bus stop hooligans

Oh, the sweet sounds of children after the first big snow of winter!

"Look at the snowballs I can make!"

"Let's follow the tracks!  They're amazing!"

"I'm making snow angels!"

"It's like skating in my boots!"

"I was trying to build a fort but then the gay bus came and ruined it!  That f#@*ing bus always ruins everything!  G#dd#*n bus!"

The dreaded bus stop.  The girl with crossed arms is the only non-hooligan.

Oh from the mouths of babes!  That last little gem issued forth from the cherubic face of an eight-year-old at the Dictator's bus stop.  And did I mention that the snow angels and the skating were occurring in the middle of the icy street?

I wish I could say that this was unusual, that these were generally sweet little children who happened to be seized by a momentary seasonal fervor and, say, Turrets.  But alas, we are beset by bus stop hooligans and no efforts of mine seems to be able to thwart their insanity.

Now, unlike the Dictator, or even the Bureaucrat, I lack the ability to be truly assertive, even amongst the tinier set.  But as the only adult present, I've had to try (and, I think, fail).  For example, I don't say anything when the 3rd grader, the 4th grader and the tag-along 1st and 2nd graders--all orphans, apparently--play tackle tag in the neighbors' yards, shrieking maniacally all the while.  The neighbors can do that, should they feel so compelled.  Nor do I say a word when they cross the street to "play with" another neighbor's dog through the fence.  But when one 2nd grader goes after another one with a tree branch, I feel it necessary to step in.  And they look at me like I'm the first adult that's ever told them that it might not be a fantastic idea to go all Lord of the Flies on each other.  And when I told my own little darlings that they weren't allowed to follow the hooligans into the street for a game of "Throw Yourself Face First into a Puddle of Water in the Midst of Oncoming Traffic," I was bestowed the (mumbled) title of "B#tch" by a smug 3rd grader-going-on-sixteen-year-old. 

The Anarchist weeps at the bus stop, as even she realizes that the world is going to hell in a handbasket.

Maybe we live in a particularly rough neighborhood.  It seems, from my inquiries into the matter, that at other bus stops on the fancier side of town, where children are blessed with such luxuries as parents, things are different.  Adults don't let six-year-olds run amok, out of sight, out of mind.  But we don't live in such ostentatious places. We live in a place where, as of right now, I am the only parent willing to show my face in elementary school society.  And show it I will, right up until the time they graduate (okay, maybe not...I don't want to breed social outcasts).



The fact of the matter is--and this may be elitist, but so be it--I don't want them picking up the habits/and attitudes of their uncivilized (and often mean-spirited) peers.  The Dictator is already learning a slew of new vocabulary (none of which will be appearing on spelling tests any time in the future).  And while the Anarchist delights in the anarchy, I think that her tendency to run blindly into the street might be something that calls for constant adult supervision.  So I'll be the (apparently, only) protective mom.  And I'll try to be okay with it.  Or maybe I'll just home school instead.  After all, if they learn any obscenity, I want it to be from me.

The Dictator emerges from the bus unscathed...for now.

just my type

Every now and then, I find it amusing to indulge in a little personality typing.  I hadn't run my family through the Myers-Briggs in a while, so I thought I'd take the personality test for them and see what the results were:

This is how a bureaucrat dances

The Bureaucrat: ESTJ (supervisor)

So, my husband is the complete opposite of me.  We create balance for each other, I guess. He likes order, orthodoxy, rules, responsibility, and all other sorts of bureaucrat-y type things.  Not surprisingly, several sites listed a whole lotta presidents as ESTJs, including George Washington and Dub-ya.  Also present in this clan of bureaucrats: Judge Judy, Sandra Day O'Connor, the Reverend Billy Graham, and Dan Rather (I do so like the way that young man reads the news).

The Dictator strikes a world domination pose.

The Dictator: INTJ (mastermind)

Oh, Dictator, you are such a dictator!  Gifted, opportunistic, perfectionistic and impassive.  Guess who's on the list of fellow INTJs?  Donald Rumsfeld (world domination, anyone?), Rudy Giuliani, Hillary Clinton, Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy, Jane Austen herself, a whole slew of presidents, and last, but certainly not least, Hannibal Lecter (as in, I'm going to eat you with fava beans and a nice Chianti).  Fantastic!

Our little party girl.

The Anarchist: ESFP (performer)

The Anarchist is our social party girl who loves to talk.  How very ESFP of her!  She shares this type with Bob Hope, Arsenio Hall, my own personal childhood hero Mary Lou Retton, Kathy Lee Gifford, and best of all, Tim the Toolman Taylor.  Note the lack of presidents.

She would totally eat your face, given the opportunity.

The Fat Assassin: INTJ (mastermind)

I'm fairly certain our family pet shares a personality type with my eldest daughter...and Hannibal Lecter.

See how much I look like a squishy alien?

and Me:  INFP (healer)

Of course, I get the childlike, fluffy, squishy personality type.  I would be disgusted with myself, but at least I get some hardcore ethical perfectionism thrown into the mix, just to give me a little personality street cred.  And I'm in good company: Homer, Virgil, the Virgin Mary, Annie Dillard (personal adulthood hero), Shakespeare, a couple of prominent saints, and E.T....yeah, the extraterrestrial.  Sounds about right.



And I'm infinitely curious about everyone else in the universe, too.  If you know your type, leave it in the comments...just for fun.

Santa Baby...

I think I've mentioned before that the Morton children are not known for their austerity.  Maybe I've also mentioned that us Morton's aren't exactly rolling around in piles of cash right now.  So Christmas, in all its commercial glory, has become a particularly interesting time for us.  Trying to curb the greed of the Dictator and the manic excitement of the Anarchist is a formidable task.  And while I'm tackling things on the moral/theological front, we still have quite a way to go in turning our crazy tiny people into thoughtful, compassionate human beings who create manageable Christmas lists.

