It's my favorite time of week, time to link up to The Red Dress Club's Red Writing Hood.
Here's today's prompt: "This week? It's all about description. Your assignment: write a first-person piece about either eating your favorite food or taking a shower - without using a personal pronoun."
Rotten Diets
Tipped back in the blue pleather chair, light shining
in eyes covered by oversized gray plastic glasses--
not the cool kind.
Whir of the dentist's drill, its torque making teeth tingle,
numb gums giggle.
A year ago, in a race to lose
those last 12 baby pounds, food swapped for
gumballs--
Nerds gumballs.
The kind that come in a pack of five
red, orange, yellow, green purple.
Roy G.P., the rainbow's sweet cousin.
Still hungry after a lunch of carrots and salsa, string cheese,
nonfat yogurt, and guilt,
5 packs of five gnashed against pearly whites.
Tongue holding a chunk of chewed bubble against wise
teeth in the mouth's farthest corners,
sucking the sweet crystals--
Nerds, the best part--
from the center of the cheek-bulging ball
and cradling them there between cheek and gum,
between tooth and tooth,
trapping the sugar where it can't be forgotten.
At least 25 gumballs a day.
A $5 habit.
Like cigarettes without the chachet.
Looking like a Big Leaguer who needs to spit.
Chewing gumballs so fast that teeth clip lips,
devour skin inside mouth,
until air bubbles rise in gullet and gums itch.
Sugar high.
Empty but full.
Spoiled on the inside.
Dentist drills to uncover decay,
chisels rot from molars and wisdom teeth,
presses dark softened silver into the smooth white holes.
Every smile from here on out
shows teeth that appear to be full
of the Oreos
the Nerds
were supposed to banish.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Taking the Plunge
All summer, Harry has spent his days hurling himself off the edge of the pool, climbing out of the water, and hurling himself off the edge again. He does this for about 2.5 hours a day, 6-ish days a week (and? He is NOT TAN, thanks to W.S Badger SPF 30 all-natural sunscreen and sometimes Coppertone Pure and Simple SPF 50 when we hit the pool before 3).
Until last week, though, the diving boards were way out of his league. The 13-feet-deep water in the diving well scared him a little bit, so he'd yell "NO" when anyone suggested he might like the board-- his swim lesson friends, their parents, us, my brother-- all met with a resounding NO.
One afternoon, my brother casually referred to the board as the Bat board, and Harry nonchalantly said he'd like to jump off of it. At bedtime that night, he told me that it made his tummy feel funny-- like it was going up and down-- the first time he walked the plank, but he figured what the heck.
The pool has been fabulous. Not only has it totally saved my sanity, but Jack has gotten over his reluctance to go in the water, and Harry is a swimming little fishy. I have also had a place to play with the kids for hours at a time where I don't get bored or worry about looking silly. Best summer decision of the year, that's for sure.
I have noticed a weird phenomenon among the other moms. First of all, none of the moms of young kids wears bikinis at the pool, even the ones who have the bodies for them. Not wanting to look like the flabby town whore, I bought a few tankinis and a one-piece to wear.
Lately, though, some of the modest-suit moms have busted out their skimpier 2-pieces. I don't know if they bought them n clearance, egged on by their nice tans or what, but tons of women are sporting white tummies and tan appendages these last couple of weeks. I even tried on a couple of my old bikinis, but, um, they must have shrunk or something while they languished in my dresser drawer. Yes. Shrunk. That's definitely it.
I think we might have visited the pool for the last time, but we have 12 more days to try to squeeze in a couple more visits, a couple more plunges.
Until last week, though, the diving boards were way out of his league. The 13-feet-deep water in the diving well scared him a little bit, so he'd yell "NO" when anyone suggested he might like the board-- his swim lesson friends, their parents, us, my brother-- all met with a resounding NO.
One afternoon, my brother casually referred to the board as the Bat board, and Harry nonchalantly said he'd like to jump off of it. At bedtime that night, he told me that it made his tummy feel funny-- like it was going up and down-- the first time he walked the plank, but he figured what the heck.
