The Hunting & Fishing Expo

On Saturday, my husband and I took the kids to a hunting & fishing expo held at the local mega church. We don't hunt, but we do like camo outerwear and mounted animal heads and we felt pretty confident that we would see a lot of both.

We were not disappointed.

The expo hall was filled to the brim with objects that raise eyebrows, cause the stomach to quiver, and make you question why you eat meat. My kids LOVED it.

After petting several animal hides with the heads still attached (eyes open, mouths gaping/growling) and examining an impressive collection of meat grinders and buck knives, we made our way to the the taxidermy room which, on Sundays, is Jesus' Joy School.

Upon entering the room and into Jesus' loving arms (at least that's what the painted wall mural said), we were pointed in the direction of a large display of stuffed animals, fowls, and fish. My husband pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes while I snapped pictures of the kids pretending to kiss dead antelopes on my camera phone (I would have included said pictures if I knew how to get the images off my phone).

"We've got to get one of these," said Cortlen, pointing at a gigantic moose head with a five-foot antler wing span.

"Maybe for your birthday," I promised.

"Why don't we just stuff Biscuit (our cat) when she dies?" said my husband. Behind the sarcasm was a very good idea.

As if on cue, the taxidermist handed me his business card.

When I got home, I took a closer look at our aging cat.

I think she will make a very nice throw pillow.

***
Have you signed up for the giveaway (below) yet? If not, then get going!

Close Call

Because I am a nice mom and lack common sense and good judgment, I let my five-year-old son carry the plastic shopping bag containing the clothes that I had just bought him out of the store.

"I would feel better if you put the bag in here," I said, pointing to the basket attached to the back of Cameron's stroller.

Cortlen responded by shoving the shopping bag up his shirt.

We had some time to kill before we had to get to the next destination, so I took my pregnant son and his siblings to Toys 'R Us to look around.

Cortlen spent the next 20 minutes crying about the injustices of the universe and, specifically, my unwillingness to consider exchanging his new pants for a glow-in-the-dark light saber.

I spent the same period of time trying (unsuccessfully) to locate an aisle of muzzles.

Cortlen waited until everyone was buckled in their car seats and the car was in reverse before announcing that he lost his bag.

My son spent the next 5 minutes scurrying up and down every aisle of the toy store looking for the bag like his life depended on it, because, in a way, it did.

Thankfully, Cortlen's suspicions were unfounded. No one stole his prized sweatpants. He found the bag of clothes next to shelf of giant pre-packaged Easter baskets near the front of the store.

***
What have you lost and where?

One of those days!

It's only 10:00am and I can already tell that today is going to be awesome.


Sometime in the middle of the night, our cat opened one of our kitchen cabinets, pushed a container of baby formula to the ground, chewed through the plastic lid, and ate a significant portion of its contents.

Kellen used my cell phone to call everyone from A-H on my speed dial...at 6am.

Camber hasn't taken a shower since Saturday and is starting to smell. I broke the bad news at breakfast. It didn't go over well.

While reading a book to my boys before school this morning, someone kept releasing silent but deadly farts in my direction. No one would confess, so we had to stop reading until the perpetrator could take care of the problem.

It wasn't until after I pulled into the preschool parking lot that Cortlen remembered that he wasn't wearing any shoes.


On the drive home from preschool, Cortlen said that eating snacks and watching cartoons on the couch all morning would make him feel a lot better about missing a day of preschool. He is having a hard time understanding why I'm against that plan.

***
Any bad mornings out there?

Show and Tell

There is an unwritten rule in our house that whatever object is selected and put into the school backpack the night before Show and Tell day must be swapped out at least five times before 8:00am the next morning.

Cortlen's failure to complete the ritual in a timely manner this morning resulted in him chasing my car down the driveway.

"WAIT FOR ME!" Cortlen screamed at the top of his lungs.

"I'm bringing something very special for Show and Tell today," he announced once his seat belt was securely fastened. "Do you want to see?"

