubby, and socks and sunglasses for me. Because I like to spoil myself with fripperies. No one had a breakdown in the store and I only had to threaten Cubby and Charlie once for unauthorized cart pushing with Jack as the passenger.

There were enough leftovers in the refrigerator to have a tasty dinner without any actual cooking.

All in all, it could have been a lot worse. It could have been like this infamous day during Winter Break, for example.

One day down, six more days of Spring Break to go.


Sunday, April 24, 2016

At Last

There's a thing at Cubby's school called "Thank You Thursday Notes." Every Thursday afternoon, the little kids sit down and write a thank you note to someone. It's a way to practice their writing, and also to be very cute, because there's not much cuter than a straggly, mispelled note thanking the dog for killing a squirrel.

Or at least, that's what Cubby has come up with to practice gratitude. He's written many notes to Daddy, thanking him for taking him fishing or camping or what have you. There have been even more notes to Charlie, thanking him for helping Cubby out of the stream or for playing knights with swords. A couple to Jack, thanking him for hugs. Even, as I mentioned, at least one note for Mia.

But have I ever been the recipient of a Thank You Thursday Note? I, his mother, who cares for him daily and, you know, GAVE HIM LIFE? No. Thank you notes for the dog, and not for his own mother?

Bitter? Me? Yes, yes I was.

But then, he arrived home last Thursday with this:


Did you catch that "Mama" down there? You see it? FINALLY.

Okay, so I had to share the thank you note with "Dad," but the inside part thanks us both for "bg hgs," which is apparently "big hugs." This is very adorable, so I suppose I can be gracious and share my long-overdue Thank You Thursday Note with A. Not that I have much choice. 

What do you think it would take for me to get one just for me? Maybe I should kill a squirrel. It worked for the dog.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

The Cheery Conversationalist

Me: Too bad Jack's gotten to that stage where he likes to try to run to the road all the time.

Charlie: Yeah.

After some thought . . .

Charlie: If you and Grandma and Daddy and Cubby were all dead, and just Jack and I were alive, I would have to keep him from going into the road and getting runned over.

Me: Well, he's lucky to have so many people who can look out for him.

More thought . . .

Charlie: But what if I were dead too?

I had no answer to this.

A pause to ponder . . .

Charlie: Then I guess Jack would just go down to the road and get runned over and then the WHOLE FAMILY would be dead.

Right. Time to change the subject, Gloomy Gus.


Tuesday, April 19, 2016

A Good Mop Is Hard To Find

I seem to be cursed with mops. This is unfortunate, seeing as how I have three small children that constantly spill things on the kitchen floor (along with their father and his near-constant coffee spilling . . .), leaving me with a kitchen floor that more or less ALWAYS needs mopping. I should do it every day. I don't.

Partially this is because I really don't like mopping, but also it's because I never seem to have a satisfactory mop. I prefer the sponge mops, because they're simple to use and light. A bought me one a few months ago. I mopped at least once a week because it was so easy and worked so well . . . until it didn't. There was this weird design flaw where the inside part kind of untwisted and the head fell off and there was no way to thread it back on because the screw part was on the inside.

I only know this because I asked A. to put it back together for me and he spent, no lie, 45 minutes messing around with the thing before I finally grabbed it and threw it in the trash. I wasn't even the one trying to fix it and it was making me mad.

Fail.

We had another sponge mop handle in the shop that just needed a replacement head. That mop was purchased at the grocery store. I went to the same grocery store and bought the same brand of mop head as the one we got before, the only kind of replacement head they had.

It didn't fit. OF COURSE IT DIDN'T. They probably change the design every few months or something so you have to buy a new mop.

Second fail.

This left me with a string mop the MiL had bought awhile ago. It had all these screw parts I couldn't figure out and it was so long that it didn't even fit into my bucket.

THIRD FAIL AND SCREW THIS.

I ended up on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor with the useless new replacement head because I couldn't return it and it works okay as an extra-long sponge. There was a lot of swearing.

But at least my kitchen floor is clean now. For about an hour.

Monday, April 18, 2016

What Happens When It Gets Hot


Well, I suppose 73 degrees is only "hot" if you live in a place accustomed to ice on interior house walls. But it felt hot to us.

Luckily, we know how to adapt.


Ditch the pants . . .


Add some shades. Good to go.