Lately

Cumming Country Fair:

Myrtle Beach:

Little boys do not think fish heads are gross...

My three-year-old (or a wild boar) got into the cupcakes for my daughter's party.

I should've used gloves. No, I didn't kill the three-year-old. This is food coloring from kneading fondant cake icing.

Birthday cake for nine-year-old vampiress.

Please See Attendant

I'm over the pee in the trash can, the pee on the shower curtain, the pee behind the door, stepping in pee, pee anywhere it can be in the bathroom (except the toilet bowl) and not to mention pee on the seat, of course.



I don't use the kids' bathroom anymore. Ambercutie calls it the "gas station bathroom" because that's how bad it is. It smells like a gas station bathroom in which the door knob is missing and stuffed with toilet paper, there is no soap, the walls are plywood, and you look for hidden cameras. That type.



Where did I go wrong in my toilet training of my boys? I better learn now, because it's only going to get worse. We have four boys (well, three boys and one man) "using" the toilet now, and I still have one to train. I will probably have two more to train if this little one in my womb is a boy (who am I kidding, we KNOW it will be a boy- all of hubby's girl sperm swam away to better families).



I have decided to do another session of toilet training. Potty Training 102. I will stick a sign on the bathroom doors that says, "Please See Attendant." The doors will be locked, so the boys must summon me, the attendant, to unlock them. I will then supervise the visit. The pee better land in the bowl. Put the seat and lid down (ah, how wonderful to not have baby splashing away in the toilet bowl). Flush. Good boy. Now wash your hands! Towel hangs back up. Very nice. I'll put a sticker on your chart.



It should all work out very nicely. Yeah right. Men's restrooms are gross, and I've got one in my very own home. I should just deal with it. Ambercutie and I will go to the nice "women's room" to do our business. Maybe we'll get a little couch or a make-up counter with lights...

Are We Freaks Yet?

Nowadays it is difficult to announce the upcoming birth of a child. If that child is your sixth child. For many reasons, my husband and I have put off sharing our news. Now, we can't hide it anymore.

I have a bump. No wait, I'm 36 and have been pregnant multiple times. I do not have a bump; it's more of a mound. It is now apparent that I have not just put on weight. Plus, people we have told are beginning to leak. The baby news is draining down through the roots of our social network. Friends are shocked. Feelings are hurt. Why aren't we including them with this special announcement? Yet, people feel free to gossip, because at this point, it is gossip. People will "talk" until it is confirmed. The tongues wag: "How many are they going to have?" "They need a hobby." "Those poor kids." "How can they afford it?" We are viewed in a different light. We are different. Freaks even.

Why else would an educated, healthy, financially stable, "normal" couple decide to have so many kids ? Mormon? No. Catholic? No. Quiverfull (whatever the heck that is)? No. What is WRONG with us? That's what people really want to know. We're talking about only six kids, people. That's right, I said "only six." Do you know how many ancestors are laughing in their graves right now?

By the way, shouldn't all the educated, healthy, financially stable, "normal" couples be the ones having lots of kids? Hasn't anyone seen Idiocracy?

Do others feel guilty that they must not love their children because they didn't want more of them? That the two children they do have drives their bourbon-at-bedtime habit? Do they hold us in contempt because of what our multiplication must be doing to Mother Earth? Are they quietly or openly scornful that we must be neglecting our dirty, hungry, howling-for-attention brood? Perhaps others are frustrated that they can't figure out how we are raising such a large family and wanting more? Aren't we zombies already? Will we have to take out a second mortgage to pay the food bill or to hire a laundry management team? Are we exhausting their imaginations by living and wanting a life that is hard for them to imagine?

I think most people are glad it is us and not them. That is their choice and right. Just like it is ours.

Land of Bribes

Like most families, we rely on bribery from time to time to get our children to cooperate. Here's a piece of gum for not waking the baby or a soft drink for helping the little brother wash his hands. Sugar works. That's one of the reasons we are so stingy with it. That and we want the chocolate all to ourselves.

Lately the bribery has extended to the grown-ups. Steve will go buy some ice cream if I will make the baby stop crying (if I knew how, he wouldn't be crying!). Tonight I bribed him with a "special treat" if he would just take screaming Bubble Boy outside.

We have begun a new chapter. How often will bribes imprint themselves on the pages of our lives? Will this be a satisfying, funny thing or an annoying, "wish we hadn't started that" thing?

I'd give five dollars to know.

On My Honor....

The weekend before last I camped with my daughter's Brownie troop. I was one of two moms to "rough it" overnight with four giggling third graders. Half of the troop couldn't make it, mainly due to illness (H1N1 has made a home here in Georgia). So, it was a fairly easy gig due to the small group.

We were competing in an "Iron Chef" challenge. Each troop was given a secret ingredient and was to make a dinner to share with the other troops. Our ingredient was chicken. We planned to make chicken pot pie. The other mom, Bridget, had brought portable propane Webber grills to make the dinner on. Neither one of us had used them before. I have a Coleman stove that we use when we camp, so at least I was familiar with using propane.

