7 Quick Takes Friday

(Vol. VIII for Me)

Happy Feast of St. Joseph the Worker! Happy May Day!

A year ago today, the kids and I could be found driving around town in the early a.m., delivering May Day baskets to all our friends. Not so this year, not so. Alas, I find I am seriously lacking in most things motivated and mobile.

Yet, for the 4th? 5th? perhaps 6th year in a row, I have come downstairs to discover—there on our very own doorstep—a beautiful bunch of baskets.

Delivered anonymously.

Whoever it is—whoever you are—they know the (real) names of all my children and included, this year, “the much anticipated little one.” It drives me crazy that I cannot thank this mysterious person/people in person. It drives me crazy that there is someone who is so unlike me and who is so willing to remain hidden.

Hmmm.

There’s a lesson for me there. I shall ignore it.

My boys are back from their horse-tending trip to Grandpa’s. Woo hoo! Woo hoo! Once again, we are a family! My sense of peace and maternal equilibrium have been restored!

I wept with joy and then had them do their laundry.

Priorities, you know.

(Incidentally, the fact that they match in the above photo is purely coincidental and has nothing at all to do with my pretending that they’re 4 and 6 again.)

It didn’t take long for my girls to start gloating to their brothers. “Mom bought us a bunch of new Play-Doh and markers when you were gone!” Joe & Jem, being the oldest, merely snorted and helped themselves to the new Play-Doh and markers.

It does not matter, you see, that they are not 4 and 6. Deep down inside, everybody loves new Play-Doh and markers.

And if you claim you don’t, you’re lying.

The five of them (my kids, that is) set to work making a small army of Play-Doh people.

Here are Cate’s:

Her boys were given names like Tom and Jake. The girls were Maisie and Caitlyn. There was also one Play-Doh person that, according to Cate, “didn’t have a penis or a vagina.”

Its name was Flash.

(PS. I hope it’s not offensive for you to read those…anatomical descriptions. We have never shied away from acknowledging in truth the odd bits that make a boy a boy and a girl a girl, though in general we refer to this area as “our bottom.”)

The other night we were returning from some errand or another. We were listening to a Music Masters CD (the artist was J.S. Bach, I believe) and my littlest girls, being little girls, were pretending to be musicians.

And then Angela, being Angela, turned her and Felicity’s game into a sort of “Battle of the Bands”. First one girl’s orchestra played…and then the other’s…and then they slogged it all out simultaneously.

(I’m listening to this and watching with one eye. I’m stifling the laughter. I’m trying to drive.)

Soon, however, Angela’s orchestra grew tired of Felicity’s distractions. “And then,” she said, “My musicians put their fingers in their ears…” she plugged her ears firmly with her index fingers, “And kept playing with their elbows.”

(I only barely stayed on the road at that point. I mean, really. How very rude of her musicians!)

Speaking of rudeness.

I made a bag of microwave popcorn for an afternoon snack and distributed it among the children. Joe was doing his therapy at the time and so his buttery treat got set aside.

When he went to find it a half hour later, he couldn’t. “Hey, where’s my popcorn?” he wanted to know.

Angela’s smile was diabolical. “Sorry!” she said. And then she shrugged.

“You ate his popcorn?” I was incredulous. “That’s it! No ice cream for you tonight!” Never mind that we didn’t have any ice cream in the house and that I hadn’t planned on serving it. My 4-year-old didn’t know that and promptly went wailing from the room.

All the better.

This thievery of hers must stop.

Unfortunately, a true deviant forgets neither the crime nor the punishment. We had long since cleared away the supper dishes and were settling in for that evening’s AI when I heard the basement door slam. “There’s no ice cream!” Angela loudly proclaimed, and then rummaged around in the kitchen freezer. “There’s…no…ice cream!”

She was far too indignant to be happy.

Felicity lost her first tooth!

Who told her she could do that?

If Angela is four going on 14, then Felicity is 6 going on 60.

(60 as in Miles Per Hour.)

I am simply not ready for these kids of mine to grow up. I am not I am not I am not I am not.

I had my 36-week OB check-up yesterday. Felicity was feeling discouraged because Angela was commandeering all the really good toys in the reception area; consequently, I invited Felicity to sit in on the exam with Mom.

Felicity, being Felicity, sat there serenely and didn’t say a word. She did, however, quietly raise an eyebrow during the “internal” part of the check-up.

(Baby is fine and has his/her head down. I am dilated to a centimeter and a half.)

No sooner had Dr. Mary helped me back to a seated position on the table and I had covered my “bottom” with the paper sheet than BLAM! Angela burst into the room to see what she’d been missing.

She almost did see what she was missing, if you know what I mean.

Along with everyone else in the hallway.

Pop over to Jen’s to see all of today’s Quick Takes.

And do have a blessed weekend.

AMDG,