bug and the sweet banana

send in the hazmat crew

My littlest urchin used too much toilet paper and stopped up the plumbing. Not knowing how to fix the problem, she took the next-best step:


("Do not go in. Caution.)
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

          A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside Pink Tulle
        Maiden In a Tower, Maiden On a Throne

The Truth About Tortillas

"Well, french fries are made from tortillas, so . . . " my little girl who was born in Texas professed over dinner.

"Tortillas? French fries are made from potatoes, love, not tortillas."

"What?!" Mind: Blown. "All these years, I thought they were from tortillas."

All these years. All seven of 'em.

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

            A Refined Palate
            Risky Business
            Old Soul

The Doctors Are In

I'm not feeling well and asked Connor and Natalie to treat me gently this afternoon.

"Why don't you feel well?" Connor asked.

"My head aches. My joints hurt. My eyes hurt. I'm tired."

"It sounds like 'Arthur eye dis,'" Dr. Natalie professed.

"How do you know about arthritis?" Has she been reading medical journals?

"Well, not much. Just that old people have it, and it makes their backs hurt."

😐

"I don't think that's it," Connor countered. "For one, Mommy didn't say anything about her back hurting."

What? Not a word about the "old people" part, buddy?

"I think Mommy is just Seriously Wrong," he decided.

I, for one, hope that Seriously Wrong is curable.

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
       
                Scrumbles

That's a fact, Jack. Fact. F-A-C-T.

It's always a good idea to check children's homework:

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
           Charm School
        Damn Misunderstanding
        An Angel Underneath, Innocent and Sweet  

Solemn Warning

One of Natalie's daily writing assignments at school involves writing a few sentences and drawing a picture based on a random shape or line that the teacher draws on a piece of paper.

In this case, it's the black marker line that Natalie turned into part of a boot.

The text reads, "An ant is small. If you were an ant, you would be squished. You do not want to be an ant."

I love these assignments.
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

        Doot! Doot! Doot!
        Paper Conservationists

Sound the Alarm

Natalie burst into my bedroom, interrupting the sleep that had played hide and seek with me all through the night. "Mommy! Mommy! Your eggs are getting old! They're drying out!"

If I hadn't already had all the children that I would like to have, I might have been offended. Hmph.

Those eggs? Scramble chicken eggs that Jim and Natalie made for breakfast an hour or so earlier. My share waited for me (not so patiently) in the oven, whose heat could very well dry them out. 


<sup>© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

        Burn One. Take It Through the Garden. Pin a Rose On It.
      Half Breakfast, Half Lunch</sup>

The Best Revenge

The best revenge for all the ear worms my two little urchins set loose: I put my spin on  songs from The Sound of Music and serenade them at bedtime, like it or not.

Example number one: I sing "Climb Every Mountain" but with these lyrics—with Mother Superior's operatic styling, of course:

                            Put away your laundry.
                            Get the socks from the floor.
                            Put them in your basket 
                            Or your dresser drawer.

And, then, there's "Edelweiss": 

                            Take my advice,
                            Take my advice,
                            You should go to sleep now.
                            Small and bright, you bathed tonight,
                            Now you look sleepy to me, to me.

Mama's got mad skillz. And now you've got earworms.
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

        Thread Count
        Some Tea With His Sugar
        The Hills? They're Alive.

No Annie. No Bus. No Earworms.

Foolish Mistake #274: Telling my children which songs are my least favorite. They now sing "Tomorrow" (of Annie fame) and "The Wheels on the Bus" just to see my reaction.

(That reaction is usually along the lines of "Gah! Don't sing it! Gah!")

Saving grace: Natalie thinks the words are: "Bet my little bottom that tomorrow . . ."

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

It's In the Trees
Lost Soul

Neatnik

Connor and Natalie had 16 days off school for winter break. Their first day back, this past Monday, Connor woke with pink eye. Return to school: False start: Urchin #1.

He stayed home, and we paid the pediatrician a visit. As I waited in line at the pharmacy, Connor wandered around the store. Pink eye must be all the rage in these parts: Neither this pharmacy nor another close by had the prescription eyedrops in stock. We had to galavant across town to a whole 'nother pharmacy.

But that's neither here nor there.

As Connor and I walked from the pharmacy to the store exit, a toy car display stopped me in my tracks.

