J: Dad? Mom? Why is 13 unlucky? What can make a number lucky or not lucky?

Me: Nothing. Nothing can make a number lucky or unlucky. It’s just another number.

J: Ok, but what makes people THINK that it’s unlucky?

Me: (Totally not in the mood to explain the Last Supper and Judas Iscariot  right that second, driving down I-10) I don’t know, buddy. It’s just superstition. It’s been around for a long time.

J: Oh! Oh! I think I know this! It’s because there used to be 12 gods of…. Canada? Or maybe Australia? And they were all good, but then another one showed up and he was evil. The 13th god was bad, so that’s why 13 is a bad number.

Me to Joe: Canada?

Joe: Or maybe Australia?

Me: Gotta remember this for the blog.

Joe: Oh, please. The “blog?” Is that code for “the Facebook update?”

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(Yes, it’s possible that the only reason you are reading this here on WordPress, instead of on FB, is so I could be right. Look! I’m right! I win again!)

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Holy cow – just Googled “Why is 13 unlucky?” before publishing this. I figured it couldn’t hurt to look into this story of the evil Canadian (or maybe Australian!) god. And look what I found!

Bearing some similarity to the Christian tradition, in Norse lore, a banquet of twelve deities was interrupted by the evil god Loki, making thirteen the number of gods present when the nigh-immortal god Baldr was killed by an arrow made from mistletoe (his only weakness). His death marked the beginning of Ragnarok, the end of everything.

My neck spends it’s sunny days safe and protected in the shadow of my gigantic head. Seriously. No matter how brown (ha! More like beige.) my face and shoulders might get, no matter how pink my upper chest, there is a pristine column of white connecting them. No sun ever hits it, ever. It practically glows in the dark.

Last week my cousin Kim asked me to post a picture of my new and improved (Even shorter! Even blonder!) hair on FB. I took one, looked at it, and thought -

“Whoa. Look how freaking white my neck is in this picture. It’s alarming. It’s like my head is connected to the rest of me by a beam of light. I don’t know if I can post this… “

But I talked myself out of that paranoid nonsense. My eyes look supagreen, my hair looks fantastic… who was going to notice my albino neck, anyway? And if they did, so what? Who would call me out on having a white neck? This is classic low self esteem ridiculousness right here – nobody notices your “flaws” like you do. Let it go. Stop being so freaking vain. Take a deep breath, post the damn picture, and chill the F out.

So I posted it.

The same laziness that kept me from saving this to my pc and posting it only to my private group now keeps me from bothering to resize it. Enjoy, please, this giant picture of my giant head.

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The photo is up for about 3 seconds when my lovely sister responds -

Hey, maybe a little a bronzer on your neck next time.

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Which prompted the following conversation between Joe and myself -

Me: Oh for the love – did you see what Suz wrote on my picture?

Joe: What picture?

M: I put up a pic of my hair.

J: Again?

M: I was coerced. Nevermind. Point is – Suz felt the need to point out my crazy white neck, and now everyone’s going to be looking at it. What can I do? My neck never gets any sun!

J: Well, yeah – because of your giant head.

M: Exactly! I didn’t even want to put up that stupid picture. Now it’s out there and my stupid white neck is blinding everyone who looks at it.

J: (looking at picture) Heh. Yeah, I can see that. Also this crazy eye thing.

M: Crazy eye whaaaaaaaa?

J: You know – this one eye that’s kinda….  uh, nevermind.

M: Thanks, hon, for talking me down here. You’ve been incredibly helpful.

J: I do what I can.

Honestly. Does it get cuter than this?

Last weekend we were invited to a Memorial Day BBQ. Remembering fondly how fab we all looked in our matching patriotic gear, I picked out outfits. For everyone. Joe included.

(I feel the need to pause here and explain that every time we go anywhere – EVERY time, ANYwhere – Joe asks for my input on his outfit. I get dragged into the closet “Does this match? What shirt do you think with this? How about this outfit?” for my opinion. Which is great. It saves him the trouble of having to change if I veto his selection. It’s been this way for years, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon. It’s just the way of things.)

