The UnderToad

What Should I Read Next?

I need to say for the record that there are several things I do not miss about teaching public school. Namely: parent complaints/meetings; student sense of apathy; 30% failure rates due in large part to laziness, then the direction to “give them an option for passing” long past due dates; classes with 30+ students; poor regulation of heating and cooling, resulting in never being able to dress for the season; lack of windows. There are also several things I do not miss about teaching private school: parent complaints/meetings; student sense of entitlement; 20% A-B borderline students, then the direction to “give them an option for the A” long past due dates; classes with only one student who would rather carry on 90-minute personal conversations with me, than do work; working the “car line” from the parking lot from February to April, the coldest rainiest months of the year (which was, essentially, calling the names of mostly high school students to alert them to the fact that their parents were waiting, a fact they very well could have ascertained themselves by simply watching out the windows of the gym).

That said, there are probably more things I actually do miss about teaching, both public and private school, and it helps me once in a while to remind myself that the bad days and the good moments did not usually feel equal, even though they probably were. I miss getting to dress up in adult clothes and cute shoes without the risk of being stepped on or touched with grimy hands (though, not so much when I was pregnant, because most kids thought this was a free pass to belly rub their way into my good graces). I miss writing on white boards. I’m a freak. But I really like multi-colored white board markers and notes which require their use, in full. I do actually miss those moments when students decided to like me, and then told me so. It was usually late in coming, but often worth the months of sarcasm, me vs. you verbal fights, and write-ups. I’m quite sure now that I’m gone, there’s not a single student left who still hates me. I miss journaling for the first 10 minutes of every class, with my students. (I was an excellent role model.) But most of all, I miss the reading time. I miss reading Ender’s Game (and other books) aloud to my classes. I miss Fridays, which were made up of silent reading, three times a day, 45 minutes at a time. On average, including the texts I was teaching, I could read close to seven books a semester. Fourteen a year. All because of my personally implemented mandatory Friday silent reading.

It took me almost three months to finish the last book I read, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. I also realize that as Oprah’s bookclub pick from 2008, I was a little behind the trend curve to even pick it up. I found it a little more than ironic, therefore, while trudging through the ever slow second half, that I never caught the fact that it is a modern parallel to Hamlet. I’ve read Hamlet on my own at least four times. I taught Hamlet. How the death of the father by poison, then the revelation, by way of a ghost, to the father’s son, that the uncle did it, escaped me, I can only blame on my months out of the classroom. In fact, I don’t think you can Google The Story of Edgar Sawtelle without seeing “Hamlet” somewhere in the byline, yet, seriously, I read the entire book not knowing every character would basically be dead by the end. Had I known of the intentional parallel, I might have finished the book a little sooner. And. I might have liked it a little more.

As it was, the story was okay, but it didn’t blow my mind, as it did Oprah’s and so many of her million viewers. I’m now picking up two books simultaneously – one for bookclub: Shadow Tag (Louise Erdich) and one that has been on my to-read list for more than a year: The Book Thief (Marcus Zusak). If you’ve read either feel free to pass along some nuggets of opinion, and don’t worry about spoiling the endings. I’ve always been a reader who skims the last chapter of a book to make sure the ending is worth the entire read. Surprise ending are so overrated for busy people with long to-read lists. For this very reason, I have a very select handful of good friends I can count on to recommend good books, and outside of that list, I generally (politely) ignore you-should-read… suggestions.

I can assure anyone, however, that I can always be counted on for suggested worthwhile reads, even if your taste resides at the Nicholas Sparks and John Grisham level. Don’t be offended, Sparks/Grisham lovers. I’m not mocking nor looking down on you. It’s just that, if I can get just as much (or more) out of the movie version, I will more than likely forgo the reading of the book. I can, however, suggest something for even you.

