F is for Food. Stop Freaking Out.

Here’s a Throwback Thursday for you. Written some FOUR years ago… and you know what, friends?

NOTHING MUCH HAS CHANGED.

My life is on circular rotation, because Parenting. I still make the Pan-O-Love, by the way. It is well received. Not much else is.

So, here goes:

 

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The other day a friend of mine was perusing my blog, and she stopped for a minute.  I know she stopped because I was obsessively watching her eyes actually move across the page and hoping that she would, you know, chortle a bit (she was eerily silent).  There was not one smidgeon of chortling, but she’s, well, she’s just that way.

Anyhow, I digress.

At one point she stopped and, kind of muttered, “No…”

I tried to be all casual: “Whatttt??  WHAT is it? DID YOU LIKE IT? SOMETHING FUNNY?  Or wait, bad?? Something bad?  PLEASSSE JUST TELL MEEEE.”

Yep.  Cool as a mint julip, my friends.

She simply nodded at the screen and said, “It’s wrong.  You said you’re a lousy cook.  That’s wrong.  You are a great cook.  You need to go back and change that.”

My friend is simply divine.  She is, well, she’s the butter on my bread.

My homemade bread, ya’ll.  I KNOW.  I make bread, bout twice a week.   Hot and crusty with just a hint of sweet, real butter all oozy and sliding around…  I would go on but this is not Showtime and I don’t want to upset my pastor’s wife, who reads this once in a while.

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Here are some of my greatest hits in the kitchen (cue Slow Jam music):

1.  Chicken and dumplings.  Oh yeeaah.  Whole chicken is a must.   (I scoff at you, you skinless chicken breasts! We have no place for naked breasts at our home!)

(Wow. That was kinda pushing it.)

2.  Pulled pork and gravy with mashed potatoes.  A subtle hint of cayenne is the secret.  It does, however,  resemble Alpo.  Close your eyes and hoover it.

3.  Double chocolate brownie/sheet cake thing.  Haven’t made this in ages but really, it’s a pan ‘o love, I tell you.  Snuggle up with it and a good book at night and, well, it completes you.

4.  Shepherd’s Pie.  You know, Jesus was called the Good Shepherd.  This meal would be right up his alley, I believe.

5.  Biscuits and gravy with LARD ya’ll.  BOOM. I AIN’T PLAYIN’.

6.  Stromboli.  It’s the yummoli.

7.  Sour cream and raisin pie.  Frozen pie crust, you ask?  Pfft.  As if.  This recipe is as old school as an episode of Andy Griffith, and my dad loves it.  He’s waaaaay old school.  In fact, there was no school for him; they hadn’t invented it yet.

8.  Some weird version of chicken soup with lemon and ginger and hot peppers and cilantro.  I feed it to the hubs whenever he starts sniffling, and I swear some times he fakes the snot so he can get some.

9.  The best BLT this side of anywhere they sell bacon.  I MEAN lo, it is just a BLT but mine stands for Baby, Leave me Ta heck alone while I eat it…

10.  I need a round number so, I’ll just say it.  My peanut butter balls, ya’ll.  They might not be pretty, but they are chocolatey balls of goodness.  I make ’em for the hubs birthdays and anniversaries and any other sort of celebration.  Because, you know.  You can never have too many balls.

Ok.  I am a good cook.

And now, see exhibit BLONDE here on the left? IMG_0004 See this sweet little cherub of goodness right der?  Well, he is a dirty little rat that turns up his twitchy little rat nose at everything I present to him.  (I KNOW…  rats aren’t really known for being picky, but you get what I mean.)

Oh, the Redhead eats everything not nailed down.  It’s wonderful.  However, he better get a trade fast because he is creating a budget deficit in our house  that is rather epic.  (See previous post on Economics.)

