My Child’s First Car Accident…

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My 18 year old has had his own car since April and since then has been dividing his time between me, his dad, his girlfriend, and work. While I know he would rather be with the hot girlfriend over his parents, he is VERY good about making sure he spends time with all of us.

He works full time and travels to different stores within 3 counties. The other day, for no reason, I was thinking: “If Nate was in a car accident, how would anyone know to tell me?” Especially if it was one of the stores far away.

That night, I saw his dad’s name pop up on my phone and my heart sank. We get along fine, but don’t make a habit of calling each other.  I listened to his voicemail, and the first words were: “Carrie, call me back as soon as you get this. Don’t worry, Nate’s ok, but there’s been an accident.”

I’m obviously psychic and the first thing I did was wish I had called Nate when I had that weird feeling and told him to make sure he drove safely. I know, though, he would have rolled his eyes and said, yes mom, of course, etc.

He was going through a green light in his little Nissan when out of nowhere a truck pulls left in front of him and (when it was all said and done) did $7,000 worth of damage to the car and it is now deemed totaled. The driver of the truck wanted to do a hasty exchange of info and leave. Nate was all, “OH HELL NAW you aren’t leaving, we’re calling the police.”IMG_1580.JPG

(Someone obviously never told this guy to keep his mouth closed at an accident scene because he was all over himself apologizing and actually said he was trying to speed up to turn…)

Nate was very shook up, and when I saw the pics of the car, I couldn’t believe he didn’t get one scratch on him. Nothing! The airbag deployed, but just barely caught him on the chin. I was so relieved he was ok! His car was a mess but he was alive.

The first thing he says: “Oh man, I have plans this weekend, how am I going to get there?”

Me: “Um, you’re alive. Be thankful!”

Nate: “Yeah, I’m alive, but I HAVE PLANS!”

Me: “But, but, honey, you could have DIED!”

Nate: “Yeah, but if I died, I wouldn’t be wondering how to GET anywhere!”

Touche, my son. Touche.

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I’m Leaving on a Train Car…

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I want to start off by saying I love my kids.

I do, I do, I do.

But they drive me CRAZY!!!!

I know I’m not alone in this. I’m pretty positive every single parent, at one time or another, has envisioned running away from home holding a plaid knapsack on a stick containing a few PB&J’s while whistling a merry tune as you find a nice train car to jump into and go far, far away.

Or do what I do and hide in a corner, suck on a thumb and rock myself.

I was a teacher. I took child psychology classes, learning development classes, I knew all the stages of anal, oral, and whatever else Freud liked to talk about, so you would think when my child is freaking out about something I would remember it was normal.

It’s so hard to remember that when they are screaming at the top of their high pitched lungs and telling you they hate you because their apple isn’t as red as their brothers.

(That was last night)

My oldest is 18 and is easy at this point, but he still has no idea how to clean up after himself. He can create mods on his computer games, and defeat any enemy he wants, but the concept of bringing dirty dishes to the sink escapes him.

My 5 year olds, well, they are another story. Every minute is full of wonder, such as: “I wonder who is going to have a meltdown next?”

The Terrible Twos and Threes are nothing compared to the Terrible Fives.  I find myself correcting more during the day than cuddling, and constantly trying to see into the future to know what may or may not cause a tantrum.

Eggshells. Lots and lots of eggshells.

One of the twins said they hated me last night because I wouldn’t give them a sucker with their dinner. I have never given them a sucker with dinner, but they decided it was to be, and when I nicely refused, it caused a serious row and I was flabbergasted. I’m often flabbergasted.

One of the twins has a broken arm and decided he wanted to wear long sleeved pajamas to bed. I said that wasn’t a good idea because a) the cast doesn’t fit into the arm easily, and b) it was 85 DEGREES.

Well, that made him more determined to prove that I was wrong and he proceeded to fit that cast into the sleeve one millimeter at a time. He was getting red faced and mad and kicking and screaming, and it took him 10 minutes to put on the shirt while I watched, defeated.

But he showed me.

They also like to lie, now, which is awesome. I will say: “No, we are not going to the McDonald’s play area, it’s 9PM!” and they will say: “You’re mean. You said I’m a stupid boy and you hate me!”

WHAT?? NO I DIDN’T! “Yes, you did, you said you don’t love me any more and that I’m just a stupid head.”

<facepalm>

I’m exhausted from all the work my brain has to do to deal with them sometimes. Yelling doesn’t do anything but make everyone more frenzied, but sometimes being calm makes them think their behavior is ok. Forcing them to say they’re sorry when they aren’t, or don’t even understand why they should be sorry, is difficult, as does knowing which battle to fight or give up on.

