Friendly, Neighborhood, Spiderman

Can this kid get anymore hilarious?  Hint:  the answer is "no."  Not sure what's going on with the hoodie.  Refuses, to wear it down.  It's like he's a suburban version of Eminem.

Game Day Giggles

So what to do when the most exciting matchup on game day (until later obvs) is Auburn/Arkansas...yawn?  This, of course.  I dare you not to laugh.

5 Seconds and a Sheep, The Prequel to 8 Seconds

So, this happened:

YES!!! She Can Be Taught!

Soooo, E is clearly my child.  I mean, purely in the physical resemblance sense.  I do not deny that all too obvious fact.  In every other way, though, she's her father's daughter.  She is patient, she is kind, she never makes that weird grunt/sigh noise that signals the expiration of tolerance and beginning of utter exasperation, she doesn't overreact.  But, but, but, she also has the uncanny ability to zone out of the real world and into the TV, computer, book, DS, iPhone, Kindle, coloring book, pretty colors, butterflies, crack in the floor, etc., to the utter exclusion of everything around her. 

I mean, seriously, I must say the words "focus" or "pay attention" 25 times a day, and, remember, Wes and I work, a lot, so we're not home that long.  She "forgets" to wash her hair.  She "thought" she put her shirt, panties, dress, etc. on with the tag in the back, but didn't (again).  Likewise, her daddy didn't hear me say "could you come take this 25 pound stainless steel pot from me, that I totally thought I was tall enought to reach but obviously was mistaken, before it drops on my head and breaks my neck and I die and you are left a widower with two children and hire a hot nanny that you end up marrying and I have to haunt you always" until said pot crashes to the floor denting the hardwoods.  (Overreaction, just a little bit).

She also doesn't care about grooming.  Or, if she does, her idea of cute does not necessarilly align with mine.  She wants her hair straight down, no adornment, bows be damned.  We often debate whether or not she looks like a rag-a-muffin.  She knows what a rag-a-muffin is.  While she loves skirts and dresses, she prefers to wear them with tennis shoes.  I mean, really, she looks like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl running to catch the train. 

Last week I searched frantically for her so, so, so awesome Sun & Sand sandals so that we could get some wear out of them on the days that tennis shoes are not required (because, in case you did not know, tennis shoes are absolutely required for first grade PE which is three days a week, because how ON EARTH would you play Simon Says in shoes without laces and arch support?  How, I ask you?).  I probably lost a good hour over the span of the week looking for them before deciding the playroom ate them. 

So, today, Wes "discovers" them in a bag his brother brought for him.  Apparently they got left in Americus and they have now returned home.  I am excited, although bummed that we lost so much good sandal wearing time.  I figure Ellie doesn't care, until I hear this:

Wes:  Hey, look, sandals!

E:  My WHITE sandals?

Wes:  Yep, white sandals, must have left them in Americus.

E:  THANK goodness!  That is GREAT news.

Wes:  Yep, now mom can quit looking for them.

E:  Wait, when is Labor Day?

Wes:  Next weekend.  Why?

E:  Like not this weekend but the next one?

Wes:  Yes.

E:  (SQUEEEEEEAL) Yay, yay, yay!  I can still wear them a few times before Labor Day.  Because, you know daddy, you can't wear white sandals AFTER Labor Day.

No you cannot.  NO.  YOU.  CANNOT.  I am so proud.  Just so proud.

Desparate Times and All That

Q:  What do you do when your three year old refuses to do his business in the great white water chair and you have begun to fear he will be wearing pull ups as a college freshman? 

A:  Bribe the hell out of him.

But, with what?

Cake?  Nah, too easy, and possibly counter productive.

A new car?  Probably jumping the gun a little.

Definitely not chicks.

Oh, I know...

Go big or go home.

Now Is Ze Time on Sprockets When Ve Dance

He looks exactly like Dieter!

Ok, except for the lack of black body suit, and the camouflage hat, and the dance moves.  But, other than that, they're identical.

