Angie Kinghorn

In which I demonstrate my math and history prowess via photos

I do not have a degree in early childhood education.  


However, over Christmas, I was able to formulate a theorem of sorts, involving math, children, and history.


The Angelaian Theorem: 


Christmas ornaments



plus 5 year olds up to no good (squared)




equals Anne Boleyn.



That is all.



Blame it on the dog? I don’t think so, Milli Vanilli.

We’re not quite to the level of “the dog ate my homework” yet, but my 5 year old twins have suddenly mastered the art of blaming inanimate objects for their misbehavior.
To wit: 
  • Someone drew on the wall in the playroom, and when questioned, I was informed that it was probably SuperPuppy (a stuffed dog with a giant red bow and a definite lack of opposable thumbs).
  • Someone covered portions of the walls in both of their bedrooms with a menagerie of animal stickers (they call them their “zoos”).  On inquiry, I was told it was the fault of Blue Dog (a stuffed blue dog) and Ellie (a pink stuffed elephant).
  • Someone blew up the playroom.  It literally looked like the aftermath of a tornado, except with intact walls and windows.  I was informed this was likely the fault of a large purple manatee and an oversized frog.
  • Grant’s new green shirt sprouted holes all over the front. Holes in suspiciously straight lines.  The kind you might get from bear claws, or, say, safety scissors.  He told me that a monster probably did it.
Perhaps anyone with a five year old can relate to this.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Obviously my kids think highly of my intellect.
The other day the kids were throwing things around the living room, and as I watched a small turtle hurtle past our flat-screen, I’d had it.  I announced that  this behavior was unacceptable.
Naturally, they told me they weren’t doing it.  It was the animals.
So I said, “Fine.  If you’re going to blame things on your stuffed animals, or if your animals are so poorly behaved, the next time they do something bad that you know they’re not supposed to do, I’m taking them away.  You got that?”
I got a chorus of sheepish, “Yes, ma’am’s,” and they went upstairs, ostensibly to clean the playroom.  Personally, I think it’s where they keep their maps, battle plans, and small arms.
Anyway, this weekend we ended up at the pediatrician’s office for the inaugural visit of 2012.  I sent the twins on to the sick waiting room while I checked in.
Now, the waiting room’s chief attraction is a ginormous fish tank.  It’s been there since they were infants.  And since that time, I’ve told them over and over that they are not allowed to touch the aquarium glass or make loud noises, because it can make the fish very sick.  They’ve always been good about this, but I make sure to remind them, because it’s so tempting to touch the glass.
Before they went into the waiting room, I reminded them not to touch the fish tank.
While I was checking in, I took a few steps over to the side, looked into the waiting room, and reminded them again, not to touch the fish tank.
And then collected my receipt and check in sheet, walked into the waiting room, and found my two darlings standing on chairs, beating the side of the fish tank with Blue Dog and Ellie.
If that weren’t bad enough, they weren’t alone in the waiting room.  There was an immaculately dressed and coiffed woman sitting in the far corner with her ridiculously obedient child, staring at me, as if I were THAT mother.  You know, the one who has absolutely no control over her children whatsoever?  The one who wears baggy jeans, clogs, a fleece, and no makeup to the pediatrician’s office on a Sunday morning?  The one whose head explodes when she finds her offspring misbehaving when she should have been with them in the first place, the one who frog marches them over to the nearest couch, tells them to sit, and then in a very low voice, tells them something horrible enough to make them both start screaming and crying in a manner you would expect from, say, a two year old?
Yes, THAT mother.  Um, that would be me.
My head exploded because when I got into the room and said, “What on earth are you doing?  I told you not to touch the fish tank!!!” the kids both replied that they hadn’t done it, Blue Dog and Polar Bear had.
So I sat them down and told them that Blue Dog and Polar Bear were now mine.  Gone.  Perhaps forever.
::Cue tantrums of the massive variety::
When we got home, Grant said, “But I can still play with Christmas (another stuffed dog) and SuperPuppy, right?”
I said, “Wait a minute.  They were in your backpack at the doctor’s office with Blue Dog, weren’t they?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then no.”  

