Have a Laugh

I laughed hard exactly five times yesterday.

#1) While I was working in the kitchen in the morning making cookies, my son started singing.  Here’s a little background: Santa Clause brought my son a neon green fish that looked like Lacy’s neon pink fish.  Lacy named her fish a few different things before settling on Glinda the Good Fish.  Because Trent isn’t old enough to think of his own pet names, Lacy took it upon herself to name the green fish Jesus.  We tried in vain to dissuade her.  Really, we tried everything.  There’s something radically irreverent about a fish named Jesus.  I expected lightening to strike the tank at anytime, but it never did.  Anyway, we don’t have to worry about it anymore.  The green fish died.  We found it dead in the tank minutes before leaving town to visit Grammy.  We broke the news to the kids on the drive over, and when Lacy arrived at Grammy’s house, she spread the word… “Jesus died!” I told this to my brother, and he suggested we save the fish until Easter to see if it came to.  Sadly, the fish has been flushed.   The bright side to this story is that I thought I didn’t have to worry about lightening striking anything.  I counted my eggs before they were hatched, it would seem.  And I couldn’t help but laugh as I listened to my son sing one of the only songs he knows by heart:

“He’s makin’ a list and checkin’ it Christ.”

I corrected him and he now sings it correctly.  Though it took one more, “He’s makin’ a list and checkin’ it Chr–TWICE.”  But he did get it.  And that’s all that matters.

#2) Lacy has some markers.  I bought them on clearance at Wal-Mart and they hardly ever come out to play.  They are special occasion markers.  As I was getting ready for mutual and my husband on sitting on our bed, our little Lacy Lou came plowing into our bedroom, her arm covered in blue marker.

“TRENT DID THIS!” She cried, holding out the offending blue marker, “So I just said ‘DEMMIT’ to him!”

I popped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, “What did you just say?” I asked.

“I say Trent did THIS!” She held out her arm, “And I was so mad so I just said ‘demmit’ to him.”

Dad took care of that situation.  Sometimes the best solution to a problem is the cause.

#3) Curiosity got the better of this cat, who -for some reason I’ll never know -wondered what it would be like to be a pair of dirty jeans.

I’ve come to believe it’s my lot in life to hear thuds followed by screams. Such was the case yesterday. Any good mother would have just pulled the kid out. But I asked her not to move while I got the camera. These are the things we never want to forget.

(no children were harmed while these pictures were taken. Apart from being shaken up, she was absolutely fine.)

#4) One of my Beehives told me about the book she’s reading. She gave me an introduction into what the book is like, and it went something like this: “It’s like an old book. Not like ‘old’ old, but like set back in time. Like…” she paused here to gather her thoughts… “okay, like you know when they used to kill people that they thought were witches? Like that. The book happened around that time but it’s fake. The story isn’t real… like the Titanic.”

Instead of correcting her, I just nodded and proceeded to make notes on the paper in front of me of what she was saying so I’d be sure not to forget it.

#5) Trent busted out what he likes to call his Battle Cat last night. Prepare to be scared.

Heaven help the David who goes against THAT Goliath.


Over the holiday weekend, the weather was blustery and unkind.  We had planned to spend Saturday in the city getting some much-needed shopping done, but after looking out of the windows and looking at the online weather warnings, we decided to bunk it at home.  It was an experience unlike any other.  We all had NO PLANS, and so we sat at home doing whatever came to mind.  Thanks to the overcast weather and falling snow, I was compelled to break out my Pioneer Woman cookbook and try my hand at her cinnamon rolls -something I’d been dying to do for over a year but had never been brave enough.

I don’t care for cinnamon rolls.  They always look so inviting and wonderful, but when you bite into them? dry.  All anticipation comes crashing down, no matter how much you microwave it (the roll.  not the anticipation).

These rolls were different.  They were moist and soft and absolutely delicious.  The only problem was: the recipe made exactly 51 cinnamon rolls.  It used up every single pan in my house that was somewhat cinnamon-roll friendly.Photobucket

Now let me take you back…

Last week, we had a Valentine’s Party for preschool.  The kids wanted a pink butterfly cake, and I was going to bake sugar cookies for them to decorate.  But I got sick the weekend before the party.  I bagged the sugar cookie idea.  I bagged the butterfly cake idea.  Instead, we had cake mix cookies (made out of strawberry cake mix) and we decorated them as if they were sugar cookies.  I made a batch of frosting, and the kids had a blast.