The pool has been fabulous. Not only has it totally saved my sanity, but Jack has gotten over his reluctance to go in the water, and Harry is a swimming little fishy. I have also had a place to play with the kids for hours at a time where I don't get bored or worry about looking silly. Best summer decision of the year, that's for sure.
I have noticed a weird phenomenon among the other moms. First of all, none of the moms of young kids wears bikinis at the pool, even the ones who have the bodies for them. Not wanting to look like the flabby town whore, I bought a few tankinis and a one-piece to wear.
Lately, though, some of the modest-suit moms have busted out their skimpier 2-pieces. I don't know if they bought them n clearance, egged on by their nice tans or what, but tons of women are sporting white tummies and tan appendages these last couple of weeks. I even tried on a couple of my old bikinis, but, um, they must have shrunk or something while they languished in my dresser drawer. Yes. Shrunk. That's definitely it.
I think we might have visited the pool for the last time, but we have 12 more days to try to squeeze in a couple more visits, a couple more plunges.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Now I totally get why Ben hates children's museums.
We used to have a cute old children's museum in our town that we took our kids to a couple of times (a few times, really). It was cute. Old. Small. Kind of dirty if you looked too closely at the play food in the farmer's market exhibit. Not the place you'd want to be during swine flu season. But still, a relatively cheap way to spend a cool and cloudy afternoon.
Last year the museum went on hiatus while a new facility was rapidly constructed and stuffed with learning toys. Last weekend, the doors opened and douchey parents poured in by the minivanload. I may be getting a little ahead of myself here, but holy hell the parents at the children's museum were so freaking obnoxious. Worse even than the screaming children and the huge crashes made by the wood blocks with the rough splintery edges on the second floor (which? wtf was up with those splintery freaking blocks?) Everyone's child was a total SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE, which meant they didn't need to wait in line, take turns, or wear their freaking SHOES (like the handy rules brochure at the front desk asked-- but these SSes didn't need no stinking RULES brochures). Also, there were signs posted all over the place that told parents to remember the value of play and suggested we not look at our PDAs. How was I going to bitch about my discontent on Facebook without my iPhone?
The place was PACKED even though we went on a random Tuesday afternoon, which means weekends there are bound to be hell on earth, at least until the aforementioned swine flu season. Every time I turned around, I lost one of kids for a second and had a mini heart attack.
Also, we have a ton of the SAME effing toys as the museum, but those toys just aren't as fun at home. Which is clean. And the only kid knocking Jack down to take his shit is Harry.
But still. The kids liked it (damn them), and it did fill our after-lunch but before-Ben-comes-home fighty time almost as well as the pool (it was too cold for the pool, which makes me sad because I had hoped to enjoy every single second of pool time between now and 9-1 (the end of the season.)) They were also shockingly well-behaved.
I think because I (yep-- their good behavior is all me-- their bad behavior is THE WORK OF THEIR FATHER) have been implementing tactics from Playful Parenting (the book-- I didn't know there was even a website until just now when I googled the name of the book). While I kid of want to punch the author and scream "But sometimes I am pissed at my whiney kids and don't keel like jollying them out of anything!" I have to admit his tactics work really well and make us all happier.
Harry and Jack totally dug the museum's cooking nook where they made yarn pies and pizzas.
Especially Jack who would give anything to be allowed to reach inside our oven
After a nasty pushing incident at the cooking nook, which I charitably interpreted to be a sign of low blood sugar, we headed to the atrium to enjoy a frozen yogurt parfait at the hippy healthy kids cafe (that was featured on Good Morning America and has a parent location where H used to take cooking classes back in the day)
Note the little hut behind the donkey cart. It's where Jack left Pooh Bear his most loved lovey in the whole lovey world. Thank god for the docent who found him after our mad 20-minute search through the museum (slowed down by Harry, who kept stopping at all the cool science exhibits)
Harry and Jack blithely built a pen around themselves, and I would have let them live in it happily ever after, but the museum was closing.
They played for the longest and most agreeable time with this model of our town done in blocks-- it was at the old museum and was a favorite there, too.
This old half a plane is a supply cabinet, too, and Jack spent a while trying to unlock it with a Tinker Toy he found. "Key!" he screamed joyfully. He carries a random fistful of Tinker Toys in his purse at home and calls them keys, too. Weird.
