Flowers
We were playing outside in the front yard this afternoon, when I noticed Gregory bent over, studiously examining something. We have a tree that is blooming, and one of the little white flowers had fallen in to the grass. He reached out with one finger and gently touched the petals. As I marveled at his sweetness, I heard him yell “Smash!” He started stomping the flower with his sneaker until it was pulverized to his satisfaction, and then ran off to find more worms. Which he also stomped to a paste. (Worm paste! Like toothpaste, but “greener”!) (Actually, browner.) I am ASSUMING (albeit a little desperately) that these are normal Boy Activities, as opposed to the signs of a budding sociopath, but I wouldn’t personally know seeing as when I was a kid I PICKED flowers and played with DOLLS, that I did not then messily murder. My dad cringes when I mention the twins watching Strawberry Shortcake on DVD (the real one, not the cheesy modern remake) (they like it!), because obviously a few episodes of berry friends will make them gay or sissies or whatever. I can say with certainty that I REALLY DON’T THINK THAT WILL BE AN ISSUE.
Fairly boring. But around here, boring is GOOD. (“Excitement” usually involves physical injury)
Gee, it’s been a while- what have you missed?
There are some crazy people out there that think they want a large family, with lots of children. What could be bad about having a loving, close-knit family full of kids? I have two words for those people: stomach virus. As in, the CONTAGIOUS kind. Oh, wait- another word! VOMIT. Actually, I could find A LOT of words to describe a (very long) week of my life, but I’m really trying to forget the whole thing.
I don’t think there is a smooth transition from vomit to food. Oh, look! Over there! Elvis! (You have been officially distracted from vomit.) (Oops.)
There are some things about my kids I will never comprehend. Michael is the only one that is not a picky eater. The other three have a very short list of approved foods. They will not eat anything strange, like, say, MASHED POTATOES. They refuse to eat mashed potatoes. Babies eat mashed potatoes, but WHATEVER. So the other night I made (for the first time for them) kielbasa and pierogies, fully expecting whining and weeping, because any mom-cooked meal not including a frozen pizza or nugget has at least one person crying at any given time. (If it includes rice, make that TWO people. Because really, who eats rice?) But they LOVED them. They had seconds. PILES of pierogies. What is inside of a pierogie? MASHED POTATOES. I don’t understand.
It is 9:15 in the morning on Sunday, and the kids are playing a quiet game of hide and seek in their underpants. If “quiet” means “SHRIEKING in ALL CAPS, and SLAMMING DOORS”, and around here it usually does. “ONE TWO FREE SEVEN EIGHT ELEVENTEEN READY OR NOT HERE I COME!” DOOR SLAM “I FOUNDJOO!” “I WASN’T READY YET! YOU’RE NOT MY BEFFEND ANYMORE!” (best friend, which is the most cutting of insults around here) DOOR SLAM. It is 9:15 Sunday morning, and I am certain that for the thousandth time our childless next door neighbors are thrilled they purchased the house beside us.
The other evening I was in the kitchen cooking while everyone else was playing. Matthew was drawing pictures, when all of a sudden I heard Mike feebly attempting to suppress a snicker. He told Matthew “Go show Mommy your rocket ship” and I rolled my eyes a little, thinking that I see their drawings every day, what could be funny enough to interrupt my meal preparations? And then I saw this
I managed to gasp “Nice job, Matthew” before hiding behind a cabinet door to hyperventilate with repressed laughter. How someone who finds butts (!) endlessly amusing can be so oblivious to what exactly he sketched, I will never know. But thank goodness.
I would write about something other than my children, but lately there hasn’t been anything else. I have been living in a vortex of children. Some mothers thrive on that, but I am starting to get a little itchy. I need to do something, but I don’t know what. Half of me wants solitude, and half of me wants to feel like part of the real world again. (Luckily I am used to myself making no sense whatsoever.) Speaking of making no sense, I used the word “vortex” without being certain of its precise definition. I could have looked it up, but I’m NOT. The sense of rebellion from that is very refreshing. So there.
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