Medical care at its finest.

Sabrina and Calvin are playing veterinarian with their stuffed animals.

Vet (Calvin): What can I do for you today?

Pet Owner (Sabrina): Well, doctor, Mr. Bun Buns is suffering from depression. He doesn't seem to want to engage in his usual activities. Plus, he has no friends.

Vet: I would suggest he go find a friend then.

I Hear There's an Opening for President Next Year

Calvin told me he wanted to be a Literature Leader at school. Apparently this is where fourth graders go to second grade and help out with reading groups. The following is the letter he wrote explaining why he wanted this position.

Dear Mrs. Regan,

I want to be part of Literature Leadership. I want to be part of it because I'm SUPER good at reading and I love to do it. I once read a 565 page book in only one week! I also feel the need to help others. I have lots of experience with little kids. I have a friend who has two little brothers. One is seven and is in second grade, and the other is three and does not yet go to school. Sometimes my sister babysits them and I go too. I usually keep them entertained the most. I also want to be a leader. I think I'm a good leader because I like to control things. Whenever I'm in control things ALWAYS turn out great.

Sincerely,

CALVIN!

Don't Give Him Any Ideas

(Guest Post by Mr. Mini-Whats)

Last night I took Calvin to see the stage-musical version of Shrek. As we were sitting in our seats waiting for the show to start, two older gentlemen came and sat next to us.

The man next to Calvin introduced himself and began talking with him and joking. He talked about how sometimes he takes off his artificial leg and hits people with it (reminding me of Arrested Development - "let that be a lesson…"). He told Calvin he knew Calvin was really there to see the pretty girl dancers in tight costumes. He mentioned to Calvin that he knew it was past his bedtime, but if Calvin started to drift off, he would give him a little elbow in the ribs to keep him awake. Few people have ever got so many "Grrrr's" out of Calvin at once. I was having a great time.

Just before intermission, the gentlemen unexpectedly laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. There was nothing particularly funny at that moment on stage. Fortunately it was during a loud musical number, or it would have been really awkward.

At intermission, as I was getting ready to follow Calvin out to the snack bar, he explained his outburst. He had started dozing off, and Calvin had nudged him in the ribs with his elbow to keep him awake.

Score 1 for Calvin!

Conversations With the Georges

Rose: I love these shoes! I love the way they make me feel. I feel old.

Calvin: I feel awesome.

Rose: Maybe it's because they're so high.

Calvin: Maybe it's because I am.

Insanity Update #1

Day One: I walked close to three miles with my daughter, complaining a good portion of the time. I didn't originally plan to do this, but halfway through our first of six laps Sabrina turned to me and said, "Okay, I really can't take your whining and complaining. You need to stop now." I found that to be extremely funny and ironic since this is the girl who is never happy unless she's complaining. I therefore proceeded to complain for another three laps gaining far too much enjoyment out Sabrina's heavy sighs.

Day Two: I would say I ran a total of .8 miles today, but I think it would be optimistic to call what I was doing running. It was more of a shuffle. Old ladies with walkers probably could have lapped me. However, I persevered and ended up walking/shuffling over three miles on the treadmill. Things were going relatively well until two extremely petite and disgustingly healthy women got on the treadmills on either side of me. Their walking speed was faster than my shuffling speed, and then they started running super fast and with a lot of intensity. I wanted to ask them where exactly they thought they were going, but their intensity scared me.

Day Three: I'm finding it very hard to move and my foot hurts. Yay exercise!

In Which I Totally Lose My Mind

Apparently I'm running a 5k in November. How in the world did this happen? Anybody who knows me, even those who are barely acquainted with me, knows I abhor exercise. I am perfectly content to sit on the couch and eat my Hostess donuts while my disgustingly healthy husband runs marathons or spends a week pretending to be Lance Armstrong and riding his bike for 500 miles around Oregon. My experience with exercise has generally been attending his races and cheering for him. I don't mind as long as someone promises me a good meal. I have also been known to compare running to sticking a fork in my eye, only I'd opt for the fork over running because it wouldn't hurt any less, but it would be over much more quickly.

And yet a race is looming in my future. I would ask what the heck was I thinking, but it is obvious my brain has been surgically removed and there was no thought process involved. I have two months to go from sedentary sloth to runner. Fasten your seatbelts and hang on to your hats, people. This is going to get ugly.

Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent, or, More Likely, the Storyteller

Lysol: Ewwww! I can't believe you're doing that! Why? Why? That is so disgusting! STOP THAT! AND MAKE SURE YOU WASH YOUR HANDS!!!

Formula 409: You can stop shouting at me any time now.

Lysol: But did you see what you were doing? GROSS!!! THAT MAKES ME WANT TO BARF!

Formula 409: STOP SHOUTING AT ME!

Father: What's going on here?

Lysol: Dad, Formula 409 is SO GROSS!!

Formula 409: I AM NOT!

Lysol: You were brushing your teeth while you were going to the bathroom!! I can't believe you're related to me.

Father: Lysol, you need to stop being the hygiene police.

Lysol: There have to be standards!! I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS!

Father: There is no need to shout at Formula 409, or me for that matter.

Lysol: Nobody cares about my feelings.

Father: Your feelings aren't really the issue here. It's more about treating people with respect.

Lysol: Did you see what Formula 409 did?

Father: Yes. But as long as it wasn't your toothbrush Formula 409 was using what do you care?

Lysol: I can't believe you're taking Formula 409's side!

Father: I'm not. I'm just asking you to use the Golden Rule. Treat others the way you want to be treated. There's a reason it's called the Golden Rule and not the Rusty Tin Rule. It's because it's a valuable tenet to live by.

Lysol: Well, excuse me. I just happen to care about hygiene.

Father: I can see that by the way you just threw your underwear on the floor of the bathroom. Right there. Isn't that yours?

Lysol: That's totally different!

Father: How?

Lysol: Because there aren't germs in my underwear!

It's a Cruel, Cruel World

Calvin's cousin Andrew is visiting us this week. He's an only child playing with a third child. The poor kid is getting a crash course in sibling relationships, and the learning curve is steep.

Andrew: Calvin, let's play Wii.

Calvin: Okay.

(time passes)

A: Calvin, this isn't fair.

C: Why?

A: You're shooting down all my planes.

C: And?

A: You should let me shoot down some of yours.

C: No.

A: This isn't fair. You should let me win.

C: Hoping I'll let you shoot down my planes and win is like hoping gravity will stop working.

Run, Pig, Run

Oops. Too slow.

Where's a House Elf When You Need One?

Sabrina: Mom, can I make a cake today?

Me: Sure, once the kitchen is clean.

Sabrina: Okay, let me know when that's done.

Hoarders

I'm a thrower. Always have been. I don't get sentimental over stuff. I throw things out like nobody's business. And then I married a non-thrower. To a saver like David, everything has value. Nothing should be thrown out. You might need that 25-year-old map that charts roads that are no longer there, so for God's sake, don't throw it out. My pack rat also has a special filing system called the floor. We don't fight over money, we don't fight over our kids, but we've fought over whether things should be thrown out.

I learned early in our marriage that if I was cleaning and wanted to throw things away, I better do it (a) while he was gone, and (b) make sure the garbage truck picked up the remains before he came home. True story: David came home to find his special filing system of piles of paper on the floor stacked neatly on the desk and two big bags of garbage lined up next to the door. He went through the bags to make sure I hadn't thrown out anything important and/or valuable. By the time he was done, I no longer had my floor, and there was only one bag of garbage left.

He has mellowed over the years. Living in a 500 square foot space for two years in Japan changed both of our perspectives on what was actually necessary. But our son has picked up the cause. Calvin has taken David's pack rat mentality and raised it to near hoarder status. Even true garbage might have value, and I've seen him agonize over whether he should really throw out the used and crumpled post-it notes. It's enough to make me tear my hair out.

Mostly I try to ignore it by closing my eyes when I walk by his room. But since I've injured myself every night tucking him in this week, I decided enough was enough. Calvin was gone all day, so I dove in, taking my phone with me in case I got lost, and letting the girls know to come find me if I wasn't back in a couple hours. Here is what I started with.

And this.

One 33-gallon bag of garbage, one box of books, one bag of clothes, two boxes of toys, and five hours later, this is the result.

Throwers: 1
Hoarders: 0

Summer Vacation

Having finished my first year as a music instructor, I found myself looking forward to summer vacation. With all that time on my hands, who knows what I could accomplish? I had visions of planting a garden, refinishing the cabinets in my kitchen, learning to play a new instrument, and preparing healthy and delicious meals for my family. Those tasks would definitely take up the first week. After that I could go wherever my whims took me.