::cue wailing::  

“Give them here.  They were co-conspirators.  Guilty by association.”
“But Mommy!!! They didn’t really do it!  I did it!”
“Yes, Grant, I know.  But I told you the next time you blamed something on your stuffed animals you were going to lose them.  So hand them over.”
::much wailing::
Anne decided to weigh in.  “Mommy, here’s Polar Bear.  I don’t mind if you take her.  I don’t really like to cuddle with her anyway.”
“Ok, then, go grab your manatee.”
She trotted off and came back with her favorite toy, a giant purple manatee.
“You like cuddling with Flipper, right?”
“Yes, she’s my favorite!”
“Hand her over.  She’s mine.”
::dual wailing::
“But Mommy!”
That night, Flipper the manatee, Polar Bear, Blue Dog and his associates all spent the evening in a trash bag in the laundry room.  We told the kids that if there were any more incidents where they blamed something else for their actions, that the bag would go in the trash can.
After a night and day of good behavior, Mark relented and gave the animals back.  (Personally, I would have left them in the joint for a week or so.)
Outcome: so far, so good.  I’ll keep you posted.

22 things I HAVE done

1. Jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

2. Adopted an abused and neglected dog.  One of the best decisions I’ve ever made, even if this Christmas card was under-appreciated. 




3. Done a drug-raid ride-along with the police as a journalist.

4. Traveled by myself through two countries whose languages I didn’t speak.


5. Partied in Tijuana. 


6. Scuba dived on an iron-clad steamer in 100 feet of water.


7. Tried to give my anger to God in a collection plate.


8. Ridden on a motorcycle.


9. Danced on a bar.


10. Owned and ridden a unicycle.


11. Been in an elevator with Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton. 


12. Rode horses for years and won a dressage class.


13. Dressed as the Blonde Ambition version of Madonna at a Halloween party–and caught a husband as a result.


14. Endured 3 months of bedrest and preterm labor with twins and delivered two healthy babies.





15. Written an epic 100 item bucket list (and made a fair dent in it).


16. Had my ass kicked by postpartum depression, then returned the favor. 


17. Faced my biggest fear when my husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer. (He’s was given a clean bill of health at his last appointment with the oncologist, by the way!)


18. Did my own makeup and hair for my wedding (and still don’t understand why everyone thinks this was such a big deal).



19. Did my own makeup for last Halloween’s “sexy zombie” look.



20. Fallen down the stairs of the Anne Frank house (to applause from the people lined up to go in).


21. Used part of my semester abroad to bring “Animal House” to the Brits, along with toga parties and hall crawls.


22. Was there for my father when he was dying.


***This post was written for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  The prompt: Write a list of 22 things you have done.

Supershoes and bathroom blues

“Mommy!  My shoes hurt!”

