Last week, I posted about Sam's sudden terror of monsters in his room.
Yesterday, I posted this update on facebook:
I love my pest control guy, but Sam screams in
terror every time Mr. K. appears. (Mr. K. is huge and black. I think
Sam considers this "strange" appearance scary.) Sam's reaction makes me
wince because I worry Mr. K. will think I'm raising a racist.
Well, this time, I prompted Sam in advance. And reminded him to be
polite when I opened the door. Sam rose to the occasion and whispered
'hi'.
Then I had a Brilliant
Idea. For the last week, Sam has been having trouble going to sleep, in
part because of the Scary Monsters in his room.
I asked Mr. K.
--nicely, so as to set a good example-- if, in addition to bug
repellant, he wouldn't mind spraying against monsters as well.
He rose to the occasion beautifully. "Would you like me to get rid of the monsters, Sam?" he asked. Sam nodded solemnly.
Mr. K. marched up the stairs to Sam's room. "Okay, all you monsters,"
he announced, firmly, "Out. OUT!" From downstairs, we heard a door slam
and some quick spraying sounds.
A minute later Mr. K came downstairs dusting his hands. "I got rid of them," he said. "They're all gone."
(On his post-action report, I saw that Mr. K. had written "spiders, wasps, monsters." Tee hee.)
Now Mr. K. is a Hero. Sam followed him around and chattered for the
rest of the appointment. Hopefully this will also help Sam sleep
tonight. Even if it only succeeds in helping Sam to be very polite to
The Bug (and Monster) Guy, it will still have proven a brilliant idea.
Lots of people congratulated me for my idea.
I countered that we should all be impressed with Mr. K.'s fantastic performance.
Last night Jon tucked Sam into bed. He got some protests about monsters.
Afterward, Jon reported, "I reminded him that Mr. K. had sprayed and gotten rid of all the monsters. Sam thought seriously about that for a minute. But in the end, it wasn't quite enough. He kept squawking. And when he realized I wasn't going to be his personal butler, he started screaming in anger. Oh well."
My
policy is that I will make three efforts to help the three-year-old
resolve the monster issues. I had envisioned something like handing the
kid a protective stuffed animal, spritzing the area with "monster
repellant" from a spray bottle, and installing a night light. If, after that, the kid was still determined to scream, I would just let him.
Of
course, I haven't been called upon to implement that policy before,
since Eric had no imagination and Daniel was so sophisticated that, even
as a young three, he would say "I am pretending that..."
I figured I'd need to work something like that out with Sam, and I don't mind. I just think it's funny.
I noticed that Sam's cries were shorter-lived last night. Hopefully this means he is getting over his fears. Right? I mean, if he fails to be eaten by monsters several times in a row, eventually he'll get bored with his angst. At least, so goes the prevailing psychological theory of the day.
By the time the psychologists have a new theory, I'll be blogging cheerfully about Jeff's fevered imagination. I can't wait.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Friday, February 15, 2013
Do the Monster Mess Mash!
Tonight at bedtime, Sam started freaking out about monsters.
First he needed Daddy to remove every single toy from his room! Because toys attract monsters!
Then he needed Daddy to find his foam sword, so he could "ha" any monsters who showed up anyway!!
Then (after Jon hunted through the whole house for the blade), he screamed in terror that Daddy needed to remove the sword, because it was a toy that would attract monsters!!!
I love toddler logic.
Background
A few days ago, I was trying to organize a clean-up. Eric suddenly and randomly posited that messes bred monsters.
I latched onto this idea. "Absolutely!" I exclaimed, inspired into eloquence. "After all, unwashed dishes attract flies and cockroaches. Raw sewage seems to spawn rats. Piles of dirty laundry breed lice. Even piles of "clean" laundry can get infested if left undisturbed and dusty for long enough. Filth seems to correlate to vermin of all kinds. It makes perfect sense that a messy house would spawn monsters!"
Eric corrected me: it wouldn't spawn monsters, just draw them like a magnet through the magic portal from the alternate world where they normally live.
Whatever. The kids worked cheerfully for over an HOUR, helping to "monster proof" our home.
Sam ran about whacking imaginary monsters with his foam sword. It occurred to me that this exercise might give him ideas, but I figured his room was pretty neat, so I needn't worry.
Last night, Sam woke up at 5 a.m. and cried. His room gets cold, so I went in to re-cover him. He whimpered something garbled that sounded like "There's a monster."
"There's a monster?" I repeated back to him.
He woke up and gave me an alarmed look. "No!" he answered, decidedly.
"Oh," I backpedaled. "I agree. I didn't see one." Then I worried that I had further planted ideas I would regret.
(I never did figure out what Sam had originally said. I just sat with him for *yawn* twenty minutes until he fell back asleep. (That was one of those key parenting moments. Do you let the toddler climb into bed with you and start a terrible habit? Or do you tough it out and insist he stay in his own bed? I can see why incoherent, sleep-deprived parents give in, and regret it for the next five years. Aren't you proud of my executive reasoning abilities?))
Poor Jon was unaware of all this history. This is what comes of working by day and sleeping by night. (In fairness to Jon, he's been working long hours, coming home, and then staying up super late, babysitting his work from home. I got up with Sam because I knew Jon hasn't been getting enough sleep.)
Crisis
Thus, it was natural that tonight, Sam started worrying about monsters in his room.
First he made general comments. Then, when Jon tucked him in and headed for the door, Sam suddenly shrieked in terror.
Jon paused. "What's wrong?" he asked, and Sam pointed to a toy.
Well, fine. No reason to be scared of a toy, but when is toddler anxiety ever logical? Jon considerately picked up the toy to remove it.
Sam pointed to another. And another.
