Jared Says...

     Jared is a major drama king, if you haven't figured it out by now.  He gets bored easily, and spends considerable time dreaming up ways to get out of doing things.  Church is no exception...the teachers in Primary (our children's church) often bring Jared to find us while trying to holding back a smile over the latest reason why he must see Mommy or Daddy.  He usually asks for Daddy, since Mommy figured the game out last November when Jared dramatically "passed out" in the middle of Singing Time.  (He watches too much "House").

     Today's ploy involved Jared needing to speak to Daddy about a "personal problem".  Dima ended up taking him to the bathroom, where Jared complained long and loud about how his butt itched.  When they exited the stall after this diatribe, they came face to face with the Stake President, one of the regional leaders of our church.  He had a broad smile on his face, much to Dima's embarrassment.  Jared was completely unperturbed about the whole incident - after all, doesn't everyone's butt itch at some point?

Sorry, President Sweeney.  I'm sure you learned much more than you expected during your visit to the restroom today.
   

In honor of our trip to see the Beachy Amish in Brandenton yesterday...

Never Throw Fish At a Pregnant Woman

My pregnancies have never been a piece of cake.  We began our family while in our thirties and my body has never truly accepted the fact that every few years an alien parasite is going to invade for nine months.  Sleep towards the end of the pregnancy has always been an elusive game for me.  I’ve tried every pillow, sleeping position, and mattress topper known to man but I still end up lugging myself back and forth between the bed and a cushy armchair.  One wee hour, as I was attempting yet another school bus U-turn repositioning in the bed, I told my dear husband (who by the way DID this to me) that I felt like Shamu trying to perform a flip at Sea World.

          “Next time I’ll toss you some fish”.

          It’s phenomenal how fast you can locate someone’s throat in pitch blackness.  He isn't always so dense though.  He is generally supportive with sometimes hilarious results.  We were sent to the emergency room once during my first pregnancy, and my husband looked gravely concerned on the drive over.  Wishing to reassure him, I asked what he was worried about.

          “Will they give you an RV?”

          “What?”

          “You know...an RV,” he repeated, slowly.

          I had to think about this for a minute.  Maybe the hospital was having some sort of raffle I didn’t know about…you know, “Hey!  You’re the one millionth pregnant chick to waddle through our doors!  Tell her what she’s won, Johnny!”

          “Well, that would be good,” I replied, kinda quizzically.  “We could always sell it or something.”

          “Sell it??”  He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “What???”

          “We aren’t talking about the same thing, are we?”  This happens sometimes.  OK, a lot.

          “R…V…” he repeated again in exasperation.  “R…V.  You know, they stick it in your arm with a needle?”

          I was laughing so hard by the time we got to the hospital that I was bright red in the face and panicked some nurses who thought I was in labor.  I just couldn’t get the image out of my head of some poor soul trying to drive a Winnebago with a giant needle between the headlights into a vein in my arm.

          My husband has never seen the humor in this incident.

         

         

Jared Says...

OK, I lied.  Jared hasn't been talking much today...he lost his first tooth last night, and has been completely obsessed with some parachuting soldier toy he bought with TF money.

My nineteen month old Jordan, however, has been in rare form.  I gave him a container of berries to snack on in the family room while I put away groceries.  He was happily stuffing his cheeks like a squirrel when he saw me walk by with a package of cookies.  He slammed the top shut on the quart of berries, yelled "BYE BYE!" and ran interception on the cookies.  He ain't gonna grow up to be a nutritionist, folks.

He does the same thing when Mommy or Daddy are paying more attention to the computer than they are to him.  You haven't lived until you've had a laptop slammed shut on your fingers mid-sentence.

The boss is getting restless.  Gotta go while I'm still able to type.

Two Years, Eleven Months, and One Day

          My husband asked me once why I write everything out longhand before I type.  I told him that the physical act of writing helps me better organize my thoughts and seems to require less editing later on.  He laughed and called me “old school”.  Old school?  Really?  He is two years, eleven months, and one day younger than I am.  Was there a technological revolution in the late ‘70s that I somehow missed?  Somewhere in the years of disco, TRS-80s, and Pong, my pathetic little mini-generation at the end of the Vietnam era was apparently left doddering in the dust with our quills and ink wells. 

          He is a conundrum, and I have finally realized why (although I had to write it out longhand to get it).  Women are not meant to marry men slightly younger than they are.  Cougars and cubs are fine – you expect him to be young and vital, and he revels in your experience and excitement (or so I’m told).  Gold diggers and sugar daddies are fine too – he’s rich, you’re gorgeous and you pretend to be dumb – everybody wins.  It is highly unfair though, at thirty-seven and thirty-four, you require a box of hair color with “maximum 100% coverage for resistant greys!” every four days, and he is despondent to find a single silver hair.  Giggly young cashiers hit on him as the bagger tells you, “Hey! My mom uses that same hair color!”  Your husband is carded while buying Nyquil and men your own age refer to you as “Ma’am”.  It’s OK though.  With a two year, eleven month, and one day longer credit history, my name appears on the house deed first.

          Old school…pfft.  I told my husband that I wanted a minivan with a rearview camera to avoid hitting things – mainly our children.  I have hit the garbage can and recycling bin more times than I care to count.  I ask this for the safety of our offspring and the taillights of the car, I said.  He told me to look behind the car as I was getting in and to strap all the kids in their car seats before backing out.  He thinks he’s so smart.

          He’s really just cheap.

          I mused aloud one day that the baseboards needed cleaning, and as my knees are past their warranty I might offer the eleven year old down the street some money to do them.  My husband gasped and choked until our five year old asked if we needed to throw him back in the lake or something.  “I don’t hire things done in my house”, he scowled indignantly.

          This is a lie.

         

He often asks when my brother and his girlfriend can babysit so that he can get some uninterrupted mommy time.  He had no issue having his father resod the backyard last year while the man was supposed to be spending his vacation with us.  He was thrilled to death when my mother sent her cleaning lady over as a surprise while I was in the hospital with baby #2. 

          OK, Captain Independent Pants.  Here’s your brush and bucket.  Good thing your knees are two years, eleven months, and one day younger than mine.