So, it's finally summer vacation. There's no need to rush in the morning, there's no homework at night. Why isn't every day like summer vacation? Why do my kids need an education anyway? They're overachievers at Candy Crush, which is all they need to survive in this world.
(insert Charlie Brown's teacher's voice)
Wait. It isn't?
Damn.
Since
Candy Crush has made me become a neglectful asshole to my children the last few
months, I have committed myself to making this summer the hap-hap-happiest one
the boys have ever seen. (And I can say
that because it’s still the beginning of summer and I haven’t gotten anywhere close
to failing.)
School has been out for about 2 weeks. I
was a good parent by putting down my damphone long enough to drive to each of
their end-of-year ceremonies (but then picked up the damphone to take
pictures [my phone is great and awful, I have a hard time staying mad at it]).
Now that we’re home, I want to make memories.
My mother did tons of stuff with us when we were kids. Unfortunately, we remember none of it (sorry,
Mom!), but at least she has some good memories.
And, deep down, I know those memories are in me somewhere and will keep
me warm when I’m old and alone in a dilapidated nursing home because I didn’t have
girls and my daughters-in-law refuse to take me in. I know I had a wonderful childhood and would gladly
give my right arm to experience again the warm peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches and cold Dr. Peppers at the neighborhood pool of my youth.
I want my kids to give away their arms, too.
So, we’re going to have fun this summer, damit.
And, here we are, the Summer of Fun (damit).
First stop? The library.
Oh, you read that right. We went to the
library. Because, according to our
principal, our kids get stupid over the summer and it’s our job to make sure
they don’t get too stupid. So, we’re reading every day. And by “read”, I mean “they read, I play
Candy Crush”.
I see you raising your eyebrows, lady in the third row. Judge not lest ye be judged, yo.
Unfortunately, it’s been 40 degrees and rainy to begin our summer vacation, so
there hasn’t been a chance to eat warm peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at
the pool. Because we have a visitor
every Wednesday and I wanted to make sure he had fun, I needed to be more
creative. It’s one thing to disappoint
your own children (what else is therapy for?), it’s quite another to disappoint
someone else’s.
Who cares what the motivation is as long as we’re motivated, mIright?
So, we’ve visited the zoo. We have a
yearly pass, which pays for itself with one visit. Now, we can go to the zoo first thing in the
morning, see our favorite animals (Hi, giraffes!) and get the hello out of there
(Bye, giraffes!).
This week, the weather is finally cooperating.
We were able to go to the nature center (Hi, tadpoles! Bye, tadpoles!) and the beach (Hi, trash in
the sand! Be careful, don’t step on that
glass! Clean up after yourselves, you
punk kids!) and finally (finally!) the pool yesterday. The 5-year-old jumped in without hesitation…
and forgot he had to actually swim in
order to not drown.
Details.
I’m also chronicling our adventures on Instagram. You guys?
I don’t get Instagram. I mean, I
know what I use it for. I like to take
my silly pictures and make them pretty.
But… then what? You post them so
people can like them? And you now feel
vindicated because someone does, in fact, like them? What’s Facebook for then?
And now that I’ve wasted precious minutes writing this post, I must get back to
my Summer of Fun. Next stop: The MOON!
Beat that, lady in the third row.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Why I'll never be Mother of the Year
So, I work part-time, right? It's a nice little gig - I like what I do, I like the people, I get adult time. But, being part-time, the best part is that I get to spend more time home with the family.
Today was one of my days off. I had a dentist appointment in the morning, so, after the children were shipped off to school, I went to the dentist. With sparkling white teeth, I realized I had some time to spare before picking up the little ones from pre-school, so I went to the grocery store.
(Sidenote: There's nothing better than going to the store (Target, grocery, drug, whatever) without children. While I love my children (and nieces) to pieces, I barely get out of a store without wringing one of their scrawny little necks.
"Can I have..."
"NO!")
Anyway, I spent a lovely hour in the store, finally remembering to buy the things we've been out of for weeks now (another reason going to the store with children is an annoyance - you remember to buy nothing on your list, but still spend $100, without fail).
