. . . Just Like Me

Timothy gets really upset when he gets corrected, . . .

Stephen wants to do everything by himself, . . .

Jonah has a hair-trigger temper, and a hair-trigger laugh, . . .

Sam sighs heavily through his nose, . . .

Things Not To Do When Working At Home . . .

1. Drink alcohol - someone will make you mad, you will challenge them to fight, and you will give them your home address.

2. Clip your nails while talking on the phone - the person on the other end will hear you.

3. Eat ice cream - it melts during a call.

Guess which two of these three things I have done? Guess which one I'm doing right now? Mmmmm. Vermonty Python.

Vespers

It is hard say night-time prayers with little boys.

It is harder still to say night-time prayers with two boys who are in the same bed.

It is even harder still to say night-time prayers when one of those boys is . . . well . . . making a "joyful noise."

But it is hardest of all when the one who is praying is the one who is pooting.

. . . As A Bee

Not that I expect anyone to read this (except you, Mom; glad to have you), but I feel that I must apologize for the non-existent posting. Sure, lots of things have happened, two camping trips, several trips to Macon, a minor car wreck, a fun and kid-free birthday party, etc.

But all the fun, story-spawning things that have happened over the past few weeks mean less time for me to be here, at my desk, typing away. In order to write, I need to be bored and highly caffeinated. And while I have been packing away the Cokes, I haven't had time to sleep properly in about a month, much less to tell you at length about the time Stephen explained to me that if the driver I had just yelled at had been in the car with us, he would have been sad at the name I had called him.

Any hope for future stories? Not likely. I've got to buy another van for my wife, my boss is out of the country and for some crazy reason he left me in charge, plus other issues.

So I probably won't tell you about how Timothy and Stephen got into a biting, kicking, rolling around roughhouse match in the middle of a 3-year-old's birthday party. Or how an earlier fight that day had involved our first ever spitting-on-a-person incident.

Or about how my wife and I were enobled with the title "The Baby Whisperers."

Or about Timothy's first round of putt-putt golf (he did really well).

Maybe someday, but not right now. Sorry.

House and Home II

One pound of tilapia filets, gone. Clamoring for more. I'll try 2 pounds next time. Does anyone know where to get fish cheap?

Anyway, here's the recipe:

1. Put tilapia filets in a bowl. Drizzle with sesame oil. Sprinkle with salt, pepper, minced garlic (one small clove per pound of fish?) and Italian seasoning (I used dried basil and oregano that I bought at the farmer's market a couple of years ago; it was like $1 per cup of the stuff; that's crazy prices).

2. Gently stir contents of bowl to coat filets with oil and seasonings. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and put in fridge for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 F.

3. After 30 minutes, put filets on baking sheet and put in oven. Cook 20-30 minutes until done.

This goes pretty well with anything. We had black beans and Thai soup that I discovered in the pantry at the last minute. 6 big filets, gone. I had to give half of mine away.

Fair and Good

One of the problems with having quite a few kids (and one of the reasons I think so many people stop with just one) is that it's hard to be fair. I come from a family of two children, so trying to be fair is an issue for me. My wife is from a family of six children, and she recognizes the futility of it.

I come here to write down funny stories and interesting things that happen. And part of me wants to make sure that each one of the boys gets equal time. But it's hard, especially when one of your kids is consistently wacky (nothing personal; 4 and 5 are wacky ages) and another kid is doing important things for the last time.

So, lots of Jonah and Sam stories, not so much Timothy and Stephen. It's not fair, I know, but I didn't have a blog when they were 2 or 5. Such is parenting.

All this is to say that Timothy did two things this week that I'm glad to record and that, frankly, made me very proud to have him as a son.

First, on Sunday, we went to McDonald's for breakfast. Long story short, we had been camping Friday and Saturday, but rain made us come home Saturday night. Sunday was going to be an open house (4 BR, 2.5 BA, priced to sell, call me); my wife drew clean up duty and I drew get-the-boys-out-of-the-house-so-she-can-clean duty. So, into the car the boys and I went and away to McDonald's.

The order: 4 plain biscuits, 4 hash browns, 1 chicken biscuit, 3 chocolate milks, 1 apple juice, 1 large Coke (no, that's no idol worship; it's a proper noun). Except that, because I was ridiculously, zombie-like tired, I only ordered 2 chocolate milks. And I had 26 cents left, which was not enough for another one.

And so, after helping me pass out all the food (Timothy is the official Middle-Seat Helper), he and I realized that we were short one chocolate milk. I asked him, "Could you please give that to Sam, and I'll get you another one in a few minutes?" And he said, without pouting, whining, or any other despondent-type reaction, "Yes."

Now, those of you without kids may think this is no big deal. But this is huge. No crying, no whining, taking one for the team. We call this Sacrifice, and it's fantastic to see in action. I'm proud of my boy.

(Just so you know, Mom, I did stop a few minutes later and got him a humongous chocolate milk at Eckerd.)

Okay, second story. This morning Timothy came downstairs first, while I was on the couch watching the news. We were sitting there talking when a story came on about those #*@^#!&_% who picket soldiers' funerals. On screen, they were showing them with their signs. Not wanting to draw attention to it, I said nothing. The TV showed one sign that said "Thank God for IED's" and another that said "God Hates You."

