Daycare-isms

It's been a long, long time since I was able to write one of these posts...we've been through a dry spell lately, but today they were right back at them.

"Stop being such a girly princess!" 
"HOLY GOD, IT'S WAININ'!!!"
"when my mom walks her shoes go 'click, click' and her boobies do this *jiggles about like crazy*"
While cleaning up a mess of blocks for about the 17th time today, my little dude looks at me and says, "Does my mom pay you enough to do that??"

Mo-om!!

Yesterday, while eating supper, Isaac decided that he wanted some juice, I told him that he'd have to go downstairs to get some out of the basement fridge.  Down he goes - and comes back up with milk.  He looks at it, looks at us, and then says "Oh...I brought milk by accident" (he comes by it honestly!) and then goes back downstairs to put the milk back and get the juice.

Suddenly, I hear *thump, bump, crash* and then..."uh....Mo-om!!" I rush down to see if he's okay, imagining he's got a bone sticking through his thigh or something. Nope, instead, I see that he's dropped the milk down the stairs, where at the bottom, the jug hit at just the right angle that it split all the way up the side.  Isaac is standing there in a puddle of milk, holding on to a rapidly leaking jug and desperately trying to cover the gaping hole to stop any more milk from spilling.

Folks, he was standing right next to a bathroom!!

So there he is, with a gallon of milk all around him, standing next to a sink with a complete look of bewilderment.

"What happened?" I asked after the cleanup began.
"I tripped on a piece of foam." he says.
"What foam?  There's no foam here."  But oh, I was mistaken.  There WAS a piece of foam...perhaps the size (and dimension) of a quarter on one of the stairs....

*le sigh*

a brief, musical interlude

My lovely daughter is in grade 4.  This is the year (where I live anyhow) that children learn all things fantastic, sexual education (limited to getting hair in the nether regions & body odor), the French language that they'll likely never use, and...the recorder.

Oh, I'm not sure if I can quite explain my complete lack of total joy emotion about this.  I don't come from a musical family, but it doesn't necessarily mean that I don't enjoy music.  I played the piano eons ago, and my dad can sing...but that's about as musical as it gets.

It would seem that Iman has inherited this lack of musical genius appreciation of music.  She was so excited to get that recorder.  She chose the color and takes loving care of it every day (cleaning out the drool that eventually makes its way into the inner chamber)  She makes sure that it's safe in her back pack and out of reach of her little brother who is notorious for trashing everything.

And she practices, God help me does she practice!  The tweets, the ear-piercing squeaks, the poorly played tunes...it makes me want to scream.  I love my child, I love to support my child, and as much as I want to support her in her endeavour to play melodious tunes, deep inside I really just want to quash her dreams.

What kind of horrible mother thinks that?  Apparently me.

It also got me thinking about my future.  I've been debating going further into my education and becoming an honest-to-God teacher... then I thought, someone went to school for 6 years to learn how to teach children to play music.  Why on earth would you want to do that?  I like that children like music...I like singing songs and dancing with my kids.  But there is no way on God's Green Earth that I'd sit down with a bunch of musical instruments and attempt to listen to them try to play.

I am Hethr, Mrs. Negativity this week.  I'm also praying that the recorder lesson plans are over soon, because my sanity is hanging by a very thin thread...a thread that's vibrating with every note she tries to play...

questions, questions and more questions

I had to take Adam to the doctor last night (sore throat, fever, etc).  I don't know about the doctors in your area, but here, it's endless waiting...waiting for what seems like forever.  I've learned to come prepared - books, snacks, his blankie, etc.

So, we pull up to the doctor's office and I see that there are only 4 or 5 other people there.  This is exciting because it means that I won't be there for more than 2 or 3 hours (yay).  We get in, give the required information and set down to the business of waiting.  While we're in the waiting room, I'm hit with a barrage of questions, questions that are likely personal and that we typically keep to ourselves.  Adam, however, has no etiquette filter.

what's on that kid's face?
why's that man sleeping?
why does that boy have a pony tail? Pony tails are only for girls.
that girl's not covering her cough. Can you tell her to do the elephant?
Why does that man smell like that?
What's wrong with that man?
That girl has chicken pox, I had chicken pox, did I give her the chicken pox?

