Stop The Madness!!!!!

We're all friends here, right?

Well, friends, it's time for some tough love.  Because I've kept my mouth shut for a long time, hoping this little problem would get better or solve itself, but it's just not happening.  Time for an intervention.


Let's start with a quick review:

What, boys and girls, do you call this little thingamajigger, in between the brackets? ------>     {   .   }

Very good!  That is a period.  A period is used to indicate the end of a declarative sentence.

Question #2:  What is this thing here, again between the brackets?--------->      {   !   }

That's right!  It's an exclamation point.  It is used to indicate not only the end of a sentence, but also to express intense emotion or loudness.  You're so smart.

Here's my beef:  I have noticed a certain tendency- among internet users in particular- to overuse exclamation points.  It ends up looking something like this:

"I went to the mall today!!!  It was so great!!  I got some blue suede shoes!!!  Now I look just like The King!!!!!"

When you use exclamation points over and over and over again, they start to lose their value.  But that's not my real problem.  What really bothers me is several exclamation points in a row.   {!!!!!!!}

I'm going to be real honest here:  Don't do this.  It makes you look dumb.

I'm saying this out of love, people.  My intention is not to alienate, but to educate.  So let's discuss a few alternatives to this increasingly common error:

• Broaden your vocabulary.  Don't just tell me that your red velvet birthday cake was so great!!!!  Tell me what you liked about it; it was rich, decadent, flavorful, sinful, moist, whatever.  Be descriptive.  Adjectives and adverbs are your friends.

• Try a comparison.   Don't just say, "I'm so happy!!!!!!"  Give me a basis for comparison.  "I'm as happy as a pageant contestant who's arch-rival discovered Nutella two weeks before the swimsuit competition."  This gives me a far better barometer to your emotions than five exclamation points.

• I don't have a third idea.  But to my mind, a list should have at least three items, and I was bound and determined to have a bulleted list today.

Even I honestly don't mind multiple exclamation  points every once in a great while, especially if you have some truly superior news to share:  "My wife is pregnant with quadruplets!!"  "I just nailed my interview and landed my dream job!!!"  "We're going to Dollywood!!"  

It's the repeat offenders that get me.  It's hard to take what you say seriously, or believe your news is really that exciting, if everything you write ends with this!!!!!!

In other news, Spring is almost here!!!!  

I Never Thought I'd Say "Nipples" This Many Times In One Post

Usually, I try not to label my children.

I don't mean covering them in nifty tags made on my nonexistent label-maker.  I mean thinking of them in terms of "the pretty one," "the creative one," "the dirty one," etc, etc.

Labeling seems like a dangerous practice when it comes to your offspring; if that one is "the smart one," then what does that make the rest of them?  The stupid ones?  In addition is the thought of a negative label becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy, because if I think of a child a certain way- disobedient, messy, slow- aren't I more likely to treat them as such?

So I do my best to think the best of our kiddos.  I try to focus on their potential and their positive attributes.

I've been having a little trouble lately, though.  Trouble with a certain label and our middle child.

I keep thinking of Atticus as "the weird one."

Yesterday, as I was getting Caedmon up from his nap, I heard Atticus moving around in his room.  Moments later, he called to me, "Hey Mommy, come look at dese."

My heart sank; about half the time he wants me to come inspect something, I'm not happy with whatever "dese" are.

I scooped Caedmon up and bravely entered the bedroom.  Atticus was standing there in  nothing but a pair of shorts.  He was looking down at this torso.

"What did you want to show me, Bud?"

"What are dese?" he asked, pointing.

"Those are you nipples, Bud."

(Pause)  "Hey, Mom, are you proud of me?"

"Proud of you for what?"

"Proud of me for having nipples!"

"Uhhh... sure, Bud."



Seeing the conversation written down, I'm starting to think maybe the problem doesn't lie with Atticus.  My end response was pretty weak, after all.  Surely I could have come up with something better and more kid-affirming than 'Uhhh...sure.'  Something more like, "Absolutely, Bud!  I'm super-proud of those amazing nipples of yours!" or "Definitely.  Best nipples I've seen all day!" or "Bud, with nipples like yours, who wouldn't be proud?"