Confessions

How to Succeed When You Hate Your Job

Ignore the title of this post. It has very little to do with the actual content of the entry. However, I’m suddenly getting really good at perfecting titles which actually attract random readers to my completely not helpful but hopefully entertaining blog, via Google search terms of desperation.

Sitting at Panera this morning, unsuccessfully attempting to connect to the alleged “Free Wifi,” I overheard a woman behind me saying to another woman, “…well, you’re right. And if you don’t like it you shouldn’t do it, because you’ll never be good at something you don’t like to do.”

At the risk of commenting completely out of context, but because I was afraid to do this in person, to this statement I would like to publicly declare: bullshit.

My first internal reaction was this, “That’s not true. I happen to loathe vacuuming and cleaning the bathroom, yet, I keep my house cleaner than most people I know. And, no one can get my bathrooms as clean as I can, except perhaps my own mother, who also hates cleaning her pristine house.”

But then I sat there thinking (while the Internet failed to connect and my tea was still too hot to drink) and realized this was quite possibly the worst piece of advice I’ve ever overheard. And to prove it, I composed a mental list.

Things I Don’t Particularly Enjoy, But Am Good at Nonetheless:

Clean my house.

Teach classrooms full of unruly (and possibly borderline asshole) teenagers the importance of literacy, THEN, actually get them to read books and write complete sentences by themselves.

My hair. (Some people might argue that this is a stretch, that I have naturally good hair that just doesn’t take much work look good. Admittedly, I would have agreed with this, right up until I had children, and instead of going gray, as they say, I’m going curly. Slowly. Also, I only shower a couple days a week, so trust me, good hair is work, and I manage it with despondency.)

Be nice to people who I don’t like.

Run (and anything else remotely “athletic”).

Cook.

This list might be a work in progress, but for now, this is all I can remember from my half-hearted musings while attempting to keep my cool about the lack of Internet for my two and half hours of scheduled work time away from home this morning. Ah yes, #6: have a morning of actual productivity even when the Internet doesn’t connect.

Confessions, Eliott

Tonight’s Lesson: Metaphors

Sarcasm and figurative language. Two well-used, yet, still mostly foreign concepts to my four-year old. Obviously I didn’t give birth to an idiot. Eliott understands things in context and what she doesn’t understand, she’s especially adept at pretending to understand, but all of a sudden, her sense of literalism is getting the best of her (and me). I think her sudden questioning of things (like freaking out when she hears “Cady is in the car just dying to see you,”) is exactly half four-year-old-style-literal-reasoning, and half four-year-old-style-asking-questions-makes-me-feel-like-part-of-a-conversation. I decided the easiest way out is to just introduce her to the term metaphor now. For one, it eliminates lengthy explanations of the why’s behind figurative language. Plus, I see it as a bonus, if not for her than for her future high school English teacher. Grasping this abstract concept could effectively put her in the 90% percentile of her high school class, 10 years early. Tonight’s example:

Mommy, how come you never give me ginger-ale? You know Mimi let me have ginger-ale one time.

I know. I could kill her.

NO! Don’t kill her, she’s your mother!

Well. I wouldn’t really kill her, Eliott. It’s a metaphor.

Oh yeah. What’s a metaphor again?

It’s like, when you say something that you don’t really mean, in order to express an emotion for which there are no other words. Like, you know sometimes, when you and Carter are being really loud, I tell you to chill out or my head is going to explode? But does my head actually explode? Have you ever seen my brain guts all over the kitchen?

No! (I assure you she is giggling at this, not freaking out. Don’t call DSS.)

Yeah, but it feels like my head might explode, so I just say it will, and that is a metaphor.

Oh yeah. So tell me another metaphor.

Okay, maybe I say, “I’m so hungry I could eat the entire house,” but am I really going to actually eat the house?

No! (More giggling.)

Exactly. I’m just so hungry I feel like I could, but I really can’t. That’s a metaphor.

[Insert several more examples provided by me. Bedtime is beginning to feel strangely similar to 3rd period at public school. Then, it’s Eliott’s turn.]

