They Grow Up So Quickly

I was playing around on this website earlier this morning and DQ came up and asked, "Who's that man in that picture, Mom?"  So, I reminded her about Sam Kinison, set the computer down and walked into the next room to help Meatball with some urgent matter.  When I came back, DQ was reading the blog!  She said, "Mom, listen to this...EAT IT! EAT IT! EEAATTT IIITT!!"  Then she began giggling hysterically.

It's given me a little time to reflect further on one of the reason's I haven't been blogging much these last few months.  It's not because the hilarity hasn't continued.  Because, let's be honest, these children will be giving me some awesome material for years!  However, as they get older, and, (very slowly) creep toward socially acceptable behavior, I realize that the situations I personally find hysterical could be rather embarrassing to elementary students.  Unfortunately, you may have to settle for more Meatball cuteness, in-law mayhem and clumsy-Rachel stories and less about Sharkbait's negotiations with charitable organizations (um, did he just ask for that quarter back?!) and DQ's latest venture into make-up application (um, why does the lipstick go from your nose to your cheeks?).

Don't worry, I've been putting this stuff in my journal because you better believe a day will come when I can tell the world about how...well, you'll just have to wait.  Who knows, maybe someday, when they are grown, I'll publish a book of short stories titled, "Water Through The Nose: One mother's daily struggle not to laugh."

Picture of the Day

So, what sort of treatment is this, Doc?  Happy
Birthday to two of the craziest guys I know!

Another Not-So-Wise Decision

So, I probably owe the neighborhood parents an apology...again.  However, before I tell you why, I have to give you a little background.  I'm a stickler for family dinner.  At our house, everyone has their specific place at the table, dinner is at roughly the same time each night, there is a representative from each of the four food groups on the plate (yes, I realize there are technically five now, but we've never had a problem with Oil-Sweets representation) and I get annoyed when schedule changes are not discussed at least 24 hours in advance.  It's how I grew up, and it's important to me, so I work really hard to make it happen.  Don't be deceived though, it's more military mess hall than Norman Rockwell.

Several years ago, after the post-dinner bedtime struggle had been fought and our children were in bed, I mentioned to my husband that, at dinner time, he often reminded me of Sam Kinison.  He started laughing (because we are capable of laughter after the children are in bed) and pointed out that he wasn't the only one.

And, so the next few years passed, much the same, with many a dinnertime mantras, including, 'this-is-what-I've-made-so-this-is-what-you'll-eat' and 'how-do-you-know-you-don't-like-it-if-you-haven't-taken-a-bite?' and, (my personal favorite), 'there-will-be-nothing-else-tonight-so-you-better-eat-it.'  With each passing minute at the table, the volume on these mantras slowly increases until I have visions of myself, (or my husband, if it's 'his night') with a little rastafarian cap and frazzled hair, screaming, "EAT IT!!!! EAT IT!!! EEEEEAAATTT IIIIIITTT!!!!!!!AHHHHHH!!!!!!!" in a way that would make even the dearly departed, drug-abusing, Pentacostal preacher/comedian shovel whatever is on his plate down the hatch.

Anyway, the reason I owe my neighbors an apology is that last week, I decided to let my children know why I sniggered so often at dinner as the whining increased and the tension mounted.  They caught me with that look in my eye as I was imagining myself as Kinison's Professor Turguson in "Back To School."  So, I told them I was laughing because I reminded myself of Sam Kinison.  Which, naturally led to the question, "Who is Sam Kinison?"  Well, I gave a PG explanation but it required quite a lot of screaming, which my children thought was freaking hysterical.  And, as in all things they find even remotely funny, it was repeated...and repeated....and repeated.  And now, after re-reading this entry, I'm pretty certain that this must be done, "I'm sorry, parents."

And, we're off!

We're going to be embarking on a family vacation soon and I'm super excited. Now, let's be honest, this vacation is to New Jersey for a family wedding. (And, not just any wedding, an Italian wedding!) However, this post is not about the wedding (although the next one might be), it's about the art of vacationing with one's spouse. We haven't actually vacationed much since we've had children. This year is the big kickoff for this particular parenting right-of-passage. As we've brainstormed for potential vacation spots, we've been calling upon our own childhood experiences in this realm and once again, we've run into an area of great disagreement.

Me and the Beher fam at a Florida bird
and wildlife preserve.

