Gwen's Christmas Poem

Adam found this written on a sheet of paper today (it was written by Gwen.) My usual disclaimer, I kept spelling and punctuation intact.

Reindeer Near Christmas

When Christmastime is near
Much thought is given
To reindeer
But Ol' Dancer and Prancer
Go upon the roof
They ruin tiles with
Each little hoof
And naughty Rudoulph
Makes some rude coughs.
All of the reindeer
Are out of control!
But then Santa must pull
A box without tips
Santa pulls out
The reindeer whips!!!
But if they're too bad
He pulls out the cables
Then the reindeer run
To their stables

There's a cute picture that goes along with this, but I don't have a scanner, unfortunately. Maybe I should put Gwen in charge of this year's Christmas letter -- if I had done it already, maybe it would have gone out on time.

Tales of Babysitter Woe (subtitle: Why it is bad to teach your kids your cell number)

Last night Adam and I went to his office Christmas Party. This is an annual event that Adam's employers graciously sponsor, and every year we have to scramble to find a babysitter. This year, we asked my coworker's teenaged son to babysit. He had never babysit for us before, but he's taken care of the cats -- how much harder could the kids be?

Admittedly, I did have a moment's pause because he is a boy, although I'm not sure why. I had occasional "boy" babysitters when I was a kid, and nothing bad happened -- usually boy babysitters were actually more fun than girl babysitters -- but I guess being suspicious of boy babysitters is the "in" thing for overcautious parents these days. I was a little concerned that Xavier would be more than he could handle, but it turns out that Xavier was not the problem ... but I get ahead of myself.

At first, it looked like this "boy babysitting experience" was going to be much the same as the ones I remembered from my childhood. My coworker dropped his son off, and the boy -- we'll call him "Edmund" -- immediately started jousting with Xavier while Gwen watched and laughed.

Chinese takeout was distributed, and we were just about to head for the door when Edmund suddenly erupted in a volley of sneezes, the like of which I have never seen before.

"Are you allergic to cats?" I asked. Of course, what I was actually thinking was, "Are you sick?" but I was trying to be diplomatic. Still, thanks to Xav, I have become somewhat of an expert on cold symptoms, and this seemed excessive for that.

"Yeah," Edmund snuffled. "On top of that, my sister just got a puppy."

"Do you need to go home?" I asked, concerned.

"Oh, no, I'll be fine," he said. So, with some trepidation (on my part -- Adam never worries), we headed out.

The party was wonderful -- the food was good, the company good, and we were in the middle of a game when my cellphone started ringing. "Uh oh," I thought, and I excused myself to take the call. I ended up having to step out into the freezing rain to hear anything, because the caller was talking softly.

"Mom," Gwen whispered, "I just used the potty, and it won't flush. I think it is backed up."

I stifled a laugh. "That's okay, Gwen, just put a garbage can on it and ask the boys to use the bathroom upstairs."

"Mom, I think you need to come home now."

"Why, is it running over onto the floor?"

"No."

"I think it will wait until we get home, then."

There was a pause. Suddenly I heard Xavier's voice on the line, whispering. "Mom, I think you need to come home now."

"Why?"

"Because the potty is backed up."

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Well, the babysitter has a headache, and he doesn't want to play. I think he might be lazy."

"Where is he now?"

"Sitting on the sofa, playing with Legos."

Only the cats' favorite piece of furniture. "Does he know you are calling?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't know what about."

Deciding it was probably best that we end the babysitter's misery, we came home, which is probably a good thing because he was still machine-gun sneezing. I felt bad, because it was clear he had been trying -- he'd been playing cards with the kids, there were other games out, he'd washed the dinner dishes, and even as he was waiting to leave he was trying to make the kids laugh. Clearly my kids have a higher expectation from their sitters than is probably realistic.

Still, in the interest of keeping him alive until he can graduate from high school, we'll probably not invite him to babysit again.


I've been really busy since before Thanksgiving, so I have been a little slack on the blog, and I apologize. Over Thanksgiving, we went to see my parents, and we took my niece Chloe with us. My parents' house is a little small to contain three active kids, so Adam took them to the playground down the street for a couple hours a day. In order to make the walk interesting, Adam suggested that they take turns playing Simon Says.

Xavier went first. "Simon Says -- run!" So the kids ran like crazy. When they slowed, my niece breathless, Gwen took a turn, then Chloe.

Then it was Xavier's turn again: "Simon Says -- run!"

Adam, noting that Chloe was already out of breath, said, "Xav, you picked that last time. Why don't you pick something else?"

