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Laugh Track

28 Jun

Whine: I just finished my yearly summer gig (It pays! Can you believe it??). Which means that the two weeks I spent waking the kids up and shipping them off to various babysitters was just enough to train their little bodies to be up and at ‘em right at 6:15am. I like money as much as the next gal, but I’m not sure it was worth if they keep this up.

Cheese: You get a whole lot done when you start your day before Matt Lauer has even had his coffee.

Did you ever see the episode of [insert name of favorite sitcom] where [insert name of male character] had two dates in one night? Somehow this lovable goofball [I'm imagining Kirk Cameron as a young Mike Seaver here, although my extensive archival research did not produce evidence of said Growing Pains episode] had managed to get himself in quite a pickle, with one lovely girl waiting for him at the table of the Italian restaurant and the other standing by the punch table at the school dance. The camera cuts to Mike Seaver [or whoever] changing his tie and pocket square as he runs back and forth between venues, trying to call the right girl by the right name, often with the assistance of [insert name of awkward yet loyal best friend].

I always hated the two-dates-in-one-night episode. First, because I really hate tension. And what’s more tense than two angry girls in 80s shoulder pad dresses sparring over the adorable yet slightly-chagrined leading man? But I also hated those episodes because they were just. so. unrealistic. Nobody pulls off being in two places at once. Ever. Not even for the thirty (twenty-two without commercials) minutes of a sitcom. But apparently the live studio audience always bought it hook, line and sinker because they laughed with every close call and pratfall.

I live my life now trapped in a sitcom cliche.

Except for instead of two dates in one night, I’ve got three kids and one me. I run back and forth from room to room, putting out fires. Some are figurative.  Big Sis is in my bed in timeout for dishing out some unauthorized Swift Justice on Lil’ Sis. I turn on World Cup Soccer just to make the consequences that much more severe. I call it punishment by vuvuzela*. Lil’ Sis is sitting in the empty bathtub waiting for me to finish cleaning up the “oops I forgot I don’t wear diapers anymore” spot from the hall rug and come hose her down. All the while, Brother Bear lays screaming  in his bed as if his toenails are being ripped off by a hungry troll. Which is only partly true; I fed the troll this morning.

Scenes like this litter the sitcom of my life. Running back and forth, trying to remember whose name is whose and where exactly I was going in the first place and why there’s a bag of cheese under the pile of unopened mail. Except there’s no laugh track. And all the time I spend cleaning up bodily fluids in real life would be conveniently edited into a thirty-second montage complete with quirky background music. Good grief what I wouldn’t give for some quirky background music. The laugh track I can live without because cleaning up pee is never as funny in the moment.

But give it a couple of hours (days if it’s a really bad one) and I have edited the whole thing in my head down to what it really was, just a sliver of time in my twenty-two minute episode (I get NO commercial breaks around here) where I lost the numbers game (Kids 3, Mom 0) , sandwiched between the ubiquitous moments of character building and requisite sappy ending. Then I bring it you, my live studio audience, and we can all have a good laugh. I hope.

Mr. Dad reading to his live studio audience.

*Vuvuzela, in case your household calendar does not orbit the local/international sports schedule as mine does, is the sound of thousands of atonal horns being blown without skill like the droning of a stadium filled with tone-deaf bees. Also known as the South African fans at the World Cup. Trust me, it’s torture.


Car Storys: Guest Post by Wren

15 Jun

Whine: I am completely intimidated to write on Sarah’s blog.

Cheese:  I am smiling to myself knowing that the word Storys in the title is driving some of you crazy while simultaneously answering some of your questions about how to write the plural of our last name.

Part of life in the Story household is time in the car.  Driving to see family, to conferences, to see family, to churches, to weddings, to see family, etc. In our world a 3 hour drive is a piece of cake, but you do have to gear up for the 14 hour one to Texas.  But the girls have gotten to be good travelers, and we make it.  When Daphne was a baby, if she really got her wail going, we popped in Janis Joplin, and she stopped.  We figured she appreciated someone else doing the work of expressing her feelings, so she could settle down.

But my two funny stories didn’t happen on long trips. They were in-the-car-around-town moments.  Moments that made me glad I was actually listening instead of what I usually do, which is to just try to tune out the arguments.  And they’re not my favorites because they were sweet moments…really, it’s just because they still make me laugh when I think about them.

So here they are…one for each…because they would complain if the other got attention and they didn’t.  (Daphne actually once asked for a spanking because her friend got one, so she wanted one too.  Ummm…no, not this time, honey.)

