Summer, Part I

Yeah, yeah, we're busy. And we've been dealing with some of life's curveballs, so blogging has taken a back seat. Actually, it's more like crammed in the trunk. But to keep things moving forward, and shed a balanced light on our home on the fringe, I offer up a medley of our summer so far. It's not complete by any means and it didn't all happen in one day, but sometimes it sure feels like it did. just click the picture.

Gettin' Jiggy

A couple of Sunday mornings ago, Kristen and I were sitting at the dining room table with the laptop and morning paper and we asked Bryce to go upstairs and get dressed. He soon appeared at the bottom of the stairs in his underwear and socks, Noir in hand, and announced he was going outside to dance. Quinn quickly realized the opportunity at hand, stripped out of his pajamas, and followed Bryce outside.

From the dining room we saw them walk by the front window and I grabbed my camera. The following will provide a small sliver of proof of what we deal with every. single. day.

Click the picture to begin the slideshow.

Who knew?

So, it turns out that buying a house involves a lot more than writing a check and moving. Yeah, can you believe it? It takes, like, work and thinking and time and stuff. And you know, sometimes there's only so much work and thinking I can take in one single week. By the time we get to the closing table, we'll be so confused, exhausted, and frazzled that we'd probably sign off on a $5,000 breathing fee without noticing, or caring. In fact, we'd probably find some way to justify it: "A breathing fee? Well, we DO like air, after all."

In addition to trading in unknown piles of money for pretty kitchen counter tops and a mud room the size of Texas, we've lost any spare time we may have thought we had at one time before two weeks ago. I have the best intentions of sitting down to write every evening, but after restoring the house to "show" condition, writhing in agony over financing decisions that just won't make themselves already, and researching time travel to determine how best to wake up after all the money has been spent and all the thinking has been done and all the heavy lifting is over, I'm barely capable of keeping my eyes open, let alone typing, let alone thinking a coherent and complete sentence.

Speaking of finishing a thought, those two paragraphs you just read have been sitting in draft form for THREE DAYS. I've added a paragraph here and there when I have ten unused minutes at work, but when I go back and re-read, I start dry-heaving in disgust and end up deleting whatever crap it was that I just added, saving the whole thing as draft, AGAIN, and going back to pretending there is no blog, there is no "sit down and write" goal, there is only work and keeping a house show-ready. As it turns out, those two things have quite effectively taken up my time, and by "taken up my time" I mean taken over my entire life. Kids? What kids? Are those the little beings whose encrusted dinner mess I'm frantically cleaning off the dining room table and floor every night? They must also be the ones whose sharp, tiny legos I step on right before I launch into my red-faced, foot-holding, profanity-screaming sessions. Yeah, I think I remember the good ol' days when I used to spend my time telling them to stop throwing things down the stairs as opposed to scrubbing baseboards and ceiling fans.

Maybe it's just the recent house buying excitement warping my perception of time, but I get the feeling I'm entering into a phase of life that will require one of two things: sleeplessness or no more writing. So far when given the choice of sleep vs. something else, something else has always been the loser. So, given the fact that it's taken me three days just to come up with a post that says, "buying a house takes time" and "I'm brain dead and uncreative," I'm thinking my goal of posting here at least once a week is becoming more and more unrealistic. Maybe I'm wrong, and I hope I am, because when I'm not writing here, I'm not writing at all, and I think for me that's a bad thing. I'd like to think work would start to calm down, or we'd find a comfortable groove for the next six weeks (before we move out of the show-ready house and into the house nobody else will set eyes on until we've got boxes unpacked, hopefully by next Christmas), but I'd also like to think I could go through life consuming potato flautas, nachos, and margaritas every night with no negative repercussions, so I'm not exactly getting my hopes up.

The Latest from the Fringe

Watch out, because some day he's going to be in authority.
Just as I'd finished getting ready for work and had sat down to check e-mail this morning, I heard some muffled knocking at the bedroom door. I knew it was Bryce, since Quinn just barges confidently in regardless of the time of day or level of fatigue. I opened the door, and Bryce stood there, holding his wadded blanket under his chin and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the lights in my room. Before I could even speak, he said, "Can I tell you a story about me and Connor?" I ushered him into the room and he kept talking. "At lunch, he really infuriates me? And when the teachers clap to tell us how long we have left at lunch, we're all supposed to clap with them like this, CLAP-CLAP-clapclapclap, but Connor just says BOP-BOP-bopbopbop instead of clapping." John walked in from the gym and I told him about Connor "infuriating" Bryce, and Bryce began to re-tell the story while John and I tried to giggle and shake our heads in disbelief as subtly as possible.

As much as I've talked about his intensity and his constant struggle for power, it doesn't seem like I would ever call Bryce a rule-follower, but he definitely is. It drives him absolutely insane if he knows there are clear expectations for a group of people, and certain individuals choose not to meet them. We are supposed to clap with the teachers, NOT SAY BOP! The other night on the way to his piano lesson, a motorcycle passed us right before Bryce started a 20-minute monologue from the back seat consisting of variations on THOSE PEOPLE AREN'T WEARING HELMETS! THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE WEARING HELMETS. IF THEY WERE TO FALL OFF THE MOTORCYCLE THEY WOULD BE HURT AND WOULD HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE CONCRETE IS HARD! I DON'T THINK THEY SHOULD BE RIDING THAT MOTORCYCLE WITHOUT HELMETS ON BECAUSE THEY AREN'T SAFE!

We are masochists.
Last Saturday, as John and I walked through a newly built house for sale, the realtor representing the builder asked, in that prodding, unavoidable way, "how long have you been looking for a new house?"

"Seven years," I said seriously. She looked at me with a little fear and uncertainty, like she wasn't sure how to continue a conversation with a psycho. She did anyway. "Well, what is your motivation for looking for a new house?"

I kept walking and looking around. "We need more space. We need a better layout. JOHN! OHMYGODHAVEYOUSEENTHISLAUNDRYROOMINHERE? AND THE MASTER CLOSET IS THE SIZE OF A FOOTBALL FIELD!" She ran out of the house at that point, but only after throwing her business card at me. I'm sure she thought doing business with us over the phone would be fairly safe.

Meanwhile, between keeping Quinn from swinging on the chandelier in the dining room and keeping Bryce from climbing on the fire place, John was busy measuring the study and drooling over the size of the pantry in the kitchen. There is so much closet space that Hide and Seek in this house could last for hours. Given that fact, if we lived there, I might actually find some time to read again.

We put in an offer and haggled for a few days before we settled on a price. Aren't those games fun?!