Oooh, I know a metaphor.

Okay, tell me.

I say I’m going to go get a haircut, but I’m not really going to get a haircut. (Giggles uncontrollably.)

That’s a good one, Eliott. Do another one.

Okay. I say I’m going to go to the dentist, but I’m not really going to go to the dentist. (This time, whispers:) But I really am going to go to the dentist, so it isn’t a really a metaphor, but I’m just saying it is a metaphor.

[Pause here for my laughter.]

You are actually blowing my mind right now, Eliott. And that’s another metaphor.

Confessions, Eliott

Before Bed, with Eliott

About two weeks ago, Eliott started inviting me into her bed at night to talk about her day. I swear this is something she completely made up; it was not in any way prompted by me. Discussions start out much like the end-of-day pow-wow from the wilderness camp. We talk about the good part of the day (“good” translated to Eliott as good behavior), the bad part of the day, the fun part of the day, the boring part of the day, and what we’re looking forward to tomorrow. Then, the conversation often moves to more important life questions, philosophical ponderings, or princess fantasies. (For instance, once she learned where Cinderella and every other Disney princess lives, she became suddenly interested in talking about Disney World. Nevermind that I’ve never even been there, in her mind, I’m Cinderella’s personal paparazzi.)

Understand that through most of these late night discussions, she is also scratching my back, which is why they so often go on far longer than they probably should. I figure, this is the one and only time in her life that she’ll actually like me, let alone scratch my back while she pours out her heart to me, so I’m maximizing on the opportunity.

Anyway, tonight’s debriefing was not entirely unlike any other night, for the most part. But because I didn’t fall asleep during it, I had the mental capacity to record a few of the nuggets for which I so often listen to without response.

On Jesus:

“Eliott who are you talking to in here?”

“Oh. I was just talking to Jesus. About my bo-bo. So he can heal it. But Mommy, how does he heal it?”

“Uhh…”

“I mean, like, does he just look at it or does he touch it or does he have a machine or something?”

“Yes. He can just look at it or he can touch it.”

“Well, I never see him touch my bo-bo’s.”

“That’s because he probably sends the Holy Spirit to do it.”

“Well I never saw the Holy Spirit. What’s the Holy Spirit look like?”

“Remember on Charlie Brown, when Snoopy makes Charlie Brown invisible and you can’t see him, but he’s there? Remember? That’s what the Holy Spirit is like.”

“Yeah. You know who the Holy Spirit is? He’s Jesus’ invisible machine.”

On donuts and milk:

“Pop Pop can’t have a lot of milk because it makes him fat.”

“Who said that?”

“That’s what Mimi says.”

(After a short discussion about what “fat” means, insert my feeble attempt to teach Eliott about how to be polite in regard to this subject.)

Eliott’s very matter of fact response: “Well, I can just say, ‘Are you so fat because you have a baby in your belly, or just because you ate a lot of food?”

Confessions

Stay At Home Mom Tournaments of Fortitude

This week I was unofficially indoctrinated into a subsidiary of stay-at-home-mom-land, a phenomenon of which I assume the majority of the world is largely unaware. I participated in my first church consignment sale.

Apparently these things take place with regularity at churches and clubs around cities. Usually, the point is to fund-raise for whomever is hosting the sale, but the sellers get to take home a percentage of their profits. In this sale, a fundraiser for the Mothers of Preschoolers group (which I do not go to) of a church I do not attend, consigners get to take home 60% of the total price of the item. Also, every single one of these consignment sales follows a pretty standard pattern: day one, preview sale for volunteers, day two, sale opens to public, day three, sale opens to public but everything is half-price. Sounded dummy proof to me.

Somebody color me dummy.

First I was issued an email outlining the procedures of consigning, which included what and what not sell, how to create price tags, where and how to affix price tags to items, and how to present items: clean, on hangers, sorted by gender and then by size. The email was easy enough to follow, and let me tell you, the A/B honor roll student in me followed directions perfectly.

