Archive for '“Did He Just Say ?”'
Last night, I had an occasion to take Edward to the grocery store without the other children.
Of course we were seeking ketchup–his favorite (and only accepted) condiment! (I would have to say he is it obsessed with ketchup since he dips scrambled eggs and raw carrots in it. In fact, I was lamenting this to MT this morning who always makes me feel better because her son has a ketchup penchant as well!)
We use the Publix organic ketchup because it doesn’t have high fructose corn syrup, and because it is the ONLY ketchup without HFCS that he will actually eat. And we have tried them all and we go through two bottles per week. Enough about ketchup!
So we are standing in line and of course Edward begins to peruse the magazines.
I brace myself for the inevitable questions. (Remember the child star?)
His first: “What’s a ‘bombshell’ ? Looks like it’s some kinda big woman!”
It is Kirstie Allie touting her new Big Life show.
He then directs his gaze to the checkout guy: “Do you know what a bombshell is?”
The fellow grins and laughs a little.
“Ahh, Mom, I see you are buying Advil PM! Is that because you can’t sleep? Can you not sleep because of all of Dad’s horrible snoring?
That is indeed why I am buying Advil PM…that and a four-year-old who won’t sleep in her own bed when she is sick and must listen to the Heffalump sound track in order to fall asleep every time she awakens from her feverish strep sleep. I also can’t sleep because every time you wake up, you turn on your history CD and I can hear it drone on and on about the Celts from my room…
The checkout guy glances at me and stifles a laugh. I swipe my card and pay for the goods. I’m packing up to go when I notice a Sierra Mist in E’s hand. I did tell him he could get it since he tried his best at social skills class. The guy rings it up.
“One dollar and eight cents!” Edward comments. “What’s the eight cents for?”
I begin my patented “tax talk” and he interrupts, “Oh yes tax, I know all about that. So what would tax be on like 200 million dollars?” He looks at the checkout guy who looks at me, smilingly dumbfounded.
“Never-mind you two. It’d be about $1.6 million,” Edward asserts.
More money than we’ll ever see…
And with that, we’re out the door!
Edward on Swiffer:
“Why won’t that mop leave that lady alone? I think if I were that mop, I’d find me a new lady–one that didn’t have a mop and had never even heard of ‘Swiffer.’
“Do you think that mop is in ‘puppy love’ with that lady?”
First, I want to thank everyone for their encouragement of late. I have definitely felt your prayers! I never realized I would meet so many dear friends through writing, and I thank God for putting each of you in my path.
I am incredibly late with many of these awards, so please forgive me if it’s been several weeks, or in some cases months, since you lauded me. There’s also a chance that you aren’t the actual person who gave me the award and I am just a hapless blogger being tossed about the blogosphere, rudderless, mudent, flashing awards willy-nilly and trampling fearlessly all over blogging etiquette.
I also fear that I may have lost some awards in my disorganization and attention-deprived state. If I have, please remind me and I will rectify the error!
I sincerely appreciate being appreciated, and I look forward to passing these along to others. If you have already received this award, please forgive me. I just can’t keep up anymore!
Heidi (Stone Fox) from Mom’s Ministry & More, and Felicia from Go Graham Go! both lauded me with this beauty:
The qualifications to receive the award are:
A. Display a cheerful attitude.
B. Love one another.
C. Make mistakes.
D. Learn from others.
E. Be a positive contributor to the blog world.
F. Love life.
G. Love kids.
1. Must link it back to the creator.
2. Post the rules.
3. Choose 5 people to give it to.
4. Recipients must fill the characteristics above.
5. Create a post to share this.
6. You must thank the winner.
My five picks are:
The Life and Times of Bendy Ruggles
The Power of Housewife Word of Mouth
The Red Clay Diaries
Sweet Jaden at The Life and Times of Bendy Ruggles encouraged me with this peaceful butterfly award.
