On my blog is a counter through Google Analytics that also keeps track of key words people Google that leads them to my site. Usually the keywords are straight-forward, no doubt leading the searchers to what they were looking for: Motherhood Is Easy, Blog, Rebekah Hunter Scott, etc.
Sometimes, however, the keywords are hilarious. Here are some of my favorites:
My Dog Got Hit In The Eye With A Pine Cone What Do I Do -- I guess that brought this person to the She's Not Crafty entry. I picture this person reading about me making a pathetic excuse for a bird-feeder while this person's poor dog lay there with a pine cone sticking out of its eyeball, waiting for his master to hurry up and take him to the vet.
What Do You Do When Your Husband Thinks Motherhood Is Easy With One Child? -- I'm not sure which entry this could have led her to, but I wish it had led her straight to my phone, so I could tell her that next time her husband thinks something like that to tell him to F*ck Off.
Children Playing With Poop -- Ah, yes. Poor person probably walked in on his/her darling children giggling with glee as they smeared their own excrement on each other, the walls, the floor, the dog.... I'm sure some screaming went on that morning, too. See the Sir Poop-A-Lot entry for a refresher course on the horrors of poop being anywhere but the toilet (and sometimes it's pretty horrible when it's there, too).
Flock Seagull -- My site popped up because my children make me want to run. Run so far away.
Motherhood Dust Bunnies -- Maybe this person was looking for a support group that equates Motherhood to Dust Bunnies. Motherhood is the couch under which things that are gross--dust, hair, crumbs, fuchsia Barbie shoes--collect and turn into something with a cute name that almost sounds like a pet you'd like to have. All metaphors aside, the Fishing For Bunnies entry is always a crowd-pleaser, so I hope this person at least got a chuckle out of my lack of house-keeping and innovative ways to keep my children entertained while I try to make dinner.
Do English Rollies Mask The Smell -- A-Whaaaaa?
Let Mommy Do It -- Damn right. Otherwise it'll be done incorrectly.
Vasectomy Jeff -- Maybe Jeff himself googled about getting a vasectomy after spending fifteen minutes alone with our children while I ran to the store.
Still Wears Diapers -- Aren't we all convinced, at one point or another in our child's early years, that he or she is NEVER going to be potty trained? Haven't we all worried that diaper sizes only go up to 6, and wondered what on earth we were going to do when our child was in school and needed us to come in with a diaper bag and wipes and change him between classes? I know I have.
Baby Child Obedience Training Throwing Food From High Chair -- Yeah....that's a toughie. Short of buying a choke-collar and a taser to keep our babies from throwing food, there's not much that can be done. My advice to this Googler would be to invest in a dog. At least then she won't be wasting money on Swiffer cloths.
How To Make Motherhood Easier -- Alcohol.
Ten Inch And A Half Toy Semis -- According to Wikipedia, a Semis was a small Roman bronze coin that was valued at half an As (also a roman coin--the plural of which is Asses. I can't make this stuff up, folks). So if this person was indeed trying to google a place where he could find a ten-and-a-half inch toy broze coin, he/she was likely disappointed when my site popped up. More likely, though, this is a poorly phrased, misspelled attempt to find an adult toy. In which case, the resulting display of my blog was equally disappointing.
Actually Spanked -- I think this one led the Googler to my Mother By Numbers entry, where I list the number of times I should have spanked Rollie and the number of times I actually spanked him. Yes, there was an enormous disparity between these two figures.
Motherhood And Doing Nothing -- Must have been a husband/baby-daddy googling this little phrase. Any woman with kids knows that those two things--Motherhood and Doing Nothing--do not belong anywhere near the same sentence, paragraph, page, book, or even libraries within a 50-mile radius of each other. Some guy probably noticed that the mother of his children was actually sitting for two consecutive seconds and thought, Huh. She's doing nothing right now. What's all this complaining about motherhood being difficult? She's all about Motherhood And Doing Nothing. Dick.
So there you have it. Sometimes we find things we didn't even know we were googling for.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sir Poop-A-Lot
Warning: The following entry contains two swear words and a few references to flying poop. Proceed at the risk of being really grossed out and/or offended.
