Someone Please Explain the Male Brain to Me

Disclaimer #1: I love my husband and I think he's awesome.

Disclaimer #2: Above mentioned awesome husband has read and approved the following post.

Disclaimer #3: This is a true story.

Yesterday afternoon, when we got home from church I wandered into the bedroom to change clothes. And I noticed something amiss. There were two pairs of socks on the floor. Not my socks. Major Dad's socks. On the floor. Three inches from the laundry hamper. Three. Inches.

(Disclaimer #4: Major Dad maintains they were six inches from the hamper).

As I stood there staring at the socks that were sitting THREE inches from the laundry hamper, Major Dad walked casually into the room. And this is how our conversation went:

Me: "Seriously? You can't put the socks IN the hamper?"

Major Dad: (Grabs one pair of socks and dumps them in the hamper while leaving the other pair on the floor). "There you go."

Me: (Staring dumbfounded at the pair still sitting on the floor THREE inches from the hamper.) "What about those socks?"

Major Dad: "They're not dirty."

Me: "Then why are they on the floor?"

Major Dad: "Because I wore them."

Me: "So put them in the hamper."

Major Dad: "But they're mostly clean."

Me: "Mostly clean? What does that mean?"

Major Dad: "It means I'm going to wear them tomorrow."

Me: "Then put them AWAY."

Major Dad: "I can't put them away, they're slightly dirty."

Me: "Then put them in the hamper and take them out tomorrow when you want to put them on."

Major Dad: "But if I put them in the hamper they'll be dirty."

Me: "What kind of ridiculous man-logic is that?"

Major Dad: (He didn't say anything here because he was too busy laughing at his own male-ness.)

Me: "So you're just going to leave them on the floor."

Major Dad: "Yes."

Me: "Really?"

Major Dad: "Yes. They're mostly clean."

Disclaimer #5: See exhibit A


Yes, the socks are still sitting there. Because I have no idea how to counter the mostly-clean classification system. Which I'm pretty sure is related to the smell-it-then-wear-it-system. All I know is that if I toss them in the hamper, it will apparently shift the entire clean:dirty ratio on some molecular level that will render the socks completely unwearable.

And he thinks I'm weird.

The Scandalous Mashed Potato Scandal

A few nights ago I made a fairly simple chicken dinner and as a special treat for Major Dad, I made mashed potatoes. Major Dad is from the South. Major Dad loves mashed potatoes. So when he got to the table and saw the heaping pile of whipped goodness on his plate, he was a very happy camper. And he said so.

Then we prayed. And he said it again.

Then he took a bite (did I mention they were garlic mashed potatoes?) and he said it again.

Then he finished off the whole pile and said it again. Then he had seconds.

And I was trying to be all gracious and sweet. I really did appreciate the fact that he was saying such nice things about a dinner I had made. But inside, deep inside, stuffed waaaaaaaaay down deep, I was consumed with guilt. You see...oh I can barely bring myself to say it, my mashed potatoes....come from a box.

There, I said it! It's all out in the open. I'm a side dish cheat. Now everybody knows my deep dark secret. My mashed potatoes are instant. They don't come from the produce section, they come from a vacuum sealed bag in a cardboard box.

So after dinner when Major Dad complimented me again on those fabulous mashed potatoes I finally broke down and declared "they're from a box! Those potatoes came from a box. I didn't mash them or season them. Betty Crocker did it. I tore open the bag and added milk and butter and there you go. It's faster and cheaper than making them from scratch. Plus, I got those boxes on sale! I homeschool, you know. I don't have time to peel potatoes, boil them and mash them up by hand like my Grandma did. And I know she's be ashamed of me for using potatoes in a box, especially because we're Irish and all, but she even made her own salad dressing and I just don't have time to make Thousand Island dressing from scratch. Ok??"

And in the silence that followed Major Dad just stood there, staring at me like I had just lost my mind...which, in fairness, I sorta had.

And what was his response?

"Do you have anymore?"

Blissful sigh. I love my husband.