"Is that all?" Jon asked, patiently, and Sam went nuts, pointing at every toy in sight.
Jon's arms filled up. "Hold on," he sighed. "Let me dump these and come back."
As he headed out, Sam requested his foam sword to "ha" monsters.
Jon hunted high and low without success. He returned to Sam to report his failure. "It's probably in Eric and Danny's room," Sam suggested, accurately. Jon insists that's an exact quote, and I believe him. (Sam's third birthday is still six weeks away. Love having smart kids.)
Naturally, as soon as Jon returned with the sword, Sam changed his mind. It was a toy! And might attract further monsters!!!
I love how toddler logic is mutable, and secondary to the joys of panic. (I should mention that Sam has recently developed an enjoyment of scary movies. It's hilarious to watch him shriek and scream in terror/delight. After we parents giggled uncontrollably from watching Sam react to the bear scenes in Brave, Jon commented, "I have GOT to get this kid on a roller coaster.")
Finally, Daddy drew a line in the carpet. Or the five wooden blocks on the carpet. Whatever. "Why am I doing all the work?" Jon asked, reasonably. "Here's an empty diaper box. Fill it with toys yourself. When you're done, call downstairs to me. I'll come retrieve it."
Ten minutes later, our sweet Sammy was asleep.
Nothing like making the kid take personal responsibility. Good job, honey. John Rosemond would be proud.
Aftermath
Two months ago, I posted something about Sam "ha"ing imaginary scary monsters with foam swords. I posited that he was developmentally, albeit not chronologically, three years old. "Three. Three is generally a good year," I said, then predicted, naively, "Granted, it might involve monsters under Sam's bed, but we'll whomp 'em with foam weapons as necessary."
It was such a good plan. Simple. Plausible.
How was I to know it would backfire so horribly?
Three. Three isn't such a terrible year. Granted, it might involve intractable monsters under Sam's bed, but look on the bright side. At least this will be one little boy with a very clean room....Right?
----
Update
After I signed off on that post, I went upstairs to go to bed.
First, I saw a diaper box at the top of the stairs, just a few feet from the door to Sam's room.
I investigated further. Yup, the box was two-thirds of the way full with toys. (Most of them big and bulky plastic items. Like I said, his room was already pretty neat.)
I peeked inside his room. There was still a spot of dirty laundry on the floor. Apparently monsters go straight for the toys, not the clothes. (Sounds like he's been eavesdropping on Christmas Orex stories, which are about wicked monsters who are always trying to heist Santa's sleigh.)
Then I did a double-take. Where exactly was my anxious tot? His bed was empty. (Oh, no, the monsters got him after all...!) Just then, Daniel popped up from next door.
"Sam's not in here," Daniel whispered. "He's on the floor of my room. He came in and lay down and fell asleep. So I went and got his sippy cup and blanket and covered him."
(And what was my nine-year-old doing up at midnight? --Never mind. I located Sam, sprawled on the floor of his brothers' room, apparently safe from invisible monsters (despite the mess on their floor), but in terrible danger of dust mites. SIGH.)
I peeked back in Sam's room. Still a few toys in the corners.
My new theory is that Sam got partway through his clean-up, got tired, and decided to find an alternate shelter for the night.
This teaches me, yet again, not to make assumptions. When I said that "ten minutes later, he was asleep," I should have said, obviously, "Ten minutes later, he was quiet."
We are so totally scrubbing his room tomorrow...
And then taking Sister Grambo's idea of putting a "monster trap" outside his door. And baiting it with a toy. Jon suggested, "If we really want to play with his mind, we could buy him a new stuffed animal. And then put IT in the trap."
No, no, honey. A messy room is bad enough. We don't need a messed-up mind as well.
First he needed Daddy to remove every single toy from his room! Because toys attract monsters!
Then he needed Daddy to find his foam sword, so he could "ha" any monsters who showed up anyway!!
Then (after Jon hunted through the whole house for the blade), he screamed in terror that Daddy needed to remove the sword, because it was a toy that would attract monsters!!!
I love toddler logic.
Background
A few days ago, I was trying to organize a clean-up. Eric suddenly and randomly posited that messes bred monsters.
I latched onto this idea. "Absolutely!" I exclaimed, inspired into eloquence. "After all, unwashed dishes attract flies and cockroaches. Raw sewage seems to spawn rats. Piles of dirty laundry breed lice. Even piles of "clean" laundry can get infested if left undisturbed and dusty for long enough. Filth seems to correlate to vermin of all kinds. It makes perfect sense that a messy house would spawn monsters!"
Eric corrected me: it wouldn't spawn monsters, just draw them like a magnet through the magic portal from the alternate world where they normally live.
Whatever. The kids worked cheerfully for over an HOUR, helping to "monster proof" our home.
Sam ran about whacking imaginary monsters with his foam sword. It occurred to me that this exercise might give him ideas, but I figured his room was pretty neat, so I needn't worry.
Last night, Sam woke up at 5 a.m. and cried. His room gets cold, so I went in to re-cover him. He whimpered something garbled that sounded like "There's a monster."
"There's a monster?" I repeated back to him.
He woke up and gave me an alarmed look. "No!" he answered, decidedly.
"Oh," I backpedaled. "I agree. I didn't see one." Then I worried that I had further planted ideas I would regret.
(I never did figure out what Sam had originally said. I just sat with him for *yawn* twenty minutes until he fell back asleep. (That was one of those key parenting moments. Do you let the toddler climb into bed with you and start a terrible habit? Or do you tough it out and insist he stay in his own bed? I can see why incoherent, sleep-deprived parents give in, and regret it for the next five years. Aren't you proud of my executive reasoning abilities?))
