Special Delivery

29 02 2012

YOU GUYS.

Yesterday kind of sucked. I’m out of my magical ADD pills and my children, as best I can tell, are minions of Satan (today is obviously going well).

BUT THEN? Car brought home free pizza prepared by the Son of Almighty God.

To make my night even better, Car and I had this conversation:

Car: “How are you going to blog about this without being sacrilegious?”

Me: *chortle*

Car: “Oh. Right.”

Seriously, it’s like for a brief moment he forgot who he was married to.

For the next hour, every time I glanced at the pizza box, I burst into giggles and Car just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Next up: Chinese food from Elijah the prophet. Hey, a girl can dream!

*I will forever be bitter about how sacrilegious is spelled. It’s just wrong.

**The pizza wasn’t that great. You’d think Jesus would have the power to make fabulous pizza.

***Would it be inappropriate to make a joke here about Jews making lousy Italian food?

****Probably.

*****I just checked with my Jewish friend Meredith, and she says the joke is fine, but for the record she makes excellent pizza.

******I assume Meredith speaks for all Jews. It’s only fair since she does the same with Mormons and me. It’s cool. I’d rather she think I speak for Mormons than, say, Mitt Romney.

*******Hahahaha! I kid!

********Maybe.

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Don’t Mess with Date Night

21 09 2011

Friday night Car and I went on a date. I know!  Like, babysitters and everything! Okay, we didn’t really pay the babysitters, since they were my niece and nephew and babysit in exchange for pizza (best deal EVER), but still. This is not something we do often.

We really need to go on dates more often, because I like my husband. As much as I love my kids, I like spending time with Car away from the small people in our life, as they tend to demand attention. Lots and lots of attention. And let’s be honest—when Car comes home at the end of the day, if all I’ve done is hang out with the boys and run errands, I’m not exactly runway-ready.

So I put on a pretty shirt and some makeup. I spent extra time on my hair and I even—brace yourselves—put on perfume. We went out to dinner and finally, two months after its release, went to see the last Harry Potter movie. Yay for being adults!

We got to the theater just as the movie was starting, and I immediately noticed two teenage boys up in the far corner of the theater were talking. Loudly. It’s okay, I told myself. They’ll stop in a second. The movie is starting.

They didn’t stop. They kept talking at full volume, and I was getting mad. I realize two movie tickets might not be a big deal to some people, but when you’re strapped for cash and you hardly ever leave the house anyway, it’s a pretty big deal. Plus talking during a movie is just plain rude.

The couple next to us turned around and called, “Hey! Shut up!” The boys either didn’t hear them or simply ignored them and kept talking.

I was seething. It was my date night.

Enough was enough.

I handed my wallet to Car and stalked up the stairs.

“Listen,” I hissed, “I go to about three movies every year and this one of them. Either you shut your mouths or I will shut them for you.”

Here’s the thing: Am I argumentative? Ornery? Mulish? Yes, yes, and yes. However, I’m normally quite conflict-avoidant in this sort of situation. I’ll hope someone else takes care of things or, if worse comes to worst, I’ll go find a manager and ask him or her to take care of it.

But I was pissed. Also, I wasn’t going to miss any of the movie because some dumbass kids wouldn’t shut up.

Of course, once I was in my seat, sanity kicked in and here’s what went through my head:

  1. How, exactly, would I shut their mouths for them?
  2. What if they’re in a gang?
  3. What if they have knives?
  4. Or guns?
  5. Or scary mothers?
  6. Or scary friends?
  7. Oh, crap. I hope I don’t die just because I wanted to watch the last Harry Potter movie on the big screen.

Fortunately, we didn’t hear a peep from them for the rest of the movie. And look! I’m still here AND I’m remarkably uninjured! Hooray!

I’m thinking maybe if we go on dates more often I won’t be quite so…territorial about them. It’s worth a try, right? That’ll be my persuasive argument. “We need to go on more dates so I stop scaring children.”

Best. Reason. Ever.

 





Do Not Repeat After Me

26 05 2011

Big G wasn’t a repeater. Other parents would tell stories about their kids repeating horrifying things at the most inopportune moments, and I’d brace myself with the sure knowledge that my time would come…but for the most part it didn’t. (I’m fully aware he’ll still repeat awful things, but he’s now at an age where he can be punished for such actions.)

As I hear is usually the case, Little G is an entirely different child from Big G. One marked difference: He’s a serial repeater. I think part of this relates to his time spent in speech therapy—when you spend years trying to get a kid to repeat the words you’re saying, that habit stays with him. It generally doesn’t bother me. After all, you don’t know cute until you’ve seen a 3-year-old repeat lines of Megatron’s dialogue.

Yesterday we were at grandpa’s house watching The Price is Right. (I like typing that sentence, because it makes grandpa sound about 80 years old.) The show had reached the final round—the Showcase Showdown—and the second Showcase featured…a trip to Amsterdam!

“Whoo-hoo!” I yelled. “Marijuana and hookers!”

Then came the garbled voice from next to me on the couch: “Mariwaaaaa and hooooers!”

Confession: There was a (possibly not small) part of me that really wanted to teach him to say it clearly. I firmly believe it would be hilarious to hear Little G run around repeating that. I know. I am not a good person. I am, however, surrounded by very good people who would be mortified by a 3-year-old yelling out “Marijuana and hookers!” at random intervals, so I restrained myself.

You’re welcome, Car.

