Situation: It was afternoon. Everyone was calm. Everyone was playing contentedly. I had an hour and a half until I had to leave to pick up the school kids.
And then I made a mistake. I pulled out a project.
I had been working on a blanket for my daughter and was almost finished with the edges, so I thought I could work on it while the younger kids played. I would be in the same room, but I would be productive. Not a bad deal, right?
Wrong.
As soon as I got the blanket upstairs, it had kids climbing on it, trying to roll up in it, climbing under it, and playing peek-a-boo, all while I tried to keep it still so I could WORK on it. My plan was definitely not working. I almost got really upset, and then I took a minute to "observe" the situation from a distance.
I had a toddler who was content but definitely starting to get tired -- who was quickly approaching nap time and who loves to snuggle blankets when he's tired. Here was a really comfortable blanket, completely spread out on the floor, as if calling to him. Put those things together, and it doesn't matter what mom's objective is. The blanket gets used for nap time.
I actually laughed at the absurdity of my thinking I could actually work on the blanket while this particular child was tired. What was I thinking!?!
Lesson learned. DUH.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Punch Line, Continued
A couple of fun things, thanks to the punch line:
My brothers were visiting us and one came down with his high school wrestling sweatshirt on. "Punch Line" was eating breakfast, looked at him, and commented that it looked like he was ready to wrestle.
"Yep, I'm wearing my wrestling shirt. I guess I'm ready to wrestle."
"I have boxer shorts, but I don't have a boxer shirt." (That's it. Then he went back to eating.)
***********
Later, my oldest was commenting that he was so tired his back was sort of hurting then said that we needed to go visit my other brother. I asked why, and he said, "He gives massages."
"Punch line" seemed shocked and confused, then blurted, "WHAT?!? He gives us sausage?!? Is that supposed to help your back?!?"
Um, no. But that might be a fun advertising gimmick -- free sausages with your massages.
My brothers were visiting us and one came down with his high school wrestling sweatshirt on. "Punch Line" was eating breakfast, looked at him, and commented that it looked like he was ready to wrestle.
"Yep, I'm wearing my wrestling shirt. I guess I'm ready to wrestle."
"I have boxer shorts, but I don't have a boxer shirt." (That's it. Then he went back to eating.)
***********
Later, my oldest was commenting that he was so tired his back was sort of hurting then said that we needed to go visit my other brother. I asked why, and he said, "He gives massages."
"Punch line" seemed shocked and confused, then blurted, "WHAT?!? He gives us sausage?!? Is that supposed to help your back?!?"
Um, no. But that might be a fun advertising gimmick -- free sausages with your massages.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Olfactory Disorientation
Do you ever think you are smelling one thing, and it turns out to be something completely different? This has been somewhat of a theme in our house for the past couple of days.
Yesterday, my son got in the car and was insistent that he was smelling mint. This was meant as a declaration that he WANTED some of whatever minty thing he was smelling. Actually, this particular child normally has an extremely acute sense of smell when it comes to anything that might be sweet. He finds candy in my house by smelling it. He can find candy that is still individually wrapped and sealed in its bag. So when he says he smells mint, there is probably mint somewhere in the quarter-mile radius.
However, on this occasion, I was 99% certain that he was smelling the orange that my older son had peeled in the car. It took about five minutes to get him to accept that he might NOT be smelling mint, but eventually we succeeded in steering the conversation away from the candy he was potentially missing. But it does pose the question, why does an orange smell like mint?
This morning, it was my turn.
I was in the kitchen, giving my toddler some cereal, and I kept smelling tuna. I was walking around the kitchen trying to figure out why the kitchen smelled like tuna. Did my older son make a tuna sandwich for his lunch and not clean it up very well? I was smelling the countertops, examining the three bowls in the sink, and I just couldn't figure it out. Then I realized. I was NOT smelling tuna. I was smelling Crunch Berries.
Why in the world do Crunch Berries smell like tuna? Maybe we have some weird psychological sensory disorder that makes us think we're smelling things we're not? Aliens? What's your theory?