Behind my house is a small, man-made pond. Usually I really enjoy this fact. I throw open my windows and look out at the rippling water, the spindly-legged birds stepping carefully along the bank, the occasional osprey dive-bombing from the sky and carrying off a flapping fish. The view is peaceful and serene, with houses just beyond the water, their backyards immaculate and aesthetically pleasing.
The only time the pond behind my house is kind of an inconvenience is when I'm yelling at my children. Because I know how sound carries across water. And I know those people living in the houses with the pristine backyards probably think I'm a crazy bitch who hates her kids.
Especially after yesterday.
The morning started out pleasant enough. My kids and I sat around our kitchen table, watching Blues Clues and eating pancakes together. Rollie was actually eating. Like, voluntarily. Probably because the pancakes were laced with M&M's. But still, it was nice. And I wondered if perhaps this moment at the breakfast table was a prelude to a lovely day for the three of us. Silly me.
A little while later, Rollie announced that he had to quote, Poop A Lot. And now that he's finally done with this regression bullshit and going on the potty again, I am quick to accommodate any requests to use said potty, in any manner he wishes. Which lately means that I put a towel down in front of his toy box, place the potty on the towel and arrange about fifty Matchbox cars on top of the toy box, where Rollie proceeds to completely disrobe a la George Costanza and play Smash 'Em as he goes about his business. Fine. A little strange, but fine.
The only problem with this arrangement is that sometimes Rollie has a little too much fun going to the bathroom. Sometimes Rollie just doesn't want the fun to end. Which is why 20 minutes later, when I was trying to hustle him along so we could actually start our day, I was met with some resistance.
Me: Rollie (knock knock). You done?
Rollie: Not yet.
Me: Come on, Rol, you've been going long enough. I think you're done.
Rollie: Almost.
Me (now opening the door and being met with the obvious signs that he is indeed done): Rollie, we really need to get rolling here. Our friends are waiting for us.
Rollie (still sitting buck-naked like a little toad on his plastic toilet, Matchbox car in each hand): In a couple minutes, Momma.
Me: Rollie, you're done. Believe me, you are.
Rollie: Almost.
Me (trying not to gag as I come closer): Not 'almost.' You've been sitting here for twenty minutes, buddy. Come on, we need to start our day.
Rollie doesn't respond, but begins flailing as I lift him from the seat.
Me: Cut it out, Rollie. Look, you went a lot. Good job. Now let's go flush it and wash our hands.
Rollie: Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!
Ignoring his pleas, I lifted the very full potty and proceeded to carry it across his room and down the hall, Rollie hollering in protest all the way, chasing me and pawing at me and being just a total shit.
Me: Rollie, knock it off. Come on, you can't sit on the potty all day. Do you want to go--
Then it happened. In his anger that I'd robbed him of more toilet-time, Rollie lunged after me and yanked my arm. And the potty went flying. I watched it in slow motion as it sailed through the air and hit the carpeted floor. The lid sprang open, releasing the contents everywhere. The walls, Elsa's door, the floor. Everywhere.
That's when I started to scream.
I'm pretty sure the neighbors across the pond heard me. I really don't see how they couldn't have. I hear them when they're on their patio, and surely that's when they're speaking in normal, conversational tones...80 decibels, tops. My windows were open, and even if theirs weren't, surely they heard some ungodly sounds echoing across the still waters that morning. If anything, they definitely know my son's name is Rollie. And that I was So Angry at him. And that he Got Poop Everywhere.
When things like this happen, I like to think that maybe me being on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet for fifteen minutes kept us from getting in a horrific car accident, or running over a dog or having to wait too long in the McDonald's drive through. Or maybe I could have been the 1000th customer at Target, and instead of winning a shopping spree, I wade through balloons and confetti at the checkout line and wonder why the person in front of me is shrieking with joy.
At least I got the poop out of my carpet. That is what I'm taking away from this experience. That, and no more potty-time Smash 'Em. Ever.
Behind my house is a small, man-made pond. Usually I really enjoy this fact. I throw open my windows and look out at the rippling water, the spindly-legged birds stepping carefully along the bank, the occasional osprey dive-bombing from the sky and carrying off a flapping fish. The view is peaceful and serene, with houses just beyond the water, their backyards immaculate and aesthetically pleasing.
The only time the pond behind my house is kind of an inconvenience is when I'm yelling at my children. Because I know how sound carries across water. And I know those people living in the houses with the pristine backyards probably think I'm a crazy bitch who hates her kids.