This is how the darling Blonde responds to:

1.  Homemade chicken and noodles:

Blonde one covers his mouth as if I have just placed a bowl of buzzard guts in front of him.  Even just a whiff of the chickeney goodness, I guess, sends him gagging.  He then proceeds to lay his forehead on the table in abject despair.  All is lost.  Chicken. And. Noodles.  MY GOD WOMAN!  HOW COULD YOU?   CHICKEN AND NOODLES?  I CAN’T GO ON.  REALLY.  DIS IS DA END.

2.  Stromboli:

“I don’t care for dis.  It tastes… dusty.”

I’ll show you dusty, my little blonde friend.  The hubs had to intervene on that one because blonde one was about to get an education on dust (da FLOOR.)

3.  Shepherd’s Pie

Blonde one:  “It tastes like… butter.”  His mouth is screwed on because evidently butter is the devil’s condiment.  Blonde one and Jesus are good friends, I promise you, but we have a ways to go.

4.  The balls.  No problem.  Gone.  When he’s done he looks like he has a chocolate goatee.  It’s whimsical.

What he will eat, with abandon:  hot dogs.  Of course.

So… if he had his way he would eat just hot dogs and my peanut butter balls forever, and life would be dandy.  And you can just go right ahead and insert your OWN joke here because I AM NOT GOING THERE.  I am far too mature for that kinda cheekiness, my friends.

<< chortle >>

*  My lawyers tell me I need to insert a disclaimer here, so read this really really fast:

It’s just a teensy weensy bit possible an itsy bitsy bit of creative license was taken here.  I’m not sure, but maybe.

Has anybody out there had a picky eater???  And what DOES “dusty” food taste like?

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Resolutions are not useless and here’s why:

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Ok, so I write for a fabulous magazine called The Cov. It’s a good gig. I get to talk about Jesus and often, they allow funny.  At the same time. I have a good relationship with the editors. I know this because I can send them kitty memes about procrastination and they seem to appreciate them.

Like:

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And this one, which neatly sums up the process of trying to edit:

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And this one:

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Which really has nothing to do with writing but it cracks me up. Also this:

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I know. I need to stop. So, the other day we were talking about a January column and I was all:

“HEY RESOLUTIONS! NO ONE HAS EVER DONE THAT BEFORE, RIGHT?”

And my editor, who I shall call Larry, said,
“Resolutions are hokey.”

Oh, it was on.

Actually, no. It was not on. I was all, “Oh, sure… right Larry, I totally agree.” I didn’t argue because he is kind of my boss, but NOT without muttering under my breath, all passive aggressive:

“You will rue the day, Larry.”

Not really sure where we’re going here, but I made MY OWN RESOLUTIONS ANYHOW ON MY BLOG! WHO’S THE BOSS NOW LARRY? HUH?

I know. I have to assert control somewhere.

MOMSIE’S RESOLUTIONS FOR 2017:

  1. Maintain a good working relationship with Larry.
  2. Stop putting my coffee in the microwave, zapping it for twenty seconds, and then leaving it there to ponder its uselessness until forty-eight hours later.
  3. I’m going to use this book on my children. 51MF3u-JPAL._SX348_BO1,204,203,200_-1.jpgI will hold them each in my hands, ponder them for a minute, and ask them, “Tell me, small Red who has once again left a swath jelly behind in the kitchen like its own sticky Exxon Valdez oil slick, DO YOU SPARK JOY? DO YA, PUNK? DO YOU FEEL LUCKY?
  4. I will figure out how to number things on my blog.
  1. I will not actually donate my children, I promise. But you gotta know, MARIE KONDO DOES NOT HAVE CHILDREN. One day, if she does, she will grab some sort of useless plastic toy in her hands and start pondering it, and ask, “Small useless piece of plastic from The McDonalds, do you spar-” and her wee child will start crying and Kondo will just roll her eyes and toss it at the baby. You know she will.
  2. I will brush and floss every day.
  3. Freaked you out with that one, didn’t I? You were wondering… “Wait. She DOESN’T brush every day? Why am I even reading this?
  4. I will stop overusing “skin fixing illuminating age defying serum that costs shackamillion dollars.” I figured since the packaging said it erases fine lines I should just, you know, slather it all over. And now I head out for my day every morning looking like I’m J Lo.maxresdefault.jpg
  5. Actually? Scratch that. If I want to look like J Lo I can. Say hello to my glowy little friend:

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10. I will also try to get a handle on this:6a7c885b9a3b9476370d6de5a1b7c0ebd4d3d0359d90b8c1d9693788f25a6482_1.jpg

Betcha can’t guess what type of personality I am? I’ll give you a hint: I often have slanty eyebrows and I rhyme with “SLAY.

11. I WILL STOP SAYING ‘BOYS, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?’ CUZ EVERYTIME I DO THAT A TREE FALLS IN THE FOREST AND EVERYONE HEARS IT.

12. And finally, as God is my witness, I will stop buying the bargain toilet paper. Life is just too short, people.

Here’s the thing (YOU KNOW I can’t write a post without some sort of “Here’s the moral to the story” moment? Right? Larry tells me I do this. It’s my thing. Alas, I often have no idea what I’m talking about in terms of morals, but I WILL CARRY ON.)

Anyhow, here’s the thing. I think this year I want to stop trying to lose things. I want to not try to lose weight or lose wrinkles or lose the clutter or lose my mind or whatevs.

I want more. I want enough piled on enough.

More, please!

More: Jesus. Family. Special Locked Door Husband time (yes, that’s code for nookie). Laughter. Small children who have impossibly long lashes and a total inability to eat without making the kitchen look like a crime scene.

More cuddling with this huge fat furry fluff of goodness:IMG_6138.jpg

This picture illustrates that Steve is two things:

  •      A bit of a risk taker.
  •      Really doesn’t mind pencils. EduCATed. Har har har.

I will take more naps:IMG_6131.jpg

I don’t have a picture of ME napping so these are stand-in, blurry nappers. Look carefully for the dog, he’s at the end of the couch and is basically really really hurt because Steve has his spot.

Also, we’re so healthy! V-8!

I will take my kids sledding, even when there’s only about 2 inches of snow. We will still attempt it. IMG_6222 3.jpg

I will stay up a little later, act a little sillier, and hug even tighter.

Also, I’ll listen to the Xanadu soundtrack more often.

Oh, and I won’t drink. There’s always that. That’s one minus I will happily keep adding to my life.

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And, I will write. I’ll even pen some resolutions. I will always, always love the re-set button that is January 1.

Happy New Year to you. May God richly bless you. You have been a HUGE blessing to me.

Even you, Larry.

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That’s not actually Larry. Love you, Larry!

An open letter to funerals.

 

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I sat down to write this morning with about sixty ideas on my mind. There’s a lot out there to discuss. First of all, it’s very important that I try to figure out Pokemon Go. Mainly so I can make fun of it.

But yesterday, our family went to a funeral. And I want to talk about it. My dear friends Christy and Karl – well, Karl lost his dad. Rather unexpectedly.

Don’t you kind of hate that? How we say, “lost”? Like, he just wandered off in Walmart, somehow, and we’ve been searching for him over in the pet food section, but really, sweet Jim was just perusing the candy aisle… And it’s all just a big misunderstanding.

This is the permanent “lost.” Jim is dead. Nobody ever says it that way. I know. It sounds harsh. The truth of it, the new-reality of it is harsh too. The world has been de-Jimmed and it’s very hard.

As far as funerals go, this was a tough one.  At one point, Christy, who was asked to sing one of Jim’s favorite hymns, found herself whisper-sobbing the final verse. A few women in the congregation sang  it for her. I just sat there and ugly cried. It was that kind of funeral. This family has been through a lot. That’s kind of like saying that that final trip on the Titanic was stressful. They have dealt with pain and loss and just, well, aching LOSS, and it’s enough. I have received texts from Christy for months, explaining other heartaches. Other losses, and I want to text back, to both God and Christy:  “Enough. ENOUGH! I think you have your QUOTA! God! Are you listening? Enough for them!”

