Tag: parenting

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The Fart Game

Who farted?

“Ooohhhh, that’s stinky!” said Kolby, crinkling up her pert little nose.  “Daddy farted.”

Daddy looked dismayed.  “I did not fart!  Kyle farted,” Tim adamantly replied.

A guilty look crossed (my teenager) Kyle’s face.  “Nope, it wasn’t me,” he playfully teased, even though we all knew his butt smelled like day old broccoli.

Baby Kolby looked confused, but then a brilliant thought passed through her emerging toddler paradigm, “I know,” she said very seriously, “Mickey Mouse farted!”

And how could we do anything but laugh –because at the tender age of twenty-three months, Kolby is already learning the blame game.

We blame being late to church on traffic or cranky babies, not finishing home projects on illness or injury (like back pain, sprained ankles and the endless cold…I’m just referring to random people dear, not you).

We blame our overspending on the bad economy, our addictions on stress, and our wine habit on the kids (this is a generalization, not a confession.  I do not have a wine habit, though I do like a nice Cabernet occasionally if you would like an idea for a Christmas gift)

I personally get frustrated when my pants don’t fit and blame it on hormones, getting older, and my parents for being tremendous cooks.  I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I have only exercised less than a dozen times since I came back from my cruise in July.  Or, that I put whip cream on my coffee every day and that since Casa Ranchero has opened (my favorite Mexican restaurant) I have demolished about 52 baskets of chips with an accompanying margarita (that’s over the last year -not all at once)

Blame has been around since the gardening days of Adam and Eve.  Adam said the woman made him do it, while Eve blamed the serpent for her lust of the forbidden fruit.  (I wonder what would have happened if they had just owned it?) 

“Uhhh yeah God, I wanted it, I thought you were withholding and I ate it.” (We might have gotten lighter curses…just saying)

So, I’m thinking about what it would mean to me if I admitted more of my stuff.

Is it rude to say I’m late because I dawdled around and read just five more pages of the Hunger Games(which is AMAZING) before getting in the shower (i.e. I’m selfish and don’t care that much about your time) or how about I’ve gained five pounds because I like pie and the reason I’m walking like a duck is because I worked-out the last four days in a row and I can’t sit because my buttocks ache –all because I ate the pie, can’t afford a new wardrobe and I hate having a muffin top.

Not sure how that would go over?  Our culture seems to embrace the little white lie as a requisite of good manners. 

Hmmmm?  Regardless, we now have a new friend in the house to blame our farts on (and yours too if you visit).

So if it stinks in the Keller home, blame it on Mickey Mouse.  (Apparently, he’s related to MVE–our dearest and fartiest friend)

 

What do you like to blame things on?  Got a good excuse?  Share it with me!

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Howling Racoons, the Hebrew Alphabet and Jumbo Lego’s

Daddy has an "owie" and he laid on my blocks all day.

Stumbling down the stairs, blurry eyed and heading straight for the coffee pot, I heard a large howl –sort of like a wounded raccoon. Slightly stunned and now jolted wide awake I scanned the house to search for the suffering animal. 

“Yeeeoowww,” groaned my husband from the sofa. “Uuuuuuggggghhhh, I hurt my back really bad.”

Now realizing I had found the raccoon, I started on the coffee prep. “What happened sweetie?”

“I sneezed and my back went out,” cried my dearest. “I can’t move.”

“Ok, we’ll get you to the doctor today,” I replied and hurried on with my morning activities, stopping every two minutes to cater to my husband’s needs. Fortunately, Tim had the Hebrew alphabet to study for a seminary test so he primarily occupied himself with groaning and singing like a raspy Israeli preschooler.

As I walked in the door after taking the two older kids to school, I was greeted with the screaming raccoon again and a terrified toddler while my husband sprawled on the ground writhing in pain and laying on two buckets worth of jumbo Lego’s. This time, I knew it was serious.

I grabbed the baby and soothed her and tried to comfort my screeching husband who had injured himself further trying to build a Lego skyscraper. After a muscle relaxer and a strong dose of ibuprofen, I was finally able to pull out every last block stabbing him in the back (a process which took well over an hour). I left him on the floor, covered him with a blanket and fed him applesauce and Top Ramen.