Mamie's Missives

Ok...to make up for my rant:

EAT REAL

Fry, Baby, Fry

I am obsessed with food.  Not in a weird food fetish kind of way, but in a “yeah, I really like food” way.  I love to shop for it, prepare it, eat it, look up recipes for it, completely alter said recipes for it, etc.  So why is food suddenly starting to freak me out?

I’ve had my share of relationships with the “in” diets.  In college I avoided anything with any fat whatsoever in an attempt to dodge the dreaded freshman 15.  It found me anyway as it should have since I needed those 15 pounds at that point in my life.  

In my second year of law school I was obsessive about Sugar Busters, the forerunner to Adkins, South Beach, any other low carb diet out there. 

See, I had gained several pounds in the early stages of my relationship with Wes.  He liked the fact that I knew how to bread and fry pretty much anything you put in front of me.  A skill that had gone unappreciated by everyone I had dated until that point.  He still credits his undying love for me to two things:  1.  I made him fried quail, grits, gravy and Italian Cream Cake for his birthday our first year together, and 2.  he thought I could get Master’s badges every year.  I may have overstated my ability on the latter, but I can still fry (and make gravy—which, by the by, is a dying art).

My frying skills, like nearly all of my cooking acumen, is the direct result of the women in my life.  I watched my grandmother (Nanny) cook for a small army nearly everyday of my childhood.  That’s necessary on a dairy farm where the help and hands must be fed well in order to get back out there and do it all again that afternoon.  She made biscuits by the dozen.  We had them at every meal.  It is my not-so-secret shame that I am incapable of making a decent biscuit.  Luckily White Lily freezes theirs. 

Anyway, she fried chicken and pork chops and cubed steak (aka "country fried steak"...I don't know what "chicken fried steak" is, the only thing that should be "chicken" fried is chicken).  She made gravy for all of those.  She roasted turkeys and beef roasts.  She boiled vegetables with slabs of fat back in them.  Most of those vegetables came from the decent sized garden that ran along the side of my grandparents’ house.  We were expected to work in that garden.  Scooting along rows of beans, getting red dirt up our seersucker shorts and between our tan toes (no sunscreen in 1980 folks), picking until our arms were scraped and sweat was caked in our ponytails.  

If you wanted to eat it you better help put it up.  That’s why I claimed to loathe butter beans until I was 20.  Have you ever shelled a butter bean?  It takes your thumbs a month to recover.  Green beans were easier.  I’ve always loved those.  And tomatoes…when society finally recognizes cross species marriages, me and my Better Boy will be first in line.  Our love is real. 

My mother was no slouch in the kitchen either.  She was more likely to use something out of box for dinner (Nanny would certainly use a boxed cake mix—it was her icings that were a thing of beauty) because she worked and we needed to eat.  We often had Old El Paso Tacos or Chef Boyardee Pizza on Friday nights.  The sitter could make them and they sure as heck didn’t deliver to the boondocks where we lived.  I’m not sure they even had pizza delivery then.  But she also made a delicious lasagna that I requested every year on my birthday, ironic as she hates Italian food.  I have wonderful dreams that involve my mom’s vegetable soup.  Sort of like the biscuits, I haven’t mastered that either, but I think it’s because I don’t hold my mouth right.  I really don’t like creamed corn, but hers is divine.  I could bathe in it. 

When my stepmom entered the picture, she had a tough row to hoe.  Two girls.  Ages 9 and 2.  Not particularly enamored with the idea of this outsider living with Daddy (who can’t cook anything but this weird kielbasa, pepper, onion and egg noodle dish-I loved it by the way).  She wasn’t really a cook either.  I’m not sure if she didn’t know that all vegetables were supposed to have fat back in them and be salted and cooked to within an inch of their lives or if she was on the front end of the health craze.  Either way, it took her some time and a crash course in the miracles of butter to figure it out.  But she did.

She used cookbooks, something that had been rare in my upbringing where you just mixed things in until it “looked right.”  She got proficient and she started making some great food, saving our favorites for when we came on the weekends.  I still make a version of her Chicken Parmesan and a Chicken Stir Fry.  Those were things we didn’t get at the dairy, but we loved them anyway.  