Jack wants to go to there
Okay, this was actually really cool--it's a huge hamster wheel suspended over the open staircase.
And even cooler-- here they are holding hands in line for it
Hmmm. It looks like we had fun after all.
Last year the museum went on hiatus while a new facility was rapidly constructed and stuffed with learning toys. Last weekend, the doors opened and douchey parents poured in by the minivanload. I may be getting a little ahead of myself here, but holy hell the parents at the children's museum were so freaking obnoxious. Worse even than the screaming children and the huge crashes made by the wood blocks with the rough splintery edges on the second floor (which? wtf was up with those splintery freaking blocks?) Everyone's child was a total SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE, which meant they didn't need to wait in line, take turns, or wear their freaking SHOES (like the handy rules brochure at the front desk asked-- but these SSes didn't need no stinking RULES brochures). Also, there were signs posted all over the place that told parents to remember the value of play and suggested we not look at our PDAs. How was I going to bitch about my discontent on Facebook without my iPhone?
The place was PACKED even though we went on a random Tuesday afternoon, which means weekends there are bound to be hell on earth, at least until the aforementioned swine flu season. Every time I turned around, I lost one of kids for a second and had a mini heart attack.
Also, we have a ton of the SAME effing toys as the museum, but those toys just aren't as fun at home. Which is clean. And the only kid knocking Jack down to take his shit is Harry.
But still. The kids liked it (damn them), and it did fill our after-lunch but before-Ben-comes-home fighty time almost as well as the pool (it was too cold for the pool, which makes me sad because I had hoped to enjoy every single second of pool time between now and 9-1 (the end of the season.)) They were also shockingly well-behaved.
I think because I (yep-- their good behavior is all me-- their bad behavior is THE WORK OF THEIR FATHER) have been implementing tactics from Playful Parenting (the book-- I didn't know there was even a website until just now when I googled the name of the book). While I kid of want to punch the author and scream "But sometimes I am pissed at my whiney kids and don't keel like jollying them out of anything!" I have to admit his tactics work really well and make us all happier.
Harry and Jack totally dug the museum's cooking nook where they made yarn pies and pizzas.
Especially Jack who would give anything to be allowed to reach inside our oven
After a nasty pushing incident at the cooking nook, which I charitably interpreted to be a sign of low blood sugar, we headed to the atrium to enjoy a frozen yogurt parfait at the hippy healthy kids cafe (that was featured on Good Morning America and has a parent location where H used to take cooking classes back in the day)
Note the little hut behind the donkey cart. It's where Jack left Pooh Bear his most loved lovey in the whole lovey world. Thank god for the docent who found him after our mad 20-minute search through the museum (slowed down by Harry, who kept stopping at all the cool science exhibits)
Harry and Jack blithely built a pen around themselves, and I would have let them live in it happily ever after, but the museum was closing.
They played for the longest and most agreeable time with this model of our town done in blocks-- it was at the old museum and was a favorite there, too.
This old half a plane is a supply cabinet, too, and Jack spent a while trying to unlock it with a Tinker Toy he found. "Key!" he screamed joyfully. He carries a random fistful of Tinker Toys in his purse at home and calls them keys, too. Weird.
Jack wants to go to there
Okay, this was actually really cool--it's a huge hamster wheel suspended over the open staircase.
And even cooler-- here they are holding hands in line for it
Hmmm. It looks like we had fun after all.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Ode to Summer
This summer has been perfect.
Oh sure, we've had not-listening days and call-Ben-at-work-to-come-home-and-get-these-damn-kids days and just generally bored days, but mostly? We've had a wonderful summer.
Lots of playing at the park, hanging out in our jammies all day, going to the gym whenever's convenient. Lots of ice cream breaks.
Maybe I am just nostalgic because the pool closes in the 2 weeks and I have exactly 2 days left of Nothing To Do. Although, I am am actually really excited about this week. I have a few things to attend to at my office, and I am finally getting a haircut (for the first time since February-- the growing out process has been brutal), and I am getting a pre-semester massage, so no grueling work going on. Oh! I do have to get a new ID because I have been using my old student ID, but I need a grown up one so I'll stop getting turned away at the gym, but I don't want to get rid of my old ID because I got it right afterr we got home from our honeymoon and I changed my name, and my hair was super long and streaky, and I was so damn pretty and young. But, alas.
