Life as viewed by a Two-year-old

I took all the pictures off my camera the other day and loaded them onto the computer.  As I scrolled through them, I was puzzled at first with some of the subjects.  Then I remembered that Bradlee had had possession of the camera a few times.

This is Grandma.

 

The face comes into the picture when playing Hide and Seek. 

This is Papa.  You can tell by the jeans, belt, and shoes...

...or maybe just jeans and belt. 

Uncle playing a non-energetic form of Hide and Seek...

 ...so the face is no longer in the picture.

Is Uncle going to get me or is he faking?

I don't know what Auntie Richelle is doing but it looks like fun.

Grandma took the camera away so Papa is playing "Cut the Rope" with me on his phone.

I found it interesting how there were no faces in the picture unless the person was interacting with him. I'm not so sure it was just inexperience with cameras.  He was looking at the screen when he took the pictures.  

I remember identifying my mother in a group by the skirt she was wearing.  I clearly remember at convention one year when I was quite young taking hold of my mother's skirt when when she was standing with a circle of ladies in the shade of a tree.  There was merry laughter from the ladies and when I looked around to see who else was there, I was confused to see my mother's skirt across the circle.  I took another look at the material I had clenched in my hand and saw it wasn't right so I walked across the small gathering to the skirt made of the right pattern of material.  My mother put her hand on my head and I leaned into the comfort of her presence. 

Of course, I now know the merry laughter was at my expense of mistaking someone else's skirt for my mother's but it literally and figuratively went over my head at the time and left nary a blemish on my psyche.  So I find it intriguing to look at the pictures Bradlee takes.

Richelle and I got back last night from my niece and her family's home. Those kids are vastly entertaining!

I read in "Bells on Their Toes" (sequel to "Cheaper by the Dozen") how a person cannot stay with a large family for very long without having something snap unless they themselves are from a large family or they have grown with one. I wouldn't say that five children is a large family, really, but I can see the truth in that statement.

I'm glad I have eleven siblings and four children. If I hadn't, the several conversations at mealtimes (each usually conducted at a higher decibel level than the conversation next-door, so to speak) might have gotten to me. Or dealing with one child crying because he thumped his head following older brother under the bed when another child suddenly becomes lost and frightened under the same bed - having followed older brother...

It was an enjoyable time. Precious snapshots:

~ The three-year-old emphatically declaring she "didn't like spinach!"
"You don't?" her father asked mildly.
"No. I don't like spinach."
"How about trying just a little?" her dad suggested, "Okay?"
"Okay." she agreed happily.
She asked for seconds, then thirds, and became heartbroken when her mom took the last of it.

~ I didn't know it at the time, but the seven-year-old son has some trouble reading. He read the word 'Luke' as 'luck' and I gave a quick lesson on how the 'e' can reach over one letter and thump the vowel on the head to make it say its long name but it can't reach over two letters. A couple of days later, he thanked me for the lesson, saying it helped his reading a lot.

~ The nine-year-old rolling her eyes when I tried to sweet-talk her into setting the table early by calling her "my favorite oldest niece there". She set the table with a smile - seeing through my ploy.

~ The 22-month-old flomping himself to the floor from ill-use and mis-treatment because I dared to offer him a piece of my (large) cookie instead giving him one of his own....but chirking right up when offered half a cookie from the bag.

~ The newborn being her sweet and adorable baby girl self.

Ahh...memories.

Lessons on Packing for Airport Security

Cameron went to the east coast in 2005 at age 15 with a large group of Boy Scouts to attend National Jamboree. He was going to be gone for a little more than two weeks and one of the items on the packing list was detergent so they could wash their clothes.

When Nick went in 2001, I could buy pre-measured packets and did so. I looked high and low when Cameron went four years later and couldn't find anything. No problem. I'm resourceful and imaginative. I measured out eight or ten small load's worth of detergent, vacuum-sealed them individually, put them all together into a gallon zip bag, and gave them to Cameron to pack.

A couple of weeks later, we were standing in one of many long lines of uniformed Boy Scouts at the Eugene airport waiting for their luggage to be checked. I'm thinking 'checked' as in 'checked baggage, not carry-on' and it was 'checked' as in the TSA officer having the boys open their bags so he could check the contents. Not a problem. I knew Cameron didn't have anything he wasn't supposed to have.

Cameron's checked bag was a very large duffel stuffed fairly full. He shoved it along with his foot as the line inched closer to the officers. Eventually, he came to the front and the officer asked him to open his bag. Cameron obligingly reached down and, with one smooth, quick motion, zipped it open. The sides of the bag promptly fell wide, revealing a gallon zip bag full of smaller packets containing white granulated stuff lying right on top.

The officer stood there transfixed and I instantly realized what he thought he was seeing. I practically gibbered as I tried to explain what that packet was and offered to open one to prove it. I think I might have even asked Cameron if he had his knife on him to open one.

After a moment, the officer seemed to come to himself and waved away my offers. "You're Boy Scouts," he said. "I trust you."
"Besides, it doesn't look like drugs, really," he added.