I made the frosting in my favorite stainless-steel bowl.  My husband’s grandmother gave it to me as a bridal shower gift, and I treasure it.  It has a ring on the side of the bowl, and no matter where I’ve lived, I’ve always kept that beautiful bowl hanging on my wall in very close range to my cooking area.  My husband used to use it for popcorn.  It didn’t bode well with me.

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to use that bowl for popcorn?” He asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “It’s mine.”

“You mean it’s … ours,” he said.

“No.” I shook my head, “It’s mine.  Your grandma gave it to me as a bridal shower gift and I use it all the time and when it’s not hanging in it’s spot I get cranky.”

It’s not characteristic of me to impose rules on my husband, so when I do he generally takes the hint that I’m not to be trifled with.  Besides, the rules I do give generally have to do with kitchen duties and really there’s only two rules.

#1) Don’t use my mixing bowl.

#2) If you’re going to interfere while I cook by telling me I need to measure ingredients, I will unkindly escort you out of my kitchen.

Anyway, the kids didn’t use all of the frosting.  I covered it tightly with Cling-Wrap (material of the gods!) and put it in the fridge.  The next night, I was exhausted.  We did scriptures and prayers with the kids, and Trent went right to sleep.  Lacy did not.  I put “The Princess Bride” on her TV to help her drift off, about 2 hours later, she woke me up.  Her movie was over.

I stumbled out of bed and started it again, mumbling at her to go to sleep.  I should’ve just turned the dang movie off, but who thinks straight in the middle of the night?  Later on in the night (I’m not sure how much later because I’m too blind to see the clock and too tired to put my glasses on), she was by my bedside again.

“Can I have some juice?” She asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled and promptly fell back asleep.  I was awakened again by a noise coming from the kitchen.

clink, clink, clink…

I’d heard that sound before.  My foggy middle-of-the-night brain registered that it was the sound of my prized mixing bowl -the ring it hangs from hitting the side of the bowl.

clink, clink, clink…. SLAM

My eyes popped open.  My brain began registering facts more quickly: mixing bowl, frosting, fridge door slamming… LACY.  I squinted in the darkness to see the silhouette of my daughter, clinking as she went, pat-pat-pattering into her room with a big bowl of frosting.

“Lacy!” I hissed, so as not to wake up her dad, “NO!  What are you doing?”

“Can I have some juice?” She asked, innocently handing over the bowl of frosting.

She got her juice.

Now back to the cinnamon rolls: what do you do with 51 cinnamon rolls?  A few days before, my husband had expressed a sincere concern for my health -er, lack of health, I should say.  Something’s amiss with my blood sugar, I think.  In any case, my 25 year-old body acts more like a 55 year old body at times.  Given that we’d both like for me to bear children again someday, I need to take better care of my body.  Read: I need to give away cinnamon rolls so I won’t eat them.

We took a pan to grandma.  We took a pan to my folks.  We took a pan to my brother.  We divided up individual rolls to this person and that person, saving only 2 pans for ourselves: one small pan and one larger pan for our Sunday breakfast and after-church snack.

Saturday night, I covered the big pan in tin foil and I nestled up to watch “My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend” with my husband (a good movie, by the way, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.  Word to the wise: only watch it once.  If you watch it more than that, Alyssa Milano’s mouth may start to grate on your nerves).  From the kitchen, I heard the rusting of tin foil.  I ignored it, hoping it would go away.  I didn’t.  It got worse.  Soon the rustling sound gave way to a tearing sound.  At that point, I sat up to go stop the tearing but I was too late.  My son came bolting out of the kitchen, holding a big pan of cinnamon rolls at a 45 degree angle over his head.  He clutched the pan in a small space where the tin foil had been ripped away.

The best part?  He didn’t take his eyes off of his parents as he b-lined it for the sanctuary of his bedroom.  Honestly, I’ve never seen the kid run so fast on his tip-toes.  Maybe he thought if he held the pan up high enough, we wouldn’t be able to reach it.  He was wrong.  And as I took the pan out of his hands, he WAILED loudly so as to let all nations, kindreds, tongues and people know that HE HAD BEEN WRONGED.

It probably wasn’t in the interest of good parenting to give him a roll, but I did.

It was in the interest of my sanity, and that counts for something.

