Monthly Archives: May 2010

Happy Mother’s Day, Love Potatoes

Came home to this yesterday:
And this:
From the first grader: A love collage.
And last, but not least–from my eight year old–probably the funniest card I've ever received. I have to take a picture because I'll probably give it to it's rightful owner. First, the front of the card:

And now, the big finish:

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Seven Year Old Stand Up

I had one of my nephews over for the day. He's the same age as my seven-year-old, and they were making up jokes for me. 
You know the kind.
Anyway, after saying, for the fiftieth time, "I don't know, why did the_______ cross the road?" they actually hit on some funny ones:
What did the ceiling say to the floor?
I have more fans than you!

What did the ceiling say to the floor?
Why do you let everyone walk all over you?

What did the mustard say to the jam?
Lets do the jelly.

Okay, I didn't get that one either. But orange you glad it wasn't a knock-knock joke?

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Over My Head

About that last post:

My father points out that, considering my two oldest children are almost six feet tall, I'm actually in over my head.

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Up to Here

One of the six year old girls I tend–the oldest in her family–was watching my elementary school age children go in and out this morning, getting ready for school, as they asked for help with hair combing and such. 
"Kimber!" she exclaimed, "You have kids up to your neck!"
(By which she meant that even my youngest boys were getting almost as tall as me–but it's fitting, any way you interpret it.)

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A Soft Answer

I'm a pretty decent driver. 
At least, I haven't had an accident since I was sixteen years old, and I've never scored myself a ticket; the only vehicular damage I've ever done is to fold back one of the folding mirrors on our cargo van a few years ago on one of the pillars at the bank's drive-thru.
That's not to say I don't make some driving errors: occasionally turning a little short or wide, more abrupt than necessary lane changes, or forgetting whose turn it is at the four-way stop. Occasionally.
At rush hour. 
Anyway. What I thought, as the driver in the car behind me laid on the horn, was that really, if we wanted to apply a balm to road rage, someone should invent a sort of vehicular twitter: a flashing message zone that would run around the bumper of your car. 
It could be preprogrammed with set phrases, that would pop up at the push of a button, to say things like, "I'm so sorry! I'm a complete idiot; that was my fault." 
Don't you think that would suck some of the indignation out of the other driver?
Or maybe even helpful phrases like: "Your dress is caught in the door." Or "Check behavior of minor(s) in rear seat."
Surely you've found yourself wishing there was a slightly more effective communication mode than blinking lights, blaring horns, and/or violent pantomimes. If only because when that other driver is already (justifiably or not) ticked, you dare not even make an apologetic wave lest it be misinterpreted as rage on your own part.
They can install GPS and DVD players, why not one little bumper billboard system?
It's the next big thing, I'm telling you.

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NO, Please, Not That!

Some time ago our school district mailed me six separate letters, which I confessed to tossing. 

Today I got this terse little note:
Dear Parents:

If your student has not turned in his/her ethnicity paperwork to the office, administration will be forced to determine the ethnicity of your student. Thank you in advance for the return of this form.

I don't know about you, but I'm all a-tremble…

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Taking the Guesswork out of Dinner

Studying the Old Testament in Sunday school this year. The story of the Israelites and manna today. Somebody asked the question: How could the Israelites complain about food that miraculously appears on the ground every morning? 
The class consensus, which I didn't bother to challenge, was that after a year or so of eating the same stuff, everyone would get bored. 
I know my children would; food "miraculously" appears for them all the time and they never seem very satisfied/grateful with it–there is more variety and abundance of food in my house at this very moment than probably occupied my childhood home in three years time, and still they are making lists of things I "need" to pick up tomorrow. 
So I didn't speak up with a dissenting opinion, but what I was really thinking, sitting there, was that if manna were to fall from heaven tomorrow, and the day after that, and on for forty years–wouldn't that take the guesswork out of dinner for the rest of my natural life?
I think I could go for manna. 
Breakfast is outside in the grass, children; if you think you'll be hungry later, gather enough for your lunch and dinner, too. What? You don't want to get out of bed? You're sick of manna? Huh. I guess you'll be hungry today. 

How perfect would that be?

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8 Felines, a Mink, Rabbits, and a Dead Snake

I should probably own up to the fact that I have a cat. 
I have a cat.
See? It just sounds fundamentally wrong. 
Now add seven. 

I have eight cats. 

Crazy. Crazy cat lady. 
Traditionally, every winter, a stray kitten adopts us; it sits outside our sliding glass door shivering and eventually someone takes pity and feeds it scraps from the table and the leftover daycare kid milk–which, by the way, adds up to a lot of milk. Enough to entice the cat to stay. 
So it's my cat, right? Because I fed it. 
But I never get the cat fixed/declawed/whatever it is a responsible cat owner does, because invariably, within a few months the hawks or the coyotes catch up with it. Or once, I think I drove off with one under my hood. (Do not tell my kids that.) And besides. I'm not an animal owner. I don't do veterinary clinics.
But this cat has proven more wily than the rest; she's survived 18 months so far. And had nineteen kittens. (Adopted out: 8, part of the neighborhood food chain: 3, freak accident: 1, living under the jungle gym:7.)
I said–after the last litter–that the cat must go. Note the absence of an honest-to-goodness moniker. I refuse to name the beast. But she's still here. Because who wants to kill a cat? And how does one transport a clawed animal to the pound?
She does keep the rodents at bay.
Also the mink that ran up our steps, bold as brass, a few days ago. 
(Yes, a mink.  I had never seen one before; I had no idea they were so fearless. Or beautiful.)
Not to mention the snake. As for the rabbits, I really couldn't care less if she leaves them alive or not–just so long as she keeps them off my porch.
I'm getting tired of challenging her right to enter my home though. She runs in, I chase her out. She runs in, I throw her out. She runs in–it's like the Flintstones, only I have a better arm than Fred ever did.
And now there are eight. Eight!

You know how many dead animals eight cats could bequeath me with in the middle of the night?

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