"That's Not Food!"

The Cubs won the World Series.  Donald Trump is our president-elect.  I keep waiting to hear the sound of snorts and fluttering pig wings go past my open window.  Or at least the galloping hooves of the four horses of the apocalypse. My kids (at least the ones that can talk) were pretty interested in both events.  I'll start with the presidential election and just get that out of the way since it's an ugly topic even in civil conversation. If you voted for him, I totally respect that.  It's the beauty of democracy, et cetera, et cetera.  I, however, did not vote for him.  Not only did I not vote for him, but I spoke about him to my six year with the kind of candor and confidence of one who fully believes the accuracy of polling data and the correctness of my own convictions.  And now this guy- the one who I basically told my six year old to fear, the one that I said is an asshat, is mean to girls, disrespectful to people of different cultures, a...

"But I hate story time," Alex declared as we backed out of the driveway.  "Let's just go to Wal-Mart instead and buy three toys.  Three isn't a big number, right, Mommy?" "We're going to story time," I replied.  "It's Emily's story time.  It's literally the only thing that Emily has just for her.  Andy has school and baseball.  You have preschool and trips to the Dollar Store.  All Emily has is a lousy half hour story time once a week.  That's it!  That's all she has." A lie, of course, since Emily has everything.  Emily's world, although filled with activities primarily for her brothers, is rich in secondary events that she finds just as thrilling, if not more so.  She loves waiting at the bus stop!  She relishes in banging her feet on the bleachers at baseball games.  She ADORES trying to rip off the preschool art hanging in the common area outside Alex's class.  I often look at Emily and think, ...

Sep 12, 2008 It wasn’t long before they decided to close the mall. We’d been listening to the radio since we’d arrived- the little, plastic radio normally reserved for Sunday football games and FM rock. In the laboratory where we made the glasses, we all hunched around the tinny speakers, and nobody but Margie, the eighty year old part- time optician, had anything to say. We were all in shock, each of us having found out in our own separate flashbulb moments. There was talk that the terrorists might target Chicago next, and the gorgeously ethereal skyscrapers were in the midst of emergency evacuations, their well-dressed occupants running out in the streets with cell phones attached to their face. That the Metra trains had abandoned their schedules and were all running out, not in, at top capacity. “Chicago,” Margie had murmured in her shaky, old lady voice. “That’s not far from here!” And it was funny, hearing her say this about the city that was the nucleus to our suburban...

"Daddy, I dropped a ball into the toilet and then flushed it, and now the toilet's broken, so we can't use it anymore, okay?" At least Andy had the sense to tell a grown up what he had done.  You'll notice that the grown up was laid-back Daddy, not HOW MUCH IS THIS GOING TO COST ME Mommy.  The answer to that question was $93.  The ball "fell" into the toilet, Andy decided to flush it (WHY!??), and the water came up and swirled around like it was waiting for Noah's ark.  Since we couldn't plunge the ball out, we figured some guy would have to come over, detach the toilet, flip it upside down, and pluck the ball out like a cherry from a kiddie cocktail.  Turns out, the guy comes over with his super plunger / snaking tool (three hours late) and just shoves it further down into the house pipes.  I fully expect to see that ball float up to my drain during a future shower.  Followed by an explosion for some reason. Andy "broke" the toilet...

Right before kindergarten ended, Andy's front tooth got wobbly.  "He's going to lose it today or tomorrow!" I whisper-yelled on the phone to Chris.  "Print out this official tooth fairy certificate I'm sending you. How many singles do you have in your wallet?  I've heard that some parents use glitter.  Crap!  We're out of glitter!  Do you think it would be weird to use elbow macaroni instead?" Flash forward to today, Andy's first day of first grade.  He flashed a winning smile on this day for his First Day of School picture, and the smile contained all of his teeth.  Honestly, it looked like he might have even grown an extra baby tooth or two in the last twelve weeks.  He certainly didn't loose that one tooth that is still hanging in there.  Today, I came across the wrinkled up tooth fairy certificate in my desk and just threw it away.  I've watched Andy carefully bite into sandwiches without using that one wiggly tooth.  I...

I took Andy and Alex in for their annual physicals last week.  This is one of those times when I have to huddle all three kids together and explain how very important good behavior is.  "Pediatricians and DCFS are tight, like this," I say, illustrating with my crossed fingers.  "So best behavior so Mommy doesn't get sweaty and screamy." "But, Alex bit my finger," Andy replied, referencing the current reason why everybody was exhibiting not-so-good behavior. "Did you stick your finger in his mouth?" No reply. "Okay, let's roll then.  Game faces!" I exaggerate a little, of course.  I haven't had the DCFS talk in at least a month!  The thing about our behavior, collectively, is that it hasn't been all that bad.  Alex breaking his arm may have been the very best thing for the boys, as it seemed to scare them straight.  Emily is still very much a wild card, but she is agreeable, as she answers a very sweet "Yea...

Alex is turning four in less than a week!  He will accomplish this task with the use of only one arm and hand as he has broken his left elbow and will need to spend the first half of the summer in a heavy blue cast. Of course it's Alex who is the first to break a bone.  This is the kid who is perpetually covered in bumps, scabs, and band-aids, the only one to ever be rushed to the ER due to a bleeding head wound, and the only one to ever undergo surgery (granted, the anal fistula wasn't really his fault- or was it?). It is Alex, the one Chris and I are constantly telling to "Stop bumbling around!"  He is so clumsy, so stupidly fearless, so full of tangible mischief that manifests into injury and/or broken items. I hate that I have issued a warning to these boys for the past three years that has now come true.  "Stop fooling around because if you break your arm you'll have the worst summer ever!  No swimming, no bike riding, no JOY."  And now we are l...