Anyway, the kids both are dressed and looking fantastic. V has on a ruffly cotton sundress in navy, Jonas is wearing a red, white, and blue striped polo with navy shorts. Cute, cute, cute. Joe says (and yes, I’m quoting here) -

“Wow! You kids look great! What shirt should I wear, Mommy?” (Yeah, he totally calls me Mommy. All the time. That’s a different post.)

Me: Your red and white polo. I already pulled it out for you.

And right here, things took a turn. It was so shocking to him, that I had an answer to the shirt question. Despite the fact that he had JUST ASKED MY OPINION, he was completely flabbergasted (Word Girl word!) that I had already planned his outfit.

J: What? You’re dressing me now? Like one of the kids?

M: Now?

J: ……….

M: What? As opposed to when? Is this a new thing?

J: Jennifer, I’m a grown man.

M: Ok…..

J: ………..

M: Wait. You just ASKED me what shirt you should wear! Am I somehow being penalized for already having an answer? I did something wrong by thinking ahead?

J: You don’t see that it was a little presumptuous?

M: I think the word you’re looking for there is “proactive.”

Things just deteriorated from there. It may or may not have ended up on Facebook, for the entertainment of our fans. (My friends are sooooooo delighted that Joe is on FB now.  Apparently, we can be quite amusing whilst arguing over polo shirts in a public forum.)

Lesson to be learned – always act like it’s a surprise when your husband asks for your help with something, no matter how long you’ve been providing this particular service for him.

(Alternate lesson to be learned for the husbands – if you’re going to act all put out and grumpy, ask yourself this question: “Whooooo has the blog in this family?” Heh.)

At some point, all of these have worked and none of them have worked.  You know what always works? Every single time? Counting. Saying “I’m going to count to five, and if you’re not (in your seat/in the car/out of the car/ back in the house/etc) then you’re’ in big trouble. One…” gets immediate results. Can someone explain that? What is so freaking threatening about me slowly counting to five? I see it work all day every day around town. Moms everywhere are counting at their children, and said children are running around like industrious little ants – trying to get done whatever it is they’re supposed to be getting done. The only thing that is more consistently successful is walking away in public “Ok! Well, I’m leaving! Bye!” That will get their attention in a hurry. I’ve seen it work in other languages, as well. Small Italian child won’t leave the park, mom walks away saying “Ciao ciao!”, kid runs after her. It’s a global phenomenon.

This post has been all over the place. The point is this – you never know what is going to work. Sometimes they will continue to act like monkeys despite your very real threats to give their brand new DSi to Goodwill. Sometimes simple counting gets them to clean their room when nothing else does.

Which brings us (slowly. I know.) to The List.

This week was amazing. Staggering. Unprecedented. This week – wait for it – Joe and I (seriously, I almost can’t get this out… ) Went. Away. By. Ourselves.  Yes, you read that right. We left the children behind and went to New Orleans for three days. Aloooooone. It was amazing. We went to art galleries by day and bars with live music by night and never once worried about bedtimes or whether this restaurant had a kid menu or if it was irresponsible of us to have more than one daiquiri. It was a m a z i n g.

This incredible feat was brought to you by my parents, who agreed to stay and watch the kids while we were away. I wondered how it would work out. The kids tend to fight fight fight yell scream push hit fight when they’re both in the house all day every day, and we were basically leaving the four of them in the house for three days with no breaks from each other. Could be disaster.  Hopefully not, but no guarantees. I told Mom to separate them as much as possible, and if they couldn’t play nicely together they could play alone in their rooms. I also told the children that if I got home to stories of hooliganism, they’d spend the entire weekend in their rooms. I would deliver their meals, they would stay put. I told them if they thought about fighting, they should try to think of that instead.

Apparently, as soon as we were out of the house they started pestering Mom, wanting to know if she was “going to tell” on them. How much was she planning to disclose? How good did they really have to be?

Enter the list. If they displayed particularly horrible behavior, it got written down. If they then managed a feat of good behavior, the bad would be erased. By the end of the three days, anything left on there would be shown to Mommy.

I’m on the phone with my mom on the second day, and I hear Jonas come up to her to let her know that his mess was put away, he’d brushed his teeth, and his pj’s were on. He asks if he can erase something from the list, and she says -

“Sure we can. You want to lose the time where you were using your robot arm to grab Mommy’s new table even though I told you it might scratch? Or the time I asked you to go outside and get your sister and instead you locked her out?”

