The Same, Yet Different

Derek and our third wonder, Caedmon, at four years, nine months of age- three days ago:

Derek and Caedmon at six months of age- four years ago:

A Wax Museum and a Driving Range

Adelaide pretended to be two things last week.

She was Tutankhamun for the third grade wax museum:

She was responsible for engineering all of that costume except the makeup, for which I am to be held accountable:  plenty of my eyeliner and bronzer, the last of which did make her skin look a little darker, but it was less "ancient Egyptian king" darker and more "too much fake tan on a white girl" darker.  It was somewhat orange and reminded me of those two girls who sat in front of me in an A&P class I took in college.  I only remember them because of their blinding orange hue, streakey blonde hair, and conversation that made me want to kill myself rather than have my IQ drop any lower just from accidentally overhearing the things they talked about.

Anyway.

Adelaide did a nice job, had the informational speech she'd written about King Tut fully memorized and ready to recite over and over and over to any who walked by and pushed her "button" (that red dot near her shoulder).  Step 1:  Have kid research historical figure in order to create a costume.  Step 2:  Write a 1-2 page report on chosen person in history.  Step 3:  Get the kids amped up about their families coming to see them dressed up in fun costumes, have them repeat that report so many times that they have that information memorized for the rest of their lives.  You certainly know what you're doing, Ballard third grade teachers.  

We also went to the driving range one warm evening, where Adelaide pretended to be a golfer.  The three kids and Derek swung metal poles at little balls.  I took pictures.

If you spend any time at our house, you quickly begin to notice that our boys have this somewhat strange practice where they watch Derek and then rearrange their limbs and voices and way they move to reflect whatever he's currently doing.  It's not one of those obnoxious games of mimicry, but more a form of intense hero worship that I by turns find adorable and disturbing.

It seems to help, however, when Derek is teaching them to golf.  They've already tuned their movements into his, so copying whatever he does comes naturally to them.

Adelaide was dispatched to get a bucket of balls shortly after we arrived.  See that bundle of fabric she has stashed in the crook of her right arm?

It turned out to contain an array of nail polish she'd smuggled onto the range.  "Moooom, can't I please paint my nails while the boys are all playing?  I'd like to get something useful done while we're here."

After being denied her "useful" occupation, she decided she might as well hit a few balls herself.

See her ball, flying in the air, a bit in front of her there?  She couldn't get that from painting her nails!

Never mind the temptation I felt upon seeing those pretty bottles of polish.  This was for her own good.  Or something.

Of Books and Beaches *Updated*

I find it ironic that it was our 10-year anniversary trip that really reinforced to me how different Derek and I are.  I guess that paragon of wisdom Paula Abdul was right:  Opposites really do attract.  (Aaaand now I'm cackling and refuse to feel guilty about it because she was dancing and being borderline inappropriate with an animated cat, for Pete's sake, and no, "It was the '80's" is not an acceptable excuse; Thriller came out a full five years before Opposites Attract.  And yes, I was raised on a steady diet of MTV as a young child.  Some of my earliest memories are learning the finer techniques of head banging from my Dad while watching Head Banger's Ball together.  WE WERE BONDING, OKAY?  Speaking of wisdom, who hears about a new musical/dance fad called HEAD BANGING and thinks "Man, I gotta try that!  Waaay too many properly functioning neurons up in here!")

Anyway.

At one point while in Charleston, Derek and I decided to visit a nearby beach. When we arrived, Derek carefully spread out his towel, wrapped his phone and glasses in his discarded t-shirt, and laid them ever so precisely next to his towel, then lowered himself onto his towel to wait 'til I got tired of the beach because he was only there because I wanted to go in the first place.  By the time he had finished his little Beach Arrival Ritual, I swear to you I did not see a single grain of sand on his towel or his person.

I promise you, I did all the same things he did.  I carefully wrapped my lip balm (I cannot be without lip balm, okay?  It's my standard deserted island answer) and my phone already in a sandwich bag (because I know myself) in my own t-shirt, and laid them veryvery carefully on the sand after only dropping all of it in that same sand twice.  I spread my towel out very exactly, laid down on it, and got my out my book.

Ten minutes later I got up from my towel to find a fine layer of sand over almost every inch of me.  My [library] book wouldn't close properly because of all the sand in between its pages and caked in its spine.  I spent the next two days scouring a layer of skin off my lips because there was so much sand in my lip balm.  Derek looked at me when we were wading in the surf and said, "Your face is covered in sand.  How do you have sand on your face?"  To which I could only say, "I DON'T KNOW."

Covered in sand

Entirely clean

I also found a crab burrowed in the sand, pulled Derek over to see it, then yelped and jumped back when it ATTACKED.  (And by "attacked" I mean suddenly sideways-skittered away.)  I did not know that crabs are like giant spiders with an exoskeleton and eye stalks.  Why are there not more crab-phobics out there?