Poor Jon was unaware of all this history. This is what comes of working by day and sleeping by night. (In fairness to Jon, he's been working long hours, coming home, and then staying up super late, babysitting his work from home. I got up with Sam because I knew Jon hasn't been getting enough sleep.)
Crisis
Thus, it was natural that tonight, Sam started worrying about monsters in his room.
First he made general comments. Then, when Jon tucked him in and headed for the door, Sam suddenly shrieked in terror.
Jon paused. "What's wrong?" he asked, and Sam pointed to a toy.
Well, fine. No reason to be scared of a toy, but when is toddler anxiety ever logical? Jon considerately picked up the toy to remove it.
Sam pointed to another. And another.
"Is that all?" Jon asked, patiently, and Sam went nuts, pointing at every toy in sight.
Jon's arms filled up. "Hold on," he sighed. "Let me dump these and come back."
As he headed out, Sam requested his foam sword to "ha" monsters.
Jon hunted high and low without success. He returned to Sam to report his failure. "It's probably in Eric and Danny's room," Sam suggested, accurately. Jon insists that's an exact quote, and I believe him. (Sam's third birthday is still six weeks away. Love having smart kids.)
Naturally, as soon as Jon returned with the sword, Sam changed his mind. It was a toy! And might attract further monsters!!!
I love how toddler logic is mutable, and secondary to the joys of panic. (I should mention that Sam has recently developed an enjoyment of scary movies. It's hilarious to watch him shriek and scream in terror/delight. After we parents giggled uncontrollably from watching Sam react to the bear scenes in Brave, Jon commented, "I have GOT to get this kid on a roller coaster.")
Finally, Daddy drew a line in the carpet. Or the five wooden blocks on the carpet. Whatever. "Why am I doing all the work?" Jon asked, reasonably. "Here's an empty diaper box. Fill it with toys yourself. When you're done, call downstairs to me. I'll come retrieve it."
Ten minutes later, our sweet Sammy was asleep.
Nothing like making the kid take personal responsibility. Good job, honey. John Rosemond would be proud.
Aftermath
Two months ago, I posted something about Sam "ha"ing imaginary scary monsters with foam swords. I posited that he was developmentally, albeit not chronologically, three years old. "Three. Three is generally a good year," I said, then predicted, naively, "Granted, it might involve monsters under Sam's bed, but we'll whomp 'em with foam weapons as necessary."
It was such a good plan. Simple. Plausible.
How was I to know it would backfire so horribly?
Three. Three isn't such a terrible year. Granted, it might involve intractable monsters under Sam's bed, but look on the bright side. At least this will be one little boy with a very clean room....Right?
----
Update
After I signed off on that post, I went upstairs to go to bed.
First, I saw a diaper box at the top of the stairs, just a few feet from the door to Sam's room.
I investigated further. Yup, the box was two-thirds of the way full with toys. (Most of them big and bulky plastic items. Like I said, his room was already pretty neat.)
I peeked inside his room. There was still a spot of dirty laundry on the floor. Apparently monsters go straight for the toys, not the clothes. (Sounds like he's been eavesdropping on Christmas Orex stories, which are about wicked monsters who are always trying to heist Santa's sleigh.)
Then I did a double-take. Where exactly was my anxious tot? His bed was empty. (Oh, no, the monsters got him after all...!) Just then, Daniel popped up from next door.
"Sam's not in here," Daniel whispered. "He's on the floor of my room. He came in and lay down and fell asleep. So I went and got his sippy cup and blanket and covered him."
(And what was my nine-year-old doing up at midnight? --Never mind. I located Sam, sprawled on the floor of his brothers' room, apparently safe from invisible monsters (despite the mess on their floor), but in terrible danger of dust mites. SIGH.)
I peeked back in Sam's room. Still a few toys in the corners.
My new theory is that Sam got partway through his clean-up, got tired, and decided to find an alternate shelter for the night.
This teaches me, yet again, not to make assumptions. When I said that "ten minutes later, he was asleep," I should have said, obviously, "Ten minutes later, he was quiet."
We are so totally scrubbing his room tomorrow...
And then taking Sister Grambo's idea of putting a "monster trap" outside his door. And baiting it with a toy. Jon suggested, "If we really want to play with his mind, we could buy him a new stuffed animal. And then put IT in the trap."
No, no, honey. A messy room is bad enough. We don't need a messed-up mind as well.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Mommiest Moments: January, 2013
Sam: [randomly] I
love my mommy.
Mommy: [melting] Oh,
Sammy, it makes me so happy when you say that. [hug] I love my Sammy, too. I'm so glad Heavenly Father sent you to
my family.
Sam: [nodding sagely] Ewuh
loves mommy. Danny loves mommy... [pause]
ALL the guys love mommy!
--I think
"all the guys" was a spontaneous and unassisted grouping of every
male in the family. Caused by a little laziness. :)
--Sam has been
saying “I love my mommy” a lot lately. I’m lovin’ it. Great refueling.
Sam: [looks up at mom
with innocent eyes and smiles adorably]
Mommy: Oh, Sammy, you’re so cute. [She picks him up and hugs him]
Sam: [hugging back] No,
Mommy, I not a baby.
Mommy: No, I know you’re not a baby anymore. But you’re still
cute.
Sam: [firmly shaking his
head] No, Mommy. I not a baby. I a Sammy.
Mommy: Are you saying that
only babies can be cute?
Sam: Da. [Aside—why has
he been saying ‘yes’ in Russian for the last few months? I find this very odd.]
Mommy: But non-babies can still be cute. Eric is cute. Daniel is
cute. I myself—
Sam: No, Mommy. Jeffwey cute. Jeffwey a baby. I not a baby. I a
Sammy. [Pause] [In the tone of somebody
saying “That’s so silly”] Mommy not a baby! Noooo.