I’m totally starting my own list. It’s blogging GOLD.

I remember the best parts. I remember V insisting over and over that she was “speechless” (a concept she seems to not actually understand), but I can’t for the life of me remember the original insult. The spark that started it all. What could Joe have possibly said to her that she couldn’t come up with a smartass response?

I asked him, and he looked at me like I’m the idiot and told me this is what the voice recorder on my phone is for. I snuck into her room 30 min past bedtime and asked the sleepy Twink, but she was useless (she also, it should be noted, took great exception to being called “useless” at 8:30pm. “I ALWAYS have to remember EVERYTHING for you! You’re old lady brain is what’s USELESS! You’re upset when I can’t remember ONE THING Daddy said? When I’m supposed to be SLEEPING? USELESS?!!!!!”  Maybe I will consider using that voice recorder in the future. Jeesh.)

So you don’t get the first line of dialogue. You’ll have to imagine what one could possibly say to this kid to stun her into (pseudo)silence. But don’t imagine it as being *too* unbelievably smart and witty – it was Joe talking, after all.

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Joe: (something incredibly, mind-blowingly, shockingly funny and insulting)

V: Wow. Really, wow. I’m… I’m speechless. I don’t even know what to say back to that. I can’t even think of words to describe how angry I am that you said that. There is no good way to tell you how I’m feeling. I have nothing to say. I’m totally speechless. I can’t even talk I’m so angry….

(This continues, unabated, for a full three – five minutes. Joe and I have the following conversation in the front seat, while she continues to describe – in detail – how she lacks the ability to describe anything. It’s amazing.)

Me: She’s speechless.

Joe: Yet talking.

Me: For real. She doesn’t seem to have a real firm grasp on the whole “speechless” concept.

Joe: Probably? This is the closest we’re gonna get.

V: I mean REALLY! I can’t even THINK OF ANY WORDS!

Me: Yet she keeps saying them.

Joe: It’s pretty impressive.

V: There is NO WAY to tell you what I think about that! I’m SPEECHLESS!

Me: Remember when she used to talk in her sleep? I wonder if that’s still going on.

Joe: You think being unconscious stops her?

V: I seriously wish I could describe to you how I’m feeling. I’m too angry to even tell you. There is no way I could ever tell you how I felt about that…..

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Speechless.

Every now and then I see a baby or toddler and I get… jealous? Nostalgic. I think about your sweet little baby chubs, smooching your little heads as I wandered around with you in the wrap, going to baby/toddler playgroups and story times… you were so cute. Those starfish hands. The fat feet. How you backed yourselves up into my lap with a book when you wanted me to read.

With Violet all long limbs and attitude, and the looming specter of Jonas starting Kindergarten in the fall, I’ve been thinking fondly of those long days at home with the babies.  The sidewalk chalk, the bubbles, baking cookies with my little helper, while Jonas watched from the highchair – I have this over idealized image in my mind. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one Joe used to have when he’d say “I wish I could be the stay-at-home-parent”, right before I started laughing at him.  Because, no, I haven’t actually forgotten what it was like. The crying. The destruction of my property. The poop – good LORD the POOP!  This blog used to be a chronicle of poop, now the only poop I need to worry about is my own. (Well, also whoever keeps leaving these little presents in the potty and not flushing. But I think that’s both of them. When they were toddlers they flushed that potty like it was their job. Flush flush flush. Now it’s like they’re worried the handle is made out of kryptonite or something. Flush the potty, please, children! Nobody needs to see that!)

I just remembered this was originally in letter form to the kids, and now I’m reminiscing and discussing unflushed turds. You see what you kids have done to me?

To the point – this week. Whoa, this week. It has been.. what’s the word? L-O-N-G.  I thought maybe I would be forced to kill one or both of you this week. Who’s idea was Spring Break, anyway? MTV’s?  Would someone please direct me to this post next year, and order me to plan a trip? I tried that whole “Staycation” nonsense this week, and it wasn’t real successful. You know what the difference between a VAcation and a STAYcation is? Joe. Joe would be with us out of town, and the ratio of terrorists to hostages would have evened up. As it was, I barely survived.