--Ten dollars!
--Fifteen dollars!
--Okay, Eleven Fifty plus you have to add a phone jack and bring a dollar to closing.
--Fifteen and we'll add the phone jack and bring the dollar.
--Sigh. Twelve, no dollar at closing, but we still want the phone jack.
--Thirteen dollars and the phone jack.
--If we say okay does the madness end here?

So, we're going to buy our "dream" house. Of course, there is one tiny detail we have to address first. It's just a minor thing, really; it probably won't affect our lives at all. We have. To sell. Our house. The one full of tiny sharp objects strewn everywhere by three-foot-tall dictators. Also the one with the room occupied by a sullen, pack rat teenager.

Oh god.

What horror have we brought upon ourselves?

Don't worry. I'm sure it will be documented thoroughly for your "better them than me" pleasure. Glad we can help.

Somebody pray to the real estate gods for us. Maybe sacrifice a couch or something, too. We need everything we can get over here. Seriously.

Lecturus Interruptus

Tonight during the typical ridiculous bedtime routine, John got stern with Quinn, which caused Quinn to cry and make loud accusations of child abuse like only a kid can who has never been abused. "He scared me!" he sobbed as he clutched my hand on his way back from the third trip to the bathroom where he'd hidden, giggling in rebellion behind the shower curtain and had caused John's patience levies to break unexpectedly. My own were rumbling and creaking beneath the pressure of my fatigue and frustration, and I squeaked out through my tightened vocal chords, "well, Quinn...dad was angry at the way you were acting, and because you ran away when you know it's bed time. So he yelled. Now it's time for bed." I picked him up and told him to take a deep breath, but the hysterics continued, so I started walking toward the bedroom and telling him it was time to calm down and stay in bed.

Bryce was having none of this "be the quiet kid in bed" nonsense, so as I walked into the room with gasping, sniffling Quinn, he hopped up, whimpering, then wailing, "I THINK I JUST FEEL LIKE I'M GOING TO START CRYING!" My patience levies cracked and the superdome doors began to open for the hordes of potential victims, and I turned around, still holding Quinn: "No! You are only crying to get attention because Quinn is upset. Get in bed and be quiet RIGHT NOW!" Then I realized Quinn was lapping this whole thing up, and luckily we were next to his bed, so I plopped him down, pulled his covers up and said, "Stay in bed this time. Do not get up again."

"But dad scared me and hurt my feelings!" More crying.

"Quinn, I'm sorry your feelings were hurt. Dad did get angry because you disobeyed and ran away and yelled and hid after it was bedtime."

Bryce sat up in bed, and I continued. "You know why it was so frustrating to him? Because EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, we go through the same thing! We do this whole elaborate bedtime routine - stories, maybe a puzzle or short game, bath, teeth brushing, pajamas, hugs and kisses, lights out - and then you both get up and run around the house and yell and act wild!"

Bryce said, "Well, I don't know how to go to sleep. I haven't slept in a million years. You'll have to teach me!"

I kept on. "Bedtime is not playtime! Bedtime is time to be quiet and go to sleep! When dad and I tuck you in and turn off the lights, we want to go get ready for tomorrow and get our own rest. But EVERY NIGHT we end up having to come up here and put you guys back in bed 20 times! We end up running up and down the stairs like...! Like...!"

I had cut myself off with my own boring yet impassioned lecture, but Bryce wasn't going to let my pompous adult mentality stop this intense discussion: "Like escalator people!? Fixing the escalator!? With tools? Running up and down the escalator going bang, bop, bam!?"

The lights were off and I thought I could get away with cracking a smile, but the smile was accompanied by an unwanted breath of audible whispery laughter and after that the only lesson the kids came away with was, mom is a wuss. I know because the next two minutes involved both kids mock hammering the footboards of their respective beds, demonstrating escalator people (since I apparently thought that bit was so earth-shatteringly funny) while I kicked myself for showing a sign of weakness at such a critical time. If Chris Farley were there to dramatize how I felt, there would be a loud forehead-slapping session followed by some guttural and angry exclamations of "STUPID!"

So I give up, people. I. Give. Up. How can I be an effective dictator when the court jester clearly has effortless control over me?

The Ice Storm

Friday
I head downstairs to meet some friends for lunch in the crappy on-site cafeteria, in which I've agreed to risk my health and sabotage my diet with the only "vegetarian" option available, taco salad with a most likely lard-filled pile of refried beans and chicken-stock cooked mexican rice, because the ice storm scheduled to hit the region has everyone running around like madpersons, stocking up on batteries and candles and non-perishable food items, and my friends don't want to leave the building unless it's to drive to their houses. Personally, I'm not fazed by the panic. It's either denial or realism, I haven't yet identified which. I only know that I feel uncanny amounts of indifference towards the frantic, almost gossip-like way I'm being approached by everyone I know, "Have you heard? It's already 27 degrees! They say the cars parked outside are already iced over! They're letting us leave early! You should go!! GO!" I eat my crappy lunch next to two people who are interrupted with phone calls or co-workers stopping by our table every five minutes - all storm-related interruptions. All I feel about this storm so far is annoyance, inconvenience, it is butting into my day. I know the drive home will be uneventful because every time this town panics, it's for nothing. Yes, there will be wrecks, but it will be because someone drove too fast on the ice, not because the driving conditions are too treacherous. I am irritated with all the panic around me, and when I hear that people are flocking to grocery stores as if the apocalypse is approaching, I roll my eyes and sigh. My friends leave their half-eaten food in a sudden decision that RIGHT NOW is when they should head home. As I walk back upstairs, I pass someone from my department, bundled up and carrying her laptop. "EVERYONE IS GONE! YOU NEED TO LEAVE!" I try to seem concerned, but I'm sure I fail, and then I decide I really don't care. "Really? Okay. See you Monday." I drive home after picking Bryce up early from school and he asks if we can stop for ice cream. "No," I say as if programmed, "the roads are too dangerous, we need to get home." He looks out the window at the normal amount of traffic traveling at normal speeds, as if he's trying to figure out why some rain makes the roads any more dangerous than any other rainy day. I'm wondering too, but I don't tell him that. Everybody is saying the ice storm is coming, so we all must act the part.

