Compliment, insult or both?

My son thinks I am funny.

But only on paper. (paper??)

On occasion I let him read something I have written, and on occasion, like tonight, he makes comments similar to the following,

Mom, you're funny. [pause] You're funnier when you write than when you talk. You're like a comedian or something.

If only I could convey the incredulous tone in which the words were uttered.

I cherish these unintentionally backhanded compliments, which are offered up so innocently. (I am not being facetious, I really do enjoy them.) What I also find amusing is that one offering of this insight does not suffice. Each time he reads something I have written that he finds humorous, he seems genuinely surprised and is compelled to voice the thought again, as if for the first time.

Apparently, I'm not funny in person.

I'm not taking it too personally, though, because I think all moms must experience this. I mean, who has ever heard a kid say, My mom is so funny! Now, dad, on the other hand -- that guy is a laugh-riot.

I politely beg to differ with my son's assessment. Clearly my oral witticisms are lost on the 10-year-old mind. Clearly.

Anyway, that's what I am telling myself.

Springtime recipe

Ingredients:

2 children












1 trampoline

1 warm and muggy Texas afternoon












Ice cubes (a.k.a. Paradise Cubes - term coined by eldest child)
2 bowls









1 portable fan












Directions:
Take 2 children and place on trampoline. Shake vigorously. Children are done when sweat begins to form, faces become pink and high-pitched shrieks are emitted. Remove children from trampoline and bring inside. Place children on floor and turn on fan. Remove Paradise Cubes from freezer and place in bowls with spoons. Insert Paradise Cubes into children until smiles and giggles and various goofy facial expressions are produced.

Serves:
1 tired mommy with approximately 30 minutes of amusement and enjoyment and about 40 digital photos of her children eating ice cubes.

Ahhh, Thursday!

Thursday has become one of my most favorite days recently. It is the only day of the week where no one has an afterschool activity and generally homework is pretty light. We have gymnastics on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and piano on Tuesday.

Since gymnastics is between 5:00 and 7:00pm, dinner is usually pretty late on MWF. With a bedtime of 8:00pm (give or take), we don't have much leftover for family time, especially when you factor in the need for showers and the bedtime ritual.

That is why Thursday has become an oasis within our week. This past Thursday we actually had (a healthy, homemade!) dinner at a respectable time, around 6:00pm I think, and found ourselves with a decent amount of time before bedtime. We decided to break out the dominoes and played a rousing game of Chickenfoot (also known giggling-inducingly in our house as "Oh-no-you-didn't!").

The children's enjoyment could not be contained within them, as evidenced by the ever-increasing decibel of their voices. In addition, the giggling-and-falling-all-over-the-floor-silliness that ensued upon completion of the game was proof enough for me that we had somehow engineered a successful evening for all parties involved.

Emma said it was even better than playing her Nintendo.

Ahhh ... Thursday.

Happy Helper

You know your children do not do enough chores around the house when ...

You ask your son to help load the last dishes into the dishwasher and not only does he enthusiastically agree, but he also comments on how fun it is to rinse the dishes and asks if he can please do it more often, even when you are not around. As if you are doing him a favor by finally letting him participate in this super-fun activity you have been greedily keeping to yourself all these years.

Is this kid for real?

It looks like my strategy of not requiring my kids to do much of anything has finally paid off. Now it is time to exploit.

Kitty Goes Cross-eyed

What follows is a story* written and illustrated by Emma Kate Rodriguez.

(*Based on actual events)

Kitty Goes Cross-eyed

by Emma Rodriguez, age 6

One morning, Sebastian went cross-eyed and he said 'Meow' and my brother said,"What is wrong!"

And my brother told my mom and dad that he went cross-eyed.

My mom and dad could not believe what they heard. It sounded like it was not true.

Oh my goodness, how does he do that? That is weird!

THE END.

That's my brother!

Back in the 80's there was a McDonald's commercial that used to make me cry. It followed the relationship through the years between an older brother, his younger sister, and hot, delicious french fries.