Yesterday, my son got in the car and was insistent that he was smelling mint. This was meant as a declaration that he WANTED some of whatever minty thing he was smelling. Actually, this particular child normally has an extremely acute sense of smell when it comes to anything that might be sweet. He finds candy in my house by smelling it. He can find candy that is still individually wrapped and sealed in its bag. So when he says he smells mint, there is probably mint somewhere in the quarter-mile radius.
However, on this occasion, I was 99% certain that he was smelling the orange that my older son had peeled in the car. It took about five minutes to get him to accept that he might NOT be smelling mint, but eventually we succeeded in steering the conversation away from the candy he was potentially missing. But it does pose the question, why does an orange smell like mint?
This morning, it was my turn.
I was in the kitchen, giving my toddler some cereal, and I kept smelling tuna. I was walking around the kitchen trying to figure out why the kitchen smelled like tuna. Did my older son make a tuna sandwich for his lunch and not clean it up very well? I was smelling the countertops, examining the three bowls in the sink, and I just couldn't figure it out. Then I realized. I was NOT smelling tuna. I was smelling Crunch Berries.
Why in the world do Crunch Berries smell like tuna? Maybe we have some weird psychological sensory disorder that makes us think we're smelling things we're not? Aliens? What's your theory?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Don't Forget the Punch Line
I wish I could record every single funny things my kids say, but it requires an unnatural combination of :
* my being at the computer ready to record it
* at a time when my brain is actually engaged.
Unfortunately, the older I get, and the older my kids get, the less that either of those things happens, and the less frequently their intersection actually occurs.
This morning is an exception. It is a Saturday morning, and yes, we were ALL awake by 7:15 a.m., thanks to the aforementioned children.
At one point my husband off-handedly asked if I'd noticed that our car doors don't squeak anymore. (We have automatically engaging shoulder-belts, and when they moved along their track they were pretty noisy.) I had definitely noticed."YES! Thank you! It's amazing!"
Somehow, that made my 8-year-old start thinking about our car, and he commented that we need a new car. Why, we ask? He says that if we have a new baby boy or girl, then "she" won't have anywhere to sit!!!
(And for all ye suddenly curious folks, this is NOT an announcement, just the weird musings of an 8-year-old.)
He says we need to get a 12-passenger van so that we can have 12 kids and two adults. I explained that 12-passengers means 10 kids and two adults. "OK, he said, let's do that. We'll get a van like that and have 10 kids in our family."
Then I told him that they do MAKE 15-passenger vans, which would mean 13 kids and two adults. He got pretty excited and said, "Oh, yeah! Let's do THAT instead!" My husband commented that it sounded like a lot of work (DOESN'T it sound like a lot of work? Yikes!)
But the innocent child replied with, "Really? How much would it cost?" We laughed a little as we realized he was thinking only of the cost of the van and not the labor-cost of having 13 kids.
We jokingly pointed out that if we did have a car that big (assuming of course that we don't have a family that big) then we could be the eternally-designated pick-up-everyone-who-needs-rides family, and the take-all-the-scouts-to-camp family. It would be great!
Well, the way we said it reminded him of a line in Night at the Museum 2, so he immediately answered our comment with, "This is the National Museum of don't-touch-that-thing-in-front-of-you." I laughed at the randomness of the conversational transition, and then he started performing for us -- spinning, contorting, and throwing himself around the room in a wonderful exhibition of what he thought was breakdancing. I laughed some more (a lot more) and told him that I can't wait for my twin brothers to get reacquainted with him.
When everything had died down a little, he suggested that it would be fun to make a movie of our family. We could do lots of funny things, and (excitedly) "I could be the punch line."
And as I thought about it, I realized that EVERY DAY he says things or does things that make me laugh. Maybe part of the reason this particular child was sent to my family was to ensure that I WOULD laugh every day.