"Is this your work?" I asked Connor, nudging my chin at the cars, which were organized by color.

"You know it."

An abashed note to locals: Grab a pack of Lysol wipes if you buy a toy car at the pharmacy. 
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

            Pink of Eye

What's Old Is New Again

"Mommy! Mommy!" Natalie gushed after school. "We're going to make a cell phone at school—with two cans and a string!"

be on the lookout

I misplaced a fabric swatch and was searching for it, muttering to myself, when Natalie walked in. "I can help you find it," she offered. "What does it look like?"

"Well, it's about this big," I said, holding a different 8-inch-square swatch, "and it is gray and white and has swirls on it."

"OK." She dove to the floor and peered under the bed and bedside table. "It's not here. Did you look on your bed?"

I had, several times, convinced that I'd missed the swatch amidst the similar pattern on the quilt and mumbled that perhaps I've lost my mind.

"I'll be right back." Natalie scampered off.

She returned and led me by the hand to two "missing" posters she'd taped to a wall. One sought the fabric:

the other, my lost mind:

Natalie checked back hourly, asking if either the fabric or my mind had turned up. I'd eventually figured out that I'd had the fabric swatch all along, in a stack of other similarly themed swatches. I let the manhunt for my mind drag out, perhaps longer than necessary.

"I hope you find your missing mind soon, Mommy," Natalie said yesterday evening, holding my hand.

"Aww, thank you, Natalie. I appreciate your—"

"I hope you find it soon, because I'm worried about what the tape holding the poster will do to the wall."

"—concern."


        au musée
        graffiti artist 

my swiss cheese memory

Connor went on a class field trip this week to Mount Vernon, George and Martha Washington's home on the banks of the Potomac River.

"I played tag on George Washington's lawn. Not very many people can say that," he bragged.

"Did you know that George Washington's sister had a home in Fredericksburg, where I went to college?"

"Oo."

"What is its name?" I ask myself. "'Ken'—not 'Kensington.' 'Ken—.' What is it? I can't believe I can't remember. I used to walk by it all the time. Well, anyway, George's sister's name was Betsy. Betsy Price."

"Oo."

I love that my audience of one is intrigued.

"Let me see what Google says about the name of her house," I mutter, typing "Betsy Price" in the search box. "Huh. Well," I stammer. "Betsy Price wasn't George Washington's sister, after all. Betsy Price is the mayor of Fort Worth."

"Mommy!" Connor scolds.

"George Washington's sister was Betty. Betty Washington Lewis, and her home is Kenmore. It was built in the 1770s."

Confusing the current mayor of Fort Worth with the first First Lady? That's me.

            Be Decent
            Basic Math 
               Connor Sees the Bright Side

subtle stubble

We scattered grass seed on our lawn a few weeks ago after rainwater gushing from the gutters obliterated the grass just below the downspouts. 

Yesterday, Natalie gasped and stopped in her tracks as she ambled up the driveway. "Look!" she said, crouching down and peering at grass stubble pushing its way through the soil. "New life has begun!"



        Hello In There! 
        Karma-Karma-Karma-Chameleon 
        Timber

on the right track

Bruce Springstein's "I'm On Fire" cycled through a Pandora station while Connor, Natalie, and I mucked about at home. Later that evening, Natalie, who has a bit of a head cold, said, "Mommy, I feel like I have a 'freight train running through the middle of my head.'" 

Thank you, Bruce, for the borrowed lyrics.

        Pain, Pitchforks, and Porcupines
        

victims of sweet teeth

When I was a kid, I hid in the pantry and ate a spoonful of Crisco, mistaking it for vanilla cake icing.

I'm setting up Connor for similar loss of innocence tomorrow: We are out of bread, except for a mysterious loaf of rye and pumpernickel swirl. Why we have it, who eats it, who bought it: It's all beyond me.

If Connor is anything like me—and he is—he will open up his lunch tomorrow, mistake the pumpernickel swirl for chocolate cake swirl, and grimace in horror after that first bite. Been there, done that. My apologies in advance, Bug.

        The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

a hazy understanding

Once upon a time, Natalie, then three years old, mistook the word "foggy" for "soggy" and declaring one particularly low-cloud day a "soggy day." (You can read that post here.)

We have progressed: Natalie, now six years old, peered out the window at our foggy morning and declared, "Look at the blur. It's a blurry day."