Old Yeller Update

Because I know you're wondering...Ella finished reading Old Yeller today. Here's what I heard as she sat on the couch reading: sniff (pause), sniffle (pause), sniff, sniff, sniffle, sigh, sniffle, unintelligible whimper of some sort.

When I went to sit down next to her, I was too late. Old Yeller was gone. The fictional dog, not the book. Her face was all red and blotchy and she was doing that heart-breaking, pitiful, not making a sound crying. No kidding, there are tear stains on the pages of the book.

So I scooped her up in a hug and she cried. Then she went and snuggled with our greyhound who just laid there quietly, giving us a look that said rather eloquently, "dude, who died?" Oh, if she only knew.

And we had a mother-daughter moment and talked about life and death and giving up one's life for another. And there were violins playing softly in the background (ok, it was Christian rock) as I told her that if we tried to avoid all the sadness in life, we'd end up missing all of the joy as well. And she looked up at me with tears and wisdom shining in her precious eyes and said "I'm not reading that book again."

Two Monologues do not Equal a Dialogue

Yesterday was a skating day. Which to an uninformed passerby could look like a weekend getaway...or a blitzkrieg style invasion of a small country. It's not just me, Ella and Jack jumping in the mini-van and heading off to the rink. It's me, Ella and Jack along with two insulated lunch bags, Ella's skating bag on wheels with telescoping handle, Jack's hockey bag, a blanket for me to sit on (the metal bleachers are cold!), Ella's change of clothes for when we hit the grocery store on the way home (because she doesn't want to go out in her skating outfit), Jack's backpack full of stuff to keep him occupied if he decides to take a break from skating, water bottles for the kids and a thermos filled with caffeine for me. Oh, plus my purse (which rates its own post someday).

Anyway, on this skating day Jack decided he didn't want to skate by himself and since I wasn't feeling well I hadn't brought my skates. (Oh, add my skating bag to the above mentioned list of stuff stuffed into the mini-van.) So I sat on the bleachers watching Ella while Jack played with his Star Wars action figures.

Then a little girl, probably around four, came over to say hi. She was adorable and talkative and since Jack's big sister is also adorable and talkative, Jack felt right at home chatting with her. And this is how the "conversation" went:

Jack: "I have Obi-Wan and Cad Bane."

Little Girl: "I can go sledding when it snows."

Jack: "I have Yoda at home. And a Battle Droid."

Little Girl: "But it didn't snow today."

Jack: "Cad Bane has a hat but I lost it in the car."

Little Girl: "I want it to snow."

Jack: "Cad Bane is a bad guy that's why I have Obi-Wan. He's a Jedi."

Little Girl: "My sled is pink."

And on and on it went. They were both perfectly content talking to each other...or to state it more appropriately, talking near each other...about two completely different topics and it all made perfect sense to them.
Apparently to a four and five year old a similar sized munchkin is all that's needed for stimulating conversation. And it must have translated well into their brains because the little girl told her mom she made a new friend and Jack told me we should invite her to our house to play.

Go figure. Skate. Haha...go figure skate.*

*Sorry about that. I haven't had caffeine yet.

The Invisible Monkey Solution

Winter is not my friend. I despise being cold. And I'm not that fond of rain unless it's a thunderstorm and I'm inside under an electric blanket sipping hot chocolate while the power stays on. And I don't like ice. Which is weird since I spent most of my formative years as a figure skater and I now spend 2-3 days a week at an ice rink watching my kids skate. Maybe it's long suppressed emotional scarring. Or maybe it all goes back to the first thought...I just despise being cold.

Anyway, I've also discovered another drawback to winter. My kids go completely bonkers with cabin fever. If there was lots of fluffy white snow on the ground I could at least let them run around outside until their runny noses were officially frozen to their faces. But today it's just icy and cold and drizzly and yucky. I can't in good conscience let them go play in the frozen wasteland but to them even a thin layer of dirty cracked ice should qualify as a snow day.

So now we're all in the house, schoolwork is done and the bickering has begun. Here's the scenario....Ella & Jack are playing zoo. It's an invisible zoo, which is awesome & full of imagination, but keep in mind it's invisible. After building all the invisible cages and filling them with invisible animals, Ella decides to take the invisible monkey on a walk. At which point Jack declares that he is the official invisible monkey wrangler.