--Despite my best efforts, I cannot convince him that non-babies can be cute in general, or that he is still cute specifically.
My mother says that girls just do lots more drama and shifting alliances than boys. But based on the soundbytes coming from the living room, I’m not sure I believe her. In a one-minute interval, I heard quotes like:
--Despite my best efforts, I cannot convince him that non-babies can be cute in general, or that he is still cute specifically.
My mother says that girls just do lots more drama and shifting alliances than boys. But based on the soundbytes coming from the living room, I’m not sure I believe her. In a one-minute interval, I heard quotes like:
Daniel: I thought we were
forming an alliance against Sam.
Eric: No, we are battling among ourselves.
[At least three foam swords resume
bashing in a grand melee.]
Or:
Eric: Daniel, NO. We do NOT kill captives who have
surrendered.
[Especially important since Eric was the
captive. I wonder if he would have been quite so protective of Sam…]
[After Eric’s first practice with the
high school math group.]
Eric: So, around half the people did not get problem 1 correct.
I was one of them. It involved not reading the question correctly. I got
problems #2 and #3 right. And problem #4 involved logarithms, but I happened to
remember enough about logarithms to get the answer correct.
Mom: That’s great! Dad will be happy to hear that. I know I
haven’t done any logarithms with you, so he must have been the one to teach you
about them.
Eric: No, I think I just read it in a book somewhere a while
ago.
--Of course he
did. Okay, so on the bright side, I don’t have to pay for college courses; I
just have to buy him math books to read to himself, right?
--Also, if it
makes you lesser mortals out there feel any better, he got stuck on problems 5
and 6.
Sam: Daddy, my shirt hurts.
Jon: Your shirt hurts? Is it broken? Is it bleeding? Does it
need a band-aid?
Sam: Daddy, no! [He could
tell he was being mocked, and he clearly did not like it.] My shirt hurts!
It needs sympathy!
Jon: Oh. Poor, poor, suffering shirt! Sympathy, sympathy!
Sam: Thanks, Daddy. [Apparently
he didn’t care about being mocked as long as he got what he wanted out of it.]
Gail: [playing Minecraft] I had a respectable
flock of chickens. Then there was this incident with a creeper…I don’t want to
talk about it. Anyway, I spent a long time herding all the animals back. Except
the chickens, who made a clean escape.
[Later] None of my eggs hatched. I have no more chickens! I don’t
want to cheat by going into creative mode…I know. I’ll go visit Sam’s farm. [pause] Aaagh! Sam is out of chickens,
too! Fine. I will go into creative mode on Sam’s farm, spawn a bunch of
chickens, and come back and harvest the eggs tomorrow. It’s not cheating that
way. [Jon laughs at me silently.]
Don’t judge me!
--I have no
option but to go into creative mode to keep Sam’s “farm” stocked. His farm is
actually a playground where he can run around and “ha” every animal in sight.
If I didn’t “cheat” every two days and re-stock his “farm,” he would soon break
down the fence and start destroying neighboring property. Much better to keep
the toddler placated.
Sam says such
random things. Here are two examples from two consecutive hours:
#1
Mom: Sam, can you please bring me the wet wipes?
Sam: No, I’m stuck in my house.
#2
Sam: [In the kitchen]
This is not like a road. This is like a kitchen.
“Sam just showed
me a piece of paper with scribbles on both sides. He pointed to the first side
and said “That’s my masterpiece.” Then he pointed to the other side and added,
“That’s ANOTHER masterpiece!””
--Gail, to Jon. Upon questioning, I discovered that Daniel had
taught him the word. Go siblings!
Mommy: Sammy, does Eric put his pee and poop in his pants?
Sammy: No.
Mommy: Does Daniel pee and poop in his pants?
Sammy: No.
Mommy: Where do they put their poop?
Sammy: In’a potty.
Mommy: That’s right. Babies use diapers. Big people use the
potty. Or the toilet. Does Mommy wear a diaper?
Sam: [In the “that’s
silly” voice] Nooo.
Mommy: That’s right. Because I am a Big Girl.
Sammy: Daddy a boy. Ewuh and Danny a boys. Mommy a guhl. I not a
guhl ANY MORE. I a Sammy.”
--Um. Drat, I
think he rather internalized the wrong lesson there. Sigh.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Speaking of Birthday Parties...
[I just posted this on facebook. This has been annoying me for years, though, so I am also re-posting it here.]
The kids just got back from the traditional bi-monthly trek to the mailbox.Once again, I have received catalogues from companies trying to sell me themed toddler birthday parties for $100-$300.
(Seriously? $50 to get a foam "throne" that my baby will be too hyper to sit in? Another $100 for decorations he's too little to appreciate, and goody bags to hand out to other babies who aren't even doing parallel play yet? All for some event the kid will neither appreciate in the moment, nor ever remember?)
I'm feeling generous. I will explain to the world--for free--how properly to plan a party for a one- or two-year-old child.
Just follow these simple steps:
1) Buy a cheap toy from Goodwill. (If you really want to splurge, you may get him a sparkly board book from Barnes and Noble.)
2) Make cupcakes.
3) Strip your kid down to a diaper.
4) Shove him in the high chair
5) Have the immediate family gather to sing "Happy Birthday."
6) Hand him the cupcake.
7) Let him "eat" it himself. (That's the entertainment. For everyone.)
8) Take a picture. (If you really want to splurge, you may video-record the whole thing on your smartphone and upload it to a private youtube channel.)
9) Clean him up.
10) Hand him his present. Let him "eat" it himself. (That's the rest of the entertainment. If you need yet more excitement, you may hand him the present BEFORE cleaning him up.)
