So, here I am doing laundry today when all of the sudden I run into a problem. Not that I noticed it was a problem at first. Sometimes I find myself a little too dense to notice things right in front of me. That being said, maybe you'll understand my little 'issue'.
As I was unloading the washing machine of its contents, I noticed some gum wrappers and a few spots of wet, globby gum masses left in the bottom of the barrel. Thankfully, these masses were not stuck to the wet clothes.
Now, at this point, I'm sure any reasonable person would have thought to maybe check the pockets of any and all clothing in the pile in order to ensure that there was no more gum to be found. Not me. It never even crossed my mind...that is, until I got the clothes out of the dryer. That's when I noticed a sticky substance clinging to the inside of my dryer.
My first thought, "Aw, Man!"
My second thought, "Duh, Cori. Why didn't you check to see if there was anymore gum left in any pockets?"
The only answer I could think to give myself was, "Do you really think I have time to be digging through a pile of wet clothes looking for some miscellaneous piece of leftover gum in some wet, scrunched up pocket?" By this time, the argument in my head is progressing rather rapidly.
Now I'm under tremendous pressure to make a decision that will affect the entire progression of laundry for the rest of the day. These were the choices I felt I had before me:
1. Abandon all laundry for the rest of the day until Chuck gets home to 'fix it' for me. In choosing this option, I would also be helping to boost my dear husband’s desire to be needed and fix things - so this option was highly plausible.
2. Begin the search and rescue effort of the random piece of gum that would now be dried and stuck inside a pocket of already 'clean clothes'. This posed another dilemma, were my clothes really 'clean' now? Was I expected to go back and rewash and redry the entire load because of one little piece of gum wrapper and a little stickiness left on some clothes. I couldn't even deal with that thought. I decided to ignore it.
3. Clean the inside of the dryer myself. But with what? And how? And I might get a crick in my neck. And what would the kids think of their mother as they watched her top half stuck inside the dryer with her butt up in the air while precariously balancing upon a chair I would have had to drag into the small utility room. This option was looking worse and worse by the minute.
Mind you, all of these options are presenting themselves in warp speed across the frontal lobe of my already overused brain (I’m assuming that’s where all reasoning takes place). Within seconds I opt for #1. Boosting Chuck’s self esteem by appearing to be a damsel in distress with a dryer dilemma looked to be the only reasonable option.
Immediately upon Chuck’s arrival home, I presented the problem. I could see his mind already processing the information and deriving a plan before I even reached the end of my sentence. A solution had been found and he would be the one to put ‘the plan’ into action.
Unfortunately, once I heard ‘the plan’, I was a little leery of how effective it may or may not be. But beggars can’t be choosers. So, I just watched. My sweet husband got out his beloved can of “Goof Off”. This is supposed to be a multipurpose cleaning agent that can even remove car grease from under men’s finger nails. However, nowhere on the can did I see it as a solvent for removing dried, wet gum from inside the dryer barrel. I did read that it was not supposed to be stored anyplace that was 120 degrees or greater (doesn’t the dryer reach 120 degrees?). And I did read that fact to my sweet husband as he was suffocating while applying this most offensive odor all throughout the inside of the dryer.
First of all, he didn’t really like that I was reading the can to him. And second of all, he didn’t really care. So, I responded that if he didn’t care about our dryer going up in flames since it was smothered in “Goof Off”, I wouldn’t either. That always goes over well. So then he proceeded to Windex the entire inside of the dryer.
I can now proudly say that as I sit here I am happily drying a new, gum-free load of clothes and they don’t smell like “Goof Off”.
This has indeed been a very good day. Thank you, Baby, for coming to my rescue. Unfortunately, this is a very true and unembellished story - who in their right mind could think to make up a problem like this?!
I recently bought a new purse. This fact did not go un-noticed by my oldest - Gavin. As we were driving in the van this morning, he evidently had a good vantage point of my purse from his seat. Upon studying it for a few minutes he asks the only logical question, "Mom, don't you already have a purse?"
