Cabin Fever

It's cold outside.  Our average temperature has been anywhere from ten above to ten below for quite some time now (with the exception of a couple glorious days when my mom and Mark were visiting and temps were in the 40's- I've come to believe they bring warmer temperatures with them when they venture north), and while this isn't enough to keep some people inside, it is for me.

For our children, this means they'll be minding their own business, playing somewhat quietly, when suddenly they'll surge to their feet and begin sprinting through the rooms of our first floor, doing lap after lap of the circular floor plan.  Their energy is literally uncontainable.

This cabin fever manifests itself a little differently in me.  Rather than running mindlessly through the house, I mindlessly throw things out of it.  The more time I spend within these walls, the more cluttered our home seems, no matter how much I clean and organize.

The obvious answer is to purge, purge, purge just about anything that's not nailed down, no matter how much or how violently my family cries things like "But that's my favorite toy!" or "But how will I brush my teeth?" and "Won't we need that in the summer?"  I don't care.  I just want it out of my house.

Some of it's good.  Like the old clothing I had saved (alright, hoarded) that no longer fit but was made of pretty fabric.  Past, optimistic (and somewhat idiotic) Me had thought that surely I would find a use for it someday.  Pillow covers or quiet books or whatever.  Present-day Me is realistic and merciless; I now have major piles of my stuff destined for all kinds of different homes (how my past self would have cried!  How my current self doesn't care one teensy tiny bit!).

Then I have other piles of stuff.  These are the things that our children have objected to with protests that generally follow along the lines "But I'm going to start playing with it!  And besides, that's my third-favorite monkey/elephant/completely useless plastic toy!"  Unfortunately for them, Winter Mom is completely devoid of compassion.  (I know this because Adelaide informed me so just the other day: "Mom, you have absolutely NO COMPASSION in the winter!"  This was not due to my purging, but instead because I won't let our kids eat graham crackers in the winter.  I don't know if you were aware of this, but graham crackers are the crumbliest, crumb-iest, most maddening food in the world if you like walking through your house without every step being accompanied by a nasty crunch, crunch, crunch, so I only allow graham crackers when it's warm enough for them to eat outside.  The winter ban on graham crackers apparently means I'm heartless.  Please pray for our children; their lives are just so hard.)  If the toy doesn't have some sort of sentimental value (according to me- Adelaide will attach sentimental value to the sticks she finds in the yard), isn't well-made, isn't a favorite and frequently played with, or doesn't have some sort of capacity for teaching our children, then it's gone.


Listen to how hard-line, how intensely reasonable I sound!  I think I'll wait 'til tomorrow to tell you about the utterly foolish toys Derek and I suggested our parents get for our kids (Hint: one feels curiously like thumb tacks when you step on them, and the other encourages violence between siblings).

And His Birthday Is Only A Month Away!

You guys.

"My Loving Jesus Doll," courtesy of catholicchild.com

I know I was going to post the list of suggestions we've received in the past on how to combat Atticus's night terrors, but I cannot bring myself to think past the sheer awesomeness you see above.  

First of all, your suggestions via yesterday's comments were terrific.  "Put him outside in a tent."  (Oh, we've thought about it.)  "Sing 'Jesus Loves Me.'"  Pretty sure I haven't tried that one, but I'm going to give it a go.  Hopefully it won't be an angry, metal version that will ruin the song for him forever.  "Get him a stuffed Jesus."

GET HIM A STUFFED JESUS.

I'm not talking about taxidermy.  (Oh my gosh.  I could follow that train of thought all kinds of places, but I won't.  I will exercise restraint.  You're welcome.)

Immediately after reading this comment, I OF COURSE googled "stuffed Jesus doll."  The above image is the first one that came up.  It was Agape at first sight.  

Never mind that I'm pretty sure he's contoured his face (lay off the bronzer, Jesus!).  Never mind that his proportions are just a tad off (What is with those giant hands?  All the better to save you with, my dear.)

He's almost a foot and a half tall.  (The doll, not real Jesus.  Keep up, people.)  He's machine washable- although there's no way I could live with the guilt of not even taking the time to hand-wash Jesus.  Couldn't do it.  

If you have so much as two extra minutes in your day, do yourself a favor and do the google image search.  It's priceless (actually, most of them seem to be $19.95).  I'm particularly intrigued by the talking Jesus doll.  How on earth would choose who you want to be the voice of Jesus?  James Earl Jones?  Are you going to get super authentic and make him speak in Aramaic?  (Not that Jesus couldn't speak in English if he wanted to.  I wonder what accent he would choose to take on?)

My sister is a genius.  (Thanks, Steph!)

It's Alive!

I don't understand my son.  Actually, I don't understand my entire family.

Atticus is scared of a lot of things.  Marching bands (but only the imaginary ones that lurk in his closet at night), complete darkness, the barracuda at the beginning of Finding Nemo.  


I'm okay with all that.  He's three years old.  It's natural to be scared of those things at three (well, most of those things).

My problem is I think he's scared of the wrong things.

Now, don't worry, I'm not going to get all serious and philosophical on you today.  We won't be discussing men offering candy in vans with no windows or lakes of fire.

Here's what I think should frighten him:

See that?  That is a headless doll.  Actually, this doll still has her head (a miracle given that she's been within Atticus's reach for several months now), you just can't see it.  This doll has been suspended, seemingly headless, above his bed for the past week.  The first time I saw it, I shuddered, but noticed that it didn't seem to bother Atticus.  In fact, it didn't seem to bother anyone but me.

What is wrong with them?

That is a doll- a tiny anthropomorphized creature- hanging above the place you sleep, where you're most vulnerable.  She's been hanging from her neck for a week, so you know she's gotta be pissed.  Why isn't anyone else lying awake at night, waiting to hear her tiny plastic Mary Janes treading across the carpet, seeking out her revenge?