Step One: Limit Christmas Lists to 10 Items per Kiddo

The Anarchist did a remarkable job keeping her list neatly pared down to 10 items.  But then she kept changing it.  It turns out she's three-years-old and an anarchist, and therefore has little to no understanding of limitations.

The Dictator, on the other hand, attempted many sly tactics to increase her list's yield: clumping two or three similar items together, asking for expensive gift sets (only $60 for 5 Princesses!), and insisting that while it may be reasonable for Mom and Dad to ask for a pared down list, Santa is a man of unlimited resources, and will therefore be willing to dole out plentiful gifts without restriction.

The Anarchist and the Dictator, victorious after Santa Visit

Great.  So that didn't work.  Especially when I mentioned to the Dictator that she might not get everything on her list.  There were two hours of hysterical weeping.  You would have thought the Chuggington character she was in danger of not receiving was a beloved relative breathing his last breath.  On the other hand, I did overhear her say to the Anarchist, "Now, Anarchist, you have to remember that won't get everything on your list.  Not all of it, Anarchist.  So don't be disappointed.  Because you won't get everything..." (Hooray!  She understands!), "But I will get everything on my list, Anarchist, because I have a good list."  (Never mind).

Step 2: Avoid the Overly Commercial Aspects of the Holiday

I think I failed this step utterly when I took them to the mall to see Santa yesterday.  Or maybe it was when we walked through the toy section of Target last week and they begged incessantly for things and I told them to ask for them for Christmas. Or maybe it was when I bought them adorable Christmas-themed dresses to wear to school.  Or possibly it was when the Dictator absconded with all of the toy ads from the stack of mail on the coffee table and used them to make collages of all the things she "needed."  Oh boy. 

Step 3: Cultivate Compassion

I took the opportunity to explain that not every kid has lots of toys and food when the Dictator came home with a Toys for Tots flier in her backpack.  The thing I forget is that the Dictator most likely believes that the "Tots'" lack of toys will simply be greater incentive for them to pull themselves up by their tiny bootstraps.  At least, that is what I deduced from the strange look she gave me when I mentioned "homelessness."

The Dictator recounts her extensive Christmas list

Step 4:  Teach Financial Responsibility

Maybe if the Dictator and the Anarchist understand the concept of budgeting, they will understand the dangers of greed, frivolous spending and debt.  When the Anarchist asks me for a piece of Christmas tchotchke while shopping, I quickly explain to her that Mommy didn't have any extra money to pay for the piece of useless plastic.  "But don't you have MONEY?!"  she asks, confused.  "Mommy has credit card debt, Sweetie.  Mommy doesn't have any money," I respond.  "Oh, okay!  You can pay with CREDIT CARD DEBT!  THAT would be okay!  You can buy these with some CREDIT CARD DEBT!" she shouts to the entire store.

The Anarchist at the mall, learning to be a responsible consumer...or something like that.

Take two.  As I'm getting ready to run errands, the Anarchist asks to get a toy car while we're at the store.  I tell her "no" because we have no money.  Two minutes later, I hear her heaving herself down the stairs, lugging the giant bucket in which the Dictator stores (stingily) her pennies.  "What are you doing with the Dictator's bucket?!" I demand.  "See, Mommy.  I got you some money.  NOW you can buy me a car!" she exclaims proudly.

Step 5: Give up in Defeat

Maybe reason and compassion aren't concepts upon which I should be expecting kids under the age of five to have an excellent grasp.  Maybe there's still time to teach about poverty, financial responsibility, fair trade, commercialism and the like.  At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself as I watch the Dictator rock herself in a fetal position as she tries to cope with the grief of getting only 9 of the 10 (AKA 18 of the 20) things on her Christmas list.  Because they look so cute when they're giddy with anticipation, and I think maybe there's a fighting chance they won't be total spoiled brats.  I, on the other hand, have a list a mile long.  So if anyone's looking for ways to express their generosity to me this holiday season, let me know...I'll email you my list.  And I promise to only cry a little if I don't get everything on it.

The Dictator and the Anarchist bid Santa Claus farewell, and salivate over their anticipated stacks of toys.

confessions of a recovering hypochondriac

This year, as cold and flu season rolls around I am behaving in a seemingly normal fashion.  Both my kids have had flu shots, but I haven't had time to get mine yet.  I wash my hands regularly, but sometimes I forget to keep them away from my face.  I appreciate it when other people cover their coughs, but I'll get over it if they don't.

If the above paragraph seems unremarkable to you, then you obviously weren't one of the blessed few who got to spend last cold and flu season with me.  You see, last year I had, in layman's terminology, hypochondria.  Or as the psych professionals would call it, "health related anxiety.  Or as the Bureaucrat would probably put it, Crazygirlwhothinksshe'sgoingtodieprettymuchconstantlyitis. A selfish, crazy, evil little old lady didn't cover her cough correctly in the grocery store?  She was sure to be infected with Tuberculosis (H1N1 was for sissies...I had already "died" of it six times over) and I was next.  The small paper cut on my finger that was persistently stingy was probably going to usher in my last days on earth, because you can't have a paper cut without a serious blood infection.  And what about that time I got "chronic, slow-onset bacterial meningitis?"*  Sounds like a blast, no?  Turns out I slept funny on my neck and it was just a little sore...or was it?

Vanquishing mold in a more recent super-crazy moment.  No, it didn't kill me, but I'm convinced that it almost did.