Every generation goes through this, and I think it’s because we aren’t given enough insight into what children go through in their little brains. They are testing the waters, seeing what they can do, not realizing they are slowly sending their parents into mental zombie land.

There should be a pamphlet that is sent to us on their birthdays so we know what we’re in for the next year. Things like: “Five year olds often have no clue what the heck they really want, and reverse psychology works amazingly well at this age. They will also think they need everything they see on every commercial, especially the “As Seen on TV” ones.” (Thanks, Snackeez)

I also think there should be hotlines for each year of age and when the kids start going nutso, we can call the 1-800-5yrolds for advice.

Operator: “Hello, this is the 5 year old hotline, how can I help you?”

Me: “Um, hi there, my 5 year old won’t come downstairs because I refuse to carry his blankie for him.”

Operator: “Do you have a plaid knapsack on a stick?”

Me: “Why, yes I do.”

Operator: “Fill it up with sandwiches and find yourself a train car.”

 

Santa Gets Too Much Credit

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As I’m looking through the 4,678,325 presents I’ve hoarded for my kids since June, I’m wondering why in the heck is Santa going to get all the credit? What has he done, really?

Santa is fun, of course, and jolly. Oh, and he likes cookies, but who doesn’t like cookies, really?

Speaking of cookies: I’m still trying to perfect no-bake cookies, they are either a delicious soupy mess, or rocks… I took some to my Community Band party the other night, and they looked like 10 year old chocolate geodes compared to the others’ beautiful glistening chocolate goodness piles. So embarrassing. 

Anyway, SANTA. Santa, and the Elf on the Shelf that the kids named Shredder (Ninja Turtle fans, not office supplies) are what keeps the kids behaving slightly better than normal in December.  We only move the elf if the kids are being naughty this year, that way we don’t get suspicious 4 year old glares when Shredder is in the same spot from one night to the next.

Shouldn’t the kids behave for ME and their daddy? Why does SANTA get all the good behavior? He wasn’t on Amazon shopping at 4 am, walking through crowded malls, or making spreadsheets for grandmas and grandpas…oh no, he just gets to be jolly and have a million TV shows focused on him.

Where’s MY show? I can eat cookies, too.

The good thing about Santa, I will admit, is that if the kids ask for something ridiculous I can blame Santa for not getting it. “Sorry, kids, guess Santa didn’t have $20,000 to buy you that elephant you wanted!”

Once they are older and know the truth, all bets are off.

I dread the time telling the kids there is no Santa, though. Twin A is so into it, he wants to keep out our 5 foot singing Santa out all year round, and talks about Santa from April to December.

I remember when the Teen was 7 or 8 and asked if Santa was real because stupid little Matt Frye down the street, who was a JERK, told him. I said, no, he wasn’t real, and the Teen was upset, but took it well, and said he thought it was probably not true.

I cried, though. I was SO sad! I remember my Mom crying when I found out and I thought she was nuts! I called her and apologized for laughing at her.

Then I mentioned to the Teen that the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny weren’t real either, and he gave me the Look of all Looks.

“WHAT?! They aren’t real either???”

I said: “Wait a second, an old man delivering presents on a sleigh seemed kinda crazy to you, but a fairy that collects TEETH and a BUNNY that delivers CHOCOLATE seemed LIKELY????!!!”

Teen  (crying): MY WHOLE LIFE HAS BEEN A LIE! (runs away, won’t speak to me for an hour)

THANKS, SANTA!

 

I Got Nothing…

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My friend Wendy demanded I write something since I haven’t been blogging on her time schedule  (which is wretchedly demanding, and if we lived closer to each other I fear she would show up at my house at 3 am and smack me repeatedly in the left eye until I did her bidding.)

But I got nothing.

NOTHING.

Ok, well,  I WAS sick for the last week and a half with lungs that sounded gross enough for the doctor to drop his stethoscope and scream: “OH MY LORD JESUS DO THOSE THINGS SOUND WET! PREDNISONE AND ANTIBIOTICS STAT!” then he ran to another room weeping and washed his hands until they bled.

So there was that.

I have attempted to knit something for my mom for Christmas and since she might read this, I can’t tell you what it is, but I have ripped it out 5,467 times. She’s going to get this though, even if I have to buy it on Etsy and pretend I made it. (Love you, Mommy)

So there’s that.