Especially after yesterday.
The morning started out pleasant enough. My kids and I sat around our kitchen table, watching Blues Clues and eating pancakes together. Rollie was actually eating. Like, voluntarily. Probably because the pancakes were laced with M&M's. But still, it was nice. And I wondered if perhaps this moment at the breakfast table was a prelude to a lovely day for the three of us. Silly me.
A little while later, Rollie announced that he had to quote, Poop A Lot. And now that he's finally done with this regression bullshit and going on the potty again, I am quick to accommodate any requests to use said potty, in any manner he wishes. Which lately means that I put a towel down in front of his toy box, place the potty on the towel and arrange about fifty Matchbox cars on top of the toy box, where Rollie proceeds to completely disrobe a la George Costanza and play Smash 'Em as he goes about his business. Fine. A little strange, but fine.
The only problem with this arrangement is that sometimes Rollie has a little too much fun going to the bathroom. Sometimes Rollie just doesn't want the fun to end. Which is why 20 minutes later, when I was trying to hustle him along so we could actually start our day, I was met with some resistance.
Me: Rollie (knock knock). You done?
Rollie: Not yet.
Me: Come on, Rol, you've been going long enough. I think you're done.
Rollie: Almost.
Me (now opening the door and being met with the obvious signs that he is indeed done): Rollie, we really need to get rolling here. Our friends are waiting for us.
Rollie (still sitting buck-naked like a little toad on his plastic toilet, Matchbox car in each hand): In a couple minutes, Momma.
Me: Rollie, you're done. Believe me, you are.
Rollie: Almost.
Me (trying not to gag as I come closer): Not 'almost.' You've been sitting here for twenty minutes, buddy. Come on, we need to start our day.
Rollie doesn't respond, but begins flailing as I lift him from the seat.
Me: Cut it out, Rollie. Look, you went a lot. Good job. Now let's go flush it and wash our hands.
Rollie: Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!
Ignoring his pleas, I lifted the very full potty and proceeded to carry it across his room and down the hall, Rollie hollering in protest all the way, chasing me and pawing at me and being just a total shit.
Me: Rollie, knock it off. Come on, you can't sit on the potty all day. Do you want to go--
Then it happened. In his anger that I'd robbed him of more toilet-time, Rollie lunged after me and yanked my arm. And the potty went flying. I watched it in slow motion as it sailed through the air and hit the carpeted floor. The lid sprang open, releasing the contents everywhere. The walls, Elsa's door, the floor. Everywhere.
That's when I started to scream.
I'm pretty sure the neighbors across the pond heard me. I really don't see how they couldn't have. I hear them when they're on their patio, and surely that's when they're speaking in normal, conversational tones...80 decibels, tops. My windows were open, and even if theirs weren't, surely they heard some ungodly sounds echoing across the still waters that morning. If anything, they definitely know my son's name is Rollie. And that I was So Angry at him. And that he Got Poop Everywhere.
When things like this happen, I like to think that maybe me being on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet for fifteen minutes kept us from getting in a horrific car accident, or running over a dog or having to wait too long in the McDonald's drive through. Or maybe I could have been the 1000th customer at Target, and instead of winning a shopping spree, I wade through balloons and confetti at the checkout line and wonder why the person in front of me is shrieking with joy.
At least I got the poop out of my carpet. That is what I'm taking away from this experience. That, and no more potty-time Smash 'Em. Ever.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Cruella DeMom
I hate my dog.
I know, I know--What kind of person hates her own dog? Or any dog? Dogs are so sweet and loyal and they have paws and fur and big, lolling tongues. They're pack animals whose sole desire in life is to be accepted. What am I, Michael Vick?
I am not a dog-hater. I'm actually a dog-liker. Dare I say, a dog-lover. Before I had kids, I loved my dog. I loved him despite his chronic sinus problems, his incessant shedding, his dirty paws and terrible breath and obnoxious begging for table scraps. After work Jeff and I took him to parks, on long, leisurely walks where he could sniff and pee to his little heart's content. We took him on 'Ollie-Days'--we'd buy him a bucket of KFC and go on a picnic. He ate chicken skin and drank cold bottled water while we took turns brushing his long, golden fur. He slept on our beds and licked our faces, and when we had to go on vacation and leave him, we'd wonder out loud how he was doing and if he missed us, and when we found the inevitable stray dog-hair on our luggage we'd say, 'Awwww,' as if he were blowing a little doggie kiss across the miles between us.