"Oh, okay." Xavier thought for a second, then said, "Simon Says -- run as fast as you can!"

Well, I guess it was different, sort of.


We are late on our Christmas letter, but we do plan to work on it today. I'll be posting it here as well this year as the number of "electronic letter" requests has increased, but we will continue to send out paper copies, at least this year. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Welcome to the New World

When the kids got home from school today, Xavier darted into the bathroom to wash his hands as he usually does (Mom's rule.) As he emerged, he said, "I didn't wash my hands in the bathroom, Mom -- I washed them in the 'flue'."

"What?" I asked, wondering if he meant "flue" or "flu". Neither made sense.

"The 'flue', Mom. I washed my hands in the 'flue'."

Seeing I still didn't get it, he said, exasperated, "You know, Mom -- like they say in New England. You know, the place where they call policemen 'bobbies.'"

"They call it a 'loo', Xav, not a 'flue'." I didn't tell him this was slang in OLD England -- I figured it was enough upheaval of his world order in one day.

Of course, at supper he was telling his dad how they call cake sprinkles "dozens of thousands" in New England. Maybe I would be doing him a favor to let him know ... and maybe to google that term to see if he had it right.

Xavier's Recipe for Thanksgiving Turkey

If you aren't sure how to cook your turkey this Thanksgiving, you might take a tip from Xav. Heck, if Xavier can cook a turkey, anyone can!

How to Cook a Turkey
By
Xavier

I will get the turkey at Kroger. It will weigh 15 pounds. I will cook the turkey in the oven at 15 degrees and cook it for two hours. When it is brown it will be done.

Now we will make the gravy.

We take the turkey's juice and add onion.

Now add garlic.

Now pour the gravy on the turkey.

The turkey is ready.

We have a great Thanksgiving.

The End

Of course, it takes a very special oven to cook a turkey a la Freezer Burn. Or, as Adam put it, "Turkey Tartare."

Another way a cat can kill you

You know how some people are deathly allergic to cats? Well, we aren't deathly allergic ... we aren't even a little allergic. And yet, a cat nearly killed my son tonight. How, might you ask? Stay tuned, gentle reader ...

A few years ago, I bought Adam an anthology of Get Fuzzy cartoons (I believe for one of those romantic holidays, like our anniversary or Valentine's Day.) In case you are not familiar with the strip, it catalogs the day-to-day life of Robert Wilco, a single guy who can't get a date, his hopelessly dumb but affectionate dog Satchel, and his sociopathic cat (I know, is there any other kind?) Bucky.

Anyway, last night I started reading the Get Fuzzy anthology to Xavier and Gwen. They found it fairly amusing, although it was not amusing enough to lure Gwen back to the sofa tonight. Xavier was ready and willing, however. Again, most of them he found at least somewhat amusing, but one of them really set him off.

In this particular "episode", Bucky the Cat is singing the "I Say Potato, You Say Po-taw-to" song:

(First frame):
Bucky, singing: "I say potato; you say potato. I say tomato and you say tomato."

(Second frame):
Bucky: "Potato! Potato! Tomato! Tomato!"

(Third frame):
Robert (the human): "Um, Bucky, you're not supposed to say it the same way both times."

Bucky: "Potato! Potato! Potato! Potato! Potato!"

Now, being familiar with the song, I read it the "right" way, and it was not until the third frame that I realized I was reading it incorrectly. It didn't matter -- Xavier thought it was hysterical.

"Read it again!" he gasped between laughs. I read it again and he laughed so hard and long that at first I thought his head was going to explode, but it didn't. Instead, he started coughing -- yup, Bucky the Cat had set off his asthma.

But that still didn't stop him. "Again! Again!" he croaked, and we probably read that silly strip ten times before, in the interest of saving his life, I moved on to something else.

But the moral of this story is: "Never trust a cat," even a comic strip cat. Or, at least, never trust a six-year-old boy with an anthology of comic strips.

Halloween Party Postponed to November 8, 1:30 to 3:30

Gwen is sick, and when the doctor announced it was probably H1N1, we decided to postpone the party until we could be relatively sure the flu had run its course through our family. After notifying about half of the kids of the party delay, however, the doctor said the test results came back negative, so it is NOT the flu.

Anyway, we hope to see you rain or shine on November 8th! If it ends up being "rain," we'll find someway to bring the party indoors, but otherwise count on an outdoor party.

Fame

Of course, you've heard about the "Balloon Boy" hoax. You've probably heard of that survey that found that one third of kids responded with "Famous!" when asked what they wanted to be when they grow up.