So here’s what I learned:  it’s best to eat what you’ve got on hand.  Fresh vegetables and raw unpasteurized milk (hey, we lived on a dairy) are the best things the good Lord gave us.  Feeding your kids things they’ll eat is a good way to sneak in things they won’t and get them to love those too.  When in doubt grab a recipe and start experimenting.

I also learned that the best cakes are made with Swann’s Cake Flour or sometimes a Duncan Hines cake mix.  White Lily produces the best biscuits.  There’s nothing wrong with throwing a jar of canned tomato sauce into your crushed tomatoes to up the flavor.  Potatoes are delicious, especially when there’s a pound of butter in them.  Homemade piecrusts rock, but the frozen ones will do.  Pork fat is our friend.  And most of all, we cook because we love the people we’re cooking for, even if that person is ourselves.

Today I know that unpasteurized milk is risky at best.  I wouldn’t give that to my children, although I’ve been known to sneak a gallon of non-homogenized home and shake the crap out of it before Wes opens it.  I know too much white flour and pasta isn’t a good thing no matter how delicious it is.  Butter is best in moderation (sigh) because I don’t do physical labor on a dairy farm all day burning off 2000 calories in the process.  And grocery stores rarely carry fat back and if they do they call it salt pork or hog jowl or something else that is wholly inaccurate.  Bacon sometimes has to stand in (grrrrr). 

But I also know that none of those things will kill you.  Neither will refined oils.  I doubt that sugar substitutes are going to set off the next global health care crises.  My green beans taste better with a little fat.  You can deny it all you want, but that’s truth right there.  White pasta, especially the kind I make myself because I do that sort of weird crap, is better than whole wheat.  If you disagree, you are either lying or your taste buds have been scoured off by that god-awful whole wheat pasta you’ve been eating.  Fried chicken is divine and it’s a treat.  And, some days, my kids are going to eat tacos or macaroni and cheese or rice out of a box, because Mama got stuck at work and forgot to plan for dinner.  They’ll live.  And, much to my dismay, they will love it.

So, what’s a girl to do in this era where we are bombarded to eat “clean”, eat “like a caveman”, eat “raw”, eat “like no other generation has done before in modern history eschewing all convenience in the name of purity and at the sake of our sanity”?  This girl is going to stop.  I know what’s healthy.  I know what’s not.  I know what moderation is.  I know when it’s ok to splurge.  My kids are going to eat like I did.  Someone is going to cook for them.  Expect them to sit at the table and say grace.  Expect them to eat a little of EVERYTHING on their plate.  And then, on special nights, like Tuesday, let them have ice cream. 

No more agonizing over whether I’m doing what’s best.  I know what’s best because I had the best teachers.  My kids are going to love good food because their best memories are going to be enveloped by the food they ate when we made those memories.  See, we make the food.  The food doesn't make us.  We’re going to EAT REAL.

Backseat Wiier

Ellie played a little Wii at Grandma and Grandpa's this weekend.  Harry tried to help her out:

Watch out for that panda!!!!

Oh, well, That DOES Make More Sense

It's a strong family tradition.  We've been screwing up song lyrics for decades.  Primarily because my father refused to correct us, probably out of the hope that we'd publically humiliate ourselves at a karaoke bar in Tuscaloosa at the age of 25, but I digress.

In case you didn't know, the incomparable Hall and Oates had a smash hit in the 80s with a song about a ravenous Anteater.  For some reason, this Anteater liked to eat boys.

Sometime previous, there was this fabulous song all about a Secret Asian Man.  Not sure what the secret was.  Maybe he didn't look very Asian, or maybe he was really a she pretending to be a she or vice versa.  Whatevs. 

More importantly, Steve Miller was not trying to get on a Big Ole Jet Airliner.  He was trying to get to Big Ole South Carolina.  That, I completely understand. 

