Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Power of Suggestion

W had a sleepover last week, so Meems and her brother T had some quality time together.  Just the two of them.  Which oftentimes is a recipe for disaster, but this time, THIS TIME, it was good.  So good, in fact, that it was almost magic.  Which, as a mom, is something.  Because it means that everything is running smoothly all at once and there is peace.  Which almost never happens.  Ever.

So, things were going so swimmingly they decided to have a sleepover in T's room.  He has bunk beds.  Which everyone here thinks is super cool, even if he won't let anyone else sleep on the top.  And besides, Meems' room is pink, and T doesn't do pink.  

The sleepover is marvelous, and they are even being quiet in their talking and giggling.  And then a creak, creak, and a little head pops over the stair railing.  "We can't sleep.  We need sleeping pills."

Herein lies a slippery slope.  I occasionally give them Melatonin to help them sleep, as Meems takes medication that can make her wakeful.  Which is dreadful for all involved.  It's like the aftermath of a nuclear meltdown when the kid doesn't get enough sleep.  However, I have long feared that they will take the interpretation of these "vitamins" up a notch and my children will tell their friends' parents at a sleepover that their mother gives them sleeping pills.  Knowing Meems, she will add that her mommy typically lets her wash it down with wine.  Where she gets this stuff... she loves to shock.

Walking the child back into the bedroom (she has been dispatched to break this news to the parents, as her brother is suspended in mid-air and it is dark and he is clumsy and she loves to be in charge anyway), I explain to her that in order to sleep, one must close his/her eyes and mouth.  Because it is very nearly impossible to fall asleep while talking with your eyes open.  

"We've tried that."

Oh?  You don't say.  "Well, then the only thing for you to do is to close your eyes and make your body limp like a spaghetti noodle.  A cooked one (quickly added so there's no confusion over the fact that uncooked noodles are not, in fact, limp).  Pretend you're jelly.  Now, breathe deeply through your nose.  That's it, in...and out...See?"  

Just as I'm thinking, "God, where do I come up with this stuff" T says, "ahhh, that's nice" to which Meems adds, "I feel restful now" and T adds again, glee in his voice "so welaxing...this weally works like a chawm."

Oh boy.

Amazingly, it did work.  And it worked the next night as well, as, still feeling the love they decided to have another sleepover (so excited about it, in fact, that Meems didn't even notice she was going to be a whole half hour earlier) and informed me as I left the room after tucking them in that they had decided to be noodles again.  As I descended the stairs, I hear a chorus of "i am SO welaxed wight now" and "i feel sleepy already" and "it's, like, magic or something or being at a spa" and "this bweaving fing weally wuhks!"

I don't know when she's ever been to a spa, but whatever. 

Magic.  It does exist.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


My kids just came running in the house, slamming the door behind them, all out of breath.  Between huffs and puffs, they managed to tell a tale of bees gone berzerk.  They have been doing that a lot lately.  The bees.

It all started several weeks ago when my oldest son stepped on a bee and it stung him on his toe.  He is one tough kid, but you woulda thought someone cut his toe OFF.  It was a ginormous wasp, he breathed, in between moans.  Moans.  Turns out, it was a yellow jacket.  Which is slightly smaller and less lethal than a wasp, but painful just the same.

A couple weeks later, their dad mowed right through a yellow jacket nest that was buried in the grass weeds grass.  They went crazy and  bit him directly on the butt-ocks (that's a Forrest Gump reference, in case you missed it).  They've been mad as hell at him and everyone else in this family ever since.  You don't MESS with a yellow jacket's weed house.

So now, all bees are cra-zazy around my family.  According to them.  I mean, those kids are freaked.  I just went outside to close the garage door (something they dare not try because of the dive bombing bee swarm) and there are no bees in sight.  Hm.  There are, however, bikes and scooters and skateboards and helmets scattered everywhere.  There are only three kids, and yet there are about 50 things with wheels and things that are associated with things with wheels scattered all across the driveway.  There's even a helmet hanging on one of the bushes, where it was flung in a state of near hysteria.

I have yet to see the first bee.  But I have enjoyed the mental pictures my family has created for me regarding their evil intentions.  I can just imagine the hub's high-stepping around the front yard.  I base my vision on the memory of him high-stepping across the yard once when he refused to stop mowing until a giant lightning bolt cracked down practically in front of him.  And the way things were strewn across the driveway gives me all the clues I need to picture the scene that occurred when the bee swarm attacked my precious babies just a little while ago.

I wish I had been a neighbor happening to look out the window at just the right time.  Between the screaming match in the street, my daughter traipsing through the neighborhood in a pink wig and red high heels, the weird games my kids create, the bees and the getups my kids wear (right now, the youngest is walking around with my hubby's old glasses, a prepster ribbon belt with drumsticks tucked into it, and a cape).  Well, let's just say there's never a dull moment at our house.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Bad Mom Award?

Last night, I was folding laundry in the family room while watching Ant Farm on Nickelodeon.

Sadly, my life has come to this.

It's no Good Luck Charlie, that's for sure.  However, it is heads and shoulders superior to Pair of Kings.

The laundry.  So, I'm folding and I find a pair of underwear.  Boxer briefs, to be specific.  Holding them up, I realize how tiny they are.  And that I have no idea whether they are my 9 year-old's or my 5 year-old's.  Yes, the 9 year old is that skinny.

"Whose are these?"

Meems giggling, because what's funnier than your brother's tiny underwear?  Of course, I couldn't resist adding something about "whose cute little teeny buns go in here?"  And then I danced them around in the air a little bit.

W:  "They're T's."
T:  "They're not MINE."
W:  "Well, you can have them.  They'll fit you."
T:  Eyes lighting up with glee.  "I can HAVE them?!"

I know, a little pathetic.  But, apparently, exciting nonetheless.

So, as my oldest has now confided in me that he really only likes to wear boxers, not boxer briefs because he likes the circulation (?), I passed all the little teeny boxer briefs down to his brother.  Which gives me an opportunity to throw away the hand-me-down Cars and Toy Story underwear that T currently sports.

It occurs to me, as I make these piles:  is this just WRONG?  Hand-me-down underwear?  Honestly, I'm not sure the poor kid has ever worn underwear that wasn't a hand-me-down.  But it's perfectly good underwear! Surely I'm not the only mom who's done this?   I mean, it's clean!  And the boys go through underwear like crazy, so there's tons of it so as to minimize the frequency with which I have to do laundry.  It's not like they CHANGE their underwear that often, it gets squirreled away in unusual places (instead of walking it to the laundry shoot) because they're lazy, then they can't find any underwear to wear.  Except under the mattress or tucked in the Lego bin on the bookshelf.  Which is not clean.  Or maybe it is, who can remember?  But it's all you've got, so you're going to have to wear it.  

Yes, maybe a little sad.  Today might be a good day to go out and buy him his very first set of non-worn underwear.

He'll be so excited!