Now, here are the *rules* that go along with this award:
1. Put the award up on your blog
2. Add a link to the person who awarded it to you
3. Nominate at least seven other blogs
4. Add links to these blogs on your blog
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog
And I pass this award along to:
The Power of Housewife Word of Mouth
Walking by Faith
Helene blessed me with this gem:
So, here are the rules for the Shiny Object (or “Brillante Weblog Premio” Award):
1. Place the logo on your blog.
2. Link to the person who awarded you.
3. You can nominate up to 5 blogs.
4. You can then add their links to your blog.
5. Leave a message in the comment section to each nominee on their blog.
And the winners are:
Great Stuff 4 Kids
The Domestic Fringe
Cool Mom Guide
The Girl in the Middle
Mrs. Bear bestowed these two lovelies on me sometime in the past, and I am just now getting around to acknowledging them. I know she will forgive me though, because she always does!
On this cute bear action, I have no idea what the rules are but I am granting it to Katie-bug Journey, The Red Clay Diaries, Walking by Faith, Mom’s Ministry & More and Three Peas in a Pod. It’s quite a happy one!
This award does look impressive and cool…two things Mrs. Bear knows I strive to be.
This award in particular requires that I list six things that make me happy along with six other worthy bloggers that I’ll bestow this trinket to.
Six Happy Times:
1. When H makes coffee the night before and we actually have real cream instead of Rice Dream, which, incidentally, tastes quite lousy in coffee and makes it turn a troubling gray color.
2. When all my children sleep in their part of the house. I don’t even care of they stay in their own beds…they can sleep on the floor, in the den, wherever, as long as they don’t wake me up!
3. When I pick up Sue from preschool and they do not whisper to me quietly about how she had an accident in her pants…again.
4. When I pick my boys up from their creative writing class and I do not have to hear about potentially “dicey” words either boy used in his story. Also when I do not have to call the mothers of other children in the class to let them know that my children may have, inadvertently, introduced their sweet child to some risque language…all in the name of creative writing. (There is such a thing as being too creative, I am starting to learn.)
5. When, despite my disorganization and supposed (but not actual) apathy toward blog awards, my friends still bestow them upon me.
6. When I hear the same scripture over and over again throughout a week, thereby being quite convinced that God is trying to get something through my thick, stubborn skull. (This has happened a lot lately, for which I am quite excited!)
1. Everyday Adventures
2. Down-to-Earth Mama
3. Good Enough Mama
4. Ali the Lazy Dog
5. The Girl in the Middle
6. Good Fountain
Dannette at Everyday Adventures blessed me with this cutie:
Since we were kicked out, deemed unfit for, booted from, asked to leave, encouraged to find other alternative to our horseback riding class, I’ve been smashingly desperate for another activity for Edward. I had planned a lovely, poetic post about a boy and his horse but I’m a tad bitter disenchanted with all things equine at his point. Even so, I’ll share a few pictures:
Perhaps it’s for the best.
Anyhoo, yesterday I discovered a local “My Gym” class that sounded promising for our sweet lad. (One child has some coordination issues and another is partially blind so the coaches are used to working on each child’s level.) I signed him up on the spot. (Half the price of the horseback offering, and so, so close to our house.) Today was our first day. He was pumped. Did his version of a cartwheel all over the house, bounced tirelessly on his mini trampoline, hung from his chin-up bar throughout the day, etc.
On the way to the “gym” he asked his typical set of questions about new billboards he was seeing: “Why would a man want to lose weight? Don’t all men want to be big? How does “beatrix” make you lose weight?” “That’s bariatrics, buddy,” I explained. “I think it’s the science of weight loss or something like that.”
I thought nothing of it. A typical conversation.
The class went OK. I won’t bore you with the dull details. Like the fact that both the coaches are named Zack, so Edward tried to crack a joke about how the coaches were “Zack squared” and nobody got it but me.
What happened directly after the class, however, has got me fretting.