We'll get there, foggy. We'll get there.



            a misty, moisty morning

puffy-armed warfare

Natalie is a fussy little fashionista. We've had lots of trouble with socks whose seams tickle Natalie's toes. I realized finally this fall that I could simply have Natalie wear her socks inside out so the rough seams are outside the sock not wreaking discomfort on her sensitive tootsies.

 

She came downstairs dressed for school last week, complete with a big old sour expression on her face.

"What's up, buttercup?"

"This shirt bothers me. It has puffy arms. I like shirts with calm arms."

An Anne Shirley Natalie is not.



        hair repair 
        flit. float. fleetly flee. fly. 
        and down it goes

career research

"What're you reading?" I ask, walking into Natalie's room to tuck her in for the night.

"Oh, just this book." She flips it closed to show me the cover.

"Knots? And splices?"

She sighs, troubled. "I need to find out how to tie a lasso if I want to be any sort of a cowgirl."


        giddyup and all that 
        ride 'em, cowgirl 
        my little hoarse horse

He toots! She scores!

 

Today is National Grammar Day, and Mignon Fogarty over at Grammar Girl invited me to share another post for inclusion on the National Grammar Day page. I was happy to oblige. Read on.

 

 

"Oo! My belly hurts!" Natalie yowled. 

"You might have little gas bubbles that need to work their way out," Jim said, hoping to get Natalie through dinner so she wouldn't wander downstairs from her bedroom after the whole pjs-toothbrushing-books-tuck-in routine to tell us that she is still hungry, as she has done several nights over the last few weeks.

"Nooo. It really, really hurts." 

"Come here." Jim left the table and walked with Natalie over to the couch, where she sprawled back and pumped her legs like we used to do for her when she was a little gassy baby.

Connor, sitting with me at the table eating pasta and meatballs, let out a meek little toot.

"Did me tooting help you, Natalie?" he called to his sister.

Ever the editor, I saw my chance and—boy, oh, boy—did I ever take it, launching into a <gripping and utterly awe-inspiring> lesson on grammar: "Actually, Connor, it would be 'Did my tooting help you?' My tooting. You've taken a noun—'toot'—and turned it into a gerund, a word that looks like a verb but acts like a noun, by adding -ing: 'tooting.'

"Do you remember the Calvin and Hobbes strip about verbing words where Calvin uses nouns and adjectives as verbs and says, 'Verbing weirds language'? This is sort of—but only sort of—like that."

Connor eats his pasta. I'm not sure he is listening. I prattle on just the same. I've got stuff to say. Ain't no one gonna stop me.

"We know that a gerund is a noun disguised as a verb because if we replace the gerund with another noun, the sentence still makes sense."

"Oh."

A rapt audience. I sally forth.

"So you said—"

"'Did me tooting help you?'"

"Right. Now let's go ahead and change that to 'Did my tooting help you?' And let's replace 'my tooting' with—oh, I don't know—'ice cream.' So now we have 'Did ice cream help you?' Does the sentence make sense?"

"Yep. Ice cream always helps." That's my boy.

"The sentence makes sense because we substituted one noun for another. We have a gerund."

"OK."

The gentleman approves. I take that as a plea, a  "please, do go on."

"Now, if we have a noun and we want to show that you own that noun, what word should we use? 'Me'? Or 'my'? That's me ice cream? Or that's my ice cream?"

"That's my ice cream," Connor replies.

"Right. So, you tooted. It's your toot. Own it, baby."

Connor guffaws. "That's my toot."

"Yes, it is. Now put it into the question you asked your sister."

"Did my tooting help you?"

"Yes! That's the proper way to ask."

Jim and Natalie have made it back to the table by now, Natalie wearing a sheepish grin. "Arg!" Jim snarls, squinting and sneering. "'Did me tooting help you?' Say it that way only if you're a pirate."

Excellent point. There is no proper way to ask about toots—or to toot at the table, for that matter—unless you are, in fact, a swashbuckling, seafaring pirate. But, really, would it kill the mateys to use proper grammar?

See my 2013 National Grammar Day post, "The Talk," here.

a refined palate

Natalie backtracked on her way through the kitchen, stopped at the coffeemaker and inhaled, eyes closed, grinning contentedly. "I love coffee smell!" she cooed. "It's so organic!"

