(Way Too Many) Words to Live By

Ever since I had Covid last April, I have what I call my "Covid cough," which is a mild bout of coughing every morning that lasts for a half-hour or so. Then when I learned that brain fog is a possible long-term symptom of Covid, I immediately latched onto it as an excuse for my cognitive slip-ups. (Which, to be honest, almost certainly have everything to do with my Abigail brain and nothing to do with the coronavirus, since I've had my Abigail brain for years.)

Here are a few from the last week or so:

When talking to the children about painting our living room again, I showed them a picture of its original color while commenting, "The color used to be a dark manure." 
Um. Or maroon. That one was a winner. (Best part-- I just typed "manure" instead of "maroon" and had to go back and edit it.)

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While trying to cob-job a repair, I asked, "Ezekiel, can you go get me some Duck Tales?"
Or duct tape. Whichever you find first.

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I asked who had the chore of laundry for the day, and then told the lucky person that prior to throwing the family laundry in, "You need to do God's laundry first."  When Millie burst into laughter, I amended it to "John" because I'm pretty sure God doesn't need us to do any laundry for Him. 

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Onward to Luci!

Thanks to good chums, my children were recently introduced to Fruit By The Foot, a magical candy roll I remember from fifth grade when a girl in my class used to occasionally share hers with me. Lucinda was especially impressed by it and showed me some, explaining, "It's called Fruit Of The Foot." When I pressed her to explain why she thought it was called that, she told me it's probably to reflect how feet can smush fruit into a paste, which can then be turned into sweet, fruity leather.

Now that's a brilliant marketing image.

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Cadence was bitten by a spider, and we applied a baking soda paste for comfort's sake. When she asked where she should wash it off, I told her to use the tub. "Okay, " she replied, "I'll put it under the floss-it."

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Cadence is our funny bunny, and her early years were spent mostly weeping and being scared of things, or huddling up safe and quiet with her thumb as company during uncomfortable situations (of which, she learned, life is full). In the last year and a half, she's blossomed, and though still weepy at intervals, she's become more confident and able to navigate friendships and interactions without freezing. She also gives us a larger window into her mind through extensive verbal exchanges and even shares her dreams, like so:

This morning she came downstairs with a gasp, telling me a bad dream woke her up. "We saw a little horse, and he looked like Captain, but then we saw a leopard, and HE told me I was MEAT, so then I had to get my shoes on and run in the house!" 

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One of the perils of living in the Old Homestead, or any older house, is occasionally sharing living space with animals (mice-- ALWAYS, and occasionally squirrels, chipmunks, and rats). We currently have a rat in the house that chewed a large hole through our kitchen drywall in order to access all the goodies a family of 12 leaves behind. We've been trying to snag him (John calls him a "her," though, clearly, only a male would cause this much trouble) with several kinds of traps and poison. Cadence and Aidan were discussing all manner of rat-related thoughts one morning, and Cadence explained how one catches a rat. "Well, rats have Small and Very Tiny Eyes, and they cannot see well, so when they come near a trap, they don't see it, and they just fall right in!" 
Don't I wish!
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Since I recently finished reading The Hobbit to all the children during breakfast time, Ezekiel has developed a strange habit. A few weeks back, Piper made us two roast chickens and sides for supper. I overheard Ezekiel calling them "Fili and Kili."  Hmmm.  That's kind of weird.

Then last night, Millie made us two roast chickens with sides for supper (thanks, Leah and Isaiah). While we were eating, Ezekiel kept referring to them as "Bofur and Bombur."

I know the dwarves weren't entirely kind to Bilbo, but I'm not sure their behavior deserved that kind of demise.

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Ezekiel is sometimes the sweetest, golden-hearted boy.

A few weeks back, he announced to Mildred, "When I get older, and I have a job, the first thing I am going to do is buy a truck and build a railing aaaaall the way around the house for Mama, because she wants it." 

(And maybe, if I'm lucky, he'll build a PORCH to go with the railing!)

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Millie was grinding fancy coffee beans from Evan and audibly appreciating the aroma.

Drawn to the sound, Susannah sauntered into the room wondering if she could have some, too. Then, leaning over the coffee beans and inhaling deeply, her face brightened with the thrill of epiphany, "What if we could get caffeine just from SMELLING it??!!

*****

Our house would be even crazier, that's what.

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A certain teen Birdie in our house must be having a growth spurt, because food is on her mind nonstop. In the last month, she's accidentally said, "Can I turn the overhead light off so the Twinkie lights are more noticeable?" (meaning "twinkle" lights) and, just now, the same girl came in to ask if she could have a sandwich, and when she noticed what I was doing, said, "Oh, good! You're putting up a blog toast!"

(Growth spurt....OR Covid.)

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I am so far behind on blog posts that only a few of you reading this know that our friend Evan gave all the children once-in-a-lifetime Christmas gifts. He gave Skylark her weight in gummy bears, and they lasted almost two months. She shared huge amounts, but the last five, lone gummy bears were in a plastic baggy. When she tried to gobble them before bed, I told her to wait until the morning. Then an hour later, because I'm a terrible person, I ATE ALL FIVE OF THEM. 

The next morning, she bounced downstairs and without skipping a beat said, "Where are my gummy burrs? I asked God to help me wake up and remember the gummy burrs, and He did!"

Now I owe her 5 gummy bears, with accumulated interest.

