That makes no sense to me whatsoever

Kellen has been asking me for a week to buy him a new notebook for math. Not just any notebook, but one with a green cover. Because apparently that is what the math teacher requires. Never mind that I have a stack of unused notebooks here at the house he could use, in all colors of the rainbow (except green, duly noted) and even one with cute little puppies on it. NO -- it must be green.

I kept forgetting to go and buy the dang notebook. Yesterday after school he pointed out to me that he had used his very last sheet of paper, and I promised --SWORE-- that I would go to the store last night and buy him a green notebook to take to school so he doesn't have to fill out an "expectation form" in math today.

At 4:30 am, I woke up, and remembered I had forgotten to buy the notebook, again.

At 4:33 am, I remembered that Brayden needed a box of vanilla wafers, a can of white icing, and 22 paper plates for art class.

At 4:40 am, I gave a tired sigh for how pathetic and forgetful I am as a mother, and dragged my sorry butt out of bed.

Did you know it's not very crowded AT ALL at Wal-Mart at 5 am on a weekday morning?

And that shopping at Wal-Mart, when its not very crowded, and you practically have the whole store to yourself, is actually not such a terrible ordeal. You can browse aisle after aisle, without dodging other carts or other shoppers --- although you do have to dodge the employees and their ginormous carts and dollies, because apparently 5 am is when they restock all the merchandise.

The notebook, wafers, icing, and paper plates (and, ahem, browsing) cost me $137.00

The "other" essential, important, life-altering items that I bought were placed in the new laundry basket I picked up ... and I left it in the van when I got back home. When I drove the kids to school this morning, Kendrie asked me to drop them off in the outside car lane. Normally when I drive them to school, I drop them in the inside car lane and the principal opens the car door for them.

I asked, "Why do you want me to go in the outside lane?"

Her reply: "Because of that basket with all that junk in it! I don't want the principal to see what a mess our van is!"

Hmmmmm. This from a child who never puts her shoes in her room at night, refuses to throw anything away, and is clearly allergic to placing her clothes in a dirty laundry basket. And for the record, the laundry basket was the ONLY thing in my van that was out of order.

So it makes no sense to me whatsoever that Kendrie would care.

But since she does, I think the trick might be for me to invite the principal over to our home for a social visit. Maybe THEN she would be motivated to pick up her damn stuffed animals.

No Wonder

During the twenty-six months that Kendrie was on treatment for leukemia, she took 2121 pills. Approximately 2121 times, we encouraged her to try to take them the “normal” way ….. just pop them in her mouth and swallow with water.

During the twenty-six months that Kendrie was on treatment, she had to swallow numerous doses of nasty-tasting liquid Zantac to counter-act the stomach upset caused by the steroids. She hated the stuff, so we encouraged her to learn to down it quickly, like a shot … just toss it back and swallow.

When her treatment was over she developed exercise-induced asthma and started doing an inhaler before soccer games and practice. We encouraged her to learn to use her inhaler properly …… take a deep breath, hold it in your lungs, let it out slowly.

Last month she developed a wicked cough that the doctor thought might be helped with a twice-daily inhaler, so we made doubly sure she knew the proper way to inhale.

Today we took her back to the doctor because not only was the cough worse but she was also complaining about ear pain and was (is) completely stuffed up. The doctor said to discontinue the twice-daily inhalers but gave her a steroid nasal spray to use in an attempt to dry her up. So Blaine has spent the evening teaching her the proper way to snort something up her nose (something I simply, totally, and plainly CANNOT DO because just the thought grosses me the hell out.)

So basically, we’ve spent her entire life teaching her the various ways to use drugs. Short of explaining a beer bong or IV cocaine or how to shoot up between her toes, there is nothing now she cannot do successfully.

And yet we’ll be shocked when she DOESN’T “just say no”.

Go figure.

What did you say again???

The other day, Kendrie brought home from school two little paper dolls ... or something .... that they used for a math game ... I think. I wasn't really sure ... she was just talking and talking ..... Obviously, I was paying very close attention when she emptied her bookbag and showed me.

A few minutes later, as I stood in the kitchen making dinner, she sat at the table behind me, playing with the dolls.

I heard the following words come out of her mouth: "You are total sexy, and fine!"

My head swiveled around .... "WHAT did you just say????"