Saturday
Bryce has been coughing since I picked him from school on Friday; he's getting worse, it sounds like we have a circus seal living with us. The cars in the driveway are covered in ice and John heads out to thaw one of them so we can go to the gym. I call the gym to make sure they're open despite the end of the world, and they are, but their kids' area is closed. John goes alone and I stay home with the kids. TV has grown old so we spend two hours getting dressed, doing puzzles, playing games, and making lunch. John comes home and tells me to drive slowly on my way to the gym. I do, but there are hardly any cars out, and I don't slip anywhere during the entire five-mile drive there. It's the same on the way back, and I think while John is at his wedding this afternoon, I'll drive over to my mom's house to break up the kids' day since we've already spent the entire morning wearing out the novelty of all the new Christmas toys. I get home and the kids are napping. John tells me they played outside, and as Bryce wakes up an hour later barking and hacking, I think maybe that wasn't such a good idea. My mom calls to tell me their garage door is frozen shut, and also it's sleeting now, so I really shouldn't get out and drive. This storm is starting to piss me off, I think. The kids have been in the house for over 24 hours; at this point I'm not sure how to spend the rest of the day. She suggests making cookies, and I'm shocked to find that I have all the ingredients I need. The kids take turns playing games on my laptop and stirring the dough. I think, this is a great way to burn an hour, and then as I'm cleaning up and the kids are still on the laptop I think, okay, so it was a great way to burn TWO hours. Now it's dinner time and the kids haven't watched TV since breakfast, so I'm golden. Dinner and a movie, kids. Then bath and bed. By bedtime, Bryce's cough is worrying me. My mom tells me pneumonia is going around, I better not let that cough go too long. I kick myself for not calling the doctor this morning because now I'll have to wait until Monday. Quinn gets a second wind while Bryce is trying to drift off into a drug-induced, vapor-assisted rest, and he gets up several times to tell me what he wants for breakfast tomorrow morning and then starts making la-la-la-do-do-do-ding-dong-ba-ba-ba sounds in an effort to annoy Bryce; it works, and I threaten to make Quinn sleep by himself in the playroom. My meanness pays off and he goes to sleep after that. I flip through the channels and the only thing on is the news - storm coverage. The main points are that power is out for some small towns, it's really cold, and more sleet is coming tomorrow. The roads will get worse. Dammit, I think. We're going on three days in the house with the kids at this point. I'm running out of options, and cough medicine, and sanity.

Sunday
Tap tap tap tap tap. I jerk awake and wonder if a woodpecker has made its way into our house and has mistaken my head for a tree. Bryce is standing right next to me. When he sees my eyes open and hears me gasp in fear, he immediately whispers all of this: "Quinn got out of bed and he went into the bathroom, I didn't even hear him go, he just went in there? And then he knocked a washcloth off the banister onto the stairs, and he closed the gate and slammed my door, the playroom door I mean, and our bedroom door? And I just thought that you should handle that. Because he isn't being very nice, and I wanted you to handle it." Then the circus seal bark assaults my sleepy ears. I look at the clock: 6:15. I remember that more ice is coming this morning according to the doomsdayers on last night's news. I'm sure we won't be leaving the house; John saw someone lose control of their car as he came home from his wedding last night, so the conditions are legitimately dangerous now. Fourteen hours to go. I toast Quinn's waffle and turn on cartoons and tell him to let me go back to sleep, but both kids are in and out of our bedroom with full bladders or requests for chocolate milk or tattle tales, so at 7:00 I decide to give up. Thirteen hours to go. We have cookies, which are helping me cope, but not really part of my attempt at a healthier post-holiday eating plan. The circus seal barks again, and I wonder how hard it will be to get to the store for more cough medicine. Stupid storm.

Hodge Podge

I feel compelled to write something here just because this space exists as an open tablet, and because we originally started this site as a way to record things about our life. But lately it's hard to find a lot of time to write about our life, considering how much time we're spending on the acutal living part. And that's not to say that the living is all grand and amazing or even stressful and demanding - just time consuming, all of it. Even the parts where we're sitting around staring at each other in a little bit of irritation and a lot of fatigue are too time-consuming for me to stop and sit down at the computer to try to record it. We'd rather sling mud at one another and dredge up old arguments, because that's a lot healthier, and it sets a much better example for our kids, who we're obviously hoping will grow up and make some lucky therapists very, very rich. Vacations tend to take their toll on us, whether we stay in town or trek across the country in a moving prison cell with our own miniature wardens sitting behind us dictating our every move. All that togetherness combined with the Chaos Extravaganza that is Bryce and Quinn on Vacation...well, it's a challenge. Let's just leave it at that.

I took a week off of work and rather than spend that time lounging on the couch and watching Christmas movies all day, we thought running the family ragged would be a good idea. As always, by the time John's birthday rolled around on the day before New Year's Eve, I was shivering and groaning in pain with every step, my body hosting some biological version of a show called, HEY STUPID! I TOLD YOU TO SLOW DOWN. It was a traveling show; John hosted the next night, and there was a bonus performance at 2:00 a.m. on New Year's Day courtesy of Bryce. Hello, 2007. Are you done sucking the life out of us now? Thanks.

On the bright side, thanks to the new furniture, the kids are now sharing a bedroom. Why I consider this a bright side, I don't know, except for the fact that the months of anxiety leading up to the act of putting the two little plotting terrorists together are finally over, and now we're left to deal only with the actual reality of the situation rather than the horrors our own minds were concocting. To be honest, they aren't staying up any later or causing any more nightly chaos than they were before, which is why we decided to go ahead and take the plunge to combining their rooms in the first place. That doesn't mean things aren't chaotic and the kids aren't getting out of bed six dozen times after the fourth or fifth good night kiss - just that it's no worse than it was before.

During all of the running around and subsequent death bed avoidance, we learned that Quinn is a puzzle master. You put a puzzle in front of that kid, he'll put it together. He has anger management issues as we all know, so he still grunts and pounds on the table in frustration if a piece doesn't click into place within .067 seconds of his initial try, but other than that, a puzzle buys us at least five minutes of relative peace. I'll have to tell the SuperCuts people about that. They'll be interested, because when I took Quinn there the other day for a hair cut, he sat peacefully on the waiting bench while they all avoided eye contact with me, then when one of them reluctantly called his name, he unleashed his special powers and shattered their crooked mirrors and melted their cheap scissors and caused mild panic in the tri-county area. Today he went to school with shaggy hair. I dare someone to mention it to either of us.

Fun in John's Archives

Quinn wouldn't take a nap today, but Bryce is sleeping, and I'm sitting comfortably on the couch typing while Quinn (unbelievably) sits in a chair flipping through books he got for himself from the book shelf (with no screaming). He's trying to pretend he's not dozing off, but he's being soooo veeerrryy stiiiillll over there, that I think he might get an involuntary nap in before it's all said and done.