"Why yes, Honey, I do. You have good observational skills."
"Then why did you want another one?" To a seven year old, the fact that I now have two purses is beyond reason.
"Well, Sweetie, I just liked it. I thought it was pretty. Don't you? Sometimes Mommys like to have different purses for different days." He has yet to know about the 'purse stash' I keep in my closest. If he were to ever find all the other purses I bought because they 'were pretty', he would probably freak out. And yes, I'll be the first to admit, I have a 'purse problem', if that's what you want to call it. I like them. Some women like jewelry, some shoes, others clothes. My vice is purses - pretty ones.
Then, as if an explosive idea just revealed itself to him, he informs me, "That looks like it would be a nice purse to take to Hobby Lobby. And you could take your other purse to the Bank. But I think they would both look good to go to the grocery store with."
"Thank you, Gavin. I love your ideas. I think I would like to take my purse to Hobby Lobby with me." I think I just opened up his world to a whole new horizon. To think that Mommys might use a different purse on a different day. Wow. Life just became a lot more complex now. But I'm glad I have a helper to encourage me in my purse selection for the day now.
This morning I loaded the dishwasher, put it on and left the room. A typical cycle normally lasts about an hour - max. I've also been doing laundry all morning which means I have to walk through the kitchen to get to the laundry room. Every time I walked past the dishwasher, it was still on. I really didn't pay much mind to it. However, after walking past the kitchen with the 4th load of clothes I thought to myself, "...hmmm, shouldn't the dishes be done by now?" It's been like 4 hours by this point. I admit, sometimes I'm not too bright, so it takes me a while to catch on to things.
How was I to know that my little 'helper' (let's call her Chloe), loves to put the dishwasher on - just because she knows how. So, all morning long, anytime she passed it and it wasn't making a noise, she thought she'd 'help' me and turn the dial back on again. How thoughtful. Two thoughts flashed across my mind upon this realization, 1. how long has she been 'helping' me like this? and 2. what in the world is my water bill going to look like? I guess I should be thankful that she's a clean freak like me. At least she wasn't emptying the dishwasher and rubbing peanut butter all over my clean dishes.
Thank you, my dear. Evidently, we have alot of 'training sessions' coming our way in the art of domestic engineering.
I don't know that anyone has heard (or should ever hear) the following types of comments come forth out of the mouth of one of their offspring. These comments in no way reflect the opinions, values, actions or beliefs of the writer. They are entirely original comments from our beloved son, Bennett. I don't even have an explanation for these. I think they speak for themselves....
"Gavin, here's a question. When did you start liking watermelon?"
"Mom. I think I'm going to stop picking my nose now."
"Why is my bottom connected?"
"Gavin, can you please wipe my butt? NOW!"
Two incidents come to mind where Bennett has put me to shame. Both of them this weekend. The first happened today. I had given Chloe a warning regarding her behavior and told her that if she didn't stop, she would have to sit in time-out. She chose to be defiant and thereby, I was forced to make good on my threat. Sadly, I picked my almost 2 year old up and placed her in the time-out chair.
To Bennett, Chloe can do no wrong. She is a princess and he treats her as such. If I dare do something to make the princess cry, I will pay. Today, I paid with a sly little comment that came out of his little, innocent mouth. And it was directed at me, although said to anyone who would listen. He says, "Who ever heard of a baby having to sit in time out before?"
If that was meant to make me feel guilty, it worked.
The second opportunity he had to put me to shame occurred yesterday. I was having a very bad day yesterday. My attitude was in the dumps. Nobody could say or do anything right, it seemed. And it only went from bad to worse. I needed a major attitude adjustment and God knew exactly what would work. A good dose of humility should help.
