Here's an article about a mom who knows parenting is not a popularity contest. She's not tiptoeing around her kids, trying to keep from hurting their feelings when she has to discipline them. She's nosy, she's tough, a little brash, but I'll guarantee you that her 19 year-old son, mentioned in the article, knows without a doubt his mama loves him very much.
It's amazing what toddlers get away with. My angelic 22-month-old child looks, and is, for the most part, extremely sweet. Because of her cuteness, she gets away with things that would make the rest of us very lonely people, were we to do them. Like...
taking a nice dinner and feeding it to the dog, right in front of the cook...
slamming doors in people's faces...
pointing and crankily yelling, "Doh!" ("Go!") -- and sounding just like Bart Simpson -- because we've tired of someone's company...
just staring at whoever is talking to us, and not responding in any way other than to curl into a fetal position on the couch...
cheerfully yelling, "Bye! Bye-bye!" at least 20 times when leaving a friend's house, and giving that same, floppy-handed wave over and over again...
screaming in a red-faced rage (albeit a short one) because someone else took what we wanted at the grocery store....
It's been 10 years since we've had a toddler her age in the house, and I've forgotten how much fun (laughing nervously as I pull out my hair strand by strand) it is. I found this article at babycenter.com that reminded me just how normal Bethany's behavior is. If you have a little one, you might enjoy perusing the site, too.
Sometimes it's the little things that make you a believer in Murphy's Law. Like getting to bed way too late (1:45 a.m. -- because the house is SO nice and quiet after everyone else has gone to bed, so you stay up way too long watching Martha Stewart on TV, who cares about you sooo much that she wants to teach you how to organize your closet just so) and hoping beyond hope for a good night's sleep. That's when your toddler, who happens to share your room with you because, frankly, there's nowhere else to put her, wakes up and wants to snuggle (3:30 a.m.). You're back in that blissful state of fitful sleep (after all, you don't want her to roll off the bed, so you're not really sleeping) when the DOG has to go outside to do his business and begins HOWLING repeatedly from his crate in the family room at the other end of the house (6:15 a.m.). So you get up, put the baby back in her crib (who, amazingly, stays asleep) and trudge down to the family room only to find the DOG already did part of his business IN HIS CRATE. Lovely.
And now, I sit here with my cup of coffee, enjoying yet another spate of silence as the rest of the household is still sleeping...even the DOG. I'm rummy and I can't walk straight after just 4 hours of oft-interrupted sleep, but I've got my coffee and my keyboard and am actually getting to post again without my thoughts being skewed by others. Hold on -- let me close my eyes and revel in the moment...yes, very nice.
Back to Martha Stewart -- you know, I do believe I like her. Putting aside whatever she was guilty of (she served her time, after all), she's responsible for teaching me much of what I now know about keeping house. My husband will act so amazed when I fold a fitted sheet in front of him, and I respond with, "Thank Martha." She's the one who taught me how to boil eggs perfectly. And last night, I learned that when hanging pants and skirts on skirt hangers, first cut up a supply of felt squares to put over the item where it will be clipped onto the hanger. It prevents your clothing from getting that "I've been hanging on a skirt hanger for the past three months" look. I'll never do that, but it was a neat tip to learn in the wee morning hours while watching TV with the DOG.
I wonder if Martha Stewart believes in Murphy's Law. She probably has an idea for dealing with him, too.
If you want weird, come to Washington. We've got the Space Needle (I know, it's kind of cool, but if you think about it long enough, it IS weird), Bigfoot -- otherwise known as Sasquatch, and other things that really make the list endless. I just might try to post some of that endless list one of these days.
Having lived here most of my life, since I was six, to be exact, I was surprised to find out just five little minutes ago that we have the strangest creature living on the Olympic Peninsula. I'm not talking about my pal, Bigfoot, though he and his peeps may be living there, as well -- I'm referring to the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus. Yes, you read it correctly. A tree octopus. As in an octopus that likes to hang out in trees (though the article says he prefers pools of water). How odd.
So, share this one with your kiddos. As I've said before, the weirder things are, the more kids love to learn about them. Who says homeschooling can't be fun?
Also, I may send away for the "Save the Tree Octopus" poster that's offered on the website. I think it would look really cool in my family room...and might prove to be a great inspiration to toss the kids in the car (an amazing feat, considering only one of them is smaller than me) and go visit the eight-legged tree-hugging cephalopod. He does look kind of cute....
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Okay, all of the above was a joke...and I'm so tired today that I was actually the first of all of you to believe it. It takes a very strong woman to admit it when she's been tricked! I figured out I'd been "punk'd" when I went back and read that the tree octopus's natural predators are the bald eagle and Sasquatch. And that, if we want to help protect the little guy, we should donate to "Greenpeas".
At the very least, I am blaming my lapse in sensibility on taking too much Benedryl last night, which gave me quite the case of brain fog today. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. (And it has nothing to do with my blonde tendrils....)
I really knew I'd been had when I followed the link to the Bureau of Sasquatch Affairs website, which features a picture of the musky-smelling ape/man/pathetic-guy-wearing-a-costume "gathering" his meal of a helpless tree octopus. In that particular picture, the creature's arm looks suspiciously like the arm of one of the orangutans at the Woodland Park Zoo....
Do go visit the above websites. They're all very educational...I promise. (Wink, wink, wink.)
I received this link to an eBay auction in an email today. I was about to say, "This woman really needs to start a blog," but it turns out she has one (you'll see its address at the bottom of the eBay listing).
Check it out -- you've probably never seen an online auction like this one:
My sons, visiting their dad's office one day, found themselves with nothing to do. Somehow, they got a hold of my camera phone, and I found this picture on it later.
I now know what Robin Williams must have put his mother through as a child.
