I'm sure everyone has things they swore they'd never do as a parent, only to end up doing them. Things like "I'll never park my kids in front of the TV, not for any reason" and "I'll never reward my kids with candy". And one The Mailman and I firmly agreed on; We will never, under any circumstances, buy our children gummy bear vitamins. The Mailman loves gummy bears, he buys them three pounds at a time, so it's not like he has anything against them. The problem comes from mixing the idea of candy and medicine, a definite no-no. Like business and pleasure, these two must never meet.
I don't know what happened, exactly. I can't remember anymore if it was because of the omega-3 fish ones or that the vitamin ones were the only kids' vitamins I could find with no artificial colors. The details are unimportant. For the last year or so, I have broken my own vow and given the children gummy vitamins. Every time The Mailman hears them exclaim "Yay! Vitamins!", he shoots me that Look. You know, the one that says simultaneously "I'm disappointed in you, you've gone against me, I told you so, this is exactly why I was against this, and you've possibly ruined the children." Most of the statements in the Look I can get behind as being true and he has a point, but ruined the kids? Please! I haven't ruined them, I'm making them strong and healthy. They will thank me for years to come, and when they do, I will remind them that Dad didn't want them to have gummy vitamins and omega-3 fish. That will teach him to include ruining them in the Look.
But then again, maybe he's right. I had to admit this to myself when we were at Target last night. Not for any of the reasons he thinks, no. Normally, I buy these offensive supplements how I buy most things--in a giant container from Costco, with one of their coupons when I can. As far as the children are concerned, this is the "normal" size. I guess it was this that prompted Miss P, upon walking past the gummy vitamin display, to pick up a truly "normal" size bottle of them and declare with surprise and giddiness, "Mommy, look! Travel size gummy bears! We can get this for when we go on a trip!" I didn't correct her. I just hung my head in shame and tried to catch up to The Mailman as he searched for a giant bag of gummy bears.
Friday, July 16
Tuesday, July 13
Makin' Whoopee!
I'm ashamed to say that it was me who started it. In Target, of all places. The Mailman said no, but the temptation was too great. I put the package of rocket balloons in the cart anyway. The kids will like them, I thought. They are only $2.49 and will keep them quiet for a while. They will enjoy seeing them zoom all over the living room.
Being a female and over the age of 12, it never occurred to me what else they would like about them. When you let them go and they fly about the room, they make a most magnificent farting sound. I'm surprised they could still hear it over the giggling and the peels of laughter and the arguing over whose turn it was to blow one up and "let it rip" next. Morning, noon, and night they tormented me with these balloons.
This time also happened to intersect with a trip to the boardwalk and the arcade. What better to buy with your skee-ball tickets than a brand new whoopee cushion? Nothing, apparently. Well, nothing but more packs of individually wrapped rocket balloons. So, in between launching rocket balloons, each of the kids took turns being angry with me for not buying the kind of furniture with detached cushions that you can hide a whoopee cushion under. No worries, though. It would seem it's just as much fun to blow it up and sit on it yourself.
I can only imagine what the neighbors think. I doubt I'll invite them to dinner any time soon as they must be highly suspect of my cooking. In fact, there goes one right now! A rocket balloon, that is, not a neighbor. I suppose it could be worse. I can't help but wonder if the Summer of Whoopee will be something they look back on fondly when they are older or something they collectively deny ever happened and use as proof that Mom is losing it and put me in a home. Either way, for me I think it will be like so many other things about being a mom. As maddening as it is right now, once it's gone I'm sure I will miss it.
Being a female and over the age of 12, it never occurred to me what else they would like about them. When you let them go and they fly about the room, they make a most magnificent farting sound. I'm surprised they could still hear it over the giggling and the peels of laughter and the arguing over whose turn it was to blow one up and "let it rip" next. Morning, noon, and night they tormented me with these balloons.
This time also happened to intersect with a trip to the boardwalk and the arcade. What better to buy with your skee-ball tickets than a brand new whoopee cushion? Nothing, apparently. Well, nothing but more packs of individually wrapped rocket balloons. So, in between launching rocket balloons, each of the kids took turns being angry with me for not buying the kind of furniture with detached cushions that you can hide a whoopee cushion under. No worries, though. It would seem it's just as much fun to blow it up and sit on it yourself.