I got to the preschool in time to pick up my 5-year-old and my niece, noticing the parking lot is filled to the brim with cars. Odd. The school is attached to a church, so I thought maybe there was a church service today (you know, because today is National Pig in a Blanket Day).
Happy National Pig in a Blanket Day, by the way.
I went in and noticed all these parents leaving with their kids, talking about how well they sang in the program.
(insert record needle scratching sound effect)
Program? What program?
Damit.
You know, very rarely do school events land on one of my days off. And I almost always have to rearrange my work schedule so I can make it to these events. Because I love being able to participate in anything that has to do with my kids. Some might call it suffocating, I call it loving.
And the one day I don't have to do anything to make an event? I neglect to read the colorful papers the school sent home, notifying the parents of this program and I MISS IT.
Epic. Fail.
THE WORST PART (you ready?)
My 5-year-old (as we're walking to the car): Mommy, did you see me sing?
Sigh.
Actually, I don't know what's worse. The fact that I missed it or the fact that he didn't notice I wasn't there?
I should've lied. If he didn't notice, why ruin it for him?
Hopefully, this doesn't cause permanent damage to his psyche.
I figure if I give him enough Oreos for dessert, he won't even remember his name.
The Mother of the Year people are calling the authorities as we speak.
Today was one of my days off. I had a dentist appointment in the morning, so, after the children were shipped off to school, I went to the dentist. With sparkling white teeth, I realized I had some time to spare before picking up the little ones from pre-school, so I went to the grocery store.
(Sidenote: There's nothing better than going to the store (Target, grocery, drug, whatever) without children. While I love my children (and nieces) to pieces, I barely get out of a store without wringing one of their scrawny little necks.
"Can I have..."
"NO!")
Anyway, I spent a lovely hour in the store, finally remembering to buy the things we've been out of for weeks now (another reason going to the store with children is an annoyance - you remember to buy nothing on your list, but still spend $100, without fail).
I got to the preschool in time to pick up my 5-year-old and my niece, noticing the parking lot is filled to the brim with cars. Odd. The school is attached to a church, so I thought maybe there was a church service today (you know, because today is National Pig in a Blanket Day).
Happy National Pig in a Blanket Day, by the way.
I went in and noticed all these parents leaving with their kids, talking about how well they sang in the program.
(insert record needle scratching sound effect)
Program? What program?
Damit.
You know, very rarely do school events land on one of my days off. And I almost always have to rearrange my work schedule so I can make it to these events. Because I love being able to participate in anything that has to do with my kids. Some might call it suffocating, I call it loving.
And the one day I don't have to do anything to make an event? I neglect to read the colorful papers the school sent home, notifying the parents of this program and I MISS IT.
Epic. Fail.
THE WORST PART (you ready?)
My 5-year-old (as we're walking to the car): Mommy, did you see me sing?
Sigh.
Actually, I don't know what's worse. The fact that I missed it or the fact that he didn't notice I wasn't there?
I should've lied. If he didn't notice, why ruin it for him?
Hopefully, this doesn't cause permanent damage to his psyche.
I figure if I give him enough Oreos for dessert, he won't even remember his name.
The Mother of the Year people are calling the authorities as we speak.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
The dumbest game ever invented.
I’ve recently been made aware of the game Candy Crush. And, for that, I’d like to punch that little
rabble-rouser (scallywag? demagogue? tub-thumper? [my personal fave]) in the throat.
I have always been a big fan of puzzle games. Tetris on the GameBoy? My. GAME. After my now-5-year-old was born, I became highly addicted to Bejeweled. So, while my now-8-year-old watched Cars (Every. Single. Day.), I played Bejeweled. I cannot think of Cars without thinking Bejeweled. To add to that, I cannot think of my now-5-year-old as a newborn without Cars and Bejeweled.
I have always been a big fan of puzzle games. Tetris on the GameBoy? My. GAME. After my now-5-year-old was born, I became highly addicted to Bejeweled. So, while my now-8-year-old watched Cars (Every. Single. Day.), I played Bejeweled. I cannot think of Cars without thinking Bejeweled. To add to that, I cannot think of my now-5-year-old as a newborn without Cars and Bejeweled.
Yes, it was that bad.
Since that time, I have kept a fair distance from these games. Instead, I get sucked into things like Scrabble. Or Twilight.
