Thursday, December 27, 2012

All Libbed Up

I sat with Spencer tonight, a fresh MadLibs pad in his hand.  He was scribbling furiously, but everyone knows that you can't play MadLibs alone.

"Here, Spe," I said, and I grabbed the pad and flipped the page and poised my pen before he had a chance to protest.  "I'm going to teach you how to play MadLibs."

When his first two plural noun choices were farts and wieners, I looked at Rhett and said, "Well, I guess I don't have to teach him anything at all."

It turned out my kids were expert MadLibbers, culminating in this sentence:  "When a giraffe wants to drink pee from the ground, it has to spread its buttcheeks and slurp up the water with it's long bungholio."

No more lessons required?

Thursday, December 20, 2012


I forgot this, which I wanted to write about Logan, probably because he is in hot water for dumping a glass of water on my computer, even though there are strict rules about having beverages near said computer.  As you can see, it still works, but I am waiting for the water to hit the motherboard and wipe out everything.  I expect catastrophe, you see.

The other day I came across Logan (who says his own name Yogan, which I love) leaning against the couch doing something crazy with his legs, and saying, "No, I'm in front!  No, I'm in front! No, I'm in front!" over and over again.  I paused and said, "Hey, Logan, what are you doing?"  He looked down at his legs and then at me and said, "Oh, my yegs are arguing again." 

"Show me." I said, delighted, of course.  Weirdness is my love language.

"No, I'm in front!" he said, and crossed his right leg in front of his left leg.

"No, I'm in front!" he said, and crossed his left leg in front of his right leg.

"No, I'm in front!" he said, and crossed his right leg in front of his left leg.

You get the idea.  He is a delight and a joy, no?

I have been saying this long and loud to anyone who will listen this year, but Christmas was a helluva lot more magical when I wasn't the person in charge of the magic. 

Having said that, I still love Christmas.  It's a lot of work, but totally worth it.  Right now I'm working on neighbor treats and teacher gifts, wherein working on means that I'm actually here, posting on my blog, and thinking about how I should be doing neighbor treats and teacher gifts.  I did Rhett's coworker gifts yesterday, and if you can't see the irony of quasi-feminist Heidi docilely baking and collating and wrapping her husband's coworker gifts, well, then perhaps your sense of irony is off? Just living the dream over here. 

Veevs has been home sick with the flu for like umptillion days.  Jake was home for one a half day with a bad case of faking sick.  I know, because I'm an expert.  Logan woke up this morning with a fever.  It explained so much about why he climbed in to bed with me and refused to get out in the middle of the night.

By the way, Veevs has a blog of her own.  She would love it if you would stop by and comment, I'm sure.  You can click here.  She has been posting about eight times a day since she has been sick, and I think a Twitter feed might be more appropriate, but I find it charming and delightful.  I especially like how there are some parts where I can tell she has thought carefully about how best to word her writing.

Our elf, as might be expected, is a little bit lazy.  Sometimes he moves midday, and sometimes not at all.  I always blame this on someone touching him so that he lost his magic.  This causes Jakers to get almost hysterical with his wild accusations of elf misconduct (mostly directed toward Logan).  Ah, Christmas.  Such a time of peace and love and goodwill.

I have noticed very few people have been posting about the tragedy in Newtown in meaningful ways, and I suspect that is because, like me, most people are still trying to make some kind of meaning of it.  It is so horrible and awful that it seems like perhaps we shouldn't talk about it?  Perhaps it is so awful that we can't make anything better by revisiting the chain of events, the horrible details of children suffering?  I don't know, but I just know I've been heartsick.  I cry, and then I go hug Jakers (my kindergartener) who stiff-arms me and says, "Why are you kissing me so much?  I just want to play."  He makes it easier to let go of sentimentality, that one.

Merry Christmas, everybody.  In the finest of feminist tradition, I have to go make my fabulous mint fudge to give to the neighbors.