Bluebonnets, 2013.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you, dear husband. These will mean so much to us in the decades to come.

The Wimbo.

Every limbo boy and girl, All around the limbo world

 

 

Gonna do the limbo rock, All around the limbo clock!

 

 

Jack be limbo, Jack be quick, Jack go unda limbo stick

 

 

All around the limbo clock, Hey, let's do the limbo rock!

 

(wild applause)

I had no idea my kid had ever "Wimbo'd" until he set it up using the dogs leash, a chair, a hair tie, and the door knob.

Also, he taught Genevieve how to do it, completely on his own. And he lowered the "stick" when it was her turn. Cheater.

They wimbo'd until Daddy came home.

Maybe I should install a disco ball and whip them up some virgin Pina Coladas. We could make this a pretty sweet mid-afternoon time killer!

 

Genevieve's temper tantrum.

Oh yes. We have reached that age.

I am completely untouched by the tantrum.  Payne regularly passed out during his as a young toddler, so frankly, nothing can top that.

It IS pretty funny though.

Genevieve takes an entirely different approach. When she doesn't get her way, she turns into one of these:

Do you remember? You push the button on the bottom and all of the structural integrity of the little jointed man just disappears. His head flops forward, his arms fall, and he rapidly slumps down completely.

That is precisely how it goes down in this house.

"No. You can't have my water bottle." is promptly followed by this:

 

 

The head tilts to the side and rolls back, the arms drop down, she bends at the waist and knees in complete despair.  She usually manages to stumble over to the nearest raised surface so she can allow herself to pitch forward onto it, her head in her hands. She weeps bitterly at her poor fortune in being born to such a monstrous family of sadists.

 

Then of course, she has to sneak a peek at you with one tear filled eye, just to make sure you're aware of the depths of her angst.

 

She is unamused that we are not brought to tears at this heart wrenching spectacle, but moved to laughter instead. What perverse sense of humour is AMUSED by this display of complete suffering?

 

One day she will write her memoirs and we will all pay.

 

WE WILL PAY DEARLY.

I always wanted Payne to have a brother.

Who knew Little Sister was totally brother enough?

 

 

I love them

 

It's quite possible I'm failing as a parent in some fashion.

The last three toys I've bought for Payne are:

- a toy revolver

-plastic ninja sais

- nun-chucks made to scale for a four year old.

 

 

Also, Genevieve claps and yells "yaaaaay!" when I'm handed a bag through the driver's side window...

 

"What. They're trans fat free now. Keep up with the times, man."

 

My children are excellent accessorizers.

For me:

 

(I was busy putting away laundry during nap time when I caught a glimpse of this in the mirror.  Not sure how long I was sporting the look)

 

 

For themselves:

 

 

If you're sensing a theme, and that theme is violence, you would be correct.

 

It takes the term "avant guard" to a whole new level, eh?

 

(note the inspired choice of writing utensil)

 

And they are the very best accessory for one another:

Nothing thaws my cold cynical heart just a smidge like sibling love.  (sniffle)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loved to Death.

On fairly regular occasions, my children decide that they're in a cuddling mood.  For Payne, that usually means he wants to attempt a "number of Berenstain Bears books read aloud in sequence" world record.  Genevieve just wants to sit in my lap and rotate clockwise in short violent spurts for about 45 minutes.

I appreciate their interest in me, I really do.  However, story/cuddle time generally plays out as a sort of UFC cage match, and I'm outnumbered. 

It starts out calm enough. Payne brings me a stack of books, we settle down hip to hip on the couch.  Genevieve toddles over and snuggles into my lap. Ahhhh, precious moment.

I begin to read The Berenstain Bears NO GIRLS ALLOWED for the three thousandth time in my life.  G starts slapping happily at the pages. Payne yells "doooon't!" and shoves her hand away.  She responds by bopping the top of his head.  Wisely, he chooses to ignore her.  I halt my stirring interpretation of an obnoxious Sister Bear to ask G not to hit her brother.

Reading resumes, Payne signals his returned attention by slamming his head into my right bicep and sighing happily.  I begin to turn a page and Genevieve enthusiastically assists me, nearly giving me a paper cut. She turns to face me and makes a beeline for my hoop earring.  I disengage her vice like grip before blood is drawn. Payne is patiently waiting for me to remember what happens so I can ad-lib the page that is missing between "Sister Bear can't find the boys" and "Sister Bear weeping in front of the NO GIRLS ALLOWED sign".

Payne sneezes on my hand. I wipe it on my pants.

G tries to squeeze in between myself and Payne. Payne leans heavily into her, attempting to reduce her to Sister Pulp.  I stop reading, disengage them and put Genevieve on my other side. She grabs a fistful of my hair on the way down.

Payne looks at me expectantly, I resume my oratory.  Things are getting intense in Bear Country.

G climbs into my lap and throws an elbow into my boob, then uses some skin I didn't know was grippable on my neck as a handle to pull up onto her knees so she can stick her finger up my nose. She plops down heavily, directly onto my bladder.  Payne elbows my ribs while scooting closer for a better look at the Bear Country Girls Club tree house.  Through all of this I am reading, haltingly.

G starts to scream. I ask her to be quiet.

Payne starts to scream at Genevieve for screaming during his book. I ask him to be quiet.

It's about at this point that I start to get sort of amused. Like, the continued low level beating I'm receiving is getting funny.  I start to look around for someone to laugh about this with, and then I realize that everyone else is taking this moment to get AWAY from the children. 

G decides to pay attention.  The typical sign of this is a violent slamming of the back of her head into my sternum.

Aside from an involuntary "oof!" I manage to finish the story (which ends in a very Pilgrims and Indians sort of meeting of the minds over salmon and honeycomb. Strong work Berenstains) and slap the book shut with no small amount of relief. Genevieve grabs it and raises it triumphantly into the air, meaning she slaps me in the face with it.

What do I earn? A smile from Genevieve as she stands up in my lap and rotates to face me, grinding her wee heels into my femurs. From Payne, a very businesslike retrieval of No Girls Allowed to be followed with a sage presentation of The Berenstain Bears Trouble with Pets.

There are three rounds in a UFC fight, yes? One down, two to go.

LET'S DO THIS.

A small visual exercise.

I went on a trip this week, leaving the kids behind with Dan. However, Dan was still away for work when it came up, so the kids spent a day with their Grandparents.

This is what I packed for my three day trip to another state:

 

This is what I packed for the kids' day trip across the city:

 

 

(shakes cane and mutters something about kids these days)

Two four year olds. A meeting of the minds.

The following conversation took place in the sand box today:

Little Girl: "You can use my shovel!"

Payne: "We're building a tower!"

Little Girl: "That's my baby brother. Do you know his name?"

Payne: (shoveling industriously) "No."

Little Girl: "Oscar."

Payne: "Oh yeah! Oscar!"

(thoughtful pause)

"I don't like Oscar babies."

Little Girl: "Can I have my shovel back?"

Heh heh. You had that one coming, Son.