Next week is training week for the TAs, which means I am on campus every waking hour which is also fun because that's not the way I usually work. After a summer of sloth, it is fun to dress up and lunch out and come home at the end of the day for my scotch and recliner. (Kidding.)
Then we have an odd half week of class (classes start on Thursday the 2nd) which is going to be a leeeeeeetle tricky because preschool doesn't start until the following week. But then! Preschool! My regular school schedule! Plenty of time for sloth every week! Pumpkin spice lattes! Win!
I am finally, it seems, in a place to reflect on the magic of summer because we've almost made it!
Here's Harry posing next to his 15-foot alphabet puzzle
Jack scaling some playground equipment
Jack looking like he's about to jump.
Summersaulting Harry
Friday, August 13, 2010
Friday Fiction Meme: Dialogue
Once again, I am linking up to the Red Dress Club's Red Writing Hood.
Here's this week's prompt:
For Friday's meme, we'd like to work on dialogue. Craft a piece of short fiction featuring the dialogue between two people arguing. Focus more on the spoken language and less on setting details
Snipe
“How’s your lamb chop, lamb chop?” he asks, but she almost loses the endearment over the whine of his fork tines scraping his teeth. He has brussels sprouts in his moustache, the tiny green bits wet against his sparse gray and brown—but mostly gray— hair.
“Why,” she asks. “Do you grow that ridiculous half-fringe around your lips? You should have gone through puberty like 50-some years ago.”
“It’s tough in the middle, isn’t it?” he asks, prodding his meat with his fork. I never grill lam b,” he explains. “I don’t have the timing worked out.”
A tiny explosion of masticated gristle peppers the few strands of hair that cling to his chin, and she shivers in disgust. He smiles, more sprouts between his front teeth, a caraway seed from his roll lodged in the bottom two.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” he tells her.
“Worse, even,” she mutters, carefully wiping the corners of her mouth with the cream napkin he folded into fans and laid on top of their plates. “We’ve been married 32 years in October, and you can’t put the napkin under my fork just one time?”
“You know,” he says softly, dribbling French dressing out the left side of his mouth. He pauses to force lettuce into the back of his mouth with his tongue. “I don’t like to criticize, but that napkin should have been on your lap when I served the salad course. Before that even. If you want to get technical.”
“When have I?” she demands. “When have I ever wanted to get technical with you?”
“It’s true,” he acknowledges, licking lamb off the edge of his thumb. “You always kept work at work, and that’s something I’ve always appreciated.” He smiles. “Now you go,” he urges. “You say something nice to me.”
She looks at him blankly.
He fills the silence with wet chewing noises and another soggy smile. “I’ll go again,” he offers. “You must have had a hard day today, but that’s okay because I love you in that sweater. It reminds me of sweet potato pie.”
She is still staring, her face slowly crumpling.
“Mags?” he asks rooting around his molars with his tongue, sucking out slivers of sprouts and muscle. “Mags? What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”
“Do you remember what day it is today?”
“Why?” he asks.
“It’s an important day is all,” she tells him. “Not that you seem to give any kind of a shit.”
“I made a nice meal,” he says. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Answer me,” she demands. “What day is it today?”
He rolls his eyes. “Wednesday? Garbage day eve? My book club night? The night A&E has planned a “Matlock marathon?” he supplies, putting down his fork and looking evenly at her.
“You don’t have to snap,” she reminds him.
“Because you do it so well?” He asks pushing back his chair and stacking his salad bowl on top of his plate.
She glares at him over her untouched meal. “Jesus Christ, Hal. I am so not doing this with you today.”