She looked up at me, the picture of innocence, and replied, "Twenty-six, and five. The numbers on my math dolls."

I looked more closely, and sure enough, those numbers were written on the dolls.

Oh ... um.... never mind. My bad.

A thousand words .....

Cute little sandals:



Precious little sequins:



An adorable little bow:




An 8-yr old tomboy, HORRIFIED that someone might actually see her in a dress at a wedding:

An 8-yr old Interview

If you could have one superpower, what would it be? To run really fast.


What was the last chore you did? Empty trash cans. The ones in the house.





What was the last movie you went to see in the theater? I’m forgetting the name of it. Wait, hang on. What was the name of that new movie that just came out?


What he is your favorite song? The Cheating Song {Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood}





Do you get an allowance? How much? Ten dollars, as long as you do all your chores.


How do you get to school? My mom takes me to school and I ride the brown bus home.





What do you like to eat for lunch? Nachos. And hot dogs. And mashed potatoes. And peaches.


What’s the nicest thing you’ve done lately for someone in your family? Told Daddy the truth about something. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore since Daddy already took money off my chore chart for it.





What makes you mad? When Brayden and Kellen sing that song {Run, Joey, Run} and then it gets stuck in my head.


Where would you like to go on vacation next year? Georgia, because all my friends are here.





What do you think of the house we are going to move into in Oklahoma? Lager won’t be able to get up the stairs.


What would be the most perfect pet in the world, and what would you name it? A dog and I would name it Lager Jr. And a hamster and I would name it Willy since our hamster in kindergarten named Willy died but then Nicholas bought a new one.


Who is your favorite relative and why? My cousin Lawson because he’s almost my age and we play games every time I go to his house.

HAPPY GIRL ON A FLASHBACK FRIDAY

To the millions and millions of people … ok, thousands of people ….. well, maybe hundreds ….. OK to the HALF DOZEN people who have commented that Kendrie looks just like her dad, I offer the following photographic proof that she is indeed the fruit of my loins (in case my twelve hours of labor wasn't proof enough):



Kristie and Kendrie. Both photos taken at age 3. Hmmmm, notice I am eating cake? Not much has changed in the past 37 years. Notice also the complete incongruity of my mother's faith in me and my eating skills: I am eating my birthday cake off a crystal serving plate, but forced to sit on cartoons from the newspaper so I won't spill cake crumbs all over the carpet.

Who do I think she looks like now? I don’t know for sure, but I **DO** know she is one happy girl. So take THAT, big fat poopy head cancer.

PS. Amy in the guestbook: No, I'm not six feet tall, although I wish I were so my height would (then) be appropriate for my weight, unlike the disproportionate mess I am now. The tiny pixie-fairy standing next to me is Nicholas's mom, Susan ... my short neighbor and friend ... and possible potential mother-in-law! Er, wait ... she would be *Kendrie's* MIL ... what the heck would she be to me???

Tracy in the guestbook: Thanks for the nice comment, but the sign hid the bulk of my ass and thighs. Too bad "Eating" isn't an Olympic sport ... that gold medal would have my name written all over it.

THE FAMILY BED. IT’S NOT FOR WIMPS. IT’S NOT FOR ME, EITHER.

When my children were born, we brought them home from the hospital and they all three slept in a bassinette next to our bed. Well, one at a time, of course. When I had to get up during the night to nurse or give a bottle, I would take the baby to the living room and do so in the rocking chair, returning the baby, ALWAYS returning the baby, to the bassinette. Then, after a few months, we would move the baby into a crib in their own bedroom. We NEVER brought our children into our bed, not even if they were fussy, and I was quite smug about it. Not because I believed those rumors that you might roll over on your baby and smother him or her (well, ok, I worried about that a little) but mainly because my kids always went to bed {reasonably} easy, in their own rooms, in their own cribs, then later, in their own toddler beds, and for the most part, it wasn’t a big battle. And, selfish me didn’t have to share my bed. Blaine and I bought a king-sized bed for a reason … I like my space when I’m sleeping. I have a dear friend whose daughter insisted on sleeping with him and his wife through her toddler-hood and beyond, until in desperation, he nailed a baby gate across their bedroom door so she couldn’t come in the room at night. No amount of bribery or positive (or negative) reinforcement worked for them, and I felt smug because we never had that problem. Smug because obviously? I am the perfect parent whose children put themselves to sleep in their own beds. I. Am. Fabulous.