If you are a girl with an older brother, you understand my sentimentality.

No matter what, we just can't help loving them, looking up to them. No matter how mercilessly they tease us, tickle us, try out their wrestling moves on us, harass our friends, get us in trouble, push us down the stairs on a tricycle, and, with a well-timed kick of a skateboard, cause us to fly over the handlebars of our bike. They can make us so crazy mad that we chase them around the house with something sharp, and then lock ourselves in the bathroom when we realize that when they find us they will pound us. Even so, nothing can stop us from being in awe of them, trying to be like them and vying for their attention and admiration.

We follow them around. We imitate them. We sneak into their room and snoop through their stuff (sorry). We like what they like (Mmmm, Mountain Dew). We kick butt on the Atari to impress them. We become the goalie on our soccer team because they are a goalie, even though we are afraid of the ball. We play 2-on-2 football with them and the brother and sister down the street (Ivyyyyyy!). We pretend to like classic rock. We allow them to drag us to the civic center to watch Wrestlemania on a big screen (not in person - on a big screen). We willingly take the fall for them and we relish the rare moments when they depend on us.

Why do we do these things?

Because we really and sincerely believe that they are cool. Because they make up funny songs on long car trips (my fave - 'smoke a cigarrette'). Because they get in trouble more than we do and make us look like the well-behaved child. Because they are good at everything. Because they let us date their cute friends and keep us away from their creepy ones. Because when we do something mean and tell them about it, they call us on it, but don't rat us out (or maybe they do, but we deserve it.) Because they let us visit them in college and hang out with their friends. Because they aren't annoyed when we then decide to follow them halfway across the country to said college. Because when we get our heart broken, they pick us up in the middle of the night in the middle of an ice storm and sneak us into their dorm room so we don't have to be alone. Because they always make us laugh. Because they will consider casting themselves off a bridge when they have caused us injury.

Because he is my big brother. Because he is my friend.

Happy birthday, Mike.

Reunited

Several months ago, a cherished member of the family went missing - Whipped Cream, a little fluffy white stuffed dog belonging to my daughter, a gift from her aunt when she was just a baby. Whipped Cream was taken along on a sleepover at a friend's house with Emma and when she returned, Whipped Cream was nowhere to be found. (This discovered at bedtime, of course.)

We looked and looked, but no puppy. Emma was sure she had taken her on the sleepover, though she could not remember what she had done with her when she had packed to come home. So, I called our friends to inquire if they had come across Whipped Cream. They assured me that they had not seen her, but if they did they would let us know right away. I was (secretly) convinced that the puppy MUST be at their house and also (secretly) felt they didn't appreciate the urgency of the situation, but of course I did not say anything to that effect. As we had searched exhaustively for the puppy, there was simply no other explanation.

A few more weeks passed. Every few nights, Emma would emerge from her room, tears on her face, professing her longing for Whipped Cream and her fear that she would never see her again. I frankly had given up hope of ever finding the little dog.

Well, on our recent camping trip, while the kids were in the tent setting up their sleeping bags we heard a delighted squeal and Emma proclaiming, "It's Whipped Cream!! Mom! Dad! She was in my sleeping bag!" (By the way, Emma has a reputation for finding secret hideaways for things and promptly forgetting about them.)

Later that night, as we lay down to go to sleep, with Emma beside me clutching Whipped Cream tightly, I remarked, "What's that smell?"

"What does it smell like?" the family queried.

"I don't know..." I said, "...poop?" eliciting much laughter from the children.

After searching the tent for the source of the offensive odor, I took a whiff of Whipped Cream. Eww. Not poop exactly, but what you would expect a stuffed dog to smell like after it has been wrapped tightly in a sleeping bag for 2 months.

Little girl and little dog were temporarily separated again. Upon returning home, Whipped Cream received a bath and now smells pleasingly of Woolite. And now, if you will excuse me, I must make a quick (sheepish) phone call to our friends to let them know that Whipped Cream (who has, as of this writing, been renamed Vanilla) is home safe and sound.