And then, of course, we had kids.
Ollie suffered a significant demotion after we had kids. He went from being our furry son and sole recipient of our affection down to being only slightly more important than our TV remote. Now when he blows a snot-rocket onto the carpet, and instead of feeling instantly sorry for him and his eternally runny nose, I grumble about how disgusting it is that I have to clean up dog boogers on top of kid boogers (not literally on top of, although I'm sure that will be the case at some point). When he scratches at the door to go outside, instead of rejoicing in the fact that he is completely and reliably house-broken (unlike certain other members of this house), I roll my eyes at the 5-second inconvenience it is to let him out. And when he barks at the UPS truck, the garbage truck, the recycle truck, the ferocious gray cat across the street, instead of being grateful that I have such a vigilant watch-dog, I almost have a coronary trying to get him to shut the F up before he wakes up Elsa from her nap. Poor guy. It's a wonder he doesn't pee all over the place and let every suspicious-looking person walk right into our house, just to prove to me that I'm a total asshole.
I think my hate comes in short, intense bursts. It's usually when I'm already irritated about something else--Elsa emptying yet another entire bag of goldfish onto the floor and she and Rollie giggling as they take turns smushing them into the carpet--and then Ollie starts pawing at the back door to come in, and when I look through the glass I see him covered in mulch, his paws so caked in mud he looks like he has hooves. That's when I start dreaming of a peaceful life without a dog. Or children, for that matter....
Of course I feel totally guilty for harboring such hatred. It's not Ollie's fault he irritates the living shit out of me. It's not his fault we have to walk him and brush him and remove his fur from our children's orifices (I kid you not; our children have pooped out dog hair before). It's not his fault he barks at 2 a.m. thunderstorms, growls if Elsa gets too close to his bowl, or snatches food from unattended dinner plates. Sometimes he behaves better than my own children (okay, much of the time). At least he cleans up after their meals. And he listens to simple commands. And his demands are small: Feed me, let me go to the bathroom, pet me and bathe me at least once in a while, and in return I will protect your house, offer you pure devotion and keep the floor beneath your kitchen table spotless. If kids came with that kind of trade-off, I'd have 101.
And if they disobeyed, I could always threaten to make a coat out of them.
I know, I know--What kind of person hates her own dog? Or any dog? Dogs are so sweet and loyal and they have paws and fur and big, lolling tongues. They're pack animals whose sole desire in life is to be accepted. What am I, Michael Vick?
I am not a dog-hater. I'm actually a dog-liker. Dare I say, a dog-lover. Before I had kids, I loved my dog. I loved him despite his chronic sinus problems, his incessant shedding, his dirty paws and terrible breath and obnoxious begging for table scraps. After work Jeff and I took him to parks, on long, leisurely walks where he could sniff and pee to his little heart's content. We took him on 'Ollie-Days'--we'd buy him a bucket of KFC and go on a picnic. He ate chicken skin and drank cold bottled water while we took turns brushing his long, golden fur. He slept on our beds and licked our faces, and when we had to go on vacation and leave him, we'd wonder out loud how he was doing and if he missed us, and when we found the inevitable stray dog-hair on our luggage we'd say, 'Awwww,' as if he were blowing a little doggie kiss across the miles between us.
And then, of course, we had kids.
Ollie suffered a significant demotion after we had kids. He went from being our furry son and sole recipient of our affection down to being only slightly more important than our TV remote. Now when he blows a snot-rocket onto the carpet, and instead of feeling instantly sorry for him and his eternally runny nose, I grumble about how disgusting it is that I have to clean up dog boogers on top of kid boogers (not literally on top of, although I'm sure that will be the case at some point). When he scratches at the door to go outside, instead of rejoicing in the fact that he is completely and reliably house-broken (unlike certain other members of this house), I roll my eyes at the 5-second inconvenience it is to let him out. And when he barks at the UPS truck, the garbage truck, the recycle truck, the ferocious gray cat across the street, instead of being grateful that I have such a vigilant watch-dog, I almost have a coronary trying to get him to shut the F up before he wakes up Elsa from her nap. Poor guy. It's a wonder he doesn't pee all over the place and let every suspicious-looking person walk right into our house, just to prove to me that I'm a total asshole.