We were driving home from a friend’s house, and I heard Alice, who was 2 at the time, say, “Knock ya over…” to Daphne, who was 4.  I almost pulled over the car, thoughts of “You may not talk to your sister that way.  You may not touch her ever…” flowing through my head.  But, by the grace of God, what came out of my mouth, relatively calmly even, was “What are y’all talking about?” “Mommy, I said she’s November and I’m Knockyaover.” “You’re what?” “Knockyaover.” “October?” “Yeah. Knoc-to-ver.”  I was quite relieved that I hadn’t yelled at her. She was right. Daphne’s birthday is in November, and hers is in October. So then I had a desperate urge to teach her to pronounce it correctly, lest she overly relate herself to knocking people over. Because she would probably think that was really fun.

The next story is from a couple months ago. Daphne is now 5 ½, and Alice is 3 ½. The girls had played long and hard at the park, and we were on the way home. Because I’m a great mom, I was recommending ice cream and a movie when we got there.  But they had watched Barbie movies every day that week already. (Did I just admit that I let my kids watch a movie a day? Ignore that, and let’s go back to the story.)(And don’t judge about the B word. Barbie ballet movies are actually very sweet and little girl appropriate!)  So I said, “Y’all can pick out any movie…just not a Barbie one today.” (We needed to mix in some Disney or Leap Frog.  I mean, I want my kids to be well-rounded.)  But right as I was saying “not a Barbie movie,” Daphne was thrilled about picking and said, “Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses!” “No Daphne, not a Barbie movie today.  You still get to watch a movie, but you have to pick something else.”  And then I heard, in a whisper from the back seat, “You ruined my life.” And then, “I mean, I’m really angry.”  I started laughing.  I couldn’t help it.  Really?  She’s 5, not 15! “What did you say Daphne?”  “That makes me angry.”  I thought about pushing it—what did you say before that?—but the truth is, I was proud of her for catching herself already, and I didn’t want to make her say it out loud again in case out loud twice in the same minute would make a phrase stick in her 5-year-old vocabulary.

I guess I always knew the teenage years would be full of angst and me “ruining” lives, but I wasn’t prepared for it already! Maybe it was good practice.  I’ll probably wonder if there’s something I just don’t understand when she’s a teenager. But this time was easy — I knew that I wasn’t actually ruining her life — children have been known to survive Barbie withdrawal!  Phew!  Made it through that one.  Who knew I’d get it out of the way so early?  It hasn’t come up again since. But the memory always makes me laugh.  Maybe if I tell her about it when she’s 14, it’ll help her see how unreasonable she can be.  No?  Hmmm….I guess I’ll just have to treasure it to myself then.  And tell all of you.

P.S.  Shout out to Sarah.  How do you do it?  So many clever blog posts, three kiddos, amazing cakes, keeping up with everybody…You’re amazing.

P.P.S. [Sarah speaking] Thanks to Wren for stepping in for me during a very hectic time and for taking that cash I sent her to say nice stuff about me. Also, if you are a child of the 80s and you didn’t click the link up there, you should. Trust me.

Wren (aka Karen, aka Sarah’s sister) lives with her two little wordsmiths and their flip-flop enthusiast of a father in sunny Tallahassee. When she’s not pulling her children off of the unusually high places they’ve climbed, she likes to perfect her Tomahawk Chop and obsess over coordinating outfits for the perfect family picture.



Through the Looking Glass

6 May

Whine: I am living in the Poop Years. Every day I clean up poop. Off bottoms, out of clothes, off the floor of the public restroom stall. Some sweet day I will look around and realize that I have not cleaned up anybody’s business all day long, and that will be a very good day. But for now I arm myself with Resolve carpet cleaner and lots and lots of SoftSoap.

Cheese: Angsty teens doing melodramatic ballet to my favorite 80s uber-cheesy love ballad? Yes, please.

Yesterday it happened. I have always wondered when the day would come when one of my kids would figure out that they could turn the deadbolt and lock me out of my own house.

Well, yesterday was that day.

I unloaded Lil’ Sis from the car, unlocked the front door, tossed my keys down, and turned to retrieve Brother Bear from the car.  Then I turned to discover Lil’ Sis smiling at me from the other side of my front door glass. I tried the handle. Nothing. I banged on the door and shouted encouragingly for Lil’ Sis to turn the lock and she made a few feeble attempts. Nothing.