When it was time to take him to the doctor, my ten year-old daughter and I loaded him into the back of the Expedition (like a yelping two by four) and I found myself driving for thirty minutes under excessive paranoia of getting into an accident and launching my unseat-belted husband out the hatchback. He was in so much pain he simply rolled around the back and whimpered in Hebrew.

We somehow managed to drag and hobble Tim into the doctor’s office (fortunately directly into a waiting room) and hoisted him up on the table.  The doctor arrived, pronounced it a herniated disk and prescribed some shots, physical therapy, and heavy medication to deal with the spasms and tremendous pain.

As soon as the doc mentioned shots, my husband’s ears perked up. “What? Shots? I don’t like shots!”

The doctor chuckled, “well, that’s what will work the fastest.” It’s not like you can run away.”

So while my daughters closed their eyes, my sweetie got poked in the buttocks with two huge needles by Nurse Ratchet, who seemed to enjoy making my poor exposed sweetie suffer more.

I held Tim’s hand (secretly glanced at his cute butt) and he squeezed my hand back hard in terror. I think it’s adorable that bigstrongbold men are afraid of little shots.

And some little part of me relished caring for my usually very capable and efficient husband.  It’s nice to feel needed.

Later that night, when daddy acted grumpier than usual, I explained to my daughter Faith (who got her feelings hurt while doing math homework) that men are cranky when they are hurt or sick or tired or injured. “It’s just a part of their nature, darling”

Faith sighed, “Boy mom, men are a lot of work.”

I thought about my darling husband and smiled. “Yep, but a good one is worth it all.”

Just then, we heard Tim struggling to make his way up the stairs (despite the excruciating pain) to apologize to Faith and tuck her in.

My heart ached at his effort to love our little girl.  “Yep, Faith, this man is definitely worth it.”

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Baby vs. Puppy?

Next month, my husband Tim and I will have a rather important discussion –do we try to get pregnant and go for a fourth child or do we cry “uncle,” say three children is enough and buy a puppy instead?

Decisions, decisions…

My friend Page says if I have to even ask the question I’m not ready to have another child. Which I agree with in theory, but my biological clock is ticking very loudly and at thirty-nine years old I’m terrified of my uterus crashing when I hit forty.

Bong, bong…you’re out if time lady.

In theory, I would love another child but selfishly I would also like to wait a few more years because I have a lot going on right now. 

But life isn’t like that.  Some decisions have an expiration date.

 I know all these Hollywood starlets have babies at sixty, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have the money for Depends and diapers all at the same time. Besides, I really don’t want my poor kid to have to constantly explain that’s I’m not his grandma and make excuses why his daddy drinks prune juice instead of beer after the ball games.

Did I say “his?” Oh right, that’s because Tim wants a boy child too, just to make it more complicated.

I would also like to ensure this pregnancy is free from any debilitating nausea, with no blood disorder (which has plagued me in all my other pregnancies) and no gas (seriously –the elephant farts are the absolute worst part of being preggers) If I could guarantee all of this…I might be open to another munchkin.

More income might be nice too (because babies are expensive) and a nanny would be extremely desirable. We might need to add an extra room over the garage to have somewhere to put the child and the nanny. Cha-Ching!

The obstacles seem insurmountable.

So, we come back to the puppy. I like dogs. I have a yard and a dog run (though I need to fix our fence). But my husband seems very resistant to this canine conversation, which leads me to believe he really wants another child.

And sometimes all the good reasons not to do something fall away in light of love.  

Either way –it should make for an interesting conversation.

Let me know what your vote is.  Baby or puppy?

 

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Patience-what parents have when there are witnesses

 

I think it was Bill Cosby who used to jest (in reference to his children) “I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.” I never really connected with that statement, joking aside, until one of my own little angels turned into a teenager.

Because the truth is… Sometimes I want to throttle my kids or at least shake them really hard for the emotional trauma they put me through. Like on Tuesday for instance.

I got off work, drove a delightful 50 minute commute home, picked up the baby from daycare and pulled into my driveway. As I walked up to the front door, keys in hand, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard piercing screams. It sounded like someone was killing my daughter.