So I laughed hysterically and agreed with him. "Yes, you COULD be the punch line. You could definitely BE the punch line."
Maybe every family needs a punch line or two or more. But you might want to consider a 15-passenger van to transport all of them.
* my being at the computer ready to record it
* at a time when my brain is actually engaged.
Unfortunately, the older I get, and the older my kids get, the less that either of those things happens, and the less frequently their intersection actually occurs.
This morning is an exception. It is a Saturday morning, and yes, we were ALL awake by 7:15 a.m., thanks to the aforementioned children.
At one point my husband off-handedly asked if I'd noticed that our car doors don't squeak anymore. (We have automatically engaging shoulder-belts, and when they moved along their track they were pretty noisy.) I had definitely noticed."YES! Thank you! It's amazing!"
Somehow, that made my 8-year-old start thinking about our car, and he commented that we need a new car. Why, we ask? He says that if we have a new baby boy or girl, then "she" won't have anywhere to sit!!!
(And for all ye suddenly curious folks, this is NOT an announcement, just the weird musings of an 8-year-old.)
He says we need to get a 12-passenger van so that we can have 12 kids and two adults. I explained that 12-passengers means 10 kids and two adults. "OK, he said, let's do that. We'll get a van like that and have 10 kids in our family."
Then I told him that they do MAKE 15-passenger vans, which would mean 13 kids and two adults. He got pretty excited and said, "Oh, yeah! Let's do THAT instead!" My husband commented that it sounded like a lot of work (DOESN'T it sound like a lot of work? Yikes!)
But the innocent child replied with, "Really? How much would it cost?" We laughed a little as we realized he was thinking only of the cost of the van and not the labor-cost of having 13 kids.
We jokingly pointed out that if we did have a car that big (assuming of course that we don't have a family that big) then we could be the eternally-designated pick-up-everyone-who-needs-rides family, and the take-all-the-scouts-to-camp family. It would be great!
Well, the way we said it reminded him of a line in Night at the Museum 2, so he immediately answered our comment with, "This is the National Museum of don't-touch-that-thing-in-front-of-you." I laughed at the randomness of the conversational transition, and then he started performing for us -- spinning, contorting, and throwing himself around the room in a wonderful exhibition of what he thought was breakdancing. I laughed some more (a lot more) and told him that I can't wait for my twin brothers to get reacquainted with him.
When everything had died down a little, he suggested that it would be fun to make a movie of our family. We could do lots of funny things, and (excitedly) "I could be the punch line."
And as I thought about it, I realized that EVERY DAY he says things or does things that make me laugh. Maybe part of the reason this particular child was sent to my family was to ensure that I WOULD laugh every day.
So I laughed hysterically and agreed with him. "Yes, you COULD be the punch line. You could definitely BE the punch line."
Maybe every family needs a punch line or two or more. But you might want to consider a 15-passenger van to transport all of them.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Snowflakes, Coloring, and the Folding of Notes
There are two kinds of people in this world -- people who like to color, and people who don't. As a child, I totally fell into the latter category. In fact, I failed just about every coloring assignment I received. Yes, failed. (Luckily, teachers don't assign coloring after elementary school, so my academic career was spared.) For awhile, though, I was particularly sensitive to my lack of artistic skills. I'd heard many times about my great-grandfather who had an art gallery named after him, and I appreciated art and knew about some different artists, but I just didn't feel I had the skillz. I could never stay in the lines, and I hated that it took SO LONG.
I also hated (still hate) choosing colors. People would ask me my favorite color, and I just got all tongue tied. What do you mean? Favorite color? I don't know? But for some people, this is really important. One girl spent half of a day going through my crayon box, coloring with every crayon, inventing some sort of elimination scheme in order to help me find my favorite color (and to figure out if her own favorite color had changed from the previous week.) I still don't know what my favorite color is. I'd rather figure out my taxes than choose paint colors.
