Elf Drama

This morning the unthinkable happened…

Carter touched the Elf!

He came into our room saying “Um, guys, I found Kebbie.  He’s on the dining room table.  I touched him.”

I was half asleep still but when I heard that I bolted upright.

“What?  You touched him?  Did you really?  You know he loses his magic if you do that.  Why would you touch him?”

“Because I could easily reach him.”

Oh, well then…yeah, if you can reach him then that’s a different story.  In that case you should totally just screw with the powerful forces of Elf Magic…no big deal.  Do you have no soul?

I still thought he might be kidding so my husband went downstairs with him and asked him to recreate the touching scenario.  And he did it again!  Like, all casual and stuff. 

I’m sorry, have I been killing myself to scare the shit out of you with that doll for nothing? 

I’ve tried to be a decent parent (sort of) but despite of all my efforts… I’m raising an Elf Toucher! 

I hope the other moms around town don’t get word of this.  I can’t take the staring and whispering behind my back.  When he commits his first felony they’ll interview the neighbors: “Oh, we totally saw this coming.  We knew he was a bad ass from a pretty early age.  Did you know what he did when he was FOUR?  HE TOUCHED HIS ELF!”

He headed off to school and I was left trying to come up with a solution to the problem.  I got some online advice about calling Santa, sprinkling magic dust on him, telling Carter the Elf died…stuff like that…

I finally decided to tell the kids that Kebbie is sick from being touched.  I set him up next to the scene of the crime.  I even added a little note to boost my credibility:

What?  Too much?

 

Carter came home from school and I showed him the consequences of his actions.  I had no game plan as to how I was going to make the Elf well again but I thought I could wing it.  I wanted to see if he even cared that he had put Kebbie at deaths door.

Turns out he did. 

First he suggested that we sprinkle some magic on some snacks and feed them to Kebbie.  I asked where he was planning to get the magic from…he said a magician could do it.  Obviously.  I’ll just grab the next magician I see walking down the street.

Well, magic or not, he was set on the snack idea.  He also gave Kebbie his favorite guy to snuggle up with in hopes that would make him feel better:

 

He truly thought this was his best idea ever...

 

Then he decided to share his sandwich with him: 

 

How does that saying go?  Feed a cold, starve a fever, cure unmagical Elves with ham?

Then: “Mom!  I’ve got a great idea!  We can give Kebbie toys to play with.  That will make him feel better!”

He included a guitar so Kebbie could rock out if he wanted to...

And the toys kept coming.  Because more toys clearly equals more chance that he will not be on Santa’s shit list for ‘effing up one of the Elves:

Desparation is beginning to sink in

 

He even tried to bribe him:



Dude...I will pay you THREE CENTS to get the hell up and pretend none of this ever happened!

He also suggested letting Kebbie sleep in his bed and, my personal favorite…he asked me to put Kebbie in my car and drive him to the Dockside…which is Carter’s favorite restaurant and also a popular local bar. If cheap burgers and beer don’t make you feel better then I simply do not know what will!!

I think Kebbie is going to make a miraculous recovery tonight.  The fact that he keeps talking about how to heal the Elf made me happy.  I mean, he truly felt bad and was suffering.  Which is what all this crap is about, right?  Making your children suffer?

PJ Time

I love my pajamas.

Wait…before we get into this let’s make sure everyone is pronouncing that correctly. 

 

Of my many, many parenting failures the one I am most upset about is the fact that my children say “Pa-JAM-ahs” instead of the correct pronunciation which is clearly “Pa-JAH-mas”. 

It’s my husband’s fault.  He has a stupid accent. 

 

I don’t know where he got it from because he’s from New Hampshire.  And not like way up in the sticks New Hampshire.  His town touches Massachusetts.  If you were standing in his childhood home you could throw something and HIT Massachusetts. 

But he unfortunately passed “pa-jam-ahs” onto my children.  I’m considering taking them in for speech therapy.

Anyway, back to the point of the story.  I love my pajamas.  And my kids love theirs. 

If we don’t have anywhere to be we stay in our pajamas all day long.  It’s cozy. 

Recently, however, I’ve been feeling like maybe we should put on clothes more often.  Like, maybe I’m being lazy and using it as an excuse to stay in my house and not have to take the kids anywhere.  Because dressing them is a pain in the ass. 

Grant went through a thing recently where as soon as I got him dressed he would run away and rip his clothes off.  And then we have Carter who insists on wearing shorts and soccer socks in the middle of December.  But everyone agrees on pajamas.  And if they’re the feety kind then you don’t have to deal with socks. 

Socks suck.

When I plan to have a pajama day know what really helps?  Rain.  Or at least clouds.  Nothing makes me feel like more of a lazy jerk-off than hanging in my PJs on a beautiful sunny day.  Sometimes the day will start cloudy but end sunny.  That’s really a problem because I’ve already committed to pajamas…so then what does one do? 

The other day I decided to dress the kids even though we had nothing to do:

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere, why?”

“But we’re getting dressed…so where are we going?”

“I just want to be dressed and feel like a productive member of society.  Sometimes people get dressed even when they’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh…really?  That’s funny.”

I know, right?  I think it’s a silly idea too.  I don’t see the point in putting on clothes if I have no intention of showing anybody the product of my efforts.  Getting three people dressed is work.  And the point of doing work is to have that work appreciated by others.  Most times when I get us all dressed the only ones around to appreciate it are the dogs…and they don’t really seem all that impressed. 

Today we had a pajama day.  Around 11 o’clock some Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on our door.  When I answered a man in a weird looking hat gave me a look and remarked “Oh, just getting out of bed?”

I was caught completely off guard so I did what I always do when I’m caught completely off guard…I lied.

“We’re all sick today so we decided to stay comfy.”