I've spent the past quiet hour (after I made sure I was still conscious, since I don't even know what a quiet hour is supposed to feel like) looking through John's archives. And look! I found more evidence that sometimes, despite what the kids would have me believe (they never get to go anywhere!), they do fun things while I'm at work.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go check Quinn's pulse. He's never quiet and still for this long.

Breathless Miscellany

By the time I have a chance to start drafting a post, I need a device that will take the thoughts out of my drowsy, heavy head and put them onto the screen for me. A device other than my own typing hands. I'm so very tired, but there is always so much I'd planned to say. If I were Bryce telling you in quick, urgent breaths about my day's events or about my latest revelations, I'd be starting every sentence with, "And besides!" That's his favorite segue these days: And besides! Conversations with him can be pretty choppy.

And besides! I found out that I have osteoarthritis in my knees! That means absolutely nothing except that I get to tell my trainer he can't make me jump, squat, or lunge any more. The "treatment" for 29-year-olds with osteoarthritis in their knees is - you're going to love it - TYLENOL! (And besides! I think taking tylenol is my favorite thing ever!)

And besides! The people at work suddenly have this unreasonable expectation that I devote a full eight hours a day to them. It's really cutting into the time I can put into blog-related activities. It's amazing how "behind" I can feel about something I'd have to classify as a hobby.

And besides! We signed Bryce up for music lessons. Soccer is over, and we really felt that our evenings and weekends were mundane and empty; we aren't really racing the clock as often as we'd like. There simply isn't enough chaos or strife around here; we need more activity! The lessons are an hour long and include four of Bryce's classmates. The last two weeks when I've gone to pick him up and write down the insane amount of assignments the music teacher doles out, the kids are literally writhing on the floor around her, completely over-stimulated. Bryce is usually oscillating between telling one of his friends to punch him in the stomach and shouting out random and strange (but not untrue) insults, like, "This house is really spooky!"

And besides! On the way home from his music lesson last night, Bryce asked for dessert. I told him he could have some chocolate pudding. "With whipped cream?" he asked, because he doesn't really EAT chocolate pudding, but he does eat the whipped cream on top (I'm morally opposed to giving him a bowl of whipped cream, but if we both keep pretending he might eat the pudding underneath it, it's a compromise we can live with). This is our recurring chocolate pudding conversation. "Yes, with whipped cream." "And golden grahams? Can you put some golden grahams in it? Oh wait! I know! I want you to HIDE the golden grahams in the pudding. Will you HIDE the golden grahams all in the pudding? Just use your fingers and push them down there really far! Yeah!" Okay. Things have gone too far when I've been so accommodating to my kid that he actually thinks this is a reasonable request. "Bryce, I'm not putting my hands in your pudding to hide individual golden grahams at random intervals! Gross!" "Mom! Please? Come on! And besides! You can wash your hands when you're done."

Killing time

Here's what Quinn and I were doing this morning. Go ahead, click it.

What I miss while I'm at work

Scary Reading

The twenty plus minute drive to Bryce's school each morning carries us through a wide slice of life. Both interesting and dull views of residential, retail, commercial, urban, suburban, rail yards, and oil refineries can all be seen on our route. Our drive begins on city streets then changes to major highways, then back on to city streets to our final destination.

As Bryce's reading skills improve (at an unbelievable pace) he is quick to point out words he recognizes and inquires about those he doesn't on the abundance of signage along our trip each day.

Today, as we were cruising along the highway, a big long haul truck pulls along side, slowly going past us in the next lane. Bryce doesn't like it when cars and truck pass us and is quick to tell me I am driving too slow, the truck will beat us, and he will be late for school (the critique of my driving is something he must have picked up from Kristen). As I explain that I can't go any faster than I am, and that we will not be late for school, he asks "What does that spell on the side of the truck?"

I assumed he was referring to the name of the trucking company that was in big letters across the trailer. "Arrow Trucking" I reply.

"NO! That's not what it spells!" I didn't know he was referring to something that was written on the side of the truck's trailer, written by a finger that wiped away the grime and dirt, spelling out a request by the truck's driver to help him ease his loneliness on his cross country journey.

"Someone wrote on the truck, dad. What does it spell?"

Since the writing on the side of the trailer was directly beside Bryce, and my eyes were correctly positioned looking ahead, I asked him to say the letters out loud.

Bryce: "S - H - O - W"

Me: "Show. S H O W spells show." Looming ahead was what can often be a hectic and dangerous three highway interchange where on ramps, off ramps, and lane merging collide in bizarre helter skelter fashion that takes every ounce of concentration to successfully navigate.

Bryce: "T - I - T - S. What does that spell, dad? T makes the te sound. te .. te .. ti .."

Me: "Uh, hold on buddy, let me slow down so I can see the letters."

I quickly slowed down, letting the truck zip past us. Thinking quickly (but not quickly enough to get into the correct lane that would take us in the right direction of the school meaning that letting the truck beat us did cause us to be late for school) "Oh, T - H - I - S, that spells 'this'. Someone wrote 'show this' on the side of the truck. Isn't that funny? Ha-ha. ha. ha. ahem"

In November I won't be able to get away with this weekend summary nonsense.*

Sparky meets his match.
At Bryce's soccer game on Saturday, I watched him finally "get" the game. After weeks of somewhat half-hearted and mildly confused participation on the outskirts of the group, he confidently ran for the ball and made purposeful kicks toward - and this is amazing - the right goal. During a break, his coach asked the team if anyone would be willing to play for the opposing team, whose membership had dwindled down to three players. Bryce immediately raised his hand to volunteer. I was concerned, thinking he'd be really confused on the field: "Bryce, do you know what that means? You'll be trying to get the ball in the OTHER goal this time. " He nodded his head profusely, with a subtle undercurrent of DUH, MAN in his little eyebrow-arching expression and said, "yeah, mom. I know." The coach for the other team apparently spent the morning in a competition with himself over how much coffee he could consume, because the amount of near-psychotic energy he exuded caused Bryce to step back and look concerned. Bryce. Encountered too much energy. (Let's all pause and ponder the near impossibility of that scenario.)

Energetic Coach: HEY BUDDY HIGH FIVE! HIGH! FIVE! THANKS FOR HELPINGUSOUT! WOOOOOO!!! HIGH FIVE!

Bryce (meek, for the first time ever): Yeah.

Energetic Coach: YOU NEED A NICKNAME DO YOU HAVE A NICKNAME? EVERYONE GETS A NICKNAME, WHAT IS YOUR NICKNAME? DO YOU HAVE ONE? WOOOOOOOOO!! HIGH FIVE!

