Scientific Theories & Other Stuff

For some time now my son has enlightened me with explanations about how the world works from his perspective. Being a good testosterone loaded male he has a reason for everything and always delivers his explanation with an air of authority.

For example, tonight he told me why some of the beans I am soaking for tomorrow’s bean soup float. Evidently it has something to do with the water hollowing out said beans so they are lighter.

I had no idea.

Tonight he also shared with me one of his theories about long distance travel. The conversation went like this . . .

G:  “Mom, do you know why it takes so long to get from Alaska to . . . what is that place called where Papa lives?”

Mom:  “Texas.”

G:  “No, the other one.”

Mom:  “Wasilla.”

G:  “Do you know why it takes so long to get from Alaska to Wasilla?”

(Wasilla is in Alaska for those of you who managed to remain blissfully ignorant for the duration of the last presidential election cycle.)

Mom:  “Why does it take so long?”

G:  “Because,” said my child who still pronounces ‘th’ as ‘f,’ “your car fights the erf because the erf goes backwards and your car goes forwards.”

Mom:  “Uh, ok.”

And here I was under the mistaken impression that the 40 mile trip between our house and Wasilla takes forever because my children don’t like to ride in the car and have no qualms about letting us know it the entire time.

On another note . . . G just asked if he could dig into the “Give” section of his piggy bank and take the money from it to school for the sick kids. His school is collecting “Pennies for Patients.”

Lessons are being learned. Giving is one of my favorite. Makes me a proud mama.

They are both so happy and chatty and cooperative tonight I think I might shed a few tears of joy. It has been a challenging week and a half and we’ve all earned this bliss.

Cheers,
D

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Rites of Passage

A story from February . . .

Conversations about motherhood often include discussion or at least mention of “rites of passage.” I believe that motherhood involves many, many rites of passage. I not only go through my own, but I also go through one each time one of my children does.

I have G to thank for ushering me through our latest rite of passage.

I’m not talking about anything requiring tissues or letters to grandparents or notes in baby books. I’m talking about the rite of passage that requires scissors.

Oh, you know what I’m talkin’ about . . .

I’m talking about having to cut something out of the hair of one of your children . . . something so embedded that the hair has to be cut, too . . . and not just a few piddly little strands.

Here he is . . .

Yes, that is a metal gun cleaning brush twisted in his hair . . . twisted down to his scalp. And yes those are eyes so tired they are purple. And yes that is a swollen left eyebrow . . . from a completely unrelated incident.

It was an eventful day.

Little man was sporting a nifty little patch of buzz cut by the time I was done with those scissors . . . right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. I never thought I’d be grateful for a cowlick. (Who decided to call them that, anyway? Weird.)

Salvaging the brush involved burning the hair out. Now there is a fragrance the people at the smelly candle factory haven’t captured.

Cheers,
D

We’re Moving

Really.

Truly.

Honestly.

No, really.

I swear it.

This time it is really happening.

We are really moving.

I know . . . many of you have politely followed along as we’ve bounced back and forth 7,538 times between, “I think we’re moving,.” and “No, now we’re staying,” over the past three years so why should you believe me now?

Because it’s true.

And I have an email to prove it . . . an email to my husband’s employer’s HR Department . . . an email containing a start date.

A May start date to be exact.

Except only my husband is moving in May.

The children and I aren’t planning on exchanging an Alaskan summer for a Californian one this year.

Plus I have an Airstream in my driveway that isn’t due to head south with its owners until August.

Thank G-d.

That gives me time to get organized . . . and spend an appropriate amount of time panicking . . . and find someone to live in our house . . . and figure out what to do with the hamster . . . and decide what we will actually take with us . . . and move everything else to storage . . . and get the dogs crate trained . . . and manage the other 3,425 things that will need to be done in order to go live somewhere else for “1-2 years” as the email so nicely stated.

Wow.

We are really moving.

Unless something changes . . .

D

P.S. Who says paragraphs have to contain more than one sentence . . . or one word for that matter?

Rosie and Rhalma

Meet Rosie and Rhalma.

They are the latest addition to the family. They are . . . um, dead spruce branches R found in her travels.

R is the type of person who has to mother everything within 100 yards of her whether it needs it or not.

If something in need of mothering doesn’t conveniently present itself R sets out specifically to find something that falls (or can be coaxed) into that category.

So the dead branches were rescued.

And a pot was filled with fresh dirt and water.

And the branches were “planted” and named.

And now they are sitting in the dining room. On a towel. On a pillow. On a blanket.

Everyone should have dead spruce branches in their dining room . . . really, truly.

Pillow optional.

Afterall, nothing fills a house with a lovely springtime atmosphere quite like dead spruce greens.

Cheers,
D

P.S. So I realize that after looking at these absolutely stunning plant portraits what everyone is really asking themselves is, “Wow! Where can I get hot water baseboard covers like those?”  Well, they are custom painted you know. They can’t be had just anywhere. The baseboards are part of the overall theme with which we’ve decorated the entire house. It’s called, “Still remodeling after all these years.” You too, however, can achieve a very similar look in your dining room with a nice can of Krylon® metal primer.