Ok, two problems with this:

  1. Texting doesn’t really adequately do it. When dealing with searing loss and pain a text message is like, offering an alcoholic a cup of tea in rehab. It’s sweet,the thought is kind of there, but mainly it’s JUST NOT REALLY ALL THAT HELPFUL.
  2. God understands “enough” but it’s not like He says, Ok, I will VERY EVENLY SPLIT ALL THE BAD STUFF around with all the people in the world. I know. I kind of wish He would operate that way? But who am I to try and manage God? I can’t remember to pay the utility bill on time.
  3. But, really, would it not be COOL to have a way to text God??? (That’s three things. I know. So, once again, really pounding home that I am not the best candidate for helping manage the world.)

So,  as for my letter to funerals? Well, it would go like this:

Dear Funerals:

You are there to help us understand someone we love has gone. We don’t want to really get it, especially when the loved one has been so, well, here for so many days of our lives. He just called us last weekend, did you know? He had a joke to share. He was here, with us.

And now, he’s not.

And I guess I thank you, funerals, for helping us understand that.

But really? I want to thank you for something else.

The food. I want to thank you for the food.

I know. This makes me sound kind of like a candidate for yet another anonymous recovery group involving lots of eating, but listen. I thank you for the fudgy brownies and the pulled pork and the jello. The jello! I want to thank you for the piles of chips that my kids don’t ever get to eat at home, but get to eat at funerals. Funeral chips. They bless my children, in all their powdered, preservatived cheesy glory. Poor chip-less children.

I thank you for macaroni salad and that weird green pudding thing with the marshmallows. I thank you for coffee in styrofoam cups. I thank you for sloppy joes and lemon bars and for the Boston Cream poke cake that the pastor’s wife makes.

I thank you for lemonade and broccoli with bacon bits and crinkly paper napkins that don’t really do it when your kid is covered in barbecue sauce and cream cheese frosting.

I thank you for the sweet church ladies who cut slices of walnut cake so large they weighed the plates down as people carried them to the table, ready to slide off at any moment, heavy with glistening frosting and nuts and sweetness. I thank you for watermelon and cheesy puffs and cucumbers sliced thin, drenched with onions and sharp vinegar. I thank you for the pies, all the mysterious quivering salads that we try to eat with plastic forks.

I thank you for the look of concentration on my six-year-old’s face as he lifted a vibrating pile of orange Jello to his mouth, brow furrowed as it slips through the tines of the fork, all the while. He keeps trying.

I thank you for funeral food. Because we all sat down and talked, and ate, and Christy and I actually got to take a breath and laugh a little and share a really amazing brownie with homemade fudge frosting that was pretty much the answer to all the world’s problems.

Or not. Fudgy frosting is not the answer. Jesus is. But, for a moment, as we both nibbled at it and discussed our kids and life and parenting and just everything we haven’t been able to because we live far away… I thank you for that brownie. I thank you too for watching Karl and Brian pickup the needle of their friendship and place it right back down again where they left off (after at least two years) and chatter on about God and faith and blessings, even. Blessings. And how God has provided. Even after Karl saw his father go in the ground.

Blessings. The sweetness of the pie, after watching our fathers, and our brothers, go in the ground.

During Jim’s funeral, Karl spoke, and told us, “My dad always told his wife she was pretty,” and tears filled my eyes, up there in the church. And down in the church basement, Brian turned to me as I was shoveling something in my mouth, and said, “You look pretty.”

Probably not, with chocolate frosting competing with the lipstick, but you know. It made my eyes fill up again.Which blew the mascara, and, you know, the pretty thing was highly subjective at that point. But I believed him. I believed him. And I marveled at it – how a funeral of a good man could help me remember the good man sitting next to me.