Hunh. Maybe I have an addictive personality. Better it be silly teen angst novels instead of drugs, mIright? Too bad my addiction isn’t curing cancer.
So, it’s been over a week since I’ve learned of this new aggravation in my life (as if I needed another – I mean, I have children) and I cannot stop playing. I have also gotten my husband involved, so he’s been cursing me all week.
I try to stop. Really, I do. Because my Scrabble and Scramble games are now suffering for it (yes, friends, you can nudge me all you want, I’ll get to those games when I get to them). My son and co-worker and both offered to delete the game from my phone and I just about chewed their arms off.
When does it end??
For 3 days, I was stuck on Level 29. I actually went so far as to update my FB status, cursing this game. Which, of course, led to me finding how many other people play this game.
People who can give me lives.
There is something about the ridiculous high you get when you make a great move, which sets off at least 5 other great moves. It's like a drug to me. (See? It’s really a good thing that real drugs scare the piss out of me.)
I constantly text my neighbor (who is much further along on this never-ending candy road, I might add), whining that I cannot, repeat, CANNOT, beat this level. She has talked me off the ledge several times now, reminding me to never EVER buy lives or power ups.
She’s the reason I’m still here, people.
And now that my lives have reloaded, I’m going back in there. See you on the other side.
Since that time, I have kept a fair distance from these games. Instead, I get sucked into things like Scrabble. Or Twilight.
Hunh. Maybe I have an addictive personality. Better it be silly teen angst novels instead of drugs, mIright? Too bad my addiction isn’t curing cancer.
So, it’s been over a week since I’ve learned of this new aggravation in my life (as if I needed another – I mean, I have children) and I cannot stop playing. I have also gotten my husband involved, so he’s been cursing me all week.
I try to stop. Really, I do. Because my Scrabble and Scramble games are now suffering for it (yes, friends, you can nudge me all you want, I’ll get to those games when I get to them). My son and co-worker and both offered to delete the game from my phone and I just about chewed their arms off.
When does it end??
For 3 days, I was stuck on Level 29. I actually went so far as to update my FB status, cursing this game. Which, of course, led to me finding how many other people play this game.
People who can give me lives.
There is something about the ridiculous high you get when you make a great move, which sets off at least 5 other great moves. It's like a drug to me. (See? It’s really a good thing that real drugs scare the piss out of me.)
I constantly text my neighbor (who is much further along on this never-ending candy road, I might add), whining that I cannot, repeat, CANNOT, beat this level. She has talked me off the ledge several times now, reminding me to never EVER buy lives or power ups.
She’s the reason I’m still here, people.
And now that my lives have reloaded, I’m going back in there. See you on the other side.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
I signed up for my first 5k. No, really.
I've always wanted to be a runner.
Bwahaha!
No, I'm lying.
When I was young, I used to run all the time. Frolick, I think it was called. I'd run here, there and everywhere. Freeeeeeedommm! My dad used to say all the time that I was fast. That was back when running was a means to get from Point A to Point B. And this was all before I had a driver's license.
I drive now.
Over time, running became... haaaaaarrrdd. And I wanted to do it less. And I'd tell anyone who asked (or didn't ask) that running was bad for your joints and you shouldn't do it.
Heh. Right. That's why I didn't run.
But, I've always liked the idea of running. I've always wanted to pretend I was a runner. You know, that motivated, energetic, disciplined, happy, fit type person? That's how ads portray runners anyway:
But it's not like that for me when I run. When I run, I pretty much look like this:
But, I'm always in awe of the ones who make it look so easy. How do they do that? And how can I get me some of that??
I have a friend who's been a runner her whole life. She said that running helps her clear her mind. I'm not quite sure how that happens. I guess when you spend the time thinking "this sucks" or "why am I doing this" rather than thinking about whatever was bothering you, it might help. But otherwise? No. Just no.
Or, at least, that's how it used to be for me.
The last couple years, I've done the "Couch to 5K" system to help me run when the weather's nice. And I'm ashamed to say I've never finished. I'm not even sure I've made it past week 3 in years' past. It's just so hard for me to get motivated. I don't crave exercise like mycrazy lovely SIL. I'd rather read. Or watch TV. Or do laundry.