I didn't even have to look to know what made the final cut.

After five swaps, a lengthy consultation with his brother, and an inner struggle that almost pushed him over the edge, Cortlen decided to bring to the same object to this Show and Tell that he has brought to every single Show And Tell for the past five months: a die cast Lightening McQueen car.


Way to branch out, Cortlen.

***
What's your favorite show-and-tell story?

Dead Deer=Rave Reviews

When church ended yesterday afternoon, the hallways were eerily quiet.

"Where are our kids?" wondered several lady folk, including myself.

We followed the scent of rotting flesh to the front parking lot, where we found 30 small children staring wide-eyed at the exposed entrails of a dead deer, which had been hit by a passing car over the weekend and dragged to the side of the road.

Usually the reviews of church are not so good. Yesterday they were significantly better.

"Church was AWESOME!"

"Do you think the deer will still be there next week?"

"If so, can I poke it with a stick?"

He Has MORE!

I'm in the market for a food scale, the more precise and expensive the better. Unlike most people, I don't want to weigh food that I plan to cook, but rather, that which I'm about to serve. Specifically, I want to make sure that everyone gets the exact same amount of root beer in their root beer floats, down to the milliliter.

"That's not fair!" screamed Cortlen last night, pointing to his brother's glass. "Kellen has more than me!"

"They look the same to me," replied my husband, before taking a big swig out of Cortlen's glass.
"Now they don't," my husband observed.

Cortlen catapulted himself off his chair. He writhed in agony under the kitchen table until I finally put him out of his misery and sent him to his room.

"He had more! He had more!" Cortlen cried until he decided that having an ounce less carbonated beverage than his sibling was better than having no carbonated beverage at all.

***

A food scale seems to be the most logical and cost-effective way to solve the problem of comparing/coveting in my house. If you have a more rational, time-consuming, or expensive solution, I'm all ears.

Number 2

Yesterday, I wiped three butts, only one of which belonged to a member of my family.

The other two rear ends belonged to my older kids' friends from school. Everyone had a friend over to play yesterday afternoon and two of our three guests felt it necessary to rechristen the throne during their visit.

I was in the middle of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when I heard someone calling my name.

"Camber's mom?"

I turned around to find a kindergartner standing in the middle of my kitchen; her pants were around her ankles.

"I don't know how to wipe," she said.
"Seriously?" I asked.

Friend # 2 waited until ten minutes before his mom picked him up before doing the deed. Before closing the bathroom door, he instructed me not to go far; he too was not an experienced wiper. I spent several minutes trying to coach the five year-old through the closed door, but ultimately was forced to break my way in after the boy announced that he had reassessed his needs. After mulling over his options, he had decided that he would just wait to wipe until he got home.

"Do you go number 2 at your friends' houses a lot?" I asked my children very casually at dinner.

Cortlen looked up from chicken and answered my question with his eyes.

"Doesn't everybody?" they said.

***
Are my kids (and my kids' friends) the only ones who seem to take great pleasure in going to the bathroom in other people's toilets?

The First Waffle

The only waffle that counts in our house is the one that comes out of the waffle iron first. The second and third specimens not only taste disgusting, but are infected with waffle # 1's germs.

"I'm not touching that!" screamed Kellen when I handed him his plate.

He treated waffle #2 as if it was radioactive.

"Get out of here!" he cried, as he flipped the waffle off his plate with his fork.

Cortlen didn't mind the taste of toxic chemicals and reached across the table. He ate the discarded breakfast item in three quick bites.

"You ate the second waffle!" wailed Kellen. "Now I have to have the last one!"

The realization that he was the Old Maid hit the little guy hard.

***

Anyone obsessed with being first in line at your house?

Are they real?

Frequently asked about female bosoms, this question also applies to the characters on Disney made-for-t.v. movies.

Yesterday, I shattered my childrens' lives when I explained why, in the behind-the-scenes video clips from High School Musical, the movie director kept calling Troy Bolton by the strange name of Zac.