The good news is, even though I still get a touch paranoid from time to time, the worst of it seems to be over.  I caught myself getting a little nervous after taking the Anarchist to the pediatrician for an ear infection. (The Anarchist, on the other hand was totally unfazed, having received her much cherished, post-appointment "lolly.")  What if I caught it, it developed and got worse, and it was never treated (because no doctor worth their salt believes an adult has an ear infection)?  And then it would spread to my brain, and of course I would probably die of bacterial meningitis brought on by medical neglect...oh woe is me, etc.  But this is just a temporary foray into paranoia (I think).  I haven't been to my doctor in almost a year, so the receptionists can no longer think of me as "that nice crazy girl."  My kidneys, liver and heart are of little concern to me now.  And my hands no longer bleed from over-washing.

The Anarchist appears unconcerned that she suffers from an infection so near to her brain. 

Still, I kind of wish I wasn't forever being inundated with "helpful" health information.  I could do without the posters plastered all over the pediatrician's office warning of whooping cough dangers.  And the Christmas tree in the park festooned with the warning signs of esophageal cancer/imminent doom really felt over-the-top.  But maybe that's just me.  Because I may be getting better...but I'm still a crazy person.  Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go wash my hands.  I have the strangest feeling that this keyboard is covered with a rare and deadly bacteria...


*I made this rare and deadly disease up myself by mashing two actual rare and (pretty) deadly diseases together.  Sure it doesn't exist (yet).  But there's always a first!

Parenting Tip of the Week: the TV is your friend

Tip #2: Learn to Love the Television

If you're a mom you've heard this from someone, somewhere, perhaps even from lots of people everywhere.  It's the lie we all tell (for real, they did a study): "My kids rarely watch TV."  Maybe you've been the one saying it.  We all like to pretend that our kids watch less TV than they do, or if there's no hope of truly hiding the amount they watch, we like to pretend that we're sincerely worried about their television watching habits.  Admit it, you've done it.

Now, I'm willing to believe there are a few people here and there--the same people that religiously wear their children, make homemade organic baby food from vegetables they grew especially for the purpose, only let their children play with wooden handmade toys, and piped Mozart into their wombs for 9 straight months--who don't actually let their children watch television.  If you are one of these people, kudos to you.  Really.  I'm very impressed.  Your children are going to have lots of brain cells when they grow up.  But can I please let you know that you're missing out on the many benefits that endless hours of television can provide for you and your children?

The Anarchist and the Dictator spend a special day at Aunt Nennie's work entranced by a kids show on the computer screen.  Never mind the fair going on outside with the bouncers, popcorn, bubbles and face-painting.  (To be fair, it was like, 90 degrees out, and they were avoiding sunstroke.  See?  Sometimes TV/TV-alternatives can be useful!)

Benefits of TV Watching

They'll stop moving around so much*

Most of you have already figured this one out.  Sick of tiny whirlwinds of destruction turning your house into a black hole of chaos?  Turn on the TV.  They will sit entranced like happy zombies.  Boo-Ya.  Problem solved.  You're welcome.

You will survive the first 4 months of having a colicky baby

Okay, so even I am sickened by the idea of television for infants.  Confession: we were actually those natural toys/baby wearing/TV-not-having people for a while.  Our TV was hidden in the deep recesses of our home and we pretended to like it that way.  After all, we didn't want it corrupting our precious and fragile gift from heaven.  But it turned out our precious and fragile gift from heaven never slept.  EVER.  And at 4 am it can get very lonely when it's just you and a fitful, screaming Dictator.  So we dragged out the TV, turned it on and tried to stay awake and sane.  Much to our surprise, the glowing blue box seemed to calm the Dictator enough that she would actually sleep for entire 20 minute stretches.  We were sold.   

They'll kill a few braincells

This sounds just awful, but if you've ever met our Dictator, or if you have a child like her, you'll understand.  Some children actually need less brain cells.  That way, even though they are bent on world domination, there's a small chance they might not have the brainpower to follow through on their diabolical plans.  This is a good thing for both your child and the world.** (Note: if your child is neither hyper-neurotic, nor bent on world domination, killing braincells might actually be a bad thing).

They might even learn to read

The Dictator picked up a book in the library one day after 3-Year-Old Story Time and just started to read.  She's been reading ever since.  I'm not saying that it was the steady diet of PBS kids she grew up on, but what I will say is, "Thank you 'Super Readers.'"

 You will get to groom yourself

Are those unintentional dreadlocks you're sporting?  Yeah.  I thought so.  Pop in "Caillou" and start brushing.  You'll be glad you did (and so will everyone who has to look at you).


You might even get to eat 

Shoveling a handful of dried Cheerios into your yaw on the fly is no substitute for a nice, home-cooked bowl of microwaveable instant oatmeal.  Assuaging your unnecessary parenting guilt about 15 minutes of TV time for your 2 year old is not worth self-starvation.  Eat!  For the love of all that is good in the world, eat!  Put some meat on those bones!  You're wasting away!  (I sometimes think I might be possessed by an Italian grandmother...if only she would help me make a decent lasagna!)

You will maintain your sanity (sometimes)

Those of us who let our kids watch the occasional TV show are so tired of lying and posturing to look like supermoms.  'Cause we're not.  I may or may not have caught the Anarchist in the acts of eating sunscreen straight from the tube, standing on her tiptoes on her windowsill,  and sitting on her highchair tray at the ripe old age of 1.  So, yes, not supermom.  But having the television on now and then has kept me sane, and that, my friends, is priceless. 

*I'm a little scared that someday someone is going to call Child Protective Services after reading this blog.  I'm hoping that everyone gets that this is tongue-in-cheek, right?  Right?  I mean, the Dictator hasn't actually staged a military coup in a small Central American country...yet.  And the only thing the Fat Assassin has assassinated is a very small spider, who I think was already missing a few of his legs. And I actually enjoy my children immensely...even when they're moving around.

