Is that an oxymoron?
Try as you might, you may never fully understand children. Oh, you may think you are on to something. You think you have it nailed, then...WHAM!
Theory's gone. Moving on.
I have actually read quite a bit about the stages of childhood. I have researched age-appropriate behaviors, "normal" expectations, and characteristics of children at certain ages. Does it always help? Pfft, no. But sometimes, it is just nice to know that you are at least somewhere near the the vicinity of the ballpark of what to be expecting.
Some fun facts I have learned about the average 6 year old?
Their friends are very important to them.
They have no concept of empathy (that actually explains soooo much).
They are extremely competitive
They like to be...or rather NEED to be first
They like to win. All. The. Time.
We think we have our boy pegged. Having learned these few, simple facts about the average child of six years, we feel we should have the home-court advantage. We can try and stay one, small step ahead in the game. Maybe we won't overreact, because we know where it's coming from. Maybe we WILL overreact, 'cause we know where it's coming from. It's just nice to know.
With our new-found knowledge in hand, we are, at least, getting used to competitions. There will always be a footrace; to the car, to the door, to the phone, up the stairs, into bed, etc. ALWAYS. So, when Jeff heads to the drawer to get the spoons for breakfast cereal, he is not the least bit surprised at the four-foot something tornado that tears across the kitchen at mad speed to get to the drawer...first.
Jeff is surprised, however, when his son, after having attained the biggest spoon first, vigorously thrusts it down the back of his pajama top and begins to scratch feverishly at the unreachable itch that had been plaguing his shoulder blade. Jeff could only stand by and watch in amazement as his adorable child omitted a sigh of relief, heard 'round the world.
Just when you think you have them figured out...WHAM!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Is that an oxymoron?
Posted by Danielle at 3:49 PM
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Can I say how thankful I am for talented people? Well, thank you. Seriously.
Because of you, I am sooo lucky. I am lucky enough to have my 6-year old come unglued at the seams, hailing me as the bestest mom in the world. I am sorry to take all the credit for this fabulously, healthy treat. I am just the lucky one who gets to be his mom.
Putting aside all of the sap, I actually do not remember the site that I found this on. I would give you proper accolades, if I knew who were. So, uh, thank you, to whoever you are!
Happy St. Patty's Day!
Posted by Danielle at 5:39 PM
Monday, March 15, 2010
What fun things can you think of to do with an egg? We gave it some thought, and here's what drummed up. We:
Blew on them
Created with them
Used them to help introduce the new family rule chart for FHE
I have no pictures of us eating mini-eggs for FHE. I want no photographic proof that they have even made it into my home
Again, no photo. I was to0 busy running with a spoon in my mouth, trying not to drop my egg on the floor.
Okay so the "juggling" part might be a little inaccurate, but dadgum, it was so cute anyway!
Posted by Danielle at 11:00 PM
Saturday, March 13, 2010
I am thinking that the large and cavernous differences between the boy species and the girl species will become more pronounced the older they get. I was forewarned by so many people at the prospect of taking in three girls. I was told to hold on for the ride, 'cause girls are so much different than boys. I am not sure I am totally convinced...yet. So far, from what I have observed, they are just drama with accessories, and noise with dirt.
There is ONE difference, however, that cannot be overlooked, and/or minimized. One that actually has caused me stress, guilt, helplessness, and inadequacy.
At our house, when the need arises for hair to actually get "done", the clippers come out. It's time to buzz it off.
With girls, there is shampoo AND conditioner, brushes, product, styling, barrettes, clips, extensions, styling, updo's, down do's, spritzing, stying, elastics, flowers, colors, coordinating, styling, heating, spraying, opinions, styling, braids, bands, beads, bangles...and more styling. Obviously, the task of styling hair gives me palpitations.
The first morning of hair duty, I was informed by my charge that I needed a spray bottle to spritz down and control the fly-aways during styling. When my one and only spray bottle showed up on the scene dead and broken from lack of use, I was forced to improvise. I wandered aimlessly around the kitchen babbling to myself, in hopes of finding something "waterish" to help calm the nerves of the nervous patron in the "styling chair". Any hopes of putting my eight year old victim at ease were quickly dashed when I rounded the corner with an over-sized ceramic cereal bowl, FULL of water.
"Are you just going to dump that over my head?" she asked timidly
"If I did, would it help speed up the process?" I retorted
She left for school with a single pony in her bangs, a little bit damp, and a whole lot happy to have escaped with her life.
The 6 year old proved to be a little less picky, and a little less terrified at the hands of her caregivers inadequate skills. Or so I thought. Morning three, she announced she was heading downstairs to do her hair. I asked if she wanted me to come down and help her out. With VERY wide eyes, she shook her head violently and flew down the stairs.
Hey, I openly admitted my severe lack in the department of quaff art before my friends even entrusted me with their precious, hairy cargo. I was plenty forth coming in admitted that there was a good chance she would be returning to three bald noggins. I am stellar with a set of clippers. Rubber bands and clips kinda stress me out.
Wow. My son is one lucky BOY.
Posted by Danielle at 11:07 PM
Friday, March 12, 2010
Posted by Danielle at 1:14 PM
Thursday, March 11, 2010
There is something so amazingly rewarding about giving children a basket of costume pieces to dive in to. And entertaining. I quite like being on the receiving end, enjoying the fruits of their
Posted by Danielle at 1:21 PM
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Posted by Danielle at 4:48 PM
Monday, March 8, 2010
I am only slightly more dramatic than I am overprotective. This afternoon, I was a little curious about a new habit that I have seen with Chase as he reads. So, I had him go down the hall, while I remained in the kitchen. From this long distance, I had him tell me how many fingers I was holding up. After a few rounds, I was more than satisfied with what I saw.