Once the class ends, children are encouraged to get their “socks and shoes and stamperoos.” Basically they are saying, get out and let the next class in. So Edward is hustling about trying to find his crocs. He’s sitting on the floor attempting to wrest his foot into the croc when he pauses and looks up.
I saw the whole thing from across the room where I was attempting to drag Sue out of the “sibling room” where they were debuting a “Care Bears” video.
Instinctively, I knew a less than positive event was unfolding.
In slow motion, I watched as that curly head looked upward toward a rather stout grandmother-type shuttling her granddaughter toward the shoe bin. That sweet mouth folded into an “o” and before I could get to him, his penetrating voice rang out over the shoeless masses:
“Wow, you are ENORMOUS! You should try that XYZ ‘beatrix’ place where they use science to help you lose weight…even though you are not a man!”
I cringed. Everyone had heard. I was so far away. Nobody really knew he was my child. What could I do? The grandmother quickly gathered her charge and left. Everyone else looked down uncomfortably…a few couldn’t help but stifle a smile.
In all fairness to my child, this sweet woman was quite possibly the largest person he had ever seen.
Talk about a “teachable moment.”
Still, friends, what on earth will I do next week when faced with this woman?
I’m not going.
I’m sending “H.”
So H. took Edward to Publix to get more organic beef for “meat disks”–one of the few foods our picky sweetheart will eat. He dips them in approximately 1/2 cup of ketchup. At least it’s protein and it’s GF/CF-free.
Anyway, at the store, who did they run into first? The famous “Lee” from the trichinosis days.
“Look–there’s Lee again–I’ll bet he’s under-cooking some more meat! Let’s go see him!” Edward cried. Lucky for Lee, he was proffering samples of Breyer’s Chocolate Mint ice cream today. Not a lot of food-borne illness peril there.
Still, our spontaneous songwriter was able to craft a song on the spot: “Ecoli makes you die. Ecoli makes you die.” It’s cheerfully sung to the tune of “Hell, No, We Won’t Go.” According to H, he “sing-chanted” this throughout the store to the great amusement/concern of many shoppers. That is, until he ran upon this tantalizing read:
“Why am I not a child star? I should be a child star? If I can’t be the ‘strongest boy in the world’ like Richard Sandrak, at least let me be a child star!”
H finally couldn’t take it anymore, so he blasted the poor 6-year-old with the cold, hard, brutal truth: “Let me just tell you the truth, son: it doesn’t go so well for the child star. You know those child stars end up either drunk, in jail or lost.”
OK, this is just a recipe for disaster for the next 6 weeks–an obsession with child stars, their neurosis, alcoholism, dyfunctionality–you name it.
It’s the first thing he can discuss with the woman checking the groceries. “I’m sure you know all about the problems with child stars. I am not a child star. Child stars are usually drunks, and they are lost.”
“Did he just say something about child stars being drunks?” the checkout woman asks H. “He’s a lot, isn’t he?”
“I believe so,” H replied.
And then, to the poor boy taking out the groceries: “Have you ever been in jail?”
While hospitality is not particularly high on my list of spiritual gifts, and my friends are secretly thankful due to my woeful lack of kitchen creativity, I am a member of a little “suppah club,” as we call it down here, and this Friday night is my night.
(I was actually supposed to host this event at my home four months ago, but that was in the middle of removing/saving Edward from the computer magnet academy Kindergarten class, and I was far too stressed to prepare food for my own family, much less this supper club set. Instead, I offered to bring several bottles of red wine to the only brown bag restaurant in this chain-restaurant obsessed town and everyone agreed unanimously that this was much safer and pleasant for all involved.)
I dodged that bullet only to come back on the rotation for July. So H, being the kind, generous, supportive husband that he is, offered to go to Sam’s with Edward to procure the items I needed for this most basic sort of menu: Pork Tenderloin, Baked Potatoes, Garlic Green Beans and Banana Pudding.
This is sort of a pinnacle menu for me, and H has offered to grill the tenderloin and prepare the green beans, therefore leaving me unfettered to focus on the pudding and starch because, as he encourages, “You are so good with the baked potato.”