“Today?” he asks. “What’s so special about today? What did I forget this time, Mags? Your dry cleaning?” He stomps into the kitchen and rattles his dishes into the sink. “I have been taking care of this house for us, cooking you dinners, washing your clothes, taking your goddamned mother out for lunch even though she’s never once offered to pay, not even a tip, not even when the kids were little and I had to buy my clothes at the Goodwill, since the minute we got married” he says coming back into the dining room to collect his wine glass, the salt and pepper shakers, the gravy boat. “Tell me what I did to walk into this shit storm.”
He bends over the table to reach the butter dish, and when he does, the buttons on his Oxford strain across his stomach, so tight she winces a little, sure one will pop free and fly toward her. All at once, she notices how fat he has gotten, how much of him lops above the waist band of his slacks, and the sight of his pudge, the realization of it, makes her laugh.
“What the fuck?” he asks, and she laughs harder.
“You don’t have to swear at me,” she manages, proud of herself for sounding prim over her guffaws.
“I don’t?”
“You’re so fat,” she wails, covering her crinkled nose with her hand. She smacks her free hand on the tablecloth. “I didn’t realize you got so fat!”
His eyes well with tears instantly, and he stands back like she slapped his florid cheek. He puts down the wine glass and other dishes and presses his wrinkled hands against his old man belly. “Why is that funny?”
“I see you everyday, Hal. Every fucking day whether I want to or not. And I only just now noticed,” she explains.
“So?” he asks indignantly. “I still don’t get how that’s funny.”
“Because,” she says, earnestly trying to explain. “I see you everyday, but I haven’t seen you in months. Weeks. However long it took you to get so fat.”
“Precisely!” He shouts, his face flushing even deeper. “That’s exactly my point. You take me completely for granted, and the only time you notice me is to tell me how I’ve let you down. So tell me, Mags. What is it this time? What’s so special about today?”
“It’s my birthday,” she says softly. “I’m 65 today.”
“Oh, shit,” he says, walking around the table, reaching toward her.
She holds up her hands. “It’s not just that,” she says. “I sure as shit don’t need another pleather purse or a bottle of perfume.”
Or, she thinks but does not say, a flowery card whose adoring message makes her sick. On the heels of this thought, she is immediately proud of herself for not saying the last part, for keeping something back, for trying not to hurt Hal even though he fills her with disgust. “
The thing is, Hal,” she tells him. “65 is a big deal. It’s the year I have always planned to retire. In fact, Grace told me today that a reception is in the works.” She flashes him a half smile. “Gold watch and everything.”
“I’m confused,” he admits. “What’s the problem? You’d rather have platinum?”
“Well, I mean, yeah, of course I would. But I can’t retire. If I wake up in this house and have nowhere to go but the recliner next to yours and nothing to do but see you eat 3 times a day, I am going to fucking kill myself Hal. I mean it.”
“Oh,” he says. “Oh. I see. What about the lamb, Mags? Would you like it better with chutney next time?”
Here's this week's prompt:
For Friday's meme, we'd like to work on dialogue. Craft a piece of short fiction featuring the dialogue between two people arguing. Focus more on the spoken language and less on setting details
Snipe
“How’s your lamb chop, lamb chop?” he asks, but she almost loses the endearment over the whine of his fork tines scraping his teeth. He has brussels sprouts in his moustache, the tiny green bits wet against his sparse gray and brown—but mostly gray— hair.
“Why,” she asks. “Do you grow that ridiculous half-fringe around your lips? You should have gone through puberty like 50-some years ago.”
“It’s tough in the middle, isn’t it?” he asks, prodding his meat with his fork. I never grill lam b,” he explains. “I don’t have the timing worked out.”
A tiny explosion of masticated gristle peppers the few strands of hair that cling to his chin, and she shivers in disgust. He smiles, more sprouts between his front teeth, a caraway seed from his roll lodged in the bottom two.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” he tells her.
“Worse, even,” she mutters, carefully wiping the corners of her mouth with the cream napkin he folded into fans and laid on top of their plates. “We’ve been married 32 years in October, and you can’t put the napkin under my fork just one time?”
“You know,” he says softly, dribbling French dressing out the left side of his mouth. He pauses to force lettuce into the back of his mouth with his tongue. “I don’t like to criticize, but that napkin should have been on your lap when I served the salad course. Before that even. If you want to get technical.”
