Catch a tiger ...

Me: "Conner, you can lay on my bed, on the couch or in your bed."

Conner: "Can we play eeny meeny miny mo?"

What I thought but didn't say: Yep, because no matter what, you lose.

Yes, he said that

There is a tradition in the preschool that the girls attended and Conner currently attends. During the last week of Febuary, the teachers hand out Mardi Gras beads. When Abbey was 3, she appeared in the doorway with a neck full of beads. An enormous amount of things flashed through my mind. Maybe flashed was a bad choice of words. Let's say raced through my mind. It took most of the day to get the idea of my daughter (much older) dancing around the French Quarter out of my head. I was not much better with it when Maggie was 3 and she donned the beads after school. Fast forward to today. Conner walks out of class this morning, and he has his beads on. Not a single OMG thought came to mind. I am thinking that he is a little confused as to how this works, but I am OK with it. However, when we got in the car I asked him about the beads and he said, "I want to give these to Mom." In my infinite wisdom, I told him to give one to Mom, and if you don't get in trouble I will give her the rest later.

It's not fair

Good Lord, is there anyone out there who wants an 11-year-old? I am completely sick of the meltdowns, hormones, questions and "I'm tired but I'm not going to bed early" crap. Here is an example. After dinner this evening, I asked Abbey to take her brother downstairs to help him play MarioKart. You would think that I asked her to cut her toes off with a butter knife. She actually told me that she had spent an hour with her brother over the weekend and she should be allowed to not have to deal with it during the weekdays.
The thing that drives me the most nuts is that she will finally give me a break from the Oscar Award-winning drama performance and take a shower. Once her shower is over, she waltzed her little butt downstairs and played with her brother. What the hell happens in there? Is she using some kind of special mood-changing water? I get nine miles of bad road before the shower, and he gets to play MarioKart with his sister after the shower. There is something terribly wrong with this picture. Why do I have to suffer?

Editor's note: Cathy takes offense at this

Why is it that the oldest child in the house thinks that she's the third adult in the house? She thinks that we, as parents, should take her advice on how to raise the younger ones. For Abbey, being an 11-year-old girl has a great many issues that I am not interested in understanding. She is always telling me what I am doing wrong with Maggie and Conner. I truly love it when she opens that pre-teen Pandora's box and irrationally explains that I am doing this parenting thing all wrong and I should change how I talk, walk, prepare dinner, do laundry and whatever else. What Abbey fails to realize is that I have a wife who tells me what I am doing wrong on a daily basis. This is not a position that needs an assistant.

Don't bug her!

Here's what happens when you give a 7-year-old a camera:

Who's the Boss?

During Springsteen's halftime show at the Super Bowl, Abbey winces and says "Oooh, this guy can't sing."

Then, to make it worse, "At least he's better than Neil Diamond."

Those are fighting words, and she knows it. You don't talk bad about Neil Diamond.

Picture this

In the middle of the Super Bowl, Conner is standing on a milk crate in the living room, hitting a balloon in the air. In his underwear.

Dad's in charge

An e-mail from Pat sent Nov. 6, 2007
Subject: Football god

Your son has a thunder bolt for an arm. He has a gift from the football gods. He has been running across the living room throwing a Nerf ball to me. He has thrown tight passes that have hit me in the chest every time. Before we go any further, I know that we are not supposed to play football in the house. You're at work, I am here, get over it. Rules are different when you're at work, and the girls and I can blame Conner if anything breaks. He has thrown passes left while running right and vice versa. Notre Dame called a little bit ago and needs your son ASAP. For God's sake, they are 1-8.
There is one drawback, though. He cannot catch to save his life. I have tried everything. I even stood a foot from him and lightly tossed the ball to him and it hit him in the head. His hands didn't even move. Abbey even tried to help, and she thinks it is hopeless. When he does get a hand on it, it's like he has bricks in his hands. He even dropped the ball when I snapped it to him. The shotgun formation is definitely out of the question for now. He is going to have to learn the fine art of fumble recovery. As much as it pains me, Notre Dame will have to wait until he is actually 18.
On another note, Maggie is crying because she gets to watch the movie that is on. I told her that it was her turn to pick the show on TV. She is crying because she seems to think that Conner is going to change the channel to Diego. This could actually happen if we knew where the DVR remote was.

Fashion faux pas

An e-mail from Pat sent Dec. 10, 2007
Subject line: Daddy's a bonehead

I just changed your son for bed. This in itself was a simple operation. After I finished he proceeded to the couch and watched the movie du jour. Several minutes passed by and he came into Mommy's room - yes, it is still is not my room - and yelled at me for the pajamas that I chose. Evidently the white pants with the snowflakes are not the bedtime fashion statement he had in mind. He waltzed his little behind - he actually stomped off - into his room and produced a pair of blue "Cars" pajama pants. He then told me, "These pants are for big boys. These are for girls." This alone was funny, but when he said "These are for girls," he was pointing to his crotch.

The ship

An e-mail from Pat sent May 29, 2008:

The ship that is our household has officially sunk. The captain of the house (me) has sounded the alarm and is getting to a lifeboat ASAP. Abbey is a complete mess about this homework. I have canceled her dentist appointment and have set her up with an army of shrinks instead. Middle school and puberty will not be a pretty picture. Maggie brushed by one of the kitchen cabinets and let out a scream like she had torn her arm off. She also announced that Conner will hit me soon. I was on the phone when she urgently needed to tell me this. Imagine that. Conner is walking around the house with my aluminum bat, and he has a serious look of trouble on his face. He just freaked when I threw away a quarter inch of pickle he had not finished. He is on the couch currently crying that it is not fair. So with all of this, I am jumping ship and leaving it to sink further with the kids in it. I am not a true captain, but I am good with it. I am saving myself.

Snow days

I am going to take this moment to sincerely apologize to my mother. Snow days are a pain in the butt for the parent who is home for the day with the kids. When I was a child (or more precisely younger than I am now - I rephrase because Cathy calls me a child almost weekly) I would get up at the crack of dawn, suit up for the snow, go outside and play. This would mean that I would get completely soaked to the skin within an hour or two. I would go inside just before frostbite was about to set in and drop all the clothes in the laundry room and expect them to be dried quickly by my mother. I would also expect large quantities of food to be provided for me and my friends. My mother would do all these things, rather quickly, and then we would be on our way outside again. This cycle would be repeated 2 to 3 more times during the day.
My mother can, at this stage in life, take pride in the fact that her grandchildren have returned the favor.

Nap time

An e-mail from Pat sent Nov. 5, 2007:

Why is it that when your child is napping peacefully on the couch you will sit down next to him to absorb the moment and the first thing that goes through your mind is "Thank freaking God he is out cold"? Is that a bad thing?

Another thing is that I will sit and watch the rest of "Little Ensteins" while he is sleeping. I want to know who the composer of the day is. I am officially a geek, and I am going to fold clothes now.

Abbey: 2008 in pictures

Maggie-isms

Maggie and I were walking around the neighborhood selling Girl Scout cookies (she's up to 91 boxes thanks to all of the family members we pressured into ordering), and she looks at the form and says - for at least the fifth time - "I wonder who Frail Mollie is."

And for at least the fifth time I explain to her that the form asks for your last name first. So who do you think it is?

"I bet it's Aunt Mollie. And I bet Oberle Kim is Aunt Kim. And that one's Grandma."

Suddenly it all clicked. Until the next day, when we had the same conversation again.

* * *

"Mom, can we listen to 'Shake Your Goofy' "? (As opposed to "Shake Your Groove Thing" - sung by the Chipmunks.)

Maggie: 2008 in pictures