Today was the last day of school for the three musketeers. They were abuzz with excitement at arrival home. Summer vacation! Finally Here! Woo-hoo! They all had awards and certificates to show me, from "Most AR points" to "Congrats, you survived 1st grade." All in all, the reports were all good. To kick the summer off, we spent the afternoon at the zoo. It was a kid's paradise trip.
Yes, we will ride the carousel. (And yes, Mom rode too, on a KU horse non the less.)
No #1, we cannot take the 12' albino python home. No snakes that are bigger than we are, sorry. (and no venomous ones either.)
Yes Si, those are monkeys, and so are those, and so are those....and isn't that a BIG monkey playing with the otters?
Look how high the sea lions jump!
Okay guys, it's time to go. Who wants to eat?
Dinner at Perkins where kids eat free. Perfect ending for the perfect afternoon.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Kids need disposable socks.
Right now, while our washer is still AWOL, I'm more convinced than ever that somebody ought to design disposable, biodegradable socks for kids.
Then it would be so simple to just stock up, kind of like with toilet paper.
Sell them in packs of 45 for $8 each, roughly a kid's 30 day supply. Somebody would get rich.
Infant and toddler socks are pretty inexpensive, but once your kid hits about a size 1 in shoes, you realize that paying $1 a pair is going to make you broke.
Every mother of a child over the age of five has heard, "Mom, I need socks for school today?"
And every mother has probably replied at least once "it would help if you'd put them in the dirty laundry."
Once every few weeks we go on a sock safari. We move couches. We look under beds. We fish through closets. We clean under the dining room table...(okay, that one happens more frequently....most of the time.)
Usually we find enough of the missing culprits to get them washed and sorted for another week or two of sock survivor. Sock survivor? Yeah, losing them isn't the only problem.
I'm starting to think "mud brown" should be the color of most boys socks to start with. Granted the ones with grey bottoms help, but it's no match for running outside to greet Grandpa with no shoes. It doesn't help when they wear them until they crunch. It doesn't help when they figure because they're wearing boots, they can go wherever they want, including the knee deep mud puddle in the back yard. Not to mention the socks that go camping, are the first pair in after a pair of shoes has been left out overnight in the rain,etc. That's the least of kid's sock worries though.
Socks often become toys. They get used as storage bags for bouncy balls, knots tied with them to make maces, stretched across various things for bows, brother trippers, and such...and of course, to the crafty child, sock puppets or, to the curious toddler, scissors practice.
Thus why I love summer. No school = rubber shoes that can be hosed down, and NO SOCKS.
Then it would be so simple to just stock up, kind of like with toilet paper.
Sell them in packs of 45 for $8 each, roughly a kid's 30 day supply. Somebody would get rich.
Infant and toddler socks are pretty inexpensive, but once your kid hits about a size 1 in shoes, you realize that paying $1 a pair is going to make you broke.
Every mother of a child over the age of five has heard, "Mom, I need socks for school today?"
And every mother has probably replied at least once "it would help if you'd put them in the dirty laundry."
Once every few weeks we go on a sock safari. We move couches. We look under beds. We fish through closets. We clean under the dining room table...(okay, that one happens more frequently....most of the time.)
Usually we find enough of the missing culprits to get them washed and sorted for another week or two of sock survivor. Sock survivor? Yeah, losing them isn't the only problem.
I'm starting to think "mud brown" should be the color of most boys socks to start with. Granted the ones with grey bottoms help, but it's no match for running outside to greet Grandpa with no shoes. It doesn't help when they wear them until they crunch. It doesn't help when they figure because they're wearing boots, they can go wherever they want, including the knee deep mud puddle in the back yard. Not to mention the socks that go camping, are the first pair in after a pair of shoes has been left out overnight in the rain,etc. That's the least of kid's sock worries though.
Socks often become toys. They get used as storage bags for bouncy balls, knots tied with them to make maces, stretched across various things for bows, brother trippers, and such...and of course, to the crafty child, sock puppets or, to the curious toddler, scissors practice.
Thus why I love summer. No school = rubber shoes that can be hosed down, and NO SOCKS.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Happy Birthday Si Guy!
Well, my littlest man is three. No more babies here. No more worrying about choking hazard toys. No more adult-proofing for the most part.
