Tantrum Tuesday- Maisy Don’ts 

Maisy is letting me know how much she objects to every facet of my parental guidance with the following utterance: 

Maisy Don’ts! 

It’s great because I never wanted my kids to obey me anyway- so why not disobey in the third person with an improper (verb tense?  Yeah, this grammar is getting a little out of my league).  

Examples as follows: 

“Maisy time to get out of the car”

“Maisy Don’ts!” 

“Maisy, come here!” 

“Maisy Don’ts!” 

You get it.  This will be my regular Tuesday posting until Maisy outgrows this particular phase of disobedience.  (cute as it may be) 

Kaley: plays Simon and garfunkle  

“No!  Maisy Don’ts!” 

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thoughts on another time.

Ponder this.

I’ve long been a fan of historical fictions.  I’d like you to believe that I went to an elite private school that fostered a love of the classics in early elementary school, but the truth is I loved American Girl dolls and the novels that accompanied them.  I’ve always been aware that make up is somewhat of a necessary gift of the modern age, and it’s one that I have enthusiastically embraced.  But more recently, after three babies, I have become more indebted to the ability to contour one’s face and to lacquer one’s eyelashes.

I do say I am eternally grateful that I was not birthed in yesteryear, more specifically the 1600’s.  Picture me.  Picture me with a unibrow and scarecrow teeth-which is what I would have without the luxurious gifts of tweezers and orthodonture.  I’d earn the accusation of witch faster than you can say abracadabra.  Can you imagine?  AND my dowager’s hump?? I’d always be forced to wear my hair in a bun, so I couldn’t hide it.  I’d be like a medieval Mean Girls.  There all the women would be, gathered round the… butter churn?  Yeah, the butter churn!  And they’d be talking about my unnatural love of sea cows and how I might think about trying the newest fad diet- Amoebic Dysentery.

Have you every thought about how people used to get their portrait done and give it to another person?  Just them in the picture, no one else.  Can you imagine doing that now?
“Yeah, here.  It’s an instaprint of my latest selfie.  I framed it because #nostalgia”

I’m also terrible at household chores, so I do wonder if I could have bagged a husband back then with my terrible cooking.  Nick is super strong so he would have been a hot prospect.  I’m not sure I could have won him over with my cheekiness and quick wit.  Although, if everyone was getting married at 14, I still might have had some semblance of a chance.

Most women probably imagined themselves as a princess, but I always put myself as more of a handmaiden, or servant.  I think I would have been getting in constant trouble for sassing everyone with my sass mouth.  “Nope, Lady Griselda, I can not be helping you with those corns.  I simply can not saw at your raptor toenails any longer.  Let me tend the pigs.”  But probably it would be “Please, send Kaley to work with the pigs, she keeps getting all caught up in our chit chat and poking me in the calf when she’s mending the hems on my petticoats.”  Well- take this made up lady I don’t actually work for- I don’t even know what a petticoat is, though I have heard the term bandied about many works of historical fiction.  As you can imagine, of COURSE I googled it and the results were far sexier than I surmised.  Now, let me try colonial petticoat- NO- medieval petticoat.

source.
source.
There we go.  No wonder men got so excited about seeing a knee.  Also, apparently that is a chemise and not a petticoat.  Wasn’t there a Petticoat Junction?  There was.  I think it’s time to jettison this extended Google search and call it a wrap.

Keep your eyes out for “Kaley’s Ameobic Dysentary Cleanse© , endorsed by various Hollywood Celebrities.”

Henry is One.

Henry, you are one now.

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What can I say about my sweet surprise baby?  A baby I didn’t know I needed, but has heaped blessing on each of us, every one.

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Henry arrived as a giant.  9 pounds.  22 inches.  With robust cheeks and the strength of 10 babies.  He spent some time in the hospital after his birth and so we managed to bond for 7 days before going to join the goon squad.

The goon squad took to you very kindly and never even tried to kill you.  Sure, Maisy Jo has tried to feed you some rocks and push pins, but I caught her eating a bar of Old Spice soap in the bathtub, so she probably meant it to be nice.  Owen tried to lay on top of you in your crib too, so maybe they did try, but only a couple of times.  Now you are stronger than the two of them, Lord help us all.

IMG_8222Henry- from the moment you came out you locked eyes with me and smiled.  My heart rejoiced, for here was the extrovert I craved.  Smiles, laughs, and occasional lusty cries were par for the course.  You have a low voice and barely cry.  You prefer to moan your disappointments.  Or scream them.  But crying is never your first option.

I don’t want to toot your horn too hard, but you were the best baby that ever was or could be.  You make me look like a really great mom, which is nice, because I hardly deserve any credit for the wonder baby that you are.  Good natured, smiley, and ever so deft and crawly.