If you spend more than $10, you have done something seriously wrong.
No doubt you wish to thank me for offering this wisdom. You may do so by figuring out a way to get crassly commercial companies to stop sending me unwanted mailers.
The kids just got back from the traditional bi-monthly trek to the mailbox.Once again, I have received catalogues from companies trying to sell me themed toddler birthday parties for $100-$300.
(Seriously? $50 to get a foam "throne" that my baby will be too hyper to sit in? Another $100 for decorations he's too little to appreciate, and goody bags to hand out to other babies who aren't even doing parallel play yet? All for some event the kid will neither appreciate in the moment, nor ever remember?)
I'm feeling generous. I will explain to the world--for free--how properly to plan a party for a one- or two-year-old child.
Just follow these simple steps:
1) Buy a cheap toy from Goodwill. (If you really want to splurge, you may get him a sparkly board book from Barnes and Noble.)
2) Make cupcakes.
3) Strip your kid down to a diaper.
4) Shove him in the high chair
5) Have the immediate family gather to sing "Happy Birthday."
6) Hand him the cupcake.
7) Let him "eat" it himself. (That's the entertainment. For everyone.)
8) Take a picture. (If you really want to splurge, you may video-record the whole thing on your smartphone and upload it to a private youtube channel.)
9) Clean him up.
10) Hand him his present. Let him "eat" it himself. (That's the rest of the entertainment. If you need yet more excitement, you may hand him the present BEFORE cleaning him up.)
If you spend more than $10, you have done something seriously wrong.
No doubt you wish to thank me for offering this wisdom. You may do so by figuring out a way to get crassly commercial companies to stop sending me unwanted mailers.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Minion Auditions
Dedicated readers of this space--all dozen of you--will know that The Witch of Doom has long been a fixture in our family.
This year, Daniel requested a Witch of Doom themed birthday party.
Since the Witch always has horrible staffing problems (she goes through a new minion every few months), it seemed obvious to try holding a recruiting day.
I invited the kids on Daniel's DI team to come over this afternoon, and I met them at the door and cackled "Prospective minions! Tee hee hee."
I waited until the last possible moment to put Geoffrey down for a nap. When I took him up, I poked our heads into the play room and said "See the cute baby? He's going to sleep. Don't wake him. Do you know what I do to minions who wake babies? I turn them into alligators. And then use their blood for potions. And then eat anything that's left."
After a few minutes of free play upstairs, I called them down and distributed pencils and this document to fill out:
[Remember, blogger has stupid formatting issues. --ed]
The kids demonstrated their laboratory assistant credentials by trying to get zombie eyeballs across the room without dropping them. While using only one hand. To hold a teaspoon on which the eyeball was balanced. While also racing a rival.
Fortunately the cracking/squishing/leaking wasn't too bad. I even managed to salvage three out of the four eyeballs later and use them in a salad.
We played "monster freeze dance," where the kids chose a song from a book of Disney tunes, and I played it in minor. They danced like monsters, but when the sad and creepy music stopped, they had to freeze in place. They were really good at it! Hardly any of them went "out."
We played a Minion version of "in the manner of the adverb," where one kid assigned his peers to prepare a potion, or ride a broom, or harvest bug intestines while he guessed what the secret adverb was.
I had a lovely little "green slime worm" eating contest prepared, but we ran out of time.
After the games, we all went into the kitchen, where I served cockroach pie, bug guts pie, unicorn blood, and mud juice. The bug guts pie (which tasted surprisingly like pumpkin) was singed. I explained that my most recent minion, #23, Frank, had been lax. "I turned him into a toad in punishment. And then I scraped off his warts for potion ingredients."
While they ate, I filled out their certificates with titles like "Untrustworthy Minion" or "Minion, third class." I pointed out that this status would remain with them, and the next time they're at my house, I could point to any of them and say "You! Minion! Do a load of dishes. And don't break any."
I had prepared a fun potion recipe but then didn't have time to prepare a game around it. I still sent a copy home with each child, along with their applications and their certificates of minionhood. I had scored the applications based on how much I liked the answers. One child, L.E., was very proud of her negative score.
Overall it was simple but fun. I think everyone had a good time, and I didn't completely lose my mind. I mean, I was a little harried and frazzled at times, but never too terribly. Some of the other moms helped out a bit. (Thanks!). And that's good, because Jon was in San Marcos (90 minutes away) skydiving.
I got six new minions out of it. Fair deal, I think.
Here's the potion recipe. Nothing amazing, but then, I churned it out in about twenty minutes. The main idea had been to plan a game around it, not dazzle anyone with its merit.
I told Jon this morning, while he was cleaning the living room and I was doing dishes, "It's a good thing my brain is so fecund, or I'd never get away with procrastinating so much. This is a chicken and egg thing, though. Which came first? Preponderance of ideas, or procrastination?"
This year, Daniel requested a Witch of Doom themed birthday party.
Since the Witch always has horrible staffing problems (she goes through a new minion every few months), it seemed obvious to try holding a recruiting day.
I invited the kids on Daniel's DI team to come over this afternoon, and I met them at the door and cackled "Prospective minions! Tee hee hee."
I waited until the last possible moment to put Geoffrey down for a nap. When I took him up, I poked our heads into the play room and said "See the cute baby? He's going to sleep. Don't wake him. Do you know what I do to minions who wake babies? I turn them into alligators. And then use their blood for potions. And then eat anything that's left."
After a few minutes of free play upstairs, I called them down and distributed pencils and this document to fill out:
[Remember, blogger has stupid formatting issues. --ed]
Application for
Minionhood
I
____________________________ do hereby apply to become the minion of The Witch
of Doom.
1.