Bryce (concerned, looking around for me): Um. My dad? Used to call me. Sparky? When I was a baby.

Energetic Coach: SPARKY!? ALRRRIIIIGGGHHTTT!! SPARKY! HIGH FIVE, SPARKY! HIGH! FIVE!! SSPPAARRKKAAYY!!

I think Energetic Coach understands high needs kids, though, because Bryce ran faster and was more focused on actually running in the right direction than I've ever seen him on the soccer field. Energetic Coach kept screaming GGOOO! SPARKKKY! at the top of his insane lungs, so maybe that's the key to Bryce's cooperation: not just volume, but vein-bulging, eye-popping, vocal chord-shredding, make-everyone-think-you're-losing-it V-O-L-U-M-E.

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God help us if he goes into politics.
Time is a big problem for us these days. This weekend I had to multi-task by talking to my dad on the phone while driving the kids around on various errands. During one such mobile conversation, I handed the phone to Bryce and he proceeded to talk about the most important thing in his life: his most recently acquired Happy Meal toy from McDonald's, a Hot Wheels car. After we hung up, I decided to take hold of this "teaching moment" (note to self: when these thoughts enter your head, just shove them out, you idiot): "Bryce, do you know why McDonald's gives happy meal toys with their food?"

"Yeah, because they want kids to have toys!"

"No. They give the toys away to make the kids interested, so their parents will BUY THE FOOD and spend their money."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is. McDonald's has to make money. Parents have money. Parents want to make their kids happy. McDonald's shows commercials on TV that make kids think they'll be happy if they have a new toy. The parents agree to take their kids to get a happy meal toy, and then they pay money for the food, so McDonald's gets their money, and the kids get their toys."

"Why do they do that? Why do they just want money? Are they just SELFISH?"

"Hmm. Yeah. I mean, no. Yeah. I mean, not technically. Blah blah capitalism blah blah Western civilization blah blah why did I bring this up?"

"So every single place we go WANTS MONEY?"

"Uh. Yes."

"GREAT! The DONUT STORE too?!"

"Yes, the donut store, too."

"Well, wait. I have an idea, mom. I think McDonald's wants to make money so that they can put more into their McDonald's stores! So they can buy more happy meal toys and food."

"Well, no that's not what I -- uh. Hm. Actually. You're... sort of. Right. Crap!"

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Oktoberfest 2006: "Whinefest" would be more accurate.
Sunday morning started like this: I woke at 6:15 a.m. to Quinn in my face saying, "I have a surprise in my blanket for you. It's pumpkin bread!" With this kid, I never know, so I bolted out of bed to check for stray food chunks in my bedroom. When I didn't find any, I put in a movie and poured some cereal, and performed an experiment - leaving him unattended while I went back to bed (after explaining that he needed to be very quiet and still, and basically not at all like himself). Twenty minutes later, after forcing myself to doze through what I suspected were sounds of the refrigerator door opening, I heard Bryce's tattletale sing-songy tone of voice at the bedroom door: "MO-OM! Quinn got out the LEFT-overs!!" I bolted up again, and found the refrigerator door open, a trail of cold noodles leading to the breakfast table, where Quinn had dumped a styrofoam box of restaurant food upside down in an effort to get to the delectable finger food he really wanted for breakfast: congealed macaroni and cheese.

Sunday continued like this: We complicated our lives by taking both kids grocery shopping, then to the gym, and finally, running on no naps or even attempts at naps, to Oktoberfest. But, but, but! Where was the chicken? Where was the beermeister? When would the kids be able to ride the rides? When would Kristen's ears bleed from the whining? Why were they out of potato pancakes when that's the ONE FOOD ITEM of which all family members are willing to partake? And why wouldn't Kristen do the chicken dance, what is wrong with her, does she have pride or something, and if so, does she not realize she forfeited that when she a.) got braces, b.) walked out in public with the shriekers, c.) came to Oktoberfest? And again, WHAT ABOUT THE RIDES ALREADY? WHEN CAN WE RIDE THE RIDES? WE HATE THIS BORING ART! IT IS BORING! WHY DO ADULTS HAVE TO LOOK AT BORING, BORING ART ANYWAY? RIDES! RIIIIIDDESSSS!!! WE HATE OKTOBERFEST, AAAA AAAA AAA!

Quinn stages a protest about the lack of seating, but can't convince Bryce to sit on the beer- and bratwurst-encrusted concrete.



First, no potato pancakes. Now, no dancing chicken. Why are we here? I hate this place.


See any above reference to rides, whining, or hatred of Oktoberfest.

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*We're going to try to post daily during the month of November for National Blog Posting Month, or NaBloPoMo. If we fail, we figure it's just one tiny addition to a huge, huge list. This means the following:

1.) Since I can barely manage to post three times a week these days, John will be forced to tell you about what he does all day long. Haven't you been wondering? I know I have.
2.) My posts may be a lot shorter. And full of tripe and filler, of course. (More than usual.)
3.) If such a thing is possible, my/our publishing standards are about to be lowered significantly.
4.) I might not be sleeping much.
5.) We've officially taken on too many commitments. We are very, very stupid.

You find the connection.

My Headache Philosophy Biting Me Back
My head has been killing me lately. I never used to get headaches. Every time someone would say they had a headache and would simultaneously grip /massage their forehead gingerly, I would secretly roll my eyes because I was convinced most people were hypochondriacs about this headache epidemic: how could so many people's heads hurt so often? Wouldn't that defy logic? Aren't our bodies designed to operate efficiently even in times of dire physical challenge? If so, how could head pain be so common, especially head pain caused by something innocuous, like mild mental stress or slight fatigue? It just didn't make sense to me. I was convinced that societal conditioning was to blame: we've been told that as adults, we'll be prone to headaches, that life's pressures will be too much for our flimsy bodies to process sufficiently, and the result will be a chronically throbbing skull. On the rare occasion that I did have a headache, it accompanied an illness or more extreme physical challenge like sleep deprivation or emotional turmoil, and those instances, I almost always refused to take any "headache medicine" citing reasons such as, "it never helps" and "it's just a marketing ploy" and "adding a drug to the mix is counter-productive."

Yeah, I'm one of those people.