But, this year? No more. I signed up for a 5K. I HAVE to do it this time becauseI've already paid the money I want to finish something. I want to know what it's like to run 3 miles nonstop. Forrest Gump ran for years (mostly) nonstop and I can't do a silly little 3.10686 miles?
Well, not this time! I'm running. And I might still look like picture #2, but I don't care. Because I feel that high after I'm done running (mostly because I'm done running) and I like it.
Bwahaha!
No, I'm lying.
When I was young, I used to run all the time. Frolick, I think it was called. I'd run here, there and everywhere. Freeeeeeedommm! My dad used to say all the time that I was fast. That was back when running was a means to get from Point A to Point B. And this was all before I had a driver's license.
I drive now.
Over time, running became... haaaaaarrrdd. And I wanted to do it less. And I'd tell anyone who asked (or didn't ask) that running was bad for your joints and you shouldn't do it.
Heh. Right. That's why I didn't run.
But, I've always liked the idea of running. I've always wanted to pretend I was a runner. You know, that motivated, energetic, disciplined, happy, fit type person? That's how ads portray runners anyway:
But it's not like that for me when I run. When I run, I pretty much look like this:
But, I'm always in awe of the ones who make it look so easy. How do they do that? And how can I get me some of that??
I have a friend who's been a runner her whole life. She said that running helps her clear her mind. I'm not quite sure how that happens. I guess when you spend the time thinking "this sucks" or "why am I doing this" rather than thinking about whatever was bothering you, it might help. But otherwise? No. Just no.
Or, at least, that's how it used to be for me.
The last couple years, I've done the "Couch to 5K" system to help me run when the weather's nice. And I'm ashamed to say I've never finished. I'm not even sure I've made it past week 3 in years' past. It's just so hard for me to get motivated. I don't crave exercise like my
But, this year? No more. I signed up for a 5K. I HAVE to do it this time because
Well, not this time! I'm running. And I might still look like picture #2, but I don't care. Because I feel that high after I'm done running (mostly because I'm done running) and I like it.
Teaching a kid to spell: a tutorial
So, my 5-year-old is in preschool, right? "Pre-K Plus" is what they call his class. Basically, there are 15 kids in the class and 2 of them are taking it as their actual Kindergarten requirement. So, he's getting a Kindergarten education a year early.
Sounds great, right? I thought so. That's why I signed him up for it (brilliant, aren't I?)!
I love his school. I love his teacher, I love all the teachers in the school. I love the school's principles, I love the school's principal. I just love this school. He comes home every day, excited to tell me what he's learned. I mean, he's learned the solar system, fercryinoutloud. The school is awesome.
Today was no different. We went out to lunch afterward and, after he told me about how he played basketball in gym, he asked to practice his letters. I handed over my notebook and pen and off he went. He practiced his name, he drew some pictures of tornadoes (it's raining here today) and then we played the "Mom, how do you spell..." game.
You know, the English language is dumb. (Even dumb is spelled wrong. Why can't it just be dum? Or do we just pronounce it wrong? Man, that's dumB. I'm going to try that for a little while - see where it gets me. DumBie.) My 5-year-old knows all his letters and the sounds they make, so spelling should come quite naturally, right?
WRONG.
This is how the conversation went:
Him: Mom, how do you spell "zebra"?
Me: Sound it out. What makes the "zuh" sound? (I know, I should've been a teacher, mIright?)
Him: Z?
Me: Good! What makes the "eeeee" sound? (Okay, I practically gave him that one, but whatever.)
Him: E?
Me: Great! What makes the "buh"...
You get the idea.
But then this happened:
Him: How do you spell "spoon"?
Me: What makes the "sssss" sound?
Him: C?
Me: Well, yes, but very rarely. It also makes a "kuh" sound. What else makes the "sssss" sound?
Him: S?
Me: Yep!
And then this:
Him: How do you spell "cup"?
Me: What makes the "kuh" sound?
Him: K?
Me: Well, yes. What else? (Read: I just taught you this a few minutes ago; if you have forgotten, read the above example. Go on. Read.)
Him: C?
Me: Great!
And THEN this!
Him: Mom, how do you spell "kite"?
Me: What makes the "kuh" sound?
Him: C?