In Gwen's defense, I think she likes reading this blog more than she likes the thought that others are reading it. The other day she asked me when I would write in the BLOG again.

"I don't know, honey. When I have time. Or when one of you does something remarkably funny."

A few minutes later, a song came on the radio and she started jamming to it. I tried to keep a straight face, but I couldn't. Gwen looked over and said, "What, you think I'm funny?"

"I'm afraid so," I laughed, more than a little afraid of hurting her pride.

"Good!" she responded. "Put it on the BLOG!"

It took us awhile to explain to her that describing her dancing was not the same as seeing it. All the same, it was still pretty funny.


Now for news of my niece Chloe ...

Have you ever been on the phone with someone and felt powerless to control what was going on at the other end of the phone?

Well, the other day I was talking to my niece Chloe on the phone. Chloe has days when she is kind of chatty, but she also has days when she is distracted. This was clearly a distracted kind of day, so I finally asked, "Chloe, are you watching TV?"

"No, I'm playing with my Mom's Nintendo DS. I figured out her password on this game, and I'm changing it."

"Oh ..." I said. "I'm not so sure that's such a good idea Chloe."

"I'm changing it to 'RREEQQEEABCEERIJ..." and she rambled on a few letters.

"Um, Chloe, I sure hope you're writing this down."

"No," she replied glibly.

"How are you going to remember it, then, when your Mom wants to log back in?"

"I'll just remember."

Great. "Um, Chloe, maybe this would be a good time to turn me back over to your mother."

There was a pause, and at first I thought maybe she was doing what I suggested. Then, "I just changed her language options to Chinese!"

Groan ... well, I hope her mom doesn't need to play that game for awhile ... or that Chloe was pulling my leg.


The other day, the kids and I went to the local bookstore to buy some Christmas presents and pick up some books that had just come in. We could not have been in the store for twenty minutes, and I did not leave the lights on, but after loading the kids into the car, I turned the ignition and got nothing but the tick-tick-tick of the flywheel.

I looked in the backseat, where the kids were comfortably reading. Outside it was cold and rainy, and we really were parked right in front of the bookstore, so I said, "Kids, the car won't start. Do you want to come in with me or stay out here?"

"Stay out here," they chorused without looking up.

"I'm going to lock you guys in, okay?"

"Okay," they replied, still not looking up.

So I locked the kids in the van, stepped into the bookstore and tried to call Adam on his cell. Nothing. Then I borrowed a phone book and called the nearby automotive repair shop to ask for a jump. Fine, they'd be there in ten minutes. I went out and climbed back into the van to wait.

Ten minutes later, I saw the repair shop van pull up behind me. As I opened the door, Xavier shifted in his seat and said, "Mommy! Why are we still here?"

"I told you, honey. The car won't start, so the guy from the auto shop is here to jump the battery."

"The car won't start?!?" Gwen cried, a look of panic crossing her face. "What are we going to do?"

I reassured her that we would be on our way in a minute, and we were. Whew! I don't know whether to be disappointed at how little they listen to me, or just glad that they love reading so much.

B is for Bad, D is for Disaster

We were supposed to go to a scouting event last Saturday, but we didn't because I had a cold and did not feel it prudent to go spend all day chasing crazed little boys around. Adam was willing (not "ready and willing", just "willing") to take the kids himself, but he wasn't happy about it, and the kids had a birthday party in town they could attend, so we attended the birthday party.

At the party, I was talking to the mother of another third grader. At our school, kids are not evaluated with the "A-B-C-D-F" scoring system until third grade, and the other mother made the observation, "We're a little apprehensive about the new grading system. I mean, Ned (her son) couldn't care less, and we can yell at him about school until the cows come home, but he doesn't care. We're the ones who worry about his grades."

I nodded with knowing sympathy, but ... I don't really have that problem with OUR third grader. The problem we have can be illustrated more like ... this:

The other night, when I was helping Gwen get ready for bed, she suggested that our new bedtime regimen (of letting them stay up until 8:30 but not allowing them to read in bed anymore) wasn't working for her. She said, "I think my grades are coming down because of it. I used to get As all the time, but NOW I've gotten a few --" (voice drops to horrified whisper) "B's!"

You know, this is going to shock some people, but I don't worry about my kids' grades so much. Their health? Sure -- that's why we started enforcing this new bedtime regimen. Research has shown that kids who go to bed at set bedtimes are healthier than their "read-in-bed" counterparts. More to the point, when we come to bed at 10:30, we are now finding Gwen asleep -- that wasn't true before. No, the reason Gwen is getting B's instead of A's is because she spends all her time reading and not enough time on her homework. "Gwen, not that I care, but the reason you are getting B's is because you've gotten slack on your homework so you can spend more time reading."