Before I married Joe I had never really spent longer than one day per vacation on a beach. Our family vacations, like many, fell into two categories: Weekend getaways and Full-Out Vacation. Weekend getaways were spent at various Holiday Inns, swimming in the pool, dinners at restaurants with a wait-staff and watching movies in a hotel room while washing down an obscene amount of Easy Cheeze with Cherry Coke. There was the obligatory visit to whatever local tourist attraction was available (ie, Elkhart County Motor Home Museum, Abe Lincoln's birthplace, Annie Oakley's birthplace, George Rogers Clark's birthplace - all as boring to a child as they sound). As the daughter of a farmer, we went on getaways only if it rained.  That is not a typo. If the weather was nice, we stayed home and waited until we had a nice rainstorm, or better yet, a tornado warning so that we wouldn't waste any time that could be spent farming in some form.

Full-Out vacations were similar accept that this time, we usually got our very own bag of goodies to entertain us in the car (Mad Libs, activity books, new crayons, gum and lollipops for sticking in each other's hair, etc.) which did nothing to curb the number of fights between me and my brothers.  My family of five had a Renault Alliance.  Remember those...probably not.  They were only sold in the US for a year or two.  (My favorite argument was who got to lay out on the back seat, who slept in the back window and who had to curl up on the floor with that big hump right in the middle.)  We saw more museums, stopped at every 'Scenic Overlook' and of course, walked through many, many more birthplaces of well-known and unknown historical figures.

So, as you can tell, my family vacations were not relaxing. They were educational, they were memorable, but they were not relaxing. 

Vacations for my husband were different. They actually were what you would imagine when you thought of vacation. An entire week, on a beach (usually Fort Meyers) playing frisbee tag and beach volleyball with strangers, laying in the sun, body surfing and enjoying all forms of seafood. Now, these vacations were also reached by automobile. However, his family traveled in a pimped out conversion van complete with a tv for video games and movies as well as an occassional dose of dramamine so that "your tummy doesn't hurt" (i.e. maybe you'll actually fall asleep). My father-in-law, a road salesman with a heavy foot, is proud that he could complete the 15 hour drive in approximately 12 hours because you got to pee or get something to eat only when the gas tank was on empty.

Me and Fam on a Rizzuto beach vacation...
complete with loud Italian father-in-law.

Once the beach destination was reached, sleep became a luxury. At 5am, my husband was awakened by a loud Italian man shouting, "GET UP! I BROUGHT YOU TO THE BEACH! IF YOU WANT TO SLEEP, YOU CAN SLEEP ON THE BEACH! IF THE SUN IS UP THEN YOU ARE TOO! GET OUT!" And, if you didn't react quickly enough, you were met with a cup full of water to the face. Rizzuto vacations quite often involved blood, food poisoning and shenanigans that are still legend in Fort Meyers emergency rooms (i.e. "Sir, is that a catfish stuck to your palm?!)

So, as you can see, my husband and I innately have VERY different interpretations of what constitutes a 'vacation.' However, regardless of these differences, they all evoke fond memories for the participant and 'reality-TV/trainwreck-like' fascination for the other. And, in retrospect, I believe the fun is in the madness.  If you read the above paragraphs, the memories were not made at the museums OR the beaches. They memories come from the chaos.  So, my hope for our future vacations is that we can provide enough mayhem to be memorable but with minimal out-of-network hospital visits.


(PS-To my knowledge no Rizzuto ever actually wet themselves or was malnourished on a car trip.)  

Shopping with Goats

Well, I had an interesting experience last week.  It was one of those hazy summer days where we didn't really have anything that had to be done.  Our city is starting school on August 9th (sniff) so I decided it was as good a day as any to start back-to-school shopping.  So, pajamas are stripped off, clothes put on, teeth brushed (2 out of 3 anyway), shoes located and children pushed out the door while I grab my purse, refresh my coffee and furiously look for my sunglasses (which were sitting on top of my head).

Then, I close the door behind me, chase Meatball out of the front seat, where she's been happily pushing buttons, referee annother argument over whose turn it is to sit in the captain's chair and get the car started.  I'm a little sweaty at this point, which, had I been more caffeinated, might have served as a warning but, since I didn't have my brain fully fed, I couldn't hear it humming, "If you're sweating before you leave the house, you may want to rethink this impromptu outing!" 

We're off.  We're going to the store with a long shopping list but there are only three things on that list that we must have: milk, eggs and salsa.  So, along with school supplies, we should be able to get those three things.  Well, about halfway through the store, I feel that ball of anxiety growing at the base of my ribcage that always arises when my three little 'goats' go to the store.  I hear myself saying with growing intensity, "Please, wait for me.  Come back here, please.  Put that back, please.  No, it says large pink erasers that cost $0.50 a piece, not a $5.00 eraser covered in plastic.  Meatball, you MAY NOT play with scissors and by the way, why on earth are scissors being merchandised on the lower shelves!  Did you get the yellow folders?  No, it says yellow, I know your favorite color is blue, but the sheet says yellow.  Excuse me, Mam, that's my child throwing things in your cart by mistake.  Where is Meatball? All right, good-bye, I'm leaving you."