Before you state the obvious, yes, I've thought about pulling her down from there, but honestly, I'm too scared. I've gone and freaked myself out to the point where I'm half-convinced that she's going to have a different face than Molly, the plucky World War II-era American Girl doll that she's supposed to be.  Or maybe she will have the proper head, but when I finally rescue her, it will only be to see that face contorted in rage.

Thank goodness they have me around to keep things sane around here.

Random Thoughts

The Crislers have spent the past week and a half celebrating Christmas by spending approximately 26 combined hours traveling in the car.  I had fully intended on sitting down in front of our computer and tapping out a post today to try and make up for the blog silence over the past two weeks, but I'm not gonna lie:  I got nothin'.

There's just too much stuff going on in my head right now; I can't seem to separate individual thoughts long enough to try and express any single one in the short story fashion appropriate for this blog.  So instead, I'm going to use this post as a kind of exercise in the hopes that when I'm done, my mind will be a little clearer, and I'll be able to go about my day and be a little more productive.


1.  Today is Derek's birthday.  I really need to hurry up and get his cake frosted/ get the pork loin in the crockpot for the pulled pork sandwiches/ have the kids make something crafty as a cute gift.

2.  Mmmm, pulled pork.    MMMMM, Head Country Barbeque Sauce.

3.  Atticus makes the best camera faces.

"Thank you Jeeeeesus for sugar cookies!"

4.  I got to see so many beloved friends and family over the past couple weeks, including my sister Kelli, who is pregnant and due with her and her husband's first baby at the end of February.  I am super duper excited about this baby, not least of all because I think she's going to be ridiculously cute, and also because I finally get to be the one loving on and squeezing a sweet little baby, then giving it back and going home to get some sleep.

5.  My baby sister Steph is also pregnant and due with her first baby in May.  I'm also excited about this baby, but my feelings are a little different about Steph having a baby.  This is probably due to the fact that Steph is my baby sister.  I remember changing her diapers.  I remember using a warm wet washcloth to clean the gunk off of her over-active-tear-duct-eyes so that she could open them in the morning.  I still call her things like Shteffer Beffer.  She can't have a baby; she's still a baby herself.  Except that she's married and out on her own and actually a legal adult.  A baby adult.

6.  The kiddos got Lincoln Logs for Christmas.

Derek's been having a great time building old-timey forts.  

7.  I wonder what manna tastes like?  

Head Country Barbeque Sauce?  Perhaps.

8.  I had my first vision-darkling, roaring-in-my-ears brush with claustrophia while stuck in an elevator with a friend in downtown Wichita.  I think I'll be taking the stairs from now on.

9.  I love Table Rock Lake.

10.  Mitt Romney and I are on a first-name basis.  He calls me Kristy.  I call him Mitt.  

No, really.  There were several messages on the answering machine when we got home, and in them he referred to me as, "Kristy."  As a result, when I answered the phone last night, instead of my standard, "Hello?" I said, "Hi, Mitt!"  It wasn't actually Mitt calling that time, but his Des Moines campaign manager.  I'm sure all this attention has nothing to do with the fact that I live in Iowa and there's a little thing called the Iowa caucus coming up.  I will say, however, that one of the messages actually sounded like Mitt talking, not just a recording.  He sounded tired.  It kind of made me like him more.

11.  Caedmon's new favorites are the Itsy Bitsy Spider and the Beaver Song. 

He's learning all kinds of new words.  He is so amazingly sweet.  He also eats a ton.  Non-stop eating is what our Spud is all about.

12.  I really enjoy having Adelaide home all day.  Maybe I just won't send her back to school next week.

That's better.  Time to go forth and be productive.

Toy Story

It snowed last night.  After Atticus finished romping in the scant two inches we received, he came inside, and I decided it was time to sort through our toy boxes.

In each of the two bedrooms belonging to our children, there is a toy box.  They are both filled to the brim with toys.  Every so often, I like to dig through them, throwing away Barbie legs and Q-tips, trying to find all the pieces to stuff back into Mrs. Potato Head, and generally sorting and organizing.

Usually, after about a half hour of this, I realize we have eight rubber duckies, two bajillion Barbie shoes, and my kids don't even play with half the crap in there.  I get frustrated and start making illogical proclamations at the top of my lungs like, "I will NEVER allow another new toy in this house!" and "THAT'S IT!  Say good-bye to your toys, children, they're all going to Goodwill tomorrow!"

Then my kids start crying and I feel bad for ten whole seconds, but remember that honestly, I make them cry almost every day by making them do outrageous things like bathe and wash their hands and help unload the dishwasher.

So what do we do?  I can count on one hand the number of toys we ourselves have bought for our children.  They don't even seem to be aware there's a toy aisle at Wal-mart.  Do we ask those pesky, loving relatives of ours to stop being so generous toward our offspring?  Haul away all their toys and make them hate us forever?

Well, in the past year, I have instituted a new system.  It's appears to be a popular one, especially amongst my fellow parents who don't have unlimited space in their house for toys or have entire wings of their homes devoted to playrooms.  About every six months or so, I pack up half the kids' toys, put them in a giant plastic container, and shove it in the closet.  When six months have gone by, I haul out the bin, switch the toys in the toy boxes for those in the container, and put it away again.

Our kids love toy-switching day.  It's like Christmas for them; there's lots of gasping and pleased exclamations over toys they had completely forgotten we own.  This seems to make up for me taking away the other half; they're so excited to get the hidden half out that they don't mind when I snatch beloved playthings out of their hot little hands.

This seems to be a solution that works for our family, and I've been enormously pleased with it.

But I still refuse to lift the stuffed animal ban.