As I write this, I'm dodging machine gun fire. My sons are chasing each other with fake guns through my office, which is supposed to be off limits. This being the first day of a weeklong Thanksgiving break, though, means rules are held more loosely, especially when it's RAINING.
My 5-year-old is proud of his newly discovered machine gun sound effect, the one you make with your top teeth against your bottom lip. I cringe each time I hear my wedding china dinging together as the floor under the china cabinet bounces under the footsteps of the invasion. Whichever mom was the first to say, "It sounds like a herd of elephants running through here," really pegged it.
The most flinchworthy aspect of living with three boys is that they can't take a straight path anywhere. Nothing slows them down on their trek through the house, through the yard, the mall, the car. One of my 12-year-olds must have an ongoing wager with himself that he can step on as many pieces of furniture as possible on his way from the den to the kitchen. No matter if it means climbing, jumping, rolling over or under something. He'll take that path. On a recent hike around Radnor Lake, I'd swear he walked twice as far as the rest of us, what with all the shimmying up trees, clambering over rocks and slipping through fences.
To Owen, every surface is for sitting, except chairs. He also thinks his brothers are trampolines, and every commercial break, he pounces on one of them like a puppy.
Boys are the reason for signs that say, "Please stay on the marked trail."
Because it would never occur to them to do that on their own.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
At least it's not bills
Pottery Barn’s annual yuletide attack on my mailbox has begun.
I’ve ordered maybe three things from them in my lifetime, but apparently that’s not enough. They want me to want more!
It’s not just Pottery Barn, though. It’s the stepchildren, PB Kids and PB Teen. Plus, Pottery Barn and all its kin are owned by Williams Sonoma, so if you let one of them in, you’re also inviting in the folks from Williams Sonoma, Hold Everything and the ultramodern West Elm home décor catalog. Each week leading up to Christmas, they visit my mailbox and overstay their welcome.
Our recent summery weather didn’t do much to put me in a fall magazine or catalog-shopping mood anyway. Sure, it’s cold now, but Southern Living’s “Celebrate Fall with our Blackberry Cobbler and Apple Dumplings” issue arrived on an 89-degree October day. On the way back from my mailbox last week, I glimpsed velvet curtains on Pottery Barn’s back cover and almost passed out on the steaming driveway.
I brought this catalog assault on myself, of course. I no longer believe the Internet is the work of the devil, and I have indulged in a bit of lazy (I prefer the term “efficient”) online Christmas shopping. Mail order companies now know me as “direct mail bait.”
Lots of companies bombard us with catalogs, but Pottery Barn and Lillian Vernon in particular seem to have it out for American postal carriers. Their catalog onslaught has the desperate air of the stalking high school boyfriend who would call you eight times before you left the house in the morning.
“Hi! It’s Pottery Barn again. Just wanted to be sure you saw our $40 pillar candles that will make your mantle look so elegant for Christmas, but only if you buy at least six of them because you don’t want your holiday mantle to look skimpy, do you? OK, well, see you tomorrow.”
As if I had room in my budget for $240 worth of candles.
I guess the catalog printers will survive the economic downturn, even if my mail carrier doesn't.
I’ve ordered maybe three things from them in my lifetime, but apparently that’s not enough. They want me to want more!
It’s not just Pottery Barn, though. It’s the stepchildren, PB Kids and PB Teen. Plus, Pottery Barn and all its kin are owned by Williams Sonoma, so if you let one of them in, you’re also inviting in the folks from Williams Sonoma, Hold Everything and the ultramodern West Elm home décor catalog. Each week leading up to Christmas, they visit my mailbox and overstay their welcome.
Our recent summery weather didn’t do much to put me in a fall magazine or catalog-shopping mood anyway. Sure, it’s cold now, but Southern Living’s “Celebrate Fall with our Blackberry Cobbler and Apple Dumplings” issue arrived on an 89-degree October day. On the way back from my mailbox last week, I glimpsed velvet curtains on Pottery Barn’s back cover and almost passed out on the steaming driveway.
I brought this catalog assault on myself, of course. I no longer believe the Internet is the work of the devil, and I have indulged in a bit of lazy (I prefer the term “efficient”) online Christmas shopping. Mail order companies now know me as “direct mail bait.”
