Bad Haiku Friday

When we woke up this morning, the red sliver of mercury was a balmy 31 degrees below zero. (No, that's not a typo). Schools were canceled throughout Chicagoland for the second straight day in a row.

And what did we, on The Ark do?

Why, we went to the dentist, of course.

What? Doesn't everyone spend 30 minutes bundling seven children up to brave the bitter cold to have their teeth cleaned?

And then write poetry about it?

Why does taking five
kids to the dentist office
make me want to floss?

Thanks, Laura, for the inspiration. Visit Catholic Teacher Musings for more Bad Haikus.

What really is the point, anyway?

Candace: What do you do at bible study, Momma?

Me: (carefully wording my answer so it is not too difficult for a four year old's brain) Oh, we read
the bible and talk about God's words and how they tell us to live a good life.

Candace: Right. And you eat cookies, too.

Back-to-school

6:45am Wake early and congratulate self on crawling out of bed before kids leave for school.

7:00am Plan to change out of pajamas and into *grown-up* clothes. Wonder why we decided against homeschooling.

7:30am Thank God for husband, who is driving the early morning altar serving Boy and his sisters to school on this first day back.

8:00am Get online to respond to email and update blog just as three little voices called, "Good Morning."

8:30am Fix breakfast and vow to change out of pajamas right away at least by noon. Notice that laundry has not folded itself overnight and prioritize folding it-AFTER suitably dressed for the day.

9:00am Talk to Mom on phone, discuss important current events--primary in NH, unseasonably warm weather, and the "Look at the purty, tall buildings" look on my face that evoked smirks from the two young ladies (who would never believe that I spent much of my senior year in college running around NYC) followed by a mournful "When did I get old?"

10:00am Call for the big girls to help dress the little kids. Wait in silence for response. Curse the end of Christmas vacation.

11:00am Finish cleaning up kitchen from breakfast and wonder why the little kids are already asking for lunch. Look at clock and sigh.

11:30am Finish household administrative tasks, phone calls and paperwork. Worry that tomorrow is not looking promising for any major accomplishments.

11:31am Decide that getting dressed qualifies for major accomplishment.

12:30pm Throw hands up in air and laugh. Attempt to document this first morning back to school--because when I'm having a TRULY bad day--this is one that will make me smile.

Happy Back to School!

On Looking Good Enough To Eat

Have you ever made those cute little chocolates that you can form into a million different shapes? Craft stores everywhere sell molds for every occasion and every holiday (and I think we may own them all).
And then there are the chocolates--dark chocolates, milk, light, and white chocolates in every shade of the rainbow. All so delicious that it is an effort to keep them in the cupboard long enough for their intended use.
Well, my kids know their homemade, multi-colored, thematically shaped chocolates--and so do I. Or so I thought. When these beauties (featured right) appeared in festive bags as Christmas gifts. I encouraged them (You can start cringing now, Dawn) to grab one out and take a big bite of the new treats. I stepped out of the room for one second--and suddenly a panic was ensuing behind me. Children were running amok everywhere I looked. Screaming and yelling that they had soap in their mouths. Guzzling water straight out of the water cooler as bubbles flowed down their chins. Soap? I was dumbfounded. Where on earth could they have gotten into, let alone eaten soap in the mini-moment I turned my back. Then it hit me. (I'm a little slow on the uptake in some of these situations.) Our beautiful, sea-shell shaped chocolates were--you guessed it--beautiful, sea-shell shaped SOAPS.
So, minus the bite-marked ones, these lovely gifts will be located in our girls bathroom. Just so you know. In case you ever visit. And were thinking about tasting one of our conveniently located bathroom chocolates.

Jimmy Doesn't Like It

This old Seinfeld episode is the first thing that pops into my head each time CB uses the third person to talk about herself.



Would it be too much to hope that any future references on the Ark NOT involve her pinky toe, low talkers, the Soup Nazi or Farbman furnishings.

ABCs and 123s

We have a little game we play in our house, which my parent's played with my siblings and I, to help survive bath time hair washes with minimal drama. Once their hair is wet, we are able to really lather up their little heads by playing "Guess what letter I've made?" Last night CB decided to help.

CB: Can I try one? (proceeding to etch what appears to be a lower case 'a' on her sister's soapy head)

N: Is it a 'c'?

CB: No.

N: Is it an 'o'?

CB: No. Come on...you know this one.

N: Oh wait, now I know what it is(sitting up proudly)---ELEPHANT!

Unreserved, both CB and I began to laugh, until CB stopped and looked at N very seriously and said, "Not an elephant, silly, remember-these are NUMBERS!"

Perhaps it's time for a unit review.

You know your Mom blogs when...

She sees this

and the first thing she grabs (after yelling "Don't move!", of course) is her camera.

What did the Pink Panther say...

when he stepped on the ant? Deadant..deadant...deadantdeadantdeadantdeadantdeadant...deadant.

I've been rather hesitant in writing this for a very good reason. It is based on my completely rational fear of my yard being infiltrated by highly intelligent, IT-savvy ants. I just couldn't shake the thought that the queen ant had hooked up her geek squad of workers with little, tiny Dell notebooks and a brand, spanking new wi-fi connection. All of this in a pathetic attempt to read my blog and see what my next onslaught of attacks on their army might be. Be that as it may, I've decided to throw caution to the wind and announce that I think I saw their arms (or are they legs?), waving teensy, weensy white flags the other night. I know they thought they had us beat, but if I gave up that easily, I wouldn't be parenting six children. More than likely, given some of the younger children, I'd be off in a corner, curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth as I consummed mass quantities of the homemade vodka the Captain brought back from Poland 10 years ago. It didn't take spells, chants or any other hare-brained schemes to get rid of them. In the end, large quantities of poison ant-deterring spray and powder did the trick. Now, hopefully, the few that may still be lurking out in the backyard aren't the blog hacking type.