After much embarrassment, the nurse finally calls us into the treatment room where we were forced to wait some more.  This time, the questions were about the room.

Is that a light switch?
Can we turn it off and then on again?
Is that a door handle?
What's that? (hand sanitizer)
What's that? (tongue depressors)
That's for my ear, right mommy?
Will the doctor be able to find my throat?
Can I lay down?
Can we lock the door?
When is the doctor coming?
What's that? (the case of swabs)
What are these? (the stir-ups)
When I grow up and become a lady, I want to use those to get my baby out, okay mom?
Ugh...how long until the doctor comes?
I don't like my wife.

yeah -- you read that last one right.  He actually said to me, "I don't like my wife."  Good God, I do not know where that came from, but it was so funny that I laughed until I cried.  

Whitey

Today I was reminded about how very, very white I am.  Let me give fair warning that what you're about to read may cause horror and/or disgust -- if you like animals or can't stand the thought of eating them...just choose to ignore this post.

This afternoon my mother-in-law calls me up, "we're having some dinner here tonight, would you like to come?" I say sure.

I cooked my own food anyhow and brought it with me (thank God for this).  Turns out that my mother-in-law's food is a meal of stewed goat -- with the extra specialty of the head.  *shudder*  There she is ripping pieces of meat off the bones, then breaking the skull apart to pass out the brains.

"Here, Heather, do you want some brains?"
"No, thank you," I reply as I shrink away from her offering, "I'm way too white for that."


They laugh.  Mr. Delusional and his brothers all happily munch away on the parts that the typical western folk wouldn't dare touch.  I was happy to see my sister-in-law was equally disgusted by it all.

Then, I look up to see Adam, sitting by my mother-in-law's side - blissfully munching away on a piece of brain. "More chicken, please" he says.

I died right there.  Just felt my soul fall right out of me.  I mean, I'm not one to freak out about eating meat. I eat it all the time.  I do, however, have a problem when the meat that I'm eating looks like the animal.  A steak doesn't look like a cow plodding through a field.  A drumstick doesn't make me think of a chicken happily cock-a-doodling in the morning.  A goat head on a platter however, makes me think, "maa-a-a-aa."

I don't even have an ending for this.  I think I'll dream of poor little sad goats tonight.  :(

I'm back, did ya miss me?

So, I've been back from Mexico now for long enough that my brain has had a chance to absorb all the things that I saw there (some good, some not so good) -- don't worry, I've still got more to write on my Mexico Blog  but I have homework and kids and life to deal with first.

Which brings me to my post.  Apparently I was missed.  Poor Mr. Delusional has come to the realization that I do a lot more than he thought I did (I don't even want to know what he thought).  On Saturday, I was blissfully sleeping in and he did a load of laundry *gasp* -- sure, he messed up my routine, but I forgave him.  The kids were making their own lunches all week Adam has started weaning himself from his blanket...I feel like somehow I missed out on a whole lot while I was gone.

Things were back to normal pretty quickly though. Iman and Isaac were squabbling, Adam getting into things he shouldn't and me stuck doing all those chores that I really hate - like grocery shopping.  On Mother's Day.  Woot. Woot.

Not much else happened for me on Mother's Day - I got a home-made card from Isaac, spent some quality time with Iman, and visited with friends.  At bed time, as I snuggled with Adam, he kissed me on the cheek then sat there rubbing it for a bit.  "What are you doing?" I asked.  "Rubbing my love in so that it reaches your heart." he said.

Best. Mother's Day. EVER.

(Oh - a post script to my own mom - There is an entire post developing in my brain - dedicated to you and your awesomeness.  I can never thank you enough for everything you've done.  Love you.)