Of Disappointment and Dinosaurs Video Update

Here's the video that goes with my post below.A Christmas Story~Decoder Ring Funny Jokes at JibJab

Of Disappointment and Dinosaurs

After watching this clip from A Christmas Story, you will have experienced the anticipation, elation, and then the final disappointment that my two oldest Darlings experienced a few days ago when we went to our town's museum. I had pumped them up with excitement about the dinosaur exhibit, and the mummified hand on display. We're getting ready to study Egypt in school, so this was particularly relevant. I had even discussed and explained provenance so that the Darlings would understand how fortunate we were to have this special, limited time exhibit. I couldn't believe that an eight and six year old actually "got" provenance.

We first walk through the dinosaur exhibit. It was basically a prehistoric "Small World." It's just robots that creak up and down, and maybe have a

pre-recorded roar. Well, that's a good intro, I guess. Let's get to the fossils. We walk out into an open space that has a triceratops skeleton, t-rex scull, and a few other smaller skeletons. As these historical monsters loom over us and the stroller, I read the info cards to Darlings. Each card ended with replica. Replica, replica, replica. What the heck? We want some REAL dinosaurs. Even my Second Darling asked, "so if they're replicas, how is that different from a model airplane?" I had to concede that to me, there wasn't much difference. "So where are the real dinosaurs, Mommy?"

Diversion. Let's go check out the mummified hand. Oooooooo. We traipse upstairs to the "Early Peoples" exhibit. We blaze through, truthfully uncaring at this point, about the people of the Lower Pecos Valley. We want some mummies! Jackpot! There's a mummified person, in a full-on fetal position, placed down inside a Plexiglas box. "Wow guys. That person died right there and was buried under so much ash, etc. that he stayed just like that. Let's see if they know if it was a man or a woman." As I scan the info card, replica appears once again- mocking me. And the greatest injustice - the mummified hand was absent. Probably because it was the one real thing in the display, it had to be removed to make the replicas less conspicuous. Tell me this - can a museum be a museum if it's full of replicas?

So, the Darlings and I felt like we got the shaft. We want some real stuff! So, now I'm on the search for some real historical mummies and dinosaur fossils. I'm checking into Houston and Dallas' museums. We'll see. I have a sneaking suspicion that we'll eventually end up at the Smithsonian. cha-ching

Maybe now, the silly little video clip makes sense. Darling One and Two, and I very much felt like Ralphie as he decoded the secret code. Just to note: Darling Three was content to dig in the fake sand for fake dinosaur bones.

It's the End of the World

I was nursing Darling #4 in my bedroom, when I heard something.....actually, I heard silence. (If you live with small children you'll understand that silence is a tangible, dynamic experience). I unplugged baby (thanking God she stayed asleep), and walked out into the hall. It was deserted. Into the kitchen, and still no signs of life. Terror gripped my soul. It can't be...they're probably foraging for snacks! Unfortunately, the refrigerator was sitting happily unmolested, and the TV was off. (Also unfortunately, the dish fairy has lost directions to my house). Super Dog was lying on the porch panting, which is a sure sign that there's no one outside to play with him. Where were my darlings? I went back down the hallway and ventured into the Shadowlands, also known as their bedrooms. Every single one of them was under their own covers, asleep!!!! I dropped to my knees and shook my fists at the heavens....Nooooooooooooooooo!

Because you know what this means? No, it doesn't mean I get a nap too. Nor does it mean that I have super responsible adults that masquerade as small children. It means that everyone of them is sick! - $#%^&^%@**!

Mblll.......

I can't even write the sound I make when I think about what I've just done. What could be so horrible you ask? Fishing a Matchbox car out of the toilet? - please. Catching a toddler's vomit in your hands in order to protect your new beautiful comforter? Rookie. No - what causes me to heave is sorting and zip-loc-bagging the bulk meat I bought. Beef and chicken::::shudder. Usually, I handle things as they come, and now that we're on Darling #4, it takes a lot to ruffle me, or for that matter, gross me out. But for this.....blllll....I have to prepare myself.

After waiting as long as possible, you know - when today is the expiration date-I have to set the scene. It takes me ten minutes to clear off my counter space (don't be impressed - I mearly clean the side off that I'm using), then I must 409 the entire area. As that dries (because I doused it) I get all my little baggies...(okay, they're the gallon size b/c my family is larger than average)...opened and labeled. Then, it is the donning of the latex gloves. Oh yes my friend, latex, latex, latex!!!! If I could afford the haz-mat suit, believe it baby!

Qwkkk....I pull open the fridge and find the first tray of meat. Of course, even though I triple bagged it at the store, meat spooge is all over shelf. Bllll. Okay, I kept it down. I drop the tray in the sink, forcing it to fit and bust open the plastic. Eeewwwwww. As I grab the first hunk of ground meat I'm trying not to breathe. Okay, don't think about why the meat is red on top and brown underneath...don't think about it. Finally, the beef is done. Now............the most frightening of all.....the boneless skinless chicken breasts. Aaaagggghhhhhh.

