This May Become Our Go-To Substitute for "Trick or Treat"

Celebrating holidays with small children is always interesting.

Adelaide is old enough to remember past Halloweens, but Atticus clearly had no idea what I was talking about when, a few weeks ago, I asked what he wanted to dress up as.  As a result, he decided he wanted to be Spiderman mid-afternoon on Halloween, after seeing other boys dressed up in Adelaide's elementary school Halloween parade. Needless to say, by then it was too late.  He ended up being a clown, simply because that's what Adelaide wanted to be.

Caedmon also had no idea what was going on when I began stuffing him into last year's almost-too-small chick costume.  Still, he swung his little pumpkin bucket happily enough as he followed his two older siblings to the first house we visited, then stood silently as our neighbor put candy in his pumpkin.  After some prompting, he managed a whispered, "Day-dew."  (Thank you.)

By the time we had walked from the first house to the second, however, he had obviously had time to process exactly what this night was all about.  People were giving him candy.  And he was going to get to eat it.  Whoa.

As a result, when the next person opened their front door holding a big bowl of candy, Caedmon started crowding the doorway, and rather than the polite "Trick or Treat," Atticus and Adelaide were chorusing, his demand was,
"PUT CANDY IN MAH BUCKET!"

Fortunately, this neighbor of ours decided to find an avaricious chick about to trample him cute rather than rude, chuckled good-naturedly, then gave him a Snickers.

We had a talk with him once he returned to the wagon, and from that point on he managed to keep his greed in check and kept his salutations to "Trick or Treat!" and "Day-dew!"

You'll notice that Atticus and Adelaide don't really have costumes; their entire look centers on my shoddy face-painting skills.  Except it's not even face paint, it's Halloween make-up I bought three years ago and is finally starting to get a little crumbly.  There's probably oodles of bacteria growing on it while it sits in a dark cabinet the rest of the year, and this may have been the last year I could pass it off as a reasonable costume effort.  Especially now that Atticus has seen what other kids with loving moms do for them on Halloween.

Not that I don't love my kids.  I do.

Just not enough to actually buy them Halloween costumes, evidently.

Good Intentions

You know what's funny?

About three weeks ago I said to myself, "I'm going to try and start blogging every day."

Then I got super busy, and I've been lucky to post once a week.  Whoops.  Blogging tends to come in dead last on my priority list when I've got a lot to do.

So I'm going to try this again, but this time I'm telling all six of you that blogging once a day is my new goal.

Not forever.  Unless I really really love it, I just don't have enough material to blog about every day for the next who-knows-how-long.  Well, unless you want to hear about the strange conversations I have with our children (trust me, you don't), or about the quick-draw contests Derek and I have in the evenings when we've both had too much Halloween candy.

Oh, calm down.  We don't use actual guns, people.  He draws the multi-tool he keeps on his belt and I draw the inhaler that's always in my pocket.  Duh.

Anyway, starting... today, I guess (this whole thing is suddenly terrifying), I'm going to try blogging every day for... let's say two weeks.  That seems like a reasonable goal (or internet suicide, depending how you look at it).


In other news, today is November 1st!  You know what that means?

I get to start playing Christmas music non-stop until, oh, around mid-January.

I know, I know, poor Derek, blah blah blah.


To kick off the season, I started with the musician whose Christmas album is, I'm convinced, the best ever produced, and whose voice never fails to make me think of winter.

That's right:  we spent the morning listening to Neil Diamond.


TOTALLY KIDDING.  It was Nat King Cole.

Please don't ever try to argue with me on the whole Nat-King-Cole-has-the-greatest-Christmas-album-of-all-time.  Unless you want to see a gross overreaction on my part and the possible destruction of our relationship.  Then, sure, go ahead.



See?  The next two weeks are going to be fun!

Today Is Just Not a Funny Day

I don't have any sweet or witty or gross stories to share with you today.  

Sorry, guys.  My kids can't be funny every day.

