Blankety Blank Blank Blank

Madeline looked out the window, this morning, and shouted "Holy Blank!" as she took in the heavy fog that had collected around the lake outside the school. To her credit, she did actually say "blank" and did not fill in the blank. But still--and then she said it again.

"Madeline!" I said. "We do not say that! Where did you hear such a thing?"

"I made it up." She said. Proudly. Boldly. Dare I say . . . rebelliously.

"You could not have made up that phrase." I said. "I don't believe it. You must have heard it somewhere and I want to know where. Was is a tv show? A friend? Where?"

Still, she insisted she made it up. So . . .

"You don't say 'Holy Blank' do you hear me? The blank stands for a naughty naughty word you've probably never even heard before and I don't want to hear you say that ever again. And for the record. Don't let me hear you say 'What the blank?' either!"

She nodded and feigned shame, but I knew she would probably say it again and probably in school and some other child would say it and go home and get in trouble and I would get a call like the one on Christmas Story when Ralphy says "fudge"--only he doesn't say fudge--and his mom wigs out and calls a boy's mom who then goes and lights up her child's world for supposedly teaching Ralphy the word.

ugh.

While I'm daydreaming (or nightmaring) about that, Michael interrupts with all that thinking he likes to do.

"So, we can't say 'Blank?'" He asks . . . rightfully confused.

"Of course you can say blank." I said, reassuringly. "Why wouldn't you be able to say blank? (duh) When a paper is empty, it's blank. When you can't think of something, you've drawn a blank. When there's a space after a question, it's a blank. 'Blank' is not a bad word. It's what the blank represents that's a bad word.

"Can we say Holy Cow?" His eyes were all squinty and his forehead all wrinkly and his brain all tied up in knots.

"Well, sure. You say that all the time."

"Can we say Holy Moly?"

"Yeah!"

"And we can say blank."

"Yes."

"But we can't say Holy Blank."

"Right. That is naughty."

"Well, that doesn't even make any sense."

ha! The BLANK it doesn't!

Schooled

Potty training Merrick has proven to be a lot harder than I anticipated. I’m not sure if it’s a testament to my lack of skillz or to his sheer grit. What I do know is that it has been a “one step forward two steps back” type task from day one and today we took about 87 steps back as I tried a new approach. He’s three years old. Three years and three months to be exact. So I thought I’d try a cognitive approach. When he “pooped again” (as he proudly informed me after lunch) I said “Well, we’ll let you clean yourself up, today.” And I handed him a wet wipe.

I’m going to step in here and say I realize it wasn't the most deeply considered plan, but in my defense--I’m dieting. I don't think about much other than cheesecake.

Anyway, I laid him down, took off his diaper, handed him a wipe and said “Clean yourself up.” I was assuming he would refuse. My other kids would have. And then in terror of ever having to clean himself up again, he would go to the bathroom in. the. toilet. (I don’t dream big.) Instead, he bravely snatched that wet wipe and without looking attempted to clean himself up, smearing his fingers all over the place while my surroundings went blurry and slo-mo and I was screaming in a distorted/muffled “NoooooOOOOOoooOOOOO!”

I grabbed the wet wipe, and his free hand--his gross hand went to his hair.

And I screamed “NoooooOOOOOOOOooooooOOOOOO!”

"Look at your hand!" I yelled. "Look!"

And he looked. And he saw the mess.

And he wiped it on his shirt.

And I yelled “NooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOO!”

And he wiped it on the carpet.

And a Barbie.

And the cat.

So, lesson learned! He's in charge of this. Much like he's in charge of whether he'll eat or sleep. These personal functions that I can control as easily as I control the seasons or the tides or congress. He'll do this on his own time, and I will back off. Because I'm a cognitive being, and quick learner . . . and he's an effective teacher.

Little Boy Sock

It's damp with sweat, and stained with blood and dirt. I used to watch those commercials for heavy duty laundry detergent or oxy clean and think "Yeah right. Whose sock looks like that?"

And if I were even half the homemaker my mom was, I'd quickly sift through a laundry room full of all varieties of those advertised stain removers, and that sock would be gleaming white before dinner time. But alas, I am not my mom, and so I throw it away. The mate is probably lost by now, anyway.

Christmas Eve

Candlelight Service at church.

Cookies and milk for Santa.

Reindeer Food on the driveway.

Kids in their Christmas pajamas.

Quiet night with candles and Christmas music and my sweet husband and I wrapping gifts.

I love Christmas Eve.

Christmas Perspective

The tree went up last night.

This is ornament casualty number three. Also, Merrick woke me up this morning with a candy cane he'd swiped from one of the lower branches.

So, this is the day that the breakables and the treats migrate to the top of the tree, and the more sturdy ornaments occupy the bottom. It makes for a less blended, balanced overall presentation, but with three year olds, most of the fragile things in life take up the spaces four feet and above.

At one point, when I was sweeping these thin pieces of glass out of the way of chubby little bare feet, I sighed and dreamed of a day when the tree would stay put.

Then I realized something.

The day the tree loses its wonder and allure, is probably a day when the magic of Christmas is no longer real, and cookies in the oven can be done whenever, and the advent calendar is full of activities that are more of a hassle than a good time.

So, touch the tree, kids. Touch it, and sleep under it and eat the sweets and dare to handle the fragile things. I'd sacrifice a whole lot more than some ornaments to keep you little for a while longer.

Guess Who's Back!

Fiddlebee made his triumphant return, this morning. And with him came a magical North Pole breakfast. Complete with all the things kids love and dentists hate.

Oh Christmas Tree!

We took the kids to the tree lot to pick out the perfect Christmas tree. We searched and searched, and by "we" and "searched" I mean that Matt and I looked through dozens of trees while the kids darted in and out of the already-cut-forest, playing hide and seek. Matt has been going to that same church to buy a tree for as long as he can remember. And apparently he and his brothers used to run and play and hide and seek in those trees, while his parents carefully picked one to adorn the living room. I love how life perpetuates itself.

Met out good friends:

Playing Hide and Seek:

This is the one!

And this is how you know it's time to go--when Merrick climbs in the tree wrapping contraption.