Pieces of potato that I picked out of the bottom of my oven.
Just when I think I finally have a handle on how to cook for my family, I blow up a baked potato and find myself on my hands and knees scraping off veggie shrapnel from the far right corner of my oven.
Seriously? How hard is it to bake a potato? You wash it, poke it a bunch of times with a fork and viola! It’s ready to toss into the oven. I’ve done this a million times.
Well apparently this time I missed poking one last week – or I only poked it half as many times as I should have. Because while I was waiting for dinner I heard a loud boom and peeked into the oven to find that one of the potatoes was hollowed out with it’s insides shattered in a million pieces on my oven floor.
Dang.
The best part? The oven was too hot for me to clean up the mess and I forgot about it for several days. It wasn’t until I started smelling some serious charred food while preheating the oven a week later that I remembered the potato pieces.
Unfortunately the oven was too hot to wipe out so I found myself carefully wrapping my hands in hot pads and scraping out as much of that poor potato as I could. Then I started preheating it again. All the while hoping that I didn’t set off the smoke detector – something that happens frequently around here.
The corner of my oven where a potato exploded last week.
I was trying to make enchiladas – one of my favorite recipes. (Thanks to my friend Joanel.)
When your husband walks in from work, takes one whiff of the kitchen and asks if we need to go out to eat, you know you have failed as a housewife.
Luckily, the enchiladas turned out just fine. We may have eaten dinner a little later than normal, but we did eat a home cooked meal. I think I have shared this recipe before, but just in case, here it is. If I can cook them, anyone can. I’m all about easy recipes. But then again I thought baking potatoes was easy. Guess again!
Enjoy!
Green Chili Enchiladas
Green Chili Enchiladas
Ingredients:
– A Cup or So of Sour Cream
– 1 can of Cream of Chicken Soup
– Milk
– Onion
– A Small Can of Green Chilies
– Cheese
– Tortillas
– Cooked Chicken
Take some sour cream and the can of cream of chicken soup and combine them in a bowl. Add milk until it’s creamy. Then add the can of green chilies and onion. Take a tortilla, smooth a spoonful of the creamy sauce in the middle. Then sprinkle a handful of chicken and cheese on top. Roll into a burrito shape and put in a greased cake pan. Repeat until almost all of the creamy sauce is gone. Save about ½ cup.
Smear the saved ½ cup over the top of the burritos. Sprinkle with a little more cheese. Then bake at 375 degrees for about 45 minutes.
Here’s my half-weeded garden. Anyone who knows me will know that this is driving me nuts. I love to garden and I hate when I don’t finish projects. But, I haven’t had time. Oh well, right?
My children have been motherless for the past month. At least it feels that way to me. I have been running around like a chicken with her head cut off.
Between sewing projects, bathroom remodels, taking a small part in my sister’s wedding festivities, sporting events, church meetings, book clubs, etc., I have been running around ragged.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to do all of these things. I choose to do all of these things – I love socializing and helping others – but it feels like it’s been a jam-packed spring.
Easter snuck up on me and now Mother’s Day is almost a week away! Where has all the time gone?
My poor kids have had to fen for themselves as I have spent a vast majority of my spare time working on a million different projects. For the past month I have been a missing-in-action mother.
I am sure that my children don’t mind that they have watched extra television and played long hours with the neighbor kids. They probably don’t even care that we haven’t read 20 minutes every night or flossed their teeth every day.
But it’s starting to get to me.
My garden is half weeded, my house is half clean and my basement bathroom is halfway remodeled. My kitchen floor is nasty, there are baby treats smashed all over my van and we aren’t even going to mention my laundry room turned dumping pile. It’s so jammed full of crap I don’t even know where to begin.
My basement storage room flooded about a month ago. I had to take all of my boxes and papers and move them into the laundry room. They are still sitting in this pile today. I know I need to get rid of a lot of it, but haven’t had time. Hopefully I will have time to sort through them soon!
Ironically there are times in my stay-at-home life that I am so bored I want to cry. But not lately.