I
want to become a minion because: (check all that apply)
I’m
bored
Thinking for myself is too hard; I’m a natural follower
I want to be on the winning team when she conquers the world
I’m trying to earn enough money to put myself through Hogwarts
I want to get some experience, then stab her in the back and take her place.
I love doing exhausting, unpaid work while my master screams at me.
Other:
Thinking for myself is too hard; I’m a natural follower
I want to be on the winning team when she conquers the world
I’m trying to earn enough money to put myself through Hogwarts
I want to get some experience, then stab her in the back and take her place.
I love doing exhausting, unpaid work while my master screams at me.
Other:
2.
As
a minion, I would be willing to fill the following position(s): (check all that
apply)
Lab assistant
Lab assistant
Soldier/cannon
fodder
Spy
Scapegoat (the person who gets blamed for everything)
Porter (the person who carries around all the heavy stuff)
Research assistant/librarian
Test subject (the person who finds out if the new potion works and/or is poisonous)
Other:
Spy
Scapegoat (the person who gets blamed for everything)
Porter (the person who carries around all the heavy stuff)
Research assistant/librarian
Test subject (the person who finds out if the new potion works and/or is poisonous)
Other:
3.
My
preferred method of punishment involves: (rate on a scale with 1 your favorite
punishment and 5 being your least favorite):
__ Being turned into a toad
__ Being turned into an alligator
__ Being locked in a dungeon
__ Being deprived of food and water
__ Being banished to another plane of existence without an obvious way to return
__ Being turned into a toad
__ Being turned into an alligator
__ Being locked in a dungeon
__ Being deprived of food and water
__ Being banished to another plane of existence without an obvious way to return
4.
If
the Witch banished me to a parallel universe. I would: (check all that apply)
Cry for my mommy
Pout/Tantrum
Try to colonize the place. Build shelter, plant crops, await rescue.
Try to conquer the place. Enslave the populace, hope nobody comes to the “rescue.”
Explore and experiment, trying to discover a way home.
Other:
Cry for my mommy
Pout/Tantrum
Try to colonize the place. Build shelter, plant crops, await rescue.
Try to conquer the place. Enslave the populace, hope nobody comes to the “rescue.”
Explore and experiment, trying to discover a way home.
Other:
5.
If
the Witch hired another minion, I would: (check all that apply)
Cry for my mommy
Pout/Tantrum
Be grateful someone else can now help with the heavy lifting in the lab
Try to poison my rival
Sabotage him to make myself look good
Declare myself the Master Minion and bully the new guy unmercifully
Thank the Witch for making all the decisions so I don’t need to worry
Other:
Cry for my mommy
Pout/Tantrum
Be grateful someone else can now help with the heavy lifting in the lab
Try to poison my rival
Sabotage him to make myself look good
Declare myself the Master Minion and bully the new guy unmercifully
Thank the Witch for making all the decisions so I don’t need to worry
Other:
6.
If
an enemy attacked the Witch of Doom, I would:
Duck [Should have said "Freeze in terror." Ah well. Deadlines.]
Run
Cower
Step in front of the lightning bolt and die loyally for her
Seize the moment and steal from her
Seize the moment and finish her off
Show some initiative. Try an experimental new spell I’ve been working on against her enemy, and hope it doesn’t accidentally turn her into a platypus.
Show some initiative. Try an experimental new spell I’ve been working on against her enemy, and hope it also “accidentally” turns her into a platypus.
May I comment that a disturbingly high number of children said they would stab me in the back? And one very sweet little sister (kindergarten age) said she would take a lightning bolt for me. She got the highest score of the day. Eric was the only one who offered to be a research assistant.
Duck [Should have said "Freeze in terror." Ah well. Deadlines.]
Run
Cower
Step in front of the lightning bolt and die loyally for her
Seize the moment and steal from her
Seize the moment and finish her off
Show some initiative. Try an experimental new spell I’ve been working on against her enemy, and hope it doesn’t accidentally turn her into a platypus.
Show some initiative. Try an experimental new spell I’ve been working on against her enemy, and hope it also “accidentally” turns her into a platypus.
May I comment that a disturbingly high number of children said they would stab me in the back? And one very sweet little sister (kindergarten age) said she would take a lightning bolt for me. She got the highest score of the day. Eric was the only one who offered to be a research assistant.
The kids demonstrated their laboratory assistant credentials by trying to get zombie eyeballs across the room without dropping them. While using only one hand. To hold a teaspoon on which the eyeball was balanced. While also racing a rival.
Fortunately the cracking/squishing/leaking wasn't too bad. I even managed to salvage three out of the four eyeballs later and use them in a salad.
We played "monster freeze dance," where the kids chose a song from a book of Disney tunes, and I played it in minor. They danced like monsters, but when the sad and creepy music stopped, they had to freeze in place. They were really good at it! Hardly any of them went "out."
We played a Minion version of "in the manner of the adverb," where one kid assigned his peers to prepare a potion, or ride a broom, or harvest bug intestines while he guessed what the secret adverb was.
I had a lovely little "green slime worm" eating contest prepared, but we ran out of time.
After the games, we all went into the kitchen, where I served cockroach pie, bug guts pie, unicorn blood, and mud juice. The bug guts pie (which tasted surprisingly like pumpkin) was singed. I explained that my most recent minion, #23, Frank, had been lax. "I turned him into a toad in punishment. And then I scraped off his warts for potion ingredients."
While they ate, I filled out their certificates with titles like "Untrustworthy Minion" or "Minion, third class." I pointed out that this status would remain with them, and the next time they're at my house, I could point to any of them and say "You! Minion! Do a load of dishes. And don't break any."