**If your child does happen to be a budding dictator, be advised that we strongly recommend against any television with commercials.  It will just give them ideas.  Stick with PBS.  You'll be glad you did.  And so will several small, Central American countries.

the Dictator's 10 Commandments

Me:  "Dictator, a long, long time ago, God gave some people some really important rules to live by.  Do you know what those rules are?"

the Dictator (shrugging, disinterestedly): "No."

Me:  "Well, why don't you think about what rules might be the most important.  You can make them up if you don't know."

the Dictator (eyes lighting up with crazed joy at the idea of creating rules): "Okay!  Here is what everyone should do.  These are the good rules."

The Ten Good Rules

(given unto the Morton's from the mouth of the Dictator)

Never ever mess up something.

No tossing stuff around (unless it's flowers...in a bouquet).

No punching anybody.

No kicking.

No swinging on anything.  Well, you can swing on swings.  That would be so silly if you couldn't swing on swings.  That's what they're for.

No throwing your food on the floor.*

No spilling water.**

No knocking over people's stuff.

No going like this.***

No breaking boxes that have food and stuff in them.  Because then you'll break my graham crackers...and I won't eat them if they're broken...ever.

*the Dictator proceeded to demonstrate a violation of this precept by tossing a strawberry to the ground in a dramatic fashion.

**Much like the sin of Onan, spilling water is a grievous waste of resources.  I wonder if the Dictator is familiar with the sin of Onan.  I sure hope not.  The Bureaucrat and I once did an entire presentation on it in health class in college...because we were seniors in a class full of freshman and couldn't be bothered to take presentations on birth control seriously.  Anyway, I hope the Dictator didn't find our visual aids from that presentation.  That might be a problem.  That stick figure was up to no good.  Although he did get smote...so at least there's a moral...I guess.  I'm pretty sure we threw the poster away.  Why would we keep it?  And why are you still reading this?

***the Dictator proceeds to careen wildly about the room like a drunkard, finally sliding headlong on her belly into the coffee table.  Do as she says, not as she does.

I've got a picture of Jesus...and he has some really strange growth on the side of his face...it worries me.

Drawing the Divine: A Study in Spiritual Visualization...and stickers.

As a continuation of my earlier work in discovering the spiritual lives of my children, I decided to see what they envisioned when they were presented with certain ideas/spiritual figures, etc.  Would God look like Santa Claus on a cloud?  Would the Baby Jesus look like a baby carrot with a pacifier, like he does in the Dictator's Veggie Tales Christmas book?  Here are the results, after much deliberating and careful crayon work at the kitchen table:


God (the speedy prince charming):



The Anarchist's first drawing was of a race car because, "I don't want to draw those other things."  When she finished her race car, she got a fresh sheet of paper and declared, "Okay, now I'm going to draw a beautiful picture of God!"  Not surprisingly, this rendition of the Creator of the Universe does bear a striking resemblance to her earlier race car work, with the tasteful addition of a "shirt." Later, God was plastered with sparkly stickers to indicate his importance.

 The Dictator apparently envisions God as her ideal male, an amalgam of every Disney prince she's ever encountered.  Note the puffed sleeves of the tunic, the perfect bowl cut of the shiny black hair, and the elaborately laced shoes.  Our God is indeed a fancy God.





 Jesus (Jesus, Jesus rest your head, because apparently, that's all there is of you to rest):





This is the Anarchist's baby Jesus, or at least, the disembodied head of the baby Jesus.  It's a little disconcerting, like the infant Wizard of Oz or something...only way more adorable...and divine.


Note the strange growth on the side of Baby Jesus' face.  It's harder to see in this photo, but it's really quite prominent.  Is the Anarchist suggesting that Jesus was a leper?







The Dictator presents a charming manger scene, with baby Jesus hanging out way off to the side, apparently snoozing...or being shunned...maybe because he's purple.








The Holy Spirit (like you could come up with anything better):

The Anarachist drew this line, which I find is a surprisingly apt way to relate such an abstract and ethereal figure.  Either that, or she was trying to make the letter "N."  There's really no telling.

The Dictator imagines the Holy Spirit as a house.  I'd like to think there's some profound metaphorical reason for this, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because she has no idea what the Holy Spirit is, and she really just wanted to draw a house.






Angels (sorta):



The Anarchist gave up at this point, and proceeded to work on the letter "N."  It's coming along nicely.

The Dictator has angel/fairy confusion.  This is a "bird angel."  It sprinkles pixie dust on all the birds.  It was really just an excuse to plaster the paper with sparkly bird stickers.

The voice of one crying out in the desert, "Prepare ye the way of the...oh, never mind."

It's that time of year again.  The time of year where I am once again reminded of my moral failings as a parent as my children greedily obsess over the endless lists of toys they demand in order to successfully celebrate the humble birth of the Prince of Peace.

But this year's going to be different.  This year I'm going to be prepared.  This year I'm going to teach them about the real meaning of Christmas (and no, not the part where we just kinda co-opted a pagan holiday to appease the masses and win more converts...the other part...the part about incarnation).

The problem is where to begin.  I decided to do a basic theological survey of their tiny belief systems in order to better understand what framework of belief these kids are already operating within.  What patchwork of pop culture, Veggie Tales, nightmares, commercials, and various tiny bits of church do they use to inform their belief in the metaphysical?  Do they have a belief in the metaphysical? (I have been given reason to believe, on many occasions, that the Dictator is a raving Atheist).  I decided to find out.

Speaking of Faith: the Bitty God Interviews

Okay girls, why do we celebrate Christmas?

The Dictator: To have love.  And to celebrate Jesus' birthday.  (Hooray!  Score one orthodox belief by osmosis!) 

The Anarchist:  I like princesses.  (Boo!  Hiss!  Score one for Satan somehow working through princesses).

Who is Jesus?

The Dictator:  Someone who saves people from bad things.  Like having bad dreams.  (Aww...)