Warning: Don't try this at home

Note: I did not say that this stunt was performed by trained professionals. I am suggesting, with a little hindsight, that perhaps some should have been called in for this job...

Last night, the Boy and I decided that it was finally time to put together the Captain's Father's Day gift. Knowing how much he likes the Baggo game, we thought it would be a incredibly foolish, possibly drug-induced fun, get the whole family involved, kind of Father's Day gift to make him a set of his own.

Fortunately, and this may be the first and last lucky thing you hear about this project, H's godfather cut all the wood for us ahead of time. Yes, all.the.wood. As we loaded the Suburban up with all the evenly cut pieces of our beanbag game puzzle, it couldn't have looked more simple. Really. But, somehow, when it came time to put it all together last night it was like reading the Mandarin Chinese version of the directions (which, by the way, I do not speak).
To make matters worse, we were trying to avoid asking the gift recipient for any help. First, because it was HIS gift from us and second, because the Boy was concerned his Dad wouldn't think of him as a "handy man".

The biggest troublemaker seemed to be the drill. It was like that kid in class who every time the substitute teacher turned around, he found yet another annoying way to needle her. Initially, it seemed to only spin the woodscrews around endlessly, never sinking them into the wood but somehow managing to shoot them out projectile-like at any one of the four exposed knees it saw. I was almost ready to go grab the Captain, when the Boy asked to take a look. Turning it over, from one hand to the next, he looked at me, dead serious and said, "Well, here's the trouble, you've got it set to 'evil'." And then proceeded to head out in the twilight to practice putting. Even more determined, I crouched down and inspected all angles of the wood, all the shiny little wood screws, and even the antagonistic drill. Nothing. At that point, the Boy re-emerged, energized anew with pre-teen wit and wisdom, "Let me see that drill, Mom. It just needs a good talking to, I'll take care of it..."and launched into a 5 minute chastisement of the drill. Given the time I had spent with it at that point, I almost started to feel bad for it. Almost.
Finally, the Boy recalled that his Dad had actually *taught* him to use a drill when they built the girl's playset last year. I just stared at him. My big, goofy 12 year old who at last count towered over me by about 5 inches. Now? Now, you remember? After all I've been through with this lousy, good-for-nothing drill...but I digress. So, I relinquished drill control to my adolescent helper, who decided before making any more of a mess of the wood we were using, he would drill a *test* piece. He grabbed a small cube of wood, steadied the screw and held the drill in place before he pulled the trigger. Had I known what was about to happen next, I would have yelled "FIRE IN THE HOLE!!!" and ducked for cover. Unfortunately, I was only moments away from having my eye gauged out, but my reflexes (hey, there are some benefits to parenting so many children) are still pretty quick. As the block of wood, one inch of wood screw still protruding(see picture above), landed with a thud next to me, I looked at the Boy and announced, "That's it. I'm getting your Dad," and marched in the house to pull him off of the big comfy red plaid chair and a half to come and rescue our gift-gone-wild. Within moments, it was fixed.

Although there is still the little matter of the rogue screws that need to be removed from various parts of the garage.

Just wait till the painting phase starring the 3 and 4 year olds gets underway...

Randomness Remix Times Eight


What a willing bunch of friends you are! I had no idea how many truly random things I had forgotten. So, as promised, here are the real 8 random things about me...

1. I cannot stand the sound of the word "ankle" or the word "somewhat". Don't ask me why, remember these are the truly random things.

2. I drove undercover with a flat tire to my now defunct small Catholic women's college, for some wholesome college living with your wee little sister (who obviously hasn't gotten this month's payoff yet).

3. I lost the mensa contest to both my siblings; making me not only the least edumacated one in the family but also the lowest IQ haver; which, in turn, makes me the least big of a geek--thankyouverymuch.

4. At one point, I used to eat my food in alphabetical order. Don't ask what I did when I had both cheese and chocolate, any self-respecting second grader would tell you to look at the next letter in the word.

5. The night I met my husband-to-be, I didn't have a pen or paper to write down my phone number for him...so I wrote it on his hand in lipstick.

6. Speaking of that same night...I met my husband after attending a party called the "Pajamajammy Jam" (how very early 90s that sounds now). Needless to say, I was sporting my jammies at the time we met. In my defense, they were a very cute pair of Lanz cotton pajamas, white with a light pink pinstripe AND I wore a matching light pink turtleneck underneath. Hey, I am from New England after all and it WAS January.

7. I used to have an extensive salt shaker collection. No further details are available at this time.

8. During my freshman year in college a West Point (my beloved's alma mater) cadet climbed out my dorm room window on a sheet. Terri B., if you're reading this, I am quite certain that Kapo was responsible for this illicit act. As you well know, I was not USMA groupie until, well, I married one of them.

Thanks to everyone who sent me such fun (and funny!) memories and for all the very kind things you said which I am not gratuitous enough to print. I am holding onto the *unused* random things you sent to be used for future blackmail memes.