However, when I was five, someone (my mother) made the mistake of teaching me how to cut snowflakes. No choosing colors, no gluing, and so, in my newfound confetti-creating delight, I made about a hundred of them. Now, to give myself some credit, I wasn't really making them just to make them. Yes, there was the consoling repetition beautifully masking its monotony by the creativity of the varying designs -- but despite the nearly autistic nature of cutting a hundred snowflakes, I had a plan. I was going to give them to my bus driver to decorate our bus for Christmas.
But, um, yeah. That part never happened. In truth, I cannot remember why my precious masterpieces never graced the yellow behemoth I called a bus. I kind of suspect that my mom talked me out of it so that I wouldn't get my feelings hurt when the bus driver laughed in my face. But somehow, the snowflakes garnished our own house and tree instead.
The strange thing is that as an adult, I am slowly discovering that I don't mind coloring so much. In 9th grade, I took an art class at school, and didn't even fail it. I even framed a few of the things I did because I liked them so much. A few years later, as a freshman in college, one of my first non-required purchases was a coloring book and crayons. And later, as my children have discovered painting and gluing, I have to admit that it isn't nearly as revolting as it once was. (All praise the inventor of the glue stick!)
So, why bring that up now?
Well, my 5 year old daughter has a new hobby. She colors. A lot. She makes "beautiful" pictures, carefully folds them, places them in envelopes, and delivers them to, well, everyone. If you have been to my house in the past month, you've probably received one. If you live anywhere on my end of the street, you've probably received one. If you're lucky, you even got one with money in it because she has decided that if she gives all of her money away then she'll be rich. ( The "rich" girl was bewildered, though, when one neighbor tried to give the money back, telling her she should save it for college.)
Anyway, I don't even bother putting the markers and paper away anymore. Coloring just makes her so happy. And I can almost say that I understand that pure joy. I look at her letters, and my memory sees snowflakes. I watch her excitement, and my heart remembers the glory of creating something beautiful, giving it away, and seeing how happy it makes someone else.
(One day when I gave her permission to deliver her letters to the neighbors, I even got the "you're the best mom ever" compliment. Wow! Is that all it takes?)
Last night I had a profound idea. What would she think if she woke up and found a letter addressed to her. So I decided to make one. I had a lot of fun making a letter for her, telling her all the things I love about her. Even the coloring wasn't so bad as I thought about how happy it would make her. In fact, my creativity went wild, drawing flowers, ladybugs, butterflies, and rainbows for my girly girl. The culmination, though, was that I decided to fold it. You know, fold it, like a note, like the hundreds of notes that get passed in middle school. A self-contained package of mystery, folded to conceal its very beauty.
And I couldn't remember how to do it. Guess I didn't pass enough notes. My sweet husband had to remind me (with some help from the internet -- do you realize how amazing it is to be able to look up something as petty as how to fold a note? What did our ancestors ever do when they couldn't remember how to fold a note? Now there is art -- computers!) Actually, origami in general, is really quite amazing. Did you know you can fold a note into the shape of a heart?
So, how do you feel about coloring, cutting, gluing, woodworking, computers, paper-folding, embellishing, jewelry-making, drawing comics, machining, writing with funky colors of ink, or using bubble letters? What kind of art makes you smile? Is it the art itself? or the thought of what you will do with it? Is traditional art more amazing to you? Or is it the beauty of well-organized mathematical proof?
I also hated (still hate) choosing colors. People would ask me my favorite color, and I just got all tongue tied. What do you mean? Favorite color? I don't know? But for some people, this is really important. One girl spent half of a day going through my crayon box, coloring with every crayon, inventing some sort of elimination scheme in order to help me find my favorite color (and to figure out if her own favorite color had changed from the previous week.) I still don't know what my favorite color is. I'd rather figure out my taxes than choose paint colors.
However, when I was five, someone (my mother) made the mistake of teaching me how to cut snowflakes. No choosing colors, no gluing, and so, in my newfound confetti-creating delight, I made about a hundred of them. Now, to give myself some credit, I wasn't really making them just to make them. Yes, there was the consoling repetition beautifully masking its monotony by the creativity of the varying designs -- but despite the nearly autistic nature of cutting a hundred snowflakes, I had a plan. I was going to give them to my bus driver to decorate our bus for Christmas.