Panicking, I put my key in the door and jiggled it, trying to unlock it as quickly as possible to rescue my darling girl. But my key is cranky and it sticks (and I gave the good one to the kids, because I’m a loving mom or possibly a lazy mom for not getting another one made). Of course now, in the most urgent and frightful of all moments the stupid key wouldn’t budge an inch.

The shrieks were growing in volume and the thumping of my heart reverberated in my ears. I started to pound on the door and yell at the top of my lungs for help. Tears were pouring down my face and the baby was bawling at my feet in fear. The thought flashed through my mind of someone violently attacking my baby girl.

Adrenaline was racing through my veins. I looked around and saw the front window as my only option. I furtively glanced around for something to smash the window with, when the door swung open in my face and there stood my ten-year old daughter, red-faced and laughing uproariously with her teenaged brother.

I collapsed on the front door stoop after yelling at my children at the top of my lungs “I thought you were dying. What the BAD WORD(1) were you doing?”

Their faces turned red in shame and they pointed to the playroom where the baby’s blocks were now strewn all over.  There were blocks in the bookcase, on top of pictures and blocks hanging off the potted plants. “We were having a block fight mom.”

I saw an ice bag on the floor. “What’s that for?” I choked out.

“Kyle threw a block at my face,” Faith whimpered.

I sat on the floor and wept and let my kids wallow in the guilt of tormenting their mom.

Then I really let loose. I cried tears of relief that my sweet Faith was alive, tears of frustration for their utter (and very normal) childishness and most of all, I cried big gulpy sobs because the truth is I am not there for them after school to protect them from imaginary intruders.

I am at work and it kills me.

And this burden on my mother’s heart feels like the weight of the world.

My husband walked in amidst the chaos and I finally started to chipper up and then ultimately laugh.

I guess it could have been worse. It could have been a dart fight.

[1] I actually said “hell” but you thought it was the “F word” didn’t you? I’m making real progress here people!

 

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First Crush

“So Brayden, I hear you think I look like I princess,” said my daughter Faith to our young neighbor.

Brayden gulped and sat up in his chair. “I, um did I say that?” He looked at his mom in panic and gave her the mini eye roll for letting the cat out of the bag.

It was no secret that Brayden adored my ten-year old daughter, but this was the first time he had been caught in the act of his crush.

Faith gave a tinkling laugh and tossed her long golden locks over her shoulder.  Four year-old Brayden looked dazed as if fairies had dusted him with smitten powder. He squared his shoulders and looked at his dad with newfound determination, ready to slay dragons and fight for his princess.

“Dad, I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” Brayden stated, now serious and reflective in his demeanor.

“Why not bud?” Brayden’s father Tyler replied.

“Well dad, I don’t like boys anymore so we don’t have anything in common.” Braden suggested.

Tyler nodded his head and played along with his boy, “its ok bud, we can still be friends. Because guess what?  I like girls too!  That’s why I married your mommy.”

Brayden looked relieved. “Oh that’s good dad.”

Tyler looked at his son with a proud smile and recognized this was the big moment Brayden needed to court his girl. “Who are you going to marry Bray?” he asked.

Brayden took a deep breath and owned his intentions, taking his first bold step towards manhood. “I am going to marry Faith!” he exclaimed with a swoon and a giggle.

And the table erupted in glorious laughter and a bit of wistfulness.

Because we all remember our first crush.

Poignant. Powerful. Piercing.

It made every day better just to catch a glimpse of our beloved.

Later that evening Faith tucked our little pajama clad Romeo into bed and read him a book.

And without a word, his contented smile and beaming face told the story of his heroic romance.

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Duck Hunting-Scrappy Sam

I just love Duck Chili mommy!

I’m a single mom this week to my three kiddos.  It’s been challenging to say the least. So far, we’ve only had one ‘girl” melt-down, one mommy melt-down (I was out of coffee-nuff said) and the boy and the baby have fared pretty well in the last thirty-six hours.