I had prepared a fun potion recipe but then didn't have time to prepare a game around it. I still sent a copy home with each child, along with their applications and their certificates of minionhood. I had scored the applications based on how much I liked the answers. One child, L.E., was very proud of her negative score.
Overall it was simple but fun. I think everyone had a good time, and I didn't completely lose my mind. I mean, I was a little harried and frazzled at times, but never too terribly. Some of the other moms helped out a bit. (Thanks!). And that's good, because Jon was in San Marcos (90 minutes away) skydiving.
I got six new minions out of it. Fair deal, I think.
Here's the potion recipe. Nothing amazing, but then, I churned it out in about twenty minutes. The main idea had been to plan a game around it, not dazzle anyone with its merit.
I told Jon this morning, while he was cleaning the living room and I was doing dishes, "It's a good thing my brain is so fecund, or I'd never get away with procrastinating so much. This is a chicken and egg thing, though. Which came first? Preponderance of ideas, or procrastination?"
Sleep Potion Recipe
By Gail “The Witch of
Doom” Homer Berry
For this potion, minions dear,
I require a goblin’s ear.
Eye of newt and wart of frog,
Wing of bat and tail of dog.
Of the dragon (nasty serpent)
I need BOTH his livers, servant.
Also three cups of his blood--
But no more, lest cauldron flood.
Griffin talon, harpy hair,
And a sphinx tongue if you dare.
(To its riddles pay no heed;
They will make you mad indeed.)
Viper venom (rattlesnake)
Stir with dwarven garden rake.
Also each ingredient
Might be disobedient.
To the cauldron from the land
They must not touch minion hand.
If you mixed this potion well,
You’ll have brewed a potent spell.
When applied, it ought—in theory—
Make your enemy be weary.
[To read a really good minionhood application, try the one by Aaron Williams, author of PS238, the comic book about children with superpowers. I don't have a good link. Sorry.)
[To read a really good minionhood application, try the one by Aaron Williams, author of PS238, the comic book about children with superpowers. I don't have a good link. Sorry.)
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Mommiest Moments: December 2012
[Some of these quotes are actually from January. Sorry. I'm lumping together anyway. --GHB]
Gail: Daniel, come for math.
Daniel: [gives me some rude attitude]
Gail: Daniel Scott Berry. If you were at Meridian or Whitestone, would you speak to your teacher like that?
Daniel: [Sullenly] Probably not.
Gail: Well, I expect you to give me just as much respect as you would show to Mrs. Merritt or Mrs. Hess. You begged to be homeschooled, and I am your teacher.
[Later, Gail recounts this incident to Jon.]
Jon: Next time, send him to the Principal's office.
[I've been sick most of the last month, but it's easier to play for primary than to find a sub. Last week, though, I was so ill I had no option.]
"I decided that missing the occasional Sunday was either a brilliant plan to remind the Presidency how much they value me, or a brilliant plan to demonstrate that I really am replaceable and thus they can release me. Still not sure which one."
--Gail, to Jon. Things are going better. I'm not whining, just being tongue-in-cheek. See next episode below.
I've been experimenting with ways to keep things fresh as primary pianist. Broken chords. Arpeggios. Dissonant seconds resolving into sugary thirds. Singing harmony. During Christmas, I had a great moment where I played "Silent Night" and sang an unscored descant--in German. I knew it was working, because I made mistakes. I didn't feel bored at all! (Although I thought I would die on the eighteenth time through practicing "Picture a Christmas." Oh wait, no whining. Sorry.)
Then, today, the chorister gave me a great suggestion. "Try transposing in your head," she said, and I lit up. Brilliant! I tried it for prelude, and I made LOTS of mistakes. An obvious success!
I'm like an over-eager engineer: I figure if it ain't broke, it doesn't have enough features yet.
"You know you're an adult when you stop courting drama."
--I have said this for years, but had occasion to repeat it to someone recently. It's also true: children get bored and so start fights; moms sigh and think "The universe throws enough chaos at me as it is--I don't need to create any."
"I don't want to stereotype my kids, and I'll support them in any reasonable career choice. But my father pointed out years ago that Eric thinks more like a theoretical mathematician or scientist, and Daniel thinks more like a hands-on, practical engineer. Each is super smart. My brilliant idea is for Eric and Daniel to become the Wright brothers of this century. They can work together to invent a commercially viable teleporter, become wickedly wealthy, and then build me my dream castle. How's that for a retirement plan?"
--This is why homeschooling is such a great investment. Right? Right?
"Fast Sundays tend to be the worst. It's a strong but not perfect correlation to reverence problems. My theory is that most Sunday mornings, the mom gets up and cooks breakfast, but on Fast Sunday, she just shoves a granola bar at the kids. It wears off one or two hours later, right as they hit Primary. Some teachers hand out snacks in class, but refrain on Fast Sundays as well. You'd think hunger would make kids lethargic, but instead they get hyper. Probably something about metabolizing stored fat into explosive bursts of cranky energy. Anyway...yeah. Fast Sunday in Junior Primary is brutal. Especially in January, when they're transitioning to new classes and teachers."
--Gail, explaining why (probably) last week in Primary was so awful. Alas, I wasn't there; I was home sick. Ah well. I have a really good imagination.
[Teaching Jon's eleven-year-old scouts about their rights and responsibilities as U.S. Citizens.]
Gail: ...so your parents can vote for who the president should be--
CG: Yeah, and if not, you have a dictatorship. Like in England! They have a queen.
Gail: Well, yes, Great Britain does have a queen, but they also have something called a "constitutional monarchy," which means she doesn't have much actual power.
CG: She doesn't? Then what does she DO all day?
Gail: Well, she does things like give speeches and visit hospitals and talk to important people.
CG: [Skeptically] Then how did she get so rich?
