I've decided I need a FAQ. After all, these Qs are A'd very F. So frequently that I find it difficult to get anything else done at times. For some reason, everyone wants to know when dinner is, and no one wants to know, say, where they should put their dishes.
Q: How long until dinner?
A: Dinner is at six p.m. The time left to elapse until dinner is the time between now and the next time the clock is at six p.m. For example, if it is one p.m., dinner will be in five hours. If it is nine a.m., dinner will be in nine hours.
Q: Is dinner ready yet?
A: You will know that dinner is ready when I say something appropriate, such as, "time for dinner!" You can also consult any clock. Is it six p.m.? Rest assured that I will not forget to mention to you that dinner is being served.
Q: Can we have X for dinner?
A: No. Especially given that it's half past five and what you asked for is lamb roast.
Q: Why do _I_ have to do this?
A: Because I don't love you as much as the other children/dog. And/or you're the closest person. And/or I do 95% of the home care around here and your father does the other 5%, so stop whining about picking up your own darn socks, or about the possibility that you may put away a toy that belongs to your brother/sister.
Q: Are we there yet?
A: Is the car running? Are we still walking? Yes? Then no.
Q: Do I _have_ to?
A: . . .
Added by request:
Q: Do I have to go to bed?
A: Child, it is in your own best interests to go to bed. You wouldn't like the person I turn into when the clock strikes eight.
Q: But whhhhhhhhhhhy?
A: The next person who whines is going to boarding school in Siberia.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Blogging like a boss
TWO ENTRIES THIS WEEK. I blog like a boss, my friends. LIKE A BOSS.
So far, all of my children delight in conforming to gender stereotypes. Yesterday Munchkin complained that Genome kept bothering her while she was in the bathroom. Why, I queried innocently, were you in the bathroom for so long? Are you feeling all right? Well yes, of course. She was experimenting with her hair. She was in the bathroom so that she could stand on the toilet seat and be able to see the back of her head in her father's shaving mirror.
My two sons are close in age. Their primary form of exercise is, like their sister, running from room to room like a craze lunatic housepet. Their secondary form of exercise is wrestling. If no one is crying and no one is injured, this seems healthy enough. My brother and his friends used to play "throw the other guy off of the trampoline. This was in the nineties, before safety was discovered. My mother used to make us sit in booster seats until we were too heavy for them, which for me was some time in second grade. No one used booster seats then, and we had to carpool with them. Nevertheless, even my mother, a woman willing to make her children deeply uncool for safety, even she did not see anything wrong with flinging children off of a backyard trampoline as a regular activity.
We also used to put the sprinkler under the trampoline to make it more exciting. I digress.
Genome and Firefly were wrestling in the community centre play area, on the padded mats. A few other children were running around behaving similarly, or playing a loose version of tag. Some nice, well-meaning motehr admonished the children to all play gently.
Why must children play gently, anyway? What's wrong with consensual, non-injurious roughness?
So far, all of my children delight in conforming to gender stereotypes. Yesterday Munchkin complained that Genome kept bothering her while she was in the bathroom. Why, I queried innocently, were you in the bathroom for so long? Are you feeling all right? Well yes, of course. She was experimenting with her hair. She was in the bathroom so that she could stand on the toilet seat and be able to see the back of her head in her father's shaving mirror.
My two sons are close in age. Their primary form of exercise is, like their sister, running from room to room like a craze lunatic housepet. Their secondary form of exercise is wrestling. If no one is crying and no one is injured, this seems healthy enough. My brother and his friends used to play "throw the other guy off of the trampoline. This was in the nineties, before safety was discovered. My mother used to make us sit in booster seats until we were too heavy for them, which for me was some time in second grade. No one used booster seats then, and we had to carpool with them. Nevertheless, even my mother, a woman willing to make her children deeply uncool for safety, even she did not see anything wrong with flinging children off of a backyard trampoline as a regular activity.
We also used to put the sprinkler under the trampoline to make it more exciting. I digress.
Genome and Firefly were wrestling in the community centre play area, on the padded mats. A few other children were running around behaving similarly, or playing a loose version of tag. Some nice, well-meaning motehr admonished the children to all play gently.
Why must children play gently, anyway? What's wrong with consensual, non-injurious roughness?
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I am a rock star
Yesterday I was sick. I off-loaded my older children onto my ever-patient mother. I kept the baby and slept a great-deal. Every hour or so I would wake up and find the baby there, starring at me. She's only two months old, but she has absolutely nailed "disapproving." She's mere months away from a career in method acting.
I generally grocery shop on Mondays. And as I think I mentioned in my previous post, flexibility in housekeeping is not a particular virtue of mine. Either I grocery shopped today, or the children were going to be getting their servings of vegetables from a soup made of tomato paste, water, and dried herbs.
In the future I should invest in frozen vegetables.