I can only imagine what the neighbors think. I doubt I'll invite them to dinner any time soon as they must be highly suspect of my cooking. In fact, there goes one right now! A rocket balloon, that is, not a neighbor. I suppose it could be worse. I can't help but wonder if the Summer of Whoopee will be something they look back on fondly when they are older or something they collectively deny ever happened and use as proof that Mom is losing it and put me in a home. Either way, for me I think it will be like so many other things about being a mom. As maddening as it is right now, once it's gone I'm sure I will miss it.
Monday, July 12
Uncle Hank and the Great Vegetable Cover-up
The Mailman comes complete with his own cast of characters from the post office and his mail route. As a writer, this is good for me, especially since truth is stranger than fiction and most of them are better than anything I could ever make up.
Perhaps his dearest friend from work is Uncle Hank. Of course that's not his real name and he isn't even related to us, but whenever he sends cast off toys and treasures home to the kids, that's who we say they came from. A Toy Story book for the boys, outgrown Hello Kitty toys and clothes for Miss P, articles and recipes for The Mailman and me. Sometimes it is phone messages alerting us to great deals on Amazon or Woot!; Uncle Hank is the master of The Deal. It is this endearing aspect of his character that brings us to today's subject.
Two of the highlights of my day are when The Mailman calls me; once in the morning before he leaves "for the road" to deliver the mail, and once in the afternoon when he's done and on his way home. Since he gets home at different times depending on the day's mail volume, this ritual helps me plan my day. On Wednesday afternoon, amid the normal conversation he threw in "Oh, we have a juicer now." I didn't need to hear that it was from Uncle Hank, I knew that already. I knew that meant there was a story behind it and decided it was probably longer than I wanted to get on a cell phone and waited the hour till he got home to be enlightened.
Turns out, Uncle Hank spent his 4th of July holiday cleaning out the basement so he could get a new furnace. That is another story in itself, but it was during this that he ran across the juice machine and all the bad memories associated with it. It had been purchased at a yard sale, sealed and seemingly new. This is how it was sold by he and his wife on ebay, only to have the buyer discover it was not new and send it back. Our task is simply to make sure he never sees it again. We can handle that.
Well, the kids have loved it! Son #2, who never met a vegetable he didn't detest, will happily drink carrots and celery that have been turned into juice. Maybe he likes seeing the machine destroy them, I don't know. I don't care, either. I know drinking vegetables is not the same as eating them, and I will continue to do nightly battles with him to eat the tablespoon or two of veggies he is served with dinner. But still, I can't help feeling somewhat victorious when he asks me things like "Do you think we could put broccoli in there?" or "Can we get some beets to put in the juicer?". Even more than that, though, I feel grateful once again to have someone like Uncle Hank in our lives.
Perhaps his dearest friend from work is Uncle Hank. Of course that's not his real name and he isn't even related to us, but whenever he sends cast off toys and treasures home to the kids, that's who we say they came from. A Toy Story book for the boys, outgrown Hello Kitty toys and clothes for Miss P, articles and recipes for The Mailman and me. Sometimes it is phone messages alerting us to great deals on Amazon or Woot!; Uncle Hank is the master of The Deal. It is this endearing aspect of his character that brings us to today's subject.
Two of the highlights of my day are when The Mailman calls me; once in the morning before he leaves "for the road" to deliver the mail, and once in the afternoon when he's done and on his way home. Since he gets home at different times depending on the day's mail volume, this ritual helps me plan my day. On Wednesday afternoon, amid the normal conversation he threw in "Oh, we have a juicer now." I didn't need to hear that it was from Uncle Hank, I knew that already. I knew that meant there was a story behind it and decided it was probably longer than I wanted to get on a cell phone and waited the hour till he got home to be enlightened.
Turns out, Uncle Hank spent his 4th of July holiday cleaning out the basement so he could get a new furnace. That is another story in itself, but it was during this that he ran across the juice machine and all the bad memories associated with it. It had been purchased at a yard sale, sealed and seemingly new. This is how it was sold by he and his wife on ebay, only to have the buyer discover it was not new and send it back. Our task is simply to make sure he never sees it again. We can handle that.
Well, the kids have loved it! Son #2, who never met a vegetable he didn't detest, will happily drink carrots and celery that have been turned into juice. Maybe he likes seeing the machine destroy them, I don't know. I don't care, either. I know drinking vegetables is not the same as eating them, and I will continue to do nightly battles with him to eat the tablespoon or two of veggies he is served with dinner. But still, I can't help feeling somewhat victorious when he asks me things like "Do you think we could put broccoli in there?" or "Can we get some beets to put in the juicer?". Even more than that, though, I feel grateful once again to have someone like Uncle Hank in our lives.
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