Then my little imp, who looked concerned about the situation for all of one nanosecond, turned tail and wandered off to explore the empty house Home Alone-style. I watched helplessly from the driveway as she toddled over to the table, still replete with unwashed breakfast dishes. My cries of horror went unheeded as she reached up to take a big drink of the milk that had been sitting out since breakfast.

I frantically called Mr. Dad who suggested I try the windows and see if any were unlocked. I was glad when there weren’t any, as we all know how it goes when I try the window approach to home entry. By that time Lil’ Sis had wandered back to smile and wave at me through the double-paned glass of the front door. Then she ran off to the far reaches of the house, probably to scald herself with hot water or pull bookshelves on top of herself.

No, of course I didn’t panic or freak out or think about calling 9-1-1.  Ok, maybe I did. But then I moved on to more productive behavior. I managed my internal near-hysteria by doing the following:

1) Thanking GOD that Brother Bear was not locked inside with his doting older sister, who would surely have suffocated him with kisses and hugs and pillows or bitten his toes off (she actually tried that the other day).

2) Running through all of the possible window-breaking scenarios to see which one would be least likely to cost me lots of pain and/or money.

3) Thinking what a HILARIOUS blog post this would make once I got Lil’ Sis out of there without drinking all my household cleaners or cutting her own hair.

4) Praying.

And miraculously, after I rang the doorbell about seven hundred times, Lil’ Sis walked back over and turned that lock.

I pushed open the door and scooped up that little sweetie, repeating over and over what a good job she did and how much I loved her as I squeezed her as hard as I could. Then I gave her guardian angel the rest of the day off. Heaven knows he needed it.

Home Alone 4: Revenge of Lil' Sis

Big Baby

14 Mar

Whine: I have officially sunk to a new low. For the first time since college, I’ve gone out in public in my pajama pants. What would Stacey and Clinton say?? I don’t really care, I’d like to see Stacey rock those kitten heels with a watermelon protruding from her front.

Cheese: They are very cute pajama pants.

Friday I had a root canal.

Yes, you heard me correctly. I decided that the best thing for me to do at 9 1/2 months pregnant would be to schedule an emergency root canal. You know, sort of like a dress rehearsal of pain for what’s coming up here pretty soon.

Let me tell you something about myself, in case you didn’t already know: I am a whimp. A pansy. A big baby. When I had my last big baby (aka Lil’ Sis) I had an epidural. Ok, I’ll be honest, I actually had two.

Friday at my friendly dentist’s office was no exception. After much poking, prodding and trepidation over poking and prodding a woman as pregnant as me, (Um could you please not go into labor? Yeah, thanks.) the dentist injected me with some Lidocaine. And then some more Lidocaine. Then she poked me some more. Can you feel this? Yep. This? Yep. Really? Mmm hmm. . . And so she gave me some more. And poked some more. Still feeling it. She called the other dentist in, who repeated the whole scenario. At the end of the day, I ended up needed 5 1/2 shots of Lidocaine (which means six pokes with a needle longer than I’d really ever like to see anywhere near my mouth agan) just to get a quarter of my mouth numb.

Once they finally removed all capacity for feeling from my mouth (which took an hour) the rest of the procedure wasn’t too bad. Except the part where I was lying flat on my back like a bloated turtle. And the part where I had to stop the dentist mid-torture to waddle mouth stuck open with some torture-related device to use the bathroom because, well, I’m hugely pregnant. And the part where they told me how much the whole episode was going to cost me, which led to the part where I was driving home and had to pull over because I was hyperventilating.

Once I stopped needing paper-bag-assisted breathing, I got myself a strawberry milkshake then took a monster nap. When I awoke, I discovered the part of a root canal that gives it it’s horrific reputation. Yeah, it’s the after part. When you wake up from your nap and the whole left side of your mouth feels like a giant throbbing mass of horribleness. And when you try to eat a mushy banana and accidentally chew on the wrong side and it feels as if there’s a tiny little ginsu knife going down into your nerves. I felt like I should have pulled one of these to make the pain desist:

Did I mention that I’m a big baby? Like it’s not obvious.

Ok, maybe I’m not a big baby. Perhaps I’m just . . . sensitive. Yes, that’s it, I’m very sensitive. Delicate, you might say. If by delicate you mean getting upset and close to tears when I realize that the Old Navy coupon I’ve been saving until I can escape the confines of my home without my children who behave like wild banshees in clothing stores is actually expired and I can’t use it after all. Or that someone ate the last piece of corn on the cob and I didn’t get any (but that was totally fair because I was newly pregnant then and could barely eat anything without hurling and corn on the cob actually sounded good and it was just so sad because I really was just so hungry).