Mark your calendars, y'all—and hire a band, rent a hall! Tomorrow is National Grammar Day. Check back here to see my Grammar Day post. (Need enticement? I talk bubbles, ice cream, seafarers, and Calvin and Hobbes. Can a blog post get much better than that? I submit it cannot.)

As giddy with anticipation as a child on Christmas Eve? See my 2013 National Grammar Day post, "The Talk" here.

 

        life in the fast lane
        the mocha in my mocha

risky business

"Mommy, I don't feed Liza my popcorn anymore. I got out of that business."

the glaring spotlight

    little wedge pillow 
    just a noise 
    my anti-snore chant 
    the hills? they're alive

a tall stack of self-worth

Jim was out of town for work. Natalie, Connor, and I were miles from home after an early evening appointment. The thought of making dinner at this late hour made my mind feel like a melting-down toddler's body: All dead weight. I did not want to make dinner.

Salvation stood nearby: Our local 24/7 pancake house. When it comes down to breakfast for dinner, I'm not sure who likes it more: Me or Connor and Natalie.

We slid into a booth, and Connor read the menu. "Hmm. Kids eat free."

He pondered for half a moment and then said, "No, thank you. I'd rather pay to eat. I'm worth something."

shoot for the stars, lasso the moon

Natalie has a "pay for college" plan:
 "When I grow up I want to be a . . . call girl."

<Insert blank stare.> Just what kind of parenting is going on at our house?

The illustration elaborates:

Hmm.

Kall grll = cowgirl

That's better.

        giddyup and all that 
        ride 'em, cowgirl 
        

life in the fast lane

We celebrated Connor's ninth birthday this weekend. The little sentimentalist, he waited anxiously for the clock to point to 18 minutes after five o'clock that evening so he could mark the exact moment of his birth. Despite our best clock-watching, we missed that moment by six minutes.

John Lennon had something to say about times like that.
In other news, Connor has decided that is is high time that he try coffee. He went bold: A sip of espresso. 

He sipped. He pondered. He announced, "Hmm, it's . . . good, but I'm not really meant for it yet."

And what do they call espresso that is tried too soon in life?
That's right: Expresso.
That's OK. He's still my little boy.

        spider rolls and gutter balls
        making eyes 
        5 + 1 = 6

what's underneath

Natalie's newest phrase is "speaking of which," and, well, I wrote of skating in my last post, and, speaking of which, Natalie calls roller skates "wood skates." "We use ice skates on ice," Natalie explained, "and roller skates on wood"—when not used on concrete or tiled basement floors coated with a super-slippery coating of furniture polish <ahem>—"so they are wood skates."

It makes absolute sense to me.



        putting the "war" in "wardrobe"
        well, this is awkward 
        that ain't a word

work those hammies

I watched Natalie, curious, as she vacuumed: She pushed the vacuum back and forth and back and forth again as she should, but she also kicked one leg behind her, then the other, much like Liza does in the yard.

Natalie used to do the same stretch one leg, then the other, back behind herself as she pedaled her bicycle. "Look, Mommy, it's like I'm ice skating," she'd explained then, gliding across a frozen lake in her mind. Perhaps she pretends to ice skate while she vacuums, I thought.

A day or so later, I vacuumed—and I noticed that I kicked my legs out behind myself as I did so, but not because I was imitating Liza or because I was pretending I was Katia Gordeeva swirling across the ice in the 1988 Olympics.

Nope.

I kick my legs back behind myself to continuously move the vacuum cord out of the way of the vacuum. Natalie must have studied my vacuum technique, if there is one, and figured that the mule kicks serve some purpose, not noticing that, for me, they are to keep the cord clear of the vacuum.

Mystery solved.

 

            clean house, sleeping baby 
            oh, be still

sunshine girl

We lost Trouser Saturday afternoon, after 14-plus years of companionship and persnicketiness and love.

Trouser's health deteriorated markedly in the last two-and-a-half years. In recent weeks, it just plummeted.

We're taking comfort in knowing that she lived a full life, chasing countless tennis balls, walking so many trails, and driving across the country a handful of times. Trouser twice even took part in Take Your Pet to Work Day.

