Thursday, May 27, 2010

Death to Dollies

Our two-year-old is a little guy. Sometimes it seems he is the same size now as when he came out.

He is also beloved by his older brothers and they take great pride in teaching him new things.

One of these new things he learned was shown to his father just the other day.

Sneezy came into the room with one of my dolls. There is no cause for concern, though, because what came next was definitely a male thing.

He grabbed it by the neck and in his little, baby chipmunk voice said, "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me!"

He proceeded to punch it in the face, throw it on the floor, and stamp on it with all his might.

Knowing this was not a particular bloodthirsty action he taught his son, Doc couldn't decide if he was shocked or proud. Of course, he didn't have to decide for very long and out came the usual guffaw of delight when his sons prohibit overt manliness.

Sneezy's two oldest brothers exhibited great male pride as they informed me that it was them who had shown Sneezy what's what.

After all, what else is a boy supposed to do when he sees a frilly, little doll?

Monday, May 24, 2010

Just Call Me Rhonda

Growing up, I've never liked my name.

When I was a kid, I went around telling my friends in elementary school that my real name was Rhonda.

To this day, I don't know why I picked that particular name. I guess I liked the sound of it then, though now I'm wondering why I didn't pick something that was more flowery like Heather or Rosalind.

Something majestic like Elizabeth or Katherine would have been better than Rhonda.

Even something like Sunlight or Cream Puff would have been prettier to me than that, for Pete's sake.

Many people mistakenly thought my name was just a couple letters- DJ. I often ended up grinding my teeth trying to explain to them that I had a REAL name. I would have to go into the story of how I received my name upon my birth.

I was named after my father.

They took his first and middle initials and just spelled them out. Problem was everyone called me DJ.

The reason I didn't like this was because I believed that was a boy's name. I would meet boys of all ages with the name DJ. Of course, it was just a nickname, but I ended up being extremely irritated with feminine angst. All of this was compounded by the fact that I was named after a MAN as well.

I was definitely NOT a tomboy. I was a girly girl through and through.

What kind of girl ended up with her knight in shining armor only for him to call her DJ? Only in the books does he call her "Rosalind, my love!"

Even though it was not easy growing up with the name, I have come to terms with it....or so I thought.

Today, I got to talking to my boys about the meaning of their names.

We even googled them.

Definitions like loyal, steadfast, gift of God, peaceful valley, protector, defender, fiery, Christ-bearer, righteous, manly, warrior....the list goes on.

I wanted them to realize that the names their father gave them are something to be proud of.

They are names that are not only rich in meaning, but fit their personalities as well. I know in my heart that the names my husband gave to our sons were also given by God.

Then, Grumpy wanted to know the meaning of my name.

I decided to google my dad's name and the meaning means "white" or "blond". It's also a form of Dionysius who happens to be the Greek god of wine.

Hmmm. Not being blond myself I decided to google my name "Dee".

It means swarthy.

SWARTHY! SWARTHY?

Forget that.

I have decided to just forego the literal meaning of my name and be happy with the fact that I was named after a man that I love and respect.

He is a man who dedicates his life to God and taught me about Him. He is a man who God has His hand on. He is a wonderful father and grandfather.

I am proud to bear his name.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Clean Up

One of my most challenging jobs as a mother to sons is teaching them how to clean.

Sometimes I often wonder if it is a lesson in futility.

First of all, each one of them has a serious Peter Pan complex. All play and no work.

My house clearly reveals this concept.

I have designated them each a kitchen chore. One has to sweep the floor, another has to empty the dishwasher, another has to clear off the table, and the last has to fill the dishwasher.

They do their jobs, but that's it.

Therefore, the table still has crumbs, the kitchen counters are covered in empty containers and leftover food, and pots and pans are waiting to be scrubbed.

Makes me think I need to have more children just to get the job done. But since my body protests this idea profusely, I must clean up after my children clean up.

Even other rooms in the house need my particular attention after the boys have "cleaned up".

They will say that they are done and since I take this as a grain of salt, I must inspect the area. Of course, they have no idea that the carpet needs to be vacuumed and Lord forbid they have to dust.

Dust? What do ya mean, dust?

And since they treat the floor like a trash can, there is always a fine layer of crumbs and pieces of trash littered all over.

You would think they were blind.

Just the other day, I found cheese in the couch.

You might say, "Just forbid them from eating in the living room."

I might say, "And you think I haven't?"

You might say, "Then, you must follow through on that."

I might say, "Then I'd be spanking butts all day every day not to mention they are sneaky, little fellows."

Thus, the cheese hiding in the couch.

Since I am not omniscient and stringing them up by the ankles won't work either, I have decided they are going to clean up their own crap.

This is kind of like potty training.

They will be learning how to clean for the rest of their lives.

Until someday they make the excuse to their wives and talk about how hard they work all day to bring home the bacon and they have made their contribution to the family blah, blah, blah.

Whatever.

Fairy Tale Crow

I can tell that I'm getting old because recently I've been relying on coffee to give me that added boost.

Growing up, I watched all the adults in my life gulp the nasty stuff down as if their lives depended on it. I often thought, "Why in the world would someone drink something that tastes like liquid cardboard?"

Well, I've discovered the chemistry of doctoring up the vileness. If you put enough creamer and sugar in it, voila! Liquid dessert.

I've become desperate enough to try it. I realize it's not the end of the world. After all, it's just coffee. It's not like it's a definite sign of old age.

Gray hair is, though.

I have long hair down to the middle of my back. Doc has even called me Rapunzel. I've grown it this long because it's camouflage. People have to look closely to guess my age.

Or maybe I'm just fooling myself.

I'm not going to dwell on that too much.

Anyway, I discovered something about myself that doesn't really boost my morale.

I went on a recent camping trip with my parents in their darling home on wheels. Their bathroom has a skylight and standing in front of their mirror with the light shining down was very revealing.

That little bathroom wasn't so darling anymore.

With my mouth falling to the floor, I lifted up layers of hair to find strands of gray that had been laying in wait for me to discover.

My mother has assured me that I have a few years left before I have to absolutely do something about the gray. She had to assure me this in a very calm voice because her daughter was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I kept imagining myself looking like those long-haired crows in the children's fairy tales. You know, the ones that like to put children in a big, boiling cauldron and eat them. The gray-haired ones that have that cackling laugh as they stir with a big, wooden spoon while their long hair keeps getting into the liquid.

When I start growing a beard, I'll tell Doc to send me to the circus.

He just might.