Chase came sauntering very somberly back down the hall. As he approached me, he asked, very seriously, and quite concerned,
"Mom, were you checking to see if I still have a brain?"
I felt so bad for his seriousness that I reassured him first, and snorted second. Those dang video games.
Chase snapped out of his funk pretty quickly, though. He got me pretty good with chunk of sarcasm later.
After dinner, I shredded the remainder of the chicken and asked, almost rhetorically, what could I do with all of this leftover chicken.
Not skipping a beat, Chase said through his Jack-O-Lantern grin,
"I don't know. Make a craft with it?"
Apparently, my crafting blitz for the past few days has not gone unnoticed.
Posted by Danielle at 7:46 PM
Friday, March 5, 2010
Have your hebbie gebbie guard up. This is a doozy.
Have your ear plugs in. Mom is loud. Again.
Be impressed. All of Mom's hoopla-ing was brought about by the noise made during extrication. She managed to keep the camera pretty still...in the midst of a major willies dance. Mom was seriously grossed out.
What a brave kid. Seriously. Chase we are both proud of you for being both strong and brave, and sorry for you for having grossed-out jellyfish for parents. And by the way, Whistler, you are soooo stinkin' cute with that huge hole in your face!
Posted by Danielle at 4:08 PM
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
At the time of my birth, my parents were living in California. With my dad in the National Guard at the time, my mom headed to Idaho to be with her mom so she could have help with my birth and my 14 month old brother. So, I was born in Idaho. Not California. A tragedy that could not be avoided.
Oh, I am sure my dad was teasing me when he told me that I would have been a movie star, had I been born in California. I am sure he just said these words, and moved on, not giving it one more thought. But being a gullible child, who trusted her father implicitly, my ears heard,
"Seriously. All you have to do to be a movie star is to be BORN in California. We lived there, but you WERE NOT born then. It is completely our fault. We don't know what we were thinking. Obviously, we were not thinking of you. We are sorry that we have ruined your life. What could have been yours, is now gone forever. You are going to have to let the dream of growing up Hollywood, go. Just let it go. It is not in your birthright to be a movie star. We have taken that away. We are sorry. Ever so sorry."
Or, at least something like that.
Oh, you can believe that I told every one. And I mean E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E. Everyone that could be talked at was told, by me, that I was supposed to be a movie star. If I had been born in California.
I was in the middle of accosting another human being with this "truth", when I actually stopped and listened to what I was saying. I stopped mid-sentence, paused to mull the words over in my head, and BUSTED out laughing. Sad thing? And I do mean VERY SAD THING. I WAS 14 YEARS OLD, PEOPLE! Some bulbs just do shine a little brighter than others, I guess.
Well, now...now it's my turn. Now I am the parent who gets to fill my child's head with whatever I want. And, I get to experience what it is like to have an overly dramatic child, like myself, who twists everything in it's translation, like myself, and gets really hair-brain ideas in his head...like myself.
Case in Point:
My ears tuned in on a conversation downstairs that was getting really heated. From my son, I hear,
"Uh huh, yes it does! Uh huh, playing too many video games DOES give you brain rot. And if you get brain rot, YOU'RE DEAD!
* Actual Comment *
"Turn it off, Chase. If you play that game for too long, it will rot your brain.
2nd Case in Point:
Conversation heard from back seat of van.
"Yeah, and her Boot Camp is sooooo hard. They make you run and sweat and make your bones really tired. AND, they only give you 30 seconds to get a drink of water. If you don't make it, then they make you quit, and you can't do boot camp anymore. Doesn't that sound HARD?"
* Actual Comment *
Well, actually, I don't remember the actual comment. I didn't feel the need for too much correction on this one. I have no problem letting Chase grow up thinking I am Wonder Woman.
Oh, it's fun to be the parent. Putty in my hands, I tell ya.
By the way, Dad. I completely forgive you. I forgive you for my birthplace. I don't think I would have made a very good actress.
Posted by Danielle at 7:18 AM
Monday, March 1, 2010
My date with Chase for Chinese was fabulous, of course. He was an absolute gentleman, where six-year olds are concerned.
We requested a table by the fish tank, hoping for the best atmosphere possible, for the "bestest date" ever. The waiter, captivated by our excitement for the event, became a part of it and let Chase feed the fish. What a glorious beginning to our date.
As we sat down at the table, we wasted not one second beginning GOOD supper conversation. Chase pointed out the "long, dangley thingy hanging from the big orange fish." I tried to keep my dry heaves to a minimum when my eyes finally made contact with the pooh string. I was nearly brought to hysteria when the other smattering of fish in the tank, began following the big provider, silently thanking him as they ATE the bounteous gift bestowed upon them.
I politely, but firmly, asked my date for a seat exchange, to a chair with my BACK the tank. My kind date tried to ease the quell in my throat by throwing out his perspective for all to hear.
"Well, they HAVE to eat their pooh, Mom. They have to keep their tank CLEAN. How would you like to swim around in all that pooh?"
You are welcome, cute little grandma's sitting at the table kiddy-corner to us, for the stimulating dinner conversation you were innocently sucked into. I am sorry, employees, for the soup spray you had to clean off of the walls. I am not sure what happened. It might have been the humor kicking in. Or, reverse peristalsis. Not sure. Really, not sure.
I am glad I am not a fish...I am glad I am not a fish...I am glad I am not a fish...I will not eat pooh...I am glad I am not a fish...I am glad I am not a fish...
Posted by Danielle at 2:10 PM