Here are some things, children, that you could avoid doing in the future if you don’t want me to A) kill you B) lose my mind C) start drinking “Mommy Slushies” by noon every day:

1) For the love of God, let me use the bathroom in peace. Please. You’ve already trained me to announce when I’m going, (because the world might just end if I DISAPPEARED for 3 minutes. I could be ANYWHERE! Nowhere! I’m not right there in front of you, you had no warning I would be disappearing like that – PANIC! So now I have to get everyone’s attention and say “I’m going potty. I’ll be back in a minute. Do you hear me? Are you paying attention? I’m. Going. Potty. I’ll be right back. I’m still here, just in the bathroom. See you in a minute.” and I feel completely stupid every. single. time.) yet every damn time you give me a 30 second head start (just long enough to be half naked and vulnerable) before the yelling starts. “MOMMY? MOOOOOOM? MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM?” and I’m sitting there thinking “If I don’t respond, it’ll just keep going until my skull explodes. But responding = screaming across the house while peeing which just seems ridiculous. It’s like they want my skull to explode.”  when you finally make it to the bathroom door “MOOOOOOOMMY?” and I can’t take it anymore “WHAT!???!!!” and then you burst in to ask…

Can I have some fishy crackers when you’re done in here?

Honestly kid. It’s like you don’t value your own life.

2) If you can’t play nicely together, then separate! It’s not rocket science! We have a 3000 sq ft house. You each have a room, there’s also a family room, a living room, the office, outside, my room….   There is no reason to stay within touching distance of one another all week if all you’re going to do is yell and whack each other in the head. Unless you secretly love to be yelled at and whacked in the head, in which case I think you and I can maybe work something out.

I have several more suggestions to help insure your continued survival, but I can hear you guys waging an epic battle on the other side of the house, so I’d better wade back in before someone gets hurt (or you break something, which would force me to hurt you. So, yeah, before someone gets hurt.) Try and behave yourselves, please? Please? And stop entertaining yourself by deliberately irritating me and your sibling. Seriously. It’s not cute.

Love you guys,

Mom

After I got it the second spring in a row, one inspired PA gave me a vaccination to help prevent it happening every freaking year. That was in 2002. This is 2011. Maybe time for a booster?

Yep. The same bug that made Joe and Jonas cough and blow their noses for 48 hours gave me “walking pneumonia” (What does that mean? Walking? It seems a lot more like “No please don’t make Mommy get off the couch pneumonia” from here.)  Also a double ear infection. Because just getting sick for two days is no fun at all. You really want to milk these things for all they’re worth, people. Get your money’s worth.

Turns out there is a big difference between sleeping off the steroids with no kids then there is in attempting to sleep off the steroids with two terrorists in the house. I am soo freaking grateful for that PA who kept me from doing this during the baby/toddler years. I’m pretty sure it would not have worked. Someone would not have made it. Probably me. But even with one at school and the other *supposedly* old enough to entertain himself, this has not been a fun week.

For dinners this week, the family had 1) make your own PBJs, 2) bowls of Cheerios, 3) scrambled eggs and muffins (I was feeling fairly peppy that night.) , 4) quesadillas and edamame.  (Joe had a turkey sandwich instead. Somehow, he’s not as excited by edamame as the kids. Weirdo.)

The current state of the house makes its normal state look ready for a House Beautiful photo shoot. And if you have ever, EVER been in my house, you understand that that is really saying something. Toys and clothes and books and papers oh MY! Fuzzies all over the freaking floor because I snoozed through the vacuuming/swiffering this week and I have two cats and two wool rugs and that is four fuzzy things too many for a house with wood floors.

The kids, particularly the boy child, are starting to get a little wild. Not enough attention this week. Too much “Please just go play the Wii. Watch as much Bill Nye as you want. Maybe you could read a book? Somewhere else?” while I napped on the couch. He’s been asking me all week to play board games, only to be rebuffed. Poor, sad kid has mastered playing Trouble against a stuffed animal (especially pathetic when he loses to the dog.) He’s started acting out (more than usual! I know! Who could have guessed there was another level of this?) for attention, and I can’t say I blame him. I do resent the hell out of it, though, as the guilt is making it hard to enjoy all this napping.  (It’s not making it hard to have crazy weird dreams, though. Yesterday I dreamed Aaron, Suz, and I were flying in a biplane over the Everglades. Despite the facts that A) none of us can fly and B) I’m pretty sure it’s called a BIplane because only two people fit in it. I’ve clearly heard too many “flying the airplane over the Everglades” adventure stories in my time.)