My husband Tim is out doing manly Wild at Heart shenanigans-namely shooting fowl in the wild of North Dakota. I can just picture him traipsing through the tick infested brush, spotting a flock of ducks, lifting his big rifle into the air and pulling the trigger on a poor defenseless duck. (Quack. Bang. Plop)

Sounds awesome!

And while he is out making sure I will have no room in my freezer for the foreseeable future, I am left to hold down the troops. (At least we get to eat whatever we want until he returns, because then it’s all downhill)

Kid-“What’s for dinner mom?” 

Me-“Duckloaf”

Kid-“Again?”

Me-“What’s wrong with duckloaf? You should be grateful we put food in your mouth and give you duck sandwiches to eat. There are a bazillion kids starving in the world”

Kid-“I wish I was one of them.”

Me-“Just wait until daddy goes venison hunting?”

Kid-“What’s a venison?”

Me-“I think it’s a type of big cat?”

Kid-“I love duckloaf!”

Me-“I thought so!”

Tomatoes are good in duckloaf, right mom?

So until Friday I will attempt to navigate pre-school drop-off (with a toy to share), middle school drama, and elementary school cliques. 

I will make sure all homework is done through subtle mind games and a few threats. I’ll change diapers, sing lullabies, and juggle football practice, cheerleading, high school open house, Willy Wonka rehearsals, and writing deadlines-all with a pained smile.

I will go to work, commute an hour each way, sing hymns, and somehow hopefully find the time to shower (probably not going to happen), buy more coffee or maybe steal pods from the office? (Just kidding) and write about the church bathing suit (an article I am dying to tackle).

I’m sure I’ll also fit in a quiet time and some scripture memorization. (Yeah right)

I’m pretty sure Jesus is in the trenches of motherhood. (This just has to be a spiritual test, right?)

And I will dream of my duck man and the day we are reunited (so that he can deal with all this kid nonsense for at least thirty minutes and I can take a very long bath).

How do you survive motherhood?

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Scum of the Scum

I waved to my wailing baby, winked at daddy and dashed into an overcrowded Starbucks to grab a quick cup of Joe to get me through the afternoon.  The line was snaked around the corner and I tapped my foot anxiously as precious minutes slipped by. I glanced outside at the car which was now shaking with toddler angst and daddy’s frustration.

I should have walked out of the store then and there and been the kind and loving wife I long to be, but my head was throbbing from caffeine withdrawal and I justified that a happy mommy is much better than a cranky mommy and “gosh, gee, golly” I was really doing my family a favor. 

Besides, my teeth were already starting to hurt and once the teeth hurt a migraine must be lurking around the corner.

Finally it was my turn and I stepped up to the counter, ordered a triple Americano, gave them my name, paid and waited in the mosh-pit of caffeine addicted souls such as myself. After a few minutes, I saw what looked like my triple Americano in the hand of the barista.

Strangely enough the barista paused, looked a little baffled and then stared at the cup far too long.  I started to walk toward the pickup counter, now curious, when he called out the name on the cup, “Scum, your Americano is ready, Oh Scum, please pick up your drink.”

The noisy, jubilant over-caffeinated crowd quieted down to a whisper. I heard the plop-plop of the percolator and the swishing steamer heating cappuccino froth and the individual thump-thump of my own heart.

Here was my make it or break it moment. Do I walk out to the car empty-handed, wasting not only my family’s time and patience but my money as well, or do I suck it up and take the walk of shame to the counter and admit that I’m the scum?

When I think of “scum” images of lewd women brawling on trashy TV shows pop into my head; I see Casey Anthony at her trial and Sandra Bullock’s sad face after Jessie James humiliated her. Entitled, selfish, and crummy people leaving the world worse for the wear are scummy to me.

But if I’m honest, I have scummy moments too. Like now for instance-feeding my helpless husband to toddler mayhem to soothe my coffee addiction and stubbornly justifying this behavior as acceptable.

I’m often selfish, full of pride, slightly rebellious, sometimes defiant, and generally envious of expensive purses. I’ve hurt people and should be the last one to be throwing stones at anyone.  Without God, I am at best-the mutinous gelatinous scum on the scum of scum.

