Angie Kinghorn

On the rockstars

It’s Friday!  


I still can’t talk, so I’ve been reading quite a bit.  There is some fantastic stuff out there on the interwebz, y’all.  


So…this has prompted me to introduce a new feature: On the rockstars.  I’ll link to fantastic posts, and then you clicky the linky, and go read.  Yes?  Yes.


This week’s rockstars, in no particular order:


The Ups and Downs, by Lori at In Pursuit of It All (formerly In Pursuit of Martha Points).  If you’re a homeowner, you will laugh.


My TV turned on is fine, Thank You, by Jennifer at The Martha Project.  If you have children, you will laugh.


TV is FUCKING CRUCIAL, by Benjamin at My Dad Homies.  If you have a pulse, you will laugh.  You may want to swallow anything you’re drinking before reading.


Finally, Why Writers Drink, by Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds. If you are a writer, this will probably make you snort bourbon out your nose.


Enjoy.

Prison (and other possible complications from laryngitis)

After my beloved little petri dishes passed along the viral (“Sorry!  There’s not anything we can do for that!”) illness from hell, I’ve been coughing.  Enough that I’ve lost my voice completely.
Shut up.  It’s not that funny.
Mark has been on a business trip, so I’ve been parenting kinda like a chimpanzee:
Clap.
Point.
Snap fingers.
Cough.
Clap angrily.
Cluck tongue.
Shrug shoulders.
Cough.
Point to something else.
Shake head furiously.
Mime brushing teeth.
Cough.
The twins think I’ve lost my mind as well as my voice.  
You know what?  They might be right.
Anyway, as I was getting ready to take them to school this morning, I made sure to pack a notebook and pen in my purse, in case a dire need to communicate should arise.  I had all sorts of scenarios in mind.  And after my socks, sharks, and other irrational fears post, are you that surprised?
Didn’t think so.
There are a billion reasons I could have needed that notebook.  A cop could have violated the unspoken “We don’t pull over ponytailed and harassed looking women driving minivans, even if they are reaching into the backseat to swat at small children and swerving all over the road” rule.  And if that happened, I would totally have had to write to him.  No way he could have heard what’s left of my whisper over the barrage of twin-fire.  
“Mommy?  That’s a policeman!  Why is he at your window?  Is he going to take you to jail?  Can we all go?  Hi, policeman!”
“Mommy, is that policeman a boy or a girl?  Does it have a penis?”
“Hey, Mr. Policeman!  When I grow up?  I wanna be a garbage man!  Can we go visit your jail now?”
“He’s…he’s gonna be a garbage man and I’m gonna be an ice cream girl!”
“Do you know what number Thomas is?  He’s the number 1 blue engine!!!”
“Hey!  Mr. Policeman?  Do you know any fire trucks?”
“Can we go see the jail now?”
My alternate scenario?  We get into a car wreck.  Hanging upside-down from my seatbelt, the paramedics try to coax emergency contact info out of me.  But I can’t talk.  They assume traumatic brain injury and I end up on a table with someone rooting around in my grey matter.  
Or, most likely, and potentially the most disastrous, another mother waves hi from a distance as I herd the twins into into school.  She yells a greeting.  I smile, serenely and silently waving back.  (If you don’t know me personally, well, let’s just say “serene and silent” is not exactly my style.)  “Who pissed in her cornflakes?  What a bitch,” she thinks.
So obviously I packed my notebook. 
School dropoff went smoothly, thanks to my adaptation of the universal sign for choking.  (FYI: universal sign for laryngitis: clutch one side of your neck while using the opposite hand to point to your throat and mouth “laryngitis.”)
Back in the van, I considered my to-do list and realized I need to go to the bank.  On the way, I mentally congratulated myself for having the foresight to bring my notebook and pen.  Clearly the drive-through wasn’t an option, so I would have to go in.
I was mentally composing the note in my head when the good Lord literally stopped me in my tracks.  A red arrow in the left turn lane is probably the only reason I’m not in prison right this very moment.
I was on my way to the bank.  
With a notepad.  
And a plan to hand the teller a note.
That, dear friends, is what happens when you think ahead. 

