Pre-Teen Male Logic?

When Cameron, Ally, and I arrived at church on Sunday, it was pretty cold outside. Cambone got out first and trotted the 40 feet to the door as I was getting Ally out of her carseat. We arrived at the door about 1 minute later, where I found Cameron waiting for us--he was still outside.

'So, Cameron,' I said, 'Why aren't you inside already?'

He replied, 'The doorknob is cold.'

True, it is a metal knob, and it was a cold day. Then again, he spent a minute out in the freezing cold just to avoid getting his hand cold for a second or two.

In a feat of courage to save my son from freezing to death that could only be termed 'heroic,' I opened the door for him.

He sped inside with a quick 'Thanks.'

Ally and I just looked at each other and sighed.

A Sure Sign of Old Age

As some of you know, I grew up in a less than affluent household where the bill of fare every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning was cracked wheat mush. Sometimes the menu would vary, and we were treated to sticky oatmeal (made from regular oats), or, if we were really, really lucky, we got to have some cream of wheat (the generic bulk kind, not the brand name). We blessed our lucky stars that we were able to sprinkle sugar on it before pouring the reconstituted powdered milk on top.

If there were any leftovers, never fear. It would soon be added to a meatloaf (very light on the meat, heavy on leftover mush and oats) or wherever else Mom figured it could work its ‘whole wheat goodness’ magic. I think she even put it in lasagna once? It's hard to know--she was very tricksy!

Then I went on a mission, and one of the rules was that we had to eat cracked wheat EVERY morning. As the Japanese didn’t eat this but their livestock did, the mission office had kindly provided the contact information to an animal feed supplier who sold this wonderful fodder. Being missionaries, we found innovative ways to obey the rules. It could be mixed with flour to make pancakes, and I even found that it didn’t taste too bad mixed with curry stew! And when the sack became infested with cocooning weevils? Never fear! A collander could quickly separate the wheat from the living ‘chaff.’
Since that time--over half a lifetime ago--I have never been able to even be in the vicinity of wheat mush without gagging. Ditto for oatmeal and other sundry hot cereals.

However, for the past 2 weeks--and for no particular reason--I have been eating oatmeal (admittedly Maple and Brown Sugar flavor) most every morning--and LIKING IT!

And some mornings I have even had idle thoughts about eating cream of wheat with a big dab of butter and some brown sugar!

Somebody please save me from myself!

INTERLUDE

Writing the above brought back a flood of cherished[?] childhood memories, and also reminded me of the delightful essay my sister Denna wrote on this subject. Enjoy!


Wheat for Man
by Denna L. Coburn
"And all these things shall give thee experience and be for thy good." Is this what it meant? I wondered miserably as another drop of milk dripped from my hair and splashed into the small pond that had already formed in my ear.
Somehow I could not believe that this is what I had prepared and waited for, for eons of time. Oh certainly I had expected skinned knees, bruises and bumps, even disappointment, but this was humiliation in its cruelest form. My mother, now blurred by my tears, was standing staring at me angrily, the empty mush bowl still in her hand. I could bear her piercing glare no longer. I lowered my head, causing another clump of cold sticky mush to splat on my tray.
Thus I learned early on that it had not been my misfortune to have been born to a mother who believed in sugary, empty calorie "Froot Loops" nor "Frosted Flakes," not even "Lucky Charms" which are magically delicious. Rather, my mother believed firmly in "Wheat for Man." She believed in it on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings in a most delectible form. Not that it was easy for her, certainly it was an involved gourmet dish.
To be so dedicated to one's beloved offsspring required an early start, for it had to simmer several hours in order to form the delicate leathery crust, then allowed to cool so the climate would be conducive for the formation of delightful lumps. This was then complemented with "mixed milk" (powdered milk mixed rather thinly so as not to have too strong of an imitation flavor), and, against her better judgment, sugar.
As I grew, my ability to eat wheat mush ironically diminished. Certainly with maturity my appreciation should have increased, but rather my cleverness began to develop. By age five I had learned that "You have to eat enough that I can see the bottom of the bowl" could be satisfied by employing the natural elements of mush. If not too much milk was added, the mush would fiercely stick to the sides of the bowl, thus allowing the bottom to be visible. This tactic worked for awhile, but soon mother tired of it and insisted that I eat it. However, she was not totally heartless in her demand. She would allow me as much time as I required to eat it. She would say, "I don't care if it takes you all day!!! You're not leaving until you eat it!" If mother was in a particularly sensitive mood, I could leave the table without eating it, and her melodious voice would follow me out the door, "It'll be waiting for you at lunch, and if you don't eat it for lunch, you can have it for dinner! I was determined that there had to be another way.
I experimented next with a more dramatic approach. It involved actually putting some mush in my mouth and attempting to swallow it. Invariably it would cause waves of nausea and gagging. The noise would command my mother's attention, and as she turned to look at me I would meet her gaze with pitiful misty eyes. Without a moment's hesitation she would point her finger at me and growl through clenched teeth, "Don't you throw that up! I'll give you some more if you do!"
Finally, I discovered a way to dispose of mush that mother never did get wise to until I confessed years later. Breakfast was almost always served at the kitchen bar, located conveniently close to our scrap paper collection. As usual, I would wait for everyone else to finish and leave, then while Mother had her back turned or left the kitchen on a timely errand, I would hastily put the mush in a piece of paper, roll it up, and then slide it into my sock. Later, I would guiltlessly dispose of it.
The years have gone by, and contrary to my Mother's predictions, I have grown into a healthy adult. As a parent there are certain things that I have solemnly sworn I would never do: fixing wheat mush tops the list. Only once have I broken that vow, at which time I was pregnant, and therefore not responsible for my act.
© 1988, Denna Lynn Floyd Coburn

