Pumpkin the Knight

Much to the chagrin of my husband, our daughter has taken possession of one of her brother’s PlayMobil knights. She hugs him and pets him and calls him “Pumpkin”. Previously, her Bubby had named the black knight “Link” (from the Zelda video games), but she has totally disregarded this and persists in calling the little stiff plastic axe-wielder Pumpkin.

I think it’s cute. She points to his molded plastic toushy and declares his diaper clean; she sings “Rock-a-bye Baby” to him. Daddy finds this whole routine appalling. He seems concerned about what it will do to Pumpkin’s self-esteem. I’m betting Pumpkin’s self-esteem is about as immovable as his tiny plastic ankles.

'Splosions Happen to Everyone

We had a delicious dinner of venison steaks, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls, broccoli, and acorn squash last evening, compliments of my parents. It was so yummy. Plus it’s really nice not to have to cook a meal with a small child wound around my legs screaming the entire time. Of course it’s not much easier for Nana to cook with the baby in her kitchen because she does pretty much the same thing to her.

A few hours after dinner, when we were all safely home, my husband’s intestines kicked up a bit of a ruckus. This is not unusual. He tends to go about his post-dinner time with bubbles in his posterior. I would like to say that after six and a half years of marriage I have gotten used to this, but the truth of the matter is that it still annoys me. I am a lady, after all.

So there we were, safely at home with his exploding Highness. This time, much to our dismay, there was a bit of a stench associated with each “‘splosion,” as my son would say. The poor child is too young to realize that there is safety in running away when daddy’s bowels are cleansing. He instead sits there placidly, like a little martyr.

I suppose there is a certain amount of knowledge that goes along with being three. Shortly after the odiferous display started a very serious and contemplative air came over my son and he turned to his father and said, “Daddy, you need to go potty.” The man really should have gone to the potty because he almost wet himself laughing.

Potty Head

Remember this picture?




















Like Brother like Sister.

Prepared for Anything

Last evening I had my first experience with a child wanting to wear something a little out-of-the-ordinary out of the house. As we prepared for an errand my son insisted that he wear his safety goggles. You know, in case something sharp flew at his eye or he fell over into a crowd spear-bearing elves.

Here's a Tip for All You Bearded Fellows

My husband and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary in June, and I have known him two years besides. Even still he continues to do and say things that come as a surprise to me. I don’t know why I should be surprised, as I really don’t put anything past his doing.

Last summer I purchased a fingernail brush because it is much easier to scrub dirt from beneath a toddler’s fingernails with such a tool as opposed to scraping it out with my own nails. The small rectangular brush is generally kept in the downstairs bathroom because that is where the children are washed up after playing outside in the dirt.

The other day, Sean came into the living room where I was having a moment’s rest and asked me if I had seen the little brush that belonged in the bathroom. I queried him as to which little brush he was referring to, as we only have one hairbrush and it is of the normal hairbrush size.

“You know, the little white one,” he insisted.

“You mean the fingernail brush?” I asked.

“Oh, is that what it is,” he replied, “I’ve been using it to brush my beard.”

Evidently, the man thought I had gone out and bought him a special brush just for his beard (he is the only one in the house that sports one, so whom else would it be for). He tells me that the bristles are just right for beard grooming. Why I would have purchased a special beard brush, put it under the sink, and not told him, “Hey, see this little brush? It’s just for your beard!” I don’t understand.

It’s good to know that every time I kiss him I get grungy fingernail dirt ground into my chin. Yep. I suppose I’ll have to start chin cleansing after every kiss because he doesn’t seem to have any intention of giving up his claim on that brush. Maybe I should get another one and label it “for fingernails only- no beards allowed.”

How the Spider Almost Killed Us- Part 2

Having been subjected to the agitated nerves of my husband for a too-long period of time, I noticed my own nerves were becoming a little frayed. I didn’t mind the company of the spider when I knew exactly where it was, but for some moments I failed to be able to locate its position and that made me a little uneasy. Now that neither of us had the intruder in our sights Sean’s agitation grew to a feverish pitch and he began flailing about in his seat while firmly gripping the steering wheel betwixt his hands. “Thrash around really fast! Thrash around hard! If it’s on you it’ll get squished! COME ON!”

As nicely as I could I informed him that I would not be giving myself whiplash on account of a bug, and that if he didn’t calm himself and focus on not killing us all I was liable to commence shouting. Although highly offended at my lack of respect for his orders, he settled down enough to regain control of the car and his senses and I went back to the task of locating our missing friend. During this time my left bum cheek began to get a tad bit numb, as I had rolled all of my weight onto it in an unconscious attempt to lean away from the spider’s last known location.

At long last the spider’s whereabouts were once again known to us. Earlier in our voyage I had determined not to smoosh the spider because I did not want it falling from its perch on the windshield into my lap or my hair while in the throes of death. But that was a good twelve minutes previous and our health and well-being did not seem to be in such jeopardy then as they were now, what with all of the reckless nighttime driving and the delicate drizzling rain that was now glossifying the roadway and rendering our trip even more treacherous.