Birthday

Today was my birthday and it started out in a unique way by Richelle sitting me into a chair and giving me a hand-lettered breakfast menu complete with appetizer (applesauce), entrées (scrambled eggs with my choice of bacon or sausage and whole wheat or oat bread toast; hot oatmeal; and cold cereal of my choice from Cap'n Crunch, Lucky Charms, or Honey Crisp Medley), beverages (water, coffee, teas of several varieties, hot chocolate, or milk), and dessert of apple with or without caramel. The menu came complete with prices and a baggie of play money.

She left me to make up my mind and then returned a few minutes later wearing an apron and carrying a small pad of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other. She took my order rather professionally, I thought, and went back to the kitchen. A few minutes later she brought me my applesauce and left again. In due course of time, back she came with a plate of Scrambled Egg Supreme with bacon and a slice of oat bread toast and a cup of vanilla chai, all done to perfection. I don't even recall teaching her how to properly scramble eggs or how to fashion and cook a sausage patty (husband of the birthday girl was also waited on) from bulk sausage! There are times I'm convinced that child learns by osmosis.

She came once to ask how everything tasted and if it was to our liking and then returned once more to present the bill...which I paid for with the play money provided.

I made lunch since Mike is on swing shift but at supper time, Richelle led me to the table which had a candle burning in the center and was set with one placing of silverware wrapped up in a napkin and a supper menu. The appetizer was peanut butter and honey on wheat bread toast; entrée was my choice of a Sandwich Slam (whatever I wanted between two pieces of bread), cheese toast, mac 'n' cheese, cheese quesadilla, turkey wrap (turkey slices rolled with sliced cheese), and Bacon a la Cheese (crumbled bacon and grated cheese); drink choices were Mountain Dew, Kool-aid tropical punch, Kool-aid lemon-lime, milk, and Kool-aid orange; dessert was fresh, homemade oatmeal cookies. We don't really consume that much cheese and certainly not that vast amount of Kool-aid but she went with what she could make.

What a hoot! I loved it and am saving those precious menus with the date lightly penciled on the backs. Those meals was her gift to me and a wonderful, thoughtful gift it was. I will always remember it. Such a darling daughter!

The little grand piano at the top of this post was Mike's gift to me. It's a trinket music box that plays "I Just Wanna Be Loved By You." I know each year that I'll get a grand piano figurine of some sort. It's not the piano that's the gift but the reason for it.

You see, years ago when the kids would whine about not having something they wanted, I'd point out that I'd always wanted a baby grand piano but they don't see one in the front room. That was always my standard retort....until Melissa gave me a little grand piano figurine at Christmas in 2000. She was so tickled that the house almost couldn't contain her and when I opened her gift, she squealed, "Now you can't say you don't have a grand piano anymore!"

I received two more from her and Mike has carried on in her memory.

Pass or Fail

Schools used to bring in a trailer once a year and test the sight and hearing of grade school kids. They may still do it, I don't know; I homeschool my kids.

Each year, I'd enter the trailer with fear and trepidation. I was frightened that I'd fail the eye test. I was more confident with the hearing test but I was so afraid of some unknown thing because I couldn't read the eye chart. There was such a relief in passing the test and being allowed to return to the classroom with the others!

In fourth grade, things got a little worse when Mom took me to an eye doctor. It was bad enough worrying about failing the eye test in school, now I was faced with failing it at the doctor's office. The only comforting thing about failing it at the office was that the doctor fixed the machine in a way that I could pass the test in the end. It meant getting glasses but at least I could see!

Mom took me to the eye doctor every year after that and every year I tried to pass the test and every year I failed and had to get new glasses with a new prescription.

Now let's jump ahead about three decades to last Monday when I took Cameron and Richelle in to get their eyes checked.

I suddenly realized that as an adult I've always referred to these appointments as getting our eyes "checked" and not "tested". For a split moment I wondered why, tasted the phrase "get your eyes tested," and a faint memory of anxiety returned. Knowing the kids would love the story, I told them about my pass or fail anxiety and how each year I would be disappointed at failing yet again. They thought it was the funniest thing ever.

Richelle had her eyes checked first (see? I still do it!) and her prescription (reading) hadn't changed. She was so disappointed because she wanted new frames. We were in the waiting room while Cameron was getting his eyes checked, Richelle trying valiantly to control her disappointment, when a thought struck me.

"Richelle!" I exclaimed sitting straight up, eyes wide.

"What?" she replied warily. The waiting room of a doctor's office is hardly the place for excitement and, besides, she was familiar with that particular tone of voice.

"You passed the eye test!" I shrieked in a hoarse whisper.



The post script to my childhood story is ironic. About twenty years ago, I asked Mom why she decided to get my eyes checked in fourth grade. Was it her personal policy to have us kids' eyes checked at that point?

She looked at me rather oddly and said, "No, I took you in because I got a note from the school saying you needed to see the eye doctor."

How to make pudding

I made a banana cream pie without bananas yesterday because that's how Melissa liked it and it was her birthday. I asked her once why she didn't just call it a banana pudding pie and she said it wasn't banana pudding pie, it was banana cream pie without bananas. Not sure what kind of odd logic she was using. Anyway, I was making the pudding and remembered our good friend Joy.