The Little Engine That Couldn’t: How to short-circuit a preschooler’s tantrum

Eureka, people.  I found a sure-fire way to make a preschooler so confused she stopped a tantrum.  
I turned it into a grammar lesson.
“I can’t” is A’s new battle cry, and it’s been so bad that Mark went looking for a copy of “The Little Engine That Could” this weekend.  We now have one on order from Amazon.  Until it arrives, we’ve been doing our best to assure A that she can.  
And that works….not at all.  She gets angrier and keeps repeating “I can’t!” until she’s worked herself into a sweaty red-faced tantrumy mess.  And the girl’s got pipes.  
The very second I got the twins into the car after preschool today she revved up for a tantrum of epic proportions.  The subject: she didn’t want to have a nap or quiet time.  Did I mention she was screaming?  And that we were in the car?  And that I was recovering from a two day migraine?
“I can’t, Mommy!” she wailed, over and over.  Each high-pitched syllable was an ice pick to the back of my right eye.  
“You can,” I said.  “We have to think like The Little Engine That Could.  Think positively.  ‘I think I can, I think I can,’” I chanted.  We were hitting every red light the city had to offer, and I was trying to convince myself as much as A.
“No, Mommy, I can’t!”
Positive.  Find the positive.  Where the hell was the positive?  
“A, that … that was a beautiful use of a contraction!” I chirped.
“Wha–?” She stopped, mid-wail.
“A contraction!  It’s what it’s called when you combine two words into one.  You did it perfectly.  You said ‘can’t.’  That’s a contraction of ‘can’ and ‘not.’”
“I can’t do it, Mommy!”
“See, you just did it again!  ‘Can’t.’  That’s short for ‘cannot.’  When you spell it, you put in an apostrophe to stand for the letters you took out.”
“It’s not fair!”
“Oh, another good one!  And you used it perfectly, too!  ‘It’s’ is a contraction of ‘it is.‘  That one trips up a lot of adults, because they try to use it possessively.  But used as a contraction, it is easy, and you just did it!”
“Stop it, Mommy!  I didn’t do it!”
“Fantastic job!  ‘Didn’t’ is the contraction of ‘did not.’  I’m so proud of you!”
“I….what….Mommy!  I can’t do it!”
“Bravo, sweetie!  You’ve mastered ‘can’t.’  You could have said ‘cannot,’ but you’re savvy enough to know how to make that longer word a contraction.”
“Uuugh!”  Our van has this awesome wide angle rear-view mirror, so I saw her throw up her hands in disgust.  G was doing the Wimbledon, swiveling back and forth between Mommy and sister and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
“This is a very important subject.  All your life, people will judge you on your grammar.  And you know, apostrophes are near and dear to Mommy’s heart.  Mommy would love nothing more than for you to grow up knowing how to use apostrophes correctly.”
“Mommy!  Stop it!  I cannot do it!”
“Of course you can!  Wow!  You are so versatile, honey!  You just did it without the contraction!  Good job!  ‘Cannot’ instead of ‘can’t’!  Wait until your great-grandmother hears about this.  She used to be an English teacher, you know.”
“I can do it, too, Mommy!” G chimed, right as we pulled into the garage.  
“I’m sure you can, honey.”
“I don’t want a nap!  I don’t!”  A shrieked, fully aware that she was losing my attention.
“Who said anything about a nap?  And you did it again!  Two beautiful contractions!  ‘Don’t’ is a contraction of ‘do not.’  We spell it ‘d-o-n-apostrophe-t.’”
I kept right on with the grammar lesson, calmly lecturing as I unstrapped the twins from their car seats and herded everybody to the door.  
“Mommy!  You’re not listening to me!”  A actually stomped her foot.  The thing is, I’m pretty sure she no longer had any idea what she was upset about.
“Good girl!  That’s another contraction!  Can you tell me what ‘you’re’ is short for?”
“G won’t stop talking!  I need you to listen to me!”  (G was not, in fact, talking.  G was watching this spectacle like it was WWE RAW.)
“Wow!  We hadn’t even gotten through ‘you’re’ and you used another contraction!  ‘Won’t’ is very useful.  Do you know what it’s short for?”
My refusal to get upset and engage in her tantrum turned A’s world upside down.  I chattered grammar stuff in a calm voice as I got both kids ready for either a nap or quiet time (their choice).  I tucked G in, and he said, “I’m going to have a nap, Mommy.  Was that a good contraction?”
“Yes, sweetie.  That was beautiful.”
Ta-dah!  One down.
A was gearing up for her tantrum finale in the bathroom.  “I can’t brush my teeth!”
“Great!”  I said, taking the toothbrush from her.  “And we’ve learned that ‘can’t’ is short for….”  I waited, expectantly.
She spat and rolled her eyes.  “Cannot.”
“That’s my smart girl!  Can you tell me what contraction Mommy just used in that sentence?”
Before she knew what was happening, A found herself tucked into bed.  She looked positively gobsmacked.
“But Mommy, I don’t want a nap!” she yelled as I closed her door.
“Good contraction!  You used ‘don’t’ again!  And you do need a nap.  Goodnight.”  I closed the door and waited outside.
“I can’t!  I can’t take a nap!  I can’t!”
I went back into her room, still calm.  “Now let’s think positively and use the inverse.  ‘I can!  I can take a nap!’”
“But Mommy, I can’t!”
“Oh, yes you can.  You are a strong willed child.  You can do anything you put your mind to.”
And y’all?  She took a two hour nap.
When I opened her door, she greeted me with a huge grin.  “I did it!  I can did it!”
Next up?  Subject/verb agreement.