My first challenge was the question of prices. I went to another sale the weekend before to see what kinds of prices people were asking for the same stuff I had. I also got advice from consignment sale champion friends of mine. There seem to be generally two schools of thought on pricing: price to sell and get rid of everything quickly or price high hoping to get rid of some things then make your rock bottom price at the half-price sale.

My thought: I’m pricing this crap at a number that I would buy it knowing it was used. However, I also realized with the final day half-price sale, it would be pointless to price anything at a $1. (Apparently this bit of self-acquired knowledge actually puts me above the thinking curve of most consigners. Next time, perhaps I should direct these women to my blog.)

I’m trying really hard not to sit down and calculate the number of hours I spent pulling out clothes and toys, checking for (and removing) any stains, sorting, acquiring hangers (including those for pants/skirts and those which hold two or three piece outfits all in one), and safety pinning index cards to each of my almost sixty items. Yes, at one point there was blood.

My next challenge had me wishing I was still sitting in my house surrounded by only my crap. Because I wanted the chance of first-pick at everything else in the sale, I also volunteered to work one day of set-up.

Picture me in the middle of organizing what was basically a gigantic community baby/kid themed yard sale all in one room. It was like a hoarders paradise. I knew instantly that I would not be shopping on “open to the public” day here, nor at any other consigment sale for the rest of my life. The sheer amount of stuff was overwhelming. I didn’t even want to think about sharing the space with other stay at home moms ready to fight for a good deal. I had to suppress my extreme OCD as three tables of unorganized kids’ shoes screamed to be put in order by size. (Okay, I did break down and mostly fix this problem.) I had to consciously focus on not focusing on the entire room, or my head started spinning and I fought nausea. I’m not exaggerating.

I thought I was a little out of hand with my close to 60 items to sell. In comparison, I had a small lot. Also, it turns out I was one of the few consigners who apparently read the consigning procedures email. Sorting? What? Price tags correctly labeled? Nah… And of those who did catch that things actually needed to be on hangers, you’d be amazed to see how many people apparently do not know how to correctly use a hanger. You think I’m joking. I started getting high on my own stench of over-achievement. (Did I mention I typed my price tags?) I also greatly underpriced most of my stuff. Well. Comparatively. I felt pretty confident when I signed the go-ahead-and-donate-what’s-left-over-waver that I wouldn’t actually have any items left over. For me, the experience was a purging, not a trade-in. However, even if I make $100 at this thing, I’m fairly certain it means I worked for about $4.50 an hour in preparation. (Note to self: next time you are thinking about consigning, Claire, think about Ebay instead.)

I arrived at the preview sale about ten minutes early, with the thought in mind that I might find some princess dress up clothes and maybe some games or puzzles. The line of women was already out the door. I knew I was in for trouble when I noticed almost everyone came with a large tote, empty laundry basket, or worse, a double-stroller, but no kids.

Anyone wondering how stay-at-home-moms scratch their competitive itch? We enter unofficial tournaments of frugality. Instead of comparing golf-handicaps, we casually chat about how much money we’re not spending on our groceries. We brag about the great sales we found and the loot we scored. Obviously I’m guilty of this. Everyone in my family believes I’ve officially grown up to be cheaper than my father, a feat my mother believed was actually impossible.

But I’ve decided to draw the line at consignment sales. All the work and worry did not end up paying out in the way of say, triple coupons at Harris Teeter. Give me a pair of scissors and the Sunday coupon inserts any day over a consignment sale. Perhaps I’ll be singing a different tune when my surprise check comes in the mail, but for now, I’m just going to go sit in Eliott’s empty closet and relish my moment of successful purging. I have exactly two hours before my children’s fairy godmother arrives. This moment won’t last.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

How to Get Rid of Stray Cats

Currently, this seems like one of those things I’ll never forget. Because I hear it every night. Sometimes twice. However, from previous experience I know that in a year or two, this will likely become another one of those things that might as well have never happened. (For the same reason I cannot hold grudges, I have learned I must write down all moments of cuteness when they happen.)