The concept of acting is a bit too abstract for my deep thinkers.

"His name is TROY BOLTON!" screamed Cortlen at the television set.

After cast members misidentified Troy a few more times, Cortlen unsheathed his plastic He-Man sword. Sensing that my television was about to be stabbed, I turned off the DVD.

"Acting is sort of like pretending," I explained to the confused and distraught.

My words were met with three blank stares and one inquiry about the number of hours left until dinner would be served.

"Like when you pretend to have a broken leg when someone accidentally steps on your foot," I continued.

Three light bulbs flickered, and then went out. Fake injury metaphors only get you so far in my house.

I tried a different example, hoping that the difference between real and make-believe would be more transparent when applied to a cartoon.

"Transformers are just pretend," I said.

I hoped for a flash of understanding; what I got instead was a stunned look of collective disbelief.

"Transformers are too real!" three kids yelled.

I was forced to admit defeat when, after telling the story to my neighbor, she showed me this video:

I want an Optimus Prime outfit so bad.

It Looks Like You've Been Busy

As the oldest of seven, I grew up believing that a family isn't considered "large" until an extended- length passenger van is required to haul around all of its members. Thankfully, we're not even close to that point. My family still fits in our SUV, as long as everyone sits with their knees together and shoulders tucked into their chests.


(We had a van like this when I was growing up. When I was really lucky, I got to drive it to school).


At Costco the other day, you would have thought I was Ma Duggar by the way that people looked at me and my brood. Granted, my three eldest were hanging onto three of the four sides of the shopping cart, but other than shouting out friendly salutations to fellow shoppers--Move over! We're comin' through!--they didn't do anything to draw attention to themselves, or to me.

During the course of my thirty minute shopping trip, I was stopped by several people of varying ages and mental capacities. Most just wanted to state the obvious--You have four kids!--but others rightly saw my children as the window into my soul.

"You sure have your hands full."
My cup indeed runneth over.

"You are one busy lady."
People do consider me a busy body.

"It looks like you and your husband have been busy lately."

You will be shocked to know that that the last comment came from a balding leprechaun who was standing behind me in the check-out line. He was holding a 300-count box of magic markers.

I flashed the man a sultry grin before chucking a jumbo-sized box of maxi pads onto the conveyor belt.

It's nice to know that I still have the touch.

A Haiku for the Stomach Flu

Day 1

The sound of upchuck
In the middle of the night
Makes my heart rejoice

Here is a bucket
I know that you don't feel good
Please try to make it

Day 2

I am out of Sprite

All I have is apple juice

Take it or leave it

Your hands are not sick
I do not want your tissue
Go throw it away

Day 3
I'm sorry you're bored
Please do not touch anything
Especially my food

Get back in your bed
Sick people do not eat cake
You can have oatmeal

Day 4

I will take the chance
That you are not contagious
And send you to school


***
Have a visitor at your house? Stomach flu? Double ear infections? Chronic chest cold? Rotavirus? Hypochondria?

All worthy of a haiku in the comments I think.

Line 1: 5 syllables
Line 2: 7 syllables
Line 3: 5 syllables

I Learned It By Watching You

When my kids ask me questions, I've gotten into the bad habit of taking a breath before answering them.

"Mom? Can I have a drink?"

I have learned the hard way that if I let more than a millisecond pass between the end of my child's question and the beginning of my response, then I get asked the same question again, in a slightly higher pitch.

"Mom! Can I have a drink?!"

If I answer quickly and in the affirmative, the question will be rephrased in the form of a statement and then let go: "Mom, I'm going to get something to drink now."

If, however, I neglect to make eye contact with the petitioner, or if I give him/her any reason to believe that I may not stop what I am doing and sprint to the refrigerator that very instant, then I can pretty much guarantee that I'll get to hear what my name sounds like in several languages:

"Mom?"
"Mommy?"
"Mama?"
"Mamá?"