In which I take a nap on a bed of nails

So, what have I done this week?  Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary.  
  • Played both paramedic and Dr. Mom to one four year old with two skinned knees and shins.  Band-aids were applied with style and panache, thankyouverymuch.  I do apologize for the screaming.  I’m sure you heard it, no matter where you were.
  • Assured four year old with skinned knees that yes, I know what I’m doing.  After all, I am a Juris Doctor.
  • Accepted worshipful looks from both twins as they struggled to comprehend how a Juris Doctor is like a pediatrician.  (Hint: not at all.)
  • Convinced both children that all mommies are covered in eyeballs.  Not just the backs of our heads, but everywhere.  Further convinced them that the extra eyes are visible only to adults.
  • Corrected each twin’s grammar regarding proper usage of “me” vs. “I” so that both sound far more intelligent than any contestant ever to appear on “The Bachelor.”
  • Negotiated a truce between the leaders of two small (but fierce) terrorist factions.
  • Rescued the dog from a hostage situation involving said terrorist factions.
  • Cleaned up purple paint spilled during an attempt by the female terrorist to deface the base camp of the male terrorist. 
  • Confiscated and disposed of both sides’ remaining paint supplies, forcing them to revert to the more primitive crayon.
  • Instructed two four year olds on the finer points of dancing properly to “Ice, Ice, Baby.”
  • Attempted to explain to one unnamed four year old boy that swinging one’s, um, male parts around while dancing is not appropriate.
  • Assured said four year old boy that swinging said male parts around while dancing is not what the manufacturers of Thomas the Train underwear had in mind when they put a hole in the front of his briefs.
  • Explained the origin of belly buttons to two absolutely astounded pupils, who demanded photographic evidence that their umbilical cords were not a figment of Mommy’s imagination.
  • Took a brief nap on a bed of nails at the local children’s science museum.  I’m serious.   Over 4,000 nails.  Note: do not surrender control button of bed of nails to small terrorists, no matter how cute they may be.
  • Fired an air cannon at my husband and both children.
  • Allowed both my husband and both children to fire an air cannon at me.
  • Found SIX four leaf clovers while walking the dog.
  • Bought a lottery ticket.