(Aside: I actually still fall back on a large portion of this argument, and not just for headaches. Flip through the network channels at prime time and you'll see advertisements for prescription and over-the-counter medications designed to remove any symptom you could imagine, symptoms representing all ailments from short-lived illnesses like the common cold to chronic conditions including ulcers, allergies, irritable bowel syndrome (Really? This is common all of a sudden? Common enough to require mass advertising and medical distribution?!), erectile dysfunction, depression, insomnia, and back pain - just to name a few. I have no doubt that there are thousands of legitimate cases of these conditions. I have no doubt that a large number of people have chronic headaches, back pain, and insomnia. I do doubt that the true need for medication in the population for these conditions is actually reflected by the amount of medication being marketed and sold. The end.)

Several days ago, I had a new wire put in on my braces, but they didn't cut it short enough, and it has been pushing through the very back bracket. Let me clarify: there is a sharp piece of STEEL WIRE cutting a hole into the back of my mouth. I didn't think it was as bad as it is until yesterday, when I made the connection that the headaches I've been in denial about for the past week are suspiciously worse on the left side of my head, and also that my face and glands are swollen from the pain. I've given in to the "marketing ploy" and have been taking the generic advil available in the big white first aid kit at work. When this conspiracy theorist starts taking headache medicine, you know she's desperate.

Bedtime Totally Sucks
The pacifier addiction has transferred to a music addiction. Quinn refuses to stay in his bed and go to sleep unless we play the exact same CD he's been listening to for the past two years. The problem is, he can reach his CD player, and is now on the THIRD CD player in his short life, because he can't resist pushing the buttons until he gets some sort of electronic response from the poorly-manufactured plastic boxes. Eventually they give up in desperation, flashing "Err" at us as we wail and gnash our teeth during Quinn's hysterics over the horror of going to sleep without his music. When the players are still in working condition, he changes CDs during the day and has now scratched every single CD we ever allowed into his room, including the beloved night/sleep CD, which skips and repeats and just generally causes misery and ire around these parts. We haven't been able to find a new copy of it (that's what happens when you use free CDs that were packaged with your newborn's diapers five years ago), so we just bought a few new lullaby CDs to try the other night. Good lord, it was like pacifier de-tox all over again; he was beside himself with despair, and a little denial thrown in for good measure.

Quinn (red face, unable to catch his breath from crying): I-I-I-I w-w-wa-wa-want m-m-my-my m-m-mu-mus-music a-a-a-a-a-a-a!!

Me (for the sixth time): Your CD is broken. If you'd like to listen to the new pretty music, I'll turn it back on for you bu-

Quinn (cutting me off, shrieking like a madman): I DON'T WANT THE NEW MUSIC I DON'TWANTHENEWMUSICAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I WANT MY!! MUSIC.

Me (giving up): Okay. Well, it's time to go to sleep, I've already answered your question. I guess you don't want any music, so I'll see you in the morning. Good night.

Quinn (sheer panic setting in): NO YOU CAN'T GO! I WANT THE MUSIC!

Me (turning around): Okay, you DO want your new music then?

Quinn (possessed by a demon): I WILL MAIM YOU IN YOUR SLEEP YOU EVIL HAG.

So, yeah. Bedtime rocks the house these days. Literally.

Business Tip
Hey, everyone. I learned something really useful yesterday. I was on the receiving end of a GREAT NEW METHOD for diffusing a situation, say, for example, a meeting at work that may or may not involve differing opinions. I thought I'd pass it along for posterity. So here you go: If you want a snazzy new way to handle an ambiguously contrary discussion, tell the person you only mildly disagree with that they're "coming off with a lot of attitude". It's particularly effective if you put your hands up in a defensive stance. Throws the whole meeting room into a socially awkward stare-down, which is exactly what you want in a situation where nobody is actually upset yet.

Yep. Pure genius. It's amazing no one's put it in a book yet.

Some New Twists

Yesterday I was talking to John on the phone while he was in the car with Quinn, and he started using his long-winded, random vocabulary style of talking that we have to use to keep the kids from knowing we’re referring to them (mainly with Quinn, because Bryce is old enough that he always figures it out anyway).

John: So have you ever noticed how…Child Number Two…manages to, without your knowledge, acquire items from the white box-like appliance in the room where we prepare our meals?

Me: What? He goes to the dishwasher?

John: No, the bigger white appliance.

Me: The refrigerator? He’s getting into the refrigerator when you’re not around?!

John: Yes, and I’m trying to modulate my voice so as not to bring further attention to this re-telling.

Turns out Quinn opens the refrigerator door, stands on the bottom shelf, and rummages around until he finds whatever delectable treat seems like a good snack at 10:00 a.m. Yesterday, John walked through the living room and noticed Quinn suspiciously positioned on his side in our chair with the flap-style cushions, the upper flap strangely bowing out. It was a Tupperware dish of cold macaroni and cheese. The kid sneaks macaroni and cheese. Cold, out of the refrigerator. And snacks on it. While hiding it from us.

Whatever. At least it keeps him quiet for more than 15 seconds.

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Last night as I was drying Bryce off after his bath, he said, “Mom, I’ll give you ten dollars if you make it Christmas time.”

“I can’t make time go faster, Bryce.”

“Yes you can! Just go to the computer, click three buttons and tell it to abdivate to Christmas, and you’ll be done!”

Wow. I never knew the internet was so very powerful. I can simply abdivate to Christmas. What else can I do? Can I abdivate world peace?

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Speaking of world peace, I’m having a lively discussion with someone over at Freezio’s place about U.S. foreign policy. It’s made me think that I should stop dominating Freezio’s comment box and use my own space to state my opinions or thoughts. I’m struggling with whether or not I want to do that; as I’ve said before, I (usually) tend to shy away from political debate because I don’t feel that I take enough time to be as educated as I should be on all the issues. I don’t want to put myself in a position where I can’t address a claim or answer a question because I don’t have reams of political history at my finger tips. I’m still considering how and if I’m going to address this here. I know I have a lot to say; I’m just not sure I have the energy for an argument over it, especially not from someone like Arwen’s new best friend, who repeatedly combs through her archives to find more to criticize about past posts, political or not.

If I do this, the issues I address will be broad and will expose me for the non-conforming pacifist I am. That whole pacifist part of the phrase non-conforming pacifist means, people, that I don't want to be attacked on my own website; I won't be attacking anyone and would appreciate the same respect. I'm all for discussion, challenge, debate, and supporting one's claims. I'm not for name-calling, assumptions, or stereotyping based on one paragraph read on a blog or in a comment box. Now that I think about it, if I do this, I may include this disclaimer at the top as a reminder each time. Because I'm an anal commie tree-hugger that way. Oops!