"No, I haven't! I do my homework!"

"Yes," I said patiently, "but you rush through it so you have more time to read. And, anyway, B's are still good. I'm not worried about B's. Now, if you start bringing home D's ..."

So, today Gwen brought home a D. It was just a quiz, not a test or a report card grade, so I looked at it and simply said, "Well, I guess we need to spend more time on our homework."

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" she cried, bursting into tears. Me, I just saw a letter, but she saw ... catastrophe. Fifteen minutes later, I managed to distract her with her homework. Then her Dad came home and we had to go through the whole thing again.

Some parents comment that they wish their kids were a little more like Gwen and more diligent about their grades. All I can say is, Be careful what you wish for.


Tonight Gwen told me that she had to teach her Social Studies class tomorrow.

"Oh?" I asked. "What are you going to teach them about?"

"I'm going to teach them about the execute-ive branch." (Yes, she pronounced "executive" as if it were something they do to death penalty convicts.)

"Well, maybe under the Bush administration," my husband replied.

If Life gives you watermelons, make jack-o-lanterns

So, take a look at the picture above ... notice something strange about the feller in the middle? Yup, he's a watermelon.

This has not been the best year for our garden. Our pumpkins were infected by two kinds of pumpkin-vermin and so the pair flanking the jack-o-lantern above are actually a couple of the large specimens (which is to say, they are slightly larger than a softball.)

We planted several hills of two kinds of watermelons, and only one plant came up. It did not start producing melons until the beginning of September. The first three we harvested sounded hollow, but were far from ripe. This one -- the fourth -- sounded really, really hollow and it was bigger than the other three, so we were optimistic ... but it turned out it was hollow. So we decided that we'd have to make do with the materials at hand. There are six more melons in the garden, but given that it is October and we have already had our first frost, I'd say chances are good that we won't be much luckier with them. Oh well, better luck next year.

We watched Jackie Chan's "Rumble in the Bronx" with the kids the other night. Xavier loved it, but the word "Rumble" seemed beyond him. Several times through the week we had that video, Xavier would wander in and say, "Mom, can we see something in the Bronx?"


By the way, Henry is back from Iraq! His tour was supposed to run until November 9th, but he is back early. As luck would have it, he returned just as the newspaper was running an article about a local businessman (Henry) who was serving in Iraq. If you haven't checked out his blog, see the link on the right -- it is interesting reading.

Dancing in the Dark

Xavier is under the weather again, so I spent the night on Gwen and Xavier's floor again. It turned out that I probably didn't need to -- it was a pretty quiet night overall except for my pager.

Anyway, at one point in the middle of the night when I was awake, Gwen stirred and said loudly, "Are you ready to dance, Xav?"

After a second, Xavier gave a great groan, as if to say, "Not again!"

The funny part is that they were both asleep. I wonder if they were having the same dream.

Public Service Announcements

First off, Tylenol is recalling a bunch of their liquid Children's products. If you have liquid Children's Tylenol in your cupboard (all varieties, including Children's Tylenol + Cough, Children's Tylenol + Cold, Plain Old Vanilla Children's Tylenol, and many, many more) you should check out this website and make sure your Tylenol is not covered by this recall.

As I was checking our bottle of Children's Tylenol, Xavier wandered in. "Mom," he began, then spotting the bottle in my hand his face fell. "Oh, no! Is that for me?"

"Why? Do you feel sick?" I asked.

"No."

"Then it's probably not for you," I replied with a laugh. Six-year-old boys think everything is about them.


Eight-year-old girls, on the other hand, seem to be entrenched in a life of drama. As Gwen was getting her jammies on, she gave a great sigh.

"What's the matter, Gwen?"

"I had a bad day."

"Really?" I was surprised. Evidence would have indicated she'd had a good day -- it was warm, she got a good grade on her science pretest, and she clearly has her social studies test in the bag, if our study session is any indication. "What happened?"

"Well," she sighed. "I nearly passed the Shuttle Run in PE."

"You mean, you nearly failed it?"

"No, I nearly passed it."

"You failed it, then?"

"No," she said, exasperated. "I passed it, but just barely."

"Well, at least you passed it," I said. "Why did you have trouble with it?"

"Well, I fell down."

"Did you get hurt?"

"Yes."

"Bad enough to go to the nurse?"

Pause. "No, not that bad."

"Bad enough for a band-aid?"

Pause. "No."

"Well, okay, that doesn't sound so bad. What else went wrong?"