I’ve got to step back and take a breather. Before I go insane – or worse – yell at my kids. (Thanks to the allowance of the “Oopsie Snap” I’m still yell-free. You can read about all that here. )
What do you do when you are so busy you can’t think straight?
I miss relaxing with my boys while watching PBS in the afternoons. I miss building Lego sets and spying on enemies in the back yard.
So I say who cares about the kitchen floor and the laundry room? During these busy times we are just going to have to stick to the linoleum and shut the basement door. If I don’t have time to do all of my projects, clean my house and play with my kids, I choose to give up on the cleaning.
It can wait until one of those days I am bored to tears. That’s when I’ll sort through the debris and mop my floor.
I don’t want to be missing in action any longer. I want to cuddle to my boys while we read stories on the couch and huddle with them under their army fort while we make plans for war.
Surviving a trip to the dollar store with my two oldest boys and walking out empty handed is like surviving three hours of church with my baby and walking out without him pooping all over his Sunday best.
Neither happens very often.
For some reason my boys LOVE the local bargain store. They could spend all their time – and money – shopping around its shelves. I don’t know what they see in that place. I don’t know what they see in the toys they find there.
Me? I’d rather steer clear. Because if I get anywhere near that place I know I’m probably going to end up with a new cheap toy that will get broken, or worse, lost.
It doesn’t matter what I go to the discount store to find, the second we step foot inside my boys make a beeline to the back wall. They know that’s where they’ll find all kinds of realistically fake and desperately discounted treasures – knives, swords, guns, ammo, helicopters, dinosaurs – you name it. And all of them priced $6 or less!
I hate how I have to hustle down the aisle hot on their heels because I’m scared to death that they’re going to wreak havoc on the cheap made-in-China-plastic-99-cent bargain toys. Let’s be honest, most of the toys sold in dollar stores aren’t made to last. Well, they don’t last at our house anyway. But I would like to be able to have the chance to take them home before busting them. I can’t tell you how many of our swords split in half or our gun triggers crack.
But my children are more than willing to take the toy-breaking risk. They’ll pay good money for the stuff.
When it comes to shopping at our local bargain outlet, they never seem to run out of spare cash. I know they get money from their grandparents for birthdays and Christmas, but that only happens twice a year. I know that my oldest son sold a ladybug to the neighbor girl but he only took in $0.79 cents for that. Where are these extra $1 bills coming from?
Because the second I announce we are heading to the store I turn around to find my two oldest boys stuffing their pockets with cash.
Every once in a while it’s me who chooses to go to the dollar store. I like to go there to get little gifts for neighbors and friends.
Usually on these occasions I try to prep my boys and get them in the giving spirit. But it doesn’t matter how many times I tell them we are there to buy something for someone else, they don’t understand. Or they don’t listen.
I took them to the store last week to help pick out a little something for our friend. On the way to the store I told them at least six times that we weren’t going shopping for them.
Sure enough, less than 10 minutes later we all ended up in the far corner of the toy section butting heads about buying another cheap toy.
I stood my ground and we checked out buying only our friend’s gift. But we went back the next day to buy what they “had to have.” And according to my 4-year-old, “that was the best day of his life.”
I want to be able to take my children to the store to help pick out gifts for others, but I don’t want to fight them every time.
I guess it’s only natural for them to want to get something when they see that someone else is, but I’ve got to figure out how to teach them that it’s OK to give – even when they are walking out of the store empty-handed. Otherwise I’m going to go crazy with all these cheap, crappy toys.
Now if I can teach them that, and manage to make it through church one of these weeks without my baby’s diaper exploding, I’ll have it made.
Author’s Note: Has it really been three years? Three years since my little one came to me as an angel? Three years since I held his small, newborn body and kissed his soft, chubby cheeks?
Sometimes it feels like a dream. Was I really pregnant? Did I carry another son? One that had strawberry blonde hair and a cute pudgy face?
Other times I am certain that losing my baby is a nightmare. A nightmare that no matter what I do I won’t ever wake from.
This week as I do every year near his birthday, I’d like to dedicate my post to my angel baby Luca who was born stillborn April 22, 2010.
May he fly close to me this week. His life and death have changed me forever.