Teenage Female Logic?

A conversation between Erin and Cindy this AM:

‘Mom, my body isn’t healthy.’

‘Oh? And why do you think that, Erin?’

‘Because I don’t wake up refreshed in the morning.’

Hmm, I remember telling her to go to bed at 9:15, then again at 10:15--I almost had to pry the DS out of her hands--and then I went to bed. and so who knows at what time she actually fell asleep!

Being so “grown up,” she wants to stay up until at least 10 o’clock “like all of her friends do,” but I have noticed that if she does turn out the lights soon after 9 PM that she is sawing logs soon thereafter, and she doesn’t seem to wake up any earlier the next morning.

So, she wants to stay up later and also wants to feel ‘refreshed’ and ‘healthy’ when she wakes up in time for school the next morning.

It sounds like diametrically opposed goals.

Maybe her mind is the part of her that’s not quite so healthy!?

Mr Thrifty

Normally you would guess this is a post about Louis. Not so today.

Last night Cameron had a friend spending the night. When I was awakened at 1:30 AM I decided to tell the boys it was time for bed. They were in the kitchen and Cameron's friend was asking Cameron why he couldn't have any orange juice. Cameron didn't reply and being a little groggy, I didn't really care. I just wanted to go back to bed. As I waited for the boys to climb in their sleeping bags so I could turn out their light I listened while standing outside the door.

Friend: Cameron, Why wouldn't you let me have any orange juice?"

Cameron: Because it is expensive. Each carton is like $3.00.

Okay my lips curled up at the sides when I realized Cameron was just repeating what he has been told. We always have orange juice at our house but it is only for breakfast. It is expensive and the kids would drink it constantly. I just had to laugh though.

The saying is true...."The apple (or orange) doesn't fall far from the tree!"

Music to A Father’s Ear

We have had the first significant snowfall of the winter today--we may even end up with more that 3 inches!
Woohoo!!
School let out 2 hours early, and according to Cindy, as soon as they came in the house Cameron sang out, ‘How much will you pay me to shovel the snow?’ (He is earning money to buy a DS--though he is now dreaming of getting a Wii. And yes, that is pure unadulterated dreaming!)
She called back later to tell me that he had done a slam-bang job of it too!
Woohoo!
I guess the snow-blower will have to wait for a deeper snowfall!
So instead of shoveling snow when I get home, I get to go down in the basement and measure and cut sheetrock!
Woohoo....?

The same thing happens every night.....

Erin, who is old beyond her tender age of 12 (at least in her own mind) likes to find any excuse to stay up later than 9 PM.

Whether it is the call of nature (such calls include a book, and thus they usually last longer than a major ice age--and modesty forbids mentioning where she learned this), reading in bed, or just fooling around, she is often not in bed until well after 10 PM. Which suits her jest fine!

Last night was no different.