Don't even get me started on Blinded By the Light. But that one has been misinterpreted by thousands trying to figure out exactly what feminine hygiene has to do with anything.

Which is why I was not surprised to find that Old Crowe Medicine Show has a thing for fruit.  The boy has been asking me to play the "Rock Me Mama" song every morning in the car.  I am completely used to him not knowing the titles to songs.  I mean, his all time favorite, Red Solo Cup, is actually "A One Two Tree Pour" according to Harry.  But, those words he actually knows, including what Toby Keith thinks Freddie Mac can do.

As for OCMS's ditty, in Meaty Feet's mind it goes a little something like this:

"Rock me Mama like a 'nana peel.  Rock me Mama anyway you feel...."

Of course it does.  I'm not going to correct him.  I'll wait for his fraternity brothers to do that.

Did You Hear the One About the Blonde Chick...?

Harry's in my office with some phantom illness his preschool swears he has.  They are wrong, but that's for a different blog.

He's got the Nintendo DS because Mama's got hours to bill.  He has become bored with Mario, or maybe he's realized that Mario is a bad influence.  Whatever.  He's discovered the "create your own avatar" function of the DS, and let's just say his sister is going to have lots of fun clearing off the 27 new "Harrys" (or is it "Harries"? not sure what the plural would be) he's created this afternoon.

But, but, but, geez, my kid.  So, this is what the "conversation" is like:

H: (shouting at the DS) NOT BROWN HAIR, NOT BROWN HAIR, NO!!!!!

Me:  Not brown hair?  What color hair do you want? (under my breath) because brown hair is the best, and don't you forget it.  Brown haired girls are nice, and sweet, and cook for you....

H:  NOT BROWN HAIR!!!!!!!

Me:  What color hair do you want Harry, mama will help.

H:  I want da udder color, da wellow, wike Miz Cawwie.  Awwww, no, not DA BROWN HAIR, NOOOOOOOO!!!!!

For.  The.  Love.

Language!

So...I knew it was coming.  While I try to watch my mouth, let's face it, I swear like a sailor.  I guess this exchange should not have shocked me:

E:  Mom, what's bullshit mean?

Me: (don't freak out, don't freak out, crap, did I say that, crap) Where did you hear that? 

E:  I just heard it, on the book you're listening to.

Me: (in my head) Dammit, this is supposed to be a young adult book, and how did I not even HEAR the word? (out loud) It's not a very nice thing to say.

E:  Yes, but what does it mean?

Me:  It means you think someone is lying, or exaggerating the truth.

E:  Well, then why wouldn't he just say "I think you're lying" instead of using a bad word?  Why would you use a bad word when a not bad word would work just as well.  I mean, wouldn't the other guy know what he meant if he used a regular word and not a bad word.  I just don't understand why anyone would use a bad word if a not bad word means the same thing.

Me:  Crap.

Here's what Aunt Mamie thought:

See, that's why you use a bad word.  It's much more descriptive.

Mario Needs to Provide a Retainer

Got a visitor in my office this morning.  He's been conversing with Mario and Luigi most of the morning while I work on some jury charges. 

However, he has an opinion on my work.  I say into the dictaphone "ladies and gentleman of the jury I charge you that a person commits the tort of tortious misconduct when...", and I hear "tortious misconduct, dat's right, tortious misconduct."

Alright Mario, that will be $325.

Ice Cream Seizures and Chicken Dances

Harry's three.  Yeah, so there's that.  I guess the "baby weight" excuse finally has to be retired.  Anyway.  We started the celebration early with a little La Parilla goodness on Friday night (mostly because Mommy and Daddy (and Miss Carrie, and Aunt Mamie and Mr. Brian) desparately needed margaritas.

Harry devoured an entire basket of chips and his quesadilla and was rewarded with a birthday brownie sundae, whiiiiiich, I think he enjoyed:

I mean, that's some ice cream love. 