--I survived a roomful of hyperactive eleven-year-olds. Do I get a prize? Right; Jon does it every week.
"Sam wanted to log on by himself, so I just sat and gave suggestions. I told him to type an S, and he carefully found and pressed the S key. Then I told him to type an A and he carefully found and pressed the A key. Then I told him to type an M, and he carefully pressed the W key. [Pause] But still. I was impressed."
--Jon, to Gail.
Gail: Daniel, come for math.
Daniel: [gives me some rude attitude]
Gail: Daniel Scott Berry. If you were at Meridian or Whitestone, would you speak to your teacher like that?
Daniel: [Sullenly] Probably not.
Gail: Well, I expect you to give me just as much respect as you would show to Mrs. Merritt or Mrs. Hess. You begged to be homeschooled, and I am your teacher.
[Later, Gail recounts this incident to Jon.]
Jon: Next time, send him to the Principal's office.
[I've been sick most of the last month, but it's easier to play for primary than to find a sub. Last week, though, I was so ill I had no option.]
"I decided that missing the occasional Sunday was either a brilliant plan to remind the Presidency how much they value me, or a brilliant plan to demonstrate that I really am replaceable and thus they can release me. Still not sure which one."
--Gail, to Jon. Things are going better. I'm not whining, just being tongue-in-cheek. See next episode below.
I've been experimenting with ways to keep things fresh as primary pianist. Broken chords. Arpeggios. Dissonant seconds resolving into sugary thirds. Singing harmony. During Christmas, I had a great moment where I played "Silent Night" and sang an unscored descant--in German. I knew it was working, because I made mistakes. I didn't feel bored at all! (Although I thought I would die on the eighteenth time through practicing "Picture a Christmas." Oh wait, no whining. Sorry.)
Then, today, the chorister gave me a great suggestion. "Try transposing in your head," she said, and I lit up. Brilliant! I tried it for prelude, and I made LOTS of mistakes. An obvious success!
I'm like an over-eager engineer: I figure if it ain't broke, it doesn't have enough features yet.
"You know you're an adult when you stop courting drama."
--I have said this for years, but had occasion to repeat it to someone recently. It's also true: children get bored and so start fights; moms sigh and think "The universe throws enough chaos at me as it is--I don't need to create any."
"I don't want to stereotype my kids, and I'll support them in any reasonable career choice. But my father pointed out years ago that Eric thinks more like a theoretical mathematician or scientist, and Daniel thinks more like a hands-on, practical engineer. Each is super smart. My brilliant idea is for Eric and Daniel to become the Wright brothers of this century. They can work together to invent a commercially viable teleporter, become wickedly wealthy, and then build me my dream castle. How's that for a retirement plan?"
--This is why homeschooling is such a great investment. Right? Right?
"Fast Sundays tend to be the worst. It's a strong but not perfect correlation to reverence problems. My theory is that most Sunday mornings, the mom gets up and cooks breakfast, but on Fast Sunday, she just shoves a granola bar at the kids. It wears off one or two hours later, right as they hit Primary. Some teachers hand out snacks in class, but refrain on Fast Sundays as well. You'd think hunger would make kids lethargic, but instead they get hyper. Probably something about metabolizing stored fat into explosive bursts of cranky energy. Anyway...yeah. Fast Sunday in Junior Primary is brutal. Especially in January, when they're transitioning to new classes and teachers."
--Gail, explaining why (probably) last week in Primary was so awful. Alas, I wasn't there; I was home sick. Ah well. I have a really good imagination.
[Teaching Jon's eleven-year-old scouts about their rights and responsibilities as U.S. Citizens.]
Gail: ...so your parents can vote for who the president should be--
CG: Yeah, and if not, you have a dictatorship. Like in England! They have a queen.
Gail: Well, yes, Great Britain does have a queen, but they also have something called a "constitutional monarchy," which means she doesn't have much actual power.
CG: She doesn't? Then what does she DO all day?
Gail: Well, she does things like give speeches and visit hospitals and talk to important people.
CG: [Skeptically] Then how did she get so rich?
--I survived a roomful of hyperactive eleven-year-olds. Do I get a prize? Right; Jon does it every week.
"Sam wanted to log on by himself, so I just sat and gave suggestions. I told him to type an S, and he carefully found and pressed the S key. Then I told him to type an A and he carefully found and pressed the A key. Then I told him to type an M, and he carefully pressed the W key. [Pause] But still. I was impressed."
--Jon, to Gail.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Screening the Screaming
I've been dealing with cranky kids today, for a variety of reasons.
Mostly they involve illness and an end to Christmas vacation. The poor darlin's had to do actual chores today for the first time in weeks.
Here's a handy primer in case any of you ever need to babysit:
*If Geoffrey starts screaming, it means he is tired.
*If Daniel starts screaming, it means he is hungry.
*If Eric starts screaming, it means that he is over-stimulated.
*If Sammy starts screaming, it means he is two. (Or, if he is not two years old, it probably means "This really is the End of the World!")
Wasn't that helpful? Now y'all are ready to run my home for a week. Any takers? I suspect I'll need another vacation shortly.
Mostly they involve illness and an end to Christmas vacation. The poor darlin's had to do actual chores today for the first time in weeks.
Here's a handy primer in case any of you ever need to babysit:
*If Geoffrey starts screaming, it means he is tired.
*If Daniel starts screaming, it means he is hungry.
*If Eric starts screaming, it means that he is over-stimulated.
*If Sammy starts screaming, it means he is two. (Or, if he is not two years old, it probably means "This really is the End of the World!")
Wasn't that helpful? Now y'all are ready to run my home for a week. Any takers? I suspect I'll need another vacation shortly.
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