My Angel’s Story
I was tired, I was huge and I was ready to have my baby boy. But not ready for the way it would all turn out. I would have happily carried him weeks beyond my due date if it meant he had a chance of being born alive.
Honestly? I wasn’t quite ready for a third child. I always wanted my kids close in age, but my two boys, ages 3 and 1, were a lot to handle. I was okay with waiting a while. But both my husband and I had strong impressions that we needed to try for another baby.
Despite those impressions, I was still extremely nervous about how I could be a good mom to three boys under the age of 3. Each day I grew, not only in circumference, but also in my confidence in being able to raise three tiny spirits.
On April 21, 2010 I had my 37-week check-up. Luca’s movement had been slowing down significantly for a while now and I was worried. I discussed my concerns with my doctor and we listened to his heartbeat, which appeared to be strong. So, my doctor and I decided that maybe little Luca was running out of room in my overcrowded womb.
The beginning of my pregnancy was a piece of cake. I felt better than I had with my other pregnancies and had virtually no morning sickness. But the end was pretty bad. I kept having sharp pains in my side and my muscles were aching.
Fearing the worst
My mother-in-law kept my other two boys while I went to my appointment so I decided to lie down and take a nap until she brought them home. That’s when I started panicking because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Luca move.
I know what some of you are thinking? Why didn’t you rush to the hospital??? Knowing what I know now, my advice to any pregnant woman who is the least bit concerned about her baby, would be, GET TO THE HOSPITAL, NOW. Speed if you have to. What are they going to do? Tell you your baby’s fine and send you home? Hopefully. Laugh in your face about your unnecessary worries? Never. In all reality, even if I had been in labor and delivery when Luca’s heart stopped beating, they still wouldn’t have been able to save him. There wasn’t anything I could have done. I realize that now. But there are other reasons why babies stop moving. In my opinion it’s just better to get it checked out as soon as possible.
I literally worried all night about my Luca’s movement. I think the strong feelings and confirmations I had received that I was supposed to have another baby kept me waiting for his little legs to kick or his fists to punch. Luca’s pregnancy was my only pregnancy I haven’t run into problems conceiving. I thought that was a sure sign that this truly was meant to be. It was meant to be, just not in the way I hoped or expected.
I waited, and waited for him to move. Finally at about 2:30 a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and sat in the bathtub for a long time. Travis came in and convinced me to go to the hospital. My mom came over to sit with my boys so we could run up to the hospital. When I got there, they hooked me up to a monitor and we found the baby’s heartbeat. Well, at least we thought we did — turns out the sound of my own heartbeat was reverberating back. We didn’t know that for sure until they hooked me up to a basic ultra sound machine and zoomed in on the heart. I knew immediately that my son had died. I looked at my husband and he knew it too. We had seen a number of live, beating hearts in ultrasounds. This one was still.
But the nurses said nothing. They tried to remain calm as they called my doctor and asked him to come in. He arrived at about 4 a.m. to confirm my baby’s death. We all cried — nurses included. He told me I could go home and come back later to deliver my baby or he could induce me right away.
The thought of leaving the hospital knowing that I was carrying my dead child made me cringe. I knew that having a stillborn was going to be the worst thing I had ever experienced. Delaying it wouldn’t change anything. They wheeled me into a corner room and posted a grieving sign on the door.
Shortly thereafter we started calling family members to let them know they were going to have to come in sometime that day to simultaneously tell Luca “hello” and “goodbye.”
Sharing the Heart-Breaking News
My poor mother. She was the first to hear of his death. And she had to take the news while watching over my other two little ones in my quiet, lonely home. I can’t imagine how alone she must have felt. She texted me awhile after I called to tell her he had died, asking what she should tell my other boys when they woke up. That literally broke my heart. What did I want her to tell them?
We didn’t want to tell him that their brother was “sleeping” or that he was “gone.” We decided to tell them the truth. That he had died. They were sad, but their grief was expressed differently than an adult. They didn’t cry much but they did throw more tantrums and asked to be held a lot more.
Telling people and hearing their reactions was one of the hardest things for me. I could handle the pain that I was going to have to bear, but having to inflict some of that pain on others made me so sad. It still makes me sad.