Birthday get together Saturday night with fabulous McEntyre's Oreo Scream cake (good gracious that thing is fabulously horrible for you).  Presents, more ice cream, and one spectacularly annoying birthday card, again, compliments of Mamie and Brian:

Yes, that's the chicken dance.  No, he doesn't do the chicken dance.  Yes, I think he's clogging.  No, Ellie is not invited to the chicken dance party.  Yes, that thing will be in the trash once I'm able to pry it from his chubby sleeping hands. 

So, four trucks, three books, one RACE TRACK(with racing trucks no less), and a talking Boris the Stegasaurus, and what do we play with over and over and over and over and (just kill me now) OVER again?  Yep, chicken dance card. Grrrrrrr.

Happy birthday Meaty Feet.  You're certainly entertaining!

If You Must...

Heyyyy, Meaty Feet.  We heard you last night.  Reading your truck book to yourself after everyone got in their beds.  Pitter pattering between your room and Sissy's room.  Negotiating the custody terms of some stuffed critter or another. 

We heard you asking her for a book.  We heard her sleepily acquiesce to letting you "nuggle" for "just one minute, no more."  We let it happen.  It probably would have been more prudent to intervene and insist on night-night segregation.  I'm sure it would have made for a smoother morning (curse you, first Monday of Daylight Savings Time).  But then I wouldn't have gotten to snap this at midnight:

"Just one minute" my foot!  So I asked the girl this morning "how'd Harry wind up in your bed?"  Here's the exchange:

E:  I don't know, he wouldn't go to sleep in his bed so I just let him lay there for a minute otherwise he was just going to annoy me all night.
Me:  A minute!  He was there all night!
E:  Ugh!  I know.  He slept on my side the WHOLE NIGHT!!!!
Me:  I know the feeling.  Well, at least you got both got a good night's sleep.
E:  I didn't.  I did not sleep a single minute.
Me:  Really?  That's interesting.  Not one single minute.
E:  Not even a second.
Me:  Huh. 

Just as a little aside, note the little splotch of camoflague in between them.  That's his hat with the Gerogia "G" on it.  Went to sleep with it on. 

I feel compelled to say something witty, but really I'm just a little misty over this tiny, fleeting moment.  This won't happen very much or for very long.  But it's nice to know that, at least right this moment, they like to "nuggle", even if the girl has to stay awake ALL night to do it!

Give It Up!

Got a phone call from the hubs last night before I left work giving me the low down on E's position regarding Lent.  She had an opinion as to what Wes should give up and she had put a great deal of thought into her sacrifice.  Wanting to know her take on yours truly, I quizzed her about it in the car on the way to gymnastics:

Me:  So, I hear you're giving up sleeping with Lily* for Lent.

E:  Yeah, I'm six.  I mean I like sleeping with her, but I shouldn't NEED to sleep with her.

Me:  So what's Daddy giving up?

E:  Ketchup.  Have you seen how much of it he eats.  Its a lot.

Me:  That makes sense.  How about Harry.

E:  Daddy said he should give up pooping in his pants, but I don't think that's going to happen.

Me:  Me either.  What about me?

E:  Hmmm, what do you like the most?  Oh, I know, your electric blanket.

Me:  No.

E:  Ok, spaghetti.  You eat way too much of it.  You make us eat way too much of it.  You should give that up.

Me:  D'oh.  Ummm, ok, spaghetti, well, we can have it on Sundays, right, that's feast day, that will work, right, I mean, right?

E:  Not every Sunday.  We need fried chicken every now and then.

Me:  Ok.  Fair enough.  I should give up pasta (gulp).

Me:  (Thinking this would be a fun game) What should Aunt Mamie give up?

E:  Wine.  Hey, maybe that would be good for you too and Miss Carrie, y'all should all give up wine.

Me:  No, I'm going to stick to pasta.  I mean, there's sacrifice and then there's masochism.

E:  Well Mamie should definitely give it up.

Me:  I agree.