But, um, yeah. That part never happened. In truth, I cannot remember why my precious masterpieces never graced the yellow behemoth I called a bus. I kind of suspect that my mom talked me out of it so that I wouldn't get my feelings hurt when the bus driver laughed in my face. But somehow, the snowflakes garnished our own house and tree instead.
The strange thing is that as an adult, I am slowly discovering that I don't mind coloring so much. In 9th grade, I took an art class at school, and didn't even fail it. I even framed a few of the things I did because I liked them so much. A few years later, as a freshman in college, one of my first non-required purchases was a coloring book and crayons. And later, as my children have discovered painting and gluing, I have to admit that it isn't nearly as revolting as it once was. (All praise the inventor of the glue stick!)
So, why bring that up now?
Well, my 5 year old daughter has a new hobby. She colors. A lot. She makes "beautiful" pictures, carefully folds them, places them in envelopes, and delivers them to, well, everyone. If you have been to my house in the past month, you've probably received one. If you live anywhere on my end of the street, you've probably received one. If you're lucky, you even got one with money in it because she has decided that if she gives all of her money away then she'll be rich. ( The "rich" girl was bewildered, though, when one neighbor tried to give the money back, telling her she should save it for college.)
Anyway, I don't even bother putting the markers and paper away anymore. Coloring just makes her so happy. And I can almost say that I understand that pure joy. I look at her letters, and my memory sees snowflakes. I watch her excitement, and my heart remembers the glory of creating something beautiful, giving it away, and seeing how happy it makes someone else.
(One day when I gave her permission to deliver her letters to the neighbors, I even got the "you're the best mom ever" compliment. Wow! Is that all it takes?)
Last night I had a profound idea. What would she think if she woke up and found a letter addressed to her. So I decided to make one. I had a lot of fun making a letter for her, telling her all the things I love about her. Even the coloring wasn't so bad as I thought about how happy it would make her. In fact, my creativity went wild, drawing flowers, ladybugs, butterflies, and rainbows for my girly girl. The culmination, though, was that I decided to fold it. You know, fold it, like a note, like the hundreds of notes that get passed in middle school. A self-contained package of mystery, folded to conceal its very beauty.
And I couldn't remember how to do it. Guess I didn't pass enough notes. My sweet husband had to remind me (with some help from the internet -- do you realize how amazing it is to be able to look up something as petty as how to fold a note? What did our ancestors ever do when they couldn't remember how to fold a note? Now there is art -- computers!) Actually, origami in general, is really quite amazing. Did you know you can fold a note into the shape of a heart?
So, how do you feel about coloring, cutting, gluing, woodworking, computers, paper-folding, embellishing, jewelry-making, drawing comics, machining, writing with funky colors of ink, or using bubble letters? What kind of art makes you smile? Is it the art itself? or the thought of what you will do with it? Is traditional art more amazing to you? Or is it the beauty of well-organized mathematical proof?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Wordy Post
We like words at our house. Long words are particularly fun. When I was a kid, I loved participating in the spelling bee, and the longest, weirdest words were my favorite ones. One of the first words I remember loving was antidisestablishmentarianism. It was just beautiful in all of its prefix-suffix glory.
Well, my son has inherited my passion, and we've been talking about long words for the past day or two. It all started when my in-laws called after their visit to Hawaii. They happened to mention that the name of the state fish in Hawaii is the humuhumunukunukuapua'a, which essentially means "triggerfish with a snout like a pig." (also called the Reef Triggerfish) Upon hearing this, he immediately said, "Hey, that's like the song in High School Musical 2!" Yep, he's ten years old.
So then he was saying humuhumunukunukuapua'a over and over again, just because, well, he could. It's an amazing thing when you can say a word that has more letters than the number of years you've been alive.