Lots of companies bombard us with catalogs, but Pottery Barn and Lillian Vernon in particular seem to have it out for American postal carriers. Their catalog onslaught has the desperate air of the stalking high school boyfriend who would call you eight times before you left the house in the morning.
“Hi! It’s Pottery Barn again. Just wanted to be sure you saw our $40 pillar candles that will make your mantle look so elegant for Christmas, but only if you buy at least six of them because you don’t want your holiday mantle to look skimpy, do you? OK, well, see you tomorrow.”
As if I had room in my budget for $240 worth of candles.
I guess the catalog printers will survive the economic downturn, even if my mail carrier doesn't.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
It's not nucular science
"Mom, when's it gonna be time for munch?"
I looked down at my 5-year-old, who had run into my office after changing out of his church clothes.
"Do what?!" I said. "What are you talking about, 'munch'?"
He started bucking back and forth. "You know, you said we were gonna eat munch after church today."
"Oh, BRUNCH!" I laughed. I tried holding it in because he is a very serious old man inside a 5-year-old body and he hates getting stuff wrong. I tried to soften the blow.
"'Brunch' is when you combine 'breakfast' and 'lunch.' You know, like a 'spork.'" This explanation served as a jumping off point for names he thought they should have given brunch, such as "lekfast" and "brupper."
I enjoy these episodes because they prove Owen has inherited our family's infamous Granddaddy Disease, wherein he gets words wrong in the most entertaining ways just like my grandfather did. Probably the most enduring example is when my grandfather told us my grandmother was stressed out because she had to get her monogram that day. It took us a few tries to figure out she actually was having a mammogram.
On Fireman Sam the other day, a lady called a little boy a "hooligan." Owen said, "What did she call him?" His attempts to repeat it ranged from "hoogleland" to "hoolan" and kept us giggling and punchy for at least a few minutes.
My older boys had adorable baby words, like the way Henry used "cha-box" for lunchbox and Mason would say "walkamama" when he wanted me to come to him. But by age 5 they were pretty much ready for a spot on Jeopardy. Owen's mix-ups persist.
My favorite came out at age 3 when he threw himself backward on the couch and said, "Help me be a afroback (acrobat)."
I looked down at my 5-year-old, who had run into my office after changing out of his church clothes.
"Do what?!" I said. "What are you talking about, 'munch'?"
He started bucking back and forth. "You know, you said we were gonna eat munch after church today."
"Oh, BRUNCH!" I laughed. I tried holding it in because he is a very serious old man inside a 5-year-old body and he hates getting stuff wrong. I tried to soften the blow.
"'Brunch' is when you combine 'breakfast' and 'lunch.' You know, like a 'spork.'" This explanation served as a jumping off point for names he thought they should have given brunch, such as "lekfast" and "brupper."
I enjoy these episodes because they prove Owen has inherited our family's infamous Granddaddy Disease, wherein he gets words wrong in the most entertaining ways just like my grandfather did. Probably the most enduring example is when my grandfather told us my grandmother was stressed out because she had to get her monogram that day. It took us a few tries to figure out she actually was having a mammogram.
On Fireman Sam the other day, a lady called a little boy a "hooligan." Owen said, "What did she call him?" His attempts to repeat it ranged from "hoogleland" to "hoolan" and kept us giggling and punchy for at least a few minutes.
My older boys had adorable baby words, like the way Henry used "cha-box" for lunchbox and Mason would say "walkamama" when he wanted me to come to him. But by age 5 they were pretty much ready for a spot on Jeopardy. Owen's mix-ups persist.
My favorite came out at age 3 when he threw himself backward on the couch and said, "Help me be a afroback (acrobat)."
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Kids' Favorites
Mason's best costume was in 2nd grade when he went as Titans coach Jeff Fisher. I e-mailed it to Jeff Dwyer on News 2, who asked if Mason could come out to Opry Mills and surprise Coach Fisher on his Monday Night Live show. We did, and that's when they got this shot. The gigantic arm in the red and white sleeve next to Mason belongs to Albert Haynesworth.
Henry's best was at age 5 when he wanted to be his favorite NASCAR driver Dale Jr. You can tell in the photo Mason is totally thrilled to be a ghost. For Lil' E, we put a strip of white first-aid tape down the leg of some old dress pants and added some racing stickers to this red windbreaker he already had. Of course, he couldn't go to the church preschool fall festival with a beer logo on his back, so we just shortened it to Bud and said it was his nickname.
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