Multi-tasking

Lily is all about multi-tasking.
I think she'll play the marimba someday.

Bunnies or Bitter Herbs

After capturing this on camera yesterday morning...

Lily trying to empty the entire contents of a candy-pooping chicken into her mouth

...I have declared war on our Easter candy.

Sage hasn’t been the problem. In fact, following an Easter egg hunt with her cousins, they all sat down and traded their goods. She ended up the proud owner of four packages of microwave popcorn (“for our movie nights, mom!”), having traded and given away her chocolate and quarters. I had to resist the urge to lecture her about the value of money and the abundance of popcorn residing at our house already, in honor of the Easter spirit (which, incidentally, has nothing to do with chocolate, quarters or popcorn).

As for Eliza, well, she hasn’t eaten more than 3 mouthfuls of stable food (without being bribed) since we stopped by the Easter’s Bunny’s hutch last week (aka Sam’s Club).

And Lily is obviously happy with chicken poop candies that are hard as rocks and were probably assembled somewhere in China five years ago. Though she hasn't been known to discriminate against sugar in any other form, either.

On the spiritual side, thanks to my dad’s emphasis on Easter, Sage and Eliza can tell about Passover (going all the way back to Joseph in Egypt), and name many of the events of Jesus’ last week (even if Eliza thinks he suffered in the Garden of Eden.)

As I took the chance to tell stories about Moses and the plagues, the raising of Lazarus, Mary at the empty tomb, and more, I was astounded at the kids' interest. What I thought would be a quick scripture thought about Passover turned into a 45 minute storytime for kids who listened with fascination.

Mark and I (and my sister, Suzy, who is knows a lot more about bitter herbs!) fielded many questions that tested our knowledge of the scriptures. (You try naming all the Plagues without a cheat sheet). And while I was a little uncomfortable over Sage's interest in Judas' suicide, I had to hold back a chuckle when Eliza drew pictures of Jesus on the cross and Mary at his feet today on our white board. [Incidentally, Eliza told me Mary was counting, since Eliza's pictures came rather close to Sage's math problems.]

I'm confident that once all the Easter candy runs out around here and all our cavities are filled, Sage and Eliza will still remember about Jesus' Atonement. And maybe next year they'll want to hear stories about the Last Supper as much as they want to see if Peeps are really as gross as they remember.

"He is not here, for He is risen." It's not too late to celebrate the Easter message. This is a great video. And so is this.

Happy Easter.

Migraines

Dear God,
Thank you for not sending me to earth before the invention of migraine medication, DVD players with a "continuous play" option, and Little Caesar's pizza stores.
Love,
Janel

Warning

Our district's Spring Break started last Friday, and by evening, I wondered how I would make it through an entire summer of no school.

The next day, Mark and I broke out the trampoline we had bought for the kids' birthdays (in June/July). The trampoline pamphlet reminded us no less than 5 times of the imminent-death risk associated with use of their product. But ducklings can peck to death, too, so we forged ahead.

The user's manual was peppered with advice including, but certainly not limited to, the following:
--Avoid bouncing too high. [ha]
--Avoid bouncing when tired.
--Do not use the trampoline while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. [okay]
--Avoid bouncing when tired. [No joke--this was repeated twice. I think the writer was getting tired thinking of new rules to list.]

After muddling through the warnings and the assembly instructions, we were finally able to celebrate our 3 3/4 year old and 5 3/4 year old by presenting our new (possibly lethal) babysitter, the trampoline.

It was pure torture for the kids to be banned from jumping on Sunday. But between Saturday and this morning, Sage and Eliza have each logged HOURS playing on the trampoline.

And I realized that the Trampoline Manual forgot one very important warning.

WARNING: Giggling in your backyard will likely increase by 600%.

Calling all decorators

After last month's successful call for recipes, I turn again to my talented blog audience of 7 people (hi, Mom and sisters) and ask for help on my rug dilemma. This time I have the added excitement of needing to make a decision soon, due to a large amount of procrastination (by me) and a bad return policy (by the store). Which rug do you prefer? The first (red/blue accents) or the second (brown)? (There are a lot of disclaimers I could and probably should make--about the fuzzy pictures, the lumpy couches (that need and will eventually get recovered), the tragic collection on the fireplace mantel, etc. Ignore all those things I just pointed out in detail. Focus on the rugs.)

Rug #1

Rug #2

I'll put a poll up on the sidebar, but feel free to leave a comment if you'd like. I know I'll like it! Maybe the winning comment will get an honorary decorating degree from the Janel Williams Academy of Home Furnishings and Procrastination and Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Snip, snip, snip

Last week Eliza decided to cut her hair. I guess this shouldn't surprise me, since she has a history with scissors). In addition to diminishing her already depleted right side, she cut herself a jagged line of bangs. Is there a word for obsessive compulsive inappropriate scissor use? (Trichotillomania, but with scissors?)

Now, I have my own unpleasant history of bangs. More unpleasant than the hugeness of the aforementioned bangs was the length of time I sported these bangs. Okay, fine, and the height I was able to attain with years of practice and a can of Extra Hold Aqua-Net. (How did I miss the hairspray's implications that my hair would look like a net?) It's a wonder Denny's never came to recruit me as a server with the likes of my bangs. Perhaps they were scared of my tiny lycra shorts and boat-like shirt.
Enough about me.

Sage had her own few scissor problems, but they never involved hair or clothes. Well, real hair, that is. When her preschool asked for a picture of her, I cut Eliza out of the other half of one that I had lying around, and Sage decided to further doctor it up. Needless to say I didn't turn it in for the preschool Wall of Fame. I thought the fact that Sage had included underwear in her self-portrait was probably enough revelation for one semester.

Then there was the time Sage decided to trim her birthday money to a more beautiful or manageable (I'm not sure which) size. I'm just glad I caught her on the second bill.
It appears that Mark and I have not been sufficiently thorough in our admonition to the kids to not run with scissors.

Confidence

A while back Eliza passed me a page out of her coloring book (the one that never seems to run out of hideous pictures) that she had been working on and said, "Mom, this is you when you're older."
I hope she wasn't talking about the dog.

And as if that weren't enough for my self-esteem, last week she asked me, "Is this how you spell 'Mom'--B-U-M"?

And when you throw in yesterday's squishy bum comment, you might be wondering, as I am known to do between the hours of 3pm and 5pm on weekdays, if the pay is worth all the emotional abuse I suffer on the job.

It's a wonder I have any self-esteem left at all.

But the funny thing is--and I am certain about this--being a mom gives me confidence. Maybe not confidence to prance around in a bikini or win a political debate (okay, definitely not to do those things). But I certainly have confidence in my ability to distract children in a long checkout line, or to think of a creative solution when one child has an accident in a public place where I am without a diaperbag. Or to get stains out of clothes, or to shop for a week's worth of groceries in under 10 minutes (when 11 minutes=mutiny).

I am confident that I have chosen the right occupation. Even though my job sometimes pays me in extra pounds around the midsection, it also pays me in countless little kisses and in "I love Mom" signs, and in ten second back scratches from little hands (or bum massages from little feet).


I'm not giving my thirty days notice yet. To my boss or to Weight Watchers. But maybe to my hairdresser (the one that makes me look like a poodle).

Ducklings

Today when I was trying to take a nap while sharing my bed with two insomniatic preschoolers, I was reminded of a quote that I read last week, "Raising children is like being pecked to death by ducks."

Just as I was trying to remember if the quote was about ducks or ducklings I felt two feet poke me in the rear and a little voice rang out, "Squishy bum!"

Peck, peck, peck.