The reality? Weeks of extreme slothful indulgence where I have convinced myself that simply bringing one load of clean laundry upstairs for my children to truffle through was actually a task that required a lot of effort resulting in the need for a nap and/or a drink to recover. Who knew summer vacation could be so tiring?

Today, I woke up and felt strange. What was that alien feeling? Deciding not to waste too much time on the problem, I started my day. Here is what I accomplished.

1. A three-mile walk with a friend.
2. Wrote down an extensive list of household chores for my children to do and assigned them in random order.
3. Sat on the couch while watching my children do said tasks.
4. Felt guilty for sitting and watching and not helping out.
5. Started cleaning my bathroom.
6. Stopped cleaning when my sink started to back up.
7. Spent some time debating whether this was a clear sign that I should stop cleaning and wait for my husband to come home and clean the drain, or if I should tackle that job myself.
8. Decided that marital harmony was more important than my gag reflex and started cleaning the drain.
9. Spent some time gagging over the horrible slime I had to extract from said drain and cursing my need for marital harmony.
10. Finished cleaning the bathroom.
11. Sent children off to zoo with their grandparents.
12. Had lunch with a friend.
13. Did some light shopping and had to contend with some snotty salespeople.
14. Spent some time wishing I could pull a Pretty Woman on said snotty people, minus the prostitute part.
15. Made dinner for my family.
16. Revived my husband as he had dropped in a dead faint when he came home to find dinner on the table.
17. Cleaned the kitchen.
18. Read a book and a half.
19. Wrote my first blog entry in months.

Who knows what I'll do next summer?

Lactose Intolerance

I have a friend who is the mother of three boys. And I guess she decided that once you hit three, what's one, or two, or even three more? So she invited Calvin for a sleepover. At one point she told me she had nine boys running around her house. I told her she was crazy, and that much chaos would make me either take to my bed or the bottle. I asked her how she puts up with it. She said it is because of conversations like this:

Boy 1: I love cheese!

Boy 2: Me too!

Boy 1: Cheese pizza is the best!

Boy 3: My dad can't eat cheese.

Boy 2: Why not?

Boy 3: He's lactose intolerant.

Boy 2: What does that mean?

Boy 3: It means he has really stinky farts.

Boy 2: Oh, then my dad has it too.

Eggs and Cupcakes

I supervised cupcake decorating AND Easter egg dyeing. I believe my "craft quota" has been fulfilled for the year.

Make That an EVIL Churro-Eating Sloth

D: You know, when I was a kid, I used to torment my sister.

Me: Why does that not surprise me?

D: She'd get really upset or sad over something. And then days, weeks, or even months later I could just say one word, like a code that only she understood, that would totally make her sob hysterically again. And my parents could never figure out why she was bursting into tears for no apparent reason.

Me: Really?

D: Oh, yeah. It was great fun to walk by my sister and whisper "bacon" and watch her burst into tears.

Hmmm . . .

Hours later I casually walk by Sabrina and say, "Churros." Tears spring to her eyes and she runs wailing down the hall to her room. I turn to David. "Hey, you're right. That is fun!"

Churro-Eating Sloth

While eating dinner out at a Mexican restaurant yesterday, Sabrina makes the comment that she feels like her eating has not been all that healthy lately. Maybe she shouldn't have had that third Twinkie at snack time. Perhaps she should institute a healthy-eating month, you know, no junk food, more fruits and veggies. David, never one to say no to challenge, is all over the idea and even ups the ante.

D: Why don't we all make it a family healthy-eating month challenge?

Me: With a chart and stickers?

D: Yes, you can have stickers if you want. And then those of us who are successful can earn a prize.

S: Yeah, like a book.

Rose: Or a new stuffed animal.

D: Or if we all make it . . . we could go to Disneyland!

Kids: Yay!!!!

Me: A book is good, don't you think? A little more in line with what we're trying to accomplish here?

Kids: Disneyland! Disneyland! Disneyland!

S: And, Dad, maybe when we go, could you and I be park buddies all by ourselves? We can run around the park and try to hit all the rides in one day. What do you think, Dad? Huh? That'd be fun. Wouldn't it, Dad?