I'm still working on my sequel to my post about bouncing. Life around here has been totally crazybusy, with umpteen baseball games (not little league -- my son's actually in a P.O.N.Y. [Protect Our Nation's Youth] ball league, ), my husband's business trips, my high-maintenance 15 month-old, and weird extended-family issues, so I haven't had the time I've needed to sit and write. Unfortunately, as much as I love blogging, other things take priority. We all know that!
I'm hoping to have a little more time today to finish part 2. In the meantime, please enjoy the following message, brought to you by my energetic toddler, the number 5, and the color chartreuse:
TODDLER PROPERTY LAWS
(Author Unknown)
If I like it, it's mine.
If it's in my hand, it's mine.
If I can take it from you, it's mine.
If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.
If I'm doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.
If it looks just like mine, it's mine.
If I think it's mine, it's mine.
If you have it and I want it, it's mine.
If it's mine, I don't have to share, so it's mine.
If both of my hands are full and I want it, it's mine.
If it's within my sight, it's mine.
If it's still on the shelf and not yet paid for, it's mine.
If I suddenly like yours better, it's mine.
If it's an immovable object or I can't lift it, it's still mine.
If I even remotely suspect it's mine, it's mine.
If there are presents under the Christmas tree, they're all mine.
If it's someone else's birthday, and I like the presents, they're mine.
Parenting is messy. Teenagers are messy. Tweens are messy. Babies are messiest. Babies do it on purpose.
Those cute faces and endearing grins do nothing but hide their impishness. Inside those little heads covered by tousled curls (or peach fuzz), the wheels of mischief are turning.
Don't believe those cute noises they make, either. "Blub blub bub bub, bayBEE."
Translation: "Ooh! Mommy's chocolate stash!"
"Baba? Baba ba ba ba ba ba." (Shriek of laughter.)
Translation: "Why is Mommy in the corner blowing raspberries? Mommy's funny."
Not to get off the subject, but I no longer feed my dog. I don't have to. Bethany does it for me. I feed her, she feeds him. 90% of whatever I put on her highchair tray winds up on the floor almost immediately. If she likes what I've given her, she'll eat some then drop the rest. If she hates what I give her, the pieces fall to the floor (with her help) faster than I can replace them. If she doesn't recognize what I've given her, ditto.
Max, our cocker spaniel, used to sit beneath the magic cutting board in the kitchen while I made dinner. Occasionally, a tasty morsel would fall from the sky and plop at his feet. He was in heaven.
He's a little smarter now. Why wait for me to knock an occasional piece of something onto the floor when Bethany will feed him her entire breakfast, lunch, or dinner? So there he sits, eating graham crackers, ravioli, peanut butter and jelly, peas and carrots. He turns up his nose at nothing but bananas.
The other night I made one of her favorite meals: pasta with a cheese sauce. My mistake was using the little seashell-shaped pasta pieces instead of elbow macaroni. Because she didn't recognize them, she wouldn't keep them in her mouth. She spit each piece into her hand (or onto her shirt) before dropping them on the floor. I stopped trying to feed her myself and just put a few on the tray, thinking maybe those would find their way into her mouth. But they fell anyway: plop, plop, plop.
A side note: I'm thinking that someday she'll make a good bush pilot. You know, the ones who drop supplies to missionaries or scientists and then make difficult landings on tiny air strips. I say this because of how she drops her food. She leans over the side of the chair (like looking out the window), grabs a piece of food (the package of supplies), eyes the floor (looks for a good landing spot), and drops it precisely where she wants it to land (bingo!).
Tired and hungry myself, I decided to also dump her peas and carrots on the tray. At least she'd be entertained while I grabbed 2 minutes to eat my own dinner.
I tried to eat. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her dropping the veggies on the floor, and I grimaced. I thought of friends or relatives stopping by unannounced and how embarrassed I would be if they saw the mess and me sitting there doing nothing about it. I reached for her hand just as she dropped another pea on the floor. "No, Bethany...STOP. No more dropping food on the floor."
Ooh, she got angry. That's like extremelyfrustrated by choice. In one very determined and deliberate movement, she pulled her hand out of mine, reached over, picked up the perfect little green missile, and fired it straight at me with an angry grunt. I ducked. She missed. Her siblings laughed. So did she.
Dinner was over.
Ahead of me faced the daunting task of cleaning up the messes: the one on the baby, and the one below the baby. I could handle Bethany, but the floor?
"Oh, Max! Here, boy!"
Oh, and did I mention that it's been months since I've had to mop?
May you have warm words on a cool evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door.
— Irish toast
So there it is -- the daily thought I am now receiving from RealSimple.com (which is a very cool site, by the way).
It makes me think of a portion of another Irish saying that I learned as a child: "...May the road rise up to meet you." My sister and I always thought that sounded so painful.
Are you homeschooling ... anyway? Very few of us, if any, escape the tragedies and other disappointments of life. In the summer of 2004, we experienced a tragedy of our own with the death of our pre-born baby. It was a devastating blow, but that year we homeschooled ... anyway. We were blessed with another little one, but were soon face to face with my husband's cancer diagnosis (multiple myeloma) in early 2006. And like we did 3 years ago, we are still homeschooling...anyway. If you need support, encouragement, or just want to know what "a day in the life" is like for another family who chooses to continue homeschooling in spite of difficulties, stick around! I'm glad you're here, and that I can be here, too, to share the ups and downs (even the days when I feel like I'm skidding sideways) of our homeschooling family: Dad, Mom, two teenagers, a preteen, and a toddler. Any typos I will blame on Bethany, who likes to smack the keyboard while I'm holding her and trying to type one-handed. ;-)
May you have warm words on a cool evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door. 