So, after a long painful pause, I made up my mind and decided to take the walk of shame. I strutted up to the counter and choked out, “Uhhh, yeah, hi!  So, I’m the Scum, thank you very much.”

And Starbucks erupted into laughter and even few claps.

Because, the truth is we all have scum in our hearts, it’s just tougher for some of us to own it.

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The Halloween Bootique

“Can we pleeeeeaaaaassssse go to the Halloween store?”

My sweet little Faith pleaded, cajoled and whined long enough to drive me batty and so I caved (which you knew I would) and off we traipsed to the dreaded Halloween store to pick out a costume.  But this time, just to spice it up, we took along a posse of little ladies consisting of three ten year-olds and a toddler.

On the way to the store, the girls turned up the radio and belted out Taylor Swift songs with all the gusto they could muster, wailing on and on about some nasty girl who stole Taylor’s man and getting revenge and so forth. (That Taylor is a wee bit snarky and I think I like her)

We pulled up at the Halloween Bootique at the Kaleidoscope in Mission Viejo and I must confess I was blown away (in a pleasant red balloon flying away in the sky kind of way) at how upscale and charming the store was. It was far more Harry Potter than Nightmare on Elm Street and nothing like the mega-suck Halloween stores I am used to.  

In fact the second I walked in I did a double take and giggled in delight.  I danced around and whipped out my camera.  The owner Ryan Privratsky, a young hip guy, stared at me, bewildered by my bizarre behavior, but then recovered quickly and asked if he could help us.

He took us to a beautiful children’s section and then helped us to a fitting area where a very patient lady (because the girls tried on about a bazillion costumes) meticulously and with great pains took apart each costume, assembled it, and then lovingly placed it back in the bag like it was a couture outfit.

I’m not kidding; it was the Nordstrom’s of Halloween retail.  This Bootique had stellar customer service and darling displays. There were also roped off areas, where I assume the more mature costumes were concealed, not that I ventured into the X-rated section with my babies, but I was tremendously relieved none the less that it wasn’t in my face; though I did take one sweet pic just to tempt my hubby for a private costume party.

The girls grabbed dozens of costumes and the show began.

One of the girls pulled out quite a few costumes that her mama nixed via text message.  I thought it was hysterical because if I hadn’t been there in person, Faith would have been looking behind the ropes and eyeballing the grown-up section.

“Mom, what about the gothic vampire?

Me-“No”

“Genie with bare belly?”

Me-“No.”

“This one?”

Me-“No, no, no!!!”

Finally we found the “Ahhhhhhhhh” costumes for all the girls, where everyone in the store smiled and the birds chirped and mama was happy that no tummy, booty or gaping expanse of chest were showing.

And in response to this blissful experience I forked over way too much cash for Faith’s costume.  But for the first time in this whole drama of costume buying business, I felt like I got my money’s worth because I had a lovely experience with the girls and I didn’t have that awful feeling of being violated by bad taste and gruesome ickiness.

I guess some things are worth a little extra cash.

The girls want to have another Girl’s day out next month, where we can assume I will spend too much money, shopping will be involved, and Taylor in all her teen angst will be sung. 

Oh Boy…I can’t wait!

 

Boo!

 Check out the Bootique on Facebook!

Also, I found this article on Ryan in the OC Register.

And oh by the way, this is not a sponsored post. I just really wanted to help out and promote a cool young man who is working his butt off and making this mom’s life a little easier. Well done Ryan!