The Anarchist:  Somebody who is like...<holds hands about 2 feet apart>...this long.  She's like this big.  (And apparently the Anarchist has quite the feminist theology going on here.)

What was Jesus' mommy's name?

the Dictator:  Mary

the Anarchist:  Molly (Well...it is a diminutive of Mary, so I guess we'll give partial credit.) 

What about Jesus' daddy?

the Dictator:  Joseph


the Anarchist: Michael.  (Uh oh.  Does she think that she's Jesus?)

Okay, Mommy's going to ask a follow up question.  Jesus had an adoptive daddy.  But he also had a really special, important real daddy.  Do you know who that daddy is?

the Dictator:  <looks at me like I'm nuts>

the Anarchist:  His name is Grandpa Drex.

Where was Jesus born?

the Dictator:  A stable.  (Follow up question.  What is a stable?)  I dunno.

the Anarchist:  In a car.   

(The Dictator laughed uproariously at this one, but I feel like it's what might have been the result of "No room at the inn," or "No room on the Labor and Delivery Unit," in this day and age.) 

What are angels?

the Dictator: They have a dress and be on the star of the stable.  They are happy about being up there.

the Anarchist:  It goes very fast.  Like vroom, vroom!  (Oh geez, she thinks angels are cars.)

What did the 3 Wise Men do?

the Dictator:  They talked about the baby.  "We should give this baby gifts!"  (Follow up question.  Why?)  Just for love.  (Awww...I think I can work with this!)

the Anarchist:  They are Kabah, BaaBaa, and Doggie.  (Okay, so she just named them.  Whatever.  She's three. What do you want from her?)

Why do we pray?

the Dictator:  To thank God for food and toys and stuff.  (Oh, so she has been paying attention when we say grace!  I guess just because she refuses to pray herself, doesn't mean that she has no concept of why other people do it!)

the Anarchist (sweetly folds her hands and mimics Precious Moments figure): Dear God, <incoherent mumble>, A-MEN!  (To which the dictator responds, "You hate MEN??!") 

What's God like?

the Dictator: <shrug>

the Anarchist (with a great deal of certainty):  Like, THIS big! (She does the hand motion thing again.  God is, it turns out, physically larger than Jesus.  Makes sense.)

Where is God?

the Dictator:  God lives in a big castle at Canada.  In the castle, God has lots of food and stuff...and furniture.

the Anarchist:  At his family house with his mama and his daddy.

Where is heaven?  (I tried this one only after my initial question, "What is heaven?" drew blank stares.)

the Dictator:  Canada?

the Anarchist:  At Grammy's house.

Who made everything? (It's a loaded question, I know.) 

the Dictator:  You.  (Hmm...I like it, but it smacks of blasphemy.)

 the Anarchist:  I did. <pause, and then in an awed voice, right out of a kid's Sunday school film> God.

What is sin?

the Dictator:  I don't know.  (Don't worry she's not done yet.)  Somewhere that you go...a great place.  Real talking birdies fly there.  And it has beautiful princesses, like Barbies, or Disney princesses live there.  Like Tiana and Ariel.  Lots of princesses...like Princess Potty (don't ask).  THOSE kinds of princesses.

the Anarchist:  It's like, somebody.  Like a friend.

(Oh dear.  Certain denominations would not be pleased.)

What are your thoughts on predestination and freewill.  Which one do you find dominates your personal theology?

the Dictator (after demanding that I explain these concepts to her):  I think that we were always going to do the things that we do. 

the Anarchist (without hesitation):  I like freewill.

So far, I've come to the conclusion the the Dictator has a very kindgom-based theology.  Which I can work with.  Of course, it's not Kingdom of God, Prince of Peace, powers and principalities, and the like, which would be highly convenient.  But I think I can work with her fairy tale images.  At least I have a starting point.  The Anarchist will be a bit more of a challenge.  I think in her mind she envisions God (the Father...we're not even getting into the trinity, until they're, like, 30) and Jesus on a racetrack, burning rubber, spinning out, and "vrooming" past one another.  "Eat my dust!" says Jesus.  But really, in the end, God will have the upper hand, because he's like, this tall.

 P.S. There's more fun with kiddie theology to come.  Look for "The Dictator's 10 Commandments" and "Pictures of God," soon!
  

"Good" Housekeeping Tip of the Week: Housekeeping Alternatives

 Tip #2: Housekeeping Alternatives

Of course, it would be lovely to keep a clean and orderly house all of the time.  But let's be honest, who really wants to?  Okay, so I know there are a few of you crazy people out there who actually enjoy the process of scrubbing, vacuuming, washing and dusting, but I just can't see the draw.  So I've prepared a list of useful alternatives to housekeeping for those times when you really would rather not.

Get Out

If you and your loved ones are not at home, you're not making a mess and you probably aren't noticing the mess that is already dominating your home.  School functions, extracurricular activities, library trips, errands, and dining out are all good ways to stay the heck away from that place you'd rather not clean.  Already done all that?  Why not get creative and schedule a family tour of your local water filtration plant, accounting firm or halfway house?  With all that crazy good fun on the calendar, there will be very little time to breathe, let alone glance around the house and realize you're living in squalor.

Get a Maid


First, of course, you must become wealthy.  If you're already wealthy, you might want to consider becoming wealthier so that you can hire a personal chef as well. 


Get Important


Have you ever noticed that really important people are never really expected to do much outside of their realm of importance?  So you're a little eccentric, live with 18 cats, hoard donkeys, sleep on your stacks of Encylopedias, etc.  It's acceptable because after all, you're a genius/innovator/famous person/prodigy.  I haven't mastered this one myself, but I'm working on it.


