Pucker Up

Jerry and I like to joke that we have Sour Patch Kids, at first they are nothing but squeeze your eyes shut and pucker your mouth sour.  Then, if you can stick it out with them for a bit they get sweet with a little time.  

The Kingdom of Whine

Now that summer is in full swing we are all trying to settle into the new normal routine.  Which means the wheels are coming off a bit from our finely tuned (ha!) machine.  The kids are totally confused because some rules have been completely and gleefully abandoned (bed on time? no way - who cares!), and others have been reinforced and clamped down even more (TV, iPhones, or iPad in the afternoon? no way - the sun is shining! get thee and your kin outside).

In the wake of all the confusion over rules there has been lots of whining and complaining and pushing of limits to see who can get me to crack first.  They're getting close.

7 QT's - it's Friday

1.  It's summer. The boys are outside all the time now and they are dog tired at night.  I love it.  I actually have kids that will sleep past 6am now. The true test is this weekend, when I will inevitably be woken up by someone because the sleep gods do not love me anymore. I'm not sure who it will be, but I can guess the reason...
           -Dave will pop his bright eyes open and be ready for the day because he's just like his Dad.  I'm so happy those genes got passed along (sarcasm included).
           -Frank it will not be unless something is terribly amiss in his little world. He is my sleeper and likes to lounge in bed just like his Mama.  I'm so happy those genes got passed slong (sarcasm no where to be seen).
           -Stan will poop.  Every single morning same story and same absolutely rude awakening.
           -George is the only one alone in his bedroom and he would like some company when his peepers are open.  So he calls his minions in for some attention.  Loudly.

Sometimes I just don't even know

I was hosting Book Club (reality check: Wine Club) a couple weeks ago and as I was prepping in the kitchen doing some intense chopping fueled by a Kirkland brand margarita I heard Frank scream.  This scenario is not abnormal in my house in any way on any evening be it the intense chopping rushing to get dinner on the table, the margarita, or the screaming.  I have finely tuned my Mom Ears to pick up the screams I need to listen to and those I need to ignore and pore a teensy bit more margarita in my glass.  This was one I needed to heed, in double time.

I drop the chef knife and book it to the toy room to see Frank screaming and crying in obvious distress.  He is too distraught to even tell me what happened.  I spy Dave sitting quietly, too quietly, too still, on the window seat avoiding my eagle eye glare.  I ask him with all the accusation I can muster in my voice what happened to Frank.  Dave gives me the expected puzzled look and slow head shake indicating he has no idea why his brother is screaming like he'd like to meet his maker instead of go on another minute.  I narrow my eyes and ask again but this time with a threat - David Christopher you better tell me what happened to your brother because he will eventually stop crying and when he tells me what happened it will be much worse if I hear it from him.  I see Dave size up Frank (who is wrapped into my maxi skirt by this time) mentally calculate how long it might take Frank to stop crying and decide if he has time to pack a bag and find alternate accommodations.  The realization hits him that he either has to crash through the window and run for it, or own up.

Here's how the conversation went down.
D: Frank asked me to kick him in the weiner.
M: What?
D: Frank asked me to kick him in the weiner.
M: ... ... ... ...

Usually I've got the punishment at the ready to be meted out to the correct offender, but this one caught me completely off guard.  Then Jerry walks into the situation...

J (stern Jerry - ready to support me in whatever insanity I'm trying to referee): Boys, what's going on?
D: (blank look, not wanting to admit this again)
F: (down to sniffling, still cowering in my skirt, but looking up at me to see if he's in trouble too)
M: Frank told Dave to kick him in the weiner.
 J: (quietly dies laughing behind my back)
M: You're both stupid.  I'm going back to the kitchen.

^^^ helping move worms into the right place in Grandma's garden