Derek did not yelp or so much as flinch when the crab ATTACKED.  Actually what I think he said was, "What did you expect?"  I can only assume this is in reference to the fact that I kept getting closer and closer to the crab, leaning over it until I finally scared it away.  I am from KANSAS, husband.  What do I know about shellfish?


Our final day in South Carolina, we drove past a used bookstore while killing time before our flight.  I walked in and saw this:

Take this photo times about SEVEN because that's how big this bookstore was.  I immediately found a Garrison Keillor for one singular dollar, and was about to start frolicking and burrowing when Derek said, "I don't want to spend too much time here," to which I started doing this weird jogging in place thing in conjunction with a distressed, whimpering "HUH-H-H-H-H" sound until my somatic nervous system caught up with the autonomic and was like ohmygosh you are so embarrassing and I stopped.  I found a couple more books and may or may not have darted around corners anytime I saw Derek coming.  Then we left and went somewhere else I don't even remember because it wasn't this bookstore, but my husband took pity on me and suggested he drop me back off at the book palace while he gassed up the rental car.  

And that is how I left Charleston with six more books than I had upon arrival.

UPDATE:
This one's for you, Common Household Mom:

See the comments if you're experiencing (abnormal amounts of) confusion.

Father's Day Questionnaire 2013

Hey, remember last year when I actually did something cool and helped our older two children complete a sweet Father's Day Questionnaire?  Well, a minor miracle occurred and 1) I remembered to do it again this year, and 2) I didn't lose last year's binder containing the questionnaires.  Sweet.

Here are this year's questionnaires, as completed by all three of our children.  (A big thanks to our local library- our printer ran out of ink, but when I ran to the library to use theirs, they were all being used by other patrons, so they let me use their office computer, because they are amazingly awesome.  Also awesomely amazing.  And nice.)  You may notice that Adelaide's has a few extra questions.  As she gets older and more articulate, I find it's fun to ask more thought-provoking questions.  I'll probably nix the basic stats on hers altogether next year.

Oh yeah, and don't freak out: today is not actually Father's Day.  Because our children will be with their grandparents over Father's Day, we're celebrating today.  You didn't miss it!  Yet!

Note:  Adelaide's answers are in pink, Atticus's are in green, and Caedmon's are in blue.

All About My Daddy

By Adelaide Crisler, Age 7

My Daddy’s name is Derek.

He is 6 feet 5 inches tall.

He weighs 100 pounds.

His hair color is blonde.

His favorite tv show is NFL football.

He likes to go to The Bubble.

His favorite food is crackers with ham and cheese.

His favorite drink is iced tea.

For fun my Daddy likes to play golf and football.

I love it when Daddy goes on Daddy-Daughter dates with me.

My favorite thing about my Daddy is that he takes me on Daddy-Daughter dates.

One funny thing about my Daddy is he’s stubborn.

If I could give my Daddy anything in the world, it would be a real live Garfield.

---------------------------------------

All About My Daddy

By Atticus Crisler, Age 4

My Daddy’s name is Derek.

He is 40 miles tall.

He weighs 50 pounds.

His hair color is brown.

His favorite tv show is football.

He likes to go on dates with Mommy.

His favorite food is chocolate cake.

His favorite drink is pop.

For fun my Daddy eats numbers.

I love it when Daddy plays with the train set with me.

My favorite thing about my Daddy is playing every sport with him, including basketball.

-----------------------------------

All About My Daddy

By Caedmon Crisler, Age 2

My Daddy’s name is Crisler.

He is as tall as me.

He weighs 3 pounds.

His hair color is black.

His favorite tv show is golf and baseball and football and golf.

He likes to go to church and tractor riding with just me.

His favorite food is Daddy Wraps.

His favorite drink is water and milk.

For fun my Daddy likes to play soccer ball and golf.

I love it when Daddy putts with me.  And I have two putters.

My favorite thing about my Daddy is kisses and hugses!

To Future Caedmon

Hey there, Future Caedmon.


I'm writing this because I realize that there may come a day when you don't want to look exactly like your Dad; when you think all his attire is totally square (or dumb or lame or whatever word the cool kids are currently using to denote a negative connotation- I don't know what the current "it" word is now and I'm sure I won't know it in the future- and if I do, you should definitely be checking to make sure I'm not a body double sent down to earth by the aliens who now have me captive.  Try scanning my forearms for numerous burn scars from years of clumsy baking [BUT I'M NOT GOING TO SAY EXACTLY WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE IN CASE YOU'RE READING THIS, ALIEN BODY SNATCHERS] ).