Then, Kendrie was diagnosed with leukemia. After her initial two week stay in the hospital, I was dumbfounded to discover the nurses were going to send her home. With us! To our house! To be taken care of by two people who had no nursing skills whatsoever and whose entire worlds had just been turned upside down--- how were WE supposed to take care of a little kid with cancer??? Despite my pleading and begging, no nurse would come home with us; to tell us what to do, what medicines to give, when to give them, how to give them, and calm the panic that had overtaken us. It was like bringing home a newborn baby, only without the joy and excitement and enthusiasm.

So what was the first thing we did, in order to keep an eye on her 24/7? Bring her toddler bed into our room, of course. That smug parenting attitude of mine had gone right out the window, and I wasn't feeling so fabulous about myself anymore. I needed to be able to get up during the night -- repeatedly -- to check her for fever. So that if she cried out in pain, or had a bad dream, we could be there in an instant. So that when she was so swollen and aching from the induction phase of chemo that she couldn’t get herself to the bathroom during the night, we could pick her up and carry her. I don’t even remember how long we kept her bed in our room … a few weeks? A month? I don’t remember. Eventually we moved her back into her room, the one she shares with her brother, and bought them a bunk bed, but we struggled for a long while with her wanting back in our room. And since the toddler bed had been given away at that point, that meant she wound up in our bed. With us. A bony, knees and elbows flailing lump of child-mass right in the middle of our bed. The very thing we had always prided ourselves on avoiding.

Eventually we got her back in her own bed (around the time she started Pre-K, employing the “big girls sleep in their own bed” line of reasoning) and she would only come into our room if she had a bad dream, or thought she saw a spider (what is it with my kids and their freaky obsession slash fear of spiders?) I was feeling pretty fabulous again. But when Blaine went to Seattle this past May, she came back in my bed, and I allowed it because with Grandma in the house for several weeks, we needed the extra bed. But now? She’s like an uninvited party guest who JUST. WON’T. LEAVE!!

She’s sneaky, though. Every night we put her to bed in her own bed, and she falls asleep there. We go to bed, happily spreading out as only king-size mattress people can do. Then, sometime during the night, Kendrie slinks into our bed, like a cat burglar. Quietly, stealthily. I don’t even realize it until her elbow hits me across the nose, or I get a fist in the side of my head, or a knee in the kidney. Because she doesn’t share Blaine’s side of the bed, oh, no. HE still gets an entire half of the bed, but I’m left sharing my half with her. And you know what? HAVING FUN! I'M NOT!!!

I sleep the whole night in the same position, facing the wall, balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, with my back to her, to avoid being poked in the eye or having my windpipe crushed when she flings an arm out. Of course, she spends the wee hours of the morning poking me in the back, but at least those bruises can be hidden from the public eye. I can’t roll over, or move my pillow to get more comfortable. Heaven forbid I try to claim my fair share of the covers. It’s like a really uncomfortable twin-bed slumber party and I wake up, NOT feeling rested or refreshed.

Then the kicker was Saturday night. She knocked a tooth out on Saturday (don’t ask) and where did the tooth go that night? Under MY pillow! She didn’t even PRETEND she would be in her own bed, it went straight under my pillow. So not only did I sleep poorly that night, avoiding her elbows and knees and hugging my edge of the mattress, but I had to be careful not to stick my hand under the pillow and accidentally knock her tooth or the subsequent dollar out of the way.

About 5am, I realized how ridiculous it was and just got up. But then I was very cranky because it was SUNDAY, and thanks to my daughter, I was up at 5am. So I told Blaine, “That’s it. Tonight, I don’t care what time it is or how tired you are, I’m waking your ass up and you’re going to put her back in her own bed!” because why should I be the only one suffering? Maybe if I make him suffer the consequences as well, he’ll be a little more vested in fixing the problem. (The truth? I’m just too lazy to carry her back to bed so I came up with the whole “vested” argument to justify waking him up.)