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Last summer (2020), I learned that Aidan did not know that we called our midday meal "lunch." He was telling me what he wanted for his birthday meals, like so: "For breakfast me want pantakes and sausage, and for leftovers me want...oh, me not know what me want for leftovers!....and for supper, me want pizza!" 

He's recently been trying to decide what he wants for this year's birthday meals, and the middle meal is still called "leftovers."  Based on this, can anyone guess what we quite often eat for lunch?

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Recently, Aidan announced, "Me gonna get married!" 

When I approved and said that would be a good idea when he's a big man, I asked whom he planned to marry. With a self-conscious, pleased, little grin, he replied, "Maybe Annie..."

With seven lovely and sweet sisters from which to choose, Annika should feel honored.

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The younger children spend all year deciding what they want their birthday cakes to look like. Cadence's recent requests are elaborate and unachievable, and, to top it off, the cake underneath all the desired decorations is also elaborate and unachievable.

Her latest request for the cake involves an assortment of pink animals sculpted from fondant and swimming in pink water. For the actual cake underneath the swimming animals, her current request is as follows: "For my bahtdee cake, I want the bottom to be chocolate, and the next to be lemon, and then strawberry, and then raspberry, and then more chocolate, and then lemon and then strawberry, and then puddin'."

With bugging eyes, I asked, "So you want an 8-layer cake?"

With full confidence in both my abilities and desire, she simply answered, "Yes."

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John and the boys had to change the tire on the car, and to test its mettle afterward, they drove to the nearest town for gas and a few groceries. While there, he surprised them with a spontaneous date to McDonald's, a rare experience usually reserved for birthday dates. They returned elated, gloating over their experience. Aidan burst into the house, bragging that Papa took them to "Unkle Donald's!!!!"  I loved it, because not only does it show an admirable ignorance of fast food establishments but also an intimacy with Uncle Scrooge and Donald Duck comic books. Wherever he's landed these days, Spike Dunn would be proud. 

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Like many mothers, I sometimes engage in Love Contests with my children. Quite often, this takes the form of "I love you to the stars and back!" followed by the contender parrying with "I love you to Pluto and back!" and onward until the distances one loves are too far to imagine.

Skylark's love for me is immense. After stating that I loved her to Orion, she silenced me with this winner, confidently proclaiming, "I love you to the garbage can and back." For the record, we were two rooms away from the garbage can, and, yes, that's a big, BIG, stinky love. 

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Cadence and Skylark were dancing to classical music in the library, wearing gowns Pippi fashioned from long pieces of fabric. 

Cadence halted, mid-dance, put her hands on her hips, and announced soberly, "The mens are coming soon."

Without context, I'm wondering if this is a dire warning similar to "The Britishes are coming!" If so, she has wisdom beyond her years. ;)

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While Skylark was supposed to be napping with Cadence, Susannah observed her holding her baby doll in the air before remarking in a surprised tone, "Oh! It's a sandwich!!!" (I would have been surprised to realize this, too.)

A moment later, she made the baby cry before exclaiming to the still slumbering Cadence in greater surprise, "Oh! It's ackually a baby!!!" (If you were holding what you believed to be a baby-shaped sandwich aloft, and then it began to cry, YOU'D be surprised, too.)

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Last night Skylark gave Pip a nose-rubbing kiss, afterward stating that she likes to give Eskinose kisses. (Close enough, little one.)

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The younger children can't pronounce "magic" properly, with often hilarious results.

Skylark does magic tricks with a wand, and with a dramatic flourish, announces, "Maggot, maggot, make it go away!" 

The best is when Aidan chimes in and asks me if I want to see a "maggot 'ick."
A Maggot Tick?! That's a super-heroic bug of grossness. (Or, just maybe, a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.)

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Cadence glanced at one of my (many and wonderful) Bert's Bees gifts that Dudette gave me for Christmas and laughed out loud.

In her high-pitched, little-girl voice, she exclaimed, "Ha! Mint and pickle lotion. That's funny!"

HA! That is funny!

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When Skylark was younger, we used to tell her how ugly she was, in tones intended to make her think it meant beautiful, and in the same way, we attempted to make her think that "beautiful" was an insult. I don't remember why I started this. (Yes, now you KNOW I'm a rotten mother.) I think it began as a comical joke to stave off excessive vanity when people gushed to her about how beautiful she was. Anyway, she used to affectionately tell me I was ugly, and I'd do the same to her, and we'd cuddle all satisfied and positive and full of self-esteem together, but as is life's way, despite all these efforts, she (at the ripe age of three) is beginning to understand that these words mean other things to everyone else in the world. 

Even though she now fully understands the meaning of "pretty" and "beautiful," she still occasionally thinks "ugly" is their synonym. Two times in the last month, she's behaved badly to others in the house, and talking to her afterwards, I've discovered this.

Me. "You just did such-and-such to so-and-so and then were screeching afterward. You were not kind. Should you be good to others or act ugly?"

Skylark, sniffling and contrite: "Me should act ugly."

Me, confused because she is clearly remorseful: "Ugly? What do you mean? WHAT???!!!" Then, under my breath, "Oh, yeah....oops."

And, to really put the nails in the coffin of my reputation as good mama, here's a video from a couple of weeks ago:

(And don't worry, like all childhood tricks of the tongue, this too shall pass.)