Well, Caedmon was pretty funny yesterday.  We had some Rice Crispy cereal (except it was the Aldi brand, creatively named "Crisp Rice cereal"), and he wanted to try some for the first time.  So I put a bowlful in front of him and poured some milk on top.  It started to make its trademark "Snap Crackle Pop" sound, and Caedmon refused to eat it, because "It's burning!"  

Later, Derek came home from work with a handful of temporary tattoos from the Ames Fire Department.  When Caedmon saw his older siblings each getting one, he decided he needed one, too.  Derek put it on, and Caedmon spent the next thirty seconds trying to get away from his own arm.  The tattoo scared him. 

Atticus and Adelaide then declared that Derek and I also needed firefighter tattoos.  So now each member of our family is sporting matching tattoos.  It makes me feel like we're part of a rad family band that wins musical contests and uses words like 'rad.'  We're practically the Von Trapps over here.  Or the Partridge Family.  *shudder*

Other than those little stories, though, I've got nothing.  So, here are some photos I took last week while Derek was trying to rake the backyard.

I've decided to narrate them for you.

Adelaide in the leaf pile.  Caedmon being cute.  Atticus in the background, not so much raking with the small rake as playing golf with it.

Adelaide recovering from Caedmon dumping leaves on her head.  If Atticus had done it, she would be screaming at him.  Because it was Caedmon, she's laughing.

Derek burying Daughter.

Derek burying Eldest Son.

Atticus about to explode out of the leaf pile.

 A rare All Three Crisler Children In One Shot photo.

Maybe not that rare.

The end.

The Hand Jive

Lately, the boys and I have been listening to a satellite radio station called "Malt Shop Oldies" when we're home throughout the day.  It plays music from the 50's, Atticus particularly seems to enjoy it, and I don't have to worry about the lyrical content. (A lot of the songs they play are about food- seafood and spaghetti and meatballs and such.  Why can't they make songs like that now?  I like food.  I like music.  Seems like a winning combination to me.)

One of the songs regularly played is "Willie and the Hand Jive."  It's a fun little song, and the boys like trying to do the hand motions in time with the music.  Good times all around.


This morning, we went to a bigger, fancier grocery store than the one we usually frequent.  I've had a hankering for soup in bread bowls recently, so we were on a quest to find big enough bread...roll... ball... thingies that I could hollow out for supper tonight.  Atticus and Caedmon were just excited that they got to ride in a special cart shaped like a car.

So there we are, right around the bakery section in Hy-Vee, I'm looking for bread, and Atticus is quietly singing, "Hand Jive" while doing a vague approximation to the movements.

For some reason, there were what seemed like a lot of bakery employees,  five or six of them, all working efficiently.  A couple of them noticed my lost look as I muttered, "I don't think we're in Aldi anymore, Toto."

They had both started toward me, when Atticus decided it was time for a dramatic crescendo and belted out, "HAND JOB!  HAND JOB!  DOIN' THAT HAND JOB!"

Oh, and he was still doing wild, spastic hand motions that looked very little like the actual hand jive.

The young man rounding the edge of the counter stopped in his tracks, and behind the counter, one young lady's hands flew to her mouth, while the other four of them lapsed into silence and stared at us.

"Hand JIVE," I clarified.  "He's singing, 'Hand Jive.'"

I waited for the floor to graciously open up and swallow me whole or my face to burst into flames, but instead at that moment I spotted what I was looking for, blindly threw some bread into the cart, gave the giggling employees a sheepish grin, and wheeled our cart around to the check-out as fast as I could.


I like to think of it as our family doing it's part to spread a little joy in our section of the country, rather than my children doing their level best to mortify me in public.  Either way, I'm going to declare this a "win."

This Post May or May Not Contain a Slight Exaggeration

Our family thrives on routine.

Well, I thrive on routine.  Our kids don't really have much choice in the matter.  Maybe having more spontaneity in their lives would be better for one or more of them, but unfortunately, they're stuck with me for a mother, and I just don't handle last minute changes well.  Or change at all, really, unless I've been given plenty of time to mull it over and prepare myself.  