See how damdifficult this is? Why does his version seem more logical than what's correct?
DumB language.
Sounds great, right? I thought so. That's why I signed him up for it (brilliant, aren't I?)!
I love his school. I love his teacher, I love all the teachers in the school. I love the school's principles, I love the school's principal. I just love this school. He comes home every day, excited to tell me what he's learned. I mean, he's learned the solar system, fercryinoutloud. The school is awesome.
Today was no different. We went out to lunch afterward and, after he told me about how he played basketball in gym, he asked to practice his letters. I handed over my notebook and pen and off he went. He practiced his name, he drew some pictures of tornadoes (it's raining here today) and then we played the "Mom, how do you spell..." game.
You know, the English language is dumb. (Even dumb is spelled wrong. Why can't it just be dum? Or do we just pronounce it wrong? Man, that's dumB. I'm going to try that for a little while - see where it gets me. DumBie.) My 5-year-old knows all his letters and the sounds they make, so spelling should come quite naturally, right?
WRONG.
This is how the conversation went:
Him: Mom, how do you spell "zebra"?
Me: Sound it out. What makes the "zuh" sound? (I know, I should've been a teacher, mIright?)
Him: Z?
Me: Good! What makes the "eeeee" sound? (Okay, I practically gave him that one, but whatever.)
Him: E?
Me: Great! What makes the "buh"...
You get the idea.
But then this happened:
Him: How do you spell "spoon"?
Me: What makes the "sssss" sound?
Him: C?
Me: Well, yes, but very rarely. It also makes a "kuh" sound. What else makes the "sssss" sound?
Him: S?
Me: Yep!
And then this:
Him: How do you spell "cup"?
Me: What makes the "kuh" sound?
Him: K?
Me: Well, yes. What else? (Read: I just taught you this a few minutes ago; if you have forgotten, read the above example. Go on. Read.)
Him: C?
Me: Great!
And THEN this!
Him: Mom, how do you spell "kite"?
Me: What makes the "kuh" sound?
Him: C?
See how damdifficult this is? Why does his version seem more logical than what's correct?
DumB language.
Monday, April 8, 2013
The longest month. Ever.
March has always been my least favorite month. It’s cold, it’s hot, it is cold. Again.
The first day the weather finally breaks, I always get so excited. I’m ready to take the outdoor furniture out
of hibernation, transfer my winter clothes to
hibernation, spend every waking second in the glorious sunshine.
And then it snows again.
Sonofa.
To top it off, my family insists on waiting until the last possible second of the cold and flu season to actually contract the colds and flus. I always get my hopes up, thinking we got out of the season unscathed, only to find that we get run over by the Sickness Truck in March.
This March, in particular, had been especially long because the viruses themselves last so long. Aren’t stomach viruses just supposed to last a day or 2? What is this recurrence shit?? It has been going on in my house for over a month and I am FED UP.
I have a bit of Emetophobia. And when I say “bit”, I really mean, “a big honkin’ dose of it”. Last winter, I rushed my family out the back door of our elementary school during a movie night because some kid got sick. I. Just. Can’t. Deal.
Which, of course, makes me an epic failure as a parent.
And? It didn’t matter anyway because we all ended up with it. And, lucky me, I got both the stomach virus and the regular flu all in the same month (of course, it was March) last year. It was awesome.
But, it’s the waiting for it that I can’t handle. Because, once we do contract the stomach virus, I go into Military Commander mode. I prep the patient’s quarters, I wait a safe amount of hours before beginning the BRAT diet, I clean the house like a machine. I clean each. individual. Lego. piece. I am prepared. In control.
Exhausted.
Why can’t we just skip it? Just one year?
Now that it’s April, you think we’d be done with the damillnesses. But noooooooooooo. Because my husband woke up this morning sick.
It’s enough to make you cry.
And what did I do about that (because I'm a loving, wonderful wife)? Did I:
A. Hug him, and (with tears in my eyes) tell him he'll feel better soon, give him a Gatorade and quietly tell the boys to steer clear of their father while slowly backing out of the room?
B. Yell at him for going through 4 bottles of wine with my family last night, which, in turn, made him sick this morning and, in turn, made me late for work because I had to get the boys ready?