***************************************************

UPDATE: I wrote the above portion of this journal entry on Sunday afternoon, anticipating a total meltdown Sunday night when we kicked her out of our bed. This is what actually happened:

I’ll be damned if she didn’t sleep through the night in her own bed last night. The first time in over three months. I was so startled that I woke up at 5am, reflexively flinching to avoid her elbow, only to realize she wasn’t there, and then I couldn’t go back to sleep! But for six glorious hours I had my pillow and my blanket to myself ………. Ahhhhhhhh, heaven!

Obviously, just writing about the problem, actually putting pen to paper (er, fingers to keyboard) solved it. Right? Say it out loud, and the problem disappears?? So, in that vein, be on the lookout for journal entries on the following topics, which I hope will then solve themselves as well:

**MY KIDS AND THEIR FREAKY OBSESSION SLASH FEAR OF SPIDERS

**BRAYDEN AND THE DRAMA OF THE HOMEWORK; TEARS, THREATS, AND TANTRUMS!

**KELLEN, THE BOY WHO SURVIVES ON TWENTY FIVE CALORIES A DAY, and

**KENDRIE, UM, WHAT'S THIS THING CALLED A LAUNDRY BASKET? AND WHAT IS IT FOR?

IF IT WALKS LIKE A DUCK, AND TALKS LIKE A DU …. ER, GIRL.

In case you’ve never noticed, there might have been a time or two in the past when I’ve lamented endlessly, droned on and on, alluded briefly to the fact that Kendrie is a **wee** bit of a tomboy. She prefers boys’ clothes, boys’ bikes and toys, boys' activities, boys’ shoes, etc. She says her hair is too long and she wants to get it cut “like a boy”. She says when she grows up, she wants to be “a boy”. The only reason I think a sex-change operation is NOT in her future is because she’s madly in love with her boyfriend Nicholas and says when they grow up they are going to get married and have eighteen children (Oh, my. How long my Christmas gift list will be!) But you get my point --- she’s a total and complete tomboy, not a girly bone in her whole body.

We are so accustomed to her wearing Spiderman clothes and Power Ranger shoes and baseball caps and carrying a Star Wars back-pack that we don’t even notice. *I* know she’s a girl, and if you could hear her little-girl voice, you would know as well, despite outward appearances. There were, however, three instances this week that brought to my attention that to the world at large, she really does fool people with her outward presence.

Instance #1: I took the kids shopping at Target for school supplies. She happened to be out of underwear (WHERE does all the underwear go? Is there some giant black hole, a vacuum in the universe filled with socks and panties that have lost their home?) and so I told her to grab a couple of pair. She asked for boys’ briefs but I told her no, so she chose Curious George panties. We went on to fill our cart with items from the school supply list; notebooks, pencils, folders, etc. Upon checkout, each kid was adamant that *their* items be rung up and bagged separately so they could carry their own because God forbid we get Kellen’s dark-blue wide-ruled spiral notebook confused with Brayden’s dark-blue wide-ruled spiral notebook (Deep breath! Count to ten! In through the nose; out through the mouth!) and as Kendrie was having her own school supply items bagged, Brayden spotted the Curious George panties in the cart, and said loudly, “Don’t forget your panties!” before tossing them on the conveyer belt. Without batting an eye, Kendrie said, “Oh, thanks” and handed them to the cashier. The Target employee had the funniest look on her face, and glanced at me, like, “Seriously? What is wrong with you? You’re making your little boy wear Curious George panties?? What kind of sick-o ARE you???” I actually felt self-conscious, and found myself fumbling through an explanation …. “Oh, yeah, really, she’s a girl, she just looks like a boy, um, yeah.”

Instance #2: Then, later that same evening, I took Kendrie, by herself, shopping for school clothes. We did have a bit of an issue this year, as she, as usual, only wants to wear boy clothes. Namely, denim shorts and t-shirts with various action heroes on the front and/or any manner or method of camouflage. I don’t care … I really, really don’t care …. but not the first day or two of school. I want her to go to tonight’s Meet & Greet the Teachers at the school dressed like a G.I.R.L. Is that so much to ask?? So we compromised on what we called “tomboy clothes” ….. things like cargo pants and polo-style shirts. (But I managed to sneak in a shirt with pink stripes!) Anyway, we were at the department store and needed to try the clothes on so I went to the saleslady to get a key to the girls’ dressing room. She looked at me, looked at Kendrie, looked back at me, looked back at Kendrie, and then said, “You know, they have dressing rooms in the boys’ section as well.”