And how funerals make us remember brothers who have died and how we miss them and how we thank God for them. And all the other things we forget to thank God for, like life, and sobriety, and small annoying children.

And girlfriends, who get our savage sense of humor, no matter what. And accept texts as the main mode of communication.

And, as God is my witness, that poke cake. I will always remember that poke cake and thank God for it. It was just basically holy.*

Thank you, funerals. For helping us to sit and talk over bad coffee for a bit. For helping us see the big picture, after all. That we all end up in a box, draped in flags or memories or both.

And that we are all so very loved. And it will all be okay.

Sincerely,

Momsie.

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It is my brother’s birthday tomorrow. I miss him. And yes, it’s possible I made my friend’s father in law’s funeral all about myself. That’s my thing. I am very, very good at it. But, knowing Christy, she will smile. She’s very patient with me.

*Oh my GOODNESS, DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? I didn’t even see it MYSELF! I PUNNED but WITHOUT EVEN REALIZING IT. That’s it. I have arrived. Pulitzer material, I tell you.

 

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B is for Brevity. For the love of Pete. And Pete’s mommy. Move Pete’s point along.

Throw Back Thursday! Waaaaayyyy back. My SECOND blog post. Second. Enjoy the cuteness.

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Screen Shot 2013-08-29 at 1.43.35 PM It is the soul of wit. And stuff.

Scene:  Momsie is muttering to herself and attempting to fold laundry, scrape up burnt oatmeal, and load  a backpack for the blond one’s preschool.  As the viewer notes:  Momsie is frazzled because she is attempting The Multitask.   Last time she tried it she injured herself.   It is a tricky maneuver that takes power and precision.   It’s a Mary Lou Retton* kind of thing.  If Mary Lou was a brain surgeon.  On crack. Massive skills, yo.**

Sooooo.  We have Momsie who is desperately trying to fill in an emergency contact form with something besides an orange marker (not really a mark of sophistication, the orange washable), while thinking it might be good to put on a bra before she takes the boys to preschool.  She is considering that if she just kind of crosses her arms and sort of……

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New Year’s Eve. Let’s Do This. Or Not. Maybe Later?

Here’s how it was all gonna go down:

Woke up at 6 am. Got my coffee and my bible. Totally stoked. Ready to pray! Workout! Gonna clean all the stuff! Jesus is so awesome!

And then a small blonde child showed up, face all squinched up and sad. “I hadda bad dream,” he said, and in that presumptuous way of all children, smushed over the bible and my journal and squirmed onto my lap because No, Mom. There is no quiet time for YOU.

And then the husband decided to get in on the game and said, all jolly, “Well, good MORNING wee BLONDE! The DAY is JUST starting! Up and AT EM!” He talks like that a lot, like he’s a motivational speaker and also somebody is banging a big bass drum in the background. It’s sort of endearing. And when it’s not, it’s marriage.

Anyhow, I hiss at the husband with my eyes because NO, it is NOT time for the BLONDE TO GET UP (I have my own bass drum I guess) and I start speaking to Blonde all Obi One like. “No. It’s not morning. Not at all. You are going to go back to bed. These are not the droids you’re looking for,” etc. etc.. because, as I am a mom and can foresee more than two events ahead of me, unlike the sweet husband, I knew that if I allowed the wee blonde to actually stay awake I would rue it later. RUE  IT.

And of course every mom knows this. So I don’t even have to explain it here, do I? Perhaps I’m just including this story for the male audience.

Anyhow. I had hopes. I had the bible and the journal still, upstairs, with the slightly confused but sleepy Blonde. It would still work, this morning. I would still have my Jesus time.

And then I fell back asleep.

So much for Jesus time.*

Small boys when they wake up do not sweetly look at you and say, “Oh, of course. QUIET TIME. We’ll just sit quietly and wait. In fact, let me get you a cup of coffee. Do you care for cream?”