Of course after cleaning off the counter from the beef incident (409-ing, hot water, etc.) I wash my once gloved hands, just for good measure, then get a new pair for the poultry. This has got to be the worst feeling ever. I don't know how surgeons slop around inside squishy bodies. I couldn't keep a ridiculous chicken breast from slipping out of my hands. How in the world do you hold a human liver during surgery and not shoot it across the room? ...don't think about it....don't think about it.....

Now it's all done. I've sufficiently showered and scorched my counter with a blow torch. Is it possible to have OCD as it relates to just one thing? I can't seem to wash my hands enough after bagging this meat. And all this drama just to save a little money by buying in bulk. Am I the only person affected this way by handling raw meat. Yes, dear. I know I would have never survived two hundred years ago...yada, yada, yada. Does my husband know what I go through to put food on his table? If he did, he would laugh and laugh, and laugh.

For Old Time's Sake

Here's a nod to all the corny things we did in high school that still make us smile.

By-the-way, these two are homeschoolers. Who said homeschoolers had no sense of humor? These two crack me up.

Pockets: To Check or Not to Check

It's one of those eternal questions in a marriage...one of those your mom probably doesn't tell you about. No, the question is not "exactly how much dignity will I have left after having a baby?" or "How many times can you serve spaghetti before it becomes a problem?"

The question is "WHOSE JOB IS IT TO CHECK THE PANTS POCKETS BEFORE THEY'RE WASHED?" According to me, the washer, it is the wearer of the pants who should check/empty all pockets before depositing said pants in the hamper. Darling man, the wearer, feels that it is the washer who should empty the pockets. Who wins? . . . . . . . let me tell you who wins....THE WASHER!

Obviously Darling Man and I have different answers to this question...and it's one I'm not budging on. It's one of the few things in our household that I refuse to do...not because I'm too good to do it, or because it's a man's job, but because I'm doing good just to get the dang clothes washed, let alone to remember to check the pockets!!!!

Hmmm....let's see what we've washed and dried: a cell phone, pocket knife, chap stick, hand sanitizer, numerous pens, notes, money (which upon discovery becomes the property of the washer), a razor blade which was used in some home repairs, and most recently, our one and only credit card! Did you know that after drying a credit card that it comes out warped? Oh, it does!

Sorry Darling Man, as long as I do the laundry, I don't check pockets!

Death by Ice Cream

Today was one of those days when everything got on my nerves. The darlings were pretty good, but they too were feeling the same vibe. Several times I would hear snipping and curt responses between all of them. Was it the oppressive humidity? The phase of the moon? The fact that there have been too few new Kim Possible episodes on the Disney Channel? Who knows?

In hopes of getting the fam out and about, (and me a little de-stressed), Darling Man took us to McDonald's to get everyone an ice cream. If you don't have a toddler/preschooler, you don't know the rule about NOT giving one of them an actual cone. You ask for "an ice cream cup." If not, the results are horrifying and will haunt you in your dreams.

Somehow, I, in my agitated state, ended up driving, and therefore dealing with the cretin on the ordering speaker. She actually handled multi-syllabic words pretty well. (I know you're now feeling my vibe), so the big green minivan pulled to the second window.

The fresh faced and empty headed highschooler (graduate? - I can only hope not) greeted us with my much needed grande diet coke, Darling Man's gourmet McFlurry, and three CONES!!!!!!!! Okay. At this point I could still deal, so I handed the cone back and speaking slowly, asked for three c-u-p-s, instead of cones. Perhaps genius-order-girl entered it wrong in McRegister. After some confused conferencing at the ice cream machine, we were given the original three ice cream cones jammed into cups - upside down!!!!! Regular cones weren't dangerous enough for little kids, but now they're expected to dig out the ice cream from under the cone in a cup. Oh no...that couldn't at all end up badly. Do you see where the idea of life-long imprisonment actually seemed reasonable in exchange for reaching through the window and shoving the upside-down cones up her nose?

I usually deal with McWorkers pretty well, even though most are not intellectually well endowed, but this was almost too much. After shooting rays out of my eyes, I demanded new ice creams in cups! You would have thought I'd asked her to fry me up a Tiffany diamond in the fryer. I couldn't see him, but I could feel Darling Man cringing because he knew this McChick had chosen the wrong minivan-driving-mom to mess with.

The great thing was that the darlings knew none of this was going on. They were happily anticipating the pseudo-ice-cream coolness. Needless to say, once I started nursing my diet coke, I felt a lot better. Ranting in the front seat to/at my Darling Man just made him laugh harder. I guess it turned out okay. I wonder if McChick knows how an ice cream cone almost killed her?