Get Sick

I got sick this week...cold...nasty thing.  Anyway, when I got sick no one expected me to do anything.  It was glorious.  I had a built in excuse to lounge on the couch and have people bring me food and take care of themselves.  The few times the Bureaucrat suggested that I make a meal, clean the coffee pot, or empty the dishwasher, I had but to remind him that this would give him my germs and he immediately set about doing these things for himself.  He even put the Dictator and the Anarchist to bed without my having to ask.

This got me thinking.  If I could enjoy the benefits of lounging and being served with a cold, how much more enjoyable would these things be without the nasty headache, raw throat, dizziness, malaise, and overall feeling of impending doom?  There's no telling!

Don't get me wrong, sometimes I just lay around and hope the house will magically clean itself even when I'm perfectly healthy.  But then I don't get sympathetic people offering to do things for me; I get indignant complaints about why I'm not serving quickly enough (the Dictator), or keeping things neat enough (the Bureaucrat), or being cuddly enough (the Anarchist), or making my fleshy calves available enough (the Fat Assassin).

So the solution, I think, is to feign illness on those days when you just aren't really sick.  That way, no one complains about your laziness and you don't have those nasty side effects like vomiting and...well...you know.  I really think I'm onto something here.  Now if only I could kick that nasty conscience of mine and I'd be all set.

Best of the Anarchist and the Dictator

Here at the Morton household, we're all sick.  Well, we're all sick with the exception of the Bureaucrat who never gets sick...because that would be inefficient.  But I'm afraid if I don't keep posting to this thing, I might lose my momentum.  I operate completely on momentum, so that would be a sad, sad, thing.  What would the world do without hearing more random Morton-ness?  

So in the spirit of keeping this thing going, here's a look back at some of the best quotes from the Anarchist and the Dictator this year:

The Dictator on Men:

the Dictator: "Maybe I will marry someone from my preschool class when I get bigger." 

Me: "You never know. Is there someone from your preschool class you would like to marry?" 
the Dictator (blushing): "Yes. Someone very special." 

Me: "Oh really? Who?" 

the Dictator: "I would like to marry Attractive Preschool Boy because he is such a sweetie."

Me: "Yeah? What do you like about him?" 

the Dictator: "He has a really nice hat. It looks so good on him."

Me: "I see." 

the Dictator: "Mom, how do you make an engagement ring?" 

Me: "Usually you don't give engagement rings until you are a grownup." 

the Dictator: "A star. A star would be the perfect thing to put on his very special ring when I ask him to marry me."

‎"Attractive Preschool Boy has dark hair. He's a very nice boy. He sneezed all over all the toys today. I played with the toys, too. He doesn't know how to cover his mouth with his arm. Maybe he was too tired."

 "Sweet Little Blond Boy really loves me.  He wants to marry me.  We're having a wedding.  He doesn't like Angry Braid-Puller as much.  That makes her ticked.  I think SHE wants to marry Sweet Little Blond Boy.  She thinks we should break up!" 

The Anarchist on the Alphabet:

  

"A is for Audi. J is for Jeep. H starts Honda. C starts Corvette and car. P is for Porsche. Oh, and H is for Hotwheels, too." 

"A B C D E F GEEE!!! H I DAY K ELMO ELMO PEES!"

‎"Letter Z is for ZEBRA!! Letter A is for ANARCHIST!!! Letter 6 is for zebra, TOO!! Letter 8 is for...Oh, no! Where did letter 8 go?! Letter 8 is missing! Oh, there is letter 8! Letter 8 is hiding in my bum!!!" (while playing with foam bath letters)

Partners in Crime:

the Dictator (proudly): "Look, Mama! I drew three beautiful pictures with my markers! They're wonderful!" 

the Anarchist (proudly): "Look, Mama! I drew on my tongue with my marker! Now it's blue!"

the Anarchist (on passing a Mexican restaurant):  "Mexico is ALL jacked up."

the Dictator: "No, Anarchist, it's just closed." 

the Anarchist: "No, Dictatew. Mexico is all jacked up!" 

the Dictator: "Mexico is NOT all jacked up, Anarachist. Mexico is just FINE!"

On health-related issues:

The Anarchist (on spying a girl in Downtown Plymouth with a lollipop):  

"Look Mama! That girl got a shot!" 

Me: "What makes you think she...ooohhh...because you get lollipops at the doctor's..." 

The Anarchist: "Yes. Hey Mama, I want a shot! I think I need a shot right now. How about I get a shot today?"

the Dictator with a "favor."

"Mama, I LOVE my boo boo!" (the Anarchist, upon receiving a post-vaccination lollipop)

"My nose is all snowy. It has icky brobees in it. And my ears are full of gabbas." (the anarchist on nasal congestion)

"I have a favor and a weather in my tummy!" (the Dictator at 3, with a stomach ache and a fever)

‎"Oh NO! I make a fart! POOR fart!" (the Anarchist...who else?)

On the Arts:

the Dictator (while riding trikes in the basement): "Hey Anarchist, what's your favorite speed?" 

the Anarchist: "Oh, I-I-I-I like adagio! I don't like allegro...I'd have to pedal so hard." 

the Dictator (anticipating her first dance recital):  "...and when the curtain rises, Anarchist, the stage will be flooded with spotlight and everyone will cheer for me as I do my beautiful dance. Ballerinas have to be very creative, Anarchist, when they dance on the stage."

the Anarchist:  "OHH!! I see a LEE-o-tard! Am I going to dance class? Miss Dance Teacher's going to say, 'Okay Anarchist!' in dance class. She's also going to say, 'It's your turn!' and "Shuffle, shuffle.' I can't WAIT for dance class. I LOVE dance class!"

 
"I am a professor of natural history and I come in peace." (a line from the Dictator's original Tinkerbell musical)

 

the Dictator (wearing a princess dress and singing in her most beautiful princess voice): "Just a little change, chickens in the East, both a little scared, no one really cared, Beauty and the Beast!!!"