If you picked A, you don't know me very well.
Fine, I did B. You know why? Because I have to believe it's a hangover in order to feel safe in my own home again. I am D.O.N.E.
But, I did give him a Gatorade and blew him a kiss (from the other side of the house) before we left. I'm not that much of an asshat.
So, even though it’s technically the second week of April, I’m going to continue thinking it’s March until this mother lovin’ virus has left my house for good. I really really don’t want to go to prison for making my family drink Lysol.
And then it snows again.
Sonofa.
To top it off, my family insists on waiting until the last possible second of the cold and flu season to actually contract the colds and flus. I always get my hopes up, thinking we got out of the season unscathed, only to find that we get run over by the Sickness Truck in March.
This March, in particular, had been especially long because the viruses themselves last so long. Aren’t stomach viruses just supposed to last a day or 2? What is this recurrence shit?? It has been going on in my house for over a month and I am FED UP.
I have a bit of Emetophobia. And when I say “bit”, I really mean, “a big honkin’ dose of it”. Last winter, I rushed my family out the back door of our elementary school during a movie night because some kid got sick. I. Just. Can’t. Deal.
Which, of course, makes me an epic failure as a parent.
And? It didn’t matter anyway because we all ended up with it. And, lucky me, I got both the stomach virus and the regular flu all in the same month (of course, it was March) last year. It was awesome.
But, it’s the waiting for it that I can’t handle. Because, once we do contract the stomach virus, I go into Military Commander mode. I prep the patient’s quarters, I wait a safe amount of hours before beginning the BRAT diet, I clean the house like a machine. I clean each. individual. Lego. piece. I am prepared. In control.
Exhausted.
Why can’t we just skip it? Just one year?
Now that it’s April, you think we’d be done with the damillnesses. But noooooooooooo. Because my husband woke up this morning sick.
It’s enough to make you cry.
And what did I do about that (because I'm a loving, wonderful wife)? Did I:
A. Hug him, and (with tears in my eyes) tell him he'll feel better soon, give him a Gatorade and quietly tell the boys to steer clear of their father while slowly backing out of the room?
B. Yell at him for going through 4 bottles of wine with my family last night, which, in turn, made him sick this morning and, in turn, made me late for work because I had to get the boys ready?
If you picked A, you don't know me very well.
Fine, I did B. You know why? Because I have to believe it's a hangover in order to feel safe in my own home again. I am D.O.N.E.
But, I did give him a Gatorade and blew him a kiss (from the other side of the house) before we left. I'm not that much of an asshat.
So, even though it’s technically the second week of April, I’m going to continue thinking it’s March until this mother lovin’ virus has left my house for good. I really really don’t want to go to prison for making my family drink Lysol.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Why do we do this to ourselves?
It's the night before Valentine's
and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring...
Except for the idiot motherwho waited until the last possible second whose mind is a-whirring,
And eyes are a-blurring,
And, because of the wine, her speech is a-slurring.
I had every intention to get on top of things this year. Because I suck at this stuff, I usually find myself the night before Valentine's Day, cajoling a whining child to sign his name to 25 Valentines. I really really appreciate that Target sells these nice (read: easy) little Valentine ensembles, with the candy already included. All the kid has to do is sign. his. name. Easy, right?
Wrong.
How hard is it to sign a damn name? Good grief, you'd think I was asking him to sign his life over to the Dark Side or something.
At this point, he'd probably rather do that.
This year, my darling sister (love her!) wanted to do something cute with the older kids. Homemade Valentines! Because, at this age, what kid doesn't like homemade... anything, really? Forget the box of Star Wars Valentines with the glow-in-the-dark light sabers! Or the ones with Fun Dip. Kids don't like candy!
To be fair, the Valentines she made for the 8-year-old were adorable. They're space-themed, each kid gets a bouncy ball (that represents a planet). Neat, right?
Again, wrong.
For one thing, the dambouncy balls don't stay put. So, we had to tape them in. Guess what? We ran out of tape (from 2 tape dispensers). So, I told him to just shove the balls in their holes (wow, ew) and, if they come out before he hands out his Valentines, he can just stick them back in. I mean, what else can we do? He's not happy, but that's what you get with homemade.