Hmmmm.

Once again, I found myself fumbling through an explanation of how believe it or not, she’s a girl, she just doesn’t dress like one.

It doesn’t help that the shaggy-haired look is in now, thanks to those demon twins Zack and Cody from Disney. When Kendrie was bald it was easy for me to be indignant when people called her “little buddy” or “fellow” because “She has CANCER for pete’s sake, how can you be so insensitive?!?” And now, I’m trying desperately to grow her hair out longer, but so is every other little boy on the planet, so she STILL looks like a boy. The dinosaur shirts and Yu-Gi-Oh tennis shoes only serve to intensify the image.

And you know, the bottom line is that I don’t care if she wears boys’ clothes. I’ve said it before, it just doesn’t matter to me. But at what point does it matter to others?

Instance #3 comes with a bit of history …. When I was in the 8th grade, I was in the marching band at my high school. We used to have Monday night practices at the football field during the summer to learn our marching routines before school started and the first football game of the season. Being August in Oklahoma, it was hot. Center of the sun hot. Those of us who weren’t old enough to drive ourselves to and from practice had our parents drop us off and pick us up when it was over. Sometimes our parents and siblings would stay, or come back early and watch. My rosy-colored memory of Monday night band practices include parents sitting in the stands, proudly watching us hack our way through Billy Joel’s “My Life”, sipping lemonade and enjoying a warm summer night. I’m sure my parent’s memory is not quite so Normal Rockwell …. And more likely involves sweltering in the stands in the scorching temperatures and the grudging annoyance of a chauffeur who is forced to listen to the theme to “Superman” twenty bajillion times waiting for us to just GET IT RIGHT SO WE CAN GO HOME PEOPLE!!!

Anyway, there was a girl in the band named Beth, who was the same age as me; around thirteen at the time. She had two younger sisters; the youngest was probably six. One night, her mom drove up at the end of band practice and the sister came with her into the stands to watch us finish up practice. What I remember --- clearly --- is that she came to practice with just shorts on. No shoes, no shirt. (The six-yr old, not the mom!) Hey, it was probably 99 degrees outside, can you blame her? But apparently, at the age of 13, in between the hours I spent feathering my hair and applying my Bonnie Bell lip gloss, I also attended Parenting School. While I don’t remember actually going to any classes, or reading any books, I obviously was a star student and knew everything there was to know about parenting, because I took one look at Beth’s little sister, shirtless, and turned up my nose and deemed Beth’s mother as totally-crazy-in-the-head.

I mean, who DOES that? Who lets their six-year old to go out IN PUBLIC with no shirt on??? What kind of irresponsible, lazy mother would allow that to happen?

The answer to your question, in the year 2006, is: ME.



Yep, add boys swim trunks to the list of items Kendrie prefers. Preferably with sharks on them. She’s worn them for two summers now. I have no doubt they are way more comfortable than girls swimming suits, and hey, you never see Kendrie digging the world’s worst wedgie out of her butt like other little girls are doing. And you know what??? I. DON’T. CARE. Who cares? It’s not like she’s a sexual creature, coming out of kindergarten. Who really cares??? Well, my sister for one. TOTALLY offended by this when we were home this summer. So offended, that at her request I told Kendrie she couldn’t swim at her 4th of July party unless she was willing to wear a shirt over the trunks and you know what? Thirty-odd kids swimming and playing and laughing in the pool, and Kendrie passed on the whole thing. Just wasn’t worth it to her.

Anyway, we were at our friend’s community pool yesterday, enjoying our Last-Swim-Session-Of-Summer (have I mentioned to you that school starts TOMORROW??!?) and Kendrie needed to use the restroom. She asked me to walk her around to the bathrooms (hey, at least I know she’s not peeing in the pool, right?) and when we walked in, her wearing boys’ trunks, there was a little girl changing clothes who gave a small shriek and tried to cover up really quick, thinking Kendrie was a boy. I looked at the mom, apologetically, and gave my normal, “No, really, she’s a little girl” speech and you know what? She was looking at me the same exact way I had looked at Beth’s mom all those years ago ….. wondering what kind of freak lets her daughter go out in public, topless like that.

