Do As I Say

I do my best to not curse in front of the kids. Sometimes something might slip out, but I'm more apt to use nonsense words. In fact, I was quite proud of myself the other day when I said "son of a gun" in a moment of road rage. But apparently I need to censor myself a little better because over the weekend, during a debate about donuts, Abby said, "OK, I'll put the flippin' donut back."

(Incidentally, I believe my kids would do just about anything for a donut. I like donuts, but geesh. Really?)

Sticks and Stones

Video games. A parent's best friend and worst nightmare. If you need your kid, your son probably, to sit quietly on a plane ride or long drive, a new video game is a godsend. But just when you're singing its praises and thinking, "Oh, a good 'ol video game isn't so bad," it gets in the way of the simplest activities, like blinking or urinating in a toilet.

In anticipation of a Spring Break vacation Bryon bought the boys Pokemon Black and Pokemon White for Nintendo DS. Apparently Pokemon Black and Pokemon White are hot right now and appeal to a range of players. I believe my 16-year-old nephew mowed down a few 8-year-olds to get his copy. (I'm looking at you John Wyatt.)

Well we didn't go anywhere and toward the end of our Spring Break stay-cation, when the wheels were really falling off, we agreed that nobody deserved a video game. But the boys caught on, and when they found out Pokemon Black and Pokemon White were in the house but not in their hot little hands, you would've thought we were depriving them of food and oxygen.

When we finally turned over the games, the boys had agreed to a new task/reward system that includes feeding the pets, doing dishes, making beds, guitar and drum practice, carrying groceries and kissing my butt as much as possible.

All was well until about 4:30 today when Sam lost his game. I don't understand how this happens with kids but he was lying across Jake's bed playing the game, game in hand. Not 30 seconds later, it had disappeared.

My kids have two ways to look for lost things. One, they stand in a single spot and spin, much like a water sprinkler. Or, they remove all the cushions from the couch.

This afternoon I was working and in the middle of something a little confusing so I told Sam he had to look on his own for 10 minutes before I could help.

"You're a big help," he yelled at me, before stomping upstairs, to sprinkler-spin presumably.

I was simultaneously hurt and angered by his remark. On one hand, he was right. I wasn't helping at all. A kinder, gentler mother would probably sigh and get up and smile while turning over rugs and lifting furniture.

On the other hand, there comes a time, somewhere after a ninth birthday I have decided, that "you lost it, you find it." I never saw these video games; they went straight from Bryon to the boys to their DS to the sanctum of lost toys. I didn't ask Sam to help me find my favorite bottle of nail polish or my black flats.

But a few minutes after the hurtful remark, I went up to help him and sure enough he was standing in the middle of his room staring. Since he had been lying on Jake's bed, I went over and flicked the bedspread and sure enough, there was the game.

Now if I could just find my flats.

Yee Haw

To cap off the weeklong celebration of all things Texas, Jake's class got to dress like cowboys today. Jake was thrilled. Sam was mortified. I guess that's the difference between six years old and nine years old.

The Ugly Truth

Those who know me know I love animals. I have had at least one pet, usually two or three, all my life. I willingly allowed a family of raccoons to come into our house every day for three years to eat. I once stopped my car mid-road to move a turtle to safety. I take in strays. I donate to the SPCA. I buy cleaning supplies for animal services. I think the animal shelter is one of the saddest places on earth, and despite my beliefs in justice, religion and redemption, I think Michael Vick should spend the rest of his life in jail, watching videos of kittens and puppies.

I say all this because I, of all people, ran over my neighbors' cat on Sunday. My neighbors, Cathey Ann and Blackie, who are like family. And Bully the cat, the 18-year-old wise man of the block. The cat that all the others respected. The cat that was welcomed at homes up and down our street. The cat that liked to sit in my red chair and look out the window and sleep on top of my washing machine.

Because of Bully's age, the vet at the emergency clinic (where I was just 2 months ago with Phineas) said he wasn't a good candidate for surgery and so Blackie and I sat with him while the vet put him to sleep. Cathey Ann, bless her heart, was in the air somewhere over Milwaukee.

Blackie and I buried him next to Phineas.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Catching Up

In the month of February all three kids and I had the flu. (Me twice, yay!) Jake didn't complain much but he was very lethargic and compliant - sure signs he didn't feel well. One day, at the height of his flu, he slept from 11 a.m. until 7 a.m. the next morning. And when he woke up he was a different kid.

You see, Jake has been known to be obstinate. And irritable. And defensive. Like a typical 6-year-old, some people ask. No, not like a typical 6-year-old, unless that 6-year-old is Mel Gibson.

But truly since that day he has been sweet, gracious, helpful. He sits and practices his alphabet, he colors, he cleans up after himself (and others), he plays with Abby. He hugs.

I'm not saying the 24-hour nap and his behavior are actually related, but if I ever have to pinpoint the time his little brain and body finally synchronized, it was that Tuesday morning.

Paving the Way

Sam: Do you think Jesus invented cement?

Me: No. No I do not.

Sam: Yeah. He was probably too busy saving souls and performing miracles.