Over the past six months, our three have become valiant and zealous practitioners of the martial arts. As you can see, it has already instilled them with responsibility, a hard work ethic, and self-discipline.
Wax on, wax off
6 Six
Snow blows.
Winter, 2011…
A family of five would bundle up and brave every snowfall. Together we’d roll snowballs over the white, picturesque hills in our backyard until we’d given rise to a family of snowmen, snowwomen, snowchildren. I’d pull the kids’ sleds uphill until my legs gave out. Afterward, I’d whip up a round of hot chocolate, and we’d gather around the hearth and sip like we were posing for a Norman Rockwell painting. (OK, there was no hearth.)
Five years later…
Doug pokes his head in the door during his first hour of snow-blowing. “Are you watching her?” he growls, nodding in the direction of Anna, who has suited up and is rolling around in the foot-high snow drifts piled on our deck. “She can get buried in that sh*t.”
“Of course I’m watching her,” I snap. “Every so often, I stand by the window and wave.” I search for the cleanest part of the window and snap a picture through it.
Five minutes later…
Anna bursts through the door, drenched from hat to boots. “Can I have hot chocolate?” she asks sweetly.
“You weren’t even out there for fifteen minutes!” is my indignant response. “Do I need to fix you a cup of hot chocolate every time you step outside?”
“But I really need it,” she pleads. A puddle of water begins to gather at her feet.
I sigh. “You never drink the hot chocolate. You just eat the marshmallows and leave the rest behind. Can’t I just get you a marshmallow instead?”
Forty-five minutes later…
A cup of hot chocolate sits cold on the table, minus the marshmallows, a chocolatly syrupy mass on the bottom of the cup.
“Why didn’t you drink your hot chocolate?” I demand.
“I’m waiting for it to cool down,” she shrugs.
Two hours later…
Doug bursts in, face red, blood boiling right through his Arctic-extreme Yukon overalls. He is grumbling about the snow, Connecticut taxes, the governor, and how I’d refused to up and leave this godforsaken state while we still had the chance.
I smile, search the database in my brain for some kind of consolation, and pull out the only thing I’ve got.
“Can I get you a cup of hot chocolate?”
This bed’s not big enough for the 83 of us
My six-year-old has a queen-sized bed. At first I wondered if it might be excessive. Last night, I tiptoed into her room after she was asleep and found the bed comprised 70% life-sized Olaf, 20% Beanie Boos, 9.5% stretched-out cat, and Anna, who was dangling like Wile E. Coyote from the edge of a cliff. Next stop: the California King.
Time to make up
During these tough economic times, it’s comforting that at the very least we’re funding the Avon Lady’s beach house in Malibu.