Words dreaded by mothers (especially mothers of multiples) everywhere.  Baby needs a new pair of shoes.  And that means a trip to the shoe store.
I’m sure you remember what transpired on our one and only visit to Payless Shoes.  Well, this trip was much more expensive, prolonged, and involved public nudity (mine).
This particular shoe store has become our store of choice for two reasons: it’s small enough that it would be impossible to lose the kids, and it has a childproof lock on the door so the they can’t run out and into the parking lot.
The trip goes something like this:
“Mommy, can we get these Jibbitz?”
“No.  Stand up so this nice lady can measure your feet.  No, stand up!  Stop leaning over, you have to put your weight on your foot so she can see how big it is.”
“Mommy, can we get these Jibbitz?”
“No, I already told you we cannot.  You need sneakers and you need church shoes.  Not Crocs.”
“Mommy, can I get just one Jibbitz?  They have Woody and Buzz.”
“No.  I’m trying to talk to this nice lady about what shoes they have in your size.  Go sit over there.  Wait!  Anne!  Stop playing with those stools!  You’re going to get hurt!”
“Mommy, how ‘bout just one Jibbitz?”
“For the last time, no dadgum Jibbitz!” 
The nice lady’s smile is starting to look pained.  She goes to the back and returns with a tower of shoes, and we begin a joint effort to get them on Grant’s feet.
The first shoe has barely gone over his heel when we hear, “They hurt!  Mommy, they hurt!”
Ok, no problem.  Bigger size.
The nice lady laces the bigger shoe, and Grant busts out melodrama worthy of Hamlet.  “Hurt!  Mommy, these shoes hurt!”
Ok, different style.  Hideous style, but at this point, he has no shoes to wear to summer camp tomorrow, due to the blanket ban on Crocs, so I don’t care what they look like.
Our saleslady’s cohort, all bright and perky, comes out from the back to extol the virtues of this Japanese sneaker.  “They’re light!  Really light!  So you can run like Superman!”
We all agree; with these ugly Japanese shoes, my son’s running abilities will magically transform from Phoebe from Friends to Clark Kent without glasses.  We carefully velcro him into the shoes and I hold my breath as he stands up.  They are the ugliest things I have ever seen; retro and futuristic melded together into navy, red, and white lightweight supershoes.
“Mommy, they hurt!”
A flash of pink pulls my eye to Anne, now perched on top of two stools she’s stacked on top of each other, approximately 5 feet off the floor.
“Anne, if you fall and break your neck I am so not taking you to the hospital.”
I feel the “Bad Mother!” stares, and I relent.  “Ok, fine, if you break your neck I will call 911.  Now get off those stools!  How many times have I told you not to play with those?”
The shoe ladies fuss over Grant’s feet, finally pronouncing the Japanese supershoes a perfect fit, so we ask him to do a superhero run around the store.  Which he does.  The shoes are no less hideous in motion, but if they fit, I’m a huge fan.  
But at the end of his victory lap, Grant pulls a face.  “They hu-urt,” he says.
Lather, rinse, repeat, until there are no more athletic shoes in stock in his size to try.  With every single shoe, he howled like his foot had found an errant bear trap instead of a retro New Balance.  
We give up and move on to water shoes.  A full hour later, Grant hates anything that touch his feet, and the saleslady has entered a period of glazed, near-catatonic silence.  Bright and perky has started to tell me, repeatedly, about their fantastic return policy, and how perhaps if we just took the shoes home, he could break them in a little and maybe he’d come to like them. 
Then I remember: church shoes.  I lunge for a box of bucks (the saleslady having mysteriously gone from catatonic to supersonic to ring up another customer) and shove them on Grant’s feet. 
“They hurt!”
“Of course they do.  Now, let’s get somebody to check them.”

Both saleswomen reluctantly check and pronounce the bucks a great fit.  Over his howling, I say we’ll take them.  Plus a pair of sneakers he hates and a pair of water shoes that make him cry.  
And then of course somebody has to go pee so I herd the children through the open curtain of the stockroom straight back to the bathroom.  They each go, and then, as I’m doing my business, I hear the pop of the lock and the creak of the door, and I look up from my perch on the toilet…straight out into the front of the store.
Straight out into the front of the store with people in it.
People watching me wipe my nether regions.
Since my brain exploded, I don’t remember much until later in the day.  Mark asked Grant to show him his new shoes, and there was such weeping and gnashing of teeth that Mark said, “Fine.  You don’t get to go to preschool tomorrow.”
Oh, hell no he didn’t.
“Honey, I had no idea tomorrow was take your son to work day.”
His eyes widened.  “I didn’t actually mean it,” he hissed.
Men.  Boys.  Is there that much of a difference?






*This post is linked to this week’s prompt at The Red Dress Club.  The assignment?  A memoir piece about an embarrassing moment.