How Girls Are Different From Boys

"Did you have fun playing with Shannon?"

"Yes, we played Star Wars and in it, Darth Vader loved Shannon."

Give A Little Whistle

Good Lord, I am the worst blogger ever.  I could give you a big old sob story about why I can't seem to write consistently.  It would be 24 straight hours that sound like this:  blah blah blah snow days whine whine whine houseguests blah whine blah why the hell do I volunteer? whine blah whine sore throat runny nose blah blah blah.  Consider yourself filled in. 

It doesn't help my mood that David has learned to whistle.  You know when your kids are little and they beg you to teach them to whistle?  DON'T. You will live to regret it.  David tried for years and year unsuccessfully.  Why he can do it now, I have no idea.  But he can.  And he does.  Allllllll the fucking time.  He only knows two things to whistle:  the theme music from Star Wars and this song.  (And if you had any idea how much time I just wasted googling to try and figure out what the name of that song was, you'd understand why I never seem to post.)  I guess I should be glad that he does know a few actual  songs, even if he whistles them in endless loops.  Sometimes he'll do this, instead: Whistle a single sustained note, while waving his hand slowly in front of his face to change the pitch slightly.  Try it.  Isn't it fun?  <sigh>

I feel slightly guilty for squelching his one musical outlet.  But I've found over time that I can't tolerate a lot of noise.  I can't leave a TV on randomly in the background.  I can't have music on while I'm trying to write.  And, for the love of God, I can't listen to a 9 1/2 year old whistle every waking moment.

The other day I snapped and demanded of Ritu:  "Who the hell taught that child to whistle?"  He smiled at me and demonstrated yet again his complete inability to whistle. Oh.  Right.  Must've been me.  Which brings me to another annoying thing.  How the hell can you be a grown up who doesn't know how to whistle??

Great Skating, Sybil!

Last weekend, Juliana put on her slippers and zoomed all around the wood floors in the kitchen.  She moved as fast as she could, slipping and sliding, in her version of ice skating.  As she is her father's child, she narrated the entire experience as she skated:

"Look at her go.  Now she's skating around the island.  She almost crashes into the table, but she's still skating.  She goes off the ice and onto the carpet, but she's still skating.  She's having a snack (holds her hands to her mouth,  fake chewing sounds here) but she's STILL skating.  Wow, she's so fast and so good at skating.  Now she's coming around the corner.  She almost crashes into the island, but she doesn't.  Look at her go!  Still skating!  She is the best skater I've ever seen!"

This must've gone on for 10 straight minutes.  I was trying to sit and read, but by the end I was cracking up.  I tried to stay quiet because I knew if she heard me laughing, she'd want to know what was so funny.  Finally she took a break and I commended her on her excellent skating.  Plus, I said, I really liked the announcing.  She nodded in agreement at me and said, "The one who was talking a lot is named Bill.  The one who wasn't talking very much is named Bob."

Oh Goody

<<While road conditions on major roads have improved throughout the day, neighborhood side streets remain a concern for student transportation, especially considering the forecast of freezing temperatures overnight and into tomorrow. Current forecasts are also predicting the possibility of additional snow or freezing rain tonight.>>

Just got this email that they canceled school for Thursday.  Somebody kill me.

Deana Is The Boss Of Me

<<WTF dude?  Post already.>>

Isn't Deana so sweet?  She guilted me into posting.  But I have nothing to say.  Actually, I have tons to say, but no motivation to type.  My current excuse is that we're in the midst of a snow event.  Schools have been closed for the past two days because we got about 3 1/2 inches of snow Tuesday morning.  It doesn't snow too often here and we don't have the resources to get rid of the snow.  And they won't salt the roads because GOD FORBID it gets into the runoff water and affects the salmon.  (As Amy said, "Isn't that called lox?") 

 Ritu had to put chains on his car just to get to the grocery store this morning.  I, of course stayed home with the kids.  We did walk over to a friend's house for a few hours this afternoon, but now we're home awaiting the forecasted freezing rain.  My children are going to be morons by the end of the week.  And I'll most likely be in jail. 

Here's a picture of our snowy backyard and greenspace:

It is lovely, no doubt.  And I do adore a snow day.  I love being forced to stay home all day, with a hot cup of coffee and a book to read.  Only the reality doesn't play out quite that way.  The kids are in and out of the house all day long, tracking in snow and slush.  My dryer is constantly running with the latest discarded pair of gloves or socks.  This necessitates me dragging my lazy ass off the couch so often that my coffee gets cold and my book goes unread.  And let's face it, the romance of the snow wears off after one day. 