So maybe I’m a bit oversensitive, and, yes, perhaps occasionally a modicum of logical thought might be of assistance as I deal with real life instead of the cry until I fall asleep approach. But there are positive aspects to being a complete bleeding heart.  Like rescuing stray puppies (ok, can’t say I’ve ever done that) or empathizing so much with the team who didn’t win the Superbowl you need a Pepto (I have definitely done that). 

And tell me this, when you spill the two ounces of breastmilk it took you an hour to pump or your seventeen year-old cat finally gives up the ghost and you’re heartbroken even though you didn’t actually like the cat, who are you going to call? Your “logical” and “rational” friend who “doesn’t cry over spilled milk or old dead cats” or the one who’s guaranteed to feel your pain and then some? That’s what I thought.

Sugar and Spice

10 Mar

Whine: I’m not sure how Lil’ Sis knows about the Terrible Twos, but she does. All day today I kept hearing emphatic variations of the same thing. “I. Don’t. Like. Church.”  and “I. Don’t. Like. Cars.”  and “I. Don’t. Like. Pizza.” (who doesn’t like pizza??)

Cheese: At least she’s using appropriate sentence structure.

The first thing people notice about Lil’ Sis is her hair. Her fiery orange hair. In fact, it was the first thing the delivering OB noticed before she was even all the way born. Now that is some red hair. And after people stop me mid-aisle in the grocery store to tell me how pretty her hair is, they quickly follow that first observation with a correlating second. “Red hair. Got a temper, doesn’t she?”

She does. But it rarely shows. Most of the time Lil’ Sis is sugar. You know as in sugar and spice and everything nice. . . She shares her toys with her cousins, and tries to make peace when tempers flare.  If Big Sis is sad, Lil’ Sis is the first to run to her aid with a blankie and a hug. And best of all, she insists on helping me unload the dishwasher.

But occasionally Lil’ Sis is spice. And by spice I don’t mean cinnamon. We’re talking cayenne. Possibly tabasco. When she was a little baby, people would ooh and aah over how sweet and mild she was. The nursery workers thought she was a dream. But Mr. Dad and I knew better.  At home we called her “Wild Thing.” She was very adept at letting us know when she was too hot or too cold. Her lion’s roar was just a little louder and more intense than all the other kids’ (it’s not a ten, it’s an eleven).

And today, as she sweetly helped me in the kitchen, all sugary and sweet, hints of her spicier side slipped out. She toddled to the dishwasher and handed me the spatula to be put away. Except I put it in the wrong drawer. And boy did I regret it. That sweet little angel hollered and yelled at me in righteous indignation until I put the spatula in the exact right place.

I love her sweet side. I really, really do. I mean, who wouldn’t like a kid who happily (and very accurately) unloads the dishwasher? Watching her gently tuck her baby dolls into bed or look in every room until she finds her sister melts my heart. And we die laughing every time she runs out of a room with her purse and waves as she says “Berightback.” But her spicy side is nice, too. I know it sounds nuts, but that little extra oomph in her cry yell when someone she likes has the nerve to leave our home to go to their own is pretty endearing. And it shows how fiercly she loves. Her indignation over not getting to do something herself makes me chuckle (well, sometimes). At least I can be reassured that Lil’ Sis will someday (probably sooner than I’d prefer) be an independent woman. But mostly it’s the way she attacks me when she hugs me and the way she dances her heart out to Farmer in the Dell that I like. Because what’s life without a little spice?

Sugar.

Spice

Everything nice?

That's what little girls (and wild things) are made of.

So I’m sending a birthday roar to my little Wild Thing. I love you, Lil’ Sis. The day you were born (although it was VERY long) was one of the best of my life. I cannot wait to see how you grow and change and make me crazy over this next year. Happy birthday to you. And just because you’re so darn cute, one more picture.

All dressed up (well, almost) and nowhere to go.

Categorically Funny

23 Feb

Whine: I need to stop watching cake shows. Watching normal-looking people turn moist, fluffy cakes into the Eiffel Tower has made me delusional. The other day I seriously considered (at Mr. Dad’s behest) attempting a Great Wall of China made from cake. So you can imagine my utter confusion today when I attempted to make some simple sugar flowers and they turned into a runny, goopy paste instead of delicate cherry blossoms.

Cheese: I did what anybody would have done in my situation. I stopped piping the frosting onto the flower form and squeezed it directly into my mouth. Obviously.