First off, she pretty much gets this Lent concept.  Secondly, what a little totalitarian.  So I text Amy who is in the lovely Show Me State this week.  Here's the exchange:

Touché Aunt Mamie,

Touché

*Lily is her beloved liger that her dad picked up for her in Vegas a few years back.  While she looks remarkably like a white tiger (and came from the Siegfried and Roy display, so...) Bob Bob, the dreadlocked lion we've had for 5 years, is her purported father, so we're going with liger.

At Least His Vocabulary is Improving

So...maybe we let Harry watch a little too much T.V.

Suck Up

All day long folks in the office ask "what are you doing for Valentine's Day?"  I debate whether I should respond "on a date with my secret lover Jackie Anglin (the girls have gymnastics- so that's a joke, kind of)" or "deciding which child to sacrifice to the Valentine's Day god, we're leaning towards the boy, more meaty, but the girl, she's got that innocent thing going for her." 

Instead I tell them what I believed to be the truth.  I say "oh, nothing, we're not much into Valentine's."

It's a made up holiday!  It's an excuse to sell red roses at four times the market value, Victoria's Secret underwear at 3,272 times the cost of the raw materials and to allow Waffle House to enter the reservation business (I'm not making that up).  It also means I'm going to have to spend approximately 82 more minutes on the elliptical than I planned this evening because you people keep laying out fat lawyer traps all over the office (i.e. chocolate covered EVERYTHING). 

So, thanks Wes.  Mere minutes after my final Valentine's Day Bah Humbug rant of the day, the copy room guy brings me these:

AND copy guy had heard my rant and gave me that smug grin that only copy room guys can muster.  Yeah, I know, Wes is awesome.  Jeez.  Can't decide what to get him.  Maybe a Snuggie from Walgreen's.  Way to destroy my street cred.

Damn You, Pinterest

I was seriously ok with buying cutesy Valentine cards from the local gift store for the kids to pass out to their classmates.  They usually had a craft attached.  They'd become finger puppets or monster mobiles or paper dolls.  They were pricey, well made and, so I thought, unique and creative. 

So why did I just spend 5 hours making this crap:

I'll tell you why.  Because Pinterest told me to.  Pinterest told me all the cool moms were MAKING their kids' Valentines.  You're not trying hard enough if you're not crafting your way through every major freaking holiday.  Want to throw the perfect birthday party?  Better find a set of 100 printables on Pinterest.  Otherwise, you're just a store bought mama.  Hosting an Easter brunch?  Well there's this blog with 14 different egg wreaths, a flower vase stuffed with Peeps (ok, that may be the only legitimate purpose for Peeps) and 17 different Spring inspired recipes to ensure your get together is just the bee's knees.

Therefore, after 9 hours at work dealing with other peoples' problems I rush home to snip, cut, curl and tie my children's way to Valentine perfection.  And it's not just kids' stuff.  I made a freaking magnetic chalkboard wall in my kitchen.  Umm, psst, don't know if you've heard but THEY SELL MAGNETIC CHALKBOARDS AT TARGET!

Don't even get me started about the recipes.  I've got like 300 pinned on my "Food" board.  It's become an obsession.  The thing is, I know I don't have time for this crap. You know you don't have time for this crap.  So why do we continue to do it?  Do you honestly think Susie that sits at the end of the pew from you at church is packing all those ridiculously adorable lunches where everything is cut out in the shape of a seahorse for her kids everday?  Yeah, she did it once, then she lost the damn cookie cutter.  Back to Lunchables. 

You know what?  I'm done.  I'm swearing off Pinterest.  Anything they say I can make, I know I can buy (and for less time, effort, and I'm seriously not kidding, less money-these crafts cost a freaking fortune).  I'm going to go disable my account, right freaking now.  Well, after I find a couple of upholstered headboard tutorials.  We really need a headboard.

All Aboard the Oreo Express!

Update:

Orient Express visit was fabulous.  Mostly because our chef/hibachi master was high as a kite.  He threw so much rice at us he needed another bowl.  But...fried rice and hibachi shrimp were had.  Cupcakes were consumed.  Candles we blown out.  A good time was had by all (especially our chef, who spoke Spanish as well.  Multicultural awesomeness).