After a long time of awkward silence while riding in the car, Bennett makes a statement. He declares, "I fink we should do sumfin as a fam-i-ly." This did not bode well with me. The only thing I could think of was the fact that we were on our way home from 'doing something as a family'. We were just at the park, playing our little hearts out. I decided to remind him of that fact, to which he replied, "I didn't mean dat, Mom. I mean, I fink we should fay (pray)." When I asked why he said, "Because it will make us happy again."
How true that is! God used my sensitive little 4 year old to show me how my attitude was hurting everyone around me. And of course Bennett, in his sweet, little way knew exactly what to say.
Bennett loves to come in bed and cuddle us in the mornings. The other morning Chuck & I were laying there discussing a noise we both thought we heard in the middle of the night. Bennett was laying there listening, thinking we were talking to him. I asked Chuck, " What do you think that noise was?" But before Chuck could answer, Bennett replied, "Um, I think that was air coming out of my body." At least he was honest. :) What a fun way to start the day!
As I was doing the dinner dishes tonight, Gavin comes up behind me, gives me a bear hug and hops up onto the counter next to me to chat a while. He informs me, "Mom, I wish every night could be like tonight." I was a little clueless as to why tonight rated up there in his top 5 favorites. I decided to recite the evening back to him in question form.
"Why? Do you wish you could throw up at the table every night?" We all seemingly had a case of the giggles - but especially Gavin. And to top it off, he was drinking orange soda with his dinner. The giggles hit and whatever was in his mouth came out in full force.
"Or was it the gooey rice I made...you wish we could have that for dinner every night. Is that it?" Yup. My culinary skills are shining once again. I decided I knew enough about making rice that I didn't need to actually measure the water to rice ratio. I guessed wrong. But I now know how to make rice pudding.
"Was it watching Daddy eat a 'Plate-O-Meat'? Would you like to see that every night?" Since the rice was a wash and I didn't have enough leftover mashed potatoes for everyone, poor Daddy ended up with a 'plate-o-meat'. He had grilled chicken and ended up with a huge mass of meat on his plate while the vegetables were sitting in a nearby bowl (he hates his food to touch). He looked like some Medival King sitting down to eat his prey.
Of course, Gavin is laughing so hard at this point, I'm afraid he's going to fall off the counter. Yet, I continue. "Was it because it is the middle of January, in the dead of winter and we were out playing in the park in shorts and sandals?" That's Texas for ya. It was in the mid-80's today. Not that I'm complaining...I just find that a bit odd. Don't you?
Gavin decided he'd had enough and let me in on the mystery of why this was such a perfect night, "Mom, it was just fun. That's all." I have to agree, Gavin. It was fun. One thing is a constant in our house and that is dinner time. We ALWAYS sit at the table to eat together and you NEVER know what to expect. Thankfully, tonight, the laughter was louder than the whining.
Our winter has been unseasonably warm in these here parts as of late. So, we decided to take advantage of it and bring the kids to a park to play their little hearts out. Chuck & I brought a frisbee in the hopes of also getting the chance to play.
The whole family ended up playing frisbee and we had a fabulous time...so I thought. Not that every knew how to throw or catch the frisbee, but the general idea was there.
On the drive home the kids were rather quiet. We thought we wore them out. When out of the blue Bennett pipes up with, "Mom, wu seem to fink dat everyone yoves me. But it seems to me that dey don't. It seems to me that everyone makes fun of me."
Wow. Deep thoughts. I thought he was bringing up some deep-seeded hurt that we have yet to 'talk out'. I responded to my poor child's cry for help as such, "Well, honey, thank you for telling me how you feel." (Bennett is VERY in touch with his emotions and ALWAYS informs us of how what we did or said makes him feel.) "Who has been making fun of you, Honey?"
"Wu guys."
"How have we made fun of you, Sweetie."
"Wu didn't let me catch da frisbee everytime."