This is Eliott’s exact dinner prayer, every night it is her turn to pray:

Dear God. Thank you for this day. Thank you for this food. And thank you for Mommy and Daddy. Thank you for our jobs and thank you for our family. And help us to get a job. A-men.

That last part is carried over from the year John was about to graduate from Law School. We figure, now, it could simply mean more clients, so we haven’t stopped her. About two weeks ago, Carter decided she was ready to start praying at dinner as well. At first, she copied Eliott’s words immediately after her, which of course made Eliott mad, and recite her prayer louder, which only made Carter raise her voice in response. (The result was a little like a Pentecostal church service at the dinner table.) Anyway, we’ve worked Carter into the dinner time prayer rotation. Last night, her prayer was exactly this:

Dear Got. Thank you for day. Thank you…food? Daddy? (Incoherent noises including lots of spit.) No kitties. Back yard. AY-men!

Quick explanation: The outdoor cat who belongs to the neighbor behind our house knocked-up a stray who had her litter sometime last spring (wasn’t anyone listening to Bob Barker?!). The stray, and the litter, frequently attempted to bed down in our swing-set playhouse, much to John’s and my dismay. The last thing we need is worms in our sandbox, let alone a bunch of cats in heat right beneath our bedroom windows, know what I mean? I for one am not much of a pet lover, and I hardly count cats as pets. (What John doesn’t know is that he might be getting a .22 for his birthday.) Anyway, every time we see one or more cats in our backyard, John and I go the meal-time appropriate version of ape-shit. I’m not sure if she’s on our side, or if Carter’s prayer is to save the kitties from Mommy and Daddy. At any rate, between the two of us and the Holy Spirit, I’m feeling fairly confident we just might nip our little feline problem in the bud.

If that doesn’t work, my next step is a couple cans of poisoned tuna.

Confessions

Cold Front Reconnections

I get headaches. A lot. In fact, up until about five days ago, I was having a seriously difficult time remembering the last time I did not wake up with a headache. Some mornings (often Saturdays) it is all I can do to get out of bed. Most mornings however, it is not a migraine which paralyzes me, but rather the combination of a sore jaw and need for caffeine. On these mornings, I like to double up the jolt and throw back an Excedrin with my coffee, you know, in despondent denial of my drug addiction.

But I have found a cure.

To say the idea is revolutionary would be a bit of a stretch. To say that I came up with it on my own would be a downright lie. The fact is, all I’ve needed to do is what both John and probably Dr. Oz have telling me (and the rest of America) all along: drink more water.

Water?! (I believe this one calls for a double fist pump.)

Every night since last Saturday, I have made myself drink about 16 ounces of water with my vitamins just before bed. The immediate and positive results have been three-fold. First, no more waking up with headaches. At all. Second, no more restless leg and mild insomnia (caused, I believe, by the St. John’s Wort). But the best part is this: the natural waking up and necessity of getting out of bed at a decent hour (usually 7:30) because I have to pee.

Again. Not revolutionary. In high school, it was sort of this cool-kid thing to do to wake up early, drive to the top of Mt. Spokane, and watch the sunrise with a boy or girl you weren’t ready to admit you had a crush on. For me, this was before my days of coffee and making-out (which, don’t get me wrong, are mutually exclusive), a simple fact which has my adult-self a little perplexed by the allure of the situation. But alas, I indulged the cliche this-is-not-a-date, dates. More than once in fact, despite the ungodly hour and Young Life Allstar company. The point of this story: A tip from one of my best girlfriends (who to my knowledge, still does this crazy thing from time to time) was to “drink an entire Nalgene” the night before so waking up pre-sunrise was inevitable.