Ella: "But he's my monkey."

Jack: "It's my zoo too!"

Ella: "Why don't you go walk the elephant."

Jack: "I don't want to walk an elephant. I want to walk the monkey."

Ella: "Go get a lion. Lions are cool."

Jack: "Elllllllllllaaaaaaaa."

At which point my head threatened to explode. So Mommy the ultimate arbitrator stepped in.

Me: "Here, I just bought another invisible monkey for your zoo. Now you have two."

Ella & Jack: (after a moment of stunned, wide eyed blinking silence) "Oh, ok."

And off they went with their invisible monkeys.

So, what time is Spring?

I'm Not Procrastinating....I'm Hiding

Shhhhhhh. You don't see me. I'm hiding. My to-do list is multiplying and I don't want it to find me.

Have you ever gotten to a place where your list of things to do is sooooo long that just looking at it saps all of your energy? Where even the idea of picking one simple thing to do is so overwhelming that you just want to curl up some place warm and hide from the world. That's how I'm feeling today.

I have a ridiculously long list of things that need to be done. But I just don't wanna. I don't even have a good excuse. I'm not sick, I'm not busy. And it's not like I've got world changing items on my plate. I didn't add "end world hunger" or "fix the economy" to the list. It's simple stuff like laundry, bills, vacuuming, phone calls, etc. But it's January, I'm cold and I just don't wanna.

So after much grumbling and foot dragging, I finally I sat down at my computer with grand intentions of actually getting something done...just so I could cross one thing off that smug looking to-do list. I intended to finish creating a schedule of rotating volunteers for an organization I work with...a schedule that has been a pain in my caboose for quite some time. And this was the result:

Ooooohhhhh...pretty.



Found on etsy here

And after strolling through etsy for a big chunk of time. I decided to finally buckle down and get to work.

Take two:


Found here on Amazon.

I really want to learn to sew. And not with a big machine, I sort of know how to do that. I want to sew adorable little pieces of cuteness with my own hands. Like some prairie pioneer woman...or a sweet grandma who gives you stale butter mints. Truthfully, the sewing machine is too loud and I can't sit in my rocking chair when I play with it.

Anyway, so the schedule still isn't done. The laundry isn't folded. But I did get the blog for today done. Whew. Now I'm going to go add "write blog" to the bottom of my to-do list so I can triumphantly cross it off and then crawl under my heated lap blanket with my Kindle.

I'm Potentially the Worst Mother in the World

*Potentially* That's important. It's not like there's been a vote or anything. And I don't think you actually win a prize if you get officially voted the worst mother in the world. It's more of an honorary title...like an honorary doctorate...or a rap sheet...whatever.

So here are the circumstances of my impending descent into worst motherhood-dom. *Potentially* Ella is reading "Old Yeller." Did you just suck in a deep breathe and say something like "ooooohhhh noooooo." Yeah, I know. It might be bad.

See, we're studying the post-civil war era in American History and one of the books in her curriculum is "Old Yeller." Also known as the evil-book-where-the-dog-gets-shot. I went back and forth for days about whether or not to let her read the book. Ella loves dogs. And when I say loves, I mean LOVES. She can name a ridiculous number of dog breeds and correctly identify them. She stages dog shows with her stuffed animals. It's adorable. And it's all about to come crashing down on her. Worst. Mother. Ever. *Potentially*

I finally decided to let her read the book because it's a classic, it has a great portrayal of American life in that time and its a good challenging read for her. Of course when I told Major Dad what she was reading he gave me a look that was part horror and part "I'm going to laugh at you when she flips out." And to make matters worse, the stupid cover of the stupid book has a picture of a big ol' fluffy yellow dog smiling a big doggy smile with no idea that he's about to die.

So now here I am...counting down the days until she hits chapter 15. And there's Ella, blissfully devouring what she calls "the best book ever!"

Worst mother in the world. *Potentially*