I think my hate comes in short, intense bursts. It's usually when I'm already irritated about something else--Elsa emptying yet another entire bag of goldfish onto the floor and she and Rollie giggling as they take turns smushing them into the carpet--and then Ollie starts pawing at the back door to come in, and when I look through the glass I see him covered in mulch, his paws so caked in mud he looks like he has hooves. That's when I start dreaming of a peaceful life without a dog. Or children, for that matter....
Of course I feel totally guilty for harboring such hatred. It's not Ollie's fault he irritates the living shit out of me. It's not his fault we have to walk him and brush him and remove his fur from our children's orifices (I kid you not; our children have pooped out dog hair before). It's not his fault he barks at 2 a.m. thunderstorms, growls if Elsa gets too close to his bowl, or snatches food from unattended dinner plates. Sometimes he behaves better than my own children (okay, much of the time). At least he cleans up after their meals. And he listens to simple commands. And his demands are small: Feed me, let me go to the bathroom, pet me and bathe me at least once in a while, and in return I will protect your house, offer you pure devotion and keep the floor beneath your kitchen table spotless. If kids came with that kind of trade-off, I'd have 101.
And if they disobeyed, I could always threaten to make a coat out of them.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Hot Sh*t
So I guess I shouldn't have been all proud and smug at the fact that Elsa pooped on the potty the other day. That's one of the beautifully ironic things about kids: They do something to make you think they're advanced, a prodigy, some sort of savant....But then they add a their own twist to their new trick and things go horribly wrong really fast.
I had just given the kids a bath and brought Elsa into her room to put on her pajamas. ( Rollie was much more interested in streaking around the house singing It's a small world after all to be bothered with such formalities as getting dressed.) She was all cute and pink and naked, and I had a mountain of clean laundry on her changing table, so I let her crawl around her room while I put her clothes away. She immediately made a beeline for the door and pushed it shut--her latest trick. Then I heard her playing with her Dora kitchen, dumping her five-jillion books out of her basket, emptying every puzzle piece from their respective puzzles onto the floor and laughing heartily at the mess she managed to make in a span of 8 seconds.
Just as I was congratulating myself for finding the mate to one of Elsa's adorably little pink striped socks, I heard Elsa say "Uh-oh."
Now, normally Uh-Oh could mean sooo many different things. Depending on the circumstances, the child, the phase of the moon, Uh-Oh could mean, I just dropped my sippy cup in the dog bowl. Or, I broke your favorite coffee mug. Or, I just swallowed my own tongue. So I tend not to get too excited when Elsa says Uh-Oh. It's Rollie who is usually on the 'Swallowed my own tongue' end of the Uh-Oh spectrum.
As you can probably already guess, not responding to Elsa's Uh-Oh immediately was a gross oversight on my part. And I do mean Gross oversight. Because Elsa's next declaration was, "Yuck." And this time, I responded.
I turned to see that Elsa had deposited a considerably large turd on the carpet right in front of the door, and had then decided that it would be neat to squish a piece of it between her fingers, and then smear it on her legs. Not sure which act had elicited the 'yuck' from her. Probably the smearing.
"Ah!" I shrieked, and ran to stop her before she went after the turd again. I picked her up by the one spot I could tell didn't yet have feces on it--her middle. And there I held her, her chubby legs kicking, her arms flailing, as she giggled and said 'yuck' again and again. I was stuck. I couldn't put her down because she was covered in poop, I couldn't open the door because doing so would smear the rest of the poop across the carpet in a big brown rainbow. It was like the scene from a horror movie. Any moment I knew that Rollie could come bursting through the door and walk right into the trap. I couldn't yell for him, Jeff wasn't home yet, and Elsa was getting so heavy. So heavy.
Finally I carried Elsa to her changing table and popped open her box of wipes with my chin. I then shifted her into the crux of my left arm and cleaned her off one-handed with about fifty wipes--just enough so I could put her down and turn my attention to the log on the floor. The crisis was more or less contained.
This was, however, a good lesson in humility for me. Here I was, thinking that Elsa was a genius for knowing that she should poop on the potty before she could even walk (nevermind that she is almost 16 months old and FINALLY taking steps by herself). But of course, just when I think she's better than another kid because she waves bye-bye to anything with a pulse and imitates talking on a cell phone, she takes a dump on the floor and rubs it on herself. I wonder if Einstein ever did stuff like that....