Gwen sighed again. "Well, I forgot my homework sheet because I didn't know we needed to bring it back in, so I had to share with Robert."

I said gently, "Well, it's your own fault for forgetting your homework."

"I didn't know I needed it!" she emphasized. "And I had to share with Robert!"

"What's wrong with Robert? Does he smell?"

"No, but I had to share with him!"

"Gwen." It was my turn to sigh. "Did anything else go wrong today?"

She thought about it. "No."

"You know, Gwen, that really doesn't sound like a very bad day. You weren't seriously hurt, you didn't get in trouble, your house didn't burn down, and you have food to eat. All in all, I think it was a pretty ordinary day, and it could even be a good day if you looked at it in a different way."

Gwen gave me a withering look that left me in no doubt as to what she thought of my intelligence, and wandered off rather than hear about how she could transform her day. Clearly I had missed the point entirely.

Meanwhile, I was left thinking, "Wow, if she thinks this was a bad day, she must lead a charmed life ... why, back when I was a kid --" And then I realized I had reached the point in my life when I was thinking nostalgically about the good old -- or maybe in this case, bad old -- days, and THAT was a depressing thought. Completely ruined my day.


But, if you need a pick-me-up, check this out Anti Depression Video. If this link does not work, go to YouTube and search for Anti Depression Video and choose the video with the woman and four babies. It only lasts a minute, and really will brighten your day.

Scout's Envy

Xavier's Cub Scout uniform came today, and he looks very handsome in it, but won't pose for pictures. Hopefully he will be able to go to Cub Scout's tomorrow, and then I can sneak a shot in.

I ordered his uniform online because I did not have time to go to Roanoke this past weekend. With his uniform we got the Tiger Cub's Handbook (I paid for that, it wasn't free :) and, of course, a Boy Scouts of America catalog (that I did not pay for.)

Xavier picked up the catalog, examined it briefly, then tossed it aside with disgust. "I don't know why they want me to order Boy's Life magazine, Mom," he said with disgust. "It's really boring."

I reassured him that he was looking at a catalog and that Boy's Life was definitely better than that.

Gwen, in the meantime, was reading the Tiger Cub's Handbook. Finally she put it aside with a sigh and said, "Why can't girls be boy scouts? It sounds like a lot of fun. Do you know, Xavier gets to make a scrapbook?" Yeah, nothing says macho like developing your scrapbooking skills.

I replied, "Well, I don't think they get to do everything in that book."

"All the same, it looks like fun. I wish I could be a boy scout."

"Well, you could always join the Girl Scouts," I suggested.

"Naah," she replied. "Too many girls."


This evening Xavier called me into the living room and asked me to help him put a balloon on his balloon pump. "I want to surprise Daddy!" he said with a smile. "I'm going to make a screechy noise with my balloon!"

Knowing Adam as I do, I said, "Aw, Xav, I wouldn't recommend that. He's really not in a very good mood today."

"Why is that?" Xavier asked.

Rather than answer -- because he had to take Xavier to the doctor today because Xav was hacking up a lung -- I kind of dodged the question. Instead, I said, "Do you know, when Daddy and I got married, he was the happy, easy-go-lucky member of the family?"

"No way!" Xavier scoffed as Gwen was walking in to see what Xav was doing.

"No way what?" she asked.

"Daddy used to be the light-hearted, happy one of the two of us," I answered.

Gwen made a skeptical face. "When was that?" she asked.

"Before we had kids," I replied with a smile to let them know I was joking.

I wasn't, really.

I'm not dead yet -- I'm getting better!

No, no one here is sick. Well, Xavier is (again) -- it looks like the "no sniffy nose/cough" rule at school is not being enforced like it should -- but in the grand scheme of things, it is not too bad a cough.

No, the other night when Xavier went to feed his fish, I stopped him because I noticed the fish looked strangely ... inactive. I shook the bowl a few times, but it continued to float at the bottom of the bowl.

Xavier started to tear up. "Is my fish dead?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I think so, but let's give him a few, see if he recovers." Really, what I was trying to do was get Xavier in bed so I could get rid of the fish discreetly. Still, Xavier continued to be tearful, red-eyed, sniffly, and coughy, and I tried to reassure him. Gwen, realizing that there might be a dead fish in the family also dissolved into tears.

"Mom," Xavier said at last. "If my fish is dead, can I get legos instead of a new fish?"

"Ummm, I guess so," I replied. "But he might not be dead yet."

"Can I get space police legos?"

"Uh, sure. If your fish is dead."

"Maybe Harry Potter legos would be better."

"Well you'll have to think about it," I said, as I turned out the light.