Ahhh, now I see. He was feeling slighted because he has yet to acquire the skill set needed to play a good game of frisbee. I had to explain to him that the frisbee could not be thrown to him each time because there were several members in our family and each wanted a turn to throw and catch it. And we don't throw the frisbee only to people we love. It is a game. Just because the frisbee might have been thrown past him and he had to run several yards to get it no way infers that we are 'making fun of him' or 'don't love him anymore.'
He replies, "Oh."
End of conversation. Seems to me....'we' fink da world revolves around 'us'. :)
Gavin came to tell me the other day that his throat was sore. I did the typical Mom thing and looked inside it. Don't know why, though. Don't know what I was looking for. Maybe a sign that said, "Strep throat, back here" accompanied by a blinking arrow. That might have been helpful. But besides being a little red, it looked normal to me.
That is when my little researcher formulated his plan. He announces to me, "Mom, how 'bout I go to Google and look up 'sore throat'." I'm still not sure if that was his kindhearted way of telling me that I don't know too much in this area or that whatever information or lack thereof I had given him, was not going to cut it. He needed facts and he needed them now.
Daddy taught him all about Google. They could both spend half the day thinking of new words to type in to see what happens. All he needed from me at this point was the accurate spelling of his ailment. Since I'm a good speller, I was able to aid him in his cause. I set the sheet of paper before him and he was off.
He actually prefers to search under Google Images, so he can see a picture of whatever it is he typed in. His past searches have included such things as: Batman, Robin, Superman, The Justice League, and Kangaroos. I have to admit, I found his search quite informative and the pictures very interesting. He might be on to something here...
He clicked on a picture of a sore throat that linked him to the Children's Medical Center. In detail, it listed what a sore throat felt like and home remedies that can be tried. He poured over the information and even read the interesting parts aloud to me. His curiosity seemed to be satisfied once he knew what was happening with his throat and what he could do to help speed up the healing process.
In my almost 7 years of motherhood, I have found several things elusive to me. One of them is the lack of medical knowledge needed when rearing children. I will always regret not majoring in Nursing while in college. I'm in the total dark when it comes to illnesses, symptoms and remedies. If only I had a stethascope and one of those little things they use to look in the ears at home, I would never again have to make another copay at the pediatrician's office.
I'm thinking that maybe next time I should be first to suggest that we go look on Google. Maybe he'll think I'm smart too.
In this household, we have pits. In many other more cultured households you might hear them referred to as 'under arms' or 'arm pits'. Not us. We cut right to the chase and call them our 'pits'. All that to say, Bennett informed me one day last week that his pit hurt.
What is one supposed to do when another's pit is hurting? If you rub it, it will only tickle. There is no medicine you can administer to the pit region. And really, what in the world would cause your pit to hurt anyway? Did you sleep on it wrong? Did your brother tickle you too much? Did something you ate for dinner not agree with your pit? As you can see, I was baffled by this.
For two days he told me about how bad his pit hurt. For two days I told him how sorry I was. I tried to probe deeper in order to discover the root of the problem, really I did. After poking and pushing and rubbing and looking I finally deduced that there really wasn't a problem. I figured he must be making up a new ailment as an attention getting plea (that wouldn't be so far fetched).
However, one thing kept nagging at me. For the same two days that he was plagued with the pit hurt, he was also complaining of chest pains. And as if that wasn't enough, Bennett would also tell me each night before bed that he couldn't breathe and point to the same part of his chest. If he was indeed making this up, he wouldn't remember to point to the same part of the chest. And if he wasn't making it up, you would never hear these words come forth from his mouth whilst wrestling, "Daddy, you have to be careful with me, I can't breathe."
At that precise moment an alarm rang in my head that sprang me into action. There was no way I could put my child to bed that night with the words "I can't breathe" ringing in my ears. Of course it was 8:30 at night. My husband wasn't home yet and the other two children were sound asleep in their beds. I decided to call a neighbor and have her come sit with the kiddos while I rushed my youngest boy to Urgent Care with a hurt pit. Somewhere, somehow, there must be a cure.