Every time I pick up my twins from preschool, Twin A yells: “I DIDN’T SAY ANY BAD WORDS TODAY!” which is good because I have irresponsibly allowed him to listen to music that he shouldn’t, but Epic Rap Battles of History are hysterical. See what I mean watching Rick Grimes vs. Walter White:

Twin B woke me up out of a dead sleep this morning (dead because I took a bunch of Benedryl) at 5 am because he was soaked in pee. So soaked I could have wrung out his little Captain America Pajamas and created a one gallon tank for any peefish that might come along. I stripped him in my haze of antihistamine and then he started freaking out because Mr. Who refused to allow Pee-Blankie in bed with us. So I had to search through a clothes hamper for some dry clothes to put on his wet, pee laced skin, then he, of course, takes over most of the California King.

His feet were so cold, ice will now worship him and call him King. I think he might have stuck his big ice toe in my ear at some point, but again…Benedryl.

And that.

My oldest, Teen Who, is looking at colleges this week. It depresses and excites me at the same time. Hopefully he will do his homework and I won’t have to pull him out of school by his ear in front of all his friends.

So, I guess if you count possible pneumonia, knotty knitting, bad words, pee kids, and college bound kids, I have some stuff going on.

Crossing fingers for no Ebola.

Things My Kids Hate #2: Hummus

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When Teen Who was 4 years old, I inadvertently created a Hummus Hater. Hater of all Hummus.

He said I physically assaulted Him with it and to this day Has full body shivers when looking at the Hated Hummus. He won’t even touch anything that is near the Hummus container in the refrigerator.

The infamous Hummus Attack was over 13 years ago, and He still Hates Hummus with all His Heart.

My version (the true one):

Teen Who was a picky eater who only wanted to eat mac-n-cheese, hot dogs (CUT UP ONLY) with a side of ketchup, and Tubby Toast. (If you’re familiar with Teletubbies, they Had some sort of round bread type food or something, and I made cinnamon sugar toast and used a cutter to make it a circle, I was awesome). That’s all He would eat.

During this time, I discovered Hummus. I tried to get Him to try some one day, but He refused. He was opening the refrigerator and I was Holding a cracker with Hummus on it which just Happened to be at His mouth level. I was standing too close behind Him, so when He turned around to say something, the Hummus Cracker of Doom touched His lips and Hummus got on His tongue.

Here He did an Oscar worthy performance of someone dying from a Hideous disease, with lots of coughing, crying, gagging, cry-gagging, snot, shrieky accusations of How I did this on purpose, and He might have peed a little.

I felt terrible and never bugged Him with Hummus again.

His version (from a 4 year old’s perspective, remember):

I told Him He needed to try some Hummus, and reached into a 5 gallon vat of it (bare Handed) and smeared a fistful of it onto a cracker. I slowly approached Him as He backed away in fear. He took off through the living room, and I proceeded to chase Him around the House screaming: “EAT THE HUMMUS, NOW! EAT IT! EAT IT!” He begged me not to make Him eat it, but I stalked Him like a kitten with the plastic thingy from a milk jug. Then, I laughed, said it was ok, and went to another room.

Feeling safe, He went to the refrigerator to get a juice box, and when He turned around, I LEAPED/BANSHEE SCREAMED from behind the refrigerator door, SHOVED the Hummus-laden cracker into His mouth, clamped my hand over His lips, and sumo-wrestled Him onto the ground until He swallowed the Hummus Cracker of Pain and Death.

Then I laughed an evil/maniacal laugh, His vision blurred, and then everything went dark.

End Scene.

Some people say there’s 3 sides to every story: yours, mine, and the truth. In this case, it’s His, mine, and mine. I remember exactly How it Happened, and I did feel bad, he was SO upset.

That’s really beside the point, though. If I were really going to be evil and force feed Him the Horrific Hummus on a cracker, it would Have been in a much more creative, and well thought out way.

And there would be Polaroids to prove it.

“The Last of Us” is an Oscar Worthy video game

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I lucked out with Mr. Who in the TV watching and video game department. We like all the same shows, mostly the same movies (although I like mine a little more Blood Light), and he rarely ever channel surfs. On the rare occasions when he does, it’s almost guaranteed he will stop to watch “Cops”. He also only plays video games when I suggest it.

Not in the :”I, CarrieLouWho, grant thee, thine peasant, permission to playeth yon game” kind of way. More of a: “Sorry, babe, I can’t watch TV tonight, I have to work. It’s a video game night for you”.  He will then sigh a deep, sad, fake sigh, kick an empty pop can across the floor, and with his manly shoulders hanging dejectedly will say “okay, I guess so”, then run to find the controller.