And if that’s not damning with faint praise, I don’t know what is.
(If all else fails, I do have a giant Cheez Whiz Spaghetti casserole sitting in my freezer. It’s been waiting in the wings for the next shut-in, and I relish the security of this preparedness like Pa would a smokehouse full of venison. Note the Kinnickkinnick gf/cf bread in the upper left-hand corner–Edward’s favorite!)
Edward watches H carefully select the super packs of pork tenderloin. He screws his face into his signature snarlish growl. “Not PORK! Have you forgotten about trichinosis? How long are you going to cook it? No one should eat this!”
Of course, he blathers on and on about foodborne illness and trichinella worms until H bribes him with Brewsters. He quiets down with the promise of his favorite casein/color/artificial flavor-free lemon sorbet.
Fast forward to the Brewsters. H and Edward are waiting in line. A young man approaches the window carrying a largish zebra-striped purse that he is apparently planning to give to his girlfriend who works at the Brewsters. Edward immediately bellows:
“Look at that hip hop man carrying that purse. Now that is just wrong!”
Another father leans over to H, amused concern in his eyes, and kind of whispers: “Did he say ‘hip hop man’?”
We’ve seen our share of neuropsychologists, developmental psychologists, occupational therapists, play therapists, physical therapists and the like, in our search for the best way to help Edward, who is delightful and charming at times, but a far cry from neurotypical. At one of our latest appointments, we met an extremely kind clinical/developmental psychologist whom we warmed to immediately.
She got down on Edward’s level, looked him straight in the eye and asked him where he would most like to travel. Edward had an immediate answer:
“Well, I’d most like to go to Antarctica where they have lots of permafrost because did you know that if you pee there your urine would immediately freeze and fall to the ice?”
“Yes…well…that is interesting…and certainly true…I guess…” (She looks at me…I smile knowingly.)
“So, Edward, tell me about your family,” she asks next.
“Well…my Daddy doesn’t smell very good…actually he smells kind of like urine…sometimes he takes a shower to smell better but other times he just rubs on lotion…actually most of the time he just uses the lotion.”
The therapist shakes her head knowingly. (H is not in the room.) She looks quickly to me, (actually I’m undaunted), and kindly comments, “You know we hear all kinds of things in here.”
Yes, I’m sure you do, and I’ll bet before we’ve run through our $500.00 on this evaluation, you’ll hear a lot more…
The potty training marathon continues. Sue’s third birthday has come and gone, and still no progress. Yesterday at her check-up, the nurse wanted her to produce a “specimen” in a small plastic cup.
Sue thrilled to the idea of tee teeing in a tiny cup. She grunted…she groaned…she spoke directly to the moment: “Come out, tee tee, come out!”
As I silently prayed that she would be able to make, I could hear Edward’s voice echoing down the hall as he took his vision and hearing test alone with the nurse. “What’s that device for? Why does this button activate that part? Are you sure you calibrated it correctly?”
(I always cringe inwardly when he is alone with an unknown adult because I really never know what will come out of his mouth, although I know it will be something shocking and I know the unknown adult will ask me several questions about it later.)
The pressure to urinate in a pediatrician bathroom decorated with jeering clown wallpaper was far too overwhelming and Sue crumpled under the challenge. But she did want to take the cup home as a souvenir…it’s been rattling around in my purse ever since.
Oh, but I was so excited about my latest potty training plan for Sue that I announced it at her birthday party last week. One of my friends even said, “Now that’s out-of-the-box parenting!” (I was so proud.)
My plan was to make her wear BOY pull-ups. She shrieked, she cried, she flailed at the thought. “But I love those ’pincesses,’” she wailed.