A water dog who couldn't stand getting water in her eyes, Trouser dipped her furry toes in every body of water she could: wading pools and swimming pools, pond-sized puddles, creeks and rivers and lakes, the Atlantic Ocean. She once swam illegally, it turns out, in a certain Virginia lake. We credit the park ranger's not issuing a ticket to the look of unbridled joy on Trouser's little wet face.


Trouser preferred people over dogs and disliked the sound of barking. She herself barked, maybe, only a dozen times in her 14 years. When she did bark, it was a voice-cracking whisper of a bark that inspired comparisons to Peter Brady singing "Time to Change."

Trouser was not without her flaws. Once, while painting the bedroom walls, I set up a baby gate to keep Trouser our of the room. The last time I had painted, Trouser pretended that she was a Olympic gymnast performing a ribbon routine: She grabbed hold of a drop cloth and ran around the room with the drop cloth swirling behind her, like the satin ribbon used in rhythmic gymnastics.

As it were, I stood on a ladder, painting. Trouser slept just outside the bedroom door, on the other side of the baby gate. I needed my roll of painter's tape but could find it nowhere. I figured it might be in the kitchen, so I stepped over the baby gate, snagging my shoe, and toppling the gate on snoozing Trouser. She woke and scampered off, fearing for her life. I found her in the living room, which wasn't too great a feat in a 950-square-foot condo, and crouched down to comfort her. When I did, Trouser bonked me in the nose with her noggin hard enough to cause quite the nosebleed.

While I tried to stop the bleeding, Trouser the Opportunist wandered into the bedroom. She walked through the paint tray, which I had placed on the floor when I climbed down from the ladder. And then, then she marched around the room, leaving "empress teal" paw prints wherever the drop cloths weren't.

The painter's tape that I couldn't find: It was on the bedroom window sill the whole time.

One question that came up frequently over Trouser's lifetime: How did Trouser get her name? The answer: From a J. Crew catalog.

I was at my mom's house on break from college, looking through a J. Crew catalog that had arrived in the mail. I liked that J. Crew calls pants "trousers" and liked even more the way the word felt when I said it—and said it and said it. Then and there, I decided I would name my hypothetical "some day" dog "Trouser."

My first job after college paid a piddly $18,000 a year. I slogged through it while I searched for a more fulfilling, better-paying job, telling myself that once I earned $35,000 a year, I'd get that Trouser.

I landed a new, better-paying job soon eight months later. A few years later—and 10 years after I selected her name—I brought home Trouser.

It wasn't until a few years later that I learned that the hair on the hindquarters of a dog, especially when profuse and full, is called "trouserings." Perfect.

I've felt a little self-conscious, here, going on and on about my dog. Messages from friends after Trouser passed away, though, tell me that I needn't feel that way.

One wrote, "Oh, Jenny! Oh no. Oh no. I'm so, so sorry to hear this. I loved Trouser. She was an amazing dog. Truly, I'm not even a big dog person, and she was special. I'm so sorry."

Another: "The Boyce gang send you and your family our condolences. We have all become BIG fans of Trouser through your Facebook posts and will miss the stories and pics. So sorry, Jennifer."

Still another: "Trouser. Somehow I thought I'd never see this post because she was timeless. I know she was a wonderous, wonderful companion who was beside you through so much. We're all grieving with you and your family."

And then, "Jennifer, my heart is breaking."

"OH NO! My heart breaks for you. Sweet and kind Trouser took all our breath away."

 "Trouser was such a joy."

 "Trouser was such a love."

 "What an amazing dog!"

 and "She was such a sweet dog. She is why we got a golden."

 She was all of that—and so much more.

        full circle 
        the tail end 
        sweet old girl

piling on

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

It was bedtime.

The best of times because, yay, we're all here, back where we belong. The worst, because we get to argue about who hasn't brushed teeth yet and who left their clothing on the floor. 

The best because, man oh man, I could really use some time to myself. The worst, because Natalie gets out of bed three times in the first hour and Connor, two, and, well, how many sips of water does one really need at this hour of the night?

Connor, Natalie, and I had snuggled onto Natalie's bed to read books and then I tucked each in their respective bed. Natalie sneaked out of bed as I bid Connor goodnight, and Connor plain old lost his mind when Natalie climbed onto his bed. He ranted about cooties and girls and how only I am allowed on his bed. That only encouraged Natalie's dare-devil ways, and she crept further on Connor's bed. Connor howled in violent disagreement. Liza, curious and feisty, appeared at the door, ready to rumble.