Timothy saw the last one, got a puzzled look on his face, and said, "That's not right. He does not." And I was so, so very proud of my boy.

(N.B.: have enough Christians denounced these folks yet? C'mon, even our 8-year-olds know these idiots are wrong.)

House and Home

About six months ago, the boys and I went to Zaxby's for dinner. My wife had gone out for book club or scrapbooking (I always tell the boys that she's gone to a "mommy party") and we were left to fend for ourselves.

We got a 15 pack of chicken fingers (actually one 10 pack and one 5 pack, for you purists out there) and one order of fries. When we were done, each of the boys had fries left on his plate, and there were about 5 chicken fingers left over for my lunch the next day.

Tonight, I got a 20 pack of fingers and two orders of fries (my wife got a salad). The fries ran out early and left both Timothy and Stephen fighting over what I could spare. Timothy, Stephen, and Jonah all asked for seconds (Stephen actually asked for 2 more chicken fingers) and ate it all. There were only three chicken fingers left, due solely to my wife kicking the boys upstairs to get ready for bed.

They are 8, 6, 5, and 2, and they already eat like crazy. We're approaching a box of Pop Tarts or Cereal every day, a bag of chips every two days, and two loaves of bread a week. I can't keep bananas on the counter, because Stephen, Jonah, and Sam will just walk up, take one, and eat it (and leave the peel someplace for a suprise discovery later).

Can you imagine what this is going to be like in 5 or 10 years down the road? What if they bring friends over? I need more jobs.

Inevitability

It was bound to happen. We have a lot of boys and a lot of LEGO's.

So yesterday I'm downstairs talking with my wife (and perhaps getting a Coke; is that really important?), when, from upstairs, we hear Jonah crying. Loudly. Intensely.

We're trying to figure out what's wrong ("Are you hurt?" "Did you fall?" "What's wrong?"), when he yells out the phrase that every 21st century parent dreads:

"I got a LEGO stuck up my nose!"

This is bad. On most things I'm moderately- to overly-cautious. Wear your shoes outside. Don't jump off the top bunk. Don't eat poo. Maintain a 20 foot perimeter around known anthills. etc.

But with LEGO's I've been a little lenient. Timothy had his first Bionicle set when he was 4. The age on the box said 7+. That was bad enough, but Permissions Creep (you know, that's the thing that lets 10-year-old fourth children watch Halloween 27) set in as well. At first we kept the "big boy LEGO's" in Timothy's room, and told Jonah to stay out. This worked for about a month. That same box is now actually in Jonah and Sam's room, and has grown to a 20 gallon Rubbermaid container. So we have a 2- and a 5-year-old with unlimited access to gazillions of LEGO's marked "8+".

(Please note, this does not include the new Zamor Spheres, a.k.a. the Lime Green Balls of Death, which are all hidden away in my office. I've got to draw the line somewhere.)

All this is to say . . . Jonah has a LEGO in his nose.

Now, I don't know about you, but on hearing this phrase the first thing I do is run through my mental catalog, looking for LEGO + Jonah's nose + worst possible thing. (Actually, this was the second thing. The first thing I did was to say a word that I later had to tell Jonah never to repeat and that I promised him I would never say again.)

As to the worst possible LEGO that could get stuck in Jonah's nose, I came up with this:
According to www.peeron.com (yes, of course I have an account, don't you?), this is a "Brick, 1 x 1 Round with Solid Stud". The "Round" part means that for something that is rather large (preschool nose-wise, anyway), it is of the right shape to perfectly block the nasal passage. That "Solid Stud" bit means that air cannot go through it.

So this is what is going through my mind as I begin to look up Jonah's nose.

And I see . . . nothing. Another not child-friendly word. Another apology.

Here's how my mind works. When I don't see the Brick, 1 x 1 Round with Solid Stud, I don't think, "perhaps it is something else." I think, "Oh, @#$*, that thing is so far up there that I can't see it." Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Instead, it's evidence to me that my son has a LEGO embedded in his brain and that we're going to the emergency room.

So I go to get a flashlight. And while I'm doing this, two things happen. One, I realize that we don't have any Bricks, 1 x 1 Round with Solid Stud. They were discontinued when I was a kid (yes, i actually know this; and regardless of what you think, in LEGO nerd-dom, I am barely a lance corpral). What we do have are Bricks, 1 x 1 Round with Hollow Stud.

See. There's a hole. No death involved.

The second thing that happens is a sneeze. Jonah sneezes.

My wife, in reward for her role in trying to comfort Jonah, shrieks, "Ewww! Where is it?"

And, sure enough, hanging from her knee, embedded in . . . well, you know what, is the LEGO. And it's not a Brick, 1 x 1 Round anything. It's this:
Except that it's black (well, green and black). It's a Technic Axle 2 Notched, of which we have more than a hundred in the uber-bin upstairs.

After resuming normal breathing, I ask Jonah, "Why did you stick a LEGO up your nose?" (Actually, although in the process of calming, I use a milder, although still apology-worthy word in the above sentence.)

His answer: "I don't know." Which means that he had this thing in his hand and thought, "I can stick this up my nose" without any awareness of, or thought toward, any long-term consequences.

This is why we don't let them have guns. Or vote.