Photos: April 2006 Archives

Last week I did what no other mothering being should attempt: I gathered She Who Sells Houses (Jen), She Whose Husband Works at AB (Megan); Ozarks Amy, Chris's cousin Brit (who babysat the boys after school last Tuesday so I could work), myself, and all of our children for a trip to the zoo. It was a caravan. Liam wouldn't stop mooching other kids' snacks, even though I brought SEVEN BAGS of snacks from home. As we stood pretending to be interested in the sea lions as much as our children, Megan discovered that a semi-hippie female collegiate of the non-patchouli variety was taking notes regarding human behavior. I think our group display gave her an entire semester's worth of disorders to study.


And in Dude Who Punched Saddam in the Mouth:

Army guys flanking Samir and Chris


Last year Chris and Doug attended something to do with River City Rage's new season and were introduced to Samir, who has the AWESOME privilege of being known as the dude who punched the crap out of Saddam Hussein.

Dude is my HERO. (Samir, not Saddam.)

How to be a hoosier in two easy steps

One: After the purchase of a new appliance, leave your old appliance square in the middle of your front yard like so:

Take care to assure that all of the wires, hoses, etc. stick out like stray hairs:

Refuse to clean up the mess incurred from adding two hibiscuses to your garden while blaring a Cult CD at the same offensive volume as the neighbor's Skynard. Leave clods of dirt all over the sidewalk and all of your tools scattered across the lawn for authenticity:

You're done! That was easy! Top it all off by downing a beer while wearing a wifebeater and sitting on your front porch.

BONUS: Sit in your kitchen and watch your new appliance in action, hypnotized by that thur new technology and stainless steel face:

Alternate titles for this post:

The Repairman Laughed When Asked How Much It Would Cost to Fix Our Dishwasher


The Entire Check Amount of My Last Contract Job, in Dishwasher Form

Disclaimer: Chris won't stop bothering me until I write: "It [dishwasher] didn't SIT in the front yard; it was there for like, ten seconds until I moved it into the garage."

Because chocolate crosses is TASTY!

I spent Easter morning in a crowded church pew with two indecently sassy children, the eldest of which recently discovered his free will and relishes exercising it at the most inopportune times. He's also learned how to roll his eyes with such an exaggerated force that I worry that they'll up and roll right out of his head. I asked him if he could sit down, stop wrestling his cousin, and stop trying to crawl under the pew please and he responded with Excessive Sighing, a phenomenon not normally witnessed until the teenage years, and eye rolling. After the third time of asking politely and trying to nudge him into a different behavior, I decided to pluck him from off the floor, take him into his grandpa's office, and swat him into a different direction. Usually, I spank after my first warning is ignored and as a result, Liam knows that when I ask once or furrow my brow he'd better knock it off or LO, THE SECOND COMING. As a result, I rarely have to swat him.

After we emerged from the office, he bleary-eyed not because he got a swat but because I told him to behave or else the Easter bunny would DIE - I'm kidding, I threatened to sit him out during the egg hunt - did his behavior perk right up.

Mary, the woman organizing the egg hunt, asked everyone to bring candy-filled eggs, if they wished, for the children's egg hunt. WE HAD FIVE HUNDRED EGGS. WE HAD TO HIDE THEM ALL. Twenty minutes of thick, Midwestern heat later, I gave up trying to creatively hide the eggs and settled for flinging them all over the grass instead. I looked up and saw that everyone else had opted for the same method.

The kids tore out of the building like they were on fire and began the hunt. Ewan wasn't so much concerned with the quantity of eggs he found, but with opening and closing the same ONE plastic egg for the next hour. It took us a half an hour to fling five-hundred eggs all over the place and ten minutes for the kids to gather them all.
I didn't anticipate the heat; the temperature hovered in the 50s last Easter; yesterday it was 90 degrees.
And we hid candy-filled eggs.
Mostly chocolate.


Liam and his best friend J.J. sat on the pavement while going through their loot and got melted chocolate everywhere. I told Liam eleventy-thousand times: "DO NOT OPEN THE CHOCOLATE. It is melted, you are in a suit." Liam heard: "Screw that, GET CHOCOLATE ALL OVER YOUR SUIT."

Each of the boys' grandmothers bought an unholy amount of chocolate for each of the boys, plus toys. Chris and I got them each a chocolate cross, which Chris later decried as kinda Satanic and totally weird, just get a stupid chocolate rabbit next time. Initially I thought "Hey, cool! The symbol of Christianity upon which our Lord and Savior totally died! In chocolate!" TASTY.
Okay, it is kind of weird.


(I now have a hideous quantity of chocolate in my refrigerator: Six rabbits, two crosses, three boxes of mini egg whoppers, a bag of chocolate eggs, two Reese's peanut butter eggs.)

Afterwards, we conducted a behavioral experiment at Chris' aunt and uncle's house wherein we fed the kids tons of sugar, chocolate rabbits, and assorted chocolate eggs, let them refuse their naps and run wild.
I'm still twitching from it.

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Dana asks: "Thanksgiving Traditions: Yours or Your Mother's?"