Going Native

John left for an appointment in the middle of dinner tonight, claiming from the front door, "sorry to abandon you...but I'm really not. Hahahaha! Oh, just kidding. Hahahaha! Ahem." As soon as the door closed behind him, Bryce and Quinn leapt from their chairs and grabbed some nearby kitchen twine to bind me to my chair and sacrifice me to the fire gods of chaos. The hot pokers of Not Eating Dinner soon gave way to those of Yelling, Spitting Food, and Hopping On One Foot Around Hungry Victim While Complaining.

We were having baked potatoes and assorted leftovers and fresh vegetables. You can see why the kids would take this opportunity to torture me. Where are the chicken nuggets and french fries, slave? What are these "vegetables" of which you speak? We shall tie you up and sacrifice you. Perhaps your absent spouse will learn a lesson from your untimely demise.

I had to think fast. I felt my blood pressure rising with every new torture device, and I knew the end for me was near. "Hey, guys!" I cried in an attempt to cover my fear and desperation with cheer, "Uh.... let's see, let me think, what was I going to say? Oh yeah. Quinn, I need some help cleaning up the kitchen!" The "need some help" phrase caught the powerful creature's attention - I could tell by the way he cocked his head to one side like a puppy - and I knew I was in. "Yeah, yeah! I totally need YOU to be the one to take the plates over to the dishwasher!" His eyes lit up. I'd kept that gem in my back pocket for just this type of emergency - the Quinn creature loved the dishwasher more than life itself, and sought out reasons to send the large plastic door slamming back into the closed position, and now this foolish prisoner was offering to let him oversee this incredible display of modern technology?! Sublime. Just what he'd been waiting for.

In the meantime, Bryce the overlord was becoming confused by this new turn of events. Wait a minute. Quinn gets to load the dishwasher? I don't think so! This is my operation, and if anyone here is going to benefit from the hostage's desperate plea for life, it's going to be ME.

They untied me, removed the hot pokers from my side, and turned their attention to the joy of loading the dishwasher. They were so impressed with my dishwasher possession that they were just in the process of lifting me to a throne of couch cushions and folded laundry when I made the mistake of mentioning bath time. Then, as if awaking from hypnosis, the commitment returned to their eyes and they began their sacrificial chant anew. It mostly sounded like wails and shrieks, but it worked, because I think my brain bled out in a thick ooze, leaving only the part that reminded me of my biological imperative not to destroy my own genetic material.

Weekend Summary: Kick the Habit

Last week we took the kids to the dentist and learned exactly what we'd be dreading, that Quinn's pacifier is the devil. I believe the dentist's speech included phrases like, "major dental work" and "definitely start saving for braces" and "let's cut our losses and hope for some regression before his adult teeth come in." I sat and listened in horror, and John reacted to the news by saying, "Pacifier? What pacifier? What makes you think Quinn uses a pacifier? Just because he has a distinctly pacifier-shaped overbite? Total coincidence." Friday night, we decided to take the plunge. Years ago, I remember my sister-in-law telling me that the night she took her kids' pacifiers away, her house resembled a de-tox clinic, with desperate junkies hallucinating and climbing the walls. I blew her off, assumed she was exaggerating, and even laughed at her obviously poor parenting skills: "well, what parent lets their THREE-YEAR-OLD keep using a pacifier, anyway!?" Friday night, my know-it-all haughtiness ate me alive, and spit me out onto a bed of raging hot coals. First, Quinn was defiant, No I want my paci. Then he was sad, But I miss my paci! Then he was confused, Can you help me find my paci? I've looked everywhere! Then he was psychotic, aaaaaaaaaaaa PACI aaaaaaaaaaaaaa PACI aaaaaaaaaa. By 11:30 p.m., we had put him back in his bed at least 10 times, and had stupidly thought he was asleep at least four times. At 2:30 a.m., there was a severe thunderstorm that started right over our house, judging by the deafening vibrations that brought Quinn out of his already fitful sleep to the top of the stairs, shrieking and expressing his hatred for us, the Takers Of The Paci and the Bringers Of The Thunder.

The next morning was Bryce's first soccer game. In our Paci-Lacking, sleep-deprived state, we failed to explain the situation to Quinn, who naturally assumed that he AND Bryce would be playing soccer. It only took a few seconds on the field for him to figure out he was getting screwed, but he wasn't going for it, sleep deprivation or not. He grabbed a free soccer ball and took off across the field, his non-standard issue, sans soccer ball shirt flapping in the breeze behind him, him cackling like a maniac in his rebellion. After several empty threats and jaw-clenching, fatigue-ridden growls and sighs, we convinced him to stay outside the white chalk lines, but he wasn't happy about it.

By the end of the game, we found out that we should have just let Quinn play with Bryce's team. They were more interested in running to the sidelines for water than actually kicking the ball. When there was kicking involved, it typically fell on one kid's shoulders while the rest of them ran in whatever direction felt the most interesting.

Soccer is fun! Have you seen all this WATER?

See ya, suckas!

More chaos. I think I'll run THIS way!

I don't need to create a witty caption here, because what the kid in the middle was truly saying was, "Okay, here's the plan. When they come our way, we're going to GET THE BALL." Brilliant.

On Sunday, while John was at a wedding, I attempted to write this post during "nap time." Instead, I spent two hours going in and out of Quinn's room and concentrating on my breathing to keep from going medieval on his little "Ha! I didn't stay in my bed AGAIN! I'll show YOU who's in control here" ass. I gave up and took the kids to Office Depot to buy happiness in the form of a more organized unpaid bill pile / kitchen junk drawer. I bribed the kids with new stickers, but I made the mistake of letting them have the new stickers before we were safely back within the confines of my car, which resulted in Quinn announcing at the top of his lungs "YOU'RE NOT NICE, LADY!" the first time we passed a stranger in the stationery aisle.

We stopped at the praying hands landmark near our house on the way home. The kids have only ever seen it from the car, even though we live close enough that we could take them there and let them run around the massive sculpture several times a week. While they were standing, staring awestruck at the huge bronze thumbs, a group of a dozen nuns came up to us, literally out of nowhere. They floated by right as I was admonishing Quinn for sliding head first down a plaque commemorating the donors of the praying hands. Quinn caught sight of their black and white robes, clutched his ziplock baggie full of Cheerio's closer to his body, and grabbed my hand in nervousness. Then, unpredictable as ever, he called out to one of them, "YOU LOOK SILLY! HAHA!"

John just walked in as I was typing this and said, "are you done with that?" and I said, "I was just talking about the nun part. Do you remember if I told you anything happened after that?" and he said, "Your head exploded?"

And that pretty much sums it up.