She goofed around with Cameron until we were able to finally extricate him and shoo him to bed, then she read in her room. At 10:07 as I was just getting ready for bed, Erin knocked on the bedroom door.

“Erin!” I gently hissed, “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I need to ask you a question.” she replied.

After a deep sigh (I seem to be doing this more and more often!), I gave in. “OK, what is it?”

“Okay, Dad. So....when do you get your tonsils out?”

As I was pondering the deep significance of this obviously pressing question, she continued, “I want to have mine out.”

Being the ever-gentle father, I benevolently replied, “Yeah. Right. Uhuh. Well, to answer your question, probably NEVER! I’ve never had mine removed! NOW GET TO BED! NOW! NOW! NOW!”

(Cindy later explained to me that Erin had watched a Brady Bunch episode where Cindy and Mrs. Brady had both had their tonsils removed. And one of her cousins has also had hers removed. I deduced from this info that Erin was really just interested in getting lots of ice cream to eat, and this was as good a way as any to get it!)

Anyway, someone woke me up at 10:45 PM as they noisily bustled into the bedroom on the way to our bathroom, where they fiddled about in front of the mirror for 5 minutes. It was only when I saw the hulking silhouette as they came out that I realized it was Erin.

Her machinations had again achieved spectacular results!

Belated Christmas

Enjoy the slide show of our Christmas.
We had a great time sharing the day with our good friends.
The kids were happy and Santa seemed to spoil them.
I guess that is what he is supposed to do.
We hope your Christmas was just as goood as ours.

It's the snot that counts!

Tonight Erin was playing around with Ally at bedtime, and as it was time to sing Ally her bedtime song* and get her into bed, Erin picked her up and said,'Give Eeno a hug!'
Ally got a huge grin on her face, extended her arms in a hug-like manner, then deftly lowered her head and wiped her nose in an 8-inch swath on Erin's shoulder (fortunately Erin had a sweat jacket on!)
Erin yelped, 'Ally, did you wipe your nose on me?!!'
Ally grinned even more hugely!
'C'mon, give me a real hug!'
Ally reached out, extended her arms in a hug-like manner, and then tried to do it again, giggling with glee. Erin was prepared this time, and--giggling right along with Ally--lifted her up high enough to prevent her snotty behavior.
This was repeated a number of times.

Hugs from Ally, anyone?


*Ally's Bedtime Song
'Go to sleepy little baby,
Go to sleepy little baby,
And when you wake,
I'll spank your butt-cakes,
And ride a shiny little po-o-ny'

It was like 12 Dancing Princesses--on Steroids!

There was a dinner/dance at the church on New Years Eve for the entire family, and I made the mistake of trying to explain this beforehand to Ally.
I should’ve known that after all the Barbie movies she had seen that she would get kinda excited when she heard about a ‘dance.’ So every day that week she kept asking me with great expectations, 'Go to the church today?' and she would get a dejected look (or get mad) when I told her it was still a couple days off.

Of course, even I was looking forward to it. I envisioned Ally and I dancing a couple dances, with me holding her and doing the fancy footwork as we danced cheek-to-cheek. I also envisioned dancing many times with Erin, Kenner, and Cindy.

However, once the music started, Ally urged/pushed/shoved me out onto the dance floor and made it quite clear that she wasn’t going to be held--she was going to keep her feet on the floor and dance, dance dance! She took me by the hand and began doing what might be best described as the 'Tornado Dance.'

This is a dance where one partner (Ally in this case) holds onto one hand of the other partner (me) runs and runs and runs and runs around them in circles. I would keep up for a couple turns before getting dizzy, but after that I would stay in place and just skillfully pass her hand from one hand to the other as she continued revolving around me.

When Kenner tried to cut in, Ally made it very clear that she wasn't at all pleased. As Cindy carried Ally away kicking and screaming, I was then able to dance a couple with Kenner, but after that Ally again charged out and took over.

By 11 PM Ally seemed to be getting tired, so I carried her out into the hallway, hoping she would go to sleep. But the moment I walked back into the gym she perked up, said, ‘Dance, daddy, DANCE!’ and we ended up doing the tornado dance many more times.

At midnight she was still going strong!

So for the night: 10+ dances with Ally, 2~3 dances with Kenner (she showed a lot of potential!), 1 dance with Erin (though I tried to get her out to dance more!), and 1 dance together with Erin and Cindy.