But instead, we did do this:

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Still one of my favorite views ever. My lovely little town. If you squint, you can see my boys waaaaaay ahead of me. Hosmer is looking longingly at them because I am slow. He was built for speed.

And then, we did this:

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Yes. I watched my kids be smart because chess.

Also, we ate cookies and hot cocoa with REAL whipped CREAM and DARN it was GOOD. And it seems that big bass drum thing is back. It’s a useful motif, to help express strong emotions, like irritation at husbands or chocolate anything.

And then, I came home and I started to panic. It’s New Year’s Eve. There’s planning to do. Tomorrow has to be PERFECT. Because it’s a NEW YEAR. It has to be ON POINT. Oh shut UP bass DRUM!

You know the drill. Momsie has an all or nothing personality. I am always either the shark or the victim in the water. I never get to be krill, ok ?

And today, I wanted to MAKE A LOT OF LISTS to get my plan for 2016 FIRED UP and READY TO GO.

ATTACK!!!!!

I know. This took a sort of violent turn, with the sharks and attacking and stuff. I assure you, no blogs were harmed in the making of this post. (The readers? Time will tell.)

So, instead? I looked up a whole lot of memes about resolutions and started watching videos with kitties in them. And then:

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I fell asleep again. And the boys watched Wild Kratts because it’s EDUCATIONAL LEAVE ME ALONE.

And I realized:

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And also:

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I know. Totally overdid it on the memes. Maybe next time I’ll actually write something. But for now, I gotta go play Battleship with my boys and maybe eat some Reese’s.

Happy New Year’s Eve. I will probably try to stay up until midnight and make it to ten ish like last year. But there will be some cuddling in there with the not-so-annoying-after-all husband, and probably a movie and maybe some more chocolate.

Life is good.

Resolution for 2016 (This is a good one. I didn’t write it. It’s in the bible. That book has a lot of good stuff in it. No memes, though.):

Straining Toward the Goal

12 Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. 13 Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, 14 I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. 15 Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that also to you.

Philippians 3:12-15 NIV

 

Happy New Year. God bless us, Everyone.

*Jesus time? It’s like, all the time. So, next time I miss my appointment with him at 6 am I can remember that He is with me always. That’s in the bible somewhere too. I tell you, that book is awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Throwback Thursday: Z is for Zoo. Of course it is.

When Momsieblog started, waaaaaaay back in the day, I created my own, very special, full of snark, Alphabet Book for Parents. I was amazed by how many ideas I had, even for the letter Q, and how many extra ones I had to archive, never to see the light of day on Momsie. You poor readers. I mean, S is for Snot is a charmer, for sure. I wonder now why I never posted that one?

Anyhow.

Here is my Z. For you. #TBT !

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Well, we’re finally here.  My Z for you.

And then what? For those of you in the know, there is no letter in the alphabet after Z.  So, it’s time for me to pack up my blog and head for something new – like interpretive dance.  Or perhaps a degree in the philosophy of The Simpsons.  (This one really exists; click here.)  Or, I could see if Gwen Stefani needs a backup singer…

JUST KIDDING. I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE.

I got material to share, folks.  It’s not like the letter Z was going to stop my kids from acting nutball.  Or the internet to stop providing me with stuff like this:

 

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You are stuck with  me, my friends.  Stuck.  Like litter at the bottom of the cat box stuck.

But I digress.

 

Recently my family ventured to the skating rink for an all church skate extravaganza.  It was epic.  Here are some of my observations:

1. All skate rinks have the same carpet.  Stare at it too long and it’ll give you a seizure.

2. All skate rinks have the same guy, kinda circa 1970’s, possibly with a comb in his back pocket, who smoothly manuevers the skate rink like a BOSS.

3. All skate rinks should not try to attempt any food items other than packaged Twizzlers and maybe a chocolate bar.  Hotdogs?  A risky business.

4. All skate rinks have bathrooms with sloped, tiled floors that reduce you and your toddler to nervous laughter because why just go to the potty? Why not try to add a couple triple sow-cow and limbo lessons in that bathroom with a five-year old who has questionable aim?