If that day has arrived, I'd just like to remind you of simpler times- like any given Saturday morning here in present day Iowa when Daddy opens the door to your bedroom to get you out of your crib, and although you have a silly, faux scowl on your face that you use on me every day, when you see that it's Daddy in the doorway your face just can't help but break into a delighted grin.  And after he lifts you out of bed and eats breakfast with you and it's time to get dressed, you carefully watch as Daddy puts on each item of clothing and take your wardrobe cues from him:  jeans because Daddy's wearing jeans, the same color socks, shirt, and sweater as Daddy, and a hat you managed to find when you saw Daddy was wearing one.  You're kind of like this loyal, devoted dog following Derek around.  And I mean that in the best way possible.

You don't even like smiling for pictures these days, but when "Cheese" and "Cookie" didn't work, I had a stroke of inspiration:  "Caedmon, say, 'Daddy!'"

It worked.

Love, 

Your Second-Favorite Parent

Cheese E. Rodent

Somehow I managed to go thirty years without ever having set foot inside a Chuck E. Cheese.  It was a nice, mouse themed pizza restaurant- free streak that was broken last Friday night.

I have to admit, my expectations of what the inside of a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant looked like were less than stellar.  I pictured a dark, dirty place teeming with bratty children and snarling parents that served barely edible pizza and games designed to steal your money and give you E. Coli just by looking at them.

Did I say my expectations were less than stellar?  What I meant was dead low.

Still, when Derek's father was in town last Friday and offered to take the family out for an evening of pizza and games, I readily agreed.  I figured the kids would have fun, and I could handle a few hours of epilepsy-inducing strobe lights.

(By the by, has anyone seen that VeggieTales episode- I think it's Asparagus of la Mancha- where they poke fun at popular American eating establishments?  Two of my favorites are "Joppa Java- Why pay a little for coffee when you can pay a lot?" and, of course, "Cheese E. Rodent- Our prices are so low you'll think we're CRAZY!")

So we pull up to Chuck E. Cheese.  I've already described my expectations.  I'm steeling myself and my gut for hours of protecting my children and my taste buds.

And what to my wondering eyes did appear but a clean and brightly lit eating establishment with, yes, oodles of children, but they were well-controlled children, having perhaps been given an extra dose of Ritalin before leaving the house that night.  (Oh, I'M KIDDING.  Kind of.)

Sure, there was a terrifying animatronic display of human-sized mice and ducks and what I can only describe as a two-eyed, no-horned, non-flying purple people eater playing fake musical instruments.  Caedmon and I seemed to be the only people in the place that were scared, so I'll give them a pass on that one.

The food was decent, the people were nice, the games were fun, no one got E. Coli, and the kids had an absolute ball, begging to go back from the moment we got back in the van to return home.  At this point they've managed to extract half a promise from us to return sometime in the next year (which may not sound like much, but we're a homebody kind of family, and besides, there is no way we would go back with anything less than a 1:1 kid to adult ratio.  To do otherwise would be madness, believe me).



Whose idea was it to center a pizza-and-game restaurant around a mouse, anyway?  Was it designed as a Disney- copycat moneymaking venture, or what?  I've always been confused by this.

Supper With the Crislers

Note:  All of Derek's contributions to the conversation are displayed in Blue; he was frequently interjecting and trying to keep the peace at the table.




Last night at supper, Adelaide turned to me and asked, "If you had to pick someone to make omelets and cookies, who would you choose?  I mean, who do you think is the best at making those things?"

"Ummm... well, your daddy makes the best omelets, but I make the best cookies, so-"

"No, you have to choose one person to make all of it- like, I think my school makes the best cookies-"

"I BEG YOUR PARDON?  Did you just say you think your school makes the best cookies?"

"Oh, no.  Take it back, Adelaide, TAKE IT BACK."

Adelaide laughs, not appreciating the gravity of the situation.  "Well, I do think their cookies are really really good-"

"Are you saying you think the school's cookies are better than mine?  IS THAT WHAT YOU'RE SAYING HERE?"

"Adelaide, tell your mommy that her cookies are the best.  Tell her now!"

"Mom!  Have you ever even had my school's cookies?"

"Adelaide, you can't use reason in an argument with a female.  Now is the time to backpedal.  BACKPEDAL!"

"So what kind of cookies are they making that are just so great, hmmm?  And I swear, if you say Peanut Butter, Grasshopper, or possibly Oatmeal Raisin (I'm still not quite convinced I have the best Oatmeal Raisin cookie recipe), I WILL DISOWN YOU."

Adelaide is completely unfazed by this, possibly because she doesn't know what 'disown' means.  "I just mean they make really good sugar cookies, and those monster cookies that have M&M's in them, and their chocolate chip cookies are the best, too."

"Do you see what they're doing here, Adelaide?  I could easily make "the best" cookies if I stooped to putting candy in all of them!"

Again our daughter laughs, totally unconcerned.  I glare across the table at Derek, who vigorously nods and says,

"You make the best cookies in the world.  I love you."


I'm starting to think Derek's right to be concerned over what his life will be like in ten years.