paste can't quench my thirst for glue

Pinga doesn't like us to eat at other people's houses, I guess. Last Tuesday she barfed in the car on our way to the Beardens' for a Voice Male FHE (minus the lesson, because we have got a lesson, and there cannot be any more lesson), and then tonight after we got home from John's parents' house she barfed some sort of black, tarry substance all over John's shirt, and is still going strong three barfs later. She got some in her hair, and that is the saddest sight, a little girl with blackish green barf all matted in her golden curls. Sniff.

Barf is a weird word. We don't know for sure what it is that has caused her ailment, but whatever it is, it's probably garbage. Like, literal garbage. I need to start putting the can where she can't reach it, because she's always ferreting around in there for goodies. So weird. Maybe she has pica. I ate sand and glue when I was little, is she better than me?

I can't wait to try this out

Parenting tip: when her kids fight, my friend Christine makes them hold hands until they say "I love you." Who cares if it's effective or not? It's hilarious and probably less traumatic than what my grandpa did, which was make my uncles put on their boxing gloves and punch each other until they could get along.

duly warned

Upon seeing the stacks of boxes I had moved out of the fruit room:

Superman: "Ooh, I just love getting into things I shouldn't!"
Me: "Well, I love spanking disobedient children, so that should work out nicely."

in which my children use their powers for evil

It was a collaborative effort from Captain America and The Hulk. I hope they progress beyond using their artistic ability to compose juvenile Star Wars fanfic.

Pretty cool that Jabba farts out of his stomach, though.

not yet, anyway

Me: "What are you doing? What do you need?"
Superman: "Uh, I was just wondering if 'party on the dance now' is a swear word?"

phantom pain

John's mom has said that she always hated going to the beach, because she had eight kids and she spent the entire day counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, over and over again, making sure they were all there.

I found myself repeatedly counting and coming up short this weekend. I would wonder, "Why are there only five? Who's missing?"

And then I would remember.

Mormons are usually a fairly amiable bunch at funerals, I think partly because we are a childlike people, but also because we know where our loved ones have gone. But the separation is painful all the same, and part of grieving is to recognize the loss, and the change that is being forced upon you. There are copious tears shed in the midst of the celebration of a life well lived.

This afternoon John and I were watching a video of their Christmas concert at Abravanel Hall. It was good to see everyone laughing and singing together again; to see the right side of the stage stealing focus like always while the left side waits patiently/exasperatedly for them to get their wiggles out. To hear Phil explain quietly that wherever Heidi is, there is where he is home. To hear him earnestly request us to help others to find the feeling of home.

I imagine that for a long time we will find ourselves counting and missing someone, or listening and wondering where the note is that makes the entire chord lock into place. But I know that we will then be reminded that he is not lost; he has simply returned whence he came.

the wood was so gummy, and my knife was so sharp

Yesterday while everything on my inside wanted to be on my outside, we got a call from the school saying that The Hulk had stapled his thumb. So John got to take him to the doctor while I spent four hours in the tub, avoiding interaction with Superman, who was attempting to break the TV. As the kid from Overboard would say, it was a hell of a day at sea.

Monday evening we were driving home after having a wretchedly disgusting dinner with John, and I let the kids watch Pee-wee's Big Adventure. During the part when Pee-wee is accidentally riding a bull, Pinga shouted, "IT'S A GOAT . . . oh, no, 's not a goat. 'S a hohsey. YEAH, HOHSEY!" I told her, "That's not a horse, it's a bull." She cried out, "YEAH, BULL!" She's rad.