Finally, I herd my goats to the cash register.  We pay for new backpacks, half of the items on the first grade supply list, Pokemon cards, napkins, bandages and toothbrushes with various licensed characters, a jar of salsa and two lollipops with rubber fans on top.    (The two lollipops were scanned and then thrown in the trash can.  Why, you ask?  Well, when you find one on the shelf that has been previously opened and you start sucking on it while I'm not looking, you a) have to pay for it out of your own allowance, b) have to throw it in the trash right away and c)wait it out to see if you develop some sort of disgusting lip fungus.  And, when little sister sees you enjoying one and automatically pulls one open, you have to pay for that one too and throw it away while she's distracted by some other shiny object.) 

By this time, I'm frazzled and I'm sweating, I still don't have milk or eggs and I just need to get the heck home.  However, I'm starving and I figure I'll run through the drive-thru and grab something greasy to make myself feel better.  And, on the way to the drive-thru, I'll swing through the carwash because it's been months since I've had my mom-mobile cleaned. 

The reason it's been months is that Meatball is scared of the carwash.  But, it's been awhile so I figure maybe she's outgrown it.   Nope, the moment I pull into the line, the whimpering begins and by the time I'm paying for it, there's screaming, convulsing and enormous tears.  So, I reach around and unbuckle her carseat, thinking she'll sit on my lap as she's done in the past.  Nope, she races to the back to be comforted by Sharkbait (which is overall more cute than hurtful).   So, I take 2 minutes to chill.

As we're heading into the dryer, she decides she should sit in my lap and as I turn around to pick her up, I notice that my seat is wet.  And at that moment, everything slowed down.  It was as if, I couldn't quite process what was happening.  Wait a minute?...water from the roof?...I slid open the cover and as the rush of water hit my face, I finally grasp what has happened..."I chased Meatball out of the front seat where she had been happily punching buttons..."  With my mouth hanging open and beads of moisture soaking my clothes, I stare wide-eyed at this tiny creature cowering in my lap who, once again has brought me to my knees.  She, in turn, looks up at me and say, "Mommy, you got me all wet."

What a Stay-at-Home-Mom Has Spent Entirely Too Much Time Thinking About

I wonder if we can trace the pathway of our life by our intimate knowledge of the back of our toilet?  I mean, as a small child, I vomited in the toilet, much like most children my age, but I was rarely alone.  A parent, usually my mother, was there, holding my hair back, rubbing my back as I expelled the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl.  It was probably at that time that I took notice of that metal tube at the rear of the toilet.  I would have asked what it was if I'd had time between gags.

Of course, I certainly forgot to ask and by the time I revisited that area, I was a belligerent preteen, most certainly alone.  I was alone back there because, as a 12-year-old, it was now my job to clean the entire bathroom and I was belligerent because I was, of course, 12.  And, since belligerency had crowded out curiosity, I did not wonder what the metal tube was for and why it was so cold, I merely hated it.

So, time passed and my preteen angst went away and my curiosity returned. However, as a college student, my curiostiy was otherwise occupied with boys, Marketing 101, alcohol, overseas travel and finding a job (yes, probably in that order).  There were several times my curiosity with alcohol got the best of me, and I, once again, found myself hanging out around the back of my toilet.  But, at that point, the metal bar was covered in several months of dirt and grime and any thought given to it made me wretch more so I tried to avoid it. 

 Now, as the mother of small children, I again find myself spending time in close quarters with the back of my toilet.  I'm once more charged with keeping that area clear of vomit and urine.  However, once again, my curiosity is distracted from the function of the parts by questions more along the lines of 'why it is so hard for some young males to discern the toilet from the trash can?'  And, 'the opening is HUGE, what exactly makes it so difficult to hit?' And, 'Oh, how disgusting is that?!'

Who knows where my relationship with my toilet will take me in the future.   I just take comfort in knowing that some things do not change:  Moms will continue to rub the backs of vomiting children, someday, it will definitely be the responsibility of one of my daughters to clean it,  the metal bar is still there and it's still strangely cold.

By the way, in the course of writing this, I stumbled upon someone else who has asked, and unlike me, answered questions about their toilet.

