Charlyn’s Web

We had a nice breakfast this morning. On Saturday I usually make a big hot breakfast. This morning we had Sausage, Mushroom and Cheese Omelet, hash browns and whole wheat toast.

I asked TG if she wanted ketchup on her potatoes.

“Uh-uhh” was the reply.

Now, the TV (or TB depending on who you ask) was on and there was other talk going on at the table so I missed what exactly it was she mumbled.

So I asked again.

“Uh-uhh!” was the reply again.

Now, I am starting to feel frustrated because I can’t make out what she is saying, partly because she is not looking at me and I know if I get it wrong it would be catastrophic, for heavens sake. So being a deaf, dense Mother, I ask again.

Do you want ketchup on your potatoes?!?

“I said No! I said no two times!!!”

Oooo-kay.

A bit later, Little Miss I Said No Two Times said “I need (a favorite term of hers) that (as she points to the ketchup) on this! (as she points to her hash browns)”

Not in your lifetime.

I made some very yummy Peaches and Cream muffins the other day. I made them with the sour cream option instead of milk. We had them for dessert.

I was gathering up the paper cup liners when I noticed there was none around TG. I started looking around for it and asked her where it was.

“I do’know.”

What do you mean you don’t know? Did it fall off the table?

I pull her out and look on her lap and on the floor. By this time everyone was looking around. Where could it be?

Then I asked- “you didn’t eat it, did you?”

By this time she was getting a little perturbed with all the questions and forceably informed me-

“Yes, it’s in my tummy! And it’s NOT fat!”

We bought a bike for KJ a few months ago. She had been riding the Dirt King trike and we probably would have let her stay with it for awhile longer except that her “little” sister was able to ride it too. I would let one ride it half way and then the other would get to ride it. This was working but it also meant that one would have to walk part of the way which slowed us down. We might also have waited for her birthday but it comes in mid-fall when the weather is not the best for going for rides. As I mentioned earlier we left the training wheels on but had them quite high so that it was easier to go over the rocks.

We were out for a walk/ride the other day when it was noticed that one of the training wheels was loose. It got so bad that her Papa took it off. She rode back to the house with only one training wheel on the bike. She did well. When we got back to the house Papa took the other one off too. He started her out and ZOOM down the driveway she went and back again too!

She has done well since then too, she still has trouble getting started and corners are still a bit, shall we say, wide. There was the incident where she ran into the side of the house. The house apparently leaped out in front of her and there was nothing she could do but run into it. Houses can be unpredictable like that.

As you may know from a previous post, we’re not exactly on good speaking terms with the pheasants that are ravaging our garden. In fact, I resorted to borrowing a certain loud “dissuader” from a friend of mine. The tool makes a loud noise when discharged, propels small metal pellets rapidly through the air, and its name rhymes with “not fun.”

Except that it is. Particularly when you’ve just caught the perpetrators in their wanton act of criminal destruction, they’ve attempted to make their rapid getaway, a loud bang resounds, and one of them suddenly drops from view into the 10′ high scotch thistle patch in the corner of a neighboring field. I’ll admit that this doesn’t happen very often. I’m a newbie with this instrument, having grown up with rifles and pistols instead. Although I’m learning, my percentage is rather dismal.

Of course, all three children insist on being involved with the patrol efforts, but it rather surprised me when KJ wanted to examine one of the corpses, and was not in the least fazed by the blood-stained body of the feathered felon.

So, we were late on our way to an evening service at church, and not letting any grass grow under the tires of our van, when about a mile or so up the road, a close relative of one of our garden gangsters ran out in front of the vehicle. It was pretty close anyway, and as we were in quite a hurry, I didn’t make any effort to take evasive action. There was a thud down low, a body and feathers flew up through the air, and it was all over.

“What was that?” came the queries from the back seat.

A pheasant.

“Good job, Papa!” the cheery, encouraging voice of KJ replied.

I guess when you’re as bad a shot as I am, you need all the encouragement you can get.

More than one. Could be two, three, ten, twenty-five.

“Look! Horses! Two horses!” Says TG as she points to a group of four horses.

I think it’s pretty typical for a child her age but it’s cute anyway.

Bonzo was a dog of Col. Panic’s who would excuse himself after a burp with a low, small “woof”. This became an inside joke between us. I guess we “woof” fairly often because I was in the bathroom with KJ the other day when she burped.

“Woof.” She said.

Now, why doesn’t she pick up real manners like that?

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We bought KJ a new bike not too long ago. It has training wheels on it but they are raised up pretty high so she can get over the rocky areas. When she is on the pavement her training wheels are quite loud so it can be heard whether or not she is balancing. We were down on the pavement the other day- KJ and HP on their bikes and TG on her “Dirt King” Trike. KJ was yelling excitedly “I’m balancing! I’m balancing!”

TG came peddling along behind yelling “I’m balancing! I’m balancing!”

That’s a good thing.

***********

I pulled into the Library parking lot yesterday as TG excitedly said “Can we go see the mountain?!?!”