"MY Mama is a big, fat Mama! She is SO big and fat and she is my Mama!" (the Anarchist's famed "Mama Song")

  

And this isn't the half of it.  Oh, how I love the things kids say!  More to come!

Thankfully

Sigh...the Mortons came out of the Thanksgiving craziness well-fed, thankful for the blessing of wonderful families, and relatively unscathed. Here is what we are thankful for:

The Dictator:

• Princesses
• Drawings (of princesses)
• Markers (with which to draw princesses)

The Anarchist:

• "Bllrrrbt..."*
• "I don't know-WUH!"

The Bureaucrat:

• His phenomenal wife allowing him to sleep in until 10 am the day after Thanksgiving
• His beautiful wife cooking pumpkin pancakes for him when he finally did decide to wake up
• His gorgeous wife

The Fat Assassin:

• The singularly stupid human family not forgetting to feed her, even in the midst of their collective turkey coma

And Me:

• Mashed potatoes (always the first thing that comes to mind, even though I know I should be saying something schmaltzy and sentimental like "family and friends.")
• IKEA furniture-thanks for being affordable enough that I can actually have furniture and not feel like a squatter in my own home.
• Only vomiting twice as a result of my own Thanksgiving-related gluttony
• Those nice people shopping at Target or Meijer with their children who say things like, "Just SHUT UP! You never have anything important to say anyway. You are SO annoying. I'm gonna beat you good!" for making me realize that I may actually not be the world's worst parent
• Those folks who are clearly not hard-up for cash, who hold up entire store lines squabbling with the cashiers over 50 cents worth of fried chicken legs or economy Christmas wrap. Thank you for reminding me that it's crazy to care so much about things and money.
• The Anarchist's really loud set of lungs, which remind me daily--and usually in a quiet, public place--that we are so blessed to have her lungs actually working and healthy.
  
• Family and friends. No. Seriously.
• Mashed Potatoes

Parenting Tip of the Week SPECIAL EDITION

Special Edition Tip: Navigating the Mall with Children, Black Friday and Every Day

As many of you will be (idiotically) heading out to do some holiday shopping on Black Friday, and as the bravest (or craziest) of you will have youngsters in tow, the world's greatest parenting guru (yours truly) is here with some sage advice gleaned from recent shopping experiences to get you through the darkest day of the year.

Equipment

Most parents have the wisdom to bring the basics (diapers, wipes, dried Cheerios, fruit snacks, cookies, McDonald's Happy Meal toys that somehow made it into the bottom of your purse, flashlights, discount cards, keys, cell phone, Epi Pens, organic nut-free crackers, collection of board books, collection of Berenstein Bears books with or without their covers intact, umbrellas, crayons, markers, stamps, plastic bags, extra shoes, etc.). But just when you think the ol' diaper bag--or over-sized purse, if you're too cool for a diaper bag--is stuffed to the gills, it's time to make room for a few more essentials.

First of all, you'll never make it through your shopping trip if you have to listen to your kids' incessant whining in addition to irritating hippopotamus-related holiday "music" and the catcalls from various male shoppers who can't resist your stunning good looks. (What? You don't get those? Oh. Must just be me.) This is why I recommend investing in a good pair of earplugs. So you can't hear your kids begging you for food, water, and a bathroom break...isn't that the point?

Next, if any of you have a child like the Anarchist--that is, a "runner"--I highly recommend that you consider purchasing a leash. Yes, yes, I know this sounds cruel and inhumane. But so is letting your kid fling itself headlong into a mall parking lot, or a perfume kiosk, for that matter. And they make adorable stuffed animal-shaped leashes for children, or so I've been told by my trend-savvy sister who has actually spotted the things on hip young things in the Birmingham/Ferndale/Royal Oak area. And if it's happening in Royal Oak, it's probably the new thing to do, so go ahead. You're not barbaric. You're cutting edge.*

Distractions

While shopping with children, it is important to create tactical diversions. That way, they'll forget where they are for a few seconds, and maybe, just maybe, cease whining temporarily. Shock and awe, baby. Here are a few suggestions:

• Choose stores with fun music and loads of empty floor space (they exist, I swear). Initiate a dance party. Please don't worry about the amount of people you will offend or annoy. Remember, your goal is survival at all costs.
• Try on hats. Lots of hats. It's worth the head lice.
• Try having a sing-a-long. The louder the better. You're entertaining your fellow shoppers AND distracting the bitty ones. What could be better?
  

Safety

Always remember to put safety first when shopping with children.

• Avoid shopping on the second floor of the mall whenever possible. While elevators are fun, the risk of your kids catapulting themselves over the balcony in a manic fit is decidedly not. Sorry Gap, Victoria's Secret Body and the coat section of Macy's. We'll have to do without this year.
• If you must shop on the second floor, remember to use the elevator. If you are claustrophobic (more on phobias later), you will have to use the escalator. In this case, be sure to put your children in shoes without laces. I can't believe I even have to say this. What kids have shoes with laces any more? Seriously!
• One more thing to avoid. That guy without kids skulking around near the coin-operated helicopter, race car and ice cream truck (as if ice cream trucks aren't creepy enough as it is).

The Anarchist and the Dictator enjoy a ride on the coin-operated ice cream truck in a skulking-guy-free moment

Shopping and Phobias

If you have one of the bajillion phobias affecting bajillions of Americans these days, you'll have to make extra accommodations for yourself while shopping.

• Claustrophobia-I think we've already covered this one. Avoid the elevators. No shoelaces. Enough said.
• Mysophobia (or germaphobia for those of you not up on your craziness terminology)-Invest in a HazMat suit. Bathe in hand sanitizer when you get home. Glare angrily at anyone attempting to cover a cough with their hands, rather than their forearms.
• Agoraphobia-Don't be agoraphobic. Seriously. It will totally ruin your holiday shopping experience. Having trouble overcoming that pesky fear of crowds? Take my dad's timeless advice: "Just stop it."
• Arachnophobia-You're probably going to be just fine. Avoid the pet store, just in case.