Me: What about me? Isn't this a trip for all of us?

S: You can, you know, eat a churro and stroll around the park with Rose and Calvin.

Me: Excuse me! Do you want to rethink that statement?

S: What?

Calvin: Hey! I want to go with Sabrina and Dad!

D: (Speech impaired by margarita coming out his nose.)

Me: (to David) Did I just hear what I think I heard?

D: Yup. She wants to end healthy-eating month by giving you churros.

Me: She just called me a churro-eating sloth!

D: (Still mopping margarita boogers off his shirt) That too.

Wow. If I wasn't amazingly self-confident, and self-aware, that might have hurt.

Me: But I walked 10 miles a day in France for a week! Up and down hills!

D: And sat down in the middle of a dirt road and refused to move. A "Churros Ahead" sign would have been really helpful there.

Sabrina collapses into a hysterical mess of sobs and snorts. But seeing as I am the one who has just been insulted, I do not feel the need to comfort her. We try to ignore her hair which is splayed over the table and continue to eat, but five minutes later the sobbing is still going on.

Me: Do you think she's crying because she's heartbroken over realizing she insulted her mother? Or do you think she's crying because she suspects she might have jeopardized her chance at a blitzkrieg of Disneyland with you?

Sabrina jumps up howling and runs off to the bathroom, knocking over the creepy old balloon-animal guy on her way.

Me: Definitely the second one.

Waiter: Is everything OK? Can I get you guys some dessert?

Me: Do you have churros?

That's Hot . . . ?

Me: Honey, you rock!

D: Why?

Me: Your idea on how to repair my school project totally worked.

D: Oh. I thought it was because you couldn't get enough of me in my lumberjack shirt, shorts, and brown dress socks.

It's All In Your Perspective

Rose and I have been fighting a battle over exactly how clean her hair should be. I vote for squeaky, shiny clean. She votes for shiny, but it certainly ain't squeaky. And since I refuse to bodily pick her up and dump her in the shower, she wins the battle slightly more frequently than I do. I don't care what you think. I figure eventually peer pressure will get to her, and this is just not the ditch I choose to die in.

Monday I sent her off to school with greasy, stringy hair having lost the Sunday evening battle. And right after she left the house I got an email from the school reminding me that it was spring picture day. Whoops. Guess I won't be purchasing those. I shrugged my shoulders and went on with my day.

Later, I picked Rose up from school. She said, "Mom, guess what? It was picture day today. I totally forgot." I said, "Yeah, I know," getting ready to commiserate with her, when she cheerfully added, "Good thing I wore a totally cute outfit!"

I may need to purchase one after all, if for no other reason than potential future mortification.

Oh, Look. Scissors

You remember how Rose wanted to bring scissors in her carryon so she could perform yarn magic on the plane? And I told her she couldn't? Here's round two.

We're at the beach, which I have a love/hate relationship with. I love sitting, watching the waves, drinking a rum and coke. I hate sand. I really hate it. But my kids can't get enough of it. Rose's idea of a good time can be summed up by her ecstatic statement, "Look! The sand sticks better when you're wet!" This means sand gets everywhere. Even the lining of swimsuits get sand, and for the life of me I can't figure out how it gets there. There's no opening whatsoever, and yet sand accumulates to the point where the swimsuits are sagging and threatening to drop off bodies. And while most people on vacation are looking for entertainment, I'm pretty sure wardrobe malfunctions are not what they had in mind.

To prevent my kids from being arrested for indecent exposure, I knew I had to get rid of that sand in their swimsuits. And the only way I could think of was to cut a hole in the lining. I asked if anybody had seen a pair of scissors in the condo, and Sabrina handed me a pair. I cut holes like crazy, emptied the sand, and thought nothing more of it.

Until the next day on the beach, while sipping a rum and coke, the thought occurred to me that the scissors Sabrina handed to me looked awfully familiar. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that those red-handled scissors were mine. How in the world did they get here?

I asked Sabrina where she got those scissors. She said, "I brought them."

"How?"

"In my backpack, of course," she replied, in that particular tone of voice preteens reserve for their very stupid parents.

