The Middle Child

Have you wondered about her?

Yet to grace the blog, I know.

It's not because I am a bad mother. Or because I don't like her. That's like telling the moon not to shine, so great is my love, and like, for her.

My reasons for writing a blog for three months and hardly mentioning her are many. One - I've been forewarned not to use my kids' real names on a public blog and it's taken me this long to figure out a nickname for the dear little gal. Other reasons: she flies below the radar, has not gone to the ER in the last three months unlike the other two children*, and has never pushed out her toots on my leg. But is she worthy of writing about? Most certainly!

Here's what she leaves for me every time we eat cereal for breakfast.


It may not be clear, but those are Frosted Mini-Wheats...without the frosting. Because, let's face it, what's the point of a whole-grain wheat biscuit without the lightly sweetened frosting (as opposed to heavily sweetened frosting? Isn't that what frosting is - sugar?).

As I cleaned this up yet again this morning, I realized her nickname is obvious: Sugs. You might need a big wad of chewing gum and a waitress uniform when you say it because I imagine it pronounced "Shooogs" with an affectionate smack of saliva at the end.

Appropriate for her. Considering she's opposed to salt (unless it's saltwater taffy), asks for nothing but dessert, and scoffs at the sight of well-intended parents with vegetables. Then, when you least expect it, Sugs will eat an entire plate of broccoli (because it's a flower, she explains).


I should mention that Sugs has imaginary friends. Not too long ago, I climbed into our car and she squealed with terror as I smashed imaginary friend Mena with my ever-imposing hiny. Of course, the two of them have imaginary princes too, Jeremy and Diego. If Sugs falls, she'll stand up, brush herself off, and simper a breathless "Oh, thank you, Jeremy." Don't try to help her up because that's the job of a prince, not a mother. (Unless there's blood)

When Sugs bestows a hug - and she really does give them like a queen pardoning a criminal, the grace in her being stooping to embrace another with regal ceremony - she will always lift her right leg at the knee, and kick it behind her like a good little princess.

Last night, she slept in her black patent leather dress shoes. I encouraged her to slip them off, but Sugs reminded me that they went perfectly with her pajamas. Indeed. As I write this evening, she is fighting the three-year-old fight against sleep in a pink, fluffy tutu. But never fear - she is not a diva princess. In fact, tonight she informed me that she is a llama. In a pink tutu.

When she had a little coughing fit this morning, I inquired if she was feeling okay. "Yes, Mama," she replied. "I feel good. But my heart hurts when I yawn."

You would think that with these funny quirks, Sugs would be overly dramatic. But she's nothing of the sort! She's not exactly shy, but she's not exactly outgoing either. If given her choice, she'd pick a quiet corner by herself rather than a room full of visitors. If asked to dance or sing in front of family, Sugs will do it but not because she likes the attention, but because the budding artist in her can't not dance or sing.

Her prayers are precious. After her big sister's arm was broken and surgically put back into place, Sugs prayers became very serious matters. My favorite one:

Dear Jesus, [Imagine chubby hands and eyes squeezed tight with concentration.]
Please help Uncle 'Keve not get killed in the war.
And God, help my sister's arm not fall off.
Amen.

Because I'm a bit obsessive/compulsive about words and hidden meanings, I had to Google the word "Sugs" and make sure it's not some sociopathic acronym or porn website. All is well, and the online urban dictionary even defined it as "a person who is particularly enjoyable." I couldn't agree more!

Without further ado, blog readers, meet Sugs.

Sugs, meet the blog readers. [Ahhh, yes, she curtsies and flutters the eyelashes.]


Resting Tonight,
Karen

** An update on our ER visit count: we paid another visit (and bill) on Thursday when the Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Marble Eater cracked his head open and required some Dermabond. All is well, character has been built. Here's my copay...again.

What's A Homeschool Mother to Do?

*This is a re-post because I am a wimp. Yes, indeed, I am. I posted this and promptly removed it for fear of offending all of the young teenage girls who may have visited my blog after I spoke on purity (of all things) the following day. Here's your official warning, you beautiful young ladies. I wasn't lying when I told you that it's been a while since I entered a high school or opened a locker with a combination. This is how far removed I am from the life of a sixteen year old. Who needs a homecoming queen when you can be a homeschooling dweeb in sixteen more years? Read on if you dare.

** This post will hold no opinions. Not one. It doesn't need any (in my opinion). **

Imagine a happy homeschooling mama snuggled up in an oversized chair with our most recent read-aloud book, Punkin listening intently while wiggling a fresh, loose tooth.



We weren't exactly this happy, but you get the picture.

Knowing that good homeschool moms read old books (why is that?!), I plunged into chapter 5 of Understood Betsy. And all was well until I got to this paragraph and robotically rattled it off verbatim:

The teacher laughed. "You aren't any grade at all, no matter where you are in school. You're just yourself, aren't you? What difference does it make what grade you're in?"...

"Well, for goodness' sakes!" ejaculated Elizabeth Ann...

Far too discerning for her own good, Punkin perked immediately at one uncensored word. "What's that mean?"

I squirmed. I giggled. And I lied.

"I said, 'exclaimed.'"

The giggle gave me away. "Nuh-huh," she spouted knowingly.

I'm caught.

Great.

What's a mama to do?

Do you correct your children when they play nativity and one child is the ass? Do your kids say "gay" when they're happy? Or "queer" when something is odd? Or talk about how pretty the pussywillows are while you try to hide your smirk? Because if you read old books, it's inevitable.

Why I Haven't Vacuumed This Week

Have you read this yet?

I'm about three years behind on new releases, but this book is a new favorite around these parts. If you are looking for an inspiring true story, you can't beat this one. But you might want to cook a week's worth of meals before you start this sucker. At one point, I had three children happily pounding on pots and pans with metal spoons, and that was okay because I was reading without interruptions (as only a mother can do). You'll never look at big mountains or the Starbucks menu or even homeless folks and God the same.

Resting While I Play Catch Up,
Karen