Our family members started gathering at the hospital and at our home waiting for the time when they would meet Luca. I knew we would only ever have a few short hours with him and so I prepared to face my nightmare with a smile on my face. This was the only time I was going to hold my baby. The only time I could take pictures of his beautiful face. I wasn’t going to let my grief overcome my ability to make the moments meaningful.
I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but I don’t think I had the full power of my epidural during his delivery. It was by far my most painful delivery. Not only emotionally, but physically. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have the anticipation of meeting my healthy baby to pull me through. With each painful push, I knew I was a step closer to meeting a baby I wouldn’t take home. I’ll never forget the shock in my doctor and nurses voices and faces as Luca was born. They all gasped in unison. He had suffered a cord accident that was visible the moment he was delivered. The cord was wrapped around his neck several times and it contained a true knot. Umbilical cord knots are extremely rare and knots resulting in a baby’s death are even more rare. Although I will never be grateful for what happened to my son, there is something I am extremely grateful for: The fact that we found out why he died.
He was born at 5:13 p.m. and weighed 5 pounds 13 ounces. He was beautiful with curly reddish brown hair and rosy red cheeks. We each took turns holding him and taking pictures. Utah Share came and casted molds of his hands and feet. Pat Wimpee came and took dozens of priceless photos of him and our family. I don’t know what I’d do without those photos. I think I would forget the details of his face. The wrinkles of his toes. The size of his tiny fingers. At times I stared at his little body, waiting for his chest to rise or his eyes to open. He literally was perfect.
We had Luca in our hospital room for five short hours. My legs were still numb from my epidural, so I was forced to watch everyone’s encounters with him from the comfort of my hospital bed. That was really hard for me. I wanted to hug and comfort everyone and yet I was stuck on the sidelines. I am sure that those who came to the hospital to meet him will forever be changed. There was such a special spirit in the room. It was a terribly sad, yet wonderfully peaceful experience.
The next several days were a blur. I left the hospital on a Friday morning. That afternoon I sat in the mortuary office preparing a funeral. We had a very small service on Monday, just four days after I delivered. Thank heavens for pain medications. Without those my traditional delivery pains coupled with the pain of my milk coming in, would have been unbearable. I buried my baby and part of my heart on April 26, 2010.
How am I dealing with his death?
I believe, as my religion teaches, that I will raise little Luca someday. Sometimes that thought brings great comfort, other times it is little solace for a grieving mother who longs to hold her angel infant now. Although he is in a better place, free from sorrow and sin, I wanted the challenge of raising him in this crazy world. Wanted to see him wrestle with his older brothers or hear him giggle as the three of them cooked up mischief. I hate that we don’t get to have him now.
I have experienced all of the traditional grief stages at least once. I have felt depressed, angry, honored, jealous, comforted, tired, rude, bitter, overwhelmed, out of control, anxious, stressed and unmotivated. There have been times I have sat on my couch, not wanting to do anything. Then other times that I feel an urgency to give back to others in honor of my son’s memory. I have yet to find a happy medium. I have heard people say that the first year is the hardest. I pray that’s true.
This past year has literally been the year from hell. Yet despite the darkness I have felt, there are a few things that have relieved my sorrows.
What do I do when the grief is too much to bear?
I take long soaks in the bathtub where I blast Pink on my radio and cry until my eyes are strawberry red.
I watch movies like Tangled and sob when I see Rapunzel reunited with her parents. I wish I only had to wait 18 years to meet my “lost” baby.
I take my boys fishing. Fresh air and the beauty of nature clear my head and remind me of my place in the world.
I lay by my other boys while they are sleeping. I put my hand on their chest to feel their heart beating and their lungs filling with air. That reminds me of the beautiful boys I do get to raise on Earth. I can’t let myself take them for granted.
I start finding something I can do for others. I know it sounds cheesy, but sometimes serving others has been my saving grace. I understand the need to be still and internalize my grief and emotions, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. I have to find a productive way to patch over my grief until my emotions settle and I’m able to digest them.
Finally, I write through my heartache. Writing has always been a way for me to work through life’s problems. I imagine I’ll write through this problem my entire life.