Ready:

Set:

Wish!:

Yeah, she and Aunt Mamie are demons.  Woot Woot Oreo Express!  Now onto the magical world of the Harry Potter Pizza Party.


Six years ago today I was starving and cursing my husband and sister as they chowed down on McDonald's biscuits.  Apparently, the Labor and Delivery staff at Northside frown on people in active labor eating during the process.  Horrible rule.  The consequences could be dire.

That means, of course, that I have a six year old.  I do not know how this happened.  I, me, this one over here, the anti-crier, sobbed after kissing her goodnight.  Her last night of being five.  What is it about six?  It's like she went from being my little secret to being a citizen of the wide world.  My heart is about to burst from resigned sadness and ridiculous pride.  So, we celebrate!

This morning she got her first real big girl bike...doesn't even come with training wheels.

Tonight we will join up with the gang (us, Mamie, Mr. Brian and Miss Carrie) and be dazzled by the Hibachi chef at the Oreo Express (that's the Orient Express for those of you who don't speak Ellie).  But, it's not the Oreo Express anymore.  Because, as she told me this morning, six year olds know its not the Oreo Express.  That's what silly little kids say.  Sigh.

Little Samson Gets Shorn

Not sure what the ladies are going to thing, but we woke up like this:

That's his "why is this camera in my face pre-Honey Nut Cheerios" look.

Went and had a great time in the train room at Pigtails and Crewcuts:

"Not sure what we're doing here, but these trains are fantastic.  Can I get some trains.  I'd really like some trains.  Hey, why are you picking me up?  Traaaaaaaaaains!!!!!"

"Oh, Police Car? Not a bad swap."

""Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. What the heck? Why do I feel weaker?"

"No doubt the chicks are going to dig this.  The hair, not the banana."



It's Good To Have Goals

The 100th day of school came and went this week.  They actually celebrate it.  This is a new concept for me. 

Anyway, like I said, celebration.  Lots of learning activities involving the number 100.  Several of the finished products came home in Ellie's folder today. 

Here's the first:

Here's the translation:  Win [When] I am 100 years old I wil[l] we[a]r erenges [earrings].  Win I am 100 I wil have rencls [wrinkles]. 

I think she's showing amazing patience and delirious optimism at the same time.

Here's another 100 day project:

If I had $100, I would buy lannd.

Now, before we dismiss this as evidence that a nearly six year old has no concept of the value of money, I'd like to direct your attention to the illustration.  Very clearly, that is a brunette child (with fabulous flowing locks, of course) standing near a buck-a deer to those of you from the city.  Her Daddy, Uncle Chad and Big Daddy just bought a piece of property in Ideal, Georgia.  The sole purpose of that property is for the killing and subsequent eating of local fauna (and auspiciously the harvesting of timber but I will believe that when I see it).  I can buy her theory that $100 can get you an acre or two in Ideal. 

Plus, I admire her pluckiness.  Reminds me of someone I once knew...

She's Crafty

Been wanting a kitchen chalkboard for years, so I made one.  Started with the side panel next to the fridge:

(Okay, so that's the panel next to the oven but I forgot to take a "before" before I started painting.  They're iiiiii-dentical though.)

Bought these:

Both are made by Rust-Oleum.  I researched the heck out of this and Rust-Oleum's chalk board paint is allegedly not the best, but I wanted to be sure it would work with the magnetic primer so I figured I'd sacrifice quality for knowing there wouldn't been a large scale disaster.

The magnetic primer runs about $25.  The chalk board paint is less than ten.  They come in quarts.  I used all the primer, but I have a ton of chalk board paint left over.  I'm turn everything into chalk boards.  Jars, glasses, Wes's forehead.  Everything.

I had them shake the snot out of the primer at Home Depot.  It's paint with metal particles in it, so they all settle to the bottom.  The can is heavy too.  I stirred, stirred, stirred between coats to keep it mixed up.