5. All skate rinks have to do the limbo. It’s a cruel, cruel world.

 

One other observation:  I haven’t skated since, well, probably college, and I am just not very good at it.  BUT – our pastor?  He was ON POINT.  He almost gave the moustached, 70’s guy a run for his money.  He just kept smoothly gliding about without a care in the world, which makes sense, because Jesus, you know.

I was a bit envious.  At one point, I pushed my four-year old out of the way so I could grab onto my husband’s hand/hair/arm to keep me from planking on the skate floor. And you do know, don’t you, what planking with skates on ends up becoming, right? Just one, long, humiliating, stretchhhh while small children roll by, until your nose breaks your fall.  I think the words, “Don’t worry about Red! He’s closer to the ground – he won’t fall as hard!” were uttered.  Evidently skate parks kinda bring out a rather grim Game of Thrones mentality in me.

Again, it’s a cruel world.

 

So, after the skate party, we all decided to go for ice cream.  This was a fabulous idea because here’s something I forgot: skating is hard work. At one point, I was doing a sassy scissor move and just kept getting stuck with my poor scissors going wider, and wider… Not pretty.  Not pretty at all.  My thighs were angry with me, and only a chocolate malted would help.  And possibly some fries.  To gently assist the Skateland hotdog.

We all piled in the car. It was getting to be bedtime, and we were tired, rather cranky, and overstimulated from that carpet.  But we were going for ice cream! Family fun continuing! It’s just down here a bit!

And then our Favorite Ice Cream Place That We Always Go To just up and disappeared.

Allow me to explain.  We were on the main drag of a rather small city – one we have traversed a majillion times I am sure.  We have passed this  ice cream parlor a majillion and one times.  We knew where it is.  We were going RIGHT there!  It was just down this road a bit!

Until, of course, it wasn’t.  And we ended up driving up and down and then up again looking for an ice cream place that has ALWAYS BEEN RIGHT THERE. IT’S RIGHT HERE.  I SWEAR IT! IT’S… not. Oh, oops, maybe further down?

 

At this point, both toddlers in the back have caught on that perhaps, something is afoot.  They can sniff out tension and trouble like a puppy finding Cheezits in the couch, I tell you.

And so, when that happens, so begins the play-by-play commentary from the back seat:

“Wat doin’ Daddy?”

“Where’s da ice creams? I wanna da sprinkles!”

Daddy, rather grimly: “We’re on our way, kids.  We’re taking the scenic route.”

“Wats a swenic route?”

Daddy:  “This is.”

“What’s DIS?”

Daddy:  “The scenic route.”

“WHAT’S DA SCENIC ROUTE?”

DIS. IS.”

Both toddlers peer out the window as if to spot an answer to all these troubles, like why they are not eating da sprinkles yet.

Momsie starts to giggle.

“But daddy, scenic route? WHY we are going?”  (My children start to sound like Yoda when they become flustered.)

“Daddy, WHERE IS DA ICE CREAMS?”

Daddy:  “We are taking the scenic route TO the ice creams and that’s final!  I happen to like the scenic route!”

 

I like the scenic route too.  Most of the time.  My children take me on it nearly every day.  We are often all a bit tired and disheveled, mainly from the fact that my boys must run and go and do everything all the time, and it’s hard to keep up, and allow for detours.  But, we are a family. God’s family. And we are on this journey together.

God asks us to take the scenic route.  It’s worth it. It’s not quite what I expected or want all the time, but worth it.

And yes, der will be sprinkles.

 

chocolate-ice-cream-with-sprinkles

 

Throw Back Thursday: “Y is for “Yes, Jesus Yubs Me”

children-praying-2-1

 

The other day I was practicing some drills in Mom Surveillance.  This means puttering about in the room next to my sons as I eavesdrop on their conversations.  I do this to monitor if they are normal, not weird, children.  I have a chart:

 

1_8_inch_graph_paper

 

I also have night vision goggles and I know how to use them.