I just have to keep reminding myself that life is hard, life is good and life is necessary.
Can I go 365 days without yelling at my children? Doubtful. But after stumbling upon The Orange Rhino Challenge website, I’m determined to try.
The woman who started the Orange Rhino Challenge has gone more than 400 days without yelling at her children.
If she can do it I can, right?
At first I had some serious doubts. Surely this woman’s children aren’t normal. Or she isn’t normal. Are they perfect angels who never make messes? Are they timid and shy – afraid to anger their mother? Is she doped up on vallum?
But then I started reading more into her blog and I think she’s real. Very real. And I think we would really get along. She’s a stay-at-home mom raising four young boys. Sound familiar?
When I scanned her “Orange Rhino” alternatives to yelling I could see myself doing those same things. Here are some of my favorites:
– Go to the bathroom and scream into the toilet, then flush it away (um symbolic?)
– Go through yelling motions but don’t let voice out (shocks kids and yourself that you didn’t yell, releases endorphins from pride!)
– Look at TV and pretend there is a hidden camera (fear of judgment works wonders)
Anyone who’ll admit to screaming into her toilet instead of at her kids is my type of woman.
But this isn’t going to be easy. I’m a loud person.
Growing up to be a mere 5 ft. zero inches and 100-pounds I have learned that I am better heard than seen.
It’s not only that. I love my house to be clean, my boys to be calm and my plans to go uninterrupted. Couple all that with my quick temper and I’m a sitting grenade. You never know what will pull the pin.
But I’m sick of yelling at my kids. I’m sick of them ignoring me until I’m screaming in neck-vein-bulging tones. I think they don’t “hear” me anymore unless I yell.
Honestly I really don’t think my yelling impacts my boys. It’s like at the sound of my voice invisible earmuffs cup over their ears and my words fall upon deaf ears.
At this point I am pretty sure the only volume my 9-month-old thinks is out there is LOUD. He’s been mimicking my monstrous roar ever since he could utter, “da-da.” I don’t want him growing up thinking that’s the norm.
All my kids are going to have to tune in as I turn down my volume.
I’m tired of going to bed feeling guilty that I snapped – again. And I don’t want to apologize to friends and family anymore for growling at my kids.
I’m going to stop.
I don’t know how many times I’ll have to reset my counter on this challenge, but I’m not a quitter.
Per The Orange Rhino Challenge Details, I am allowed to use a potentially raised stern voice and I get an “oopsie” snap. Sounds like a piece of cake, right?
Right. I’ll put a counter at the bottom of each blog post so you all can see my progress or regress. Hopefully that will help me stick with this challenge.
Bear with me. If I can’t yell at my kids then Boogers on the Wall may features a lot of frustrated writing in the coming weeks. I’ve got to get it out somewhere.
And while I’m thinking of getting it out somewhere, are there any volunteers who’ll let me text them when I am on the verge of losing it? That’s another one of my favorite Orange Rhino yelling alternatives.
If you’re willing to be on call and will help talk me down when I’m going to burst, message me your number. But keep in mind I may use it often. I’m going to need all the help I can get.
How do you deflate all of the excitement out of a perfectly happy Easter morning? You pop the little balloon-like farting contraption the Easter bunny left in your basket.
Just ask my 6-year-old son. It was tragic.
He has wanted a whoopee cushion for months now. Somehow the Easter bunny knew this deepest desire and threw one into his basket.
Within five minutes the thing was busted. Apparently you aren’t supposed to fill whoopee cushions up to bulging size then jump onto the bed before slamming down on top of them. Who knew?
I knew instantly by the popping sound that the cushion was toast.
My poor oldest son went from pure joy to pure sorrow in a matter of seconds. He hasn’t cried that hard in a long time. He felt terrible because not only was his new favorite toy destroyed but he was the one who did it. Poor kid.
I have never wanted to jump into my car and drive to Wal-Mart more than I did at that moment. I wanted to get him another cushion. I wanted to take his sadness away.
Thankfully my husband stopped me. He reminded me that my 6-year-old is going to have sorrows and disappointment in life. And although this time I could have easily ran to the store to pick up another toy, next time a trip to the dollar store and $1.07 cents may not patch his problem.