Chuckles, No More

Sweet Chuckles

As everyone knows, nicknames are earned, not given.  And, shame on me for trying to give a nickname to my youngest.  (Even though I think Chuckles is really cute, as she is.)  However, she hadn't really earned one, as Sharkbait and DQ had, simply because she's just two, and it's hard to find that defining quality in such a short amount of time.

The signs have been there from the very beginning.  When I was seven months pregnant, I made my husband drive to Saint Paul to pick up chocolate covered cannoli.  There were several new foods I got her to try as an infant only when I mixed in some marinara sauce.  And, before she could eat solid food, she would literally suck entire Italian dinners (meatballs mostly) through the net of a Muchkin Fresh Food Feeder. 

 

The first meatball.

So, tonight, at a family dinner with many witnesses, I watched this tiny, sweet two-year-old eat more golfball-sized italian meatballs than me.  In fact, the only person at the table of nine (six adults) who consumed more meatballs than her was, her father.  She matched my brother-in-law, but in fairness she did it in one sitting and he started sampling them about 2 hours prior to dinner.  The number that she consumed, anyone...anyone...?  EIGHT!  Yes, that's right, this 28-pound toddler consumed EIGHT meatballs in less than an hour.

As a result, it is time to say farewell to Chuckles.  Henceforth, she shall be known as Meatball.  

They always return to the scene of the crime

It's been two years since Sharkbait earned his nickname.  And to kick off the July 4th weekend, I took the kids back to the zoo for the first time since that fateful day.  I won't lie, I was nearly drooling at the thought of what might happen at the shark petting tank.  I believe that most of you know the story, but for the few newbies, I'll briefly tell you the story.

Not a great picture but when they are
constant motion, they're hard to capture.

My father-in-law and I took my three kids, then ages 4, 3 and 4 mos. to the zoo one afternoon.  We anxiously ran into the aquarium and straight to the shark tank.  We soon discovered that the arms of three and four-year-olds aren't quite long enough for a feet-on-the-ground petting experience.  So, DQ waited with her Pop Pop for just the right timing while I held Chuckles in her Baby Bjorn and Shakrbait stood next to me.  It did not take long for the boy to realize that if he wanted to touch a shark, it was going to take a big 'reach.'  So, he sees one headed toward the side just three or four feet away from where we're waiting.  He quickly (really quickly) runs there, hoists himself on the edge of the tank and leans as far as he can. 

What happened next is what I've coined the teter-totter effect.  He leaned so far, that his whole head and upper body fell in the water while his legs flew up in the air.  And, this brings us to the only scary moment of the whole ordeal.  His hands were planted firmly on the bottom of the pool while his legs and feet were still stuck on the side (look at the side of a five-gallon bucket for an illustration).  He lacked the strength or the arm length to push himself up and out.  So, I simply pushed his legs down and his head/hands lifted right out of the water.

There we were, the three of us reacting in our own way to what just happened. One was soaking wet from the waist up and crying that the water was cold and tasted yucky.  I was fighting back the laughter that came much quicker than I would have thought.  And, Chuckles, helplessly stuck to my chest had eyes that were the size of silver dollars.  An attendant, who I'm guessing was about 17 and in her first week of work, came over.  I apologized and she said, "that's okay, um...that happens sometimes...they tell me..."  She offered us some towels that they keep in the aquarium.  We paraded to the other end of the exhibit (not a short walk) while adults and children alike stare at the soaking, crying mess who's mother is giggling.

We have rarely talked with Sharkbait about falling into the tank.  He doesn't remember it now and, he never once showed any concern for the fact that he was swimming with carnivores.  He's a boy who appreciates animals but doesn't exactly trust them.  He's the first kid to offer his little sister the first pet of any new animal we come upon.  So, the day we returned to the tank, I wasn't totally surprised that he watched but did not try to touch the sharks.  He did, however, humor his mom and pose for a picture.

My son has always been exuberant.  I mean, extremely exuberant, like I've been chasing him since he took his first steps at eight months of age.  And, for those of you who know him, you know that I am not exaggerating.  He turned seven last week and he can currently out-run me, out-talk me and certainly outlast me in nearly every aspect of parent-child relationships.  But, I like to put a positive spin on these situations and think of him as determined and self-sufficient and adventurous.  And when he is asleep in his bed at the end of each day, I remind myself how all of these qualities will serve him well in his future.  And, how this specific set of traits has provided me with enormous entertainment (and blog material).  Then, I promptly pass out from exhaustion.

Happy Seventh Birthday, Sharkbait!

This is more like it.

Checking it out

Sure, I'll hang out with the tiger
if there's 1.5" of plexiglass in between.