Reminder for next year: Go. To. Target.
Additionally, I'm the mom helper for the 5-year-old's Valentine's Day party. Great, right?
I spoke with the other mom helper and we agreed to divide and conquer. She was going to come up with a game, I was going to get a craft. We would split the snacks.
About a day ago Last week 2 weeks ago, I finally got around to checking checked out my old friend, Pinterest (still love that Pinterest!) for a craft idea. I was sure I'd find something quick and easy. But, you know, life happens (read: I got lost in the Hunger Games trilogy) and I had to beg my sister to find the quick and easy something for me. And, of course, she did (bless her). All it takes is some paper plates, construction paper, googly eyes and glue. I can do this. I have paper plates. I have construction paper. I know I have googly eyes in the house. Somewhere.
Of course, I can't find the dameyes. I still had to get the damsnack for the party (damn you, Hunger Games [said while shaking fist]!), so I dragged the boys out shopping tonight after dinner (after I wrapped up book #2). 2 hours, 3 stores, and no googly eyes later, I got home and called my mother. And? She had googly eyes! And? Since my brother was already over there, she had him drop them off! But? Her eyes aren't the sticker ones. Which means, of course, they won't stick with any amount of glue, I don't care what anyone says.
Big sigh.
I still have to cut out the body parts for this stupid craft that the little people can unsuccessfully glue onto their plates, pack up everyone's valentines into their respective bags, make sure I put the party snacks somewhere I won't forget (which, most likely, won't work and I'll have to turn around in the morning to get them, thereby not allowing me a Starbucks before school) and still find something red for everyone to wear tomorrow. Because we've got that lovin' feeling!
Happy damValentine's Day!
and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring...
Except for the idiot mother
And eyes are a-blurring,
And, because of the wine, her speech is a-slurring.
I had every intention to get on top of things this year. Because I suck at this stuff, I usually find myself the night before Valentine's Day, cajoling a whining child to sign his name to 25 Valentines. I really really appreciate that Target sells these nice (read: easy) little Valentine ensembles, with the candy already included. All the kid has to do is sign. his. name. Easy, right?
Wrong.
How hard is it to sign a damn name? Good grief, you'd think I was asking him to sign his life over to the Dark Side or something.
At this point, he'd probably rather do that.
This year, my darling sister (love her!) wanted to do something cute with the older kids. Homemade Valentines! Because, at this age, what kid doesn't like homemade... anything, really? Forget the box of Star Wars Valentines with the glow-in-the-dark light sabers! Or the ones with Fun Dip. Kids don't like candy!
To be fair, the Valentines she made for the 8-year-old were adorable. They're space-themed, each kid gets a bouncy ball (that represents a planet). Neat, right?
Again, wrong.
For one thing, the dambouncy balls don't stay put. So, we had to tape them in. Guess what? We ran out of tape (from 2 tape dispensers). So, I told him to just shove the balls in their holes (wow, ew) and, if they come out before he hands out his Valentines, he can just stick them back in. I mean, what else can we do? He's not happy, but that's what you get with homemade.
Reminder for next year: Go. To. Target.
Additionally, I'm the mom helper for the 5-year-old's Valentine's Day party. Great, right?
I spoke with the other mom helper and we agreed to divide and conquer. She was going to come up with a game, I was going to get a craft. We would split the snacks.
Of course, I can't find the dameyes. I still had to get the damsnack for the party (damn you, Hunger Games [said while shaking fist]!), so I dragged the boys out shopping tonight after dinner (after I wrapped up book #2). 2 hours, 3 stores, and no googly eyes later, I got home and called my mother. And? She had googly eyes! And? Since my brother was already over there, she had him drop them off! But? Her eyes aren't the sticker ones. Which means, of course, they won't stick with any amount of glue, I don't care what anyone says.
Big sigh.
I still have to cut out the body parts for this stupid craft that the little people can unsuccessfully glue onto their plates, pack up everyone's valentines into their respective bags, make sure I put the party snacks somewhere I won't forget (which, most likely, won't work and I'll have to turn around in the morning to get them, thereby not allowing me a Starbucks before school) and still find something red for everyone to wear tomorrow. Because we've got that lovin' feeling!
Happy damValentine's Day!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)