I went from the bedroom to the bathroom to dispose of the fish, and found him swimming slowly around the bowl. I'm not one to hasten someone to the great beyond, so I could not bring myself to "flush the fish." Instead, I went back to the kids' room.

"Xavier, your fish isn't dead," I said. "He's swimming around. He might be fine tomorrow."

"Maybe," he replied. "But he'll probably be dead."

I privately agreed, but did not say so. Not wanting the kids to start a school day with the spector of a dead fish, I went into their bathroom the next morning to dispose of the evidence, only to find the fish zipping around the bowl like he was at the Indy 500. I tossed some food in, which he ate voraciously, then breathed a silent sigh of relief that he seemed to be just fine.

When Xavier got up, I said, "Good news, son! The fish is alive and well!"

"Oh," Xavier responded disappointedly. Then, as if realizing that did not sound very good, he added with a little more enthusiasm, "Really?"


Xavier has joined the ranks of the cub scouts. When he announced he wanted to do this, I was surprised at the vehemence of Adam's response against it. He went on a tirade on how much he hated the scouts, and what a waste of time it was, what an ordeal it was, and how only a complete idiot would join the scouts. I was a little stunned in the onslaught of his negative response -- I mean it wasn't like Xavier was lobbying to join the local Satanist church or the Young Republicans.

Xavier, being relatively sharp despite what people think, put the kibosh on the topic, but when I was putting him to bed, he whispered to me, "But, Mom, I really wanted to join the scouts."

"I know, Xav. I'll take care of it."

Saying good night, I immediately went downstairs and said, "You know, Adam, we really ought to let him give the scouts a try."

Adam sighed. "I guess so ... I just wish he could learn from my mistakes."

That cracked me up, on two levels:
1. Xavier has a very different personality from Adam. I pointed this out to Adam, then added, "It may not be a mistake for him."

2. Gwen, on the other hand, has a very similar personality to mine, and despite my best efforts, she refuses to learn from my mistakes.

Anyway, I felt the first mistake coming on when I went to the scouting info session, and along with Xavier's sign up form, they handed me the popcorn fundraiser forms. So ... if you want to order Boy Scout popcorn from Xavier, shoot me an email. If you don't, well, I'm kind of resigned to join the popcorn assault team at Kroger later this month rather than seek out donations door-to-door anyway.

Religion a la Bakugan

Today was Labor Day, and I had to work, but I'm not complaining -- I still have a job.

Anyway, Adam did not have to work, so he stayed home with the kids. Gwen was rescued from the ennui of playing Legos with Xavier by a playdate, so Adam and Xavier spent some male-bonding time together.

Xavier was showing Adam his Bakugan, which are little magnetic balls that transform into "creatures" when they come in contact with metal (follow the link and you can see what I mean.) They are associated with some kind of card game, but Xavier doesn't care about that -- he just likes the Bakugans.

He told Adam that the blue one was his favorite, then added, "But THIS one is the most powerful. It has 720 Jesus, while that one only has 320 Jesus."

"What?" Adam asked, not sure if he was hearing Xavier correctly.

"720 Jesus, Dad. That's how powerful he is," Xavier repeated patiently.

"Where are the cards that go with these?" Adam asked. On perusing the cards, he saw that the unit of measure involved were called "G-force". So, Xavier's most powerful Bakugon has 720 "G-force," not "Jesus."

Clearly someone needs to work harder on his reading skills. Either that, or I need to take him to church more often.

New Sick Kid Rules

If you follow the news, you know that University of Kansas resumed classes last Thursday, and by Monday 47 of the kids had the swine flu.

Well, Xavier is playing in their league. School here started last Wednesday, and Xavier woke up with a croupy cough yesterday morning. Luckily (I think), it does not look like the flu. (Mom, before you correct my grammar, the sentence above is correct -- I think I am lucky it is not the flu.) The problem is, Xavier has a runny nose, occasional cough, and no fever. In fact, with the minor inconvenience of his asthma and being nagged about blowing his nose, he feels great! But, because of flu fears, he is not allowed to go to school. According to our county's new "accepted level of wellness" rules, no child with a runny nose, cough, or temperature over 99.7 is allowed in school. Last year, we would have sent him to school like this; this year, I am learning it is nigh impossible to work from home when your child is bouncing off the walls.

Today, I caught Xavier coughing his head off as he jumped on the sofa (as if it were a trampoline), and told him to stop and blow his nose. "Don't you want to get better?" I asked.

"Nope!" he replied.

Not sure I'd heard him correctly, I said, "You don't want to get better?"