I had just given the kids a bath and brought Elsa into her room to put on her pajamas. ( Rollie was much more interested in streaking around the house singing It's a small world after all to be bothered with such formalities as getting dressed.) She was all cute and pink and naked, and I had a mountain of clean laundry on her changing table, so I let her crawl around her room while I put her clothes away. She immediately made a beeline for the door and pushed it shut--her latest trick. Then I heard her playing with her Dora kitchen, dumping her five-jillion books out of her basket, emptying every puzzle piece from their respective puzzles onto the floor and laughing heartily at the mess she managed to make in a span of 8 seconds.
Just as I was congratulating myself for finding the mate to one of Elsa's adorably little pink striped socks, I heard Elsa say "Uh-oh."
Now, normally Uh-Oh could mean sooo many different things. Depending on the circumstances, the child, the phase of the moon, Uh-Oh could mean, I just dropped my sippy cup in the dog bowl. Or, I broke your favorite coffee mug. Or, I just swallowed my own tongue. So I tend not to get too excited when Elsa says Uh-Oh. It's Rollie who is usually on the 'Swallowed my own tongue' end of the Uh-Oh spectrum.
As you can probably already guess, not responding to Elsa's Uh-Oh immediately was a gross oversight on my part. And I do mean Gross oversight. Because Elsa's next declaration was, "Yuck." And this time, I responded.
I turned to see that Elsa had deposited a considerably large turd on the carpet right in front of the door, and had then decided that it would be neat to squish a piece of it between her fingers, and then smear it on her legs. Not sure which act had elicited the 'yuck' from her. Probably the smearing.
"Ah!" I shrieked, and ran to stop her before she went after the turd again. I picked her up by the one spot I could tell didn't yet have feces on it--her middle. And there I held her, her chubby legs kicking, her arms flailing, as she giggled and said 'yuck' again and again. I was stuck. I couldn't put her down because she was covered in poop, I couldn't open the door because doing so would smear the rest of the poop across the carpet in a big brown rainbow. It was like the scene from a horror movie. Any moment I knew that Rollie could come bursting through the door and walk right into the trap. I couldn't yell for him, Jeff wasn't home yet, and Elsa was getting so heavy. So heavy.
Finally I carried Elsa to her changing table and popped open her box of wipes with my chin. I then shifted her into the crux of my left arm and cleaned her off one-handed with about fifty wipes--just enough so I could put her down and turn my attention to the log on the floor. The crisis was more or less contained.
This was, however, a good lesson in humility for me. Here I was, thinking that Elsa was a genius for knowing that she should poop on the potty before she could even walk (nevermind that she is almost 16 months old and FINALLY taking steps by herself). But of course, just when I think she's better than another kid because she waves bye-bye to anything with a pulse and imitates talking on a cell phone, she takes a dump on the floor and rubs it on herself. I wonder if Einstein ever did stuff like that....
Monday, April 5, 2010
She's (Not) Crafty
Since we're on the subject of birds, I thought I would write a little bit about why I suck at crafts, projects, and all things manually creative.
The other week while on our walk, Rollie found a pine cone and exclaimed that it was perfect. And it was indeed glorious, as pine cone go....symmetrical, full and dark brown, the very kind of pine cone other pine cones strive to be like. The kind of pine cone that lights up a room as soon as it rolls in, always has a new joke that no one has heard, always has the right clothes, the right car, the right woman. He's the most interesting pine cone alive. Okay, sorry....it's 3:30 and Rollie's on his fifth episode of Little Bear...
Anyway, Rollie insisted on bringing it home so he could throw it into the pond out back (a favorite passtime of his...throwing rocks, sticks, weeds, bread, Baby Elsa, into the pond....is this a boy thing?). And just as I thought what a waste it would be to throw away such a beautiful pine cone, I had a bolt of creative inspriation--something that happens less often than a total lunar eclipse.
"I know, Rollie," I said, suddenly sounding like Martha Stewart (not that I would really know what she sounds like. Smug? Self-righteous? Drunk?) "Let's make this pine cone into a bird feeder."
Rollie's eyes lit up. "That's a good idea, Momma."