You love balls.  You, like, really love them.  You bounce them and chase them and chew on them.  You like your snuggle linen blanket in your bed and you voluntarily gave up your paci- unlike your siblings before you.  You also love slapping.  Sometimes moms in the nursery would tell me you would be patting the other babies affectionately, but the truth is I’m sure you were slapping them.  Hard.  My favorite word to use with you is “gentle.”  Because seriously Henry, Ouch.  You have big ole baby hands.

You love crawling and finding scraps of plastic to eat off of the floor.  You love to eat your siblings food and you love making them laugh.  Oh, how can I forget your love of apples?  It’s not complicated.  You’ve never met an apple you didn’t like.

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You have met outfits you don’t like, as in, every single one.  Getting dressed just isn’t in the agenda for you.  You are really laid back, but you can get your mind set on something and not give up.  As in spilling coffee or throwing a plate of food.  It’s a tenacity that will serve you well later in life, but that is currently ruining the carpet.

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You’ve got eyelashes for days.  A goofy grin.  And sweet little ears.  I just can’t even with you Henry Bens.  We call you Hens, Henry Benry, Hank, “The Baby”, and that weird way MJ says Henry- Heh-ree.

I am so glad you came.  You bring light to every single person who meets you.  You made us a gang, a crew, and a posse.  I’ve kind of laid it on real thick, so don’t blow it.

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Sincerely,

Mom

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?

“Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?  Drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?”

If you are feeling this way it is quite possible that you have just endured a family quarantine.  No one likes to quarantine themselves.  That’s why the zombie apocalypse happens so rapidly.

Ted “I feel fine, I don’t think it’s contagious.  I’ll just run out for milk!”

And just like that everybody’s dead. (I interned with the CDA so I know a lot about epidemiology.)

When you have many children, contagious barf diseases can last many moons.  And just when you think everyone is fine- the next one barfs.  Our latest encounter with the norovirus took our entire family off the grid for 7 days.

So?  Why does the flu make you feel so sad like a Harris Teeter bag in an empty parking lot?  It’s because no one can come over or they will die too.  You’re sick.  You’re a martyr for the greater good.  And you are lonely.  And you watched a Janette Oke mini series on Netflix in between trips to the washing machine.  Your eyes are sunken in, their twinkle gone.  The trash didn’t get taken out and you can’t find your car keys.  You fell asleep on the couch at 1 am while watching Sofia the First and spoon feeding pedialyte ice chips to a 2 year old.  What day is it?

babies in my family go in a pack and play covered in towels, affectionately nicknamed “the barf palace”


Enduring a germ lock down is not unlike being marooned on a desert island.  If friends come by with supplies they simply slow down the car and throw saltines in your front yard while shouting “I’m so glad it’s not me!”

And alas, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  Sure the tunnel was long and it’s filled with puke, but there is a way out.  If your family comes down with a pestilence, then you can call me.  Softly I will sing to you “If you only knew, what the future holds, after the hurricane, comes a rainbow.”

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source.

Baby.  You’re a firework.

late to my own funeral.

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One time, a very long time ago, someone made up this sick burn that put a chronically late person in their place, and after which every one laughed uproariously and also for a long time.

“Sally will be late to her own funeral!”

Now this hilarious joke, which was so on point that it has become a cliche, is a dad joke.  “A dad joke?  What’s that Kaley?”  A dad joke is something that your dad says, over and over again, which was never funny, but becomes funny to your dad simply because you do not find it funny. An example of a dad joke is:  Will Christmas be on the 25th this year?

I was ruminating on this funeral joke for several reasons.  Mostly because it is an accurate depiction of my life.  I’m not ever trying to be late.  In fact, I am always trying to be on time.  I just can’t.  Sometimes I swear the minute hand has miraculously jumped forward!!  I’m never usually too late.  People who are 30-60 minutes late are pretty comfortable with their lateness.  They rock lateness.  My 5-15 minute lateness is hard.  I just want to be on time.  I haven’t been late to my own funeral, but I have been late to my own baby shower.  Also, my job, preschool pick up, preschool drop off, church, my wedding, assorted playdates, a few movies, and a baptism.  While I don’t think I’ve been late to anyone else’s funeral… nope, I’m remembering.  I definitely was late to a funeral.  (100 emoji)

My lateness is a two prong problem.  The first is I don’t have an accurate gauge of when to leave.  Will it take 2 minutes to get across town?  No really will it?  I’m not sure- I’m asking.  The second is poor time management.

My mind: “Leave now.  It is time to go.”

My heart: “You should try on at least 3 more shirts.  It’ll take 3 seconds”

20 minutes later…

You see, intending to leave on time and actually leaving on time are two entirely different things.

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Tantrum Tuesday.  

I have strict standards for tantrum Tuesday and they are as follows.  

  1. Have a picture of tantrum. 
  2. Picture must match actual tantrum because I’m not a liar. 
  3. Tantrum must be ridiculous.
  4. Tantrum cannot be so intense that it becomes insensitive to child’s feelings to post.  
  5. Helps if it’s about bananas.  
  6. No repeats! 

And that is why there is not Tantrum Tuesday today.