Two

Hey, can anyone else believe this?

Wakey wakey

Rocco was really big into sign language for awhile but recently he’s traded in his signs for words, most of which are so far off from the real words (for example, “star” is “baba” and “shoe” is “hey”) that I’m pretty sure the aliens have been teaching him to speak.  It’s certainly not his older brother, who has only taught him how to say, “OW, ROCCO, NO!  NO TOUCH BROTHER!”

Anyway, when Rocco gets up in the morning it’s often waaaaayy too early for us (like 4:30AM too early) so we ignore him until it’s impossible to ignore him, at which point we periodically open the door a crack, toss a toy or a crust of bread into the crib, and leave. This usually lasts until 6AM when he resorts to one of his evil wake-up plans:

Rocco’s evil wake-up plan #1: He stands in the crib looking worried, yelling, “POOP DIAPER! POOP DIAPER! MAMA DADA POOP DIAPER!” (It’s a lie.) (We’re super gullible though.)

Rocco’s evil wake-up plan #2: He stands in the crib demanding loudly, “PINK BOWL NOM NOMS. OCCO HUNG-EE. PINK BOWL NOM NOMS.”  He’s taking advantage of the fact that I’m a feeder.  I cave every time.

Rocco’s evil wake-up plan #3: He lays in the crib, moaning pitifully, “Mama hug. Mama hug. Mama Dada hug,” which is what he calls being picked up—a hug.  Sometimes he actually squeezes out real tears for this one.

We are so weak.

Conversations

1. In a restaurant:

Vincenzo: Mom, we’re sitting at a fancy table…
Me (not looking up from menu): M-hm.
Vincenzo: …because I drew on it!

2. Watching sailboats with Aunt Shel, who had recently taught him about spinnakers:

Vincenzo:  I like the sailboat with the red and white vinegar.

3. Rocco, seeing a clay bracelet Vincenzo had made:

Rocco: Me eat nom nom.
Me: That’s not a nom nom. Rocco.  That’s art.
Rocco: Me eat art.

4. 

Me: Rocco, are you cute?
Rocco: Nay uh-uh.
Me: No? You’re not cute?
Rocco: Uh-huh cute. Rocco cute. Mama cute. Both cute.

Will try to be funny later

until then…

Shoot me now

Vincenzo has gotten addicted to a series of books called Fablehaven.  The more I read them, the more I have begun to really, really hate the author.  Take the first paragraph of the fourth book, for example.  You know—the paragraph that’s there to kick off the book with a bang and grab the reader’s interest:

Kendra Sorenson briskly scraped the head of a wooden match against the rough strip on the side of a rectangular matchbox.  Cupping her hand to shield the new flame, she held the burning match against the blackened wick of a candle stub.  Once the flame spread to the wick, she shook out the match, thin strands of smoke winding upward.

I’m just saying that if I were writing the book (and I’m not, because I could never write books with such slow plots and such long-winded descriptions and such unlikeable, one-sided characters), I would have written that paragraph somewhat differently.  Mine would go something like this:

Kendra lit a candle.

But I didn’t write the book.  So go back to the original, long-winded paragraph.  Stretch it out to the length of a page, then multiply by 525 for the number of pages in this particular book, then multiply that by 5 for the number of books in the series.  What you end up with is one mother who begins wondering what it would feel like to stick toothpicks underneath all her fingernails.

Because surely it couldn’t be as bad as hearing the question, “Mom, will you read some Fablehaven?”

FarmerMouthy

Hello and welcome to MrsMouthy’s farm!  This week we are featuring:

Carrot

(4 for the price of 1, as these are actually all attached.)

Lush, lush basil plants

(The leaves are best when they’re yellow, right?)

And two-foot-tall lettuce

(It’s a bit bitter, which has nothing at ALL to do with the farmer who planted it.)

I was going to make a comment about how while this food looks mutant and/or sick, this is what truly organic food looks like…but then I remembered the neighbor went out and sprayed every last leaf of everything with pesticides a month ago.  64 gallons of pesticides on our two-bed vegetable garden.  He meant well.  He also meant well when he pulled up all the corn I planted to put in his cucumber plants.

Anyway, at least I remembered to cover the blueberry bushes with netting this year so the birds won’t eat all the berries.

Something tells me I forgot to do something else to the bush though…

(I have no idea how anything could die of thirst in the weather we’ve been having.) 

(I think this was suicide.)

Seattle: doing our part to fight global warming

It’s been like this all summer, and I am using the word “summer” quite loosely:

Monday high: 69 degrees

Tuesday high: 75 degrees

Wednesday high: 69 degrees

Thursday high: 62 degrees

Friday high: 63 degrees

Blech.  What’s it like where you are?  I would really love a good drought story…

While I was out…

 

Also: camouflage.  It really works.  (I’m not must dangling a disembodied torso from my left arm.)

Revenge, sweet revenge

So Vincenzo was mad about the inadequate amount of TV I let him watch yesterday. Correction: Vincenzo was batshit crazy insane about the inadequate amount of TV I let him watch yesterday. He was rolling around the floor using his nastiest nails-on-chalkboard whine-yell to let everyone in the neighborhood know how he felt.

I do not like that sound. It makes me want to hurt people around me. And so I asked Rocco if he’d like to come outside with me until Vincenzo felt better and could join us. Rocco, apparently, did not like the screaming either and eagerly agreed.

As I left my howling, kicking, yowling 5-year-old in the living room and left for the yard, something told me there was something wrong with my plan but my brains were all scrambled from that primal screaming and I left anyway.

And that’s how I found myself and Rocco completely (and intentionally) locked out of the house.

Fortunately Kevin came home from work five minutes later and I coolly walked in through the front door while Vincenzo looked on.

I later found myself in a conversation with Vincenzo about how “big misbehaviors call for big consequences” and *POOF* his weekend video game time disappeared.

Hey, by the way, does anyone have a good response for your kid when he tells you you made him so sad he wants to die?

And is it juvenile for me to get back at him by telling the whole world that he accidentally pooped a little in his pants yesterday?

What details?

I would love to be the kind of mom who…

1.  doesn’t allow snacks in the car, especially Saltines
2.  never has to borrow diapers from strangers in public restrooms
3.  always has some kind of kids’ music or enrichment CD handy in the car
4.  always puts the kids in PJs before bed
5.  knows how to keep library books separated from home books
6.  packs lunches in neat little color-coordinated containers instead of a hodgepodge of grocery bags, bread bags, and random scraps of foil
7.  always wipes food off of her kids’ faces after meals

I’m not saying the fundamentals of my parenting are flawed (I’m also not saying they’re not); it’s just the details I sometimes overlook.  But give me a birthday party to plan and a month ahead of time I will have wrapped the plastic ware in thematic napkin decorations…

covered our living room chairs in contact paper to fit the theme…

hand-cut 100 paper cars for decorations…

and made and printed my own checkered paper because the craft stores didn’t have any, then cut it into flags for a banner.

MrsMouthy.  Master of Priority.