No more stroller. No more slings. No more "2 and under are free" for us.
What we do have is a very verbal, cheerful, cunning pre-school aged son. He's a boy who plans ahead, a boy who keeps a hole in the back yard to fill with water whenever he wants mud. He's full of ingenuity. Anything can be a stepladder to reach the bag of cereal he deems his food for the day. He's brave, willing scale any heights for the last cookie.
He's charming, using his swiper tip-toe and huge grin to get himself out of the most messy of scrapes. He's stealthy, able to get outside into any unlocked car at a moment's notice. (My cousin can vouch for that.)
He's able to make anyone laugh. His giggle is contagious. His curiosity is endless. He loves to name things. He likes art, especially water color. His favorite books are Eric Carle and Leo Lionni. He's a good sport, loving balls of all kinds, and usually willing to share with his sisters.
What he is not, is potty trained...but really we're not in any hurry. Because where there's a pull up, there's a cuddly, fat-fisted, huggy baby inside somewhere.... and neither of us is quite willing to let that go.
Happy Birthday Si Guy. May this be the greatest adventure yet.
No more stroller. No more slings. No more "2 and under are free" for us.
What we do have is a very verbal, cheerful, cunning pre-school aged son. He's a boy who plans ahead, a boy who keeps a hole in the back yard to fill with water whenever he wants mud. He's full of ingenuity. Anything can be a stepladder to reach the bag of cereal he deems his food for the day. He's brave, willing scale any heights for the last cookie.
He's charming, using his swiper tip-toe and huge grin to get himself out of the most messy of scrapes. He's stealthy, able to get outside into any unlocked car at a moment's notice. (My cousin can vouch for that.)
He's able to make anyone laugh. His giggle is contagious. His curiosity is endless. He loves to name things. He likes art, especially water color. His favorite books are Eric Carle and Leo Lionni. He's a good sport, loving balls of all kinds, and usually willing to share with his sisters.
What he is not, is potty trained...but really we're not in any hurry. Because where there's a pull up, there's a cuddly, fat-fisted, huggy baby inside somewhere.... and neither of us is quite willing to let that go.
Happy Birthday Si Guy. May this be the greatest adventure yet.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Goodbye Mr. R
There is much rejoicing in heaven right now. One of it's most faithful citizens has returned home. Some people are just too efficient at their service here on earth.
I met Mr R. at church, as a greeter at my favorite door, but that's not really where I got to know him. No, I got to know him last year in the pick-up line for half day kindergarten. His grandson was in Chip's class. He and/or his wife were always among the early birds there, always had their windows down, and always engaged me in conversation.
"Hey, you go church with us, don't you?" He asked one day early that fall.
"Yes sir."
And by the end of the year, I'd gained an encourager, a friend, and a bit of wisdom.
Mr R. touched many lives through his service. His grandson adored him.
The ripples going through our church right now, getting in motion, are building to waves. He was a greeter. He helped lead missions trips to build houses. He knew how to make things "all good, all the time" and see glimpses of God's will in situations we never will understand. The lives he touched then touched others around them, because love never stays in one place. It surprises me how well known he was, not so much in church, but in the school, and through friends and friends of friends. It just shows God's hand never has a place it can't reach.
Rest in peace Mr. R. May you shine in the greater glory you've found.
I met Mr R. at church, as a greeter at my favorite door, but that's not really where I got to know him. No, I got to know him last year in the pick-up line for half day kindergarten. His grandson was in Chip's class. He and/or his wife were always among the early birds there, always had their windows down, and always engaged me in conversation.
"Hey, you go church with us, don't you?" He asked one day early that fall.
"Yes sir."
And by the end of the year, I'd gained an encourager, a friend, and a bit of wisdom.
Mr R. touched many lives through his service. His grandson adored him.
The ripples going through our church right now, getting in motion, are building to waves. He was a greeter. He helped lead missions trips to build houses. He knew how to make things "all good, all the time" and see glimpses of God's will in situations we never will understand. The lives he touched then touched others around them, because love never stays in one place. It surprises me how well known he was, not so much in church, but in the school, and through friends and friends of friends. It just shows God's hand never has a place it can't reach.