I didn't know why my children feel the need to repeat themselves ad nauseam until yesterday, when, to my total horror, I caught myself speaking in multiples:

"Get into the car."
"Get into the car!"
"GET INTO THE CAR!"

It's a hard pill to swallow, but I have learned that there is some truth to the 1980s public service announcement: parents who repeat things have kids who repeat things.

Birthday Party

My daughter's birthday is at the end of the month and we have begun to discuss party ideas.

"I want a Hannah Montana party," she announced the other day.

"What does one do at that kind of party?" I wanted to know.

My five-going-on-fifteen year-old looked at me like I was a single-celled organism.

"I'm going to dress up as Hannah Montana and sing songs," she explained to the clueless, "And my friends can be the audience."

"That sounds fun," I replied, "Especially for your friends. Do you have any other ideas?"

"How about a High School Musical party?" she proposed.

"Let me guess," I said, "You'll be Gabriella and your guests will be Sharpay."

"The audience," she corrected.

"Let's pick a theme that doesn't involve a t.v. show or a movie," I said in a furtive attempt to avoid imminent disaster. My argument seemed reasonable enough: not everyone, including my daughter, has seen Hannah Montana or knows any of her songs.

After I ruined my daughter's life a little more by turning down her request for a Suite Life of Zack and Cody party (another show she's never seen but heard about from her friends at school), she decided that a "pet party" sounded kind of fun.

Visions of dinners served in dog bowls and pooper scooper relays danced in my head.

"I LOVE IT!" I shouted a little too enthusiastically. My daughter's face contorted into the likeness of a Doberman Pincher.

"Yuck!" I corrected. "Pet parties are no fun. Definitely a no-go."

That pretty much sealed the deal. I left the birthday girl standing in the kitchen while I rushed off to print a set of dancing dog invitations from the Internet before Hannah could break in for an encore performance.

Stuffed Animals

One of the biggest drawbacks about driving a SUV is that I don't have a back window ledge on which to display my children's stuffed animals.

A few weeks ago, however, I found a way to "make do," and, in doing so, made my kids very happy. I agreed to haul around a few weathered specimens from my kids' extensive collections of furry animals, so long as the faux beasts hung out together, in a trash bag, in the back of my trunk.

The stuffed animals were thrilled to escape the confinements of my basement playroom, but were considerably less excited to learn that their new home was the donation bin of the Salvation Army.

Shamu and his friends were stunned into silence. Fortunately, they found a loud and angry advocate in my five year-old son Cortlen.

"Hey!" he shouted in my direction. "You just threw away my stuffed animals!"

I tried to step on the accelerator, but Cortlen was already out of the car and scaling the wall of the dumpster.

"I'm coming!" he screamed to the contents of the bag.

The donation man looked annoyed. The disturbance at his dumpster was ruining his cigarrette break.

"Do you want this or not?" the man asked, holding up the bag.

I starting shaking my head when I saw the horrified look on my children's faces. It has just occurred to them that maybe I had thrown away their friends ON PURPOSE.

"Big mistake," I laughed as I chucked the bag back into the car. A porpoise, two dolphins, a large single-eyed reticulated python, and a colony of howler monkeys heaved a collective sigh of relief.

"That was close," said Kellen.

"Yes it was," I replied through gritted teeth.


How, when, and where do you liquidate your stuffed animal kingdoms?

Speed Racer

Thanks to the severity of his anemia (from Fifth Disease), Cameron pretty much slept through his first three months of life. Fortunately, he's not doing scary things anymore like sleeping through his blood draws, but he is still pretty groggy a lot of the time.

In our constant battle to find creative ways to simultaneously entertain our older children and keep Cameron awake for more than 10 minute stretches, my husband and I built a makeshift racetrack around the perimeter of the first floor of our house. Several times a day, we strap Cameron into his sister's doll stroller and let the older kids take turns doing laps around the kitchen and dining rooms. To prevent catnaps (and unlawful speeding), we built in a few sharp turns and speed bumps.