“When have I?” she demands. “When have I ever wanted to get technical with you?”
“It’s true,” he acknowledges, licking lamb off the edge of his thumb. “You always kept work at work, and that’s something I’ve always appreciated.” He smiles. “Now you go,” he urges. “You say something nice to me.”
She looks at him blankly.
He fills the silence with wet chewing noises and another soggy smile. “I’ll go again,” he offers. “You must have had a hard day today, but that’s okay because I love you in that sweater. It reminds me of sweet potato pie.”
She is still staring, her face slowly crumpling.
“Mags?” he asks rooting around his molars with his tongue, sucking out slivers of sprouts and muscle. “Mags? What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”
“Do you remember what day it is today?”
“Why?” he asks.
“It’s an important day is all,” she tells him. “Not that you seem to give any kind of a shit.”
“I made a nice meal,” he says. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Answer me,” she demands. “What day is it today?”
He rolls his eyes. “Wednesday? Garbage day eve? My book club night? The night A&E has planned a “Matlock marathon?” he supplies, putting down his fork and looking evenly at her.
“You don’t have to snap,” she reminds him.
“Because you do it so well?” He asks pushing back his chair and stacking his salad bowl on top of his plate.
She glares at him over her untouched meal. “Jesus Christ, Hal. I am so not doing this with you today.”
“Today?” he asks. “What’s so special about today? What did I forget this time, Mags? Your dry cleaning?” He stomps into the kitchen and rattles his dishes into the sink. “I have been taking care of this house for us, cooking you dinners, washing your clothes, taking your goddamned mother out for lunch even though she’s never once offered to pay, not even a tip, not even when the kids were little and I had to buy my clothes at the Goodwill, since the minute we got married” he says coming back into the dining room to collect his wine glass, the salt and pepper shakers, the gravy boat. “Tell me what I did to walk into this shit storm.”
He bends over the table to reach the butter dish, and when he does, the buttons on his Oxford strain across his stomach, so tight she winces a little, sure one will pop free and fly toward her. All at once, she notices how fat he has gotten, how much of him lops above the waist band of his slacks, and the sight of his pudge, the realization of it, makes her laugh.
“What the fuck?” he asks, and she laughs harder.
“You don’t have to swear at me,” she manages, proud of herself for sounding prim over her guffaws.
“I don’t?”
“You’re so fat,” she wails, covering her crinkled nose with her hand. She smacks her free hand on the tablecloth. “I didn’t realize you got so fat!”
His eyes well with tears instantly, and he stands back like she slapped his florid cheek. He puts down the wine glass and other dishes and presses his wrinkled hands against his old man belly. “Why is that funny?”
“I see you everyday, Hal. Every fucking day whether I want to or not. And I only just now noticed,” she explains.
“So?” he asks indignantly. “I still don’t get how that’s funny.”
“Because,” she says, earnestly trying to explain. “I see you everyday, but I haven’t seen you in months. Weeks. However long it took you to get so fat.”
“Precisely!” He shouts, his face flushing even deeper. “That’s exactly my point. You take me completely for granted, and the only time you notice me is to tell me how I’ve let you down. So tell me, Mags. What is it this time? What’s so special about today?”
“It’s my birthday,” she says softly. “I’m 65 today.”
“Oh, shit,” he says, walking around the table, reaching toward her.
She holds up her hands. “It’s not just that,” she says. “I sure as shit don’t need another pleather purse or a bottle of perfume.”
Or, she thinks but does not say, a flowery card whose adoring message makes her sick. On the heels of this thought, she is immediately proud of herself for not saying the last part, for keeping something back, for trying not to hurt Hal even though he fills her with disgust. “
The thing is, Hal,” she tells him. “65 is a big deal. It’s the year I have always planned to retire. In fact, Grace told me today that a reception is in the works.” She flashes him a half smile. “Gold watch and everything.”
“I’m confused,” he admits. “What’s the problem? You’d rather have platinum?”
“Well, I mean, yeah, of course I would. But I can’t retire. If I wake up in this house and have nowhere to go but the recliner next to yours and nothing to do but see you eat 3 times a day, I am going to fucking kill myself Hal. I mean it.”