Rest in peace Mr. R. May you shine in the greater glory you've found.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Everything breaks at once
Or so it seems. Right now, the Vibe is getting repaired because a deer thought it looked like a nice thing to run into. We've been making do with a mini-vacuum for months because the real one was disassembled, with scissors...and the hose broke inside the casing. Our dishwasher is schizophrenic. And now, for the piece de la resistance...our control panel has died on our washing maching.
Today my mission: to schedule a washing machine repair.
My tools: the internet and Nick Jr.
Let the games begin.
It started benignly enough, clicking on the "service" section of Whirlpool's website...entering contact information,etc. What appliance needs service? Washer. What is the model & serial #? Have. no. clue. Why can't I just type in Duet Sport and be done with it...but noooo, they have to have numbers. Must be men who run this company.
I text my husband who keeps these things on file.
He texts back the model # is "xxxx,Idon'tcare,whoknows". And that he has no idea what the serial number is. I can either wait until he gets home, or act like a grown-up, go to the basement, and look for myself on the inside of the washer door.
For a moment, I entertain the idea of waiting until he gets home...but that would delay the appointment by at least a day...and with 8 people in the house, every day without a working washing machine counts.
So I do what any other basement-slime-bug phobic female would do. I call a friend, and keep them on the phone while I go down there to look...and yes, it was a male friend. Testerone counts in these situations!
Down there, I almost fall on my butt on the slimy floor because, genius that I am, I'm wearing mocks. Those rubber shoes that mock you every time you step somewhere smooth and wet.
At this point the control panel still read F-28, so thinking maybe my husband just didn't try hard enough when pressing the cancel button, I do so, and hold it down just in case. The whole flippin display goes black and won't come back on. I try unplugging it, and plugging it in a different outlet. Great, I've taken it from broken to dead.
I then find the serial number, get out my pen, and realize I don't have paper....and yes, my friend is still on the phone, desperately trying not to laugh at me. Men. Really. I should have called a girlfriend. My gal pals would totally get this. They would have told me to make dh do it when he got home, and I'd be upstairs with my kids, instead of down here, wondering what Si and Princess P are destroying....
Finally, I tear a piece off a brown paper bag, to write on with my pen that has orange ink? Good thing I'm not color blind it'll do.
Get the number down. Get upstairs. Thank my friend on the phone. Request service. I get the confirmation. It just says "washer."
Today my mission: to schedule a washing machine repair.
My tools: the internet and Nick Jr.
Let the games begin.
It started benignly enough, clicking on the "service" section of Whirlpool's website...entering contact information,etc. What appliance needs service? Washer. What is the model & serial #? Have. no. clue. Why can't I just type in Duet Sport and be done with it...but noooo, they have to have numbers. Must be men who run this company.
I text my husband who keeps these things on file.
He texts back the model # is "xxxx,Idon'tcare,whoknows". And that he has no idea what the serial number is. I can either wait until he gets home, or act like a grown-up, go to the basement, and look for myself on the inside of the washer door.
For a moment, I entertain the idea of waiting until he gets home...but that would delay the appointment by at least a day...and with 8 people in the house, every day without a working washing machine counts.
So I do what any other basement-slime-bug phobic female would do. I call a friend, and keep them on the phone while I go down there to look...and yes, it was a male friend. Testerone counts in these situations!
Down there, I almost fall on my butt on the slimy floor because, genius that I am, I'm wearing mocks. Those rubber shoes that mock you every time you step somewhere smooth and wet.
At this point the control panel still read F-28, so thinking maybe my husband just didn't try hard enough when pressing the cancel button, I do so, and hold it down just in case. The whole flippin display goes black and won't come back on. I try unplugging it, and plugging it in a different outlet. Great, I've taken it from broken to dead.
I then find the serial number, get out my pen, and realize I don't have paper....and yes, my friend is still on the phone, desperately trying not to laugh at me. Men. Really. I should have called a girlfriend. My gal pals would totally get this. They would have told me to make dh do it when he got home, and I'd be upstairs with my kids, instead of down here, wondering what Si and Princess P are destroying....
Finally, I tear a piece off a brown paper bag, to write on with my pen that has orange ink? Good thing I'm not color blind it'll do.
Get the number down. Get upstairs. Thank my friend on the phone. Request service. I get the confirmation. It just says "washer."