It took six, count them, six coats of magnetic primer.  Only 30 minutes of drying time between each coat, and then we had to wait 3 hours before putting the chalk board paint on top.  To be honest, it's still not all that magnetic.  Fridge magnets and alphabet magnets stick great, but that Leap Frog animal sound think will not stay. 

Just two coats of chalk board.  The tutorials I found on the intrawebs told me not to do more than that because then you'd lose something on the magneticism and you wouldn't want that.  An hour of drying time between coats.  Overnight to dry, but NO WRITING ON IT FOR 3 DAYS!

Here's what it looked like in process (the primer is pretty much black too):

I realized the top-top would not get used much.  Carrie came up with the idea of putting a "welcome" saying or quote up there and just leaving it.  So, I stole one:

Here's Carrie writing it up there.  My handwriting is atrocious, good thing we keep her around.

And, here's the finished product:

The "quote" is off Local Three's menu, "Sit Deep, Stay Long."  No idea if it's a quote from someone famous (other than the Local Three guys, they're sort of famous here in Atlanta), but I like it.  I think it embodies our home pretty well. 

Anyway, pretty crafty for me.  Yay, weekend projects.

Proceed to Party

Really, this needs no commentary

I Love It When a Plan Comes Together.

I have a new found obsession with Pinterest.  Better than Facebook, way more useful than Twitter.  It's at least inspiring me to get organized and fancy the place up a bit.  Plus, I love sticking recipes all in one place. 

How awesome is it, then, that one of the first things I pinned, some of the prints from Old Try, this fabulous huband/wife team of Southern ex-pats up in Massachusetts, have finally ended up in my home?

The first print is self explanatory.  The second is the coordinates for the Mason Dixon line.  They have an accurate depiction of a Southerner's perspective of the line on their website.  The last is the Georgia flag superimposed over an outline of the state. 

Anyway, just happy to be putting my pins into action.  Thanks D&Y for the perfect Christmas gift.  Thanks Old Try for making such great prints.  You can check out other pieces (pretty Alabama and North Carolina heavy due to their roots, would love the yellow hammer if I'd more of an affinity for my law school alma mater) at http://theoldtry.com.



Head. Pants. Now.

I feel like there should be a child training service similar to those available for gun dogs.  You know, where you hand the kid off for a few months and they come back knowing an important skill.  With dogs, they come back knowing how to retrieve ducks, dove, quail, small children, etc. without being gun shy, barking or turning the boat over.  With kids, they could learn to drink from a cup, clean their rooms, or, most importantly, tee-tee and poop in the potty.  My guess is this service exists, but it is only for the fabulously wealthy or those that don't care if others shun them for not raising their own children. 

Anyhow, here's how we're dealing with the lack of proper potty training professionals:

Naked little boy butt.  Seriously cute, but potentially problematic (and before you ask, yes, his hand is where you think it is...he is a boy, afterall, oh, and that's the Georgia/Michigan State game on the TV, things were going well at this point, but that's for a different blog).

Here's how a potty epiphany happens in our house-

Me (or Wes):  Harry, do you have to go tee tee in the potty.
Harry: Noooo.
Me: You sure?
Harry:  Ok, tee tee in da pah-tee, ok.  Yay! (arms over head)
Me:  Yay! (arms also over head or this whole thing will get derailed)
Harry:  (running to potty) tee tee in pah-tee, tee tee in pah-tee, ok.
(miraculously, tee tee in potty)
Harry: Yay!
Me (and everyone that has come into the bathroom to witness this miraculous event):  Yay!
Harry:  Flush da pah-tee, Yay!
Me:  Yay!
Harry:  Hey (to everyone in ear shot) Hawwy tee tee in da pah-tee, YAY!
Everyone:  Yay!
Harry:  Yay!

Repeat 15 times in one day. 

This does not work for the poop.  He steadfastly refuses to do THAT in the potty.  Instead he brings us a diaper over and over until we finally relent out of fear of him developing some horrifying intestinal ailment and put it on him where he finally takes care of business.  Fabulous. 

Baby steps.  But, at least his butt is cute.