“Oh,” he says. “Oh. I see. What about the lamb, Mags? Would you like it better with chutney next time?”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
End of summer-ish
We've reached that point in the summer when even going to the pool feels like a chore. The point when I have to force myself to keep doing all of our summer things because I know that I am going to miss the when the snow starts to fall in a couple months. August is gross here-- hot, humid, stinky. Still we've been enjoying these last few weeks of freedom before the university is in session, preschool starts, and our activity schedule ramps up. We've even been able to find the silver lining in the summer doldrums.
Seriously, how much fun is back to school shopping?
I take so many pictures of my kids sleeping, it's starting to get creepy.
The other day, Jack finally said his first sentence: "I pee in Unc Ben's house." While I am sad that it has taken him so long to talk, I am of course happy that he can finally talk about the world around him. Imagine my surprise today as we pulled up to the library (where Harry got his first card and was beyond excited) and Jack said "Libear! Books! Libear!" Yesterday at the pool, he looked at the sky and screamed, "Two clouds!" Later, after a breeze, he looked at the same spot and asked "Where two clouds go?" I asked him if he had a poop in his pants, and he shook his head. "Two poops," he warned. The when I was changing him, he shook his finger in my face and said, "No ow. me no ow" (he hates to be changed when he has a rash). For someone small enough to fit in a Lincoln Logs box, he expresses himself pretty well.
We spent a RIVETING half an hour putting Mr. Potato Head pieces in our mouths. Super freaking fun.
I cannot tell you how much we love having my brother in town. It is so nice to have someone stop by for meals and to play with the kids. Ben has been taking the boys over to play video games after dinner while I clean the kitchen, and Jack cannot stop talking about "Unc Ben's HOUSH." The other day we stopped by on our way home from the gym, and I finally took a couple of pictures of his main living areas.
Here's his dinette (from a thrift shop-- I totally dig the chairs) and kitchen.
Here's his couch and rug and pillows. I could not take a picture of the TV because I couldn't make the flash work on my phone, but it is across fro the couch on a really cool table with pull out drawers that he found at a thrift shop
He painted the two canvases on the wall, and he painted another one for Harry and Jack's room.
Harry is really into taking pictures with my old Kodak camera
We have lots of pictures like this.
Baby Jacob!
Let's talk for just a moment about how a Starbucks blueberry muffin is the absolute worst possible car snack, shall we? Because it is. Unless you want to have a filthy car and a stained up kid. In that case, it's brilliant.
I have been meaning to post these pictures since Saturday night, but here I am. On Tuesday afternoon. Just now posting them. Ugh.
We went to IL for Ben's dad's 60th birthday and to see our new nephew, who turns 4 weeks old this Thursday. He's adorable, but I'll let you see the pics in a minute. I wouldn't want to spoil the dramatic surprise of this narrative. *snort* Because there's really no narrative here and I should have left my office like 15 minutes ago, and I promise a better entry soon. I had to work really fast at work today because I wasted all the time I would usually spend blogging shopping on Amazon for things to buy with the anniversary gift card my parents sent us. Also debating whether or not to share the gift card with Ben, even though the email clearly says we should share. It's a tough decision.
I love the totally annoyed face Harry makes when he is forced to go outside and frolic.
I remember collecting cicada shells in Dixie cups when I was a little kid
Jack was totally disgusted. here he is saying "That no hands. me no hands peas." Translation: Don't make me touch that f*cking thing. Please."
He practiced his golf swing
and pounding crap with his clubs
Harry, meanwhile, in true Bobby Hill form, pretended his clubs were crutches and hobbled around the driveway
BABY!!!!
That Harry tried to lick, so that was nice
Bascially, Ben and I freaked out that Harry and Jack were going to maim the baby (and I originally typed mame and cracked myself up-- what are they going to do to it? give it a long cigarette holder? take it fox hunting? sing Bosom Buddies to it?), but his sister was pretty calm about it being as he's number 3 and all and has 2 sibs under the age of 4.
A pretty fun day, and more blogging soon, as soon as I drag myself out from under this pile of textbooks, 3 ring binders, and photocopies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)