Cubby came down with a cold yesterday. Literally came down, as in came down the stairs in the morning hacking and complaining of a headache. He proclaimed it, "The worst cold ever in the world."
He may not know the meaning of the word "hyperbole," but he sure is an ardent practitioner of it.
He was so subdued yesterday that he refused to go outside, even though it was 56 degrees and sunny. Bummer. Charlie and I really wanted to be outside in that glorious taste of real spring weather, especially since our forecast was calling for twenty degrees colder today and a foot of snow.
It is currently dumping snow as I write this, and has been since nine o'clock this morning, when the rain turned into sleet, which turned into gloppy snow, which turned into just snow. It's not supposed to stop until late tonight. Ah, spring in upstate New York. So delightfully schizophrenic.
I'm still working my way through my newest DVD of pain, and I am forced to accept the fact that I just plain suck at lunges. In pretty much any form. Every time I'm supposed to be doing jumping lunges or alternating lunges or side lunges or whatever the hell else that apparently requires more coordination than I have, I just give up and do static lunges. In my defense, the lunges are always combined with some kind of weight lifting arm exercise, and it's apparently more than my feeble brain can handle to make all those movements happen correctly at the same time.
Speaking of which, I am now due for my daily failure at lunges, so off I go to don my gross workout clothes and enjoy my time off from the children. Have a lovely Wednesday.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Sunday, March 9, 2014
The Survivors
This past Thanksgiving when the MiL was in the midst of a big dining room cleaning, she decided to wash all the silver on the sideboard. It's a coffee service, with many little pots, some of which have lids. Inside these were my camera cord and the USB drive on which I had stored all my photos.
The MiL didn't know those things were in there when she submerged the silver in water.
I just now found the USB drive again (it had been brought upstairs along with a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff that was in a bag in our bedroom) and plugged it into my computer without much hope that any of the photos had survived their little swim.
They did. All of them. That's pretty impressive.
So now I have the fun of going through all the old photos on the USB drive and finding ones like this:
The MiL didn't know those things were in there when she submerged the silver in water.
I just now found the USB drive again (it had been brought upstairs along with a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff that was in a bag in our bedroom) and plugged it into my computer without much hope that any of the photos had survived their little swim.
They did. All of them. That's pretty impressive.
So now I have the fun of going through all the old photos on the USB drive and finding ones like this:
This is Cubby when he was just a couple of months younger than . . .
This stylish little dude is now.
They don't look much alike, but they do share a love of accessorizing.
Friday, March 7, 2014
A.P.D.--The Pancake Preference Edition
The pancake dinner we went to this past Tuesday served as a reminder of how different the pancakes I eat now are in comparison to the pancakes I used to eat.
The pancakes I grew up with and ate until about four years ago were the standard pancake: White flour, milk, oil or butter, maybe some sugar even. They're kind of thick and puffy, and eaten with massive amounts of butter and maple syrup. Except when I was a kid, it was margarine and Mrs. Butterworth's. And I LOVED them. I remember one period when I was about ten when I wanted pancakes every day after school. My mother was quite obliging about this, as I recall. Thanks, Mom!
Those were the kind of pancakes that were served at the pancake dinner. Those are not at all the kind of pancakes we eat in our house now.
We had pancakes this morning for breakfast. The batter was made with buckwheat flour--which, despite its name, is not related to wheat and therefore is okay for the gluten-sensitive members of my household to eat--some of the failed yogurt that I'm trying to use up, and melted butter. Plus cranberries.
About those cranberries. A. considers a pancake without blueberries to be a waste. One time a couple of months ago when we had run out of frozen blueberries, he used some of the cranberry sauce leftover from Thanksgiving.
Winner. So now I have a jar of cranberries cooked with sugar in the refrigerator to use for pancakes.
A. ate his cranberry buckwheat pancakes with butter and maple syrup. Cubby ate his plain. Charlie ate his with just maple syrup. The MiL ate hers with just butter. And I ate mine with plain yogurt and apricot jam.
Our pancakes are weird. And so are we.
And now it's your turn to talk pancakes, my lovelies! What's your preferred pancake and what do you put on it?
The pancakes I grew up with and ate until about four years ago were the standard pancake: White flour, milk, oil or butter, maybe some sugar even. They're kind of thick and puffy, and eaten with massive amounts of butter and maple syrup. Except when I was a kid, it was margarine and Mrs. Butterworth's. And I LOVED them. I remember one period when I was about ten when I wanted pancakes every day after school. My mother was quite obliging about this, as I recall. Thanks, Mom!