I kept a close eye on the spider while I riffled through the glove compartment in search of a napkin to smother it with. I made sure that my aim was good and true and I smote the spider with my mighty napkin against the windowpane. My victory was short lived. I was now belted to my seat with my right arm stuck straight out in front of me and holding a folded napkin against the windshield. If I moved my arm the spider was likely to fall amongst my hairs where it would stay, impervious to washing, until its body completed the cycle of decay. This would never do.

After some deliberation I thought that my best strategy would be to slowly slide the napkin down until it hovered above the dashboard. Then I could gently pull the napkin away from the glass and the spider carcass would fall harmlessly onto the console. My body tried to slink away from my hand as the napkin squeaked its way down the glass. Down, down, down, until I could finally pull my hand away from the window. Ever so gingerly I retracted my arm back toward my body. I looked into the napkin. There was nothing there.

Great. I glanced back at the windshield and tried to tune out the screeching coming from the opposing seat. There was definitely some spider guts glistening in the moonlight up there. If the thing wasn’t dead yet it would be soon, and in its current state the spider couldn’t possibly do much harm.

The banshee in the driver’s seat was at it again, “It’s still alive! It’s still alive! I think it’s crawling on meeeeeeee!” “Listen, you,” I replied, “if its gutless body is around here somewhere it is most likely on me!” to which I received a long diatribe on the correct method for killing spiders and that inept people like me should not be allowed to kill them. Even it its death that stupid spider was a force to be feared and reckoned with.

We arrived home at long last. The car was parked, the engine turned off, and I opened my car door. As I exited the vehicle the small body of a dying spider tucked in its legs and rolled off of my lap onto the seat I had just occupied. It was on me after all. And my husband, all six-foot-two-inches of him, started shrieking again and yelping directives on how to properly dispose of the mostly-dead spider. Using the napkin of almost-death he plucked the spider from the seat, squished it firmly in his hand, and placed the napkin into his pocket.

A short time later, when Sean put his hand into his pocket, he suddenly remembered that the dead spider and its napkin style coffin were still there. He immediately began the ants-in-my-pants dance with a few shouts and screams thrown in. He jiggled his way over to the garbage can where the scary spider was finally laid to rest. I was never so glad to be rid of a spider in my life. Except for that one time a giant man-eating spider found its way into the entertainment unit. I was pretty glad to be rid of that one too.

How the Spider Almost Killed Us- Part 1

It has been hypothesized that perhaps some fatal car accidents are the result of creepy crawly insects. A person is driving along, hopefully obeying the rules of the road, hopefully not straying too far from the posted speed limit, when a spider is spotted somewhere inside the vehicle scurrying along, its eight legs carrying it closer and closer to the driver of the vehicle.

A part of me has always thought that this, although potentially a good theory, could only apply to those people who have a morbid fear of arachnids that sends them into an immediate state of mind numbing, paralyzing panic and possibly even a coma. Boy was I wrong.

My husband has an interesting relationship with all things buggy, as I shared here. He doesn’t seem to mind them when he is out of doors, but when in a confined space with insects and spiders his mind begins to plays tricks on him and he begins to have fits.

About ten seconds into our fifteen-minute drive home from church on Saturday night, Sean pointed a tremulous finger toward our windshield and demanded, “Is that inside?” I stared through the darkness and concentrated on the city bus in front of us toward which I thought he pointed and tried to make sense of the question. “Is that inside? I think it is! It’s inside!” he declared in a voice that was clearly agitated and full of fear. “Don’t you see it? Right there! Are you blind?”

I don’t appreciate being shouted at. So I fixed him with a glare that was wasted in the shadows of night, told him that I could make no sense of his gibbering, and said that when his powers of communication returned I would be more than happy to listen to his troubles. He made a noise I had never heard before, something between a yelp and a groan, and finally made me understand that we were trapped in a moving vehicle at the mercy of a roving spider.

How he saw the thing in the first place, I’ll never know. It was light brown in color with a leg span that could only have straddled a dime. Perhaps my husband is possessed of x-ray vision or something; that would explain the sly grins he sometimes gives me when I am covered head to toe in a sweat suit. At any rate, once his eyes caught sight of that spider they weren’t letting it go.

Unfortunately, following the weaving path of a spider and attempting to operate a motor vehicle at the same time is not easy. Or safe. Sean was so busy squirming from the touch of imaginary spiders and shrieking, “Do you see it? Do you see it? Where’d it go?” that the fact that the car didn’t go careening off of the side of the road is a miracle. It really is.

The eight-legged beast would occasionally wander over to my side of the windshield. When my husband received news that his adversary had traversed away from him he would sigh audibly, “Oh, okay.” As if to say that the world was a shinier, happier place now that his wife would be receiving the death-bite in his place. He can be so sweet sometimes.