At first, the kids fought over who got to push Cameron and for how long. After a few days, however, the novelty wore off. Now it's a chore.

"I need ten laps out of you while I make dinner," I told Cortlen last night.

"I don't want to!" whined the disgruntled driver in reply.

"Life is a highway," I said nervously as I nibbled on my fingernails. "You'd better get going before you get run over."

I meant what I said literally. Camber had been watching our exchange from the living room and didn't like the way that her brother was breathing on her doll stroller. As Cortlen strolled casually down the hallway, he had no way of knowing that he was about to get sideswiped by a fast-moving semi.

Body Mass Index

My new best friend is Lenore, the elementary school nurse. Lenore became my regular friend a few weeks ago when she sent home a note saying that she had trouble doing a lice check on my daughter, presumably because of the large rat's nest that has taken over the back of my five year-old's head. Lenore didn't respond too well when I told her that the nest is private property; I trespassed once with a fine-toothed comb and barely lived to tell about it.

My friendship with Lenore deepened over the weekend, when I received another letter in the mail, this one typed out on school district stationary and signed inexplicably in all capital letters by the nurse herself. Last month, all of the kindergartners were weighed and measured as part of the school's health and growth screening program. Lenore wanted to let me know that based on these numbers, my daughter's body mass index-for-age percentile was 88%.

While I was grateful for this information, I wasn't exactly sure what it meant. I would have scratched my head all day if Lenore hadn't been so kind as to include an explanatory paragraph in which she spelled out her specific concerns for my daughter in clear, non passive-aggressive language:

"Being either overweight or underweight can put a person at risk for certain health problems. A student who is overweight has an increased risk of developing serious conditions including diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, stroke and certain cancers. A student who is underweight has an increased risk for heart problems, loss of bone mass, and anemia."

I liked the fact that Lenore had determined that my daughter was either overweight or underweight, but left it up me to guess which one. Normally, I would think that having a BMI in the 88th percentile wouldn't be a particularly good thing, but then again, if my daughter was ground beef, being in the 88th percentile would be considered quite lean.

Party like it's 2009

My kids asked me a million times if they could stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve. Since I couldn't think of anything I would rather do than entertain three five year-olds for five hours past their bedtimes, except maybe entertain three sleep-deprived five year-olds the whole next day I said, "Of course you can stay up!"

When the celebrants heard the good news, they squealed at the top of their lungs and started doing laps around the living room. After they had run the equivalent of a marathon, they collapsed on the floor and asked if I had any cold drinks lying around.

As I handed the runners their refreshments, I pointed out that their party plans excluded one of their siblings. That was not only rude, I told them, but also unfair.

"The rule is 'everybody or nobody,'" I reminded them. "If you're going to have a party, then Cameron has to be invited too."

Everyone was fine with the plan until I clarified that I wouldn't be available to chaperone or babysit the youngest member of the family. This was strictly a "kids only" party. During the festivities, all of the adults in the house would be upstairs asleep in their beds.

"What are we supposed to do with HIM all night?" sneered Kellen as he pointed to the wiggly mass in the bouncy seat.

"Don't worry," said my husband reassuringly. "You'll have fun! Cameron is quite the night owl and like most other New Year's revelers, will probably puke at least once before the night is through."

The party animals (who love vomit, but only from a distance) weighed their options and decided (very wisely) that seeing the ball drop was overrated.

Happy 2009.

Anyone do anything more fun last night than get puked on?

Stickers=Awesome

There is a moment in every girl's life when she is seized with the uncontrollable urge to plaster her bedroom walls with stickers. For many females, the instinct kicks in during the joyous tween years, and takes the form of a glow-in-the-dark galaxy affixed to a popcorn ceiling. For my precocious daughter, the desire to redecorate hit a bit earlier.

"AHHHH!" I shrieked upon discovering that several Disney princesses had sneaked into my daughter's bedroom overnight and vomited on her walls.

"Help me!" I cried out loud. "We have to get these things down before they take off the paint!"