Joy was at our house for a few days three years ago and I'd made tapioca pudding as a dessert. She enjoyed it and thanked me for the hard work I did to produce it. I replied that it wasn't hard work, exactly, just boring to stand there and stir until it boiled. I explained that to combat the boredom I stir with one hand and hold a good book with the other. She clearly didn't believe me.

"You think I'm joking?" I exclaimed, "I'm serious! I stand there with a whisk in this hand and a book in this hand," motioning with right and left hands, "and stir while I read. The kettle spins as you stir unless you hold it so if you put the tea kettle on the burner behind, your kettle will spin a full circle and then stop when the handle hits the tea kettle."

Joy began to smile.

"And,' I continued, "I speed things up a bit by setting the burner almost to 'high'. That means it cooks faster but I also need to stir faster to keep it from scorching. So I'm stirring like mad with one hand and enjoying my book in the other," demonstrating in the air for her, "until the pudding comes to the boil and I'm finished."

Joy started to laugh.

"Now tapioca is a little different," I went on. "If I cook it too fast, the tapioca doesn't soften as it should and, instead, sinks to the bottom of the dish as it cools in the fridge and congeals in a rubbery mass. So I have to stir a little longer but can go a little slower. That means," I added, tipping Joy over the edge, "that I have to make sure my book has enough pages left for me to read. I don't want to finish the book just as the pudding starts to thicken."

I promise my mother and sisters that I'm ever so much better at this stirring and reading combination now than I was at age ten when I was supposed to be churning butter.

So thank you, Joy, for making me smile first thing yesterday morning.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

Cameron and I got to reminiscing this evening and there were a couple of stories in particular that I enjoyed telling.

My oldest brother got married in June of 1988 in the great state of Texas. My dear, sweet, kind, loving, thoughtful husband suggested that since I was already over halfway there, I might as well go on to Florida and take Melissa and Nick to Disney World. Dutiful wife that I am, I didn't argue.

We flew to Texas accompanied by my youngest brother (who had a massive growth spurt those two weeks as only a teenager can and I could have set my watch by his four-hour eating schedule but that's another story) and was met by a sister who lived between Dallas and Fort Worth. I rented a car and the five of us drove to Orlando.

We were traveling east against the time zones so each day we drove longer into the night. The second night I think it was, we stopped just outside of Mobile, Alabama to gas up the car. The kids and I wandered around, stretching our legs at the edge of the lights and someone, I don't remember who but probably Nick since at age three he was closest to the ground, found a very interesting bug. I can't describe it because I don't really remember other than that it was about a couple of inches long but it looked quite odd and unlike anything we have here. Melissa, Nick, and I circled around it, trying to figure out what it could be without being able to see it very well. Steve saw us crowded around and sauntered over and then Rhonda came to see what was holding us up. Finally, the attendant arrived to see what the problem was.

"This bug." we ask him, "What is it?"

"That?" he points. "Oh, that's a moe cricket." (You have to imagine a thick Southern accent.)

Steve, Rhonda, and I look at each other thinking, "A Moe cricket? As in Larry, Curly, and -?"

"A Moe cricket?" I verify.

"Yeah, a moe cricket." He looks at our confused expressions. "You know. They call it a moe cricket 'cause it digs in the ground like a moe." (Remember the accent).

"Oh, a mole cricket!" we exclaim in unison.

"That's whut Ah said." It was his turn to look confused. "A moe cricket."

"Yes. Yes, you did say that." I assured him.


Somewhere in Louisiana we were in a McDonalds having lunch. I will admit right here and now that I eavesdrop when people are talking in an ordinary voice. It drives Mike nuts but I do it. If they're speaking low or whispering, I ignore it but if they're in a public place and speaking normally, I'll often listen. This conversation was between the woman taking a drive-up order and the woman in the car giving the order.

I didn't pay attention to the exchange until a note of confused exasperation crept into the employee's voice. I'm going to type the words spelled properly; you have to translate it into Louisiana Southern.

"Ma'am, could you repeat that again?"

"Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah."

"I still didn't understand you. Could you please speak up?"

"Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah."

"Uh, how about if you speak a little more slowly."

"Blaah, blaah-blaah, blaah-blaah."

"Thighs? Ma'am we don't carry thi-"

"Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah!"

"Ma'am, this is a McDonalds. We don't carry thighs. There's a Kentucky Fried Chicken just down the road a pi-"

"Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah!"

"Ma'am, how 'bout you come on down to the window here and tell me what you want?"

Small pause.

"All right, ma'am. Now what was it you wanted?"

Other woman replies...

"Oh, a small fry!! Yes, ma'am! I can get you a small fry!"

I almost spit soda across the table I'm laughing so hard and turning red from trying to hold it in. Rhonda's looking at me oddly. Steve's hungrily eyeing the kids' hamburgers, wondering if they're going to eat all their lunch.

"Didn't you hear them?" I wheezed. "They can't even understand each other!"

"I don't listen to private conversations." Rhonda said primly.

"Well, your missing a lot of fun," I retorted, "and it wasn't private!"