Bennett doesn't appear the slightest bit sick upon entering the Urgent Care facility. Actually, he has this goofy grin on his face like he's getting away with something. He keeps telling me how this is like a little 'mini-date' for me and him. I nod my head in agreement as I am filling out the 10 forms front and back given to me before any care can be administered. On the blank titled: Reason for Visit I have to write 'hurt pit'. To make it sound more legitimate and like something the insurance companies might cover, I decide to also add, 'chest pains and difficulty breathing'. Somehow, I know they are all connected. I just need the doctor's help in connecting the dots.
Thankfully, the kind doctor understood Bennett's pit illness and explained to me that he had indeed pulled a pectoral muscle which connects the chest and the shoulder and would hurt him in the vicinity of his pit if he overused it. Thus, the mystery of the hurt pit has been solved. Thankfully, it was nothing a little ibuprofen and rest wouldn't cure.
Mother Goose never expected there would be a Bennett, I'm quite sure. Her prose and poetry have a wonderful sing-songy, rhyme-like quality. These lovely snippets have been passed down for generations now. That is, until they reached Bennett. They have now come to a screeching halt.
You see, every week Bennett learns a new Nursery Rhyme or small poem to accompany the letter he is learning. His brain, I have come to learn, is wired totally different than that of your average Joe. He has a fabulous memory, but he also has a major filter in that memory. The filter seems to grasp the general idea about the poem and then rewords the poem in a more acceptable manner to it's owner (Bennett).
Take for instance The King of France (studied on 'K' week). It goes like this: The King of France went up a hill, with 20,000 men. The King of France went down the hill, and never went up again.
Bennett's version of that poem is: The King of Fance went up duh hill wid all his men den he came back down again and was never sawn again. I just can't seem to find it in me to correct him for this. For one, its just so cute. And two, how can I stifle his creativity. Afterall, he is interpreting and then rephrasing into his own words. It's kinda like teaching him how to summarize. Yeah...that's what I meant to do all along.
A simple little activity like, Ring Around the Rosey, becomes a hilarious adventure when sung to Bennett's lyrics. They are: Ving avound a vosy, pock-a-pock-a-pock-a-pocka posey, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. At which point he gently pushes Chloe down (I know that sounds like an oxymoron) and then kisses her hand. I can only handle a few rounds of this before the dizzy spells become more than I can bear.
I have been scampering around the kitchen all day now, trying to get all the delicious, tasty treats made to pass out to my neighbors. So much love and thought and effort have been poured into this project. I even recruited the kids.
The first little delicacy we were preparing was called: peanut clusters. Mmmmm, good! Who doesn’t like peanut clusters (besides the poor people who receive anaphylactic shock from ingesting anything made of peanuts)? I thought I would try to begin a new family tradition where we joyously worked together, all contributing a small part and – Voile, create a gift made entirely out of love and family teamwork that our neighbors could enjoy. What world was I in?
Bennett volunteered to be the peanut cluster ‘helper’. After he put his chair in just the right spot to reach the counter, I allowed him to empty the ingredients into the bowl. And of course, in his 4 short years, he has already come to be an expert in almost every area. So, he had no need of my help or encouragement – even when items were falling on the floor. However, most of the ingredients made their way (miraculously) into the bowl. I even let him hit the buttons on the microwave. I wanted him to feel every bit the cook.
Once the ingredients had melted, we enjoyed the aroma that wafted about us and we (Bennett) sighed and complained and merrily worked along side one another (interpret that to mean, me holding tightly to his hand as he stirred, in order to ensure all melted ingredients remained in the bowl). I even brought him to tears at one point because I must have been ‘helping’ him a little too much while holding his hand and directing him.