I’m not always going to be able to take his pain away.
I hate that.
So, needless to say, I didn’t run to Wal-Mart on Easter morning. Chances are they wouldn’t have had a cushion anyway. I waited until the next afternoon and we went after school.
But have you ever tried to buy a whoopee cushion on April Fool’s Day? Ha! Good luck. I toted my boys through three different stores before we finally found the silly little fart bags.
Last week my 4-year-old was hunched over in one of our living room corners. His back was to me and I was certain he was up to no good.
I kept asking him what he was doing but he wouldn’t tell me. I think I asked him three times before he finally confessed – He was praying that his eyes would turn red.
Not. What. I. Expected. I think I said something like, “Why on Earth would you want red eyes?”
He shrugged me off, looked over at his older brother and said, “Are they red yet?”
He said it with such conviction and confidence that I knew he truly believed his prayer would be answered. Quietly and carefully my 6-year-old studied his brother’s eyes for a minute then happily declared, “I think I can see some orange!”
They both have amazing faith. Sometimes I take their faith for granted.
Like a month ago when my oldest lost an electronic recorder outside somewhere in our yard. We noticed it was missing right when we were supposed to be heading out the door to a family night at the elementary school. Knowing it was going to rain that night and probably ruin the recorder, we swept the yard dozens of times looking for it.
We were late for the school party and I was having a serious I-can’t-find-something anxiety/panic attack. I grabbed my 6-year-old, held onto both of his shoulders and demanded that he use his faith to find the stupid recorder. I suggested that he pray to know where it was.
Keep in mind I know my son has enough faith to do miracles, but I shouldn’t have asked that of him. I felt like Mrs. Incredible asking her daughter, Violet, to put a force field around the airplane when being shot at over the ocean. She knew Violet could do it, but the timing wasn’t right.
Despite my son’s heartfelt pleas to his Maker, he didn’t find the recorder. And because of my stupid charge that he pray to know where it was, he went to bed doubting his faith.
The next day I found the tiny black audio recorder in our garage underneath his bicycle. A place we had searched dozens of times.
Faith is a funny thing.
To this day my 4-year-old still has green eyes and my 6-year-old didn’t find his recorder when he believed he would be swiftly led directly to it.
Sometimes we have faith, but what we really want isn’t meant to be. Sometimes the timing isn’t right.
Try telling that to one of your children. Try telling that to yourself.
Sometimes no matter how much you believe something will happen, it just isn’t going to. It isn’t God’s will.
Like the night I stayed up waiting for my baby boy to move inside my full-term pregnant belly. Call it shock, call it faith, call it wishful thinking, I thought for sure that if I believed hard enough that he would come back to life, he would.
But I am left only raising three of my four sons.
It seems like every year around this time I face doubts about my faith. Those doubts make me grouchy and moody and I get stuck in a funk.
It normally happens a few weeks before April 22 – my third son’s birthday and angel day. The day he flew back Home.
I have a strong testimony of my religion. But when I stop and think about my little baby boy, buried in a cemetery 5 miles from my home, the doubts start to fly and the “what ifs?” and “will I reallys?” arise.
What if I never see my son again?
What if this life is the end?
Will I really get to kiss his chubby cheeks again?
Will I really get to raise him?
These doubts start in the corner of my mind and creep down into my heart where they paralyze my faith.
It doesn’t help that Easter – a holiday built on religion, faith, and resurrection – lands just before my baby’s angelversary. Oh how I miss him.
But sometimes the Lord doesn’t answer our prayers. Sometimes he’s trying to teach us something. Sometimes – like in the case of the missing recorder – he’s trying to teach someone else – your mother – something. Like to not stress out when things go missing. They’ll come around eventually.
And luckily so will my faith. It does every year, eventually.
I still don’t know if I will ever have faith that my eyes could change to red, but after wrestling with my mind and searching deep into my soul, I normally snap out of my funk. I remember the peace I have felt.
And although right now I’m still feeling a little off, a little agitated, a little tormented, I know I will find hope again, eventually.