Screenplay Forthcoming

When I describe our lives with terms like "chaos" and "madness" and "ear-shattering insanity" I'm sure it seems like an excessive use of hyperbole, or that I'm prone to exaggeration or over-analysis. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this possibility, but I've found since I started writing about our experiences regularly, I actually remain more objective, more patient, and more likely to seek out the humor in any given situation, whether it's one kid suffocating the other under a previously innocent down comforter, or both kids tearing through the house screaming at the top of their unnaturally strong lungs. Knowing I may write about any given experience has made me slower to yell and turn magenta with rage, quicker to step back and ask myself if my goal is to have quiet kids or kids who have some concept of balance (side note: right now, I have neither - we're working on it). I still regularly fail, even with that added objectivity and patience, and what I'd like to posit here is a theory that those failures occur not because I'm any more impatient or frustrated than the average parent, but that my kids are, in fact, RAVING MAD LUNATICS.

Point in fact: With our new dinner routine, John and I intended to place more focused and specific attention on the kids at a difficult time of day, to be proactive and not reactive with them so as to prevent the nightly dinnertime strife that was exhausting us and teaching the kids that family time just really sucks. The new routine has helped - a lot, actually. At dinner, there are fewer instances of me slapping my palm painfully on the surface of the table as I repeat my difficult-to-follow instructions for the 12th, 16th, or 25th time, instructions like "stay in your seat" or "stop turning off the dining room light" or "leave your sticky noodles on your plate, not in the middle of the table or in your hair," and more instances of the kids - get this - EATING and using volume levels that don't require those special spongy ear plugs they make you wear inside factories.

The thing is, as soon as they're done eating, all of that success flies out the window with a violent shatter as they literally run around the house screaming while John and I sit there, broken people that we are, our heads in our respective hands, sobbing and begging for swift, decapitating mercy. Last night, despite my "calm but stern" reminders that they could run and yell OUTSIDE, but not inside, ScreamFest 2006 continued in a blur around the table and migrated up the stairs in a deafening hallway takeover. At my wits' end, I just looked at John: "You know when you see those kids on TV shows screaming and running and waving their hands around? People think that's a funny exaggeration. BUT OUR KIDS REALLY DO THAT. ALL THE TIME. So if I write a screenplay about our lives, do you think the proceeds would cover my mental health bills? Because otherwise, we need better insurance."

Trying Something New

Over the past year, our dinner routine (or lack thereof, maybe), has degenerated to such a level of mayhem that we can no longer even attempt to answer the phone or operate any noise-making electronics that would normally be used for entertainment purposes during dinner preparation. Yes, this has been our solution. If we just pretend that truck-horn volume telephone ring isn't piercing the thick cloud of tension and chaos FOUR, FIVE, SIX times in a row because Hannah's friends refuse to leave messages on the answering machine and opt to call back ad infinitum, we'll be able to concentrate more of our harried attention onto the kids and our oh-so-complicated meal preparation, usually involving one of two things: opening steamy plastic, noodle-filled packages from the local Thai place or throwing some frozen veggie burgers onto the skillet. If we refuse to turn on the television or radio and talk in soft voices between all of the hypocritically loud shrieks of STOP RUNNING! and I TOLD YOU IF YOU FOUGHT OVER THAT TOY I WAS GOING TO THROW IT AWAY, NOW BRING IT TO ME, HEY! COME BACK HERE! then maybe our sheer desire and need for the kids to be in our presence without demanding, directly or indirectly, that we stop what we're doing every three seconds to deal with their wild behavior will just seep right out of our migraine-ridden heads and into theirs. I imagine this transition to happen instantly, but in slow motion, where John and I are in the kitchen with wild, desperate eyes and clenched jaws, the kids are in the living room throwing things at each other and jumping from one piece of furniture to another, and then suddenly the earth stops spinning long enough for all of the intentions John and I have for dinner to be even mildly peaceful and enjoyable to drip like molasses from our now-relaxed heads, down our still statue arms until it combines into one blob-form and seeps over to the kids and up through their feet, which will be frozen in the air since they are always, always at least an inch or two off the ground. Then, after that gradual moment is over and the earth spins again, the kids land with a soft, quiet thud, John and I stir sauce and gather plates for the table, and the kids find a book or ask if they can put out the butter.

These are my fantasies. Such is my life. Other people fantasize about winning the lottery or meeting someone famous; I fantasize about getting through dinner without ever once wanting to yank my hair out by the roots or sell my children on the black market.

Since we've never ONCE achieved even one single part of that goal with our current pretend-we're-peaceful-and-maybe-we'll-become-peaceful tactics, we finally decided to try something new this week, something more practical. For one thing, because John is home with the kids during the afternoon, he had been attempting to start dinner before I got home. Of course, because of the late afternoon boredom / fatigue / mischief that sets in with our kids around 4:00 p.m. every day, by the time I would get home at 5:30, he'd already be in the throes of dealing with some completely ridiculous behavior, and dinner would still be a long way off. Or worse, he'd call me on my way home with a desperate Mayday! sound in his voice, and I'd end up picking dinner up on my way - it would be THAT BAD at home. We both had it stuck in our heads for months that it "just made sense" for him to start dinner. Clearly that was wrong, because hello! Dinnertime at our house: not making sense!

Now John keeps the kids occupied until I get home, and I start dinner while Bryce sits at the kitchen table and does his 15 minutes of homework or tells me about his day. Quinn usually wanders around, still slightly wild, but much more tolerable than what we were seeing before, since Bryce is occupied and not feeding off of Quinn's delirium. John will come in and out, here helping with dinner, there taking the kids outside to throw a ball or distract them from the idea that they need to destroy the inside of the house, specifically the kitchen and dining room, at that exact moment.

Not exactly molasses-dripping peaceful, but we're approaching sanity. (For now.)

The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything

Items of note about this video:

--Bryce's pronunciation of "finger" (listen closely; he says it with a TH sound - we don't correct him anymore, it's just not worth it)
--Bryce's constant repetition of directions that aren't being followed ("it's supposed to go on your THINGER, Quinn!")
--Quinn's innocent and patient attempt to follow his brother's random (yet strict) directions
--Quinn's apparent belief that giraffes communicate via a high-pitched squeal
--Quinn's lack of understanding about the whole idea of a puppet show (i.e., the puppet master should be invisible for the love of all that is holy)
--Bryce's repetition of the phrase, "Argh, me hardies!" (We think he means, "Argh, me buckos!" or "Argh, me mateys!")
--Bryce's final decision that he needs a thinger puppet too, what with his sweaty hand and all