Yep, the carryon backpack. The one that was diligently examined by two TSA experts by X-ray as we were taking off shoes and belts and emptying loose change into small buckets to prevent any of our young potential security threats from bringing any sharp or dangerous objects onto the plane. But they missed a pair of scissors with 8-inch blades. Huh. What do you know? Don't you feel safer?

Maybe I shouldn't post this, because the terrorists might just read it and realize they should be using purple backpacks to smuggle sharp objects.

In Which Yarn Gets Left Behind

Me: Rose, have you packed your carryon bag for the airplane?

R: Yes.

Me: What did you pack?

R: I have a couple of books, a pencil box with pens and pencils, a clipboard so I have something hard to draw on, some paper, and my journal. I also packed some yarn and a pair of scissors in case I wanted to make anything yarn-y.

Me: Um, sweetie, you can't pack scissors in your carryon bag.

R: Oh, is it considered a weapon?

Me: Yes, it is.

R: All right. Well, then, I may as well take the yarn out, too. If I don't have the scissors, I can't use the yarn. I can't just chew the ends.

Me: Probably not.

R: No, I really can't. I've tried it before.

Boobies are Better

A recent conversation our family had while we were driving around town:

Rose: Mom, guess what?

Me: What?

Rose: I'm finally growing boobies! Isn't that awesome?

Me: Yes, honey, it sure is.

Sabrina: Rose, I can't believe you just said that!

Rose: What?

Sabrina: You shouldn't talk about your boobies.

Rose: Why not? It's taken forever. And besides, boobies are better.

Calvin: No, they're not.

Rose: They are, too.

Calvin: No, they're not!

Rose: Boobies are better. Wieners are worse.

Sabrina: Ewww!

Calvin: Boobies are not better. Wieners are.

Rose: Boobies are better. Wieners are worse. Notice the alliteration? I'm obviously right.

Calvin: Okay, then . . . Boobies boo. Wieners win.

Sabrina: Guys, stop it! Mom, make them stop!

Rose: Boobies are better! Wieners are worse!

Calvin: Boobies boo! Wieners win!

Sabrina: (hands over ears) I'm not listening.

I'm lucky I didn't drive off the side of the road I was laughing so hard.

Birthday Plans

We do birthday parties for the kids every other year. This preserves my pocketbook as well as my sanity. This year is a party year, Rose's birthday is fast approaching, and I have no idea what to do. I was starting to stress. And then I found this little sheet of paper laying around.

Birthday Party Plan

1. Meet at my house and play games.
2. Goof off, hang out.
3. Drive to Sky Zone.
4. Jump for as long as possible at Sky Zone.
5. Back to my house.
6. Open present, eat cake/ice cream.
7. Have accessorize time
- paint nails
-hair dos
8. Fashion/show off time
- dress up
- walk runway
9. Pajamas, brush teeth, etc.
10. Sing off.
11. Get in bed.
12. Stay up until late talking about girly stuff and boys.

Guess I don't need to worry. Rose has got it all covered.

Doing it Right

S: Mom, can I ask you a question?

Me: Sure. What's up?

S: Did you and dad . . . do it . . . to get me?

Me: Do it?

S: You know.

Me: You mean sex?

S: MOM!

Me: Well, yes, of course we did.

S: . . . really?

Me: News flash, honey. Everyone in this world got here because people had sex.

S: MOM!

Me: What?

S: Don't say that word!

Me: Sex?

S: MOM!

Me: Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex.

S: (hands over ears) Stop it!

Me: Sweetie, you just learned one of life's little lessons.

S: What's that?

Me: You don't ever want to think about your parents having sex --

S: Ewww!

Me: -- and you don't want to think about your children having sex.

S: Mom, please say "doing it."

Me: That's why daddies often have trouble when their daughters come home after they've been married a while and announce they're pregnant. They can no longer ignore the fact that their daughter has, in fact, been having sex.

S: Well, my dad won't have that problem.

Me: Oh, really? Why not?

S: Because I'm adopting.

Me: But don't you plan on getting married someday?

S: Yes. But I'm sure we'll wait three or four years before we think about . . . you know.

Side Effects May Include an Increased Tendency to be a Smart-Ass

David: Calvin, what happened to your face? You've got a really bad rash.

C: I don't know. The doctor said it was an allergic reaction to something.

Me: He's also been really lethargic all day. And he missed playing with his friends at school, so he seems a little depressed.

C: Cymbalta can help.