One the one hand, I could blame the whole thing on the cancer experience, and talk about how she wore girls clothes before she was diagnosed, but then how she preferred baseball caps when she was bald and it just evolved from there. But there are lots of little girls who go through chemo and still dress like little girls, choosing frilly, flowery hats instead of ball caps. And there are lots of little girls who’ve never had to endure cancer treatment who still prefer the t-shirts and tennis shoes of their male comrades. So I seriously doubt that’s to blame.

And on the other hand, let me repeat it in case you aren’t clear: I don’t care if she wears boys clothes!!!! Do. Not. Care!!! As long as she’s happy and respectful in her choices, what the heck difference does it make? Wouldn’t it be worse to force her into clothes she hates, just for the sake of what the public at large *thinks* is suitable for her to wear???

But the third hand is that I guess the time has come for me to put my foot down on the topless swim trunks. T-shirts, tennis shoes, camoflauge, and action heroes, OK. But the days of the topless swimming are coming to an end, unless we are vacationing in St. Tropez. Not because *I* care, but because she’ll be seven next summer and I suppose it’s not proper anymore.

(sigh) It’s a hard balancing act …. Letting kids be individuals and make their own choices, especially choices that aren’t hurting a blinking soul, but also trying to help them understand what is appropriate. I am SERIOUSLY hoping that by next summer, a shirt (or even, dare I to dream, a girls tankini!) is acceptable to her, and that she doesn’t just pass on the whole summer like she did this year’s 4th of July party.

But in the meantime, I owe Beth’s mom an apology. I had never been a parent and had no business judging. Now, I *am* a parent, and I get it. Twenty-seven years and one tomboy of my own later, but I finally get it.

ADDENDUM --She just came in here to tell me that NONE of the new "tomboy clothes" we bought are to her liking for Open House tonight .... she has re-dressed herself in a boys' t-shirt. This is going to be an uphill battle, isn't it?

AND WE’RE NOT EVEN FRENCH!

Kendrie -- Day 102 OT

Blaine -- Over-did it a little on the 4th, and spent the last half of the cook out in bed. That, or he was going to pretty drastic measures to get out of helping clean the kitchen afterwards.

As anyone who knows me can attest, I am not a touchy-feely kind of person. It’s not that I’m opposed or anything, I’m certainly not ANTI-touch. It’s just that I’ve never been a physically demonstrative person in public. Maybe because I grew up on a block with all boys and never got the hang of the “girlfriend hug”. (Seriously. Every single playmate I had up until I was 12 or so was male. That explains a lot, doesn’t it?) And the one time I tried to go in for an “air kiss” greeting with a friend, I tripped, fell into him, and almost broke his nose. Not the most graceful of moves. And massages … oh geez, don’t even get me started on massages. Give me a good firm handshake, or a wave hello or goodbye, and I’m perfectly happy.

But with my kids, I am different. I’m a hugger, toucher, kisser, snuggler. I know these years go quickly and one day they won’t be willing to let me smooch all over them, or even hold their hand in public. In fact, I’m guessing it won’t be long before Brayden doesn’t want to be SEEN with me in public! “Drop me off here mom, I prefer to walk the rest of the way. Yes, even in a heat wave/blizzard/typhoon (insert natural disaster of your choice); I don’t mind.”

But for now, they tolerate affection, and sometimes, if I’m really lucky, initiate it themselves. There is nothing on this planet sweeter than a spontaneous hug from a child. And by spontaneous I mean, “NOT motivated by a new pair of roller blades or the promise of chocolate ice cream.”

So imagine my delight the other day at the pool when Kendrie swam up to me, put her hands on each side of my face, and said, “Gimme a kiss, lady”. And right as I was leaning forward, just as I was getting my pucker ready, she shaped her lips into a perfect “O”, and planted an open-mouth kiss right on my lips.

I was so surprised, that what did I do? Laughed hysterically, of course. Which, thank goodness she wasn’t trying to slip me any tongue because that would have been a golden opportunity, me laughing with my mouth wide open.

I asked, still laughing, what she thought she was doing, and she said, “Kissing you like the people do on TV”. Which means either I need to re-evaluate Toon Disney, or they’ve been flipping the channel when I’m not looking. Then she proceeded to tell me I was doing it wrong, and show me the correct moves for “proper” Hollywood kissing. Basically, they consist of turning your head from side to side, and pursing your lips open and closed in an imitation of a dying fish, gasping for air on the beach. And, most importantly, making lots of "Mmmmwwwaaah" noises.

