Monday, January 12, 2015


 Big news!!
My Christmas present from the kids was on back order
 & it just came on Friday.
They had a Budsie made for me.
I think it's perfect!!

Meanwhile, back at the post:


(A compilation of older posts things we've lived through.)

When our boys were very small they shared a room.  Their twin beds were against the walls in the shape of an “L”.  The head of Matt’s bed was next to the bedroom door.  He liked to swing the door back & forth.  Sometimes (apparently more often than I realized) it would hit the wall.  One day he called us into his room to show us his “accomplishment”.  He pointed out where he had rammed the door into the wall so many times that there was now a hole in the wall.  He proudly said, “Look!  I made a space for the doorknob.”  He did not take up decorating as his career.

Speaking of decorating, or redecorating, for those of you who want to change wallpaper, here’s something you might try.  (Strangely enough, I don’t believe Martha Stewart has ever suggested this.)  A friend of ours—NOT Bud—we’ll call him “Daddy”—had been to a party the night before & was quite hung over.  Early in the morning, he was awakened by his very young son calling “Daddy!”  He yelled at his son to go back to sleep.  Again, “Daddy!”   Again, “Go back to sleep!”  Over & over, until the boy stopped.  His son’s problem was that he had to go potty, specifically, to pee.  A lot.  Since his father was no help, he had to solve his problem himself.  So he did.  He lowered his pajama bottoms & diaper & peed on the wall.  Then, to his amazement, he discovered that his urine had loosened the wallpaper.  All he had to do to peel it off was to scrape it with his fingernail.  So he did.  When “Daddy” was finally able to get up he went into his son’s room & found a section of wallpaper-less wall about 3 feet square.  As I said, you could try this, but you’d probably have to get your husband to reach the higher places.

Not another handy hint, but the last story brought back memories of my daughter’s toilet training days.  (She is 54 now & completely trained.  This incident happened a while back.)  I tried very hard to stop swearing when she started to talk & was reasonably successful.  Unfortunately, I cut my finger badly while I was preparing dinner.  I reflexively said, “Shit!”  I guess she heard me.  She then went to use the potty by herself.  She tried to urinate standing up.  After all, if her daddy could do it, why couldn’t she?  Then she found out why.  Her little legs were all wet.  She said “Shit!” just as her daddy was getting home from work & walking by the open bathroom door.  He told her that we don’t talk that way in our house.  She said, “Mommy does!”

In the olden days, when parents felt safe in letting their very young children walk to school & back alone, my parents were babysitting our 7 or 8 year old daughter while we were on a trip.  They became quite worried when one day she was over a half hour late in getting home from school.  When she finally got home, they asked her why she was so late.  Our daughter, who wishes to be nameless, always had a very logical brain.  She told them she had taken a “long” cut.

When Matt was about eight, he jumped off our front porch to the driveway below.  It was a full one story drop & he used an umbrella as a parachute.  He didn't break anything, but he did learn that that was not the purpose of an umbrella.

He hated to take showers when he was young.  He would often turn on the shower & sit in the bathroom for a while & then come out bone dry & just as dirty as when he went in.  Once, I made sure he actually got in the shower, which must have made him angry, because when I went into the bathroom to straighten up I found he had written the “F” word on the steamed up mirror.  He tried to, anyway.  He had put an “e” on the end.  FUCKE.  It looked like Shakespeare was swearing.  My problem, as a loving & helpful mother, was to decide which was more important—telling him not to use that kind of language or correcting his spelling?

And that, of course, made me remember another swearing story.  When Blake was about 2, his sister was about to transition, or “cross the bridge”, from Brownies to Girl Scouts.  I was her Brownie leader.  I decorated a mirror with a bridge & some Brownie figures.  Blake saw it & said, “Dat pwetty.”  I said, “Thank you.”  He asked, “Dat fo’ us?”  I said, “No.  It’s for the Brownies.”  He lowered his head & walked away mumbling, “Ev’wy damn t’ing in dis house fo’ Bwownies!”

About that same time, the kids were having lunch & I was at the sink, with my back to them.  Blake knocked over his glass & spilled his milk.  I wiped it up & poured him some more.  He knocked over his glass again, & again I wiped it up & poured him more.  I warned him not to do it again or he would be sorry.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he deliberately knocked it over one more time.  I picked up the gallon milk bottle (which had probably a quart or so left in it) & emptied it on his head!  Childish, I know, but it made a beautiful waterfall—or, I guess, a milkfall.  He didn’t even cry—he just sat there with his little mouth hanging open in amazement as the milk cascaded over his head.  As far as I know, none of our kids ever deliberately knocked over their milk again.  Not while I was in the room, anyway.

"Sometimes people ask me: 'Dave, what is the essence of parenthood?' I always answer: 'Lowering your standards.'" --Dave Barry

Grandchildren are God's reward for letting your own children live----Erma Bombeck (& fishducky)