You bet it was. I was envisioning this pine cone becoming the coolest hangout in the entire neighborhood. Birds would flock to it, gorge themselves on delicious seeds and exotic nuts, enjoy the company of other birds and perhaps make some new friends, all while my children watched from the window, enthralled with such amazing displays of nature, marveling at the fact that I, I was the one who made this all possible. Maybe Rollie would be inspired to become an ornithologist, Elsa a documentary director, they could travel the world together, studying and filming birds of all kinds in their natural habitats. And as they went up on stage to accept their Oscar for Best Documentary, they'll thank their Mom for planting the seed of fascination in their brains, for opening the world of birds to them and being the source of inspiration to them and to bird aficionados everywhere. Their speech of thanksgiving would last so long that they would be cut off by the wrap-it-up music and some dame in an evening gown would have to escort them off-stage while they still went on about what a wonderful mother I am.
When we got home I laid out the plastic table cloth and broke out the peanut butter, humming the Academy Awards theme song. Then I retrieved our economy-sized bag of birdseed we had in the closet (since you never know when you'll be entertaining a murder of crows or a flock of seagulls). I laid everything out in front of my eager children, then instructed them to do as follows:
Okay, first, Rollie, we have to tie some string around the top of the pine cone so we can hang it after it's finished. Then we have to take this knife and smear a bunch of peanut butter all over the pine cone. No, not like that. Like this. Make sure we get it everywhere. No, not literally everywhere. Honey, it's getting in your hair. Hang on a second Rollie, you're making a mess. Wait, don't dip the knife back in the jar. Let me get another dish. Ew, Rollie, don't lick that! No, it's got gross, disgusting germs all over it. The pine cone is actually kind of dirty. Well, because squirrels probably picked at it. It's been on the ground. Hang on, the string came off. Do you see it anywhere? I hope Ollie doesn't eat it. Let me see if we have more string. Shoot. Well, maybe this hair ribbon will work. Hang on, let me wash my hands. Okay, so now, we take the pine cone and roll it in bird seed. No, Baby Elsa, don't eat the seed! Yucky, Els! That's for birdies. Rollie, stop, Honey, you're scattering the seeds everywhere. Just roll the pine cone in it. No, like this...see? No, we don't need more peanut butter. No, Rollie. We only needed it to make the seed stick. I said no, Rollie. Do you need to go into Time Out? Hey! Stop it! No, Baby Elsa can't lick the knife. Did you hear me? Stop. It. Right. Now.
Despite these instructions, we were still able to coat the pine cone entirely in peanut butter, dog hair, cereal crumbs...oh yeah, and bird seed. Then I marched my little Audubans outside and resolutely hung the messy, hairy thing from the scraggly crape myrtle in our backyard.
"Where are the birdies?" Rollie asked.
"Sometimes it takes awhile for the birdies to notice something yummy waiting for them."
"How long will it take?"
"Uh...I don't know. Not long."
We went back inside and sat by the window, watching the bird feeder. Waiting. Watching and waiting. No birdies came, and after about two minutes, Rollie lost interest and wanted to play Smash 'Em. I can't say I blamed him.
Two weeks later, and I think I can safely say that no bird is ever going to partake of our lovely bird feeder. Maybe they don't like peanut butter. Or animal fur. Or pine cones. Whatever the reason, this is a good illustration as to why I don't often attempt crafts with my children. It's usually half-assed because a.) my children have short attention-spans, b.) my crafts are usually spur-of-the-moment, and are therefore missing crucial elements (tape, scissors, birds), and c.) the crafts usually end up so crappily made that I throw them away almost immediately after they're finished.
Yet the bird feeder still hangs from the tree out back, because not only do I suck at crafts, but I'm also too lazy to take it down. I'm sure it's making a colony of ants quite happy.
The other week while on our walk, Rollie found a pine cone and exclaimed that it was perfect. And it was indeed glorious, as pine cone go....symmetrical, full and dark brown, the very kind of pine cone other pine cones strive to be like. The kind of pine cone that lights up a room as soon as it rolls in, always has a new joke that no one has heard, always has the right clothes, the right car, the right woman. He's the most interesting pine cone alive. Okay, sorry....it's 3:30 and Rollie's on his fifth episode of Little Bear...