Those were the kind of pancakes that were served at the pancake dinner. Those are not at all the kind of pancakes we eat in our house now.
We had pancakes this morning for breakfast. The batter was made with buckwheat flour--which, despite its name, is not related to wheat and therefore is okay for the gluten-sensitive members of my household to eat--some of the failed yogurt that I'm trying to use up, and melted butter. Plus cranberries.
About those cranberries. A. considers a pancake without blueberries to be a waste. One time a couple of months ago when we had run out of frozen blueberries, he used some of the cranberry sauce leftover from Thanksgiving.
Winner. So now I have a jar of cranberries cooked with sugar in the refrigerator to use for pancakes.
A. ate his cranberry buckwheat pancakes with butter and maple syrup. Cubby ate his plain. Charlie ate his with just maple syrup. The MiL ate hers with just butter. And I ate mine with plain yogurt and apricot jam.
Our pancakes are weird. And so are we.
And now it's your turn to talk pancakes, my lovelies! What's your preferred pancake and what do you put on it?
Thursday, March 6, 2014
When Vehicles Stage an Uprising
A few weeks ago, A. discovered that his beloved Roadmaster needed a new transmission. He brought it to the local very skilled but also very slow mechanics up the road. They've had it for two weeks now. The fact that they charge about half what anyone else charges slightly mitigates our annoyance at this snail pace. Slightly.
A couple of weeks ago, when A. was maneuvering his pick-up truck into position to get some wood he had cut, he slid in the snow and slammed into a guardrail. Now the driver's side door only opens partway and the taillights don't work, thereby rendering an already sketchy truck more or less unroadworthy.
This morning when I got back in my Subaru after dropping Cubby off at preschool, the car started to start and then . . . didn't. A. thought it might be the fuel pump. Or, much worse, the head gasket. Whatever that is. The Subaru is even now on the back of a tow truck on its way to the mechanic. A different mechanic than the one that has the Roadmaster.
So our household is now down to the MiL's car and one very, very decrepit pick-up truck. Super.
A couple of weeks ago, when A. was maneuvering his pick-up truck into position to get some wood he had cut, he slid in the snow and slammed into a guardrail. Now the driver's side door only opens partway and the taillights don't work, thereby rendering an already sketchy truck more or less unroadworthy.
This morning when I got back in my Subaru after dropping Cubby off at preschool, the car started to start and then . . . didn't. A. thought it might be the fuel pump. Or, much worse, the head gasket. Whatever that is. The Subaru is even now on the back of a tow truck on its way to the mechanic. A different mechanic than the one that has the Roadmaster.
So our household is now down to the MiL's car and one very, very decrepit pick-up truck. Super.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
A Traitor to My Roots
Hey, it's Fat Tuesday! Did you have a gluttonous extravaganza of fat, alcohol, and sugar? Maybe some shiny beads thrown in there just for kicks?
Or did you, like me, surrender to your northeastern, Protestant surroundings and go to a Shrove Tuesday pancake supper?
Yeah. It wasn't exactly Bourbon Street up there at the MiL's church, which hosts this all-you-can-eat pancake supper with like ten different kinds of pancakes every Shrove Tuesday. But Cubby and Charlie really enjoyed the children's playroom (other people's toys are always the best, of course). And several of the MiL's fellow churchgoers enjoyed seeing Cubby and Charlie, because you know how it is when you don't see a little kid for a few months (or, ahem, a year . . .) and then you do. Gasps of amazement at their stunning growth all around.
Still. Next year I should at least wear some beads to eat my pancakes. Wouldn't want to forget where I came from.*
* Okay, so it's really my mother who is from New Orleans. My connection to that city and its Mardi Gras traditions is only that of a second-generation immigrant, you might say. But trust me, Fat Tuesday is way more fun to celebrate than Shrove Tuesday. Same day, not even close to the same kind of celebration.
Or did you, like me, surrender to your northeastern, Protestant surroundings and go to a Shrove Tuesday pancake supper?
Yeah. It wasn't exactly Bourbon Street up there at the MiL's church, which hosts this all-you-can-eat pancake supper with like ten different kinds of pancakes every Shrove Tuesday. But Cubby and Charlie really enjoyed the children's playroom (other people's toys are always the best, of course). And several of the MiL's fellow churchgoers enjoyed seeing Cubby and Charlie, because you know how it is when you don't see a little kid for a few months (or, ahem, a year . . .) and then you do. Gasps of amazement at their stunning growth all around.