I’ll put a stop to this nonsense, I thought to myself. I clutched the church bulletin in my hand and resolved to nudge the spider out of the window with it. I had maintained the hope that once close enough to the open window the spider would be whisked away on the wind, never to be seen or heard from again. Much to my chagrin, instead of being sucked out of the vehicle into oblivion, the wind blew the spider back into the car.

A Pile of What?

I love my best friend, Allison, for lots of reasons; not the least of which is that she says things like: “Let’s do tea” and “Is that a pile of glistening ants?” Now, I am sure that there are plenty of best friends who say, “Let’s do tea.” Excepting they don’t like tea, of course. But I challenge anyone to recall a time when any one they know has said, “Is that a pile of glistening ants?”

Having had our tea, my girlfriend and I charged my husband with the care of the children in order to take a turn around the beautiful city cemetery whose entrance lies but a few blocks from my home. The cemetery is old; it spans numerous city blocks and boasts old trees and winding paths.

It is a good place to thrash out such things as the remedy for world hunger, the cure for cancer, and how to bring about world peace, although we generally content ourselves with finding a remedy for the price of ground beef, the cure for the common husband, and how to bring about peace in our own homes. That sort of thing.

We took a couple of turns round, paused to watch a herd of deer consuming some of the foliage, and determined that it was time to proceed homeward. As we stepped upon the curb of the last block before home, my darling friend happened to look down upon what, at first glance, appeared to her to be a heap of shimmering ants.

I have never before heard the adjective “glistening” applied to ants, or any other type of insect for that matter. Sometimes when I hear adjectives and pronouns mixed in unexpected ways it makes me giggle. On this particular day I began to giggle rather uncontrollably while I staggered about on the sidewalk. I was much too giddy to inspect this phenomenon, what with the tears from my laughter obscuring my vision. It’s a lucky thing that I didn’t fall over.

Unsure of what would cause a group of insects to glisten, other than a tough aerobic workout or communal shower, my friend took a closer look. It would seem that what she had first thought to be a pile o’ ants was, in actuality, simply a child’s hair tie. And that is why I love her so much. I’m quite sure that I don’t know anyone else who would mistake an every day object for something completely outlandish like a pile of glistening ants.

The Name's Parker, Peter Parker

A funny thing happened on the way to the park. Except I didn’t go to the park. It just doesn’t sound as good to say, “A funny thing happened to me on the way through the kitchen today.” That statement, however, would be closer to the truth.

As I strode through my kitchen earlier today, I plucked my eyeglasses from the countertop with the intention of balancing them on the bridge of my nose in order to see the things around me a little clearer. Being nearsighted I do not always need them around the house, as I have no trouble viewing objects nearer to me. It must be said that I still find it easier to navigate my way through the obstacle course on my floor, what with all of the toy trucks and dinosaurs laying about in wait to gouge my tender tootsies, when I can see a few feet in front of me and plan my path.

So, as I said at the beginning of the last paragraph, I removed my eyeglasses from the countertop where they were doing me no service, and positioned them in front of my eyeballs.

That’s odd, I thought to myself, was I seeing better without them?

I took them off and held them up to the light to determine whether they were bleary.

Nope, they look all right.

I slid them up the bridge of my nose and looked about the room again.

Hmmm…that is strange.

This had me perplexed. I felt very much like Peter Parker after he had been bitten by the spider and realized that he didn’t need his glasses anymore; aside from the fact that he also grew some mad biceps and was suddenly able to spin a web and climb up the face of buildings. My biceps weren’t growing any larger and I didn’t feel any super-powers coursing through my veins, so I concluded that there must be a more logical explanation for my current conundrum. Something much less exciting, more boring and ordinary.

Choosing an object with which to test my eyesight, I gazed upon it and slowly raised and lowered my glasses. It seemed to me that I could indeed see better without them. I picked an object further away and tried again. My eyes failed this experiment although I noted that I could not see as well as I ought with the glasses on either.

I rubbed my eyes. Not long before, I had inhaled some fluid down the wrong tube and it caused my eyes to water from the force of my coughing. It was possible that my damp lashes were smearing my lenses. I wiped my eyes. No change. Should I call my mother? Should I ask God if He had decided to fix my eyes even though I didn’t look upon this particular weakness with dismay, as it wasn’t all that troublesome. (Granted one does get tired of baby fingerprints being imprinted upon everything one looks at.) What is a person do in these situations?

Well, I decided the least dramatic thing to do would be to wash the lenses, just in case they held some invisible grime, and try again. I walked to the sink, squirted some soap onto my thumb and index finger, and brought them together over my right lens. Or where my right lens should be.

My mind rewound to the scene a few moments earlier when, reaching for something behind them on the counter, my son had knocked my eyeglasses to the floor. I hadn’t thought anything of it; just picked them up and put them back where they were.

That explained a lot. Peering through only one lens has the tendency to make a person’s eyesight go wacky and make them think that maybe they’re the next Spider-Man. I felt like a dope. Truly. It was with much relief that I located the missing lens and replaced it into its assigned socket. Sigh. And I thought that by nightfall I might be leaping from rooftops and suspending the children from opposite sides of the room by thick homespun Spidey silk.