My #2 child is, without a doubt, the clown of the family. She is always saying something embarrassing or inappropriate or just downright hysterical. I recently e-mailed her something, saying that I can't believe she's almost 12 years old now, commenting that I must be getting old. She replied back to me, "No, mom, you're not old. You just have a bit of extra skin....that folds." This is the same child who informed me one time, when I was lamenting the excessive weight I had recently gained, "Mom, you're not fat; you just haven't lost your winter blubber yet." I'm so thankful my self-esteem isn't based on her opinion of my appearance.
#2 doesn't mean to make degrading comments; she just can't seem to stop her mouth from spewing forth any thought that enters her head. A good friend of ours was at our house a while back, and #2 made some comment that wasn't meant to be offensive, but it certainly came across that way. This good friend, who seems to have great patience and understanding for #2, carefully explained why it's important that each of us has a gatekeeper in our minds that we listen to before we speak. She explained that this gatekeeper helps us to consider what we're saying, so we don't say things that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others. After listening intently to this explanation, #2 proceeded to ask if her gatekeeper could wear a bikini and high heels and have long curly red hair and wear sunglasses.
Consequently, #2's gatekeeper is really hot looking, but not very good at her job.
We love #2 and wouldn't change her for anything in the world.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
The engineer and his wife
So, last night I made French Toast for dinner. I asked my daughter to grab a can of frozen concentrated orange juice out of the freezer, and gave her instructions on how to thaw it out in the microwave.
About the time she was finishing up, my husband, henceforth referred to as "the engineer," got home from work. My daughter opened up the door to the microwave, and the engineer noticed some orange juice puddled in it, a typical result of the orange juice thawing process. In a bit of a sharp voice, the engineer questioned his daughter, "How long did you put this thing in for?"
Before she could reply, I immediately came to her defense, and spoke up. "She was just following my instructions, dear," I informed him, my dander slightly up. What did he care, I thought to myself? I'm the one who will clean up the mess anyways, right?
His tone softened, and he asked again, "How do you thaw it out? Because, I always thaw it out for two and half minutes on power six, and it never spills."
Well, goody for you, I thought caustically. But, instead, I responded in a defensive manner, "Well, I thaw it out for three minutes at power seven, and I have a paper towel under it so when it spills, it's easy for me to clean it up!" There; take that, I thought triumphantly. There's more than one way to skin a cat, or defrost the orange juice, as the case may be. (Okay, in all honesty, I never actually considered using the microwave on a lower power to defrost the OJ; I am a blonde, after all.)
At this point, he burst out into ridiculous laughter, which went on for far longer than the incident warranted. How rude! I don't understand why my way of doing things is so funny to the engineer; just because my way is a bit messy, I do make provisions for this little inconsequential result, after all. Sheesh! If a procedure is more logical, does that then automatically mean it's the better way to do it? In his defense, the engineer comes from a long line of people who don't hesitate to point out, 'You're doing it wrong,' so he does come by the "proclivity-for-seeking-maximum-efficiency-in-all-things" naturally, poor thing.
Okay, readers of this anectdote, I welcome your input here. Which person needs more therapy: the engineer or his wife?
About the time she was finishing up, my husband, henceforth referred to as "the engineer," got home from work. My daughter opened up the door to the microwave, and the engineer noticed some orange juice puddled in it, a typical result of the orange juice thawing process. In a bit of a sharp voice, the engineer questioned his daughter, "How long did you put this thing in for?"
Before she could reply, I immediately came to her defense, and spoke up. "She was just following my instructions, dear," I informed him, my dander slightly up. What did he care, I thought to myself? I'm the one who will clean up the mess anyways, right?
His tone softened, and he asked again, "How do you thaw it out? Because, I always thaw it out for two and half minutes on power six, and it never spills."
Well, goody for you, I thought caustically. But, instead, I responded in a defensive manner, "Well, I thaw it out for three minutes at power seven, and I have a paper towel under it so when it spills, it's easy for me to clean it up!" There; take that, I thought triumphantly. There's more than one way to skin a cat, or defrost the orange juice, as the case may be. (Okay, in all honesty, I never actually considered using the microwave on a lower power to defrost the OJ; I am a blonde, after all.)
At this point, he burst out into ridiculous laughter, which went on for far longer than the incident warranted. How rude! I don't understand why my way of doing things is so funny to the engineer; just because my way is a bit messy, I do make provisions for this little inconsequential result, after all. Sheesh! If a procedure is more logical, does that then automatically mean it's the better way to do it? In his defense, the engineer comes from a long line of people who don't hesitate to point out, 'You're doing it wrong,' so he does come by the "proclivity-for-seeking-maximum-efficiency-in-all-things" naturally, poor thing.
Okay, readers of this anectdote, I welcome your input here. Which person needs more therapy: the engineer or his wife?
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