"Heck, no!" he replied. "As long as I am sick, I get to stay home with Mom, get snuggled by Mom, make YouTubes, play with Legos, drink root beer and watch videos. I NEVER want to get better!"

Daddy is staying home with him tomorrow.


On that note, here's a plea to friends and family that is not a joke ...

On the one hand, I am thrilled that kids with colds are being asked to stay home from school. When your child has asthma, there is no such thing as "just a cold." On the other hand, as a working mother facing the prospect of staying home with a mildly sick kid (except for the asthma) for possibly as long as the next two weeks, this is totally uncool.

So, please listen: much as we love to see you, we don't want to see you with any sort of respiratory illness. We will happily postpone visits with you (even major holidays) if it means giving you a chance to recover. That way, you will enjoy our company more (because you are feeling better), and we will be able to keep our kids in school.

Thanks for your cooperation on this!

Testing Your Knowledge

The kids made the following videos (they call them YouTubes, but we aren't posting them there). Can you tell who made which one?

The Manduran Alligators:

I should note that the two stars of The Manduran Alligators are Darth Vader (from Star Wars) and the Penguin (from Batman). Just so you know.

Life and Death:

Penguin also stars in Life and Death (I think), but I'm not sure who the other players are.

And who says girls and boys are creative in different ways?

And here's a blast from the past ... now you know where it all began:

Xavier-wan Kenobi

In case you can't tell, Xavier is using his light sword (that we got at Busch Gardens last week) to read a comic book in bed when he should be sleeping. Perhaps if Anakin Skywalker had spent more time using his lightsaber to read Archie comic books instead of killing people with it, well ... okay, the Star Wars universe might be a better place, but the movies would have been pretty boring.


We were eating supper the other day, and we were talking about doctors. Adam commented, "Usually people expect doctors to help them get better."

Gwen scoffed. "Better at what? Better at golf?"

Only eight years old and already jaded.


On a child-unrelated note, it seems that some mothers are using their blogs for financial gain by posting product endorsements (see http://www.cnn.com/2009/TECH/08/10/mommy.bloggers.ethics/index.html?iref=newssearch for more information.) I, for one, will not take this pledge, because this is an anonymous blog for my children's safety (so anonymous even the email address is fake, so I don't get product endorsement opportunities anymore.) Furthermore, as I sit here drinking my Larry's Beans Fair Trade Organic coffee and brushing my teeth with Tom's of Maine toothpaste (at the same time! Sure! Why not?), I realize that my readers deserve better (although reading this might be better yet using the Amazon Kindle.) So sit back, drink your Blue Sky Organic soda, and know that you are logged into the one blog source you can be sure is uncorrupted. And if you are still having trouble sleeping thinking about our capitalistic society, try Rainbow brand Children's Bubble Bath -- the gentle scent of lavender is formulated to help you (and your child) relax at the end of a long day.

Unless, of course, you have a light sword from Busch Gardens.

Good night!

Keep it simple, Elton!

Tonight while Adam and Xavier were finishing supper (speedeaters Gwen and I were already done), Adam had Elton John's "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" playing on the stereo. Conversation had fallen into a lull, and they were sharing some male bonding time, listening to Elton crooning the last stanza:

What do I gotta do to make you love me?
What do I gotta do to make you care?
What do I do when lightning strikes me --

"You die!" Xavier snapped, exasperated. "That wasn't so hard to figure out!"

What comes around, goes around ...

Or is it, "What goes around, comes around"? I guess in this case it does not matter.

Some of my friends thought I was a little nit-picky, but you have no idea what that really means until one of your kids gets lice.

Wait a minute! you're thinking. Mandy's kids aren't in school and they aren't in daycare. How the heck could one of them have lice?

Well ... since my kids are not in daycare, I have two babysitters that take turns watching them through the week. My Tuesday-Thursday sitter is a saint, and if I had not hired the other girl first, I would gladly have taken her on for a five-day shift if she wanted it. My Monday-Wednesday-Friday girl? Well, let's just say that she is coasting along.

Anyway, two weeks ago, MWF Sitter called in sick because she had lice. She said, "I think I am cured, but if you want to skip today, I understand." We chose to skip. (As an interesting side note, while we were home that day Adam and the kids saw a skunk in our yard, and the kids and I saw a woodchuck. We live in the middle of town, so either of these events would have been unusual. Still, it made the day kind of neat, even if the sitter's absence was inconvenient.)