(Aaron was the pilot. Suz and I spent most of the dream yelling. Good stuff.)

I had to admit to Joe the other night, it’s almost gratifying to watch everything fall apart because I took the week off. I’ve never been great at keeping things together, the house is plenty messy when I’m 100%, we eat breakfast for dinner more than your average family, Jonas probably gets too much Wii time for his developing mind, etc. But without me? Just look! Havoc! Chaos! Turns out, I’m doing something around here after all!

Just not today. The couch is calling my name. ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

National Sarcasm Society

(Like we need your support)

I don’t usually buy manufactured art, but when I saw this… well. It was obviously meant to be mine.

It’s been hanging in the house for many months now, first in the family room and now in the kitchen. Violet has commented on it before, (“Oh, you bought that because you are sarcasm?”  Nice.) but tonight over dinner she said the following, which caused me to snort maple syrup. (Yes, we had pancakes tonight. Yes, we probably have them for dinner more often than you. No, that’s not the most shocking dinner revelation I could lay on you. Try this one on – Joe had BEER and pancakes for dinner. You’re jealous.) -

“Is that last word society? Or soshitty?”

Honestly. I don’t know who approved Joe and I as parents. It was a long, long time before we could answer her. She would have gotten a more coherent answer had she asked Beavis or Butthead.

So shitty? Really? I could have died, people. Choking on a pancake is no laughing matter. So shitty.

I am sarcasm.

Last night Jonas slept in a Super Mario Bros pj shirt and a pair of boxer briefs (CUTE!)  This morning it was chilly, so I suggested he get a pair of “soft pants” (AKA sweats, AKA the only pants Jonas wants to wear, ever) on before heading out to breakfast. He came back in with Buzz Lightyear pj pants on, all excited.

J: Now LOOK AT ME!  I’m covered in SUPER HEROS!

Me: Um… where? Are you wearing Spiderman undies or something?

J: No! Look! (gestures to his entire body)

M: Mario and Buzz? You think they’re super heros?

J: (And here’s the facial expression that I will never, ever be able to describe with words. It was so full of disdain, he may as well have had the word DUH blinking on his forehead. He could absolutely not believe I would ask such a stupid question.) Uh, YEAH.

M: But they have no powers! One’s a plumber and the other’s a space ranger. They’re not super.

J: They’re called the SUPER Mario Brothers! And they save people! They’re heros!

That was the sum total of the argument, because he shook his Buzz-covered tush right out of the room after delivering his closing line, complete with another “My Mom is such a moron” face.  Considering the time I ran into the road to save his bacon, not to mention the years I spent magically making the food he needed to survive, I think I’m gonna go ahead and start filling out paperwork with “Super Hero” where it asks my occupation. I’ll just get Jonas to roll his eyes at anyone who has a problem with it. Who needs radioactive spiders, anyway?

I don’t  know if there’s a Taboo Jr. out there, but I’ll have to  Google when I’m done with this. The game itself is something we can all do, the kids get the concept, but the words are a bit difficult. Hearse? Orchestra? Wealthy? What are the chances of Jonas ever guessing these words?

So, instead, we’re doing this cooperative play “everyone works together to try and get Mommy to guess the word” version of the game. Violet has her hand on the buzzer, waiting for Jonas to say one of the taboo words. Joe is helping when needed. I am guessing. All of this was to paint the picture, so you guys can appreciate the following exchange….

Jonas looks at the card, thinks about it, then says “Mommy. You are a person like this.  You are this.”

Me: Beautiful? Fabulous? Awesome? Super fun?

Jonas: Here’s another hint: Daddy is the opposite of this.

Joe: ……..   (I wish I had a picture for of his face here. It was awesome.)

Me: Smart? Funny? Not smelly?

Jonas: She said smart! Can I say smart?

Violet: BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Me: Intelligent? Genius?

Jonas: INTELLIGENT!

Joe: …………………………..