Ritu was home for this whole storm.  That's unusal in and of itself.  For the most part, whenever we get bad weather, he's either atwork or at a conference in some sunny, warm spot.  In fact, he spent most of last week in Florida.  It didn't get above freezing for five days in a row here, so our conversations went like this:

Me:  How was your day today?

Him:  Pretty good.  I was in meetings all day, but then I went and got a massage and had drinks by the pool, since it's 84 degrees.

Me:  That sounds nice.  (My Brain:  Awesome.  It was 26 degrees here and I spent yet another day answering every stupid question your children asked, nagging them through every assigned task, and doing every bit of cleaning up there was to do.  I hate you and everything you stand for.  Never utter the words massage, drinks, or pool again.)

Is it even necessary to insert here that last week was PMS week?

(Ok, Deana, are you happy now?  I'll try to be better at posting.  Just be prepared for quantity over quality!)

Singing

The other day, David was singing something as he got himself a glass of water.  He doesn't sing much, but when he does you can usually make out the tune.  (Juliana, of course, sings day and night like any good little chirpy fairy girl.  Unfortunately, it's in a nonstop tuneless drone.  Not only can't she carry a tune, but her singing speed is permanently set at dirge.   I'll find her in the recliner with the lyric booklet from the Cheetah Girls CD singing the songs a capella.   Turns out the only time the Cheetah Girls sound good to me is when they are drowning out my daughter's singing.  But she loves to sing and I encourage her to do so.  I sing with her--loudly and at an exaggerated pace in an attempt to get her to find some rhythm.  Any rhythm.)

So, the other day when David was singing, Juliana says to him, "David, you have a nice singing voice.  You would make a good singer, like maybe.....in the circus."  I looked at her for a moment as it slowly dawned on me that she had pulled off a nearly perfect insult of her big brother.  It was said in such kind, complimentary tones.  There was the perfect pause before she said, "in the circus".  It was the kind of insult that takes a moment to sink in.  Hmmm a circus?  People do perform there.  Is she saying he has a performance quality voice?  Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute there!  The circus???

It was beautiful.  And I don't know why, but it just gets funnier and funnier the more I think about it.  "In the circus" has become our family's version of "yo mama".  "Yes, I do think that shirt looks good on you....in the circus."

She Can't Take It Any More!

On Friday night, my mother and I went to Shabbat services at the synagogue.  It's not often that I get to go to the grown up service and I always enjoy it when I do.  Our usual gig is the Family Service, which is an abbreviated service followed by a potluck dinner that occurs once a month.   Every now and then, though, a holiday falls such that we all end up at a regular Shabbat service.  For example, last week the first night of Chanukah fell on a Friday.  Our synagogue celebrated it with a dinner followed by a service.  The week preceding had been a busy one, full of class parties and special events.  By the time Friday rolled around, we were all pretty whipped.  The dinner part was lovely--lots to eat and plenty of friends for the kids to play with.  The service didn't start until 7:30.  We found seats and Juliana began to occupy herself in the usual way: drawing pictures.  Our syngagogue actually shares space in a church, so Juliana spends her time drawing pictures on the prayer request cards.  Here's a typical one of her drawings: 


Soon, however, she was getting tired and antsy.  She passed me a note:


I was under the mistaken impression that there would not be dessert, and told her so.  This did not make her happy.  She scowled and passed me this note:


I whispered to her that the service would be done soon.  (A bald-faced lie, that.)  Now she was practically lying down in her chair and giving me the dirtiest looks possible.  I worked hard on absorbing myself in the service, namely with praying for patience.  Ritu decided he would help matters by passing me note.  Apparently he thought we were at a piano bar, so he put in his request:


Very funny, that one.  <insert eye rolling here>

Juliana wasn't going down without a fight.  She passed me another note:

You can see she was too tired to make an entire sad face.   Again, I encouraged her to hang in there and that we'd be done soon.  She wasn't falling for it.  A few minutes later, I got this:


At this, I actually burst out laughing.  Right in the middle of a solemn part, of course.  Eventually she climbed onto my lap where she stayed for the duration of the service.  I held her and wondered if attending the service was enough to cancel out the murderous thoughts I had when she misbehaved at the synagogue.  Probably not.