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Just Being Real

I saw a Real House Wife from the OC yesterday at the grocery store. This lovely is my neighbor, if you count living in the track across the street as part of my hood, and I do, because somehow that makes me cooler (or maybe not).
We both had three kids trailing at our heels and our eyes met in a moment of “Lord have mercy on me,” or at least that’s what I was thinking with a crying baby, my son begging for coconut water that costs five dollars per eight ounces and my daughter trying to assemble the perfect cake making materials to create an atomic particle (will somebody please tell me how the crap am I supposed to make positive ions out of frosting?).
Right about then it hit me who she was and the “ding, ding, ding,” bell of acknowledgement traveled though my thick skull.
Trying not to be too obvious, I snuck copious glances and did the female version of celebrity gawking. She was dressed in fancy workout clothes (because that’s what you do when you are a hot reality star) and her long blonde extended tresses were flowing around her shoulders. She had lots of makeup on and was a perfect shade of bronze.
I, on the other hand, am proud to say I did not have snot or poop or pee on me. It was a good day.
We checked out around the same time and somehow ended up right next to each other in the parking lot. I walked over to my Nissan Xterra and she walked up to a white BMW and then realized it wasn’t hers.
She started mumbling cuss words under her breath and for the first time I saw a REAL woman. The scenario was funny and dumb and something I would do.
And for a moment, I connected with a single mom who struggles to remember where she parked the stinking car. And I know that feeling of panic all too well, that “Oh no, is this early Alzheimer’s setting in?”
I loved it! I love the MESS! I love it when we desperately need Jesus and I love it when people don’t have their act together and acknowledge it.
What I really want is a REALITY show where moms act like real moms.
• Real is: when they walk around all day with baby vomit on them and are too exhausted to care.
• Real is: when they show the parents pretending to be asleep when baby cries and then fighting over who will get up for the third time. “It is not my turn! It’s your turn jackwaggon.”
• Real is: when a mom prays for a girl who is a bad influence on her daughter to disappear and this bad girl moves and the mom shouts-“Yes Jesus Yes!!!!” and the daughter is baffled why her mom is having a big whoop dee doo in the kitchen because her friend (who didn’t even say goodbye) has just moved to Texas.
• Real is: when Facebook is the cause of endless arguments between teens and parents, and mom commandos the teen’s page and posts links to “Lord help me have a heart for the Poor and Needy.”
• Real is: when parents turn on Yo Gabba Gabba and park their baby in front of the TV and get crazy in the bathroom for five minutes because it’s the only time they have to be intimate.
• Real is: when neighbors come over and bawl and hug because it’s been a bad day and we pull out the Skinny Girl margarita mix and we encourage each other to forgive and forget, even when it’s tough and even when we know we are right.
• Real is: when real mommies and daddies fight and make up and pray and laugh at each other’s jokes, because mommy thinks daddy is freaking hysterical and adorable and the best thing, alongside Jesus and her babies, that has EVER happened to her.
I could go on and on… but for me, this would make REALITY TV far more real.

What real stuff do you think is missing on TV?

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The Man Cave

Let’s face it-guys need a place to get away from the madness of life and chill. It might be a garage or a rumpus room; but it needs to be semi-isolated and have a door to shut.

Now the goings on in this elusive environment is a mystery to the female species and we scratch our heads in bewilderment and wonder, “what the heck you boys do in there?”

We suspect games are played, Sportscenter is watched , and maybe even video games-but we don’t really know and the evolved wife doesn’t usually care because the man is content and out of her hair.

In our house we lack a traditional Man Cave. The garage is too full of man stuff (i.e. a large Caddy) and tools, so my husband has forced himself out of the only potential extra space in our home; so the poor guy had to improvise, and this is what Tim came up with, the “He-Restroom.”

For Sale

In the He-Restroom, Tim hides out on a daily basis with his iPhone.  I was concerned for a while because I didn’t think it was healthy for anyone to be pooping for a few hours a day, and suggested maybe we have his colon examined, but then he reassured me he wasn’t pooping the whole time, he just likes to be alone and play Words With Friends and read the news.

What? (Deep breath and process)

And, I think I’m ok with this and it’s a totally valid need and I respect his quest for solo male time. I even honor his ingenuity in creating a little man cave in the lavatory.

And maybe I’m a little jealous.  Because when I go potty the kids barge in and talk to me, the baby sits on her little potty and it’s like a stinking fiesta every time my butt hits the porcelain; which is why I generally try to keep my restroom time as short as possible.

But a dude can shut the door and check out for an hour and it’s no big deal. So unfair!

My son admitted he was tardy for school the other day, and that his social studies teacher (a guy) loudly confronted him in front of the class, “Kyle, you better have a good reason for being late.”

Kyle replied, “Sir, my step-dad had to use the rest-room.”

And the teacher replied, “Ok,” and nodded his head like it was perfectly understandable.

I guess you just have to be a dude.

 

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