Maybe I'm not supportive enough of my children and their nipples.

Or maybe kids in general are just weird.

Our Children Are Doomed

Sometimes I feel sorry for our kids.

Generally this sympathy is brought about by one incident or another that makes me say, "Wow.  You really are my kid," or likewise makes Derek say, "You really are your mother's daughter/son."

Last week's situation involved Atticus having an outburst in his bedroom at naptime.  Upon hearing his sudden shrieks, I loped up the stairs, ran into his room, and asked, "What's the matter, Bud?"  He cried/yelled, "There's something on my eyes!"  My thoughts immediately ran to logical explanations like blindness due to acid in his eyes (because you know we keep a vat of acid in the corner of our childrens' bedroom), so I rushed over, knelt down, and tried to gently pull his eyelids up.  He resisted and said, "No, HERE!"

He then ran his fingertips over his eyebrows.

A few weeks before that, it took me the better part of an afternoon to finally figure out what was bothering Adelaide.  All she would tell me was that she had done something bad and was afraid that I wouldn't love her anymore, and worse, that God wouldn't love her anymore.  I petted and soothed her enough to where she finally admitted, sobbing, that "I bowed down to Atticus!"

It took me a bit to figure out exactly what she meant and what had happened; something about how she was bowing down for some reason or other, Atticus happened to come stand in front of her, and after all the Old Testament stories we've been reading about people like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, she thought that literally bowing down in front of anyone but Jesus Himself would earn her a one-way ticket to Hell.  It took quite a while to calm her down after this one.

I can only imagine what Derek must think during these little kid-crises- perhaps that he should have been a little more choosy in his search for a wife and subsequent mother of his children?

I am well able to understand what our kiddos are thinking during these episodes.  They're probably similar to the kind of thoughts I have when I wake up in the middle of the night, it seems especially bright outside our bedroom window, and my first thought is, "Aliens.  I knew it."

Our son's little eyebrow scare mostly likely brought forth feelings like the ones I had the other night when, after calming Atticus down at around 2 am, I crawled back into bed, Derek rolled over in his sleep, and one of his hands came to rest near my leg.  His fingers were on part of my pajama pants, and somehow, every time he inhaled, his hand moved a fraction, and it plucked at the material of my pajamas.  I chuckled over this for a second, until horror overcame the humor, because I rapidly managed to convince myself that due to the fact that he was lying on his back, his hand couldn't have been facing that way and performed that strange plucking action; instead, he must have sprouted another hand off of his hip, and it was this new limb that was snagging my clothing, trying to get my attention.

It took me a full minute to gather the courage to throw the covers back and see if there was an extra hand near his abdomen.  I'll save you the suspense:  there wasn't.

So although our children may seem crazy now, don't worry.  Strong evidence suggests that while they may not outgrow this paranoia, they will become rather skilled at hiding it from the public at large.

Perspective

Yesterday, it rained on and off most of the day, and last night, we had strong winds in our area.  This resulted in the leak in the ceiling of our laundry room to drip-drip-drip throughout the day (that's right- the majority of our 112 year old house is sturdy and leak-free, but we've had all kinds of problems with the much newer addition otherwise known as our laundry room), and the crashing of the rocking chairs being blown around and knocked over on our front porch throughout the night.  I was able to hear this crashing because Derek and I were up all night with a screaming Atticus.

Just as I was getting ready to sing a really special rendition of "Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me," I got a call from my mom.  The roof had been blown off of the home of my youngest sister.  She was at home last night when the windows started shuddering in their frames, and as she ran into the living room toward her husband, the windows in the house blew out and the power went out.  They both hit the floor, and thankfully they were okay as the roof was subsequently peeled off the house.  It's also a good thing they didn't make it to the basement- the ceiling to the stairwell collapsed.  After all that, they couldn't get out of the house right away because of the live power lines down around the house.  They're not sure if all this was due to a tornado or the 80 mile-per-hour straight line winds.  Oh, and did I mention she's 29 weeks pregnant?