Knowing she despises The Hulk, I told her we would get some Hulk panties. “I don’t like that ‘geen’ monster Hulk.” I took her to Target with the threat of Hulk. She’s jumping in protest…she’s fussing…she’s clinging with both hands to the very last princess Pull-up clinging to her tiny body…she’s noticing the Diego pull-ups…she’s smiling…she loves Diego…she wants those pull-ups. “Diego can just run away from the tee tee,” she laughs.
Target does not have Hulk pull-ups any more.
So yesterday she got up, wet and soaking, and I pointed it out to her. “Oh, that’s OK, I’ll go get one of my beautiful boy pull-ups.”
And it doesn’t matter that these pull-ups have the new “cool alert” system that is supposed to ”notify” the child when he or she has had an accident.
“Cool alert” is apparently refreshing in this hot July weather.
Ham is a tough topic in our house. Ham is tough because, frankly, it comes from a pig.
And until a few days ago, everyone thought all meat came from chicken. I mean, they ate hamburgers, bacon, sausage and the like, but Joseph called hamburgers and steak “black chicken,” and ham was “pink chicken.” I know this sounds a little frighteningly naive coming from an eight-year-old but he was eating, the siblings were eating, why rock the boat?
Well, Edward, never one to eat pork of any kind, finally called a spade a spade and announced that ham was pig.
And that was cool with everyone except somehow that started a lengthy conversation on foodborne illness which progressed, (or digressed, depending on how you look at it), to the point of Googling statistics regarding how many trichinosis cases there are per year in the US (about 12). And learning that wild bear and cougar are other major sources of trichinella infection. And that has led to a heightened interest in all things epidemiological.
(Sometimes when starting to answer questions about topics like this, I think to myself, “Why am I talking about this? This will just come back to haunt me.” And usually it does.)
So H is at Publix with Edward and they approach the meat area where Lee, the “food barker” or demonstrator, is trying to promote a pork tenderloin recipe. Edward sums up this foodborne threat immediately. He turns to a shocked patron reaching for one of these porky morsels and cries out for all to hear, “Lee is undercooking the pork! He doesn’t know about trichinosis! Everyone who tries it is going have worms living in their muscles!”
The scowling Lee begins to shuffle around uncomfortably. (I mean he’s wearing a hairnet and serving pork chunks in the meat aisle of a Publix and now he’s being berated on food safety by what looks like a 4-year-old.)
An elderly lady turns to H and asks in a hushed voice “Did he just say trichinosis?”
“Oh yes, he did,” a proud H replies.
Our children want a puppy, and we want a puppy. But I don’t think I can potty train a puppy and a small girl at the same time. Soooo until the small girl decides to cooperate, no puppy.
Naturally, these children fall in love with every puppy they see in the major pet stores around town, which we of course are frequenting in our search for life-saving fish vitamins and the like. So H makes an off-hand comment about how we don’t want a dog from a pet store because they come from puppy mills. And then the inevitable question: “What’s a puppy mill?” Yes, it’s one of those questions we really shouldn’t have answered. But we did. And now we suffer and suffer and suffer…
Take the other night. Everyone is busy catching lightening bugs. Our neighbors’ sweet, but tired, 14-year-old Boston terrier named “Darla” hobbles outside and sniffs around. Edward takes one look at Darla and approaches our neighbor, asking pleasantly: “Are you running a puppy mill out of your home?” This is in the same tone of voice you might use to ask a polite question like “Are you having a nice evening?” “Did he just say ‘puppy mill?’” she asks. “Oh yes, he did. He sure did.” I answer.
You know, it just takes one reference and we are off! Our neighbors, by the way, are a sweet couple in their sixties involved with the ministry, clearly not the “puppy mill” types. But yesterday we apparently had a run-in with some official looking puppy mill types:
“Look at that smoking lady in that old van. Look at her hair, Mama. Look how it’s so wild looking. Look at her poor dog…how its hair is so dirty. I’ll bet she is running a puppy mill, don’t cha think? Look at those two men with her…look how big that man’s nose is. I just know they have a puppy mill…don’t cha think?”
Yes, I’m sure of it. And black lungs, too.