Anyway, Rollie insisted on bringing it home so he could throw it into the pond out back (a favorite passtime of his...throwing rocks, sticks, weeds, bread, Baby Elsa, into the pond....is this a boy thing?). And just as I thought what a waste it would be to throw away such a beautiful pine cone, I had a bolt of creative inspriation--something that happens less often than a total lunar eclipse.
"I know, Rollie," I said, suddenly sounding like Martha Stewart (not that I would really know what she sounds like. Smug? Self-righteous? Drunk?) "Let's make this pine cone into a bird feeder."
Rollie's eyes lit up. "That's a good idea, Momma."
You bet it was. I was envisioning this pine cone becoming the coolest hangout in the entire neighborhood. Birds would flock to it, gorge themselves on delicious seeds and exotic nuts, enjoy the company of other birds and perhaps make some new friends, all while my children watched from the window, enthralled with such amazing displays of nature, marveling at the fact that I, I was the one who made this all possible. Maybe Rollie would be inspired to become an ornithologist, Elsa a documentary director, they could travel the world together, studying and filming birds of all kinds in their natural habitats. And as they went up on stage to accept their Oscar for Best Documentary, they'll thank their Mom for planting the seed of fascination in their brains, for opening the world of birds to them and being the source of inspiration to them and to bird aficionados everywhere. Their speech of thanksgiving would last so long that they would be cut off by the wrap-it-up music and some dame in an evening gown would have to escort them off-stage while they still went on about what a wonderful mother I am.
When we got home I laid out the plastic table cloth and broke out the peanut butter, humming the Academy Awards theme song. Then I retrieved our economy-sized bag of birdseed we had in the closet (since you never know when you'll be entertaining a murder of crows or a flock of seagulls). I laid everything out in front of my eager children, then instructed them to do as follows:
Okay, first, Rollie, we have to tie some string around the top of the pine cone so we can hang it after it's finished. Then we have to take this knife and smear a bunch of peanut butter all over the pine cone. No, not like that. Like this. Make sure we get it everywhere. No, not literally everywhere. Honey, it's getting in your hair. Hang on a second Rollie, you're making a mess. Wait, don't dip the knife back in the jar. Let me get another dish. Ew, Rollie, don't lick that! No, it's got gross, disgusting germs all over it. The pine cone is actually kind of dirty. Well, because squirrels probably picked at it. It's been on the ground. Hang on, the string came off. Do you see it anywhere? I hope Ollie doesn't eat it. Let me see if we have more string. Shoot. Well, maybe this hair ribbon will work. Hang on, let me wash my hands. Okay, so now, we take the pine cone and roll it in bird seed. No, Baby Elsa, don't eat the seed! Yucky, Els! That's for birdies. Rollie, stop, Honey, you're scattering the seeds everywhere. Just roll the pine cone in it. No, like this...see? No, we don't need more peanut butter. No, Rollie. We only needed it to make the seed stick. I said no, Rollie. Do you need to go into Time Out? Hey! Stop it! No, Baby Elsa can't lick the knife. Did you hear me? Stop. It. Right. Now.
Despite these instructions, we were still able to coat the pine cone entirely in peanut butter, dog hair, cereal crumbs...oh yeah, and bird seed. Then I marched my little Audubans outside and resolutely hung the messy, hairy thing from the scraggly crape myrtle in our backyard.
"Where are the birdies?" Rollie asked.
"Sometimes it takes awhile for the birdies to notice something yummy waiting for them."
"How long will it take?"
"Uh...I don't know. Not long."
We went back inside and sat by the window, watching the bird feeder. Waiting. Watching and waiting. No birdies came, and after about two minutes, Rollie lost interest and wanted to play Smash 'Em. I can't say I blamed him.
Two weeks later, and I think I can safely say that no bird is ever going to partake of our lovely bird feeder. Maybe they don't like peanut butter. Or animal fur. Or pine cones. Whatever the reason, this is a good illustration as to why I don't often attempt crafts with my children. It's usually half-assed because a.) my children have short attention-spans, b.) my crafts are usually spur-of-the-moment, and are therefore missing crucial elements (tape, scissors, birds), and c.) the crafts usually end up so crappily made that I throw them away almost immediately after they're finished.
Yet the bird feeder still hangs from the tree out back, because not only do I suck at crafts, but I'm also too lazy to take it down. I'm sure it's making a colony of ants quite happy.
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