So yesterday, as I was going on Headache Free Day 5, I had a conscious thought that I might give up drinking coffee for a while and start drinking green tea instead (how do you like that Dr. Oz?). For one thing, I actually like green tea, and for another, I think I might be developing an intolerance to half-and-half, which is really my favorite part of the coffee.

But when I woke up this morning, a cold front had blown in. A real one. An actual, “Hey, Eliott, you can wear your tights today because it’s Fall outside” cold front. And let me just say how wonderful it was sipping my coffee in the car on the way to school today. WONDERFUL. Wonderful like reconnecting with an old friend, wonderful. Wonderful like those days in the woods of juvenile delinquency, when all hell was breaking loose, and the only thing that made me feel like a rationally functioning adult was my coffee (because we couldn’t have anything the kids couldn’t have except coffee and nicotine) so I often enjoyed it all day and usually after dinner as well. That wonderful. Wonderful like I wish I could hurry up and finish this increasingly slow book and get into something that causes me to really escape for a few hours.

Green tea? What was I thinking? I just found the water-cure and it’s getting me hyped up on some sort of a health kick. Oh no no no. This will not do. Coffee. You can stay. For the winter. (And John, if you read this before you leave work today, bring home donuts!)

Confessions, Eliott

Things To Do

Despite the fact that Labor Day was two weekends ago and all the public pools are closed, ladies in North Carolina are still wearing white and the weather is still set to summer. Today in the car Eliott asked, “Mommy, when does school get over?” I’m thinking, kid, today was your third day, what’s wrong with you? In reality, she was trying to get a mental grasp on the meaning of seasons.

From different half-hearted Mommy answers to any number of her one billion questions, she seems to understand that school starts in the Fall, that Fall means the leaves fall from the trees, and that she should be able to wear certain clothes that she’s been waiting to wear. What she doesn’t understand is how the trees still haven’t gotten the message to drop their leaves, nor why it is still “too hot for tights today.”

I’ve given up on the long answer to things, as I’ve discovered my children will pretty much decide to understand anything they’ve made up their mind to be interested in, and, well, they take a lot more at face value than most give them credit for. As a result, Eliott has now added “global warming” to her vocabulary list and has resigned herself to waiting until Mommy says it’s okay to wear tights to school.

Yesterday, when her teacher informed me that she had “forgotten to put on panties” under her dress, I had to bite my tongue from admitting that this probably wasn’t an accident. For the entire drive home, Eliott kept asking, “But why do I have to wear underwear? It’s hot outside. I want to be liberating. I like no underwear. It feels good. Why do we have to wear underwear, Mommy?” At a loss, I finally just told her, “Because Eve ate the apple, and you know what, underwear is the least of your worries.”

I too seem to be a little out of sorts with the delay in seasonal change, despite the change in our schedules. I can’t seem to get a grasp on my things to do list nor how to make the best use of my pre-school mornings. Though I complained about our summer schedule (or lack there of), summer has lasted so long that my body refuses to get into the mode of Fall.

I was recently recruited by a former colleague to assist in a Bible curriculum development project for Christian Schools International. Basically, we’re updating the textbook and teacher manual for a new edition and must be finished by December 15th. (Correction: she is updating the text; I am acting as a sounding board, idea machine, and big picture editor.) The task is by no means daunting, and I certainly have more than enough time to devote ten hours of my week to actual paid work, but somehow, every time I sit down at my computer to do what I normally do very well, I find myself immediately plagued by a mental list of hundreds of other things I need to do. I keep adding to my ever growing list of books to read, and requesting them at the library. As emails pour in announcing my holds are ready for pick up, I’m wondering when I’m going to have time to sit down and pleasure read.

I need to find a dentist and make appointments for the entire family.

I need to find myself a new doctor, and have my annual physical.

I need to go get my license renewed which expired on my birthday, a month ago.