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Happy Mother's Day (belatedly)
I confess, I didn't even call any of our three moms on Mother's Day this year. One doesn't care about Hallmark Holidays, one's used to being totally ignored, well mostly...and besides, she has the perfect daughter.
BUT my mom, how could I not even send her an e-card?
Mostly because my world was spinning so fast being a mother this weekend.
I started with good intentions. I did all the grocery shopping on Friday, so that we could have a lovely weekend. Exhausted, but satisfied, I went to bed Friday night confident of a fun day on Saturday, and making myself available on Sunday for whatever my mom would like. Be it an e-mail chat, an impromptu lunch, running down to the country with a Tippins Strawberry Pie, I was prepared....or so I thought.
Saturday morning, boy child #1 blows the toes out of his only pair of tennis shoes. Turns out he mistook them for brakes for his bike. Talk about a forehead smacking moment. Shoe shopping for something that suits his tweeny tastes, yet meets parental quality and pricing standards takes pretty much all day. By the time we get home, the 2nd NBA playoff game has started, and dh is in the "man zone." So much for a fun day of parties.
Sunday morning: Sunday School Breakfast! YUM! Uh, what are we bringing? Oh, and honey, do I have ANY clean shirts.
"I don't know and no."
Time for a Wal-mart run. Get home, change shirt. Load kids in car. Off to class.
"Why do we have to stay for service?" whines a child.
"Because I'm Mrs. F today in Kidz World, that's why."
I do have a blast acting in Kidz World....was probably the highlight of my weekend. Even if it is about mulch and meatloaf...there's something to envision. Hope she didn't get her ingredients mixed up in the kitchen.
Then we get home. Now, just to finally get on the computer, or the phone...
"Um honey,"
"Yeah"
"When are we getting the stuff the kids need for camping next weekend?"
So much for a shopping free weekend.
A bunch of kids acting like a circus at Target, prying tweeny off the fishing equipment at Dicks, figuring out exactly what would make a good "sit-upon" and a bill pay later, we get home. Yep, the afternoon was shot, and so were we. And then...there was more basketball.
Sorry mom about the blank text. It was supposed to say Happy Mother's Day.
Yes mine was great. I have a fingerprint poem, stick figure card, laminated book mark, and lots of smiles and hugs. It was perfect. Really.
BUT my mom, how could I not even send her an e-card?
Mostly because my world was spinning so fast being a mother this weekend.
I started with good intentions. I did all the grocery shopping on Friday, so that we could have a lovely weekend. Exhausted, but satisfied, I went to bed Friday night confident of a fun day on Saturday, and making myself available on Sunday for whatever my mom would like. Be it an e-mail chat, an impromptu lunch, running down to the country with a Tippins Strawberry Pie, I was prepared....or so I thought.
Saturday morning, boy child #1 blows the toes out of his only pair of tennis shoes. Turns out he mistook them for brakes for his bike. Talk about a forehead smacking moment. Shoe shopping for something that suits his tweeny tastes, yet meets parental quality and pricing standards takes pretty much all day. By the time we get home, the 2nd NBA playoff game has started, and dh is in the "man zone." So much for a fun day of parties.
Sunday morning: Sunday School Breakfast! YUM! Uh, what are we bringing? Oh, and honey, do I have ANY clean shirts.
"I don't know and no."
Time for a Wal-mart run. Get home, change shirt. Load kids in car. Off to class.
"Why do we have to stay for service?" whines a child.
"Because I'm Mrs. F today in Kidz World, that's why."
I do have a blast acting in Kidz World....was probably the highlight of my weekend. Even if it is about mulch and meatloaf...there's something to envision. Hope she didn't get her ingredients mixed up in the kitchen.
Then we get home. Now, just to finally get on the computer, or the phone...
"Um honey,"
"Yeah"
"When are we getting the stuff the kids need for camping next weekend?"
So much for a shopping free weekend.
A bunch of kids acting like a circus at Target, prying tweeny off the fishing equipment at Dicks, figuring out exactly what would make a good "sit-upon" and a bill pay later, we get home. Yep, the afternoon was shot, and so were we. And then...there was more basketball.
Sorry mom about the blank text. It was supposed to say Happy Mother's Day.
Yes mine was great. I have a fingerprint poem, stick figure card, laminated book mark, and lots of smiles and hugs. It was perfect. Really.
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