Now that you’ve read through the entirety of this post, I have to say: I feed my children.  I feed my children well.  I don’t know why they hoard sweets in their room, but I suspect it’s because they’re on the normal side.

My Little Pretties

On Saturday we spent the day in the city.  It seemed we had run out of nearly everything in our house, and I was feeling a little Mother Hubbardish.  I had been looking forward to our trip to the city for days.  I wasn’t excited about spending the amount of money I knew we were going to have to spend, but I was looking forward to GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE.  The kids and I have a bad case of cabin fever.

Yesterday it got so bad that I had to clear out completely.  I packed up the kids, drove twenty four miles to the nearest Wal-Mart, breathed a sigh of relief, and then spent money, got after the kids for fighting, and came home completely exhausted.  Yes, it would have been better to have stayed at home.  My hindsight vision is so clear it’s maddening.

Our day in the city started off wonderfully.  My husband and children went with me into the newly remodeled Joanne’s Fabrics where I nearly fainted with enthusiasm.  I wasn’t able to browse like I would have liked to, but I found what I needed and we went to check out. (I picked up a book titled Apron-ology in the magazine section, fawned over it and then replaced it.  My husband picked it back up and bought it for me.  It has been my constant companion ever since.)  The computers at the registers weren’t functioning quite right, so the line was long.  People were impatient.  Quilters and crocheters alike were beginning to voice their annoyance.  My children were busy rummaging through the displays at the check-out line.

Wooden birdhouses?



Their joy was complete.  My husband and I looked lovingly at each other.  Our eyes locked and spoke (though we never spoke out loud) saying, ‘What little DARLINGS!’

We scooped them up and read books to them.  A woman a few feet in front of us who spoke as business-like as she dressed said, “Your children and beautiful, and they are very well-behaved.”

We thanked her and our eyes locked again.  What little DARLINGS!

As we walked out of Joanne’s and into Bookman’s, my husband confessed that when the woman had complimented our children’s behavior, his chest had puffed out about three feet.  I wrapped one arm around him, told him he was a good dad, and then basked in the wonderfullnes of the day I had been looking forward to for so long.

After Bookman’s, we went to Sam’s Club.  We had to spend SO much money on food.  We went beyond the budget, which we both knew we would but there was no getting around it this time.  The kids had spent the entire shopping trip annoyed with the fact that the other breathed, touched things, and generally existed.  My husband and I walked out of the bulk shopping warehouse with absolutely no bounce in our step, which is ironic given that our pockets were lightyears lighter.  We unloaded the car, buckled the kids in, climbed into our seats and locked eyes.  They were both worn and wary.

“The little stinkers,” I said audibly.  My husband shook his head, and off we went to our last shopping destination.

Super Wal-Mart.  I had to finish our shopping list.

At this point, my once-bouncy hair was limp and frazzled.  My make-up had fallen.  My posture was laughable.  With both kids in tow, my husband and I ventured into the store.

The kids were still at each other’s throats.  They kicked, they touched, they fought, they fought over the food I put into the cart.  They fought over their coats.  They fought over EVER-EE-THING.  I tried to get through the store as quickly and efficiently as my energy would allow.  I didn’t realize that my son had gotten ahold of the Mac n’Cheese.  And can I just say?  We just FED them.  We took them out for “chicken dip its” which, as we all know, is chicken strips.Photobucket
I took it away from him and tried to keep it away from him, but his sister got it and tried EATING the dry macaroni that was escaping.
In frustration, I tried to increase my speed and efficiency. But by the time I’d made it to the cold cereal, my son had taken my glass bottle of red wine vinegar and dropped it over the side of the cart. It broke on the hard floor and the distinct odor of vinegar wafted through the store. I sent my husband for help and with marked embarrassment, I explained to a lady sporting a mop what had happened. She cheerfully sent me on my way, and I apologized my brains out, even after Mop Lady was out of ear shot.
Once at check out, the cashier gasped when she picked up the Macaroni and Cheese box.
“Do we have RODENTS?” She asked, horrified.
“You don’t,” I said, warily pointing to my son, “But I do.”

I have two, in fact. Two “well behaved” little rodents. One of which came home, grabbed his Iron Man fleece blanket and blue pillow, and mad a bed on my piano bench.
We all slept REALLY hard that night.
The moral to the story: next time we need to go to Sam’s Club, WE ARE GETTING A SITTER FOR THE DAY.