There's always an upside and a downside to a compliment.

The upside: Oh, be still, my beating heart! What sweet words my children have uttered!

The downside: With great power comes great responsibility. And more work.

Yesterday I overheard a popcorn conversation the kids were having as I headed up the stairs to put away laundry:

Wow! Did Mom already fold all those jeans? How did she do that so fast? She must have super powers! Cool! Did she really just fold all of those? Where did they go? She had them! They were folded. and she took them! Mom must be like a super hero or something! You know what I think?- she just touches the pants and *poof!* they're folded! Like magic! Wow...

And then it was over as quickly as it started.  They watched their video and didn't utter another word of awe over my amazing jeans-folding ability. And I will note that, this morning, there is a bit of resistance by a certain Blessing to fold his jeans. It's just not fair that he should have that job; he doesn't have the magic touch.

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Perhaps it was in poor taste to laugh, but what can I say? It was funny. Granted, we kept our hysterical giggles a secret… or at least we kept the reason a secret.

Sitting at the dinner table last night, we were asking the kids about their swimming lessons, and each one was describing the activities of the different levels.

How many yards.

How many lengths of the pool.

How many bobs.

The different kicks.

The different strokes. (Hey, whatcha talkin bout, Willis?! *snicker,snicker*)

Then came the discussion whether freestyle is truly freestyle or if it’s only front crawl.

Blessing #1 says, “If it’s time for freestyle in my class, I always choose breaststroke because that’s my best one.”

To which my eight-year-old son asks, “What is breaststroking?”

B#1, moving her arms in little circles: “You know, it’s the one where you go like this with your hands.”

B#3 shakes his head and says, “Oh… well we don’t breaststroke in my level. Yeah, I am way too young to breaststroke.”

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Okay, maybe *farmer* isn't truly accurate. But we are enjoying our backyard chickens. Henrietta and Penelope- a.k.a. Henny and Penny (quite clever in our chicken naming, eh?)- joined our family over Memorial Day. They've been contentedly living in their temporary chicken run, while eagerly watching as their new high-rise apartment was being built.  Move-in day has come and gone, and these are two happy ladies!

Building the coop, we decided to make it somewhat portable... after adding handles and wheels, we've now got a chicken tractor. I'd take credit for that catchy name, but that's actually the official name of a portable coop.  Since ours looks like a big boat, we call it a chicken ark.  I'd take credit for that catchy name, as well, but that's actually the official name of a portable coop in the U.K.;-)

While my Beloved built the boat, I painted the signs... because even a chicken house needs some welcoming decorations. They'll soon be hanging, but they need a good coat of polyurethane first.

They should be laying eggs in August- exciting stuff! But we realize that if we want enough eggs to cover what this big family consumes we'll have to get like a dozen more chickens. Since that's not exactly *legal* in the city, we might have to move to a farm. Or just continue buying the 5-dozen pack each week.:)

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Sometimes you are headed into the store when you look at your baby's feet and realize you must find some socks
to cover her oh-so-dirty toes. 

And then sometimes you realize that your toddler has gotten into the stash of nail polish and later find her on the couch with a blanket

covering her oh-so-sparkly toes.

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It's teacher appreciation week again. Funny how that comes every year.:)

This year *we* made snack packs for all the teachers... and then I figured, why stop there? I should let the secretaries and counselor and principal know that they're appreciated, too.:)

Designed, cut, folded, glued-- and had a door hanger... converted to a water bottle hanger with a snack pocket. Dropped in a 20-oz water bottle-sized Crystal Light packet, a pack of chewing gum, and a granola bar, and we were ready to appreciate some hard workers at the school.

Of course, I had them in a box at the front door ready for delivery Monday morning when Blessing #3 decided to get into a wrestling match and fell on top of them. He managed to severely mangle one... but fortunately- and miraculously!- it was only one. I had a spare, so I was able to swap around names. Hopefully Mrs. Schuster doesn't realize that she got the *boy* design instead of the flowery *girl* design. And hopefully she doesn't think I did that because she's a PE teacher.;-)

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Blessing #3:

Mom, my fingers are getting too big for my skin.

My skin is just feeling really tight tonight.

Mom:

*snicker, snicker*

Go put on some lotion- I think that should help.

:-)

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Walking, talking to a ball, playing with the tools, and spotting Daddy outside the door... :)

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Lots of drawing, writing, coloring, and taping were happening at the kitchen counter.
Overheard as Blessings #4&5 worked to create their own dinner menus:


B#5: Hmmmm, how do you spell "water?"

B#4:  Big H. Little 2. Big O.


A budding chemist perhaps?

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The child is a hoarder. To the extreme. This hold-on-tight tendency was probably inherited from her mother, but the trait mutated into something dominant, excessive, obsessive, and compulsive.

Honestly, the girl keeps reminder notes about picture retake day at school- circa October 2009. Used napkins from birthday parties, empty chapstick tubes, finished juice pouches, the Sunday comics from last year, a math page from kindergarten, the 2006 adorable kittens 12-month calendar, the plastic wrapper from last season’s soccer snacks, a pizza box, two coupons for free ice cream cones from Burger Ranch.

Absolutely nothing is unworthy of going into her treasure chest.

Unfortunately, her treasure chest doubles as her bed.

The hoarding characteristic is shared to varying degrees with an older sister or two. And then there’s a younger sister who has not yet learned the art of collecting, but she has certainly mastered rummaging, scattering, pilfering, and mutilating anything in her reach and everything out of it.

Take all these precious keepsakes. Now add in clothing, bedding, shoes, and hair accessories.

And books, magazines, reading logs, multiplication flash cards, and coloring books.

And toothpaste boxes, dental floss, old toothbrushes, pens, pencils, crayons, tissues, and toilet paper rolls.

Do you get where I’m going with this? Ahem, the entire bedroom is a trove of treasures and caboodle of clutter.

Now comes the painful task of organizing, but hoarders are not trustworthy. Because after a deep cleaning, mom later discovers that the piles have only been creatively shuffled. In the bed, under the bed, under the dresser- all are fair game.

And it turns out, pillows can serve a dual purpose. Not only do they provide comfort while sleeping, but their cases are the perfect catchall for notes, sketches, books, rocks, a change of panties, three socks, half a rubber bouncy ball, a plastic dinosaur, and one broken clip-on earring. (Seemingly negating the provision of a comfortable headrest.)

Thus, covert transfer to the trashcan begins. My while-they’re-at-school-and-don’t-know-any-better task of bedroom gutting is underway. I’ve only just begun, but already I’ve got several loads of laundry, a large tote stuffed with trash, and enough books for a mobile children’s library.

Rather than worry that this is a testament of my mothering abilities, I am instead resting in the belief that it is only a natural byproduct of four girls sharing one crowded room.

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A sign of the time

Venting her frustration- through the form of signage- was like hitting the reset button on her mood.

And it ended up resetting mine, too.

Blessing #2 can, at times, be a stubborn one.
And often she’s pretty funny.
But I can, at times, be pretty stubborn myself.
And often I can’t let her know that she’s being funny.

If I’m frustrated and she’s in trouble, then there’s an unwritten rule:
No laughing.
Unless it’s my idea.;)

She was inside the bedroom, refocusing some defiant energy into a more positive direction, and I happened to be walking past.

I was able to not only smile, but I also got to snap a couple pictures.
And she is none the wiser.:)

Rules:

1. Parents are ALWAYS wrong.

2. If a parent is right, look at Rule #1.

3. This sign is always right.

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