Basically I'm the most exciting person alive.

One part of our family's daily routine is the post-supper play hour.  This is the one time each workday that we get to spend together, all five of us.  Our kiddos are still a bit young to be in any extra-curricular activities, and I'm actually trying to hold them off for as long as possible at this point, just to help preserve this family time we have together each evening.

And because I'm a socially awkward hermit.  But I usually just cite the first reason.

If it's at all warm outside, we play out in the backyard.  The evening usually looks something like this:

Atticus plays soccer or golf or frisbee at a skill level that is coming close to out-stripping my own.  He's usually just what this photo depicts:  a blur.

Derek plays with him.  Sometimes I join in, but usually stop when I get tired of being laughed at or when I feel I've hit my daily quota of closing my eyes and squealing when a ball comes toward me.  I've noticed a number of people walking their dogs on the other side of the fence, and I sometimes wonder if it's a feminist out there, cringing every time she hears me.

Sometimes we can even coerce Adelaide into playing with us.  But not on this day, obviously.

Caedmon is usually up for about anything.  I think that evening he was trying to hide from the camera behind my scarf, and it quickly became a fun game for him and a strangle-session for me.  Seems like a pretty accurate metaphor for motherhood in general, actually.

We've had a few evenings this fall that have been too cool to play outdoors, so we stayed in and played a family favorite:  Hide and Seek.

You should know something about me: I'm awesome at Hide and Seek.  

I once won a game of Hide and Seek at a neighbor's house by making everyone think I was a tree.  Not hiding in or near a tree.  I was the tree.  Seriously.

Another time Derek walked right past me because I had managed to successfully camouflage myself to the point that I blended in with the quilt on our bed.  And I don't mean I bunched up the blankets at the foot of the bed and hit under those (a H&S rookie move if ever there was one), I mean I laid spread eagle, flat on top of the bed.  That's how good I am.  

Does it seem like I'm a little too proud of my H&S prowess?  

Well, if I am, it comes only from sucking at every single other competitive activity in existence.  So I'll ask you not to begrudge me this one thing, please.

Oh, and I should note that if you're one of those freaks that believes H&S also involves running and getting to a "base" before the person who's "it," you're sorely mistaken.  That's some kind of tag-infested, bastardized version of Hide and Seek.  And I'm not just saying that because I always lose that kind.  (Except I probably am.)

So, yeah.  I'm really good at Hide and Seek.

Or I was.  

Because those recent nights where our family stayed in and played H&S?  I did not do well.  

The problem is all mental.  (So many, many of my problems are.)  You see, successful hiding depends on 

1)  Absolute stillness.

2)  Absolute silence.

3)  Being brazen in your hiding spots.  Don't go for the obvious, like stuffing yourself in the clothes dryer or cowering under the table.  Be a tree.  Be a quilt.  Be brazen.

Number three, I can still do.  But numbers one and two?  I seem to have lost those abilities over the summer.  I had decent hiding places a couple times the other night, but completely sabotaged myself by giggling madly when I heard Derek approaching, or letting my body become suddenly overcome by random spasms in my limbs.  

And breathing?  Forget about it.  I have suddenly become the heaviest breather ever.  I'm trying to be completely still, but my chest rising and falling by at least a foot (okay, maybe not quite a foot) and my bordering-on-obscene mouth-breathing gives me away.

I had one thing.  One thing I was good at.  And God has snatched it away from me.

I'm hereby changing my name to Job.

The Anti-Highlight Reel

Did I ever tell you about the time I walked into a room full of my fellow middle schoolers, sat down, and had to listen to my mom give the whole room a lecture (complete with fun visual aids) on sex education?

Oh, I did?

Well, to continue in the time-honored tradition of humiliating your offspring, I'm going to post a few photos on here.