So, off we go. I dropped Munchkin at piano and took Lollipop, Genome, and Firefly to the gigantic Discount House O'Groceries. Imagine a downscale Wal-Mart with a reasonable kosher meat and dry goods section. I stopped on the way at the baby goods store to purchase a new pacifier chain. I hate lost pacifiers. I opted for the baby goods store in the hopes that a baby-specific store would provide fewer temptations for my volatile two-year-old than a general toy store would.
That previous sentence is what we call "foreshadowing."
I selected a pacifier chain ($6 ) and two of those nifty Lamaze-TOMY toys. Remember Captain Calimari? It turns out there's a whole series of those. We got a new Captain Calimari, and also a Morris Moose. Then Firefly threw himself down on the floor and shrieked at the top of his lungs because he wanted something.
I checked out without him. It's not like anyone was about to steal him. When I went back, a small girl was pointing at him and lisping, "he on floor, on the floor." Her father was trying to lure her away from the spectacle my child was creating. I hauled my gigantic two-year-old up on my hip (left hip, since baby was in a sling on the right hip) and headed for the parking lot.
It is surprisingly difficult to wrestle a two-year-old into a carseat.
When we got to Discount House O'Groceries, Firefly was still screaming. He wasn't consoled by my attempts to put him into a wet grocery cart seat. A nice lady came by and asked if I needed any help.
Many mothers report unkind comments or glares when their children cause a scene in public. I almost always receive sympathy when they're throwing down, and compliments when they're making any semblance of behaving. Either I live in an exceptionally kind city, or I look close enough to the edge that no one is going to give me that last shove.
Firefly was distracted by the attention and stopped screaming. He took up babbling to Morris the Moose instead. We grocery shopped. We got back late to pick her up from piano. I fed everyone. We did home schooling.
I insisted the lady behind me in line, go in front of me. There's no way I want some poor citizen with a few groceries to be stuck behind me, a crew of children helping me, and a week's worth of food for six people. Discount House O'Groceries is not nearly classy enough to have express lines. It turned out that this lady had been taught Hebrew by my son's great-grandfather.
You can meet the most interesting people while buying kosher meat.
In a victory-induced haze from the successful grocery procurement, I insisted the toddler go to sleep at a reasonable hour in his own bed, even though my husband was at work until past everyone's bedtime. Eight returns-to-bed later, he fell asleep. Before he fell asleep, though, he threw Morris the Moose at me.
I generally grocery shop on Mondays. And as I think I mentioned in my previous post, flexibility in housekeeping is not a particular virtue of mine. Either I grocery shopped today, or the children were going to be getting their servings of vegetables from a soup made of tomato paste, water, and dried herbs.
In the future I should invest in frozen vegetables.
So, off we go. I dropped Munchkin at piano and took Lollipop, Genome, and Firefly to the gigantic Discount House O'Groceries. Imagine a downscale Wal-Mart with a reasonable kosher meat and dry goods section. I stopped on the way at the baby goods store to purchase a new pacifier chain. I hate lost pacifiers. I opted for the baby goods store in the hopes that a baby-specific store would provide fewer temptations for my volatile two-year-old than a general toy store would.
That previous sentence is what we call "foreshadowing."
I selected a pacifier chain ($6 ) and two of those nifty Lamaze-TOMY toys. Remember Captain Calimari? It turns out there's a whole series of those. We got a new Captain Calimari, and also a Morris Moose. Then Firefly threw himself down on the floor and shrieked at the top of his lungs because he wanted something.
I checked out without him. It's not like anyone was about to steal him. When I went back, a small girl was pointing at him and lisping, "he on floor, on the floor." Her father was trying to lure her away from the spectacle my child was creating. I hauled my gigantic two-year-old up on my hip (left hip, since baby was in a sling on the right hip) and headed for the parking lot.
It is surprisingly difficult to wrestle a two-year-old into a carseat.
When we got to Discount House O'Groceries, Firefly was still screaming. He wasn't consoled by my attempts to put him into a wet grocery cart seat. A nice lady came by and asked if I needed any help.
Many mothers report unkind comments or glares when their children cause a scene in public. I almost always receive sympathy when they're throwing down, and compliments when they're making any semblance of behaving. Either I live in an exceptionally kind city, or I look close enough to the edge that no one is going to give me that last shove.
Firefly was distracted by the attention and stopped screaming. He took up babbling to Morris the Moose instead. We grocery shopped. We got back late to pick her up from piano. I fed everyone. We did home schooling.
I insisted the lady behind me in line, go in front of me. There's no way I want some poor citizen with a few groceries to be stuck behind me, a crew of children helping me, and a week's worth of food for six people. Discount House O'Groceries is not nearly classy enough to have express lines. It turned out that this lady had been taught Hebrew by my son's great-grandfather.
You can meet the most interesting people while buying kosher meat.
In a victory-induced haze from the successful grocery procurement, I insisted the toddler go to sleep at a reasonable hour in his own bed, even though my husband was at work until past everyone's bedtime. Eight returns-to-bed later, he fell asleep. Before he fell asleep, though, he threw Morris the Moose at me.
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