A week passed, and our kids showed no symptoms (although our neighbor spotted the skunk). The babysitter came back. Then, at 3:30am Tuesday morning, Gwen bursts into our bedroom and cries, "My head itches! I think I have lice!" I got up and spent half an hour picking through her hair -- nothing. But she went back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that she was clean.

Well, last night as I was getting her out of the tub, I saw something dark in her hair. I plucked it out -- sure enough an insect. And then I spotted another. And another. Soon I had a collection of ten lice drying out in a glob of hand sanitizer on a tissue on the counter. (And, in case you were curious, it turns out that head lice looks nothing like rice. So if you have been living under that delusion, I'll set you straight on that :). )

Let me tell you, the next four hours gave new meaning to the word "nit-picker" (and, for the less informed, a "nit" is an immature louse, so "nit-picking" really does mean "delousing".) First there was the hour of hysterics (all Gwen's), discussing our options (me: "Doctor"; Adam: "Listerene.") Then there was the rush to the pharmacy to pick up Listerene, lice combs, and (as it turns out) a "pesticide-free ten-minute cure" (I got both the Listerene and the pesticide-free, ten-minute cure -- best to be prepared. The worst that could happen is that we'll go around with medicinal-smelling breath for a month.) Then came blow-drying her hair (since the ten-minute cure requires dry hair), then twenty minutes to apply the ten-minute cure. Ten minutes passed and Viola! I got to spend the next two hours with the lice comb. And that doesn't begin to describe the house-cleaning and laundry we have been doing.

Count on Xavier to pick out the silver lining: "If Gwen has lice, the babysitter can't come tomorrow! Woo-hoo!" Sure enough, he was right: MWF sitter didn't want to catch the lice again right before her vacation, so she gave us a miss.

Poetic Justice: when she stopped by to pick up her check for her earlier work this week, she admitted to Adam that after our call, she checked her hair. Sure enough, her lice was back anyway.

Of course, we didn't laugh long. Yesterday was not the best day on so many levels (I had to be at work at 5:00am to patch databases, I almost had to have the van towed because I could not get it out of park when it was time to come home from work, and I discovered that the root problem for that is that the brake lights are out, so it is not legal or safe to drive anyway ...) Then, this morning, we discovered that yesterday we had managed to close the woodchuck up in the garage -- not a mess for the weak of heart.

But, as Gwen so aptly put it to Adam, "Look at the bright side, Dad -- at least it was not the skunk."

Issues

I was reading an article about how hard it is to diagnose girls with Asberger's Syndrome because outwardly their symptoms may manifest themselves differently than Asberger's in boys. It was kind of an interesting article, although I have to admit that I didn't feel a strong personal tie to it. Oh, sure, my kids have their own issues -- Xav has the attention span of a gnat, and Gwen is so tense she could probably deflect bullets -- but Asberger's is not one of their problems.

Or so I thought ...

The article described one of the puzzles they use to diagnose Asberger's Syndrome. It goes something like this:

1. Sally walks into a room and puts her favorite marble into a basket, then leaves.

2. Anne walks into the room, takes the marble and puts it into a flower pot.

3. Sally returns. Where does she look for the marble?

This puzzle is sometimes done as a mini-role play. The theory is, a child with Asberger's Syndrome is more likely to fail this test (ie, choose the flower pot) than a child without, because a child with Asberger's is unable to see Sally's point of view independently of his/her own (ie, I know the marble is in the flowerpot, Sally should too.)

I was surprised that it could be this cut-and-dry, so I posed the puzzle to Xav (without the role-play). Xavier answered it correctly right away.

Then I posed it to Gwen. She listened to the puzzle, pondered it, then said uncertainly, "In the basket, right?"

"Right." Still, it gave me pause -- Gwen is a very smart kid, a little socially awkward, perhaps, but surely ... "Why did you think about it so long?"

"Well, I thought she would look in the basket right away," Gwen said, "but then I thought, 'This is too easy. It has to be a trick question.' Where did you get this riddle?"

"It comes from an article about girls with Asberger's --"

A panicked look crossed her face. "YOU THINK I HAVE ASBERGER'S SYNDROME????"

I gave a sigh of relief -- this is the Gwen I know. All is right in the world.


We just came back from visiting Adam's relatives in Durham. Our niece Piper is a cute little girl, and, as her parents describe her, "Very three." Most of the time she is very happy, but sometimes she gets upset about minor things (as three-year-olds are wont to do).

When she starts tearing up about something seemingly trivial (ie, like not getting the pink cup), one of her parents will suggest, exasperatedly, "Why don't you cry about it? That always makes things better."

"No, it doesn't!" Piper retorts, always smiling through her tears.

Ah, if only parenthood was always that simple.