 

As I pretended to clean the cat box, I overheard this:

Red:  Dis is MY train, stop takin’ it!

Blonde: Red, dats MY train, it was a birthday present and it is VERY SPECIAL TO ME.  (Blonde often claims about 90% of the toys in this house, broken or not, are birthday presents and thus, VERY SPECIAL.  This is a fat load of horse poop, because he barely gets anything for his birthday.)*

Red: (unfazed) Thata is not da truth.  This twain is MINE.  Grandpa gave it to me.

This riveting back and forth session sucked about four minutes out of my life, and since I aim for brevity let’s pick up here:

WHACK!

(Dramatic pause…)

WaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAA!!! MOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!

Yep. Somebody got whacked.  Not in the Italian mobster fashion, thank goodness, but in the toddler smiting fashion.

So…  you know the drill…  we all go to the timeout area, we talk about why.. blah blah blah, somebody says sorry… blah blah… the enthusiasm for the whole thing about equals when I pretend to clean the cat box.

The boys are left to timeout to “think about what they’ve done” (which means = I am going to walk away before I lose it, and they’re stuck there, so blessed containment).

After a bit, I hear it:

Blonde:  RED, OBEY your parents because it PWEASES DA LORD.**

I froze in my tracks.  A tough thing to do because I was actually trying to hustle the litter box refuse out the door (no more pretending).

My son, my sweet, darling, adorable son had just quoted scripture to his brother.

Warm fuzzies, ya’ll. Somewhere a bell rang, an angel got his wings, St. Peter high-fived Paul, and Jesus said, “Ch-CHING! Momsie!  Your children are so spiritual!  And I should know!!!!“

 

The end!

 

What. WHAT?  (The Lawyer, aka, Mr. Pain in the Tuckus, is here.)

Well, I KNOW it’s not really the end of the story but I don’t want to bore them-

But-

Well-

Why?

Can’t I just?

Really?

Don’t pull that whole “journalistic integrity” thing on ME.  That’s only for people covering the war, or something.

FINE.

 

Ok. Sigh.  Here’s the rest of the story:

 

There is the possibility that while in timeout, the Party of the First Party kept leaning slightly towards the Second Smaller Part of the Party (or something like that; I’m not so good at this legal speak stuff).  This “leaning,” I guess, qualified as a crime against humanity and resulted, thusly, in what I term Extreme Whining, which made the Third Party lose her cool and bellow at the top of her lungs at Both Parties:

“GOD GIVES JOY TO THOSE WHO GIVE PEACE!*** SO GIVE PEACE! RIGHT NOW, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!!!!”

Yep.  Nothing like shooting scripture AT your children, lobbing it like a big, fat, cannon ball of God’s Biblical Truth. BLAMMO.

 

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So later that day:

Red and Blonde are in the play room.  Momsie is skulking about as well. As always.  This time, she’s pretending to clean the bathtub.

Red:  Here’s da bible!  Dis is our bible, wite?

Blonde: Yep.

Momsie starts to glow with pride.  They’re gonna talk about the bible!  Jesus moment!!!  I feel like a bird watcher who just spotted a SapBellied SapClucker or something.

And then:

Blonde: Wait…  no… that’s MY bible.  It was a birthday present and IT’S REALLY SPECIAL TO ME!

Red:  No!!  It’s MINE!

(Dramatic pause…)

 

Yes, you know the rest.

One of my kids hit the other one.  With the bible.

And lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth as the result.  From the kids too.

 

* Don’t email me.  The kid gets loot galore from his grandparents.  Generally all the toys that kids really love that drive the parents crazy.  Payback and karma and all that.

** Cowassianss 3:20.  It’s a good ‘un.  Bible is full of ’em, by the way.

*** Rogers 12:20 – This one makes a lot more sense if you don’t screech it.  At anyone.

 

 

kitty 2