Shortly thereafter, my other sister and her husband headed over to help out- you know, the one that's due with their baby any day now and has been put on bed rest?  Yeah, them.

After hearing all this, my mom asked, "So how are you doing?"

I thought about our leaky ceiling, sleepless night, and all the other little bothers that build up in every day life.  Then I thought about our intact house, my intact sisters, and how thankful I am I'm not pregnant right now.

I gave her the only answer I could.

"We're fine."

Update:  It official: it was a tornado.  Twisted tree trunks don't lie.

You Sure Talk Funny

One of my favorite classes in college was a certain literature class taught by a certain eccentric professor.  One of the random things I remember him saying was that the most proper and correct American English is thought to be spoken in the central to northern region of Iowa; not so much in terms of grammar, but properly spoken words, the language unhampered by accent or regional dialect.

I remember taking him for his word at the time, but also believing that the English spoken around my home probably wasn't so different from this "proper and correct" version that is supposedly spoken in Iowa.  I had spent almost all my life in Southern Kansas, and couldn't hear a trace of an accent in most of my fellow residents.

Then I moved to Connecticut.  For the most part, I worked with people who were native to that state, with the exception of a girl from Arkansas.  Some of our co-workers determined that she sounded like a Southern belle and I sounded like a cowgirl- never mind that most of these people had probably never seen an actual cowgirl in their lives.  Besides, they were the ones with the accents- New England/ Yankee accents, with a few easily recognizable dialects like those from Boston or Maine.  I, of course, spoke proper English.

Since moving to Iowa, I haven't gotten nearly as many "Where are you from?  I can't place your accent," comments, cementing my belief that I am speaking properly and correctly.  After all, isn't this the place where perfect American English is spoken?

We traveled to southern Kansas a couple weeks ago, visiting family.  Not for the first time since moving away, I was able to detect a kind of rural twang in the speech of the people around me, whereas a few years ago, I was all but deaf to this accent.

So fine.  Maybe I was wrong in college.  But I'm not wrong now.

One of the people I saw was my dad.  I have been aware of his accented way of speaking since he had me practically in tears, going over my first grade spelling list, insisting that I was misspelling the word "hoe."

"Spell 'hoe.'"

"H-O-E."

"No, 'hoe.''

"H-O-E."

"Kristy, that's not right!  Now, try again."

"H-O-E!"

Finally, my mother came along and said in her mercifully un-accented voice, "Kristy, spell 'hole.'"

"Oh.  H-O-L-E.  But Dad was saying 'hoe'!"

Given a lifetime of hearing these kinds of things from him, it wasn't surprising in the least to hear words like "coon huntin'" come out of his mouth.  I've learned to let conversations about things like how high in cholesterol squirrel is just wash over me, nodding along like I agree:  Tell me about it.  I hardly ever get squirrel or ranch dressing on my salads anymore; I mean, what's the point of eating salad if it's going to be bad for you?


It further wasn't too shocking to hear land descriptions like, "Well, I believe that house used to be pert'near to that ol' crick..."  from my grandparents.  So, yes.  Certain members of my family have an accent.

I, however, talk like my mother.  She does not have an accent.


I truly believed this, right up until we were at my sister's baby shower, and I overheard my mom in conversation and she exclaimed, "Well, bless her little pea-pickin' heart!"

I have heard her say this many times, but it wasn't until that day that I realized this is not the kind of thing I ever heard in Connecticut.  Nor have I ever heard it in Iowa.

A memory then floated to the surface of my mind of several of my friends in Connecticut laughing at me for saying, "She was as happy as a pig in mud!"  Another of my mom's little expressions.

Apparently my mother is in possession of several of these little colloquialisms.  Which means I may just be, too.

It wouldn't be the first time I've been wrong.

Put The Book Down And Nobody Gets Hurt

We're in a little bit of a quandary.  A pickle, if you will.

"Read to your kids," they tell you.  "Provide plenty of books for your kids."  "Encourage your children to read themselves."

Read.  Read.  READ.