Then it came time to ‘plop’ the gooey mixture onto the tin foil. Oh boy – if he didn’t need any help earlier, he certainly didn’t want me anywhere near him now. I have come to learn the word ‘plop’ can be interpreted differently to each individual. His ears must have heard, “Bennett, please shake the spoon with all the gooey, chocolatey, peanuty, stuff as hard and as high as you can so that only a little makes it onto the tin foil and the rest flies about in a beautiful array all around the kitchen. I would especially like it if you and I could be covered from head to toe with little chocolate droppings. Oh yeah, and if all the plops could be almost on top of each other instead of neat little rows – that would be a nice touch.”
It killed me to see these ‘plops’ being placed anywhere but in neat little orderly rows across the tin foil. But hey, I bit my tongue for the sake of ‘family bonding time’. I had to keep telling myself that this wasn’t about perfection and orderliness and cleanliness….it was about our time spent together and doing something for someone else.
I thought I’d learned my lesson, that is, until Gavin helped me with the next item on our list of treats to make.
I saw this cute little recipe for ‘white chocolate snowballs’ that looked easy and fun to make. I no longer hold that opinion about these candies. If I had known ahead of time that you were going to have to dump a whole can of peanut butter and a whole bag of powdered sugar in the same bowl and then stir for forever, I might have opted out of the project. But Gavin and I were already knee deep in a sticky, sweet mess with powdered sugar floating around the kitchen like dry ice. Then it got even better.
Next we were supposed to take this mixture and make little balls out of them. Gavin was like,”You mean I have to put my hands in there? I have to get dirty?” What boy doesn’t want to get dirty? The extra special part about rolling the little peanuty, sugary balls was when your hands started to stick together because the peanut butter created a sort of glue which made it nearly impossible for you to roll multiple little ‘snowballs’ without washing your hands between every 2 ‘snowballs’, thereby, making the process last an increasingly long time. Which is great since we want to spend quality time together working on something out of the love of our hearts for our neighbors. Good idea gone bad.
Gavin ditched me after the 4th washing of his hands – he just couldn’t take it anymore. So much for our fun new tradition. But, it only got better. I thought the final touch would take no time at all. All I had to do was melt the white chocolate chips and dip the ‘balls’ into them using a little toothpick. Whatever! A few problems presented themselves at this stage of the game.
The first being that I chose to microwave the white chocolate chips instead of heat them in a pan on the stove. Efficiency is my ‘thing’. However, wasting all my ingredients is not. I ended up burning the white chocolate chips (evidently I didn’t stir at the right intervals). Now what was I supposed to do. How do you make ‘snowballs’ without anything white to dip the balls in?
I decided to be ingenuitive and use the chocolate chips I still had sitting in the cupboard. They weren’t white – but what the heck, we’ll call them ‘chocolate snowballs’ instead. Now came the tricky part that involved a toothpick and the balls. Do not try this at home – even if the recipe says to. Trust me, it doesn’t work! The toothpick, once inserted into the little peanuty ball, only helps in ruining the ball. Then, once I tried dipping the ball into the chocolate, still holding fast to my tiny toothpick, the disaster came upon me. I lost my ball. My toothpick slid right out and now I had to do a search a rescue for my ball lost in the melted chocolate.
I ditched the instructions and used a good ol’ fashioned spoon. Time is of the essence here now. I was the only one left in the kitchen and I wanted to go find my family and take part in whatever joy and pleasure they were sharing in together without me. Forget the neighbors, I should just go buy something from someone who really knows how to bake. But then, practicality stepped in and reminded me that we (I) was doing this out of the love of our (my) hearts and we(I) wouldn’t want to have wasted all that time already spent.
The balls have all finally been dipped. I am now sitting here waiting for them to harden in the fridge. I even already wrote little cards to put inside the gift bags telling everyone what kinds of goodies they were receiving – white chocolate snowballs is on that list. I guess I’ll have to tell them that we dropped all the snowballs in the mud. That would fit in perfectly with our family’s tendency towards clumsiness and accidents. Aren’t you glad you’re not my neighbor?