When I tried explaining to her that is how mommies and daddies kiss (let’s not even consider having any other discussion with my six year old at this point) she gave me a look, and said, “Well, it’s certainly not how you kiss Daddy!”

What exactly is the correct answer to that?

The sarcastic answer: “Nope, we’ve been married nineteen years, and we’re exhausted from chasing after you kids. Kissing like that went out the window a long time ago!”

Or, the evasive answer: “Well, mommies and daddies kiss like that in private” (which could open up a whole new can of worms I don’t want to deal with!”)

Or, the honest answer: “That’s something people do when they are a lot older. When nobody else is looking. Except for the people who you saw doing it on tv. And they were just actors. So don’t do it in real life because boys have cooties.”

Or, the answer I gave her:

“Look! There’s the dive stick you couldn’t find earlier -- go get it!”

I thought I had stalled the issue, until I caught her trying to do the same thing to Blaine. Apparently, she has issues. And maybe it’s time for me to be a little LESS affectionate with my children.

Nawwwwwww. The mom in me knows that the Hollywood-kisses will be over soon enough, and I’ll most likely miss them as much as I miss the hugs and hand holding in public.

But in the meantime, remind me to keep my mouth closed around her. Because it appears I’m raising a little perv.

GIFTED PROGRAM RECALL

I’m not sure if it’s the sunshine, or sunscreen vapors, or chlorine, or lake water, but some part of this vacation appears to be sucking brain cells directly out of Kendrie’s head. This weekend my nephew had a ball game and afterwards our entire family went out to eat. The six grown ups sat at one end of the table, and the seven grandkids sat at the other end, eating and laughing and (believe it or not) behaving pretty well. After the meal was over, Kendrie needed to go to the restroom, so I went with her and we had the following conversation:

Kristie: “Are you having a fun time with your cousins?”

Kendrie: “Who?”

Kristie: “Your cousins.”

Kendrie: “Who?”

Kristie, wondering if maybe she’d been out in the sun too long: “Your COUSINS. You know, the four boys sitting with us at the table?”

Kendrie: “Oh, those aren’t my cousins, those are my friends.”

Kristie (laughing slightly): “Well, of course they’re your friends, but they’re also your cousins.”

Kendrie: “How’s that?”

Kristie: “Well, since Aunt Kelly and I are sisters, then all of our kids are cousins.”

Kendrie: “Says who? I don’t think that’s right.”

Kristie: “Of course it’s right. If two sisters or two brothers, or a brother and a sister, have kids, those kids are cousins. That’s the way it works.”

At this point, Kendrie gave me the most Oh-my-gosh-you-are-so-stupid-look, practically snorted in derision, and said in a completely condescending tone: “Uh, yeah. That’s only if you’re JEWISH!!!”

Whaaaaaaaaaaat????

We’ve got to end our vacation before the gifted teacher at her school rescinds the offer.

I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE!

16 Days to Go

So, can you guess what the highlight of our Thanksgiving vacation was? Take a close look at the photos ……….. what is missing? Yep, you figured it out, training wheels!

Check out our cyclist in action:





Oops, obviously we haven’t perfected our technique yet. Braking and turning were the hardest maneuvers to master. Thankfully she figured both out before any serious damage was done.



And as long as you hold your tongue just right, balancing is easy!


That’s the lucky part of living in the south-eastern part of the country ---- the last day of November, and it’s still 60 degrees outside. Of course, if there’s also a brisk wind blowing, mom might be sitting in a lawn chair with her winter coat and gloves on, but the kids are still happy to be playing outside! Well, I should clarify, “happy” until Kendrie rode her bike under the basketball goal, just in time for Kellen to miss a lay-up and the basketball to fall in a perfect, well-defined, slow-motion arc …….. and land square on the top of Kendrie’s head. I’m telling you, they couldn’t have done it again if they had tried!!!

So even though there were tears shed and lots of yelling, maybe NOW they will understand why I make them wear a helmet ….. the heck with spills and injury and concussion, it’s all about those pesky stray basketballs!!!