Bribery

Hone your bribery skills before venturing out into the shopping fray. They will prove essential in various circumstances. You will, of course, already be familiar with the usual bribes of rides on the coin-operated truck (as long as skulking guy isn't around), food court "food," and small toys. We've also used rides on the elevator (my claustrophobia is mild) and trips to the in-mall Starbucks as bribes. Do whatever works and be creative. Be advised that bribes may backfire, but sometimes they'll be the only weapons in your arsenal.

The Dictator and the Anarchist can be bribed with Starbucks

It is also useful to keep monetary bribes handy for older children and for your fellow shoppers. When the Anarchist tripped that nice lady in Baby Gap, it sure would have been convenient to be able to slip her a $50 in hopes of warding of litigation. (Please don't sue us, nice Baby Gap lady, please don't sue us).

Finally, you can also bribe your spouse to stay home with the kids so that you might go out shopping all by yourself. Men, ladies like shiny things and back rubs. Women, I'm not going to give specifics, because this is a PG-rated blog, but you know what works. I'm just saying, do what you got to do. (What? You're thinking I'm suggesting something dirty?! Heavens, no! I just meant a nice home-cooked meal. Get your minds out of the gutter!)

Mall-ternatives

Consider doing your shopping some time other than Black Friday. I mean, seriously, is that discount on a cashmere sweater really worth the stampede? Why not try a nice weekday morning? The malls are virtually empty. If you aren't already a stay-at-home-mom/dad, become one for this very purpose. Halving your family's income and the financial hardship resulting therefrom will be well worth your shopping peace-of-mind...if you have any money to spend, of course.

Another savory alternative is shopping online. Of course, if you have squirrely children trying to type "messages" on the keyboard while you are shopping, this could be as frustrating an option as the actual mall.

Don't want to shop at all? Why not make your own clothes? If you're not already sewing-savvy, find a nice elderly lady with loads of free time and patience and make her teach you. You might want to use your new-found bribery skills to convince her that it's worth her while.

However you decide to go about shopping or not shopping this holiday season, remember to be prepared, be safe, and be brave. And, for the love of all that is holy, stay away from that guy skulking around the coin-operated ice cream truck.




*It is important to note that not everyone will consider you cutting edge. Especially if they live somewhere like Plymouth or Canton, which are a little behind the times. I mean, if the Royal Oak area is just now discovering baby-leashes, it means that leashes are probably on their way out on the coasts, but that Plymouth and Canton will still not recognize how insanely cool they are for another half a decade, at least. Note that Plymouth just now got it's first cupcake shop, while Royal Oak has had them for years and the coasts are already on to French Macaroons or some such insanely cool nonsense.

Parenting Tip of the Week: Scapegoats

As I am currently in the running for "Mother of the Year," I thought I would bless you with some useful parenting advice on a regular basis, so that you might have a shot at being a halfway decent parent yourself.

Tip #1: Scapegoats are indispensable

Your children will naturally want to blame you/or each other for every transgression. Is a toy missing? Probably your fault. Did she trip over her own feet? Yes. But maybe if you hadn't given birth to her it never would have happened. Did someone eat that last piece of Halloween candy? Sure. And that someone was most likely you, but do you really want to deal with the consequences of 'fessing up to it?

Sometimes it's important to model mature and ethical behavior and assume responsibility for your actions, accepting whatever the negative outcome may be. And sometimes it's important to preserve your sanity at all costs by picking your battles wisely and blaming a scapegoat.

It is crucial to come up with a scapegoat early on, as most children learn to blame you for things as soon as they learn to accusingly point their chubby, sticky fingers at you and yell "Mama!" or "Dah-ee!" You must not let this last. We found that the cat worked in a pinch for the first couple of years of life. "Who moved my Giggy Bear?" the Dictator would ask with a deadly, vengeful glare. "Oh, that was Kitty," the Bureaucrat would assure her. At which point the Dictator would turn her death stare on the cat, leaving Mommy and Daddy in the clear. Needless to say, the Dictator is not a moron, so this tactic only lasted so long. "It was NOT Kitty! You're just SAYING THAT!" Time for a new scapegoat.

My first mistake was teaching the Dictator how to point.

We found that family friends work nicely. You can orchestrate this, or have it come about serendipitously, it doesn't really matter. The important thing is to encourage it once it happens. If you don't already have a family friend scapegoat, try arranging a post-bedtime soiree at your home. Be sure that it is early enough that your children will hear the guests arriving. When your children wake up in the morning and find something to blame you for (which they invariably will), blame one of the guests from the night before. Because your children know that--unlike the cat--this guest has opposable thumbs and is therefore actually capable of erasing their drawings from the MagnaDoodle, they are very likely to believe you.

Perfect. Now you just have to be consistent. Every time your child flings accusations at you, simply blame the new scapegoat. We actually have the Anarchist believing that our scapegoat lurks around our house in the middle of the night, spilling water, turning off lights and putting away Play-Doh sculptures...and we don't even have to mention him any more. The kid immediately blames him on her own. The system is so perfect, it runs itself. And you never have to be blamed for anything again...by your children.

The scapegoat on the other hand might not be so pleased, and the ethical implications of what you are doing are shady, at best. Eh...so you make a few enemies and potentially sully your immortal soul. Isn't that a small price to pay for parental sanity?

*Note: It is NOT advisable for you to use your spouse as a scapegoat. While he/she is an extremely handy option, and one onto which your children will enthusiastically latch, this choice might potentially be destructive for marital relations. Blame the hubby at your own risk.

The Anarchist is already plotting her revenge against the Fat Assassin (aka "Kitty") for moving her toys.