For those of you over age 21, though, that one isn't quite as impressive. Here's one you can try though. It is the name of a lake in Connecticut, about halfway between Boston and Hartford. Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. There was actually a dispute a few years back that the signage for the lake was spelled wrong. I'm not sure who it was that noticed or who claims to be the official speller of the 45-letter lake name, but there you have it.
So all night last night, he was practicing saying Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. He did finally get it down, but was having a hard time remembering that the lake was in Connecticut instead of Kentucky.
Also, you've probably heard of synonyms and antonyms, but have you heard of contronyms? It's a whole classification for words that are their own antonyms -- like
* cleave (which means to hold to, or to cut apart), or
* strike (which means to miss, or to hit) or
* dust (which means to remove dust from, or to apply a light layer to). Fascinating.
What are YOUR favorite words? Queue? Parallelepiped? Xanthosis?
Well, my son has inherited my passion, and we've been talking about long words for the past day or two. It all started when my in-laws called after their visit to Hawaii. They happened to mention that the name of the state fish in Hawaii is the humuhumunukunukuapua'a, which essentially means "triggerfish with a snout like a pig." (also called the Reef Triggerfish) Upon hearing this, he immediately said, "Hey, that's like the song in High School Musical 2!" Yep, he's ten years old.
So then he was saying humuhumunukunukuapua'a over and over again, just because, well, he could. It's an amazing thing when you can say a word that has more letters than the number of years you've been alive.
For those of you over age 21, though, that one isn't quite as impressive. Here's one you can try though. It is the name of a lake in Connecticut, about halfway between Boston and Hartford. Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. There was actually a dispute a few years back that the signage for the lake was spelled wrong. I'm not sure who it was that noticed or who claims to be the official speller of the 45-letter lake name, but there you have it.
So all night last night, he was practicing saying Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. He did finally get it down, but was having a hard time remembering that the lake was in Connecticut instead of Kentucky.
Also, you've probably heard of synonyms and antonyms, but have you heard of contronyms? It's a whole classification for words that are their own antonyms -- like
* cleave (which means to hold to, or to cut apart), or
* strike (which means to miss, or to hit) or
* dust (which means to remove dust from, or to apply a light layer to). Fascinating.
What are YOUR favorite words? Queue? Parallelepiped? Xanthosis?
Friday, April 24, 2009
More Stupid Math
Same second grader. Same type of homework. Standardized test. Multiple choice question.
***************
Which one of the following numbers does not belong with the others?
24, 28, 30, 32, 36, 38?
***************
OK, people. I have an advanced degree in a math/science field, and I have no idea what they are looking for on this question. Am I over-analyzing it?
In fact, it reminds me that when I was in high school, I had a math teacher who would throw a chalked-up eraser at you if you ever said the words dumb or stupid. Maybe he never saw this question, though, because either this is one stupid question, or this is one stupid typo, or I am feeling pretty stupid.
You might say that 24 does not belong, assuming they are counting by twos, but then why does it skip from 32 to 36?
You might say that 30 does not belong, assuming they are counting by fours, but then why is 38 there?
You might say that we should be marking both 30 and 38, but the question asks for ONE answer.
I am so confused! Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
***************
Which one of the following numbers does not belong with the others?
24, 28, 30, 32, 36, 38?
***************
OK, people. I have an advanced degree in a math/science field, and I have no idea what they are looking for on this question. Am I over-analyzing it?
In fact, it reminds me that when I was in high school, I had a math teacher who would throw a chalked-up eraser at you if you ever said the words dumb or stupid. Maybe he never saw this question, though, because either this is one stupid question, or this is one stupid typo, or I am feeling pretty stupid.
You might say that 24 does not belong, assuming they are counting by twos, but then why does it skip from 32 to 36?
You might say that 30 does not belong, assuming they are counting by fours, but then why is 38 there?
You might say that we should be marking both 30 and 38, but the question asks for ONE answer.
I am so confused! Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
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