I plopped Liza onto Connor's bed to try to lighten the mood, and then Connor pulled me onto the bed. Natalie grabbed hold of my shoulders. We all tussled and laughed and tried not to fall on to the floor.

Connor caught my eye as he giggled and laughed from underneath us all and said, "Look, Mommy. It's a pile of us."



        li'l bit of loving
        thread count 
        rub-a-dub-dub

drip-drop

I stood near the coat closet, sputtering with the laughter that I failed miserably to contain. Natalie sat crumpled on the kitchen floor, sobbing.

How could I be so, well, cold?

Natalie has been a glorious mess, battling a stuffy (but runny) nose and a cough. She shuffled over to me as I doled out coats for our journey to school and said, "Mommy, I can't go to school. I just can't. My nose is droopy," and she mopped her nose with a wad of tissues.

"Droopy?" My voice cracked. My eyes watered. I laughed with a shameless "Bwahaha!"

Natalie scurried off and cried, "You're laughing at my snickwiss!" <Snickwiss: noun: a mispronounciation of "sickness"> "You're mean!"

I'm wasn't, really. And I'm not, really. It was just so damn cute. Droopy.

A chance to clinch the 2015 Mom of the Year Award so early in the year? Well, look at me go. I just might be in the running. I just might be.

  
                down for the count
             my little hoarse horse
             fly's in the buttermilk

 

growing pains

"Look at you!" I all but hollered as Connor walked away. "You're nearly as tall as I am!"

He is. When Connor was three or four years old, I could rest my palm on his head, my arm extended—you know, if ever the need arose. When he was five or six, I could rest my forearm on Connor's head. Nowadays, if I bend my arm and hold it awkwardly at shoulder height, I can then rest my forearm on Connor's head. (Just standing here on the corner of Awesome and Bombdiggity, resting my arm awkwardly—but oh so comfortably, I dare say—on my son's noggin. That's me.)

Connor has historically looked forward to growing older. When he was two years old, he could not wait to turn three, because then, he claimed, he would wear a belt, drink hot cocoa and hot tea, have a deep voice, and learn to play guitar. When I noticed Connor's height today, he rushed back to me, hugged me tight around the waist—and sobbed.

Broke my heart.

Once he calmed down, he explained, "I'll never be little again. I want to be little forever." Growing up has not come easily to Connor. He struggles to bridge the gap between "classmate" and "friend." He prefers conversation with interested adults. Thinking inside the box at school pains him.

Earlier in the day, Connor caught me watching him study the framed photos I'd hung on the wall. "I wish I could be that young again," he told me, pointing to a photo of himself as a toddler sitting wide-eyed in a wading pool.

I know, buddy, I know. I prefer our days of lining up toy cars and toy trains on the floor over these days of lining up letters and numbers on ruled paper. We can still do that, you know.




            spurt     
            a month older and a look back
            watching the wheels

pesky skeeters

Summer is letting go reluctantly. We have had a few cool crisp days of autumn mixed in with soupy, balmy days. Mosquitoes linger.

Natalie swatted at one that buzzed too close and muttered, "Those blood rascals!"

 

 

 

'round and 'round

"Well, it's that time of year again," Connor said to no one in particular as we make our way over undulating roads, past horse farms with mist rising off ponds, slowing as we pass through a small town that seems to consist of only a small market and gas station, a green-gabled house complete with porch, and a church.

"What time is that?" I ask.

"The same time as last year."



        logical deduction
        the air out there

conserve water. shower with friends.

"Mommy's having shower crowd!" Natalie town-criered.

shower crowd: noun: finely cut cabbage that has been fermented

turk-o'-lantern

vestibule

it's a toss up

his wit betrays me

I might have driven over a curb today while parking. Without missing a beat, Connor said, "Looks like someone forgot to place the 'Student Driver' sign on top of the car today."




            up against the curb
            dinner conversation
            bonked. crunched. and leaking.        

putting the "war" in "wardrobe"

Natalie struggled to emerge from her shirt. "This. Shirt. Is. Too. Tight," she spat. "Mommy, we need to buy shirts that are more take-y-off-able."

fruity drinks grow on trees, don't you know

While walking the dogs this spring, Natalie asked about a neighbor's shrub that boasted clusters of brilliant lavender-colored flowers.