The first problem was that she had brought the wrong sized propane. The Webber grill used the long, skinny cannister, and we had the short, fat one. We finally decided that shouldn't make much difference, and we used the short cannisters.

When it was time to start dinner, Bridget had to go home to check on her daughters who were sick (how great of her to follow through with her committment even after her own Brownie got sick!). Sandy came to help me with dinner. We read the directions for lighting the grill, which indicated we needed to take the lid off first. We dutifully complied, and I put my hand on the handle as shown. I pushed the ignition button. BLAM! Flames shot out the side of the grill onto my arm and toward the tent (er, sleeping shelter). I FELT the flames hit my skin and scorch off my arm hair. Fortunately, the contact was so brief, I didn't get burned. Just hair removal. I could smell the burnt hair too. In reality, the biggest problem this presented was that I now had one hairy arm and one smooth arm. At the time, however, we all stood around with our mouths open and took two steps back from the grill. I shut it off immediately.

After the shock wore off, we pondered our second problem. The "explosion" could have been caused by the wrong sized container of propane. It also could have been caused by the pans that were on top of the grill (the directions had said remove the lid; maybe these pans acted like a lid). The problem is that we didn't know which caused the arm scorch, and we were afraid to try again. Why don't direcitons tell WHY we aren't supposed to do things! Wouldn't it have been nice if Webber had said, "if you have a lid or pan on top of the grill during ignition, your face might melt off" or "if you use the wrong size of propane you could end up needing to buy a new tent while firefighters calm your hyperventilating Brownie troop."

Thankfully, I brought my trusty Coleman stove and we used that. However, we didn't have enough time to do the pot pie due to our pyrotechnic show and its ensuing confusion . We ended up making a casserole. It was still yummy, but it didn't win the competition. That honor went to "Natural Gas Chili" made by a troop who may have sucked up a little too much by giving their dish its own theme song (you might imagine some of the lyrics).

After we prepared and eaten our casserole, I found out some distasteful news. As per competition rules, the girls had to do most of the cooking and prep work. The girls took turns chopping the chicken, but one girl did the most chopping. This girl had arrived a little late to the campsite, because she needed to get cleaned up after swimming in the lake (or so I thought). It turns out she needed to change clothes and get cleaned up after having a bout of diarrhea. She was chopping the chicken! The chicken we fed to everyone there! I don't think anyone would disagree with me if I say that a third grader, who has just changed her clothes due to a fecal mishap, should not be chopping chicken.

Despite these minor blunders , I am glad I went with my daughter. She was on cloud nine when she found out I was one of the camping moms. She kept bragging to her brothers that she and mommy were going camping without them. "Without them" is probably what she relished most. Steve and I have realized over the course of parenthood so far, that our kids need to encounter occasions of "only childness." Luckily for us, it happens naturally due to the different activities our kids are involved in. So, if I ever have another opportunity to provide my child with a stint of "only childness" such as camping alone with mom, "on my honor" I will try to capture it, chicken shit and free arm hair removal withstanding.

An Ant in the Sun

Last night my son called me into his room to show me a fire ant he killed. "I smashed it against the wall, Mom," he said proudly. He picked up the crumpled insect to show me.

"That's not a fire ant," I said. "Fire ants are red; that one is black." He had a look of horror on his face. He didn't want to believe he killed an innocent "friendly" ant.

Finally, he said, "Tomorrow we will take it and put it in the sunlight, and it will come back to life." I calmly (read: madly trying not to laugh) explained to him that sunlight does not make things come back to life. "But J.T. said it does!" I told him I was older and wiser than his brother and again insisted sunlight will not make the little ant crawl around and do anty things again.

I said, "If you want to, we can do an experiment and put the ant in the sun tomorrow. We will see if it comes back to life." By that time he was defeated. He smeared the ant on his pajamas and flung himself in bed.

Sweet dreams, little repentant bug killer.

On Frogs and Other Things

This weekend my children were playing at the water table we have on the deck. Critter touched what he thought was a toy frog. He screamed (he is a ten-year-old who screams like a little girl) when the "toy" moved. It turned out to be a green tree frog. We looked it up on the internet, and it had not yet been documented in our county. Our county is the farthest north in Georgia in which the frog has been spotted. I think we parents were more excited about this than the kids.

Later on that night, Bubble Boy decided he did want to eat his chili after all. He sat at the table and started chowing down. Steve and I were watching t.v. in the adjacent living room. I looked over at the table, and Bubble Boy was gone. "Where's Bubble Boy?" I say. Steve says, "He must have gone back to bed." "Oh, O.K." We preceded to have sex right there in the living room, watch porn, cuss like truck drivers, get drunk, worship the devil... JUST KIDDING! I was still shocked to see him sleeping under the table. What if we were doing all those things? What if I left him there all night and creepy things crawled on him (there is always some kind of grub left under our table to which creepy things might be attracted)?
Don't ask me why he's wearing Halloween pajamas in August. Laundry is a challenge around here. He's lucky he's not wearing a Cinderella nightgown.
Maybe he just wanted to be first in line for breakfast in the morning. I think there's only one bowl of Captain Crunch left. Who knows when Mommy will break down and buy Cavity Crunch again!