While working from home has its perks, I need more hours to do it.  The 3 hours a morning the kids are in preschool are helpful, but not enough to get everything accomplished.  On top of work, I’m taking a graduate class to renew my teaching license. While at this moment in time, thanks to the twins’…er…energy… I cannot imagine going back into a classroom full of MORE kids, but I’m renewing just in case. So I have to continue work after the kids go to bed, which is probably not productive as I am extremely tired, and very stupid by then.

But still, I get to sit close to my Mr. Who on the couch and write stuff while he kills stuff. He usually plays epic games like Final Fantasy or Skyrim, but has lately been playing “The Last of Us”. This game is a Walking Dead kind of game, but there is a girl who could possibly cure the contagion that has spread around the world. It’s Mr. Who’s job to escort her across the country, while fighting awful not-infected people, cannibals, and zombies.

While I sit there listening, I’m struck by how awesome the script is. The voice acting is really good, and it seems more realistic than other games we have seen. At one point, a man had to kill his own infected brother, then kills himself from grief (and possibly a brother bite, not sure). The music swells, the characters scream, it’s so sad, and very intense. I know intense. I was once at the very, very, very last level of Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega Genesis with only 1 life left when Teen Who, who was about 3 at the time, tripped over the cord and unplugged the game from the wall.

This was before memory cards. But I’m not bitter. I just like to remind Teen Who about it once a week or so. (For the last 14 years).

As far as the Last of Us, Mr. Who might not know it, but a few times I watched, I MIGHT have had a few tears well up from the story. I don’t want to CRY at a video game, dangit. I’m more of a God of War girl. I want weapons, and I want to kill stuff. I want to kill bad guys quickly, and with fire whips. That’s how I roll.

The Last of Us, should definitely be made into a movie, it’s that good to watch. Hopefully Mr. Who won’t beat it too quickly, so I can watch more of it.

And yes, you read that right, no memory cards! How did we live???

Oh Sh*t!!!

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Thanks to my three year olds, everyone in the tri-state area and their preschool, knows that someone in my house swears. No big deal, right? It’s a normal reaction to stressful situations. Due to my cat-like grace and prowess I rarely hurt myself, but I have been known to simultaneously drop a can of tomato sauce on my foot, stand up in pain and bang my head on the cupboard door, and trip over the pattern in the floor while reeling from the head injury.

Ok, that happens ALL the time, but if that doesn’t qualify for swearing at least once, I don’t know what does.

The Who Twins’ little Who brains are extremely absorbent right now. Selectively absorbent, unfortunately.  They cannot seem to remember things like: mauling your brother is not nice, marshmallows are not breakfast food, where their sippy cups are (usually right next to them), or where to find Captain America’s head after ripping it off the umpteenth time.

But oh, do they remember the BAD words.

“Sh*t” is apparently my go-to word.  My twenty years (ok, zero) of ballerina training has not helped me in the depth-perception, walking in a straight line, or seeing any sort of object in front of me department.  Seriously, I’m a Klutzy McKluzterson, and I would fail any sobriety test out in the middle of the highway completely sober.  So I say my bad word quite often.

And I think really loud.

Mr. Who used to reach out for me in concern a long time ago, and ask ” Sweetie, are you ok? Are you hurt?” Now, after 5 1/2 years it’s more like: “What did you do, NOW?”

So, the Twin Whos were born with Swear Word Hearing of Bionic Man proportions and have now figured out that “Sh*t!” is an awesome word to say over and over and over again. And they say it with a smirky, gleeful ornery look on their face. It’s like they just know I don’t feel right getting upset since THEY LEARNED IT FROM ME!

This happened last night over the baby monitor.

Twin A: MOM! Twin B said sh*t! He said sh*t mom! Twin B said sh*t!

Me: A, you just said it 3 times!

Twin A: MOOOOOOOOOOOOM, B said it again! He said sh*t, sh*t, sh*t!

Me: A, stop saying it! You’ve said more than he has!

Twin A: You need to yell at him!

Me: B, don’t say that word, honey, it’s not a nice word.

Twin B: Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t.

Me: B!!! Stop it or I’m gonna come up there!

Twin B: (quietly) Ok, you come up here.

Me: Sh*t, he called my bluff.

Teenage Who thinks it’s the most hysterical thing when the Twins swear, and I’m pretty sure he encourages it when I’m not around.  Mr. Who and I pretend to not hear it, because you know how kids are: the more you pay attention to something negative the more they do it. Sometimes we’re trying so hard not to laugh that we’re almost drawing tongue blood.

My only consolation is that they use “sh*t” in context.

Context is key.

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