crappier. Turns out.
In the musical, "Annie Get Your Gun," the romantic leads, Annie Oakley and Frank Butler, bicker over target shooting skills before seemingly falling in love mid-song. Frank, with official cowboy swagger, sets the challenge, "I'm gonna give you a lesson in marksmanship you'll never forget!" With confidence, Annie declares,
"No you won't. You couldn't give me a lesson in long distance spittin'!" After a big guffaw from the audience, she (and eventually, Frank) break into song:
Anything you can do
I can do better
I can do anything
Better than you.
No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can,
Yes, I can! (and so on)
I just returned from three days of bliss on a girls' trip involving lots of wine and salami. And singing. When I got home, my kids weren't necessarily singing my praises, but they had plenty to tell me about, like the blobs they could make with glitter paint. And while baby was too busy to sing, I knew that face of hers smooshed against the glass of the front window was all heart.
Chris wasn't as frazzled as I might of imagined by two in the afternoon following my three day sojourn. Nor did he seem to mind that I had an immediate errand to run. I'm not sure if I could, or have ever, greeted him after a few days away with such perkiness. That was crappy. At least in the grand tally in my head that measures whether I'm really making a successful career out of this mother gig.
As the evening unfolded and we shared bits and pieces of the weekend while progressing through the tasks of nightly child necessities, I got the feeling that Chris had lassoed a few wily broncos and brought them to their knees. And he had some tips for his cowgirl, now back on the range:
C: You know how you've been worried about the constant snot, fatigue and general crankiness BabyNar has endured for the past three weeks? No time for a response.
C: Well, I think the baby would feel better if you actually fed her. Interesting concept. Does he have any studies to back up this new therapy? Also, no response necessary, don't you think?
C: Also, you should give her a bottle eight times a day in small amounts, plus three or four ounces with every meal. Have you tried giving her water? I think she's dehydrated. Shouldn't the empty diaper boxes that take up an entire car space in the garage speak to these issues? Again, speechless.
With that, Chris placed the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, reminded Dee and T to each bring a handful of toys up to their room on the way up for pajamas, and then he was gone, in one efficient, light-speed flash. I was a little dumbstruck. Maybe yogurt and a couple of bottles aren't enough for Nar. Crap. And maybe I shouldn't worry so much about sippy cup spills. Crap.
I also learned that the big kids were pretty much angels. Crappy jerks.
But as we neared the finish line of bedtime, I saw a couple cracks in his horse training. The kids were definitely responding to some kind of "do it or else" stimulus. One that just happened to be my take away a toy and don't you worry about it, because it's forever gone at Goodwill, punishment. The one used when T ran into the street and caused cars to swerve to avoid him (last recorded loss: Favorite Birthday Present Buzz Lightyear remote control spaceship with accessories). It is also the modified punishment used when the kids can't resist pushing or pulling or generally hurting the baby (last recorded losses: a black Matchbox truck and an orange flower necklace). Needless to say, this punishment is used only when the big guns are necessary. But Hub botched that. Still, despite my damaged weaponry, I could feel my strength returning. Maybe I started humming a little cowboy tune....
Also, did I mention that Chris didn't seem to notice that along with his football jersey, three year old T wore manpri pants all day, in the form of his fourteen month old sister's khakis? Score!