My original intention wasn't to post bad photos of our children, but I found more bad ones than good when reviewing our recent photos.  Therefore bad is what you shall see.

You'll take it and you'll like it.

(Sorry.  I've still got those mom/seventh grade/sex ed memories careening around my brain.  It always makes me a little cross.)

"Stop!"

Guess who still hates having his picture taken?

That's right.  I tried to take his picture on his birthday.  Just call me "Mommy Dearest."

Who wants to play a rousing game of "Guess Which Kid Grows Up To Be A Serial Killer?"  (You should really click on this one to embiggen it, just for the full effect of that dead, glacial stare.)

And here we have Caedmon again, who's hatred of the camera wars with his love for frosting.

And this one's for you, Adelaide.  You can thank me in, oh, say ten years or so.

A Belated Birthday Post for Atticus

Tuesday was Atticus's birthday.

I had planned on writing some kind of sweet post, lauding all his positive attributes and talking about how much he's learned and grown over the past year.

Then I got sick.

Not super-sick; just a nasty cold whose low point happened to fall on Tuesday.  So rather than doing all kinds of fun birthday activities throughout the day with the boys (things I don't allow on a regular basis, like painting and digging in the dirt), I spent his birthday trying to come up with yet another game that we could all play together that would a) burn through as much time as possible and b) allow me to lie down the entire time.

As a result, instead of me doing fun, birthday things for our newest four-year-old, he spent the day doing things for me: rubbing my back when I suspect I looked particularly miserable, lowering his face to the floor until it was about two inches from mine and asking, "Can I get you anyfing else, Mom?  Do you need more Kleenexes?", snuggling right up next to me in a mound of blankets under which he had buried my feverish body (Atticus is by far our most physically affectionate child).

That day was actually a pretty good representation of how Atticus has changed over the last year.  One year ago, there was no way I could have gotten away with spending most of the day horizontal, no matter how vocal I was in an attempt to fool the boys into the thinking I was engaged in their play.  I spent a good portion of my days correcting Atticus's behavior and trying not to lose my ever-lovin' mind in the face of his frequent meltdowns.

Anymore, the meltdowns are increasingly rare.  He still has one every couple days, but if I remain calm and catch him early enough, I can usually coach him to the point where he regains his composure.  (Usually.  Not always.)  He's gotten much better about "using his words" (in quotation marks because I probably say that three million times a day) to express what is upsetting him.  In short, he is maturing.

I'm also trying harder to understand what it's like to be the middle child.  It seems tough.  You're not the high-achieving, already-reached-all-the-fun-milestones oldest child, but you're also not the cute, look-at-how-I-can-turn-the-most-mundane-activity-into-something-adorable baby of the family.  You're stuck in the middle.  And that kind of sucks.  (Props to Derek for pointing out the middle-child-sucks thing to me.)

To help compensate for his less than ideal placement in the birth order, I've been trying to spend a little extra time and attention on Atticus each day.  Not a lot- there really just isn't time- simply an extra few minutes here and there throughout the day.  It's incredible how quickly he responds to it; just taking the time stop washingthedishesfoldingthelaundryvacuumingthefloorsetc to get down on my knees, look him in the eyes, say, "Hey, Bud!" and give him a hug can change his attitude for an entire morning.



Did we spend his birthday the way I had envisioned?  No.  And make no mistake; I felt a good deal of Mommy-guilt over my failure to make his day special: no creative, messy painting, no made-from-scratch chocolate birthday cake; instead, lots of pretend-mommy's-a-sick-monster-and-you-have-to-make-her-feel-better and a quick trip to Dollar General for crappy chocolate cake mix with canned frosting.

You know what, though?  He didn't seem to care one bit.  It all bothered me way more than it did him.  Any lingering guilt I felt was assuaged when, after pulling up to McDonald's- his birthday supper pick- and catching sight of the school bus in its parking lot, disgorging swarms of middle school athletes, Derek and I looked at each other, groaned, and contemplated leaving to find somewhere else to eat.

And went inside anyway.