Mountain? I looked around the flat parking lot. Mountain?!? At the Library? What mountain? Then it dawned on me.

“Yes, we can go see the Fountain.”

TG has been calling our Pastor- “Master Bill”. I think she must have confused “Mister” and Pastor- blending the two to create “Master”. This has tickled us and provided some teasing fodder. But in this little exchange she got it all right.

I was saying night time prayers with the girls and said something along the lines of “Bless Pastor Bill and Ms. Bea. Amen.”

TG looked up at me with a tender look on her face and said “I love Pastor Bill!”

KJ, not to be out done, chirped “I love Pastor Bill too… and his husband!”

That will be news to him in more ways than one!

Patience is a virtue, so I am told. Motherhood will expand that virtue farther than you ever thought possible and in the strangest ways. One of my expanding (no puns intended) places is in public restrooms.

Public restrooms may seem an odd place to grow patience but they are a breeding ground for it. They are inherently disgusting, with the germs, lack of cleanliness and smells, to begin with; throw in my two heathens beautiful little girls and you have quite the breeding ground for the testing of Motherly Patience.

We usually use the handicapped stall because I insist that we all use the same one. Once, I let KJ go into a stall by herself and had to crawl under the door to get her out. Granted it was in an office building and fairly clean but the horror of that incident has left me with the heeby geebes. I anticipate that she will be 27 before I let her go in alone again. I herd them in and then listen to the argument about who is going first. It’s usually Miss Walnut Bladder, especially if she is doing the Pee-pee dance. She then stands in front of the toilet, waiting for me to pull her pants down. This is the child whose favorite thing to say is “Me Do It!” but for some reason when we are crammed in a stall, she can’t. Well, it is hard to get your pants down over those fast moving legs doing the complicated steps of her dance. Then it’s KJ’s turn. She always manages to drag her skirt (because she is almost always wearing a skirt) on the floor. While we wait for her, TG tries to look under the walls to see what is going on next door. By this time, my teeth are starting to grind together as she touches the floor which, according to people who study such things, is the dirtiest, most germ filled place in the restroom. If we are lucky enough to have company in the next stall, we get the loudly spoken questions about what she is doing. “Who is that? What is he doing? Oh! (giggle) Going pee!” I am loudly saying to never mind what that person is doing, it’s not polite to look under the wall and to please, get off the floor! I hope my stressed out voice is drowning out her comments. Then, lucky me, it’s my turn. By this time everyone else seems anxious to leave the confines of the stall and are actively trying to get the door open. “Don’t mess with the door….Don’t MESS with the DOOR!” I have a thing about exposing myself to the world. Then there is the trauma of flushing. It’s noisy and it’s been decided that it is unbearable. So I have to let them out before I flush so that they will be farther from the offending noise.

If, for some reason, we crowd into a “normal” sized stall it is much more thrilling. It’s almost like a clown car. Who are these “normal” sized people that can easily get into them? We crowd in and then have to orchestrate where everyone stands so we can get the door closed. Once one is done then we have to reshuffle. And getting out is an exercise in itself. They always seem to be in a hurry and not waiting to get everyone into a good position. One is getting squished behind the door while the other is getting stuck between the door and the toilet paper holder. I am pushed up against the toilet by the door, trying to help out.

Once we are free of the confines of the stall. Deep breath. We “get” to wash our hands. This is another test of patience as faucets get turned on and soap is reached for. Ever notice how high up the soap dispensers are? Of course not because you are an adult. They are always too high for kids but kids are the independent ones who insist on “doing it myself!” The things to push to get the soap out are also pretty stiff and hard for a kid to do one handed. I once had wet hands when I lifted TG up to get her soap and her shirt got wet. Now, I get to listen to her remind me EVERY TIME to not get her wet. She is such a nag. As I am telling KJ to not touch the faucet and leave the water running her little hand shoots out and pushes down the handle. I hand them towels- the hand blower is too noisy and we don’t like it- and say “don’t touch anything!” as I wash my hands. I look around to see TG playing with a stall door handle and KG touching the walls. We go to leave and before I can get there with a paper towel to open the door, their hands are all over the handle and the door itself. Why did I bother to wash their hands?

By this time, any patience I had in reserves is gone. I am stressed out. The only thing I have left to look forward to is getting to do it all over again in about an hour.

Guess who wanted to get them?

No other shoe would do. Once her dancing brown eyes spied them, that was it. No more looking.

They look like Dorothy’s Ruby Slippers but pink with a black bow on the toe.

Her feet will sparkle all over the place.

What do you wear when your clothes are picked out by a perky 4 year old who loves pink?

You guessed it. A pale pink button down short sleeved shirt, black jeans, and black cowboy boots.

She is exceptionally fond of the black cowboy boots. I don’t think Col. Panic’s feet are as fond of them.

I bet he was the best dressed guy in pink at the office that day. It’s a good thing he is secure in his masculinity.