"That's a rhododendron," I told her. "We had two humongous rhododendrons in our yard when I was growing up." We went on to talk about the fabulous tiger lilies in the next neighbor's yard and the hot pink crepe myrtle in another's.

Last week, during another walk, Natalie pointed to the rhododendron, which by now had losts its blooms and said, "Look! The sangria shrub!"

Well, Look What the Wind Blew In

So, it's been a while. Where the heck have I been?

I took a break from blogging after I discovered in June that a woman in Onondaga, Michigan, had taken photos of Natalie from my blog, cropped off the copyright and watermark, and passed them off as photos of her imaginary daughter, "Sophia Rose."

And old friend of the woman contacted me, sharing pages and pages of correspondence. The woman had constructed a whole fantasy life, with Natalie as a big part of it.

"This is my Sophia Rose," the woman wrote, sharing this photo of Natalie. "She is literally a spitting image of Charlie. Its kind of crazy. Also don't mind the missing tooth, we had to have it pulled it came in crooked and was causing her a lot of pain."
When the friend commented, "Your daughter is very beautiful. Her eyes are just gorgeous," the woman responded, "They're Charlie's eyes and with them she can get almost anything she wants. I honestly don't know what I would do if Charlie was obsessed with video games, we don't even own one. He is so focused on Sophia Rose and always has been. Before she was born he told me that he always wanted to be that dad that whenever they walked into a store would buy something for their child. And he has however our daughter being who she is chooses to pick out a book instead which I am not against. Last night she informed us that her and I would need pearls when we attend the concert and Charlie would need to buy a pocket watch because apparently all theatre dads must own a pocket watch. She makes me smile. Right now the dream that is in her heart is to grow up and become a Rockette its a type of dancer on Broadway. She dreams big."

The woman later shared another photo of Natalie, saying, "She wanted to show you how much snow we have. She's actually not as tall as she appears but she has lost a lot of her baby features. Her cheeks are not as plump and her chine is more defined. And she would like me to tell you that she likes looking all grown up because apparently she's not a baby anymore."
I've left the spelling and grammar errors in tact there: The woman also claimed that "later this fall my first novel is set to be published and if it does well on the NYT bestseller list the publishing company will sign me and I will be able to pursue a professional career as an author. The title of my book is called Resurrection, its twisted, tragic and disturbing but its exactly the way I want to enter the writing world. I am pretty lucky that they are taking my book as is with title and all. Most of the time they try to change so many things but I was very adamant that it had to be exactly as I had written it. I'm positive that it is the only way that it'll succeed."

I Googled the hell out of the woman, grew horrified, protective, ashamed, vindictive, and angry. I password-protected my blog and sent a letter to the woman, letting her know that she'd been found out and demanded that she stop using my photos and, most important, my daughter.

The woman works for a daycare and has a Sitter City profile. Heads up, Michigan parents.

Over these last few weeks, I've decided to not let this woman take from me my favorite pastime: writing about my children and preserving the stories in books. So, I'm back.

I've missed my blog.

Better to Be a Wino Than a Whiner, That's What I Always Say

Natalie washes her hair as if she is scouring a burned-on-grease pan. The result: matted hair and lots and lots of yowling and complaining. We put an end to that nonsense, buying spray-on detangler.

The detangler promises no tears and no knots, and it smells like pear. I spritzed Natalie's hair that first night, and, "Mmm. Smells good," she sniffed. And then, "At least someone smells like wine in this house."

        The Apple Doesn't Fall Far
        I'm This Many
        The Wine, On Time

the wild ones

"Connor, do you have any homework?"

"Never on Fridays. Who knows what could happen in two days. Too risky."

The Linneys: Living Weekends on the Edge



        a pioneer woman, I am not

dainty explorer

We ventured out to a Civil War battlefield to walk off lunch and overdose on fresh air and sunshine. It had rained heavily a few days earlier and puddles still pocked parts of the trail.

Natalie, wearing her rainboots, tromped into the mud puddles, hiking up her knee-length skirt needlessly. (The puddles weren't quite so deep, and her skirt wasn't quite so long.) Connor found himself a nice walking stick, so, of course, Natalie needed one, too.

She thought she'd found one and then another and another, but they were either too thorny, too short, or too gnarled. I spotted a perfect walking stick in waiting that rested just partly in a mud puddle. That could be the end on the ground, I'd figured.