This should have been our year. We had 12 months since the last invasion to devise a new plan for catching leprechauns. But despite our best efforts, come St. Patty’s Day morning our traps were empty.
It wasn’t for a lack of trying. My 6- and 4-year olds perfected their leprechaun traps for days as we all were forced to tiptoe gingerly throughout our living room.
After some training from his grandpa (who lived in Ireland for 2 years and is somewhat of a leprechaun expert) my oldest went for a traditional stick-propping-up-the-bucket trap. He used my mopping pail and a slingshot he found camping.
My 4-year-old’s trap was much more complex. He crafted it by using a giant dowel, a small whicker basket, yarn, and two toy grenades tied to the tip of a string.
How those mini men made it past the pair of grenades, I will never know.
Each night for a week before St. Patrick’s Day we would set the traps in hopes of catching a leprechaun. Each trap held chocolate as bait.
But it was all in vain.
The leprechauns made off with the chocolate and left a trail of mess behind.
How do I know that it was leprechauns? Because we have proof.
Caught in each of our traps was a small, bright green leprechaun hat. The hats must have fallen off as they tried to escape.
According to my 6-year-old, those hats are our proof. We also have tiny green and gold shamrock treasures that those pesky men scattered throughout our house.
In the kitchen and bathroom they danced around barefoot, staining the floor with dark green footprints. They hopped onto our kitchen table and left a note and some golden nugget candy pieces.
More proof.
I never know how my boys will react when something evades them, but this time they were thrilled. They sat back, popped a chocolate nugget in their mouths and dreamed of what the leprechauns may have done in our home.
Then we set off for church.
Little did we know that’s where we’d all witness the catch of a lifetime.
Toward the end of our first meeting I spotted a black cricket bouncing up the aisle next to our pew. My boys love creepy, crawly bugs so I pointed it out to them.
Big mistake.
The next thing I knew my oldest jumped over my lap landed on top of the cricket and cupped it in his hands. Then he picked it up by one of its hind legs and swung it within inches of my face.
Keep in mind this all happened in what was supposed to be the most reverent meeting of the day. Oh, and I don’t love creepy, crawly things nearly as much as my boys.
Trying not to squeal, I grabbed him, held him at arm’s length and told him to get that bug far, far away from me. He stood up tall, held his head up high and walked through the congregation pinching that cricket by its leg- all the while smiling from ear to ear.
I had to fan myself with a drawing pad to keep from turning beat red. Then tears streaked down my cheeks as I tried to quietly laugh it all off.
What are the odds that a cricket will enter the chapel? That I would see it? That my son would pick it up and fling it around? Only in my life.
All in all it was an exciting, successful day. Even though my little boys were slightly deflated when they woke up to empty leprechaun traps, they were energized by their new undeniable leprechaun proof.
And what’s better than catching a leprechaun? Catching a cricket in church.
I think my kids have an unhealthy fear of the basement.
My six-year-old is horribly afraid of being down there. Let’s be honest, he’s afraid of being alone anywhere in the house. But when I ask him to go downstairs he nearly hyperventilates.
My four-year-old is OK with going downstairs – until his older brother is around. He’ll be just find playing by himself down there while my oldest is at school, but ask him to go down after they are both home and they’ll sob uncontrollably.
I can sympathize. I don’t love the basement. I too was terrified of going into the dark downstairs when I was a child.
Sometimes my mom would ask me to go downstairs to get something. That’s when I’d make my younger brother go with me. Once I had grabbed whatever my mom wanted, I would book it up the stairs leaving my brother at the bottom crying. I figured if there was something dark and scary it could snatch him up first while I dashed away.
Sometimes when I had to go downstairs alone, I would sing at the top of my lungs in my best pop-star voice hoping that the robber/kidnapper lurking in the shadows of my basement would hear my beautiful voice and think twice before hurting me.
It all sounds so stupid now, yet at the time it helped me survive a scary trip downstairs.
My boys, however, aren’t scared of being snatched by a monster. They aren’t scared of being kidnapped by a robber. They are scared of something much worse – the furnace.
I should never have let them watch Home Alone.