My life is funny almost all the time. Problem is, I don’t always see it like that. At least not right away.  That’s because situations come in all different types and degrees of funny, and are accompanied by varying degrees of pain and humiliation. I figured that a Humor Classification System might assist me in arriving at that “someday we’ll look back on this and laugh” point sooner rather than later in some of these situations.

My preliminary findings have issued at least five categories of funny:

Funny Haha (FHH)

The classic funny. Something humorous that happens yet causes to no physical or emotional harm to the subject(s) and/or innocent bystanders. This form of humor is rare in this house.

Example: I was crouching down attempting to pull up Big Sis’ tights after a successful trip to the potty. But I couldn’t manage it, as she was very proud of herself and kept taking bow after bow, sticking her bottom in my face and saying “Thank you, thank you very much.”

Funny Painfully Awkward (FPA)

Humor that arises out of a situation that exposes (either literally or figuratively) the subject. Laughter here is almost always a survival tactic.

Example: Did you know that the restrooms at Chipotle have an echo? My kids recently discovered this, much to their amusement. (Same restroom from aforementioned bowing incident.) They began testing out the sound-bouncing properties of various yelps and hollers. The woman standing outside the door made no effort to stifle her giggles as we exited. I flashed her a smile that said “I have clearly given up on controlling these two wild animals” and hurried out of the building, avoiding the eyes of the other patrons who had surely heard our physics demonstration.

Funny Boo Hoo (FBH)

The laughter that comes as a means to avoiding tears. Or laughter that intermittently accompanies tears, as the subject realizes that there is no actual reason for crying.

Example: This morning (a long, exhausting one that started way too early) I spilled some bright red cranberry juice onto our beige carpet and promptly burst into tears. Real, uncontainable tears. After Mr. Dad and I cleaned it up, I could barely chew my soggy granola through my sniffs and hiccuped sobs. I knew it would be funny eventually, but it sure wasn’t at that moment. Especially when Mr. Dad helpfully commented, “You know what they say about crying over spilled cranberry juice.” If only my eyeballs had laser-beams.

Funny I am Going to Kill You As Soon As I Stop Laughing (FGTKY…)

Usually begins as a futile attempt to suppress laughter and look angry in the face of equal measures of adorability and mischief. Often requires a camera. And a time out. Very, very common in houses with children under six years of age. Generally the type of humor found on this blog.

Example: When I went to free Lil’ Sis from her prison crib this morning, I was greeted with smiles and happy chatter by the most cheerful and sweet little creature. And she was stark naked. I noticed that she had unzipped and taken off her footie pajamas then casually removed her diaper and tossed her aside. I should have given her a stern talking to because although the bed was dry today, the odds of that happening every time are VERY slim. But it’s hard to keep a straight face when your baby is grinning at you, naked as a jaybird and proud.

Although children are the most common culprits of this type of humor, spouses are a close second. Especially if you happened to marry someone who finds humor in pushing your buttons.

Example: I had the great idea to take have Mr. Dad take some pictures the other day at the park. Just Mommy and the girls walking hand-in-hand down the path. Unfortunately, I have not seen myself from the rear in a loooonnngg time or I would not have suggested this. Mr. Dad found the angle particularly amusing, and made sure to snap a few shots zoomed in on the parts of me that would have fared better in some maternity Spanx. (This may or may not be related to squeezing large quantities of frosting into my mouth.) Good thing for him I was in a good mood or that could have easily been a FBH.

Funny Way Past My Bedtime (FWPMB)

Generally anything perceived as funny after 11pm or on fewer than six hours of sleep.

Examples here are not worth noting, as they generally make no sense whatsoever.

Funny That’s Just Wrong (FTJW)

A cousin of the FGTKY, FTJW finds humor in situations that elicit guilt from the giggler. Laughing at another person’s FPA or FBH qualifies as a FTJW. As does laughing at pretty much anything on a reality show. It is best not to admit the FTJW humor of a situation in certain company, especially if that company happens to be crying over spilled cranberry juice.

Example: This intolerable act of moral depravity should make me shake my head in wonder at the disintegration of American society. Instead, it made me giggle.

Shame on you, inconsiderate vandals, shame.

In case you can’t read the poorly-spelled and barely-legible defacement of public property, it says Don’t STOP Believing. The mental image of a 40+ year old vandal tagging this sign (the song came out in 1981) made me giggle. But I was informed that the song is a hit with the youth of today, thanks to the folks on Glee. Oh well, it’s still clever. Although, for the record, I remain outraged at the perpetrator’s lack of respect for our public safety. Ahem.

Did I leave out any categories?

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