Still. Next year I should at least wear some beads to eat my pancakes. Wouldn't want to forget where I came from.*
* Okay, so it's really my mother who is from New Orleans. My connection to that city and its Mardi Gras traditions is only that of a second-generation immigrant, you might say. But trust me, Fat Tuesday is way more fun to celebrate than Shrove Tuesday. Same day, not even close to the same kind of celebration.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Our Fitness Comedy Routine
I was sitting on the couch at 2:30 this afternoon, watching both of my children ram around the living room. As usual. Due to various circumstances, I did not get a dual nap out of them today. Which is why I decided I should maybe do my workout while they were awake.
Oh, the hilarity that ensued.
I didn't even attempt the newer DVD I'm doing, because most of it involves getting down on the floor for push-ups or plank stuff or abdominal exercises. Forget it. That is not happening with my children in the room with me. Although they would be quite happy to increase the challenge by piling onto my back or stomach as the opportunity presented itself.
So that's a no on Ripped in 30.
I decided instead to do the first level of the 30-Day Shred DVD. Most of that is upright, if I skip all the abdominal stuff. Which I mostly did. The hand weights that are part of the program were sacrificed early on as items of interest to entertain the children while I continued to lunge around them and try to avoid kicking them in the head while I did my butt kicks.
Charlie's hand weight had to be confiscated because he kept throwing it.
Cubby had to be cautioned more than once to avoid doing his reps over Charlie's head.
Charlie tried to time his attempts to climb my legs with my jumping jacks.
Cubby kept enquiring why the women were missing clothes (they wear only shorts and sports bras, an outfit he has certainly never seen me rocking).
Charlie leaped on my stomach when I made one attempt at sit-ups. I managed to do eight before he landed on my kidneys.
And all this in fifteen minutes.
I think it's clear that group exercising will not be repeated in this household.
Edited to add: I forgot to mention my sporty outfit for this experience. I didn't take the time to actually change my clothes, instead electing to just exchange my slippers for running shoes and take off my wool sweater. So I did this whole thing while wearing long underwear and corduroy pants, plus a thermal long-sleeved shirt under a flannel shirt. You can see why Cubby was befuddled by the shorts and sports bra concept.
Oh, the hilarity that ensued.
I didn't even attempt the newer DVD I'm doing, because most of it involves getting down on the floor for push-ups or plank stuff or abdominal exercises. Forget it. That is not happening with my children in the room with me. Although they would be quite happy to increase the challenge by piling onto my back or stomach as the opportunity presented itself.
So that's a no on Ripped in 30.
I decided instead to do the first level of the 30-Day Shred DVD. Most of that is upright, if I skip all the abdominal stuff. Which I mostly did. The hand weights that are part of the program were sacrificed early on as items of interest to entertain the children while I continued to lunge around them and try to avoid kicking them in the head while I did my butt kicks.
Charlie's hand weight had to be confiscated because he kept throwing it.
Cubby had to be cautioned more than once to avoid doing his reps over Charlie's head.
Charlie tried to time his attempts to climb my legs with my jumping jacks.
Cubby kept enquiring why the women were missing clothes (they wear only shorts and sports bras, an outfit he has certainly never seen me rocking).
Charlie leaped on my stomach when I made one attempt at sit-ups. I managed to do eight before he landed on my kidneys.
And all this in fifteen minutes.
I think it's clear that group exercising will not be repeated in this household.
Edited to add: I forgot to mention my sporty outfit for this experience. I didn't take the time to actually change my clothes, instead electing to just exchange my slippers for running shoes and take off my wool sweater. So I did this whole thing while wearing long underwear and corduroy pants, plus a thermal long-sleeved shirt under a flannel shirt. You can see why Cubby was befuddled by the shorts and sports bra concept.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Life with Cubby
On his unauthorized Pack 'n' Play invasion: "I'm keeping Charlie entertained so he won't cry while you're in the bathroom."
Boy with boy toys: pick-up truck, armored personnel vehicle (known to us civilians as an armored car), fighter plane (F-16, maybe? my dad the former fighter pilot is going to be so disappointed that I can't identify it), police truck, and one downed soldier.
This . . . this is classic Cubby. Those are turkey feathers stuck in his shirt, but he informed me he was not a turkey; he was a monster.
A very aggressive monster.
At least he's never dull.
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