I’ll admit, our old metal venting does crack and pop when the heat is on. And the furnace does roar when it is getting ready to blow hot air. But I don’t think it’s enough to terrify my two oldest children.
Recently, I was rushing to get ready for church while my 8-month-old was taking a quick morning nap. My two oldest were running around out of control (I think it has something to do with church clothes. I put them into church clothes and immediately they’re out of control).
Anyway, I told the oldest two to go downstairs. They wouldn’t. I yelled at them to go downstairs. They wouldn’t. Next thing I knew my baby was awake screaming and I had to tuck him onto my hip as I tried to slap on some make-up and twist a curling iron through a few locks of my hair.
I was furious. I knew that if my boys took their rowdy selves downstairs, I would have had much more time to get ready in peace and quiet while their baby brother slept.
When their dad got home he came up with a solution to getting them to spend more time acclimatizing to the basement. Now we have a new rule at our house – the boys can’t play or watch the Kindle unless they use it downstairs. If you read my recent post about my Electrical Breakdown, you could guess that I think this plan is brilliant.
I’m torn now, there is a lot less Kindle using going on at our house these days, but that also means my two little boys aren’t spending very much time in the basement.
Don’t get me wrong I don’t want to freak my kids out. I would never make them do anything to harm themselves or make themselves really uncomfortable. But I want them to spend more time down in the dungeon so they can realize nothing is going to get them – especially not the furnace.
Is that too much to ask? How can I help them not be so scared?
I’ve never understood why people say, “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” Because money is printed on paper, and paper comes from trees. So therefore money really is made or “grown” on trees. Right?
My kids don’t understand the saying either. Because for them money isn’t even made out of paper. It comes from plastic – a small rectangular thin piece of hand-held plastic to be precise.
They know exactly how the magic plastic card works. Just swipe it next to the checkout stand and viola! You’ve just paid.
They aren’t stupid. They’ve seen me do it a thousand times.
I put most of our family’s purchases on my credit card. Not because we can’t pay for what we buy, but because I have big plans to take my little family to Italy next year and am hoping to purchase our airfare with credit card miles. So I charge everything I can then pay my card off every two weeks.
I guess my children have been watching me closer than I realized. Last week I lost my credit card and if it weren’t for the “help” of my 4-year-old I never would have found it.
Now I have written multiple times about my stressed-out-OCD-I-can’t-lose-anything personality. So you can imagine my anxiety when my platinum card went missing. I was certain someone had taken it and was racking up my bill, skyrocketing past my spending limit.
Luckily I checked my account online and no new charges had been made, but I still couldn’t find the card.
I ripped through the house searching every coat, pant and jacket pocket that I own. I tore through my diaper bag and wallet praying I would find it shoved in the wrong spot.
After church on Sunday I stuck my head under each and every seat, nook and cranny in my van, hoping the card had slipped through a crack.
That’s when my 4-year-old spoke up.
“What are you doing mom?” he said.
“Looking for my credit card,” I replied.
“Have you checked my mission jar,” he said.
No. I had not checked his mission jar. Why would I check his mission jar? I never touch that jar – the glass-tile piggy bank he stores coins in. (He’s saving his coins to go on an LDS mission.)
I raced inside and snatched the jar. Sure enough, my shiny plastic card was tucked inside. I was so happy.
Despite my relief in finding my charge card, I still can’t believe he took it. And that he remembered where he put it.
But what I really can’t believe is how smart he is.
He told me he took my card and put it in his mission jar so he would have a way to pay for his “bills.” You know as well as I that he doesn’t have any “bills.” But I guess it’s better to be prepared. Even if your emergency mission fund is a piece of plastic that comes with a 19 percent interest rate.
He’s as smart as the average American. When you need to pay for something expensive – like a mission – pull out the plastic.
It looks like we need to have a lesson on saving, and then another one on stealing.
I guess my card really was stolen. Luckily, it was taken by someone who isn’t quite old enough to use it – yet.
Out of curiosity I did some online research and found out that United States “paper” money is made of 75 percent cotton and 25 percent linen. I guess money really doesn’t grow on trees.
Boogers on the Wall 