About halfway through his speech I suddenly got really angry at him for his comment.  What the hell!  Why do I feel like I need to impress you with my wardrobe choices?  You’re the one who knocked on my door in the middle of the day and interrupted my life. 

So I stopped him…

“Ya know what?  No one here is sick actually; we just like to stay in our pajamas.  And I’m not interested in your pamphlet.”

I closed the door on that bullshitting hat-wearer. 

Who do you think you are?  You WISH you were in your pajamas right now!  In fact, I'm of the opinion that Jesus wore nothing BUT pajamas!

If they ever come back here again when I’m dressed I’m going to make them wait on the porch while I change.

Tales From the Tub

Ok the title of this post is misleading.  Because my children take showers and therefore aren’t technically in a tub. 

They used to take baths, though.  They used to love baths.  But they also used to cover every surface of my bathroom with water.  They simply could not keep themselves from splashing.  And I simply could not keep myself from wanting to kill them every night. 

So…we switched to showers.

Showers are so much better for us.  We turn on the water, put the kids in there and shut the curtain.  They still try to splash, but there is no pool of water for them to get their hands on so it stays mostly contained. 

They play in there for a while before we soap them up.  It’s a nice little break actually.  I can’t see what they’re doing in there and you know what they say: Outta sight…didn’t ever happen…can’t be held responsible. 

A lot of times I’ll just plant myself on the toilet with a glass of wine and listen to them chat…and fight.

It’s usually Grant who screams first.  Carter is a jerky big brother but Grant is a cry baby little brother.  It’s not a great combination. 

One night I heard Grant scream and then I heard this:

“Grant, I didn’t punch you.  I just peed on you.  Relax!”

God, Grant!  Can’t you even be peed on without screaming?  My theory is if someone absolutely HAS to pee on you the best place for that to happen is in the shower.

Then there was the night I heard Grant screaming and then heard Carter saying sorry over and over.  My curiosity got the better of me on that one so I investigated.

Carter was in there holding the showerhead which was busy spitting aquatic bullets at Grant.

I was unaware of the fact that my showerhead contained a ‘machine gun’ setting but Carter apparently found it and was unintentionally assaulting his brother. 

And that day goes down in history as the only time Carter has ever attacked his brother by accident.

Aside from the occasional urine and bullet spray incidents they actually play really nicely in there.  And of course if they’re gonna play they need…trucks…

 

Used to be my shower was the only place I didn’t have to deal with this bullshit. 

When the shower is over Carter likes to do this thing where he sits down in there and tells me:

“I just want to sit here like an old man for a little bit.”

Like an old man?  Wet, naked and sitting on the floor of a shower?  What the hell type of old men have you been hanging around?

Maybe we should give baths another try.

All I Want for Christmas

This is the first year my kids have really gotten into the Christmas spirit.  And by “Christmas spirit” I mean…they’ve learned how to ask for things from Santa. 

It’s the first year they have realized that the catalogues that come in the mail have pictures of toys in them.  And that those toys are potentially available to be brought into our home. 

Carter first discovered this fact a few weeks ago and since that time he has not let the Toys R US “Big Book of Toys” out of his sight. 

I made the mistake of telling him to take a marker and circle anything he wanted to ask Santa for:

“Here, mom, I finished circling.”

“Ok, let me see…wow…57 circles, huh?”

Wanting nineteen thousand things from a store like that was bad enough.  But then the specialty catalogues came. 

You know, the ones full of “educational” toys that are supposed to transform your little angel into the toddler version Albert Einstein.  I guess that’s how they get away with charging 87 dollars for a set of two blocks. 

Carter looooooved that magazine.  Naturally. 

“Mom, I want this car transporter.  I’ve never had this one before.”

“That’s nice.  Jesus!  60 bucks for one wooden car?  I’ll whittle you a damn car transporter before I’ll spend that!”

“And I want this construction site…and this airplane…and this!  What is this? I want it.”

That’s a kite, honey, and I bet it’s the best kite in the whole gosh darned world!

But you’re not getting that kite…know why?  Because kites are stupid.  That's just a fact.

I tried flying a kite with them once.  After I ran around my yard like a fool for 20 minutes trying to make it fly the damn thing stupidly hung in the air for all of three seconds.  The kids were unimpressed and I was winded…so no more kites.

But I digress…back to my spoiled child…

 “I’m going to get all this stuff.”

Sure.  You can get all that stuff.  Then know what else you’re gonna get?  A job.  Nothing like explaining to your four year old that Santa is on a budget.  They totally and completely get the concept of money, right? 

“Ok, Cart, you can either have that kite or a college education.  Your choice.”

Then there’s Grant. 

Grant isn’t interested in looking through the toy books.  Grant only wants one thing: “A blue Jeep that I can ride on.”

A $300 blue jeep that he can ride on.

I’d rather buy the thousand dollar puzzle that was hand-crafted by Tibetan Monks.  Because I have plenty of places I can store a puzzle.  And I don’t have anywhere to put yet another ride on toy. 

“We just got a toy like that.”

“That one was for Carter.  I want mine.”

Yeah, well we got that for Carter’s birthday after he asked for it relentlessly for two months.  He just wore us down.  Are you prepared to be that much of an asshole?  Cause then maybe you’ll get your jeep.

Not everything they’ve asked for it out of Santa’s price range.  Some things are just out of Santa’s sanity range…

Carter: “I want a saxophone for Christmas.”

Me: “You’re not getting one.”

Carter: “Well, I’m asking Santa for it so it’s not up you.”

Santa, you jack ass, listen up and listen good…if you bring that kid a saxophone I will hunt you down, punch you in the nuts and donate all your reindeer to my nearest zoo. 

Think I’m kidding?  Try me, big guy, just try me.