All of this is good.  I, too, love to read.  I want my children to be lovers of books.  Bibliophiles, if you will.


So here's my question:  How do you say, "Stop reading!"  but keep from discouraging them from... well, reading?

It's the whole too much of a good thing- thing.

See, Adelaide loves to read.  And we are delighted by this.  I love to watch her drinking in the words that I read in my youth, and I love that she is helping me discover new and talented children's authors.  It's fun.

Her reading has also started to become a problem, however.

It's hard for me teach in her class at church on Sundays, and watch her head straight for the corner to read a book alone while all the other kids socialize and play together.  Do I encourage her to try and interact with the other kids, or let her do what comes naturally and just read her heart out?  I know she's shy, and I don't want her to use books as a cloak or a crutch.  I don't want her to hide in the world of books and miss out what's happening around her.

She also often reads while riding the bus on the way home from school.  This, I'm okay with.  I don't blame her for wanting to tune out that frantic after-school atmosphere, and I know of at least three other kids that she reads her books to on a regular basis while they're heading home.

So she reads while sitting on the bus seat, sometimes to herself, sometimes to those sitting around her.  When she reaches her stop, she stands up, still reading, walks down the aisle, still reading, and walks down the steps, off the bus.  Still reading.

Do you remember those bus steps?  Have you taken a look at them recently?  They're tall.  Probably twice as steep as normal steps.  And for a 5-year-old?  That's a big drop-off.

It's terrifying, watching her stumble down those steps, nose buried in a book.  I'd thought about getting a photo of her doing it, but I'm too busy yelling, "Adelaide!  ADELAIDE!  PUT THE BOOK DOWN!"

My hollers are echoed by the bus driver behind her, imploring her to JUST PUT IT DOWN.  We sound like we're on the kiddie version of Law and Order: Huxley or something.

On many of the days when she's not endangering her life, she's crying because she's already fallen at some point.

I can handle saying, "No books at the table," and "Adelaide, for the love of all that is good in this world, put the book down and brush your teeth already!" over and over and over.

I never really considered that books could end up scarring our daughter-both literally and figuratively.

Hopefully, I'm just overreacting.  Now if you'll excuse me, it's almost time to go get Adelaide from the bus stop.  I like to get there early, waiting at the steps when the bus rolls to a stop and the doors open, in case I have to catch her as she falls down the steps.

Again.

Samson and Rapunzel

You know how much fun it is to be around a little kid on Christmas Eve?  They're all excited and anxious and a little bit crazy just waiting for the next day to arrive.  Just being near them is enough to get you hyped up (and possibly drive you a little bit insane).

That's kind of how I felt the previous weekend.  I was down visiting my sisters, both of whom are expecting their first babies.  I got to experience a vicarious thrill just being surrounded by so much eager anticipation.

At this point, my middle sister is probably edging the younger one out on eagerness, simply because she's due any day now, so she's got the whole can't-wait-to-meet-my-baby thing going on combined with a fair amount of I'm-so-done-being-pregnant.

I'm super excited to see this baby, too, for many reasons; the foremost of which is to find out just how hairy it is.

Let me explain.

My sister and her husband are both very hairy- not in a sideshow freak/ front page of the National Enquirer kind of way- more like a shampoo commercial/ no amount of product will ever make mere mortals' hair look like that.  As a result, I am fully expecting their baby girl to exit the womb with long, shiny, chestnut-colored hair.  She'll have to get her first haircut at one month, and her hairdresser will call it The Mane- the same title that has been bestowed upon my sister's hair.

Added to this is the fact that over the weekend, my brother-in-law mentioned their most recent ultrasound, and that the technician was amazed at the amount of hair they could see.  I said something like, "What, could you see her hair floating gently in the amniotic fluid?"  I was joking.

He said, "Yes, you could."  He was not joking.

I'm thinking about starting a pool amongst family members where you not only guess the weight and length of the baby, but where you also must give an estimate on the length of hair- in inches, not centimeters.

I'll go first:  8 lbs, 5 oz, 20 inches long, hair length... let's go with right around 4 inches.

Believe it or not, that's a conservative guess.