Hope you are all having a great week,
Kristie
**************************************************
KENDRIE’S PERSPECTIVE:

WORST PART ABOUT HAVING CANCER TODAY: I felt sort of punky at school yesterday so I had the school nurse call my mom and do you know what? My mom had left her cell phone in the car and didn’t realize it ---- so she never called back! I think I should file some sort of abandonment charge or something! Good thing Nurse B. has my back.

BEST PART ABOUT HAVING CANCER TODAY: Did you SEE the number at the top of this entry???? Only sixteen days to go, baby …. SIXTEEN!!!

"LIFE CHANGING EVENTS"

Week #2 of DI #2

a.) Neil Armstrong taking the first steps on the moon.

b.) Jonas Salk inventing the vaccine for polio.

c.) The discovery of penicillin.

d.) The Wright Brothers taking flight for the very first time.

Yes, all these things were amazing, inspiring, and did much to benefit the advancement of the human race. But we had an event of such unbelievable magnitude take place here this week that I believe the history books will have to be re-written to include this earth-shattering incident. My palms were sweaty; my heart soared ….. are you ready to share in the mind-blowing, wonderful news?

KENDRIE LEARNED TO PUMP HERSELF ON THE SWING IN THE BACKYARD!!!!!

Now your first thought might be, “Well good God I would hope so, she’s four and a half!” but you have to remember that our part of Georgia is sorely lacking in the public parks department, and since pulling her out of school last year, she hasn’t had much opportunity to hone this life-altering skill. Your second thought might be, “who cares?” Well, let me tell you, my big fat lazy butt, tired of pushing and pushing and pushing, cares a lot. And more importantly, SHE cares. If you don’t think this is a million-dollar-I-can-accomplish-anything sort of smile, then have your vision checked:




We had another pretty significant occurrence this week, as well. I know you must be thinking, “How can anything possibly compete with the overwhelmingness of a kid learning to pump on the swings?” While maybe not as exhilarating, it was equally warming to my heart.

The kids and I were getting ready yesterday afternoon to pick Blaine up from the Outpatient Surgery Center where he had hernia surgery that morning. (I KNOW! Can you believe it??? First cancer, and now a hernia! I won’t even MENTION the fact he got put on High-Blood Pressure medication this week, too. I have NO idea why he would have high blood pressure, would you? Needless to say, he hit 40 this year and just flat fell apart. I might as well go ahead and add Geritol to my weekly shopping list, at the rate he’s going. What’s next? A walking cane? Removal of the prostate? A colostomy bag???…… but I digress…..)

So the kids and I were getting ready to go pick him up and Kendrie came in my bathroom and asked me if I was going to wear a ball cap. (Bad hair day, you know how it goes.) So I said “No. Are you?” and she replied, “well yeah, I’m bald-headed!”. To which I carefully replied, “Well you know, you’re really not bald anymore. You have a little bit of hair up there on your head.” And she turned around and looked at herself in the mirror. Really looked at herself, then reached up there and rubbed the top of her head. Then, this huge grin spreads across her face and she hollers out, “I’m not bald anymore, woo-hoo, woo-hoo!” and she starts running around my bedroom, doing a dance (which is not much of a dance, it’s more like running in circles, jabbing her arms and hands like she’s boxing, and doing little karate kicks with her legs. In fact, now that I think about it, she looks like a possessed cross between Muhammad Ali and Jackie Chan, suffering from leg cramps. But again with the digressing…..)

So for the first time in months, with the exception of the swimming pool, she went out in public yesterday without grabbing a ball cap on her way out the door. She didn’t wear one today, either. She never acted self-conscious, or like it bothered her, and I’m not sure if it did all these months. But she was so happy at the prospect of having hair on her head again that it brought tears to my eyes. (not big ones, because I’m really not a crying-kind of person, but definitely some little ones.) I don’t know how to tell her that the meds she is getting in this Delayed Intensification phase will probably make it fall out again. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and when school starts in August, she’ll have enough hair to avoid the whole ball-cap/bandana issue.

All I know is that for a few days, she has been running outside every chance she gets to pump herself on the swing and let the breeze blow through her ….. well, her hair. Even if there’s not much of it. And as long as she’s happy, I’m happy.

Thanks for checking in. Thanks for signing the guestbook. Have a wonderful weekend, and if you have a spare minute, stop and swing and enjoy the breeze in your hair.

love, Kristie