Best. Mom. Ever.





Unforgettable

3 05 2011

Sometimes an element of cheese creeps into Mormonism that brings out my snarky side. I know! Try to contain your astonishment.

A couple of weeks ago I was typing the ward bulletin and ran across an announcement for an upcoming activity that provoked this tweet:

I may have also turned to Car and told him I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than attend this activity.

Fast forward two weeks. A member of the Relief Society presidency tracked me down at church and pinned me down with the look. If you’re involved in any sort of organized group—religious or secular—that relies upon volunteer efforts, you know the look. It’s the “I’m about to ask you to do something” look. I’ve been on the giving end of the look enough times that I try to be amenable to whatever request is made. Also, the ability to say no is not exactly my strongest quality. You might have noticed that about me.

Anyway, this was the look of “Please do the music at this special activity in a week and a half. Oh, and can you work up a musical number?”

Dude.

A few things:

  1. Someone in my ward is stalking me on Twitter.
  2. Or possibly they’ve bugged my house.
  3. Apparently if I don’t want to attend, I really will have to shoot myself in the foot.
  4. Clever move, God.
  5. I’mma need me a roofie to forget this one. Anyone?

Car saw me looking through my music and raised an eyebrow. “You know that activity I said I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than attend? They asked me to do the music.”

The man smirked. And chortled. There might have even been a slight guffaw mixed in. I’d call him a jerk, but let’s be honest—if the roles were reversed, I’d be on the floor, helpless with laughter. This is why our marriage works.

So, my friends, it appears next week I’ll have an unforgettable night. I know you’re every bit as excited as I am. I’d live stream my musical performance, but gosh darn it, it’s in the chapel and I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t be kosher. You’ll just have to use your imaginations.

On second thought, don’t do that. I forgot for a minute what a bunch of pervs y’all are, and I don’t want God to smite you.

You’re welcome.





This Will Not Convince Big G Baptism is a Good Idea

22 03 2011

“Mom, I don’t want to get baptized.”

Big G whispered that to me during sacrament meeting two months ago. My initial reaction was to say, “Oh, you’ll get baptized, and you’ll like it!” I’m a fantastic mom like that. After all, parenting isn’t about letting your kids make choices—it’s about making sure they do the right thing. Besides, he has two and a half years to get over his fear of being dunked in the water. I’m sure he’ll be fine. (For those unfamiliar with our practices, the LDS church baptizes children at the age of eight. We also practice baptism by immersion.)

I told Big G he had quite a while to prep for baptism. His reply? “I still won’t want to get baptized.” Sigh.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that dragging a kicking and screaming 8-year-old to the baptismal font and asking Car to hold him underwater probably isn’t the most positive way to begin his official membership in the church. I know! Check me out, being all level-headed.

Still, there are things that could make baptism more frightening.

Tonight I was looking for something to make family home evening a little more interesting (an activity, drawing page, craft…seriously, anything) and I came across instructions to make a baptism bag for a child. The purpose of this bag is to help the child understand the importance of his or her baptism.

And, as best I can tell, to scar the child for life:

Wait…maybe Van Gogh was just making a Baptism Bag but lost his nerve!

The child psychologist is going to love me.





Like Buttah

5 03 2011

Y’all remember how we read about space every night, right? Currently we’re reading The Atlas of the Universe, which Big G checked out from the library. What, doesn’t your kid head straight for the kids’ reference section at the library?

For your edification, I’d like to share some moments from tonight’s story time.

Car: Venus is the hottest planet…blah blah blah…would melt there like butter.
Me: Wait, what would melt like butter?
Car: A bar of solid lead.
Me: Oh. I thought maybe they said a human being.
Car: Thank you so much for that visual.
Me: Hee!
Big G: Mom, you would die on Venus.

A little bit later…

Car: Jupiter is bigger…blah blah blah…deep atmosphere….blah blah blah…small moons.
Me: So Jupiter is the biggest planet?
Car: As I just read: “Jupiter is bigger and more massive than all the other planets put together.”
Me: Shut up. I have ADD.

A little bit later…

Car: The farthest planet from the sun is Neptune. It is almost the same size as Uranus.
Me: BWAHAHAHAHAH!
Car: *glares at me* Someone is a little punchy tonight.

A little bit later…

Car: The Solar System…blah blah blah…created when a cloud of gas and dust called a nebula started to shrink under its own gravity.
Me: There was shrinkage!
Car: *glares at me*

I love story time.

*This post brought to you by the letters A, D, and D.
**Yes, I know it doesn’t make sense to have D twice. Shut up.
***Fritter, anyone?





Inappropriate Boring

14 01 2011

On Wednesday the boys and I were stringing beads and making necklaces. Shut up. It’s perfectly age and gender appropriate. It builds manual dexterity! Anyway, I bought this big tub o’ beads at Walmart and it has a veritable smorgasboard of choices for the young jewelry maker.

Included in the options are several different animals. Now, I realize there’s a real challenge in figuring out where to place the…ahem… stringing holes, but…

Yeah.

ROAR! I'm the king of the beasts!

ROAR! I'm ready for my annual rectal exam!

Oh, wait...apparently I've been shot by a musket.

And then there’s our friend Mr. Rhino:

I'm such a happy rhino!

Wait, I'm not happy! I'm terribly alarmed!

As well I should be.

Also violated in this bead collection: giraffes, elephants, cats, and poodles.

The poodles were probably asking for it.