Natalie rejected it outright. "I'm adventurous, Mommy," she explained, "but I'm not messy."

Duly noted. (Pants on fire! Pants on fire!)

hey, llama, llama

Natalie held her stuffed Llama Llama Red Pajama toy as we drove from ballet class along a backroad that she has named "Horse Hill Stallion Road" for all of the horses roaming the hills. There are plenty of cattle, goats, alpaca, and llama, too.

"Hey, Natalie. We'll go by a llama farm in just a few minutes." I had to give her fair warning: Natalie has what we call "Aunt Bobbie Syndrome," where we point out an interesting sight while driving and two miles down the road, once the sight is long gone, she pipes up, "Where? I don't see it."

"A llama farm?"

"Yep."

"Why are we going to go buy a llama farm? Does Daddy know?"

Mama wants to be a farmer, darling. Hush, now. Go back to playing.

         yummy-yums
        our little beast of burden
        texas moose

shining parenting moment #3,742

"Oo. Can I have some?" Natalie asked, making eyes at my peach daiquiri.

"Nope, sorry, little lady. It's a grownup drink. It has alcohol in it." And it's mine, all mine.

"When can I have grownup drinks with alcohol?"

"Oh, when you're 21 . . . 24. Maybe 30." The older, the better, is my thinking.

Natalie walked off. "I just can't wait to have wine and alcohol," she sing-songed.

the wine—on time

I'm this many
big nose, light body

 

to-do list: go on safari

Natalie watched intently as a robin hip-hopped around the front yard. "What is he doing?" she asked as the bird stopped and tilted its head from side to side.

"He's looking for worms."

Right on cue, the robin yanked a worm from the ground.

"Oh, my gosh," Natalie said, stunned. "I have never seen such a vicious hunter."

 

 

crack the case

Question: Nancy Drew, the Hardy boys, and Jessica "Murder, She Wrote" Fletcher come to dinner. What do you serve?

I know just the thing. I handed Connor and Natalie each a fortune cookie after we finished eating Chinese takeout Saturday night.

"Whoo-hoo!" Natalie hooted, striking a pose in the kitchen. "It's mystery cookie time!"

 

art for art's sake

"I like the rainbow and dragonflyou you drew, Natalie."

"That's not a rainbow or a dragonfly! It's just a work of art. Sometimes, art is just art, Mommy."

old pro
crisp and refreshing
every child is an artist

breezy conversation

Dinnertime conversation at our house: "Keep eating." "Sit properly in your chair." "Let's not drink anything until you've eaten a bit more." "Sit with your bottom on your chair." "Use your fork, not your fingers." "Bottom: On your chair." "Come on, now. Let's keep eating." "Tush on the chair." "I'm aging."

So, in an effort to lighten the mood, I told Connor and Natalie about a news story that I'd read where cows' flatulence made their barn explode. True story.

I finished the telling, and Natalie looked at me, narrowed her eyes, and said, "Now tell us something that will impress me."

Tough crowd.

questionable taste

Natalie's taste runs towards the costly side, so I told her so: "You , my dear, have expensive taste."

"Oo! Does that mean I can taste money?"

can't hardly wait

Natalie will attend kindergarten in September. She's had her backpack stocked and ready to go since last October. She knows which dress she will wear. She has decided that she'll ride the bus with Connor, share a seat with him, and will sit nearest the window.

Natalie has a little more maturing to do before she is truly kindergarten ready, from taming her temper to using the bathroom when she needs to, not when she desperately needs to. Jim and I reminded her of this all at dinner one night, ending with, " . . . and you do want to go to kindergarten in the fall, right?"

Natalie looked at Jim so earnestly, those big blue eyes bright and wide, and said, "Oh, I want to go so hardly."

So damn sweet.

a cuppa delight

We joined friends for brunch, where the grownups ordered mimosas and bloody Marys and the little ones, apple juice and milk and orange juice. When the waiter looked at Connor for his drink order, Connor—who had dressed in jeans, a white button down, a black blazer, and Converse hightops—said, "Green tea, please."

I think we all made the same "Uh. Hmm." face and nodded in approval. Connor came in from the snow last week, red of cheeks and so very cold, and sat down with a cup of green tea. "Ah," he said after the first sip. "That is the taste of delight."