My daughter was unmoved by the urgency of my request.

"I like the stickers where they are," she pouted.

"You know the rule," I repeated. "Stickers go on paper, or they go in the trash."

Snow White's forest friends began to panic.


In case you couldn't figure it out on your own, Camber chose option 3: she picked the stickers out of the trash and reapplied them to the wall after I left the room.

Holiday Shop

I always spend my money wisely and enjoy helping other people--especially young people--do the same. That's why I jumped at the chance to volunteer at the elementary school's annual holiday shop fundraiser.

On this special day, the school cafeteria is converted into a shopping mall where the PTA sells Dollar Store merchandise for a 200% profit. Every student gets 20 minutes to spend an envelope full of money that their parents give them on presents for specific family members... unless, of course, their parents don't give them any money, in which case, they spend their 20 minutes trying to talk their classmates into sharing the wealth.

When I saw that Camber was among the throngs of moochers, I gave her $8 and told her to buy gifts for me, Tim, and Tim's parents. Once my daughter disappeared into the sea of pint-sized shoppers, I turned my attention to the two kindergartners whom I was assigned to assist.

Jason didn't need any help from me. He made really good selections all on his own. His purchases included a $3 flying angel porcelain figurine with sparkly wings for his mom, a tube of hot pink lipstick for his Dad, and a pair of plaid-checked oven mitts imprinted with the phrase "World's Best Cook" for his baby sister.

After Jason cashed out, I told him to sit against the cafeteria wall and wait for his classmates to finish up. When I went to check on him five minutes later, he was wearing the oven mitts...and the lipstick.

By the time I got to Kylie, she was mostly done. Her shopping bag was overflowing with high-quality loot including 3 Phillies pennants, a "bleeding eye" bouncy ball, and a small arsenal of personalized office supplies.

"That's a lot of stuff," I observed when the bag became so heavy that Kylie began dragging it across the floor. "I wish that I had that many presents."

Kylie looked at me like I was missing some marbles.

"You can, silly," she said as she grabbed a ruler off of the table that read "Grandma keeps me in line!" and put it in her bag.

That's when I realized that all of Kylie's gifts were stolen.

I was in the midst of trying to console the hysterical kindergartner when another kindergartner approached, carrying a $7 purple lava lamp.

"You and grandma and Dad can all share this," Camber said. "But we'll keep it in my room, so you don't fight over it."

Ahhhhh, money well spent.

In case you're wondering, Camber's last dollar was spent on a gift for Tim's Dad. It's a magnet that says, appropriately, #1 Uncle.

So That's What They're For

On the way to preschool yesterday morning, Cortlen began squeezing his nipples.

"Does milk come out of boys' breasts?" he wanted to know.

I want to be truthful with my children, so I took a deep breath and answered "yes."

My knowledge of male lactation comes from a very reliable source: a book that I purchased at the thrift store last week titled So That's What They're For! I was willing to part with 35 cents in hopes that the book would reveal a function of female breasts of which I am not aware. For example, maybe they conduct electricity.

I was disappointed to discover that the book's discussion of breasts was limited to breastfeeding. By the time I got to the chapter on breast infections and inverted nipples, however, I had forgotten all about alternative energy sources. I had no idea. Something else that I learned from this book is that all mammals have mammary glands. Even males. This information led me to conduct a detailed online search of men and breastfeeding which, in turn, led me to an article about fathers who nurse their sons.

Cortlen was visibly disturbed when I asked him if he wanted to try to feed Cameron. He was not disturbed enough, however, to stop pinching his chest. He squeezed all the way into preschool. By the time I picked him up, he appeared to have gotten over the urge.

"For some strange reason, Cortlen thinks men can lactate," my son's teacher told me at the front door. She giggled nervously and looked at me for reassurance that this information did not come from me.

This is our third year at the preschool; the teacher should know better by now.

I'm finished with So That's What They're For! and I think that Cortlen's teacher will really enjoy reading it. Thank goodness Christmas is just around the corner.