I pulled about 4 years worth of children’s clothes from Eliott’s closet which need to be organized, priced, and tagged for a consignment sale next week.

I’m going to two weddings in the next month, one of which I have actual wedding party duties to attend to. I was chosen to host a house party for the same weekend as that wedding and am wondering exactly where I can fit Johnsonville Italian Sausage into the schedule.

So here I sit, rereading my Suburban Mom List of Negligibly Important Things To Do, and because it is only 3:30 and dinner is already planned, I think I’m actually just going to go take a nap. Why? Because it is close to 90 degrees outside, and my body can’t help but believe it is still summer time.

Carter, Confessions

How to Get Crayon out of Carpet

Was having a bit of trouble yesterday with the synchronization of my iPhone with some music on iTunes. (User friendly, indeed.) Needless to say, it had me a bit worked up, and as a result, I was upstairs, mostly ignoring the girls while they terrorized the downstairs. Before I had a chance to worry about what they could possibly be getting into without my noticing, Carter came up to me repeating, “I clean it–up. I clean-it—up, Mommy. I clean-it, up.”

Naturally, I assume she means the toys I had instructed both her and her sister to pick up so we could go to the gym (little did they know they would really have closer to 45 minutes to do this than the originally dictated 5). When I finally acknowledged her by saying, “Yes, Carter, yes, I hear you. You cleaned up. Good girl.” I looked down to see that she had remnants of pink and blue crayon stuck in her front teeth. “And you’ve been eating crayons again. Awesome.”

At about that exact moment I hear Eliott yelling from downstairs, “Mommy! Carter colored on the stairs! Well. Not all the stairs. Just one stair. Just one. The first one.” (How exact. Thank God for Eliott.) “Right on the carpet.”

At this announcement, Carter’s eye begin to show tinges of fear. I finally extricate myself from the frustration that is –what I thought– the simple act of putting some Lady Gaga on my iPhone to work out to, and go down to survey the damage.

There are about three spots ranging in diameter from 1-3 inches of blue and pink crayon on the first light beige carpeted stair. (I silently curse my mother for the Disney Princess glitter non-washable $1 crayons from JoAnn’s. And I curse JoAnn’s again for having them. And well, just for being JoAnn’s. Because we hate JoAnn’s.) As soon as I see it, Carter plants herself on the floor (protecting her bottom) and begins almost whimpering, eyes like a frightened doe, “I clean-it, up, Mommy. See? See? I clean-it, up.” Feeling the spots, I notice they are in fact, wet.

A little too confused to be immediately angry I ask, “How, Carter? Show me how you cleaned this up.”

She immediately stands up, puts her face to the carpet, and starts licking it.

Dear God.

My mind immediately flashes back to Fitzhugh, our family dog in Kansas whom we believed to have been abused by a former owner demonstrated in the way he immediately cleaned up after himself by eating his own poop.

What have I done?

I had to pause for a moment, just to hold her, and tell her it was okay and she was very responsible to try to clean it up all by herself, but next time, just come tell Mommy. Of course I honed in on the fear and really drove home the point that crayons do not belong on the carpet or anywhere else but at the table on paper.

When I got out the carpet spray and actually cleaned it up, she thanked me. Profusely. And rubbed my arm in support. I feel fairly confident the lesson was learned. She did repeat at least three times throughout the course of the day, “No crayons on the stairs. No no. Crayons (indistinguishable) table.” So at least there’s that.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

A Lesson in Perspective*

I suppose I could preface this post with some sort of artistic commentary defining the brilliance of my 4-year-old. Unfortunately, I know very little about art.

In the way of introduction, all I really need to say is, keep in mind that what follows is an untouched, unedited, untitled, but certainly not unloved, gallery of pictures, captured by Eliott (and sometimes Carter) and downloaded directly from this:

*If The Blair Witch Project made you a little bit sick, consider yourself warned.

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